"Ah, but it is quite right!" said her father, tenderly, "and here is something else—a little birthday check from me to my daughter. Since you came home and set me on my feet I've prospered as never before. Eva has collected ever so many of my bills, and I've sold a corner of the meadow for a good round sum, a corner that never seemed to me to be worth anything. I need not stay always in your debt, financially, dear little woman."
"But, papa."
"But, Grace."
"Your father is right, Grace," said the sweet low tones of Mrs. Wainwright, even and firm. "Through God's goodness you have had the means and disposition to help him, but neither of us ever intended to rest our weight always on your shoulders. You needn't work so hard hereafter, unless you wish to."
"Thank you, dear papa," said Grace. "I shall work just as hard, because I love to work, and because I am thus returning to the world some part of what I owe it; and next year, who knows, I may be able to pay Eva's bills at Miss L—-'s."
Eva jumped up and down with delight.
Then came supper, served in Mrs. Wainwright's room, and after that music and a long merry talk, and at last, lest Mrs. Wainwright should be weary, the Raeburns took their way homeward over the lane and across the fields to the Manse.
Grace from the tower window watched them going, the light of the moon falling in golden clearness over the fields and farms just waiting for spring.
"To serve the present age
My calling to fulfil,"
she whispered to herself. "Good-night, dear ones all, good-night," she said a little later, climbing up the tower stair to her new room.
"God bless you, middle daughter," said her father's deep tones.
Soft, hushed footsteps pattered after the girl, step by step. She thought herself all alone as she shut the door, but presently a cold nose was thrust against her hand, a furry head rubbed her knee. Fido, the pet fox-terrier, had determined for his part to share the tower-room.
So fine a time were the English officers having in New York that they chafed very little beneath General Howe's protracted inaction. The only fighting that William saw was on one of Tryon's foraging expeditions into Connecticut, and, if the truth may be told, he was sickened and sorrowed in heart at the vandalism done by the forces of the King. What was the use of applying the torch to the houses of these poor misguided farmers? and how bravely the little band of homespun coats had resisted their advance upon a quiet little village! One thing was firmly in his mind when he returned to the city from this expedition of plunder—Colonel Forsythe was right. It would take England's best blood and resources. In fact, the task of getting back the Colonies was the greatest that any army of Great Britain had ever had laid out before it.
The fearless behavior of a farmer's lad, captured upon the march, struck William with admiration. This was no "rebel." It was a patriot type, and the Frothingham blood boiled at the brutality of a soldier who had insulted the young prisoner.
William had a dream one night which disturbed him more than a little. It seemed to him that he was walking along the road through a very beautiful country. On either hand stretched green undulating meadows, and neat white farm-houses were on the hill-sides. The wind was waving the tassels of the corn softly. It was just such a view as he had seen on his ride to New York with Uncle Nathan and his brother after the first excitement at Stanham Mills.
It appeared, to him, however, as he walked along this road that was so real, that he saw a gathering ahead of him, and caught a glimpse of the uniforms of King George and the tall hats of the Hessians. As he approached he saw that there was great movement in their midst, and suddenly a beautiful woman dressed in white burst from the crowd. She was struggling to free her hands, which were tied behind her back. The soldiers and the Hessians were pelting her with mud and stones.
"I am Liberty, Liberty!" she cried.
To his chagrin, William saw himself in all his finery gather up a large stone and hurl it at the beautiful figure in white, and at that moment every little farm-house on the hill burst into flame, and the corn in the fields shrivelled to the stalks, and a great voice resounded through the air,
"Fair Liberty is dead—is dead!"
He had disliked himself very much for having had such a dream and appearing in such a shameful character. It was some time before he could shake off the effect of it from his mind.
It was a starlit evening after the return of the expedition, and he was walking quickly through the street to join a small party at the headquarters of another regiment. As he followed the narrow path in the snow a woman's figure stepped to one side.
"Where is the other uniform?" she said.
"Pardon me," said William. "I do not understand."
"No more do I," the woman answered. "But my heart is broke."
William had smiled, but the woman had stepped out into the snow as if to avoid him, and had hurried past.
"Poor crazy creature!" said the young officer to himself. "She looked at me as if she knew me."
But he could not rid himself altogether of that reproachful look for quite some time. And another thing that puzzled him was the strange conduct of the landlord at the City Arms.
"I had a guest at my house not long ago," said he, upon one occasion, "who favored you most wonderfully. His name was Blount of Albany. Know you aught of him?"
Two or three people had spoken of the same resemblance, and told of the disappearance of the lad from up the river.
A suspicion had entered William's mind, but he kept it to himself. Soon, however, was it to be confirmed beyond all doubt.
A very good company it was that was gathered in one of the large rooms at Fraunces's Tavern. There, for some reason, William's thoughts had again recurred to the distasteful dream.
"Lieutenant Frothingham, I have the honor to present to you Mr. Bolton Blount, of Albany," a voice interrupted his thoughts. "He is the uncle of the young man who disappeared so strangely some weeks ago. Every one who had the pleasure of meeting him has remarked the curious resemblance that you bear one another."
