FOUR GIRLS OF FORTY YEARS AGO
BOOKS BY NINA RHOADES
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FOR YOUNGER READERS
“THE BRICK HOUSE BOOKS”
The sight of the brick house on the cover makes girl readers happy at
once.--_Indianapolis News._
Illustrated. Large 12mo. Cloth. $1.50 each.
ONLY DOLLIE
THE LITTLE GIRL NEXT DOOR
WINIFRED’S NEIGHBORS
THE CHILDREN ON THE TOP FLOOR
HOW BARBARA KEPT HER PROMISE
LITTLE MISS ROSAMOND
PRISCILLA OF THE DOLL SHOP
BRAVE LITTLE PEGGY
THE OTHER SYLVIA
MAISIE’S MERRY CHRISTMAS
LITTLE QUEEN ESTHER
MAKING MARY LIZZIE HAPPY
A REAL CINDERELLA
NORA’S TWIN SISTER
FOUR GIRLS OF FORTY YEARS AGO
LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO.
BOSTON
[Illustration: “I THINK YOU ARE THE MOST WONDERFUL PERSON I EVER HEARD
OF,” DECLARED DULCIE.--_Page 87._]
Four Girls of Forty
Years Ago
BY
NINA RHOADES
_ILLUSTRATED BY_
ELEANOR R. WEEDEN
[Illustration]
BOSTON
LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO.
Published, August, 1920
COPYRIGHT, 1920,
BY LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO.
_All Rights Reserved_
Four Girls of Forty Years Ago
Norwood Press
BERWICK & SMITH CO.
NORWOOD, MASS.
U. S. A.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE FOUR LITTLE WINSLOWS 9
II. A VISITOR 25
III. A WONDERFUL DAY 39
IV. THE SINGING LADY 54
V. MISS POLLY’S STORY 71
VI. PAUL 91
VII. THE STOLEN CHILD 104
VIII. THE HOUSE ON AVENUE A 119
IX. MISS POLLY’S PIANO 133
X. DULCIE’S BIRTHDAY 147
XI. PAUL ENTERTAINS MISS POLLY 164
XII. DAISY WRITES A LETTER 178
XIII. DECORATION DAY 193
XIV. MRS. WINSLOW GETS A TELEGRAM 214
XV. DULCIE TAKES THE HELM 228
XVI. LOOKING FOR A SITUATION 241
XVII. STEPMOTHERS 258
XVIII. A HOME-COMING 270
ILLUSTRATIONS
“I think you are the most wonderful person
I ever heard of” declared Dulcie
(Page 87) _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
The door swung open so quietly and easily that
she nearly fell over backward 62
“She’s got the big fellow down. She’s sittin’
on his head” 128
Daisy took the two letters, flew down-stairs, and
out into the street 190
“We’re--we’re looking for a situation” 258
“Do we say ‘How do you do, stepmother?’”
Maud wanted to know 274
Four Girls of Forty Years Ago
CHAPTER I
THE FOUR LITTLE WINSLOWS
They all lived in the big front room on the top floor of Grandpa
Winslow’s old-fashioned house near Washington Square. They had
lived there for so long that Molly and Maud--who were only nine
and seven--could not remember ever having lived anywhere else. But
Dulcie--who was nearly twelve--and Daisy--who was ten and a half--had
dim memories of a very different home--a home that was always bright
and happy, and in which the grim figures of Grandma Winslow and her
daughter, Aunt Kate, played no part.
It was more than five years since their father had brought his four
little motherless girls from the Western town where they were born, to
the stately, gloomy old house near Washington Square. It had seemed to
Mr. Winslow the wisest thing to do, for he was young and inexperienced,
and the death of his pretty young wife had almost broken his heart.
With the exception of his father, who was very old and infirm, and
his stepmother, whom he had never loved very much, he had no near
relatives, and so when his father had written in his trembling old
hand, offering a home to him and his four little girls, he had accepted
the offer, and they had left the Western home, where they had been so
happy, and taken the long journey to New York, accompanied by Lizzie,
the faithful servant, who had formerly been maid-of-all-work, but now
acted as the children’s nurse.
That was five years ago, and many things had happened since then. In
the first place, their father had been in China for more than a year.
