[Illustration: “THE TWO CHILDREN WITH LITTLE LOUIE WERE PLAYING IN THE
LAUNDRY.”]




  MABEL’S MISHAP

  BY
  AMY E. BLANCHARD

  Author of “Kittyboy’s Christmas,” “Taking a Stand,”
  “A Dear Little Girl,” etc.

  Philadelphia
  GEORGE W. JACOBS & CO.
  103-105 So. Fifteenth Street




  COPYRIGHT, 1900 BY
  GEORGE W. JACOBS & CO.




CONTENTS


  CHAPTER I         7

  CHAPTER II       23

  CHAPTER III      37

  CHAPTER IV       52

  CHAPTER V        66

  CHAPTER VI       82

  CHAPTER VII      98




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


  “THE TWO CHILDREN, WITH LITTLE LOUIE, WERE PLAYING IN THE LAUNDRY.”

  “O, HAROLD, HERE IT IS!”

  “SHE OCCUPIED HERSELF WITH TRYING TO PLAY MARBLES.”




CHAPTER I.


It was raining dismally. Mabel, leaning her arms on the broad
window-sill, watched the drops trickling down the panes. Before her
was an array of paper dolls in gay tissue dresses. They sat perched
upon pasteboard chairs in front of a circle of queer creatures with
flat heads, and no feet; hand in hand these stood, rather flimsy in
appearance. Mabel had cut them all in one from a bit of newspaper.

Presently she gave the whole company a sweep off on the floor.

“I’m tired of you,” she said. “And it’s raining, and I don’t know what
to do. I wish I were twins, so I could have someone to play with.”

“Why, Mabel,” said her mother, “suppose I had two discontented little
Mabels to be fretting around on a rainy day, what should I do?”

“You wouldn’t have to have two Mabels,” returned the little girl, “you
could call one something else: Maude, or--oh, mamma, you could call one
May and one Belle. I think I’d like to be May, myself. That’s what I’ll
do next time I play by myself: I’ll pretend I have a twin sister named
Belle.”

“Suppose you pick up that company of people, lying there by the window,
now, and play with your twin awhile.”

Mabel looked up mischievously. “I think I’ll let Belle pick them up,”
she said.

“Well, let me see her do it. There is a looking glass in which I can
watch her.”

“Oh, like ‘Alice in the Looking Glass Country’. You watch and see Belle
pick them up.” And she set to work, glancing over her shoulder once
in a while to see if her mother took in the performance. “There!” she
said, after a time, “Belle has picked them up, but we are both tired of
paper dolls. Mamma, there is a red flag hanging out by a door across
the street; in that house where the little boy lives. What is it for?
Do you suppose he has scarlet fever?”

Her mother laughed. “No, there is an auction--a sale going on.”

“What for?”

“Why, I don’t know, dear. For some reason they are selling off their
household goods and furniture.”

“Oh, I wonder if the little boy likes to do that. Who is selling the
things--his papa?”

“No, an auctioneer.”

“Does he say, ‘Going, going, gone,’ like Uncle Lewis does when he
pretends to sell me?”

“Yes.”

“Can anybody go to a--a nauction?”

“Why, yes. How many questions a little girl can ask.”

“Well, mamma, I think if you’ll ’scuse me, I’ll go down stairs and find
something else to do.”

“I’ll excuse you, certainly. Don’t get into mischief.”

But Mabel was out of the door and on her way down the steps by this
time. She stopped at the parlor, peeped in, and then went over to
the piano which she opened and began to drum softly upon it, but she
knew her mamma did not allow this, so she went across the hall to the
library. This was a favorite room, especially on a rainy day, and,
when her father was not busy there, Mabel was often allowed to curl
herself up in one of the big chairs with a book. To-day, however,
she did not feel inclined to settle down and looked around to find
something to invite her attention. A box of water-colors stood open
upon the desk where her father had been working. He had been coloring
some drawings to use in his class at the university.

Mabel stood gazing at the colors longingly; they did look so bright
and pretty. She took up one of the brushes and wet it in the glass of
water her father had been using; then she dipped it in the brightest
vermillion in the box.

“I wish I had something to paint,” she said to herself. Looking through
a pile of newspapers, she found nothing that would do, and her eyes
next sought the books nearest her. She opened one; it was fresh and
new. “Oh, I couldn’t take that,” she said. “But this old one, I don’t
believe he cares much for this. It has pictures in it, but they are
very queer, and so yellow, I’m sure the book isn’t of any account at
all. I think it would look much better if I were to paint it up a
little.” And, the action being suited to the word, the brush was soon
making dabs at the colors on the box, and the figures in the engravings
were given startling costumes of red, or blue, or yellow, as Mabel’s
fancy dictated.

She could not help feeling a little guilty, though all the time telling
herself that it was a worthless old book, and that her mamma often gave
her old magazines to try her own paints upon.

Yet, when she heard a step on the stairs, she started guiltily, and
shut the book with a snap, then put down her brush, unaware that she
had upset the glass of water in her haste, and that it was running
across the table and soaking through the book.

She hurried out of the door leading to the porch. Here she could listen
to the voice of the auctioneer, as it came to her ears quite distinctly
from across the street. It had stopped raining, though little puddles
still lay among the bricks of the walk.

“Any one can go,” thought Mabel; “mamma said so. I should love to see a
nauction. And that little boy, I wonder if he is there.”

It was mild spring weather, and Mabel thought she could dispense with
a hat. She would rather not go in the house again just then; “I’ll go
to the nauction,” she said. “It’s no more than going to a store; mamma
said so.”

So, running across the street, she stood for a moment before the gate
of the little boy’s home, then slipped in; another moment found her in
a room full of people. She turned to run away, as several turned to
look at her, but she caught sight of the forlorn figure of a little boy
huddled up in one corner, hugging a large dog, and towards these two
she made her way.

The little boy looked up with a faint smile as Mabel approached, then
made room for her on the box on which he was sitting.

“Isn’t it funny?” whispered Mabel, while the auctioneer went on
rapidly: “A dollar an’ a half an’ a half.”

But the little boy didn’t look as if he thought it very funny, for he
turned his head away, and Mabel thought she saw two tears rolling down
his cheeks.

“Is your father here?” she asked.

The little fellow shook his head, and just then, the articles in that
room being disposed of, the crowd went into the next, and the two
children were left alone.

“Are you going to move?” asked Mabel. “I live across the street, you
know, and I saw the red flag hanging out, so I just came over.”

The boy nodded.

“I’m Mabel Ford. My sister told me your name; it’s Harold, isn’t it?
What a dear dog that is. What’s his name?” Mabel was not to be daunted
by Harold’s silence.

“Don.” This time he answered her.

“I wish you were not going away. Do you want to?” Mabel’s questions
continued.

“No,” returned Harold, “but you know father has to go with his regiment
to Cuba, and so I have to go.”

“Oh, are you going to Cuba? What will you do when they are fighting?
When are you going?”

“I don’t know when I am going, but I am not going to Cuba.”

“Oh, I should think you would be glad not to. Will they take all the
things out of the house?”

“Yes, I suppose so. I expected to go to my aunt’s to-day, but Drake
hasn’t heard from her; neither have I.”

“And your papa went and left you all alone?”

“He had to, for he had to join his troops, and he thought my aunt would
be here before this.”

Mabel thought this a dreadful state of affairs, and looked her
sympathy.

“You see,” Harold went on, “these aren’t our things; not many of them.
Father rented the house furnished, and only brought a few of our own
things here.”

“Oh!” That was better, Mabel thought, but her curiosity was still
unsatisfied. “Where shall you go to-night?”

“Oh, I’ll go home with Drake, I suppose.”

“Who is he?”

“The coachman. Well, not the coachman, exactly. He does all sorts of
things, and his wife has kept house for us all winter.”

“Oh, yes; but I should think it would be much nicer with your aunt.”

“Perhaps it will be when I can go to her, but I can’t yet. You see,
she is probably away from home, and if I started without knowing all
about it, I might get to her house and find no one there, and then
what should I do in a strange place?” Harold was fast growing more
communicative.

“That would be dreadful,” agreed his companion, overcome by his lonely
condition. “I tell you what I wish you’d do,” she hastened to say: “I
wish you’d come over with me. We haven’t any boys at our house, and
I’ve always wanted awfully to be a boy. You see it would be fine if
I were, for now I’m just nothing. Alice is the oldest, so she’s some
importance, and Louie is the baby, so she’s the pet, and I’m in the
middle where I can’t be anything, and I don’t have anyone to play with,
for Alice is fourteen and Louis is only two.”