"I cannot see it," said Mr. Blount, looking politely at William's face and figure. "'Twould be quite a compliment to my poor unfortunate nephew; but they say that relationship can never see resemblances."
"Oh, 'tis most remarkable!" interrupted a young cavalry officer. "I had the honor of piloting your nephew to the town, and a most agreeable and well-spoken young gentleman he was."
"Richard must have improved, then," said Mr. Blount. "Did you mark whether he was lame?"
"Yes, the left foot, but slightly," said the officer; "but he was quite graceful with it all, and his hair was black and straight."
"Like an Indian's?"
"Yes," was the answer, "very like."
"'Tis passing strange," said the uncle, and sighed; "it almost seems like witchcraft. No trace of him to be found, although we have searched everywhere."
As William was walking to his lodgings that night a brother officer joined him, and passed his arm through his.
"Oh, Frothingham," he said, "I have something truly strange to tell you! I was on a visit of inspection to the town prisons a week or so ago, and at an old sugar-house on Rose or Vine Street I saw your very double. The resemblance has been haunting me, and I just have placed it."
"I seem to have doubles everywhere," answered William, carelessly, though a great fear welled up in his heart. "I had supposed you were going to tell me that I look like a Mr. Blount."
"I know him not," answered the officer, "but I do assure you that you bear a great resemblance to this prisoner."
When William reached his room that night he rested for a long time, wide-awake and thinking. It might be George who was held in prison.
All the next morning he was on duty at headquarters, and in the afternoon he hastened toward the old sugar-house, whose location he knew from the officer's description. With little trouble he succeeded in getting permission from the jailer to look through the cells and corridors. He had muffled part of his face in a wide silk neckerchief, and had pushed his hat well forward on his forehead. He advanced hastily into the large hall, and his eye ran around in a swift glance. With a sense of relief that there was no one there that resembled the description in the slightest way, he went on until he came to the cell next but one to the end of the corridor. He looked within. Though the light was quite dim, he could make out a figure lying on a patchwork quilt. He placed his face close to the bars. His heart was beating furiously. There could be no doubt about it. He grasped the iron closer for support. It was George, his brother, fast asleep. The Virgil lay open on the floor, and one slender finger marked the place.
With an effort William managed to compose himself. "What is this young man imprisoned for?" he asked, in a whisper, of the jailer at his side.
"For stealing a watch," was the reply. "He tried to escape, and has been wounded slightly in the arm. He appears to have been a likely youth, and 'tis a shame that he should have fallen so, for he has some learning." The man shook his head pityingly.
William did not hear the last words. It appeared to him that a bright flash came and went before his eyes, and again he grasped the bars of the doorway. His brother George a thief. It could not be!
"Shall I wake him, sir," put in the jailer, not noticing William's perturbation.
The young officer recovered himself.
"Oh, by no means!" he said, trying to control his voice. "Pray do not disturb him."
As he was about to release his hold from one of the iron bars, he perceived that it was filed almost in twain from the inside! He could feel it with his fingers. The sleeper moved slightly, and William stepped to one side out of sight.
It was quite difficult that he could affect any interest in the rest of the prisoners, his brain was whirling so, and soon he thanked the jailer and left the gloomy shadow of the building.
When he reached the outside air he drew down the muffler, for he felt faint and sick. The tall soldier on guard at the gateway saluted him. William turned, and as he did so almost ran into the arms of the little schoolmaster, who was bobbing quickly along.
"Ho, ho, Lieutenant!" was the greeting; but a glance at the young man's face told the story. "You know it. You have seen him?" asked Schoolmaster Anderson.
"I have, and I am going to find out more. They say he stole, that my brother is a thief. I cannot—"
"No, no, he is not," said Mr. Anderson. "On my honor no—and try to find out nothing, for by doing so you may place a halter around his neck." Then he added, quite calmly, "Your brother is a spy."
A sense of horror and yet of relief came over William.
"I have imperilled my own safety by befriending him," said Schoolmaster Anderson. "Surely you, his brother, will not betray him?"
"Tell me," inquired William, "is he Richard Blount of Albany?"
"He took the young man's place at the peril of his life," answered the schoolmaster. "Now say nothing more."
"But he is about to escape!" exclaimed the young Lieutenant.
It was the schoolmaster's time to start. "He is?" he inquired, half faltering.
"Ay," said William. "The iron bars are almost filed in two."
"Well, well," remarked Mr. Anderson. "That will never do. We will have to change that. Sure enough. He must be moved, but his safety is the first thing to be thought of. You agree with me?"
"I am going to make myself known to him," exclaimed William, turning as if to retrace his steps toward the prison.
"I pray that you will do nothing of the kind," broke in the old schoolmaster. "It is only by great good fortune that his identity has not been established. Any attention attracted to him might be the means of accomplishing just what we wish to avoid."
"I will leave it all to you then, Mr. Anderson. Only we cannot connive at the escape of a rebel spy, even if he is my brother."
