SONIA

"O dear, I did hope it wouldn't be awfully hot when we got back, but it

is," Lizette Stone sighed on the day they returned from camp. "Just

think of the breeze on the Lookout this very minute!"

Olga glanced over her shoulder with a smile as she threw open her door.

"Let's pretend it's cool here too," she said. "I'm so thankful to be

well and strong again that I'm determined to be satisfied with things as

they are. The camp was lovely and Miss Laura and the girls were dear,

but this is home, and my work is waiting for me, and I'm _able to do

it_. And you have your lovely work too, Lizette, and your home corner

across the hall."

Lizette looked at her half wondering, half envious, as she slowly pulled

out her hatpins. "I never knew a fever to change a girl as that one

changed you, Olga Priest," she said.

"Is the change for the better?"

"Yes, it is, but----"

"But what?" Olga questioned, half laughing, yet a little curious too.

[Illustration: "Just think of the Lookout this very minute!"]

"Well--all is, I can't keep up with you," Lizette dropped unconsciously

into one of her country phrasings. "I can't help getting into the

doleful dumps sometimes, and I can't--I just _can't_ be happy and

contented with the mercury at ninety-three. I guess it's easier for some

folks to stand the heat than it is for others."

"I think it is," Olga admitted. "Give me your hat. Now take that fan and

sit there by the window till I come back. I'm not so tired as you are,

and I must get something for our supper."

While she was gone Lizette sat thinking of the Camp with its shady woods

and blue water and wishing herself back there. She had had three weeks

there, but a hateful little imp was whispering in her ear that some of

the girls were staying four or five weeks, and it wasn't fair--it wasn't

_fair_! Of course it was better to earn her living doing embroidery than

in Goldstein's store, but still, some girls didn't have to earn their

living at all, and----

The door opened and Olga came breezily in, her hands full of bundles. "I

really ought to have taken a basket," she said. "There's the nicest

little home bakery opened just around the corner--I got bread there."

"I'm not a bit hungry," Lizette said listlessly, then started up, crying

out, "Well, I am ashamed of myself! I meant to have the table set when

you came back, and I forgot all about it."

"Never mind--I'll have it ready in a minute. Sit still, Lizette."

But Lizette insisted upon helping, and her face brightened as Olga set

forth fresh bread, nut cakes, ice cold milk, and a dish of sliced

peaches.

"Weren't you mistaken?" Olga asked with a laugh. "Aren't you a little

bit hungry?"

"Yes, I am. How good that bread looks--and the peaches."

"After all it is rather nice to be back here at our own little table,

isn't it?" Olga asked as they lingered over the meal.

Lizette looked at her curiously. "Olga Priest, what makes you so happy

to-night?" she demanded. "I never saw you so before."

"Maybe not quite so happy, but wasn't I happy all the time at camp?

Wasn't I, Lizette?"

"Yes--yes, you were, only I didn't notice it so much there with all the

girls, and something always going on. You never were so here before.

Sometimes you wouldn't smile for days at a time."

"I know. I hadn't realised then that I could be happy if I'd let myself

be--and that I had no right not to."

"No _right_ not to," Lizette echoed with a puzzled frown. "I don't see

_that_. I should think anybody might have the privilege of being blue if

she likes."

"No." Olga shook her head with decision. "No, not when she has health,

and work that she likes, and friends. A girl has no right to be unhappy

under those conditions--and I've found it out at last. I'm going to keep

my Camp Fire promises now as I never have done."

After a little silence she went on, "I've such beautiful plans for our

Camp Fire this year! One of them is to learn all we can about our

country. We can't have Jim," laughter flashed into her eyes as she

thought of him, "thinking us less patriotic than his beloved Scouts. And

we can see and learn so much right here in Washington! I'm ashamed to

think how little I know about this beautiful city where I've lived all

my life. I mean to 'know my Washington' thoroughly before I'm a year

older."

Lizette did not seem much interested in patriotism, but she laughed over

the remembrance of the indignation of the girls at Jim's remark about

their lack of it. "He did look so plucky, facing us all that day, didn't

he!" she said. "And he was scared too at the rumpus he had raised; but

all the same he didn't back down."

"No, Jim wouldn't back down if he thought he was right no matter how

scared he might be inside."

"Well," Lizette yawned, "I'm so sleepy I can hardly hold my eyes open.