“Your mother wouldn’t want me, maybe,” said Harold, though his eyes
looked wistful.

“Oh, yes she would,” returned Mabel, confidently; “I’m sure she would.
She lets me have my school friends come, and sometimes they stay all
night.”

“But I’m a boy.”

“Well, never mind, we can’t help that. You can pretend you are a girl,
if you want to, and I’ll lend you one of my frocks.”

This brought the first approach to a laugh which Harold had shown, and
he consented to go and hunt up Drake, and Mabel went with him.

Drake, himself, was not to be found, but his wife was, and to her Mabel
made known her request.

“Well, I just wish he would go,” declared Mrs. Drake. “He’s been moping
around ever since his father went away, and we two old people can’t
cheer him up like you could. Go along, Harold, if you like, and stay as
long as you want to.”

So Harold followed his new friend across the street, and when the
situation was explained, true enough, he was given a warm welcome by
Mrs. Ford. An hour later the two children, with little Louie, were
playing in the laundry, having great times, with a tub of water and
some very primitive fishing lines.

“I don’t usually like babies tagging after me,” Mabel confided to her
friend, fearing he might think her less like a boy than she had given
him reason to suppose, “but Louie’s nurse has gone out,” she explained.

“Oh, I don’t mind her. I think she is a dear little girl,” Harold
returned, and Mabel was relieved when his heart seemed entirely won by
Louie’s overtures to “Boy,” as she called him.

All went merrily enough till supper time; then Mabel, intent only upon
making Harold at home, brought him smilingly into the dining-room. She
had forgotten the affair of the book, but it came back to her in a
very unpleasant manner, when her father, with one of his most severe
looks, greeted her with: “Mabel, was it you who was in the library this
afternoon, meddling with my box of colors?”

Mabel turned as red as a beet, hung her head, tried to speak, and at
last, faltered out: “I--I--yes, papa.”

“I might have expected it from a baby like Louie, but a girl as big as
you must certainly have known better. You have ruined one of my most
valuable and rare books,” Mr. Ford went on to say. All this before
Harold. Poor Mabel felt as though she would sink through the floor. She
wondered what punishment would be meted out to her, and she looked with
pleading eyes at her mother.




CHAPTER II.


“This is Harold Evans,” Mrs. Ford said, tactfully drawing her husband’s
attention from Mabel. “Harold’s father is in the army, and has gone to
Cuba, so we are trying to make our little neighbor feel less lonely.”

“Mr. Evans? oh, yes,” said Mr. Ford, looking up; “I know him. That’s
right, Alice, make the boy feel at home. Come here, son, and sit by
me.” And the cloud blew over, much to Mabel’s relief. But the hurt
of her remorse and shame still lingered. She did like to appear well
before her friends, and to be shown up as a naughty, meddlesome little
girl, was very hard. Besides, she really was greatly distressed at
having spoiled the book, for she knew how her father loved his
library, and treasured his rare books and papers.

“Papa,” she faltered, “I’m dreadfully sorry. I thought it was just an
old book you didn’t care for; and--yes, I knew it wasn’t right to touch
it. Is it one of your very preciousest books?”

“Yes,” replied her father; “I am afraid it is. See, Mabel; not only is
this old print marred by those dreadful glaring colors, but you upset
the glass of water I left here, and it has soaked through the book and
carried the stain of the fresh paint with it. Then, where you were
painting the pages are stuck together; and, well, you can see that
destruction has followed your meddling. I must forbid you coming into
this room again until your mother or I have given you permission.”

“Oh!” Mabel stood the picture of distress. “I am so sorry, papa,” she
repeated. “I’ll never do so again. What can I do to myself?”

A little smile flickered around her father’s mouth. “I’m afraid nothing
you could do would restore my book. Another copy would be almost
impossible to find.”

“Where did you get this one?”

“I came across it at an auction. It was in a lot of books which were
lumped together, and went very cheap.”

“Was it an auction like that at Harold’s house this afternoon?”

“Yes.”

“How much is very cheap?”

“Oh, five dollars for the lot, I think I paid.”

Mabel was very thoughtful for a few moments. Several plans were at work
in her mind. Finally, seeing that her father wanted to return to his
work, she said: “I came to tell you how sorry I am, papa, and to say
good-night. I think maybe, if you don’t kiss me I’d feel worse.”

“Do you want to feel worse?”

“I don’t want to, but I suppose it would do me good, and make me
remember.”

“Well, my small philosopher, you completely disarm me. I confess I was
very angry at first, and still feel annoyed, but if I can help your
memory by withholding my usual good-night kiss, go to bed without it.
Good-night, daughter.”

Mabel lingered wistfully. It was very hard to make her up mind to go
without that good-night kiss, and her lips quivered as she turned away,
seeing that her father meant to follow out her suggestion. But on the
spot she formed a resolution to try to replace the book if ever she
could. Five dollars! that was a lot of money; more than she ever had at
once, but she would save up every penny. She wondered if there were any
books sold at Harold’s house that afternoon. She would ask him.

The next morning, while the family were at breakfast, Drake appeared
with rather a perturbed countenance. “I’d like your advice, Mr. Ford,”
he began, “So long as your lady was so good as to invite little Harold
to come over here, sir, I thought, perhaps you wouldn’t mind helping me
out in getting him fixed. You see, sir, when the Captain went away he
said the boy was to go to his aunt, and that I was to take him as soon
as I heard from her. Now she writes, or rather a nurse does, and says
she’s laid up to a hospital, sannytorum, they call it, and it’ll be
weeks before she’s out again, and will I look after the boy till she’s
well. She seems to think I’m some sort of kin-folks to him. But you
see, sir, me and my wife has a chance to go to the country to a good
place, and how’ll we take the boys, we being hired help like?”

“Humph!” Mr. Ford glanced up at his wife.

Mabel slipped down from her chair and went close to her mother.

“Mamma, let him come here,” she whispered. “He hasn’t any mamma nor any
sisters and brothers, nor anything. I’ll give up my room if Alice will
let me sleep with her.”

“Mabel proposes that we invite Harold here,” said Mrs. Ford. “She will
give up her room to him, Phillip.”

“Well, but how about you? It is something of a charge to take a boy
into the family where there are only girls.”

“I’ll take the charge willingly.”

Mr. Ford nodded with a satisfied air. “It’s settled then, Drake. We’ll
take care of the lad. Captain Evans and I are acquaintances, and I do
not think he would object to the arrangement.”

“He’d be that thankful, sir,” said the old man feelingly, but he looked
at Mabel, who at once understood.

“There’s the dear doggie, too. Do you mind him, mamma? He is such a
darling, and Harold loves him so.”

“Let’s have the whole combination,” laughed Mr. Ford, who loved
animals. “He’s a collie, isn’t he? I’ve seen him on the street and he
seemed a fine fellow.”

And so it was settled that Harold and Don should enter the family for
the time being, and Mabel proceeded, forthwith, to lay her plans
and to get her room ready for this newcomer. She took her dolls, her
specially girly books, and certain little knicknacks into her sister’s
room.

“What do boys like in their rooms?” she asked Alice.

“Oh, all sorts of funny things. Bows and arrows, and guns, and swords,
and oars and fishing tackle and such things.”

“Oh!” Mabel opened her eyes at the idea of such queer taste, and she
went out of the room wondering how she could supply these things.

Then she remembered that there was in the garret a hammock, which had
fallen into disuse; it was something like a net, she reflected, and
she dragged it forth. After many efforts, and finally resorting to a
chair placed on top of a table, she managed to climb up high enough to
drape the hammock in some sort of fashion over the door, viewing the
result of her labors with much satisfaction. But she thought the room
needed some further decoration, and she returned to the garret. After
fumbling around, she discovered a pair of old boxing gloves, and a pair
of foils, and at last found leaning against the wall, a dust-covered
picture representing a hunting scene.

“There!” she exclaimed, “that is exactly what I want. I wonder if papa
will let me have these.”

Down stairs she trudged again, and reported to her sister, who
good-naturedly went to the library, since Mabel was forbidden there,
and came back with her father’s consent to use the things for
decoration.

Mabel was repaid for all her work when Harold, upon being ushered
into the room, exclaimed: “Why this doesn’t look like a girl’s room.
See those foils and those boxing gloves. It looks like some of the
officer’s rooms. This is great!”

“And where is Don going to sleep?” asked Alice.

Harold’s countenance fell. “He always sleeps at the foot of my bed,” he
replied, fondling his dog, who looked up wistfully, not understanding
all these changes.

Mrs. Ford looked a little dubious.

