THE CHRISTMAS MAKERS’ CLUB

[Illustration: “‘NOW CHILDREN, WE MUST MAKE OUR PLANS.’”

  (_See page 20_)]




  The Christmas
  Makers’ Club

  BY
  EDITH A. SAWYER

  Illustrated by
  ADA C. WILLIAMSON

  _Of glad things there be ... four;
  A lark above the old nest blithely singing,
  A wild rose clinging
  In safety to a rock: a shepherd bringing
  A lamb, found, in his arms,
  And Christmas bells a-ringing._

  _Willis Boyd Allen_

  [Illustration]

  L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
  BOSTON      MDCCCCVIII




  _Copyright, 1908_
  BY L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
  (INCORPORATED)

  _All rights reserved_

  First Impression, May, 1908


  _COLONIAL PRESS_
  _Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds & Co.
  Boston, U.S.A._




  To

  Margaret and Ruth
  Dorothy and ’Nita




CONTENTS


  CHAPTER                                                           PAGE

  I. THE CLUB GATHERS FOR WORK AND PLAY                                1

  II. PRINCE GRAY OWL                                                 38

  III. WHAT THE WOODS GAVE                                            83

  IV. THE CLUB GOES VISITING                                         124

  V. A LITTLE OLD LADY’S DOLL                                        155

  VI. THE BOY IN THE CLUB                                            195

  VII. GRAY OWL SANTA CLAUS                                          237




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


        PAGE

  “‘NOW CHILDREN, WE MUST MAKE OUR PLANS’”
                                    (_See page 20_)      _Frontispiece_

  “‘YES, GRAY OWL,’ SHE ANSWERED”                                     62

  “SOOTHING THE CHILD WHO CLUNG TO HIM SO PASSIONATELY”              149

  “‘WHAT DID I SEE BUT A BLACK-EYED DOLL’”                           174

  “THE TWINS MADE A STRIKING PICTURE”                                226

  “‘BUT WE WANT YOU!’ WAILED THE CLUB”                               244




THE CHRISTMAS MAKERS’ CLUB




CHAPTER I

THE CLUB GATHERS FOR WORK AND PLAY

          Didst thou never know
  The joy of following the path untrod?

  --_Margaret E. Sherwood: Persephone._


“HOW I wish we had something new and interesting to do Friday
afternoons!” said Elsa Danforth, a slim girl in a black coat, with a
soft, wide black felt hat set back on the yellow hair which floated
like a cloud of pale gold over her shoulders. Elsa was the tallest of
the three girls who had hurried away from school together that gray
mid-November afternoon. They were just now turning into Washington
Avenue.

“It’s too cold to play outdoors,” said Betty White, dancing on ahead,
her bag of school-books swung over her shoulder. Betty’s brown eyes
danced like her feet, and so did the capes to her long blue coat and
the wavy brown hair tied back with a bow of wide white ribbon.

“Isn’t there something we can do?” asked Alice Holt, the youngest and
smallest of the three, hurrying to keep up with the others.

“Play dolls or play school is all I can think of,” said Betty. “O Elsa,
we might go to your house and play with you!” she added, turning to
Elsa. Betty had wanted to have a good look at the great house where
Elsa Danforth lived with her grandmother. Betty had been in the house
only twice, and then but for a few moments, since the Danforths came
there in September.

“But--” began Elsa. Then she stopped; she could not bear to say that
her grandmother had told her not to bring children home with her to
play.

“I tell you what let’s do,” Alice exclaimed, before Betty could say
anything. “Let’s start some kind of a club, and have it meet Friday
afternoons. We might have it a Christmas Club.”

“Only grown-up people have clubs,” objected Betty instantly; she was
still thinking of what fun it would be to go all over the Danforth
house.

“We could have a club, though we are children,” said Elsa eagerly. “I
am almost twelve years old.”

“I am only eleven,” said Betty, who, however, was nearly as tall as
Elsa.

“And I am only ten and a half,” said Alice, running a little ahead, her
blue eyes very wide open with interest. “But it truly doesn’t matter
how old we are; we all play together and we like the same things.”
Alice was a quaint little figure. She looked like a rather shabbily
dressed doll, with her blue eyes and pink cheeks, her thick blue coat
which came just to her knees, and a shaggy blue tam-o’-shanter, below
which hung very smooth hair cut short around her neck.

“If we have a club, where will it meet?” asked Elsa.

“It can come to my house,” said Betty, beginning to be interested, and
dancing on ahead, backward now.

“It can meet at my house, too, though I live rather far away,” said
Alice.

Elsa walked on slowly, behind the others. She alone did not offer to
have the club meet at her home.

They were directly in front of Betty’s home, a large and
pleasant-looking house on this main avenue of the suburban town of
Berkeley. “Come into my house and we will start the club now,” urged
Betty, running up the front steps. But she stopped as Elsa said: “I
must go and ask grandmother if I can belong.”

“O, of course she will let you,” exclaimed Betty. But Elsa, with flying
yellow hair, was already half-way home. So Betty and Alice waited on
the top step.

In a very short time Elsa came running back and announced breathlessly:
“Yes--I can belong--and I can stay till five o’clock.” Her usually pale
face was rosy from the haste, and her wide-brimmed hat had slipped down
over her loose, fair hair.

It would be hard to find three girls more unlike than these three good
friends who went hurrying into the house together. Elsa, the oldest,
had a sensitive face and deep violet-gray eyes, which, with her soft,
silky hair, gave her a delicate, almost flower-like look. Betty,
next in age, was a lively, wide-awake girl with merry brown eyes and
bright cheeks; she was always a leader, and sometimes a wilful one, in
any fun or adventure. Alice--“Baby Alice,” as Betty often teasingly
called her--had softly rounded cheeks, big blue eyes, and a fair, high
forehead. Alice was a dreamy, rather quiet child, but everybody loved
her for her unselfish, affectionate ways.

Betty opened the hall door and went ahead through the wide hall. “Hang
your coats and things here in the closet,” she cried, taking off her
overshoes, “and come on up to the nursery. We can have it all to
ourselves.”

Elsa’s eyes shone with pleasure as she looked around the hospitable
hall and at the huge fireplace where a bright fire burned. She always
felt the homelikeness of the Whites’ house the moment she came into it.
It was so unlike her grandmother’s house, where everything was stiff
and stately.

Elsa especially loved the nursery, Betty’s bedroom and playroom, for
it had picture-paper of children resting under trees and of wandering
brooks which led to other children and other trees; it had also a broad
window-shelf filled with bright-blossoming geraniums, and above, a
cage with three tiny East Indian strawberry-birds; and--best of all
to Elsa--a row of dolls, large and small, on a long, chintz-covered
window-seat between Betty’s blue-and-white bed on one side and her
dolls’ house on the other. Indeed, Elsa loved Betty’s room quite as
much as Betty herself did.

Alice had never been in the room before. “O, what dear, lovely birds!”
she exclaimed, clasping her dimpled hands and looking up with round,
surprised eyes at the three mites of birds, brown with red spots,
red eyes and red beaks, and legs so thin and needle-like as to seem
scarcely strong enough to support even the tiny bodies.

“They are the dearest things,” said Betty enthusiastically. “Uncle
John brought them to me from India. I am glad there are three of them,
because if one dies there will be two left.”

“But what if two die?” asked Alice anxiously.

That, however, Betty did not want to think of, so she said hurriedly:
“Come on, let’s decide about the club.”

“What shall we name it?” asked Elsa, who had settled herself on the
soft rug by the bedside, with one elbow on the window-seat so that she
could better look at the dolls.

“The Friday Club,” suggested Betty, who was sitting at the foot of the
bed.

“I like ‘Club of Three,’” said Alice, turning away from the strawberry
birds with a little sigh of happiness.

“I don’t like either of those names,” said Elsa. “Why not call it the
Christmas Club, if that is what it is going to be?”

“Anybody can have a Christmas Club,” objected Betty, tightening the
white ribbon bow on her hair.

“Why not ask somebody to name it for us?” suggested Alice.

“No, we must name it ourselves, and keep the name a secret,” came
Betty’s quick answer.

“Then let’s choose one of us president, and let her name it,” said
Elsa, who had Betty’s smallest doll in her lap now.

“All right,” replied Betty, looking from Elsa to Alice, whose eyes were
again fixed upon the birds. Then, because Alice was always peacemaker,
Betty said: “I will choose Alice for president.”

“And I will choose Elsa,” said Alice quickly, looking around.

“I will choose Betty,” said Elsa.

“Dear me!” cried Betty, jumping up so suddenly that the tiny
brown-and-red birds began fluttering around their cage; “we are all
president, and that means nobody is president, and we haven’t any name
either.”

“I think we’d better give up the club,” said Alice, seeing trouble
ahead.

“It was you who wanted to start it, and now you are backing out,
Alice,” cried Betty, stamping her foot impatiently. The little birds
had a panic of fluttering.

“I’m not backing out, only if we are going to get into a fuss the
first thing, we might as well give it up,” said Alice wisely.

“Why not play dolls?” suggested Elsa, noticing that the hands of the
blue-and-white clock on the shelf were pointing at four. Elsa did not
have many chances to be with other children, and she did not like to
have the time go so fast now.

“No, let’s stick to the club,” insisted Betty, reseating herself on the
bed.

Just then Betty’s mother came to the nursery door with a rosy-cheeked
baby in her arms who looked like a smaller Betty. The white-capped
nurse followed close behind.

“I am sorry to disturb you, children,” said Mrs. White, after a
pleasant word of greeting, “but Nurse has just brought baby in from
out-of-doors, and she wants to put him in the nursery, as he is
fretful, and watching the birds always quiets him. Take your friends
down to the living-room, Betty.”

“But, mother, we are just starting--” began Betty.

“Betty dear, remember not to argue when I ask you to do anything,”
murmured Mrs. White into her little daughter’s ear, stooping to kiss
her forehead.

Elsa and Alice were already at the nursery door, looking with adoring
eyes at the baby, who was stretching out his chubby hands toward the
birds.

“We can stay in the living-room just as well, mother dear,” said Betty,
patting her baby brother’s cheek affectionately and then quickly
leading the way down-stairs.

The living-room had a low ceiling and diamond-paned windows. The
large centre-table was covered with books, the chairs were deep and
comfortable, and on the wide couch opposite the fireplace lay two
great, sleek gray cats curled up, fast asleep.

“What are your cats’ names?” asked Alice, who, not being a near
neighbour, did not know so much of Betty’s home and pets as did Elsa.

“Romulus and Remus,” said Betty. “But we must talk about the club.”

“I don’t believe we are going to have any club,” said Elsa, beginning
to stroke the cats, who purred in lazy content, without opening their
eyes.

“Then it is your own fault,” exclaimed Betty, with a flash of temper.

“Why?” Elsa left off petting the cats and sat up very straight on the
sofa.

“Because you give up so soon,” replied Betty.

Elsa suddenly bent low over the cats until her golden hair hid her
face, but she made no answer.

“I wish we had some one older to manage for us,” sighed Alice, turning
over the pages of a picture-book on the table.

“I tell you what we can do,” cried Betty, jumping up from the black
bearskin hearth-rug where she had settled herself momentarily. “We can
ask Miss Ruth Warren to be in the club!”

“But will she want to be in a club with little girls?” asked Alice
anxiously.

“I think she will,” returned Betty.

“Perhaps she will be president,” suggested Alice, who was a born
peacemaker.

“Maybe she will name the club for us,” put in Elsa, raising her head.
The flash of sensitiveness had died out of her violet-gray eyes.

“Come on, then! Let’s ask her now,” said Betty; and in another moment
the three girls had slipped on their coats and were running toward the
Warrens’ house.

The Warren family was a small one now; only Miss Ruth and a maiden aunt
lived in the old home-stead. There had always been some one for Ruth
Warren to devote herself to,--first her mother, then her grandmother,
next her father; and now the last of her older relatives, this aunt
who thought herself so much of an invalid that she seldom came
down-stairs. Ruth’s brothers and sisters had married and left the old
home; but although Ruth had chosen to remain unmarried, she had a busy
life and a happy one, with her home cares and housekeeping, and a large
number of nephews and nieces to love. There was a touch of sunshine
about her that made other people the happier for knowing her. She was
pleasant, too, to look upon, for she had beautiful brown eyes and
warm-toned yellow hair. She was girlish-looking, in spite of her thirty
years, and she always wore soft, graceful, unrustling gowns.

She had just come, this afternoon, from a luncheon-party, and, finding
that her aunt had a caller, she seated herself before the open fire
in the library, trying to decide whether or not she would go to Mrs.
Wharton’s tea, at five o’clock. “I wish there were something more
interesting to do,” she said to herself; “luncheons and afternoon teas
are all about alike.”

Old Sarah, the family servant, appeared at the library doorway just
then. “Well, Sarah?” said Miss Ruth, looking up at the tall, thin,
spectacled woman, whose corkscrew-like curls were bobbing with her
displeasure.

“Three little girls to see you,” said Sarah, her lips screwing
themselves tight together as if in objection to three little girls
coming into the house. “And here they are, chasing right after me,” she
snapped out, moving to one side.

Betty, who felt quite at home here, had urged the other children into
following Sarah to the library.

Miss Ruth rose quickly and went forward to meet them: “Come in, girls,”
she said, in a friendly voice. “I am glad to see you.”

“You know Elsa Danforth?” said Betty, in a suddenly shy manner.

“Yes, indeed; Elsa is my neighbour, though she has never been in my
house before,” replied Miss Ruth, taking Elsa’s hand into her cordial
grasp.

“And this is our little friend, Alice Holt,” said Betty, drawing
blue-eyed Alice forward.

“Are you going somewhere?” asked Betty, almost before Miss Ruth had
time to greet Alice. “You look all dressed up.”

“No,” said Miss Ruth, deciding instantly that she would not go to Mrs.
Wharton’s tea. “I have just come from somewhere. Take off your coats
and sit down, girls.”

“We want you to be in our club,” began Betty.

“What kind of a club is it?”

“It is a Christmas Club, for play,” said Betty.

“And work, too,” put in Elsa, shyly, thinking that their play alone
might not interest grown-up Miss Ruth.

“Making Christmas presents especially,” said Betty, feeling hopeful.

“For whom?” asked Miss Ruth. She had a way of making people feel
comfortable, and she met the children’s request so naturally that they
were speedily losing their shyness.

“For our friends,” said Betty.

“We might make things for the children at the Convalescent Home,”
suggested Alice, drawing her chair a little nearer.

“What is that?” asked Elsa.

“O, it’s a big, big brick house about a mile from where I live,”
explained Alice eagerly; “and children are brought there from the city
hospital--children who are getting cured, and they stay there sometimes
a long, long while for the country air and the sunshine make them well
again. Some of them are on crutches and have bandages all over them
and some are fastened to boards.” Alice had talked very fast, and she
stopped now, quite out of breath.

“I shouldn’t like to see them,” said Betty, shrugging her shoulders.

“But they are all getting well, even though they do have crutches
and boards and bandages,” continued Alice, her blue eyes shining with
interest. “Mother takes us children over there once in a while; she
says it is good for us, because it makes us more tender-hearted.”

“I don’t believe my grandmother would let me go,” said Elsa, who had
been leaning forward, listening intently, with her chin in the palm of
her slim little hand. “Grandmother is particular about the children I
associate with, and I suppose these are all poor children. I should
just love to go, though,” she added, with a long sigh.

“Wouldn’t it be a good plan for our club to make things to give those
little children?” asked Betty, growing more interested the more she
thought about the children.

“The very thing!” said Miss Ruth. “Miss Hartwell, who is at the head of
the Convalescent Home, told me only yesterday that about fifty children
are there now. Of course the playthings wear out, and when the children
go back to their homes, cured, they want to take with them the toys
they have grown fond of. But what have you named your club?” asked Miss
Ruth, turning to Betty.

“That’s what we can’t decide about,” said Betty. “We want you to name
it and be president.”

“But this is such a great honour!” exclaimed Miss Ruth. Her brown eyes
had a way of laughing, even when her face was sober.

“Now, Miss Ruth,--don’t laugh at us, please,” begged Betty, slipping
her arm around Miss Ruth’s neck.

“Why not name it the Christmas Makers’ Club,” suggested Miss Ruth, with
serious eyes now, “--especially if you decide to make things for the
convalescent children?”

“That’s the very best name we could have!” cried Betty, jumping up and
clapping her hands.

“Splendid!” exclaimed Alice, two dimples showing in her soft pink
cheeks.

“It sounds like all sorts of interesting things,” said Elsa, coming to
Miss Ruth’s side and timidly stroking her sleeve.

“We must keep it a secret, though. We mustn’t tell the name to
anybody,” said Betty, perching herself on the arm of Miss Ruth’s chair,
at the other side. “People will have to know there is a club, but they
mustn’t know anything more than that.”

“How will you keep your work a secret?” asked Miss Ruth.

“If you are our president, you might keep the presents we make,” said
Elsa.

“Please, O, please!” begged Betty and Alice in a chorus. “Please be
president!”

Miss Ruth looked from one to another of the bright, excited faces, for
a moment. “I will gladly be your president, and keep your work,--and do
anything else you want me to,” she said, finally.

Elsa’s face flushed rosy with pleasure, and she gave little Alice a
good hug. Betty dropped a warm kiss on Miss Ruth’s hair and said: “Then
come back with us now to my house, because I invited the Club to meet
there first.”

Ruth Warren was as good as her word: “I will go where the Club wants me
to go,” she said, rising. “First of all, though, let me give you some
plum buns which Sarah made this morning.”

“I know old Sarah’s plum buns; they are as good as she is cross,” said
Betty, as Miss Ruth left the room.

“That’s not very polite, Betty,” said Alice.

“I don’t care. I am not very polite, anyway,” replied Betty quickly. “I
tell the truth, though.”

“That sounds as if you thought other girls didn’t tell the truth!”
exclaimed Elsa.

“It is pretty hard to, always,” said Alice slowly. “I try to, but
sometimes the fib slips out first, and then it’s all the harder to get
the truth out.”

“Mother always catches me if I don’t tell things straight,” confessed
Betty.

“Papa used to tell me that the only thing he wanted me to be afraid of
was of not telling the truth,” Elsa said, her face growing suddenly
sad. Her father had died less than a year ago.

At that moment Miss Ruth came into the room with a large plateful of
buns,--crisp and tempting and full of raisins,--and soon all three
girls were eating with a relish, as children eat, just after school.

“Come!” said Betty, taking up her coat. “We ought to start.”

Alice and Elsa obligingly put on their coats, but Ruth Warren saw that
they hesitated, and Betty as much as the others: there was yet a goodly
pile of buns left.

“Fill your pockets, girls,” she said. “Sarah will be disappointed if
you don’t eat all the buns.” So the three girls filled their pockets,
and Alice said shyly: “I will take one to Ben if you don’t mind. O,
thank you!”

“Who is Ben?” inquired Ruth Warren, as with a dark red golf cape over
her black lace gown, she started forth with the girls for Betty’s
home,--Betty hanging upon one arm, while Elsa and Alice walked on the
other side.

“Ben is my twin brother,” Alice replied. “He’s ’most always hungry;
mother says boys always are.”

“Three plum buns!” exclaimed Betty. Then she repeated in a comical,
sing-song voice:

      “Three plum buns!
  One for you and one for me,
      And one left over:
  Give it to the boy who shouts
      To scare sheep from the clover.”

“But Ben doesn’t scare sheep from the clover,--because we haven’t any
sheep,” said Alice, very earnestly. “All we have is hens.”

“O, Alice,” cried Betty, “that is only poetry.”

“You do have hens then, Alice?” asked Miss Ruth quickly, seeing the
child’s face redden.

“Yes, and Ben takes care of them, and he sells the eggs,” answered
Alice proudly.

“They have the loveliest place,” said Betty, “a little hens’ house, and
they raise lettuce and radishes and all sorts of good things to eat.”

“You see,” cried Alice, feeling that some explanation was necessary,
and running a little ahead in her eagerness: “father isn’t very well,
and he is a teacher, and he had to go out West for his health, and we
can’t afford to go, too, and we all try to help earn money to help,
because he doesn’t have much money. Besides Ben’s chickens, mother has
a market-garden, and a hired man to help; and I help, too. Perhaps the
Club will meet out at my house, sometimes.”

“We will surely have at least one meeting there,” said Miss Ruth, while
Elsa’s eyes danced with pleasant anticipations.

Betty hurried ahead, ran up the steps of her home and threw open the
door, her heart swelling with hospitality. “O mother!” she exclaimed,
for Mrs. White was just passing through the hall; “Miss Ruth is going
to belong to our Club!”

“This is good of you, Ruth,” said Mrs. White, greeting her neighbour
cordially. “But you must not let the children trespass upon your time.”

Betty looked up in dismay: had they been asking too much of Miss Ruth?

“It will be such a new and refreshing kind of Club that I shall enjoy
it,” said Ruth Warren reassuringly.

“It is good for us to dare to be children with children,” said Mrs.
White, stroking Elsa’s soft hair and looking into the appealing
violet-gray eyes that always brought a thrill of sympathy into her
heart for the motherless child.

Elsa, meeting the kind glance, said very earnestly: “We are going to
call the Club--”

“O, Elsa, you mustn’t tell! You will spoil it all,” cried Betty
impatiently.

“Forgive my little Betty for her interruption, Elsa,” said Mrs. White,
seeing the colour rush into Elsa’s face. “Fault-finding is an easy
trade, Betty. But I suppose you children will all enjoy your Club more
if you keep the name and what you do as a secret.”

Elsa looked up into Mrs. White’s kindly face and wondered if Betty
realized how fortunate she was in having such a mother, who understood
so well what little girls wanted.

“We are going to make--” began Betty.

“There, Betty, who is telling now!” said Mrs. White laughingly. “I am
afraid I shall be learning your secrets if I stay any longer,” she
added, turning away. “Be sure you don’t let the children bother you,
Ruth.”

“No danger of that,” was the quick reply. And already, indeed, Ruth
Warren’s face looked younger and happier. “Now, children, we must make
our plans,” she continued, when they were all in the living-room. “It
seems to me the meetings would better be at my house. You can come
there on your way from school, and I will have everything ready,--our
work and something to eat.”

“That will be better than meeting here,” said Betty instantly, “because
the other children--Max and Janet--come home from the high school early
and they might be around sometimes, and sometimes we should have to
keep very quiet on account of the baby.”

“It would be a little nearer our house, too,” said Elsa, “and
grandmother could see Miss Ruth’s house from the window, and maybe I
could stay later than five o’clock sometimes.”

“And how would you like it, Alice?” asked Ruth Warren, turning to the
fair-haired child who was usually the last speaker.

“O, I’d like ever and ever so much to have the Club meet at your
house,” said Alice eagerly. “Ben can call for me to go home.”

“Then we have our name settled, and the place where we shall meet,”
said Miss Ruth. “Next we must decide what to give the Convalescent Home
children for Christmas.”

“Dolls!” cried Betty, from a big, square cushion on the floor.

“Dolls!” echoed Elsa, curled up on the wide sofa beside the two sleepy
gray cats.

“Dolls,--different kinds, paper dolls and some rag dolls,” said Alice,
her shabby little shoes sticking out straight ahead from the depths of
the chair she had chosen.

“Rag dolls!” Betty tossed her head scornfully.

“Yes,--rag dolls, please,” urged Elsa.

“Some rag dolls, surely,” said Miss Ruth; “one of my dearest dolls
was a black Dinah with a red dress and yellow ribbons on her woolly
hair,--a homely-dear doll my grandmother made for me.”

“Did your grandmother make dolls for you?” asked Elsa in a low voice.

“Yes--but that was probably because somebody had made dolls for her
when she was a little girl,” explained Miss Ruth.

“Dolls, then, it’s going to be,” said Betty. “We will all buy some
dolls, and make dresses for them ourselves, at the Club meetings.”

Ruth Warren glanced at the children quickly. Elsa was daintily dressed
in a soft, black gown with a fine-embroidered white guimpe; Betty had
on a pretty blue-and-green Scotch plaid dress, with a simple muslin
guimpe: the Danforths and the Whites were well-to-do people. But what
about the Holts? The hem of Alice’s sailor-suit had been twice let
down,--the careful pressing of the creases could not conceal the fact;
her stocking-knees were closely darned, her shoes were shabby; and her
story of how all the family worked to help earn money was undoubtedly
true. If Betty and Elsa bought dolls, Alice might not be able to
buy so many as they. So Miss Ruth said at once: “I will provide the
dolls, and you may dress them. Each of you bring some pieces of pretty
ginghams and wash-goods to me before next Friday, and I will have the
dresses cut out and ready for you to begin on when you come to the Club
meeting. Do you think you can make dresses for as many as two dozen
dolls in all,--twenty-four dolls that will be, and eight apiece for
you?”

“O, yes, yes!” came the chorus of answers.

“Then, sometime when the Club is sewing and we are tired of talking, I
will tell you a story about a little old lady’s doll,” said Miss Ruth.

“O, tell it now!” urged Betty.

“Please!” “Please!” begged Elsa and Alice.

“The next time, perhaps,” said Miss Ruth, glancing up at the clock,
whose hour-hand was fast approaching five, and shaking her head at
Betty’s added “Please!”

“Don’t you think we ought to have a few boy dolls?” asked Alice. “Some
of the convalescent children are boys, and Ben likes my boy dolls best.”

“Does Ben play with dolls?” asked Betty scornfully, rattling the tongs
by the fireside.

“He used to when he was littler,” said Alice, “and he does sometimes
now, when he has the sore throat and has to stay in the house. He
doesn’t mind other boys knowing it, either,” she said, sitting up very
straight in the deep chair, her blue eyes beaming with pride; “one of
the boys teased him about it, and Ben ducked him into the frog-pond.
Ben is different from other boys,” Alice explained, turning to Miss
Ruth. “I think he would like to come to the Club sometimes.”

“We don’t want boys in our Club,” objected Betty, rising and walking
around the room.

“But Ben isn’t like other boys,” said Elsa from her corner with the
cats.

“Ben could often help us,” said Miss Ruth encouragingly; “there will be
ever so much that a boy can do, especially toward Christmas-time.”

“Ben can sew, too,” said loyal Alice. She loved her twin brother
heartily and wanted to have him in all her good times.

“Here comes Ben, now,” exclaimed Betty, catching sight of him from the
window.

“He said he would call for me about five o’clock,” cried Alice, running
with Betty to the front door.

Back they came in a moment, followed by a rosy-cheeked boy, taller than
Alice but looking very much like her except that his big blue eyes
sparkled with fun, while hers were dreamy and rather serious. Ben had
on a short reefer jacket and knee trousers. In his red-mittened hands
he held the round cap which he had pulled off from his close-cropped
yellow hair.

“This is my twin brother,” said Alice, leading him forward to Miss Ruth.

“My name is Benjamin Franklin Holt,” said the boy, hastily pulling off
his right-hand red mitten. His cheeks grew rosier than ever, as he
bowed and shook hands with Miss Ruth, but he kept his eyes on her face
in a manly fashion.

Ruth Warren liked the little fellow from that moment for his
straightforward look. “We are glad to see you, Ben,” she said, “and we
were just talking about your coming to the Club sometimes.”

“Are you going to have a Club? I might come when there isn’t anything
else to do,” said Ben cheerfully.

“Ben!” exclaimed his sister.

“All right, Peggy. Yes, ma’am, thank you, I’d like to come sometimes.”
Ben edged over to the sofa. The two gray cats jumped down when he began
stroking them, and rubbed against his legs.

“Ben loves animals,” said Alice, with shining eyes.

“Alice told us you like to play dolls,” said Betty teasingly.

“I do, sometimes, when there isn’t anything better to do,” said Ben. He
gave a funny side-glance at Miss Ruth out of his twinkling eyes as he
added, straightening up his fine, sturdy little figure: “I ducked a boy
in the frog-pond once for trying to tease me about dolls.”

Ruth Warren’s eyes laughed back into Ben’s, but she said very
seriously: “I am sure you would not treat any of your sister’s friends
in ungallant fashion.”

“That’s the trouble about girls,” replied Ben confidentially; “a
boy can’t ever play fair with them, because they are girls.” One of
the things which always delighted people with Ben was his extremely
friendly and wise manner.

“You have not asked the name of our Club, Ben,” suggested Miss Ruth.

“Don’t tell him, please, until he really joins,” urged Betty.

“That will be time enough,” said Ben, carelessly but sweet-temperedly.

“I must go this minute!” cried Elsa, jumping up from the sofa and
hurriedly putting on her coat, as the clock struck five. “Good-bye!
good-bye! I’ve had a beautiful time. Thank you, Miss Ruth!” she called
back as she darted out of the house.

Betty White’s musical voice--which seemed to belong with the shining
brown hair and the fearless eyes--followed Miss Ruth and the Holt twins
as they made their way down the front steps a few moments later: “We
will run straight home from school to your house, Miss Ruth, for the
Club meeting next Friday afternoon; and don’t forget the story.”

Alice and Ben walked the short distance homeward with Miss Ruth.
Happy Alice chattered away about the Club: “I am so glad it is really
started,” she said gleefully, as they stopped at the foot of the
Warrens’ door-steps.

Ben whipped off his cap and stood bareheaded, looking up into Ruth
Warren’s face. Something friendly in her eyes made him say: “You look
as if you liked boys, Black Lace Lady.”

“I do like boys, Ben,” said Miss Ruth; and from that moment she and Ben
were friends.

Ben, while she spoke, had been pulling Alice by the hand. “Come on,
Peggy,” he cried now.

But Alice hung back long enough to call out: “Ben always has names for
people. Good-bye!” Then the twins ran off together, hand in hand.

At half-past five Elsa Danforth sat at a side-table in the dining-room
bay-window eating her bread-and-milk supper out of a gold-lined silver
porringer. The soft light from the great, glowing chandelier in the
dining-room fell upon the beautiful flowering plants and upon the
little black-gowned figure sitting there among them, all alone. Elsa
had begged the maid to leave the shades up,--it grew dark early these
short November days,--and she glanced out every now and then through
the twilight at the Warren house with happy thoughts in her heart. She
almost felt as if she had company, for the house was so near and Miss
Ruth had been so kind that afternoon.

Mrs. Danforth, the tall, stately lady whom Elsa called
“grandmother”--never “grandmamma”--dined at half-past six, for,
notwithstanding the solitude of her life since her husband, Judge
Danforth, had died and she had come to live in this suburban town of
Berkeley, she chose to keep up the formal New York way of living. She
had late breakfasts always, so that when Elsa was attending school, the
only times the two saw one another for more than a few moments were
at luncheon, in the evening after Mrs. Danforth’s dinner was over and
before Elsa’s bedtime, and on Sunday.

Elsa often felt very lonely, especially eating by herself. But she
never complained; she never thought herself very large or important,
and she was quite used to obeying her grandmother. Uncle Ned had said
for her to do exactly as her grandmother wanted her to do; and if Uncle
Ned had said this, it must be all right.

“Who are the children in your Club, Elsa, beside Elizabeth White?”
asked Mrs. Danforth that evening. She and Elsa were sitting in the
luxurious library. The chairs were upholstered in dark green velvet,
the books on the tables and in the bookcases had rich bindings. Out of
the library opened a long drawing-room furnished in cream colour and
gold, and having beautiful inlaid cabinets full of treasures.

Mrs. Danforth was a handsome woman, very erect, with a broad white
forehead, gray hair, heavy dark eyebrows, and keen blue eyes. She was
dressed in a corded black silk, richly trimmed with lace and jet.

Elsa looked up from her book and answered: “The other member of
the Club is Alice, and maybe her brother Ben is coming sometimes,
grandmother.”

“What is their last name?” asked the grandmother quickly.

“Alice and Ben Bolt,” said Elsa.

“Nonsense, child,” replied Mrs. Danforth: she had a discouraging way
of saying “Nonsense!” that made Elsa feel like a very small and silly
child; “those are names from an old nursery ballad.”

“I am sure their names are Alice and Ben, anyway, grandmother,” said
Elsa, pushing back the silky hair which had dropped forward, and
looking steadily at her grandmother out of great, wide-open eyes.

“Probably those are not their real names,” replied Mrs. Danforth. She
seemed rather troubled about something, Elsa thought. And then the
child tried to remember if she had done anything her grandmother did
not like.

Later, just before Elsa’s bedtime, Mrs. Danforth asked again: “What is
the last name of the children you call Alice and Ben?”

“Bolt, or Holt, or Colt may be; I can’t remember,” answered Elsa,
looking up from the pages of the “Swiss Family Robinson” and hoping her
grandmother would not notice that the mantel clock was striking eight.

“Where do they live?”

“O, a mile away,” said Elsa. “And they have hens and a garden, and they
raise radishes for the city market.”

“Are you sure they are proper children for you to associate with?”

“O, yes, grandmother,” said Elsa warmly. “Alice, especially, has
beautiful manners; Betty says her mother especially likes to have her
play with Alice.”

“I must speak to Mrs. White about it, to make sure,” said Mrs.
Danforth, and Elsa’s face coloured sensitively, for she felt that her
grandmother thought she was not telling the truth.

“Bedtime now, Elsa,” said Mrs. Danforth, the next moment. “Put away
your book. And try to remember people’s names. It is something a lady
always does.”

“Yes, grandmother,” said Elsa dutifully.

Almost any one, looking on, would have been surprised to see Elsa walk
up to her grandmother and, instead of kissing her good night, put out
her hand; and then to see Mrs. Danforth touch the slender, childlike
hand for only a brief second with the tips of her jewelled fingers.
But Elsa understood; long ago her grandmother had explained that she
thought kissing was an unnecessary and foolish custom.

“Good night, Elsa. Remember to say your prayers.”

“Yes, grandmother. Good night.”

Elsa went slowly out of the room and up the polished stairs to her own
room, which always seemed empty to her, with its white-papered walls,
white bed, white furniture, curtains, even white frames on the pictures
of Greek statuary and ruined temples.

Mrs. Danforth never thought of tucking Elsa into bed; and the child, as
she hung her black dress over the chair to-night, shed a few tears--as
she often did--over having to go to bed all alone in that white, white
room where her little black dresses looked so black.

It seemed to Elsa that she had been wearing black dresses all her life.
Three years ago her mother had died, then a year later her grandfather,
Judge Danforth, died, and within the last twelve months, her father.
Since her father’s death, her own pretty home had been broken up,
her old nurse dismissed, and she had lived with her grandmother, at
first in the great New York house, and now for three months amid new
surroundings in Berkeley.

No wonder that the grief and the many changes and now the sober, quiet
life with her grandmother in a new place, had made Elsa a sad-eyed,
white-faced child. The late summer, after their coming to Berkeley,
had been particularly lonely, for there had been nobody to play with.
Since October, however, when the Whites had come back from their summer
home, Elsa had been happier. Betty as near neighbour, had become Elsa’s
special friend, and now she and Alice had also made friends.

When Elsa was ready for bed, in her long white nightgown, she turned
off the electric light, put up the window-shades, and looked out toward
the Warren house. “I wonder which is Miss Ruth’s room,” she whispered
to herself. “Wish I dared to ask her, because if it’s on this side, I
could look over sometimes, and feel as if I had company.”

With a little sigh, Elsa knelt down by her white bed and mumbled her
prayer. Then, jumping up from her knees, she listened at the door. Not
a sound from Cummings, her grandmother’s maid, who had the room next
to Elsa’s, and who usually stayed down in the servants’ dining-room
until nine o’clock. Everything was quiet. So Elsa went quickly over to
the white bureau and pulling open the lower drawer, took from under a
pile of playthings a rather small china doll in a faded pink dress, the
red of whose cheeks had been almost entirely kissed off. With this doll
hugged close in her arms, Elsa crept into bed.

On the white-cushioned couch between the windows sat a dignified row
of dolls, seven in all, and all in good clothes. But better than any
of these, Elsa loved her little old china doll which her own dear
nurse had given her at parting and which Elsa had named for her nurse,
Bettina. For some reason which Elsa did not try to explain to herself,
she kept Bettina from the sight of her grandmother and especially
from Cummings, the middle-aged woman who attended to Mrs. Danforth’s
wardrobe and in what time there was left, made dresses for Elsa. Every
morning when Elsa woke, the first thing she did, after pressing many
loving kisses upon Bettina’s worn face, was to put her away under the
pile of playthings in the lower drawer of the bureau.

Thinking about the Club made Elsa feel very wide awake. She began
picturing to herself Betty White’s nursery-room with the bright scarlet
geraniums, the strawberry-birds, and the pretty chintz cushions; and
she hugged her doll the closer to take away the feeling of loneliness
in her own dreary white room.

“Now, listen, Bettina, and try to learn our verses; and perhaps we can
go to sleep,” said Elsa, beginning to whisper softly the cradle-song
her father had taught her, not long before he died. Repeating these
three verses every night meant more to Elsa than the prayer which she
hurried through on her knees. And Bettina listened attentively, as
dolls listen, while a voice said close to her ears:

                “Dear Heart, Sweet Heart,
                Time that little children
  Creep into their mothers’ arms, to wait Sleep’s silent call;
                Sweet Heart, Dear Heart,
                All the little children
  Must the Moon find sleeping when she mounts Heaven’s wall!

                “Sweet Heart, Dear Heart,
                Over little children,
  As they dream their white, white dreams, the wings of Love
      are pressed;
                Dear Heart, Sweet Heart,
                They were little children
  Whom the blessèd Child of Bethlehem lovèd best!

                “Dear Heart, Sweet Heart,
                All the little children
  Come from Love, and go to Love, when life’s long day is done;
                Sweet Heart, Dear Heart,
                All are little children,
  Hushed at last, on Nature’s bosom, one by one!”

