But as the fears and apprehensions that beset her began to lessen,
Hope's pity and sympathy rose afresh, and with added vigor. She was
thinking how best to express this pity and sympathy without striking a
note of criticism that might injure the effect of what she had placed
before Dorothea, when Dorothea herself showed the way, as she suddenly
said,--
"There's no use for me to stay here any longer. I'd better go home,
where people know me, and--and don't think my ways are so dreadful."
There was no angry temper in this speech. Though the tone was rather
morose and bitter, it seemed to spring from a sudden appalled sense of
defeat and danger such as she had never heretofore experienced. And this
was just the situation. Hope's tact and kindness had presented the whole
truth so carefully that petty irritation was swallowed up in the
something serious that Dorothea herself but half comprehended, but from
which her first instinct was to flee,--to go home where people knew her
and didn't think her ways so dreadful.
But, "No, no," Hope urged against this desire. "You must stay,
Dorothea,--stay and take a better place than you've ever taken before
with us; for you can, oh, you can, Dorothea. You can make us all love
and admire you if you have a mind to, if you won't--won't be _quite_ so
headlong, so--so sure you are right in some things, so--childish in some
ways."
"_I_ childish! 'Tisn't childishness your Mrs. Armitage is finding fault
with!" blurted out Dorothea, in a bitter yet broken tone.
"But it is just that. If you were small for our age instead of so big,
it would be called childishness; and as it is, I've heard you spoken of
as 'a spoilt child.' But you are so tall, so big, so womanly, most
people think you are a grown up young lady; and--and grown up young
_ladies_ don't go on just in the way that you do, Dorothea."
"'Just the way that I do!' Oh, I laugh, and I make too much noise in my
fun, I suppose you think; but what's the reason the Brookside people and
the lots of people we know all about Brookside,--what's the reason they
don't find fault with my ways and leave me out of their parties?"
"You are a stranger here, Dorothea. You must remember that we never have
the same freedom, or are looked upon quite the same, in a place where we
are strangers, as where we have always lived," answered Hope, gently.
"Then it's all the more reason why I'd better go home, where people know
me and don't think my ways so dreadful."
"Dorothea, you have told me once or twice that your cousin found fault
with your ways, and perhaps--if he had not been your cousin, have known
you so well--if you had been a stranger to him, he might not have made a
friendly allowance for you; and, Dorothea, tell me one thing: did you
ever--ever go on there at home as you have here,--receiving gifts and
attentions, and going to the theatre on the--on the sly?"
"N--o."
"If you had, and it had been found out, do you think it would have been
passed over unnoticed?"
"N--o, I don't suppose it would, but I shouldn't have been treated like
this,--left out like this."
"No; because--because, Dorothea, you and your family are not
strangers,--because you are well known, and people forgive friends for a
long time."
"Then I'd better go back to them, I'd better go back to them, and I
will, I will! Oh, I can't stay here, Hope, I can't, I can't! I see how
you'll all feel, how you'll think that I've been a disgrace to the
school, when this gets out that Mrs. Armitage wouldn't have me at the
party, and I can't, I can't stay."
"Dorothea, Dorothea!" and Hope knelt down by the couch where Dorothea
had flung herself in an agony of tears,--knelt down, and putting her
arms about the suffering girl begged her never for a moment to think
that either she or Kate or Bessie would speak to the other girls about
Mrs. Armitage's action in regard to the invitation. "No, they will never
know from us, Dorothea,--never, never."
[Illustration: "HOPE KNELT DOWN BY THE COUCH WHERE DOROTHEA HAD FLUNG
HERSELF"]
"But--but what wi--will they think whe--when I--I don't--go to the
party?" sobbed Dorothea.
"Of course they'll think there's been a falling out of some kind, and
there has; but it isn't necessary that they should be told what it is,
is it?"
"N--o, n--o, but it wi--will ge--get out somehow. You--you'll see, Hope,
and I--I can't--I can't stay, and have them talking about my--my being
left out on--on purpose li--like this."