“He’s very good and quiet,” said Harold, eagerly. “He never makes any
noise or gives a bit of trouble. He minds every word I say to him.”

“Well, we will let him try it for a night;” agreed Mrs. Ford, “and if
he behaves well there is no reason why he shouldn’t do as he has been
in the habit of doing.” And Harold’s heart was completely won.

Indeed, a few days after this, Don proved himself entirely worthy of
the confidence placed in him; for Mrs. Ford, hearing Alice cry out:
“Oh, mother, come quick!” ran to the nursery, where she found her
eldest daughter sitting on the floor, one arm around little Louie, and
the other around Don, while she alternately kissed Louie’s golden head
and Don’s black one, murmuring in an agitated voice: “Oh, dear little
sister! Oh, Don! oh, Don!”

“Why, Alice, what in the world is the matter?” exclaimed Mrs. Ford.

“Oh, mother, mother, that blessed dog has saved our darling baby’s
life,” said Alice, looking up with tears in her eyes. “Maria left Louie
just for a moment, while she went down to get her milk, and asked me
if I would watch her till she came back, and when I had come in she
had climbed up to the window.” There was a catch in Alice’s voice and
she hugged the little one closer, then she went on: “Louie had climbed
up to the window, and was hanging half way out with Don holding tight
to her dress with his teeth. But for him, she must fallen out and have
been killed. Oh, good, brave doggie!”

Mrs. Ford caught up her baby girl, and hers were not the only tears
that fell on Don’s head.

So, from that time forth, the good dog’s place was sure, and he was
allowed access to any room in the house, many a time finding his way
into the library, where Mr. Ford permitted him to remain, without so
much as a word of protest.

All this, of course, made Harold very happy and he soon felt so much
at home that he really dreaded the time when he should have to go to
his aunt. Meanwhile, he and Mabel became the best of friends, for,
as Mabel said, she liked boy’s play better than girl’s, and a bag of
marbles, a top, or a ball, took her fancy much more than a doll, and
the games the two children had in the garden were something beyond
imagination, so exciting were they.

“Oh, it’s such fun to have a boy to play with,” Mabel would say. And
the highest compliment she could receive from Harold, was: “You did
that as well as any boy, Mabel.”

To be sure, it was hard, on rainy days, that Harold should be allowed
the freedom of the library from which she was still barred; but Harold
was very good about this, and delicately refrained from spending much
time among the fascinating books, even though he liked nothing better
than to curl up in one of the big chairs, and pore over some old
chronicles of war or history.

Mabel was very grateful to him for his consideration, although, once
in a while, she did desert him for her school friends, Marie Lewis and
Ethel Morris, for there was quite enough girl about Mabel for her to
enjoy certain plays which Harold didn’t endorse because they were too
tame. But for all this new element which furnished her with a playmate
at home there was some trouble ahead for Mabel, all on account of that
unfortunate book.




CHAPTER III.


There were still some weeks before the summer holidays, and Mabel, in
consequence, was at school during the morning, and the day after Harold
was happily established at her home she started merrily off to school,
looking forward to a happy afternoon.

At recess, Marie Lewis and Ethel Morris called her. “Oh, Mabel, we’ve
the loveliest idea, and you will just love it. Come over here and let’s
talk about it.” So, with lunch-baskets in hand, they settled themselves
in a quiet corner.

“We want to give a lawn party for the benefit of the Cuban orphans,”
began Marie, “and we’ll have some little things to sell, and oh, Mabel,
you told me the other day, that you had two dollars; you’ll give that
towards it, won’t you?”

Mabel flushed up to the roots of her hair. “I don’t know,” she faltered.

“Oh, isn’t that mean?” cried Ethel. “You said you knew she’d give it,
Marie.”

“Maybe she has to ask her mother,” said Marie, trying to help Mabel out
of her difficulty.

“No, I----but I’m saving up for something else,” said Mabel,
hesitatingly.

“Oh, but nothing could be better than this. Of course it’s nice to give
to missions and--all sorts of things, but you know we don’t often have
a war, or anything like this, and it’s immejet,” announced Marie with
some importance.

Mabel looked distressed. “I think, maybe, mamma can tell me about what
I’d better do,” she said at last.

“Well, just tell me this:” Ethel said; “Is it for any charity thing
that you want to save the money?”

Mabel shook her head.

“Then I think you’re real mean,” declared Ethel, with a toss of her
head as she flounced away. “Let’s go and get someone else to join us,
Marie. We thought you’d be glad that we picked you out the first one,
Miss Mabel, but we don’t want anyone who grudges those poor orphans.”

Mabel watched them depart whispering, and looking back at her
contemptuously, and felt very much inclined to cry, but just then the
bell rang for school, and she went to her seat, feeling bitterly all
the afternoon, because of the little scornful flouts and tosses of the
head which Ethel gave every time she looked her way.

Harold, with Don at his side, was waiting on the steps for her as
she came slowly up the street. He seemed so very friendly that Mabel
thought that she would pour out her grievances to him.

“Well, but what are you saving up for?” he said, after hearing her
story.

“Why,” she hesitated, “tell me, Harold, if you break or spoil anything
belonging to another person don’t you know you ought to try and get
another?”

“Why, yes; I suppose it isn’t just straight not to. I know my father
always says that it isn’t honorable not to pay debts, and that is a
sort of a debt. He made me save up and pay for a window I broke once,
’cause it was my fault. I was shying stones when I was told not to.”

Mabel nodded emphatically. “That’s what I thought. You see, you know
about the book.” She spoke shyly; it was a sore subject.

“What book?”

“Why, don’t you know, last night at supper when papa said that to me?”

“Why, I believe he did speak up sort of sharply, but I didn’t pay much
attention; I was so hungry, and those hot biscuits looked so good.”

Mabel gave a sigh of relief. Her shame was lessened, but she went on
with her confession: “Well, you see, I spoiled one of papa’s most
choicest books; I--I--knew better, too; I daubed it all up with papa’s
paints, and he feels, oh, awfully, and I’m going to try to get another
book like it. It is very, very old.” She opened her little purse, and
unfolded a paper on which she had copied every word of the title page
of the book. “Were there any books sold at your house the other day?”
she asked.

“Yes, I believe so.”

“Oh, then this might have been among them. I wish I had thought.”

“I don’t believe it was. I know pretty well about the books that were
sold. Still, it might have been.”

“Papa got his at a nauction,” Mabel went on; “he paid five dollars for
a lot of books, and that is what I must try to do.”

“Maybe you wouldn’t have to do that. You might find it at that
second-hand book store on Ninth street.”

“I never thought of that. I wonder if mamma will let us go down there
this afternoon? I’ll ask her.”

Consent having been obtained, the two started forth, but only
disappointment met them. “You’ll find it hard to get hold of that
book,” the man in the store told them, smiling and looking at them
curiously, as if he wondered what in the world they could want of such
a thing. “Won’t some other book do?” he asked.

Mabel shook her head, but went away convinced that she must keep on
trying, and that she had no right to put her money to any other use
until she was satisfied that it was impossible to get the book.

She and Harold considered this their secret, and talked a good deal
about it, so that Mabel had this comfort, while at school her two
friends openly scorned her.

“Of course, we’ll invite her,” Marie was heard to say one day, “but I
don’t suppose she’ll come; she’s too mean to spend ten cents to get in.”

A burning blush suffused Mabel’s cheeks, and she bent her head over
her desk, feeling very much mortified, but she did not make an effort
to change the girls’ opinion of her.

“I think girls are a mean lot,” Harold said, indignantly, when he was
told of this. “I’d trust a fellow more than that. I’d know what he was
going to do with his money, or whether he was going to spend it in some
selfish way, before I talked that way.”

“Maybe a boy would,” returned Mabel. “Anyhow, Harold, it’s a great
comfort to have you here, or else I might give up, and take the money
to the girls, after all. Mamma said I must do just what seemed to me
right.”

“Don’t you give it to them,” said Harold, fiercely. “You just hold out,
no matter what they say. I’ll take you to the lawn party.”

“Oh, Harold!” Mabel was deeply grateful for this offer. “I think it’s
lovely for you to say that, but I don’t believe I shall want to do
that. I’ll just wait till I’ve got the book, and then I’ll save up and
send my money to the orphans. Mamma will do it for me. She can send
it straight to the ladies who take care of the money and see that the
orphans get some of it.”

Harold looked at her admiringly. “That’s fine,” he said; “I don’t
believe I’d be as modest as that. I’d like to show off before those
girls, and just flourish around at the lawn party, if I had money to
spend.”

