ST. VALENTINE
After that day when, on the lee side of the sand-dune the Evringham family
read together the story of Johnnie and Chips, it was some time before the
last tale in the story book was called for.
The farmhouse where they boarded stood near a pond formed by the rushing in
of the sea during some change in the sands of the beach, so here was still
another water playmate for Jewel.
"I do hope," said Mr. Evringham meditatively, on the first morning that he
and Jewel stood together on its green bank, "I do hope that very particular
housekeeper, Nature, will let this pond alone until we go!"
Jewel looked up at his serious face with the lines between the eyes. "She
wouldn't touch this great big pond, would she?" she asked.
"Ho! Wouldn't she? Well, I guess so."
"But," suggested Jewel, lifting her shoulders, "she's too busy in summer in
the ravines and everywhere."
"Oh," Mr. Evringham nodded his head knowingly. "Nature looks out for
everything."
"Grandpa!" Jewel's eyes were intent. "Would she ask Summer to touch this
great big pond? What would she want to do it for?"
"Oh, more house-cleaning, I suppose."
The child chuckled as she looked out across the blue waves, rippling in
the wind and white-capped here and there, "When you know it's washed all
the _time_, grandpa," she responded. "The waves are just scrubbing it now.
Can't you see?"
"Yes," the broker nodded gravely. "No doubt that is why she has to empty it
so seldom. Sometimes she lets it go a very long time; but then the day
comes when she begins to think it over, and to calculate how much sediment
and one thing and another there is in the bottom of that pond; and at last
she says, 'Come now, out it must go!'"
"But how can she get it out, how?" asked Jewel keenly interested. "The
brooks are all running somewhere, but the pond doesn't. How can she dip it
out? It would take Summer's hottest sun a year!"
"Yes, indeed, Nature is too clever to try that. The winds are her servants,
you know, and they understand their business perfectly; so when she says
'That pond needs to be cleaned out,' they merely get up a storm some night
after everybody's gone to bed. The people have seen the pond fine and full
when the sun went down. All that night the wind howls and the windows
rattle and the trees bend and switch around; and if those in the farmhouse,
instead of being in bed, were over there on the beach," the speaker waved
his hand toward the shining white sand, distant, but in plain sight, "they
might see countless billows working for dear life to dig a trench through
the hard sand. The wind sends one tremendous wave after another to help
them, and as a great roller breaks and recedes, all the little crested
waves scrabble with might and main, pulling at the softened sand, until,
after hours of this labor, the cut is made completely through from sea to
pond."
Mr. Evringham looked down and met the unwinking gaze fixed upon him. "Then
why--why," asked Jewel, "when the big rollers keep coming, doesn't the pond
get filled fuller than ever?"
The broker lifted his forefinger toward his face with a long drawn "Ah-h!
Nature is much too clever for _that_. She may not have gone to college, but
she understands engineering, all the same. All this is accomplished just at
the right moment for the outgoing tide to pull at the pond with a mighty
hand. Well,"--pausing dramatically,--"you can imagine what happens when the
deep cut is finished."
"Does the pond have to go, grandpa?"
"It just does, and in a hurry!"
"Is it sorry, do you think?" asked Jewel doubtfully.
"We-ell, I don't know that I ever thought of that side of it; but you can
imagine the feelings of the people in the farmhouse, who went to bed beside
the ripples of a smiling little lake, and woke to find themselves near a
great empty bog."
Jewel thought and sighed deeply. "Well," she said, at last, "I hope Nature
will wait till we're gone. I love this pond."
"Indeed I hope so, too. There wouldn't be any pleasant side to it."
Jewel's thoughtful face brightened. "Except for the little fishes and
water-creatures that would rush out to sea. It's fun for _them_. Mustn't
they be surprised when that happens, grandpa?"
"I should think so! Do you suppose the wind gives them any warning, or any
time to pack?"
Jewel laughed. "I don't know; but just think of rushing out into those
great breakers, when you don't expect it, right from living so quietly in
the pond!"
"H'm. A good deal like going straight from Bel-Air Park to Wall Street, I
should think."
Jewel grew serious. "I think fish have the most _fun_," she said. "Do you
know, grandpa, I've decided that if I couldn't be your little grandchild,
I'd rather be a lobster than anything."
The broker threw up his head, laughing. "Some children could combine the
two," he replied, "but you can't."
"What?" asked Jewel.
"Nothing. Why not be a fish, Jewel? They're much more graceful."
"But they can't creep around among the coral and peek into oyster shells at
the pearls."
"Imagine a lobster peeking!" Mr. Evringham strained his eyes to their
widest and stared at Jewel, who shouted.
"That's just the way the sand-fleas look," she exclaimed.
"Well," remarked the broker, recovering his ordinary expression, "you may
as well remain a little girl, so far as that goes. You can creep around
among the coral and peek at pearls at Tiffany's."
"What's Tiffany's?"
"Something you will take more interest in when you're older." The broker
shook his head. "The difference is that the lobster wouldn't care to wear
the coral and pearls. An awful thought comes over me once in a while,
Jewel," he added, after a pause.
The child looked up at him seriously. "It can be met," she answered
quickly.
He smiled. He understood her peculiar expressions in these days. "Hardly, I
think," he answered. "It is this: that you are going to grow up."
Jewel looked off at the blue water. "Well," she replied at last hopefully,
"you're grown up, you know, and perhaps you'll like me then just as much as
I do you."
He squeezed the little hand he held. "We'll hope so," he said.
"And besides, grandpa," she went on, for she had heard him express the same
dread before, "we'll be together every day, so perhaps you won't notice it.
Sometimes I've tried to see a flower open. I've known it was going to do
it, and I've been just _bound_ I'd see it; and I've watched and watched,
but I never could see when the leaves spread, no matter how much I tried,
and yet it would get to be a rose, somehow. Perhaps some day somebody'll
say to you, 'Why, Jewel's a grown up lady, isn't she?' and you'll say, 'Is
she, really? Why, I hadn't noticed it.'"
"That's a comforting idea," returned Mr. Evringham briefly, his eyes
resting on the upturned face.