"But even if the truth did get out, it would be a great deal worse for
you to run away than to stay, for it would look--it would
_be_--cowardly. No, no, Dorothea! you must stay, and I--I will help you
all I can; I will be your friend, whatever happens, and so will Kate."
"Whatever happens." When Hope said this, she had little thought that
anything further in connection with the matter was to happen. She had
spoken out of her deep pity and sympathy, to soothe and sustain Dorothea
through a hard crisis,--to soothe and sustain and strengthen her to do
the courageous thing. She was quite sure, as she had said, that neither
Bessie nor Kate would tell the story of the arrested invitation; but she
made it still surer by exacting a solemn promise from them not to do
so,--a promise as solemnly kept as it was made. And yet, and yet,
somehow and from somewhere--was it through Mrs. Armitage or Raymond,
both of whom had given their word to Bessie to make no mention of the
subject?--a whisper of the truth, found its way, before the week was
over, into the schoolroom circle. And before the week was over, Dorothea
knew it! She knew it by the suddenly withdrawn glances as she looked up;
she knew it by the suddenly changed conversation as she approached; she
knew it by numberless little signs and indications in all directions.
And Hope, when she was presently beset by eager questions from one and
another,--Had she heard? and what did she think? and could it be
true?--poor Hope had hard work to fence and parry and hold her ground
without violating the truth. She succeeded at last, however, in
silencing her questioners; but she was perfectly well aware that she had
_only_ silenced them as far as she herself was concerned.
Kate Van der Berg also had a good deal of the same trying experience,
and bore it less amiably.
"I'm sick to death of the whole subject," she said at length to Hope. "I
wish to mercy Dorothea Dering had never entered this house! But don't be
alarmed!" as she caught a startled look from Hope; "I'm not going to
back down. I'll be good to her, and I _do_ pity her."
"Pity her! I should think anybody _might_ pity her," cried Hope, with
almost a sob. "It simply breaks my heart to see her."
And to Dorothea, who came to her with this further trouble,--who said to
her, "You see, you see, it has all come out just as I thought it
would,"--to Dorothea she was an angel indeed, this sweet-souled
Hope,--an angel of real help in the stanch devotion of her
companionship, and the constant influence it exerted in soothing and
encouraging her to accept the condition of things as they were, and make
the best of them by making no aggressive protest. It was not easy for
Dorothea to pursue this course, and Hope could not help admiring the new
spirit of dignity which she seemed to develop in sticking to it.
But there was a new element of knowledge coming to Dorothea through her
bitter experience. She had always heretofore been ready to fight against
any and every opposition, as I have shown. Now, for the first time, she
was beginning to feel the pressure of that great power of the great
world which we call the sentiment of society, and dimly but surely to
perceive that she must submit to it, or at least that, if she tried to
fight against it, it would be to her own destruction. But this new sense
of things, valuable though it was in its present restraining influence
and its promise of right development, did not tend to make Dorothea feel
easier or happier at the moment. Rather, the restraint chafed and
depressed her. In spite of this depression, however, she said no more
about going back to Brookside. She was discovering for herself that Hope
was right,--that it would be not only cowardly for her to run away, but
prejudicial to her interests in every direction. But how difficult it
was for her to live through these days with apparent calmness, only Hope
guessed. What Hope did not guess was the extent and power of her own
helpfulness at this crisis. Dorothea, however, was fully aware of it;
and one day,--it was the morning after the Valentine party,--when the
girls had naturally been very voluble in their reminiscences of the
evening, she said to Hope,--
"Hope, you've helped me to _live_ through this thing, and I shall always
remember it, and always, always love you for it. But for you I could
never have stayed here and stood things,--never, never, never!"