And, as usually happened, when Elsa had said the last words, she fell
fast asleep.

       *       *       *       *       *

Down-stairs, Mrs. Danforth, putting aside her book, sat a long time
deep in thought, her eyes shaded from the light. “Ben and Alice; Alice
and Ben!” she kept repeating to herself. “Strange,--and the name, too,
Holt, or Bolt;--yet it may be only that foolish old song. I must find
out about it all.”

Finally, being a woman of strong will, she put the matter out of
her mind, leaned back into the luxurious chair and went on reading
her novel; while up-stairs, Elsa, the child who bore no shadow of
resemblance to her in looks or ways, fell asleep with wet eyelashes.

Mrs. Danforth had every intention of being kind to Elsa. She provided
suitable and pretty frocks and the daintiest of underwear for the
child; she paid careful attention to Elsa’s education, her manners and
her companions. The one thing she failed to give the child was the
unbounded love which little fatherless and motherless Elsa needed more
than anything else in the world.

In many ways Mrs. Danforth was proud of Elsa,--proud of her straight,
naturally graceful figure, her spirited bearing, her wonderfully
beautiful hair and eyes. Mrs. Danforth was a proud woman, and she
enjoyed the thought that the little girl whom she called grandchild
was well worthy of the name. She had never really cared for any child
except her own daughter; but that was a sad story of long ago.

There was a definite reason why Mrs. Danforth did not give more
affection to Elsa, just as there was a definite purpose back of her
coming to live in Berkeley. This purpose, however, Mrs. Danforth was
slow in carrying out, being a proud-spirited woman. To her many New
York friends she explained her removal to Berkeley upon the ground
that the quiet, suburban town, with its cultured people and its good
schools, was a better place than New York City for Elsa to live in
during the years of her young girlhood.




CHAPTER II

PRINCE GRAY OWL

  Forth he set in the breezy morn,
  Across green fields of nodding corn,
  As goodly a Prince as ever was born.

  --_Christina Rossetti._

  Where every wind and leaf can talk,
    But no man understand
  Save one whose child-feet chanced to walk
    Green paths of fairyland.

  --_Sophie Jewett._


“THE children are late,” said Miss Ruth to Sarah who, soon after
three o’clock the next Friday afternoon, came into the library with
a large plate piled high with ginger cookies cut into shapes of
animals,--horses, cats, dogs, giraffes, and elephants.

“Like as not they have given up wantin’ to have a club,” snapped Sarah,
shutting her mouth as if she had bitten off the words. “Children
nowadays are spoilt with havin’ such a lot done for ’em.” Sarah looked
disappointed, however; she had spent a long time in making those
cookies.

Sarah Judd was the only servant in the Warren household, and she had
lived in the family a long time. Whenever Ruth Warren said anything to
her about having a younger woman to help, Sarah always shook her head
until the corkscrew side-curls fairly bobbed up and down and answered:
“No, madam: if you have anybody else come to work for you, I go!” As
old Sarah understood perfectly the ways and wishes of Miss Virginia
Warren, Ruth’s aunt, Ruth kept the cross-spoken servant, who was in
reality a kind-hearted woman.

Ruth Warren had learned the wisdom of silence when Sarah made scolding
remarks; so now she kept on cutting out dresses for the rows and
rows of dolls,--big and little dolls, blond-haired and black-haired,
waxen-headed and china-headed, blue-eyed, gray-eyed, black-eyed,--two
of each kind and twenty-four in all, lying there on the centre-table.

Sarah lingered in the room, brushing a little dust from the table with
the corner of her white apron. “What a handsome lot of doll-babies,”
she said after a moment; “I hope the children will come. I thought
at first that havin’ ’em come would make an awful sight of dust an’
crumbs; but I can sweep Saturday mornin’s instead of Fridays, an’ it’s
kinder nice to hear children ’round, a-talkin’ an’ a-laughin’, as fast
as a sewin’-machine. Bless my heart, here they come now, a-hurryin’
along!” Sarah dodged behind the curtain and looked out over the tops
of her spectacles. “Ain’t they cunnin’ little things!” she exclaimed,
“comin’ along with their arms twined ’round one another, an’ that
lively Betty White in the middle!”

As Sarah turned from behind the window-curtain to answer the quick
ring of the front door-bell, she said anxiously: “If they eat all the
animals in the plate, I have got some more plain cookies they can have.”

A moment later Sarah led the three girls into the library, her
side-curls bobbing with excitement.

“O, look at those cookies!” cried Betty, after she had greeted Miss
Ruth. “Good old Sarah must have made them.” And Sarah vanished from the
doorway with a smile which made her thin, dry face seem suddenly to
have cracked.

“I’m dreadfully sorry we are late, Miss Ruth,” Betty cried out,
excitedly--Betty was almost always the first to begin talking. “It is
all my fault--I had to stay after school, and Elsa and Alice waited for
me.” Betty stopped for breath, fanning herself with the skirt of her
blue and green plaid gown.

“We wanted to wait,” said Alice with a shy, half-look at Miss Ruth,
then turning quickly to examine the piles of dolls again, with Elsa.

“I got zero in arithmetic,” Betty rattled on again, “and I didn’t read
well, and I got caught whispering, so I had to eat three little bitter
blossoms and stay fifteen minutes after school. I wish there wasn’t any
school,” she added, with a toss of her brown hair.

“So do I,” agreed Elsa, promptly, but Alice looked a little shocked.

“Help yourselves to the cookies, girls; Sarah made them especially for
you,” said Miss Ruth, seeing Betty’s and Elsa’s eyes fixed upon the
gingerbread animals.

“I shouldn’t care if I didn’t know anything, if I could have people
read to me and tell me stories,” said Betty, biting off the trunk of an
elephant cookie.

“O, Miss Ruth, you said you would tell us a story!” exclaimed Elsa,
eagerly.

“Yes,--a story about a doll and an old lady,” cried Betty, forgetting
her school troubles.

“Wasn’t it strange for an old lady to have a doll?” said Alice, her
blue eyes very serious.

“Strange perhaps, but true,” replied Miss Ruth, who had taken the tongs
and was stirring the fire into a splendid blaze. “Which would you
rather have,--that story, or one about a ‘Prince Gray Owl?’”

“Both,” answered Betty, “but the gray owl story first.”

“The doll story first, please,” begged Elsa. The fire lighted up the
golden-brown of Miss Ruth’s gown, and its brown fur trimming; Elsa
decided that the fur just matched the colour of Miss Ruth’s eyes.

“I should like either story first,--only both please,” said Alice
slowly, between bites at a long-necked giraffe.

“Which one can you tell easiest, Miss Ruth?” Elsa suddenly remembered
to ask.

“I could tell the fairy story more easily to-day, perhaps, because I
told it only yesterday to my little niece who was visiting me. The old
lady’s doll story actually happened, so that I remember it better.”

“Then the fairy story first, please,” Elsa said, contentedly. She had
one of the little dolls in her arms.

“Didn’t the fairy story really happen, too?” Alice asked quickly. She
had chosen from among the dolls a blue-eyed, yellow-haired one that
looked very much like herself.

“What a silly question, Baby Alice,” cried Betty. “Of course fairy
stories aren’t true.”

“What makes you like fairy stories, Betty, if they are not true?” Elsa
asked, seeing that Alice looked hurt.

“Because fairies are so dear and kind that it makes you wish they were
true,” Betty replied.

“Fairy stories were true in the once-upon-a-time days,” said Miss Ruth,
to end the discussion; “that is, people believed in fairies,” she added.

“Are these the dresses for us to make, all pinned on to the dolls, Miss
Ruth?” Elsa asked. “We’ve talked so much about other things that we
haven’t said hardly anything about the dolls.”

“It’s nice to have their underclothes all made,” said Betty, “because
it saves so much of our time.” Betty had finally taken one of the
largest dolls to dress.

“Do you each want to dress first the one you have chosen?” asked Miss
Ruth.

“Yes!” “Yes!” was the quick chorus.

“Then you may begin now, and I will sew, too,” said Miss Ruth, seating
herself by the table. “Here is a thimble for each of you, and in this
big work-basket you will find needles and sewing cotton and scissors.
Help yourselves to the cookies: and you need not be extra careful about
crumbs, because Sarah is going to sweep the library to-morrow morning.”

The three girls grouped themselves near the table and threaded their
needles.

“Please begin,” Betty whispered, just as Miss Ruth was asking of Alice:
“Is Ben coming to the Club?”

“He wanted to, he told me,” said Alice, “but the other boys teased him
to go skating, ’cause Morse’s Pond is frozen over.”

Betty tossed her head: “I knew he didn’t want to belong.”

“He told me he did,” said Elsa, who, being sensitive herself, usually
knew when Alice’s feelings were hurt. Elsa’s eyes were shining with
pleasure: it was only half-past three o’clock, there was an hour and
a half of enjoyment ahead, with dolls’ dresses all ready to make,
ginger cookies to eat, and a fairy story to hear. The bright wood-fire
sparkling and crackling added to the cheer. Her eyes were dark like
purple pansies as she raised them, expectantly, to Miss Ruth.

“Now that we are all ready,” said Miss Ruth, “I will begin. _Prince
Gray Owl_ is the name of the story.”

“Was the Gray Owl really a prince?” asked Alice.

“Hush!” said Betty.

       *       *       *       *       *

Once upon a time,--began Miss Ruth,--there was a beautiful princess who
lived in a great gray castle with her uncle. The castle and the kingdom
belonged to the princess, but as the king, her father, and the queen,
her mother, were dead, her uncle ruled over the kingdom.

Princess Katrina was only ten years old when her father and mother
died. As the years went on, her uncle liked better and better to be
king, and did not want to give up the position. But he knew that when
Princess Katrina married, he could no longer be king, because her
husband would become the ruler. Many a brave young prince wanted to
marry the princess, whose great beauty and cheerful heart were famed
throughout the world. But the uncle said “No” to each one of these
suitors, and ordered them never to come into the kingdom again on
penalty of having their heads cut off.

Princess Katrina was now nineteen years old. Her uncle knew that if
she were not married before she was twenty-one, she could then choose
a husband for herself. So he arranged to have her marry, not a prince,
but a wicked old king, ruler of a far-off country, two days’ journey
beyond the sunset. The uncle agreed to give this bad man a large sum
of gold with the princess, and in return, the uncle was to keep the
kingdom. For the far-away king wanted gold more than he did land.

Early one September morning Katrina’s uncle came to the sunshiny
bower where she sat alone, embroidering a beautiful scarlet-and-gold
tapestry. The princess made a beautiful picture, there in the sunshine,
with her soft hair shining like spun gold, her clear blue eyes, and
her fair cheeks tinged with rose colour. She looked a royal princess
indeed, in her blue velvet gown, with a long scarf of light blue gauze
floating over her shoulders.

“Good morning, Uncle Wulfred,” said the princess. She was not very fond
of her uncle, but she always greeted him kindly.

The wicked uncle had a crafty and cruel face. The jewelled gold crown
came almost down to the ears of his small, round head, and the kingly,
ermine-trimmed green velvet robe hung loosely from his short, stooping
figure.

“Princess niece,” said the uncle, without any “Good morning” greeting,
“you are now over nineteen years old and it is time you were married,
so I have chosen a husband for you. King Rupert from the land two days’
journey beyond the sunset is coming at the end of a month to marry you.”

Princess Katrina’s happy, beautiful face turned very pale. “Do you mean
that cross, unkind old king who visited you a six-month ago and who one
day at banquet broke the neck of a poor, faithful hound who offended
him? Nay, Uncle Wulfred, I will not marry such a man.”

“I say you shall marry him,” stormed the uncle, walking up and down the
room with jingling spurs.

“Never! I will die first!” cried the princess. Rising suddenly in front
of her uncle, she faced him with white cheeks and flashing eyes. The
scarlet-and-gold tapestry fell from her hands to the floor.

“You shall marry King Rupert, or die!” the uncle shouted; his
small eyes snapped angrily, his face grew purple, and he brought
his steel-gloved hand down upon the table so heavily that the
embroidery bodkins and scissors rolled off, clattering, to the
floor. “This-very-morning,” he said so fast that the words almost
tumbled over each other, “I-will-shut-you-up-in-the-East-Tower.
At-the-end-of-a-week-I-will-come-to-ask-if-you-will-marry-King-Rupert.
If-you-refuse-to-mind-me,
I-will-put-you-where-you-will-have-a-harder-time, the-second-week.”

When her uncle stopped, purple in the face, to take breath, Princess
Katrina answered him scornfully and without fear: “You are a wicked
uncle. It is because you want to keep my kingdom that you are trying to
make me marry that cruel old king, who lives far away.”

At these words, the uncle grew more angry than ever, because they were
the truth. He stamped heavily with his right foot three times upon the
stone floor.

Instantly three tall men in black robes, with black masks over their
faces, rushed into Katrina’s bower. One of the men pushed back from
the doorway Katrina’s old nurse who lived with the princess now as
serving-woman. Quickly throwing a part of his black robe over the head
of the gray-haired woman, the man led her away.

“Make the princess a prisoner!” commanded the uncle, pointing with his
sword at Katrina, who did not move or even cry out.

The two men in black seized Katrina roughly by the shoulders.

“Take this disobedient girl to the East Tower!” roared the angry uncle.

Katrina did not speak, but her blue eyes gleamed proudly as the guards
led her away.

The East Tower was an old, unused part of the castle, a long distance
from the part where the royal household lived. To reach the tower, the
guards led Katrina through many rooms hung with spiders’ webs, over
broken stone floors, and along dark passage-ways where rats scuttled.

       *       *       *       *       *

“I am glad I wasn’t Katrina to have to go where there were rats!”
exclaimed Alice.

“Don’t interrupt, Peggy!” cried Betty.

Miss Ruth smiled, and continued:

       *       *       *       *       *

The old East Tower of the castle was almost forgotten. No one ever
went there. Tall trees and bushes grew up around it, and a deep moat
surrounded it.

       *       *       *       *       *

“What is a moat?” asked Betty.

“A deep hollow, like a trench or a wide ditch, filled with water,”
explained Miss Ruth, and Alice whispered--but very sweet-temperedly--to
Betty: “Who’s interrupting now?” as Miss Ruth began again:

       *       *       *       *       *

The land beyond the East Tower, across the moat, belonged to a
neighbouring king, who had been away at war for many years. No lonelier
place than the tower could have been found for a prison.

“A safe place for the girl,” said the false king to his wicked
counsellors when they came back and told him they had locked Princess
Katrina into the upper room of the tower.

“But suppose she dies there?” said one of the counsellors, who had a
daughter at home, of about Katrina’s age.

“If she dies, no one will be the wiser, and you will be rich men,” said
the king. “Be sure you keep the old nurse drugged, and a guard to watch
her.”

After that, when the royal ladies of the court asked King Wulfred where
the princess was, he told them she had been suddenly called away by the
illness of her aunt in another kingdom, and that the old nurse had gone
with the princess.

Katrina was very lonely and sad the first few days in the round upper
room of the old stone tower. Three times each day the strong door
was unlocked and food and candles were set into the room. The man who
brought the food and the three candles would not say a word in answer
to Katrina’s questions. In the daytime, the princess walked around
the room, looking from one after another of the three windows at the
trees outside. When night came, she put all three of her candles at the
window where the leaves of the trees seemed thinnest, hoping that some
one passing might see the light, and wonder at its being there in the
old, deserted tower, and so come to her rescue.

On the third day, the princess saw the bright eyes of a gray squirrel
looking in at the window; she put some food upon the window-sill, and
presently the squirrel came in through the iron bars, ate the food,
then sat up on his haunches and looked at her quite fearlessly.

“I would help you if I could,” said the gray squirrel, unexpectedly,
“but all I can do is to give you my company.”

Katrina was greatly surprised to hear the squirrel speak, but she
answered quickly: “If you will talk with me sometimes that will help
me, for I am so lonely.”

“I will come every day,” he replied. “Now I must go home to arrange my
engagements.” Straightening out his splendid bushy tail, he jumped from
the window-sill into the thick leaves of an oak-tree, out of sight,
like a flash.

After that, the gray squirrel came every day at exactly the same time.
He sat on Katrina’s shoulder and chattered about his busy life in the
great forest; and in turn Katrina told him about her being shut up in
the tower by her cruel uncle.

“I would help you if I could,” said the squirrel one day, growing so
angry over her imprisonment that he tried to bite the iron bars of the
window, and in doing so, broke off two of his best front teeth. From
that time, Princess Katrina gave him more of her food, because he could
not crack nuts so well now. “Elf will mend my teeth some day, elf will
mend them,” said the squirrel cheerfully.

On the afternoon of the seventh day, the cruel uncle unlocked the door
of the tower-room and stood before the princess. He was covered with
dust and cobwebs from coming through the unused rooms and dark passages
which led to the tower.

“Is my dear niece ready to obey me and marry King Rupert?” the uncle
asked in a make-believe anxious voice.

Princess Katrina held up her head courageously. “Never!” she said: “I
will never consent to marry that dreadful old man.” Her golden hair
gleamed like sunshine against the dark gray stone walls.

She was so brave and fair standing there in her royal blue velvet gown,
facing him, that her uncle was half afraid. “It is for your good,” he
said in a shaking voice, the keys jingling in his hand.

Katrina answered him quickly: “It is for your gain.”

Then the uncle cried out fast, with blazing eyes:
“This-next-week-you-shall-live-in-the-lower-room-and-have-food-only-
twice-a-day-and-only-two-candles-for-the-night.
At-the-end-of-a-week-I-will-visit-you-and-if-you-refuse-to-marry-
King-Rupert-I-will-put-you-where-you-have-a-harder-time.” Seizing her
wrist, he dragged her roughly behind him through the door and down the
narrow, winding stone steps to the room below, thrust her into it, and
locked the creaking, heavy door upon her.

That night Princess Katrina was dreadfully afraid. A wild storm of
wind and rain shook the tower and made her candle-light flicker. Once
when something gray brushed against the window she shrieked aloud;
but, watching, she saw that the gray object stopped on a branch of
the great oak-tree outside the window, and that it was a large,
soft owl, as tall as a man. The owl sat there a long time, staring
at the candle-light with blinking yellow eyes that had tiny black
spots at their centre, and the princess was comforted by the sense of
companionship.

The next morning when the food and candles were brought, a package was
put with them, inside the door.

Katrina hurriedly unwrapped the package and was overjoyed to find in
it her scarlet-and-gold tapestry, her bodkins, her skeins of scarlet
and gold embroidery silk, and a little paper cleverly sewed on the
very place where she had stopped her work the morning when her uncle
came into her bower. On the paper was written, in her old nurse’s
handwriting: “The counsellors kept me drugged for a week, then they
told me you had gone away. I did not believe them, and I bribed the
guard, with all the gold I had, to tell me where you are and to takes
these things to you. Keep a good heart. I go away from the castle to
help you.”

When the gray squirrel came, early that afternoon, Katrina told him
what had happened and asked him what he thought.

The gray squirrel sat up very still and looked at the princess out
of his round black eyes: “The gray owl will rescue you,” said the
squirrel at last, solemnly.

“Who told you so?” asked the princess.

“I heard the bluejays talking about it this morning,” he said, winking
his eyes rapidly.

“Who told the bluejays?” Katrina inquired.

“They are great gossips: they hear things by listening at the front
doors of the other birds’ homes.” The squirrel looked so fierce all at
once that the princess asked quickly: “Do you know the gray owl?” and
before the squirrel could answer, began telling him about the gray owl
she had seen outside her window the night before. “Do you know him?”
she asked again.

“I know some gray owls,--I am sorry to say,” replied the squirrel,
shaking his tail.

The princess opened her blue eyes very wide as she asked, “Why are you
sorry?”

“Squirrels and owls cannot be friendly,” said the gray squirrel rather
sadly.

“Why?” asked the princess.

“Because it has always been so,” he answered, whisking his tail
excitedly and jumping out of the window so that the princess could not
ask him any more questions.

That afternoon as Katrina began embroidering once more upon her
scarlet-and-gold tapestry, her thoughts were even busier than her
fingers. What did her nurse mean by writing that puzzling sentence:
“I go away from the castle to help you?” Over and over again, Katrina
turned these words in her mind. But she felt comforted and hopeful.

When darkness fell, the princess put her two candles at the window,
and said to herself: “Perhaps the gray owl will come again to the
oak-tree.” For a long time she waited with her tender face pressed
against the iron bars. By and by she heard a soft whirr-r of wings, and
the gray owl settled upon a branch below the window.

Katrina looked eagerly into the round, blinking eyes: “I wish you could
speak,” she said, half-aloud.

The gray owl stepped so near the light that the little black line
almost faded out of his yellow eyes. Katrina was surprised at the owl’s
great size, and even more surprised to hear a muffled voice say: “Keep
a good heart. I will save you.” Then the owl spread its soft wings and
flew noiselessly away.

It was soon after that the princess heard a faint, regular sound, as
of iron striking against stone; and the sound lasted all night,--as
long as she stayed awake, which was a long time, for she kept asking
herself over and over again: “Will the gray owl really save me from
this dungeon?” The squirrel had said the owl would do this, and now the
owl himself said so.

In the days of Princess Katrina, the world of mankind had not moved
very far away from fairyland. The princess was not half so much
astonished to hear a squirrel and an owl speak as a princess would be
to-day. Katrina’s old nurse had told her many a tale of wonder; the
nurse had that very day sent the message, “Keep a good heart;” and
the gray owl had repeated the same words, “Keep a good heart.” By and
by Katrina fell asleep, still puzzled, but happy in having such good
friends as the nurse, the squirrel and the owl.

The next morning, when the squirrel came as usual, Katrina asked his
opinion about the owl and the strange noise; but all the squirrel would
say was: “Owls are very strong. Owls have sharp, strong beaks.” Then
he whisked away, as if in haste. So Katrina stopped talking to the
squirrel about the owl after that, for the subject seemed to offend him.

Every night, regularly, when darkness fell, Katrina heard the faint
pick! pick! of iron upon stone, and every night, as she leaned against
the window-bars, after the pick! pick! began, she heard the muffled
words, “Keep a good heart!” She did not always see the owl, but on
those nights she thought the owl must have perched upon a branch much
lower than her window, for, straining her eyes, she could see a gray
shape below.

When the end of the second week came, Katrina wound the scarlet and
gold tapestry around her slender body, under her blue velvet gown, so
that her uncle should not see it. All day long she waited for him, but
he did not come until dusk. The key turned slowly in the rusty lock.
Her uncle stood before her.

“Girl! Katrina!” he shouted, for he was frightened by her white face.
“Have you come to your senses? Are you ready to marry King Rupert?”

“Never! I will never marry King Rupert,” Katrina answered,
looking at her uncle with flashing blue eyes so like those of
his dead brother, her father, that the uncle swore a terrible
oath to keep up his courage, and said very fast, though
his teeth chattered: “Down--to--the--dungeon--with--you!
Food--only--once--a--day. One--small--candle--for--the--night.
Be--ready--to--marry--King--Rupert--at--the--end--of--a--week--
or--you--will--have--a--harder--time.”

With trembling hands the coward uncle put a key into a keyhole in the
floor, raised a trap-door by an iron ring, and pushed Katrina down the
dark stairs. She lifted her white face bravely and said: “Never will I
do your bidding;” then the trap-door closed over her head.

Down into the darkness the beautiful princess felt her way. After a
few moments she could see, by the dim light that came in from the one
window, a rough wooden bench, a stool, and a pile of dry leaves in one
corner. Outside the window, the oak leaves were very thick. Katrina
reached through the iron bars and broke the leaves from the nearest
branches. The strong stems hurt her hands, but she gained a little more
light and air.

Before the dim twilight faded away, brave Katrina stirred the dry
leaves on the stone floor and found to her great comfort that there
were no creeping things underneath. After putting her scarlet-and-gold
tapestry over the leaves to make a bed for herself, she lighted her one
candle, and placing it upon the wooden bench before the window, sat
down beside it. Darkness had hardly fallen before she heard the pick!
pick! as of iron upon stone, and lo! the sounds seemed close at her
side.

Suppose the sounds were some plan of her uncle’s to frighten her? For a
moment Katrina’s courage sank at the thought. But just then she heard a
muffled voice ask: “Are you there, Princess?”

“Yes,” she answered faintly. “Who are you?” The dungeon walls were
thicker than the walls above; Katrina could only press so near the
window as to see a gray figure outside.

“Your friend, the Gray Owl,” said the low voice. “We must not talk
much, for fear some one hear us. But keep a good heart.”

Each day of that third week the princess worked a little while with the
shining gold silk upon the tapestry; it was so dark in the dungeon that
she could not see, even at noonday, to use the scarlet silk. She felt
very faint, because she had only one meal a day, of bread and water,
and she gave some of the bread to her daily visitor, the squirrel, who
grew very thin without his usual nuts. She begged him every day to go
to the elf and have his teeth mended, but he always answered: “It is a
long way, and I will not go until you are saved.”

On the fifth night of that week when the pick! pick! as of iron upon
stone began, the princess went to the window and whispered sadly: “I
cannot keep heart much longer,” and the low, muffled voice of the gray
owl answered: “Courage! keep a good heart for one day more.”

Upon the sixth day there was a dark tempest. Even at high noon the
dungeon was dark. The gray squirrel looked wet and discouraged when he
sprang in through the window at the usual time.

“Do you think the gray owl is going to save me?” asked the princess in
her despair.

At the mention of the gray owl, the squirrel jumped for the window, but
it was so dark in the dungeon that he bumped into the wall and fell
upon the stone floor.

He held up a hurt front paw as Katrina ran to him. “Will you bind it
with silk for me?” he asked. “Elf will mend it when I go to him, elf
will mend it. But I shall have to stay with you now, because I cannot
jump--nor even walk,” he said, trying to rise but falling over again.

Katrina bound the wounded paw tenderly. All that afternoon the squirrel
seemed to be thinking deeply, and Katrina could not make him talk.

Utter darkness fell early. The dungeon grew very cold, so that both
Katrina and the squirrel shivered. She wrapped herself in the scarlet
and gold tapestry, took the squirrel in her hands, and crouched near
the window.

Soon came a stir in the leaves outside. “Are you there, Princess?”
asked the muffled voice. Katrina felt the squirrel begin to tremble
violently.

“Yes, Gray Owl,” she answered, waiting for him to say, “Keep a good
heart.” But instead, he said: “Prepare to leave the dungeon, Princess.
Stand away from the window, for soon a large stone of the wall will
fall into the dungeon.”

Katrina moved to the opposite side, having hard work to keep the
squirrel in her hands; he acted so frightened that she knew now it had
been fear, not anger, which made him run away every time the owl’s name
was mentioned.

“Are you safe, Princess?” came the gray owl’s question.

“Yes,” she cried. Then she saw a heavy stone of the wall move inward
more and more until it slid to the ground with a dull sound, and left a
large open space in the wall.

       *       *       *       *       *

“Here’s the boy of the Club,” announced Sarah, appearing at the door,
followed by Ben.

Ruth Warren went forward to greet the red-cheeked boy, whose hair lay
wet upon his forehead.

[Illustration: “‘YES, GRAY OWL,’ SHE ANSWERED.”]

“I thought I’d come for a little while,” said Ben, his eyes upon the
last cookie in the plate, a long-necked horse. “Skating wasn’t much
good, and I got in twice.” His wet shoes proved this.

“Sit here by the hearth and dry your feet, Ben,” said Miss Ruth,
turning to brighten the fire.

“Let me do that,” said Ben gallantly, reaching for the tongs.

Sarah took the plate from the table and vanished. Alice began
explaining things to Ben:

“Miss Ruth is telling us a story about Prince Gray Owl, and he is just
saving Princess Katrina from the dungeon. I can tell you the first of
it on the way home, Ben.” Alice had jumped up from her chair and was
devotedly watching her brother while he blew to start the fire until
his red cheeks stood out like small balloons.

“Please go on with the story, Miss Ruth,” cried Betty, impatient at the
delay.

But just then Sarah came in with the large plate piled high again with
cookies. Ben put the tongs back in their place and seated himself
contentedly near the cookies.

Miss Ruth spent a moment or two in looking over the girls’ sewing.
Betty had already made one doll’s dress and begun another. Elsa and
Alice were just finishing their first ones. When Miss Ruth seated
herself again, Elsa drew her chair nearer, and every now and then, as
Miss Ruth went on with the story, Elsa reached out and stroked the soft
fur on the golden-brown gown.

       *       *       *       *       *

“Princess, can you come through this opening in the wall?” asked a
voice outside of the window-bars.

Trembling now with excitement, the princess took up the tapestry which
had fallen around her and made it into a long roll, slender like
herself.

“Try if this will go through, Gray Owl,” she said. The squirrel clung
to her shoulder.

Slowly the roll of tapestry disappeared through the opening.

“Do you dare follow, Princess?” came the thrilling question.

“I dare--and I follow,” she answered.

“Save me!” cried the squirrel.

Katrina hid the shivering little creature in the folds of her blue
gossamer scarf, and with a last look around the dread dungeon, extended
her arms and put her head and shoulders through the opening in the
wall. Even before the rain-drops outside fell upon her hands, she felt
both hands grasped strongly, and she was drawn gently and steadily
forward until she could spring to her feet upright upon the soft ground.

Before her stood--not the gray owl she had expected to see, but a tall
young man with a graceful figure, and richly dressed in a princely robe
of dark green velvet.

The young man bowed low before Katrina. “Princess,” he said, “I am the
oldest son of the king, your neighbour. I was slightly wounded in one
of my father’s battles, and I came home the very day that your old
nurse escaped to my father’s castle and told of your imprisonment in
this dungeon. I took the shape of an owl and flew across the moat, and
as it was my right arm which was wounded, I kept the owl’s shape and
worked with the strong beak to remove this stone and free you.”

“Sir, never did a knight do more for a maiden,” said the princess, in
turn bowing low. She saw that his right arm hung in a sling.

“I will now fly with you to my father’s castle, where my mother, the
queen, and your faithful nurse await you,” said the prince.

Seeing the wonder on the sweet face of the princess, the prince said:
“Once, when I was a boy, I saved a young gray owl from a fierce eagle;
and the gray owl’s father was so grateful that he gave me the power to
change into a gray owl, at will.”

Then the prince said something which sounded like--

  “Gray owl, gray owl,
    I would be
  A strong gray owl,
    Like to thee.”

And he turned into a great, soft-feathered gray owl. It could not have
been just those words,--because Katrina tried to use them so that she
might turn into an owl herself, long afterward, just for fun.

The prince, now the gray owl, spread out one of his soft wings and took
the princess under it; then he gathered the roll of tapestry under the
other wing, and flew away, over the moat, toward his father’s castle.

       *       *       *       *       *

“What about the gray squirrel?” asked Ben, excitedly flourishing a
half-eaten camel.

       *       *       *       *       *

On the flight to the home of the prince--said Miss Ruth--Katrina told
the prince about the gray squirrel, whose little heart she could feel
all the time beating against hers. “I have him with me, under my
scarf,” she said. “He is afraid of you, I think,” she added, so low
that the squirrel could not hear.

“The gray owls will do anything for me,” said the prince in a loud
voice. “I will tell the greatest gray owl, the king of the forest, that
from this time forth the owls and the squirrels must live peaceably
together.”

Hearing this, the squirrel took courage and put his head out from
the folds of Katrina’s blue scarf. “Thank you, Gray Owl,” he said
gratefully. Then he slipped away, for they were near the home of the
elf, and he was anxious to have his front teeth and his broken paw
mended.

It happened that the neighbouring king, who had been for many years
away at war, grew alarmed when his son, Prince Edward, was wounded; and
so the king came hurrying home the very night of the day that Princess
Katrina was rescued from the dungeon. When this good king heard the
story of her imprisonment, he decided to set forth the next morning to
punish her wicked uncle, Wulfred, whom he had never liked, but with
whom he had lived in peace, up to this time.

That day, at noon, the false king made his way to the East Tower and
lifted up the trap-door of the dungeon. “Katrina! are you ready to
marry King Rupert?” he shouted down into the darkness.

No voice answered. The uncle called again in a louder voice. Still
no answer came. He peered down into the blackness by the light of a
long torch he had brought, but he could see nothing except the bed of
leaves, the rude bench and the chair.

“She lies dead under the leaves,” the uncle whispered to himself with
chattering teeth. A bat flew against his face. Shaking with fear, he
let the trap-door fall and hurried away, back through the winding,
cobwebby passages, to the state rooms of the palace.

But there more fears awaited him. His three wicked counsellors rushed
up and drew him to the front window, crying: “See!” “A foe is marching
upon us!” “A great and mighty army!”

The false king saw in the distance an army of hundreds of men, all in
glistening armour, with waving plumes and gleaming shields, line after
line stretching far into the distance. At the head of the army, upon a
magnificent black war-horse, rode the neighbouring king, clad in a suit
of mail, with a glittering helmet on his head, surmounted by a flowing
white plume. Behind the king, each upon a beautiful white horse, rode
Prince Edward and Princess Katrina; and upon the shoulder of the
princess perched a large gray squirrel.

       *       *       *       *       *

“Then what happened?” questioned Betty, breathlessly.

Miss Ruth, glancing at the clock, saw that the hands pointed closely to
five, so she told the rest of the story very fast:

       *       *       *       *       *

The wicked uncle was a coward before danger. When he found that the
princess was with this great army, he made no resistance, but at once
ordered the white flag of surrender to be flung out from the tower, for
he knew that the powerful neighbouring king would not fail to avenge
Katrina’s wrongs.

The conquering king made the wicked uncle a prisoner, and had him
put into the same dungeon where Katrina had been imprisoned. Prince
Edward and Princess Katrina were married soon after, and ruled
happily for many, many years. Behind their thrones hung the splendid
scarlet-and-gold tapestry upon which the princess had worked during
those dreary days in the dungeon. When the wicked uncle was an old man,
grown thin and white-haired, Katrina had him set free from prison, and
he spent his last days at the court, playing with a feeble, old gray
squirrel.

       *       *       *       *       *

“Is that all?” sighed Betty, when Miss Ruth stopped talking.

“Thank you ever so much,” said Elsa, as she sat looking into the fire:
“I like Prince Gray Owl,” she added soberly.

“I think Katrina was the best, though, because she had the poor old
uncle pardoned,” said tender-hearted Alice.

“What about the owls and the squirrels?” asked Ben, who was still
eating ginger cookies.

“O, the owls and the squirrels lived happily together ever after in the
woods around, even ‘as far as the lands of the wicked King Rupert, two
days’ journey beyond the sunset,’” said Miss Ruth.

“I wish there was some more about them!” exclaimed Betty.

“There is more about the owls and the squirrels all the time, in the
woods,” said Miss Ruth. “How would you like some Friday afternoon,
instead of having our meeting in the house, to walk out to the
Convalescent Home and then come back through the woods?”

Each and every member of the Club agreed that this would be a splendid
way to have a club meeting. “We could take home the sewing that we
would do at the meeting,” suggested Betty, “and bring it all finished
to the next meeting, so as not to lose time dressing the dolls.”

“You have done well this afternoon, girls,” said Miss Ruth, beginning
to gather up the dolls and their dresses; “and Betty’s idea is a good
one. Each of you ask at home if she may go on the walk, and perhaps we
can have it next Friday.”

“Then we can all see the Convalescings,” said Ben eagerly. “They are
nice little children, and I like to see them getting well.”

“Five o’clock and five minutes after!” cried Elsa, springing up. “I
must go, or grandmother will not like it.”

“Do you have to mind--even five minutes?” asked Betty, in surprise.

“Yes,” answered Elsa, hurriedly putting on her long black cloak. “Uncle
Ned tells me to do just what grandmother says.”

“Who is your Uncle Ned?” inquired Betty, who was taking a few last
stitches in the doll’s dress.

“Uncle Ned? He is the nicest and the dearest and the best man in all
the world,” said Elsa, her violet-gray eyes growing eloquent with
feeling. “He is nicer even than Prince Gray Owl, and I miss him all
the time. Good-bye.” And Elsa ran away with her wide black felt hat
hanging from her arm, and with something very much like tears shining
in her eyes.

Betty had sewed rapidly, and now she held up a second doll’s dress,
finished.

“Good, Betty!” said Miss Ruth. “Let me count how many we have
done,--your two, Elsa and Alice each one, and two of mine, six in all,
out of the twenty-four; it will take us just three meetings more to
finish the eighteen dresses that are left.”

“Then we can do some paper dolls, and rag dolls,” said Alice, clapping
her hands softly.

“Maybe I could help about the paper dolls;” Ben made the suggestion
with a rather careless air. “I could paint dresses, because I know
what looks pretty. When I grow up to be a man I am going to earn a lot
of money and buy pretty dresses for Alice, and I’m going to get her
a black lace one and a yellowy brown one trimmed with fur,” he said,
slowly.

Miss Ruth nodded encouragingly as she met Ben’s earnest blue eyes.

“I will give you some of the pretty dresses, Betty,” said Alice
unselfishly, feeling perfectly sure that Ben would do whatever he
promised.

Betty almost said, “I have prettier dresses now than you have,” but she
stopped just in time and said instead: “I will give you a blue velvet
dress, like Princess Katrina’s.”

To-day, Alice’s blue sailor-suit looked more worn and even shorter
than before, and Ben’s sturdy little figure seemed almost bursting out
through his tight jacket. But both Alice and Ben were too happy-natured
to care much about clothes. He helped her on with her shabby blue coat
most affectionately. The twins were very fond of one another, although
Ben, being a boy, did not think so much about this as Alice did, for
she openly and eagerly showed her love for him.