Let's wash the dishes and then I'm going straight to bed."

She came in to breakfast the next morning in a different mood.

"Didn't we have a glorious rain in the night!" she cried gaily. "And it

left a lovely cool breeze behind it. Last night I felt like a wet rag,

but this morning I'm a different creature. It _is_ good to be 'home'

again, Olga, and I don't mind going back to the shop."

"That's good!" Olga's eyes were shining as they had shone the night

before.

The two set off together after breakfast, and wished each other good

luck as they parted at the door of Miss Bayly's shop. Lizette came back

at night jubilant. "I got my good luck, Olga," she cried. "I'm to have

eight a week now. Isn't that fine?"

"Indeed it is--congratulations, Lizette. And I had my good luck

too--better than I dared hope for--two splendid orders. Now we can both

settle down to work and get a nice start before the next Camp Fire

meeting. I'm going to try to keep half a day a week free for our

'learning Washington' trips."

"Personally conducted?" Lizette laughed.

"Personally conducted. Your company is solicited, Miss Stone, whenever

your other engagements will permit."

Over the tea-table they talked of work and Camp Fire plans, and then

Lizette went off to her own "corner" and Olga took up a book. She had

been reading for an hour when her quick ears caught the sound of

hesitating steps outside her door--steps that seemed to linger

uncertainly. Thinking that some stranger might have wandered in from the

street, she rose and quietly slipped her bolt. As she did so there came

a knock at the door. She stood still, listening intently. No one ever

came to her door except the landlady or the Camp Fire Girls, and none of

them would knock in this hesitating fashion. She was not in the least

timid, and when the knock was repeated she opened the door. She found

herself facing a woman, young, in a soiled and wrinkled dress and shabby

hat, and carrying a baby in her arms.

"Olga--it is Olga?" the woman exclaimed half doubtfully.

Olga did not answer. She stood staring into the woman's face and

suddenly her own whitened and her eyes widened with dismay.

"You?" she said under her breath. "_You!_"

"Yes, I--Sonia. Aren't you going to let me in?"

For an instant Olga hesitated, then she stood aside, but in that moment

all the happy hopefulness seemed to melt out of her heart. It was as if

a black shadow of disaster had entered the quiet room at the heels of

the draggled woman and her child.

"This is a warm welcome, I must say, to your own sister," Sonia said in

a querulous tone, as she dropped into the easiest chair and laid the

child across her knees. It made no sound, but lay as it was placed, its

eyes half closed and its tiny face pinched and colourless.

"I--I can't realise that it is really--you," Olga said. "Where did you

come from, and how did you find me?"

"I came from--many places. As to finding you--that was easy. You are not

so far from the old neighbourhood where I left you."

"Yes--you left me," Olga echoed slowly, her face dark with the old

sombre gloom. "You left me, a child of thirteen, with no money, and

mother--dying!"

"I suppose it was rather hard on you, but you were always a plucky one,

and I knew well enough you would pull through somehow. As to mother, of

course I didn't know--she'd been ailing so long," Sonia defended

herself, "and Dick wouldn't take 'no' for an answer. I _had_ to go with

him."

Olga was silent, but in her heart a fierce battle was raging. She knew

her sister--knew her selfish disregard of the rights or wishes of

others, and she realised that much might depend on what was said now.

"Well?" Sonia questioned, breaking the silence abruptly.

Olga drew a long weary breath. "I--I can't think, Sonia," she said.

"You have taken me so by surprise. I don't know what to say."

"I suppose you're not going to turn us into the street to-night--the

baby and me?"

"Of course not," Olga answered, and added, "Is the baby sick?"

Sonia's eyes rested for a moment on the small pallid face, but there was

no softening in them when she looked up again. "She's never been well.

The first one died--the boy. This one cried day and night for weeks

after she came. Dick couldn't stand it, and no wonder. That's the reason

he cleared out--one reason."

"His own child!" cried Olga indignantly, and as she looked at the

pitiful white face her heart warmed towards the little creature, She

held out her hands. "Let me take her."

Sonia promptly transferred the baby to her sister's arms, and rising,

crossed to the small sleeping-room.

"You're pretty well fixed here, with two rooms," she remarked.

"It's hardly more than one--the bedroom is so small."

"What do you do for a living?" Sonia demanded.

