FOUR GIRLS OF FORTY
YEARS AGO

BOOKS BY NINA RHOADES

MARION’S VACATION. Illustrated. Cloth. $1.75
DOROTHY BROWN. Illustrated. Cloth. $1.75
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THE GIRL FROM ARIZONA. Illustrated. $1.75
THE INDEPENDENCE OF NAN. Illustrated. $1.75

FOR YOUNGER READERS

“The Brick House Books”

The sight of the brick house on the cover makes girl
readers happy at once.—Indianapolis News.

Illustrated. Large 12mo. Cloth. $1.50 each.

ONLY DOLLIE
THE LITTLE GIRL NEXT DOOR
WINIFRED’S NEIGHBORS
THE CHILDREN ON THE TOP FLOOR
HOW BARBARA KEPT HER PROMISE
LITTLE MISS ROSAMOND
PRISCILLA OF THE DOLL SHOP
BRAVE LITTLE PEGGY
THE OTHER SYLVIA
MAISIE’S MERRY CHRISTMAS
LITTLE QUEEN ESTHER
MAKING MARY LIZZIE HAPPY
A REAL CINDERELLA
NORA’S TWIN SISTER
FOUR GIRLS OF FORTY YEARS AGO

LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO.
BOSTON

“I think you are the most wonderful person I ever heard of,” declared Dulcie.—Page [87].

Four Girls of Forty
Years Ago

BY
NINA RHOADES

ILLUSTRATED BY
ELEANOR R. WEEDEN

BOSTON
LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO.

Published, August, 1920
Copyright, 1920,
By Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co.

All Rights Reserved

Four Girls of Forty Years Ago
Norwood Press
BERWICK & SMITH CO.
Norwood, Mass.
U. S. A.

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

Four Girls of Forty Years Ago

CHAPTER I
THE FOUR LITTLE WINSLOWS

THEY all lived in the big front room on the top floor of Grandpa Winslow’s old-fashioned house near Washington Square. They had lived there for so long that Molly and Maud—who were only nine and seven—could not remember ever having lived anywhere else. But Dulcie—who was nearly twelve—and Daisy—who was ten and a half—had dim memories of a very different home—a home that was always bright and happy, and in which the grim figures of Grandma Winslow and her daughter, Aunt Kate, played no part.

It was more than five years since their father had brought his four little motherless girls from the Western town where they were born, to the stately, gloomy old house near Washington Square. It had seemed to Mr. Winslow the wisest thing to do, for he was young and inexperienced, and the death of his pretty young wife had almost broken his heart. With the exception of his father, who was very old and infirm, and his stepmother, whom he had never loved very much, he had no near relatives, and so when his father had written in his trembling old hand, offering a home to him and his four little girls, he had accepted the offer, and they had left the Western home, where they had been so happy, and taken the long journey to New York, accompanied by Lizzie, the faithful servant, who had formerly been maid-of-all-work, but now acted as the children’s nurse.

That was five years ago, and many things had happened since then. In the first place, their father had been in China for more than a year. Young Jim Winslow, as every one called him, had not found it easy to make a living in New York, and he had ended by accepting the offer of a friend in China, who promised him a good position in his business. And one sad day, he had kissed his little girls good-bye and gone away. How they had all cried, for though Papa tried to be very cheerful, they felt quite sure that this going away was different from any other.

“When Papa went to The Centennial in Philadelphia, he only stayed away a week,” Daisy had reminded them, with a great effort to be cheerful, “and he brought us all home something. I suppose China is a great deal farther away than Philadelphia.”

“Of course it is,” said Dulcie, with difficulty suppressing a sob; “it’s away the other side of the world. But he says we must all be good till he comes back, so we’ll have to try very hard.”

“We’ve got Lizzie, anyhow,” chimed in Molly. “She won’t ever go away; she promised Papa she wouldn’t leave us till he came back.”

That was a comforting thought, and as Lizzie had come into the nursery at that moment, they had all run to her, and she soon had Molly and Maud in her lap, while Dulcie and Daisy sat on the arms of her chair, for next to their father, they all loved Lizzie better than any one in the world.

But alas! When Lizzie had promised not to leave the children, she had not counted on her temper. She loved the little girls dearly, but she had never learned to control her quick temper, and in less than a month from the day of Mr. Winslow’s departure, she had been dismissed by Grandma for having used what that lady called “outrageously impertinent language.” That was a dreadful day for the children, even more dreadful than the one on which their father left for China. Their father had occasionally left them for a short time before, but never, never since their mother’s death, had Lizzie been absent for a single night.

“Who’ll put us to bed?” wailed Maud, “and give us our baths, and hear us say our prayers? Oh! oh! I want to go away with Lizzie. I don’t want to stay here any more—I don’t, I don’t!”

“Hush, Maudie, don’t cry so,” soothed Dulcie, who was crying herself. “I’ll hear your prayers. I’m ’most twelve, so I guess it will be all right, and Daisy and I can take our own baths, so I guess we can teach you and Molly to do it, too. But, oh, Lizzie, Lizzie, I do want you so much!” And poor Dulcie broke down utterly, and sobbed as if her heart would break.

The next important event was Grandpa’s death. This, though sad, was not the heart-break to the children that Lizzie’s departure had been. Grandpa was very feeble, and for several years had taken small notice of them, except to nod and smile kindly at them, when they came into his room, and ask them their names, which he never seemed able to remember from one day to another. Lizzie had once told them that Grandpa was losing his mind, and that they must always be very kind and polite to him, and they had looked upon the old gentleman with a kind of awe, which had been greatly increased when, one morning, Mary, the chambermaid, had come into the nursery to tell them in a whisper that “their dear grandpa” had died suddenly during the night.

But all these things had happened nearly a year before the rainy January afternoon on which this story begins. It had been a very stormy day, and as Miss Hammond, the prim daily governess, who came for three hours every morning, was laid up with a bad cold, there had not even been lessons to break the monotony, and time had hung rather heavily on the children’s hands. Even the usual diversion of luncheon with their elders had been denied them, for Aunt Kate had given a luncheon party, and, according to the Winslow code, little girls were expected to keep out of the way on all such occasions. So Mary had brought them each a bowl of bread and milk, that being less trouble than anything else, and although bread and milk is nourishing, it is not what Dulcie called “exciting,” and by four o’clock they were all feeling decidedly bored, and more than a little hungry.

Dulcie had read till her eyes ached; Daisy had completed a whole spring outfit for Maud’s doll, and Molly and Maud had played so many games of lotto that Molly declared crossly she was sure she could play lotto in her sleep.

“If only it didn’t pour so, I’d go round to the library for another book,” remarked Dulcie, with a yawn.

Dulcie cared more about reading than about almost anything else in the world. She read everything she could lay her hands on, and when her father went away to China, he had given her a ticket to the circulating library, which was only three blocks away.

“I wish things happened to real people the way they do to people in books,” said Molly. “If we were in a book, something interesting would be sure to happen to us this afternoon. We’ve been in the house all day, and only had bread and milk for lunch.”

“Something rather interesting is going to happen now,” said Daisy, who had been looking out of the window for the past five minutes. “The Van Arsdales across the street are going to have a party. There’s an awning, and the ice-cream wagon has just stopped there. We can watch the carriages come, and if they happen to leave one of the parlor shades up, the way they did that other time, we can see them dance.”

Mollie and Maud looked interested, but Dulcie sighed.

“I don’t see much fun in watching a party you can’t go to yourself,” she said, discontentedly. “If Grandma would only let us know some of the neighbors, we might be invited to places sometimes. I wonder how it would feel to have a party.”

“I don’t think I should like it much,” said Daisy. “Things might go wrong, and that would be so embarrassing. You remember the time those Leroy children came to see us, and Grandma called out we were making too much noise. I think I’d rather go to other people’s parties, especially while we have to live with Grandma and Aunt Kate.”

Dulcie sighed again.

“If only Papa would come home,” she said. “Things weren’t half so bad when he was here.”

“He is coming home next year,” put in Daisy, cheerfully. Daisy always looked on the bright side of things. “You know what he said in his last letter, about our all having a nice little home together. Perhaps Lizzie will come back then, too. Wouldn’t that be lovely?”

“Mary told the butcher-man that Lizzie is going to be married,” announced Maud. “I heard her yesterday when I was in the kitchen, playing with the kitty.”

“I don’t believe it,” declared Molly, indignantly. “Lizzie never told Mary things; she said she was an old gossip.”

“Well, Mary said it, anyhow,” persisted Maud. “She told the butcher-man, and he said——”

“Oh, children, don’t argue,” interrupted peace-loving Daisy. “Come here and watch for the party. I guess the carriages will begin to come pretty soon.”

“They had ice-cream for lunch down-stairs,” exclaimed Molly, with a sudden recollection. “I wonder if there’s any left!”

“If there were we wouldn’t get any,” said Dulcie. “Mary and Bridget would be sure to eat it all up.”

“If Grandma were like a grandmother in a book, she’d see that we had ice-cream, and lots of other nice things,” remarked Molly, reflectively. “Book grandmothers are always so nice. I wonder why real ones aren’t?”

“I guess real ones are, too,” said Daisy. “That’s just the trouble with us. Grandma isn’t our real grandmother; she’s only a step, and steps are never any good. Even Aunt Kate isn’t our real aunt, because Grandpa was only her stepfather.”

“Steps are pretty bad,” remarked Dulcie, “but the worst of all is a stepmother, and, thank goodness, we haven’t got that. If I thought we were ever going to have a stepmother, I’d—I’d do something awful.”

“What would you do?” inquired Molly, eagerly.

“I don’t know, I haven’t made up my mind yet, but I’ve often thought about it. I’m sure it won’t happen, though; Papa is much too kind to do anything so dreadful, but if it did, well—don’t let’s talk about it.” Dulcie’s dark little face had grown suddenly very stern and determined, and her sisters regarded her with something like awe. Although only a little more than a year older than Daisy, Dulcie had always been looked up to by the younger children as a superior being. In the first place, she was the only one of them who could remember Mamma, and then she was so very clever. Dulcie always knew her lessons, and moreover, she really liked to study. Even Miss Hammond, strictest of teachers, never had any complaints to make against Dulcie; and Daisy had once overheard Aunt Kate telling a visitor that “the eldest child was really remarkably bright, and took after her dear grandfather.” Now, the children all knew that Grandpa Winslow had been a great man in his day, and to hear that one of them was supposed to resemble him was a most wonderful compliment, especially from Aunt Kate, who seldom said pleasant things about any one. So perhaps Dulcie may be pardoned for being a trifle conceited, and conscious of her own importance.

“Here comes the first carriage,” announced Daisy, from her post at the window.

All the others hurried to get a glimpse of the first arrivals at the party. The carriage door was opened by a man in livery, and several figures were hustled up the Van Arsdales’ front steps, under the awning. Another and another carriage followed, and the next ten minutes were—according to Daisy—“really quite exciting.” But watching the arrival of guests at a party to which one has not been invited, is not, after all, a very thrilling amusement, and by the time the sixth carriage had deposited its freight, and rolled away, even Daisy’s enthusiasm had begun to cool.

“How hard it rains,” said Molly, flattening her nose against the window-pane. “I wonder if the stolen child is out in all this storm.”

“Of course she is,” said Dulcie in a tone of conviction. “She’s been out all day with her basket, and she’s wet through and so cold and hungry. But her basket isn’t full yet, and she doesn’t dare go home, for fear that dreadful woman will beat her.”

Dulcie gave a little shiver, and glanced from the window back to the warm, comfortable room.

“It’s terribly sad,” said Daisy, with a sigh. “I do wish we could help her find her family. If we could only get acquainted with her, we might be able to find out how she was stolen. They always remember something, you know, even if it’s happened when they were very little.”

“Let’s make up some more about her,” said Molly. “Come and sit close to the register, it’s so nice and warm. It’s nicer to talk about things like that when you’re very comfortable.”

“All right,” agreed Dulcie, and they all four gathered round the register, where the hot air from the furnace puffed in their faces.

“You begin, Dulcie,” commanded Daisy. “You make up so much better than we do. Tell what’s going to happen when she gets home to-night.”

“Well,” began Dulcie, her eyes growing big and dreamy, as they always did when she “made up things.” “It will be quite dark before she dares to go home, and she will be so tired that she can hardly drag herself up the long flight of stairs, to that dirty garret. There won’t be any fire because the wicked old woman will be drunk again. She’ll be asleep on a pile of rags, snoring very loud, and the stolen child will be afraid to wake her. So she’ll put down her basket, and creep away into a corner, and sit there shivering, and trying to keep her teeth from chattering. But by and by she’ll remember the little prayer her mother taught her, and after that she won’t be quite so unhappy, and—— Why, Maud, what is the matter—whatever are you crying about?”

“I—I don’t like it,” sobbed Maud, the tender-hearted, flinging herself upon Dulcie’s lap. “I don’t want the poor little girl to be so cold and hungry.” And the sobs changed to a wail.

“Oh, hush, lovey, don’t cry like that,” pleaded Daisy, soothing and petting her little sister, while Dulcie added in hasty explanation:

“Don’t be such a baby, Maud. It’s only a story I’m making up. We don’t really know anything about the little girl at all.”

“But you said—you said she was so cold and so hungry,” wailed Maud, “and I don’t like to hear about people being cold and hungry.”

“Oh, Maud, do stop,” protested Molly. “If you cry so loud, Grandma will hear, and think how she’ll scold.”

But Maud’s feelings were not so easily soothed, and she continued to sob, and to declare over and over again that she didn’t like sad stories—she didn’t want to hear about the stolen child—until the other three were at their wits’ end.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Maud,” exclaimed Daisy, with a sudden inspiration. “If you’ll stop crying, I’ll go down to the kitchen and see if there isn’t some ice-cream left. If there is, I’ll coax Bridget to let me have some, and you shall eat every bit of it, because you’re the youngest.”

Maud stopped short in the middle of a wail.

“Will you really?” she inquired doubtfully.

“Yes, I will,” promised Daisy. “Now wipe your eyes, like a good girl. Where’s your handkerchief? Oh, you haven’t got one. Well, never mind, here’s mine. There, that’s all right. You won’t cry any more, will you?”

“Suppose there isn’t any ice-cream left?” suggested Maud, still doubtfully.

“Well, there’s sure to be some cake left, anyhow, and I’m sure Bridget will give me a piece for you. Now keep still, and I’ll be back just as quick as I can.”

Maud was mollified and Daisy ran quickly down the four flights of stairs to the basement without meeting any one by the way. She tiptoed past Grandma’s door, which was fortunately closed, or she would probably have been stopped and questioned. Arrived at the kitchen, she found Bridget and Mary both taking afternoon tea. They were sitting at the kitchen table, and between them was a dish containing several tempting little frosted cakes. At Daisy’s entrance they both looked up, and Mary inquired rather sharply:

“Now what in the world are you after down here at this time of day? Did your grandma send you?”

“No,” said Daisy, pausing in the doorway, “nobody sent me. I just came to ask if there was any ice-cream left. I don’t want much, only a little for Maud. Dulcie told a story that made her cry, and I promised to bring her something to eat if I could. She loves ice-cream, and I thought perhaps——” Daisy paused in some embarrassment.

Both the maids laughed, and Bridget—who was generally good-natured—pushed back her chair from the table.

“There isn’t very much left,” she said. “I was keeping it for our supper, but I suppose you may as well have it.”

“Oh, thank you,” cried Daisy, gratefully; “you’re very kind. I’m sorry to take it away from you and Mary, but Maud is so unhappy. I’m sure the ice-cream will make her feel cheerful again.”

Bridget retired to the ice-box, from whence she presently returned with a well-filled saucer of pink ice-cream.

“It’s too bad there isn’t enough for you all,” she said, kindly, “but the madame’s that stingy, she never will order more than just enough to go round. You can have a couple of these cakes, anyhow, and that’ll be better than nothing.”

Daisy’s heart beat very fast, as she stole softly up-stairs again with her precious burden. She reached the second floor in safety, and was just beginning to breathe more freely, when there came an interruption. Grandma’s door opened suddenly, and a sharp, querulous voice demanded:

“Who’s that?”

Daisy’s heart gave a big jump, but she tried to speak quite naturally.

“It’s only I, Grandma,” she faltered, and try as she might, she could not keep the tremor altogether out of her voice.

Mrs. Winslow stepped out into the hall.

“What is that you are carrying so carefully?” she inquired, suspiciously.

“It’s—it’s just a little ice-cream, and some cakes that were left from the lunch party. Bridget gave them to me for Maud. Maud was crying over a story Dulcie told, and——”

“Never mind about explanations,” interrupted Grandma, frowning. “You all know perfectly well that you are not allowed to eat between meals, or to bring food up-stairs. Take those things directly back to the kitchen. I shall speak to Bridget about this to-morrow morning.”

The tears started to Daisy’s blue eyes.

“Oh, Grandma,” she pleaded, “please do let us have it, just this once. Maud loves ice-cream so much, and she hardly ever has any. You see, it was this way: Maud made up a story about a little beggar girl we see sometimes. We think she must be a stolen child, because she has blue eyes and golden hair; stolen children always have in books, and we like to make up things about her. This was a very sad story, but we didn’t think Maud——”

“I am not interested in all that nonsense,” interrupted Grandma, impatiently. “Do as I tell you, and never let me hear of your bringing food up-stairs again without permission.”

Daisy’s lip quivered, but she dared not disobey, and with a sigh that was half a sob, she turned away, and went slowly down-stairs again. When she returned to the nursery, five minutes later, she was relieved to find that Maud had stopped crying, and was standing with Molly, eagerly looking out of the window.

“They’re beginning to dance,” announced Maud. “The gas is lit in the parlor, and they haven’t pulled down one shade.”

“I suppose there wasn’t any cream left,” said Dulcie in a low voice. In their interest in the Van Arsdales’ party, the two younger ones had apparently forgotten the subject of food.

“There was a little,” Daisy admitted, “and Bridget let me have it for Maud, and some cakes, too; but on the way up-stairs I met Grandma, and she made me take the things back to the kitchen. She said we were forbidden to bring food up here, or to eat between meals.”

Dulcie’s eyes flashed. For a moment she did not speak, and then she said, slowly:

“I hate Grandma, and some day I’m going to tell her so.”

“Oh, Dulcie,” gasped Daisy, in horrified reproach, “you mustn’t say such things. It’s terribly wicked to hate people.”

“I know it is,” said Dulcie, “and I suppose I must be a very wicked person. Perhaps I shall never go to heaven, but I do hate Grandma just the same, and there isn’t any use in pretending I don’t.”

CHAPTER II
A VISITOR

PEOPLE dined earlier in 1880 than they do nowadays. The Winslows’ dinner hour was six o’clock, and by seven the table had been cleared, and the family settled down in the dining-room, where they usually spent their evenings. The children’s bedtime was eight, and that hour after dinner always seemed to them the longest hour of the whole day. Mrs. Winslow had a theory that families should spend their evenings together, and so they were never allowed to wander off and find amusements for themselves. She also had another theory, that young people should never speak except when addressed by their elders, and as neither she nor her daughter were at all fond of the society of children, the little girls were seldom encouraged to join in the conversation. Dulcie had once remarked that Grandma only talked when she had something to scold about, and Aunt Kate spent a great deal of time knitting caps for sailors, and was so busy counting stitches that she was apt to forget the presence of any one else in the room. Aunt Kate was considered among her friends to be a very charitable woman. She was on the Board of any number of societies for improving the condition of the poor, and was constantly attending “Meetings,” but it was seldom that she troubled herself to think of the four little girls who lived in the big front room on the top floor, and who, if not objects of charity, would certainly have been better and happier for a little mothering now and then.

Grandma was very fond of playing solitaire, and as soon as the dinner-table was cleared, she generally got out the cards, and that meant that she was not to be disturbed by any one, even her daughter. Dulcie could often find amusement in a book, or even in the evening paper, but to the three younger ones that hour between dinner and bedtime was decidedly tiresome.

On this particular January evening things seemed, if possible, even duller than usual. The children had been in the house all day, and were, in consequence, feeling particularly wide awake, and anxious for some kind of active exercise. When Aunt Kate requested Molly to wind some wool for her, the little girl jumped up with such alacrity that she knocked over a chair, and received a severe reproof from Grandma.

“Careless child,” scolded the old lady, looking up from her cards with a frown; “can’t you move without breaking the furniture?”

Molly, who was rather sensitive, blushed scarlet, and murmured an apology. But even winding wool is more interesting than doing nothing at all, so she soon cheered up, and ventured a timid attempt at conversation.

“It’s going to be a pretty cap,” she remarked politely. “If I were a sailor I think I should like it.”

“Should you?” said Miss Kate, sarcastically. “It is rather a pity you are not a sailor, then, isn’t it?”