It was after quarter past five o’clock when Elsa Danforth, waiting in
the bay-window of the dining-room for her bread-and-milk supper, saw
Betty and Alice and Ben come out of the Warren house. “They have had
all this much longer good time!” Elsa said to herself. Life seemed
especially lonely to her just then. Her grandmother had reproved her
for being late, as well as for running home without her hat on.

Elsa was just a simple and loving little girl, who tried very hard
not to be an unhappy one, although she knew she was living without
many things which other little girls had in their homes and with their
mothers. She was lonelier than ever that night, when bedtime came: and
this is how it happened.

Mrs. Danforth had hired a pew at the largest church in Berkeley, and
had given money generously whenever asked to help any good cause. It
had come time for the ladies of the church to make their yearly gift
of clothing and toys to the Convalescent Home. And Mrs. Everett, the
head of the committee, called upon Mrs. Danforth for some money, that
afternoon.

“It seems too bad to spend money for playthings when so much is needed
for clothing,” said Mrs. Everett, as she folded the crisp ten-dollar
bill which Mrs. Danforth handed her. “Has your grandchild any old toys
which might do for the children?”

“I am sure she has,” replied Mrs. Danforth, remembering a large boxful
of half-worn toys in the garret,--toys which Elsa had said she was
tired of.

“I could take them in my carriage now,” said Mrs. Everett. She was a
large-hearted woman, much interested in the Convalescent Home and
eager to help it.

Mrs. Danforth rang for her maid. “Cummings,” she said to the very prim
and proper looking woman in starched white cap and black dress who
appeared instantly, “bring down that boxful of Miss Elsa’s old toys
from the garret. I am going to give them to a children’s home.”

As Cummings went noiselessly out of the room, Mrs. Danforth asked of
her caller: “Do you happen to know a poor family by the name of Colt
or Holt who live just outside the town?” The proud-faced woman bent
forward to disentangle the gold chain of her eye-glasses from the jet
ornaments of her waist.

“Yes, I know the Holts,” said Mrs. Everett. “They are poor but very
self-respecting people.”

“They have a market-garden, I believe?” said Mrs. Danforth, still
struggling with the chain.

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Everett, “and they raise excellent lettuce and
radishes; I can safely recommend their garden products to you. May I
help you with that chain, Mrs. Danforth?”

“Thank you, I have it free now,” said Mrs. Danforth, leaning back and
changing the subject.

When Cummings came noiselessly in again, with a large pasteboard box,
almost full of tin soldiers, picture-books and such playthings, she
suggested very respectfully. “Miss Elsa has the lower drawer of her
bureau full of toys, ma’am.”

“Are you sure Miss Elsa does not play with them, Cummings?”

The gray-haired woman shook her head primly: “Oh, no, ma’am; she never
touches them,”--which was the truth, so far as Cummings knew.

“Very well; bring them also,” said Mrs. Danforth.

As a result, some battered dolls’ furniture, two or three boxes of
games, and one small china doll were added to the collection in the
pasteboard box. Cummings took the now-filled box out to Mrs. Everett’s
carriage, and the kind-hearted woman drove away, happy in having
secured both money and playthings for the Convalescent Home.

       *       *       *       *       *

When Elsa was ready for bed that night, she opened the lower drawer
of the white bureau to take out Bettina. Her hand fell upon heaped-up
ruffled and embroidered garments.

She turned on the electric light. There, in place of the odd assortment
of playthings under which she had kept Bettina hidden, was a pile of
white underclothing.

Something seemed almost to stop Elsa’s heart from beating as she opened
one bureau drawer after another, and even hunted under the bureau,
without finding her beloved doll. Suddenly she remembered hearing her
grandmother say, that evening, that she had given away some old toys to
the Convalescent Home children, and her own answer: “I am glad you did,
grandmother.” Bettina must have been among them.

Sobbing bitterly, yet without making any sound, Elsa turned off the
light and crept into bed. She felt so lonely and wretched that she
could not go to sleep. After awhile, she climbed out of bed and stood
in front of the row of dolls on the white couch between the windows.
She chose the smallest of these dolls, the one which was most like
Bettina, held her for a moment, then kissed her, put her down and crept
back to bed. Much as she missed Bettina, she could not bear to take
another doll in her place. Again the child fell to sobbing in an agony
of loneliness.

She heard the great clock in the hall chime nine; a moment after,
Cummings closed the door of her own room. When the chimes rang out the
half-hour, Mrs. Danforth’s steps came up the polished front stairs,
passed Elsa’s door, and Elsa heard her grandmother’s door close.
Soon the house was quiet, save for the sound of heavy breathing from
Cummings’s room. Cummings could be noiseless by day but not by night.

Elsa felt that she could not stay in bed another moment. She sprang out
and went again to the row of dolls. Looking out of the window, she saw
a shadow pass across the thin lace curtains of the Warrens’ library
windows,--a shadow which she knew must be Miss Ruth’s.

A desperate hope of comfort flashed into Elsa’s mind. Without a
moment’s delay, she slipped her little bare feet into her white,
fur-lined bedroom shoes, put on the thick, long, white bathrobe
which hung over a chair, and softly opened her door. Then with a
quick-beating heart but without any thought of fear, she crept down
the stairs, took a great fur cape of her grandmother’s from the hall,
undid the front door latch, left the door ajar, and ran down the steps,
in the faint moonlight, and across the dry grass of the lawn to the
Warrens’ house.

Ruth Warren had just put out the lights in the library and was
fastening back the curtains when she saw the strange little
figure speeding toward her house. “Fairy or elf or child,--who
is it, I wonder?” she said to herself. There was something so
distressful-looking in the little hurrying figure that she did not wait
for the bell to ring.

“Why, Elsa dear, what is the trouble?” she asked, drawing the child
into the hall.

Elsa clung to Miss Ruth, sobbing in heart-broken fashion.

“Has anything happened to your grandmother?”

“No, O, no,--not that--I’ve lost--” but sobs drowned the words.

“Have your cry out, dear, and then tell me about it.” Miss Ruth led
Elsa into the library, drew a chair in front of the fireplace where the
coals were yet glowing brightly, unfastened the heavy fur cape and took
the slender little white-gowned figure into her arms.

The comfort of being told to cry all she wanted to, and of having kind
arms around her soon quieted Elsa’s sobs.

With only a little break in her voice, now and then, she told the story
of her loss, feeling, with a child’s sure intuition, that Miss Ruth
understood. “It is--so hard,” she said with a final sigh, hiding her
face against the friendly shoulder; “I have had Bettina ever since
nurse went away.”

“I know it is hard, dear,” Miss Ruth softly stroked the yellow hair.
“What shall we do?”

That “we” was so comforting.

“I--I s’pose I must get along without her,” said Elsa, sitting upright.
The quivering lips and tear-dimmed violet-gray eyes told the grief in
her heart, but her bravery was conquering now.

“How old are you, Elsa?” asked Miss Ruth.

“Almost twelve.”

Miss Ruth wisely waited.

There was a tender apology in Elsa’s voice when she spoke again:
“Grandmother didn’t know about Bettina. She doesn’t know how lonesome I
am.”

Then Elsa turned and looked eagerly into Miss Ruth’s face: “Is your
room over the library?”

“Yes, right over this room.”

Elsa slipped off from Miss Ruth’s lap to the arm of the chair: “I--I
think I could go back now and go to sleep--without Bettina--if you
would just leave one curtain up a little wee bit so as I could know
you--you thought about me--once in awhile,” she said slowly. “I--I
shouldn’t feel so lonely then,--’cause from where my bed is I can look
right out to the window where there is a tall green vase--I thought
maybe it was your room.”

“I will leave that curtain up a little way every night, Elsa, and I
will put a rose in that vase to-night, especially for you, so that you
can see the shadow on the curtain,” said Miss Ruth, rising.

“O, will you?” The silvery voice was eloquent with gratitude. As Elsa
raised her head she suddenly felt very tired and sleepy. Indeed, the
child was almost worn out.

“Now, Elsa, I am going to bring you a glass of milk and then go home
with you,” said Miss Ruth. “Just think how alarmed your grandmother
would be if she should miss you.”

“O, I know she hasn’t missed me,” exclaimed Elsa. “She never thinks
about me, I am sure, after I go to bed.” And Miss Ruth left the child
sitting up with shining eyes and a bright red spot on each cheek.

Elsa was drinking the milk just as the clock struck ten. Quite as if
her grandmother had told her to come home at exactly ten o’clock,
she slipped down from the chair, pulled the great fur cape over her
shoulders, and waited in the hall, a brave little figure with a flushed
face, while Miss Ruth put on her red golf cape.

Miss Ruth fastened the long fur cape securely around Elsa,--for the
night air was chilling cold,--opened the front door, and, before the
child realized it, took her up, a soft, furry bundle and a heavy
one,--and ran with her across the strip of lawn. The door of the
Danforth house was ajar.

“Hush, be very quiet, dear, or we shall wake your grandmother,” she
said, dropping the furry bundle on the top step of the Danforth veranda
and kissing the warm, sleepy face. “Lock the door safely, and go
straight to bed and to sleep.”

But Elsa stopped long enough to whisper into Miss Ruth’s ear: “Thank
you ever and ever so much.”

Almost as soon as Elsa had put down the latch, left the fur cape in
the hall and crept up-stairs to bed, she saw a light in Miss Ruth’s
room and one window shade raised just a little. Even while her eyes
were fixed upon the shadow of a rose against the curtain, she fell fast
asleep and dreamed that her Uncle Ned came in the shape of a great gray
owl, and rescued her out of a white-walled dungeon.




CHAPTER III

WHAT THE WOODS GAVE

  The world is so full of a number of things,
  I am sure we should all be as happy as kings.

  --_Robert Louis Stevenson._


“I WISH we could walk out to the Convalescent Home this afternoon,”
were Betty’s first words when the three girls reached Miss Ruth’s house
the next Friday, all very much out of breath from their haste. “I am
tired, school has been so dull and stupid,” said Betty, “and my head
aches. Please can we go?” Betty, from at first not wanting to go to the
Convalescent Home, now wanted very much to go, for, since then, Alice
had been telling her more about it.

“Would you like to take the walk this afternoon, Elsa?” Miss Ruth
inquired. “Is your grandmother willing for you to go?”

“Yes, Miss Ruth,” replied Elsa; “I asked grandmother about it this
noon, and she said if you thought it was all right, I might go any
time.”

Miss Ruth turned next to Alice: “Does it suit you, Alice?”

Alice also was eager for the visit, so Miss Ruth decided that there
could be no better time. The three girls were tired and fagged from
their school, and fresh air would do them more good than staying
indoors. The afternoon was sunshiny, the ground bare of snow, and
outdoors looked very tempting. And it was, moreover, the day after
Thanksgiving, when children do not always feel at their best.

“We will take a lunch with us,--unless you would rather have it now,”
suggested Miss Ruth. As no one seemed to be hungry now, the lunch plan
met with general favour.

“Excuse me then,” said Miss Ruth, “and I will have Sarah put something
in a box for us.”

“And I will run home and get my thick coat,” said Betty, who had worn
only a light jacket. “It may be cold coming back, and such a tender
little plant as I am mustn’t take cold.” In fact, however, Betty wanted
to tell her mother where she was going, as she did not have permission
for this particular day, as Elsa had.

Sarah Judd sat in the tidy kitchen knitting a white stocking, her
needles keeping time with her bobbing curls, her black cat on the
table by her elbow. At Ruth Warren’s words: “I want a lunch for my
little people, Sarah,” the woman snapped out: “I declare for it, I’m
glad you are goin’ to do it yourself. I’m tired of waitin’ on a pack of
children that make so many crumbs--”

“Now, Sarah, you know you like having the children come here,”
interrupted Miss Ruth. “We are going for a walk to-day, as it happens.
Is there bread enough for sandwiches?”

“Yes;” Sarah made her needles go very fast.

“And cookies enough for four children?”

“Yes.” Then Sarah, who could not make her needles go any faster,
jumped up with stiff quickness, exclaiming: “Land sakes! let me do
it. I know what children like; you go ’way an’ I’ll surprise you and
them, too,”--which was exactly what the mistress of the house had been
waiting for Sarah to say.

She ran up-stairs to tell her Aunt Virginia good-bye. When she came
into the library again, she found that Betty had returned and that the
three girls were standing around the centre-table where the dolls were,
trying to decide which they should dress next.

“Girls, Aunt Virginia wants to see you, because she has heard so much
about the Club,” said Miss Ruth.

“You haven’t told her the name, have you?” Betty asked anxiously, as
they followed Miss Ruth up-stairs.

“O, no! I just call it ‘the Club’ when I speak of it.”

“That’s the way I do,” Betty said, encouragingly, running on ahead.

Miss Virginia Warren was accustomed to take extremely good care of
herself. To-day she was sitting in a large easy chair with soft
cushions all around her and a dark blue afghan over her knees. She
was about sixty years old, a large, rather heavy-looking woman, very
pale because she did not like fresh air in her room and never went
out-of-doors in cold weather; and indeed, she took as little exercise
as possible all times of the year, because she lived in constant fear
of bringing on heart trouble. Her face, though white, was very fair,
and her brown eyes--in colour and in a quick way she had of raising
them--were like Ruth Warren’s, but there the likeness ended, for the
aunt’s eyes had a wilful expression; her mouth also had a selfish droop
at the corners.

Miss Virginia was dressed in a light blue wrapper, much trimmed with
white lace. She shook hands with each of the three girls,--she had
large, handsome hands, but without much life in them,--then she looked
the girls over as if they were a row of dolls.

“They seem like bright little children,” she said slowly, turning to
Ruth Warren, her voice sounding as if she lifted a weight with her
chest at each breath; “but they look so well and strong and so full of
life,”--here Betty stopped twisting herself,--“so full of life, Ruth,”
went on the slow voice, “that I should think they would tire you all
out.”

Miss Virginia, who had leaned forward slightly while she spoke, sank
back among her pillows. “They may go now,” she said, with a wave of her
large, white hand in the direction of the embarrassed children; “I am
tired already,” she repeated, “and you know almost anything brings on
heart trouble.”

Ruth Warren had heard this remark hundreds of times in the three
years since she had offered a home to this aunt who was alone in the
world; but she was unfailingly kind to the fanciful woman. “Yes, Aunt
Virginia, you must be careful,” she said, motioning for the children to
go down-stairs.

“Remember, Aunt Virginia, Sarah will come to you instantly any moment
you ring for her,” said Ruth Warren, stopping to arrange her aunt’s
pillows more comfortably, and kissing her on the forehead. But the
slow yet vigorous voice followed her out of the door: “I am growing so
feeble, Ruth, that I soon must have a regular nurse to stay with me,
especially when you are out.”

The three girls were unusually quiet when Ruth Warren joined them, for
her aunt had made them feel as if they were very troublesome.

“What shall we do about the dolls’ dresses, our work to-day?” the Club
president asked cheerfully.

“We might each make two at home,” Betty found voice to say, for the
Club: “Alice might take hers now, and Elsa and I can call for ours.”

So Alice chose two pink-and-white gingham dresses, rolled them into a
little bundle and put them into the pocket of her blue coat, while Elsa
and Betty looked on, embarrassed and quiet, even now.

But when Miss Ruth had put on the brown fur-trimmed coat and hat which
matched her brown dress, and the three girls were once out in the open
air, the shadow cast upon their spirits by Miss Virginia vanished
entirely. Each one begged to carry the straw hand-bag containing the
lunch, and they finally agreed to carry it by turns, beginning with
Elsa, the oldest.

“You have to pass my house to go to the Convalescent Home, and there
are dogs out that way,” suggested Alice, running on ahead and looking
back at the others.

“I will take a stick,” said Elsa.

“I will take my feet,” exclaimed Betty.

“We can stop at my house and ask Ben to go with us,” Alice said. “He
had to hurry home from school to do errands for mamma, but I think he
will have them finished now. He knows all the dogs, and they all know
him.”

A few moments’ walk took the Club into Berkeley Avenue, a long,
wooded road curving ahead. Soon the surroundings grew more and more
country-like. The road ran past wide farm-fields and comfortable homes
with lazy cows standing in the barn-yards and busy hens scratching in
the deserted gardens. Along the roadside, tall oak and chestnut trees
met in noble arches; all around was the faint rustle of dried leaves
and the soft swaying of bending branches.

“How far is it to where we are going?” asked Betty, impatiently,
turning to Alice.

“It’s a half-mile from my house,” answered Alice, “and we are almost
to my house. It’s that little one with a lot of windows.”

“We have come more than a half-mile,” said Miss Ruth, “so it must be
Betty’s turn to carry the straw bag.”

Betty took the bag, and darted along the road, here and there, to the
great risk of the lunch.

They were soon in front of the small wooden house, well back from the
road, and having a great many windows full of flowers. Ben, with his
shirt-sleeves rolled up, was splitting kindling-wood at the side of the
house. He came running down to meet them.

“Going to the Convalescing Home? Yes, I can go, too,” he said, pulling
down his shirt-sleeves. “I’ve done the errands, and was splitting
kindlings just for fun.”

“Won’t you please come into my house, Miss Ruth?” asked Alice, shyly.
“Mamma said she wanted the Club to meet here sometime. She would like
to see you now, I know.”

“We will come, sometime, Alice; thank you,” replied Miss Ruth, “but not
to-day. We have to be back home before dark.”

So Alice ran in to speak to her mother and to leave the dolls’
dresses, just as Ben came hurrying out, buttoning his tight little blue
jacket.

“I might hitch up Jerry to the delivery wagon and take you that way,”
suggested Ben.

“No, walking is more fun,” said Betty, who always knew exactly what she
wanted to do. A moment later Alice ran toward them, waving good-bye to
the young-looking woman who stood in the doorway. Betty flourished the
lunch-bag wildly in the air, while Miss Ruth and Elsa waved friendly
greetings and Ben shouted farewells.

“What a splendid place to live in, Alice, with the woods so near,”
said Elsa. “I love to walk in the woods and go hunting into bushes,
and discover things.” Elsa looked with eager eyes at the clumps of
scrub-oak and low bushes ahead, beyond the stone wall.

“There are snakes there sometimes, in warm weather,” said timid Alice.

“I’m not afraid of snakes,” Elsa said.

“I love ’em,--the cunning little ones,” cried Betty; which was true,
for Betty loved almost everything that was alive.

“I will tell you a very short story about a friend of mine,” said Miss
Ruth. The children fell into line at once, Betty and Elsa on the
right, Ben and Alice on the left.

“I was in a small country town one summer with this friend,” Miss Ruth
began, “and some one asked her to take a Sunday-school class of boys
who were full of mischief and fun. For awhile, that first Sunday,
everything went well; then, just as my friend was explaining the
lesson to the boys at one side, she felt something drop into her lap,
and turning, she saw a little green snake. Those boys looked at her,
expecting at least that she would scream. The snake wriggled and tried
to escape, but the boy who had brought him was too quick, and grasped
the snake; and he was so surprised when the teacher said: ‘That isn’t
the way to hold him. Don’t you see you are making him uncomfortable?’
So she took hold of him.”

“The boy or the snake?” asked Ben, quick as a flash.

“The snake,” said Miss Ruth, answering the laugh in Ben’s eyes. “And
she held him--the snake, I mean--for ten or fifteen minutes, talking
about him until those boys thought she was the nicest teacher they had
ever had.”

“Could you have done that, Miss Ruth?” asked Betty.

But just then a large black and white hound bounded from the porch of a
house they were passing and ran with great leaps toward them, baying in
a deep voice.

“Tinker! Tinker!” called Ben, darting forward. Alice drew around to the
other side of Miss Ruth, while Elsa and even Betty stepped a little
behind.

“Tinker!” exclaimed Ben again, in a steady tone. “Come here! Don’t you
bark at my Black Lace Lady!”

The great hound, on hearing Ben’s voice, had stopped short. Now,
with eyes cast down, he walked meekly to Ben, who put out his hand
and stroked the long, soft ears, saying: “Bad old Tinker, aren’t you
ashamed of yourself?”

As Alice had said, Ben was friends with all the dogs on the road. The
hound, after walking a few steps with Ben’s hand on his head, turned
and went toward his home.

“I wasn’t a bit afraid,” said Betty, coming forward again.

Ben gave a low whistle to express his thoughts. The others were
politely silent.

“What was it you called Miss Ruth, Ben?” Betty asked quickly.

“Black Lace Lady,” Ben answered, “because she had on a black lace
dress the first time I ever saw her, and it was pretty.”

“Ben always names people,” said Alice. “He calls me Peggy most of the
time.”

“What is your name for me, Ben?” asked Betty, dancing on ahead.

“You?” Ben looked at her brown curls and bright eyes for a half moment
and then said: “I am going to call you the Glad Girl.”

“That’s nice,” Betty said, with an extra swing of the lunch-bag.
“Mother calls me Sunshine sometimes--and sometimes the Tornado. What’s
your name for Elsa?”

Ben thought a moment: “I haven’t any name for Elsa yet: I am saving
that up.” Then he gazed at Miss Ruth anxiously: “Isn’t it Alice’s turn
to carry that straw bag?” Alice had found time to explain to him about
the lunch. “We can take shorter turns now, ’cause I can carry it, too.”

So the bag was given into Alice’s keeping.

“Tell us about the place where we are going, Miss Ruth, please?” asked
Elsa, who was enjoying the woods walk so much that she had kept quiet
most of the way.

“To begin with,” replied Miss Ruth, “there is a large hospital in the
city, especially for children; but large as it is, there are always
more sick children to be taken into it than there is room for. When the
children in the hospital are getting well, they are brought out here to
the Convalescent Home where they can be cared for before going to their
own homes,--which are sometimes very poor homes. And the life out here,
with the sunshine and the fresh air and good care, makes the children
ever and ever so much stronger. There are about seventy or eighty
children here all the time.”

“Poor little children,” said Elsa. Betty was walking along quietly now,
and Ben had taken Alice’s blue-mittened hand in his.

“Yes, poor little children,” Miss Ruth repeated. “The happy part of it
all is, though, that the children are growing stronger. But just think
how they have to go without the playing and running about you all can
have. Once a little girl, seven years old, whom I saw out here, and who
couldn’t walk, said: ‘I used to play when I was young.’”

“There’s the house now,” exclaimed Alice, as they came within sight of
a large red-brick building with many red chimneys, situated quite far
back from the highway.

Just where the road turned toward the comfortable-looking red house
stood a tall, wooden sign with the words:

  CONVALESCENT HOME
  OF THE CHILDREN’S HOSPITAL
  VISITORS ALWAYS WELCOME

“Doesn’t that sound pleasant?” said Betty, reading it aloud. “It makes
you feel as though they really want you to come.”

Miss Ruth had been here many times before, so she sent a message to the
head-nurse by the maid who opened the front door: “Tell Miss Hartwell
that we would like to see her when she is at liberty, and that I have
taken my young friends out to the playroom. How many children have you
here this week?”

“About seventy-five, Miss Warren,” replied the maid, conducting the
little party through the large, airy hall with its light yellow-green
walls and dark wood finish, and along a wide passageway to the playroom.

The three girls went on in silence, except that Elsa said to Miss Ruth:
“What a lovely, clean place it is!”

Soon they found themselves in a large room--which seemed almost like
outdoors, it was so light and pleasant--and in the midst of a great
many children, most of whom were upon one crutch or two crutches, or
had bandages upon their feet, arms, or even their whole bodies.

“There are over forty children here in the playroom,” said the
white-capped nurse who had stepped forward to answer Miss Ruth’s
greeting. “The stronger children have been out-of-doors in the fresh
air;--but see, they are coming in now,” she added. “Miss Hartwell has
them come in half an hour before their supper time.”

Sliding glass doors led from the playroom upon a wide, unroofed piazza.
And now, through the open doorway, a tall, slender woman led the long
line of children, who limped or pushed themselves along on go-carts;
only a few, even, of these stronger children could walk in the
straight, free fashion in which ordinary boys and girls walk, when they
have full use of their limbs.

“How happy they all look,” said Elsa; and indeed, the children’s faces,
though in many cases thin and pathetic-looking, were sweet, patient and
sunshiny.

“They always look just the same, every time I come here,” Alice said;
then she ran off to speak with a little girl whom she remembered. Ben
was already in a corner, surrounded by a group of boys.

While Miss Ruth went on talking with the head-nurse, Betty and Elsa
forgot their shyness,--which was easy, because the children came
crowding around them, with lively interest. To Betty, who was used to
her own baby brother, the most natural thing to do seemed to be to
sit down on the floor and play with the smallest ones. Elsa, heeding
the “Go walk! Go walk!” of two little girls, wandered away with one
holding fast to each hand. When the little girls grew tired, as they
did quickly, Elsa came back to Miss Ruth’s side, with shining, eloquent
gray eyes: “They are so friendly, the dear little things,” she said to
Miss Ruth, then walked slowly away, with two other girls, to a group of
children who were strapped down to go-carts, and flat upon their backs.

A mite of five years, with round blue eyes and a pale, patient face,
held out both hands toward Elsa’s sunshiny yellow hair, saying “Pitty,
O, pitty!” Just beyond, a little boy was turning his head toward the
window. “What are you looking at?” Elsa asked, as she drew near.

“At the sky; it’s nice up there,” the boy answered contentedly.

By his side, on the next go-cart, a small girl was singing to herself a
nursery-verse Elsa knew; so she stopped and joined in the singing:

  “Come, little leaves,” said the wind one day,
  “Come over the meadow with me and play;
  Put on your dresses of red and gold,
  For winter is come and the days grow cold.”

Elsa’s baby companions, tired of walking, dropped down in little
patient heaps upon the floor, saying in soft voices: “Sing more! More
song!”

“Oh!”

Miss Ruth turned at Elsa’s exclamation and saw her kneeling by the side
of a child of about seven years, who was hugging an old, battered china
doll. The child was strapped to a frame which held her body straight,
because her back was not like other children’s. “Let me hold your dolly
a moment,” Elsa was saying, although Ruth Warren could not hear the
words.

“No! No! Dirl take dolly ’way!” cried the little girl, who had a ruddy
face and dark, sparkling eyes.

Miss Ruth, still talking with the head-nurse, watched Elsa, unheeded by
her.

“Where did you get the dolly?” Elsa asked, longing to take her old
doll into her arms, for she had instantly known her own Bettina.

“Lady dave her to me,” said the child.

“What is the dolly’s name?” asked Elsa.

“Dolly.” The child looked up solemnly.

“Don’t you want to have a name for her?” Elsa asked, after a half
moment of waiting.

“Vhat?” asked the child, clasping her tiny hands the tighter around the
doll.

“Name her Bettina,” said Elsa, softly.

“’Tina,” repeated the little girl. “Dat’s dood name. Dat’s nursey’s
name.”

“Where is nursey?” Elsa sprang up from her knees and looked around the
room at the nurses. All the faces were strange to her. “Where is she?”
Elsa asked again, almost in tears.

“Don ’way,” said the wee little girl. And, leaving her staring with two
very bright eyes at the doll, Elsa went back to Miss Ruth’s side and
took hold of her hand tightly.

“You ought to be here some day when new children come,” said the
head-nurse kindly, noticing Elsa’s sober face, “and see how those who
have been here longest crowd around and tell the new children about the
nice things they do here. It makes the new children feel happy and at
home, immediately, so that they are hardly ever homesick. Sometimes
after the children are well, they don’t want to go home. One little
girl used to run and hide every time we spoke of her going home.”

“I don’t wonder,” Elsa said quickly. “It’s so pleasant here for them.”

“Would you like to see where almost all the children sleep?” asked the
head-nurse, now that Elsa’s face had brightened.

“Yes, indeed,” Elsa said. Then Miss Ruth called the other members of
the Club, and they followed Miss Hartwell into one after another of
the three rooms, or “shacks,” which reached out, like arms, from the
playroom; and Miss Hartwell showed them how the windows and even the
doors could be moved so as to let plenty of fresh air into the shacks;
she said that the children never complained of feeling cold, for they
were bundled up in flannel clothing and hoods at night. Some of the
children limped along, following the visitors from one shack into the
next, and listening, nodded their heads with great interest while Miss
Hartwell made the explanation.

“You would enjoy coming here sometime on a kindergarten afternoon,”
continued the head-nurse. “We have kindergarten teaching three times
a week--Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday afternoon--and no baby is
too small and no child too helpless, to take some part, real or
make-believe, in the pretty plays.”

Immediately, one little boy, who had heard the word “kindergarten” held
up a piece of cardboard which had outlined upon it a yellow carrot with
a bright green top. And they all praised it.

“Now I will show you the dining-room,” said Miss Hartwell, leading the
way back through the long passage and the pleasant hall. And, then,
if Elsa had dared, she would have questioned about the nurse named
Bettina; but Elsa was a shy little girl, and before she found courage
for the question, they were in the large, many-windowed dining-room
with its tall, handsome plants and wide fireplace, and Miss Hartwell
was showing them the pretty dishes with red, green, and blue figures,
for the children’s use. The room was filled with low tables surrounded
by low chairs, and on the tables were plates piled with buttered bread
and crackers, while in front of each place was a large cupful of milk
and a dish of apple-sauce.

“The children have supper very early on winter afternoons,” Miss
Hartwell said. She had hardly spoken these words when the long
procession of children began coming into the dining-room,--the
stronger ones first, sometimes leading or helping the weaker ones, then
those who could not walk, pushing themselves along on their go-carts.
Last of all came the nurses with the youngest and weakest children.

The visitors drew somewhat to one side and watched the children as they
took their places or were drawn up to the tables.

At a signal from the head-nurse after each little white bib was tied
into place, the children began singing in thin, sweet voices:

  “Thank Him, thank Him,
    All ye little children;
  Thank Him, thank Him,
    God is love.”

Elsa’s and Betty’s eyes filled with tears; the children’s grace touched
Alice’s and Ben’s hearts into tenderness, too, although the twins had
heard it before; then they all dried their eyes, smiling through joyful
tears, as the children began to eat their supper.

“Sometimes we have gingerbread for supper,” said a sweet-faced child
who was lying on a go-cart near the visitors, and whom one of the
nurses was feeding.

“Tum aden,” cried the bright-eyed little girl who, as the visitors
turned to go, was hugging an old china doll, and patiently waiting her
turn to be fed.

“You cunning baby!” said Elsa, stooping to kiss the battered doll, once
her own.

So half-laughing, half-crying, the children passed out, their hearts
overflowing with a kind of painful pleasure.

They kept unusually quiet for the first few moments as they walked
away. Elsa was the first one to speak. “I want to come again,” she said
in a wistful voice. It had been hard for her to leave her precious old
doll behind; and besides, the children interested her greatly.

“So do I,” Betty joined in quickly. “It makes me feel queer, but I like
it.”

“I love to come,” said Alice. “Sometimes we take things out to the
children; and you’d be s’prised the way they give up to each other.
Mamma says they are the most unselfishest children she ever saw.”

Ben was trotting along ahead, jumping every now and then into the air.
Suddenly he stopped and said in a serious voice: “I am glad my two
legs are whole! My,--but it’s hard for those boys, though.”

“It’s just as hard for the girls,” exclaimed Betty.

“No,--because boys need to race around more than girls; it keeps them
from exploding,” declared Ben, taking an extra high jump.

“I know a short way through the woods,” he added, stopping where a
foot-path led from the left-hand side of the road. “It comes out just
beyond our house; it’s pretty, too, and I can take you to a fine place
to eat the lunch.” Ben was growing hungry.

Miss Ruth had kept the lunch-bag, insisting that it was her turn to
carry it now. They all agreed to follow Ben’s suggestion; and indeed it
was delightful to be walking along under broad-spreading trees through
whose branches the late afternoon sunlight struck golden lances. There
was an almost perfect stillness in the woods, except for the occasional
calling of crows overhead among the tree-tops or the Jay! Jay! of that
handsome robber, the blue-jay.

“How does the Convalescent Home have money enough to take care of all
those children?” asked Elsa, sliding along, on the smooth carpet of
pine-needles, toward Miss Ruth.

“The managers, the ladies who have charge of the Home, give money and
their friends give money, to provide the clothing--shoes and stockings
and nightgowns and little flannel dresses and everything,--besides
paying the nurses’ wages and for the medicines. It takes a great deal
of money; and ever so many more children could be brought here and
cured if there were more money to provide care and clothing for them.”

“Perhaps my grandmother will give something,” Elsa said hesitatingly.
“O, I know,” she added, her face brightening, “Uncle Ned will help. I
will ask him.”

“I am glad we are going to give the children some dolls; they didn’t
have many,” said Betty, rustling on ahead through the piled-up dry
leaves.

“We might earn some money--our Club, I mean,” suggested Alice.

“We will give them all the dolls and playthings we can for Christmas,”
said Elsa, putting her arm around Alice; “then, when we start a new
club, we can maybe have it an Easter Club, and see how much money we
can earn for those poor little children.”

“Alice and I had our names printed in the Convalescing Home report last
year,” Ben called back over his shoulder; he was leading the way. “It
said this: ‘From Ben and Alice, a music-box;’ we gave them one we had,”
he explained.

“Will the dolls we give and the name of our Club be printed in the
report, Miss Ruth?” asked Betty excitedly.

“Yes, that is the custom,” answered Miss Ruth.

“But then everybody would know the name,” objected Betty, walking
slowly on.

“Never mind,” Alice said, putting her arm into Betty’s. “We can name
the Club over again after Christmas.”

“And we wouldn’t want to call an Easter Club by the same name as a
Christmas Club,” said Elsa.

“What’s the name of the Club, anyway?” Ben turned to ask. He was
marching on ahead, but not losing anything that was said. “Alice told
me I couldn’t know it till I belonged, but I belong now.”

“Yes, you belong now, after having this afternoon’s meeting with us,”
said Miss Ruth. “Tell him the name, Alice.”

So Alice ran ahead, put her arm around Ben’s neck, and whispered the
name into his ear,--although there was no need of secrecy, since they
all were members.

“Christmas Makers’ Club!” Ben said critically. “That sounds pretty
important, as though you thought you were going to make Christmas.”

“But we are,” cried Elsa; “we are going to help make it for the
convalescent children.”

“And for ourselves, too,” put in Betty, who had many plans in her busy
brain.

“Aren’t you going to help make it for anybody, Ben?” asked Miss Ruth.

“O,--yes,” replied Ben, with the air of one who did not tell all of his
secrets.

“He can make the beautifulest things,” said Alice, ever ready to
praise her brother.

“I’ll make a few tops and some kites for those little chaps,” Ben said
modestly, slowing his steps in order to walk with the others, for here
the wood-path widened. “I used to think I would be a carpenter when I
grow up, but I’ve changed my mind.”

“What do you want to do, Ben?” asked Miss Ruth, looking at the
lively-faced boy whose head came almost to her shoulder.

Ben was a steady-minded, faithful lad, but he had a great imagination.
“I am going to do the way they do in fairy stories,” he said; “I am
going to get an old witch to help, and go to an island where there is
a hidden treasure and come back and spend it. And I shall have a pony
and a guinea pig and a garden of my own, and then I shall make the King
a great many presents, and marry the Princess and have plenty of people
to amuse me and read to me, and I shall go to bed when I choose and eat
all the candy I want and have turkey every day, and I shall conquer all
the world,--all except the Americans,--and my mother will be Queen--”
Here Ben stopped for want of breath rather than for want of imagination.

“That is enough to take away one’s breath, Ben,” remarked Miss Ruth.
“What do you want to be, Alice? You must all tell.”

“I want to be a nurse and take care of the convalescent children,”
Alice said shyly.

“You will be a princess if you are my sister,” exclaimed Ben.

“What about you, Betty?” Miss Ruth asked next.

“Me! I want to be good and beautiful and sensible,” said Betty, very
slowly, for her; “and, of course, I want a houseful of horses and a
houseful of dogs.”

“And you, Elsa?”

Elsa was all ready for Miss Ruth’s question: “I am going to be the
mother of five children and make them very, very happy,” she said with
a most radiant expression on her flower-like face.

“Let’s stop here and build a bower to eat the lunch in,” exclaimed
Betty, for all at once they came to a turn in the path and an open
space, carpeted with soft, reddish-brown pine-needles, and surrounded
by tall, straight tree trunks.

“Walk on a minute more,” urged Ben; “I know a lots better place.”

Soon another turn in the path brought them within sight of a hut, which
the dense trees had hidden,--a low, wooden cabin, built of logs with
the bark left on. In front of the hut was a wooden platform with a long
seat, and above the seat, one wide window of many small panes of glass.
It was a place to attract and charm any child.

With shouts of excitement, Betty, Elsa, and Alice, followed by Ben,
leaped to the platform and the girls pressed their faces against the
window, full of curiosity to see the inside of the hut.

“Nobody lives here,” explained Ben, turning to Miss Ruth, who was only
a moment behind the others. “Some boys’ father had the hut built for
them two-three years ago, but they have grown up and got tired of it.
They let me have the key,” he added, proudly taking it from his pocket
and fitting it into the door.

“I have been here before with Ben, but not very often,” said Alice,
standing aside with her brother to let the others go into the hut first.

Inside, the delighted children saw a room about as large as a
good-sized pantry, and in this room a round table, three stools, a
chair, and a tiny, rather rusty stove; opening from this room was a
smaller one, with two cot-beds. The whole place was clean and in order,
for Ben had taken great delight not only in having the key but in
caring for the hut.

There was a sweet, dry odour of pine-wood about the place, and the
afternoon sun had made the large room quite warm. “We must surely have
our lunch here,” said Miss Ruth, “though we must be quick about it, for
the sunlight will soon be gone.”

