LOOKING FOR A SITUATION
It was nearly half-past seven when the slow morning train drew up at
the Peak’s Point Station and four solemn, rather frightened little
passengers stepped out upon the platform. They were almost the only
passengers, and as they passed out of the car, both conductor and
brakeman looked after them curiously.
“Now I wonder where them young ones can be off to at this time of the
morning,” the brakeman remarked. “They look as if they were goin’
somewhere to stay, judgin’ by the parcels they’ve got.”
“They paid their fares all right,” the conductor answered, “and the
biggest one looked pretty well able to take care of herself. She handed
me a five-dollar bill, and to see her countin’ the change, you’d think
she’d been used to it all her life. Bright as a button she is, and
no mistake.” And then the train moved on again, and the two men soon
forgot the episode.
In the meantime the four little Winslows had left the station behind,
and were walking up the village street, in quest of a bakery, for by
this time they were all decidedly hungry. Dulcie was the only one of
them who had ever been to Peak’s Point before, but she assured the
others that she remembered the place very well, and knew just where the
stores were.
“We went to a drug-store,” she said, “and Papa and I had soda-water. It
was very good.”
“I hope we can get something besides soda-water now,” said Molly. “It’s
very nice when you’re hot and thirsty, but I don’t think it would be at
all the thing for breakfast.”
“There’s a baker on the other side of the street,” cried Maud,
joyfully. “There’s some lovely cake in the window. I’m going to have
some.”
“Oh, Maudie, not cake for breakfast,” remonstrated Daisy. “I never
heard of such a thing.”
But Maud was firm.
“I always thought I should like cake for breakfast,” she maintained.
“It would be so different, you know.”
Daisy looked grave, but Molly was rather inclined to agree with her
younger sister.
“People do have queer things for breakfast sometimes,” she reminded
them. “Don’t you remember Papa told us about that place in Maine where
he went fishing, and how they gave him pie and doughnuts every morning
at seven o’clock? He said they were rather good when you were hungry.”
So Daisy’s scruples were silenced, and Dulcie volunteered to make the
necessary purchases.
“I don’t believe we’d better all go,” she advised. “People stare so,
and I suppose we do look a little queer, with all our parcels. I’ll
leave the bag here on the sidewalk, and you can watch it till I come
back.”
Nobody had any objections to offer, so Dulcie departed on her errand,
returning in the course of a few minutes with two well-laden paper bags.
“I bought some rolls,” she announced; “they’re right out of the oven,
the woman said, and I’ve got some nice fruit cake for Maud. I’m sorry
I couldn’t get any butter, but the rolls are so fresh, I don’t believe
we’ll mind eating them dry.”
But though her voice was cheerful, Dulcie’s face was grave and
troubled, and when they had found a seat on the steps of a church, and
the two younger children had begun on their impromptu breakfast, she
drew Daisy aside to whisper anxiously:
“Things do cost a great deal more than I supposed they did. We shan’t
be able to live long on that five dollars of Uncle Stephen’s.”
“How long do you suppose it will take us to find a situation?” inquired
Daisy, with an anxious glance at her two little sisters.
“Oh, not very long, I don’t believe. Of course, we must find something
before to-night. But I’ve been thinking that perhaps it would be better
not to eat all these rolls right away. We might get hungry again by
and by, you know, and it isn’t certain that we shall find a situation
before lunch time.”
Daisy--most unselfish of sisters--agreed, although it cost her
something of an effort to put her second roll back into the paper bag,
for, after all, dry bread is not a very substantial breakfast. Somehow,
nobody felt very well satisfied, and even Maud admitted that cake
really did taste rather queer so early in the morning, and she would
like a glass of milk.
“I thought I hated milk when Grandma made me drink it,” she admitted,
“but things taste so funny when you have to eat them dry. Let’s buy
some milk, Dulcie?”
But Dulcie, mindful of the state of their finances, shook her head.
“Perhaps somebody will give us a drink of water,” she said, “but I
don’t think we’d better buy anything more now. Wouldn’t you like to
live on a farm, Maud? You might learn to milk the cows yourself.”
But this suggestion was not at all to Maud’s taste. “I don’t like
cows,” she protested, indignantly; “I’m afraid of them. Lizzie said a
cow chased her once, when she was a little girl, because she had on a
red dress. She always told us not to go near them. Oh, I don’t want to
go to a place where there are cows.”
Maud--who was beginning to feel both tired and cross--suddenly burst
into tears.