"So now, if the pond won't run away, we'll have the most _fun_," went on
Jewel, relieved. "They _said_ we could take this boat, grandpa, and have a
row." She lifted her shoulders and smiled.
"H'm. A row and a swim combined," returned the broker. "I'm surprised
they've nothing better this year than that ramshackle boat. You'll have to
bail if we go."
"What's bail?" eagerly.
"Dipping out the water with a tin cup."
"Oh, that'll be fun. It'll be an adventure, grandpa, won't it?"
"I hope not," earnestly, was the reply; but Jewel was already sitting on
the grass pulling off her shoes and stockings. She leaped nimbly into the
wet boat, and Mr. Evringham stepped gingerly after her, seeking for dry
spots for his canvas shoes.
"I think," said the child joyfully, as they pushed off, "when the winds and
waves notice us having so much fun, they'll let the pond alone, don't you?"
"If they have any hearts at all," responded Mr. Evringham, bending to the
oars.
"Oh, grandpa, you can tell stories like any thing!" exclaimed Jewel
admiringly.
"It has been said before," rejoined the broker modestly.
* * * * *
When outdoor gayeties had to be dispensed with one day, on account of a
thorough downpour of rain, the last story in Jewel's book was called for.
The little circle gathered in the big living-room; there was no question
now as to whether Mr. Evringham should be present.
"It is Hobson's choice this time," said Mrs. Evringham, "so we'll all
choose the story, won't we?"
"Let Anna Belle have the turn, though," replied Jewel. "She chose the first
one and she must have the last, because she doesn't have so much fun as the
rest of us." She hugged the doll and kissed her cheeks comfortingly. It
was too true that often of late Anna Belle did not accompany all the
excursions, but she went to bed with Jewel every night, and it was seldom
that the child was too sleepy to take her into full confidence concerning
the events of the day; and Anna Belle, being of a sedentary turn and given
to day dreams, was apparently quite as well pleased.
Now Mr. Evringham settled in a big easy-chair; the reader took a small one
by the window, and Jewel sat on the rug before the fire, holding Anna
Belle.
"Now we're off," said Mr. Evringham.
"Go to sleep if you like, father," remarked the author, smiling, and then
she began to read the story entitled
ST. VALENTINE
There was a little buzz of interest in Miss Joslyn's room in the public
school, one day in February, over the arrival of a new scholar. Only a very
little buzz, because the new-comer was a plain little girl as to face and
dress, with big, wondering eyes, and a high-necked and long-sleeved gingham
apron.
"Take this seat, Alma," said Miss Joslyn; and the little girl obeyed, while
Ada Singer, the scholar directly behind her, nudged her friend, Lucy Berry,
and mimicked the stranger's surprised way of looking around the room.
The first day in a new school is an ordeal to most children, but Alma felt
no fear or strangeness, and gazed about her, well pleased with her novel
surroundings, and her innocent pleasure was a source of great amusement to
Ada.
"Isn't she queer-looking?" she asked of Lucy, as at noon they perched on
the window-sill in the dressing-room, where they always ate their lunch
together.
"Yes, she has such big eyes," assented Lucy. "Who is she?"
"Why, her mother has just come to work in my father's factory. Her father
is dead, or in prison, or something."
"Oh, no!" exclaimed a voice, and looking down from their elevated seat the
girls saw Alma Driscoll, a big tin dinner-pail in her hand, and her cheeks
flushing. "My father went away because he was discouraged, but he is coming
back."
Ada shrugged her shoulders and took a bite of jelly-cake. "What a delicate
appetite you must have," she said, winking at Lucy and looking at the big
pail.
"Oh, it isn't full; the things don't fit very well," replied Alma, taking
off the cover and disclosing a little lunch at the bottom; "but it was all
the pail we had." Then she sat down on the floor of the dressing-room and
took out a piece of bread and butter.
"Well, upon my word, if that isn't cool!" exclaimed Ada, staring at the
brown gingham figure.
Alma looked up mildly. She had come to the dressing-room on purpose to eat
her lunch where she could look at Lucy Berry, who seemed beautiful to Alma,
with her brown eyes, red cheeks, and soft cashmere dress, and it never
occurred to her that she could be in the way.
Ada turned to Lucy with a curling lip. "I should hate to be a third party,
shouldn't you?" she asked, so significantly that even Alma couldn't help
understanding her. Tears started to the big eyes as the little girl
dropped her bread back into the hollow depths of the pail, replaced the
cover, and went away to find a solitary corner, with a sorer spot in her
heart than she had ever known.
"Oh, why did you say that, Ada?" exclaimed Lucy, making a movement as if to
slip down from the window-seat and follow.
"Don't you go one step after her, Lucy Berry," commanded Ada. "My mother
doesn't want me to associate with the children of the factory people.
She'll find plenty of friends of her own kind."
"But you hurt her feelings," protested Lucy.
"Oh, no, I didn't," carelessly; "besides, if I did, she'll forget all about
it. I had to let her know that she couldn't stay with us. Do you want a
stranger like that to hear everything we're saying?"
"I feel as if I ought to go and find her and see if she has somebody to eat
with."
"Very well, Lucy. If you go with her, I can't go with you, that's all. You
can take your choice."
The final tone in Ada's voice destroyed Lucy's courage. The little girls
were very fond of one another, and Lucy was entirely under strong-willed
Ada's influence.
Ada was a most attractive little person. Her father, the owner of the
factory, was the richest man in town; and to play on Ada's wonderful piano,
where you had only to push with your feet to play the gayest music, or to
ride with her in her automobile, were exciting joys to her friends. She
always had money in her pocket, and boxes of candy for the entertainment of
other children, and Lucy was proud of her own position as Ada's intimate
friend. So when it came to making a choice between this brilliant companion
and the gingham-clad daughter of a factory hand, Lucy Berry's courage and
sympathy oozed away, and she sat back on the window-seat, while Ada began
talking about something else.
