Before the year had passed, Beth had learned many things which were not
in books. The first was that school and clothes cost money. She gave no
hint to Adee that she had grown wise in this respect. What was the use
of discussing matters and worrying oneself when no good could come of
it? She could keep her eyes open and look about her, to see in what way
she could help her foster-mother. She saw, for the first time, a great
deal. Adee's shoes were patched and her gloves shiny. Having her eyes
opened, Beth saw a great deal. At the first opening of spring, she had
had new shoes and a new school-dress. The walk was hard on footwear. A
pair of shoes had lasted her but a month.
She looked at her new shoes and decided that they must last her until
the last of summer. Thereafter when she set out for school, she slipped
around to the front stoop, and when she set forth again, she had a
bundle under her arm. A month passed. Beth had come home from school.
Adee had met her at the foot of the slope. By some strange chance,
Adee's eyes fell upon the shoes the little girl was wearing.
"It's wonderful how your shoes are lasting. They are not even scuffed
and you have worn them five weeks. That has been about as long as a pair
lasts you."
"Yes," said Beth. Her face grew crimson, and she turned her eyes away
that she might not meet Adee's glance.
"Did you bring home a library book?" asked Eliza, reaching forth for the
books under Beth's arm. "I hope it is something worth while. We can read
it aloud." For the first time, she saw the other bundle under Beth's
arm.
"What is it, Beth?" she asked.
Beth burst into tears. Then with a sudden impulse she opened the bundle
and forced it into Eliza's hands. It was nothing at all
formidable--nothing to shed tears over.
"Your old shoes! What are you crying about them for, and what ever
possessed you to carry them with you? Were they too valuable to leave at
home?"
"I'm crying because I didn't wish you to know about it, and now you've
found out." Beth dried her tears. "I saw how many shoes I was wearing
out, and that I always had new ones and you had old patched ones. I
thought I'd save. I put on these old ones when I get out of sight of the
house and just at the edge of town I put on the good ones again. I've
always looked nice in school, Adee, and I didn't wear out the good shoes
on the rough road."
"It's all right," said Adee. "But what did you do with your old shoes
while you were in school? I do hope you did not set them up on your desk
as a decoration."
Beth knew her own Adee, and accepted this remark as a humorous sort of
pleasantry. She laughed, "You know I did not. I hid them under an old
log alongside the road. You're not vexed, Adee?"
Eliza put her arm around the child and drew her close to her as they
walked up the hill. "No, I think I'm pleased. Indeed, I am quite sure I
am. I'm glad that you think of some one else. But don't worry about your
shoes, I want you to look well in school. If you stand well in your
class, and behave yourself nicely, I shall be satisfied. Somehow, I
think this is all a little girl need do."
"It's all right though to save my shoes this way?"
"Yes, if you wish to. I'll leave that to you. You may do as you please.
It will save me buying a new pair for some time."
So Beth continued this. Her shoes lasted through the school term which
closed the last of May.
The high school at Farwell was only a district one of the third class.
There was a three years' course, and the average age for graduation was
sixteen. Beth entered when she was twelve--or, rather when Eliza thought
she was that age. She may have been eleven or thirteen for all either of
them knew.
The freshman class was made up of pupils from three grammar grades from
different sections of the town, so that at least two-thirds of her
class-mates were strangers to Beth. She and Helen had been put in
different divisions, and Beth found herself virtually alone as far as
any friends were concerned.
Several days passed before the girl back of her spoke to her. Beth
already knew her name, having seen it on the wall slate. It was Tilly
Jones. She was a fat, fair-haired girl--the senior of Beth by several
years. She was rather stupid about books, and her movements slow and
ponderous. Her father was an ignorant, uneducated man, yet with a
certain skill about molding, so that he was able to make the sand
pattern by simply having the blue-print before him, and taking no
measurements. He was a genius in this one line. He was a valuable man in
the foundry and made "big money." Tilly had ribbons and furbelows. Her
fat, pudgy fingers were covered with rings; she wore a bracelet and a
necklace.
Friday morning, she leaned forward and asked, "What are you going to
wear this afternoon?"
"Wear? Why, this--" replied Beth.
"But it's Friday afternoon," was the reply. Beth could see no reason why
this day of the week would make any difference. Tilly enlightened her.
"Literary society, you know. Everybody fixed up for that. I'm going to
wear a net gown over a blue lining. It looks just like silk. You'd never
tell until you touched it. My mother paid Miss Foster six dollars to
make it. My dress cost almost twenty dollars."
Beth had nothing to say to this. She could not have said it, had she the
words in her mouth, for the teacher had moved down the aisle and had her
eyes upon the corner from which the sound of whispering came.
At noon Tilly came up to her in the cloak-room and explained the customs
of the school. She had failed in her examinations, consequently this was
her second year in the freshman class and she knew all about the "ins"
and "outs."
"Everybody who is anything dresses up for Friday afternoon," she said.
"I can't," said Beth. "I don't go home for dinner. I bring my lunch."
"It's too bad. You'll feel so embarrassed. Your hair ribbons are old
ones, too. This is the first time I've worn mine. They cost fifty cents
a yard."
