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[Illustration: “--AND TURNING SUDDENLY, THEY BEHELD, WITH A POOR LITTLE
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THE FRIENDLY FIVE
A STORY
BY
MARY C. HUNGERFORD
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK: EATON & MAINS
CINCINNATI: CURTS & JENNINGS
Copyright, 1891, by
HUNT & EATON,
NEW YORK.
DEDICATION.
AS AN EVIDENCE OF MY WARM REGARD FOR HER,
I Dedicate
THIS LITTLE STORY OF SCHOOL LIFE
TO MY YOUNG FRIEND,
MISS SALLY T. CLARK,
OF NEW HAVEN.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. MR. BELLAMY’S OFFER 7
II. NEXT TERM 16
III. IN KATIE’S ROOM 25
IV. MRS. ABBOTT’S EXPLANATION 31
V. MARY ANN STUBBS 41
VI. MARY ANN’S CHARGE 48
VII. ELFIE TELLS A STORY 55
VIII. A RAINY DAY 62
IX. SOME LEAVES FROM A DIARY 70
X. A MEAN ACT 79
XI. THE S. C.’S 88
XII. DRESSING DOLLS 96
XIII. THE COMMITTEE BUY RIBBONS AND MAKE AN
ACQUAINTANCE 102
XIV. THE ADVENTURE DISCUSSED 110
XV. THE WHITE QUEEN 117
XVI. IN MRS. ABBOTT’S ROOM 126
XVII. LILY’S PREACHMENT 132
XVIII. IN VACATION 141
XIX. A HAPPY DAY 148
XX. LETTERS 153
XXI. IN KATIE’S HOME 162
XXII. THE CHRISTMAS-TREE’S SECOND CROP 172
XXIII. THE LETTER IN CIPHER 181
XXIV. CATCHING A TRAIN 190
XXV. THE SPHINX 198
XXVI. ELFIE GONE! 209
XXVII. ON THE ROAD 213
XXVIII. A TRAVELING ACQUAINTANCE 221
XXIX. WATCHING AND WAITING 230
XXX. IN TROY 239
XXXI. AN EXCITING NIGHT 246
XXXII. A DEEP SLEEP 252
XXXIII. MARION IS HAPPY 259
XXXIV. THE PRIZE AWARDED 272
THE FRIENDLY FIVE.
CHAPTER I.
MR. BELLAMY’S OFFER.
There were neither examinations nor graduation exercises at the
Coventry Institute. The only ceremony peculiar to the last day of
school, except the farewells, was a little sermon from Mrs. Abbott, the
principal, preceded by reading the average of reports for the year.
The day had come. All the smaller recitation-rooms were empty and the
girls were gathered into the large school-room occupying their own
seats, but each whispering softly to her neighbor, for rules were not
strictly enforced on either the opening or closing days of school.
Upon the platform at one end of the room stood a green-covered
library-desk with the large arm-chair by it which was always reserved
for Mrs. Abbott. As they waited a servant came in and removed the
chair, bringing into view a small old-fashioned hair-cloth sofa large
enough to hold two persons comfortably.
“That means company,” was the universal whisper that went around among
the girls, and almost before there could be any speculation upon who
the guest might be the visitor himself followed the principal into the
room. He was a tall, stout, middle-aged man with a splendid head that
reminded the girls at once of the pictures of Agassiz.
As Mrs. Abbott took her seat on one end of the little sofa, with her
usual pleasant bow to the scholars, she simply said, “My friend, Mr.
Bellamy, will say a few words to you;” and the gentleman, with the ease
of a long-practiced speaker, stepped to the little table and looked
down with kindly inquiring eyes upon the young faces upturned to his.
The girls were well accustomed to speeches from visitors, and could
almost have told how he would begin. In fact, Lily Dart, who was quite
the wit of the school, had once written out several sentences which
she called “openings,” and professed to be holding in reserve for any
embarrassed orator who might be disconcerted by the stare of thirty
pairs of critical eyes. Now, quoting from number one of her openings,
she rapidly scrawled on a bit of paper for her desk-mate’s benefit,
“Young ladies, my heart beats with mingled emotions--”
Lily was quite astray in her supposition. Mr. Bellamy said nothing
about hearts, emotions, or young ladies; instead, with a look that
seemed to include them all, he remarked in an easy conversational
manner:
“My visit to my old friend, Mrs. Abbott, is made with the hope of
persuading her to take a little girl so much younger than the custom
of her school allows that I regard her consent as the greatest favor
that can be granted to me. My little motherless granddaughter”--there
was a little sudden straightening of his shoulders and lifting of his
head here that looked to the bright, observant eyes watching him like
a determined effort to keep dry eyes and a steady voice--“will seem to
you,” he continued, with almost an appeal in his voice, “so babyish,
and perhaps spoiled by a grandfather’s fond affection, that I must ask
your kindest indulgence for her. Business calls me to Europe, and it
will be a year before I can hope to see my little girl again. I should
like to feel, in that long year of absence, that Ethel, my Elfie, I
call her, was loved by the young people who will be her companions. I
do not ask you to be kind to her; that I am sure you will be, but I
wish I could feel sure that you will all love her.”