“Just seats enough to go around,” said Ben; “three stools for the
girls, a chair for Miss Ruth--excuse me, Miss Ruth, I ought to have
said you first,--and I’ll get the wooden box that I keep in the bushes
for rubbish.”

Miss Ruth quickly spread a white napkin over the little table and took
out the lunch,--first a great many ginger cookies, and these were
carefully laid at one side; buttered thin biscuit next, three apiece,
with slices of cold turkey laid in between, and lastly, some nuts and
raisins.

Four pairs of hands reached out without delay, and in a surprisingly
short time, sandwiches and cookies, nuts and raisins, every one of
them, had vanished. And how good everything tasted, there in the snug,
warm little hut, with the fragrant odour of the pines coming in through
the open door.

“I wish, if we have the Easter Club, we could buy this hut and have our
meetings here,” said Elsa. The longer she stayed in the hut, the better
she liked it.

“It’s near my house,” Alice said; “you can see our chimneys from the
door.”

“And we could furnish the hut with a lot of things,--dishes and
pictures,” cried Betty. “And we could use the little room for a
storeroom!”

Elsa had been thinking of other pleasures, so she said: “We could stay
here and enjoy the birds and the trees and the wild flowers, in the
spring.”

“Do you think we could buy or hire the hut, Ben?” asked Miss Ruth; for
it certainly was a delightful place.

“Yes, I think maybe I could manage it for you,” replied Ben, carefully
brushing all the crumbs of food into the wooden box on which he had
sat during the lunch.

“O, I just saw the cunningest gray squirrel!” exclaimed Elsa, running
to the doorway, hoping for another glimpse of the little creature.

“You can see plenty of gray squirrels and chipmunks round here, ’most
any time,” said Ben, following her. “And a man told me that last year a
pair of screech-owls built their nest and raised their family in that
old hollow tree there.”

Elsa listened with closest attention.

“This is a fine place to get acquainted with birds and animals,” Ben
said, encouragingly. “But you never can get acquainted with them till
you learn to be quiet, like them, and to walk through the woods without
making twigs snap every step you take.”

Ben put the box of crumbs among the alder bushes at the side of the
hut. “Mr. Gray Squirrel and his family will have those crumbs almost
before we are out of sight,” he said.

“We must start for home,” called Miss Ruth, coming out from the hut
with Alice and Betty.

While Ben locked the door, the others stood for a moment watching the
brilliant red sunset light in the western sky. The deep baying of a
hound sounded through the quiet woods. Alice drew a little nearer to
Ben.

“You are all safe, Peggy,” he said, patting her hand, his thoughts busy
with other things. “If I were a bird way up in the top boughs of those
tall trees, you would look like grasshoppers down here,” he said, with
his face turned to the sky.

“And you would look like the teentiest, tontiest little bird,” replied
Betty quickly.

“I should hear what the wind was saying, ’way up there,” Ben went on;
“we can’t hear such things down on the ground, ’cause people make so
much noise talking. You have to keep still to learn things,” added Ben
with a wise air and a serious face. Then he led the way along the path
again, singing to himself softly, in a musical voice:

  “There was an old man of Dumbree,
  Who taught little owls to drink tea;
  For he said, ‘To eat mice is not proper or nice,’
  That amiable man of Dumbree.”

Soon the very tall trees grew fewer in number and the woods more
open; and the path now ran between old stumps, tufts of blueberry
bushes, clumps of alders, and wisps of coarse yellow-brown grass,
left unweakened by the frost. A few moments later, they came out upon
Berkeley Avenue, at a point where Ben and Alice would have to turn
back toward their home.

“Thank you, very much, Ben, for bringing us through such an
interesting, pleasant way,” said Miss Ruth; “and we shall all remember
the hut.”

“And the convalescent children,” cried Elsa.

“And the Easter Club we are going to have,” put in Betty. “Don’t you
tell the name of our Club, Ben!”

“No, no, no!” Ben called back,--as if a boy ever did tell secrets.

“Mamma wants the Club to meet at our house sometime soon,” Alice said
in farewell, as she and Ben trotted off together.

Ben waved his scrap of a blue cap as he cried: “Good-bye, good-bye,
Black Lace Lady! Good-bye, Glad Girl! Good-bye, Elsa!”

“Have you thought of a name for Elsa yet?” called out Betty, waving the
now empty lunch-bag over her head frantically.

“That’s telling!” Ben answered teasingly. He had thought, but he was
going to keep it to himself for awhile.

Miss Ruth, Betty, and Elsa, had not gone far on their homeward way
when Mrs. Danforth overtook them, in a closed coupé with a driver
in livery, who stopped the gray horse beside the group in the
road. Mrs. Danforth had very often, lately, driven out on Berkeley
Avenue, and several times in passing the Holts’ house she had seen a
stooping-shouldered man, whom she supposed to be Mr. Holt, going to or
coming from the long shed, the place where, probably, she thought, the
market garden supplies were kept. The garden window frames showed just
behind the house.

“Where are the others of your Club?” she asked, as she let down the
coupé window. She had expected to meet all of the Club together.

“O, we came back through the woods, grandmother,” explained Elsa; “you
must have met Ben and Alice just now.”

Then Mrs. Danforth remembered that she had met a boy and a girl only a
short distance back, but she had not noticed them especially.

“I can take one of you home with me,” she said, looking from Miss Ruth
to Elsa and then to Betty, and pulling her handsome sable furs closer
up around her neck as the cool air came into the coupé.

“Thank you, Mrs. Danforth, but I enjoy walking,” replied Ruth Warren,
who was entirely willing to give up the drive to one of the children.

Elsa’s face looked as if she also would rather walk; but Betty’s brown
eyes were dancing with anticipation. She loved horses heartily, and
next to going over the Danforth house she had wanted to ride behind
that splendid gray steed. So she said, when Mrs. Danforth’s eyes rested
upon her: “I should just love to ride with you,” and accordingly,
Elsa’s grandmother drove off with Betty behind the spirited horse.

       *       *       *       *       *

“Did you know I found a little girl out at the Convalescent Home
who--who had Bettina?” Elsa said to Miss Ruth, as they walked along
together over the hard, frozen road.

“Was it the little girl with the bright dark eyes, whom I saw you with?”

“Yes, that’s the one. Did you hear what she said?” Elsa asked.

“I didn’t hear what either you or the little girl said, because I was
talking with Miss Hartwell; but I saw that you were greatly interested
about something: and it was your own doll Bettina. Were you glad?”

“It--it was exciting to--to see Bettina,” Elsa said, swallowing a lump
in her throat, “and then when--when I asked the little girl to--let
me name the doll--I wanted her to be called Bettina--the little
girl said that her nurse’s name was Bettina, but she had gone away.
Do you suppose it could be my old Bettina,--Bettina March?” Elsa
asked, looking anxiously into Miss Ruth’s face, half in hope, half in
uncertainty.

“You did not think to inquire of Miss Hartwell?” questioned Miss Ruth.

“I--I thought, but I didn’t quite dare to,” Elsa replied desolately.

“Don’t think too much about the matter, Elsa, because it might be
Bettina Smith or Bettina anybody; but I will find out for you,” said
Miss Ruth, thinking how plucky Elsa had been about the doll.

“O, thank you, Miss Ruth,” Elsa said very gratefully and in a much
relieved tone.

“Doesn’t your old nurse write to you?”

“No,” Elsa answered slowly. “Grandmother said it was better for me to
learn to get along without Bettina--so--so I suppose that’s the reason
she doesn’t write to me.”

Ruth Warren did not ask any further questions. But she felt that she
knew better than ever why Elsa was such a pale-faced child and why
there was so often a shadow of something sad in her eyes.

“Do you think I ought to tell grandmother about--about my going over
to your house the other night?” Elsa asked suddenly, as the question
came into her mind for almost the hundredth time.

“Might not your grandmother’s feelings be hurt because you went to
somebody else instead of going to her, with your--your trouble?”

“Perhaps,” Elsa answered, in a doubtful tone, though.

“If she were to ask you about it, you would of course tell her. But
when telling a thing unnecessarily means the possibility of hurting
somebody’s feelings, then even little girls can help make the world
happier by keeping things to themselves. Are you willing, Elsa, to have
me tell your grandmother, or anybody else, if ever the time comes when
it seems best?”

“Yes, Miss Ruth,” cried Elsa, feeling as if a great weight had rolled
from her heart. “Of course grandmother didn’t know how much I loved
that doll. She didn’t even know I had her.”

After this talk, Elsa felt that she and Miss Ruth were to be good
friends for always.

       *       *       *       *       *

Betty White spent the first few moments of the drive in watching
the strong, easy pulling of the gray horse. Then she turned to Mrs.
Danforth with a question which greatly interested her and which she
thought there could never be a better time to ask.

Now Betty was the frankest of little girls; so she spoke out very
bluntly: “Why do you make Elsa mind so--so hard?”

Mrs. Danforth, being greatly amazed, was surprised into saying “What?”

“Why don’t you let Elsa decide things sometimes for herself?” Betty’s
brown eyes met the surprised look in Mrs. Danforth’s blue eyes very
fearlessly. “Mother lets me decide things--she says it is good for me
to have re-responsibleness.” Betty stumbled a little over the long
word, but she kept on: “So if mother tells me I better come home from
anywhere about five o’clock, and if I want to stay a little longer, and
they want me to, I just stay, and then I tell her afterward, and if she
doesn’t like it, we talk it over.”

Betty leaned back against the soft cushions in comfort. This matter was
off her mind!

Mrs. Danforth did not give any reply.

“I--I think the other way makes children afraid of you,” Betty added
bravely.

Still Mrs. Danforth kept her eyes straight ahead, upon the coachman’s
broad shoulders. Presently she asked: “Was that the Holt children’s
father in front of their house, Elizabeth?”

“We didn’t come back past the Holts’ house,” Betty replied, “but
that couldn’t have been Alice’s and Ben’s father. It must have been
the hired man. Mr. Holt is a teacher, and he is way out in the West
somewhere, because he isn’t very well. They miss him dreadfully.”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Mrs. Danforth. And Betty felt like a naughty
child, though she could not have told why.

Betty’s mother was just turning toward her home, when Mrs. Danforth’s
coupé stopped, and Betty flew out like a small whirlwind.

Mrs. Danforth lowered the coupé window and leaning forward, said:
“Mrs. White, I wish my little Elsa were as rosy and strong as your
Elizabeth.” She always spoke Betty’s full name,--Elizabeth.

Mrs. White noticed the unusually gentle expression upon the proud face.
She had wanted a good opportunity to speak to Mrs. Danforth about Elsa;
so, with the same frankness which Betty had shown, she said: “There is
no use in trying to bring children up without love, Mrs. Danforth. You
cannot make strong, happy, useful men and women without it.”

Mrs. Danforth did not seem offended; though her eyes gleamed proudly
from under her heavy brows, and a slight colour rose on her cheeks.
Her voice was rather hoarse as she said to Mrs. White, with a cold
smile: “Your daughter Elizabeth is very much like you.” Then she bowed
good-bye, and ordered the coachman to drive on.

“You forgot to thank Mrs. Danforth for the drive, Betty,” said Mrs.
White, as they walked up the steps together.

“So I did, mother. That is too bad,” Betty answered, penitently,
slipping her hand into her mother’s arm. “But Mrs. Danforth kind of
stiffens me up and makes me forget things. Aren’t grandmothers ever as
nice as mothers? I don’t know, because I haven’t any grandmothers.”

“Yes, Betty, they are often better, or at least children think so. But
there are a great many different kinds of mothers and grandmothers.”

“I know I’ve got the best kind of mother!” exclaimed Betty joyfully.

That evening, after Elsa had shaken hands, said good night, and gone up
to her white room, Mrs. Danforth, alone in her luxurious library, sat
quiet for a long time, thinking deeply about many things, especially
about the real purpose which had brought her to live in Berkeley.




CHAPTER IV

THE CLUB GOES VISITING

  By sports like these are all their cares beguiled.

  --_Oliver Goldsmith._


“I DON’T know but I shall have to ask you not to let the children come
to their Club this afternoon. I don’t like the noise, and you know
almost anything brings on heart trouble,” Miss Virginia Warren said,
when she came down to the library the next Friday morning, followed by
her niece, carrying two shawls. She spent an hour down-stairs daily,
after the rooms had been made excessively warm.

“But, Aunt Virginia, you always stay in your room after three o’clock,
and it is so far from the library that you could hardly hear any
noise. I will keep the doors shut, though. I should be sorry indeed to
disappoint the children,” Ruth Warren replied, quite troubled by her
aunt’s words.

“Well, of course the children are of more importance than my feelings,”
said Miss Virginia with a sigh. “But even though I don’t hear their
noise, knowing they are there, and that I may hear them any minute,
gives me cold turns every now and then.” She shivered, as if at the
mere thought. “Put that thick shawl over me quickly, Ruth.”

The doctor had many times told Ruth Warren that there was nothing
really the matter with her aunt except a strong imagination and a
constant fear of illness; he had advised her, too, not to give in
too much to her aunt’s notions. So now Ruth said: “I am sorry, Aunt
Virginia, that the children’s coming disturbs you. I will ask Sarah
to stay in the room with you this afternoon so that you will not feel
nervous.”

“Nervous! I am never nervous,” replied Miss Virginia, waving her large
white hands excitedly. “But I shall have to have a regular nurse, so
that there will be somebody with me all the time.” Then she wept a
little, and felt faint, and had to be revived with spirits of ammonia.

Fortunately, however, she was spared further excitement on account of
the children’s coming that day. For just before three o’clock, Ben
Holt drove up to the house with a large, loose-jointed brown horse and
a double-seated sleigh, jumped out, rang the door-bell, and asked for
Miss Ruth. He was sitting on a tall carved chair in the hall when Ruth
Warren came down, at Sarah’s summons.

“I stayed at home from school this afternoon,” said Ben, springing to
his feet and looking as if his sturdy body would burst out from the
tight little blue jacket. “Alice has hurt her ankle, and she wants the
Club to meet at our house, and so does my mother, and will you come?
I’ve brought Jerry and the double-seated sleigh. See?” And Ben drew
aside the lace curtain of the hall window to display his steed and
chariot.

“Yes, I will go with pleasure,” Ruth Warren answered, after one swift,
amused glance at the big-boned horse and the sleigh.

“Then I’ll just wait here till the other children come, if you please,”
Ben said, unbuttoning his jacket and drawing a long breath.

“Will your horse stand?” asked Ruth Warren, wondering if Ben meant to
include her as one of the children.

“O, yes, he’s glad enough to have a chance to stand,” the boy said with
a twinkle of humour.

Ruth Warren went up-stairs to tell her aunt of the change of plan.

“You are not going off with a crowd of children in that old sleigh,
Ruth, are you? Some of your friends will be sure to see you,” objected
Miss Virginia, in great and sudden distress.

“Only three children, Aunt Virginia; and what if my friends do see me?”

“But it looks so queer--the sleigh, I mean,--like a country grocery
sled, with an extra seat put in.” Miss Virginia grew quite excited.

“I believe it is called a pung,” said Ruth; “never mind, Aunt Virginia,
nobody whom I care for will like me any the less for going in it.
Good-bye,--there come Betty and Elsa now, and you can watch us start,”
she added, for her aunt’s chair was always drawn close to the front
window. “You will have a quiet house all to yourself this afternoon.”

“It will be too quiet, I am afraid,” sighed Miss Virginia. “I do like
to hear a little something going on, here all alone as I am, though not
children’s voices.”

Miss Virginia Warren did not mean to be selfish, but she had never
learned that there is something sweeter in life than taking anxious
care of one’s health and thinking about one’s self.

       *       *       *       *       *

Ben had seen Betty and Elsa on their way home from school and told
them; so they were there all ready to start when Miss Ruth came
down-stairs in her long, black, fur-lined coat.

Mrs. Danforth had surprised Elsa that noon by saying: “Elsa, when
you are with your little Club, and all of you want to do anything
together, like going to the Convalescent Home, you may do it without
coming to ask me; and you may stay a little later than five o’clock
if coming away earlier would spoil your good time.” Elsa felt very
grown-up, with this new freedom, and yet the first use she made of it
was to run home to tell her grandmother that the Club was to meet at
Alice’s! It happened, however, that Mrs. Danforth was out driving; and
then Elsa felt more than ever grateful to her grandmother, because,
as she explained to Miss Ruth, “If grandmother hadn’t said I could do
anything the Club wanted to, I couldn’t have gone to Alice’s, because
grandmother wasn’t at home to ask.”

Betty listened intently, but wisely kept still. She was dancing around
in great impatience for the start; she had on a long gray fur boa of
her mother’s, and as there had been no one to remind Elsa to wear
something extra warm, Miss Ruth bundled her into the dark red golf cape.

Soon the little party set forth,--to Miss Virginia’s horror, though
she waved her hand feebly in return to the merry farewells from Miss
Ruth and Elsa on the back seat of the pung, and from Betty perched up
beside the blue-coated driver of the loose-jointed horse.

Ben began clucking his steed into a faster gait.

“What a good, steady horse you have, Ben,” said Miss Ruth; and indeed
the horse was pulling well on the road toward home.

“It’s a good thing to have a horse that will stand and that people
aren’t afraid of,” Ben said loyally. “I can do anything with this
horse. G’long, Jerry!”

The old horse, as if to justify the praise, went briskly. The sleighing
was smooth, for there had been two or three snow-storms the past week.
It was a rather sharp and wintry afternoon, cloudy, with every once in
awhile a flurry of snow in large, star-shaped flakes.

“See how well Nature has tucked her children in, since we walked out
here a week ago,” said Miss Ruth, as the sleigh, with merrily jingling
bells, slid along the quieter part of Berkeley Avenue, where now masses
of soft snow lined the roadside. “And there will soon be a thicker
blanket put on, to keep them warm and safe until spring.”

“Think of the hut, all covered with snow,” Elsa said. “How pretty it
must look.”

“Wouldn’t it be fun if we could sleigh-ride over to the Convalescent
Home and see the children again,” exclaimed Betty, remembering the last
Friday afternoon and their visit.

“But what about Alice waiting at home for us?” Miss Ruth asked quickly.

“O, I forgot,” Betty cried.

“I expect she’s wondering where we are,” exclaimed Ben. “G’long, Jerry!”

But Jerry did not need urging now, for a moment later Ben turned
into the driveway which led to the rambling house with a piazza in
front, out upon which looked many long, narrow windows, filled with
bright-flowering plants, chiefly scarlet geraniums,--a cozy, cheerful
home indeed.

Mrs. Holt was already at the front door,--a young woman in a plain
dark blue dress with dainty lace collar and cuffs, and so slender and
graceful that she looked more like an older sister of Ben’s than his
mother. Quite a warm colour bloomed on her pretty face as she shook
hands with Miss Ruth, whom Ben introduced by saying “This is the Black
Lace Lady.”

“I am very happy to meet you, Miss Warren. Betty White I already know.
And this is Elsa Danforth? Come in, please. Alice has been growing
very impatient for your arrival,” Mrs. Holt said, with a gentle and
well-bred hospitality.

The front door opened directly into a quite large hall, evidently the
living-room. There was a glowing fire in the old-fashioned fireplace
opposite the door, a low bookcase on one side of the fireplace and
a piano on the other; the stairs were at one end of the room, and
folding-doors opened into the dining-room at the opposite end. On a
chintz-covered lounge close to the front windows sat Alice in a blue
wrapper the colour of her eyes, and with one foot stretched out,
covered with an afghan. Her face flushed with pleasure: “O, I am so
glad you all came,” she said, as they drew around her. “I fell on some
ice, coming home from school yesterday, and twisted my ankle a little,
the doctor said, so I couldn’t come to the Club, and so we invited you
here. What shall we do?” she asked, leaning back against the gay chintz
pillows and looking like a large, sweet-faced doll with softly dimpled
cheeks.

“I brought some of the dolls’ dresses--there are yet eight more to
make,” Miss Ruth said, taking a package from the deep pocket of her
fur-lined coat. “We can sew on those for one thing to do.”

“I have made my last week’s two dresses,” cried Alice, pulling them in
very rumpled condition from under a sofa pillow, while Elsa and Betty
dived into their coat pockets, each bringing out two dresses, all
finished.

“Good!” said Miss Ruth, taking off her coat and hat, at Mrs. Holt’s
bidding. “Perhaps we can each do two to-day--though these are for the
largest dolls.”

“I will gladly help you sew,” Mrs. Holt said. “Alice has told me that
the dolls are to be given away at Christmas: that is all I know about
it,” she added, smiling in a motherly, understanding way. She had a
pretty, rather sad face and a very tender look in her blue eyes. It
was a great grief to her to be parted from her husband, and there was
another grief which lay further back in her heart.

Even in the few moments of their talking together, Ruth Warren had
decided that Mrs. Holt was a very charming woman, and just the kind of
a mother Ben and Alice might be expected to have.

Elsa and Betty had drawn their chairs very near to Alice and were
telling her all that had happened in school that morning, when Ben
came in from having put the horse into the barn, and walked up to his
mother’s side with “What shall we do?”

“O, I know what to do,” he exclaimed, answering his own question. “We
will have a show.”

“Goody!” cried Betty, hearing his last words.

Mrs. Holt entered at once into the plan. “Miss Warren and Alice and I
will be audience. You can manage your show with Betty and Elsa to help,
I think.”

“But what about the dolls’ dresses?” Elsa asked, eager as she was for
the “show.”

“Bless the dear child!” said Mrs. Holt, putting her arm around the
slight, black-gowned figure. “Miss Warren and I will sew fast enough to
do your share and Betty’s.” She gazed intently into Elsa’s face as if
she would like to question the child about something.

“O, thank you,” Elsa said, gratefully. “Why, that picture is just like
one my grandmother has in her room,” she exclaimed, catching sight of
an oil-painting of a large, gable-windowed house.

As Ruth Warren saw Mrs. Holt’s face grow crimson and then suddenly very
pale, some faint, puzzling resemblance flashed through her mind and was
gone as quickly.

Before Mrs. Holt had any time to answer, Ben ran toward her and laid
his hand coaxingly upon her shoulder: “Now, mother of mine, I have
brought the ‘show’ things down from the garret, and the pink gauze
curtain; and please can we use the red light?”

“Yes, my boy. What shows are you going to have?” Mrs. Holt’s voice was
not quite steady, but she had regained her composure.

“You will see in just a little while, mother of mine,” said Ben, with
the air of one who speaks to an over-eager child.

Then, while Mrs. Holt explained to Miss Ruth and Elsa that the pink
cheese-cloth curtain was used to make the show-figures look more
beautiful, and that the red light, which made them even more beautiful,
was brought out only on great occasions like birthdays or holidays,
Elsa forgot all about the oil-painting; and very soon after, Ben called
her to join Betty and him in the parlour, which opened off the hall,
at the foot of the stairs. “Turn your backs, please,” cried Ben; “you
mustn’t see what is going to happen.”

“Ben is such a manly little fellow,” said Miss Ruth, rising to change
her position.

Quick tears sprang into Mrs. Holt’s blue eyes. “He tries to take care
of me,” she replied, with a little tremble in her voice; “my dear
little boy,” she added, half under her breath. “He is a great help in
the gardening we do, winter and summer, although I have a good man to
take the principal care. But I am sorry to have the children away from
their father. We hope it will not be very long before he can come back
to us, or we go to him.”

“Mr. Holt is a teacher, I believe,” said Ruth Warren, who found herself
growing much interested in the Holt family.

“Yes, out in Colorado; he had to go there for his health, and that is
why we are here,” was the reply, given with quiet dignity.

Ruth Warren liked Mrs. Holt all the better because she did not attempt
to make any apology for keeping a market-garden, or to explain their
poverty, which was evident from the shabby furniture and plain clothing.

“I wish they would begin,” sighed Alice, who was feeling rather left
out of things and who had all this time kept her eyes turned away from
the stairs, where mysterious preparations were going on.

“You may turn ’round now,” called out Ben, starting the red light. So
the audience faced expectantly toward the stage which was formed by the
wide landing four steps up the stairway.

Ben, jerking back the pink curtain, announced in a deep, dramatic tone:
“Priscilla, the Puritan Maiden.”

Beside a real spinning-wheel sat Elsa with a white cap over her golden
hair and a white kerchief across her shoulders,--a demure little
Puritan maiden, her face very rosy under the red light.

The applause from the audience was hearty and prolonged. Alice clapped
louder than any one else. But after the curtain was drawn forward, she
slipped her hand into her mother’s and said wistfully, “I do wish my
foot was well so I could be in the shows.”

“Think of the little Convalescent children, my darling,” said Mrs. Holt
in a low tone, replacing the afghan which Alice had restlessly pushed
away. “Think how some of them keep still all the time.”

A moment later Alice’s face dimpled with smiles as Ben drew aside the
curtain and said in his stage voice: “Little Red Riding-hood.”

It was Betty in a short red cape and a tightly drawn red hood. With the
red light falling upon her round cheeks and her laughing eyes, she
looked indeed like a little maid from the fields.

“Doesn’t the Glad Girl make a splendid Red Riding-hood?” cried Ben,
turning a somersault on the hearth-rug. “And wouldn’t the wolf have a
fine time eating her up!” he added, capering back to draw the curtain.

Red Riding-hood herself announced the next show, “George Washington,”
who was no other than Ben, standing on a large book covered with white
cloth to represent a block of ice, and wearing a cock-hat and an old
military coat which came down to his heels--a brave-faced Father of his
Country.

“You forgot to say ‘Crossing the Delaware,’ Betty,” exclaimed the
show-figure, leaning forward on his very thick sword made out of the
fire-tongs covered with brown paper.

“Of course they would know that,” Betty replied; and the audience
agreed that they would have known it without being told.

“Just one more,” cried Ben, stepping from off the block of ice to help
Betty draw the curtain. “This one’s going to take a very long time to
get ready, and you must guess the name of it. May I whisper to the
Black Lace Lady, mother?”

Mrs. Holt nodded permission, and Ben whispered something into Miss
Ruth’s ear, to which she must have agreed, for he carried her heavy
coat into the parlour, where Betty and Elsa were, and shut the door.

It took so long for them to arrange this last show that Mrs. Holt
and Miss Ruth finished making the first of the dolls’ dresses, and
Mrs. Holt was sewing upon the second one for Alice, when Betty called
“Ready!” and pulled back the curtain to disclose a marvellous sight.

There stood Elsa, behind a wall of sofa pillows, her hair floating
down over the light blue silk scarf which covered her shoulders and
her slender figure draped in a dark blue velvet table-cover, while on
her shoulder perched a stuffed gray squirrel. On the step below the
pillow-wall knelt Ben, wearing Miss Ruth’s long coat with the gray fur
lining side out, his head and arms covered with Betty’s gray boa. This
strange-looking figure was pulling with his teeth at a sofa pillow in
the supposed wall, and repeating, in a muffled voice: “Keep a good
heart! Keep a good heart!”

“Princess Katrina and the Gray Owl!” Alice cried out, the moment her
eyes fell upon this group. “How lovely, how lovely!” she said over and
over again, clapping her hands. Mrs. Holt and Ruth Warren joined in
the applause, laughing until the tears came into their eyes, for Ben
was such a ridiculously funny figure, although so well made up.

Elsa kept still as long as she could; then the stuffed gray squirrel
fell from her shoulder, and Ben, springing to catch it, knocked down
the wall of pillows, and the show was over.

“How did you _ever_ happen to think of it?” Alice asked, when the
flushed and happy actors stood around the lounge, taking off their
costumes.

“Elsa thought of it,” cried Betty, who was holding the stuffed squirrel
tenderly.

“Betty made me take the princess part, though I wanted her to,” said
Elsa.

“Because she has yellow hair, like the princess,” put in Ben. “Betty
dressed us, and didn’t she do well? Your coat was just the thing,” he
added, turning as Miss Ruth rose to help him out of it. “My! it’s hot.”

“Did you know what it was, Mrs. Holt?” Elsa inquired, coming to Mrs.
Holt’s side.

“Yes, dear, for Alice has told the story to Ben and me, twice.”

“Do your children tell you stories?” Elsa asked, with wide-open,
surprised eyes.

“Sometimes, Elsa,” Mrs. Holt replied. “I sit by the fire the last part
of the afternoon, usually, and the children lie on pillows in front of
the fire; and if I am too tired to tell them a story, they tell me one.”

“And do they have shows often?” Elsa questioned eagerly. This was
almost like a storybook, this account of the happy home-life.

“Yes; they keep a boxful of costumes and that pink curtain on purpose
for shows. They get up all sorts of plays, too,” Mrs. Holt went on to
say, seeing the keen interest in Elsa’s face. “Last summer they played
snake until it got on my imagination so that I hardly dared step on the
floor for fear of putting my foot on that snake.”

“It wasn’t really a snake, though,” said Betty, who had turned to
listen.

“No, only a make-believe one,” Mrs. Holt replied laughingly; “but they
made it seem real.”

“But, mother of mine,” said Ben very earnestly, “you know I only got
Peggy to play that so as to teach her not to be afraid of snakes.”

“Girls!” exclaimed Ruth Warren, “it is quarter of five o’clock, and
snowing fast. We must begin to get ready to go home.” She realized
that it would take considerable time.

“Mamma, dear, I wish Elsa and Betty could stay here all night,” cried
Alice. Betty had stayed before, once.

“They could perfectly well, Alice,” replied Mrs. Holt cordially, “if
Elsa’s grandmother and Betty’s mother were willing.”

“Let’s telephone and ask,” suggested Ben.

“I think my mother will let me stay,” Betty said quickly, standing
on tip-toe in her excitement, “because it’s Friday and no school
to-morrow. May I telephone now?”

In a few moments Betty came back from the side-hall: “Yes, mother says
I can stay, if Mrs. Holt is sure I won’t be a bother. Aren’t you going
to telephone about staying?” she asked, turning to Elsa, who had been
silent all this time, although her eyes showed how much she wanted to
stay.

“I--I don’t believe grandmother would let me,” Elsa replied, making a
brave effort to keep a steady face.

“Why don’t you ask her for Elsa, mamma?” inquired Alice. “Do, mother of
mine,” urged Ben.

Mrs. Holt’s face flushed, then grew pale, and a look of pride came
over it. “I cannot do that, children, much as I would like to have Elsa
remain.”

“I will ask Mrs. Danforth,” Ruth Warren said quickly, going to the
telephone. Presently she returned to the impatient group and said in a
cheerful tone:

“Elsa’s grandmother wants her to come home. She asks me to say to you,
Elsa, that you will not be sorry you came.”

But even this last part of the message could not keep Elsa from turning
quickly away, toward the window, to hide her feelings.

“I will go and harness Jerry,” said Ben, hurrying out of the room. The
others talked very fast for a few moments.

“I wish you could stay all night, Miss Ruth,” Alice said more
hospitably than thoughtfully, when Miss Ruth was putting on her coat.

“There is no use in my thinking of it,” Miss Ruth answered quickly: “my
Aunt Virginia would never give her consent.”

It was so funny to think of grown-up Miss Ruth having to mind that
Elsa, feeling comforted, came away from the window and began to get
ready for the drive home.

“I hope Alice’s ankle will be well before the next meeting,” said Miss
Ruth, when they were at last ready to start.

“It will be quite well in a week, unless she is careless, or takes
cold,” Mrs. Holt replied. “I am sure she is most grateful to the Club,
as I am, for your coming here.”

Ben, who had driven Jerry up to the front door and come in to warm his
hands, carelessly picked up a sofa pillow in passing, and shied it at
Alice. “That’s just to show Peggy that she must keep quiet, no matter
what happens,” he said in answer to his mother’s reproving: “Why, Ben!”

Betty had sprung to Alice’s defence, and for a moment she and Ben had a
lively pulling contest over the pillow. Elsa looked on in surprise; not
having any brothers or sisters, she was not used to that kind of fun
and hardly knew what to make of it.

Suddenly Betty dropped her corner of the pillow. “Excuse me,” she said
to Mrs. Holt; “I forgot. Ben threw that pillow at Alice just the way
Max throws one at me sometimes, and I have to defend myself.”

“You will have a lively time to-night, Mrs. Holt,” Ruth Warren said,
with a sober face and smiling eyes.

“Children must be children,” Mrs. Holt replied with an answering smile.
“It is better for Alice to have things a little lively than to lie here
and feel lonely. But I think that she and Betty will be studying over
to-day’s lessons after supper.”

“O, mamma! with my lame ankle!” protested Alice. And Betty’s face fell
a little.

“Yes, dear, you must study awhile; it will not hurt your ankle. You say
that Betty is always ahead of you in your classes, so she can be the
teacher.” Mrs. Holt said this partly to cheer Betty and partly so that
Elsa would not go away thinking that the visit she was missing would be
all pleasure.

“We haven’t any more dolls’ dresses to make, Miss Ruth,” Alice said,
handing to her a pile of neatly folded little light-coloured garments.
“What shall we do next?”

“I will have something ready at the next meeting, Alice,--something
that perhaps Ben can help upon,” replied Ruth Warren, kissing Alice
good-bye, and thinking that it would be hard to find two more lovable
and companionable children than Alice and Ben, or a happier, more
satisfying home-life than theirs.

“Just think, only two weeks more of school,” cried Betty. “Maybe the
Club can meet twice a week in vacation?” Betty looked at Miss Ruth
questioningly.

“O, I wish it could!” Alice clasped her chubby hands together
beseechingly.

Ruth Warren shook her head, but with that kind look in her eyes which
always made any refusal seem less hard. “Once a week is enough for us
really to enjoy it,” she said, “don’t you think so, Betty dear?”

“I suppose so,” Betty admitted with her usual candour; “only I don’t
ever have half so good a time anywhere else.”

“Come, Elsa, we must start,” Miss Ruth said, adding, as she shook hands
with Mrs. Holt: “I should like to call upon you some day soon.”

“I should be delighted to have you call,” replied Mrs. Holt, warmly. “I
have made only a few acquaintances in Berkeley during the year I have
lived here. Betty’s mother has been very kind about coming to see me.
Children often bring together people who might not otherwise meet,”
she added, smoothing back Betty’s rumpled hair in a gentle, motherly
fashion.

“We will show you the market-garden when you come again,” Ben said with
an air of pride. “It’s a very interesting place.”

“Yes, you might enjoy that, Miss Warren,” said Mrs. Holt with a gentle
dignity. “We have a large winter-garden, back of the house, and this
year, in addition to vegetables, we are raising hyacinths and such
things, and later, we are going to try raising mushrooms.”

“That sounds most delightful,” said Miss Ruth heartily; “I am sure I
shall enjoy seeing it all.”

“Perhaps you would like to come, also,” Mrs. Holt said, rather timidly
it seemed, turning to Elsa.

“O, yes, I should,” cried Elsa eagerly. “I think you are very kind
to little girls, and,” she added shyly, trying to be very polite,
“you--you have beautiful flowers.”

“Children and flowers--I’ve never had enough of them yet,” exclaimed
Mrs. Holt, stooping suddenly to kiss Elsa’s upturned face.

It was snowing hard. Ben tucked Miss Ruth and Elsa into the back seat
and then mounted to the front seat. Mrs. Holt, Alice, and Betty waved
good-bye from the front windows, Miss Ruth and Elsa waved back as long
as they could see the house; and the gay, pleasant meeting was over.

Elsa was always so happy in being with Miss Ruth that once the pang
of leaving had vanished, she settled down with a contented sigh. It
was a beautiful time to be out-of-doors. Now that the snow was falling
in thick soft flakes, the chill had gone out of the air. The tall
evergreen trees drooped under their heavy white cloaks. In the west
there was a faint rosy tinge from the light of the setting sun. Now and
then a loud-cawing crow flew overhead, and once, by the roadside, they
saw a hungry blue-jay flirt the snow off from a tall brown weed and
begin to pick out and eat the seeds.

The three talked awhile of the sights and sounds around them. Then Ben
turned his entire attention to Jerry, who needed constant urging for
this journey away from home, at the end of the day.

“I asked Miss Hartwell a day or two ago about the nurse Bettina; and
her name is Bettina March,” Miss Ruth said, unexpectedly.

“O my Bettina!” cried Elsa, with a little gasp. “And is she coming
back?”

“Possibly,” Miss Ruth replied. “She was at the Convalescent Home only
about six weeks, and went away because she was not very well; but if
she is better, she is coming back about Christmas-time.”

“Then I shall see her,--grandmother will surely let me see her; but it
won’t be for three whole weeks!” The little thrill of disappointment in
Elsa’s voice told Ruth Warren better than words could have told, how
dearly Elsa loved her old nurse.

“Of course she may not come back at all, Elsa,” Ruth Warren felt
obliged to say.

To this Elsa made no reply; but she asked, in a rather choked voice:
“Did you find out where Bettina is now?”

“No, Elsa,” Miss Ruth answered gently. She felt very sorry for Elsa’s
disappointment, but she did not wish in any way to interfere with Mrs.
Danforth’s plan for the child.

Ben, perched upon the front seat, was beginning to look as if he had
on a white fur coat. They were just driving along Washington Avenue,
approaching the Warren house, when Elsa exclaimed rapturously: “Uncle
Ned! O, there is my Uncle Ned!”

A tall, broad-shouldered man, who was strolling by in leisurely
fashion, looked up and then stepped quickly toward the sleigh as Ben
stopped his horse in front of the Warrens’ house. Elsa was out in a
flash, and the tall man was bending over, soothing the child who clung
to him so passionately.

[Illustration: “SOOTHING THE CHILD WHO CLUNG TO HIM SO PASSIONATELY.”]

“Uncle Ned! When did you come?” Elsa asked between laughter and tears.