"Your family is not the only one that is divided on this sad subject," said the schoolmaster, shaking his head. "Just look about you everywhere."
After this there was but little said, and the two parted further down the street, William depressed and sorrowed by the discovery and the secret that bore upon his mind.
But to return to the cell of the mysterious young prisoner who read his Virgil so indefatigably.
He had not been asleep at all upon the occasion of William's unexpected visit. In fact, he had been working with a small file upon the iron bars. It had to be done very carefully indeed, by fits and starts, for a long-continued exertion might at any time bring upon him the attention of the guard.
He had not recognized his brother in the dim light, and only thought him one of the inspecting officers, although he had shivered when the jailer spoke in such an off-hand manner of his being accused of theft.
In the mean time he had read his cipher note.
It told him that on a certain night, if it were possible for him to file his bars in two, a boat with two rowers would be waiting beneath a wharf of the North River. If everything worked smoothly on both sides, signals would be exchanged.
The note was signed by Number Two. George knew this to be friend Anderson. It stated that Number Three was unfortunately ill, and George knew that Number Three was Abel Norton.
He had destroyed the epistle, and recommenced the tedious work of filing away the bars.
Despite Mr. Anderson's warning, William could hardly restrain a desire to visit the sugar-house and have a long talk with his brother, but he saw that the consequences might be most disastrous. However, there was one thing he could do—help George's material comfort; he would claim this privilege at least.
Meeting Mr. Anderson one day, he asked him if George needed anything that he could procure. To his surprise, the little schoolmaster refused to discuss the question, and William took the hint that he was not supposed to know that his brother was in New York at all. So, pained and chagrined, he dropped the subject; he could not insist, as he had left the matter in Mr. Anderson's hands.
He was, however, soon to undergo a great surprise.
Huddled up in his long gray cloak, he was facing a small snow-storm that whirled the drifts around the corners of the houses, and as he emerged into Waddell Lane a tall man who was approaching glanced at him most curiously. Just as William was passing, the other extended his arm and grasped him by the shoulder.
"Hold! I would not go in that direction," said the man. "Don't be rash. Be cautious, Frothingham, I do beseech you. Step to one side in the alley here; no one will see us, and I would have a word with you."
William, to his best knowledge and belief, had never seen the person who addressed him so readily and excitedly by name before.
Something told him at once that here was one of the persons concerned in his brother George's intended escape. It behooved him well to listen.
"You have chosen a good night," said Mr. Abel Norton, drawing the young Lieutenant into the shadow of the doorway of an empty house, "a splendid night. It has worked well; but, Heavens! a full uniform! How did you procure it, in the name of mercy?"
"It was easier than you think, I suspect," said William, now speaking for the first time.
"I wish I could say it becoming," went on the older man. "It must itch you like a hair shirt—eh?"
William said nothing.
"I met your colored servant two days ago. I remembered having seen him with your uncle years gone by. He has returned to New Jersey with tidings of you, and the news that you have been slightly wounded and that you will follow him. By this time they at Stanham have learned of your intention to escape. I have been ill," continued Abel Norton. "This is the first day that I have been out. I was on my way to the prison to see if in some way I could learn tidings of you."
"There is no necessity of going now," said William.
"So I see, my dear boy. You never liked me when we worked together in Sir Wyeth's office. What a proud young limb you were, and as solitary as an owl! But this is no time for reminiscing. Is the boat prepared?"
"That's just the question," put in William, at a venture. "Everything has worked well, but that I do not know."
"It must be arranged then at once to-night. I will see to it myself," said his mysterious acquaintance. "I know the ferrymen and where to reach them. Shall I do it?"
"You had better," was the answer. "And let me know where I can find them."
"At Striker's wharf, then, at eleven o'clock to-night. It will be pitch-dark and a rough passage. Where are you bound to now?"
"To a safe hiding-place," answered William.
"Take care—take care—don't be too bold," said the other, cautiously. "Well, if you will, may good-luck wait on you. To-night, then, at eleven."
Abel Norton did not know what loyal British hands grasped his, but the pressure was firm and hearty, for William's heart went out to this friend of his brother's.
"Schoolmaster Anderson has frustrated the attempt at escape, of course," he thought to himself, "and the boat-men will wait in vain. I could not find it in my heart to tell the old fellow who I was. He might have died from sheer astonishment." But it seemed quite natural to be taken for George again. The resemblance was not lost.
Abel Norton would have been astounded had he known where the "safe hiding-place" was toward which the young spy was hastening, for he walked on down the lane until he came to the corner, and went straight through the main entrance into the City Arms. He stamped the snow from his heels and was hailed by a group of officers, who made room for him at the table. He but half listened to the conversation, until some one slapped his shoulder.
"Come, come, recall your wandering thoughts!"
William gathered his wits together with an effort.
"I have just discovered," said an officer, "that despatches of the greatest moment are passing between New England and General Washington's army. We are quite as anxious to find out what his move will be as he is to ascertain ours. You know something of the country over yonder?"
"Yes," replied William, "I was born and reared there."