Aunt Kate had a way of saying things in that sarcastic tone, and Molly instantly relapsed into embarrassed silence. Dulcie was glancing over the front page of the Evening Post, being very careful not to rattle the paper, because the rattling of a newspaper made Grandma nervous. Maud stifled a yawn, and began surreptitiously rubbing her eyes. Maud, being the youngest, was sometimes permitted to go to bed before her sisters, but to-night Grandma was absorbed in her solitaire, and did not notice the yawn. Daisy kept her eyes fixed on the clock. Twenty minutes to eight. Only twenty more minutes, and then they would all be free. They would hurry and get undressed, and when they were in bed perhaps Dulcie would tell them stories about Mamma. She often did after they had said their prayers, and the light was out, and it was all very cozy and pleasant. Mamma had talked to Dulcie just before she died, and told her she must be a little mother to the others, and always be good to them and never let them forget their prayers. Molly had once said that perhaps Mamma was looking down on them from heaven, and that when they were in bed, and Dulcie was talking about her, she came to them, and loved them, although, of course, they could not see her. Daisy and Maud had thought this a beautiful idea, and had been much surprised to hear Dulcie sigh, and say rather sadly:

“I hope she doesn’t know about things.”

“Why not?” Molly had demanded in astonishment. “I should think you would love to think that perhaps Mamma came to see us.”

“I wouldn’t like to have her unhappy about us,” Dulcie answered, gravely, “and I’m afraid she would be unhappy if she knew about Grandma. You can’t remember Danby, and how happy we were there, but I can, and I know how different everything was when Mamma was here.”

Daisy wished that she could remember that happy time, too, but the memories were all very dim and indistinct.

For five minutes the only sounds to break the stillness of the room were the ticking of the clock and the click of Aunt Kate’s knitting needles. Then the newspaper rustled, and Grandma looked up from her cards for the second time.

“Leave that paper alone, Dulcie,” she said, impatiently. “You know the rustling of a newspaper is very unpleasant to me.”

“Excuse me, Grandma,” apologized Dulcie. “I’ll try not to do it again. I was so interested in something I was reading, I turned over the sheet to finish it.”

“What were you reading?” Grandma inquired suspiciously.

“About a man who was killed. They think he was murdered. They found his body——”

“Good gracious, child!” cried Grandma, quite forgetting to shuffle her cards in her dismay. “Don’t you know you are not to read such things? Put that paper down at once, and don’t let me see you touch a newspaper again until you are old enough to know what to read, and what to leave alone.”

Dulcie blushed.

“Miss Hammond says everybody ought to read the newspaper,” she began. “It’s very interesting about that man. Won’t you please let me finish it, Grandma?”

“Certainly not, and don’t argue. Such things are not proper reading for a child of your age. Your father would be very angry if he ever heard of your reading such disgusting stories.”

“Would he?” said Dulcie, and she instantly put down the paper. There was no one in the world whom Dulcie loved as she loved her father.

“Of course he would,” said Mrs. Winslow. “Remember, you are not to look at a newspaper again until I give you permission. What are you rubbing your eyes in that way for, Maud?”

“I’m sleepy,” said Maud. Maud was less afraid of Grandma than any of the others, and if Mrs. Winslow had a favorite among her stepson’s children, it was little curly-headed Maud, who was scarcely more than a baby when the family had arrived from the West five years ago.

Grandma glanced at the clock.

“Nearly five minutes to eight,” she said; “you may as well all go to bed.”

Four little girls sprang from their chairs with so much alacrity that, if Grandma had been a real grandmother, instead of “only a step,” as Dulcie called her, her feelings might have been hurt. But Mrs. Winslow had no objection to the children’s evident dislike of her society. She meant to do her duty to her husband’s grandchildren, but she never thought of them in any other light than as a troublesome incumbrance. They each gave her a sedate “duty kiss,” and murmured a polite “Good-night, Grandma,” and she heaved a sigh of relief that another day was over. As for Aunt Kate, she frankly confessed that she hated to be kissed, and the children never dreamed of troubling her in any such way.

“Oh, it is nice to get up here again, all by ourselves, isn’t it?” cried Daisy, with a happy little skip, as they entered their own big nursery, and Dulcie lighted the gas. “I feel sometimes as if I couldn’t breathe down there with Grandma and Aunt Kate. Let’s hurry to bed, and then you’ll talk to us about Mamma, won’t you, Dulcie?”

Dulcie nodded rather absently. She was still thinking about the newspaper story that Grandma had interrupted.

“Hark!” exclaimed Maud, eagerly. “There’s the singing lady.”

They all paused to listen, and, sure enough, from somewhere that sounded as if it came from within the wall, could be distinctly heard the notes of a piano, and of a sweet voice singing. The walls in the old house were rather thin, and by pressing their ears against the party wall, which divided the Winslows’ from the house next door, they could even distinguish the words of the song.

“It’s ‘Robin Adair,’” said Molly. “Isn’t it pretty? I think I like it best of all the songs she sings.”

“I like ‘Darby and Joan’ best,” affirmed Daisy; “it always makes me think of such nice, comfortable things. I do wish we knew her. I’m sure she must be nice; she’s got such a lovely voice.”

“Grandma would never let us go to see her,” said Dulcie, with conviction. “She says it isn’t proper to call on people she doesn’t know.”

“Perhaps it’s more interesting not to know her,” said cheerful Daisy. “It’s so exciting to make up stories about her. She must be rather poor to live away up on the top floor of that boarding-house. I wish we could see her in the street sometimes.”

“Maybe we do see her,” said Dulcie; “we haven’t any idea what she looks like. Now, hurry and get undressed, children. It’s pretty cold up here; I think the furnace must be very low.”

Daisy and Molly began unfastening their dresses, but Maud still remained with her ear glued to the wall.

“Come, Maud, don’t dawdle,” commanded Dulcie, a little impatiently. “I’ll help you undress.”

“I want to listen to the singing lady,” objected Maud. “I love music.”

“You can listen in bed just as well, and if you stay up in this cold room, you may get another sore throat, and you wouldn’t like that, you know. My goodness! there’s the door-bell. Who can it be at this time of night?”

Evening visitors were not frequent at the Winslows’, and Molly was dispatched to peep over the banister.

“Perhaps it’s that minister who comes to see Aunt Kate,” said Dulcie, and this opinion was rather strengthened when Molly reported having heard a gentleman’s voice speaking to Mary.

Aunt Kate’s visitors were not interesting to the children, and they had almost forgotten the incident of the door-bell, when there came an unexpected tap at the nursery door.

“Children,” called Mary’s voice, rather breathless from the three long flights of stairs, “your grandma says you’re to come down right away. Your uncle’s here.”

There was a simultaneous exclamation of astonishment from four very excited little girls.

“Our uncle! What uncle? Oh, Mary, do tell us quick.” And the door was flung open, revealing four children in various stages of undressing.

“His name is Maitland,” said Mary, “and he’s a youngish gentleman. I never saw him before.”

“It must be Uncle Stephen; Mamma’s brother from California,” said Dulcie. “I think he’s the only uncle we’ve got. Oh, isn’t it exciting? Hurry, children, do please hurry!”

“I can’t go down with my boots unbuttoned,” complained Daisy. “O dear! where’s the shoe buttoner? Fasten your dress, Molly, and take those curlers off Maud’s hair.”

“I’ll help you,” said Mary, good-naturedly. “I’m glad you’ve got an uncle to look after you. You’d better tell him a few things before he goes away again.”

“What sort of things?” inquired Daisy, innocently.

Mary laughed.

“Oh, I guess you know as well as I do,” she said, evasively. “If you don’t, so much the better.”

“Did our uncle ask for Grandma?” Dulcie wanted to know.

“Oh, yes, and she’s in the parlor with him now. So’s Miss Kate.”

Dulcie’s face fell.

“There isn’t much use in our going down, then,” she said, with a sigh. “Grandma won’t let us talk. She never does when there’s company.”

“Perhaps she will this time, because it’s our uncle,” said Daisy, who was always hoping pleasant things were going to happen. “Anyhow, it will be lovely to see somebody belonging to Mamma. I remember Papa told us about Uncle Stephen. He’s lived in California ever since he was twenty, and none of us has ever seen him. There! my boots are done. Now I can help Maud, if you’ll button Molly’s dress, Mary.”

Four little hearts were beating rather quickly, as the children hurried down-stairs to the parlor, from whence the sound of voices could be heard.

“Grandma’s talking in her ‘company voice,’” whispered Dulcie. “She must like Uncle Stephen or she wouldn’t sound so polite.”

Grandma and Aunt Kate were both smiling when the children entered the parlor, and their companion, a tall, broad-shouldered young man, rose from the sofa, and came forward to meet them.

“So these are Ethel’s little girls,” he said, and Grandma answered, still in her “company voice”:

“Yes, here they are, all four. Children, this is your Uncle Stephen from California.”

“I know,” said Dulcie, holding out her hand, with her most grown-up air; “Papa told us all about you. I think you were very kind to take the trouble to come to see us. I’m Dulcie, the eldest, and this is Daisy. Her real name is Margaret, after Grandma Maitland, but everybody calls her Daisy. These others are Molly and Maud. Molly’s named for Mamma’s sister, who died, and Maud is just a name Mamma liked in a book.”

Dulcie paused, rather breathless from her long speech. The three younger children gazed at her in undisguised admiration. Under no combination of circumstances could any one of them have dared to make such a wonderful speech, and in Grandma’s presence, too. The visitor smiled, and they all thought he had a very pleasant smile indeed.

“Of course I wanted to come to see you,” he said in a voice that was as pleasant as his smile. And, instead of taking Dulcie’s outstretched hand, he bent and kissed her.

That broke the ice, for of course, all the others had to be kissed, too, and in a very few minutes Maud was perched on Uncle Stephen’s knee, and the other three were sitting beside him on the sofa. If Grandma and Aunt Kate were displeased with this state of affairs, they did not show it. Grandma continued to talk in her “company voice,” and Aunt Kate smiled as her needles flew.

Mr. Maitland explained that he had come east on a business trip, and was only spending a few days in New York.

“Indeed, I am starting back to California to-morrow night,” he said, “but I couldn’t leave without having a glimpse of Ethel’s children. Jim stopped to see me in San Francisco, on his way to Hong Kong, and I asked for your address, thinking I might be in this part of the world sometime.”

“Papa’s coming home next year,” ventured Maud, who suddenly felt very safe in Grandma’s presence, for was not Uncle Stephen’s kind arm around her, and had he not said that she had eyes like Mamma’s? “When he comes home we’re going to have a little house of our own, and perhaps Lizzie——”

Maud paused, admonished by a warning nudge from Dulcie. Grandma had forbidden the mention of Lizzie’s name.

“We had a letter from Papa last week,” put in Dulcie, quickly, hoping that Grandma had not noticed Maud’s slip. “He tells us such funny things about China. Does he ever write to you, Uncle Stephen?”

“Yes, occasionally. I heard from him about a month ago.”

“Did he tell you about the Chinese people eating rats and mice?” inquired Molly. “We used to worry for fear Papa might have to eat them, but he says he doesn’t.”

Uncle Stephen laughed, and even Grandma and Aunt Kate looked amused, but just then Grandma gave the little warning cough, which always meant “children should be seen and not heard,” and Molly instantly relapsed into embarrassed silence.

Altogether, the call was a trifle disappointing. Aunt Kate talked about missions, but Uncle Stephen didn’t seem particularly interested in that subject, and in about twenty minutes he took out his watch, and remarked that he was afraid he must be going.

“I have an engagement with a business friend at nine,” he said, “but I want to see these little nieces of mine again before I leave New York. To-morrow is Saturday, and I expect to finish all my business by noon. My train doesn’t leave till half-past six. May I have these young people to spend the afternoon with me? I will promise to take good care of them.”

That was a tremendous moment. Would Grandma consent? That was the question that four little eager girls were asking themselves. Daisy ventured to give the old lady a pleading glance. Dulcie and Molly clasped their hands nervously. There was a moment of breathless suspense, and then, to everybody’s surprise, Grandma answered quite pleasantly:

“I am sure they would enjoy it very much, and I see no objection, if you really want to be troubled with them.”

“I want them very much,” said Uncle Stephen, with his kind, pleasant smile. “I will call for them at about noon, and we will lunch at the Fifth Avenue, where I am staying, and do something together in the afternoon. Now I must be off, as I see it is getting near the time for my appointment, so good-night, chicks. Be sure to be ready for me at twelve to-morrow.”

“I never believed she’d let us,” declared Daisy, when they were talking things over in the nursery, ten minutes later. “My heart just stood still; I was so sure she was going to say no.”

“Perhaps she didn’t dare,” suggested Molly. “He’s our uncle, you know. Oh, aren’t uncles lovely? I never had any idea they were so nice.”

“We didn’t know anything about them,” said Daisy. “We don’t know much about any relations except fathers. Now let’s hurry to bed, and get to sleep as quick as we can, so it won’t seem so long till to-morrow.”

CHAPTER III
A WONDERFUL DAY

“IT’S the most interesting thing that ever happened to us,” declared Molly. “It’s almost like a book thing.”

“It would be even more exciting if we had thought Uncle Stephen was dead,” said Dulcie, in a tone of some regret. “You remember how exciting it was in ‘Kathie’s Three Wishes,’ when her Uncle Robert came home rich, after everybody had thought he was dead for years and years. I wonder if Uncle Stephen is rich.”

“I don’t know, I’m sure,” said Daisy. “He must have a good deal of money to be able to take us all to the Fifth Avenue Hotel to lunch. I wonder where he’ll take us afterwards. It might be to the Aquarium. Do you remember the time Papa took us there, Dulcie, and we saw those wonderful fish, and snakes, and things?”

Maud’s face clouded.

“I don’t like snakes,” she protested; “I hope Uncle Stephen won’t take us there. I dream about snakes sometimes, and it’s horrid.”

“Don’t be a baby,” began Molly, rather sharply, but Daisy interposed.

“I wouldn’t worry, Maudie, till we know where we really are going. Perhaps Uncle Stephen doesn’t intend to take us anywhere except to the hotel. We may just stay there all the afternoon, and watch the people. That would be very interesting.”

Dulcie glanced at herself in the mirror. It was only half-past eleven, but they were already dressed, because, as Daisy wisely remarked, “Uncle Stephen might happen to come ahead of time, and it wouldn’t be polite to keep a gentleman waiting.”

“I wish I hadn’t let my best hat get rained on that day,” remarked Dulcie, with a sigh. “It’s so spotted, I don’t think it’s at all the right thing to wear to a hotel. If Papa were here, I know he would have bought me a new one, but Grandma doesn’t care how shabby our things are.”

“Oh, it isn’t so very spotty, and perhaps nobody will notice,” said Daisy, hopefully. “Don’t let’s think about anything that isn’t pleasant to-day. Isn’t it fortunate the sun has come out? If it had kept on raining, Grandma would have made us all wear our old clothes, and that would have been a great deal worse than just a few spots on one hat.”

“Yes, but it isn’t your hat,” objected Dulcie. “Yours looks almost as good as new, and Molly’s and Maud’s are all right, too.”

For a moment Daisy hesitated, and then, with sudden determination, she took off her own hat, and held it out to Dulcie.

“Let’s change,” she proposed cheerfully. “You’re the eldest, and ought to look the best, and I really don’t mind a bit.”

Dulcie drew back, blushing.

“As if I would do anything so mean,” she declared, indignantly. “I believe you’re one of the most unselfish people in the world, Daisy. It was all my own fault, anyhow. If I had taken an umbrella that day, as Grandma told me to, I wouldn’t have spoiled my hat. Now, suppose we go down and wait for Uncle Stephen on the sidewalk. It’s rather hot up here, with all our things on.”

This suggestion was greeted with favor, and a few minutes later the front door had closed behind four very happy little girls. Grandma and Aunt Kate were both out, so there was no one but Mary to see them start, but Mary happened to be in a good humor that morning, and greatly comforted Dulcie by the assurance that nobody would notice the spots on her hat, and that they all looked “just as nice as could be.”

“We’ll walk up and down,” said Dulcie; “it’s too cold to stand still, but we mustn’t go far, or we might miss Uncle Stephen. Oh, it is grand to be going somewhere, isn’t it?”

“Do you suppose there’ll be ice-cream for lunch?” inquired Maud, anxiously.

“Of course there will be,” said Molly. “You can have anything you want at a hotel. You just pay a dollar, and they’ll bring you whatever you ask for. I know, because Papa took me to the Clarendon once, the time you all had the measles, and mine hadn’t come out yet.”

“Can you even ask for two helpings?” questioned Maud, with sparkling eyes.

“Yes, I guess so, but perhaps it wouldn’t be polite to take more than one. Uncle Stephen might think it was piggish.”

“Of course he would,” said Dulcie, who had grown suddenly grave; “it wouldn’t do at all. And that makes me think of something I want to say to you all. Give me your hand, Maud, so we can all walk together. It’s about our loyalty to Grandma. You know what Papa used to tell us about always being loyal to our family, and never telling things that happen at home. We mustn’t let Uncle Stephen think we don’t have ice-cream, and nice things like that every day. We mustn’t mention Grandma’s being cross, or—or any disagreeable things at all. Will you all remember?”

“Yes,” promised Daisy, readily, but Molly looked a little doubtful.

“I don’t see why we should have to be so very particular with Uncle Stephen,” she objected; “he’s our real uncle, and Grandma’s only a step.”

“But we live with Grandma,” rebuked Dulcie. “Papa said it was very disloyal to talk about people we live with. Don’t look so solemn, Maudie. Of course, if Uncle Stephen or the waiter should ask us if we would like another helping of ice-cream, it would be all right to say yes.”

Maud’s face brightened.

“I sort of think Uncle Stephen will ask us,” she said. “He seemed so very kind, and I’m sure he likes me best, because he said I looked like Mamma. Let’s cross over. If the singing lady should happen to be at her window, she might like to see how nice we look.”

The others laughed, but complied with the request.

“There isn’t anybody at the windows,” said Molly, glancing up at the top floor of the boarding-house. “What makes you so much interested in that lady, Maud? She may not be a bit interesting.”

“I love to hear her sing,” said Maud, “and besides, I’ve got a secret,” she added, but in so low a tone that the others did not catch the words. At that moment there was an excited exclamation from Daisy, of “here he comes; he’s just turned the corner.” And everything else was forgotten in the joy of running to meet Uncle Stephen.

“Well, well,” laughed Mr. Maitland, kissing them all round, “so here you are, all four. No danger of being kept waiting, I see.”

“Oh, we wouldn’t do that,” protested Dulcie, quite shocked at the mere suggestion. “We got ready early, in case you should happen to come before twelve. Grandma and Aunt Kate have both gone out, so there isn’t any use of your going in to see them.”

“You are the people I want to see this time,” said Uncle Stephen, with a rather peculiar smile. “I came a little early on purpose, so as to have plenty of time for lunch. I have tickets for ‘The Pirates of Penzance’ this afternoon.”

“‘The Pirates of Penzance,’” repeated Dulcie, with a little gasp. “Why—why, that’s at a theatre, isn’t it?”

“To be sure it is, and a very charming little operetta it is, too. I hope you haven’t all seen it already.”

“Oh, no,” said Dulcie, “we never—that is, I mean we don’t often go to theatres. Daisy and I saw ‘Rip Van Winkle’ once with Papa. It’s very wonderful—I mean it’s very kind of you to take us.”

And despite all Dulcie’s attempts to maintain what she considered the proper demeanor of a grown-up young lady, she could not refrain from a little skip of delight.

As for the other three, they made no attempt whatever to conceal their delight, and began plying Uncle Stephen with a shower of questions about “The Pirates of Penzance,” which lasted till they reached the corner of Fifth Avenue, where he was obliged to interrupt them, to ask whether they would prefer walking to the hotel or taking a stage.

“Oh, a stage, please—that is, if you don’t mind,” pleaded Molly. “We just love riding in the stages. We hardly ever get a ride now, since Papa and Lizzie went away, because Grandma won’t let us go by ourselves.”

“Who is Lizzie?” Mr. Maitland asked, as they paused on the corner, to await an approaching stage.

“She was our nurse,” Dulcie explained, “but she went away last summer. We really don’t need a nurse any more, we’re getting so big.”

Mr. Maitland glanced down at the four little figures, as if he did not consider them “so very big,” after all, but just then the stage came within hailing distance, and he made no remarks on the subject.

It was only a short distance to the hotel, but the children thoroughly enjoyed the little ride, especially Maud, who, somewhat to Dulcie’s disapproval, requested to be permitted to pay the fares. Because, as she explained, “it made one feel so grand to spend money.” Uncle Stephen laughed so much, and was so kind and genial, that even Dulcie forgot to be dignified, and by the time they reached their destination, they were all the best of friends.

“I am going to leave you in the reception-room for a few moments,” Mr. Maitland said, leading the way across the marble hall of the big hotel, “while I look up two ladies who are to lunch with us. They are friends of mine from San Francisco, who have met your father, and are anxious to see you all.”

Nobody said anything, but all were conscious of a sensation of disappointment, which Molly was the first to put into words, the moment they found themselves alone in the reception-room.

“If there are going to be ladies,” she said, ruefully, “Uncle Stephen will talk to them all the time, and we won’t have half so much fun.”

