enough, and three or four girls gleefully settled themselves on the
bed. Every one of them had come with her hands full of flowers, and
seeing these, Mrs. Rawson had brought along a big glass rose bowl,
which the girls speedily filled and set in the middle of the table.
A tap at the door announced the arrival of a boy with a box and a bag
for Mrs. Rawson, and out of the box she lifted a baby sewing machine,
which she fastened to the table. Then from the bag she took the lawn
and gingham as she said,
"Now, girls, your tongues can run just as fast as your fingers sew,
but remember this tiny machine works very rapidly and you've got to
keep it supplied. I'll hem this skirt first."
In an instant every girl had on her thimble, and they all set to work
with right good will.
"Can't I do some, too?" said Nan. "I don't want to be the only idle
one."
"You can gather some ruffles in a few minutes--as soon as I have
hemmed them," answered Mrs. Rawson, smiling to herself, as she saw how
bright and interested Nan looked already.
All that long, bright afternoon tongues and needles were about equally
busy. Fortunately it was cooler, else the girls would have been
uncomfortable in the small room, but as it was, not even Nan gave more
than a passing thought to the bare room and its lack of
comfort. Indeed, after the first few moments, Nan forgot all about
herself and just gave herself up to the delight of being once more a
girl among girls. She thought them lovely, every one, and indeed they
were lovely to her in every way, for her sweet face and gentle manners
had won them all at first sight. How they did chatter! Never before
had that room--or indeed any room in that dreary building, held such a
company as gathered there that day.
At half-past five there came another rap on the door, and Mrs. Rawson
exclaimed, "Put up your sewing, girls. We've business of another sort
to attend to now."
The girls looked at her inquiringly as Nan opened the door again.
"Bring them in," called Mrs. Rawson, and a man edged his way gingerly
among the girls and set two big baskets and an ice cream freezer
beside the table.
"A house picnic! Mrs. Rawson, you're a darling!" called one and
another of the girls.
Mrs. Rawson nodded a laughing acknowledgment of the compliment, as she
said, "Open the baskets, girls. The dishes are in the round one. I
thought Nan might not be prepared for quite such a family party."
With quick, deft fingers the girls swept aside the sewing, unscrewed
the little machine, spread a fine damask cloth over the pine table,
and on it arranged the pretty green and gold dishes and glasses,
putting the big bowl of roses in the centre.
Then from the other basket they took tiny buttered biscuits,
three-cornered sandwiches, tied with narrow green ribbons, a dish of
chicken salad, and a big loaf of nut cake. All these quite covered the
table so that the cream had to be left in the freezer until it was
wanted.
How Nan did enjoy that feast! How her eyes shone with quiet happiness
as she watched the bright faces and listened to the merry talk; not
all merry either, for more than once it touched upon the deep things
of life, showing that the girls had thought much, even if their lives
had been happy, sheltered ones.
When the feast was ended, the dishes repacked in the basket, and the
unfinished work put away, the girls gathered about Nan to say
"good-bye," and she wondered how she could have dreaded their
coming,--for now it seemed as if she could not let them go. She felt
as if all the joyous brightness would vanish with them. The quick
young eyes read something of this feeling in her face, and more than
one girl left a kiss with her cordial farewell.
The room seemed very still and lonely to Nan when the last flutter of
light dresses was gone and the last faint echo of girlish voices and
footsteps had died on her eagerly listening ears. She dropped into the
rocking-chair and looked about the room, trying to repeople it with
those fair, young, friendly faces. She could almost have imagined it
all a dream but for the cake and sandwiches and ice cream on the
table.
The sight of the fast melting cream suggested another thought to
her. Hastily filling a plate with portions of everything on the table,
she set it away for Theodore and then went across to Mrs. Hunt's rooms
to tell her to come with the children and take all that was left.
The eyes of the children gleamed with delight at sight of the
unexpected treat, and they speedily emptied the dishes which their
mother then carried home to wash, while the children took back the
borrowed chairs.
By this time Nan began to feel very weary, and she threw herself down
on the bed with the baby, but she kept in her hand some little scrips
of the pretty lawns and ginghams that she had found on the floor. It
seemed hardly possible to her that she could be going to have such
dresses. Why--one of the scrips was exactly like a waist that one of
those girls had worn. Nan gazed at it with a smile on her lips, a
smile that lingered there until it was chased away by the remembrance
of Theo's loneliness when she and Little Brother should be far away.