“I should, too,” returned Mabel, “but, somehow, I don’t think I ought
to, after what I did to the book.”

“I tell you what,” said Harold, “the thing we ought really to do, is
to hunt up red flags, and auctions, and go for them whenever we can;
there’s no telling what we might find.”

To this Mabel agreed, but the chances were few and far between, and
they began to think theirs an impossible quest.

One day, to be sure it was after Mabel had saved up a full five dollars
by dint of all sorts of sacrifices and helpings, the two entered a
house where a sale was going on, chief among the articles to be sold
being a choice library. There was a catalogue of the books, and over
this the children pored, till Harold exultantly exclaimed, “There it
is Mabel!” And sure enough, the title was printed in full. They waited
nervously till the bidding began. Certain books were sold singly; the
rest in lots; among the first was the one on which Mabel had set her
heart. When it was put up for sale, the first offer was two dollars,
and Harold, with his heart in his mouth, cried: “Three!” “Four!” came
from another corner of the room. “Five!” said Harold, with a quick
glance at Mabel, who with very red cheeks, and parted lips, stood by
his side. “Six!” the word came that shattered their hopes, and then the
book was run up to fifteen dollars, the buyer passing quite near to the
children, exclaiming to a friend: “It’s a bargain, Nevins; I wouldn’t
take fifty dollars for it.”

Fifty dollars! So it was a hopeless matter after all. No wonder her
father had been so displeased at the destruction of his property,
thought Mabel. The two small figures left the place almost immediately.

“It’s no use trying,” began Mabel; “I’m just going to give up. I never
in the world could save up all that money; fifteen dollars.”

“I have five,” replied Harold; “I can lend you that much.”

“No, no!” Mabel refused utterly; “I haven’t any way of paying it back,
and papa says to borrow money when you’ve no way of paying it is almost
the same as stealing.”

“But you could save up and pay it some day; of course, you could.”

“No, I might never be able to; besides, it might be years and years and
it wouldn’t be right to keep you out of the money all of that time when
you might want it. Oh, dear, I wish I never had been so careless.”

Harold tried to cheer her by reminding her that her father had bought
his book for five dollars, and why shouldn’t she come across another
such bargain, and he said they must not give up the hunt for the book.
“I’ll look in the papers every day,” he said with quite the air of a
man, “and whenever we can we will go to a auction.”

“I thought it was a ‘nauction,’” said Mabel.

“No, it’s ‘auction.’”

Mabel looked a little doubtful and Harold hunted up a newspaper, and,
after some searching, triumphantly pointed out the word to her.

“Oh, all right,” admitted Mabel; “I’ll say, auction, then. Somehow,
though, this one, that we went to to-day, scared me; there were so many
people there, and they made such a noise.”

“You needn’t mind people; I don’t. I’ll always go with you, and take
care of you, you know.”

“There aren’t many things you are afraid of, are there?”

“Why, not many. You see, my father is a soldier, and I have to be
brave.”

“Oh!” this explained the situation fully to Mabel, and they returned to
the subject of the auction.

“Next time,” said Harold, “I’ll do all the bidding, and you need not
come into the room, if you don’t want to.”

“Oh, but I do want to; it’s sort of exciting, although I do get tired
of hearing the auctioneer; but as long as it is the only way of getting
the book, why, of course, we must go to every auction we hear of.”

Therefore, a few days later they made their plans again, hopefully,
to go to a house in Germantown, where Harold had discovered that an
auction was to be held that day.

“Where are you two children off to, now?” Mrs. Ford asked. “Is it the
Zoo this time, or Rittenhouse Square?”

“No, mamma,” Mabel replied, “do you mind if we go to Germantown?”

“To Germantown? Why, that is a long trip for two small bodies. Are you
sure you won’t get lost?”

“I’m sure, mamma; Harold knows just how to go.”

These secret expeditions and their object were known to Mrs. Ford, and
she usually permitted them when she felt sure they were safe; so, in
this case, after some questioning, she gave her consent, and the two
set forth.




CHAPTER IV.


After leaving the car, the way for Harold and Mabel led through a
quiet, shady street, where old houses stood each side the road, and the
children were rather inclined to think it a more pleasant place than
where they lived.

“The reason I like it,” said Harold, “is because there was a battle
fought here; my father told me all about it, and he showed me the house
where the fight was the hardest, and there are bullets buried in the
walls; it is called the old Chew house.”

“Was it William Penn that fought the battle?” asked Mabel, with a
desire to appear interested.

“No-o,” returned Harold, in a tone of disgust; “of course, it was not.
It was General Washington. William Penn didn’t fight. Why, don’t you
know, he was a Quaker? You remember how he loved peace, and made the
treaty with the Indians.”

“Oh, yes; I do remember now,” replied Mabel. “I’m awfully stupid about
history. I never remember who did things. Oh, Harold! see that old
woman limping along there; she looks like a Quaker; but she is so wild
and queer looking. I believe she is crazy; I am afraid of her.”

“Sho! There’s nothing the matter with her; she is just looking for
someone. Hear her call: ‘Bobby, Bobby.’ Don’t you hear her?” In
truth, the old woman, hobbling along with a crutch, did look somewhat
distracted, for her cap was awry, and her shawl dragged on the ground.
She paused, however, at sight of the children.

“You didn’t see anything of a big grey cat, with a collar on, as you
come along, did you?” she asked.

The children shook their heads.

“Dear, dear; I’m afraid he’s so scared that he’ll never come back. I
caught sight of some boys setting their dog on him two or three hours
ago, and I’ve been tramping about hunting for him ever since. I’m
nearly distracted, and I can’t walk another step with my lame hip.”

The children looked at each other. If they stopped now they would,
maybe, miss the sale; but Mabel spoke her thought.

“I don’t care, I’m going to hunt up that poor, frightened kitty. Which
way did he go?” She turned to the old woman.

“Down the lane, in that direction.”

“We’ll look for him, and if we find him, we’ll come back and tell you.
I don’t suppose we could catch him, for he wouldn’t know us.”

“Thank thee, child. Thee is very good to turn aside for an old woman,”
was the answer Mabel received.

Up and down the two children trudged; the afternoon grew shorter and
shorter, and at last, up in a tree Mabel caught sight of pussy, and
back they went to where the old woman still sat on her steps waiting
for them.

“We’ve found him!” cried Harold. “He’s up a tree. Mabel saw him first.
Now, what shall we do to get him down?”

“Thee has brought good news, and I’m very thankful,” said the old
woman. “He’s all I’ve got, and we’ve kept house together for fifteen
years. He’s old, for a cat, but is still spry; he can’t bite much, but
he can scratch, and I’m afraid he might be hurt somewhere, and couldn’t
get home, and would die off there alone. Let me see, what is the best
thing to be done. I’m afraid my lameness will prevent me from walking
any further.”

“I can climb the tree,” said Harold, “but how will I get him down?”

“I’ll get thee a net bag, and maybe thee can manage to get him into
that by throwing it over him and drawing the strings; then he’ll be
safe enough, and so will thee, too. Thee is sure thee is not afraid?”

“I’ll try my best to get him,” said Harold, sturdily. And off the
children started to find Bobby still up in the tree.

Harold began to climb toward him, but the higher he went, the higher
did pussy go, till Mabel, in alarm, called: “You’ll fall, Harold;
the branches are getting so little. You’d better come down.” Harold,
sitting astride a limb, looked down at her.

“What’s up, sis?” said someone from the road.

Mabel turned, and saw a man sitting in a cart. “A cat,” she replied.
The man laughed, and climbed down from his seat.

“Your’n?” he asked.

“No, an old lady’s up the street; and we promised to try and get the
cat down for her. It was chased by some dogs and boys.”

“Pretty high up, ain’t she?” returned the man. “Your brother, there?”

“No; at least, he’s just like my brother; he lives at our house.”

The man stood rubbing his chin, and looking up in the tree.

“You had better come down, bub,” he called to Harold. “That there
cat’ll stay up there as long as you do. I’ll find a way to get her.”
And Harold began, slowly, to descend. “You just keep an eye on my horse
for a minute, and don’t let nobody run off with him, and I’ll find a
way to get your cat,” said the man, smiling down at Mabel.

He crossed the street, and entered a small butcher shop, coming out
presently with a bit of meat in his hand, and a long pole.

By this time, Harold had reached the ground, and both children were
calling, coaxingly, “Pussy, pussy, pussy;” but Bobby did not move. He
was away out on a slender limb, to which he clung steadfastly.