“Perhaps they are very nice ladies,” suggested Daisy. “He said they knew Papa, and wanted to know us. Anyhow, we’re going to a real theatre, and nothing can spoil that.”

“I’m afraid ladies notice other people’s clothes more than gentlemen do,” said Dulcie, with a sigh, and a glance in the long mirror. “Do you think those spots show very much, Daisy?”

“No, not so very much,” answered Daisy, divided between her desire to speak the truth, and fear of making her sister still more uncomfortable. “Perhaps the ladies won’t notice the spots at all, if the light isn’t too bright.”

Dulcie sighed again, but was forced to make the best of the situation, and in another moment Uncle Stephen returned, accompanied by such a very pretty young lady that, in their surprise and admiration, the children quite forgot to worry about their own shortcomings.

“This is Miss Florence Leslie, children,” said Mr. Maitland. “Her mother, Mrs. Leslie, will be down in a few moments.”

“You see, I couldn’t wait for Mother,” the young lady explained, smiling, and showing such fascinating dimples, that Daisy and Molly both longed to kiss her. “I was so anxious to see you all. Now let me see if I can guess which is which, from your father’s description. This tall one must be Dulcie, I am sure, and the little curly-haired one is Maud. These others are Daisy and Molly.”

“Why, you know all our names,” exclaimed Molly, in astonishment. “Did you ever see us before?”

“No, but I have heard a great deal about you from your father. We saw a good deal of him in San Francisco, before he sailed for Hong Kong, and he and my brother are in business together now. I wonder if you would each be willing to give me a kiss.”

“Of course we would,” said Dulcie, heartily, and four little faces were eagerly raised. Miss Leslie kissed them all, “not just duty kisses,” Molly said afterwards, but as if she really liked doing it, and in less than five minutes they were chattering away to this new acquaintance as if they had known her all their lives.

Then Mrs. Leslie appeared, and they all went into the dining-room. Mrs. Leslie was not as pretty as her daughter, but she had a very sweet face, and was so kind and motherly that the little girls soon felt almost as much at home with her as with Miss Florence.

“And now who is going to order the luncheon?” Uncle Stephen asked, when they had taken their places at one of the round tables in the big, crowded dining-room. “Will you do it, Mrs. Leslie?”

“Suppose we let Dulcie order,” suggested Miss Florence. “When I was a little girl, and we went to a hotel, I remember half the fun was in ordering things to eat.”

Dulcie gasped, as the waiter handed her the long bill of fare.

“I—I don’t think I could,” she faltered; “there are so many things, I shouldn’t know where to begin. What’s the matter, Maud?”

“It’s about the ice-cream,” whispered Maud. “It doesn’t matter what else we have.” Maud’s whisper was sufficiently audible to be heard by the whole party, and all the grown-ups laughed, somewhat to the little girl’s embarrassment. Then Miss Leslie said, kindly:

“I will help you, if you would like to have me,” and on Dulcie’s grateful request, she gave the waiter an order, which seemed to the children almost appallingly large.

What a delicious meal it was, and how they all enjoyed it! Even Dulcie forgot her intention of taking a light lunch, for fear Uncle Stephen might think she was hungry, which would reflect unfavorably on Grandma’s providing. Miss Leslie certainly did not forget to order ice-cream, and, better still, she took two helpings of it herself, and advised them all to do likewise. Mr. Maitland and Mrs. Leslie seemed to have a good deal to say to each other, but Miss Florence devoted herself almost exclusively to the children, and before luncheon was over, had succeeded in winning all their hearts.

“I wish you were going to the theatre with us,” Molly remarked, regretfully, as they were leaving the dining-room, and she gave her new friend’s hand an affectionate squeeze.

“I am going,” said Miss Leslie, smiling; “your uncle invited me. He asked Mother, too, but she declined on account of a headache.”

Molly gave vent to her satisfaction by a little squeal of delight, and Maud—who was nothing if not truthful—remarked in a sudden burst of confidence:

“We didn’t think we were going to like it when Uncle Stephen said ladies were coming to lunch, but you’re not a bit like an ordinary lady.”

“Maud!” cried Dulcie, reprovingly, but Miss Leslie laughed merrily, and did not seem in the least offended.

That was a wonderful, never-to-be-forgotten afternoon. Long after their elders had ceased to think of it, the four little girls loved to recall its delights. The bright little opera, with its charming music, and amusing dialogue. The funny pirate chief, who frightened Maud at first, and then fascinated her for the rest of the afternoon. The pompous major-general, with his numerous family of daughters. And, last but not least, the gallant policemen, who were as much afraid of the pirate band as the pirates were afraid of them. It was all one continuous delight. But even better than the play was the pleasant companionship. Long before the afternoon was over, they had all come to the conclusion that, with the exception of Papa, and possibly the faithful Lizzie, Uncle Stephen and Miss Leslie were “the two nicest grown-ups” they had ever met.

But everything, even “The Pirates of Penzance,” must come to an end at last, and all too soon the curtain had fallen on the last rollicking chorus, and they were making their way out through the crowd, into the dusk of the winter afternoon.

“Wouldn’t it be lovely if nice things never came to an end?” remarked Dulcie, as they stood on the cold corner, while Uncle Stephen went in quest of a cab.

Miss Leslie smiled.

“There wouldn’t be any next time to look forward to, then,” she said.

“But we don’t have any next times,” began Molly, and checked herself, warned by a reproving glance from Dulcie.

Miss Leslie looked rather surprised, but before she could ask any questions, Uncle Stephen returned, and they were all packed into a cab, Mr. Maitland explaining that he and Miss Florence were in a hurry, and must get home as soon as possible.

“It’s been the loveliest afternoon we ever had in our lives,” declared Daisy, as the cab drew up before their own door. “Oh, Uncle Stephen, won’t we see you again—have you really got to go back to California to-night?”

“I am afraid so,” Uncle Stephen answered, with a kind glance at the row of sober little faces, “but perhaps I shall come back again before such a very long time.”

“Don’t forget there’s always a next time to look forward to,” said Miss Leslie, with her bright smile. “We’ve all had a delightful afternoon to look back upon. I hope you won’t forget me.”

“Indeed we won’t!” cried Dulcie and Daisy both together, and Molly added, plaintively:

“Oh, have you got to go back to California, too?”

“Yes, dear, Mother and I are leaving to-night, on the same train with Mr. Maitland. But I want you to remember me, for I have an idea that we shall meet again some day, and in the meantime I wonder if you would write to me occasionally. I love to get letters from little girls.”

“We’d love to,” said Daisy, blushing with pleasure. “We none of us write very well except Dulcie, but if you wouldn’t mind a few mistakes in spelling——”

Miss Leslie said she wouldn’t mind in the least, and by that time Mary had opened the front door, in answer to Uncle Stephen’s ring, and the good-byes had to be said.

“I feel just the way I’m sure Cinderella must have felt when she got back from the ball,” remarked Dulcie, throwing herself wearily on the nursery sofa. “That’s the only trouble about having good times; everything seems so dull when they’re over.”

“I don’t mind,” said cheerful Daisy. “Just think what fun we’re going to have talking it all over. I don’t think we shall ever feel quite so lonely again, now that we know Uncle Stephen and Miss Leslie.”

“I don’t see what good they can be to us away off in California,” objected Molly, who was sharing some of Dulcie’s depression.

“But we’ve promised to write to them both,” argued Daisy, “and that will be very interesting. I wonder how soon it will do to write our first letter.”

“I think we might write just a short one to Uncle Stephen to-morrow,” said Molly. “It would be polite to tell him again what a beautiful time we had, don’t you think so?”

Nobody answered, and there was a short silence, which Maud broke.

“I don’t think I want any dinner,” she remarked, with a long sigh. “There’s going to be corned beef, there always is on Saturday, and I hate corned beef. I’d like some more ice-cream, but I don’t want anything else to eat. My head aches, and I think I’m going to have another sore throat.”

CHAPTER IV
THE SINGING LADY

MAUD’S sore throats were one of the greatest trials to her sisters. Not only were they of frequent occurrence, but they were always regarded by Grandma in the light of an especial grievance to herself, for which somebody must be held responsible. If Maud had lived in the present day, some doctor would probably have decided that her tonsils needed to be removed, but in 1880 people did not think so much about operations, and the family physician contented himself with prescribing simple remedies, and the advice that the child should be kept out of draughts, and not allowed to get her feet wet. Maud’s prediction on the present occasion proved only too true. In the middle of the night Daisy was aroused by a feverish demand from her little sister, for a drink of water, and by morning Maud could not swallow without considerable difficulty, and the too familiar white spots had appeared on her throat. Of course Grandma had to be told, and the consequence was a severe lecture to the other three, which lasted all through breakfast.

“I might have known what would happen when I let you all go off yesterday,” grumbled Mrs. Winslow, as she prepared Maud’s gargle in the nursery after breakfast. “I don’t suppose it ever occurred to one of you to see that the child did not sit in her warm coat all the afternoon.”

“Miss Leslie made her take off her coat,” protested Daisy, “and I don’t really think she got over-heated or anything.”

“Well, she evidently caught cold in some way. At any rate, this has taught me a lesson. Now remember, Maud, you are to gargle your throat regularly every two hours, and take one of these powders every hour. If I hear of your getting out of bed I shall punish you severely.”

“Who is going to stay with Maud this morning, Grandma?” Daisy asked, following Mrs. Winslow out into the hall. “I suppose one of us will have to stay home from church.”

Grandma reflected for a moment. She was very particular about church-going, but under the present circumstances it was evident that Maud could not be left alone.

“I think you and Daisy had better come to church with me,” she said. “Maud doesn’t need anything except her gargle and the powders, and Molly can attend to them.”

So it was settled, much to Molly’s satisfaction, and at half-past ten Dulcie and Daisy departed for church, with Grandma and Aunt Kate, and the two younger children were left to themselves. Maud, who was feverish and rather cross, was inclined to resent this arrangement, which deprived her of the society of her two older sisters.

“I want Dulcie to stay and tell me stories,” she pleaded. “Nobody can tell stories but Dulcie.”

“I’ll tell you stories this afternoon,” said Dulcie. “I don’t believe Grandma will make me go to church twice to-day, on account of your being sick.”

“But I want stories this morning,” fretted Maud; “I want to hear about Mamma. Ask Grandma to let you stay at home instead of Molly.”

“It wouldn’t be any use; it would only make her crosser than she is already. Molly will read to you. There’s a very nice book I got from the library. It’s called ‘Ministering Children,’ and it’s a regular Sunday story.”

“I don’t like the way Molly reads,” complained the invalid. “She can’t pronounce the long words, and she keeps stopping to spell things. I can read ’most as well as she can myself.”

But whether Maud liked it or not, there was nothing to be done, as they all knew well. Grandma never changed her mind about things, and when she had once given an order she expected implicit obedience.

“I’ll do anything you want me to,” said Molly, good-naturedly, as the retreating footsteps of the church-goers died away in the distance. “We can’t play lotto, because it’s Sunday, but perhaps it wouldn’t be wicked to cut out some paper dolls.”

Maud brightened a little at this suggestion, and for the next half-hour all went well. Then it was time for Maud’s medicine, and she began to rebel.

“I don’t like those nasty powders, and I’m not going to take any more till Grandma comes home.”

“Then we shall both get an awful scolding,” said Molly, desperately. “Grandma knows just how many powders there are, and she’ll count to see if you’ve taken them all right. Do swallow this one, like a good girl, and I’ll give you a drink of water to take away the taste.”

Perhaps Maud realized the force of her sister’s argument. At any rate, she made no further objection to swallowing the medicine, over which she made a wry face.

“When I grow up, I’m never going to take medicine,” she announced, decidedly. “I’m not going to do a single thing I don’t want to.”

“Maybe you’ll have to,” said Molly. “Grown-up people can’t always do just as they like. Papa didn’t want to go to China and leave us all, but he had to, and Lizzie didn’t want to go away. Listen, the lady next door is beginning to sing.”

Maud’s face brightened.

“I’m glad,” she said. “She always sings hymns on Sunday. I wonder why she doesn’t go to church. Maybe she’s sick, too.”

For ten minutes the room was very still, while the two children listened to the music, which reached them distinctly through the party wall. Then Maud began to show signs of restlessness again.

“I wish she’d sing ‘Only an Armor-Bearer,’” she complained, fretfully. “‘Only an Armor-Bearer’ is my favorite hymn; it’s got such a nice, lively tune. She ’most always sings it on Sunday.”

“Perhaps she will in a little while,” said Molly, and again there was silence. But, contrary to their expectations, the lady next door did not sing “Only an Armor-Bearer,” and after a few minutes the music ceased.

“O dear!” cried Maud, “now she’s stopped, and I did want ‘Only an Armor-Bearer’ so much. Can’t we ask her to sing some more?”

“Why, Maud, how could we? We don’t know her. Oh, Maud, don’t begin to cry. You’ll be worse if you do.”

“I am worse now,” declared Maud, seizing eagerly upon this new idea. “I’m much worse. Maybe I’m going to die and go to heaven, like Mamma. If I do you’ll be sorry you wouldn’t ask the lady to sing ‘Only an Armor-Bearer.’”

“But how can I ask her, Maudie? It would be dreadfully rude to call through the wall, and I don’t believe she’d understand, anyway. If I went in next door I should have to ring the bell to get back, and then Mary would see me, and she’d be sure to tell Grandma. Besides, I wouldn’t know whom to ask for. We don’t even know the lady’s name.”

Maud stopped crying, and raised herself on one elbow.

“If you’ll promise never to tell Grandma,” she said, “I’ll tell you something. It’s my secret; I’ve had it for ever so many days.”

“A secret! What kind of a secret?” Molly was beginning to be interested.

“It’s a very lovely secret,” said Maud, proudly. “You big ones are always having secrets, so I got one, too. I won’t tell it, though, unless you promise not to tell Grandma.”

“Of course I’ll promise. You know I never tell Grandma things, or Aunt Kate either.”

“I don’t know that we ought to tell Dulcie and Daisy,” said Maud, doubtfully; “they might think Grandma ought to know. That’s why I didn’t talk about it. It was so exciting. I peeked in, but I was scared to go any farther.”

“Peeked in?” repeated Molly; “where did you peek in?”

“Next door. Through the door in the trunk-room, you know.”

“Do you mean the door Grandpa had cut between the houses when Uncle George lived next door? I thought it was locked up after Uncle George died, and the boarding-house people came there.”

“It isn’t locked up,” said Maud, triumphantly. “I found out, and that’s my secret.”

“Maud!” gasped Molly, her eyes round with astonishment. “You mean you knew such an exciting thing, and never told any one.”

Maud nodded.

“I wanted to have a secret,” she said, “and I was afraid Dulcie or Daisy would tell Grandma. It was the last time I had a cold, and Grandma wouldn’t let me go out. I was up here playing all by myself. I was looking for my littlest china doll. I couldn’t find her, and I thought perhaps I’d left her in the trunk-room the day we played Libby Prison in there, so I went to look. I did find her behind one of the biggest trunks, and then I saw the door. I thought it was locked, of course, but I shook the handle just for fun, and all of a sudden it came open, and I looked right in next door.”

“What did you see?” demanded Molly, in a tone of breathless interest.

“I didn’t see very much,” confessed Maud, reluctantly. “It was just a big closet, and there were brooms and dust-pans in it, but it really was next door. First I was going to tell, but then I was afraid if Grandma knew she’d have the door locked up right away, and then we could never go to see the singing lady.”

“I’m sure Grandma would have it locked right up,” said Molly, “and perhaps the lady who keeps the boarding-house would, too, but it’s very interesting to know it isn’t locked now. Why, it must have been unlocked all the time since Uncle George died, and nobody ever found it out before. I don’t believe the people next door know it any more than we did.”

“Of course they don’t,” said Maud, “that’s what makes it so interesting. Now you see you can go to see the singing lady just as easy as anything, and ask her to sing ‘Only an Armor-Bearer.’”

“Oh, Maud, I couldn’t,” protested Molly; “it would be such a very queer thing to do. The lady might not like it a bit, and Grandma would make such a fuss. She never lets us talk to people she doesn’t know.”

“You promised you wouldn’t tell Grandma, and I know the singing lady wouldn’t be angry. You’ve got to do it, Molly, or else maybe I’ll die and go to heaven.”

Molly hesitated. It would certainly be a thrilling experience to go uninvited, and without even ringing the door-bell, into the house next door, that mysterious boarding-house, upon whose occupants Grandma and Aunt Kate looked down from their height of social superiority. Molly loved adventure, and yet—what would Grandma say? Would even Dulcie and Daisy altogether approve? Maud noticed the hesitation in her sister’s manner, and was quick to take advantage of it.

“If you won’t go,” she announced, sitting up in bed, “I’ll get right straight up and go myself.”

Molly rose irresolutely.

“If I go, will you promise faithfully not to get out of bed for a single minute till I come back?”

Maud nodded emphatically.

“I’ll promise, cross my heart, and that’s the solemnest promise anybody can make, and if you break it something awful will happen to you. Mary told me it would. I’ll lie just as still, as still, and when you come back you can tell me all about the singing lady.”

“And will you gargle and take your powders all day without making any more fuss?”

“Yes, and I’ll give you my best paper doll, and all her dresses. Don’t you think I’m kind?”

Molly moved slowly towards the door.

“It seems an awful thing to do,” she said, “but I’ll only stay a minute, and I can’t let you get out of bed.”

The door swung open so quietly and easily that she nearly fell over backward.—Page [63].

Molly’s heart was beating very fast as she crossed the hall to the dark room, which Grandma used for storing trunks and boxes. There was no one to see her, for both the servants were in the kitchen, and she and Maud had the upper part of the house quite to themselves. The trunk-room was not locked, and she made her way amid various impediments, to the heavy door, which she had always known communicated with the adjoining house. Old Dr. Winslow had had it made in days gone by, when the house next door had belonged to his only brother, of whom he was very fond. This brother had died before the children came to New York, and although the house still belonged to the Winslow family, it had been rented to a lady, who took boarders, much to the disgust of Grandma and Aunt Kate, who looked upon a boarding-house as a blot on the neighborhood. Molly was telling herself that her little sister must have made a mistake. It did not seem possible that the communicating door could have been left unfastened all these years, without the fact having been discovered. With a trembling hand she turned the knob. The door stuck a little, and she was just about to turn away, convinced that Maud had dreamed the whole thing, when suddenly the door swung open, so quietly and easily, that, in her astonishment, she nearly fell over backward.

There, sure enough, was the closet, just as Maud had described it. Molly fairly gasped, and in that one moment everything else was forgotten in the excitement of the wonderful discovery she had made. She did not shrink back, as Maud had done, but pushing her way through brooms and brushes, and stumbling over various articles on the floor, reached another door, which she opened, and the next moment she had stepped out into a hall, which was exactly like the hall of their own top floor.

It was very quiet, and there was no one to be seen. Molly closed the closet door softly, and stood looking about her. There were four rooms on the floor, and all the doors were closed. The singing lady’s room was in the front, she knew, and after one moment’s hesitation, she stepped boldly forward, and knocked.

“Come in,” called a pleasant voice, and there was a sound as of some piece of furniture being moved rapidly along the floor. Before Molly could quite make up her mind to turn the handle, the door was opened from the inside, and a little lady in a wheel-chair suddenly confronted her.

She was such a tiny lady that for the first moment Molly thought she must be a child, but when the pleasant voice spoke again, it sounded oddly familiar.

“Won’t you come in?” she said, and the face that looked at Molly from the wheel-chair was so very sweet and winning, that half her embarrassment melted away at once.

“I hope you’ll excuse me for coming,” she faltered, “but—but, you see, we live next door, and my little sister is sick. We can hear you sing through the wall, and we all love it. My sister wants me to ask if you won’t please sing ‘Only an Armor-Bearer,’ because it’s her favorite hymn.”

“Come right in,” said the lady, hospitably, “and would you mind closing the door? The halls are rather chilly.”

Molly complied, and found herself in a room exactly like their own nursery on the other side of the wall. Indeed, the two houses had been built at the same time, and were alike in every particular. It was evidently used as both bed and sitting-room, for a piano stood between the windows, and by the empty fireplace stood a small mahogany bookcase well filled with rather shabby-looking books. The room might have been more tidy, for the bed was still unmade, and on the table was a tray containing the remains of a breakfast, but the lady herself was as neat as possible, although her blue wrapper was somewhat faded, and the slippers on the little feet that hung helplessly over the edge of the wheel-chair had long ago lost their first freshness.

“You must excuse things being a little upset,” the lady said, apologetically. “It’s Sunday morning, you know, and the chambermaid has gone to church. She’s a nice girl, and very kind and obliging, but I am afraid I give her a good deal of trouble. Take those bedclothes off that comfortable chair, and sit down. It’s a great pleasure to have a little girl come to see me. And so your sister likes my singing. I am very glad. I had no idea any one cared about it.”

“We all like it,” said Molly, who had obeyed her hostess’ instructions, and seated herself. “You see, our room is just on the other side of the wall, and we can hear very well indeed. Maud is in bed to-day, with a sore throat, and she loved the music.”

