THE NEW READING CLUB.
"The beautiful summer of All Saints" was at its height, and the
soft haze lay upon the blue hills and rested lightly over the
meadows along the river. Such days were tempting enough to entice
a hermit from his cell, and Mrs. Adams and the young people had
agreed to devote Saturday afternoon to a long drive. Soon after
their early lunch they had started off, Job leading the way, with
Mrs. Adams, Jessie, Molly, and Jean, followed by Cob, the wiry
little mustang that Mr. Shepard had sent East for his daughters'
use, drawing Katharine, Florence, Polly, and Alan. Their
destination was the nearer of the two mountains, a drive to the
foot and then a scramble to the tip-top house, for the sake of one
last look down upon the beautiful valley, before winter should
shut it in. Unfortunately, Job was in one of his languid moods
that day, and in spite of warning checks and flapping of lines,
and even a mild application of the whip, he refused to break into
a trot; but, with bowed head and discouraged mien, he plodded
onward with as much apparent effort as if each motion of his aged
frame were to be his last. In vain Katharine again and again
reined in Cob, to wait for his companion; the old horse lagged
farther and farther in the rear. At length Mrs. Adams called,--
"This is unbearable, Katharine! I am afraid we shall have to give
up and go home. Job acts as if he couldn't crawl another step. I'm
sorry," she added to her passengers, "to spoil our plan, but I
dare not drive this old fellow any further, for fear he might
never get home."
But even the turning back again failed to inspire Job as it
usually did. In her secret heart, Mrs. Adams regarded this as an
ominous symptom, and felt an ever-increasing anxiety lest he
should never reach home alive. They were less than two miles from
the town, but it was a long hour before Job dragged his weary way
up the street, in at the gate, and tottered feebly up to the open
door of the barn. By making little side excursions up and down the
country, the other carriage had managed to keep respectfully in
the rear; and Katharine now tied Cob outside the gate, while the
others crowded around Job to watch with pitying eyes, as Mrs.
Adams unharnessed this feeble veteran who had probably gone on his
final march. The last strap was unbuckled and allowed to fall to
the ground, while Mrs. Adams invitingly held up the worn old
halter, to slip it on Job's nose. Perhaps she was slower than
usual, perhaps some sudden thought of a neglected opportunity shot
through Job's brain. However that might be, there was a quick
scattering of the group, as two iron-shod heels flew up into the
air, the brown head was playfully tossed from side to side, and
Job, the feeble, the lifeless, went frisking away across the lawn,
now galloping furiously up and down, with a lofty disregard of the
holes he was tearing in the soft, dry turf, now stopping to roll
on his back and kick his aged legs ecstatically in the air, with
all the joyous abandonment of a young colt, then scrambling up
again, to go pounding away, straight across a brilliant bed of
chrysanthemums and only pausing, for a moment, to gaze pensively
out over the front gate.
"Whoa, Job! Whoa, boy!" Mrs. Adams was calling in vain, while Jean
exclaimed spitefully,--
"Mean old thing! I'll never be sorry for him again! I didn't lean
back all the time we were gone, but just sat on the very front
edge of the seat and tried to make myself as light as I could."
Then followed an exciting chase, for Job appeared to have regained
all the agility of his far-off ancestors that roamed the plains at
their own sweet will. Such sudden wheelings! Such wild leaps! Such
frantic kicks! He refused to be coaxed; he cocked up his ears in
derisive scorn when they scolded him and requested him to whoa. He
had no intention of whoaing. He recognized from afar that a snare
lay hidden somewhere in the measure of oats which Mrs. Adams held
out before him, and he drew back his lips in a contemptuous smile,
as he capered away to the remotest corner of the grounds. The
pursuit lasted for an hour, and at the end of that time, Job
appeared to be far fresher than his pursuers, fresher even than he
had been at the start.
It was plain that nothing was to be gained in this way, so Mrs.
Adams and the girls retired to the house to take counsel, leaving
Alan to drive Job to the stable, and come back to dinner with the
others.
"I am tired, if he isn't," sighed Mrs. Adams, dropping into a
chair by the window overlooking the lawn.