“It’ll most take a hook and ladder company to bring her down,” said
the man, “but I’ll try this before we call out the force.” He tied the
meat on the end of the pole, led his horse over so the cart would
stand under the tree; then he climbed up on the seat, and, by so doing,
could just reach the limb with his pole. Slowly he moved it along till
it dangled under the cat’s nose. This was too much for Bobby, and he
moved toward the tidbit, which the man drew slowly along till Bobby had
reached the trunk of the tree in trying to reach the meat. But here he
hesitated, and looked wildly around, fearing to go further.

“Here, sis, come take the pole,” the man called to Mabel, and she
obeyed.

“You can rest it agen the tree,” he said, “and just ease it down as
the cat follows. You and me has got to git out of the way,” he said to
Harold, “the crittur’s used to petticoats, and ain’t goin’ to trust
herself among men and boys.” He led his cart and horse away, bidding
Harold to follow, and the two kept out of sight, till Bobby, seeing the
coast clear of all but one little girl, began to descend. When he was
safely within catching distance the man rushed from behind the tree
where he had been hiding, grabbed Bobby, and thrust him into the bag
which Harold held.

“There you are!” said the man. “No, no! I don’t want no thanks; I ain’t
had such fun in a coon’s age. Here, take along this piece of meat; he’d
ought to have it; ’taint right to tempt critturs that way and then
disappint ’em.” And, giving them a good-natured nod as he mounted his
cart, he drove away.

“What an awfully good, kind man,” exclaimed Mabel, watching him depart.
“I couldn’t have believed anyone so rough, and in such coarse, dirty
clothes could be so nice.”

“He is a brick,” pronounced Harold. “Come, Mabel, we must hurry;
it’s getting awfully late, and I expect we shall miss the auction
altogether.”

“I don’t care, as long as we saved the kitty. Maybe the dogs would
have caught him, if he had tried to come down when we were not there.
Anyhow, the old Quaker lady was awfully distressed about him.”

“Yes, and do you know, I believe those fellows were just waiting
around, for I saw two or three peep out from the corner of a house, and
they were snickering and whispering; I believe they were the very ones.”

Although Bobby struggled and squirmed, he could not escape from the
bag, and was safely brought home, Harold not loosing his hold till he
had landed his charge within doors.

They were greeted joyfully by the old lady, who led them into a neat
sitting room. “Now, sit down here, my dears,” she said. “My name is
Deborah Knight, and I want to give thee a taste of my old-fashioned
cinnamon-bun. I don’t think there is any better made in Philadelphia
and I never ate it anywhere else. I am going to take Bobby upstairs in
my room, and give him a saucer of milk; so, wait here till I come back.”

Left to themselves, the children looked around the room, which was cosy
and filled with old-fashioned furniture. Mabel’s eyes wandered over the
various articles on the mantel, and the tables, but Harold’s attention
was attracted by an old bookcase filled with books. He tip-toed over
to it, and began to read the titles. “We might find the book here,”
said Harold; “See, there are some real old ones here, and this is an
old house; the furniture is, I know, and so are those portraits in the
queer frames.”

The two children knelt before the shelves, and eagerly read each title
as best they could, but the book they so desired was not among them.

Mrs. Knight entering the room, found them thus occupied. “What do you
find there, children?” she asked. “Does thee like books, Harold? I’ll
show thee one with some pretty pictures in it. But here now, help
thyself and thee too, Mabel,” and she set a plate of toothsome bun and
two glasses of milk before them. “Bobby’s all right,” she told them.
“No one knows how I felt about him. When one doesn’t have anyone much
but a cat to care for, it becomes a matter of deep concern if anything
happens to him. Some persons set store by old furniture and houses and
books, but my cat is worth more to me than all such things.”

“Mabel’s father just loves old books,” Harold informed her, “and we’ve
been hunting for a very special one for him, but we can’t find it;
we’ve been to all the old book-stores in the city.”

“Indeed, that is too bad,” returned Mrs. Knight. “I wish I might be
able to help thee.” She considered the subject for a moment and then
went on: “I have a pile of old books up in the garret, but I fear it
would not be much use to examine them. I was intending to sell them to
the junk man; they are of no use to me, and I am getting ready to go
into the country, where I can live secure from dogs and bad boys.”

At the mention of the old books, Mabel became too excited to help
herself to the tempting food before her, and began breathlessly:
“Those books, I wonder if you would let us see them before you do the
junk man. It is a very old book that we have been hunting for, and you
know, it might happen to be among those you have.”

“Of course, I’ll let thee see them, and welcome,” returned Mrs. Knight;
“it isn’t quite dark yet, and the garret is a light one for it faces
the west and gets the last rays of the sun. Eat thy bun, and then I’ll
let thee look at whatever I have.”

At this, the children hastily dispatched their treat, declaring nothing
ever could be better, and then they followed Mrs. Knight up the queer,
narrow stairs which led to the garret.




CHAPTER V.


Over by a little dormer window in the garret, they found the pile of
books, and Mrs. Knight left them to make their examination by the fast
waning light of the afternoon.

One by one, Mabel and Harold laid the books aside, after peeping inside
the covers. They divided the lot, and each took a certain number to
examine.

Mabel was about half way down the heap upon which she was at work,
when, suddenly, she gave a little cry of joy: “Oh, Harold; here it is!
It is, it is! Look; do look!”

[Illustration: “O, HAROLD, HERE IT IS!”]

Harold dropped the musty volume he had just picked up, and came over
to where Mabel was, hardly willing to believe that she was right in
making such an announcement.

“Well, I’ll be switched if it isn’t!” he said, after looking it over
carefully.

“Oh, do let us hurry down with it to Mrs. Knight! Oh, Harold, do you
suppose she will sell it to me?” Mabel said, eagerly.

“Of course, I think she will,” Harold answered from the stairs, down
which he was going post-haste.

Mabel followed, holding tightly to the book, and they quite startled
not only the old lady, but her cat, who was sitting in her lap.

Bobby fled under the sofa, with tail twice its usual size, as the
children burst into the room, crying: “We’ve found it, we’ve found it!”

“Softly, my dears; softly. You have scared poor Bobby, who is so
nervous after his late troubles; I think he is afraid his enemies are
upon him again.”

“Poor Bobby,” said Mabel, gently, pausing in the centre of the room.
“We wouldn’t hurt you for the world. See, Mrs. Knight; we did find the
book. Will you sell it to me; I have five dollars to buy it with?”

“Five dollars? The whole lot wouldn’t bring that!” exclaimed Mrs.
Knight.

“Oh, but it would,” returned Mabel, honestly; “for one of those books
sold a day or two ago for fifteen.”

“Does thee really mean it? Well, my cat is worth more than that to me;
so, take the book, and be welcome to it.”

Mabel could hardly believe her ears. “Oh,” she exclaimed; “do you
really mean to give it to me?”

“I would scarce tell thee to take it, unless I meant it; and, in
my opinion, it is very little to give. I cannot see why thee should
consider it of any value.”

“But,” went on honest Mabel, “we know it is worth a great deal, for the
man who bought the one we saw, said he wouldn’t take fifty dollars for
it.”

“And I would not take a hundred dollars for my cat. Besides, I am an
old woman, with neither kit nor kin, and when I die, what I have will
go to charity; so, if the book is of any use to thee, take it, child;
it is a very small thing to me in return for what thee has done.”

Mabel’s radiant face expressed her thanks, without her words. “Now, we
must go,” she said, after she had repeated her words of appreciation,
again and again. “Oh, see how dark it is getting. Mamma will be
dreadfully worried, I’m afraid.”

“Then I’ll not keep thee a moment,” Mrs. Knight said. “Come again, if
thee cares to visit an old, lame woman and her cat. I shall be glad to
see you both at any time, and if there is anything I can do for either
of you, it will give me pleasure to do it.”

They promised to come again, and made their farewells, then set out for
the cars.

“Just think,” said Mabel, as they turned the corner, “if we hadn’t
stopped to help Mrs. Knight to find her cat, we might never have been
able to get the book.”

“That’s what they call ‘bread upon the waters,’” returned Harold,
sagely.

Mabel was a little puzzled, until Harold explained what it meant.

“Oh, I suppose it is about the same as ‘one good turn deserves
another,’” she decided.

“Dear me, how long the cars are coming,” said Harold. “Your mamma will
think we are lost, and won’t believe I am taking very good care of you.”

They reached home at last, but not before Mrs. Ford had, indeed, begun
to feel much worried at their long absence. But she did not scold,
after she had heard their joyous voices at her door, and learned what
had detained them.