“Bless her heart!” cried the little lady, fairly beaming with pleasure, “she shall have all the music I can give her. I love to sing, though I know I haven’t much of a voice. Would you mind telling me your name?”

“My name is Molly Winslow,” said Molly, “and my sisters’ names are Dulcie, Daisy and Maud. It’s Maud who is sick. She’s only seven. I’m nine, and Dulcie and Daisy are eleven and ten. Our mamma is dead, and our papa has gone to China. We live next door with Grandma Winslow.”

“I know who you are now,” said the lady, smiling; “you are old Dr. Winslow’s grandchildren. I have always admired your grandfather’s writing so much. I have read a number of his books, and I was so much interested when I heard his house was next door.”

“Were you?” said Molly. “I’m glad you like Grandpa’s books. I didn’t know anybody did. Dulcie began one once, but she said it wasn’t very interesting. I suppose people ought to like their relations’ books.”

The lady laughed such a merry laugh that Molly found herself laughing, too, though she did not know why.

“I think Dr. Winslow’s books might seem rather dull to a little girl,” she said. “Perhaps I might have found them dull myself, if I were able to get about like other people, but when one has to live in a wheel-chair one is glad of almost anything to read.”

“Do you always have to stay in the chair?” asked Molly, sympathetically. “I thought perhaps you had just sprained your ankle or something like that. Papa sprained his ankle once and he had to keep his foot up for three whole weeks.”

“I haven’t walked a step for nearly three years,” said the lady, quietly.

“Can’t you even go up and down stairs?”

The lady shook her head.

“I was carried up here the day I left the hospital,” she said, sadly, “and I have lived in this room ever since. I shall never walk again, the doctors tell me. But I manage to get on very well,” she added, brightening at sight of Molly’s distressed face. “You would really be surprised to know all the things I can do without getting out of my chair. Then people are very kind to me. Miss Collins, the lady who keeps this house, was an old friend of my mother’s, and she often comes to sit with me in the evening. The chambermaid helps me in many little ways, and with my books, and my dear piano, I really get on very comfortably indeed.”

Molly was deeply impressed.

“Could you walk when you were a little girl?” she inquired, anxiously.

A shadow crossed the lady’s sweet face.

“Oh yes, indeed,” she said. “I walked just like any one else till three years ago, when I met with my accident.”

“What sort of an accident was it?” Molly was so much interested that she quite forgot that some people might have considered her questions rather impertinent.

“I was run over, crossing Broadway one very slippery day. The ground was covered with ice, and I fell in the middle of the street. Before I could get on my feet again, a horse-car came around the corner, and the driver could not stop his horses in time. It really wasn’t anybody’s fault.”

Molly rose. She was beginning to feel embarrassed again. There was something in the sight of the helpless little figure in the wheel-chair that made her feel all at once as if she wanted to cry.

“I’m afraid I must go,” she said a trifle unsteadily. “I can’t leave Maud any longer. I’m awfully glad I know you, and the others will be so interested when I tell them about you.”

“And I am delighted to know you, too,” her new acquaintance said, heartily. “I have been more interested in my little neighbors than you might suppose. You see, I can hear your voices through the wall, just as you hear my singing, and when one spends a good deal of time alone, one gets interested in all sorts of little things. I hope you will come to see me again, and bring all your little sisters.”

“We’d love to come,” declared Molly. “Will you please tell me your name in case we should want to ask for you at the front door?”

“My name is Oliver, Mary Oliver, but everybody calls me Miss Polly, and I like it much better. My brother Tom always called me Polly. I am sorry you must go so soon, for it is a great treat to have a visitor, but I suppose you mustn’t leave your little sister any longer. I hope you will find things in better order the next time you come. Maggie is really very good about keeping the room neat, but Sunday morning——” And Miss Polly glanced regretfully at the unmade bed and the tray of breakfast dishes.

“Good-bye,” said Molly, holding out her hand.

Miss Polly shook the little hand—her own hand was not much bigger—and then she looked at her visitor rather anxiously.

“Aren’t you afraid of taking cold without any wrap?” she questioned. “To be sure it is only next door.”

“Oh, I don’t have to go out in the street at all,” said Molly, unthinkingly. “I came through the door in the wall.”

“The door in the wall?” repeated Miss Polly, looking puzzled. “What door do you mean, dear?”

Molly blushed.

“I didn’t mean to tell,” she said, “because it’s a secret. It’s a door that was cut between the two houses when Grandpa’s brother lived here. Everybody thinks it’s locked, but it isn’t. It’s such fun coming that way—like doing a thing in a book, you know.”

Miss Polly laughed merrily.

“What a delightful way to come,” she said. “I won’t mention your secret to a soul, and you must often come to see me through the wall.” She looked so young and pretty, with her face all dancing with merriment, that Molly felt suddenly as if she were sharing a secret with a little girl of her own age.

“I’ll tell Dulcie and Daisy as soon as they come home from church,” she promised, “and I know they’ll want to come and see you right away.” And then she hurried off.

As she entered the nursery, a few minutes later, the strains of “Only an Armor-Bearer” could be distinctly heard through the wall, and Miss Polly’s piano was playing a lively accompaniment to the familiar tune.

CHAPTER V
MISS POLLY’S STORY

“OF course, if Grandma should ever ask us, we should have to tell her, but if she doesn’t—and I don’t really believe she will—I don’t see why it’s our duty to say anything about it.”

Dulcie spoke in a tone of settled conviction, the result of long considering on the subject, and her verdict was received by her three younger sisters with unmistakable satisfaction. For three days, “Molly’s adventure,” as Daisy called it, had been the chief topic of conversation in the nursery. From the moment when, on their return from church on Sunday morning, Molly and Maud had poured the wonderful story into their incredulous ears, Dulcie and Daisy had thought of little else. Many and long had been the discussions, always held in low voices, and in the seclusion of their own room. At first Daisy had been of the opinion that Grandma must be told. “Suppose a burglar should make his way through the mysterious door some night,” she suggested, “and carry off the family silver!” But this objection to the keeping of their secret had been overruled by Molly, who pointed out that the burglar would first be obliged to break into the house next door, and that it was most unlikely that he would discover the existence of the door in the wall. The people in the boarding-house were certainly not burglars, and as nobody had ever thought of opening the door before, why were they not as safe now as they had ever been? Still Daisy was not altogether convinced, and it was only after many hours of doubt and uncertainty that she finally yielded to the strong persuasions of her sisters.

“Just think, it’s the first real secret we ever had,” pleaded Molly.

“It was my secret first,” chimed in Maud, “and I needn’t have told any of you if I hadn’t wanted to. If you tell, Daisy, I think you’re the meanest girl in the world.” And Maud—who was still feeling rather poorly—began to cry.

But at last even Daisy ceased to protest. One stipulation she made, however, and that was to be allowed to write the whole story to Papa.

“If Papa says we can keep the secret,” she said, “it will be all right, but if he thinks Grandma ought to know, we shall have to tell her.”

“It will take a long time to get an answer from China,” said Dulcie, cheerfully, “and Papa always understands things.”

So Daisy wrote her letter, and felt decidedly more comfortable after it was mailed. And now it was Wednesday night, and the children were enjoying the rare treat of an evening to themselves. Grandma and Aunt Kate had gone to dine with their minister and his wife, and were to attend a missionary meeting afterwards, so as soon as they finished their rather meager supper, they had retired to their own premises, which was more agreeable than spending a silent evening down-stairs. For the past fifteen minutes, they had been eagerly discussing the propriety of making a call on their interesting next-door neighbor.

“You promised to take me just as soon as I was well enough,” pleaded Maud, “and I’m all well now. Grandma says I may go out to-morrow if it doesn’t rain. I think we ought to go and thank her for being so kind. She sang ‘Only an Armor-Bearer’ six times on Sunday, and she’s sung all my favorite week-day songs, too.”

“I think it’s our duty to go,” said Molly, virtuously. “Girls in books always go to see cripples and invalids. They read the Bible to them, and bring them nice things to eat. Perhaps we could ‘minister’ to her, like that girl in ‘Ministering Children.’”

“We haven’t any nice things to take her to eat,” said Daisy, with a sigh. “We might read the Bible to her, though. Did she seem like a very religious lady, Molly?”

“I don’t know,” said Molly. “She didn’t talk about religious things, but I’m sure she’s very good. She said she loved her books, so perhaps she’d rather read the Bible to herself.”

“I think she must be like ‘Cousin Helen’ in ‘What Katy Did,’” decided Dulcie. “You know she was always very cheerful, and everybody loved her. I don’t remember that she was particularly religious. I feel perfectly sure Papa would like to have us go to see her.”

“Of course he would,” affirmed Molly, with conviction. “Grandma wouldn’t, though, because she never wants us to go and see anybody. I think sometimes Grandma just tries to be disagreeable.”

“I don’t think we ought to say such things,” said Daisy, gravely. “You know what Papa told us about being loyal.”

“Well, we don’t have to be loyal to Grandma when we’re all by ourselves,” retorted Molly. “It’s hard enough to remember when we’re with people, like Uncle Stephen and Miss Leslie. We can say what we like to each other, and it’s a great comfort.”

“Don’t argue, children,” reproved Dulcie, in her elder sister tone. “I’ve thought it over a lot, and I’ve decided that it really is our duty to go and call on the singing lady.”

“Let’s go now, right away,” exclaimed Maud, joyfully, springing to her feet.

Dulcie glanced at the clock.

“It’s only a little after seven,” she said, reflectively. “Mary’s out, and Bridget never comes up-stairs till bedtime. Yes, I think we might go now.”

“Come along, then,” cried Maud, already half-way to the door. She was promptly followed by Molly, and Daisy, though still a little reluctant, did not linger far behind. But Dulcie still hesitated.

“We ought to take her a present,” she said. “People always take presents to cripples.”

“What sort of a present?” Molly inquired anxiously.

“Flowers, or a Bible, or—or—oh, I don’t know exactly; something very nice and appropriate.”

The other three glanced helplessly around the room, and their faces fell.

“But we haven’t any flowers,” said Molly, “and I’m quite sure Miss Polly has a Bible. We couldn’t give her ours, anyway, because it belonged to Mamma. I don’t believe we really have to take a present, Dulcie. I think she’ll be glad to see us, even if we haven’t got anything for her.”

“You don’t suppose she’d care for a paper doll?” suggested Maud. “Of course I know she’s a grown-up lady, but if she has to sit still in a chair all the time, she might enjoy cutting out paper dresses. I’d take her my prettiest one if you think she’d like it.”

Dulcie and Molly laughed, and Daisy said kindly:

“I’m afraid a paper doll wouldn’t do, Maudie, though it was very sweet of you to think of it. We’ll have to go without a present this time, but perhaps we can make her a book-mark, or something like that, before we go again.”

That question being settled, there seemed nothing further to wait for, so, with fast-beating hearts, the four little girls set forth on their adventure. At the trunk-room door Maud drew back.

“I didn’t know it was going to be so dark,” she protested. “I don’t like dark places.”

“Nonsense,” said Dulcie, impatiently. “Keep hold of Daisy’s hand, and you won’t be scared.” And, as the eldest member of the party, Dulcie advanced firmly into the trunk-room.

It required some fumbling to discover the knob of the mysterious door, as the only light was the dim reflection from a single gas-jet in the hall, but when found it turned easily, and the next moment they had plunged into the still greater darkness of the housemaid’s closet next door.

Molly tumbled over a step-ladder, and Maud uttered a suppressed scream, but Dulcie pressed on steadily ahead.

“This is the way out,” she announced in an excited whisper; “I feel the door. Oh, I hope it isn’t locked. No, it’s all right; here’s the handle. Oh!” And, with a great gasp, Dulcie stepped out into the lighted hall of the boarding-house.

“That’s her room,” whispered Molly, pointing to one of the closed doors. “Shall I knock, or will you, Dulcie?”

“You’d better,” said Dulcie. “You know her, and we don’t. Be sure not to forget to introduce us.”

Molly stepped forward, and for the second time, tapped softly at the “singing lady’s” door. There was a moment’s pause, and then the sweet voice they had all so often heard singing the old-fashioned ballads they loved, called a cheerful “Come in,” and Molly turned the handle.

Miss Polly was in her wheel-chair, which had been pushed under the rather high chandelier in the centre of the room. She had evidently been reading, but at the children’s entrance she laid down her book, and with a little cry of pleasure, held out both hands in greeting.

“Why, it’s my little neighbors from next door,” she said joyfully. “Oh, but I am glad to see you, dears. And did you all come through the door in the wall?”

“Yes, we did,” said Molly; and, mindful of Dulcie’s instruction, she added, primly, “These are my three sisters; Dulcie, Daisy, and Maud. We came to thank you for being so kind about singing while Maud was in bed, with her sore throat.”

“You are all most welcome, I am sure,” said Miss Polly, heartily, her pretty face fairly beaming with pleasure. “It’s never any trouble to me to sing. I love music more than almost anything else in the world. I would like to be at my piano all day if it were not for fear of troubling the other boarders.”

“I’m sure it couldn’t trouble anybody,” said Dulcie, politely. “We love it.”

“You are very kind to say so, dear, but you see people don’t all feel the same way about things. There was an old gentleman on this floor last year who objected very much. He said music made him nervous, and threatened to leave if he ever heard the piano when he was in his room. Miss Collins was very sorry, but of course she couldn’t run the risk of losing a boarder, so I had to be very careful. Fortunately, he has gone away now, and the young man who occupies the room this winter is scarcely ever at home. Now, won’t you all sit down and make me a nice little visit? I expected to be alone all the evening, for Miss Collins told me she was going to the theatre, and she is about my only visitor. I am sorry I haven’t more chairs to offer you. You see, I have so few visitors, it seemed foolish to waste chairs, so I let Miss Collins take some that belonged in this room and use them somewhere else. Perhaps two of you won’t object to sitting on the bed.”

“We like sitting on beds very much,” remarked Maud, as she and Molly had promptly seated themselves. “Your bed is made up now, isn’t it? Molly said it wasn’t the other day.”

“Maud!” cried Molly, blushing, but Miss Polly only smiled.

“That was because the chambermaid had gone to church,” she explained. “Maggie is a nice girl, and does many kind things for me every day, but she is very busy, and sometimes I have to wait a little while, which is only right and natural.”

“You must excuse Maud,” apologized Dulcie. “She doesn’t mean to be rude, but she isn’t eight yet. I think this is a very pretty room. May I look at your books? I love books.”

“To be sure you may, and borrow any that you like. I am afraid a good many of my books are rather dry for a little girl, but I have ‘The Wide Wide World,’ and ‘The Lamplighter,’ and Grace Aguilar’s works. You might enjoy some of those.”

Dulcie went over to the bookcase, and was soon absorbed in examining its contents, but the other three remained in their seats, and prepared to make themselves agreeable.

“It’s been a very pleasant day,” observed Dulcie, by way of starting the conversation. “We’ve been playing in the square. We often go there to play.”

“It must be a very pleasant place to play in,” said Miss Polly. “I sometimes wish this house was opposite the park, for it would be so pleasant to see the green trees in summer. But one cannot have everything, and I am so comfortable here, in this nice room, that it doesn’t seem quite right to wish for anything more.”

“Don’t you ever go out at all?” asked Daisy, and she looked so distressed that Miss Polly hastened to say cheerfully:

“Well, no, dear. You see, it couldn’t be managed very easily. It would be very difficult to get my chair down all these stairs, even if there were any one to carry me, which of course there isn’t.”

“I shouldn’t think you could be very heavy,” said Molly, with a critical glance at the tiny figure in the wheel-chair. “If somebody carried you down-stairs, couldn’t you go for a drive in a carriage? Central Park is lovely, and there are beautiful trees there. Lizzie, our nurse, used to take us to Central Park very often. We went on the Sixth Avenue elevated road, and it was great fun, but I don’t suppose you could go that way.”

Miss Polly smiled rather sadly.

“I am afraid not,” she said. “A carriage would be different, but carriages cost money, you know.”

“I wish we had a carriage,” said Daisy, regretfully. “We’d take you out every day if we had. Papa had a horse and carriage when we lived in Danby, before Mamma died, but that was a long time ago. We don’t mind not having one ourselves, because we like the stages and the elevated just as well, but it would be lovely to take you to Central Park.”

“Thank you, dear, but I appreciate the kind thought just as much as I should the drive. There is just one reason why I should like to be able to get out occasionally; it would give me more to write about in my letters to Tom.”

“Who is Tom?” inquired Daisy, with interest.

“My dear brother; the only near relative I have in the world. I write to him every week, and sometimes it is a little difficult to make my letters interesting. Tom isn’t particularly fond of books, and I am afraid it might bore him to hear about what I am reading. Sometimes I am almost afraid he may begin to suspect that I don’t get about as I used to.”

“Why, doesn’t he know?” gasped Daisy; and Dulcie, who had been glancing over “A Mother’s Recompense,” suddenly closed her book, and regarded Miss Polly with increased interest.

Miss Polly blushed, and looked a little embarrassed.

“No, dear, he doesn’t,” she confessed. “You see, I have never been able to bring myself to the point of telling him. You see, he was in Chicago when I met with my accident, and he had just written me of his engagement to such a dear girl. He was so happy, and if he had known about me, it would have spoiled everything. Tom is such a sweet, unselfish boy. Nothing in the world would have kept him away from me. He would have given up his position, where he was doing so well, and come home to take care of me. I couldn’t let him do that, now, could I? Of course, he had to be told of the accident, but I wouldn’t let any one write him how serious it was, and when I left the hospital, and was able to write myself, he thought I was quite well again. I meant to tell him later, but somehow the right time never seemed to come. Tom and Helen are married now, and have a baby, a dear little girl, whom they have named for me. I was so happy when that news came that I cried—wasn’t I silly?”

“But doesn’t your brother ever come to see you?” Dulcie asked.

“He would if he could, dear, but he can’t leave his business very well, and besides, it costs a good deal to come all the way from Chicago to New York and back. He sends me presents, though, such beautiful presents, and last summer, after the baby came, he and Helen wanted me to come and make them a long visit. He offered to pay all my expenses, and Helen wrote me such a cordial invitation. Of course, I couldn’t go, and I had to pretend that I was too busy to leave New York. You see, Tom thinks I am still giving music lessons, as I did before my accident.”

“But that isn’t true,” objected Daisy, looking rather shocked.

A shadow crossed Miss Polly’s bright face.

“I know it, dear,” she said, with a sigh, “and that’s the hardest part of it all. My father was a minister, and Tom and I were brought up always to speak the truth. It worries me a great deal to have to deceive Tom as I do, but even that seems better than being a burden to him, as I should be if he knew the truth. He had such a hard struggle at first, but he is doing splendidly now, and he and Helen are so ideally happy. They have just bought a little house on the Lake Shore, in one of the prettiest suburbs of Chicago. Tom sent me a photograph of it, with Helen and the baby on the porch. They say there’s a dear little room for me, whenever I can spare the time to make them a visit. They little know what a troublesome visitor I should be.” Miss Polly’s bright voice broke suddenly, and her sentence ended in a sigh.

“I don’t believe you would be a troublesome visitor at all,” said Daisy, laying a kind little hand on Miss Polly’s knee. “I think they would just love having you; don’t you, Dulcie?”

“Yes,” agreed Dulcie, “I’m perfectly sure of it. But, Miss Polly, would you mind telling us what you write about every week, and how you keep your brother from finding out?”

Miss Polly smiled, but she looked a little troubled, too, and the color deepened in her cheeks.

“I’m afraid you will think me a very foolish person,” she said, “but I’ll tell you all about it from the beginning, and then perhaps you will understand a little better. Tom and I were born in a Vermont village, where our father was minister of the Congregational Church for a good many years. My mother died when we were both little, and we were brought up by an old housekeeper, who was devoted to us. Tom is two years older than I, and ever since I can remember, I have loved him better than any one else in the world. My father was a good man, but rather stern and unapproachable, and not particularly fond of children. Tom was a bright boy, always full of fun and mischief, but he didn’t care very much about study, and my father—who was a great student himself—was constantly reproaching him for not doing better at school. He wanted Tom to study for the ministry, but the boy had no taste for preaching. He went to college to please Father, but at the end of his sophomore year he had so many conditions to make up that Father was very angry, and refused to let him go back the next term, so Tom decided to go West and try to make his fortune. That was eight years ago, and he was just twenty then. He had rather a hard time at first, but after a year or two, he settled in Chicago, where he has lived ever since. He came home twice for a visit. The last time was three years and a half ago, when Father died. Father wasn’t a rich man—country ministers never are rich men—but all he had was divided equally between Tom and me. Tom wouldn’t take a penny. He said he was quite able to support himself, and that I must have all Father’s money. It was very generous of him, and I tried my best to make him take his share, but he is an obstinate boy, and when he has once made up his mind to do a thing, nothing in this world will change him. So in the end I had to give in, and he went back to Chicago. He wanted me to go with him, but I’d set my heart on coming to New York to study music and give lessons. Of course, I had to leave the parsonage, where Tom and I were born, and after spending the summer with some friends, I came here to New York in the fall and started work. It wasn’t quite as easy as I had expected, but I managed to get a few pupils, and the money I earned paid for my own lessons. I was very happy all that winter, and then—and then I met with my accident.”