XIII. NAN'S DEPARTURE
Theo was feeling that he needed sympathy about that time, for it
seemed to him as if every one that he cared for was to be taken away
from him.
Mr. Scott had invited the boy to go with him for a row on the river
and then to go home with him to supper. The river was beautiful in the
afternoon sunlight, and Theodore enjoyed the row and the friendly talk
with his teacher, but he felt a little shy with Mrs. Rawson and was
not sorry to find her absent from the supper-table.
When the meal was over Mr. Scott took the boy up to his own room to
see some of his curiosities. Theo's quick eyes took silent note of
everything, and he mentally decided that some day he would have just
such a room as that. He was thinking thus, when Mr. Scott said,
"Theo, you haven't asked me what Dr. Reed thinks about Nan and her
little brother."
"She's better to-day--Nan is," exclaimed the boy, quickly.
"Yes, I suppose the medicine has toned her up a little, but the doctor
says that she must have a long rest. She has been working too hard."
"Well, she can. I'm earnin' enough now to take care of 'em,"
interposed the boy.
"Nan would never be content to let you do that, I think, but, Theo,
that isn't all."
Theo said nothing, but his anxious eyes asked the question that his
lips refused to utter.
Mr. Scott went on, "The doctor says that the baby must go away into
the country or--he will die."
Theodore walked quickly to the window, and stood there looking out in
silence. After a moment, his teacher crossed the room and laid his arm
affectionately over the boy's shoulders.
"Sit down, Theodore," he said, gently, "I want to tell you what we
have planned for Nan and the little one."
Then in few words he told of Mrs. Rawson's letter and the reply,
describing the beautiful country home to which Nan and the baby were
to go.
"You will be glad to think of them in such a place during the hot
summer days," he went on, "even though their going leaves you very
lonely, as I know it will, Theodore."
"I ought to be glad, Mr. Scott," replied the boy, slowly, as his
teacher paused, "an' I am, but ye see you don't know how hard 'tis for
a feller to keep straight when he ain't got no home an' nobody to talk
to after his work's done at night. Nan--well _you_ know she ain't
like the rest o' the folks down our way. She never scolds nor nags at
me, but somehow I can't ever look her straight in the eye if I've been
doin' anything mean."
"Nan has been a good friend to you, I'm sure, and I think you have
been a good friend to her and the baby, Theodore. I know that she will
miss you sadly at first, and if she thinks you are to be very lonely
without them, I'm afraid she will worry about it and not get as much
good from the change as she might otherwise," Mr. Scott added.
The boy drew a long breath. "I won't let her know 't I care much 'bout
their goin'," he said, bravely.
"Nan will guess quite enough," answered the gentleman, "but, Theodore,
how would you like to come here? Mrs. Rawson has a little room over
the L that she seldom uses, and she says that you can sleep there if
you like, and pay for it the same that you pay for the dark room that
you now have."
The boy's eyes were full of surprise and pleasure as he answered,
gratefully, "I'd like that fine!"
"Come on, then, and we'll take a look at the place. It has been used
as a storeroom and will, of course, need some fixing up."
As Mr. Scott threw open the door of the L room Theodore stepped in and
looked about him with shining eyes. It was a long, low room with
windows on three sides. The floor was covered with matting and the
walls with a light, cheerful paper.
"This for me!" exclaimed the boy. "Why, Mr. Scott, it's--it's too fine
for a chap like me."
"Not a bit, my boy, but I think you can be very comfortable here, and
you will know that you have friends close at hand. And now, Theodore,
I suppose you will want to get home, for we hope to get Nan away next
week."
"So soon!" cried the boy, a shadow falling on the face, a moment
before so bright.
"Yes, the sooner the better for the little one's sake," replied
Mr. Scott, gravely.
"You've been mighty good to me--an' to Nan," said the boy, simply, and
then he went away.
He walked rapidly through the streets, taking no note of what was
passing around him, his thoughts were so full of this new trouble, for
a great and sore trouble it seemed to him to lose Nan and Little
Brother out of his life even for a few weeks. His way led him across
the Common, but he hurried along with unseeing eyes until suddenly
something bright attracted his attention, and he became aware that it
was a shock of rough red hair under a ragged old cap. It was surely
Carrots sitting on one of the benches, his eyes gazing moodily across
the greensward to the street beyond. He did not notice Theo's
approach, but started up quickly, as the latter stopped in front of
him.