This first school-day was Alma Driscoll's introduction into the world
outside of her mother's love. She had never felt so lonely as when
surrounded by all these girls, each of whom had her intimate friend, and
among whom she was not wanted. She could not help feeling that she was
different from the others, and day by day the wondering eyes grew shy and
lonely; and she avoided the children out of school hours, bravely hiding
from her mother that the gingham apron, which always hid her faded dress,
seemed to her a badge of disgrace that separated her from her daintily
dressed schoolmates.
Such was the state of affairs when St. Valentine's day dawned. Alma's two
weeks of school had seemed a little eternity to her; but this day she could
feel that there was something unusual in the air, and she could not help
being affected by the pleasurable excitement afloat in the room. She knew
what the big white box by the door was for, and when, after school, Miss
Joslyn was appointed to uncover and distribute the valentines, Alma found
herself following the crowd, until, pressed close to Lucy Berry's side, she
stood in the centre of the merry group about the teacher.
While the dainty envelopes were being passed around her, a shade of
wistfulness crept over the child's face, and her eager fingers crumpled the
checked apron as though Alma feared they might otherwise touch the
beautiful valentines that shone so enticingly with red and blue, gold and
silver. Suddenly Miss Joslyn spoke her name,--Alma Driscoll; only she said
"Miss Alma Driscoll," and, yes, there was no mistake about it, she had read
it off one of those vine-wreathed envelopes.
"Did you ever see such a goose!" exclaimed Ada Singer, as she watched the
mixture of shyness and eagerness with which Alma took her valentine and
opened the envelope.
Poor little Alma! How her heart beat as she unfolded her prize--and how it
sank when she beheld the coarse, flaring picture of a sewing girl, with a
disgusting rhyme printed beneath it. She dropped the valentine, a great sob
of disappointment choked her, and bursting into tears, she pushed her way
through the crowd and rushed from the schoolroom.
"What is the meaning of that?" asked Miss Joslyn.
For answer some one handed her the picture. The young lady glanced at it,
then tore it in pieces as she looked sadly around on her scholars.
"Whoever sent this knows that Alma's mother works in the factory," she
said. "It makes me ashamed of my whole school to think there is one child
in it cruel enough to do this thing;" then, amid the silent consternation
of the scholars, Miss Joslyn rose, and leaving the half-emptied box, went
home without another word.
"What a fuss about nothing," said Ada Singer. "The idea of crying because
you get a 'comic!' What else could Alma Driscoll expect?"
Lucy Berry's cheeks had been growing redder all through this scene, and now
she turned upon Ada.
"She has a right to expect a great deal else," she returned excitedly, "but
we've all been so hateful to her it's a wonder if she did. I wish I'd been
kind to her before," she continued, her heart aching with the remembrance
of the little lonely figure, and the big, hollow dinner-pail; "but I'm
going to be her friend now, always, and you can be friends with us or not,
just as you please;" and turning from the astonished Ada, Lucy Berry
marched out of the schoolroom, fearing she should cry if she stayed, and
sure that if there were any more beauties for her in the white box, her
stanch friend, Frank Morse, would take care of them for her. Among the
valentines she had already received was one addressed in his handwriting,
and she looked at it as she walked along.
"It's the handsomest one I ever saw," she thought, lifting a rose here, and
a group of cupids there, and reading the tender messages thus disclosed.
"I know what I'll do!" she exclaimed aloud. "I'll send it to Alma. Frank
won't care," and covering the valentine in its box, she started to run, and
turned a corner at such speed that she bumped into somebody coming at equal
or greater speed, from the opposite direction. A passer-by just then would
have been amused to see a boy and girl sitting flat on the sidewalk,
rubbing their heads and staring at one another.
"Lucy Berry!"
"Frank Morse!"
"What's up?"
"Nothing. Something's down, and it's me."
"Well, excuse me; but I guess you haven't seen any more stars than I have.
I don't care anything for the Fourth now, I've seen enough fireworks to
last me a year."
Both children laughed. "You've got grit, Lucy," added Frank, jumping up and
coming to help her. "Most girls would have boo-hooed over that."
"Oh, I wouldn't," returned the little girl, springing to her feet. "I'm too
excited."
"Well, what _is_ up?" persisted Frank. "I skipped out of the side door to
try to meet you."
"Well, you did," laughed Lucy. "Oh, Frank, I don't know how I can laugh,"
she pursued, sobering. "I don't deserve to, ever again."
"What is it? Something about that Driscoll kid? She was crying. I was back
there and I didn't hear what Miss Joslyn said; but I saw her leave, and
then you, and I thought _I_'d go to the fire, too, if there was one."
"Oh, there is," returned Lucy, "right in here." She grasped the waist of
her dress over where her heart was beating hard.
Frank Morse was older than herself and Ada, and she knew that he was one of
the few of their friends whose good opinion Ada cared for. To enlist him on
Alma's side would mean something.
"Is Ada still there?" she added.
"Yes, she took charge of the valentine box after Miss Joslyn left."
"Oh, Frank, do you suppose she could have sent Alma the 'comic'?" Genuine
grief made Lucy's voice unsteady.
"Supposing she did," returned Frank stoutly. "Is that what Big-Eyes was
crying about? I hate people to be touchy and blubber over a thing like
that."
"You don't know. Her mother works in the factory, and this was a horrid
picture making fun of it. Think of your own mother earning your living and
being made fun of."
"Ada wouldn't do that," replied Frank shortly. "What made you think of such
a thing?"
"It was error for me to say it," returned Lucy, with a meek groan. "I've
been doing error things ever since Alma came to school. Oh, Frank, you're a
Christian Scientist, too. You must help me to get things straight."
"You don't need to be a Christian Scientist to see that it wasn't a square
deal to send the kid that picture."
"No, I know it; but when Alma first came, Ada said her mother didn't allow
her to go with girls from the factory, and so I stopped trying to be kind
to Alma, because Ada wouldn't like me if I did; and it's been such
mesmerism, Frank."
The boy smiled. "Do you remember the stories your mother used to tell us
about the work of the error-fairies?"
"Indeed I do. My head's just been full of it the last fifteen minutes. I've
done nothing for two weeks but give the error-fairies backbones, and I
don't care what happens to me, or how much I'm punished, if I can only do
right again."
"Who's going to punish you?" asked Frank, not quite seeing the reason for
so much feeling.