Miss Polly paused for a moment, and the look in her eyes was very sad, but when she went on again, her voice was as cheerful as ever.

“Of course there was no more work for me after that, and if it hadn’t been for the money Tom had made me accept, things would have been much harder than they were. I had been boarding up-town before the accident, but when I was in the hospital, I wrote to Miss Collins—who used to live at Pine Brook, and was a friend of my mother’s—and asked if she could give me a room in her house. I thought it would be pleasanter than living with complete strangers. She was very kind, and offered me this lovely room, which happened to be vacant just then, so as soon as I was able to leave the hospital, I was brought here, and here I have been ever since. I have never been down-stairs since the day I was carried up, but Miss Collins lets me have my dear piano, and that is my greatest joy.”

“But you haven’t told us about the letters to your brother,” said Dulcie.

“I’m just coming to that, my dear. You see, when I first came to New York, I used to write Tom about my pupils, and he got to know their names, and would ask questions about them in his letters. Well, afterwards, I had to keep on writing about the same things, or he would have thought it strange. I have to use a good deal of imagination, because I have never seen any of those people since my accident.”

“You mean you make up things,” said Dulcie, “just as if you were writing a story.”

Miss Polly nodded.

“That’s just it,” she said. “I used to write stories when I was a little girl, though, of course, none of them were worth anything. I have made up all sorts of stories about those old pupils of mine. I don’t know what they would say if they ever heard of them, but they are all pleasant stories, so perhaps they wouldn’t object very much. Sometimes I am able to write something that is really true. One of the girls I taught was married this winter. I saw an account of the wedding in the paper, and I cut it out and sent it to Tom in a letter. I was afraid I had made a mistake, though, when Tom wrote that Helen wanted to know what I wore to the wedding. I had to invent a costume, and that wasn’t easy, for I know very little about the fashions nowadays.” And Miss Polly glanced down at her plain blue wrapper with a rather sad smile.

“I think you are the most wonderful person I ever heard of,” declared Dulcie, with shining eyes.

“But just think how your brother will feel when he finds out,” said Daisy; “he will find out sometime, won’t he?”

“I am afraid he will, and that is what worries me. There is one comfort, though; it won’t be quite as bad as it would have been at first, for Tom is doing better in business now, and the burden might not seem so very great.”

“I don’t believe he would think it a burden at all, and I think you ought to tell him, I really do,” said Daisy, with unusual firmness.

Miss Polly shook her head.

“Not yet, dear,” she said; “some day, perhaps, but not just yet.”

For a moment nobody spoke, and then Maud’s voice broke the silence. “Won’t you please sing ‘Darby and Joan’?” she inquired in a rather sleepy little voice. Maud was only seven, and she had not found Miss Polly’s reminiscences quite so absorbing as her elder sisters had done.

“To be sure I will,” said Miss Polly, and in a moment she had pushed the wheel-chair across the room to the piano.

Then followed a very pleasant half-hour. Miss Polly sang all their favorite ballads, greatly to everybody’s enjoyment, especially Maud’s. The little girl quite forgot that she was sleepy, and stood by the piano, drinking in every note, and looking so happy that Miss Polly regarded her with growing interest.

“You love music, don’t you, dear?” she asked, kindly, at the close of “Twickenham Ferry.”

“Oh, yes,” said Maud, eagerly; “I love it when I’m on the other side of the wall, but I love it even better when I’m on this side.”

Everybody laughed, and then Daisy looked at the clock, and rose reluctantly.

“I’m dreadfully sorry,” she said, “but I’m afraid we ought to go. It’s nearly half-past eight, and Grandma always sends us to bed at eight.”

Miss Polly looked sorry, but made no objections.

“You must do as your grandmother wishes,” she said, “but I hope you will be able to come again very soon.”

“Oh, we will, we will,” promised the four little girls, and then, to every one’s surprise, Maud—who was not usually a demonstrative child—suddenly lifted her face and kissed the little lady in the wheel-chair.

Miss Polly fairly beamed with pleasure, and yet there were tears in her eyes, too, as she returned Maud’s kiss.

“You dear little girl!” she exclaimed, a trifle unsteadily. “Why, no one has kissed me since—oh, not in ever so long, and it’s so very sweet to be loved.”

“May we kiss you too?” inquired Dulcie, impulsively.

Miss Polly held out her arms.

“Indeed you may,” she said, heartily. “You have given me a beautiful evening, and it will be quite an exciting story to write Tom next Sunday, how four dear little neighbors came to see me, through a mysterious door in a wall.”

“I can’t help whether Grandma would approve or not,” said Dulcie, when they were back in the nursery. “I am sure Papa and Mamma would want us to go and see that poor dear little Miss Polly just as often as we could. And, after all, Papa is the person we have to mind.”

“He’ll know all about it when he gets my letter,” said Daisy, in a tone of satisfaction. “I think we might write Uncle Stephen and Miss Leslie about it, too; I’m sure they would be interested, and they would never tell Grandma. I know Miss Polly must be a very lovely Christian, even if she doesn’t tell her brother every bit of the truth. Just think of having to stay in one room all the time, and never being able to get out of a wheel-chair. Nobody else could bear it as she does. I’m quite sure it’s our duty to go and see her.”

“I don’t know which I like best, Miss Leslie or Miss Polly,” remarked Molly, reflectively.

“I do,” cried Maud; “I think Miss Polly is the loveliest lady in the world, and I’m going to ‘minister’ to her, the way you said. I don’t know what ‘ministering’ means, but I’m going to find out, and then I’ll do it just as hard as I can.”

CHAPTER VI
PAUL

IT was Grandma who made the exciting announcement at the breakfast table, one morning about ten days later.

“Julia is coming to New York next week,” she remarked to Aunt Kate, looking up from a letter she was reading, “and she wants to bring Paul with her.”

“Oh, how exciting!” cried Molly, dropping her spoon into the oatmeal in the excitement of the moment. “You’ll let them come, won’t you, Grandma?”

Grandma frowned. One of her strictest rules was that children were not to talk at meal-times.

“Certainly my daughter is always welcome to her mother’s house,” she said, coldly, and Molly, very much embarrassed, dropped her eyes to the table-cloth.

Julia was Grandma’s married daughter, Mrs. Chester, who lived in Boston, and whose only child Paul had long been a subject of considerable interest to the four little girls. They had never seen Paul, but according to his mother—who generally paid flying visits to her family in New York several times a year—he was a very remarkable little boy. Dulcie glanced at Aunt Kate, to see how she was taking the news, but her somewhat inexpressive face appeared quite unruffled.

“Paul hasn’t been very well, it seems,” Mrs. Winslow went on, “and the doctor advises change of air. Julia has taken him out of school for a month, and wants to bring him here.”

“I hope Julia isn’t as fussy over the boy as she used to be,” said Aunt Kate, buttering a slice of toast as she spoke. “He always seemed to me about as strong as any child of his age, and I know his father thinks he is. He told me the last time I was in Boston that Julia coddles Paul entirely too much.”

“Well, Paul is an only child,” said Grandma, with unusual indulgence for her. “Julia has never recovered from the death of the other baby.”

Aunt Kate took up the report of the Missionary Society, which had arrived in the morning’s mail, and nothing more was said on the subject of the expected guests just then, but as soon as the children were safely out of Grandma’s presence they began chattering all at once.

“Won’t it be fun to have a little boy come to stay with us?” cried Molly, before they were half-way up-stairs.

“I hope he will be a nice boy,” said Dulcie, a little doubtfully. “I’m afraid he’s pretty spoiled.”

“Oh, it will be nice to have him even if he is spoiled,” affirmed Daisy. “He must be an awfully clever boy, anyway. Aunt Julia says he speaks French and German, and he’s read, I don’t know how many books.”

Molly sighed.

“I’m afraid he’ll be terribly studious,” she said, “and it won’t do for us to say we don’t like lessons, or he’ll think us so stupid. Still, it’s going to be very interesting, and I’m awfully glad he’s coming.”

“I’m afraid we won’t be able to go and see Miss Polly while he’s here,” said Daisy, regretfully. “We can’t tell our secret to any more people, you know.”

This was certainly a drawback. Going to see Miss Polly had become one of their greatest pleasures. They had made several calls since that first evening, and were already growing very fond of the brave, unselfish little woman, who bore her troubles so uncomplainingly, and was always so bright and merry.

“Perhaps Paul will be such a nice boy that we shall be able to trust him,” Molly suggested, but Dulcie and Daisy shook their heads.

For the next few days little was talked of by the children except the arrival of the expected visitors.

“It’s almost like having a book person come to stay with us,” said Molly. “We’ve heard so much about Paul, but we didn’t think we should ever really know him. Of course he’ll like Dulcie, she’s so clever, but I don’t suppose he’ll care very much about the rest of us.”

“He ought to like Daisy,” said Maud, “because they’re both ten and a half. Don’t people generally like each other when they’re just the same age?”

“I don’t know,” said Molly, “but we’ll find out pretty soon, and, oh, isn’t it exciting?”

“A very learned boy is coming to stay with us,” Molly—who was fond of using fine words—told Miss Hammond, the daily governess. “He speaks French and German, and learned the multiplication table all by himself when he was only five. He could read the Bible perfectly before he was seven.”

Molly expected Miss Hammond to be much impressed, and was somewhat crestfallen when the only answer she received was the not very comforting remark that it was a pity some little girls didn’t know their tables better.

It was Friday when Mrs. Chester’s letter came, and on the following Wednesday the visitors arrived. The four children were watching from the parlor window, and as the cab drew up, there was a simultaneous rush for the front door. Grandma and Aunt Kate had gone to the station to meet the travellers, and as the party came up the steps, all eyes were fixed eagerly upon Paul. He was a tall, pale boy, with a rather discontented expression, and a shock of reddish brown hair. He was not a handsome boy, which was something of a shock, as his mother’s descriptions had led them to expect a sort of young Adonis, but he shook hands politely, and murmured a few rather unintelligible words, in answer to Dulcie’s eager assurances of how delighted they all were to see him. Mrs. Chester, a pale, languid lady, who talked a great deal about her health, greeted the little girls kindly, and then they all went up-stairs together.

“May Paul come to the nursery with us?” Molly inquired, as they reached the guest-room door.

“Not now,” Paul’s mother answered. “He is tired from his journey, and must take a little rest before dinner.”

“I don’t want to rest; I’m not tired,” protested Paul, in such a fretful tone that the children regarded him in astonishment. “I want to go with them.”

“Oh, no, darling, you must lie down first for half an hour. You and the little girls can have a happy time together after dinner.”

Paul looked anything but pleased, but was forced to submit, and the children saw the door of the guest-room resolutely closed against them.

“How funny to have to lie down in the daytime,” said Maud, as they proceeded on their way up-stairs. “Is Paul sick?”

“I think he must be rather delicate,” answered Daisy. “Perhaps he studies too much.”

“But Dulcie studies a lot, too,” persisted Maud, “and she never lies down in the daytime.”

“I think Aunt Julia is a very fussy lady,” said Molly. “Don’t you remember how she always had to take medicine before her meals the last time she was here? She took afternoon naps, and we had to keep very quiet while she was asleep. Perhaps she’s fussy about Paul, too.”

Aunt Julia certainly was “fussy” about Paul, as the children very soon discovered. When Paul appeared at dinner, with a clean face, but otherwise unchanged, his mother told Grandma that she was obliged to be very particular about his diet.

“He will eat so few things,” she said. “O dear! I have forgotten to bring down his tonic. Don’t you want to run up-stairs for it, Paul darling? The bottle is on mother’s bureau.”

“No, I don’t,” replied Paul, with decision. “I hate that nasty stuff, and the doctor said I wouldn’t need to take it any more when I had a change of air.”

“Oh, my boy,” remonstrated his mother, “the doctor didn’t mean that you could leave it off at once. Now run and bring me the bottle, like a good child, and let these little girls see how obedient you are.”

“I’ll get it if Paul is tired,” proposed Molly good-naturedly, and somewhat to the children’s surprise the offer was accepted.

Paul swallowed the medicine, over which he made a wry face, and dinner began.

“Take your soup, Paul dear,” his mother admonished gently; “you are only playing with it.”

“There’s rice in it,” objected Paul; “I hate rice.”

Grandma frowned.

“Little boys should learn to eat what is put before them, and not make remarks about their food,” she said, reprovingly. If this remark had been addressed to Molly or Maud, she would have been reduced to instant submission. Not so Paul.

“I never eat things I don’t like,” he said, without the slightest sign of embarrassment. “A great many things disagree with me, don’t they, Mother?”

“I am afraid they do,” answered Mrs. Chester, with a sigh. “And that reminds me, Mother, he must have squeezed meat every day for his lunch, and I always let him have ice-cream at least three times a week. The doctor considers it good for him.”

Maud’s lips moved, and the other children were sure they could read the words “Goody, goody!” but the grown-ups noticed nothing, and if Grandma made no promises, she at least made no objections, which, as Molly said afterwards, was almost as good as saying yes. It was wonderful how much more lenient Grandma was to Paul than she had ever been to the four little girls.

“Well, Paul, what have you been reading lately?” inquired Aunt Kate, when the soup question had been finally settled, by Mary’s taking the plate away to the pantry, in order to remove the objectionable rice.

“Oh, I don’t know,” answered her nephew, rather sulkily; “nothing much, I guess.”

“My darling Paul,” cried his mother in horrified reproach, “what do you mean? Tell Aunt Kate at once about all the beautiful books you have read since you have been ill. He reads French just as well as English, you know, Kate. You must hear him to-morrow. What was that interesting story you were reading on the train to-day, Paul?”

“Sans Famille,” said Paul, pronouncing the words with a decidedly English accent.

“Indeed?” said Aunt Kate. “Did you enjoy it?”

“I didn’t pay much attention to it,” returned Paul, unblushingly; “I hate French.”

Aunt Kate smiled sarcastically, and even Grandma’s stern face relaxed a little, but Paul’s mother looked really pained.

“Don’t notice him,” she said apologetically. “Like all sensitive children, he objects to showing off. He really adores his French books.”

Paul grew suddenly scarlet.

“I do not!” he proclaimed loudly. “I don’t mind showing off, but I hate French books, and most English ones, too.”

“That will do, Paul,” said Grandma, who could not endure impertinence even from her only grandson. “Children who speak in that tone are sent away from the table.”

Paul looked rather surprised, but wisely refrained from arguing the point, and the meal proceeded without any further unpleasantness. Paul refused to touch turnip, and informed his mother in a low voice that he hated baked custard, but if Grandma heard, she made no remark.

“May we take Paul up-stairs, Grandma?” Dulcie inquired, eagerly, as they rose from the table. “Perhaps he would like to play lotto.”

“Yes, I suppose you may as well,” answered Mrs. Winslow, who evidently had her doubts as to how Paul would endure the usual evening routine in the dining-room. “What time does he go to bed, Julia?”

“Eight o’clock precisely,” her daughter answered, “but I think he had better go a little earlier to-night. He must be tired from the journey. Go up-stairs with the children, darling, and Mother will call you in half an hour.”

“Now we’ve really got you to ourselves at last,” said Dulcie, joyfully, as they all went up-stairs together. “We’ve been talking about your coming ever since your mother’s letter came last week. You see, we felt as if we knew you; we’ve heard so much about you.”

Paul looked interested. “What sort of things have you heard about me?” he inquired.

“Oh, about how clever you are; how you learned to read the Bible when you were so little, and could say all your tables when you were five, and—oh, lots of interesting things.”

Paul grinned.

“I’m not very clever,” he admitted condescendingly. “Mother likes to tell people I am, but I’m not really. I read a good many books, but I’d much rather play with the boys in the streets, only Mother won’t let me. She’s afraid I’ll catch some disease. I’ve had measles and mumps, and chickenpox, but I’ve got to have scarlet fever and diphtheria yet, and Mother’s terribly afraid of those two. Is this your room, and do you all sleep here together?”

Dulcie admitted that they did, and Daisy added cheerfully, as she turned up the gas:

“It’s a very big room, you see, and we love being all together.”

Paul glanced about him rather critically.

“You haven’t any pictures on the walls,” he remarked. “My room at home is full of pictures. They’re all copies of the old masters, and Mother makes me learn a lot of stuff about the fellows who painted them. I hate it.”

“I should think it would be very interesting,” said Dulcie. “I love to learn about people.”

“You wouldn’t if you lived with Mother. She’s always making me learn things, and then she tells people, and I have to show off. I say, what’s an ‘incumbrance’?”

“I don’t know,” said Dulcie, looking puzzled. “What makes you ask?”

“Because you’re all one, Mother said so. She was talking to Father last night, and she said you were all a terrible incumbrance to Grandma.”

Dulcie reddened.

“I don’t know what it means,” she said, “but I’m sure it isn’t anything nice, and I don’t think you are very polite to repeat it. Don’t you know it isn’t honorable to repeat things you hear people say? Papa never allows us to do it, and he is a very honorable man.”

Paul looked rather embarrassed.

“My father’s a very honorable man, too,” he announced, indignantly. “He says Mother will make a milksop of me. Do you know what a milksop is?”

“No, I don’t,” admitted Dulcie, “but I shouldn’t like to be one.”

“Well, I guess it’s just as bad as being an incumbrance. Anyway, you can’t help being that, and it isn’t your fault. Father said, ‘Poor little chicks, I’m sorry for them,’ and he wouldn’t have said that if it had been your fault. You’d like my father.”

“We do know him,” said Daisy. “He came with Aunt Julia once, and he brought us some candy. We liked him ever so much, he was so kind.”

“Come, let’s play lotto,” interrupted Maud, who did not find the conversation particularly interesting. “If we don’t begin, Aunt Julia will call Paul before we can finish a game.”

“What are you doing, Dulcie—why don’t you come to bed?” inquired Daisy from her pillow, an hour later.

“I’ll come in a minute,” her sister answered, absently. “I’m just looking for something in the dictionary.”

There was a short silence. Then Dulcie closed the dictionary with a bang, and in another moment the light was out, and she had crept into bed beside Daisy. The two younger children were already asleep.

“Was it that word Paul said, you were looking for in the dictionary?” Daisy whispered, as her sister nestled down beside her, and slipped an arm round her neck.

“Yes,” said Dulcie, shortly.

“And did you find it, and was it something very horrid?”

“It was rather horrid, but not as bad as I was afraid it might be. It means about the same thing as being a burden. Miss Polly was afraid of being a burden to her brother, you know, but it isn’t anything we can help, so there isn’t any use in talking about it. I hate to talk about disagreeable things just before I go to sleep. I’ll tell you about that last Christmas in Danby, and how Mamma let me help dress the tree.”

“All right,” said Daisy, cheerfully. “Do you think we are going to like Paul?”

“I think so,” said Dulcie. “I was afraid he was going to be terribly conceited and stuck-up, but he isn’t really. He ought not to repeat things he hears his father and mother say, but perhaps nobody has ever told him not to. Anyhow, I’m glad he hates showing off.”

CHAPTER VII
THE STOLEN CHILD

“IT’S stopped snowing, and Grandma says we may go out and play in the Square,” announced Paul, appearing at the nursery door, one afternoon a few days later. “Daisy and Maud can’t go out on account of their colds, but Dulcie and Molly can.”

“All right; I’ll come in a minute, just as soon as I finish my letter,” said Dulcie. Molly—who was preparing her lessons for Miss Hammond—threw down her geography, and sprang to her feet.

“I love going out in the snow,” she cried, joyfully, “only I wish we had a sled. The Van Arsdale girls, across the way, have one and I saw them hitching on behind a big sleigh, a little while ago, but Grandma says it isn’t lady-like to hitch on to sleighs, and, anyway, we haven’t got a sled.”

“We have great times in the Public Gardens at home,” said Paul. “Some boys I know built a snow fort last winter, and we used to have regular battles. Mother wasn’t going to let me play with them at first; she’s always so afraid I’ll take cold, but Father made her, and it was great fun. Hurry up with your old letter, Dulcie. I’m so afraid Mother may change her mind, and say I can’t go out in the dampness. Are you writing to your father?”

“No, she isn’t,” said Daisy; “she’s writing to Miss Leslie.”

“Who’s Miss Leslie?”

“A lovely young lady we know. She lives in California, and we only saw her once, but she asked us to write to her. She and Uncle Stephen took us to ‘The Pirates of Penzance.’”

“Is her first name Florence?” Paul inquired.

“Why, yes it is. How did you know?”

“I heard Grandma and Aunt Kate talking about her, when I was doing my French in Mother’s room, the other day.”

“I didn’t know they knew her,” said Daisy, looking very much surprised. “What were they saying about her?”

“I don’t remember, I wasn’t paying much attention, but I think she’s going to marry somebody. I was just beginning to listen when Grandma coughed, and they stopped talking.”

By this time Dulcie had finished her letter, and all the children were looking much interested.