“Oh, Maudie, don’t be silly,” remonstrated Dulcie. “Maybe we won’t go
to a farm at all. I only thought perhaps farmers might be more likely
to take little girls to work for them than rich people would. You see,
rich people generally have other servants, and----”
“But I don’t want to be a servant,” wailed Maud. “Servants have to eat
in the kitchen, and sometimes they don’t have any dessert. I want to
go home, even if we are going to have a stepmother. I don’t believe
stepmothers are as bad as having to be servants, and eat in the
kitchen.”
“Stepmothers are horrid,” declared Molly, with conviction. “Besides, we
don’t want to be burdens any longer. Do stop crying, Maud, and let’s
begin to look for a situation. I think it’s going to be rather good
fun.”
Thus urged, Maud--who was really a cheerful little soul--choked back a
rising sob and dried her eyes. Just then the church clock, over their
heads, boomed forth eight strokes, and Dulcie rose.
“Come along,” she said. “I don’t think we’ll stop at any of these
houses. It will be nicer out in the country.”
The others sighed wearily, but made no objections. It was the beginning
of a very hot day, and already the sun felt uncomfortably warm.
“If we can’t get any milk, I don’t think soda-water would be so
bad, after all,” remarked Molly, suddenly. “Let’s go back to that
drug-store.” But Daisy--who had decided ideas as to the fitness of
things--would not listen to this suggestion. Cake for breakfast was bad
enough, but soda-water at eight o’clock in the morning--the thing was
unheard of.
“It would make us all sick,” she assured them, “and then what could we
do? Nobody would take sick people to work for them.”
That argument proved unanswerable, and Molly and Maud were forced
to submit to remaining thirsty for the present. A few minutes’ walk
brought them to the end of the village street, and they turned into a
shady, grass-grown road, which was much pleasanter. Instinctively the
children’s spirits began to rise.
“There’s a lovely house,” exclaimed Molly, coming to a sudden
standstill beside some iron gates. “Couldn’t we ask there?”
Dulcie hesitated. Truth to tell, now that the moment had arrived for
putting her wonderful scheme into operation, she was beginning to feel
decidedly nervous and uncomfortable.
“I think we’d better go a little farther,” she said. “It’s pretty early
to disturb people; they might not like it.”
“But ladies are more apt to be at home early in the morning,” urged
Molly, who was anxious to have the adventure begin. “Besides, it’s
getting hot, and we’re all thirsty. What are you going to do about a
reference? I’ve heard Grandma say she would never engage a girl who
didn’t have a good reference.”
Dulcie looked a little startled. She had not thought of the necessity
of references. But just then Maud put in an anxious question.
“Suppose nobody wants us, and night comes, where are we going to sleep?”
“Don’t talk about night when it’s only just about breakfast time,”
reproved Molly. “We’ll be sure to find a place long before dinner-time,
and I don’t believe, when the people know who we are, they’ll make us
eat in the kitchen. I think we shall be kind of lady helps, like Phœbe
in ‘Eight Cousins.’ Phœbe did the cooking, but she had lovely times,
too, don’t you remember?”
“But Dulcie says we mustn’t let people know our real names,” Maud
reminded her, “so I don’t see how they can find out who we are.”
“Well, it’s going to be fun, anyhow,” maintained Molly, cheerfully. “I
wouldn’t go home again for anything, after coming so far, and spending
all that money, would you, Dulcie?”
“Of course not,” said Dulcie, “and I suppose, after all, we might
as well begin with this house as any other. But you mustn’t be
disappointed if we have to try a good many places before we find any
one who wants us. And--and there’s another thing; I don’t believe we’d
better all go in together. They might get discouraged if they saw there
were so many of us.”
“But they’ll have to know as soon as they engage us,” objected Daisy.
“Of course they will, but they needn’t find out the very first minute.
I think the best way will be for you and me to go first, and then, if
the people seem kind, and want us to stay, we can explain about the
others. Molly and Maud can wait for us right here, under that big tree.
We won’t be gone long.”
Daisy still looked very doubtful, and Maud began to object to being
left behind, but Dulcie was firm, and Molly also proved equal to the
occasion. So the question was settled, and the two younger children
comfortably ensconced under a big apple-tree, while Dulcie and Daisy
walked up the wide gravelled path to the house. It was not a large
house, but a very pretty one. There was a lawn, with flower beds
in front, and the children caught glimpses of a stable and other
outbuildings in the rear. There was no one to be seen, but as they
approached the house, the sound of a piano could be distinctly heard.
“Somebody’s practising exercises,” whispered Dulcie. “Perhaps it’s the
lady of the house.”
“There’s a doll’s carriage on the piazza,” said Daisy, “so there must
be a little girl.”
“I’m glad,” said Dulcie, with a great effort to speak cheerfully. “If
the people have a little girl of their own, it may make them kinder to
other little girls. I’ve been thinking about our names. I don’t want
to change them any more than I can help; it doesn’t seem quite honest.