Olga told her.

"Hm. Any money in it?"

"I make a living, but I had a long sickness last summer and it took all

I had and more to pay the bills."

"O well," replied Sonia carelessly, "you'll earn more. You look well

enough now." She stretched her arms and yawned. "I'm dead tired. How

about sleeping? That single bed won't hold the three of us."

"You can sleep there--I'll sleep on the floor to-night. There's no

other way," Olga answered.

"All right then. I'll get to bed in a hurry," and taking the child from

her sister, Sonia undressed it as carelessly as if it had been a doll.

The baby half opened its heavy eyes and whimpered a little, but did not

really awaken.

When Sonia and the child were in bed, Olga went across to Lizette's

room. Lizette's welcoming smile vanished at sight of the stern set face,

and she drew Olga quickly in and shut the door.

"O, what is it? What has happened, Olga?" she cried anxiously.

"My sister has come with her baby. I don't know how long she will stay."

Olga spoke in a dull lifeless voice. "I came to tell you, so that you

could get your breakfast somewhere else. You wouldn't enjoy having it

with me--now."

"O Olga, I'm so sorry--so _sorry_!" Lizette cried, her hands on her

friend's shoulders, her voice full of warm sympathy.

"I know, Lizette," Olga answered, a quivering smile stirring for an

instant the old hard line of her set lips. Then she turned away,

forgetting to say good-night. When the door closed behind her, Lizette's

eyes were full of tears.

"O, it's a shame--a shame!" she said aloud. "To think how happy she was

only last night, and now--now she looks as she did a year ago before

Elizabeth went to the camp. O, I wonder why that sister had to come

back!"

Lizette lay awake long that night, her heart full of sympathy for her

friend, and Olga, lying on her hard bed on the floor, did not sleep at

all. She went out early to the market, and coming back, prepared

breakfast, but when she called her sister, Sonia answered drowsily:

"I'm too tired to get up, Olga. Bring me some coffee and toast here,

will you?"

Olga carried her a tray, and Sonia ate and drank and then turned over

and went to sleep again, and Olga, having washed the dishes, went off to

the school. All day she worked steadily, forcing back the thoughts that

crowded continually into her mind; but when she turned homewards the

dark thoughts swooped down upon her like a flock of ravens, blotting out

all her happy hopes and joyous plans, for she knew--only too well she

knew--what she had to expect if Sonia remained.

"Well, you've come at last!" was her sister's greeting. "I hope you've

brought something nice for supper. I'm nearly starved. And you didn't

leave half enough milk for the baby."

"I left plenty for your dinner," Olga answered, "and I thought you could

get more milk for the baby if you wanted it."

"Get more! How could I get it without money? And you didn't leave me a

penny," Sonia complained.

Olga brought out a bottle of malted milk. "That will do for to-night,

won't it?" she said, trying to speak cheerfully.

"I don't know anything about this stuff." Sonia was reading the label

with a scowl. "You'll have to fix it; and do hurry, for she's been

fretting for an hour."

Without a word, Olga prepared the food and handed it to her sister;

then she set about getting supper; but when it was ready she felt

suddenly too tired to eat. Sonia ate heartily, however, remarking with a

glance at Olga's empty plate, "I suppose you got a good dinner down

town."

"I haven't eaten a mouthful since breakfast," Olga told her wearily.

"O well," Sonia returned, "some folks don't need much food, but I do. If

I don't have three solid meals a day I'm not fit for anything." Then

looking at the baby lying on a pillow in a chair beside her, she added,

"Really she seems to like that malted stuff. You'd better bring back

another bottle to-morrow. There isn't much left in this one."

"Isn't that my dress you have on?" Olga asked suddenly.

"Yes, I had to have something fresh--mine was so mussed and dirty,"

Sonia replied lightly. "Lucky for me we're about the same size."

"But not lucky for me," was Olga's thought.

For a week things went on so--Sonia occasionally offering to wash the

dishes, but leaving her sister to do everything else. Then one night

Olga found her best suit in a heap on the closet floor. Picking it up

she spoke sharply. "Sonia, have you been wearing this suit of mine?"

"Well, what if I have? You needn't look so savage about it!" Sonia

retorted. "I have to have something decent to wear on the street, don't

I?"