A stranger in an ill-fitting uniform had been listening to the talk. He now leaned across the table and addressed a question to the two speakers.
"Your name is Frothingham, I believe, sir?"
"Yes, sir," answered William.
"Are you a relation of that family at Stanham Manor? I am a New Jersey man in the King's service."
"I am," was the reply.
"Have you not a brother?"
"I have—or had. He," said William, laconically, "is in the American service."
"Think nothing of that," was the response. "My own father and two brothers hold positions of some importance under Washington. In fact, my own wife sides with the rebels." The Tory officer said this as if he were stating something quite ordinary. "This post-route of which we were speaking when you entered, and through which all the despatches go, runs through your country; and General Greene has cut a road, I take it, almost through your land. The 'Cowboys' and 'Skinners' keep things lively not far to the northward, but methinks it would be easy to obtain advices near Stanham Mills or at the Hewes's estates. They have turned your foundry into rebel gun-shops."
"Have they, indeed? I have heard no news for a long time from there."
William again relapsed into silence.
The inaction and the constant recurrence of the disagreeable dream of poor persecuted Liberty had begun to tell. Insidious horrible thoughts now and then flitted through his mind. Could he be doubtful of his own loyalty? No; but he must do something to prove it and put it to the test, if only for himself.
Then an idea came over him with such force as almost caused him to exclaim aloud, "Eureka!" he said, to himself. "I have it. For the King—for the King!'"
He pushed himself back from the table and hurried out of doors. He fairly ran down the street to the corner on which stood the handsome residence of General Howe.
"I would see the General on important business," he said to the sentry. "Tell him that it is most urgent."
The orderly, after some delay, brought back a message of admittance, and William followed him into the presence of the Commander-in-Chief.
He was lolling back in his chair, with a half-finished decanter on the table beside him.
"Well, my young sir, what is this 'important business'?"
"Merely a request, your Excellency, that I may be detailed to obtain information of the movements of the American forces. I have an opportunity to penetrate into their lines with the best chance of my commission being undiscovered. I think I can obtain important news.
"Your request is granted. And when would you leave?" spoke up the General, lazily.
"To-night, at eleven o'clock," was the reply William made, remembering that that was the time the strange tall man had mentioned.
| Amanda Stuart. |
| Mary Ann Murphy, of Irish descent, who often affects the brogue. |
| Gertrude Campbell. |
| Laura Thurston. |
| Alicia Perry. |
| Ada McClure. |
| Georgiana Thompson, a little girl who lisps. |
(All members of Mrs. Eaton's boarding-school.)
| Miss Steele, a harsh, unpopular teacher. |
| Mrs. St. Valentine, aunt to Cupid. |
| Cupid. |
Scene.—A drawing-room in the school. The girls are seated around a table, studying. Time.—February 13th.
Gertrude. This is a horridly uninteresting lesson. Listen, now: "Domestic affairs under Jefferson were at first marked by wonderful prosperity. American commerce increased enormously, for as nearly all Europe was at war, it was not safe to send goods in European vessels." I should like to know what all Europe was at war about? Miss Goodrich will be sure to ask. Can't you tell me, Alicia? You are so good in history.
Alicia. What are your dates? When was Jefferson's administration?
Gertrude. I'm sure I don't know. It must have been seventeen hundred or eighteen hundred and something.
Ada. Well, I call that great! Studying about Jefferson, and don't know when he lived!
Gertrude. Let's see if you know.
Ada. Course I don't! But then I ain't studying history. Just now I'll be satisfied if I can find out what an adjective clause is.
Mary Ann. Aint is a regular verb—I aint, thou aintest, he aintet, we aint, you aint—
Laura. Hush, Mollie; don't tease.
Mary Ann. Is it t'asin' I am? I'm helpin' you, me darlint. Active voice, third person.
Ada. Mollie, you stick to algebra.
Mary Ann. Wid pleasure, me choild. It's x equals the number of laborers, and y the hours they worked, and z the sthroike they wint upon.
Amanda. Oh, are you doing that example about the laborers? Just let me see your statement; I can't get it.
Mary Ann. I'm afther tellin' ye the statement. It's me x equals—
Gertrude. There, I have found Jefferson's reign—administration, I mean—1801 to 1809.
[Repeats it several times.]
Alicia. Well, about that time Napoleon lived—didn't he?
Mary Ann.
Napoleon was a warrior bould,
From Corsica he came,
And so at least we've all been tould
He set the world aflame.
Amanda. Girls, do you know what day to-morrow will be?
All (shout). St. Valentine's day.
Ada. I hope to goodness I'll have six.
Gertrude. There's nothing mean about her.
Georgiana. There'th one coming for me, I'm thure. My brother alwayth thendth me one.
Amanda. Oh, brothers' valentines don't count! Haven't you any other friends? Don't you know any boys?
Laura. I am shocked.
Mary Ann. Whist thin! Mintion no dangerous characters in a young ladies' institootion. Would ye raally, thin, me poor, deluded child, be recavin' thim valentines, which is pizined with Cupid's arrers, from school-boys?