“Less than an hour ago. I reached the house only a few moments before
your grandmother was telephoning about you.”

“I am so glad, now, that I came home,” cried the child, still clinging
to him as if she could hardly believe her happiness in really having
him here.

Ben had meanwhile jumped out and was gallantly helping Miss Ruth from
the sleigh. Elsa was far too excited to think of introductions.

“This is your friend, Miss Ruth, Elsa?” asked the tall uncle, taking
off his hat.

“Yes--excuse me--this is Miss Ruth, our Club--our Christmas Makers’
Club--” cried Elsa, telling the name before she thought.

“Miss Ruth looks more like a tall young lady than a Club,--even a
Christmas Makers’ Club,” said Elsa’s uncle gravely.

“Uncle Ned! I mean that she runs the Club,” cried Elsa in half
distressed, half-laughing tone.

“Yes, I run the Club,” said Ruth Warren quickly. The arc-light
overhead shone brightly. The snow was on her long eyelashes and her
face was flushed with the fresh air.

“I am grateful to you if my little niece has caught her red cheeks from
the running,” was the instant reply.

“Here is another member of the Club,” Ruth Warren said, turning to Ben,
“Ben Holt, the only boy in the Club.”

“Another red-cheeked member! I quite approve of this Club,” said the
tall uncle, who had dark gray eyes, somewhat like Elsa’s. “Does the
Club drive you, or do you drive the Club, sir?” he asked, in his quick
way of speaking.

“Sometimes one, sometimes the other, sir,” Ben replied merrily. “I am
the only one that takes them driving, though, because I have such a
safe, steady horse.”

“He looks like a good safe horse, Ben,” said Elsa’s uncle, gravely and
politely.

Ben climbed back into the sleigh and began turning Jerry. “Good-bye!
Perhaps you’ll come to the Club sometimes, as long as you are Elsa’s
uncle,” he called out in friendly fashion; “it meets Friday afternoons.
Good-bye, Black Lace Lady! Good-bye, Elsa!”

“Thank you,” the tall uncle called out, for Jerry, headed toward home,
started off in a hurry; “I am afraid I shall not be here until another
meeting.”

The boy and the angular horse vanished amid the thick-falling snow.

“How long are you going to stay, Uncle Ned?” asked Elsa, in a most
anxious voice.

“Only over night, Sweetheart,” he answered quickly, “but we mustn’t let
that spoil our visit. What is the name of this wonderful Club?”

“Didn’t you hear me say it?” Elsa asked.

But Uncle Ned had forgotten.

“It’s a secret,” said Elsa; “you can’t know it unless you belong.”

“It is a very exclusive Club, you see, Mr. Danforth,” said Miss Ruth,
turning toward the walk which led from the pavement to her home.

“That makes me want to join all the more,” came the laughing answer.

“I can tell you just this much, Uncle Ned,” cried Elsa, unfastening
Miss Ruth’s golf cape, “we are making things for Christmas.”

“And does Miss Ruth live here in the house next to your grandmother’s?”
asked the tall uncle, taking the cape from Elsa.

“Yes; she lives all alone with her aunt, just the way I live all alone
with grandmother,” Elsa said, a little sadly.

“You ought to be very good friends,” said the uncle, soberly, for he
had noticed the change in Elsa’s tone.

“We are,” replied Ruth Warren convincingly.

“Yes, we are,” echoed Elsa in a happy voice now.

“Let me go ahead on your path and make some tracks for you, the snow
is so deep,” suggested Mr. Danforth, quickly stepping forward. So Ruth
Warren followed in his footsteps, and Elsa brought up in the rear.

At the door, Elsa’s uncle put out his hand and said in a grateful
voice: “My little niece has written me about you, Miss Warren, and I
want to thank you for all that you are doing to make her happy.”

“Elsa and her friends give me a great deal of pleasure,” said Miss Ruth
in turn, with an unmistakable ring of sincerity in her voice.

“Will the Club meet here next Friday?” asked Elsa eagerly.

“Yes, next Friday; and we shall have something new to work upon,” Miss
Ruth replied.

“Will you give Miss Ruth her cape, Uncle Ned?” asked Elsa. “She let me
take it for our sleigh-ride. I wonder what the new thing is going to
be,” she added, with lively interest.

But Miss Ruth only smiled and said: “Wait and see!”

As Elsa’s Uncle Ned took off his hat in farewell, Ruth Warren saw that
his hair was quite gray and that his face had the careworn look of a
very busy man. Elsa herself seemed like another girl since her uncle
had come.

Miss Virginia Warren had left the shade up, at her front window, and
had seen Ruth’s meeting with the tall man whom Elsa Danforth had
greeted so affectionately.

“There, Ruth!” said Miss Virginia when her niece came into her room; “I
was sure something would happen! What could that young gentleman have
thought of your being in that dreadful old sleigh?”

“It was Elsa’s uncle, and he is not so very young, Aunt Virginia; I am
sure he is forty, and his hair is gray,” replied Ruth Warren. “I don’t
believe he was thinking of me at all; he seemed so rejoiced that Elsa’s
cheeks were red instead of white that I don’t believe he thought about
anything or anybody else.”

But Miss Virginia was not to be pacified: “You do such strange things,
Ruth, for a young woman of your social position, and thirty years old,
too,” she sighed; “going off in that pung, was it, you called it? with
a lot of children, and to a market-gardener’s home.”

Ruth Warren, leaving the first part of her aunt’s remark without
answer, made haste to say: “Mrs. Holt is in every sense a lady, and I
shall call upon her at the very first opportunity.”

Miss Virginia dropped the subject, and said in a more kindly tone: “I
really hope the Club will come here next week; I begin to think, as
Sarah does, that it is rather pleasant to hear their young voices in
this quiet old house. We missed them this afternoon.”

In this change of mind on the part of Miss Virginia, Ruth Warren
recognized Sarah Judd’s influence; for behind an iron exterior, this
trusty old serving-woman had a heart of gold.




CHAPTER V

A LITTLE OLD LADY’S DOLL

  Something the heart must have to cherish.

  --_Henry W. Longfellow._


THE next Monday afternoon Elsa and Alice went home from school with
Betty to talk over a plan which Elsa had said, with a very mysterious
air, that she wanted to tell them about. Finding that the baby was not
in the nursery, Betty took her friends to this delightful room, with
the flowering geraniums and the little strawberry-birds and the row of
dolls, the gay pillows of the window-seat, and the Kate Greenaway paper.

“I should think you would stay here all the time, Betty,” exclaimed
Elsa, curling herself into a little heap on the rug, and leaning back
against the bed; her eyes began roaming around the “picture-book room,”
as she called it to herself.

“I do stay here half of the time,--all night,” Betty answered quickly.
“That’s half the time when you have to go to bed at eight o’clock! Now
tell us about your secret.” Betty sat down near the door, to guard the
approach, and Alice drew a small rocking-chair close to the shelf of
plants, so that she could watch the lively little strawberry-birds.

“It’s this,” said Elsa; “when my Uncle Ned was here, last Friday, he
asked me ever and ever so much about the Club, and I told him about
our dressing dolls for the Convalescent Home children, and about how
much they needed money; and he thought it would be nice if we could
earn some money,--no matter if it was just a little,--and surprise Miss
Ruth, and have it to give to the Convalescent Home with the dolls on
Christmas Day.” Elsa’s eyes were shining with interest.

“I know how I can earn some,” cried Betty. “When I especially
want to earn money, mother gives me five cents a day for emptying
waste-baskets; and I will ask father to let me black his boots. How
many days are there before Christmas,--let me see, just fourteen, and
the waste-baskets would give me seventy cents, surely. What are you
going to do, Elsa, to earn money?”

“Uncle Ned said he would give me fifty cents a week if I would write a
four-page letter to him twice a week.”

“That will be a dollar,” said Betty, a little envious at Elsa’s being
able to earn more than she. “What will you do, Alice?”

“Mamma sometimes pays me for washing the dishes. If I do them twice a
day, she will give me five cents, I think, each day.”

“That will be seventy cents more,” Betty said encouragingly, “and two
dollars and forty cents in all.”

“And I’m sure Ben can earn some, shovelling snow and running errands,”
cried Alice eagerly.

“I wish grandmother would let me wash dishes or black boots,” sighed
Elsa. “Work hurts people’s hands, she says.”

“But we will have at least three dollars, if Ben earns some, too,”
Betty said quickly, thinking how tiresome it must be to have to be
careful all the time about keeping one’s hands soft and white. “Won’t
Miss Ruth be surprised, though!” she added joyfully.

Elsa clasped her slender little hands around her knees: “I know a
lovely surprise the Club is going to have;” her violet-gray eyes danced
with pleasure.

“O, what is it?” cried both the other girls.

“I mustn’t tell; Uncle Ned told me not to. You see, he asked me
what I wanted most for Christmas, and at first I said some little
strawberry-birds like Betty’s, and then we talked it over, and he said
he couldn’t get them very well in cold weather, and perhaps grandmother
wouldn’t like them, so we decided on something even nicer,--something
the whole Club will like.”

“I think it’s mean to tell just a little bit, and not tell the rest,”
declared Betty.

“But I should think you’d like to know you are going to have something,
anyway,” said peacemaker Alice. “Will Miss Ruth like it, too?”

“I think so; I am sure she will,” Elsa answered, joyfully.

Seeing the cloud on Betty’s face, Alice spoke up quickly: “Don’t you
think we ought to decide to-day on something to give Miss Ruth for
Christmas,--maybe something from all of us?”

“Yes, I’ve been thinking about that,” exclaimed Betty, diverted by the
suggestion. “Mother said she would help us decide.” And Betty ran out
into the hall, calling “Mother! Mother, dear!”

Presently Mrs. White came into the nursery. Being an affectionate
and thoughtful woman, she felt that it was wise not in any way to
discourage the generous impulses of the little girls. “How will this
plan suit you?” she asked, after they had talked the matter over for
a few moments: “Each one of you bring to me the amount of money she
can perfectly well afford to give for a present, and no one shall know
how much the others give; then all of you go with me some day after
vacation begins, and we will choose the present.”

This plan suited the girls perfectly.

“And it makes another surprise,” cried Elsa in great delight. “We have
so many now that I am almost getting them mixed up.”

Mrs. White’s motherly heart was rejoiced at Elsa’s brighter, happier
face. “The Club and the being with other children are doing her a world
of good,” she said to herself wisely.

       *       *       *       *       *

At noon on Friday, Betty White ran in to see Miss Ruth, solely for the
purpose of talking about the Club meeting. “Elsa and I were saying at
recess this morning,” she began breathlessly, “that we thought you had
forgotten all about the story of the old lady’s doll that you were
going to tell us. Will you tell it this afternoon? You can be thinking
it up.”

To this Miss Ruth agreed.

Betty had in one hand a fancy-striped paper bag, full of chocolate
candy. She held it toward Miss Ruth: “Take some, please. O, take more
than one piece! Mother had a birthday yesterday and she gave each of us
children two dollars. She hid the money in different places ’round the
house, and we had to hunt for it; it was such fun.

“I like mother’s birthdays, ’cause she always gives us something,”
Betty rattled on, in her usual lively fashion. “Last year she baked
some new silver dollars into a cottage pudding: it looked so heavy that
none of us would take any at first, except Max, but when he bit into a
dollar and showed it to us, we all took some in a hurry.

“Have some more candy, please,” urged Betty, generously, holding forth
the striped bag again. “I bought a lot,--twenty-five cents’ worth out
of my two dollars,--so I could have some candy to eat in school. I
never get found out. Don’t ever tell, will you?”

“Do I ever tell?” asked Miss Ruth.

“No,” Betty said, with an approving nod, “I don’t believe you ever do.”

“Don’t you think it would be more honourable, however, Betty, since
candy-eating is not allowed in school, for you not to take the candy
there?” Ruth Warren asked, looking intently into Betty’s face.

Betty lowered her eyes, but did not make any answer.

“Leave the candy here,” suggested Ruth Warren, “and have it for the
Club meeting.”

“All--right, I will,” came the rather reluctant but courageous consent.

“Well, it’s ’most school-time and I must go,” cried Betty in her wonted
happy manner, a half-moment later. “Thank you for keeping the candy.”
She took a last piece by way of reward to herself, and hurried off to
school.

       *       *       *       *       *

There was no Alice with Betty and Elsa when they arrived, soon after
three o’clock. “She wasn’t at school this morning, but Ben has gone
home to see if she can come,” Betty explained at once.

“Mrs. Holt has just now telephoned me,” Ruth Warren said, “and she
tells me that Alice has a feverish cold, so she cannot come to the
Club.”

“We might go out there,” Betty suggested.

“But we are not invited,” Ruth Warren replied merrily. “If Alice has a
feverish cold, naturally enough her mother would not invite us there.”

“It is too bad,” cried Elsa. “Alice will be so disappointed.” Both she
and Betty looked quite downcast, for they were very fond of Alice.

“Can we have the story just the same, or shall we wait?” Betty inquired
anxiously.

“We will have the story,” replied Miss Ruth, “because I shall go out
to see Alice to-morrow, and if she would like, I will tell it to her
there.”

“Please begin now, then,” urged Betty.

“But first I want to show you what I have for the Club to work upon,”
said Miss Ruth, beginning to undo the wrappings of a large, flat
pasteboard box which stood upon the table.

“O, goody!” cried Betty, who had been eying the box with lively
curiosity.

“Paper dolls!” exclaimed Elsa, clasping her hands in rapturous delight,
as the box-cover came off.

“What beauties!” Betty said, dancing a quick-step in her excitement.

There were twelve sets of dolls, all fully dressed, and with extra
costumes, ready to be painted.

“All those dresses,--all the hats, too, to be painted,” said Elsa, in
great glee.

“What fun! What fun!” cried Betty, whirling around like a lively top,
while Miss Ruth took from the box a large tin case of water-colour
paints and several brushes, and placed them upon some sheets of
blotting-paper which already covered the polished mahogany table.

Betty had just been out to the kitchen for some water,--at Miss Ruth’s
suggestion and to grim-faced Sarah’s great delight,--and she was
filling the paint saucers when she glanced up at the sound of loud
sleigh-bells and cried out: “Why! there is Alice!”

“It can’t be Alice!” said Elsa, following Betty to the window.

“It’s the Holts’ hired man, grinning from ear to ear, and Alice with
him,” insisted Betty. “She has just jumped out of the sleigh.”

The bell rang, and in a surprisingly short time Sarah appeared at the
library door, trying hard not to burst out laughing; for behind her
came Ben, very red in the face, dressed in a brown sailor-suit of
Alice’s, and looking so sheepish and so comical that Miss Ruth joined
in the general laugh, and Sarah went off chuckling, with her white
apron up to her face.

“Peggy felt so bad because she couldn’t come that I put on one of her
old dresses over my own clothes, just for fun, to make her laugh,” said
Ben, hanging his head, but marching bravely into the room.

“I shouldn’t think you’d want to wear girls’ clothes and come to a
girls’ Club,” said Betty teasingly.

“Girls are all right, most of the time,” Ben answered. “They’re too
afraid of their clothes to be as nice as boys, all the time. This is
awful tight; mother said she knew something would happen to it;” he was
still very red in the face.

Something had happened already, for one of the sleeves had partly
ripped from the blouse waist. Noticing this, Ruth Warren noticed also
a tumultuous movement under the blouse, suggestive of sobs. But Ben’s
smiling, ruddy face showed no signs of grief. A half-moment later,
a tiny, furry head with bright bead-like eyes, looked out above the
blouse collar.

In her usual tone Miss Ruth said: “I see you have brought one of your
pets with you, Ben.”

Ben made a quick movement, but not quick enough to prevent a gray
squirrel from springing out of his attempted grasp, upon the
window-sill.

Elsa jumped, and Betty cried: “Ben Holt! How mean of you! Poor little
squirrel!”

The squirrel’s heart was thumping wildly under the soft fur of his
chest, and his breath came in quick gasps as he turned his head
rapidly from side to side, searching a chance to escape.

“Is he your tame squirrel, Ben?” Ruth Warren inquired.

“Not exactly; you see we’ve been feeding him from the dining-room
window, so he’s quite tame,” explained Ben, “and--and I caught him on
the wood-pile, with some nuts, and brought him along to see if the
girls would be frightened.”

“O, that is it,” was all Ruth Warren said, but Ben’s face grew redder
than ever.

Making a sudden leap, the squirrel landed on top of the tall bookcase.
From here he gave another leap to the top of a window, and began
scolding loudly.

“I will bring some walnuts, Ben, so that you can capture this
frightened little creature and take him home,” Miss Ruth said, going to
the pantry.

“Now aren’t you sorry, Ben?” teased Betty.

The relish of the joke was indeed gone for Ben, but he faced the music
bravely, for, though often heedless, he was no coward. When Miss Ruth
came back with the walnuts, he asked the girls to keep quiet, and in
a few moments coaxed Mr. Squirrel down from the window-top to the
mantel, where he sat with his bushy tail curled up over his back,
turning a nut-meat round and round in his paws as he ate it, listening
and watching intently.

It was hard for Betty and Elsa to keep from laughing, and even Miss
Ruth had difficulty in keeping her face sober, for Ben in his sister’s
short-skirted dress, which hardly came to his knees,--leaving an
extra long pair of thin legs which ended in good-sized feet,--was an
exceedingly droll sight. A giggle from Betty at the critical moment
sent the squirrel flying to the curtain-top again; but greedy hunger
conquered fear, and growing venturesome again, the squirrel came by
cautious degrees down to the window-sill. While he sat there, filling
his cheek pouches with the cracked walnuts, Ben, who had been close at
hand all the while, deftly captured him and tucked him away securely
into the blouse waist.

“Now, if one of you girls will unfasten this old dress skirt, I’ll drop
it off,” Ben said meekly, after struggling to unbutton the skirt with
one hand while holding the squirrel fast with the other. “I can’t go
through the streets with a skirt on,” he added, shamefacedly.

Miss Ruth unfastened the waist-band buttons, the skirt dropped to the
floor, and Ben stood there in the middle of the room, looking even
funnier than ever in his dark blue knickerbockers and the brown blouse
waist. Miss Ruth mercifully and quickly helped him into the old blue
reefer jacket, which was so tight now that he could not button it at
all.

“I should be glad to have you come back to the Club meeting, after you
have taken the squirrel home, Ben,” Miss Ruth said, with the double
purpose of making sure that the squirrel reached his headquarters and
of giving Ben a share in the meeting if he really wanted to come back.
“Will you ask Alice if she would like some of the paper dolls to paint,
and if she would, you could take them to her,” she added.

“Yes, I will come back,” Ben answered, with a brightening face. “I’d
like to--anyway--and Peggy would be disappointed not to know all about
the meeting.”

“I am going to tell the Club a story I promised them. It is only about
a little old lady’s doll; but if you would like to hear it, I will wait
till you come.”

“Yes, ma’am, I should like to hear it, thank you,” replied Ben most
humbly.

“Alice said you like dolls, Ben,” cried Betty mischievously.

“I don’t care,--I do like dolls sometimes. I ducked a boy into the
frog-pond once--” began Ben; but he stopped and burst out laughing, for
Miss Ruth had given him a queer look, and now she was saying: “It seems
to me we have heard about that before, Ben.”

“Hurry, Ben,” exclaimed Elsa, impatient for the story. “Hurry home and
hurry back again.”

“Perhaps I can find our hired man on the road with Jerry,” called out
Ben, as he left the room, “and then I’d go flying home and back quicker
than a flash.”

“Or a squirrel,” added Miss Ruth. “Be careful of the squirrel, Ben.”

Both Elsa and Betty wanted some advice about the colours of paints
to use first, so the time did not seem very long to them before Ben
returned,--a most penitent-faced boy now, and in his own clothes.

Ben walked straight up to Miss Ruth, made his best bow, and said in a
manly way, though very fast: “Mother says I must beg your pardon for
bringing the squirrel. I am sorry I did it.”

“I think you frightened the squirrel more than you did the girls,
Ben,” Miss Ruth replied, feeling that the boy had already done
sufficient penance for his attempted fun.

Ben drew a long breath of relief. “I had a ride both ways,” he said,
quite cheerfully. “May I paint, too?” he inquired, turning to look at
the tempting array upon the table, and also at the plateful of thin
sandwiches which Miss Ruth had wisely provided to go with Betty’s candy.

“Yes, indeed,” Miss Ruth answered. “How would you like to paint the
shoes on the dolls? Take some sandwiches, children.”

“I will black their boots for them,” cried Ben merrily, as he helped
himself to a chicken sandwich and a paint-brush.

“Betty brought the candy,” said Miss Ruth, for Ben, somehow, was ready
for a piece in a flash. Then Betty bravely made the explanation.

“Peggy says she will do all the painting you want her to. She can’t
hardly wait for it.” Ben suddenly remembered the message.

“We can’t hardly wait for that story! Please, _please_, begin!”
entreated Betty.

       *       *       *       *       *

This is a true story, children,--said Ruth Warren, going toward the
hearth, where a bright wood-fire burned steadily, and wheeling a deep,
comfortable chair half around so that she might watch the children at
their work:--The winter that I was eleven years old, my father had
to go to California. My mother went with him, and as it would have
been a rather long, hard journey for a child, they left me with my
grandmother, who lived in a roomy, old-fashioned house just on the
border of a large town. I was not very well that winter, and the doctor
had said I must not go to school, but must be out-of-doors all that
I could. I remember this half made up to me for having my father and
mother go away--or I tried to think it did.

About three minutes’ walk from my grandmother’s, Miss Phœbe Dean,
a little old lady who had been a school-teacher in her younger
days, lived all alone in a snug, small story-and-a-half house. Miss
Dean owned the house, but she was rather poor and not very strong.
Grandmother used to send broths and jellies and things of that kind to
her, every few days, and as I had no school lessons to take my time,
grandmother generally sent the things by me.

Miss Dean was very friendly. She had all sorts of quaint, interesting
curiosities in her house, for her father had been around the world
several times as captain of his own ship and had brought home many
treasures; sometimes she would open an old carved chest and show me
wonderful pictures and beautiful embroideries. Before long, she and I
were such good friends that I went to see her almost every day, whether
or not grandmother had anything to send.

The bedroom which I slept in at my grandmother’s had a dormer window
facing toward Miss Dean’s house; and Miss Dean told me that she used
to watch for my light every night at my bedtime. Grandmother had made
Miss Dean promise that if she ever was ill at night, and wanted help,
she would put two candles side by side in her front window. One night,
after grandmother had put out my light and tucked me into bed, I looked
toward Miss Dean’s house, thinking that she was thinking about me; and
I felt sure that I saw two candles in her front window. There were a
few flakes of snow falling, and the lights looked rather dim, but I was
sure they were there, and meant that Miss Dean was ill.

I called down to grandmother. She came up-stairs to look, and then
we both looked, but now neither one of us could see any light.
Grandmother said: “You imagined you saw the two candles, Ruth.”

“No, grandmother,” I insisted. “I am sure I saw them.”

Grandmother laughed and called me a foolish little girl; but, to
comfort me, said she would sit near the window down-stairs and look
out every now and then toward Miss Dean’s house. I kept my eyes on her
window, by propping myself up in bed, with the pillows, until by and by
I grew too sleepy to keep my eyes open,--especially as I did not see
the candles again.

The next morning there was deep snow over everything. And because
grandmother’s house was on the border of the town, the streets were not
cleared of snow until noonday. I kept thinking and talking about Miss
Dean so much that about eleven o’clock grandmother said: “Put on your
rubber boots, Ruth, and go over to see her, if you want to.”

In about a minute I had on those rubber boots and my thick red coat,
and was wading in the snow, quite to my knees, toward the little white
house. It took me so long that two or three times I almost gave it up,
because I was used to running over in such a short time. But I kept
on, and finally came to Miss Dean’s green-and-white gate. There were no
foot-tracks in the front yard, and the snow was so deep that I could
hardly find the door-steps. When I did find them, I began pounding on
the front door--Miss Dean did not have any door-bell--and very soon I
saw her all bundled up in a shawl, looking out of the window to see who
it was, before she unlocked the door.

Poor little old lady! She led me into the sitting-room, where she slept
in the winter. “I shall have to go back to bed, dear,” she said in her
sweet way; “I have had a dreadful pain in my head ever since yesterday
afternoon.”

“Then you did put the two candles at the window last night?” I asked
eagerly.

“Yes, dear, for a little while,” she said in a weak voice as she sank
back against her pillows. “But when I saw that it was snowing, I took
the candles away so as not to disturb your grandmother, for I thought
the hired man and his wife might be gone down town, and she would have
no one to send over.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?” I asked, for she had closed her
eyes as if she were suffering. Half-frightened by her white face, I
looked away from the bed; and there in a little rocking-chair what did
I see but a black-eyed doll, dressed in a long, clean white flannel
nightgown and with a red shawl pinned around her.

“You might get some hot water from the tea-kettle on the kitchen
stove,” said Miss Dean, without opening her eyes, “and put a
teaspoonful of peppermint essence out of that bottle on the table into
a half glass of water. That might make me feel better.”

I hurried out to the kitchen and brought back the hot mixture. Miss
Dean took it all, then settled down again among the pillows; but she
did not look so pale now. “I shall soon feel better,” she said in her
pretty, patient way.

So I waited, seating myself opposite that doll. It had a china head
with such black hair, big black eyes and a round face, very white
except the bright red cheeks and lips. It was a pretty, lovable doll,
and I knew it must be a very old one.

“You are looking at my doll, Ruth,” Miss Dean said suddenly; and
turning, I found her eyes fixed upon my face.

“Is it your doll?” I cried.

“Yes,” she said softly. She had large brown eyes and a delicate
face; her eyes seemed larger than ever now, because her face was so
white.

[Illustration: “‘WHAT DID I SEE BUT A BLACK-EYED DOLL.’”]

“It is my doll,” Miss Dean repeated. “Would you like to hold her?”

I had been longing to take that quaint, white-nightgowned doll into my
arms. So I jumped up quickly and brought her back with me to the chair
by the bed. Probably my face showed how I loved that old china doll on
the spot. Anyway, after Miss Dean had watched me holding it a little
while, she said: “That peppermint makes my head feel better. I will
tell you about the doll.”

“What is her name?” I asked.

“Susie,” Miss Dean said, “and I have had her ever since I was five
years old. The way I happen to keep her out now is this: You see, when
I was younger, I used to teach children, year after year, different
ones, of course. I used to think that maybe if I married and had a
little daughter of my own, I would name her Susie,--my mother’s name
was Susan. But I grew older, and I didn’t marry, and then, after a
time, I had to give up school-teaching. My father and my mother had
died, and I missed the children more and more.

“One day when it was very stormy and I was dreadfully, desperately
lonely, without a human being around, I went to the old trunk under the
eaves, where I had put my dolls away when I was fourteen years old, and
I took Susie out for just that day. And having that doll with me made
me feel so much happier that, afterward, every once in awhile, when I
grew lonely, I would take her out again. I made some new dresses and
nightgowns for her, because it didn’t seem quite fair not to treat her
well when she gave me so much pleasure.

“Then, two or three years ago,”--Miss Dean went on; and her large
brown eyes began to grow very bright now,--“I put Susie into that
little rocking-chair one snowy night when I went to bed; and it was
so pleasant to wake up in the morning and find her there that I began
to have her out every night. By day I always put her into the bureau
drawer, because I thought if people saw her, they wouldn’t understand.
I should have put her away this morning when you came, only I was
suffering so, I forgot her.”

“But I understand,” I said very quickly. “I am sure that if I lived
alone, I should do just the same.”

“So should I. Wasn’t Miss Dean dear?” said Elsa, pushing back her
cloudy golden hair as Miss Ruth stopped a moment to put a bit of fallen
wood again into the fire.

“Why didn’t she have more than one doll?” Betty asked, thoughtfully,
splashing her brush into the water.

“Because one is enough,” said Elsa instantly.

“Everybody likes one best,” explained Ben, with the wisdom of ten and a
half years.

       *       *       *       *       *

After Miss Dean had told me about Susie,--continued Ruth Warren,
leaning comfortably back into her chair again,--she asked me if I
would like to see Susie’s dresses. I said yes, of course, and she told
me to open the lower drawer of the bureau. Such a quantity of pretty
things as I found! I dressed and undressed Susie to my heart’s content,
putting on first a plaid silk gown, then a checked blue-and-white
gingham and a funny little Red Riding-hood suit; and finally I put
Susie back into her white nightgown, for I felt that Miss Dean would
probably rather choose her dress for the day. And very soon I said I
must go.

“Can’t you stop and have a little bit of dinner--a kind of lunch--with
me?” Miss Dean asked. “If you will put some biscuits into the oven to
warm, and make some tea, I will dress myself, and we can have that with
some cold ham and jelly.”

I said I could stay,--for I knew grandmother wouldn’t mind. So Miss
Dean told me where the biscuit and tea were, and by the time I had them
ready, she came out into the kitchen, dressed in a gray flannel wrapper
with light blue trimmings. She made me think of a doll, she was so
small and so dainty;--she was one of the daintiest people I have ever
known, with white, beautifully shaped hands and soft, silky hair--

       *       *       *       *       *

“She makes me think of Elsa,” said Betty, with a little sigh, half of
envy, half of appreciation.

“Don’t interrupt, _please_, Betty,” Elsa entreated, unmindful of what
Betty had said.

       *       *       *       *       *

Everything about Miss Dean’s house was as dainty as Miss Dean
herself--resumed the story-teller;--and everything in the house seemed
small, like herself,--tables, chairs, lamps, vases, kitchen stove, even
the dishes we ate out of. We had a good luncheon, I remember, and Miss
Dean kept me interested, as she always did, with stories of what had
happened long ago. After we finished eating, she leaned her head back
against her chair in a tired way--she sat at the table in a little
rocking-chair--and she said in a wistful voice: “I have been thinking
about my poor hens. Not a bit of corn or water have they had since
yesterday, and I don’t dare go out to feed them because my head is so
dizzy that I am afraid of falling.”

“O, let me feed them,” I begged instantly.

“But they will be afraid of you,” she said; “they are used to seeing my
clothes.”

“I can dress up in your clothes,” I said. “O, do let me, please!”

Miss Dean liked a little fun, and she did want her hens fed. So she
showed me where she kept her “chicken clothes”--as she called them,--a
short brown skirt and a square plaid shawl that she wore over her head
and shoulders. The skirt was long for me and the shawl made my head
dreadfully hot. But we both laughed over it, and Miss Dean said she
was glad to know how she looked. Then she told me not to flop my arms
around, because that would frighten the hens. So, with a pail of water
and two quarts of corn, I made my way to the hen-house, which was just
beyond a little shed. By the time I arrived, I had forgotten not to
flop my arms, and the hens grew rather excited and lively, but they
were too hungry and thirsty to care much who fed them. After that, I
hunted around and found over a dozen white eggs, some of them quite
warm, I remember. I tripped upon the brown skirt, going back, and let
one egg fall out of the corn measure.

       *       *       *       *       *

“The dolls’ shoes are all blacked,” exclaimed Ben, rising suddenly and
stretching himself, boy-fashion. “May I take a sofa pillow and lie down
in front of the fire?” he asked, coming toward Miss Ruth.

“Make yourself comfortable, Ben,” she answered readily; which Ben
accordingly did.

“Excuse my interrupting,” he said, in a low tone; “and please go on.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Miss Dean told me that breaking the egg did not matter,--that she
often broke more than one, though I knew she said this just to make me
feel better. “I have brought something out for you,” she said, after
I had taken off the brown skirt and the stifling plaid shawl, and she
was counting the eggs. I saw on the kitchen table a black-and-gold
lacquered box, neither large nor small. It looked so interesting that I
wanted to open it at once, but Miss Dean began talking about the hens.

I happened to see by the kitchen clock that it was almost three
o’clock, and I knew that I ought to be going, for, though I sometimes
stayed to lunch with Miss Dean, grandmother always said for me to come
home immediately.

You may imagine how much I wanted to see what was in that beautiful
lacquered box; but I said that I must go home. I hurried into the
bedroom for my coat and Miss Dean followed me. I saw that she had
dressed Susie in the blue-and-white gingham frock while I had been out
feeding the hens.

“I will come over to-morrow,” I said, as Miss Dean helped me on with my
coat. She noticed me looking at Susie,--although I was not thinking of
the doll just then.

“Do you mind, dear, not telling any one about Susie?” Miss Dean asked
in a timid voice.

“I will not tell anybody at all,” I remember I said, slowly, as I went,
slowly also, out of the front door, hoping that Miss Dean would call me
back to give me that box.

“Have you light enough for your painting, girls?” Miss Ruth stopped to
ask. The daylight had suddenly begun to disappear.

“Let’s stop now; I have done three sets,” said Betty, dropping her
paint-brush.

“I have finished two.” Elsa straightened back her shoulders and
stretched her arms.

Miss Ruth reached over to the couch and pulled two cushions down upon
the hearth-rug. “You have both done splendidly, and so has Ben. Sit
here and rest yourselves now,” she said.

“Don’t waste any time from the story, please,” Betty said in a loud
whisper as she seated herself, Turk-fashion, on the large square
cushion and leaned her head against Miss Ruth’s knees.

“Didn’t Miss Dean give you the box, or even show it to you that day?”
inquired Ben, who was lying flat upon his stomach, looking into the
fire.

“No,” replied Miss Ruth, “not that day.”

“I think she was mean to forget it,” said out-spoken Betty.

“Wait till we’ve heard the end of the story,” exclaimed Elsa, who had
curled up on her cushion against the heavy brass stand which held the
fire-tongs and shovel.

“Do you know the end of it?” Betty asked quickly.

“No,--only I know anybody so nice as Miss Dean will be the same at the
end,” Elsa said, with a very earnest expression in her eyes.

“I’ll bet I know what was in that box,” cried Ben, from his position on
the centre of the rug.

“What?” asked Betty.

“Hens’ eggs to hatch,” Ben replied confidently.

“The idea!” exclaimed Betty. “Just as if Miss Dean would have given a
girl hens’ eggs for a present! Now keep still, Ben.”

“We can have only a bit more of the story to-day, because it is almost
five o’clock,” said Miss Ruth, putting her hand softly over Betty’s
mouth, which began to frame an objecting “O!” Then she continued:

       *       *       *       *       *

When I came home from Miss Dean’s, grandmother felt dreadfully to think
that the little old lady had been ill there all alone by herself. “I
must send her some nourishing things to eat,” said grandmother; “I
would have Barker go now”--he was the hired man--“but he is off hauling
wood, and Jenny”--that was his wife--“has a bad cold.”

I said “O, grandmother, let me go!” For I was wondering, harder than
ever, what was in the lacquered box. But grandmother said, “No, child,
you have been out enough to-day in this bad walking. You may go over,
though, early in the morning.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The clock pealed out five as Miss Ruth stopped with these words.

“Just a little more,” urged Betty.

“This will be a good place to begin again,” said Miss Ruth; “we will
have the rest of the story at the next Club meeting, if you like.”

“I want it now,” insisted Betty; “I can stay.”

“But I can’t,” said Ben, “only about a minute longer. I will think the
first part over, going home, to tell Alice.”

“I hope she can come to the next meeting,” said Elsa, with a loyal
thought for her little friend.

“You must tell her, Ben, that we have missed her a great deal,” Miss
Ruth said.

“And give her the Club’s love,” added Elsa.

“I like to have you do that,” said Betty, who had given up teasing and
suddenly grown very quiet as Miss Ruth passed her hand slowly over the
rumpled brown hair.

Elsa looked on, from her seat against the tall brass fire-stand. She
was too loving-natured to be jealous, but she would have dearly liked
to be in Betty’s place, there against Miss Ruth’s knees. Still, Elsa
was very happy. Miss Ruth’s dark red dress was so warm-looking in
the firelight, and the room seemed so pleasant; it was restful and
delightful just to be there. Elsa felt this keenly, although she would
not have been able to put it into words.

“Do you know what fire-sparks are?” asked Ben, who was leaning on
his elbows with his chin in his hands, and looking straight into the
glowing fire. “Sparks are the sunbeams that got shut up in the wood
while the tree was growing, and now they are going up the chimney and
back into the air again.”

Sarah Judd, passing the library door to light the hall lamp, looked
in for a moment, unnoticed by the Club. “It do seem good to see them
children stretched out in front of the fire and havin’ such a good
time,” she said to herself, with one of the unexpectedly cracking-like
smiles upon her grim face.

       *       *       *       *       *

The day after this meeting of the Club Miss Virginia Warren took a cold
from having her room overheated. “I am really worried about myself,”
she said after her niece had spent most of the day trying to make her
comfortable.

“But the doctor says it is only a cold, and that your heart is in no
danger,” said Ruth Warren; “to be sure, a cold is uncomfortable enough
to make one wretched,” she added. “Let me open that farther window; a
little fresh air will make you feel better.”

“O, no, no!” cried Miss Virginia, drawing her thick white shawl closer
around herself at the thought. “Don’t excite me so, Ruth. There’s no
telling what may happen. My heart seems very feeble,” she went on,
after trying for a half-moment to count the pulse-beats in her own
wrist. “I am more and more certain that I must have a nurse to watch my
pulse and look out every moment for draughts. Yes, I really must ask
you now to see about a nurse,” added Miss Virginia, clasping one large
hand over the other wrist to keep track of her heart-beats.

Ruth Warren consulted the doctor.

“Your aunt doesn’t need a nurse any more than you or I need one,” he
said, gruffly. “Better have one, though, and I will order her to open
the windows every hour of the day. We will give your aunt a little
training, and it may do her good.”