"Not if you have nothing decent of your own," Olga flashed back. "Sonia,

you have no _right_ to wear my things so--without asking!"

With a provoking smile Sonia responded, "I knew better than to ask. I

knew you'd make a fuss about it. If you don't want me to wear your

clothes why don't you give me money to buy something decent for myself?

Then I wouldn't need to borrow."

Olga's thoughts were in such an angry whirl that for a moment she dared

not trust herself to speak. She shook out the suit and hung it up, then

she went slowly across the room and sat down facing her sister.

"Sonia," she began, "we can't go on in this way--I cannot endure it. Now

let us have a plain understanding. You came here of your own choice--not

on my invitation. What are your plans? Do you mean to stay on here

indefinitely?"

"Why, of course. Where else should I stay?"

"Then," said Olga decidedly, "you must help pay our expenses. You are

well and strong. Why should you expect me to support you?"

"Why? Because you have a trade and I have not, for one reason. And

besides, there's the baby--I can't leave her to go out to work." There

was a note of triumph in Sonia's voice.

"You could get work to do at home--sewing, embroidery, knitting--or

something."

"'Or something!'" There was fretful impatience now in Sonia's tone. "I

hate sewing--any kind of sewing. You know I always did."

"Then what will you do?"

Sonia sat looking down in sulky silence at the baby.

Olga went on, "If there is no work you can do at home, you must find

something outside. You can go into a store as you did before you were

married."

"And I guess," Sonia broke out angrily, "if you'd ever stood behind a

counter from eight in the morning to six at night, you'd know how nice

_that_ is! You earn enough. I think it's real mean and stingy of you to

grudge a share of it to this poor sick baby--and me. I do so!"

"I don't grudge anything to the baby, Sonia, though I do think it is

your business to provide for her, not mine. But I say again it is not

right for me to have to support you, and I am not willing to do it. It

is best to speak plainly once for all."

"Well, I should say you _were_ speaking plainly," Sonia flung out with

an unpleasant smile. She rocked with a quick motion, her brows drawn

into a frown. "How can I go into a store, even if I could get a place? I

couldn't take the baby with me," she muttered.

"I could bring my work home--most of it--and you could leave the baby

with me."

"Ah ha! I knew it. I knew you could do your work here if you wanted to,"

Sonia triumphed, pointing to the bench in the corner. "You just don't

want to stay here with me." Olga made no denial and her sister went on

in a complaining tone, "Anyhow I'd like to know how I'm going to get a

place anywhere when I've no decent clothes. You know it makes all the

difference how one is dressed."

"That is true," Olga admitted, "but, Sonia, I cannot buy you a suit. I

haven't the money."

"You could borrow it."

Olga's face flushed. "I've never borrowed a cent in my life or bought

_any_thing on credit, except--mother's coffin," she said passionately.

"And I did night work till I paid for that. I cannot run in debt. I

_will_ not!"

Sonia shrugged her shoulders. "Well then, if you want me to get a

place, you'll just have to let me wear that suit of yours that you are

so choice of."

Olga was silent. It was true that Sonia's chance of securing employment

would be small if she sought it in the shabby clothes which she had. But

Olga needed that suit. The money which would have bought a new one had

paid her doctor's bill. Still--the important thing was to get Sonia to

work. "I suppose," she said slowly, "I shall have to let you wear it,

but, Sonia, you _must_ realise how it is, and do your best to find a

place soon. Will you do that?"

"Why, of course," returned Sonia with the light laugh that always

irritated her sister. "You don't suppose I like being dependent on you,

do you?"

"I don't think you'd mind, if I would give you money whenever you want

it."

Again Sonia laughed. "But that's not imaginable, you know," she answered

airily. "It's like drawing eyeteeth to get a dollar out of you. You're a

perfect miser, Olga Priest."

Olga let that pass. "I had intended to keep my suit in Lizette's closet

after this, but I will leave it here if you will promise to begin

to-morrow to look for work. Will you promise?"

"You certainly are the limit!" Sonia cried impatiently. "I believe you

grudge me every mouthful I eat, and the baby her milk too--poor little

soul!" She caught up the baby and kissed it.

"Will you promise, Sonia?" Olga repeated.

Sonia dropped the baby on her lap again. "Of _course_ I promise. I told

you so before. Now for pity's sake give me a little peace!" she

exclaimed.