Laura. Girls, it's study hour, and we ought not to talk, except about our lessons.
Georgiana. Thomebody'th coming.
[All bend earnestly over their books.]
Enter Miss Steele. She stands looking suspiciously at the girls.
Miss Steele. I thought I heard voices. Young ladies, were you communicating?
Mary Ann. Yis, mum. I was a-communicatin' av me ixample to paper. It's x equals—
Miss Steele. Miss Murphy, you will be kind enough to drop that outlandish way of speaking when you are addressing me. Were you communicating with each other?
Gertrude. I asked what all Europe was at war about? It said so in my history lesson.
Ada. I asked what an adjective clause was? It came in my grammar.
Miss Steele. Young ladies, I fear you are not absolutely truthful. Remember, the truthful person is never afraid to incriminate himself. He fears deceit above everything else. Try above all things to tell the truth. In the present instance I certainly heard a word that did not belong to either your history or grammar.
Alicia (behind her hands). Eavesdropping, I do believe.
Miss Steele. Miss Perry, did you speak?
Alicia. I was restraining a sneeze, ma'am.
Miss Steele. The word that I happened to overhear was "valentines." I want you to understand that I wholly disapprove of those things. They are silly and stupid. It is a reprehensible custom, that of sending them. Keep your thoughts on higher, better things. I shall remain with you during the rest of this study hour, and see that you pursue your work faithfully till the bell rings. (Seats herself, adjusts glasses, and proceeds to darn a pair of stockings.) It is quite cool here. Georgiana my dear, go to my room, and in the left-hand corner of the drawer you will find a white shawl. Bring it to me.
Georgiana. Yeth, ma'am. [Exit.]
Miss Steele. Strange how that child lisps. I must speak to the elocution-master about it. He might suggest a remedy for the defect.
Mary Ann. May I ask what this word spells?
Miss Steele. Certainly.
Mary Ann. Repr-ehe-nsi-ble.
Miss Steele. You did not divide the syllables correctly. Try again.
Mary Ann. Yes'm. Re-preh-ens-ib-le.
Miss Steele. I cannot make it out yet.
Mary Ann. It's what you said the custom of sending valentines was.
Miss Steele. Oh! reprehensible. And so it is. That means blameworthy, pernicious. A very pernicious custom—most reprehensible.
Mary Ann. Thanks awfully. (Murmurs.) So glad to know.
Enter Georgiana with a red shawl.
Georgiana. Ith thith what you wanted, Mith Thteele?
Miss Steele. No, dear. I said a white shawl. You don't call that white—do you? As usual, you were inattentive. Now listen. Take this back and lay it on my bed, and in the upper drawer, left-hand corner, there is my white shawl wrapped in a towel. Bring it to me. Now mind, the white shawl.
[Exit Georgiana.]
Amanda (whispers). She didn't say whether bureau or wash-stand. It isn't Georgie alone who is stupid.
Miss Steele. Miss Stuart, you are whispering. Tell me what you said.
Amanda. I said that child is too stupid for anything.
Miss Steele. She ought not to be stupid. She is very careless, owing, I suppose, to her bringing up. She has always been waited on too much.
Alicia. Does that make people careless?
Miss Steele. It's apt to do so.
Gertrude. Miss Steele, why do folks call it Saint Valentine's day?
Miss Steele. Do not say folks, Gertrude. It is inelegant. There was a saint named Valentine once, I suppose.
Ada. Did you ever get a valentine, Miss Steele?
Miss Steele. I? Oh no—that is, not lately. I suppose when I was young and foolish I did such things.
Mary Ann (with mock reverence and admiration). I'm sure, ma'am, now, you were never young and foolish.
Enter Georgiana with a blue shawl.
Miss Steele (wrathfully). Did I ever see such idiotic behavior, such extraordinary conduct? Did I say one thing about a blue shawl? Wasn't it a white shawl I sent you for? Explain, miss.
Georgiana. Thith ith what wath in the left-hand corner of the upper drawer of the wath-thand.
Miss Steele. Wash-stand? I said bureau.
Georgiana. I didn't hear you thay bureau.
Miss Steele. Don't add lying to your stupidity. Of course I said bureau! The thought of wash-stand didn't enter my mind.
Georgiana (beginning to cry). I don't think you thaid bureau.
Laura. Please let me get the shawl for you, Miss Steele. I don't believe Georgie can find it now, she is so flustered.
Miss Steele. When I want any of your interference, Miss Thurston, I will ask for it. Georgiana Thompson, go back to my room, and don't bring me a pink, or gray, or black shawl, but a white one which is in the left-hand corner of the upper drawer in my bureau. And if you don't want to spend to-morrow in your room, with bread and tea for your dinner, you would better bring me the right thing this time. Do you hear? (Exit Georgiana.) She must enjoy running up two flights of stairs. I declare it's most annoying.
Alicia. Perhaps, Miss Steele, Georgiana is color-blind.
Miss Steele. Possibly. I had not thought of that.
Amanda. Really, Miss Steele, you didn't tell Georgie that the shawl was in the bureau drawer. Aren't you afraid she'll paw over your things?