"Has he ever done it before?" asked Florence sympathetically.
"Never with me; but he used to get away from John, when he was
younger. Now he has started, I am afraid he will repeat the
experiment, he has had such a good time to-day. It just makes me
want to whip him!" And Mrs. Adams glared out at the unconscious
Job who was quietly cropping a tuft of green grass.
It may be that the stolen fruit was not so sweet to his tongue as
Job had expected, or his conscience may at length have begun to
act once more. He slowly raised his head and gazed longingly up
and down the street, as if yearning to try a wider field for his
gymnastics. Then apparently his sense of duty carried the day for,
turning reluctantly, he plodded away to the open stable door, and
quietly marched into his accustomed place.
"Run, Polly, quick! Run and fasten the door!" her mother
exclaimed, as she hurried away to tie up the prodigal, to prevent
any fresh wanderings.
When the doctor came home to dinner and heard the story, he was
merciless in his teasing.
"One woman, six girls, and one boy, all to be outwitted by one
poor old horse twenty-nine years old! "he exclaimed.
"Now, that's not so!" interposed his wife.
"Job isn't but twenty-three, so don't put any more years on his
devoted head."
Dr. Adams laughed. He took a sinful pleasure in reminding his wife
of Job's advanced age.
"Twenty-nine last June," he said, as he gave Polly her second
piece of meat. "If you are careful of him and keep him for a few
years longer, you can sell him out at a high price, to be
exhibited as a curiosity."
"Sell Job! Never!" protested Mrs. Adams. "I would almost as soon
sell Polly. No money could ever make up for that old fellow's
intelligence, and for the real love he gives me."
"Yes," added Alan sympathetically; "and no money could buy his
obedience to you, this afternoon, when he was loose."
While the table was being cleared for the dessert, the doctor
suddenly turned to his daughter.
"Well, Polly," he asked; "how comes on the reading club?"
"Finely, papa. Why?"
"I didn't know but you were tired of it, by this time, and wanted
something else."
"Oh, no; we have such good times," said Jean enthusiastically.
"And if we gave it up, you never would get your stockings darned,
either."
"Oh!" And the doctor lapsed into silence.
"What made you ask, papa?" inquired Polly.
"Mere curiosity."
"I know better than that," she said, seizing his hand as it lay on
the table. "Now, popsy Adams, you just tell us what you are
driving at."
"What is the use?" asked the doctor provokingly. "I did have
another plan; but if you are all satisfied, I'll offer it to some
of the other girls, or perhaps Aunt Jane will take it in charge."
This was too much for Polly.
"Do tell us," she begged. "We'll do it too, whatever it is; won't
we girls?"
"But what if it is something that isn't funny at all, something
for which you have to give up your own good times?"
Polly's face fell, but she answered steadily,--
"We'll do it, just the same."
"I am glad to hear you say so," remarked Aunt Jane approvingly. "I
have felt that it was high time you girls were made to take an
interest in something really useful."
"What is it, Dr. Adams?" implored Jessie, whose curiosity was by
this time fired.
"Well, it's just this: down in the hospital there's a girl about
Katharine's age shut up in a room by herself, where she must stay
a year. She isn't pretty; she isn't especially bright; she is an
Irish girl from one of the hill towns in the northern part of the
state. But she has something the matter with her back, so all she
can do is to lie there on a sort of frame, and look at the wall of
her room."
The doctor paused. While he had been talking, he had watched the
faces of the girls, curious to see the effect which his short
story would have on them. Polly's cheeks were flushed, Jean's eyes
were shining with her interest, but Katharine's lashes drooped on
her cheek, and were a little moist. He nodded approvingly to
himself, as he looked at her.
"Go on, papa," urged Polly.
"There isn't much more to say," returned her father, resting his
arm on the back of her chair. "It occurred to me to-day to wonder
if you girls couldn't each of you take a day a week,--there are
just the six of you, you know,--and run in to see her for a few
minutes after school. She is perfectly well, except for her back,
and you can imagine how dull it must be for her there. Now,
suppose you could drop in for half an hour and get acquainted with
her, or read something simple to her? She's not up to 'Pilgrim's
Progress' yet." And he pinched Polly's cheek playfully.