Young Jim Winslow, as every one called him, had not found it easy to
make a living in New York, and he had ended by accepting the offer of
a friend in China, who promised him a good position in his business.
And one sad day, he had kissed his little girls good-bye and gone away.
How they had all cried, for though Papa tried to be very cheerful, they
felt quite sure that this going away was different from any other.
“When Papa went to The Centennial in Philadelphia, he only stayed away
a week,” Daisy had reminded them, with a great effort to be cheerful,
“and he brought us all home something. I suppose China is a great deal
farther away than Philadelphia.”
“Of course it is,” said Dulcie, with difficulty suppressing a sob;
“it’s away the other side of the world. But he says we must all be good
till he comes back, so we’ll have to try very hard.”
“We’ve got Lizzie, anyhow,” chimed in Molly. “She won’t ever go away;
she promised Papa she wouldn’t leave us till he came back.”
That was a comforting thought, and as Lizzie had come into the nursery
at that moment, they had all run to her, and she soon had Molly and
Maud in her lap, while Dulcie and Daisy sat on the arms of her chair,
for next to their father, they all loved Lizzie better than any one in
the world.
But alas! When Lizzie had promised not to leave the children, she had
not counted on her temper. She loved the little girls dearly, but she
had never learned to control her quick temper, and in less than a month
from the day of Mr. Winslow’s departure, she had been dismissed by
Grandma for having used what that lady called “outrageously impertinent
language.” That was a dreadful day for the children, even more dreadful
than the one on which their father left for China. Their father had
occasionally left them for a short time before, but never, never since
their mother’s death, had Lizzie been absent for a single night.
“Who’ll put us to bed?” wailed Maud, “and give us our baths, and hear
us say our prayers? Oh! oh! I want to go away with Lizzie. I don’t want
to stay here any more--I don’t, I don’t!”
“Hush, Maudie, don’t cry so,” soothed Dulcie, who was crying herself.
“I’ll hear your prayers. I’m ’most twelve, so I guess it will be all
right, and Daisy and I can take our own baths, so I guess we can teach
you and Molly to do it, too. But, oh, Lizzie, Lizzie, I do want you so
much!” And poor Dulcie broke down utterly, and sobbed as if her heart
would break.
The next important event was Grandpa’s death. This, though sad, was
not the heart-break to the children that Lizzie’s departure had been.
Grandpa was very feeble, and for several years had taken small notice
of them, except to nod and smile kindly at them, when they came into
his room, and ask them their names, which he never seemed able to
remember from one day to another. Lizzie had once told them that
Grandpa was losing his mind, and that they must always be very kind and
polite to him, and they had looked upon the old gentleman with a kind
of awe, which had been greatly increased when, one morning, Mary, the
chambermaid, had come into the nursery to tell them in a whisper that
“their dear grandpa” had died suddenly during the night.
But all these things had happened nearly a year before the rainy
January afternoon on which this story begins. It had been a very stormy
day, and as Miss Hammond, the prim daily governess, who came for three
hours every morning, was laid up with a bad cold, there had not even
been lessons to break the monotony, and time had hung rather heavily on
the children’s hands. Even the usual diversion of luncheon with their
elders had been denied them, for Aunt Kate had given a luncheon party,
and, according to the Winslow code, little girls were expected to keep
out of the way on all such occasions. So Mary had brought them each a
bowl of bread and milk, that being less trouble than anything else, and
although bread and milk is nourishing, it is not what Dulcie called
“exciting,” and by four o’clock they were all feeling decidedly bored,
and more than a little hungry.
Dulcie had read till her eyes ached; Daisy had completed a whole spring
outfit for Maud’s doll, and Molly and Maud had played so many games of
lotto that Molly declared crossly she was sure she could play lotto in
her sleep.
“If only it didn’t pour so, I’d go round to the library for another
book,” remarked Dulcie, with a yawn.
Dulcie cared more about reading than about almost anything else in the
world. She read everything she could lay her hands on, and when her
father went away to China, he had given her a ticket to the circulating
library, which was only three blocks away.