As a result of this conversation, and of a plan which she found she
could carry out, Ruth Warren called a few days later at Mrs. Danforth’s.

“Mrs. Danforth isn’t very well to-day, miss, and she asks will you come
up to her room, please,” said Cummings; so Ruth Warren followed the
stiff-backed maid up the polished stairs. From the top of the stairs
she saw, just ahead, a room all furnished in white, which she knew must
be Elsa’s. “What an unpretty room for a child!” she said to herself.

Mrs. Danforth had on a beautiful white dressing-gown with long lace
ruffles hanging from the sleeves, and she was leaning back in a blue
velvet chair. “She does not look so ill as unhappy,” Ruth Warren
thought to herself.

Not wishing to take any more time than was necessary, Ruth Warren began
at once to give the reason for her call:

“Elsa has told me, Mrs. Danforth, of a nurse she once had by the name
of Bettina March. Curiously enough, I find that this same Bettina
March has quite lately been employed at the Convalescent Home here in
Berkeley. She was very much liked, but she was not strong, and went
away, hoping to return. She is not yet able to take up the work, and
she is anxious to find some occupation which will give her, for a time,
less active duties.”

“Well, and what of it?” inquired Mrs. Danforth coldly, fixing her
eyes upon her visitor’s face. She and Miss Ruth had exchanged calls
formally; that was all the acquaintance they had, save a chance
meeting, now and then.

“I should not have intruded upon you with a personal matter, Mrs.
Danforth, except for good reason,” Ruth Warren said quietly. “My Aunt
Virginia, who, as you know, lives with me, feels the need of having
a nurse; it will be an easy position and one which Bettina March can
easily fill, as my aunt is by no means very ill. I came to ask if you
have any objection to my engaging Bettina March?”

“Is it that you wish to inquire of me in regard to Bettina March’s
character?” demanded Mrs. Danforth. “I know nothing against her.”

Now Mrs. Danforth was accustomed to have people a little afraid of her.
She was rather surprised, therefore, to find that Ruth Warren did not
show any embarrassment, but went on, in a quite simple and perfectly
self-possessed manner, to say: “It is not that, Mrs. Danforth. The
head-nurse at the Convalescent Home has satisfied me entirely with
regard to the woman’s character. It is only on Elsa’s account that I
have come to you.”

“Why should I object to your employing Bettina March on Elsa’s
account?” Mrs. Danforth made things as hard as she could for Ruth
Warren.

“Because my house is next to yours, and Elsa has told me that you were
unwilling to have her keep up any acquaintance with her old nurse,”
Ruth Warren replied, in the same even-toned voice.

Mrs. Danforth felt now obliged to explain. “Bettina March was nurse to
Elsa’s mother during her last illness, and after the mother died stayed
on with Elsa until her father died. I felt that the child was growing
too dependent on the woman. Elsa is almost entirely without relatives.
Her mother was an only child, and her father had only one brother,
Mr. Ned Danforth. If he should marry, or if I should die, Elsa would
be quite alone in the world and she would need to be self-reliant. I
did not think she was a child who would talk over my affairs,” Mrs.
Danforth remarked haughtily.

Ruth Warren could not let Elsa stand in a false light before her
grandmother’s eyes. Therefore she suddenly decided to tell the story
of the child’s grief over the giving away of her doll.

The coldness of Mrs. Danforth’s blue eyes gave way, little by little,
to a softer expression as Ruth Warren described Elsa’s visit to her,
that late evening.

“So she was brave enough to go out of the house alone at night, and she
kept the loss of the doll from me for fear it would hurt my feelings,”
said Mrs. Danforth half to herself, toying with a silver paper-cutter
the while. “Of course I did not know that the child cared anything
about the doll.”

“That is what Elsa said,” returned Ruth Warren, quite eagerly now. Then
she went on in a lower tone: “Elsa seems to me a keenly sensitive,
thoughtful and affectionate-natured little girl, but very much
repressed. As I have observed her--her shyness and her pale face--I
cannot help thinking that what she needs more than anything else is to
have some love shown her, and to feel free to show her own affection.”
Ruth Warren rose to go, feeling that perhaps she had said too much.

“Wait a moment,” said Mrs. Danforth, not unkindly. “You mean to tell
me that I am too severe with the child?” She remembered, with an
uncomfortable feeling, that Mrs. White had said much the same thing.

“Not too severe in the matter of discipline, but--” Ruth Warren left
the sentence unfinished.

“On the whole, I thank you, Miss Warren,” said Mrs. Danforth slowly.
“I am sure you have Elsa’s best interest at heart. I am grateful to
you for taking charge of the little Club. It has made me feel safe
in regard to her. Do you think that the Holt children are perfectly
suitable companions for Elsa, in every way?” she asked suddenly.

“They are perfectly suitable companions for any children, I am
sure,” Ruth Warren said warmly. “They are charming little children,
well-trained and gentle-mannered. The boy is mischievous, but he is
perhaps all the more likeable for his liveliness, and he is very manly
with his mother and his little sister. I have seen the mother several
times, and I have never met a more attractive or charming woman,--or a
braver woman.”

A quick flush reddened Mrs. Danforth’s face, then died away as suddenly
as it came. Reaching out a trembling hand, she rang for her maid, who
appeared as if she had risen out of the blue velvet carpeted floor.

“Cummings, some water,” said Mrs. Danforth, with an evident effort.
Then she leaned back against her chair and closed her eyes.

Ruth Warren had started to leave the room, but fearing lest Mrs.
Danforth should faint, she stood waiting for Cummings to return.

As she waited, she noticed, half unconsciously at first, then with
a quick start of interest, an oil-painting hanging upon the softly
tinted wall, back of Mrs. Danforth’s chair,--an oil-painting of a
large, gable-windowed house, exactly like the one at Mrs. Holt’s. Ruth
Warren remembered it particularly because of one small red-leaved maple
tree at the left-hand corner of the picture; and she also remembered
Elsa’s exclamation over Mrs. Holt’s picture. She looked again at Mrs.
Danforth’s white, set face, and a haunting resemblance flashed through
her mind, leaving her fairly bewildered.

Just then Cummings came in with a glass of water. Mrs. Danforth opened
her eyes, drank the water, and appeared instantly better. “I have these
dizzy attacks once in a while, Miss Warren,” she said in her usual
stately manner, “but they pass off quickly. I am sorry this happened
while you were here. Thank you for coming. I am sure you will find
Bettina March a very useful woman.”

Then Ruth Warren, turning many things over in her mind, went home,
leaving Mrs. Danforth to her pride and loneliness.

It had chanced that, coming from a drive by way of Berkeley Avenue the
day before, and having Elsa with her, Mrs. Danforth had met a young,
fair-haired, plainly dressed woman walking along slowly between a boy
and a girl who looked very much alike, although the boy was the taller.

Mrs. Holt had been to the shops that afternoon with her children, and
in the basket which Ben was carrying so carefully, were the precious
Christmas remembrances they had bought for the dear father out in
Colorado. Mrs. Holt’s face was unusually sad, for this would be the
first Christmas that she had ever been parted from her husband, and
she felt the separation more and more keenly as the days drew near to
Christmas.

Elsa had leaned forward and waved eagerly behind the closed window
of the coupé. The twins had smilingly waved their hands in turn. The
tired-looking, sad-faced mother, in bowing to Elsa, had given a sudden,
startled look at Mrs. Danforth.

The encounter had been over in a half-moment, for the strong gray horse
was going swiftly toward home.

“It is Alice and Ben and their mother, grandmother,” Elsa had cried
excitedly. “Don’t you remember about ‘Sweet Alice and Ben Bolt?’ Only
their name is Holt.”

Fearing that her grandmother’s silence meant reproof, Elsa had looked
around. Mrs. Danforth was sitting very white-faced and rigid, against
the coupé cushions. She did not speak again during the drive.

This was the first time that Mrs. Danforth and Mrs. Holt had met, face
to face, in Berkeley; and it was the memory of this meeting, which Mrs.
Danforth could not put out of her mind, that kept her in her own room
the next day. Through shutting out love from her life, Mrs. Danforth
had burnt her heart almost to ashes.




CHAPTER VI

THE BOY IN THE CLUB

  You hear that boy laughing? You think he’s all fun?
  But the angels laugh, too, at the good he has done.

  --_Oliver Wendell Holmes._


BEN HOLT, driving slowly along the main business street of Berkeley,
Friday morning, about half-past nine o’clock, stopped his horse as he
saw the tall figure and met the gray eyes of Elsa Danforth’s uncle.

“Good morning, sir,” the boy said, jumping from the sleigh with a
sudden inspiration. “I would like to ask your advice, sir,” he added,
diffidently.

Mr. Danforth had instantly recognized the boy of the Club. “Well, Ben,
my boy; what is it about?” he asked in his quick way of speaking.

Ben’s usually cheerful face was very sober and earnest. Mr. Danforth
noticed on the seat of the sleigh a queer-shaped bundle covered with
what looked suspiciously like a blue-and-white flannel night-shirt.

“What do you want my advice about? Christmas presents?” the tall man
asked kindly, seeing that the boy found some difficulty in making his
request.

“No, sir, it isn’t Christmas presents,” Ben replied sadly, taking a
few steps forward and putting his arm around Jerry’s long nose. “I am
going to run away, sir; but I had promised to give five of the little
Convalescings a sleigh-ride this morning, at eleven o’clock, and I’ve
been trying to find some safe fellow--man,” said Ben, correcting
himself,--“who will take them for me, somebody the head-nurse will
trust. Do you suppose you could do it?” The boy looked up with such a
wistful expression that Mr. Danforth felt quite touched, although he
felt also, that Ben was looking him over very carefully and trying to
decide whether the head-nurse would approve of him. “You could leave
Jerry at my house when you come home; it’s not a very long ways to walk
back to Elsa’s. Of course I--I couldn’t tell mother of mine that--that
I was going to run away.” Ben’s face showed that he was very miserable.

“Let me get into the sleigh with you and we will talk it over,” Mr.
Danforth said, stepping in quickly. Ben sprang in at the other side and
pushed the blue-and-white flannel bundle to the floor, under the seat.

“Now, first of all, tell me why you are going to run away?” Mr.
Danforth inquired in such a friendly, sympathetic tone that Ben could
not help opening his heart at once.

“I want to earn a lot of money, sir. You see, my father’s away
teaching, and he isn’t very well, so he can’t send us much money. And
mother--mother has to buy so many things, she was counting on her
fingers last night,--coal, and things to eat, and clothes, and pay the
hired man, and pay the rent, and she just gets all the fingers paid
off and she has to begin again. She spent her last money yesterday
for coal, and she won’t have any more till the first of January, and
I can’t stand it, sir; I’ve got to earn some money to help her.” Ben
turned aside with a sound very much like a sob, but which of course
must not be heard from a boy who was going to run away. Bravely facing
ahead again after a moment he added: “I want to earn a lot of money, so
that mother won’t have to work so hard and so that we can go and live
with father.”

“Do you help your mother any now?” Mr. Danforth inquired in the same
quick, sympathetic voice.

“Yes, sir, a little; I feed and take care of the hens and I do errands
and shovel snow and help with the market-garden, and I talk over things
with mother, and I take the Convalescings out driving pleasant Saturday
mornings and vacations.” Ben named everything he could think of, for
he wanted to prove that he was a capable and trusty boy. He looked up,
anxiously: “Maybe, as you live in the city, you could tell me where to
begin work?”

“Who will do all those things for your mother if you run away, Ben?”
came the next question.

“Why--she can hire a boy with the money I send,” Ben answered,
miserably.

“I wouldn’t run away just yet, Ben, if I were you,” said Mr. Danforth
very gravely. “Your mother might get used to that other boy. Boys
who run away always want to come back home, and once in awhile their
fathers and mothers won’t let them come back, but send them off to some
institution. Think it over awhile, Ben. It’s queer, but you are the
very boy I wanted to see this morning.”

Ben turned questioningly toward his companion. There was a keen, clear
sparkle in Mr. Danforth’s gray eyes, and good-humoured lines around his
firm mouth.

“What do you say to our spending a part of the morning at that
wonderful hut near your house, which Elsa has told me about? We can
talk some more of your running away, and I want your advice about a
Christmas surprise for the Club.”

Seeing the hesitation which yet remained in Ben’s earnest blue eyes,
Mr. Danforth continued: “Now, Ben, I have given you my advice, and it’s
only fair that you should give me yours. I think I shall want to hire
you and your horse some day next week, and I will pay you fifty cents
an hour, and for this morning’s time, too.”

“Jerry’s a fine horse to work, because he’s so steady, sir,” replied
Ben, yielding by slow degrees. “But the Convalescings expect me at
eleven o’clock.”

Jerry had turned, unheeded by Ben, into Berkeley Avenue and was jogging
quite spiritedly in the direction of home.

“It is not ten o’clock yet,” said Mr. Danforth, taking out his watch.
“You can help me an hour and then keep your engagement with the
children. I wouldn’t have you disappoint them.”

“All right, sir,” Ben said, more cheerfully than he had yet spoken,
although his face sobered again immediately as he added: “I’ll leave my
bundle in the hut, then it will be ready any time I decide to start.
Of course, I’d lots rather earn some money and stay at home. But it’s
sorrowful-like, sir, to see your mother needing money so much.” Again
Ben turned aside his face, and when Mr. Danforth kindly looked the
other way, the boy drew his red-mittened hand across his eyes.

Any one who had been near the log-hut in the tall pine woods not far
from Ben’s home that morning, would have seen a broad-shouldered man
in a heavy winter overcoat and a slip of a boy in a tight blue reefer
jacket sitting in the warm sunshine on the sheltered platform of the
hut, very earnestly talking together and advising one another, while
old Jerry, blanketed carefully, stood near by without being hitched,
and overhead, dusky crows and gleaming bluejays chattered vigorously, a
gray chickadee or a downy woodpecker occasionally putting in a word.

Mr. Ned Danforth had surprised and delighted his niece Elsa almost
beyond bounds by appearing in Berkeley the evening before, and
announcing that he should stay at least until Christmas, a whole week.

After his father, Judge Danforth, had died, and after the death of
Elsa’s father a few months later, Mr. Ned Danforth had agreed with
his stepmother that it was wise for her to close her New York home,
and also that Berkeley was a good place for motherless and fatherless
Elsa to live in. Some day, when his little niece should become a young
lady, Mr. Danforth hoped to have her live with him. He had missed the
child greatly, indeed, out of his New York life, and his flying visit
to Berkeley of a few weeks ago--the first time he had seen Elsa since
September--had caused him to wonder whether she was wholly happy in her
life alone with Mrs. Danforth, although the child made no complaint.

It was particularly to set his mind at rest upon this point that he
had told Elsa he would pay her fifty cents a week if she would write a
four-page letter to him twice a week; for he felt that in these letters
she would probably tell him freely just what he wanted to know. Before
this, Elsa had written him once a week, and always a short letter,
saying that grandmother was well and she was well; that school was
pleasant because she liked her school-girl friends; that Berkeley was
a pretty place and the weather was growing colder; that she missed him
ever and ever so much, and was his affectionate little niece, Elsa.

But the first long letter he received had run thus:

  “DEAREST UNCLE NED:--

    “Grandmother is well and so am I. O, I am so glad you came
    to see me. Please come again soon. School is most over and
    I am sorry for I shall miss seeing my little girl friends.
    Grandmother does not like to have little girls come to see
    me. She lets me go to the Club though. Miss Ruth is lovely.
    I take a red rose to her most every day and she puts it in
    to a tall green glass vase in her window so I see it when I
    go to bed and it doesent make me feel so lonesum. I shall be
    sorry when school closes because it will seem lonesummer to
    eat breakfast and supper alone. It is a very nice nayborhood.
    Miss Ruth is busy most of the time taking care of her poor sick
    aunt who doesent like children I guess because she told us to
    go right away children one day she had asked the club to go up
    stairs to see her. Betty White has the beautifulest nursery to
    sleep in you ever saw it makes me think of very interesting
    picture book or a Jacobs coat of many colors. Bettys mother
    lets her decide things. I wish grandmother would let me. I wish
    grandmother would let me have some pink or blue paper on my
    room. It is all so white. I feels if I slept out doors in snow.

    “I am reading David Copperfield. I think it is a very good and
    interesting book and it is so real and true. I like Agnes W.
    better than any caracter and I think D. C. is sorry he fell in
    love with Dora and I wish he had more courage when he is with
    Urriah H and tell U. H. that he is a sneak and coward and give
    him a blow or two. I like Mr. Peggotty and Ham and Peggotty
    and Aunt Bettesy Trotwood and I also like Mr. Dick and all two
    gether it is a fine book. Will you tell me the name of a book
    to read next because when school closes I will have to read to
    keep from being lonesum like September when I first came. This
    is four pages and I wish you would come to see your poor lonesum

  “ELSA.

    “P. S. dont forget about the hut.

    “P. S. David was so crushed and frightened when he was little
    and had no good times. I think he hasent got over it yet.”

Mr. Danforth had decided from this and just such another long letter,
that his little niece was leading a lonely and repressed life with
her grandmother, and that it was this fact which was making the child
pale-faced and hollow-eyed, rather than the school-life, as Mrs.
Danforth had suggested. So when the head of the banking-house to which
he belonged decided to establish a branch office in the large city
near Berkeley, Mr. Danforth at once agreed to take charge of it. What
were New York clubs and big dinners in comparison with the welfare and
happiness of one little pathetic, gray-eyed, “lonesum” girl?

And this was the reason of Mr. Ned Danforth’s being in Berkeley,
although he had not as yet told Elsa that he would soon come to stay
permanently.

Thursday had been the last day of the school term, and this Friday
would be the last meeting of the Club before Christmas. Ben and Alice
had called for Betty at half-past two o’clock. Mrs. White had with
difficulty kept them and Betty from starting for Ruth Warren’s before
three o’clock.

The moment Elsa, watching from the hall window, saw the little group
leave Betty’s house, she sped like an arrow to join them, having been
ready for the last half-hour.

It was a merry, excited group of four children who ran up the front
steps of the Warren house very promptly at three o’clock on the
afternoon of December 18. Elsa had forgotten all about being sorry that
school had closed, now that Uncle Ned had come; Ben had forgotten all
about his intense desire to run away from home; Alice had forgotten
all about the cold which had kept her from the last Club meeting,
and Betty, on her part, had forgotten pretty nearly all that she had
learned in school the last term; indeed, she had almost forgotten that
there ever was any school.

The open fire was burning brightly; the five unfinished sets of paper
dolls, the paints and the brushes were ready on the table; and Miss
Ruth, in her golden-brown, fur-trimmed gown, welcomed the Club with a
feeling of real pleasure in having all these lively children coming to
her house. She was heartily glad her Aunt Virginia had decided that
she liked the children’s noise, for Ben came in with an unmistakable
“Whoop!” and cried out, “No more school!” and the other children began
talking rapidly.

“May I bring my Christmas presents and keep them here?” questioned
Betty. “Max and Janet find every single thing I hide away.”

“My Uncle Ned has come to stay till Christmas,” exclaimed Elsa; “he’s
gone to the city this afternoon, or maybe I shouldn’t have wanted to
come even to the Club!”

“I’ve brought back the two sets of paper dolls you sent for me to
paint,” piped in Alice. “And Ben’s brought something to show you.”

Thereupon Ben opened the box he had in his hand, and blushing with
pride, showed the Club ten tops he had carved, carefully and well,
painted with bright colours. “They are for the Convalescings,” he
explained when the girls gave him a chance to speak; “and I think I’ll
have time to make a few more.”

“Mamma is making some of the beautifulest rag dolls,” exclaimed Alice
enthusiastically.

“We must finish painting the paper dolls this afternoon,” cried Betty,
“for just think, Christmas comes a week from to-day.”

“Can we take the dolls out to the Convalescent Home, Miss Ruth?” Elsa
asked, with shining eyes.

“Yes, we can all go there Christmas morning. I have arranged that with
Miss Hartwell. With the dolls Mrs. Holt is making, and ours, we shall
have enough to give a doll to every little girl there; and with Ben’s
tops and some tin soldiers which I am going to provide for the boys,
we shall have something for every boy.”

“O, goody!” exclaimed Betty, while Elsa and Alice clapped their hands,
and Ben turned a somersault on the hearth-rug.

“Now please finish the story, Miss Ruth,” said Betty. “You left off
where Ruth’s grandmother--I mean your grandmother--was going to let you
go to see the little old lady the next morning.”

Betty, Alice, and Elsa immediately drew their chairs up to the table,
and chose their paint-brushes, ready to begin on the paper dolls. But
Ben remained standing before the fireplace, and, after putting one
hand in his pocket to make sure he had not lost the two silver quarter
dollars he had earned that morning, he clasped his hands behind him.
Ben was dreadfully hungry, for he had been outdoors all the morning,
and even the good dinner he had eaten since then had left his appetite
unsatisfied. He forgot that Miss Ruth always had something for the Club
to eat, so he looked very steadily at her and asked frankly: “Please,
Black Lace Lady, have you got any crackers or cookies? I’m hungry as
two bears, and I’d a good deal rather ask right out for something to
eat than hint for it.”

“Why, Ben Holt!” gasped Alice, whose cheeks turned a very deep pink
in a moment. She came and laid her chubby hand on Ruth Warren’s arm:
“Excuse him, please, Miss Ruth. He knows better.” Alice felt dreadfully
ashamed of Ben.

Ruth Warren stroked Alice’s hand affectionately: “Never mind, dear. I
ought to know better than to keep a hungry boy waiting for something to
eat. Sarah has made some plum buns for you.”

“The same as we had for our first meeting!” cried Betty, tossing her
hair out of her eyes.

“Yes, because Peggy brought some to me,” Ben said. “Here they are now,”
he exclaimed, looking up engagingly into Sarah Judd’s face as she came
through the library doorway, in her stiffest starched white apron,
carrying a very large plate piled high with crisp plum buns.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Ben said with a polite bow. Stepping forward, he
took the plate from Sarah, and passed it first to Miss Ruth, then to
the girls.

Sarah stood still, watching anxiously. “They are pretty crumby,” she
said, looking from the plate to the floor, “and--” but as she caught
Miss Ruth’s eye, she stopped; then, drawing a long breath like a sigh,
she said heroically: “Never mind the crumbs, little folks; I’m a-goin’
to sweep to-morrow.”

“I think you are very, very good to the Club, Sarah,” said Betty.

“Thank you, oh, thank you,” cried Elsa, with thoughtful courtesy, while
little Alice smiled and looked more than ever like a dimple-faced doll.

Sarah’s curls were bobbing excitedly as she went out of the room,
saying under her breath: “The cunnin’ little dears!”

“Please, _please_, the story now,” entreated Betty.

“Guess I won’t paint to-day,” Ben announced. “May I lie down by the
fire again?”

“Yes,--take a cushion and take some buns, Ben,” Ruth Warren answered,
moving her chair aside.

“Let me do that,” said Ben, springing instantly to help.

“Thank you,” returned Miss Ruth. Then, seating herself, she said: “Now
I will go on with the story.”

       *       *       *       *       *

By nine o’clock the next morning, I was teasing my grandmother to let
me start for Miss Dean’s. But it was almost eleven before Jenny, the
cook, had the broth and little cakes and jelly in a basket for me to
carry to Miss Dean. I remember hurrying so fast over the uneven, snowy
street that I spilled some of the broth.

Miss Dean saw me coming and opened the front door the moment I set foot
on the top step. She was dressed in a soft gray cloth gown and she
looked ever so much better than she had the day before, in fact her
cheeks were quite pink and her eyes sparkled as she said: “I thought
that as I had been ill and you were coming again to see me, we would
have a party; and I have invited Susie to the party.”

The bedroom--or the sitting-room as it really was except in
winter--looked very cozy. Miss Dean had spread a bright-coloured silk
patchwork quilt over the bed, and there in the little rocking-chair,
near by, sat Susie in a white muslin dress looped up with tiny pink
rosebuds over a blue satin skirt.

“That is Susie’s ball costume,” Miss Dean said; “I didn’t show it to
you yesterday because I felt it might be wrong to let you know that I
approved of balls and dancing; but I decided to-day that it wouldn’t do
any harm. My mother didn’t like to have me learn to dance, but I don’t
see anything wrong in Susie’s going to parties and balls, just to look
on, anyway.”

My eyes had travelled from Susie to the black-and-gold lacquered box,
which now stood upon the low table by the side of Susie’s chair. I
think Miss Dean must have seen me looking at it, for in a moment she
said:

“I felt so bad to think I forgot to give you that box yesterday. That
is one reason I am having the party to-day. Take it now, to please a
little old lady.” As she handed it to me, I remember she said, “My, how
your eyes dance, child!”

I opened the box, and found inside two smaller black-and-gold lacquered
boxes that just fitted the space. The first one I opened had in it a
beautiful coral necklace--

       *       *       *       *       *

“The one you have on now?” cried Betty, dropping her paint-brush and
coming to Miss Ruth’s side.

“Yes, the very one,” Miss Ruth answered. “You have quick eyes, Betty.”

Elsa and the twins crowded around to look at the exquisitely cut,
pinkish-red coral necklace.

“What was in the other box?” Betty asked. “It seems to me I can’t wait
to hear!”

“The other box proved to be a dainty work-box with an ivory thimble,
ivory-handled scissors and an ivory-covered needle-book. As I told you,
Miss Dean’s father had been a sea-captain, and he had brought these
things from a foreign country.”

“Have you kept the boxes, Miss Ruth?” Elsa asked shyly.

“Yes,” replied Miss Ruth: “I have the large box and the two smaller
boxes.”

“O, do show them to us, please,” Betty entreated. The others waited
with greatest interest.

“I thought you might like to see them, so I brought them down.” Ruth
Warren rose and took from a drawer of her writing-desk a richly
lacquered box; and the girls, with Ben, spent the next few moments in
examining and admiring the big box, the smaller boxes, and the dainty
ivory articles.

“I brought down something else to show you,” Miss Ruth said. “Can you
guess what?”

“A stuffed Arctic owl,” suggested Ben, taking a fresh supply of plum
buns while he was up.

“O, Ben! Can’t you think of anything but birds and horses and hens’
eggs!” cried Betty.

“Yes,--I think of the poor little Convalescings,” said Ben
self-defensively.

“I know, I know!” exclaimed Elsa, almost breathlessly. “It is Susie!”

“Elsa has guessed right. It is Susie,--the little old lady’s doll,”
said Miss Ruth, going to the tall mahogany bookcase which wholly filled
one side of the room. The children followed her and watched with
closest attention while she took from a lower shelf a large white box.
Unrolling the stout white-paper covering, she opened the box-cover,
took out the old-fashioned doll, and held her up before the children’s
eyes.

Betty was the first to speak. “What a queer old thing,” she said.

“O, she has on the ball dress,” cried Alice, timidly touching one of
the tiny pink rosebuds which looped up the muslin dress over the blue
silk petticoat.

“You dear doll!” said Elsa softly.

“She _is_ kind of quaint and pretty,” Betty said, after a good second
look.

Ben gave a low whistle, but said nothing. He thought the doll was a
beauty. The tiny pink rosebuds had won his heart.

Susie was a china-headed doll, with stiff, unjointed arms. Her black
hair, parted and drawn down over her ears, her very black eyes, bright
red cheeks and rounded mouth gave her an old-time appearance both
quaint and attractive.

“How well you have kept her,” exclaimed Betty. Her own dolls had all
suffered some misfortune, such as broken arms or hairless heads.

“I did not have Susie until I was sixteen years old,” Miss Ruth said,
“and then I was too old to play with her.”

“Do girls have to stop playing with dolls when they are sixteen years
old?” Elsa inquired anxiously.

“O no,” Miss Ruth replied; “but girls of sixteen are usually too busy
with study and other things to have time for dolls.”

“How did you happen to get the old doll?” Ben asked. He did not mean to
be disrespectful; it was only a boy’s way of speaking.

“That comes at the end of the story,” Miss Ruth answered. “Are you
ready for me to go on?”

Everybody said, “Yes,” and Elsa added: “I will put Susie in a
rocking-chair and we can look at her and that will make the story seem
more real than ever.”

“That is just the way Miss Dean used to have her,” said Miss Ruth, as
Elsa placed the doll in a small rocking-chair upon a cushion and drew
the chair toward the table.

“I remember,” Elsa answered.

Once more the girls took up their paint-brushes and went to work,
while Ben stretched himself again upon the hearth-rug in his favourite
position; and then the story-teller began again:

       *       *       *       *       *

Miss Dean had been making ready for our party all the morning, I think,
because we had so many things to eat. She seemed not to want to use
anything which grandmother had sent. First, we had hot biscuit and
little meat-balls; then we had chocolate frosted cake, currant-jelly
tarts and plum preserves, with hot chocolate to drink.

“May we have Susie at the table with us?” I asked just as we were
sitting down; so Miss Dean sat Susie on the dictionary in the tallest
chair, and she put food on a plate for Susie, just as she did for me.
When I wasn’t looking, Miss Dean slipped the food off to a plate on a
side table, and then put more food in front of the doll, urging her in
such a pretty way to eat more. I never shall forget how young and happy
Miss Dean looked that day at the table, with such a kind, motherly
expression in her large brown eyes.

We were just eating some preserved ginger and drinking the last of
our chocolate, and Miss Dean was saying: “I am sure Susie would enjoy
company very much indeed if she had more of it,” when there came a
knock at the front door and my grandmother walked into the room. She
and Miss Dean were such near neighbours and good friends that when
either one called upon the other, she did not wait at the door, but
walked in.

Miss Dean rose, greeted my grandmother, and then looked at me in such
a timid, appealing manner that I knew she was thinking of Susie and
wondering what my grandmother would think of the doll being there.

Grandmother sat down very straight in her chair, I remember, and looked
around in her pleasant way. Her eyesight wasn’t very good. Probably,
too, she didn’t remember how my own dolls looked. For very soon she
said: “I see that Ruth brought her doll to have luncheon with you,
Phœbe,”--grandmother always called Miss Dean by her first name.

I held my breath till Miss Dean answered: “That isn’t Ruth’s doll--yet;
but it is one I am going to give her.”

If grandmother had been looking in my direction, I am sure she would
have seen me jump at the thought that Susie was to be mine.

“How kind of you, Phœbe,” grandmother said. “I hope Ruth has thanked
you properly.”

Miss Dean turned toward me with a helpless expression, just as
grandmother added: “Isn’t it strange how children always like to make
company of their dolls and make believe they can eat?”

“I wanted to have Susie at the table,” I said eagerly, half ready to
cry, because I felt so sorry for Miss Dean.

“So you have named the doll Susie,” grandmother said.

Miss Dean turned to me again with that distressed look in her brown
eyes.

“No,” I said, “that was Miss Dean’s name for her, but I like it.” And
after that, grandmother began talking about something else. Her visit
was short. When she went, she said: “Come home soon, Ruth, or you will
be tiring Miss Phœbe, and don’t forget to thank her prettily for the
doll.”

After closing the door behind grandmother, Miss Dean all of a sudden
dropped into a chair. “I was going to give the doll to you, anyway,
Ruth,” she said, hardly above a whisper. The pink colour had all gone
out of her face.

“O no!” I said,--the way children do when they want a thing very much
and know they ought not to take it.

“But I have told your grandmother that I was going to give the doll to
you.” Miss Dean’s voice trembled now, and the next moment I saw her
brown eyes fill with tears.

“I have ever so many dolls,” I cried, naming over six or seven, “and
really, Miss Dean, I would rather have Susie here, because it will be
all the nicer when I come to see you.” I remember thinking so just
then, because Miss Dean was unhappy about it.

“What will your grandmother think of me? what will she think of me?”
Miss Dean spoke with a real sob in her voice.

Then I knew more surely than before that I must not take Susie away.
I petted Miss Dean and talked and talked until she dried her eyes and
asked me if I didn’t want to try Susie’s dresses on again, so that I
would be used to her ways, as long as she was truly going to be mine
some day.

I remember that about as fast as Miss Dean began to feel better I began
to feel worse. While she put away the food and the dishes in that
clean, dainty kitchen, I played with the doll, dressing and undressing
her; and when I finally pinned the little red shawl over the white
nightgown, I am sure two or three of my tears fell upon Susie. Then I
knew it was time for me to be going home.

“Are you perfectly sure you don’t want to take Susie?” Miss Dean asked
me at the door.

“I want you to have her more!” I called back. I could not say another
word, so I started and ran for home, hugging the black-and-gold
lacquered box under my arm: I had entirely forgotten to show that to
grandmother while she was there.

Grandmother was so interested in the box that she seemed to forget all
about the doll. But I went to see Miss Dean and Susie almost every
day. I had a queer feeling about that doll,--she was mine and yet she
wasn’t. Perhaps I actually enjoyed her more that way. Once in awhile I
found Miss Dean making new dresses for Susie; and then she always said:
“I want your doll to have a lot of pretty clothes to wear.”

It happened that my father and mother came home from California
unexpectedly and sent for me to join them, and I was hurried off
without time even to say good-bye to Miss Dean and Susie. It must have
been two months after that when I received a letter from Miss Dean.
She wrote about her spring chickens and her garden, chiefly, but at
the end of the letter she said, “Susie misses you very much. She grows
prettier every day.”

When I read this letter to my mother, she asked: “Who is Susie? Some
little girl who lives with Miss Dean?”

“O no,” I said, “Susie is a doll, and she is going to be mine some day.”

Mother didn’t ask any more questions. She only said “Oh!” in a funny
way.

After that, little by little, I forgot about the doll. Grandmother came
to live with us, so I didn’t visit her again. But when I was sixteen
years old, and had given up playing with dolls, a big bundle came to me
by express one day, and in it was Susie dressed in a brown travelling
suit. All her other clothes were in the bundle. Miss Dean had died, and
had left directions to have the bundle sent to me. With it was a note
which Miss Dean had written.

       *       *       *       *       *

“Have you kept the note?” Betty asked curiously. The three girls had
finished all the painting and had quietly drawn around the fire, during
the last few moments.

“Yes; here it is.” From a yellowed envelope on her desk, Ruth Warren
drew forth a small sheet of paper and read:

  “DEAR LITTLE RUTH:--

    “When this reaches you, Susie will go with it. She has really
    been yours ever since that day of our party, and I thank you
    gratefully for letting me keep her. I have loved her dearly.
    Some of us poor lonely old folks are not much more than
    grown-up children. I know you will have a happy time playing
    with her, and when you are ready to give her away, I hope it
    will be to some little girl who will love her as fondly as you
    and I love her.

  “Your affectionate friend,
               “PHŒBE DEAN.”

“What a dear story!” sighed Elsa. “And how much the poor little old
lady must have cared for Susie.”

“You have kept all her dresses?” inquired Betty, eying the doll with
new interest.

“Yes. When the doll first came, I dressed her in the ball gown, because
that was what she had on when Miss Dean really gave her to me. Since
then I have thought very little about her. Perhaps I shall keep her and
have her for company when I grow old, just as Miss Dean had her. Or
perhaps we might dress her in a newer fashion and give her to one of
the Convalescent children.”

“O no! no!” objected the girls as with one voice. “She is
different:--they will like other dolls just as much,” little Alice
added.

“She is best in her own old-fashioned dresses,” Elsa said thoughtfully,
“because she has such a dear old-fashioned face.”

“And then Miss Dean wanted you to give her to the little girl who would
love her the most,” Betty remarked.

“I wonder who that would be?” Elsa said wistfully, as if she were
thinking out loud.

“I’m not the one,” exclaimed Ben, jingling his silver quarter-dollars.

“Of course you are not,” cried Betty. “You are only the boy in the
Club.”

Betty and Ben were so constantly on the border of friendly warfare that
Ruth Warren thought it better to change the subject. “Children,” she
said quickly, beginning to gather the envelopes of paper dolls into a
pile, “we have just time enough left to name these dolls. There are
twelve of them, and each of you may choose three names. I will write
the names on the envelopes. We will let Ben choose his names first.
Will you begin, Ben?”

Ben looked very hard into the fire for a moment.

“Hurry up, Ben,” Alice said, giving him a sisterly poke with her foot.

“All right, Peggy,” he said, holding the toe of her shoe
affectionately. “I’m ready. Katrina for the princess in the Gray Owl
story, Alice for my mother and for Peggy, and Ruth for you;” he turned
toward Miss Ruth with one of his comical little bows.

The girls clapped their hands and Ruth Warren bowed in return to Ben as
she said: “Now, Alice next. We will go from the youngest on.”

“I will name my three Love and Hope and Thankful.” Alice spoke in a low
tone and moved a little nearer to Ben.

But the Club was listening so closely that every one heard. “What funny
names!” was Betty’s comment, as Miss Ruth wrote them down.

“Mamma has told me stories about old, old ladies she knew of with those
names,” Alice explained.

“Are they all right names?” she asked anxiously, turning her large blue
eyes upon Ruth Warren.

“Yes, dear, they are good, old-fashioned names, and they go well with
the old lady and the old doll we have just been talking about. What are
your names, Betty?”

“Rose and Rosamond and Julia,” Betty answered quickly, her mind being
all made up.

“Good.” Ruth Warren had these down in a half-moment. “And now Elsa?”

Elsa named her list with a little pause between each name: “Phœbe,--for
Miss Dean. Agnes,--for the Agnes in ‘David Copperfield’”--Elsa’s first
grown-up book had made a great impression upon her: “Ruth,--for you.”
The child looked very lovingly from under her long dark lashes at Miss
Ruth.

“But we have one Ruth. Ben chose that,” objected Betty half jealously.

“Never mind. We can have two of the same name,” insisted Elsa
spiritedly, although her face coloured sensitively from having all eyes
turned upon her.