Gertrude. And make a mess generally? You really ought to let one of us go with Georgie.
Mary Ann (jumping up). Oh, do let me go!
Miss Steele. Well, go. (Exit Mary Ann.) I feel warmer than I did. I dare say by the time the shawl comes I will not need it. What a vexatious fuss about nothing!
Amanda. Mental excitement makes anybody warm. Shall I go and tell the girls not to bring the shawl?
Miss Steele. Sit still where you are.
[A short, silent pause.]
Enter Mary Ann and Georgie, triumphantly displaying a white shawl.
Mary Ann. There, ma'am. We had to turn over everything in your drawers.
Miss Steele. How very thoughtless of you! I must go and see whether you have done any harm.
[She rises in dismay, drops stockings and balls of yarn, and leaves the room. Mary Ann screams with laughter, and drops on the floor.]
Mary Ann. Oh, me darlints! me childer! It makes me that wake. But the fun! We tossed her drawers all to pieces. There isn't one handkercher lift upon anither. And the gloves and fans and letthers is scathered about.
Laura. Oh, girls, what a pity! How could you do that?
Georgiana. Why, the thawl wathn't in the upper drawer at all. It wath in the lower; and Mollie jutht puthed her handth under everything, and thcattered them tho.
Mary Ann. I did, I did. Och, could I but see her now! the ragin' and tearin' av her, she's as mad as a ducked sitting hin. It's better than medicine, me darlints. (She sits in Miss Steele's chair, picks up the stockings and yarn, puts the white shawl over her shoulders, and tries to look solemn and prim. The other girls gather around, Mary Ann mimicking Miss Steele's voice.) Georgiana, it is quite chilly here. Go, my dear, up two flights of stairs three times to my room, and bring me not a gray, nor a pink, but a white shawl, which is not at all where I tell you it is. And, dear, don't be color-blind just because you're a Southerner, nor careless because your ancestors kept slaves.
Alicia. Sent Georgie on a fool's errand three times, did she? I hate her. Horrid old thing!
Gertrude. Can't we get even with her?
Laura. I think Mollie did get even with her.
Ada. Do let's have our revenge.
Amanda.
It would make us very happy to be revenged upon her;
She's a cross and hateful teacher, and this is why we feel
That without the very tiniest and littlest dishonor
We would like to bother somehow Miss Araminta Steele.
Gertrude. Let's send her a comic valentine.
All (clapping hands). Just the thing!
Laura. I'm afraid that would not be respectful.
Mollie. Whist, darlint, honey! It's the roight thing to do.
Alicia. All in favor of sending a comic valentine to Miss Steele say aye.
All, except Laura. Aye!
Gertrude. Come on, Laura. Don't be too pious. There's no harm done, only fun.
Laura (reluctantly). Well, if you insist, girls, I won't stand out.
Enter Mrs. St. Valentine, a little old lady in a gray gown, mob-cap, and kerchief.
Mrs. St. V. Good-day, young ladies.
All. Good-day, madam.
Mrs. St. V. (seats herself). Would you like to buy any valentines to-day? I have choice ones to sell, at low prices.
[All gather around her and take up the valentines.]
Ada. Yes, these are lovely. Have you any comic valentines?
Mrs. St. V. Yes, a few. But I never show them to young ladies. They are not suitable.
Ada. But we want one; real horrid and funny.
Mrs. St. V. How singular! Will one of these do? But I do not like to sell you such a thing.
Amanda. Here's a good one, girls. (Reads.)
Once you may have been a beauty, but your charms are faded now,
There are puckers round your eyes, dear, and wrinkles on your brow;
Once you may have been seraphic, you are not angelic now.
Mary Ann. Oh, that's too good by far! Now how is this? (Reads.)
You ugly, horrid, spiteful creature,
How distressing every feature!
Vinegar is sweet beside you,
And we cannot but deride you,
Gertrude. The picture is consistent—old woman, big nose, goggle eyes, hair fuzzy, cross as two sticks.
Alicia. That will do very well.
Laura. It's not very refined.
Mrs. St. V. That's what I am thinking.
Mary Ann. We're not hunting for refinement. What's the price of that, ma'am?
Mrs. St. V. It's cheap enough—ten cents. But look at some of these pretty ones.
Mary Ann. Another time, if it's all the same to you. Girls, here's the money. I will pay it, and you all owe me one and three-sevenths cents. How's that for algebra?
Mrs. St. V. What are you going to do with this?
Amanda. Send it to one of our teachers, whom we just hate for being a spiteful old thing.
Laura. I would rather not do it.
Gertrude. Oh yes, you're in it. Now, girls, sign your names, while I address the envelope. Disguise your hand-writing, and make up the names. Here's mine—Patsy Tuckerty.
Georgiana. Mine ith Tiny Tanthy. [Writes.]
Amanda. Mine, Formosa Fiddlesticks.
Ada. Mine, Virginny Canary.
Mary Ann. And me own is Bridget Mahoney.