“It must be Uncle Stephen,” said Dulcie. “Perhaps he told them that night before we came down-stairs. Oh, I do hope it is Uncle Stephen. It would be so lovely to have Miss Leslie for an aunt.”

“It wouldn’t do us much good if they lived away off in California,” said Daisy, “but then they might come home sometimes, and invite us for a visit.”

“It’s too bad you and Maud can’t go out,” remarked Paul, regarding Daisy sympathetically, as Dulcie and Molly went to the closet for their ulsters and rubber boots. “Don’t you suppose Grandma would let you if you teased?”

“No indeed she wouldn’t,” laughed Daisy. “You don’t know Grandma very well if you think that. But we don’t mind staying in the house, do we, Maud?”

“Not a bit,” said Maud, looking important and mysterious. “We’re going to do something very interesting while you’re out.”

“What are you going to do?” inquired Paul, curiously.

“I can’t tell; it’s a secret. It was my secret first, but we all know it now.”

“I think you might tell me,” said Paul, beginning to look offended. “It isn’t polite to have secrets from your company.”

Maud looked troubled, but Daisy hastened to intervene.

“Girls have lots of secrets they don’t tell boys,” she said, pleasantly. “If you and some other boys had a secret, you wouldn’t tell us, you know you wouldn’t.”

“Maybe I would, and maybe I wouldn’t. The trouble about telling girls things is they never can keep them to themselves.”

“How about boys keeping things to themselves?” asked Daisy, at which seemingly innocent question Paul grew suddenly red, and no more was said on the subject of secrets.

Mrs. Chester was waiting for them in the hall. She was looking rather worried.

“Now, Paul, darling,” she began anxiously, as her small son came running down-stairs, followed by Dulcie and Molly, “you will promise Mother to be very careful about those dreadful crossings, won’t you? Take good care of him, Dulcie, and don’t let him attempt to cross while there is anything in sight.”

“I’ll take care of him,” promised Dulcie, rather proud of the charge, and just then Grandma’s stern voice was heard from the head of the stairs.

“Don’t be silly, Julia. Those children are quite capable of taking care of themselves. They are none of them babies. One would think to hear you talk that you considered that boy of yours either an infant or an idiot.”

“Grandma is rather a sensible old lady, even if she does scold,” remarked Paul, as they ran down the steps. “Mother wouldn’t have let me go out at all if it hadn’t been for her.”

“Grandma doesn’t believe in people making a fuss about things,” was Dulcie’s rather guarded reply, and Molly added, doubtfully:

“I think she’s a little kinder to you than she is to us, but then you are her truly grandchild, and we’re only steps.”

Fifth Avenue was a pretty sight that frosty afternoon. Children who live in New York in the twentieth century know little of the pleasures of winter, but in 1880 life was quite different. There were no “snow wagons” in those days, and the snow lay where it fell until a thaw came and melted it. Small boys and girls earned pennies by sweeping the crossings, and after a snowstorm every one who could manage to secure a sleigh did so, and the consequence was that Fifth Avenue, from Washington Square to Central Park, was lined with sleighs of every description, from the small one-horse cutter to the big stage sleigh, drawn by four horses. On this February afternoon the scene was a particularly gay one. The sun had come out, and the trees in the Square were all glittering with snow, while the constant tinkle of sleigh-bells filled the frosty air.

“I wish we could have an adventure,” said Molly, as they paused at the corner, waiting for an opportunity to cross. “I don’t feel a bit like just staying in the Square, and watching other people having fun with their sleds. Oh, look, Dulcie; there’s the stolen child. She’s sweeping the crossing.”

“What stolen child?” demanded Paul, eagerly.

“That ragged little girl with the broom,” said Molly. “Generally she has a basket, and goes to the basement doors to ask for things to eat.”

“How do you know she’s been stolen? Did she tell you so?”

“No, we’ve never spoken to her, but we think she must have been. She’s got blue eyes and golden hair, just like all the stolen children in books, and once we saw her crying. It was when the Van Arsdales’ cook slammed the basement gate in her face. We were dreadfully sorry, but we couldn’t do anything about it. Grandma never lets Bridget give anything to beggars. Dulcie has made up some wonderful stories about the stolen child.”

“I don’t see how you can be sure she’s been stolen,” said Paul, sceptically. “Any girl might cry if she was hungry and a cook slammed a gate in her face. I don’t see why you don’t speak to her and find out.”

“We never had a chance to speak to her,” said Dulcie. “We’ve only seen her from the window.”

“You can speak to her now,” said Paul, who was fond of getting to the bottom of things. “She’s right here, and we’re right here, too. If she really has been stolen, and we can find her family, we may get a big reward. You know they offered a tremendous reward for Charlie Ross. This one’s only a girl, so perhaps they wouldn’t pay as much for her, but families are always awfully glad to get back a stolen child. I’ve just been reading about one in a French book, and the father built a hospital, to show his gratitude. Come on, let’s speak to the little girl right away.”

Dulcie’s heart beat rather fast, and Molly was conscious of a little thrill of excitement, as they approached the small crossing-sweeper.

“She’s rather dirty,” whispered Molly. “I thought stolen children were always very clean.”

“Not always,” Dulcie reassured her. “They can’t help being dirty sometimes, when there isn’t any place to wash. She’d be very pretty if her face was clean, and her hair wasn’t so tangled.”

As the three children paused at the crossing, “the stolen child” looked up and held out a small dirty hand.

“Gimme a penny,” she began, in the whining tone of the professional beggar.

“I’m sorry,” said Dulcie, kindly, “we’d like to give you some money, but we haven’t any with us. Would you mind telling us your name?”

“Rosy Finnegan,” answered the crossing-sweeper, promptly. Dulcie was deeply impressed.

“Rosy is a beautiful name,” she said, “but Finnegan—are you sure your name really is Finnegan?”

“The stolen child” nodded.

“Me name’s Finnegan,” she said, decidedly. “Say, ain’t none of yous got a penny?”

“I’m afraid we haven’t,” Dulcie admitted reluctantly, “but we’d like to have a little talk with you. Couldn’t you stop sweeping for a little while? We’d like to have you come into the park with us.”

Rosy Finnegan looked very much surprised. Little girls who lived on Washington Square were not in the habit of addressing her in such a friendly manner. But she was of a sociable disposition, and quite ready for an adventure of any kind. So, gathering her broom under her arm, she prepared to follow her new acquaintances.

“Now we can talk better,” said Dulcie, when they had reached the comparative quiet of the little park. “I’m afraid it’s too cold to sit down, so we’ll have to keep walking while we talk. My name is Dulcie Winslow, and this is my sister Molly. This boy is Paul Chester, and he’s a sort of cousin of ours. My sister and I have been interested in you all winter, and we want to ask you some questions. You say your first name is Rosy. That’s short for Rose, of course. I don’t believe many beg—I mean many little girls like you, are named Rose. It’s quite a book name.”

“Is it?” said Rosy, looking interested. “I didn’t never read no books. Me name’s Rosy Finnegan.”

“You think it’s Finnegan,” said Dulcie, gently, “but perhaps it’s something else. Do you remember your mother?”

“Sure,” responded Rosy Finnegan, stopping short in her astonishment; “me mother’s home.”

Dulcie was conscious of a sensation of disappointment at this reply, but Paul was not so easily daunted.

“Does she beat you?” he inquired, abruptly.

Rosy grinned.

“I guess she do, sometimes,” she admitted. Dulcie felt her spirits rising again.

“I hope she isn’t very cruel,” she said, sympathetically. “Perhaps she isn’t really your own mother.”

“She’s me mother all right,” persisted Rosy. “What makes you say she ain’t?”

“Why—why,” faltered Dulcie, finding some difficulty in explaining, “we don’t know, of course, but we think perhaps you may have been stolen.”

“The stolen child’s” dirty little face grew suddenly very red.

“I ain’t stole nothin’,” she declared, indignantly. “How dare you say I stole!”

“Oh, we didn’t, we didn’t!” protested Dulcie and Molly both together. “We never thought of such a thing, did we, Paul?”

“Of course not,” said Paul; “she doesn’t understand. We don’t think you stole, Rosy, we think perhaps somebody stole you. People do get stolen sometimes, at least they do in books, and there was Charlie Ross.”

“Yes, that’s it,” chimed in Dulcie. “In books the stolen children almost always have blue eyes and golden hair, just like yours. That’s why we thought you might be one, and we wanted to talk to you about it. Do you mind if we ask you some questions?”

“I don’t mind,” said Rosy, who was beginning to look very much puzzled, “but I ain’t never stole nothin’, I can tell you that. A girl on our block she got took up by the cops for stealin’ apples out of a cart, but I ain’t never stole a thing, honest I ain’t.”

“We’re quite sure you never did,” soothed Dulcie. “Stolen children are always very good. Do you remember anything that happened when you were very little, almost a baby, you know?”

“Oh, I can tell you about that,” said Rosy, her face brightening. “We lived on Rivington Street, and Dad sold shoe-strings, and Jim and me sold matches. Jim he sells matches yet, but I don’t. Ma takes the baby round when she begs. Is that all ye wants to know, ’cause I ought to be gettin’ back to me crossin’?”

“We’d like to find out a little more, if you don’t mind,” said Dulcie. “You see, you may have been stolen before you were old enough to remember, or perhaps you were very ill, and lost your memory, like Marjorie in ‘Marjorie’s Quest.’ Were you ever very ill?”

“I got run over onect,” replied Rosy, not without a touch of pride in the recollection. “I was took to the ’orspittle. It was nice in the ’orspittle; I liked it.”

“I know,” said Dulcie, comprehendingly. “Did kind ladies bend over you, and speak very gently, and give you nice things to eat?”

“Sure; them was the nusses. One of ’em was awful pretty. Jim said he’d like to get run over, too, so he could go to the ’orspittle. He did try onect, but the cop catched him, and told him if he ever done it again, he’d get took up.”

“How old are you?” demanded Paul, who had no intention of leaving all the glory of finding a stolen child to Dulcie.

“I dunno jist. Maybe I’m eight, and maybe I’m nine. Ma says she disremembers.”

“That settles it,” cried Paul, triumphantly. “Of course she’s been stolen. People always know how old they are, unless there’s something queer about them.”

Dulcie’s face brightened. To tell the truth, she had been growing a little sceptical as to whether there was, after all, anything particularly “queer” about Rosy Finnegan. Paul’s conviction revived her hopes.

“I guess she must be stolen,” she said, “if her mother doesn’t know how old she is. Rosy, would you like to find your real family, and go to live in a beautiful home, where you would have lovely clothes to wear, and everybody would love you very much?”

“Sure I would; I’d like it first rate. When can I go?”

“Oh, not till you can remember your past. Try to think very hard, and perhaps your memory will begin to come back. Don’t you remember any little prayer or hymn, or—or anything like that? Stolen children in books generally do.”

“They sings hymns at the mission,” said Rosy. “I went to the mission onect, but they said I couldn’t come again if I didn’t wash, so I didn’t go no more.”

“But—but don’t you like to be clean?” gasped Dulcie. In her experience, stolen children always longed for cleanliness, as well as other blessings of life.

“I hate washin’,” returned Rosy, with so much sincerity in her tone that it was impossible to doubt her.

“She’s probably forgotten about taking baths,” whispered Paul. “She’ll be all right when she’s found.”

“I don’t see how she’s ever going to be found,” said Dulcie, with a sigh, “if she can’t remember the least little thing. I’m afraid we’ll have to give it up.”

“Oh, I say, that’s an awful shame!” cried Paul. “Maybe she’ll begin to remember in a few minutes.”

“Maybe I will,” said Rosy, hopefully. “I want to go to that nice place, anyhow. Let’s come right along. It’s cold walkin’ so slow.”

Dulcie clasped her hands in dismay.

“I don’t know what to do,” she said, tragically. “We’ve raised her hopes, and we’ll have to disappoint her. Oh, I wish we hadn’t spoken to her at all.”

“I’ll tell you what we might do,” exclaimed Molly, with a sudden inspiration. “Get her to take us home with her, and talk to the person she thinks is her mother. Maybe she’ll confess.”

“Oh, Molly, we couldn’t. What would Grandma and Aunt Julia say?”

“I don’t see that it matters what they say, if we are going to help a stolen child find her family,” said Paul. “They’ll be proud of us afterwards, especially if we get a big reward. Why, we might even be talked about in the newspaper.”

But Dulcie was still doubtful.

“I’m sure Grandma would be very angry,” she protested, “and Aunt Julia, too. Besides, we don’t know for sure that she ever was stolen. She says she wasn’t.”

“I guess I made a mistake,” put in Rosy, eagerly. “I disremembered first, but now I come to think about it, I’m pretty sure I was stole. Anyhow, I want the nice clothes. I’ll show you the way to our tiniment. ’Tain’t far.”

“Where is it?” inquired Dulcie, still far from convinced of the wisdom of the proceeding.

“Over on Avenue A.”

“Avenue A,” repeated Dulcie, with a shiver. “Oh, we’ve never been there in our lives. We can’t go with her, Paul, we really can’t.”

“All right, you needn’t. I’m going, anyhow, and so’s Molly. We like to see new places, don’t we, Molly?”

“I won’t go anywhere without Dulcie,” said Molly, loyally. “I think we ought to go, though, Dulcie. She says she really was stolen, and it must be our duty to help her find her own mother, even if Grandma and Aunt Julia are angry. I’m sure Papa would want us to do our duty.”

Dulcie wavered, and Rosy, quick to seize her advantage, began to cry.

“I want to find me family, I want to find me family, I do, I do!” she wailed, rubbing her eyes with her knuckles. “I want to have pretty clothes, and ice-cream, like in the ’orspittle.”

This was too much for Dulcie’s kind heart.

“Very well,” she said desperately, “if you both think it’s our duty, I suppose we shall have to go. Are you sure your mother is at home, Rosy?”

Rosy nodded. She had stopped crying as suddenly as she began, and was evidently quite as much interested in the adventure as either Molly or Paul.

“Show us the way,” commanded Paul, and three minutes later, they had left the safe precincts of Washington Square, and turned their faces resolutely in the direction of the East River.

CHAPTER VIII
THE HOUSE ON AVENUE A

THEY were obliged to walk fast, in order to keep pace with “the stolen child,” who trotted on ahead, her little yellow head bobbing up and down in her excitement. For the first few blocks, all went well, but as the neighborhood grew more squalid, the streets dirtier and more crowded, their hearts began to fail.

“I didn’t know there were such dirty streets in New York,” whispered Dulcie. “Don’t you really think we’d better turn back?”

But, though anything but comfortable himself, Paul shook his head resolutely.

“If it’s our duty, we ought to go on,” he said. “I guess it’s always like this where beggars live. It’s a real adventure, and I never had one before. I’m going on, even if you don’t. Oh, I say, this is a pretty awful place. Do you suppose it’s Avenue A?”

Involuntarily they all paused on the corner, and at the same moment Rosy turned her head and asked a question.

“Can I take Jim along with me?” she demanded, anxiously.

“Along where?” inquired Dulcie.

“To that nice place you said I was goin’ to. I’d like to take him; he’s me brother.”

“I don’t know; perhaps you can,” Dulcie said, doubtfully. “Isn’t it sweet of her to want to take her little brother?” she added in a whisper. “Stolen children always want to do something like that. Their families are so happy to get them back they generally let them have anything they want. Perhaps they’ll let Jim come, and adopt him, and send him to college, and when they grow up, he and Rosy will marry each other. It often happens that way.”

“It’s terribly interesting,” said Molly, “but I wish Avenue A wasn’t quite so dirty.”

“Is it much farther, Rosy?” Dulcie questioned, anxiously.

Rosy shook her head, and pointed to a particularly disreputable-looking building, on the opposite side of the way.

“It’s there,” she announced; “down in the basement.”

The street was piled with snow and refuse, and the children were obliged to pick their way, but they all had rubber boots, and the crossing was effected without much difficulty. Before the objectionable-looking tenement Rosy came to a halt.

“It’s down them steps,” she announced.

“Oh, I don’t want to go down there, I really don’t,” cried Molly, shrinking back in sudden alarm.

Dulcie had grown pale, but her face was stern and set.

“We’ve got to go now we’re here,” she said, firmly. “I don’t like it, but Paul thinks it’s our duty. Think of poor little Rosy having to live here all the time. If we can help her to find her real family, nothing else will matter.”

But despite her brave words, Dulcie’s heart was beating very fast, as she followed “the stolen child” down the slippery flight of steps. Molly was trembling violently, and even Paul had turned a little pale. At the foot of the steps Rosy opened a door, and stood aside to let her companions enter.

Dulcie and Molly are middle-aged women now, with boys and girls of their own, but neither of them has ever forgotten her first impression of that tenement house basement. It really seemed incredible that such a quantity of dirt could have accumulated in so small a space. The floor was dirty, the walls were dirty, and the few articles of furniture the room contained were covered with dust. In the middle of the floor an extremely untidy baby was sprawling, playing with a half-starved kitten. On a tumbled-down bed in one corner a man lay, apparently asleep. There was a small fire in the stove, on which a pot was simmering, and a woman in a soiled calico wrapper had just stooped to add some ingredient to the steaming contents.

At the opening of the door the woman turned her head, and at sight of the unexpected visitors she started back, with an exclamation of astonishment, and stood staring at the children, with eyes and mouth wide open. At the same moment the man on the bed opened his eyes.

“Shut that door,” he commanded in a very hoarse voice, and the words were followed by a severe fit of coughing.

“Come in,” said Rosy. “Dad’s got an awful cold. He don’t like air.”

The children could not help thinking that a little fresh air would have improved the atmosphere, but they dared not say so, and in another moment they found themselves inside, with the door closed behind them.

There was a moment of dead silence; then the woman seemed to find her voice.

“What do yous want?” she inquired in a tone that was anything but hospitable.

“We want,” began Dulcie, with a mighty effort to control her shaking voice, “that is, we came with Rosy. We thought perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling us some things about her. There seems to be so much she can’t remember.”

“What’s Rosy been up to?” inquired Mrs. Finnegan, fixing a stern eye upon her small daughter. “She ain’t took nothin’ from yous, has she?”

“Oh, no indeed,” cried Dulcie, indignantly. “I’m sure she’s a very good little girl, but you see, we’ve been interested in her for a long time, on account of her blue eyes and golden hair, and this afternoon we spoke to her. She told us about being in the hospital, and about your not knowing just how old she is, and that made us pretty sure she must have been stolen when she was a baby, and——”

“Shtolen, is it?” screamed Rosy’s mother, her eyes beginning to flash ominously, “and who shtole her, I’d like to be askin’?”

“I don’t know—oh, please don’t be angry,” pleaded Dulcie, involuntarily moving a step nearer to the closed door. “We didn’t mean you did it, only—only we thought you might know something about it, and be able to give us a clue. We want to find her real mother, you know.”

“What are ye talkin’ about, anyway?” demanded Mrs. Finnegan, whose temper was evidently not of the sweetest. “I never heard such crazy talk in me loife. Nobody shtole my Rosy. I guess it’s shtealin’ you’ve been yourselves, to get them good clothes you’ve got on. I’ll be callin’ the cop to yous, that’s what I’ll be doin’, if yous don’t get out of here moighty quick.”

This was too much for Molly, and with a shriek of terror she made for the door. Even Dulcie quailed before this awful threat, but not so Paul. His usually pale face had grown suddenly crimson, and before any one realized his intention, he had placed himself firmly in front of the angry Mrs. Finnegan.

“You mustn’t talk in that way,” he said, and his voice was very loud and clear. “It’s very rude to insult people in your own house. We’re not the kind of people who steal. We live on Washington Square, and we only came here because we wanted to find out about Rosy. We don’t know that she was stolen, but we thought she might have been, and she wanted us to come, didn’t you, Rosy?”

Thus appealed to, Rosy, who had been watching proceedings with deep interest, opened her lips for the first time since reaching home.

“They said they’d take me to a nice place, where I’d have lovely clothes, and ice-cream,” she explained. “They said I was stole when I was a baby, and you wasn’t my real mother. Say, Ma, can I go wid ’em, and Jim too?”

“You cannot,” said Mrs. Finnegan, and there was unmistakable finality in her tone. “You was not shtole when you was a baby, and what’s more, if you ever bring the likes of them in here again, I’ll wallop you. Now get out, every one of yous, before I take a shtick to yous. But let me tell you one thing first. My Rosy ain’t shtole, and never was. We’re honest people, we are, and me poor husband in his bed since Christmas, wid a cough on him that’s enough to wake the dead. I’ll tell you——”

Mrs. Finnegan paused abruptly, as the door opened, and a boy of eleven or twelve appeared on the threshold.

“Hello!” exclaimed the newcomer, staring at the trembling visitors in astonishment; “what’s the row?”

“Row,” repeated the woman, “I guess it is a row. What do you think, Jim? Them young ones come in here as bold as brass, tellin’ me to me face our Rosy was shtole when she was a baby. Did ye ever hear the like of that?”

“We didn’t say she stole her,” put in Paul. “We only said we thought she might have been stolen. She said herself perhaps she was.”