He stopped again. This time there was a murmur of assent from his
hearers. Then he resumed,--
"Now, talk this over among yourselves and see what you think of
it. I don't say you ought to do it, remember; you all have a good
deal to do, I know. I only suggest the chance to you. I would
think of it well, for unless you could be regular, it might be
worse than nothing, for she would come to depend on it, and be
disappointed. I warn you, she isn't very attractive, she is only
ill and lonely."
"What's her name?" asked Florence, as the doctor started to leave
the table.
"Bridget O'Keefe."
"What!" And in spite of herself, Jessie wrinkled her nose in
disgust.
"Yes, I told you she was Irish, you know," answered the doctor
briskly. "Now I must be off. Think it over till Monday and then
let me know."
And a moment later, the front door shut behind him.
Aunt Jane went out after dinner, and Mrs. Adams made an excuse to
leave the girls to themselves. Gathered around the parlor fire,
they had an animated discussion, and, with many a practical
suggestion from Alan, their plan of work was agreed upon. Each was
to take her own day, and give up half an hour after school to a
call on this other girl, who was condemned to lie still and know
that the world was going on around her just as usual. There was no
difficulty in planning for the first five days of the week; but
the girls, though fired with a desire to do good, yet drew back
from pledging themselves to break into their Saturday afternoons,
the one holiday of the week.
"What's the use of going Saturday?" said Florence. "If we go to
see her every other day but that, it ought to be enough."
"I don't want any half-way work," said Jean decidedly, "and yet,
it does seem too bad to upset our fun when we've always been
together. What if we draw lots for it?"
But Alan objected.
"That's kind of a shirky way to do. If I'm ever ill, I don't want
you drawing lots which shall go to my funeral. I'll go Saturday,
myself."
"You can't, Alan; you aren't a girl," said Molly. "No," added
Katharine, as she leaned over to lay her small, slim hand on his;
"the boy can't go, but he can teach the girls a lesson in
generosity. I'll take Saturday myself, girls."
Alan turned to her impulsively.
"Good for you, Kit!" he said warmly. "I'm proud to have you for a
cousin."
Katharine laughed lightly.
"It's nothing, after all. I have more time than most of you, and
it's only a little while, anyway."
It was only a little thing, as Katharine had said, but by it she
gained far more than the one short half-hour a week would ever
cost her; and, too, from that time onward, Alan looked on his
cousin with a new admiration which her beauty and her attempts to
win his liking could never have brought.
The girls entered into their work heartily, charmed by the novelty
of their experiment. It was an unknown sensation to them to feel
sure that some one was eagerly listening for their step in the
outer room, to see the dull, plain face before them brighten with
a new life, as they came through the door. For the first few
weeks, they begged to be allowed to prolong the half-hour; but the
doctor, mindful of the fate of "Pilgrim's Progress," and knowing
that a reaction would probably come, checked their zeal, and only
encouraged their shorter visits. How much good they did to their
young patient, they never knew. The healthy, out-of-door
atmosphere which they brought in, their scraps of news, and their
gay chatter did as much to brighten the rest of the long, lonely
days, as the one or two pictures they brought did towards
beautifying the plain, white walls of the little room where
Bridget was learning her lesson of patience. Still less did they
realize how much they themselves were gaining from the quiet half-
hour in the corner of the great hospital. The little self-
sacrifice, the interest in this girl so far removed from their
usual world, their girlish desire to gain her liking, and the
womanly tact which was needed to win her from her rough shyness,
all these had their influence on their young maidenhood, an
influence which lasted far on through their lives.
