THE LITTLE OLD LADY
Lured by the lovely, hand-embroidered centerpieces and doilies in the
window, the girls entered the Woman’s Exchange.
“I’m going to see those stunning things close to,” declared Betty.
“I wonder if they are really hand-made,” said Amy, and Mollie sniffed.
“If they’re not, then I never saw a hand-made article in my life,” she
said, positively.
“But that drawn-work!” marveled Grace. “I don’t see how it could be
done by hand.”
“It looks to me like Danish embroidery,” said the Little Captain,
thoughtfully. “Mother had a Danish maid once and she used to do the
most exquisite embroidery I’ve ever seen.”
Upon inquiry they found that the embroideries were on the second floor
of the building.
Dainty things of all sorts and descriptions lined the glass-fronted
shelves--exquisite baby clothes and filmy dresses for older children,
to say nothing of lovely things that would have fitted well in the
wardrobes of the Outdoor Girls themselves.
“Oh, for a million dollars!” sighed Mollie, her eyes as wistful as a
starving puppy when he sees a bone. “I believe I could spend it all
without moving from this spot.”
“What good would those pretty things do us now?” Betty argued,
reasonably. “We couldn’t possibly wear them on a camping trip. Come on,
I see those embroideries over there.”
She half-dragged, half-led the reluctant girls over to the counter
where reposed such exquisite creations of the embroiderers’ art that
the girls fairly caught their breath.
A young woman hovered suggestively close to them, hoping, no doubt, to
make a sale, but it was a long time before they realized her presence.
They handled the lovely things lovingly, exclaiming over them in awed
tones.
“Wouldn’t mother like to have this centerpiece!” said Grace, softly. “I
wish now I hadn’t spent so much of my allowance.”
“And this luncheon set,” sighed Betty, ecstatically, holding up a doily
of such rare design and exquisite workmanship that it seemed more the
fabric of a dream than anything else. “My birthday is coming pretty
soon. I wonder if anybody here is bright enough to take a hint.”
“Rather give it to you for a wedding present,” suggested Mollie,
wickedly.
Betty said nothing, merely bending closer over the lovely thing she
held in her hand.
“I do believe it’s Danish work,” she said, and at that moment the alert
young saleswoman spoke up.
“You’re right, Miss,” she said, looking as proud as though she herself
were the maker of the luncheon set. “It is Danish embroidery of the
finest sort--and hand work, every stitch of it. I’ve seen fine work in
my day, but nothing that could equal that.”
“I believe you,” murmured Betty, adding, with a quick, upward look: “Do
you happen to know the person who does this work?”
“Yes, indeed,” said the young woman briskly. It had been a slow morning
and she was glad of the chance to talk to sympathetic listeners. “An
old lady she was--as quaint an old soul as I ever saw. We were quite
fond of her around here. Every Saturday morning she used to come in,
often with some new piece, prettier than the last, to sell.”
“Why do you say she ‘used to come?’” asked Amy, gently. “Doesn’t she
come any more?”
The young woman shook her head and a frown puckered her forehead.
“No, Miss, she doesn’t. And the worst of it is we don’t know what has
become of her.”
“Didn’t you know where she lived?” asked Betty, with interest.
Again the young woman shook her head.
“Nor yet can we find anybody who does,” she said. “She was a queer old
soul and she came and went as quietly as a mouse.”
“And you don’t even know her name?” asked Mollie, idly.
“No, Miss. You see,” the girl went on, warming to her subject,
“she had been coming here so long with her beautiful work that
we’d come to think of her as part of the Exchange--like a door, or
something--somebody who would always be here. And we none of us knew
how fond we were of the gentle old soul until she failed to show up.
Even then we thought she’d turn up in a week or two, but she didn’t. We
think now that maybe she’s dead. She was very old and feeble.”
“Too bad,” said Betty, her warm heart instantly touched. “Do you sell
many of these?” she added, touching a piece of embroidery.