“None of the Convalescent children will have two paper dolls,” said
peaceable Alice.

“I’d like to have all the dolls named Ruth,” Ben said gallantly.

As Ben did not mind Elsa’s having chosen the same name that he had,
Betty did not make any further objection.

“Please, Miss Ruth, ma’am, Mrs. Danforth to see you,” Sarah Judd
announced at the library door. “She said she wanted to come right in
here.”

The children, not quite realizing, in the half dusk of the afternoon
light, that Mrs. Danforth was close behind Sarah, did not rise until
Miss Ruth stepped back from the doorway with her visitor. Accordingly,
Mrs. Danforth had a momentary glimpse of them on the hearth-rug,--Betty
curled up on a cushion, Elsa leaning in her old position against the
brass fire-stand, Alice and Ben seated side by side upon a large,
low, old-fashioned ottoman in the centre of the rug. The ruddy flames
lighted up their faces vividly.

A moment later, the children were standing,--all except little Alice,
one of whose feet had gone to sleep so that she had to kneel upon the
ottoman.

Sarah Judd, unnoticed, looked on from the shadow of the doorway at the
tall, stately woman in rich sable furs and heavy silk cloak.

“I took the liberty of asking your maid to allow me to come where the
children were,” Mrs. Danforth said in a beautiful but cold voice. “I
wanted to see the Club that Elsa talks about so much.”

“Pray be seated, Mrs. Danforth; we are delighted to see you,” said Ruth
Warren, turning to stir the fire into a yet brighter glow. “We like
firelight better than any other light,” she added. “Sit down, children.”

Mrs. Danforth had seated herself very quickly, as her eyes fell upon
Alice and Ben.

Betty curled up again on the cushion. Elsa drew a little way back from
the fireside into the shadow and sat upright upon a chair. Alice, as if
spellbound by something in Mrs. Danforth’s face, remained kneeling upon
the ottoman, and Ben stood by his sister’s side with his left hand upon
her shoulder.

The twins made a striking picture there on the hearth-rug in the full
light of the blazing fire,--Alice, fair-haired, delicate-featured,
with great soft blue eyes and broad white forehead; Ben with the same
colouring of hair and complexion, with boyish, earnest face, frank,
handsome blue eyes, slender figure and well-shaped shoulders.

“So, Elsa, these are your friends, Alice and Ben?” Mrs. Danforth asked
in a slightly unsteady voice now, loosening her furs as she spoke. She
looked very white; and Ruth Warren remembered that Mrs. Danforth had
been ill in her room a few days before.

[Illustration: “THE TWINS MADE A STRIKING PICTURE.”]

“Yes, grandmother,” Elsa’s voice answered out of the half-shadow where
she was sitting.

The twins nodded their heads. Alice shyly, and Ben quite gravely. “Are
you Elsa’s grandmother?” he inquired, fixing his blue eyes upon Mrs.
Danforth.

She merely bowed her head, and asked in the same rather unsteady voice:
“Your last name is what?”

“Holt, ma’am,--Alice and Benjamin Franklin Holt,” the boy answered in
his clear, musical voice.

Ruth Warren, seated somewhat back from the fireside and closely
observing the picture-like group upon the rug, could not help thinking
that it looked as if Alice were kneeling before Mrs. Danforth for
forgiveness and Ben were standing by her side as her champion.

“How long have you lived here in Berkeley?” Mrs. Danforth’s eyes were
fixed intently upon Ben. She could not bear to look at Alice because of
the child’s resemblance to a long-ago little Alice.

“Since the first of last July, ma’am,” Ben replied, manfully meeting
the almost stern look in the blue eyes bent upon him.

“And where did you live before you came here?” asked Mrs. Danforth
sharply.

“Grandmother is almost rude to ask so many questions,” thought Elsa in
her shadowy corner. Betty was listening with round, wide-open brown
eyes. Ruth Warren watched Mrs. Danforth’s face now.

“We lived out in New York State. Father was teaching in a college
there,” Ben explained pleasantly: “his health wasn’t very good, though,
so he brought us here and stayed a little while, and then he had to go
to Colorado, for the doctor said so. We raise lettuce and things to
sell, so that father can stay away till he gets better.”

“What does your mother do?” Mrs. Danforth asked in a strangely
trembling voice.

“Mother? My mother? Oh, she helps with the garden when she is well
enough, and she makes some of my clothes and Alice’s dresses and keeps
’count of all the eggs I sell and--” he stopped short.

Mrs. Danforth had risen suddenly. Looking toward Elsa, she said: “I
want you to come home with me now, Elsa. It is five o’clock and the
seamstress has some new frocks to try on to you before she goes.”

Sarah Judd vanished from the hall.

As if she were weak, Mrs. Danforth steadied herself by the back of the
chair, and then turned for another look at the blue-eyed boy before the
fire.

With a very genuine desire to be a little gentleman,--as his mother
always told him to be,--Ben did the very best thing in the world which
he could have done. Stepping forward, though still with his hand upon
his sister’s shoulder, he looked up into Mrs. Danforth’s face and said
most respectfully: “I think you are a very nice grandmother. I wish
Alice and I had a grandmother.”

“Then you have no grandmother?” she asked slowly, with that strange
tremble in her voice again, and clasping her hands tight together
behind the long sable boa.

“We had one, my father’s mother,” Ben answered soberly, still with
his eyes fixed upon her face, “but that grandmother has gone away to
heaven. We don’t know about our other grandmother. Mother says she will
tell us about her sometime.”

Mrs. Danforth made a motion almost as if she would take the little
fellow into her arms. Then she turned abruptly, not trusting herself to
stay another moment.

Suddenly, as she turned, it no longer seemed hard for her to begin to
carry out the purpose which had brought her to Berkeley, for Ben had
walked straight into her heart, and she knew that she could no longer
shut love out from her life.

Elsa followed her grandmother out of the room without a word except to
say good-bye to the Club.

Ruth Warren found the children in silence when she came back from
seeing her guest to the door. She felt that they were wondering, just
as she was, whether Mrs. Danforth intended to take Elsa away from the
Club, and whether it was because the twins’ mother worked sometimes in
the market-garden.

It was just the right opportunity for Ruth Warren to put to the
children a question which she had in her mind. She began by telling
them about Elsa’s loss of her doll, but without speaking of Elsa’s
night visit.

“Poor Elsa,” exclaimed Betty, whose generous heart was quickly touched.

“Her dearest doll,” sighed Alice, pityingly.

Ben, seated on the ottoman again beside his sister, put his arm close
around her.

“If Susie were to be given to any one of you three girls, which would
you rather should have her?” Miss Ruth asked.

Betty and Alice looked at one another.

Ben gave Alice a hug and said: “I vote for Elsa’s having the
doll,--though you didn’t ask me!” he added, hanging his head.

From looking at one another, Betty and Alice had turned to look at
Susie, who sat on the cushion in the chair by the table, just where
Elsa had placed her.

Betty was the first to speak: “If Elsa had Susie, I know she would let
us play with her.”

Then Alice, generously swallowing her own disappointment, said: “Betty
has Max and Janet, and I have Ben, so I--I think Elsa better have
Susie.”

“Because she has only her grandmother to live with,” put in Betty.

“We all agree then,” said Miss Ruth, “that Elsa shall be the one to
have the little old lady’s doll. We will keep it a secret,” she added,
looking from one to another of the now bright faces. “We will give the
doll to her at Christmas, with a note saying it is from all of us.”

“Because she has only a grandmother,” insisted Betty, forgetting Elsa’s
Uncle Ned.

Just then they heard the door-bell ring, and a moment later, to
their great surprise, Elsa came running into the library, her gray
eyes sparkling with delight, her hair in a golden confusion over her
shoulders.

“The seamstress wasn’t quite ready and grandmother said I might come
back, and she wants me to invite you all to a Christmas-tree at our
house on Christmas afternoon, and she wants Alice and Ben’s mother to
come--and Betty’s mother--and she says if you will all come--it will be
the best Christmas in her whole life!” Elsa stopped breathlessly, her
slender figure quivering with excitement and joy.

“A Christmas-tree! What fun, what fun!” cried Betty, jumping up and
beginning to dance around the room.

“Hurrah!” exclaimed Ben, giving Alice an extra hug.

“May we help get it ready, Elsa?” Betty asked eagerly. In her own home
preparing the Christmas-tree was one of the great events of the year.

“Yes, yes, I am sure so!” cried Elsa, who in her transport of
happiness was ready to promise anything.

Then they all laughed heartily when little Alice said slowly, as if
the fact had just dawned over her mind: “The Club is going to have a
Christmas-tree at Elsa’s grandmother’s!”

“Bless the blue-eyed baby,” said Betty; and Ruth Warren, stooping to
kiss the child’s serious upturned face, wondered if Christmas day would
bring some great change into the lives of Alice and Ben.

“Do you think your mother will come to the Christmas-tree, Alice?” Elsa
asked. “Grandmother said particularly that I was to tell you she wants
your mother to come.”

Ben answered for his sister: “She will come, I think, if Peggy and I
ask her to. What a splendid grandmother you have, Elsa!” he cried,
starting into a sort of war-dance around the room. “I’m going to make a
Christmas present for her.”

“What is it?” asked Betty, curious instantly.

But Ben was heedless of the question. “Is she very rich?” he inquired,
looking at Elsa.

“Yes, I think so,” replied Elsa.

“Then I’ll do it,” he exclaimed, ending his dance with a somersault
upon the hearth-rug.

“What is it?” again asked Betty.

“That’s telling,” Ben answered.

“It will be something nice,” said Alice, out of her perfect faith in
her brother.

Betty, not at all disturbed by Ben’s refusal to tell, went on
blissfully: “Then our next meeting of the Club will be the
Christmas-tree at Elsa’s, and we are all going out to the Convalescent
Home with the presents Christmas morning! Don’t you think we could have
just a little meeting here next Thursday afternoon, Miss Ruth, to talk
things over?”

Ruth Warren yielded to the entreaty in four pairs of eyes: “Yes, you
may come at three o’clock for an hour’s meeting, if you like, and we
will have all the things ready to take to the Convalescent Home the
next morning.”

“I will bring Jerry, Christmas morning, Jerry and the double-seated
sleigh, to carry you and the presents out there,” offered Ben.

“If any of you have any presents that you want to hang on the
Christmas-tree for any of the rest of you,” said Elsa, diffidently, yet
feeling that it was something which ought to be said, “you could bring
them to my house and I am sure grandmother would take care of them for
you.” Elsa’s few moment’s talk with her grandmother had made her feel
that she could promise anything in her grandmother’s name for Christmas
day.

       *       *       *       *       *

Ruth Warren seated herself in front of the fire for a moment’s thought,
after this lively meeting of the Club. She was greatly puzzled by Mrs.
Danforth’s excited manner and her unexpected invitation for Christmas
afternoon; and she was deeply interested to see how a little happiness
had changed Elsa almost instantly into a light-hearted child like Betty
and Alice. She had decided not to tell Elsa, beforehand, that Bettina
March was coming to be with her Aunt Virginia, as the day of the
nurse’s arrival was uncertain, although it would probably be Christmas
day.

Her thinking was interrupted by the appearance of Sarah Judd, who came
to take away the plate, which had been entirely emptied of plum buns.

“I don’t wonder you’re all tuckered out,” said Sarah severely, finding
her young mistress sitting quietly in front of the fire; “such lively
children, chatterin’ like magpies,--cunnin’ little things, though, they
be,” she added with one of her sudden changes of tone.

Sarah brushed the crumbs from the table into the plate. Then, because
she was so interested in the subject that she could not keep silent
about it another moment, she said: “Beggin’ your pardon, Miss Ruth, but
did you notice how like Mrs. Danforth’s that little twin girl’s eyes
and forehead are,--a sight more than her own grandchild’s?”

“Sarah, you are just imagining that,” replied Ruth Warren. “You could
only have seen them together for a moment.”

“That was long enough,” said Sarah, who did not think it necessary to
explain that she had stood in the hall for several moments. “Folks
can’t very often fool me on looks.” Sarah nodded her head and set the
curls to bobbing as she repeated, “Folks can’t very often fool me on
looks. The little girl is a sight like the old lady Danforth, but the
boy is the very living image of her!”




CHAPTER VII

GRAY OWL, SANTA CLAUS

    “Sing, Christmas bells!
  Sing to all men,--the bond, the free,
  The rich, the poor, the high, the low,
  The little child that sports in glee,
  The aged folk that tottering go,--
  Proclaim the morn
      That Christ is born
  That saveth them and saveth me!”

  “Blessed are they who still dream and wonder and believe.”


CHRISTMAS! Everything told it. The feeling of it was in the air. The
snow which lay lightly and deeply upon ground and trees, the icicles
which hung in long glittering pendants, the clear, bright blue sky,
the brisk, lively, sunshiny cold,--all told of Christmas. The air was
the Christmas air, stirring the heart-beats. The sounds were Christmas
sounds,--the merry calling out of Christmas greetings, the glad ringing
of the church bells.

The Christmas Makers’ Club was all ready to enjoy Christmas day to
the utmost. Mysterious packages for the Christmas-tree had arrived
at Mrs. Danforth’s house all day Thursday and had been taken charge
of by Cummings, the maid, who seemed suddenly to have forgotten
her stiffness and to have become more like other people. The Club
had held an important business meeting at Miss Ruth Warren’s house
Thursday afternoon and had made everything ready for the visit to the
Convalescent Home on Christmas morning. The twenty-four dolls which the
Club had dressed and the twelve rag dolls of Mrs. Holt’s making--which
even Betty, who had scorned rag dolls, declared were full prettier
than the others--had been carefully placed in a large, flat basket.
The paper dolls and the tin soldiers were in boxes by themselves, and
the twelve tops which Ben had made were also ready to be given to the
Convalescent children.

Elsa Danforth had told the Club that her Uncle Ned was very anxious to
go to the Convalescent Home with them, and it had been decided that
there would be plenty of room for him, also, in Ben’s large double
sleigh, as he could sit on the front seat with Ben and little Alice,
while Miss Ruth, Betty and Elsa occupied the back seat.

Best of all, at this business meeting, the children had delivered to
their Club president, Miss Ruth, the united sum of five dollars and
sixty cents which they had earned, in the past two weeks, to give to
the managers of the Convalescent Home. There was one dollar and forty
cents from Betty White, who had earned five cents a day for emptying
waste paper baskets in her own home and for blacking her father’s
shoes--never were shoes better blacked, Mr. White declared, boastfully;
there were two dollars from Elsa, whose Uncle Ned had paid her just
as he promised he would for writing two letters each week, although
he had been in Berkeley the past week, and who had also paid her a
dollar for copying a long piece of writing for him; there were seventy
cents from little Alice, earned by washing dishes for her mother; and,
lastly, Ben, who had entered heartily in this plan for earning money,
had given a dollar and a half as his share, earned by shovelling snow
and doing errands for the neighbours. After considerable thinking, Ben
had decided to give to his mother the whole amount of the three dollars
and a half which Mr. Danforth had paid him for seven hours’ help; and
on Christmas morning Mrs. Holt had been deeply touched by the gift of
money from her devoted little son.

Betty’s dollar and forty cents, Elsa’s two dollars, Alice’s seventy
cents, and Ben’s dollar and a half, made the good round sum of five
dollars and sixty cents which the Club had earned for the Convalescent
Home; and when the boy of the Club had handed the full amount in silver
to the president, the Club members had felt well repaid for all their
work by seeing her great surprise and delight.

“Nothing which you could have done would have pleased me more than
this, children,” Miss Ruth said warmly. “I know that the money will be
a most welcome gift to the Convalescent Home and be ever so much help.”

“Will the Club have its name printed?” Betty inquired anxiously.

“Yes, I am sure the managers of the Home will want to mention the name
of the Club and the gift in their annual report,” Miss Ruth answered.

“How will it sound, please?” Alice asked.

“Something like this: ‘From the Christmas Makers’ Club of Berkeley,
$5.60; also dolls, tops, and toys.’”

“Perhaps it will interest other children to do things for the little
Convalescings,” Ben suggested.

“We are going to earn some more money for them when we have our Easter
Club,” Elsa said delightedly; “we must truly have that Easter Club!”

“Won’t it be fun to see the little children at the Convalescent Home
to-morrow morning when we give them all the things we have for them?”
Betty cried out, enthusiastically, as the Club ended its important
business meeting on Thursday afternoon, impatient for the next day to
come.

And so on this bright morning of the glad Christmas day, Ben drove
around to Washington Avenue at the appointed hour. He had washed the
sleigh and brushed Jerry until both fairly shone, and had given the old
horse some extra oats. Alice was perched up beside her brother on the
front seat, looking the picture of rosy-cheeked happiness.

First of all, Ben stopped at the Danforth house, to call for Elsa and
her uncle. Meanwhile, Betty, who had been watching for the arrival of
the sleigh, came running out from her own home, with her brown hair and
her blue capes flying, to wish the twins a “Merry Christmas!” first;
so she jumped into the back seat of the sleigh without waiting to be
called for. Mr. Danforth helped Elsa into the back seat, and then
walked the short distance to the Warren house, for Miss Ruth was the
only one now remaining to join the party.

But at Miss Ruth’s house a great disappointment awaited the Club, and
all on account of Miss Virginia Warren.

Miss Virginia’s cold was better, but her nervousness had greatly
increased. She had never in her life had a trained nurse, and much as
she wanted one to take care of her and wait upon her, she felt that
it might prove so exciting as to have a very bad effect upon her,
especially at first. It had been arranged that Bettina March should
arrive at noon on Christmas day; and Ruth Warren would be back from
the Convalescent Home an hour before that time. But Miss Virginia had
decided that she could not possibly stay alone that morning, nor have
anybody except her niece, not even Sarah Judd, stay with her.

From breakfast time on, Miss Virginia grew more and more uneasy. At
last, just before it was time for Ruth to put on her coat and be ready
to start with the Club, Miss Virginia began crying and wringing her
large white hands.

“I am sorry, Ruth, to have you give up going to the Convalescent Home
with the children,” Aunt Virginia said, tearfully, “but I don’t feel
well enough to have you leave me. You know we are all supposed to be
happier by making Christmas happier for somebody else, so I am sure
you will be glad to stay with me.” Miss Virginia looked up at her niece
with a very helpless and resigned expression. Her tears had ceased, but
she kept on wringing her hands in a limp way.

Ruth Warren was keenly disappointed. She knew that her aunt could
stay alone for an hour perfectly well; but she could not go with any
pleasure now, after her aunt had asked her to stay at home.

       *       *       *       *       *

When the merry sleighful stopped in front of the house, Ruth Warren
herself answered the ring at the front door in order not to delay the
party. Mr. Danforth had told Ben that he would call for Miss Warren and
bring out the basket and boxes, so that Ben might stay in the sleigh
and hold Jerry, who, Ben said, might feel extra lively on Christmas
morning and run away with his precious load!

Accordingly, when Ruth Warren opened the door, there stood before her
Elsa’s tall, broad-shouldered uncle with clear gray eyes, steady in an
open, moustached face, who looked squarely at her while he said with
almost a boy’s earnestness: “Merry Christmas, Miss Warren! Your Club
is at the door. Are you and the Christmas presents ready to start for
the Convalescents’ Home?”

“Here are the basket and boxes, Mr. Danforth,” she said, for she had
them close by the door. Leaving him to bring them, she threw her red
cape over her shoulders and ran down the steps to the curb-stone to
tell the Club that she could not go with them on account of her Aunt
Virginia.

A prolonged wail of grief went up from the Club.

“We can’t go without you!” cried Elsa, her violet-gray eyes filling
with tears.

“Please, _please_ come,” entreated Betty, jumping out of the sleigh. “I
will go and ask your aunt to let you.”

“But it is I who decide it, not my aunt,” Ruth Warren said. “You will
have Mr. Danforth with you, and the head-nurse expects you, and you are
only to stay a short time. You will get along just as well without me.”

“But we want you!” wailed the Club. “It won’t be any fun without you;”
and they would not be consoled.

“Please do come, Black Lace Lady!” urged Ben in his most persuasive
tone, while Alice, leaning far over the edge of the sleigh at the great
risk of falling out, echoed “Please” most pleadingly.

[Illustration: “‘BUT WE WANT YOU!’ WAILED THE CLUB.”]

It was hard indeed to resist their urgent begging, but Miss Ruth said
steadily: “It will soon be over, and after all, children, your having
thought of the presents for the Convalescent children means far more
than the giving of the presents.”

Still the Club refused consolation. “We just won’t go without you,”
said Betty passionately, kicking the snow with the toe of her rubber.
“I will not get back into the sleigh.”

By this time Mr. Danforth, who realized what was going on, had the
basket and boxes packed under the sleigh seats.

“But I want you to go, children,” Ruth Warren was urging.

“The Club must do as its president wishes,” Mr. Danforth said quickly,
now that everything was ready. “All clubs do that,--or at least they
ought to. You must honour your president by carrying out her wishes.”
With this, he settled the question by lifting Betty into the back seat
of the sleigh, jumping in after her, and saying to Ben: “Start along,
sir, or we shall be late to our appointment. Do you think Jerry can
take us out there in fifteen minutes?”

This settled it. Ben said, “G’long, Jerry!” The well-brushed horse
started off briskly, the reluctant children looking backward as long as
they could to see Miss Ruth standing there on the curb-stone.

The thoughts which those disappointed children had, even on Christmas
morning, about Miss Virginia were not very pleasant thoughts. How
much of Miss Virginia’s feelings on that same morning were due to
nervousness, and how much to a desire not to have her beloved niece
drive out again in that old, country-like pung no one yet knows. It is
true, however, that Miss Virginia said when Ruth came back up-stairs:
“I am wholly surprised that such a distinguished-looking gentleman as
Mr. Danforth could be willing to go off in that sleigh and with that
crowd of children.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Elsa’s Uncle Ned tried his best to cheer the spirits of the Club.
He told funny stories, he praised Ben’s horse, he gave them
mysterious hints of what would take place at the Christmas-tree that
afternoon--although he did not actually tell them a thing--and
finally, by the time they were opposite the Holt’s sunny,
flowery-windowed house, he had succeeded somewhat in making the
children forget their disappointment.

Then it was that Mr. Danforth himself grew suddenly grave and
thoughtful as he asked Ben to stop for a moment while he delivered a
message from Mrs. Danforth to Mrs. Holt.

This did not seem anything very important, and the children waited more
patiently than the horse did, in front of his home.

But the message must have been one which affected Mrs. Holt greatly;
for when Ben and Alice looked, as they always did when they drove away,
to see their mother wave to them from the window, she was not there.
Could they have seen her at that moment, they would have been amazed
to see her leaning against the mantel with her hands over her face,
weeping softly at the message which Mr. Danforth had brought.

They would have been still more amazed could they have been at the
front door of their own home a few moments later, when Mrs. Danforth’s
coupé, drawn by the spirited gray horse, drove up to that door and Mrs.
Danforth herself dismounted.

Most amazed of all would they have been when their mother opened the
door, to hear her exclaim, “Mother!” and throw her arms around Mrs.
Danforth, and to hear the tall, white-faced woman crying, “My daughter,
my daughter!” as the fair-haired younger woman led her into the house
and shut the door.

       *       *       *       *       *

The rest of the short distance to the Convalescent Home was spent
chiefly in talking about Miss Ruth and the Club’s plans for the future.
“Are we going to have a meeting next week?” Elsa inquired of Betty, who
knew Miss Ruth best.

“I don’t know, I’m sure,” was Betty’s discouraging answer. “Mother said
Miss Ruth told her she was going away after New Year’s for a visit,
somewhere.”

Fresh gloom settled over the Club at this. Mr. Danforth was in despair
with having such unhappy children upon his hands. But Ben came to his
rescue, for a gray squirrel whisking along the stone wall suggested
something to Ben’s mind. Turning around, he told Mr. Danforth about
carrying the squirrel to the Club meeting one day. “It didn’t frighten
Miss Ruth a bit,” Ben ended earnestly; “she’s got grit, the way I like
to have a girl.”

From talking about the squirrel Ben went on to tell Mr. Danforth of
the screech-owl family which had lived in the hollow tree near there
last spring. “I think maybe they will come back here again,” he said
hopefully, “and maybe we can see them from the hut.”

“What hut?” asked Mr. Danforth very innocent-like, although he and Ben
had been to the hut together more than once now.

Ben gave a chuckle which he turned into a “G’long, Jerry!” and Elsa
cried, “Why, Uncle Ned, you know all about the hut! I have told you.”

A moment later they passed the hospitable sign:

  CONVALESCENT HOME
  OF THE CHILDREN’S HOSPITAL
  VISITORS ALWAYS WELCOME

and the sleigh-bells jingled merrily up the avenue to the wide-winged
red brick building.

       *       *       *       *       *

The kind face of the head-nurse fairly shone with happiness when she
saw the basketful of dolls and all the boxes. “I have just told the
children that you were coming,” she said, “and one little boy is sure
he heard the reindeers driving to the house. I think he is looking
for you to come down the chimney,--though you could never get so many
things as these down even our big chimney, at once! After you have
given them the presents, they are going to sing for you the carol they
have learned for their Christmas-tree, on Holy Innocents’ Day. We will
go right out to the playroom, so as not to keep you or them waiting a
moment.”

The children visitors all knew the way to the playroom now. Ben and
Alice went first, with the big basket of dolls between them, followed
by the head-nurse and Betty, Elsa and her uncle, each carrying a box,
Mr. Danforth’s the largest of all, for Ben had brought out from under
the front seat of the sleigh, a square box which the other members of
the Club had not seen before.

The sunny playroom was decked with Christmas greens, and the little
convalescents had a holiday air, for each girl wore a bright red
ribbon on her hair and each boy either a bright red necktie or a bit
of red ribbon in his buttonhole. There were, just as before, many,
many bandaged limbs and bodies, and many children on crutches or lying
in go-carts; there were the same happy patient expressions on the
children’s faces, only to-day, their faces were lighted up with the
excitement of Christmas and with eager interest in the presents they
were to receive.

The nurses, the Club, and Mr. Danforth, all helped quickly to
distribute the gifts, and it was not long before every little girl in
the room was hugging a new doll and every little boy was admiring a new
top, or a tin soldier large enough to stand alone; and then there was
another present for each one of the children; for out of Mr. Danforth’s
box came dozens of gray squirrel-shaped boxes filled with simple
candy,--until the great playroom looked as if a forestful of tiny, tame
gray squirrels had been let loose there.

It was a wholly new experience to Mr. Ned Danforth to see all these
little patient, crippled human beings. Like many busy men in the world,
he had been in the habit of signing his name to a check and sending it
to this or that hospital or charitable institution which he was asked
to help. But this was the first time in his life that he had ever
stepped inside such a place as the Convalescent Home; and at first it
seemed to him that he could not bear the sight, that almost forty years
old as he was, he would have to run away like a schoolboy, because the
sight of those convalescent children made him feel so sad. But he could
not run away; he was there in charge of the Christmas Makers’ Club.
So all he could do to relieve his feelings was to put his hand into
his pocket where he always kept a great many five-cent and ten-cent
pieces,--being a generous-natured man,--and begin giving these pieces
of money to the children.

So he started to walk very fast through the playroom, dropping into the
hands or the laps of the children five-cent pieces, ten-cent pieces,
pennies, silver quarter-dollars, even half-dollars, here and there,
right and left, as long as they lasted. And the nurses, in great
fear lest the little children put the money into their mouths and
swallow it, followed closely after him, taking the money away from the
surprised children, who were so used to being obedient that they gave
it up without any fuss, and kind-hearted Uncle Ned did not know what
was happening behind him.

Ben and Alice, Betty and Elsa were all too much occupied to notice,
either. Ben was surrounded by a group of his own particular little
friends, the boys whom he took out driving; Alice and Betty were
coaxing shy little girls to talk about their new dolls, and Elsa had
found out the black-eyed child in whose arms she had seen her own old
china doll, Bettina, on her first visit here.

The child’s frame was strapped to a board, just as Elsa had seen
it before; but she called out cheerily: “I am all better! See my
new dolly!” On the floor by her side lay the old doll, so battered
and changed that only one who had loved her as Elsa had would have
recognized her.

Elsa picked up the old doll tenderly, saying to herself: “I will hold
her till the little girl remembers and wants her.” “What is your new
doll’s name?” she asked the child.

“’Tina.”

“What is the old doll’s name?” Elsa held the battered doll out in plain
sight.

“’Tina,” said the little girl, reaching out for the old doll and
blissfully clasping the old and the new together in her arms.

“And what is your own name, dear?” asked Elsa, for the dark-eyed child
interested her greatly.

“Iona,” the soft voice answered very distinctly.

“Come, come, Elsa! It is time to start,” her Uncle Ned said, hurrying
up to her and trying to be very gruff. His face was quite red under its
tanned colour, and he was biting the ends of his moustache savagely.

But just then, at a signal from the head-nurse, the children began to
sing their Christmas carol:

  “Once in royal David’s city
  Stood a lowly cattle shed,
  Where a mother laid her baby,
  In a manger for his bed;
  Mary was that mother mild,
  Jesus Christ her little child.

  “For he is our childhood’s pattern;
  Day by day like us he grew;
  He was little, weak, and helpless,
  Tears and smiles like us he knew;
  And he feeleth for our sadness,
  And he shareth in our gladness.

  “And our eyes at last shall see him,
  Through his own redeeming love;
  For that child so dear and gentle
  Is our Lord in heaven above,
  And he leads his children on
  To the place where he is gone.”

Then, because they were such frail little children that they could not
learn much or readily, they sang as the other part of their Christmas
service, their daily grace:

  “Thank Him, thank Him,
    All ye little children,
  Thank Him, thank Him,
    God is love.”

The plaintive child faces, some of them white as snow-drops, the
delicate, sweet voices singing the Christmas hymn and the simple grace,
proved too much for Uncle Ned’s tender heart. “We must go, we must
go this minute!” he exclaimed hurriedly calling the Club together and
fairly driving them out of the room, before him.

Elsa looked back long enough to say good-bye to the dark-eyed child
of her fancy, and the little one called cheerily: “Dood-bye. I am all
better! Tum aden.”

The head-nurse followed the retreating man and the hurrying children
along the passageway toward the front door with a very understanding
look on her face.

“Have we stayed too long?” Elsa inquired anxiously, stopping behind the
others and lifting her serious eyes to Miss Hartwell’s face.

“No, dear; there are still a few moments left of the time I had set for
your little Club to stay.”

Elsa did not tell this to the other children or to her uncle. Already,
however, she had learned what her uncle did not yet know, but what he
learned later: that while the first visit to the Convalescent Home
is saddening, each time after that the place grows more and more
interesting and less sad to visit.

At the door Mr. Ned Danforth turned and shook hands briskly with the
head-nurse.

“Splendid place here!” he said, again very gruffly. “Noble work
you are doing! Thank you for your kindness to us.” Then he thrust a
large-sized bill into her hand, saying in a desperate sort of way, “Use
it to do something more for those children!”

And Ben suddenly remembered the small white box containing five dollars
and sixty cents which he had in his pocket. He pulled it forth and
handed it to Miss Hartwell with a profound bow: “It is some money that
the Christmas Makers’ Club--that’s us--have earned all ourselves to
help the little Convalescings.”

“Thank you, thank you, all of you,” said Miss Hartwell, looking from
one to another of the bright-faced children. “I am sure you cannot
realize how much help you have given to the children here and to the
Home.”

Too delighted for words, the Club members smiled back at Miss Hartwell.

She hesitated about speaking of Miss Ruth Warren, for Mr. Danforth
had told her, when they first came, of the Club’s tearful tendencies.
It was not until the children were going through the doorway that she
said: “You are as heartily sorry as I am, I know, because Miss Warren
could not come with you; but we shall look forward to other visits
from your Club when the longer days of spring are here.”

The faces of the children showed their mingled grief and anticipation
expressively; they were speechless, however, on the subject of Miss
Ruth.

“May I take some of the little chaps out sleigh-riding to-morrow
morning?” asked Ben, a heartful of sympathy shining in his boyish face.

“Yes, Ben; and you don’t know how those little lads look forward to
their drives with you. We shall have to call you the Charioteer of the
Convalescent Home,” said Miss Hartwell.

Then, as the door closed behind them, Mr. Danforth speedily bundled the
Club into the sleigh for the homeward drive.

When they turned into Berkeley Avenue, Elsa thought she caught a sight,
far ahead, of her grandmother’s gray horse; but she decided it could
not have been, because her grandmother almost never went driving in the
morning, and she surely would not be away from home when there was so
much to see about in regard to the Christmas-tree. Even Elsa herself
did not know what all the surprises were to be, although she knew that
many wonderful things were going to happen that Christmas afternoon.

That afternoon, the surprises came so fast and so astonishingly that
the heads of the Christmas Makers’ Club and of all concerned fairly
whirled with excitement.

To begin with, Ben and Alice thought it strange indeed that Mrs.
Danforth’s gray horse and handsome double-seated sleigh were sent to
take their mother and them to the Christmas party.

“Why couldn’t we go with Jerry just as well?” Ben asked loyally. “I
could cover him all up with his blanket and hitch him in front of
Elsa’s grandmother’s house.”

But Mrs. Holt only smiled for answer. The children had found their
mother very bright-eyed, on their return, and she had been more than
usually tender with them, but had told them nothing as yet.

“Do you think Elsa’s grandmother will let us drive home, or will we
have to walk?” Alice asked gravely.

“I think she will have us drive home,” said Mrs. Holt, turning aside
to hide the happy tears that would spring into her eyes. She had
dressed Alice in her prettiest white dress,--a soft muslin with dainty
lace-trimmed ruffles,--and Ben wore for the first time a new dark blue
blouse suit; for Mrs. Holt was anxious to have her children look their
best that afternoon.

“Mrs. Danforth would like to see you all in the library, ma’am,” said
Cummings, who opened the door. The twins wondered very much why their
mother’s hands trembled so. It could not be because she was afraid of
that straight-backed maid-servant who took their wraps and who smiled
at them quite pleasantly. Elsa was nowhere to be seen, which surprised
them.

In the centre of the library stood Mrs. Danforth, not quite so erect as
usual, and with one hand on a chair, to support herself. She bowed her
head and her figure swayed slightly when Mrs. Holt entered the room,
with Ben just ahead of her on the right and Alice on the left.

“Mother,--here are my children, Alice and Ben,” Mrs. Holt said in
a low voice which sounded as if there were tears behind it, “and,
children dear,”--she pressed them gently forward,--“this is your own
grandmother.”

Mrs. Danforth knelt down suddenly and put her arms around both of the
mystified children, looking first into one and then the other of the
amazed, blue-eyed faces. She tried to speak, but something choked her.

“Let me tell them, mother,” said Mrs. Holt, helping her to rise and
leading her to a chair. “I have always promised them I would tell them,
some day, about their grandmother.” Kneeling down, herself, now, by
the side of the chair, and drawing the children into her embrace, Mrs.
Holt said in the same tear-sounding voice and very slowly: “Listen,
children: when I was hardly more than a grown-up girl, I ran away from
my home and married your father against my mother’s wishes, for he
was a poor man, and he, too, was hardly old enough to be married. And
because I was a disobedient daughter, my mother punished me by not
wanting to see me for a long, long time. That time is ended now and--”
Mrs. Holt hid her face and her tears against her own little daughter’s
shoulder.

Then Mrs. Danforth found her voice and said: “Dear children, your
grandmother has been a sorry, sad woman all these years that she tried
to punish her daughter, but she is happy--very happy now--to have her
daughter back again and her own grandchildren.”

“Are you our grandmother?” Alice asked shyly, staring with wide-open
blue eyes at the gray-haired lady who said such interesting things and
seemed so sorry.

“Yes, darling,” was the grandmotherly answer. “And you look just as
your mother looked when she was a little girl.”

“You are really and truly my grandmother?” asked Ben in a delighted
tone, although he could not stop thinking how surprising it was that
his mother had ever been a little girl, and had been punished.

“Yes. Are you going to love me?” Mrs. Danforth was astonished at
herself for asking.

For particular answer, Ben threw his arms around her neck. “It’s going
to be real easy for me to love you,” he said happily. Then he drew back
and looked at her, seriously, before he announced: “I think I shall
call you Grandmother Gray.”

“That is a very good name, my boy,” she said, smiling through the
joyful tears that had sprung into her eyes at the feeling of his loving
young arms around her neck; and her glasses fell off her nose like any
grandmother’s.

“Is Elsa our cousin now?” asked Ben, who was always of an inquiring
turn of mind.

“No, my dear,” replied his grandmother, brushing back his hair with
her richly jewelled hand; “and I will tell you why. After your own
grandfather died and after your mother went away, I married a widower,
Judge Danforth, who had two sons. One of those sons was Elsa’s father
and the other is her Uncle Ned, whom you know. After Judge Danforth
died, and Elsa’s father also, I moved to Berkeley, because I knew that
your mother was here, and I could not live any longer without seeing
her and my grandchildren. Elsa is no real relation to me at all.”

Alice, who was holding her mother’s hand closely in hers while all
these wonderful things were going on, looked wholly puzzled; but Ben
thrust his hands into the pockets of his new trousers,--jingled the
two silver quarters he had earned by helping Mr. Danforth an hour that
morning, after the drive,--and said thoughtfully: “Then Elsa hasn’t you
for a real grandmother. Does she know it?”

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Danforth; “I told her after she came from the
Convalescent Home this morning.”

“I am all the gladder she is going to have Susie!” cried Alice; then
she quickly clapped her rounded hand over her mouth.