"Ada. We've always had so much fun, and now it's all over."
"Oh, I guess not. Ada Singer's all right."
Lucy didn't think so. She was convinced that her friend had done this last
unkindness to Alma, and it was the shock of that discovery that was causing
a portion of her suffering now.
Frank and Lucy talked for a few minutes longer, and it was agreed that the
former should return to the school and get any other valentines that should
be there for Lucy and himself; then, as soon as it grew dark, they would
run to the Driscoll cottage with an offering.
Late that afternoon three mothers were called to interviews with three
little girls. Lucy Berry surprised hers by rushing in where Mrs. Berry was
seated, sewing.
"Oh!" exclaimed the little girl, "I'm so sorry all over, mother!"
"Then you must know why you can't be," returned Mrs. Berry, looking up at
the flushed face and seeing something there that made her put aside her
work.
Lucy usually considered herself too large to sit in her mother's lap, but
now she did so, and flinging her arms around her neck, poured out the whole
story.
"To think that Ada _could_ send it!" finished Lucy, with one big sob.
"Be careful, be careful. You don't know that she did," replied Mrs. Berry.
"'Thou shalt not bear false witness.'"
"Oh, I do _hope_ she didn't," responded Lucy, "but Ada is stuck up. I've
been seeing it more and more lately."
"And how about the beam in my little girl's own eye?" asked Mrs. Berry
gently.
"Haven't I been telling you all about it? I've been just as selfish and
cowardly as I could be." Lucy's voice was despairing.
"I think there's a beam there still. I think you are angry with Ada."
"How can I help it? If it hadn't been for her I shouldn't have been so
mean."
"Oh, Lucy dear!" Mrs. Berry smiled over the head on her shoulder. "There is
old Adam again, blaming somebody else for his fall. Have you forgotten that
there is only one person you have the right to work with and change?"
"I don't care," replied Lucy hotly. "I've been calling evil good. I have.
I've been calling Ada good and sticking to her and letting her run me."
"Was it because of what you could get from her, or because of what you
could do for her?" asked Mrs. Berry quietly.
Lucy was silent a minute, then she spoke: "She wanted me. She liked me
better than anybody."
"Well, now you see what selfish attachments can turn into," returned Mrs.
Berry. "Do you remember the teaching about the worthlessness of mortal mind
love? Here are you and Ada, yesterday thinking you love one another, and
to-day at enmity."
"I'm going with Alma Driscoll now, and I'm going to eat my lunch with her,
and everything. I should think that was unselfish."
"Perhaps it will be. We'll see. Isn't it a little comfort to you to think
that it will be some punishment to Ada to see you do it?"
"I don't know," replied Lucy, who was so honest that she hesitated.
"Well, then, think until you do know, and be very certain whether the
thoughts that are stirring you so are all loving. You see, dearie, we're
all so tempted, in times of excitement, to begin at the wrong end: tempted
to begin with ourselves instead of with God. The all-loving Creator of you
and Ada and Alma has made three dear children, one just as precious to Him
as another. If the loveliness of His creation is hidden by something
discordant, then we must work away at it; and one's own consciousness is
the place where she has a right to work, and that helps all. It says in the
Bible 'When He giveth quietness who then can make trouble?' You can rest
yourself with the thought of His great quietness now, and you will reflect
it."
Mrs. Berry paused and her rocking-chair swayed softly back and forth during
a moment of silence.
"You know enough about Science," she went on, at last, "to be certain that
weeks of an offended manner with Ada would have no effect except to make
her long to punish you. You know that love is reflected in love, and that
its opposite is just as certain to be reflected unless one knows God's
truth."
"But you don't say anything at all about Alma," said Lucy. "She's the chief
one."
Mrs. Berry smiled. "No," she returned gently. "You are the chief one. Just
as soon as your thought is surely right, don't you know that your heavenly
Father is going to show you how to unravel this little snarl? You remember
there isn't any personality to error, whether it tries to fasten on Ada, or
on you."
Lucy sat upright. Her cheeks were still flushed, but her eyes had lost
their excited light. "Frank Morse and I are going to take some pretty
valentines to Alma's as soon as it is dark," she said.
"That will be pleasant. Now let us read over the lesson for to-day again,
and know what a joyous thing life is."
"Well, mother, will you go and see Mrs. Driscoll some time?"
"Certainly I will, Sunday. I suppose she is too busy to see me other days."
In the Singer house another excited child had rushed home from school and
sought and found her mother.
Mrs. Singer had just reached a most interesting spot in the novel she was
reading, when Ada startled her by running into the room and slamming the
door behind her.
"Mother, you know you don't want me to go with the factory people," she
cried.
"Of course not. What's the matter?" returned Mrs. Singer briefly, keeping
her finger between the leaves of her half-closed book.
"Why, Lucy Berry is angry with me, and I don't care. I shall never go with
her again!"
"Dear me, Ada. I should think you could settle these little differences
without bothering me. What has the factory to do with it?"
"Why, there is a new girl at school, Alma Driscoll, and her mother works
there; and she tried to come with Lucy and me, and Lucy would have let
her, but I told her you wouldn't like it, and, anyway, of course we didn't
want her. So to-day when the valentine box was opened, Alma Driscoll got a
'comic;' and she couldn't take a joke and cried and went home. I can't bear
a cry-baby, anyway. And then Miss Joslyn made a fuss about it and _she_
went home, and after that Lucy Berry flared up at me and said she was going
to be friends with Alma after this, and _she_ went home. It just spoiled
everybody's fun to have them act so silly. Lucy got Frank Morse to bring
out all his valentines and hers. I'll never go with her again, whether she
goes with Alma or not!"
Angry little sparks were shining in Ada's eyes, and she evidently made
great effort not to cry.
"What was this comic valentine that made so much trouble?"
"Oh, something about a factory girl. You know the verses are always silly
on those."
"Well, it wasn't very nice to send it to her before all the children, I
must say. Who do you suppose did it?"
"No one ever tells who sends valentines," returned Ada defiantly. "No one
will ever know."