"Hold on, Carrots--don't clear out. I want to tell you something,"
cried Theo, hastily, laying a detaining hand on one ragged sleeve.
Carrots looked at him suspiciously. "D'know what yer got ter say ter
me," he growled.
"Sit down here, an' I'll tell ye."
Theodore sat down on the bench as he spoke, and after a moment's
hesitation the other boy dropped down beside him, but he kept a wary
glance on his companion, and was plainly ready to "cut and run" at a
moment's notice.
"You look's if you were down on your luck," began Theo, with a glance
at the ragged garments, and dilapidated shoes of the other.
"'Course--I'm always down on my luck," responded Carrots, in a tone
that implied, "what business is that of yours?"
"Sellin' papers now?"
"Yes, but a feller can't make a livin' out o' that. There's too many
kids in the business, an' folks'll buy o' the kids ev'ry time, 'n'
give us big fellers the go-by," Carrots said, in a gloomy tone.
"That's so. The little chaps always sell most," assented
Theodore. "Why don't you get into some other business, Carrots?"
"Can't--'cause my money's all tied up in railroad stock," retorted
Carrots, with bitter sarcasm.
"Carrots, what made ye play such a mean trick on Jim Hunt the other
day?" asked Theodore, suddenly.
Carrots grinned. "Hunt's a fool," he answered, "else he wouldn't 'a'
give me a chance ter work him so slick."
"Well, I don't think you'll play it on him again. I think you were the
fool, Carrots, for you know well enough you can't get such good stuff
anywhere else for your money, an' now ye can't go to my stand."
"Got it 'thout money that time," chuckled Carrots, impudently, but
still keeping a sharp eye on his companion.
Theo flushed, and his fingers itched to pitch into the boy and give
him a good drubbing, but he controlled himself, and said, quietly,
"What's the trouble with you, Carrots? Are you too lazy to work, or
what?"
The boy's eyes flashed angrily, as he replied, "See here, Tode
Bryan--what ye pokin' yer nose int' my business for, anyhow?"
"'Cause I can put you in the way of earnin' honest money if you're
willin' to do honest work."
"What sort o' work?" Carrots inquired, suspiciously.
"I'll tell ye 'bout it when I'm sure you're ready to take hold of it,
an' not before. See here, Carrots, I've seen you lately loafin' 'round
with some o' the meanest fellers in this town, an' if you don't keep
away from them you'll find yourself where some of 'em have been
a'ready--behind the bars. I mean well by ye, an' if you make up your
mind to be a man instead of a tramp an' a loafer, you can come to me,
an' I'll give ye a start. Jim Hunt'll tell ye where to find me."
The night shadows were falling now and the street lamps were already
lighted, and seeing this, Theodore started up, adding, "It's later'n I
thought. I must be off," and he hurried away, leaving Carrots looking
after him in a much bewildered state of mind.
Theodore found Nan sitting by the window in the dark. She had rocked
the baby to sleep, and was thinking over the happy afternoon that
seemed now so like a beautiful dream. She lighted her lamp when
Theodore came in, and brought out the food that she had put aside for
him, and while he ate she told him of all that had happened. He did
not eat much and he was very silent, so silent that at last she paused
and said, anxiously,
"You aren't sick, are you, Theo?"
"No," he replied, gravely, "an' Nan, I'm real glad you're goin' to
such a nice place." But though he spoke earnestly, there was in his
voice a ring of pain that Nan detected instantly, and guessed its
cause.
"I'm going to miss you dreadfully, Theo," she said, quickly, "and I
don't know what Little Brother will do without you. That's the one
thing about it that I don't like--to think of you all alone here with
no place to stay evenings."
"Mr. Scott says I can have a room where he lives--at Mrs. Rawson's,"
answered Theodore. "It's a fine room--bigger'n this, an' it's got
checked straw carpet an' three windows."
"Oh, Theo, how glad I am!" cried the girl, delightedly. "That's just
splendid. Don't you like it?" she added, as the boy still sat with
serious eyes fixed on the floor.
"Like it? The room you mean? Oh yes, it's a grand room, but I don't
think I'll go there," he answered, slowly.
The gladness died out of Nan's face. "Oh, Theo, why not?" she
exclaimed, in a disappointed tone.
He answered again, slowly, "I think I shall stay here an' take this
room o' yours 'stead o' my little one."
"This is ever so much better than yours, of course, an' if you do that
you can keep my furniture, and I s'pose you'd be comfortable, but
'twould be lonesome all the same, and I shouldn't think you'd like it
half so well as being with Mr. Scott."