Mabel concluded her story with: “So, you see, we couldn’t help it. Was
it very wrong to stay, mamma?”

“Perhaps not; although it has given me an anxious hour. Still, it is
worth that much to see my little girl relieved of her anxiety, and to
know that she has well earned her right to be trusted again. And also,
that she has proven, beyond question, that she is honest and faithful.
Papa will be so very glad, dear.”

“May I go to him right away? Is he in the library?” Mabel asked.

“Yes, he is there; and you may go right away.”

Mabel turned, a little doubtfully, to where Harold had stood a moment
before; but he had taken in the situation, and had left the room. “Oh,
Harold isn’t here,” said the little girl. “Mamma, ought I to ask him to
go with me to papa?”

“You would rather not?”

“Don’t you think I ought to, when he helped me so much about getting
the book?”

“Not necessarily; and I think he has gone off on purpose, for I am sure
he understands how you feel. If he comes back, I’ll tell him that you
intended to ask him. Now, run along, dearie.”

It had been many weeks since Mabel had crossed the threshold of the
library, and her father looked up in surprise, as he saw her at the
door.

“Mamma said I might come,” she began eagerly, “and oh, papa, I have the
book; here it is.”

“The book? What book?” He took the package mechanically, while Mabel
stood on tip-toe with her hands tightly clasped, and her eyes fixed on
his face.

As Mr. Ford’s gaze rested on the old book with its dull covers, his
surprise was evident. “Why, Mabel,” he exclaimed, “where did you get
this? It is even an older edition than mine, and in quite as good, if
not better condition than mine was originally. Tell me about it, little
daughter.” And he drew her kindly to his knee.

Then Mabel poured forth her tale, beginning with her resolve to make
good, if possible, the mischief she had done. “For you know, papa,”
she concluded by saying, “you always have told me that one ought never
to be in debt, and so-- Are you pleased, papa? Do you trust me again?”

He kissed her and drew her closer. “Indeed I do, dear child,” he
answered.

“And I may come into the library again?”

“Just as before.”

Mabel gave a little satisfied sigh. It was so good to have all
restrictions taken away.

“Now I must go to work again, daughter,” said her father. “Thank you
very much for getting me the book; and, yes, I think I shall have to
give you the other one. Keep it on your shelves, and perhaps it will
remind you of two or three things.”

“What?”

“Can you guess?”

“One is, not to meddle with what isn’t mine.”

“Yes, that is one.”

“And the other--I can’t guess, papa.”

“That ‘a wrong confessed is half redressed’, and that your father has
very great respect for the honor and justice, and self-sacrifice his
little daughter has shown.”

Then Mabel left him, and trudged upstairs feeling very happy. On
her way down again her mother met her. “Mrs. Lewis was here this
afternoon,” she said, “and she said we must all come to the lawn party.
She told me there seemed to be some coolness between Marie and you, but
she hoped that nothing serious was the matter.”

“Oh, mamma, do you think Marie has said anything about me to her
mother?”

“Perhaps, but if she has, Mrs. Lewis does not seem to attach much
importance to it. If mammas were to take seriously all the little
fusses their children get into, I am afraid they would have a hard time
of it.”

Mabel stood patting the baluster softly. She was thinking very soberly.
Presently she looked up, “Mamma, do you mind if I give the five dollars
to the Cuban orphans?” she asked.

“I have not the slightest objection.”

“Won’t the girls be surprised?”

“Do you want them to be?”

“Why, yes, I think so. They were very mean to me, to be sure, and we
have scarcely spoken for weeks. Would you go to the lawn party if you
were I, mamma? I don’t think you know how hateful they were,” and then
she told her story.

“They were very unjust, I admit,” her mother told her, “but I think
they will be very much ashamed of themselves when they see you willing
to help them so generously. Yes, I think you and Alice and Harold
should all go, even if the girls have been unkind. It will not be a
social affair, remember, and if the cause is good the rest does not
matter.”

“But about the money, mamma; I was going to ask you to send it for me.”

“Wouldn’t you rather spend it at the lawn party? You might give a part
of it to the fund, but you’ll be doing just the same if you buy things
from the girls, and, besides, it will be pleasant for them to feel that
they have such a good customer. What was the reason you thought you
would not spend it there?”

“Because--because--I didn’t want to show off,” Mabel answered, shyly.

Mrs. Ford put her arm around the child. “I think you have already
sacrificed enough, dear,” she said. “No one doubts that you have the
right feeling. Never mind what the girls think, but go and enjoy
yourself. I promised Mrs. Lewis that I would send a contribution
of biscuits and salad, and several of the neighbors have promised
me something. So I shall probably send you and Harold off foraging
to-morrow; at least, I’ll let you collect some of the articles for me.”

“Mamma, Mrs. Knight has such beautiful flowers; I wonder if she
wouldn’t give us some? She said she would be glad to do anything she
could for us, because we helped her to get Bobby.”

Mrs. Ford considered for a moment. “If you want to go and ask her, I
see no harm in it, but you’d better wait till Friday morning, so the
flowers will be fresh, if you get any.”

Therefore, Mrs. Knight received a second visit from the children, as
she was busy making some of her famous cinnamon-bun, on Friday morning.
Mabel explained their errand and met with a hearty response.

“Give you some flowers? To be sure, I will, gladly; and you can have
every one in the garden, if you want them.”

“Oh, we couldn’t carry every one,” said Harold, in all seriousness.
Mrs. Knight laughed. “Thee is literal enough for a Friend,” she said.
“Then I will not give thee all my flowers, but how would thee like
a loaf of my bun? I’ll warrant they’ll not have any like it at thy
friend’s party, Mabel. But I give it to thee, and thee must donate it
in thy name.”

“Oh, would that be fair?” asked the little girl.

“Does thee think a Friend would tell thee to do a thing unfair? Then if
thy compunctions are even more tender than mine I will give it to thee
to do with as thee chooses.”

“But, can you spare it, Mrs. Knight?”

“I can make more when I want it,” she returned. “I always keep it on
hand, for I am fond of it myself, thee sees.”

Therefore, with their hands and arms laden, they returned to the
city, and the exclamations of appreciation which met them when their
donations were handed in, warmed their hearts mightily, and made
Mabel, at least, feel much more that she was a welcome guest.

Still, Marie and Ethel had not yet greeted her, and she rather
anxiously waited to find out how they would act when they saw her
there.




CHAPTER VI.


Marie Lewis’ pretty home in West Philadelphia looked very bright and
attractive on the afternoon of the lawn party. Mabel and Harold stood
looking around at the tables and booths.

“That’s the tea-house,” said Mabel, indicating a gay structure at one
end of the grounds. “Ethel is going to help serve the tea, and her
sister is the Rebecca at the Well, where the lemonade is. I think we’ll
get some lemonade first thing, for I am so thirsty.”

They sauntered over to the well, passing the tea pagoda on their way.
Just here Mrs. Lewis stopped them. She had in her hands a plate of Mrs.
Knight’s cinnamon-bun. “Come right in here, Mabel,” she said. “I’m
taking this to the tea-house; it will be so nice to serve with the tea.
Have you seen Marie? Here is Ethel, too.”

The girls looked at each other rather sheepishly as they saw Mabel.
Mrs. Lewis went on: “Just think, girls, how Mabel has worked for us.
She brought those lovely flowers over on the middle table, and besides
those and this delicious bun, she has given three dollars, all herself,
to the fund.”

“Oh!” Marie blushed up to the roots of her hair, and looked at Ethel.
Mrs. Lewis passed on, leaving the four children standing there, rather
embarrassed at the situation.

Harold broke the silence by saying, with a little amused smile: “Come
on, Mabel, we were going to get some lemonade, you know.”

“Oh,” Ethel started forward, “don’t go away yet. I--we--you know we
didn’t know.”

“But we were horrid,” Marie broke in, “and I’m awfully ashamed of
myself, really I am, Mabel, and I think it was sweet of you to come
this afternoon, after the way we behaved. Don’t you, Ethel?”

“Yes, I do,” replied Ethel, a little awkwardly. It was harder for her
to yield than for Marie. “But why didn’t you say, in the first place,
that you were going to give such a lot?” she asked, turning to Mabel.
“You didn’t say you’d save up and give more than any of us.”

Mabel looked down. She couldn’t explain.

But Harold was equal to the occasion. “Because she thought she had a
debt to pay; to make good something that was spoiled, and until she
knew about that she thought she oughtn’t to call the money hers, you
know.”