Yet not then had she received the full measure of Hope's help. It was
when the days went by, and she found that the curiosity about herself
had subsided, she also found that in the indifference that had succeeded
this curiosity there was a shadow of something that she could give no
name to,--that she could not at once understand,--but that by and by she
came to know was that shadow of the world's disapproval that she had
been made acquainted with through Mrs. Armitage. It was then, when the
girl felt herself in the settled atmosphere of this shadow, that Hope
showed the full measure of her power to help.
Not immediately realizing the condition of things, she could not
comprehend what seemed to her Dorothea's persistent shrinking from the
companionship of the others, and at last remonstrated with her in this
wise:--
"Dorothea, you mustn't keep by yourself, and neglect the girls, as you
do. It isn't right or sensible."
And to this Dorothea had replied, with a mirthless laugh,--
"Neglect them! If there is any neglect going on, _I'm_ not guilty of
it."
"What do you mean?"
"Just what I say. _I'm_ not neglecting anybody."
"You mean--that--that they are neglecting _you_?"
Dorothea nodded. She could not command her voice to speak further.
Hope was about to protest,--to say that there must be a mistake,--that
_she_ had seen nothing, when suddenly the meaning of certain little
things, that she had but vaguely noticed at the time, flashed over her,
bringing the instantaneous conviction that Dorothea was right. And with
this conviction there sprung up in Hope's heart a hot flame of
indignation, and she set herself to think what further she could
do--what strong measure could be taken--to show these girls that they
were not to sit in judgment in this wholesale fashion, and to show them,
too, that Dorothea had stanch friends who believed in her virtues, even
while they admitted her faults, and would stand by her through thick and
thin.
But what _could_ she do further? She had indicated to the girls how
friendly she felt toward Dorothea, by bestowing upon her whatever kindly
attentions she could,--had walked with her and talked with her, and made
little visits to her room, which latter she had never been in the habit
of doing before. She had also influenced Kate to join her in these
attentions, and Kate had tried to do so,--not always successfully,
however; and yet all this had seemed to go for nothing against the tide
that had risen against the girl. What more _could_ be done? There was
nothing, nothing more.
Yes, yes, yes, there _was_--there _was_ something more, there _was_
something! And as this "something" flashed into Hope's mind, she seized
Dorothea's hands in hers, and--
"Dorothea, Dorothea!" she cried, "I have a plan,--something I want you
to do _for_ me and _with_ me. I am to play, you know, at the May
festival,--first, something Mr. Kolb has written specially for me; then,
later, a waltz also by Mr. Kolb. It is a duet, and Fraulein Schiller was
to play it with me; but she has got news of the illness of her mother,
and has gone home to Germany, and I have to choose some one to fill her
place; and I choose you, if you will take it."
"Choose me,--_me_? Oh, Hope, Hope, Hope, I don't care for anything else
now,--not anything else! But, oh, _can_ I, _can_ I,--I'm afraid it's too
hard, that it's beyond me."
"No, it isn't too hard, but I'll give you lessons; I'll practise with
you every day, if you'll study hard."
"Study! I'll study every minute that I can get;" and then, quivering
with excitement, Dorothea flung herself upon the floor, and, putting her
head down on Hope's lap, cried brokenly,--
"Oh, Hope, Hope, how angelic of you to do this for me _now, now_!"
It was the last of March when this proposition was made, and the
festival was to come off the last of May, that being the end of the
school year at Miss Marr's; the festival itself being a sort of
celebration of the year's work,--a grand general class day.
To have a special part assigned to one in the program of this day was to
be specially honored, and great was the surprise when it was found that
Dorothea had been thus honored.