"Well, if the foolish child, whoever it was, only had known, she wasn't so
smart or so unkind as she thought she was. Mrs. Driscoll isn't an ordinary
factory hand. She is an assistant in the bookkeeping department."
"Well, they must be awfully poor, the way Alma looks, anyway," returned
Ada.
"I suppose they are poor. I happened to hear Mr. Knapp begging your father
to let a Mrs. Driscoll have that position, and your father finally
consented. I remember his telling how long the husband had been away trying
for work, and what worthy people they were, old friends of his. They lived
in some neighboring town; so when Mrs. Driscoll was offered this position
they came here. They live"--
"Oh, I know where they live," interrupted Ada, "and I knew they were
factory people anyway, and you wouldn't want me going with girls like
Alma."
"I'd want you to be kind to her, of course," returned Mrs. Singer.
"Then she'd have stuck to us if I had been. I guess you've forgotten the
way it is at school."
Mrs. Singer sighed and opened her book wistfully. "You ought to be kind to
everybody, Ada," she said vaguely, "but I really think I shall have to take
you out of the public school. It is such a mixed crowd there. I should have
done it long ago, only your father thinks there is no such education."
Ada saw that in another minute her mother would be buried again in her
story. "But what shall I do about Frank and Lucy?" she asked, half crying.
"Why, is Frank in it, too?"
"Yes. I know Lucy has been talking to him. He came back and got her
valentines."
"Oh, pshaw! Don't make a quarrel over it. Just be polite to Alma Driscoll.
They're perfectly respectable people. You don't need to avoid her. Don't
worry. Lucy will soon get over her little excitement, and you may be sure
she will be glad to make up with you and be more friendly than ever."
Mrs. Singer began to read, and Ada saw it was useless to pursue the
subject. She left the room undecidedly, her lips pressed together. All
right, let Lucy befriend Alma. She wouldn't _look_ at her, and they'd just
see which would get tired of it first.
This hard little determination seemed to give Ada a good deal of comfort
for the present, and she longed for to-morrow, to begin to show Lucy Berry
what she had lost.
Meanwhile Alma Driscoll had hastened home to an empty cottage, where she
threw herself on the calico-covered bed and gave way again to her hurt and
sorrow, until she had cried herself to sleep.
There her mother found her when she returned from work. Mrs. Driscoll had
plenty of troubles of her own in these days, adjusting herself to her
present situation and trying hard to fill the position which her old friend
Mr. Knapp had found for her. Alma knew this, and every evening when her
mother came home from the factory she met her cheerfully, and had so far
bravely refrained from telling of the trials at school, which were big ones
to her, and which she often longed to pour out; but the sight of her
mother's face always silenced her. She knew, young as she was, that her
mother was finding life in the great school of the world as hard as she was
in pretty Miss Joslyn's room; and so she kept still, but her eyes grew
bigger, and her mother saw it.
To-day when Mrs. Driscoll came in, she was surprised to find the house
dark. She lighted the lamp and saw Alma asleep on the bed. "Poor little
dear," she thought. "The hours must seem long between school and my coming
home."
She went around quietly, getting supper, and when it was ready she came
again to the bed and kissed Alma's cheek.
"Doesn't my little girl want anything to eat to-night?" she asked.
Alma turned and opened her eyes.
"Guess which it is," went on Mrs. Driscoll, smiling. "Breakfast or supper."
"Oh, have you come?" Alma sat up. She clasped her arms around her mother.
"Please don't make me go to school any more," she said, the big sob with
which she went to sleep rising again in her throat.
"Why, what has happened, dear?" Mrs. Driscoll grew serious.
"I don't want to tell you, mother, only please let me stay at home. I'll
study just as hard."
"You'd be lonely here all day, Alma."
"I want to be lonely," returned the little girl earnestly.
Mrs. Driscoll looked very sober. "Let's sit down at the table," she said,
"for I have your boiled egg all ready."
Alma took her place opposite her mother. Supper was usually the bright spot
in the day, but this evening there seemed nothing but clouds.
"I want to hear all about it, Alma, but you'd better eat first," said Mrs.
Driscoll, as she poured the tea.
"It isn't anything very much," replied the little girl, torn between the
longing for sympathy and unwillingness to give her mother pain; "only there
aren't any lonely children in that school. Everybody has some one she likes
to play with."
A pang of understanding went through the mother's heart, so tender that she
forced a smile.
"Oh, my dearie," she said, "you remind me of the old song,--
'Every lassie has her laddie,
Nane, they say, have I,
But all the lads, they smile on me,
When comin' thro' the rye.'
If my Alma smiles on all the children, they'll all smile on her."
Alma shook her head. It was too great an undertaking to explain all those
daily experiences of longing and disappointment to her mother. The child's
throat grew so full of the sob that she could not swallow the nice egg.
"This is Valentine's Day," she said, with an effort. "They had a box in
school. Everybody got pretty ones but me. They sent me a 'comic.'"
She swallowed bravely between the sentences, but big tears rolled down her
cheeks and splashed on the gingham apron.
"Well, wasn't it meant to make you laugh, dearie?"
"N-no. It was--was a hateful one. I--I can't tell you."
A line came in Mrs. Driscoll's forehead. Her swift thought pictured the
scene only too vividly. She swallowed, too.
"Silly pictures can't hurt us, Alma," she said.
"But please don't make me go back," returned the child earnestly. "I cried
and ran away, and I know all the other children laughed, and, oh, mother, I
_can't_ go back!" She was sobbing again, now, and trying to dry her tears
with her apron.
Mrs. Driscoll's lips pressed firmly together to keep from quivering.
"Mother," said Alma brokenly, as soon as she could speak again, "when do
you think father will come home?"
For a minute the mother could not reply. The last letter she had received
from her husband had sounded discouraged, and for six weeks now she had
heard nothing. Her anxiety was very great; but it made her position at the
factory more than ever important, while it increased the difficulty of
performing her work.
"I can't tell, dearie," she answered low. "We must pray and wait."
As she finished speaking there came a loud knock at the door. A very
unusual sound this, for no one had yet called on them, except Mr. Knapp,
once on business.