“Oh, I think that was right,” Marie exclaimed. She gave Mabel a little
squeeze. “I’m so glad,” she said in a low tone. “You’re a dear, just a
dear, Mabel, and I’ll never get mad with you and treat you so again.
Truly, I wanted to be friends. I have missed you so much, all this
time.”

It was not so easy for Ethel to give in, but, finally, she, too, showed
her good will by opening a box of caramels she was carrying. She
offered them to Mabel and Harold. “I know they are good,” she said,
“for my aunt made them. Take a whole lot, Mabel.” And she gave her a
generous supply.

However, glad as Mabel was that all was smooth sailing again, she did
not feel quite happy with the girls, and so she and Harold wandered
off to seek out their own amusements. After they had eaten all the
ice-cream and cake of which they were capable, and had bought more
candy and had had more lemonade than was good for them, they found a
little corner on one of the piazzas, and here they decided to settle
down, for awhile, and watch the people, who were now beginning to
gather rapidly.

“I’m awfully tired,” said Mabel. “I just feel as if my feet didn’t
belong to me. Harold, I was just thinking that your papa will perhaps
know some of the Cuban orphans, if any of his friends get killed.”

Harold’s face took on a serious look as it always did when his father
was mentioned. “I wish I knew about father,” he said, after a pause,
“I haven’t heard for two weeks, and neither has Drake.”

“Oh,” Mabel wished that she had not said anything about Captain Evans’
friends and their orphans.

“You see,” Harold went on, “the last time we did hear he was still at
camp, but he expected to be ordered to Cuba at any time, and I suppose
he may be on his way there. Of course, I want him to be as brave as the
others, but I get scared sometimes, for fear he will be killed.”

“Oh, then would you be a Cuban orphan?” Mabel asked, in an awe-stricken
tone.

“Why, not exactly. I don’t know whether it means those who fight in
Cuba, or those who are Cuban people; it might be either way. Don’t
let’s talk about it any more. Aren’t there a lot of people here now?
It’s not been so crowded since we came.”

Just then two gentlemen sauntered up and stood looking at the gay scene
before them. One was Marie’s father, Mabel knew.

“There’s not much chance of our having an occasion like this another
year,” Mr. Lewis remarked: “The war won’t last long.”

Mabel nudged her companion, and they listened with all their ears.

“Too bad, though, the way our fellows have had to be sacrificed at
camp,” returned Mr. Lewis’ friend. “Every day I hear of someone from
here having succumbed to typhoid fever, and the warm weather will not
improve the conditions, I am afraid. By the way, you knew Captain
Evans. I learned at the club on my way uptown, that he was gone. Poor
fellow, as nice a man as I ever knew. Died of typhoid fever.”

Harold clutched Mabel’s arm and turned very pale. “Did you hear?” he
whispered.

Mabel nodded; she understood. “Perhaps there is some mistake,” she
whispered, in return. “Wait, I want to ask something.”

She went up to Mr. Lewis, who looked down at her kindly. “If you
please, Mr. Lewis,” she said, “That Captain Evans you know, that you
were just talking about, did he have any little boy?”

Mr. Lewis glanced inquiringly at his friend, who nodded. “Yes, I think
so,” he made answer.

“And is his name Harold?” Mabel’s eyes were getting very moist, and she
gave a quick little gasp.

The gentleman seemed to be trying to remember. “Why, let me see; yes,
I am pretty sure he has. I think I’ve heard him call his boy Harry.
Yes, that’s it; Harry.”

Mabel glanced around, but only caught sight of Harold’s retreating
figure. She ran quickly after him; and, taking hold of his hand, she
held it tightly. “We’ll go home and tell mamma,” she whispered.

Harold bit his lip, and tried to keep back the tears, but hurried on.

They were not long in reaching home, and then Harold broke away from
Mabel, and she saw him disappear into his room.

Her sympathetic little heart was too full for speech as she burst into
Mrs. Ford’s room and buried her face in her mother’s lap.

“Why, my little girl,” exclaimed Mrs. Ford; “did the girls treat you
badly, after all? I am so sorry; I hoped it would be all right, and
that you would have no more trouble.”

“It isn’t the girls,” Mabel sobbed; “they were lovely; it’s Harold.”

“Why, dear me, how has he hurt your feelings; you have been getting
along so beautifully together? What has he done?”

“He hasn’t done anything,” Mabel said, between her sobs; “it’s his
father.”

“His father! Has he come back?”

No answer, but a shake of the brown locks.

“Oh, I see; he has sent for Harold. Well, dear; we knew that would have
to be sometime. Don’t cry about it; but try to make Harold happy while
he is here.”

“It isn’t that,” Mabel found voice to say.

“Then, what is it--what has his father done?”

“He’s died, and Harold is a Cuban orphan,” Mabel replied, with a fresh
burst of tears.

“My dear, are you sure? Come, tell me about it; I don’t understand. We
have not heard a word of it. Look up and tell me, child.”

Mabel managed to convey her news, though in a somewhat disjointed
manner.

Mrs. Ford looked grave, and went to Harold’s door; but, receiving no
answer to her gentle knock, she went in, and saw that the little fellow
had flung himself across the bed, and was crying convulsively. He
raised his head as Mrs. Ford entered, and came to the arms she held out
to him.

She gathered him closely to her. “Don’t give up hope, dear child,” she
said. “I think there may be a mistake; and, under any circumstances,
you know we love you, and are glad to keep you with us.”

Mabel had crept in softly. “Oh, mamma, always?”

“Perhaps.”

“Oh, do say always,” she begged; “and let Harold be my brother; then
I’ll not be the middle one any more, and I’ll try--oh, Harold! I will
try to be as much like a boy as I can, and as mamma will let me. I’ll
play anything you like to have me. I’ll climb trees and all; and I’ll
even try not to be afraid of cows.”

Mrs. Ford could but smile; but she added more comforting words till
Harold at last lifted his head and said: “Where is Don? I want Don.”
And Mabel, delighted to be able to do something, flew to bring the dear
dog, and with Don hugged up close to him Harold, after a while, fell
asleep.

It was warm, mild May weather, and Mabel, too excited to sleep, crept
to the window to watch for her father that night, for she felt that he
would, perhaps, be able to decide upon the truth of the report they had
heard, and besides, her mother had said, that if it were not too late,
he would go down to the club, and gather particulars. But it was very
late; a meeting of some kind had kept him at the university, and Mabel
grew very weary, before she saw his familiar form coming in at the gate.

She crept softly down stairs, and entered her mother’s room in time to
hear Mr. Ford say, as he looked at his watch: “I am afraid it is too
late to-night to do anything, but I will inquire into the matter the
very first thing in the morning. Poor little fellow. I hope he will
sleep soundly. His father was all in all to him.”

“Don’t say was,” said Mrs. Ford, “for I do not quite believe the
report.”

Mr. Ford shook his head. “I wouldn’t be too sanguine,” he returned.
“You say Harold told you his father generally called him Harry?”

“Yes, that is the part which makes it seem as if there were no mistake.”

“And can’t Harold stay here always?” Mabel asked, as her father lifted
her to his knee.

“That will be as his aunt says. We have no right to decide upon that.
You will still have to be our boy, I think,” he said, smiling, for it
had always been a joke between Mabel and her father, that of her being
the boy of the family, and Mabel liked to be called “Phil,” for she
always insisted that she ought to have had her father’s name.

“But what are you doing up this time of night?” Mr. Ford asked. “You
should have been in bed and asleep hours ago.”

Mabel gave him a mighty hug, and crept upstairs again, feeling very
sorry for Harold, and wishing that she could do something to comfort
him.

The re-instatement in the favor of her friends seemed a small thing,
compared to this last matter of interest, and after she had cuddled
down again by the side of her sister Alice, she got up and went to the
door leading to Harold’s room, to whisper to him, through the key hole,
“Good-night, Harold, I hope you will sleep well, and I’ll stay awake
all night if you think you will feel lonely.”

But Harold did not hear her, for he had cried himself to sleep long
before, and, though Mabel’s promise to stay awake was made in all good
faith, it was not ten minutes later that she was soundly sleeping too,
little dreaming that she would be the first one to bring comfort to the
boy’s sorrowful heart.




CHAPTER VII.


Worn out with his grief, Harold slept rather late the next morning,
and Mrs. Ford would not have him disturbed. Since it was Saturday,
Mabel did not have to go to school, and she amused herself as best
she could in the garden. She wished that Harold would come down, but
she concluded that, until he did, she would occupy herself by playing
marbles. The fact that they hurt her knuckles did not deter her from
making up her mind to keep on till she could do as well as Harold.

[Illustration: “SHE OCCUPIED HERSELF WITH TRYING TO PLAY MARBLES.”]