"'Course I wouldn't like it half nor quarter so well, Nan, but this is
what I've been thinkin'. You know there's a good many boys in these
two houses that don't have no place to stay evenin's, 'cept the
streets, an' I was thinkin' as I came home to-night, how fine 'twould
be if there was a room where they could come an' read an' play games
an' talk, kind of a boys' club room, don't ye know, like the one
Mr. Scott was tellin' 'bout they're havin' in some places. I think
he'll help me get some books an' papers an' games, an' maybe he'll
come an' give us a talk sometimes. It would be grand for fellers like
Jimmy Hunt that ain't bad yet, but will be if they stay in the streets
every evenin'."
"Theo, I think it's a splendid idea, only there ought to be just such
a room for the girls. They need it even more than the boys do." Nan
hesitated a moment, then added, earnestly, "Theo, I'm proud of you."
Theodore's face was the picture of utter amazement as he gazed at
her. "Proud--of me?" he gasped. "I'd like to know what for."
"Well, never mind what for, but I want to say, Theo, what I've thought
ever so many times lately. When I first knew you, you were good to
Little Brother and me, so good that I can never forget it, but you
weren't"--
"I was meaner'n dirt," interposed the boy, sorrowfully.
"No, but you'd never had any chance with nobody to teach you or help
you, and I used to hate to have you touch Little Brother, because I
thought you were not good."
"I wasn't," put in Theodore, sadly.
"But since you came back from the bishop's you've been so different,
and it seems to me you're always trying to help somebody now.
Theo--if Little Brother lives, I hope he'll be like you."
Theodore stared at her in incredulous silence. "Like me. Little
Brother like me," he whispered, softly, to himself, the colour
mounting in his cheeks. Then he arose and walked over to the bed where
the child lay, with one small hand thrown out across the
bedclothes. The soft, golden hair lay in pretty rings on the moist
forehead, but the little face looked waxen white.
Theodore stood for a moment looking down at the baby, then suddenly he
stooped and kissed the outstretched hand, and then without another
word he went away.
Nan's eyes were full of tears as she looked after him.
"How he does love Little Brother," she thought. "He's going to miss
him awfully."
Monday was a busy day for Mrs. Rawson. She had engaged a seamstress
to finish off Nan's dresses, and having seen the woman settled to her
work, she set off herself for the tenement house, a boy going with her
to carry a small valise.
She found Nan busy baking bread. The place was very warm and the girl
looked flushed and tired. Mrs. Hunt had carried the baby off to her
cooler rooms.
"Nan, child, you've not taken up the cooking again?" exclaimed
Mrs. Rawson.
"I had to do some--not very much," replied the girl, gently.
"But, my dear, I thought you understood that we didn't want you to do
this any more."
Nan only smiled as she set the last loaf in the oven.
The lady went on, "Nan--we want you to go away to-morrow."
Nan looked up with startled eyes. "So soon!" she exclaimed as
Theodore had done.
"Why should there be any delay about it? Every day that you stay here
is so much actual loss to you and to the baby, too," added Mrs.
Rawson.
With a bewildered air Nan dropped into a chair, saying, hesitatingly,
"But how can I get ready to go to-morrow?"
"Easily enough, if you let the cooking go. I was wondering as I came
along what you would do with your furniture."
To Mrs. Rawson's eyes the few poor bits of furniture looked worthless
enough, but she realised that it would seem quite otherwise to the
girl who had bought them with her own hard earnings.
But now Nan looked up with shining eyes and in eager words told of
Theodore's plan and the lady's face brightened as she listened.
"It's a fine plan," she replied, heartily, "and it means a deal for
such a boy as Theodore to have thought of it."
"And when he might have gone to your house, too," added Nan,
softly. "Mrs. Rawson, he'll be very lonely when Little Brother is
gone."
"Yes, he'll miss you both sadly, but Nan, you mustn't worry about
Theodore. Mr. Scott loves the boy and will look out for him, you may
be sure of that. But now we must talk about your journey. I've brought
the things that I thought you would need on the way, and I'd like you
to try on this dress."
She lifted the pretty wool suit from the valise as she spoke, and Nan
began to take off her faded calico. The colour rose in her face as she
did so, for she hated to have Mrs. Rawson see her poor under garments,
but the lady seemed not to notice, as she chatted away about the
dress.
