Outside the window of a small florist's shop Betty paused for an
instant. Then she stepped in and a little later came out carrying half a
dozen red roses and a bunch of holly and fragrant cedar. Curiously
enough, her expression in this short time had changed. Perhaps the
flowers gave the added color to her face. She was repeating something
over to herself and half smiling; but, as there were no people on the
street except a few dirty children who were playing cheerfully in the
gutter, no one observed her eccentric behavior.
[Illustration: She Came Out Carrying Red Roses, Holly and Cedar]
"As fuel is brought to the fire
So I purpose to bring
My strength,
My ambition,
My heart's desire,
My joy
And my sorrow
To the fire
Of humankind.
For I will tend,
As my fathers have tended,
And my father's fathers,
Since time began,
The fire that is called
The love of man for man,
The love of man for God."
Betty's delicate, eyebrows were drawn so close together that they
appeared almost heart shaped. "I fear I have only been tending the love
of a girl for herself these past few months, so perhaps it is just as
well that I should try to reform," she thought half whimsically and yet
with reproach. "Anyhow, I shall telephone Meg Everett this very
afternoon, though I am glad Esther does not know the reason Meg and I
have been seeing so little of each other lately, and that the fault is
mine, not hers."
By this time the girl had arrived in front of a large, dull, brown-stone
building in the middle of a dingy street, with a subdued hush about it.
Above the broad entrance hung a sign, "Home For Crippled Children." Here
for a moment Betty Ashton's courage seemed to waver, for she paused
irresolutely, but a little later she entered the hall. A week before she
had promised an acquaintance at the church where Esther was singing to
come to the children's hospital some day and amuse them by telling
stories. Since she had not thought seriously of her promise, although
intending to fulfill it when she had discovered stories worth the
telling. This morning while worrying over her own affair it had occurred
to her that the best thing she could do was to do something for some one
else. Hence the visit to the hospital.
Yet here at the moment of her arrival Betty had not the faintest idea of
what she could do or say to make herself acceptable as a visitor. She
had a peculiar antipathy to being regarded as a conventional
philanthropist, one of the individuals with the instinct to patronize
persons less fortunate.
Long ago when through her wealth and sympathy Betty had been able to do
helpful things for her acquaintances, always she had felt the same
shrinking sense of embarrassment, disliking to be thanked for
kindnesses. Yet actually in his last letter Anthony Graham had dared
remind her of their first meeting, an occasion she wished forgotten
between them both.
The matron of the children's hospital had been sent for and a little
later she was conducting Betty down a broad, bare hall and then ushering
her into a big sunlit room, not half so cheerless as its visitor had
anticipated.
There were two large French windows on the southern side and a table
piled with books and magazines. Near one of these windows two girls were
seated in rolling chairs reading. They must have been about fourteen
years old and did not look particularly frail. Across from them were
four other girls, perhaps a year or so younger, engaged in a game of
parchesi. On the floor in the corner a pretty little girl was sewing on
her doll clothes and another was hopping merrily about on her crutches,
interfering with every one else. Only two of the cot beds in the room
were occupied, and to these Betty's eyes turned instinctively. In one
she saw a happy little German maiden with yellow hair and pale pink
cheeks propped up on pillows, busily assorting half a dozen colors of
crochet cotton. In the other a figure was lying flat with the eyes
staring at the ceiling. And at the first glance there was merely an
effect of some one indescribably thin with a quantity of short, curly
dark hair spread out on the white pillow.
The matron introduced Betty, told her errand, and then went swiftly
away, leaving her to do the rest for herself, and the rest appeared
exceedingly difficult. The older girls who were reading closed their
books politely and bowed. Yet it was self-evident that they would have
preferred going on with their books to hearing anything their visitor
might have to tell. Among the parchesi players there was a hurried
consultation and then one of them looked up. "We will be through with
our game in a few moments," she explained with a note of interrogation
in her voice.
"Oh, please don't stop on my account," the newcomer said hastily.
On the big table Betty put down her roses and evergreens, not liking to
present them with any formality under the circumstances. She could see
that the little girl who was sewing in the corner was smiling a welcome
to her and that the little German Maedchen in bed was pleased with her
winter bouquet. For she had whispered, "Schoen, wunderschoen," and stopped
assorting her crochet work. Then the child on crutches came across the
floor, and picking up one of the roses placed it on the pillow by the
dark-eyed girl, who showed not the least sign of having noticed the
attention.
"She will look at it in a moment if she thinks we are not watching her,"
explained Betty's one friendly confidant, motioning to a chair to
suggest that their visitor might sit down if she wished.