“I wish things happened to real people the way they do to people in
books,” said Molly. “If we were in a book, something interesting would
be sure to happen to us this afternoon. We’ve been in the house all
day, and only had bread and milk for lunch.”
“Something rather interesting is going to happen now,” said Daisy, who
had been looking out of the window for the past five minutes. “The
Van Arsdales across the street are going to have a party. There’s an
awning, and the ice-cream wagon has just stopped there. We can watch
the carriages come, and if they happen to leave one of the parlor
shades up, the way they did that other time, we can see them dance.”
Mollie and Maud looked interested, but Dulcie sighed.
“I don’t see much fun in watching a party you can’t go to yourself,”
she said, discontentedly. “If Grandma would only let us know some of
the neighbors, we might be invited to places sometimes. I wonder how it
would feel to have a party.”
“I don’t think I should like it much,” said Daisy. “Things might go
wrong, and that would be so embarrassing. You remember the time those
Leroy children came to see us, and Grandma called out we were making
too much noise. I think I’d rather go to other people’s parties,
especially while we have to live with Grandma and Aunt Kate.”
Dulcie sighed again.
“If only Papa would come home,” she said. “Things weren’t half so bad
when he was here.”
“He is coming home next year,” put in Daisy, cheerfully. Daisy always
looked on the bright side of things. “You know what he said in his
last letter, about our all having a nice little home together. Perhaps
Lizzie will come back then, too. Wouldn’t that be lovely?”
“Mary told the butcher-man that Lizzie is going to be married,”
announced Maud. “I heard her yesterday when I was in the kitchen,
playing with the kitty.”
“I don’t believe it,” declared Molly, indignantly. “Lizzie never told
Mary things; she said she was an old gossip.”
“Well, Mary said it, anyhow,” persisted Maud. “She told the
butcher-man, and he said----”
“Oh, children, don’t argue,” interrupted peace-loving Daisy. “Come
here and watch for the party. I guess the carriages will begin to come
pretty soon.”
“They had ice-cream for lunch down-stairs,” exclaimed Molly, with a
sudden recollection. “I wonder if there’s any left!”
“If there were we wouldn’t get any,” said Dulcie. “Mary and Bridget
would be sure to eat it all up.”
“If Grandma were like a grandmother in a book, she’d see that we
had ice-cream, and lots of other nice things,” remarked Molly,
reflectively. “Book grandmothers are always so nice. I wonder why real
ones aren’t?”
“I guess real ones are, too,” said Daisy. “That’s just the trouble with
us. Grandma isn’t our real grandmother; she’s only a step, and steps
are never any good. Even Aunt Kate isn’t our real aunt, because Grandpa
was only her stepfather.”
“Steps are pretty bad,” remarked Dulcie, “but the worst of all is a
stepmother, and, thank goodness, we haven’t got that. If I thought we
were ever going to have a stepmother, I’d--I’d do something awful.”
“What would you do?” inquired Molly, eagerly.
“I don’t know, I haven’t made up my mind yet, but I’ve often thought
about it. I’m sure it won’t happen, though; Papa is much too kind to do
anything so dreadful, but if it did, well--don’t let’s talk about it.”
Dulcie’s dark little face had grown suddenly very stern and determined,
and her sisters regarded her with something like awe. Although only
a little more than a year older than Daisy, Dulcie had always been
looked up to by the younger children as a superior being. In the first
place, she was the only one of them who could remember Mamma, and then
she was so very clever. Dulcie always knew her lessons, and moreover,
she really liked to study. Even Miss Hammond, strictest of teachers,
never had any complaints to make against Dulcie; and Daisy had once
overheard Aunt Kate telling a visitor that “the eldest child was
really remarkably bright, and took after her dear grandfather.” Now,
the children all knew that Grandpa Winslow had been a great man in his
day, and to hear that one of them was supposed to resemble him was a
most wonderful compliment, especially from Aunt Kate, who seldom said
pleasant things about any one. So perhaps Dulcie may be pardoned for
being a trifle conceited, and conscious of her own importance.
“Here comes the first carriage,” announced Daisy, from her post at the
window.