She was so absorbed in this employment that she did not hear the gate
open, nor see who had entered, till she heard someone close beside her,
say: “That’s a pretty good shot for a little girl,” and looking up,
she saw a gentleman whose face looked rather familiar.

She jumped to her feet and stood gazing at him, her recollection who
it was gradually returning, and then she cried out: “Why, you weren’t
alive yesterday.”

Captain Evans, for it was he, threw back his head and laughed heartily
in such a very alive way that Mabel could not doubt for a moment that
he was flesh and blood. “I feel very much alive to-day,” he assured
her. “Are you Miss Ford?” he asked.

“No,” Mabel returned, “I’m only the middle one, and I’ll not be
anything else, till Alice is married.”

Captain Evans laughed again. Mabel thought he seemed a very jolly
person.

“You’re really Harold’s father,” she said. “Oh, do hurry in and see
him, for he thought he didn’t have a father any more, and he was so
miserable.”

Captain Evans instantly became grave.

“Did he really believe that? My poor little boy,” and he hurried up the
walk.

Mabel, flying ahead of him, ran up the steps crying joyfully, “Harold!
Harold! Quick!” And she almost fell over him as he appeared at the head
of the stairs.

“He is alive! He is! He is!” she cried. “Come down.”

But Harold needed no second bidding, for he had caught sight of a
beloved figure already mounting the stairs, and, with one shout of joy,
he threw himself into his father’s arms, and was fairly lifted off his
feet in the energy of the greeting that his father gave him.

It was all easily enough explained, when one realizes that Evans is
not a very uncommon name, and had there been time to make a few more
inquiries, the fact would have been brought to light that the Captain
Evans who died at camp was another man, whose son Harry was a a boy of
fifteen, with several sisters and brothers.

Harold and Mabel felt very sorry for these other Evanses, even while
they were so happy over the turn affairs had taken.

“Your aunt is still in no state of health to take charge of a restless
little boy,” Captain Evans told his son, “and so I thought I must get
leave to come on for a few days, and look after my son, for we have
imposed long enough upon the kindness of these good friends.”

Harold’s face fell. “And where am I going?” he asked.

“I don’t know just yet, but I am corresponding with someone in the
country, and I hope to make arrangements to send you to a farm for the
summer. You would like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” replied Harold, “if Mabel could go, too.”

Mabel, listening, took hold of Captain Evans’ fingers and looked into
his face earnestly. “Would it be very far away?” she asked.

“No, only up here in Pennsylvania, a little way.”

“Won’t you please to tell mamma about it?”

“Certainly, I shall be glad to,” returned the captain.

And the outcome was that, not only was the farm found to be the place
for Harold, but for the Ford family, too; with the exception of Mr.
Ford, who was going abroad for the summer.

“It is just the spot for us,” Mrs. Ford declared; “a place where I can
turn the children loose, and know that they are safe.”

Mabel turned a beaming face toward Harold. “Do you hear that?” she
exclaimed. “We’ll be turned loose, and I can go fishing, and I can
climb trees and fences, and play all sorts of boy plays, without having
the girls think I am a tom-boy. Oh, won’t it be fun? And we will be
together all summer, and in the fall--” she looked at Captain Evans.

“Oh, that’s too far to think about now,” he answered, “but if the war
is over, and if I am spared, I shall be able to make my plans more
readily than I can now.”

“I hope the people will be nice and kind on the farm and will let me
have Don,” said Harold.

“That is the only difficulty,” his father told him. “I’m afraid you
cannot take Don with you, but Drake has promised to take charge of him,
and if all goes well you can have him again when you get back. It is
too bad, I know,” he continued, seeing how disappointed Harold looked,
“but you would have had to leave him anyhow, if you had gone to your
aunt’s, for she would not have received the dog, I know.”

“Why can’t I take Don to the farm?” inquired Harold, still hoping for
consent.

“Because Mrs. Knight doesn’t allow dogs on the place. She has a
favorite cat, and, at first, was hardly willing to take a boy. For some
reason she doesn’t approve of boys or dogs, but Mrs. Ford seems to have
overcome her objections.”

“Mrs. Knight!” Mabel exclaimed. “Oh, mamma, is it our Mrs. Knight?
Deborah Knight? She was going to move into the country; I remember. Has
she gone? Is it to her house we are going? I do hope it is.”

“Yes, it is your Deborah Knight,” her mother told her. “I was going to
keep it as a little surprise for you, but it doesn’t matter. As soon
as she is settled on her farm, she is to let us know. When I saw her,
and told her who I was, she immediately remembered you and Harold, and
consented at once to take us all into her home. She has a large house,
and thinks she will be rather lonely there, and seemed really pleased
at the idea of having ‘those two kind and tender children,’ as she
calls you.”

“Is she going to be a farmer herself? How can she, when she is lame?”
Mabel asked.

Mrs. Ford smiled. “No, she has a man and his wife who attend to the
farm for her. They live in a little house on the place. Mrs. Knight has
changed a good many of her plans in order to accommodate us, and I hope
you children will give her no trouble.”

Of course the children protested that they would not; and, indeed, they
were quite as reasonably good as one could expect, and if they did,
once in a while, get into mischief, Mrs. Knight excused it because of
the unfailing respect they showed to Bobby. This important member of
the household seemed to enjoy country life after he had once become
used to the change of residence, and rested secure from his natural
enemies--boys and dogs.

Like the grasshopper, the children played through the summer days.
The fact that Marie Lewis had gone to the White Mountains, and Ethel
Morris was at Bar Harbor, did not, in the least, matter to Mabel,
who would not have exchanged Mrs. Knight’s grove and garden and barn
for all the watering places in the world, and who wanted no better
companion than Harold.

In the midst of summer came the news of peace, and, later on, all Mrs.
Knight’s guests went back to town to see the parades during the week
of the Peace Jubilee celebration. But this did not take place before
Mabel and Harold had a little jubilee of their own, consequent upon the
news that Captain Evans, at Mrs. Ford’s request, would allow Harold to
remain with the Fords for a year, at least, and longer if his father
were still on active duty.

And, will you believe it? Harold, dressed in uniform, marched with his
father’s regiment the day of the military procession. To be sure, he
did not go all the way, but Mabel, up on one of the stands, felt her
heart swell with pride as the regiment swung around the corner of the
Public Buildings, and she saw her little companion bravely trying to
keep step with the soldiers. And when the crowd cheered and cheered,
she thought it must be all for Harold, and she stood up and waved her
handkerchief till her arm was tired.

Harold saw her, and, after the troops had passed in review, his father
sent him to join his friends, and there they sat and looked at the
brave array of infantry, cavalry, artillery and marines.

“When I am grown, I am going to be a soldier,” Harold declared, all
enthusiasm.

Mabel looked sober. That was something a girl couldn’t be, although
she thought it would be fine to march by Harold’s side in such a grand
procession.

But that evening, when the Captain told stories of suffering and
distress, or long marches and weary tramps through rain and sleet, or
under a scorching sun, or the horrors of a battle, Mabel concluded
that, after all, it was rather comforting to know that such things
could not be expected to come into her life, and she felt very sorry
for Harold, who, however, grew only more excited as the dangers were
made more plain.

“But the only heroes are not the men like Dewey and Hobson, and Schley
and Sampson,” Captain Evans said, at last. “I’ve seen the greatest
courage, though of another kind, exhibited in quiet homes and by those
of whom the world never hears. A small duty, which has no blare of
trumpets nor roll of drums to encourage one on to perform, sometimes
requires more real heroism than a charge in battle.”

Mabel knew that. She knew that everybody must fight something, and that
she, too, could be a soldier, in a quiet way. That to become weary and
to deny oneself, to face danger and temptation, was what was expected
of those who had enlisted under the banner of the great Captain.

So, she nodded her head gravely, and said, “Yes, I know.”

Harold’s face showed his appreciation, and as if with one voice they
broke out into the martial hymn: “Onward, Christian Soldiers.”

They sang it all through, and then quiet fell upon the group. From a
distance came the roll of drums. A returning regiment going to its
armory. Then all was still again, except for the voice of a cheery
little cricket shrilling out its peaceful song in some quiet corner of
the garden. Mabel snuggled up close to her mother. Don rested his head
lovingly on his little master’s knee. Content filled the hearts of all,
for this evening. The morrow would see Mabel at school, to battle with
more than books; would see Harold, too, fighting his way through his
first Latin lessons.

The year had taught them many things, but most of all, it had taught
them the value of truth and honor and loving forbearance.




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

  Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.