There were two or three others--outside pupils, to be sure, but Fraulein
Schiller was an outside pupil--from whom it was expected that Hope would
make her choice, as they were known to be, if not particularly
brilliant, yet very faithful students of the violin; and to pass these
by for Dorothea was surprising indeed, and not to be explained by any
mere good-nature. Hope Benham _was_ a very good-natured girl, and had
been very kind and polite to Dorothea, the little school circle decided;
but they all knew how refined and fastidious and very, _very_ sensitive
she was, and what she thought about things; and if she thought seriously
that Dorothea had really--_really_ been so dreadfully loud and horrid as
they had heard, she would never have chosen her to stand up there before
all that festival audience with her. And arguing thus, this little
world, so like the big world under like circumstances, began to
re-consider things,--to think that perhaps--perhaps it might have made
mistakes in ranging itself so decidedly, and that it might be well in
that case to be a little less censorious in one's attitude. From this
there arose a slight change of tactics,--slight, but significant enough
if one were on the alert to take note of them; but Dorothea--Dorothea
was no longer so sensitively alert in these directions,--for morning,
noon, and night, at every regular practice hour, and sometimes at
irregular ones, her fiddle bow could be heard diligently at work, under
Hope's tutelage; and as she worked, as she surmounted difficulty after
difficulty in the musical score, she became so absorbed in her
occupation that she had little time to bestow upon other difficulties.
And so, day after day, the weeks went by, and brought at last the great
day they were all anticipating so anxiously,--the day of the May
Festival.
It looked like the very heart of summer in the great hall at the top of
the house that festival morning, for it was literally made into a
perfect bower of wood and garden glories; windows, dome, aisles, and
stage wreathed and hung with forest growths, and set about with
flowering plants. At the back of the stage the arched doorway that led
into the anteroom was so skilfully decorated that it appeared like a
natural opening into some woodland way; and as the audience began to
fill the seats, and there came to them through this sylvan opening a
soft overture from unseen violins and piano, there was at first a hush
of delight and then a general burst of applause. The group of girls who
were not to take special parts and who sat together well down in front,
looked at each other inquiringly. The overture was a surprise to them,
as it was to all but the two or three behind the scenes.
"It is Hope's doing, of course," one girl whispered. "And of course the
second violin is Dorothea!" whispered another, and then presently still
another whisper arose. It was Hope's doing, of course--because--Dorothea
probably had failed to perfect herself in the duet she had
undertaken--or--or Hope herself perhaps had failed in her courage to--to
stand up there before that festival-audience with Dorothea! This last
suggestion was caught at and turned over and over, until at length it
seemed to become a certainty. Yes, that was the only explanation of this
little overture being sprung upon them without warning. Hope's courage
had failed, and to console Dorothea in a measure, she had brought her
into this new arrangement!
The little group of girls would not have owned to the disappointment
that they felt as they settled down upon this explanation; but with all
the Armitages, except Raymond, present in full force, every girl of the
group had somehow counted upon rather a sensation when Dorothea
appeared. How Bessie would stare, they had thought--Bessie, who had not
been back to school since her birthday party,--how she would stare and
wonder, and how surprised Mrs. Armitage would look to see the girl that
she had so disapproved of brought forward so conspicuously! But
now--well, things began to fall a trifle flat in the failure of such a
delectable sensation, and they gave a somewhat wavering attention to
what immediately followed. They brightened up, however, as Hope played
her "Mayflowers," and, applauding vigorously, found time to wonder what
that queer sub-title, "Ten Cents a Bunch," meant, and resolved that they
would ask her sometime; and then they yawned and fidgeted, and looked at
their little chatelaine watches, and craned their necks to look at the
people behind them, and nodded at this one and that one, and finally
fell to studying their programs, and glanced significantly, and with a
little air of "I told you so," at each other, as they saw that the duet
number had just been passed over. After this they settled themselves
comfortably back to wait for the close of the exercises, when the best
of the festival to their thinking was to come,--the meeting with their
friends, the introductions to the other girls' friends, the gay talking
and walking about, and the merry end of it all, when, as if by magic,
the pretty bowery stage was to be converted into a sylvan tea-room,
presided over by a chosen number of the school-girls.