And by degrees their interest widened. At first they had shrunk
from the suffering around them, dreading and almost fearing to
look on its outward signs. But as they became more accustomed to
the place and its associations, they no longer hurried along the
corridors, with their eyes fixed on the ground; but glanced in,
now and again, through some open door, to see the long lines of
little beds and the white-capped nurses moving quietly about the
room, or sewing cosily by the sunny window. Winter was not half
over before the girls used to turn aside, now to spend a few
moments among the forlorn midgets in the children's ward, then to
pass slowly along through the accident ward, giving a pleasant
word or two in exchange for the smiles that never failed to greet
their coming. Each one of them had her own particular circle of
friends whom she gravely discussed with the doctor, learning much
of the history and needs of these fellow-beings, for whom, until
lately, they had thought and cared so little. Molly and Jessie
devoted themselves to the little girls, Polly lavished all her
attentions on three or four small boys, while the others preferred
the older patients. But all this was only incidental, and the
girls considered Bridget as their especial property, the younger
ones regarding her as a superior sort of toy, to take the place of
the dolls which they had cast aside.
However, Katharine, who was older and more mature than the others,
had come to understand Bridget and to be friends with her, before
any of the others. At first she could feel nothing but repugnance
for this uncultivated, unwholesome-looking girl, a repugnance
which she struggled hard to conceal; but, little by little, as she
talked to her, she was won by her quiet endurance and courage. At
length, one day, Katharine coaxed the girl's story from her, how
she was left an orphan with younger children to care for; how she
had fallen and hurt her back; how she had strained it with
overwork, when it was still weak; how she had struggled to keep
on, until the doctor had brought her where she was; and how she
must hurry to get well, in order to earn money to pay the
neighbors for caring for the little children. It was a homely tale
and simply told; but when it was ended, Katharine was surprised to
find her eyes full of tears, as she bent over and touched her lips
to the girl's forehead. "I am glad you told me this, Bridget," she
said. "Now we can talk about it together, and it will make us
better friends."
And Bridget answered gratefully, as she looked up into the clear
eyes above her own,--"Thank you, miss. It's nice to have a body
know all about it. Somehow it helps along."
Three weeks later, as Katharine went into the room and dropped two
or three scarlet carnations on the girl's idle hand, she was
saluted with exciting news.
"A letter from home, to-day, Miss, and somebody has sent money
enough to pay the children's board for ever and ever so long; and
they don't know at all who it is. Isn't it wonderful!"
Not so wonderful, perhaps, as it appeared to the simple girl. No
one but Katharine and her parents ever saw the letter that went
hurrying westward to remind her father that Christmas was coming,
and to tell him in what way she would prefer to take her present.
The secret was kept, and no thanks were ever spoken; but Katharine
cared for none. It was enough to watch the girl's happy content,
now that her one anxiety was removed. Mrs. Hapgood, alone, had a
suspicion, when Molly told her of the affair; but she wisely asked
no questions, and in silence rejoiced over the broader sympathy
her niece was daily gaining.
"How queer it is, the way things are divided up!" Katharine said
to Molly, one day when they were out driving.
It was a clear, cold December day, and Cob trotted briskly over
the frozen ground, as if he too, as well as the girls themselves,
were enjoying the air and motion.
"What is divided up?" asked Molly vaguely, rousing herself from a
half-formed plan for Alan's Christmas present.
"Oh, everything,--at least, everything isn't divided," returned
Katharine a little incoherently. "Some of us have so much more fun
out of things than other people do. There's us; and then there's
Bridget and that little pet of Polly's, Dicky what's-his-name. You
know the one I mean. And then, just in our set, there's ever so
much difference. Jessie and I have everything we want, and Jean
has to pinch and scrimp; Jean is as strong as a bear, and Alan
can't do anything at all, without being laid up to pay for it;
Polly wails for a family of young brothers, and Jean has more of
them to take care of than the old woman that lived in a shoe. Now
what's the reason things are so mixed up, I'd like to know."
"I can't see why myself," said Molly, tucking in the robe about
herself and her cousin. "Maybe, if we knew all about it, they
aren't as mixed up as they seem."
"Yes, they are," Katharine insisted. "If they weren't, some people
wouldn't have everything, and some go without, as they do. I don't
suppose there is much of anything in the world I couldn't do, if I
wanted to, and tried hard enough for it; but everybody isn't so."
"I have sort of an idea," answered Molly profoundly, "that most
everybody can get what she wants, if she is willing to work and
wait long enough. It's only a question of what you want."