"Really, I am discouraged about that child," said Sister Agatha just
after Easter. She was standing at one of the schoolroom windows that
overlooked the yard; she spoke as if thoroughly vexed.
"What is it now--208 again?" Sister Angelica looked up from the copybook
she was correcting.
"Oh, yes, of course; it's always 208."
"Oh, she doesn't mean anything; it's only her high spirits; they must
have some vent."
"It's been her ruin being on the stage even for those few weeks, and
ever since the Van Ostends began to make of her and have her over for
that Christmas luncheon and the Sunday nights, the child is neither to
have nor to hold. What with her 'make believing' and her 'acting' she
upsets the girls generally. She ought to be set to good steady work; the
first chance I get I'll put her to it. I only wish some one would adopt
her--"
"I heard Father Honore--"
"Look at her now!" exclaimed Sister Agatha interrupting her.
Sister Angelica joined her at the window. They could not only see but
hear all that was going on below. With the garbage house as a
stage-setting and background to the performance, Flibbertigibbet was
courtesying low to her audience; the skirt of her scant gingham dress
was held in her two hands up and out to its full extent. The orphans
crouched on the pavement in a triple semi-circle in front of her.
"All this rigmarole comes of the theatre," said Sister Agatha grimly.
"Well, where's the harm? She is only living it all over again and giving
the others a little pleasure at the same time. Dear knows, they have
little enough, poor things."
Sister Agatha made no reply; she was listening intently to 208's orders.
The little girl had risen from her low courtesy and was haranguing the
assembled hundreds:
"Now watch out, all of yer, an' when I do the minute yer can clap yer
hands if yer like it; an' if yer want some more, yer must clap enough to
split yer gloves if yer had any on, an' then I'll give yer the coon
dance; an' then if yer like _that_, yer can play yer gloves are busted
with clappin' an' stomp yer feet--"
"But we can't," Freckles entered her prosaic protest, "'cause we're
squattin'."
"Well, get up then, yer'll have to; an' then if you stomp awful, an'
holler 'On-ko--on-ko!'--that's what they say at the thayertre--I'll give
yer somethin' else--"
"Wot?" demanded 206 suspiciously.
"Don't yer wish I'd tell!" said 208, and began the minuet.
It was marvellous how she imitated every graceful movement, every turn
and twist and bow, every courtesy to the imaginary partner--Freckles had
failed her entirely in this role--whose imaginary hand she held clasped
high above her head; her clumsy shoes slid over the flagging as if it
had been a waxed floor under dainty slippers. There was an outburst of
applause; such an outburst that had the audience really worn gloves,
every seam, even if French and handsewed, must have cracked under the
healthy pressure.
208 beamed and, throwing back her head, suddenly flung herself into the
coon dance which, in its way, was as wild and erratic as the minuet had
been stately and methodical. Wilder and wilder grew her gyrations--head,
feet, legs, shoulders, hair, hands, arms, were in seemingly perpetual
motion. The audience grew wildly excited. They jumped up, shouting
"On-ko--on-ko!" and accompanied their shouts with the stamping of feet.
A dexterous somersault on the dancer's part ended the performance; her
cheeks were flushed with exercise and excitement, her black mane was
loosened and tossed about her shoulders. The audience lost their heads
and even 206 joined in the prolonged roar:
"On-ko, 208--on-ko-o-o-oor! On-ko, Flibbertigibbet--some more--some
more!"
"It's perfectly disgraceful," muttered Sister Agatha, and made a
movement to leave the window; but Sister Angelica laid a gently
detaining hand on her arm.
"No, Agatha, not that," she said earnestly; "you'll see that they will
work all the better for this fun--Hark!"
There was a sudden and deep silence. 208 was evidently ready with her
encore, a surprise to all but the performer. She shook back the hair
from her face, raised her eyes, crossed her two hands upon her chest,
waited a few seconds until a swift passenger train on the track behind
the fence had smothered its roar in the tunnel depths, then began to
sing "The Holy City." Even Sister Agatha felt the tears spring as she
listened. A switch engine letting off steam drowned the last words, and
there was no applause. Flibbertigibbet looked about her inquiringly; but
the girls were silent. Such singing appeared to them out of the
ordinary--and so unlike 208! It took them a moment to recover from their
surprise; they gathered in groups to whisper together concerning the
performance.
Meanwhile Flibbertigibbet was waiting expectantly. Where was the well
earned applause? And she had reserved the best for the last! Ungrateful
ones! Her friends in the stone house always praised her when she did her
best,--but these girls--
She stamped her foot, then dashed through the broken ranks, making faces
as she ran, and crying out in disgust and anger:
"Catch me givin' yer any more on-kos, yer stingy things!" and with that
she ran into the basement followed by Freckles who was intent upon
appeasing her.
The two sisters, pacing the dim corridor together after chapel that
evening, spoke again of their little wilding.
"I didn't finish what I was going to tell you about 208," said Sister
Angelica. "I heard the Sister Superior tell Father Honore when he was
here the other day that Mr. Van Ostend had been to see her in regard to
the child. It seems he has found a place for her in the country with
some of his relations, as I understand it. He said his interest in her
had been roused when he heard her for the first time on the stage, and
that when he found Flibbertigibbet was the little acquaintance his
daughter had made, he determined to further the child's interests so far
as a home is concerned."
"Then there is a prospect of her going," Sister Agatha drew a breath of
relief. "Did you hear what Father Honore said?"
"Very little; but I noticed he looked pleased, and I heard him say,
'This is working out all right; I'll step across and see Mr. Van Ostend
myself.'--I shall miss her so!"
Sister Agatha made no reply. Together the two sisters continued to pace
the dim corridor, silent each with her thoughts; and, pacing thus, up
and down, up and down, the slender, black-robed figures were soon lost
in the increasing darkness and became mere neutral outlines as they
passed the high bare windows and entered their respective rooms.
Even so, a few weeks later when Number 208 left the Orphan Asylum on
----nd Street, they passed quietly out of the child's actual life and
entered the fitfully lighted chambers of her childish memory wherein, at
times, they paced with noiseless footsteps as once in the barren halls
of her orphanage home.