Georgiana. Oh, Mollie, the'll thuthpect!
Mary Ann. She can't prove anything.
Alicia. My name is Patessa Maressa. Now, Laura, you may have a pretty name.
Laura. Well, here's mine—Lily Myette.
Mary Ann. There, I call that a triumph. I hope it will knock her down flat. (Reads the verse again.) Elegant!
Mrs. St. V. Young ladies, I hope you won't get into trouble. But surely it is not kind treatment of a teacher to send her this ugly thing. Now here are such lovely—(Bell rings. Girls scamper to the door and exeunt. Mary Ann courtesies and kisses her hand to Mrs. St. Valentine.) Well, I do declare! What a set of wild girls! I don't think they mean harm, but— Why, they have left their comic valentine here. Forgotten it, I suppose. Now let me see. I might confiscate it; but I will call my nephew. His wits are bright. Perhaps he can get these naughty children out of their scrape.
Come hither, Cupid darling,
As fast as you can fly;
Bring all your sharpest arrows,
And your merry magic try.
Enter Cupid, bowing low and kissing Mrs. St. Valentine's hand.
Cupid.
What will my gracious aunt?
Command me as you please;
I'll serve you on my fleetest wings
Or on my bended knees.
Mrs. St. V. Cupid, here is a curious case. I came to the school with a bag full of my choicest valentines, hoping to start up a brisk trade with these young ladies. You know times are hard, and I really need the money. Very well. They would not look at these gems, these flowers and Cupids, but must pick out the ugliest one I have, and sign false names, and address it to one of their teachers.
Cupid. Which one? Oh, Miss Steele! Yes, she's pretty dreadful. Heart like flint. My arrows make no impression.
Mrs. St. V. But they ought not to send her this.
Cupid. I'm not so sure. The objection, from our point of view, is that these comic valentines are made by a rival firm, and we should find it for our interest to discourage their sale.
Mrs. St. V. True; and I would not keep them in stock, but that boys will have them and nothing else.
Cupid. You have to keep a few in stock, of course.
Mrs. St. V. Come, my child. Suggest some way out of this difficulty. The girls must not be permitted to compromise themselves.
Cupid. I have it. Pick out seven of your pretty ones, a valentine for each girl, and I will substitute them for this hideous thing.
Mrs. St. V. Oh, Cupid, you are so bright! Here's one.
Cupid.
When birds come back to bower and tree,
Pray, ladye fair, take thought of me;
No bird has note so sweet and true,
As all my loving thoughts of you.
That will do for Gertrude Campbell. [Signs her name.]
Mrs. St. V. And this. (Reads.)
I would tell you how much I love you,
But I don't know where to begin,
So open your door, sweet maiden,
And let your true love in.
Cupid. Let that be Amanda Stuart. [Writes.]
Mrs. St. V.
I love my love with an A, because she's so attractive;
I love my love with an S, because she is so strong.
I send her a host of good wishes;
They are all in my little song.
Cupid. That shall he Alicia Perry's. (Writes.) It doesn't rhyme, though.
Mrs. St. V. Read this, my boy.
Cupid (reads).
Oh! will you be my valentine? I'll fly at your behest;
And everything I'll proffer you, of first and very best.
Delightful. Laura Thurston. [Writes.]
Mrs. St. V. Here's one with flowers. Take that for the little one.
Cupid (reads).
Roses for you, gentle friend,
Lilies, too, and mignonette,
Daisies, and forget-me-nots
From your loving little pet.
Good, Georgiana Thompson. [Writes.]
Mrs. St. V. Here's a pretty one.
Cupid (reads).
I wish you joy, I wish you grace,
I wish you many a happy time;
May smiles light up your cheery face
Soon as you read my merry rhyme.
Ada McClure. [Writes.]
Mrs. St. V. And one, the sweetest of all, for that mischief-loving girl with the Irish name.
Cupid (reads).
Thrue for yez, lady, here I be;
Belike ye'd hardly know 'tis me;
But I'll be good, and plaze attind
The valentine of this young frind.
Good! Mary Ann Murphy. (Writes.) Now, auntie, fold my wings down and make a mail-carrier of me. I will deliver these missives myself. And this comic thing we will tear up and utterly destroy. Keep up your courage, auntie. I hear that times are better, and there's to be a big sale of valentines this year. [Exeunt Mrs. St. V. and Cupid, L.]
Enter, R., Laura.
Laura. I am going to destroy that hideous valentine, and not let Miss Steele see it. We might be expelled, and, anyway, such things do no good. Why, where is it? Gone! Oh dear! Can any of the teachers have seen it? What if Miss Steele— [Rushes frightened from the room, L.]
Enter, R., Miss Steele.
Miss Steele (face red, hair dishevelled). I have been all this time putting my room to rights. That wicked girl had literally emptied my drawers and scattered everything around the room. She is impertinent and saucy to the last degree. I can't seem to do anything with her and her set, and yet they are popular with the other teachers. But they treat me shamefully. Mollie seems to be the ring-leader, and she must on this occasion be severely punished. To-morrow is a half-holiday. I shall request Mrs. Eaton to keep her in her room. In fact, I think all of them ought to receive punishment.