"I'll go," said Mrs. Driscoll. "Wipe your eyes, Alma."
To her surprise, when she opened the door no one was there. Something white
on the step caught her eye in the gloom. It was a box, and when she brought
it to the light, she saw that it was addressed to Miss Alma Driscoll.
Her heart was too sore to hand it to the child until she had made certain
that its contents were not designed to hurt. One glimpse of the gold and
red interior, however, made her clap on the cover again. She brought the
box to the table and seated herself.
"What's all this?" she asked, passing it to the child. "It seems to be for
you. There was nobody there, but I found that on the step."
Alma's swollen eyes looked wonderingly at the box as she took off the cover
and discovered the elaborate valentine.
"My! What a beauty!" exclaimed her mother.
The little girl lifted the red roses and looked at the verses. The catches
kept coming in her throat and she smiled faintly.
"Who is this that hasn't any friend?" asked Mrs. Driscoll cheeringly.
"Somebody was sorry," returned Alma. "I wish they didn't have to be sorry
for me."
"Oh, you can't be sure. When I was a little girl all the best part of
Valentine's Day was running around to the houses with them after dark. How
do you know that this wasn't meant for you all day?"
"Because I remember it. Miss Joslyn handed it to Lucy Berry out of the
school box. Lucy is the prettiest"--
Another loud knocking at the door interrupted.
Mrs. Driscoll answered the call. A big white envelope lay on the step, and
it was addressed to Alma. This time the latter's smile was a little
brighter as she took out a handsome card covered with garlands and swinging
cupids and inscribed "To my Valentine."
"Well, I never saw any prettier ones," said Mrs. Driscoll.
"But they weren't bought for me," returned Alma.
When soon again a knocking sounded on the door and a third valentine
appeared, blossoming with violets, above which butterflies hovered, Mrs.
Driscoll leaned lovingly toward her little girl.
"Alma," she said. "I think you were mistaken in saying that _all_ the
children laughed when you received that 'comic.' Now," in a different tone,
"let's have some fun! Some child or children are giving you the very best
they have. Let's catch the next one who comes, and find out who your
friends are!"
"Oh, no," returned Alma, smiling, but shrinking shyly from the idea.
"Yes, indeed. We all used to try when I was little. I'm going to stand by
the door and hold it open a bit and you see if I don't catch somebody."
Alma lifted her shoulders. She wasn't sure that she liked to have her
mother try this; but Mrs. Driscoll went to the door, set it ajar in the
dark, and stood beside it.
She did not expect there would be any further greetings, and did this
rather to amuse Alma, who sat examining her three valentines with a tearful
little smile; but it was a very short time before another knock sounded on
the usually neglected door, and quick as a wink it opened and Mrs.
Driscoll's hand flying out caught another hand. A little scream followed,
and in a second she had drawn a young lady into the tiny hall.
They couldn't see one another's faces very well in the gloom.
"Oh, I beg your pardon!" exclaimed Mrs. Driscoll, very much embarrassed. "I
was trying to catch a valentine."
"Well, you did," laughed the stranger. "There's one on the step now, unless
my skirt switched it off when I jumped. I didn't intend to come in this
time, though I meant to return after I had done an errand; but now I'm
here I'll stay a minute if it isn't too early."
"If you'll excuse the table," returned Mrs. Driscoll "Alma and I have a
late tea." She stooped at the door and picked up a valentine from the edge
of the step, and both women were smiling as they entered the room where
Alma was standing, flushed and wide-eyed, scarcely able to believe that she
recognized the voice.
Sure enough, as the visitor came into the lamplight, the little girl saw
that the valentine her mother had caught and brought in out of the dark was
really Miss Joslyn. She could hardly believe her eyes as she looked at the
merry, blushing face which she was wont to see so serious and watchful. All
the pretty teacher's scholars admired her, but she had a dignity and
strictness which gave them some awe of her, too, and it seemed wonderful to
Alma that this important person should be standing here and laughing with
her mother, right in their own sitting-room.
Miss Joslyn's bright eyes saw signs of tears in her pupil's face, and she
also saw the handsome valentines strewn upon the table. "Well, well, Alma!"
she exclaimed softly, "you have quite a show there!"
"And here is another," said Mrs. Driscoll, handing the latest arrival to
the little girl. Alma smiled gratefully at her teacher as she opened the
envelope and took out a dove in full flight, carrying a leaf in its beak.
On the leaf was printed in gold letters the word _Love_.
"I was caught in the act, Alma," laughed Miss Joslyn, "but I guess I am too
old and slow to be running about at night with valentines."
"I like it the best of all," replied the little girl. "It was bought for
me," she added in her own thought, and she was right. Twenty minutes ago
the white dove had been reposing at a stationer's, with every prospect of
remaining there until another Valentine's Day came around.
"Please sit down, Miss Joslyn," said Mrs. Driscoll.
"Well, just for a minute," replied the young lady, taking the offered
chair, "but I wish you would finish your supper."
"We had, really," replied Mrs. Driscoll, smiling, "or I shouldn't have been
playing such a game by the door. You haven't been the giver of all these
valentines, I suppose?"
"Oh, no, indeed. Those are from some of the school children, no doubt. I've
been trying to find an evening to come here for some time, but my work
isn't done when school is out."
"I'm sure it isn't," replied Mrs. Driscoll, while Alma sat with her dove in
her hands, watching the bright face that looked happy and at home in these
unusual surroundings. It seemed so very strange to be close to Miss Joslyn,
like this, where the teacher had no bell to touch and no directions to
give.
She looked at Alma and spoke: "The public school is a little hard for new
scholars at first," she said, "where they enter in the middle of a term.
You are going to like it better after a while, Alma."
"I think she will, too," put in Mrs. Driscoll. "My hours are long at the
factory and I have liked to think of Alma as safe in school. Does she do
pretty well in her studies, Miss Joslyn?"
"Yes, I have no fault to find." The visitor smiled at Alma. "You haven't
become much acquainted yet," went on Miss Joslyn. "I have noticed that you
eat your lunch alone. So do I. Supposing you and I have it together for a
while until you are more at home with the other scholars. I have another
chair in my corner, and we'll have a cosy time."