Mrs. Abbott beckoned to Miss Blake, the third-room teacher, and said a
few words which made the latter go quietly out of the room, to return
shortly with a colored nurse leading a most attractive-looking little
creature who seemed almost like a baby, but in reality was nearly five
years old.
This was Elfie, as the girls knew even before she sprang into her
grandfather’s arms, and if any thing more than the words they had
just heard had been needed to enlist their interest, the child’s
appearance would have completed their conquest, and a very audible
murmur of interest and admiration brought a suspicious glistening
to Mr. Bellamy’s eyes, as he stood Elfie on the table with her arms
still clinging to his neck. At a whisper from him the child lifted her
lovely face from his breast and looked shyly for one moment at the
girls, giving them a glimpse of pink cheeks, sweet, frank eyes, and
a shy, smiling mouth, before the lovely face was buried again on her
grandfather’s shoulder, and only a light, tossy handful of curls was
visible for their admiration.
Candace, who stood in statuesque black dignity as befitted her vast
person and royal name, was studying anxiously the faces before her with
the keen observation common among untutored people, and now let her
solemn countenance break into a broad smile of satisfaction as she saw
the impression her little charge had made. She came forward then at a
sign from her master, and carried Elfie from the room, the girls’ eyes
following them till the white dress and broad black sash disappeared
through the door.
But Mr. Bellamy’s speech was not over, although only one more sentence
related to the child he had just introduced to them.
“Let my Elfie be your little sister,” he said, with again that look
of almost imploring appeal in his eyes which seemed so much like a
question that nearly every girl involuntarily raised her right hand as
if she felt that some expression of assent was needed.
An audience of boys would have given three cheers for the little
sister and six more for the senator, for boys would have known in a
moment that the speaker was the distinguished orator whose eloquence
and uprightness had made him celebrated all over the country. But
girls don’t hurrah, and, unfortunately, do not read the papers and
keep informed in political matters. But the speaker was satisfied; his
wonderfully expressive eyes told that as he gravely bowed and passed on
to speech number two, as Kate Ashley called it in her diary.
Nothing so interesting as consigning a lovely baby girl to their care
could be expected from speech number two; but the girls put on an
expression of polite attention which gradually changed to enthusiastic
interest as its very novel and delightful subject was unfolded to them.
Even very able speeches by noted speakers are rather tiresome to read,
so it will be better to simply give the most important part of this one
without going fully into detail.
Mrs. Bellamy Gray, Ethel’s mother, had been a pupil of Mrs. Abbott, and
it was one of the wishes expressed during her last sickness that her
little daughter should be educated at the same school. Of course, it
had not been her wish to send her there till she was of a suitable age,
but now that circumstances had arisen which obliged Mr. Bellamy to go
to Europe he felt anxious to leave her with the friend who had been so
dear to her mother.
If there had been time, he told his audience, he should have liked to
tell them of the various plans for helping and comforting others that
his daughter had left for him to carry out. There was a bed in St.
John’s Hospital, a small fund for giving six poor children a yearly
outing, a memorial window in the little mission chapel where she had a
Sunday-school class; and all these things were named for his dear and
only daughter, and he loved to think that in these pleasant ways her
works would seem to live after her. There were still some other schemes
to carry out, and among them a Bellamy prize for Coventry Institute.
“I do not intimate,” said the speaker, having arrived at this very
interesting part of his discourse, “that any one of Mrs. Abbott’s
scholars has need of tangible help; neither do I propose to offer
a prize because I think a spur to correct action is necessary; but
because my daughter loved the school I wish to associate her memory
with it in a pleasant way. The best way of doing this will have to be a
matter of experiment and as a sort of trial trip. I will make it this
year a prize of three hundred dollars in gold. Your teacher, warned by
some sad experience in the past, is opposed to any thing which subjects
her young people to a prolonged mental strain, so it will not do to
make it a scholastic prize, and through some prejudices of my own, not
liking to make it a reward for elegant deportment, I shall be obliged
to say the prize is for the most deserving. It shall be given upon the
anniversary of this day, and the recipient shall be selected by the
vote of the school.”
Truly this was an extraordinary prize, and the girls discussed it with
animation all the afternoon and during the evening, which on the last
day of school was more like a social gathering, for the day-scholars
were always invited in and the sadness of farewell was cheered by
games, music, and dancing.
They would all have been delighted to have little Elfie with them
in these last hours, but the fond grandfather could not spare her,
and one of the girls, who had a message to deliver to Mrs. Abbott in
the parlor, reported that the child lay fast asleep in Mr. Bellamy’s
arms, while he was trying, at great inconvenience to himself, to write
letters at a table, and black Candace sat patiently in the hall waiting
for the long-delayed summons to put her little missy to bed.
It was late when the day scholars went home, and the others went
up-stairs to their rooms very quietly. They all had to pass the large
corner room which was always given to visitors, and, although the
light was turned very low, they could see through the half-closed door
that Candace was trying to undress the little girl without waking her,
and the senator, whose broad back was toward the door, was bending down
to unbutton the little shoes, one of which he lifted and pressed to his
lips just as the last pair of girls went by.
“Did you see that?” whispered Katie, with the tears starting to her
eyes.
“Yes, isn’t he lovely, and doesn’t he love the little one?” answered
Lily, with a nod.
“And isn’t she a dainty darling, and wont we love her and pet her when
we come back next term!”