Only two brief exercises,--a short essay by Anna Fleming and a little
aria of Schumann's by Myra Donaldson, and then ho, for the anticipated
festival fun, these waiting girls jubilantly thought; and so absorbed
were they in this thought that their attention was only half given to
Anna's clever little essay upon School Friendships, which had some sharp
hits in it; but they nevertheless joined in the vigorous applause,
though by that time their attention had entirely wandered from the stage
to the movements of a new late arrival just outside the doorway,--a tall
fine-looking man that Mrs. Sibley, Hope's friend, was smiling radiantly
upon, and beckoning to her seat. Who _could_ he be? But hark! what--what
sound was that? A violin? But Schumann's aria was a solo,--Hope was not
to play with Myra! No, no, Hope was not to play with Myra, for
there--there upon the stage, Hope in her white dress was standing
beside--Dorothea! The duet had not been omitted then, only carried
forward!
No more yawning and fidgeting now from the group of girls; with eager
interest they leaned forward to see the two white-robed figures as they
stood there side by side,--one with her waving golden-brown hair, her
golden-brown eyes, and fair soft coloring; the other with her shining
black locks, her great sombre orbs,--for there was no light of laughter
in them at this moment,--and the strange pallor of coloring that at that
instant lent almost a tragic look to her face. No, no more yawning and
fidgeting now, and no more doubt or question of Dorothea's ability to
play her part, as the sweet full strains rose harmoniously together.
Dorothea had studied, indeed,--had studied so ardently that she had
greatly surprised Hope at the last by her accuracy and finish. But as
she stood there before the festival audience, she surprised her still
further by the something more than the accuracy and finish,--that
something that every musical artist recognizes, that Hope at once
recognized,--the touch of living, breathing, individual emotion, of
passionate personal appeal. With a thrill of sympathy, Hope
instinctively responded to this, and there arose a strain of such
moving, melting power that the audience, listening in breathless
delight, broke forth at the end in a little whirlwind of applause.
The aria that followed was beautifully rendered, but the audience could
not seem to fix its attention upon it as it should have done; and Myra
had scarcely struck her last note when there was a general uprising, and
hastening forward toward the little flock of girl-students who had taken
part in the exercises. In the centre of this flock, standing together,
were Hope and Dorothea, and there was a buzz of girl talk going on about
them,--a buzz of congratulation, of enthusiasm, not one of the girls
hanging back,--when over it all, Hope suddenly caught the sound of
another voice,--a deep manly voice,--the voice of--of--oh, could it be?
Yes, yes, it was; and starting forward, she cried joyfully, "Oh it
_is_--it _is_ my father!" and the next instant her father's arms were
round her, and his kisses on her cheek.
Her father! Dorothea glanced up eagerly. _That_, that
distinguished-looking man the man who was once a locomotive engineer!
Had she heard aright? Yes, she had heard aright, for presently there was
Mrs. Sibley saying in answer to some questioner,--
"It's her father, yes; he's the great inventor, you know. He came on
unexpectedly, and is to take Hope back with him to spend the summer in
the north of France."
And presently, again, Dorothea saw Miss Marr and the Van Der Bergs and
the Sibleys and--yes, the Armitages, looking up and listening with the
most admiring interest to this man who was once a locomotive engineer!
What would Dorothea have thought, how would she have felt, if she had
heard Mrs. Armitage say to one of her acquaintances a little later,--
"There must be something fine and good, after all, in this Dorothea
Dering, to attract to herself and make a friend of such a girl as Mr.
Benham's daughter; and certainly she has shown a very refined taste in
her manner of playing. I wonder if she hasn't been improved all round by
Miss Benham's influence?"
And what would she have thought if she had heard Miss Marr talking in
somewhat the same strain to Mr. Benham,--telling him what a restraining,
refining influence his dear little daughter had had over one of the most
difficult of all her charges; and what would she have felt if she could
have known all Mr. Benham's thoughts on this subject as he listened
there with that rather grave smile of his?