Alma's heart beat fast. She had never heard that an invitation from royalty
is equivalent to a command, but instantly all possibility of staying at
home from school disappeared. The picture rose before her thought of Miss
Joslyn as she always appeared at the long recess: her chair swung about
until her profile only was visible, the white napkin on her desk, the book
in her hand as she read and ate at one and the same time. Little did Alma
suspect what it meant to the kind teacher to give up that precious
half-hour of solitude; but Miss Joslyn saw the child's eyes grow bright at
the dazzling prospect, and noted the color that covered even her forehead
as she murmured thanks and looked over at her mother for sympathy.
The young lady talked on for a few minutes and then said good-night,
leaving an atmosphere of brightness behind her.
"Oh, mother, I don't know what all the children will say," said Alma,
clasping her hands together. "I'm going to eat lunch with Miss Joslyn!"
"It's fine," responded Mrs. Driscoll, glad of the change in her little
girl's expression, and wishing the ache at her own heart could be as easily
comforted. "Do you suppose Valentine's Day is over, dearie, or had I better
stand by the door again?"
"Oh, they wouldn't send me any more!" replied Alma, looking fondly at her
dove. "I think Lucy Berry was so kind to give me her lovely things; but I'd
like to give them back."
"No, indeed, that wouldn't do," replied Mrs. Driscoll. "I'm going to stand
there once more. Perhaps I'll catch somebody else to prove to you that Lucy
isn't the only one thinking about you."
Mrs. Driscoll returned quietly to her post, and Alma could see her smiling
face through the open door.
Alma had very much wanted to send valentines to a few children, herself;
but five cents was all the spending money she could have, and she had
bought with it one valentine which had been addressed to Lucy Berry in the
school box. She was glad it had not come back to her to-night. That would
have been hardest of all to bear.
Just as she was thinking this there did come another knock at the door. The
child looked up eagerly, and swiftly again Mrs. Driscoll's hand flew out,
and grasping a garment, pulled gently and firmly.
"Well, well, ma'am!" exclaimed a bass voice, and this time it was the
hostess's turn to give a little cry, followed by a laugh, as a stout,
elderly man with chin whiskers came deliberately in.
She retreated. "Oh, Mr. Knapp, please excuse me! I thought you were a
valentine!"
"Nobody'd have me, ma'am. Nobody'd have me. Not a mite o' use to try to
stick a pair o' Cupid's wings on these shoulders. It would take an awful
pair to fly me. Well, come now," he added, with a broad, approving smile at
the laughing mother and child, "I'm right down glad to see you playin' a
game. I've thought, the last few days, you was lookin' kind o' peaked and
down in the mouth; so, seein' as we found a letter for you that was somehow
overlooked this afternoon, I decided I'd bring it along. Might be fetchin'
you a fortune, for all I knew."
Mrs. Driscoll's smile vanished, and her eyes looked eagerly into the
good-humored red face, as Mr. Knapp sought deliberately in his coat pocket
and brought forth an envelope, at sight of which Alma's mother flushed and
paled.
"You have a valentine, too!" cried the little girl.
"Yes, it is from father. Won't you sit down, Mr. Knapp?"
"No, no, I'll just run along and let you read your letter in peace. I know
you want to, and I hope it brings good news. If it don't, you just remember
it's always darkest before day. Frank Driscoll's bound to come out right
side up. He's a good feller."
So saying, the kind friend to this couple took his departure, and Mrs.
Driscoll's eager fingers tore open the envelope.
At the first four words, "It's all right, Nettie," she crushed the paper
against her happy eyes and then hugged Alma.
It _was_ all right. Mr. Driscoll had a position at last, and by the time
summer should come he was sure they could be together again.
After the letter had been read and re-read, the two washed and put away the
supper dishes with light hearts, and the next morning Mrs. Driscoll went
off smiling to the factory, leaving a rather excited little girl to finish
the morning work and arrange the lunch in the tin pail which was to be
opened beside Miss Joslyn's desk.
There were two other excited children getting ready for school that
morning. They had both slept on their troubles, but were very differently
prepared to meet the day. Ada Singer's mental attitude was, "I'll never
give in, and Lucy Berry will find it out."
Lucy felt comforted, but there remained now the great step of eating lunch
with Alma and being punished by Ada in consequence. Her heart fluttered at
the thought; but she was going to try not to think of herself at all, but
to do right and let the consequences take care of themselves.
"There isn't any other way," her mother said to her at parting. "Anything
which you do in any other spirit has simply to be done over again some
time."
"Not one error-fairy shall cheat me to-day," thought Lucy stoutly, and then
a disconcerting idea came to her: supposing Alma shouldn't come to school
at all!
But Alma was there. Ada Singer, too, wearing a charming new dress and with
a head held up so stiffly that it couldn't turn to look at anybody. Frank
Morse, from his seat at the back of the room, looked curiously from one to
another of the three girls and shook his head at his book.
At the first recess Ada Singer spoke to him as he was going out. "Wait a
minute, Frank. It is so mild to-day, mother is coming for me after school
with the auto. We're going to take a long spin. Wouldn't you like to go?"
"Yes, indeed," replied Frank; "but don't you want to take Lucy in my
place?" He was a little uncomfortable.
"If I did I shouldn't ask you," returned Ada coolly.
"All right. Thank you," said Frank, but as he joined the boys on the
playground he felt still more uncomfortable.
Lucy Berry, as soon as the recess bell had sounded, had gone straight to
Alma. Her cheeks were very red, and the brown eyes were full of kindness.
Alma looked up in shy pleasure at her, a little embarrassed because she
didn't know whether to thank Lucy for the valentines or not.
The latter did not give her time to speak. She said: "I came to see if you
won't eat your lunch with me to-day."
Alma colored. How full the world was of kind people! "I'd love to," she
answered, "but I think Ada wants to have you all alone and"--
"But I'd like it if you would," said Lucy firmly, "because I want to get
more acquainted. My mother is coming to see yours on Sunday afternoon,
too."