All the others hurried to get a glimpse of the first arrivals at the
party. The carriage door was opened by a man in livery, and several
figures were hustled up the Van Arsdales’ front steps, under the
awning. Another and another carriage followed, and the next ten minutes
were--according to Daisy--“really quite exciting.” But watching the
arrival of guests at a party to which one has not been invited, is
not, after all, a very thrilling amusement, and by the time the sixth
carriage had deposited its freight, and rolled away, even Daisy’s
enthusiasm had begun to cool.
“How hard it rains,” said Molly, flattening her nose against the
window-pane. “I wonder if the stolen child is out in all this storm.”
“Of course she is,” said Dulcie in a tone of conviction. “She’s been
out all day with her basket, and she’s wet through and so cold and
hungry. But her basket isn’t full yet, and she doesn’t dare go home,
for fear that dreadful woman will beat her.”
Dulcie gave a little shiver, and glanced from the window back to the
warm, comfortable room.
“It’s terribly sad,” said Daisy, with a sigh. “I do wish we could help
her find her family. If we could only get acquainted with her, we might
be able to find out how she was stolen. They always remember something,
you know, even if it’s happened when they were very little.”
“Let’s make up some more about her,” said Molly. “Come and sit close to
the register, it’s so nice and warm. It’s nicer to talk about things
like that when you’re very comfortable.”
“All right,” agreed Dulcie, and they all four gathered round the
register, where the hot air from the furnace puffed in their faces.
“You begin, Dulcie,” commanded Daisy. “You make up so much better than
we do. Tell what’s going to happen when she gets home to-night.”
“Well,” began Dulcie, her eyes growing big and dreamy, as they always
did when she “made up things.” “It will be quite dark before she dares
to go home, and she will be so tired that she can hardly drag herself
up the long flight of stairs, to that dirty garret. There won’t be any
fire because the wicked old woman will be drunk again. She’ll be asleep
on a pile of rags, snoring very loud, and the stolen child will be
afraid to wake her. So she’ll put down her basket, and creep away into
a corner, and sit there shivering, and trying to keep her teeth from
chattering. But by and by she’ll remember the little prayer her mother
taught her, and after that she won’t be quite so unhappy, and---- Why,
Maud, what is the matter--whatever are you crying about?”
“I--I don’t like it,” sobbed Maud, the tender-hearted, flinging herself
upon Dulcie’s lap. “I don’t want the poor little girl to be so cold and
hungry.” And the sobs changed to a wail.
“Oh, hush, lovey, don’t cry like that,” pleaded Daisy, soothing and
petting her little sister, while Dulcie added in hasty explanation:
“Don’t be such a baby, Maud. It’s only a story I’m making up. We don’t
really know anything about the little girl at all.”
“But you said--you said she was so cold and so hungry,” wailed Maud,
“and I don’t like to hear about people being cold and hungry.”
“Oh, Maud, do stop,” protested Molly. “If you cry so loud, Grandma will
hear, and think how she’ll scold.”
But Maud’s feelings were not so easily soothed, and she continued
to sob, and to declare over and over again that she didn’t like sad
stories--she didn’t want to hear about the stolen child--until the
other three were at their wits’ end.
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Maud,” exclaimed Daisy, with a sudden
inspiration. “If you’ll stop crying, I’ll go down to the kitchen and
see if there isn’t some ice-cream left. If there is, I’ll coax Bridget
to let me have some, and you shall eat every bit of it, because you’re
the youngest.”
Maud stopped short in the middle of a wail.
“Will you really?” she inquired doubtfully.
“Yes, I will,” promised Daisy. “Now wipe your eyes, like a good girl.
Where’s your handkerchief? Oh, you haven’t got one. Well, never mind,
here’s mine. There, that’s all right. You won’t cry any more, will you?”
“Suppose there isn’t any ice-cream left?” suggested Maud, still
doubtfully.
“Well, there’s sure to be some cake left, anyhow, and I’m sure Bridget
will give me a piece for you. Now keep still, and I’ll be back just as
quick as I can.”
Maud was mollified and Daisy ran quickly down the four flights of
stairs to the basement without meeting any one by the way. She tiptoed
past Grandma’s door, which was fortunately closed, or she would
probably have been stopped and questioned. Arrived at the kitchen, she
found Bridget and Mary both taking afternoon tea. They were sitting
at the kitchen table, and between them was a dish containing several
tempting little frosted cakes. At Daisy’s entrance they both looked
up, and Mary inquired rather sharply:
“Now what in the world are you after down here at this time of day? Did
your grandma send you?”