But Dorothea heard and knew nothing of all this. She only heard and felt
the warmth of appreciation that had followed her violin performance. She
only saw that the little world that had turned away from her was now
turning toward her, and her spirits began to rise once more. But they
did not overflow all reasonable bounds as before. There was a new
reserve in her demeanor that certainly did not rob her of her
attractiveness, if one could judge from the kindly looks cast upon her
by some of the older people, as she helped in the tea-table
hospitalities.
Some of the younger people too seemed not to be blind to this new
attractiveness. But it remained for Peter Van Loon to express the real
effect produced, and he did it fully, as he suddenly turned to Hope from
a long observation of Dorothea at her tea-table duties,--turned and said
in that odd way of his,--
"I say, now, she'll get to be an awfully nice girl by and by, won't she,
if she keeps on--on this track?"
Hope felt a little startled, though she couldn't help being amused at
this queer remark of Peter's; but she quite agreed with it, and told him
so; and then Peter said in the same emphatic way,--
"I've heard all about it--how you've stuck to her--from Kate--Kate Van
der Berg; and I'd--I'd like to say, if you don't mind, that you're a
trump, Miss Benham; and the other fellows think so too."
THE END.
KATHARINE RUTH ELLIS
WIDE AWAKE GIRLS SERIES
THE WIDE AWAKE GIRLS
Illustrated by Sears Gallagher.
A book doubly remarkable because its excellent workmanship comes from a
hand hitherto untried.--_New York Times._
Its excellent literary tone, simple, refined, and its frequent humor and
fresh, strong interest commend it as a most promising first volume of
"The Wide Awake Girls" series.--_Hartford Times._
The quiet and cultured home life presented forms a pleasing contrast to
the more showy and hollow life of the wealthy and wins the reader by a
strong and subtle spell. The whole story is fresh and bracing and full
of good points and information as well.--_St. Louis Globe Democrat._
THE WIDE AWAKE GIRLS AT WINSTED
Illustrated by Sears Gallagher.
It is another charming book, without sentimentality or gush about the
four girls who made such a jolly quartette in the preceding
story.--_Philadelphia Press._
Incidents are many, and the story is vivaciously told. The tone
throughout is refined and the spirit stimulating.--_Brooklyn Daily
Times._
Those who read the first volume of Katharine Ruth Ellis' "Wide Awake
Girls" series last year will welcome the second volume. They will
encounter again the same four girls of the previous book, all at
Catharine's home in Winsted, and they will find them just as vivacious
and entertaining as ever.--_Chicago Tribune._
THE WIDE AWAKE GIRLS AT COLLEGE
Illustrated by Sears Gallagher.
The third volume in the "Wide Awake Girls" series finds the four friends
at Dexter, where they live the happy, merry life of the modern college
girl. Miss Ellis still maintains the atmosphere of quiet refinement, and
has introduced an older element, which lends much to the interest of the
book--the element of love and romance. The "Wide Awakes" are growing up
and Catharine's love story delights her associates.
ANNA HAMLIN WEIKEL'S BETTY BAIRD SERIES
BETTY BAIRD
Illustrated by Ethel Pennewill Brown.
A boarding school story, with a charming heroine, delightfully narrated.
The book is lively and breezy throughout.--_Philadelphia Press._
A true presentment of girl life.--_Chicago Evening Post._
Betty is a heroine so animated and charming that she wins the reader's
affection at once. When she enters the boarding school she is shy,
old-fashioned, and not quite so well-dressed as some of the other girls.
It is not long, however, before her lovable character wins her many
friends, and she becomes one of the most popular girls in the
school.--_Brooklyn Eagle._
The illustrations, by Ethel Pennewill Brown, are remarkably successful
in their portrayal of girlish spirit and charm.--_New York Times._
BETTY BAIRD'S VENTURES
Illustrated by Ethel Pennewill Brown.