"Fits you beautifully. I was sure it would, for I had all the
measurements. I don't believe you will need to carry many of the
things you have, for there are plenty of the new ones," she said. "I
put into this little valise everything that will be needed for the
journey, and the other things can go with mine."
Nan looked up quickly, crying out joyfully, "Oh, Mrs. Rawson, are you
going with us?"
"To be sure. Did you suppose I meant for you to travel alone with a
sick baby? I'm going to stay a week."
"That's lovely!" exclaimed the girl, with a sigh of relief. "I did
dread to go among entire strangers alone."
"Mrs. Hyde won't be a stranger two minutes after you meet her. You
couldn't help loving her if you should try. Now then, let me see. You
are to be ready at half past nine to-morrow. The train goes at
10:15. I'll stop here for you. Now, child, don't work any more
to-day. Just rest so that you can enjoy the journey. Oh, there's one
thing I came near forgetting--shoes. Those will have to be
fitted. Can you come with me now and get them?"
"Yes, if Mrs. Hunt can see to my baking," Nan replied.
Mrs. Hunt was very ready to do so, and Nan and her new friend were
soon in a car on their way to the shoe store.
When she returned to her room alone, the girl took out the pretty
serviceable garments from the valise and examined them all with
mingled pain and pleasure. It was a delight to her to have once more
such clothing as other girls wore, but to receive them from strangers,
even such kind strangers as Mrs. Rawson and the girls, hurt Nan more
than a little. But she did not feel quite the same about the dainty
garments for her little brother. Over those her eyes shone with
satisfaction. She could not resist the desire to see how he would look
in them, and when he was dressed she carried him in for Mrs. Hunt to
admire, and the two praised and petted the little fellow to their
hearts' content.
Theodore had looked forward to a quiet evening with Nan and the
baby--that last evening that they were to spend together for so
long--but it proved to be anything but a quiet one. It had leaked out
that Nan was going away, and all through the evening the women and
girls in the house were coming to say "good-bye." Nan had not
expected this, for she had never had much to do with any of them, and
it touched her deeply when in their rough fashion they wished her a
pleasant summer and hoped that the baby would come back well and
strong.
Theodore sat silent in a corner through all these leave-takings, and
some of the women, as they went back to their own rooms, spoke of the
loneliness the boy would feel without the baby that they all knew he
loved so dearly.
When the last caller had departed, Theodore stood up and held out a
little purse to Nan.
"Ain't much in it, but I want ye to use it for anything _he_
wants," the boy said, with a gesture toward the child.
Nan hesitated. She would not have taken it for herself, but she knew
that it would hurt Theo sadly, if she refused his gift, so she took
it, saying, "You've been so good to him always, Theo. I shan't let him
forget you ever."
"No--don't," muttered the boy, and unable to trust himself to say
more, he turned away in silence, and went to his own room. The little
purse he had given Nan contained five dollars.
"The dear boy! How good he is to us," Nan murmured, as she put the
bill back into it, "but I hope I shall not need to use this."
Theodore ran in the next morning for a hasty good-bye before he went
out to his work. He had waited purposely until the last moment, so
that his leave-taking might be a brief one, and he said so little, and
said that little so coldly that a stranger might have thought him
careless and indifferent, but Nan knew better. Now that the time of
departure was so close at hand, she shrank nervously from it and
almost wished she had refused to go, but still she dressed Little
Brother and herself in good season, and was all ready when at nine
thirty, promptly, Mrs. Rawson appeared. The lady gave a satisfied
glance at the two, and then insisted upon carrying the baby downstairs
herself, while one of the Hunt children followed with Nan's valise. A
cab was waiting at the door, and cabs being rarities in that locality,
a crowd of curious children stood gaping at it, and waiting to see Nan
and the baby depart in it.
"It is going to be a warm day. I shall be glad when we are fairly
off," Mrs. Rawson said, with an anxious glance at the baby's face, as
the cab rattled over the rough stones.
As the little party entered the station, there was a flutter of light
raiment and bright ribbons, and Nan found herself fairly surrounded by
the eleven King's Daughters. They took possession of the baby, who
brightened up wonderfully at the sight of them, and they seized the
valise and Mrs. Rawson's handbag, and they trooped altogether through
the great station to the waiting train, and instead of saying, "Can't
go through yet, ladies--not till the train's made up," the gatekeeper
smiled in genial fashion into their bright faces and promptly unlocked
the gate for them. That was because one of them was the daughter of a
railroad official, but Nan didn't know that.