“No,” said Daisy, pausing in the doorway, “nobody sent me. I just came
to ask if there was any ice-cream left. I don’t want much, only a
little for Maud. Dulcie told a story that made her cry, and I promised
to bring her something to eat if I could. She loves ice-cream, and I
thought perhaps----” Daisy paused in some embarrassment.
Both the maids laughed, and Bridget--who was generally good-natured--
pushed back her chair from the table.
“There isn’t very much left,” she said. “I was keeping it for our
supper, but I suppose you may as well have it.”
“Oh, thank you,” cried Daisy, gratefully; “you’re very kind. I’m sorry
to take it away from you and Mary, but Maud is so unhappy. I’m sure the
ice-cream will make her feel cheerful again.”
Bridget retired to the ice-box, from whence she presently returned with
a well-filled saucer of pink ice-cream.
“It’s too bad there isn’t enough for you all,” she said, kindly, “but
the madame’s that stingy, she never will order more than just enough to
go round. You can have a couple of these cakes, anyhow, and that’ll be
better than nothing.”
Daisy’s heart beat very fast, as she stole softly up-stairs again with
her precious burden. She reached the second floor in safety, and was
just beginning to breathe more freely, when there came an interruption.
Grandma’s door opened suddenly, and a sharp, querulous voice demanded:
“Who’s that?”
Daisy’s heart gave a big jump, but she tried to speak quite naturally.
“It’s only I, Grandma,” she faltered, and try as she might, she could
not keep the tremor altogether out of her voice.
Mrs. Winslow stepped out into the hall.
“What is that you are carrying so carefully?” she inquired,
suspiciously.
“It’s--it’s just a little ice-cream, and some cakes that were left from
the lunch party. Bridget gave them to me for Maud. Maud was crying over
a story Dulcie told, and----”
“Never mind about explanations,” interrupted Grandma, frowning. “You
all know perfectly well that you are not allowed to eat between meals,
or to bring food up-stairs. Take those things directly back to the
kitchen. I shall speak to Bridget about this to-morrow morning.”
The tears started to Daisy’s blue eyes.
“Oh, Grandma,” she pleaded, “please do let us have it, just this once.
Maud loves ice-cream so much, and she hardly ever has any. You see, it
was this way: Maud made up a story about a little beggar girl we see
sometimes. We think she must be a stolen child, because she has blue
eyes and golden hair; stolen children always have in books, and we like
to make up things about her. This was a very sad story, but we didn’t
think Maud----”
“I am not interested in all that nonsense,” interrupted Grandma,
impatiently. “Do as I tell you, and never let me hear of your bringing
food up-stairs again without permission.”
Daisy’s lip quivered, but she dared not disobey, and with a sigh that
was half a sob, she turned away, and went slowly down-stairs again.
When she returned to the nursery, five minutes later, she was relieved
to find that Maud had stopped crying, and was standing with Molly,
eagerly looking out of the window.
“They’re beginning to dance,” announced Maud. “The gas is lit in the
parlor, and they haven’t pulled down one shade.”
“I suppose there wasn’t any cream left,” said Dulcie in a low voice.
In their interest in the Van Arsdales’ party, the two younger ones had
apparently forgotten the subject of food.
“There was a little,” Daisy admitted, “and Bridget let me have it for
Maud, and some cakes, too; but on the way up-stairs I met Grandma,
and she made me take the things back to the kitchen. She said we were
forbidden to bring food up here, or to eat between meals.”
Dulcie’s eyes flashed. For a moment she did not speak, and then she
said, slowly:
“I hate Grandma, and some day I’m going to tell her so.”
“Oh, Dulcie,” gasped Daisy, in horrified reproach, “you mustn’t say
such things. It’s terribly wicked to hate people.”
“I know it is,” said Dulcie, “and I suppose I must be a very wicked
person. Perhaps I shall never go to heaven, but I do hate Grandma just
the same, and there isn’t any use in pretending I don’t.”