"I'm real glad she is," replied Alma, fairly basking in the light from
Lucy's eyes. "I'd love to eat lunch with you, but Miss Joslyn invited me to
have it with her to-day."
"Oh!" Lucy's gaze grew larger. "Why, that's lovely!" she said, in an awed
tone.
They had very little more time for talk before the short recess was over.
As the children took their way to their seats, Alma was amazed to see Ada
Singer pass Lucy without a word, and even turn her head to avoid looking
at her. The child had watched this close friendship so wistfully that she
instantly saw there was trouble, and naturally thought of her invitation
from Lucy as connected with it.
At the long recess, thoughts of this possible quarrel mingled with her
pleasure in the visit with Miss Joslyn, who was a charming hostess. Many a
girl or boy came to peep into the forbidden schoolroom, when the report was
circulated that Alma Driscoll was up on the platform laughing and talking
with the teacher and eating lunch with her in the cosy corner.
Miss Joslyn insisted on exchanging a part of her lunch for Alma's,
spreading the things together on the white napkin, and chatting so eagerly
and gayly that the little girl's face beamed. She soon told the teacher
about the good news that came after she left the night before, and Miss
Joslyn was very sympathetic. "It's a pretty nice world, isn't it?" she
asked, smiling.
"Yes'm, it's just a lovely world to-day, only--only there's one thing, Miss
Joslyn."
"What is it?"
"I think Lucy Berry and Ada Singer have had a quarrel."
"Oh, the inseparables? I guess not," the teacher smiled.
"Yes'm. The worst is, I think it's about me. Could I go out in the
dressing-room to get my handkerchief, and see if they're on their usual
window-sill?"
"Yes, indeed, if it will make you feel easier."
So Alma went out and soon returned. Lucy and Ada were not on their
window-sill. Each was sitting with a different group of girls.
Miss Joslyn saw the serious discomfort this gave her little companion, and
persuaded her away from the subject, returning to the congenial theme of
Mr. Driscoll's new prospects.
But as soon as recess was over, Alma's thoughts went back to Ada Singer,
for she felt certain that whatever had happened, Ada was the one to be
appeased. The child could not bear to think of being the cause of trouble
coming to dear, kind Lucy.
When school was dismissed, Ada Singer, her head carried high, put on her
things in the dressing-room within a few feet of Lucy, but ignoring her
presence. "I love her," thought Lucy, "and she does love me. Nothing can
cheat either of us."
Ada went out without a look, and waited at the head of the stairs for Frank
Morse. Alma Driscoll hastened up to her.
Ada drew away. Alma needn't think that because she had shared Miss Joslyn's
luncheon she would now be as good as anybody.
"Can I speak to you just one minute?" asked the little girl so eagerly, yet
meekly, that Ada turned to her; but now that she had gained attention, Alma
did not know how to proceed. She hesitated and clasped and unclasped her
hands over the gingham apron. "Please--please"--she stammered, "don't be
cross with Lucy. She felt sorry for me, but I'll never eat lunch with
her,--truly."
"You don't know what you're talking about," rejoined Ada coldly.
"Yes, she does." It was Frank Morse's voice, and Ada, turning quickly, saw
him and Lucy standing a few feet behind her. The four children were alone
in the deserted hall.
"Here," went on Frank bluntly, "I want you two girls to kiss and make up."
Ada blushed violently as she met Lucy's questioning, wistful look.
"Are you coming down to the auto, Frank?" she asked coolly. "Mother will be
waiting."
"Oh, come now, Ada, be a good fellow. If you and Lucy want to put on the
gloves, I'll see fair play; but for pity's sake drop this icy look
business. Great Scott, I'm glad I'm not a girl!"
The genuine disgust in the boy's tone as he closed did disturb Ada a
little, and then Lucy added at once, beseechingly:
"Oh, it's like a bad dream, Ada, to have anything the matter between us!"
"Whose fault is it?" asked Ada sharply. "Why did you fly at me so
yesterday?"
Both girls had forgotten Alma who, like a soberly dressed, big-eyed little
bird, was watching the proceedings in much distress.
"You just the same as accused me of sending Alma the 'comic,'" continued
Ada.
"Oh, _didn't_ you send it?" cried Lucy, fairly springing at her friend in
her relief. "I don't care what you do to me then! I deserve anything, for I
really thought you did."
Her eloquent face and the love in her eyes broke down some determination in
Ada's proud little heart, and raised another, perhaps quite as proud, but
at least with an element of nobility. She foresaw that the dishonesty was
going to be more than she could bear.
"I did send it," she said suddenly, with her chin up. Then, ignoring Frank
and Lucy's open-mouthed stares, she turned toward Alma. "I sent you the
'comic,'" she went on. "I thought it would be fun, but it wasn't, and I'm
sorry. I should like to have you forgive me."
Her tone was far from humble, but it was music to Alma's ears. The little
girl clasped her hands together. "Oh, I do," she replied earnestly, "and it
made everybody so kind! Please don't feel bad about it. I got the loveliest
valentines in the evening, and Miss Joslyn came to see us, and we had a
letter from my father and he has a splendid place to work and--and
everything!"
Ada breathed a little faster at the close of this breathless speech. Alma's
eagerness to ascribe even her father's good fortune to the sending of the
'comic' touched her. In her embarrassment she took another determination.
"If you'll excuse me, Frank," she said turning to him, "I think I'll take
Alma home in the auto, instead of you."
"All right," returned the boy, his face flushed. "You're a brick, Ada!"
This praise from one who seldom praised gave Ada secret elation, and made
her resolve to deserve it. "Good-by, Lucy," was all she said, but the
girls' eyes met, and Lucy knew the trouble was over.
As Ada and Alma went downstairs, Lucy ran to the hall window, and Frank
followed. "Don't let them see us," she said joyfully.
So, very cautiously, the two peeped and saw the handsome automobile
waiting. Mrs. Singer was sitting within and they saw Ada say something to
her; then Alma, her thick coat over the gingham apron, and the large
dinner-pail in her hand, climbed in, Ada after her, and away they all went.
Lucy turned to Frank with her face glowing.
"It's all right now," she said. "When Ada takes hold she never lets go; and
now she's taken hold right!"