Will please the girls who liked the piquant and original Betty, when she
first appeared in the volume bearing her name.--_Hartford Times._
The very spirit of youth is in these entertaining pages.--_St. Paul
Pioneer Press._
BETTY BAIRD'S GOLDEN YEAR
Illustrated by Ethel Pennewill Brown.
In the third and concluding volume of "The Betty Baird Series," Betty is
shown happily at work in her profession, still earnest in her purpose to
pay off the mortgage, and in the meantime to make her home a centre of
useful interests.
ANNA CHAPIN RAY'S "TEDDY" STORIES
Miss Ray's work draws instant comparison with the best of Miss Alcott's:
first, because she has the same genuine sympathy with boy and girl life;
secondly, because she creates real characters, individual and natural,
like the young people one knows, actually working out the same kind of
problems; and, finally, because her style of writing is equally
unaffected and straightforward.--_Christian Register_, Boston.
TEDDY: HER BOOK. A Story of Sweet Sixteen
Illustrated by Vesper L. George.
This bewitching story of "Sweet Sixteen," with its earnestness,
impetuosity, merry pranks, and unconscious love for her hero, has the
same spring-like charm.--_Kate Sanborn._
PHEBE: HER PROFESSION. A Sequel to "Teddy: Her Book"
Illustrated by Frank T. Merrill.
This is one of the few books written for young people in which there is
to be found the same vigor and grace that one demands in a good story
for older people.--_Worcester Spy._
TEDDY: HER DAUGHTER
A Sequel to "Teddy: Her Book," and "Phebe: Her Profession"
Illustrated by J. B. Graff.
It is a human story, all the characters breathing life and
activity.--_Buffalo Times._
NATHALIE'S CHUM
Illustrated by Ellen Bernard Thompson.
Nathalie is the sort of a young girl whom other girls like to read
about.--_Hartford Courant._
URSULA'S FRESHMAN. A Sequel to "Nathalie's Chum"
Illustrated by Harriet Roosevelt Richards.
The best of a series already the best of its kind.--_Boston Herald._
NATHALIE'S SISTER. A Sequel to "Ursula's Freshman"
Illustrated by Alice Barber Stephens.
Peggy, the heroine, is a most original little lady who says and does all
sorts of interesting things. She has pluck and spirit, and a temper, but
she is very lovable, and girls will find her delightful to read
about.--_Louisville Evening Post._
ANNA CHAPIN RAY'S "SIDNEY" STORIES
SIDNEY: HER SUMMER ON THE ST. LAWRENCE
Illustrated by Alice Barber Stephens.
The young heroine is a forceful little maiden of sweet sixteen. The
description of picnics in the pretty Canadian country are very gay and
enticing, and Sidney and her friends are a merry group of wholesome
young people.--_Churchman_, New York.
JANET: HER WINTER IN QUEBEC
Illustrated by Alice Barber Stephens.
Gives a delightful picture of Canadian life, and introduces a group of
young people who are bright and wholesome and good to read about.-_-New
York Globe._
DAY: HER YEAR IN NEW YORK
Illustrated by Harriet Roosevelt Richards.
A good story, bright, readable, cheerful, natural, free from
sentimentality.--_New York Sun._
SIDNEY AT COLLEGE
Illustrated by Harriet Roosevelt Richards.
The book is replete with entertaining incidents of a young woman who is
passing through her freshman year at college.--_Brooklyn Eagle._
JANET AT ODDS
Illustrated by Harriet Roosevelt Richards.
An ideal book for an American girl. It directs a girl's attention to
something beside the mere conventional side of life. It teaches her to
be self-reliant. Its atmosphere is hopeful and helpful.--_Boston Globe._
SIDNEY: HER SENIOR YEAR
Illustrated by Harriet Roosevelt Richards.
This delightful story completes the author's charming and popular series
of Sidney Books. Day, Janet, and a host of their bright friends meet
again at Smith College, where Sidney is the President of the Senior
Class, and their gayety fill the pages with spirited incidents.