Enter Cupid, as mail-carrier.
Cupid. Good-day, ma'am.
Miss Steele. This seems to be a new mail-carrier. Aren't you rather young for this business?
Cupid. I always deliver the valentines. Here are a lot for you.
Miss Steele. For me? You are mistaken. Who would send me a valentine?
Cupid. And why should not you receive a valentine? They are messages of love.
Miss Steele. They are silly, stupid things.
Cupid. They are messages of love, I say. Is love stupid and silly?
Miss Steele. What a funny boy this is! What do you know about love?
Cupid. A great deal. It has been my business for centuries to make people love. Here are seven fine valentines for Miss Steele. That's your name?
Miss Steele. Yes, but it is twenty-five years since I had a valentine. (Muses.) Robert, my friend, sent me one. I have it somewhere. But that seems ages ago. I never acknowledged it, and he misunderstood my silence. He went away, and my heart has been closed to love since. Boy, let me see these valentines. Why, they are from my seven naughty girls—Alicia, Ada, Georgie, and even Mollie! What exquisite designs! These things grow more beautiful every year. And the sentiments are lovely.
Cupid. These valentines were selected on account of their sentiments. The girls were talking about revenge.
Miss Steele. They have indeed taken a most loving revenge. How kind of them! I have misunderstood them.
Enter the seven girls.
Laura. And it was not on the table. I looked, but it was quite gone.
Mollie. Like as not she has got it, and we're in for it. Oh, here she is! Come on, girls. Face the music. Live or die! Survive or perish!
Georgiana. I'm tho thcared!
Miss Steele. My darling girls! Thank you for your sweet thoughts of me. Your pretty love-missives—
Gertrude. Gracious, but she can be sarcastic!
Miss Steele. —have won my heart. It is so long since I have had a real valentine I am very much touched. Laura, Gerty, thanks. Georgie, poor little dear, I was hard on you to-day. Alicia, Ada, Amanda, and you mischievous Mollie, let us all be friends.
[Cupid, on one side, is aiming arrows at Miss Steele.]
Mollie (aside). Girls, I shall faint. Is it a cat playing with a mouse?
Laura. We hope, Miss Steele, you won't mind our little joke. We did not mean to offend you.
Miss Steele. How could I be offended? (Reads one of the valentines.) Isn't that beautiful? And these pictures show such good taste. They are really gems of art.
Ada. Are we dreaming?
[Cupid, from the rear, makes frantic gestures to the girls, with finger on his mouth and shakes of his head.]
Alicia. But, Miss Steele—
Miss Steele. Girls, will you take tea with me to-morrow in my little parlor? I will give a valentine tea, with ices in heart-shapes, and everything that girls like. Perhaps I will tell you a story out of my life that may make you think kindly of a lonely old maid. Will you all come?
All. Yes, Miss Steele, thank you.
Cupid. I can bring you some valentines for your tea, if you like.
Miss Steele. Well, do. Select pretty ones, regardless of cost, and bring them to me. [Exit.]
Cupid. You see, that's just in my line.
Mollie. Somebody fan me! Salts, camphor, quick! Invited to tea by Miss Steele!
Cupid. Don't you think my plan worked famously.
Laura. How did you do it?
Cupid. Well, my aunt—she's the lady that was selling valentines—was awfully worried because you girls were going to send a hideous old comic to your teacher, and I suggested that we substitute our kind—the love valentines. So we just tore up yours, and I addressed one of my prettiest from each of you to Miss Steele. Guess you aren't sorry? Besides, I've filled her heart, now that it has softened, with my arrows, and if you do the right thing by her she'll behave well the rest of the year. You see.
Laura. You blessed boy! I would like to hug and kiss you.
Cupid. I'll shoot you if you do.
Amanda. I'm so relieved.
Georgiana. Tho am I.
Mollie. That funny boy has been shooting at us too. My own heart feels as if it had been hit, and I guess—don't you, girls?—that we'll never send any more comic valentines. We'll stick to Cupid's own, the missives of love.
In a neat little white painted house up in Maine, a baby's gold ring hangs upon the wall tied with a bit of ribbon. The owner, an Irishman, a humorous scion of his race, when interrogated about it, told the following story:
While fishing one day in an adjacent lake, he accidentally dropped the ring out of his pocket, and slipping off the edge of the boat, it sank down through the clear water. As he watched it disappearing, a large fish darted through the water, and opening his month gulped it down. The Irishman sadly lamented his loss of the ring as it belonged to his little baby. He resolved to fish that lake until he found the rascally thief, and day after day he hauled in the shiny, struggling members of the finny tribe, and cut them open in search of his ring. Weeks went by, and grew into months, until the cold weather arrived, but with a fisherman's patience he continued in his task even to cutting holes in the ice to fish through. One day after a severe and long protracted struggle, he hauled in a fine fish, and some intuitive instinct told him he had at last caught the thief, which, on cutting him open, proved to be the case.