“I did not!” shrieked Rosy, in sudden terror, as her mother made a step in her direction. “It’s lies he’s tellin’, Ma.”

“Of course it’s lies. Now get along wid yous, and if I ever see one of yous hangin’ round here, you’ll get somethin’ you won’t like. Put ’em out, Jim.”

Jim advanced threateningly.

“Come on,” he ordered. “Out you goes.”

The two little girls, now thoroughly frightened, made a hasty retreat towards the door, but Paul did not move.

“Come, Paul,” implored Dulcie, her teeth chattering with fright. “We don’t want to stay here any longer. She isn’t a stolen child, after all. Oh, please do come.”

“I won’t come till she apologizes for being so rude,” returned Paul, obstinately.

At that moment the man on the bed moved and raised his head.

“Chase ’em, Jim,” he commanded in his deep, hoarse voice; “I can’t stand no more talk. The wind from that door’s enough to give abody a chill. Chase ’em out, I say, and shut the door.”

“Come along, young one,” said Jim, and seizing Paul by the shoulders, he gave him a push, which sent that indignant small boy flying out into the street. As for Dulcie and Molly, they were already flying up the steps.

“Let’s run, oh, let’s run,” gasped Molly. “Come, Dulcie, come, Paul. Oh, do be quick.” And away flew the terrified child, closely followed by her sister.

But at the next corner Dulcie’s sense of duty suddenly asserted itself.

“We’ve got to stop and wait for Paul,” she panted. “Aunt Julia would be so angry if we left him behind.”

Molly paused reluctantly, and they both looked around. The next instant they had each uttered a shriek of horror, and were running back in the direction from whence they had come. It was a truly awful sight which met their gaze, for, rolling on a pile of snow, were two small figures, kicking and pummelling each other in a manner which filled Dulcie and Molly with unspeakable terror, for one of the figures was Jim Finnegan, and the other was Paul.

“He’s killing Paul, oh, he’s killing him!” wailed Molly, wringing her hands. “Somebody stop him; oh, please do stop him!”

But nobody did stop him, although quite a crowd of ragged children had gathered to watch the fight. Possibly street fights were of too common occurrence in that neighborhood to cause any great excitement. At any rate, nobody stirred, and an agonized glance up and down the street convinced Dulcie that there was not a policeman in sight. It was quite evident that Paul was getting the worst of the battle. Jim was at least a year older, and fully half a head taller, and, moreover, he was accustomed to fighting. Paul had never fought with any one before in his life, and had always been considered a delicate boy. For one moment only did Dulcie hesitate.

“I’ll help you, Paul,” she shouted, and the terrified Molly beheld her elder sister suddenly plunge forward into the snow-drift. In another moment there were three figures struggling together, instead of two.

A shout went up from the bystanders.

“Good for the kid. I say, she’s a plucky one. She’s got the big fellow down. Oh, my eye! she’s sittin’ on his head.”

“Run, Paul, run,” gasped Dulcie, “quick, before he gets up again.”

But Paul had no intention of running. His blood was up.

“I won’t run,” he protested loudly. “I won’t be pitched out of a house like that. He’s got to apologize.”

“Oh, come off your high horse,” advised Jim, who was, after all, a good-natured boy, and having succeeded, not without difficulty, in removing the weight on his head, and sending Dulcie rolling over in the snow, he rose to his feet, grinning. “Get along home, where you belong, and don’t try to fight a feller twice your size.”

“You’ve got to apol——” began Paul, but he got no further, for Dulcie had already scrambled to her feet, and seized him firmly by the arm.

“That’s all right, Paul,” she panted. “You’ve hurt him dreadfully already. See how his nose is bleeding.”

“So’s mine,” said Paul, putting his hand up to his face. “Oh, I say, isn’t it awful?” And suddenly the brave hero began to cry.

“She’s got the big fellow down.”—Page [128].

Five minutes later three very subdued, conscience-smitten children had left Avenue A behind them and were slowly making their way back in the direction of Washington Square. Two of the three were looking decidedly the worse for wear. Dulcie’s hair-ribbon was gone, and her hat had lost all semblance of shape, and Paul’s face was covered with blood, which still continued to pour from his nose, and one of his eyes was almost closed.

“Are you suffering very much, Paul?” Molly inquired anxiously.

“My head aches, and I feel sort of queer all over,” answered Paul, “but I’m not sorry I did it. I’d do it right over again if I had to.”

“Oh, what will your mother do when she sees you?” moaned Dulcie, “and I promised to look after you, too. My goodness! won’t we be punished?”

“I’ll never, never try to help a stolen child find her family again, not as long as I live,” declared Molly. “We were only trying to be kind, and do our duty, and just see what happened.”

“Maybe it would have been different if she’d really been stolen,” said Dulcie. “I began to be afraid she wasn’t the minute she said that about not liking to be clean. We oughtn’t to have gone home with her, and it was mostly my fault, because I’m the oldest, but it was so exciting, and I really thought we might be able to help her. Take my handkerchief, Paul, yours is soaking.”

“I say,” observed Paul, accepting the proffered handkerchief, “couldn’t we go in the basement way? I don’t want Mother to see me looking like this.”

“We might,” Dulcie admitted. “Bridget’s pretty good-natured, but there’s your eye. Your mother will have to see that. And there’s my hat, too. Grandma will make an awful fuss about it. I really think the best way will be to go right up-stairs and tell the whole truth. Papa says it’s always best to tell the truth and take the consequences.”

Paul made no further suggestions, although the face behind Dulcie’s handkerchief was very grave and troubled. He was a tender-hearted boy, and really loved his mother dearly. The thought of the horror and distress he was about to cause her was anything but pleasant. As they neared home, they were uncomfortably aware of the fact that people were casting surprised or amused glances at them, but fortunately they did not meet any one they knew. At the foot of Mrs. Winslow’s front steps they all paused.

“You go in first, Molly,” said Dulcie. “You’re the only one who looks all right. Tell Mary not to scream when she sees Paul. It might frighten Aunt Julia, and I think we’d better break it to her gently.”

Accordingly, Molly mounted the steps and rang the bell, while the other two lingered behind on the sidewalk. There was a moment of anxious waiting, and then the front door opened, and on the threshold stood—not Mary but Grandma herself. Molly gave a great gasp, and sank against the wall.

“Where—where is Mary?” she faltered, with shaking lips.

“Gone to the dentist’s. Where are the others?”

Molly did not answer; words were beyond her at that awful moment, but Mrs. Winslow did not have to repeat her question, for two forlorn, bedraggled little figures were already half-way up the steps. At the sight of them, Grandma started back, with a cry of horrified astonishment.

“You have all behaved simply outrageously.” That was Mrs. Winslow’s verdict, when she had heard the story, which Dulcie, as the eldest of the party, poured forth without concealment, and with a strong desire to assume the greater part of responsibility for the escapade. “You shall all be severely punished. Dulcie and Molly, go up to your room, and stay there till I can come to you. Come with me, Paul, and get your face washed. Your mother would faint on the spot if she saw you in this condition. If I had my way, I would give you each a good whipping, but I believe corporal punishment is not allowed by your much too-indulgent parents.” And with a look which expressed unutterable things, Grandma swept Paul away to the pantry, and the two little girls went slowly up-stairs to the nursery.

“Well, did you have a good time in the Square?” inquired Daisy, looking up from her book at her sisters’ entrance. “We didn’t go to see Miss Polly, after all. We listened through the wall, and heard people talking, so we knew she must have company. Good gracious! Dulcie, what’s the matter with your hat?”

Dulcie collapsed into a chair, and burst into tears.

“It’s all ‘the stolen child’s’ fault,” explained Molly. “She wasn’t stolen, after all, and her mother was a dreadful person, who was very rude to us, and her brother and Paul got into a fight, and——”

“Oh, Molly, how awful!” gasped Daisy. “You don’t mean Paul really fought?”

“Yes, he did, and Dulcie fought too, and sat on that horrid boy’s head, and made him stop hurting Paul, and Grandma says we’ve got to be punished.”

CHAPTER IX
MISS POLLY’S PIANO

“IT’S very humiliating to be in disgrace, and not allowed to have dinner with your family,” said Molly, with a long sigh. “I hate bread and milk, don’t you, Dulcie?”

Dulcie did not answer, but pushed away her almost untouched bowl, and rested her elbows on the nursery table. Her face was red and swollen with crying, and she looked the picture of woe. Molly regarded her critically.

“You haven’t eaten anything,” she said. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll be hungry before to-morrow morning?”

Dulcie shook her head.

“I don’t care if I am,” she said, drearily. “I can’t swallow; every time I try something chokes me.”

“Is your throat sore?” Molly inquired, with a vivid recollection of Maud’s frequent sore throats.

“No, it isn’t sore, but there’s a lump in it. Oh, Molly, it’s awful! I was never so unhappy before in my life.”

Molly looked very much troubled.

“Is it because Grandma wouldn’t let us go down to dinner, and says we’re not to have any dessert for a week?” she questioned doubtfully.

“Oh, I don’t mind that so much. It’s horrid, of course, but I could bear it if it wasn’t for other things. Grandma says I’m a disgrace to the family, and she’s going to write Papa about it.”

“Papa won’t believe her, I know he won’t,” protested Molly. “Besides, we can write to him too, and tell what really happened. I think you were very brave to fight that boy when he was hurting Paul.”

“It was a terribly unladylike thing to do,” said Dulcie. “I don’t wonder Grandma was ashamed. Young ladies don’t fight street boys, and I’m nearly twelve. I promised Papa to take care of you all, and set a good example. And instead of that, I got you into a horrid scrape, and Paul too.” Suddenly Dulcie’s head went down on her arms, and she began to cry.

Molly was at her sister’s side in a moment.

“Don’t be so unhappy, darling, please don’t,” she pleaded, with her arms round Dulcie’s neck. “It wasn’t any more your fault than mine and Paul’s. We really thought we were doing our duty. If Rosy had been a stolen child, and we’d found her family, everybody would have been delighted. I don’t believe even Grandma would have scolded then.”

“I don’t think there are any stolen children in the world,” moaned Dulcie. “They’re just in books, and we were very silly to imagine Rosy must be one. She wasn’t even very pretty, and she was so dreadfully dirty. I don’t see why the people who write books want to put things in that aren’t true.”

“There was Charlie Ross,” said Molly; “he was true.”

“He was only one, and there may never have been another. Anyway, we’ve done something awful, and I don’t believe Aunt Julia will ever forgive us for taking Paul to that dreadful place.”

“Here come Daisy and Maud,” exclaimed Molly, in a tone of relief, as the sound of approaching footsteps fell upon their ears.

At the entrance of her two sisters, Dulcie lifted her head.

“What’s the matter?” she demanded tragically. “Are you punished, too? It’s only seven o’clock.”

“Oh, no,” said Daisy, with a great effort to speak in her usual cheerful voice. “Aunt Kate is expecting a missionary, and Grandma said we might as well get out of the way.”

“There was ice-cream,” announced Maud, “but Daisy wouldn’t take any. It was good, too, only Grandma wouldn’t let me have two helpings.”

“Why didn’t you take any, Daisy?” inquired Molly, her eyes wide with astonishment.

“Oh, I just thought I wouldn’t,” returned Daisy, evasively. “It’s nice we could come up so early, isn’t it?”

“I know what the reason was,” said Dulcie, with conviction. “It was because we couldn’t have any, wasn’t it, Daisy?”

Daisy blushed, and looked very much embarrassed.

“Well, I couldn’t enjoy good things to eat when I knew you had nothing but bread and milk,” she admitted, at which Molly promptly threw her arms round her sister’s neck, and hugged her.

“I believe you’re the best girl in the world, Daisy,” Dulcie declared. “We never should have gotten into such a scrape if you had been with us. I knew it wasn’t right all the time, but it was such an exciting adventure, and we never had a real adventure in our lives.”

“I don’t believe I should like an adventure,” said Maud, virtuously. “Aunt Julia has put Paul to bed, you know. She’s sure he’s caught some dreadful disease. She wanted to send for the doctor but Grandma wouldn’t let her.”

“What kind of a disease is it?” Molly wanted to know.

“I’m not sure, but I think it’s something called nerves. That was it, wasn’t it, Daisy?”

“Oh, I don’t believe Paul is going to be ill at all,” said Daisy, reassuringly. “Grandma doesn’t think so either. Aunt Kate laughed, and said Paul wasn’t the first boy in the family to come home with a black eye. She was beginning to tell about something that happened when Papa was a boy, when Grandma gave that little cough she always gives when she wants people to stop talking, and Aunt Kate didn’t say any more.”

“Do you suppose Papa ever fought with anybody when he was a boy?” suggested Molly, her face brightening at the delightful possibility.

“I don’t know, but we’ll ask him in our next letter. Now let’s do something pleasant. It’s a whole hour till bedtime.”

But for once Daisy’s cheerful suggestion failed to meet with its usual response. Neither Dulcie nor Molly felt inclined to do “anything pleasant” that evening. They tried lotto, but before the first game was finished Dulcie had begun to cry again.

“I don’t feel like doing anything but going to bed,” she announced, with a sob. “My heart’s so heavy, I can’t take an interest in ordinary things.”

“It is pretty dreadful,” agreed Maud. “Aunt Julia thinks she will have to take Paul back to Boston. She’s afraid he’ll want to go on playing with us, and she says we aren’t fit to associate with him. I don’t think it’s quite fair to say all of us, when Daisy and I didn’t do a single thing. I wish Miss Polly would sing; it’s always comforting to hear music when you’re sad.”

“Let’s go and see Miss Polly,” exclaimed Daisy, with a sudden inspiration. “I haven’t heard the piano all day. Perhaps she isn’t well.”

Dulcie shook her head.

“I can’t go,” she said, mournfully. “I’ve cried so much my head aches, and my eyes are all swollen.”

“So are mine,” added Molly, “and I don’t feel like making calls any more than Dulcie does. You and Maud might go, though.”

“You go, Daisy,” coaxed Maud. “I don’t like that dark closet at night. Ask her please to sing ‘Only an Armor-Bearer,’ or ‘Pull For the Shore.’”

“All right,” said Daisy, good-naturedly, and after giving the afflicted Dulcie a sympathetic kiss on the back of her bowed head, she tripped away cheerfully on her errand.

The children had become quite accustomed to visiting their neighbor by this time, and the mysterious door in the wall had lost some of its original fascination. Still, there was always a certain thrill of excitement in turning the handle, and the sudden plunge into the housemaid’s closet next door. Daisy’s heart beat rather fast, as she groped her way amid brooms and dust-pans, and stepped out into the lighted hall. Outside Miss Polly’s door she paused for a moment, to make sure the little cripple was alone. Once they had heard voices, and had crept quietly away again, for if the landlady, or any one else in the boarding-house, were to discover their secret, who knew what might happen? It was possible that Miss Collins might have as strong an objection to an unlocked door between the houses as Grandma herself. But to-night all was quiet, and after a moment’s hesitation, Daisy knocked softly.

Instead of the usual sound of the wheel-chair being pushed across the room, a rather unsteady voice called, “Come in.”

“Good evening, Miss Polly,” said the visitor, cheerfully, as she stepped over the threshold, and closed the door, “I came to ask—why, Miss Polly, what’s the matter? Are you ill?”

Miss Polly was not in the wheel-chair; she was in bed, and the face she turned to greet the little girl was very white. But at Daisy’s anxious question, she tried to smile her old bright smile.

“No, no, dear, not ill, only a little tired. I asked Maggie to help me to bed before she went out for the evening. Come and sit down. I am glad to have company, but where are the others?”

“They couldn’t come very well this evening,” said Daisy, blushing. “I can’t stay long either; I only came to ask if you would sing something, but of course you can’t now you’re in bed. Why, Miss Polly, where’s the piano?”

“It’s gone, dearie,” answered Miss Polly, in the same low, unsteady voice in which she had called “come in.” “It went away this afternoon. I’m very sorry, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to sing to you any more.”

“Oh, Miss Polly,” cried Daisy, and stopped short in sudden embarrassment, for her friend’s cheeks, which had been so pale a moment before, had flushed a dusky crimson, and there was such a sad look in her eyes that the little girl could not think of another word to say. But Miss Polly was not slow to read the sympathy in her visitor’s face.

“Don’t look so distressed,” she said, kindly. “Come here and sit on the bed, and I’ll tell you about it. It was hard, of course, but we all have hard things to bear sometimes, and I ought to be thankful that I was able to keep my dear piano so long.”

“Was it the gentleman in the back room who objected?” asked Daisy, as she took the proffered seat on the bed, and slipped her hand into Miss Polly’s.

Miss Polly gave the kind little hand an affectionate squeeze.

“No, dear, nobody objected, every one was very kind. Miss Collins even tried to persuade me to keep it a little longer, but I couldn’t do that, after I understood about the money.”

“What money?” inquired Daisy, with deep interest.

“My money, dear. It isn’t all gone, I am thankful to say, but the bank in Vermont, where I had several hundred dollars, failed the other day, and my lawyer has written me that I have been spending more than I realized these past three years. Of course I couldn’t run into debt, so the wisest plan seemed to be to sell——”

Miss Polly paused abruptly, and put up her hand to shade her eyes.

“You mean to sell the piano?” whispered Daisy, winking hard to keep back the sympathetic tears. “Oh, Miss Polly, and you loved it so.”

There was a short silence, then Miss Polly spoke, and though her voice was not as bright as usual, it no longer trembled.

“It seems a little hard just at first,” she said, with a faint smile, “but I shall get used to it in time, as I had to other things, that were even harder. It’s wonderful to find how kind and sympathetic people are. Why, would you believe it, my dear, that foolish Maggie actually cried when she was putting me to bed. I used to think her a little indifferent sometimes, but I see I was mistaken. My piano was a great pleasure, but I still have my books, and my dear little neighbors too. I shouldn’t like to have Tom hear of it, it would grieve him so much, but there isn’t any need of his ever knowing.”

“He wouldn’t have let it happen if he had known,” cried Daisy. “Oh, dear Miss Polly, won’t you please write him about it? He’d be so unhappy if he ever found out.”

Daisy’s voice was pleading, but Miss Polly shook her head resolutely.

“My dear,” she said, gently, “you don’t understand. Some day Tom must know, of course, but not till things are a little easier for him. Miss Collins has been trying to persuade me to write, but I know better. I had a letter from Tom this morning; such a dear letter; I will read it to you.”

As she spoke, Miss Polly drew from under her pillow a crumpled sheet of paper, covered with a firm, manly handwriting.

“I think I could almost repeat it by heart,” she said, smoothing out the letter with loving fingers. “I keep all his letters, and read them over and over. This one isn’t very long, but the dear boy is so busy. It’s very good of him to take the time to write at all. Would you like to hear what he says?”

Daisy said she would like it very much, and Miss Polly began to read in a voice that was still a little unsteady.

“Dear old Polly:

“Your good letter reached us several days ago, and would have been answered sooner but for the fact that I have been working every evening this week, and some nights haven’t left the office till after nine. It’s a bit hard on that little wife of mine, but I tell her all is grist that comes to our mill, and if things keep on as they have for the past year, it won’t be very long before I can begin to let up a little. Who knows but that we may have our carriage, and our box at the opera, some fine day. Helen laughs when I predict a glorious future, but, joking aside, I have good reason to expect another raise of salary in the spring. My employer, Mr. Anderson, gave me a strong hint to that effect a few days ago.

“We laughed heartily over your description of your interesting little neighbors, who have discovered a secret door in the wall. Rather an unusual find in a New York boarding-house, I should think. It reminds me of some of those thrilling tales we used to read in our childhood. I shall expect to hear next of a secret staircase leading to a dungeon, where a captive princess is kept in concealment. I am glad you find the children so entertaining, but I should think you might be rather tired when evening comes, and prefer some other amusement to singing ballads. However, that is your affair, not mine. All I care about is that you don’t work too hard, and wear yourself out. You and Helen will have some fine times over your music, when you make us that long deferred visit, for she is as fond of singing as you are, and I really think you will be pleased with her voice. We have hired a piano, and I generally find her singing away like a nightingale when I come home late of an evening. She says she can’t help it; it’s the way she has of expressing her happiness. As to your namesake, if she doesn’t sing yet, she certainly crows. She is as jolly and healthy as a baby can be, and Helen warns me not to forget to give you the great news, little Polly has cut her first tooth.

“Now, my dear little sister, I must ask you to pardon a short letter, for it is after eleven P. M. and Helen is beginning to look severe, as she invariably does when she considers I am not getting my proper allowance of sleep. I am delighted to hear that you are enjoying your piano so much. Have you been to any good concerts lately? How about the season ticket for the opera I requested you to buy, with that small Christmas check? Helen and I indulged in a little dissipation one night last week. She met me in town, and we dined at a restaurant, and went to the theatre. It was a great treat, I assure you, and as ‘our one and only maid’ seems a capable sort of person, Helen was not afraid to leave baby in her care.

“Good-night, old girl. Write often, and believe me, as always,

“Your affectionate brother,
“Tom Oliver.”

“Isn’t it a dear, kind letter?” said Miss Polly, looking up with shining eyes.