But Ben had more questions to ask, so he did not notice that Alice had
told. “Are you very rich, Grandmother Gray?”

“Yes,” she answered, rather surprised that the boy should ask this.

“Will you give Peggy--I mean Alice--some pretty dresses, same as Elsa
and Betty have?”

“Yes, my boy, Alice shall have everything she wants and so shall you.”

Alice put her chubby hands together softly, in almost unbelieving joy,
and Ben said radiantly: “What I want most of all is that mother of mine
need not work hard any more.”

A look of great sorrow passed over Mrs. Danforth’s face, and Mrs. Holt
whispered to Ben: “Hush, my darling.”

The front door-bell ringing, told of the arrival of other guests. “We
must call Elsa in for a moment,” said Mrs. Danforth, rising. Her eyes
were soft now, with that look of tears in them. Stepping to the library
door, she said gently, “Elsa!” And Elsa, who had been waiting in the
reception-room across the hall, came into the library just as Ruth
Warren and Betty and a quiet little woman--whom Cummings instantly
recognized--entered the hall door and were asked by Cummings to go
up-stairs and leave their wraps.

Elsa was dressed in a dainty white silk gown with a full, many-ruffled
skirt. She looked very pale as she stepped into the library and stood,
a lone, sensitive-faced child, opposite the happy group of grandmother,
mother, and two children.

It was Elsa, strangely enough, who spoke first. Turning to Alice, she
said slowly: “You--you and Ben have a grandmother now and I haven’t
any. Shall I have to go away,” she asked, lifting her pathetic eyes to
Mrs. Danforth’s face, “and be a poor little girl?” She had just begun
to think of this question.

“You need never go away unless you wish to, Elsa,” Mrs. Danforth said
quickly. “And you will not be a poor little girl, for, as your Uncle
Ned and I have agreed that I should tell you to-day, you are a very
rich little girl, with a great deal of money that is all your own.”

“O, how glad I am!” cried Elsa, some of the sorrowful look dying out
of her eyes; “for now I can do everything I want to, to help the
Convalescent children.”

There was something so touching and so winning in the little orphan
girl, standing there with her face full of unselfish joy at the thought
of what she could do for others less fortunate than herself, that Mrs.
Danforth suddenly humbled herself before this little child.

“Elsa,” she said, stepping forward, “I have not been as kind and loving
to you as I might have been. But the love which springs up in my heart
for my own grandchildren makes me realize how much I also love the
little girl who has brightened my home and been so brave and obedient.”
She held out her arms. Elsa came forward gladly, and Mrs. Danforth
kissed her with warm affection,--apparently quite forgetting that she
had ever thought this a foolish custom. And Elsa felt that she loved
her grandmother-that-was a great deal more dearly now that she wasn’t
really her grandmother. Then Alice put her soft arms around Elsa’s
neck, and Mrs. Holt said kindly: “I shall have to call you my little
niece, Elsa.”

Ben spoke up then: “Do you remember I’ve never told you my name for
you, Elsa? I’ve changed it now. It used to be Sad Girl, that’s why I
didn’t tell you before; but now it’s going to be ‘Princess.’” Dropping
a shy kiss on Elsa’s golden hair, Ben ran off in answer to a muffled
summons.

At that same moment Cummings pulled back the heavy green velvet
portières which separated the library from the drawing-room, and the
glory of the Christmas-tree burst upon the children’s sight.

The tree, reaching nearly to the ceiling, stood at the farther end
of the long drawing-room, its graceful branches fairly drooping with
treasures. There were packages of every shape and description; there
were long icicles, moving, swaying balls of silver and gold, scarlet
and blue, glowing and sparkling in the mellow radiance of many wax
candles; and there was a beautiful white Christmas angel at the very
top of the tree. A warm, spicy odour of balsam fir filled the air, and
a splendid, roaring fire in the great fireplace cast a ruddy light over
the beautiful furnishings of the drawing-room.

Elsa, puzzled and excited by the events of the day, ran forward to
greet Miss Ruth with a feeling as of seeking shelter. “Do you know that
grandmother isn’t my grandmother really, but is Alice’s and Ben’s?” she
said in a low tone, slipping her hand into Miss Ruth’s.

Ruth Warren, who had on the black lace gown with the little old lady’s
coral beads around her neck, gazed in surprise at Elsa for a half
moment. Then it was all so simple that she wondered why she had not
thought of Mrs. Danforth’s possibly having been twice married. “We
know now why both your grandmother--I mean Mrs. Danforth--and Mrs. Holt
have the paintings alike,” said Miss Ruth.

“Yes, I remember--the picture of the house where grandmother used to
live,” cried Elsa.

But one could not stop very long to think about any one thing, with
that Christmas-tree in the room.

“I wish my Uncle Ned could be here,” Elsa exclaimed, as she swung
around into sight of the tree. “He had to go to the city this noon.
Perhaps he will come back before the tree is over. He said he would if
he could.”

While Betty and Alice were gazing delightedly at the gorgeous tree,
Miss Ruth asked Elsa, in a low voice, to go across the hall into the
reception-room to find a Christmas surprise which was waiting for her
there. And soon Elsa came back with shining, happy eyes, leading by the
hand a short, comely-faced woman whose brown hair was slightly streaked
with gray. “This is Bettina March, my dear, dear Bettina,” said Elsa,
introducing the shy, modest little woman to the group of her friends;
but Bettina, although she greeted them all in a musical voice, with
a slight German accent, had eyes only for her beloved former charge,
Elsa.

“Where is Ben?” asked Ruth Warren, in part to turn attention from the
shrinking stranger, who was half-laughing, half-crying with joy, and
in part because she was wondering who would take the presents from the
tree.

Then an amazing thing happened. With a long hoo-oo-t! a great gray owl
hopped, sidling fashion, from the library doorway into the full sight
of the astonished Christmas party, flapping his wings awkwardly as he
made his way across the room to the Christmas-tree. And close behind
him scampered a very large gray squirrel.

A shout went up from the children.

“Gray Owl Santa Claus!” cried Betty, whirling round and round till she
looked like a red balloon in her holly-red dress.

Alice, half-frightened, drew away from the Gray Owl toward the
Squirrel. “Ben is the Squirrel,” she exclaimed, for nothing could
deceive her with regard to her twin brother.

“Keep a good heart!” the Gray Owl called out in a quick, muffled voice,
close to Elsa’s ear.

“O, Uncle Ned, Uncle Ned!” she cried delightedly. “You came back to be
a Gray Owl Santa Claus! What a dear, funny uncle you are.”

Then the Gray Owl, with sudden, awkward movements, began taking the
presents off from the tree and handing them to the Gray Squirrel, who
clasped his paws around them and carried them to the persons whose
names the Owl had called in a deep, muffled voice.

And then it was that the Club had a chance to see the marvellous
costumes of the queer Santa Claus and his helper. The Gray Owl’s
body-covering was of soft gray wool material which lay in ridges
like downy feathers; the wings, which were held to his arms by long
sleeves of gray gauze, were made of closely placed long gray feathers
and quills, and his head was covered by a gray owl mask, with tufted
ears and yellow eyes having thin black slits. The squirrel had on
a most cleverly made coat of soft gray wool shaded to purest white
on the breast; a bristly, broom-like tail dragged behind him, and a
pointed-nosed mask with sharp little ears, was drawn close over his
head.

By this time every one had received many presents, and a great opening
of packages had begun. The Club members had thought of most interesting
remembrances for one another. Elsa and Betty had together given Alice
a beautiful doll that could talk, a blue-eyed waxen beauty with
fringed eyelashes that opened and shut, rose-leaf cheeks and silky
flaxen curls; and the two girls had given to Ben a locomotive with an
electric battery,--a bewitching package which he stopped long enough
to open with his deft gray squirrel paws, and to cry out about, in his
unsquirrel-like voice: “Oh, my, how jolly!” Alice and Ben had together
given to Betty and to Elsa each a beautiful white hyacinth. Elsa had
from Betty a trunkful of dresses for her best doll, and Betty from Elsa
a dainty silver watch. From Miss Ruth, Ben had a box of tools, and each
of the girls a gold thimble.

Still the Gray Owl kept on taking presents from the tree, the Squirrel
jumped around with packages, and the fun went on. Nobody was forgotten.
There were presents for Bettina, who ran away soon to Miss Virginia,
after a last loving look at Elsa; there were presents for Miss Ruth and
Mrs. Holt, for Mrs. Danforth and for Mrs. White, who came in somewhat
late to have a look at her neighbour’s Christmas-tree. There were
presents for Mr. Danforth, who tucked them away in some mysterious
make-believe Gray Owl tree-hollow; for Cummings, and for Sarah Judd,
who came by special invitation of the Club, and who smiled until her
face seemed in danger of cracking apart, as she received first a bright
scarlet geranium from Ben and Alice, then a pretty white apron from
Betty, and a handsomely illustrated book from Elsa.

When the Squirrel, taking a square package, ran with little leaping
steps to Mrs. Danforth and began making a speech, everybody stopped
talking to listen.

“Grandmother Gray,” he said, “when you invited the Club to have a
Christmas-tree at your house, I had an idea that you must be very rich,
and I thought you must need a good safe place to keep your money in, so
I made this for you.”

Mrs. Danforth, with trembling fingers, like any surprised grandmother,
unwrapped the package to find a box, neatly jointed together, with the
lower part just large enough to put bills in laid out flat, and the
upper part divided into five places,--one, each, for pennies, five-cent
pieces, ten-cent pieces, quarters and half-dollars, as Ben, looking on,
explained. The box was stained a rich, dark red colour, and had a tiny
padlock and key.

“Nonsense!” said the grandmother in greatest delight. “Did you make
this, Ben?”

“Yes, grandmother; I used to think I would be a carpenter,” replied
Ben, as she took his two gray kid-gloved little hands into hers for a
moment. “I think now, though, that I shall be a bird-man.”

Then, just like any fond, indulgent grandmother, Mrs. Danforth smiled
and said: “You shall be whatever you want to be, my boy.” And Mrs. Holt
looked with motherly pride upon her bright-eyed, happy-faced son.

While the box was being passed around and admired and the Squirrel was
explaining it, the Gray Owl hopped in his funny sidelong fashion, with
awkward, flopping wings, to Alice--who was not afraid of him now--and
asked her to give to Elsa a long white box marked: “From the Christmas
Makers’ Club.”

“Susie! Susie! You dear old doll,” Elsa cried, drawing a long,
sobbing breath of delight. They all turned at her exclamation and saw
her clasping to her breast an old-fashioned china doll in a white
ball dress looped up with morsels of pink rosebuds over a blue silk
petticoat.

But there was no time even to explain to Elsa why the Club had given
her the old-fashioned doll, for another exciting event claimed their
attention immediately. The Gray Owl and the Squirrel together took a
heavy, flat package to Miss Ruth, who had already received so many
remembrances that she was far from having thoughts of anything more.
The Club watched breathlessly. This was the present which Mrs. White
had helped them choose.

From under many white-paper wrappings appeared at last a beautiful Fra
Angelico trumpeter angel, soft, rich, scarlet-and-gold in colouring, in
a handsome gilt frame. With the picture came a card, on which Betty had
written with great carefulness: “An angel to blow you a greeting from
your affectionate Christmas Makers’ Club.” And to this card all the
members of the Club had signed their names.

Hardly had Miss Ruth had time to thank the Club, when the Gray Owl
handed to Elsa a long, white business-like looking envelope addressed
to “Miss Ruth Warren, President of the Christmas Makers’ Club.” The
excitement of Elsa’s manner made the others look on again with keenest
interest.

What was their delight and rapture to have Miss Ruth read a legal
paper, presenting to the Club, from Elsa Danforth, the gift, for the
exclusive use of the Club, of a log-hut on a certain piece of wood
property on Berkeley Avenue.

“The hut! The hut! All our own!” cried Betty, whirling around again
like a lively red balloon. And then they all began talking at once and
very fast about furnishing the hut, of keeping some dolls and dishes
there, even of having a fireplace built so they could use the hut for
meetings in cold weather!

Elsa, whose thought this gift of the hut had been--although her Uncle
Ned had carried it out, with Ben’s help--stood enjoying to the full the
happiness of the Club, when suddenly, with a long, low hoo-oo-t! the
Gray Owl, flapping his wings, landed in front of her. Bowing low, he
said: “Princess, the Gray Owl begs that you will allow him to live with
you here, in Berkeley, from this time forth.”

“Uncle Ned! Do you really mean it?” she begged, lifting her flower-like
face and beseeching gray eyes to his.

“Yes, the Gray Owl really means it. He will not be a cross Gray Owl,
though, so keep a good heart, Princess,” he answered, making believe
he thought she did not want him to live with her, for he had seen
tears start under her long eyelashes. Then, because he knew that many
exciting things had happened to his little niece that day, he drew her
toward him and held her under the shelter of his soft gray wings.

Of all the surprises that Christmas had brought to Elsa, this last one
was the best. It was far more than the knowledge that she had a great
deal of money even though she was happy in the thought that she could
help the convalescent children with that money; it was more than the
great satisfaction of having Bettina March come back into her life,
more than the gift of the little old lady’s doll and all the many
other Christmas presents put together:--more than all these; for she
loved her Uncle Ned better than she loved anybody else in the whole
wide world. And she drew back within the shelter of the wide wings in
supreme content.


THE END.




BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE


THE LITTLE COLONEL BOOKS

(Trade Mark)

_By ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON_

Each, 1 vol. large, 12mo, cloth decorative, per vol. $1.50


The Little Colonel Stories.

    (Trade Mark)

Illustrated.

Being three “Little Colonel” stories in the Cosy Corner Series, “The
Little Colonel,” “Two Little Knights of Kentucky,” and “The Giant
Scissors,” put into a single volume.


The Little Colonel’s House Party.

    (Trade Mark)

Illustrated by Louis Meynell.


The Little Colonel’s Holidays.

    (Trade Mark)

Illustrated by L. J. Bridgman.


The Little Colonel’s Hero.

    (Trade Mark)

Illustrated by E. B. Barry.


The Little Colonel at Boarding School.

    (Trade Mark)

Illustrated by E. B. Barry.


The Little Colonel in Arizona.

    (Trade Mark)

Illustrated by E. B. Barry.


The Little Colonel’s Christmas Vacation.

    (Trade Mark)

Illustrated by E. B. Barry.


The Little Colonel, Maid of Honour.

    (Trade Mark)

Illustrated by E. B. Barry.

Since the time of “Little Women,” no juvenile heroine has been better
beloved of her child readers than Mrs. Johnston’s “Little Colonel.”


The Little Colonel.

    (Trade Mark)


Two Little Knights of Kentucky.


The Giant Scissors.


Big Brother.

Special Holiday Editions

Each one volume, cloth decorative, small quarto, $1.25.

New plates, handsomely illustrated, with eight full-page drawings in
color.

“The books are as satisfactory to the small girls, who find them
adorable, as for the mothers and librarians, who delight in their
influence.”--_Christian Register._

  These four volumes, boxed as a four-volume set      $5.00


    =In the Desert of Waiting=: THE LEGEND OF CAMELBACK MOUNTAIN.


    =The Three Weavers=: A FAIRY TALE FOR FATHERS AND MOTHERS AS
    WELL AS FOR THEIR DAUGHTERS.


Keeping Tryst.


The Legend of the Bleeding Heart.

  Each one volume, tall 16mo, cloth decorative      $0.50
  Paper boards                                        .35

There has been a constant demand for publication in separate form of
these four stories, which were originally included in four of the
“Little Colonel” books.


    =Joel: A Boy of Galilee.= By ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON.
    Illustrated by L. J. Bridgman.

    New illustrated edition, uniform with the Little Colonel Books,
    1 vol., large 12mo, cloth decorative $1.50


A story of the time of Christ, which is one of the author’s best-known
books.


    =Asa Holmes=; OR, AT THE CROSS-ROADS. A sketch of Country
    Life and Country Humor. By ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON. With a
    frontispiece by Ernest Fosbery.

    Large 16mo, cloth, gilt top $1.00

“‘Asa Holmes; or, At the Cross-Roads’ is the most delightful, most
sympathetic and wholesome book that has been published in a long
while.”--_Boston Times._


    =The Rival Campers=; OR, THE ADVENTURES OF HENRY BURNS. By RUEL
    PERLEY SMITH.

    Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated $1.50

Here is a book which will grip and enthuse every boy reader. It is
the story of a party of typical American lads, courageous, alert, and
athletic, who spend a summer camping on an island off the Maine coast.

“The best boys’ book since ‘Tom Sawyer.’”--_San Francisco Examiner._


    =The Rival Campers Afloat=; OR, THE PRIZE YACHT VIKING. By RUEL
    PERLEY SMITH.

    Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated $1.50

This book is a continuation of the adventures of “The Rival Campers” on
their prize yacht _Viking_. An accidental collision results in a series
of exciting adventures, culminating in a mysterious chase, the loss
of their prize yacht, and its recapture by means of their old yacht,
_Surprise_.


    =The Rival Campers Ashore.= By RUEL PERLEY SMITH, author of
    “The Rival Campers,” “The Rival Campers Afloat,” etc.

    Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated $1.50

“The Rival Campers Ashore” deals with the adventures of the campers and
their friends in and around the town of Benton. Mr. Smith introduces
a new character,--a girl,--who shows them the way to an old mill,
around which the mystery of the story revolves. The girl is an
admirable acquisition, proving as daring and resourceful as the campers
themselves.


    =The Young Section-Hand=; OR, THE ADVENTURES OF ALLAN WEST. By
    BURTON E. STEVENSON, author of “The Marathon Mystery,” etc.
    Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated by L. J. Bridgman
    $1.50

Mr. Stevenson’s hero is a manly lad of sixteen, who is given a chance
as a section-hand on a big Western railroad, and whose experiences are
as real as they are thrilling.


    =The Young Train Dispatcher.= By BURTON E. STEVENSON, author of
    “The Young Section-hand,” etc.

    Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated $1.50

The young hero has many chances to prove his manliness and courage in
the exciting adventures which befall him in the discharge of his duty.


    =Captain Jack Lorimer.= By WINN STANDISH.

    Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated by A. B. Shute $1.50

Jack is a fine example of the all-around American high-school boy.
He has the sturdy qualities boys admire, and his fondness for clean,
honest sport of all kinds will strike a chord of sympathy among
athletic youths.


    =Jack Lorimer’s Champions=; or, Sports on Land and Lake. By
    WINN STANDISH, author of “Captain Jack Lorimer,” etc.

    Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated $1.50

All boys and girls who take an interest in school athletics will wish
to read of the exploits of the Millvale High School students, under the
leadership of Captain Jack Lorimer.

Captain Jack’s Champions play quite as good ball as do some of the
teams on the large leagues, and they put all opponents to good hard
work in other summer sports.

Jack Lorimer and his friends stand out as the finest examples of
all-round American high school boys and girls.


    =Beautiful Joe’s Paradise=; OR, THE ISLAND OF BROTHERLY LOVE.
    A sequel to “Beautiful Joe.” By MARSHALL SAUNDERS, author of
    “Beautiful Joe.”

    One vol., library 12mo, cloth, illustrated $1.50

“This book revives the spirit of ‘Beautiful Joe’ capitally. It is
fairly riotous with fun, and as a whole is about as unusual as anything
in the animal book line that has seen the light. It is a book for
juveniles--old and young.”--_Philadelphia Item._


    =’Tilda Jane.= By MARSHALL SAUNDERS.

    One vol., 12mo, fully illustrated, cloth decorative, $1.50

“It is one of those exquisitely simple and truthful books that win
and charm the reader, and I did not put it down until I had finished
it--honest! And I am sure that every one, young or old, who reads will
be proud and happy to make the acquaintance of the delicious waif.

“I cannot think of any better book for children than this. I commend it
unreservedly.”--_Cyrus Townsend Brady._


    =The Story of the Graveleys.= By MARSHALL SAUNDERS, author of
    “Beautiful Joe’s Paradise,” “’Tilda Jane,” etc.

    Library 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated by E. B. Barry $1.50

Here we have the haps and mishaps, the trials and triumphs, of a
delightful New England family, of whose devotion and sturdiness it will
do the reader good to hear.


    =Born to the Blue.= By FLORENCE KIMBALL RUSSEL.

    12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated $1.25

The atmosphere of army life on the plains breathes on every page of
this delightful tale. The boy is the son of a captain of U. S. cavalry
stationed at a frontier post in the days when our regulars earned the
gratitude of a nation.


    =In West Point Gray.= By FLORENCE KIMBALL RUSSEL.

    12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated $1.25

West Point forms the background for the second volume in this series,
and gives us the adventures of Jack as a cadet. Here the training of
his childhood days in the frontier army post stands him in good stead;
and he quickly becomes the central figure of the West Point life.


    =The Sandman; His Farm Stories.= By WILLIAM J. HOPKINS. With
    fifty illustrations by Ada Clendenin Williamson.

    Large 12mo, decorative cover $1.50

“An amusing, original book, written for the benefit of very small
children. It should be one of the most popular of the year’s books for
reading to small children.”--_Buffalo Express._


    =The Sandman: More Farm Stories.= By WILLIAM J. HOPKINS.

    Large 12mo, decorative cover, fully illustrated $1.50

Mr. Hopkins’s first essay at bedtime stories met with such approval
that this second book of “Sandman” tales was issued for scores of eager
children. Life on the farm, and out-of-doors, is portrayed in his
inimitable manner.


    =The Sandman: His Ship Stories.= By WILLIAM J. HOPKINS, author
    of “The Sandman: His Farm Stories,” etc.

    Large 12mo, decorative cover, fully illustrated $1.50

“Mothers and fathers and kind elder sisters who put the little ones
to bed, and rack their brains for stories, will find this book a
treasure.”--_Cleveland Leader._

“Children call for these stories over and over again.”--_Chicago
Evening Post._


    =Pussy-Cat Town.= By MARION AMES TAGGART.

    Small quarto, cloth decorative, illustrated and decorated in
    colors $1.00

“Pussy-Cat Town” is a most unusual delightful cat story. Ban-Ban, a
pure Maltese who belonged to Rob, Kiku-san, Lois’s beautiful snow-white
pet, and their neighbors Bedelia the tortoise-shell, Madame Laura the
widow, Wutz Butz the warrior, and wise old Tommy Traddles, were really
and truly cats.


    =The Roses of Saint Elizabeth.= By JANE SCOTT WOODRUFF, author
    of “The Little Christmas Shoe.”

    Small quarto, cloth decorative, illustrated and decorated in
    colors by Adelaide Everhart $1.00

This is a charming little story of a child whose father was caretaker
of the great castle of the Wartburg, where Saint Elizabeth once had her
home.


    =Gabriel and the Hour Book.= By EVALEEN STEIN.

    Small quarto, cloth decorative, illustrated and decorated in
    colors by Adelaide Everhart $1.00

Gabriel was a loving, patient, little French lad, who assisted the
monks in the long ago days, when all the books were written and
illuminated by hand, in the monasteries.


    =The Enchanted Automobile.= Translated from the French by MARY
    J. SAFFORD.

    Small quarto, cloth decorative, illustrated and decorated in
    colors by Edna M. Sawyer $1.00

The enchanted automobile was sent by the fairy godmother of a lazy,
discontented little prince and princess to take them to fairyland,
where they might visit their storybook favorites.


    =The Red Feathers.= By THEODORE ROBERTS, author of “Brothers of
    Peril,” etc.

Cloth decorative, illustrated $1.50

“The Red Feathers” tells of the remarkable adventures of an Indian boy
who lived in the Stone Age, many years ago, when the world was young,
and when fairies and magicians did wonderful things for their friends
and enemies.


    =The Wreck of the Ocean Queen.= By JAMES OTIS, author of “Larry
    Hudson’s Ambition,” etc.

Cloth decorative, illustrated $1.50

This story takes its readers on a sea voyage around the world; gives
them a trip on a treasure ship; an exciting experience in a terrific
gale; and finally a shipwreck, with a mutineering crew determined to
take the treasure to complicate matters.

But only the mutineers will come to serious harm, and after the reader
has known the thrilling excitement of lack of food and water, of
attacks by night and day, and of a hand-to-hand fight, he is rescued
and brought safely home again,--to realize that it’s only a story, but
a stirring and realistic one.


    =Little White Indians.= By FANNIE E. OSTRANDER.

Cloth decorative, illustrated $1.25

The “Little White Indians” were two families of children who “played
Indian” all one long summer vacation. They built wigwams and made
camps; they went hunting and fought fierce battles on the war-trail.

A bright, interesting story which will appeal strongly to the
“make-believe” instinct in children, and will give them a healthy,
active interest in “the simple life.”


COSY CORNER SERIES

    It is the intention of the publishers that this series shall
    contain only the very highest and purest literature,--stories
    that shall not only appeal to the children themselves, but be
    appreciated by all those who feel with them in their joys and
    sorrows.

    The numerous illustrations in each book are by well-known
    artists, and each volume has a separate attractive cover design.

Each 1 vol., 16mo, cloth $0.50


_By ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON_


=The Little Colonel.= (Trade Mark.)

The scene of this story is laid in Kentucky. Its heroine is a small
girl, who is known as the Little Colonel, on account of her fancied
resemblance to an old-school Southern gentleman, whose fine estate and
old family are famous in the region.


The Giant Scissors.

This is the story of Joyce and of her adventures in France. Joyce is a
great friend of the Little Colonel, and in later volumes shares with
her the delightful experiences of the “House Party” and the “Holidays.”


Two Little Knights of Kentucky.

WHO WERE THE LITTLE COLONEL’S NEIGHBORS.

In this volume the Little Colonel returns to us like an old friend, but
with added grace and charm. She is not, however, the central figure of
the story, that place being taken by the “two little knights.”


Mildred’s Inheritance.

A delightful little story of a lonely English girl who comes to America
and is befriended by a sympathetic American family who are attracted by
her beautiful speaking voice. By means of this one gift she is enabled
to help a school-girl who has temporarily lost the use of her eyes, and
thus finally her life becomes a busy, happy one.


Cicely and Other Stories for Girls.

The readers of Mrs. Johnston’s charming juveniles will be glad to learn
of the issue of this volume for young people.


Aunt ’Liza’s Hero and Other Stories.

A collection of six bright little stories, which will appeal to all
boys and most girls.


Big Brother.

A story of two boys. The devotion and care of Steven, himself a small
boy, for his baby brother, is the theme of the simple tale.


Ole Mammy’s Torment.

“Ole Mammy’s Torment” has been fitly called “a classic of Southern
life.” It relates the haps and mishaps of a small negro lad, and tells
how he was led by love and kindness to a knowledge of the right.


The Story of Dago.

In this story Mrs. Johnston relates the story of Dago, a pet monkey,
owned jointly by two brothers. Dago tells his own story, and the
account of his haps and mishaps is both interesting and amusing.


The Quilt That Jack Built.

A pleasant little story of a boy’s labor of love, and how it changed
the course of his life many years after it was accomplished.


Flip’s Islands of Providence.

A story of a boy’s life battle, his early defeat, and his final
triumph, well worth the reading.


_By EDITH ROBINSON_


A Little Puritan’s First Christmas.

A Story of Colonial times in Boston, telling how Christmas was invented
by Betty Sewall, a typical child of the Puritans, aided by her brother
Sam.


A Little Daughter of Liberty.

The author introduces this story as follows:

“One ride is memorable in the early history of the American Revolution,
the well-known ride of Paul Revere. Equally deserving of commendation
is another ride,--the ride of Anthony Severn,--which was no less
historic in its action or memorable in its consequences.”


A Loyal Little Maid.

A delightful and interesting story of Revolutionary days, in which the
child heroine, Betsey Schuyler, renders important services to George
Washington.


A Little Puritan Rebel.

This is an historical tale of a real girl, during the time when the
gallant Sir Harry Vane was governor of Massachusetts.


A Little Puritan Pioneer.

The scene of this story is laid in the Puritan settlement at
Charlestown.


A Little Puritan Bound Girl.

A story of Boston in Puritan days, which is of great interest to
youthful readers.


A Little Puritan Cavalier.

The story of a “Little Puritan Cavalier” who tried with all his boyish
enthusiasm to emulate the spirit and ideals of the dead Crusaders.


A Puritan Knight Errant.

The story tells of a young lad in Colonial times who endeavored to
carry out the high ideals of the knights of olden days.


_By OUIDA_ (_Louise de la Ramée_)


=A Dog of Flanders=: A CHRISTMAS STORY.

Too well and favorably known to require description.


The Nurnberg Stove.

This beautiful story has never before been published at a popular price.


_By FRANCES MARGARET FOX_


The Little Giant’s Neighbours.

A charming nature story of a “little giant” whose neighbours were the
creatures of the field and garden.


Farmer Brown and the Birds.

A little story which teaches children that the birds are man’s best
friends.


Betty of Old Mackinaw.

A charming story of child-life, appealing especially to the little
readers who like stories of “real people.”


Brother Billy.

The story of Betty’s brother, and some further adventures of Betty
herself.


Mother Nature’s Little Ones.

Curious little sketches describing the early lifetime, or “childhood,”
of the little creatures out-of-doors.


How Christmas Came to the Mulvaneys.

A bright, lifelike little story of a family of poor children, with an
unlimited capacity for fun and mischief. The wonderful never-to-be
forgotten Christmas that came to them is the climax of a series of
exciting incidents.


_By MISS MULOCK_


The Little Lame Prince.

A delightful story of a little boy who has many adventures by means of
the magic gifts of his fairy godmother.


Adventures of a Brownie.

The story of a household elf who torments the cook and gardener, but is
a constant joy and delight to the children who love and trust him.


His Little Mother.

Miss Mulock’s short stories for children are a constant source of
delight to them, and “His Little Mother,” in this new and attractive
dress, will be welcomed by hosts of youthful readers.


Little Sunshine’s Holiday.

An attractive story of a summer outing. “Little Sunshine” is another
of those beautiful child-characters for which Miss Mulock is so justly
famous.


_By MARSHALL SAUNDERS_


For His Country.

A sweet and graceful story of a little boy who loved his country;
written with that charm which has endeared Miss Saunders to hosts of
readers.


Nita, the Story of an Irish Setter.

In this touching little book, Miss Saunders shows how dear to her heart
are all of God’s dumb creatures.


Alpatok, the Story of an Eskimo Dog.

Alpatok, an Eskimo dog from the far north, was stolen from his master
and left to starve in a strange city, but was befriended and cared for,
until he was able to return to his owner. Miss Saunders’s story is
based on truth, and the pictures in the book of “Alpatok” are based on
a photograph of the real Eskimo dog who had such a strange experience.


_By WILL ALLEN DROMGOOLE_


The Farrier’s Dog and His Fellow.

This story, written by the gifted young Southern woman, will appeal to
all that is best in the natures of the many admirers of her graceful
and piquant style.


The Fortunes of the Fellow.

Those who read and enjoyed the pathos and charm of “The Farrier’s Dog
and His Fellow” will welcome the further account of the adventures of
Baydaw and the Fellow at the home of the kindly smith.


The Best of Friends.

This continues the experiences of the Farrier’s dog and his Fellow,
written in Miss Dromgoole’s well-known charming style.


Down in Dixie.

A fascinating story for boys and girls, of a family of Alabama children
who move to Florida and grow up in the South.


_By MARIAN W. WILDMAN_


Loyalty Island.

An account of the adventures of four children and their pet dog on
an island, and how they cleared their brother from the suspicion of
dishonesty.


Theodore and Theodora.

This is a story of the exploits and mishaps of two mischievous twins,
and continues the adventures of the interesting group of children in
“Loyalty Island.”


_By CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS_


The Cruise of the Yacht Dido.

The story of two boys who turned their yacht into a fishing boat to
earn money to pay for a college course, and of their adventures while
exploring in search of hidden treasure.


The Young Acadian.

The story of a young lad of Acadia who rescued a little English girl
from the hands of savages.


The Lord of the Air.

THE STORY OF THE EAGLE


The King of the Mamozekel.

THE STORY OF THE MOOSE


The Watchers of the Camp-fire.

THE STORY OF THE PANTHER


The Haunter of the Pine Gloom.

THE STORY OF THE LYNX


The Return to the Trails.

THE STORY OF THE BEAR


The Little People of the Sycamore.

THE STORY OF THE RACCOON


_By OTHER AUTHORS_


The Great Scoop.

_By MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL_

A capital tale of newspaper life in a big city, and of a bright,
enterprising, likable youngster employed thereon.


John Whopper.

The late Bishop Clark’s popular story of the boy who fell through the
earth and came out in China, with a new introduction by Bishop Potter.


The Dole Twins.

_By KATE UPSON CLARK_

The adventures of two little people who tried to earn money to buy
crutches for a lame aunt. An excellent description of child-life about
1812, which will greatly interest and amuse the children of to-day,
whose life is widely different.


Larry Hudson’s Ambition.

_By JAMES OTIS_, author of “Toby Tyler,” etc.

Larry Hudson is a typical American boy, whose hard work and enterprise
gain him his ambition,--an education and a start in the world.


The Little Christmas Shoe.

_By JANE P. SCOTT WOODRUFF_

A touching story of Yule-tide.


Wee Dorothy.

_By LAURA UPDEGRAFF_

A story of two orphan children, the tender devotion of the eldest,
a boy, for his sister being its theme and setting. With a bit of
sadness at the beginning, the story is otherwise bright and sunny, and
altogether wholesome in every way.


    =The King of the Golden River=: A LEGEND OF STIRIA. _By JOHN
    RUSKIN_

Written fifty years or more ago, and not originally intended for
publication, this little fairy-tale soon became known and made a place
for itself.


A Child’s Garden of Verses.

_By R. L. STEVENSON_

Mr. Stevenson’s little volume is too well known to need description. It
will be heartily welcomed in this new and attractive edition.


THE LITTLE COUSIN SERIES

The most delightful and interesting accounts possible of child-life in
other lands, filled with quaint sayings, doings, and adventures.

Each one vol., 12mo, decorative cover, cloth, with six or more
full-page illustrations in color.

  Price per volume      $0.60


_By MARY HAZELTON WADE_ (_unless otherwise indicated_)

  =Our Little African Cousin=

  =Our Little Alaskan Cousin=
    By Mary F. Nixon-Roulet

  =Our Little Arabian Cousin=
    By Blanche McManus

  =Our Little Armenian Cousin=

  =Our Little Brown Cousin=

  =Our Little Canadian Cousin=
    By Elizabeth R. Macdonald

  =Our Little Chinese Cousin=
    By Isaac Taylor Headland

  =Our Little Cuban Cousin=

  =Our Little Dutch Cousin=
    By Blanche McManus

  =Our Little English Cousin=
    By Blanche McManus

  =Our Little Eskimo Cousin=

  =Our Little French Cousin=
    By Blanche McManus

  =Our Little German Cousin=

  =Our Little Hawaiian Cousin=

  =Our Little Hindu Cousin=
    By Blanche McManus

  =Our Little Indian Cousin=

  =Our Little Irish Cousin=

  =Our Little Italian Cousin=

  =Our Little Japanese Cousin=

  =Our Little Jewish Cousin=

  =Our Little Korean Cousin=
    By H. Lee M. Pike

  =Our Little Mexican Cousin=
    By Edward C. Butler

  =Our Little Norwegian Cousin=

  =Our Little Panama Cousin=
    By H. Lee M. Pike

  =Our Little Philippine Cousin=

  =Our Little Porto Rican Cousin=

  =Our Little Russian Cousin=

  =Our Little Scotch Cousin=
    By Blanche McManus

  =Our Little Siamese Cousin=

  =Our Little Spanish Cousin=
    By Mary F. Nixon-Roulet

  =Our Little Swedish Cousin=
    By Claire M. Coburn

  =Our Little Swiss Cousin=

  =Our Little Turkish Cousin=


THE GOLDENROD LIBRARY

The Goldenrod Library contains stories which appeal alike both to
children and to their parents and guardians.

Each volume is well illustrated from drawings by competent artists,
which, together with their handsomely decorated uniform binding,
showing the goldenrod, usually considered the emblem of America, is a
feature of their manufacture.

  Each one volume, small 12mo, illustrated      $0.35


LIST OF TITLES

  =Aunt Nabby’s Children.= By Frances Hodges White.
  =Child’s Dream of a Star, The.= By Charles Dickens.
  =Flight of Rosy Dawn, The.= By Pauline Bradford Mackie.
  =Findelkind.= By Ouida.
  =Fairy of the Rhone, The.= By A. Comyns Carr.
  =Gatty and I.= By Frances E. Crompton.
  =Helena’s Wonderworld.= By Frances Hodges White.
  =Jerry’s Reward.= By Evelyn Snead Barnett.
  =La Belle Nivernaise.= By Alphonse Daudet.
  =Little King Davie.= By Nellie Hellis.
  =Little Peterkin Vandike.= By Charles Stuart Pratt.
  =Little Professor, The.= By Ida Horton Cash.
  =Peggy’s Trial.= By Mary Knight Potter.
  =Prince Yellowtop.= By Kate Whiting Patch.
  =Provence Rose, A.= By Ouida.
  =Seventh Daughter, A.= By Grace Wickham Curran.
  =Sleeping Beauty, The.= By Martha Baker Dunn.
  =Small, Small Child, A.= By E. Livingston Prescott.
  =Susanne.= By Frances J. Delano.
  =Water People, The.= By Charles Lee Sleight.
  =Young Archer, The.= By Charles E. Brimblecom.




Transcriber’s Notes

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations
in hyphenation and accents have been standardised but all other
spelling and punctuation remains unchanged.

Italics are represented thus _italic_, bold is represented
thus =bold=.