I don’t see how I can very well change Dulcie into anything but Delia,
but you can be Margaret, which is your real name, anyhow, and Molly can
be Mary. I’ll have to decide about Maud later, but I think our last
name had better be Smith. When people in books change their names, they
nearly always call themselves Smith or Brown.”
Daisy opened her lips to protest, but at that moment the sound of the
piano ceased, and in another moment the front door opened, and a very
pretty little girl of eight or nine came out onto the piazza. She was
so pretty that Dulcie and Daisy stopped short in the path, and stood
gazing at her in undisguised admiration. She had big brown eyes, and
long golden curls, and she was dressed in white, and wore a string of
gold beads round her neck. Altogether, she looked so much like the
picture of a little princess in one of their fairy books that Dulcie
and Daisy fairly gasped.
As for the stranger herself, she did not seem in the least surprised,
but smiled a bright, welcoming smile, and came running down the steps
to greet the visitors.
“Oh, I’m so glad you’ve come,” she cried, joyfully. “Mamma said she
thought you might come to-day, but I didn’t expect you quite so early.
It’s all right, though; I’ve finished my practicing. I did a whole
half-hour since breakfast. Mamma says that’s quite enough in summer.
Won’t you come up on the piazza?”
To say that the two little Winslows were surprised at the cordiality
of this greeting would be but a poor way of expressing their feelings.
Indeed, they were so much astonished as to be, for the first moment,
quite deprived of the power of speech. Then Dulcie found her voice, and
managed to gasp out:
“You--you were expecting us!”
“I wasn’t exactly expecting you,” the stranger explained, “because your
mother didn’t positively tell Mamma you would come to-day, but I hoped
you would, because I don’t know any of the children here yet, and I’m
so anxious to have somebody to play with.”
“I think you must be making a mistake about us,” said Daisy, who was
beginning to grasp the situation. “Who do you think we are?”
“Why, aren’t you the two little Baxter girls? Mrs. Baxter came to call
on Mamma yesterday, and she said she would send her two little girls
over to play with me, so when I saw you, of course I thought I knew
who you were. It doesn’t really make any difference, though, for I’ve
never seen the Baxters, and I shall probably like you just as much. You
see, Papa has only taken this house for the summer, and we didn’t come
till last Monday, so I don’t know any of the children who live here.
What are your names, and which house do you live in?”
Daisy was silent, and Dulcie flushed a little as she answered.
“Our name is Smith. I’m Delia Smith, and this is my sister Margaret. We
don’t live here, and we--we didn’t exactly come to see you. We’d like
to speak to your mother.”
The little girl’s face fell.
“I’m very sorry,” she said, “I hoped you had come to play with me.
Mamma has gone to the station with Papa, but she won’t be gone very
long. I hope you can wait.”
“We can wait,” said Dulcie. She had taken a fancy to the pretty little
girl, and was hoping that her mother might prove as friendly as herself.
The child looked pleased.
“All right,” she said, hospitably, “and while you’re waiting, perhaps
you’d like to come and see the rabbits. They’re very cunning, and it’s
about time I gave them their breakfast.”
The prospect of feeding rabbits was very alluring, but Dulcie was
mindful of the importance of maintaining her dignity. People looking
for situations ought not to waste their time on anything so trivial as
rabbits.
“I think perhaps we’d better wait here,” she said. “Do you happen to
know whether your mother needs any help?”
“Help,” repeated the little girl, rather vaguely, “what kind of help?”
“Oh, help in the house, or--or in the garden. Any kind that little
girls could do. I thought she might want some one to wash the dishes,
or make the beds, or----”
“Oh, you mean a maid,” interrupted her new acquaintance, with sudden
comprehension. “No, I’m sure Mamma doesn’t need any one. I heard her
tell Papa all the servants were very satisfactory. What made you want
to know?”
“Because we--oh, it doesn’t matter. I’m afraid there isn’t any use of
our waiting to see your mother, after all.”
“Oh, please don’t go so soon,” pleaded the little girl, clasping her
hands imploringly. “You’ve only just come, and I do want somebody to
play with so much. Wait and see Mamma; you’ll love her, and perhaps she
knows some lady who wants a maid. I suppose your mother wants to find
a place for one, just as Mamma did when we went to Europe last year.
Don’t you really think you’d like to come and see the rabbits?”
“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid we can’t,” interposed Daisy, firmly. “We’ve
left our--some people waiting for us on the road, and they might get
worried if we stay away too long.”
“It will only take a few minutes to see the rabbits,” their new friend
urged, “and Mamma will be back very soon. Do you think those people
would mind waiting just a little longer?”