She talked for some minutes, at the end of which Beth knew how much
every article she wore cost. They were interrupted by the appearance of
two other classmates. Beth knew them only by name. Carrie Laire was
slight, with dark hair and eyes. Sally Monroe was very fair. She was
slender and wiry. Her hair was drawn loosely and hung in a thick braid
down her back.
"I'm the chairman of the Program Committee," began Sally. "Do you recite
or write poetry? I want you to be on the program for two weeks from
to-day. You can select your own work. You see, I cannot tell what each
one does best."
"I'll write a story," said Beth. "A fairy-tale; will that do?"
"It would be lovely. You're a perfect dear to help me out." She was
writing Beth's name in her note-book.
"Don't you live in town?" asked Carrie Laire. Beth told her where she
lived.
"Is Miss Wells your aunt?" was the next question. Beth had never thought
of that.
"No, she isn't," she replied and was about to move away, but Carrie
followed her. The question had made Beth uneasy. Adee was not her aunt.
Why did she live with her then, and why did she not have a home with
brothers and sisters like other girls?
"Is your father dead?" Carrie continued. "I suppose he must be, and your
mother too, or you wouldn't be living with some one who isn't even your
aunt."
Sally overheard the questions. She had always been in Carrie's classes
and knew how prone that young lady was to ask impertinent questions
about matters which were really none of her business. She came to the
rescue now.
"I'm glad you can write fairy-stories, Beth. It is so hard to get anyone
to do anything of that sort. The girls will recite and sing, but essays
and stories make them nervous." Slipping her arm within Beth's she led
her away, ignoring alike Carrie's presence and her impertinent
questions.
"I'll bring my lunch with me, too," continued Sally. "I believe you and
I could get along very well. Let us eat together. I haven't any
particular friend. Mabel Reynolds was, but she is away. I'd dearly love
to have you for a friend."
"I'd love to be your dearest friend. I never had a real intimate friend,
except Helen Reed, and she's in the other division."
In the joy of these friendly overtures, Beth forgot Carrie and her
questions.
Just before the afternoon session, Tilly came in breathless. Her fat
body was palpitating like jelly. She wore a net dress made over a lining
of blue near-silk. Her ribbons were new and crisp; her shoes and
stockings white.
"I've heard a piece of news," she began the instant her eyes fell upon
the girls. "There's a whole party planning to motor over from Point
Breeze to visit school. They'll be here for our program. They're swells
everyone of them. Mrs. Laurens is one of them. I've seen her. They've
been all the summer at the Point Breeze Hotel. Her room costs twenty
dollars a week. I'm glad I'm dressed up. I'm awful sorry for you, Beth.
If I were you I'd sit back so they wouldn't see me. They may never
notice that you're in the room. It's a good thing that I sit in front of
you and that I could go home and dress. I'm glad I wore this sash. My
mother bought it in New York. It's imported. She paid ten dollars for
it."
"Perhaps the visitors will be looking at your sash and not see us," said
Beth dryly. "Thank you for your suggestion; but I'll not sit back away
from your view. If Mrs. Laurens and her friends do not like my looks,
they can turn their eyes some other way. It is my school and my seat and
my dress. If anything about it doesn't suit them, they know what they
can do."
It was rather a fiery speech for Beth. Sally squeezed her arm to give
her a sort of moral support. Harvey Lackard, the freckle-faced boy with
the crimson topknot, chuckled aloud.
"Give it to her, Beth," he encouraged. "I never knew you had so much
spunk. You don't strike often, but when you do, you give it to them
under the belt."
Tilly took no offense. She had a good disposition even though the price
mark was attached to everything she said. She turned toward Harvey and
smiled blandly.
Carrie Laire was quite as excited as Tilly.
"Did you know that Mrs. Laurens is coming and Judge Creswell and Colonel
Evans? Why, but I'm all worked up over it. I have a piano solo, and I
just know I'll break down. Do you know any of them? You may thank your
stars that you're not on the program. Judge Creswell is awful famous.
Have you any judge in your family? What did your father do?"
Just an instant, Beth's face flushed. She did not wish to make an enemy
of Carrie, yet she could not put up with these questions. She stiffened
her quivering lip and said lightly, "Are you merely curious, Carrie, or
do you wish the information?" Her companion turned to look at her. Beth
continued, "I'll take a tablet and write out all the information about
me that you may ever need--age, height, weight, and everything else."
"Why, Beth Wells, you are just as hateful as you can be. You know that I
only ask you because I'm interested in you, and then you turn on me and
say such sharp things."
The conversation was interrupted by the gong. The girls moved slowly
toward the assembly room, and were taking their time, when Miss Hanscom
rapped sharply with her ruler. She was a rigid disciplinarian, who could
not discriminate between the magnitude of offense. She had been in the
Farwell schools for five years. Her work had been strenuous. She had
fought her own way, against heavy odds. The result was that she was hard
in manner, self-sufficient and not a little aggressive.
Pupils always spoke of how well she had taught them, but not one had
ever said that she had awakened sympathy. She was nervous now and spoke
sharply, for from her window she had seen two touring cars slow up at
the curb, and she knew that visitors were "upon them."