“Not so many,” returned the clerk. “You see the work is so rare that we
have to charge a pretty good price for it. People come here and say how
beautiful it is--and go away. And yet we can’t honestly sell it for
any less. We promised the old lady a pretty good price for it, you see.
It’s worth it.”
“Oh, dear,” murmured Grace, petulantly. “How unfortunate.”
“What’s the matter, now?” asked the Little Captain, politely.
“Oh,” said Grace, replacing the centerpiece she had been studying upon
a little pile of pieces, “I had my mind set on buying that for mother’s
birthday, but if it’s so very expensive I guess I can’t.”
“We might make a special price for you,” said the young saleswoman
obligingly, and straightway they fell to bartering while the other
girls moved away to study other articles of interest on the floor.
“I feel sorry for that old woman,” said Amy, absently staring at some
filmy embroidered handkerchiefs. “It must be pretty bad to be old and
friendless----”
“Well, I don’t see much use in our worrying about it,” said Mollie,
briskly.
“There’s Grace with the centerpiece under her arm,” chuckled Betty.
“Wonder how she did it.”
“By pretty near breaking herself I suppose,” said Mollie, adding
ruefully: “What do you bet we have to treat her to lunch?”
But both Amy and Betty were too wise to bet on anything so sure to
go against them, and in this way they proved their shrewdness. Once
outside the store Grace confessed, not at all shamefacedly, that
after buying the centerpiece the entire extent of her resources was
twenty-five cents.
“That,” said Betty, with a twinkle, “will just about buy you one
sandwich.”
“Have a heart,” protested Grace. “The way I feel one sandwich would
just about whet my appetite.”
“Well, girls, I suppose we can’t see her starve,” sighed Betty, as they
entered the tempting little tea shop, all white tables and blue walls.
“A blight on our soft hearts,” murmured Mollie, at which Betty and Amy
giggled and Grace smiled sweetly. And the way she ordered from the
delectable dishes on the menu, one might have been excused for thinking
that Grace herself was treating to the luncheon.
“All right,” grumbled Mollie, as she prepared to cut into her chicken
patty. “You just wait, Grace Ford. Next time we come here all of us
girls are accidentally going to forget our pocketbooks. That ought to
fix you.”
“Let the future take care of itself,” said Grace, airily. “Just at
present I’m having a lovely time!”
After lunch they thought of some more shopping they had to do--mostly
for things which they needed on their trip--so that it was late
afternoon before they reached Deepdale once more.
As Mollie stopped the car before Grace’s door to let her get out, she
handed her a paper parcel containing the precious centerpiece which
Grace had overlooked.
“Don’t forget anything,” said Mollie, with elaborate politeness. “And
don’t forget--next time is your treat!”
“I envy your mother, Gracie,” Betty called after her, as Mollie started
the motor. “I reckon she has a happy birthday.”
Amy’s house was the next stop and on the way Betty remarked how quiet
the girl was.
“What’s the matter, Amy dear?” she asked, curiously. “You act as if you
had lost your last friend.”
Amy shook off her thoughtful mood and smiled.
“I suppose you’ll think I’m foolish,” she said, a bit shyly. “But I
just can’t get that old lady out of my mind--the one who does the
embroidery.”
“Listen, Amy,” remarked Mollie, screwing around in her seat until the
girl came within her range of vision, “if we should feel bad about
every poor unfortunate person in this world, we would all be joy
killers. So stop worrying.”
“I suppose so,” sighed Amy, but the troubled look did not leave her
eyes.
“I’d hate to have Amy’s conscience,” chuckled Mollie to Betty, after
they had left Amy at her door. “She’s a darling, of course, but she
makes herself no end of trouble worrying about other people. If she
could help any by worrying, it would be different.”
Betty nodded, but her eyes also were thoughtful.
In a few minutes she was standing on her porch waving good-by to Mollie
as the big car sped up the block and turned the corner.
“What a perfect day it’s been,” she sighed, as she turned to enter the
house. “I do wish everybody could be as happy as we girls are.” By this
it may be seen that the Little Captain, like Amy, was still thinking of
the little old lady who sold embroideries through the Woman’s Exchange.