It was an extremely awkward situation. Betty sat down. She had come to
make a call at a place where her society was not desired and though they
were only children, and she a grown woman, still she had no right to
intrude upon their privacy. She found herself blushing furiously.
Besides, what story had she to tell that would be of sufficient interest
to hold their attention? Had she not thought of at least a dozen, only
to discard them all as unsuitable?
"I believe you were going to entertain us, I suppose with a fairy
story," began one of the girls, still keeping her finger between the
covers of Little Women. It was hard luck to be torn away from that
delightful love scene between Laurie and Jo to hear some silly tale of
princes and princesses and probably a golden apple when one was fourteen
years old. However, this morning's visitor was so pretty it was a
pleasure to look at her. Besides, she had on lovely clothes and was
dreadfully embarrassed. Moreover, she was sitting quite still and
helpless instead of poking about, asking tiresome questions as most
visitors did. One could not avoid feeling a little sorry for her instead
of having to receive her pity.
Both wheeled chairs were now rolled over alongside Betty and Little
Women was closed and laid on the table. The next instant the parchesi
game was finished and the four players glanced with greater interest at
their guest. The girl who had been dancing about on her crutches hopped
up on the table.
"I am 'Cricket' not on the hearth, but on the table at this moment," she
confided gayly; "at least, that is what the girls here call me and it is
as good a name as any other. Now won't you tell us your name?"
"Betty Ashton," the visitor answered, still feeling ill at ease and
angry and disgusted with herself for not knowing how to make the best of
the situation. Yet she need no longer have worried. For there was some
silent, almost indescribable influence at work in the little company
until almost irresistibly most of its occupants felt themselves drawn
toward the newcomer. Of course, Polly O'Neill would have described this
influence as the Princess' charm and that is as good an explanation as
any other. But I think it was Betty Ashton's ability to put herself in
other people's places, to think and feel and understand for them and
with them. Now she knew that these eight girls, poor and ill though they
might be, did not want either her pity or her patronage.
"Well, fire away with your tale, Miss Ashton," suggested Cricket
somewhat impatiently, "and don't make it too goody-goody if you can help
it. Most of us are anxious to hear." Cricket had pretty gray eyes and a
great deal of fluffy brown hair, but otherwise the face was plain,
except for its clever, good-natured expression. She gave a sudden side
glance toward the figure on the bed only a dozen feet away and Betty's
glance followed hers.
She saw that the red rose had been taken off the pillow and that the
eyes that had been staring at the ceiling were gazing toward her.
However, their look was anything but friendly.
For some foolish, unexplainable reason the girl made Betty think of
Polly. Yet this child's eyes were black instead of blue, her hair short
and curly instead of long and dark. And though Polly had often been
impatient and dissatisfied, thank heaven she had never had that
expression of sullen anger and of something else that Betty could not
yet understand.
For Betty had of course to turn again toward her auditors and smile an
entirely friendly and charming smile.
"May I take off my hat first? It may help me to think," she said. Then
when Cricket had helped her remove both her coat and hat she sat down
again and sighed.
"Do you know I have come here under absolutely false pretences? I
announced that I had a story to tell, but I simply can't think of
anything that would entertain you in the least and I should so hate to
be a bore."
Then in spite of her twenty-one years, Betty Ashton seemed as young as
any girl in the room. Moreover, she was exquisitely pretty. Her auburn
hair, now neatly coiled, shone gold from the light behind her. Her
cheeks were almost too flushed and every now and then her dark lashes
drooped, shading the frank friendliness of her gray eyes. She wore a
walking skirt, beautifully tailored, and a soft white silk blouse with a
knot of her same favorite blue velvet pinned at her throat with her
torch-bearer's pin.
Agnes Edgerton, the former reader of Little Women, made no effort to
conceal her admiration. "Oh, don't tell us a story," she protested, "we
read such a lot of books. Tell us something about yourself. Real people
are so much more interesting."
"But there isn't anything very interesting about me, I am far too
ordinary a person," Betty returned. Then she glanced almost desperately
about the big room. There was a mantel and a fireplace, but no fire, as
the room was warmed with steam radiators. However, on the mantel stood
three brass candlesticks holding three white candles and these may have
been the source of Betty's inspiration.
Outside the smoky chimney tops of old Boston houses and factories reared
their heads against the winter sky, and yet Betty began her story
telling with the question: "I wonder if you would like me to tell you of
a summer twelve girls spent together at Sunrise Hill?" For in the glory
of the early morning, with the Camp Fire cabin at its base, Sunrise Hill
had suddenly flashed before her eyes like a welcome vision.