Dulcie wavered. The little girl was so cordial; it seemed almost rude
to refuse her invitation. She glanced appealingly at Daisy.
“I think we might stay just a few minutes,” Daisy agreed. She loved
pets, and to possess rabbits had long been an unfulfilled dream.
So the question was settled, and five minutes later three very eager
little girls were bending lovingly over a family of soft, wriggling
baby rabbits.
“They’re the cunningest things I ever saw,” declared Daisy, pressing
one downy mite to her cheek. “I do wish Molly and Maud could see them.”
“Who are Molly and Maud?” inquired her new friend, with interest.
Daisy started and flushed. In the interest of the moment she had quite
forgotten the rôle of Margaret Smith.
“They are our two sisters,” she explained, with an apologetic glance at
Dulcie. “We all love rabbits, but Grandma will never let us have any
pets.”
“You must bring them to see my rabbits,” her hostess said politely.
“I’ve got so many, I’d like to give you some, if your grandma would let
you have them.”
“You are very kind,” said Dulcie, “but I’m afraid we couldn’t take
them. You see, we don’t expect to live at home any longer.”
The brown eyes opened very wide, and their new acquaintance inquired in
a tone of the utmost astonishment:
“Where are you going to live, then?”
“We don’t know,” said Dulcie; “that’s what we wanted to speak to your
mother about. We are looking for a situation.”
Their new friend gasped.
“But you’re not grown up; you’re only little girls,” she faltered.
“Little girls only work if their mothers are very poor. You don’t look
a bit like poor people.”
“We’re not exactly poor,” Dulcie explained, “but there are--reasons
why we don’t want to live at home any more, so we’ve come away to try
to find a situation. We don’t mind working hard, and there are really
a good many things we can do. We’ve made our own beds and dusted our
rooms ever since Liz--I mean for quite a long time, and we can wash
dishes, and cook a little, too. If we could have a cook-book, I think
we would manage very well.”
The look in the little stranger’s eyes had changed from astonishment to
admiration.
“I think you are very clever,” she said. “I wish I could do useful
things like that, but I shouldn’t like to leave my home. I think I
should die if I had to go away from Mamma and Papa.”
“I’m sure you will never have to do it,” Dulcie reassured her. “You
see, it’s quite different with us. Our mamma is dead, and our papa--oh,
well, we’d rather not talk about it, but it’s all very sad, and we
don’t want to be burdens any longer. Let’s talk some more about the
rabbits.”
Their new friend nodded comprehendingly.
“I know how you feel,” she said. “I hate talking about sad things, too.
I don’t like sad stories, either. Once Mamma read me about little Paul
Dombey, and I cried so much I had a headache.”
“I wish we had a mamma,” said Daisy, with a sigh. “Children are never
burdens to their mothers. I think yours must be nice; you talk so much
about her.”
“She’s the loveliest lady in the world. She’s so good that everybody
loves her. Haven’t you ever heard about her?”
“No, I don’t think we have,” Daisy admitted reluctantly. “You see, we
don’t know very many people. What’s your mamma’s name?”
“Mrs. Richard B. Thorne, and I am Barbara Muriel Thorne.”
“Oh, what a beautiful name!” cried Dulcie. “I’ve read about Barbaras,
but I never met one before. I wish my name was Barbara, or else Gladys.
Muriel is quite a book name, too.”
“Yes, they are pretty names,” Barbara Muriel answered, with some pride.
“But Delia is rather a nice name, too,” she added, politely.
“I think it’s about the ugliest name I ever heard,” said Dulcie. “I
can’t think what made me choose it.”
Barbara looked rather puzzled.
“I didn’t know people ever chose their own names,” she said. “Are you
Baptists?”
“Oh, no,” said Dulcie, blushing; “we are Episcopalians. What made you
think we were Baptists?”
“Because Hannah said Baptists weren’t baptized till they were grown up,
and I thought perhaps they chose their own names, instead of having
them given to them, when they were babies.”
Dulcie was beginning to feel rather uncomfortable, but fortunately, at
that moment, Daisy came to her rescue.
“Hark!” she exclaimed, eagerly; “I think I hear a carriage. Perhaps
it’s Barbara’s mother.”
Barbara ran to look, and returned in a moment with the joyful
intelligence that it was Mamma coming home.
“She’s just driving round to the front door,” she said. “I’ll run
ahead, and tell her about you.” And away she flew, followed more slowly
by her two companions.
“I--I feel just like running away,” faltered Daisy. “Oh, Dulcie, let’s
go. It all seems so very--queer.”
“We can’t run away now,” said Dulcie, and her tone was decided, though
her teeth were beginning to chatter. “It wouldn’t be polite, and
besides, I think perhaps Barbara’s mother may understand, and be kind
to us.”