“It’s very nice indeed,” agreed Daisy, “but, dear Miss Polly, I can’t help wishing he knew about everything.”

Miss Polly smiled and shook her head.

“No, no, dear,” she said, resolutely, “not just yet. Tom and Helen must have a little more time to themselves, and then—well, perhaps in another year. But don’t let us talk any more about my tiresome affairs. Tell me what you have all been doing since you came to see me last.”

“How long you stayed, Daisy, and Miss Polly never sang a single song,” reproached Maud, when her sister returned to the nursery, at a quarter past eight.

“I couldn’t come back any sooner,” explained Daisy. “Miss Polly is very unhappy, and I think it comforted her a little to have me stay and talk. I told her all about this afternoon, and she laughed, she really did, Dulcie, and said she wished she could have seen you and Paul fighting that big boy. It was the only time she laughed, for, oh, girls, such a very sad thing has happened. Poor Miss Polly has lost a great deal of money, and she’s had to sell her piano.”

“I think the world is a very sad place,” remarked Dulcie, with a long sigh, when they had heard all that Daisy could tell them of Miss Polly’s troubles. “It’s been a very uncomfortable day, for everybody. Now let’s go to bed, and I’ll talk to you about Mamma.”

It was nearly half-past nine, and Dulcie’s voice had begun to sound decidedly drowsy, when they were all startled into wakefulness by a knock at the nursery door.

“Who is it?” demanded Daisy, sitting up in bed.

“It’s me—I, I mean,” answered a familiar voice. “I can’t stay but a minute, for fear of Mother, but I heard the missionary man talking as if he was preaching a sermon, so I’m sure he can’t be going quite yet. I just wanted to tell Dulcie and Molly I’m not a bit sick, and I don’t believe I’m going to be. Mother always fusses a lot, but she doesn’t mean it all, and I’m going to write to Father to-morrow, and tell him how plucky Dulcie was.”

CHAPTER X
DULCIE’S BIRTHDAY

PAUL was correct in his prediction; he was not ill the next day, nor did he manifest any signs of approaching illness during the following week. His mother was very much surprised. Her sister Kate remarked sarcastically that she believed Julia was disappointed that none of her prognostications of evil came to pass, but when the ninth day was passed, even Mrs. Chester was forced to confess that for once in his life her boy had escaped unharmed. For the first day or two she kept Paul constantly with her, and he and the little girls met only at meals, but as time went on, this strict discipline began to relax, and by the end of the week the children were allowed to play together again. Grandma and Aunt Kate were very busy attending a series of missionary meetings, and had little time or thought to devote to anything else. Otherwise the children’s punishment might have been more prolonged. Paul’s father had written a letter to his wife, after reading which Mrs. Chester had talked long and seriously to her little boy, and had secured a solemn promise from that small delinquent to refrain from any further mischief. Paul was a truthful boy, and when he had once made a promise his mother knew she could trust him to keep it.

“But never, never again shall I allow Paul to go out with those children,” Mrs. Chester declared to her mother and sister. “Goodness only knows what mischief they might lead the dear child into.”

“They may get into plenty of mischief,” returned Grandma, with her grim smile, “but I will engage there won’t be any more attempts to find a stolen child.”

And Mrs. Winslow was correct. The very words “stolen child” were sufficient to cause Dulcie’s cheeks to burn with mortification, and bring the tears of humiliation to Molly’s eyes.

But children cannot go on thinking of unpleasant things for very long at a time, and by the end of the second week the events of that dreadful afternoon had ceased to be the foremost thought in any of their minds.

“You and Dulcie must stay down-stairs this evening,” Molly informed Paul, one afternoon just before dinner. “Daisy and Maud and I are going to be very busy.”

“What are you going to be busy about?” Paul inquired, with pardonable curiosity. He rather enjoyed the evenings in the nursery, with the little girls, for since the arrival of the Chesters, Grandma had not insisted on their remaining in the dining-room after dinner.

“To-morrow is Dulcie’s birthday,” explained Molly, “and we’ve got to do up the presents this evening.”

Paul looked interested.

“What presents is she going to have?” he asked.

“Well,” said Molly, not without some embarrassment, “you see, it isn’t very easy to arrange. If we had some money, we’d buy presents, of course, but we haven’t any of us got a penny. Papa sent us each five dollars for Christmas, but Grandma put it in the bank for us, and we can’t get it out again till we’re of age, and that won’t be for ever so many years. So we have to give something we have already. Daisy made a book-mark, but we couldn’t all do that, because Dulcie only reads one book at a time. Daisy and I both wanted to give her our Sunday hats, because hers got spotted in the rain, but we were afraid Grandma wouldn’t let us. I’m giving her some of my hair-ribbons; they’re not new, but they’re quite good yet, and Dulcie loves hair-ribbons. Maud wanted to give some of her paper dolls, but we think twelve is too old for dolls, so she’s decided to give her gold locket that Papa gave her before he went away. It’s very pretty, and there is some of Mamma’s hair in it. We’re going to tie the parcels up to-night, and write messages on them. Daisy does the writing, and we say things like ‘For Dulcie, from her loving sister Molly,’ or ‘With loving birthday wishes, from Maud.’ It’s really quite exciting doing up the presents.”

“I shouldn’t think it would be much fun, when you haven’t anything to do up but your own old things,” objected Paul. “What are Grandma and Aunt Kate going to give?”

“Grandma and Aunt Kate!” repeated Molly, in astonishment, “why, they never give presents except on Christmas, and then Grandma only gave us some woolen stockings, and Aunt Kate gave us each a cake of scented soap. Grandma says nobody ever gave her a birthday present in her life.”

“I got a lot of things on my birthday,” said Paul. “Father gave me a velocipede, and Mother a lot of books, and—I say, I’d like to give Dulcie a present, too. Father gave me five dollars to spend in New York. What do you think she’d like?”

“Oh, Paul, how kind you are!” cried Molly, her face beaming with pleasure. “I know a book she wants dreadfully, and she never can get it at the library, because it’s always out. It’s ‘Little Men,’ by Miss Alcott. We’ve all read ‘Little Women,’ and we loved it, but ‘Little Men’ has been out every time Dulcie asked for it.”

“All right,” said Paul, grandly, “she shall have it. I’ll get Mother to take me to a bookstore to-morrow. Do you always give each other your old things for birthday presents?”

“Yes, at least we have since Papa went away. Daisy’s birthday comes in May, and mine is in July. I suppose Dulcie will give the locket to Daisy, because it’s about the nicest thing we’ve got, and perhaps—I don’t know, of course—but Daisy may give it to me when my birthday comes. Maud’s birthday isn’t till September, and by that time I can give it back to her again.”

“Well, it’s the queerest way of giving presents that I ever heard of,” declared Paul. “I shouldn’t like it one bit, but I suppose you don’t mind so much if you’re used to it.”

“There isn’t any use minding what you can’t help,” said Molly, philosophically, and just then the dinner-bell rang, and the conversation came to an end.

Immediately after dinner the three younger girls left the dining-room, and Dulcie, looking quite happy and excited, sat down to spend a silent evening with her elders. Paul would have liked to follow the others, but was too proud to go where he had not been invited, so having nothing better to do, he consented with unusually good grace to his mother’s proposal that he should read a chapter or two of ancient history.

“To-morrow is your birthday, isn’t it?” Paul observed to Dulcie, as the two children went up-stairs together, at eight o’clock.

“Yes,” said Dulcie, smiling; “that’s why the others went up so early; they wanted to tie up the presents.”

“Have you any idea what you’re going to get?” Paul asked, curiously.

“Not the very least, and it’s so exciting wondering about it.” And Dulcie laughed, such a happy laugh, that Paul gazed at her in bewilderment.

“I hope she won’t be disappointed,” he said to himself. “I wish I’d known about that book before, so I could have bought it in time. I should be disappointed enough if I didn’t get anything but old junk for my birthday, and I guess most people would, too.”

But when Dulcie came down to breakfast the next morning, she did not look in the least disappointed. She was wearing a pink hair-ribbon, which Paul remembered to have noticed as a favorite color with Molly, and round her neck, attached to a piece of black velvet, was a tiny gold locket.

“Happy birthday,” remarked Paul, as Dulcie slipped into her seat at the table. “Did you like your presents?”

“I loved them,” answered Dulcie, heartily. “I woke up before six, and took all the packages into bed; I was so crazy to see what they were.”

At that moment Grandma looked up from the morning paper, to inquire sharply:

“What’s that round your neck, Dulcie?”

“It’s my locket,” said Dulcie, proudly, touching the trinket with loving fingers. “It was Maud’s, but she gave it to me for a birthday present. Papa gave it to her, and there’s a piece of Mamma’s hair in it.”

“Take it off the moment you go up-stairs,” commanded Mrs. Winslow. “Children don’t wear jewelry in the morning. I am surprised you didn’t know better than to put it on.”

Dulcie’s face fell, and she grew suddenly scarlet, but she said nothing, and no further allusions were made on the subject of birthdays.

The morning was taken up with lessons, as usual, and after luncheon the four little girls were sent out for their daily exercise in the Square. They were not allowed to go far from home by themselves, and as it was a cold, dark afternoon, with a strong wind blowing, they did not find the solemn walk round and round the Square particularly enjoyable. Dulcie left the others for a few minutes, while she made a call at the circulating library, whence she returned looking rather crestfallen.

“Did you get it this time?” Daisy inquired, eagerly.

Dulcie shook her head.

“Out as usual,” she said. “I got ‘Heartsease,’ by Charlotte Yonge, but I don believe it’s half as nice as ‘Little Men.’”

Molly heard both question and answer, and looked suddenly pleased and mysterious.

Paul had gone out with his mother, but on his return, at about four o’clock, he ran up-stairs to the nursery, two steps at a time. He was carrying a parcel under his arm. He found his four friends already returned from their walk, and somewhat to his surprise, three of them—including Dulcie herself—did not look very much pleased to see him.

“What are you all doing?” he inquired, with some curiosity, for it was evident that his entrance had interrupted something.

“Oh, just playing,” answered Daisy, blushing, and Dulcie added hastily: “It’s a very silly game; you wouldn’t care about it.”

“How do you know I wouldn’t?” demanded the visitor, who was standing in the doorway, with one hand behind him.

“Because I know you wouldn’t; it isn’t a boy’s game at all.”

“Well, I think you might tell me what it is, anyway,” said Paul, rather offended, and Molly, who had noticed the parcel in her friend’s hand, hastened to say soothingly:

“There isn’t any harm in telling him; I don’t believe he’ll laugh. We’re having a make-believe party, Paul.”

“What’s a make-believe party?”

“Why, you see,” Daisy explained, “this is Dulcie’s birthday, and we wanted to do something a little different from ordinary days. Of course Grandma wouldn’t let us have a real party, so we’re having an imaginary one, and all the people who come to it are make-believes.”

Paul laughed.

“That’s the funniest party I ever heard of,” he said. “I say, let me play, too.”

Dulcie and Daisy looked doubtful, but Molly pleaded, and in the end the others consented, after exacting a promise from Paul not to laugh, and never to let the grown-ups know how silly they had been.

“We pretend this is the parlor,” said Molly. “We are all dressed in party dresses. Mine is pink silk, with white dotted muslin over it. There’s an imaginary piano over there by the window, and a man is playing dance music on it. Dulcie stands here by the door, and shakes hands with people when they come in. I announce their names, and everybody brings her a present. I’ll show you how we do it.” And, turning her head in the direction of the open door, Molly announced in a good imitation of “Grandma’s company voice”:

“Miss Blanche Bud.”

Dulcie advanced and held out her hand.

“I’m very glad to see you, Blanche,” she said. “It was lovely of you to come to my party. Your dress is very pretty. Oh, are these flowers for me? How very sweet of you to bring them. Maud, please put these roses in water.”

“Isn’t it fun?” giggled Maud, seizing the imaginary bouquet from her sister’s outstretched hand. “If I shut my eyes tight, and pretend very hard, I can almost make myself believe it’s a real party.”

Paul was finding some difficulty in keeping his promise not to laugh.

“Let me come next,” he urged, and Molly, with another glance at the mysterious package in Paul’s hand, announced:

“Master Paul Chester.”

“How do you do, Paul?” said Dulcie, gravely. “I’m glad you could come. It’s rather a cloudy day, isn’t it?”

“Many happy returns of the day, and here’s a present for you,” said Paul, thrusting his parcel into Dulcie’s hand, and instantly retreating to the background.

“Why—why, it’s a real present!” cried Dulcie, quite forgetting the make-believe party in her surprise.

“Let me help untie the string,” pleaded Maud. “I love to open parcels. Oh, it’s a book. Dulcie likes books better than most any other presents, Paul.”

“It’s ‘Little Men,’” said Dulcie, with shining eyes; “the book I’ve been wanting for so long! How did you know I wanted it, Paul?”

“Molly told me,” said Paul, who was feeling much gratified at the excitement produced by his gift. “I bought it this afternoon when I was out with Mother. She said I ought to write something in it, but there wasn’t time. I’ll write it now.”

“All right,” said Dulcie, hugging her new treasure tight. “Oh, Paul, I do thank you so much. What would you like to write?”

“Well,” said Paul, reflectively, “Mother thought something French would be nice, but I hate French. I think ‘From Paul Chester to his affectionate friend Dulcie Winslow’ would be all right, don’t you? Or would you rather have some poetry? I know a lot of poetry.”

Dulcie said she liked Paul’s first suggestion best, and the little boy sat down at the desk to write the inscription.

“It’s the first really nice birthday present you’ve had, Dulcie,” said Daisy, joyfully; “I’m so glad you got it.”

“They were all nice,” declared Dulcie, giving her sister an affectionate squeeze. “I loved every single one. I’m awfully glad to have ‘Little Men,’ though. I’ll read it out loud this evening, if you like. Have you finished, Paul? Oh, how beautifully you write.”

Paul looked pleased.

“I like buying presents for people,” he said, grandly. “Mother said she was glad I was generous, but she didn’t think I need spend so much money. I told her I wanted to, because I liked Dulcie, and I thought it was real mean nobody gave her anything new for her birthday.”

“What did your mother say?” Dulcie asked, with pardonable curiosity.

“Oh, she said Grandma had a pretty hard time keeping you all here, and we mustn’t expect too much of her. Now let’s go on with that party. What do you do about things to eat?”

“I’m afraid they’ll have to be imaginary, like all the rest of it,” said Dulcie, laughing. “Grandma won’t let us bring food up here, and we’re not allowed to eat between meals, anyway. Why, here comes Mary. What is it, Mary? Does Grandma want us?”

“It’s a package for you, Miss Dulcie,” said Mary, rather breathless from the four long flights of stairs. “It came by express, and I thought you might like to have it right away. Mrs. Winslow’s out, and Miss Kate, too.”

“Why, what in the world can it be?” cried Dulcie, and all the others gathered about her eagerly, as she untied the string.

“It’s a wooden box,” announced Molly.

“Maybe it’s a birthday present from Papa,” suggested Maud.

“Or from Lizzie,” added Daisy.

“It’s from California,” said Paul; “I see California on the back. Do you know anybody there?”

“Yes, Uncle Stephen and Miss Leslie,” said Dulcie; “it must be from one of them, but how did they know this was my birthday?”

“There’s a letter inside,” cried Molly. “Let’s read it before we open the box, then we’ll know who sent it.”

“Why not see what’s in the box first?” objected Paul, who was almost as much interested in the contents of the mysterious package as the little girls themselves.

“Because,” said Daisy, “it’s so exciting to anticipate, and as soon as we know what’s inside the box the excitement will be over. Do read the letter first, Dulcie.”

“It might be only soap, you know,” suggested Maud, with a recollection of Aunt Kate’s Christmas present.

“The letter is from Miss Leslie,” cried Dulcie, who, obedient to Daisy’s request, had already torn open the envelope. “Oh, isn’t it lovely? Listen to what she says.” And she read aloud:

“My Dear Dulcie:

“I was going to say ‘little Dulcie,’ but remembered just in time that people of twelve don’t like to be considered ‘little’ any longer, and if I am not mistaken, you are going to have a birthday on the twentieth. Now I suppose you are wondering what little bird brought me that interesting piece of news, and I am not going to tell you, because it is fun to keep guessing. I am sending a box of our preserved California fruit, which I hope may reach you on the right day.

“I was delighted with your nice letter, and very much interested in the brave little invalid next door. I agree with you that her brother ought to know of her condition, but if she will persist in being so unselfish and heroic, I don’t see that her friends can do anything to help matters. I am glad you go to see her often, and as to the door in the wall——”

Dulcie came to a sudden startled pause. All the little girls had grown very much embarrassed.

“What’s the matter? Why don’t you go on?” demanded Paul, in astonishment.

“I can’t,” said Dulcie, “it’s a secret. I ought to have stopped before, but I didn’t notice.”

Paul looked disappointed and a little offended.

“I can keep secrets just as well as anybody else,” he said, sulkily, “but of course if you don’t want me to hear, I won’t listen.” And he turned to leave the room, with an air of injured dignity.

It was an awkward moment. Nobody wanted to offend Paul, especially after his generosity in giving Dulcie a birthday present. And yet, could he be trusted with this precious secret? It was Daisy who finally settled the difficulty.

“I believe we can trust Paul,” she said, with sudden decision. “I’m sure a nice boy can keep a promise. Finish the letter first, Dulcie, and then let’s tell him all about Miss Polly.”

So Dulcie, after making sure that Mary had gone down-stairs again, and impressing upon Paul that what he was about to hear was “a very solemn secret indeed,” went on with her letter.

“As to the door in the wall,” Miss Leslie wrote, “it is certainly very interesting and romantic. I don’t think I ought to advise you to keep a secret from your grandmother, but, as you say the door has been unfastened for years, and no one has ever discovered the fact before, it doesn’t seem as if there could be much harm in keeping the secret a little longer. I am glad you have written your father about it, however, for his advice in the matter will be much better than mine.

“Mamma and I have been very busy since our return from the East, or I would have written sooner. California is very beautiful just now. I wish you could see the roses in our garden, and hear the mocking-birds sing. There is a nest right outside my window. I would love to have you all out here for a visit, but am afraid your grandmother would never consent to your taking such a long journey. We were six days on the train, but Mamma and I rather enjoyed it. I have seen your uncle several times since our return. He is very well, and busy, as we all are.

“Now, my dear little girl, I must say good-bye for to-day. Write soon again and tell me all you do, for I am interested in everything that concerns my little friends. Give a great deal of love to Daisy, Molly, and Maud, and with an equal share for yourself, and best wishes for a very happy birthday, believe me,

“Your sincere friend,
“Florence Leslie.”

“What a beautiful letter!” exclaimed Daisy. “How do you suppose she found out about your birthday?”

“I suppose Uncle Stephen must have told her, but I didn’t think he knew. It was dear of her to write, and to send such a wonderful present.”

“I’ve looked inside the box,” Maud informed them, “and it’s full of big sticky, delicious-looking things. May I taste one right away, Dulcie?”

“Of course you may. We’ll all have some. Oh, I do wish Uncle Stephen would hurry up and marry Miss Leslie. It would be so nice to have her for an aunt.”

“Hurry and tell about that door in the wall,” put in Paul, a little impatiently. “I’ve promised I won’t tell anybody, and I don’t see why you want to keep me waiting any longer.”

“We won’t,” said Dulcie, and while they all munched the delicious candied fruit, they told him the story of brave little Miss Polly.

“We miss the piano very much,” said Maud, when the story was finished, and Paul was looking as deeply interested as could possibly be expected. “It used to be so nice to hear Miss Polly singing when we were going to sleep.”

“I’m afraid Miss Polly misses it very much, too,” said Daisy, sadly. “She doesn’t say anything about it, but her eyes have such a sorrowful look in them, and she doesn’t laugh nearly as often as she did before.”

“I’d like to go and see her,” said Paul. “I’ll sing to her if she wants me to.”

“Why, Paul, we didn’t know you could sing,” cried Dulcie, in surprise. “We never heard you.”

Paul blushed.

“I hate doing it generally,” he confessed. “Mother makes me sometimes, to show off, you know, and I’m going to be in the choir next year. I don’t mind singing for that lady if you think she’d like to have me. I know some French songs, and ‘The Holy City,’ and ’most all the songs in ‘Pinafore.’ I can say a lot of poetry, too.”

“Let’s go to see Miss Polly right away, and take Paul with us,” urged Molly, eagerly. “It will be much more fun than having a make-believe party, won’t it, Dulcie? And we can take her some of this lovely fruit. We’ve been wanting to give her a present ever since the first time we went, but we never had anything to take before.”

CHAPTER XI
PAUL ENTERTAINS MISS POLLY

MISS POLLY was in her wheel-chair, which she had drawn as close as possible to the register, for the day was cold, and only a small amount of furnace heat reached the top floor. She had evidently been reading, but the book had fallen into her lap, and lay there neglected, while the little cripple gazed straight before her, with a sad, far-away look in her eyes. Miss Polly was certainly thinner and paler than on that Sunday when Molly had made her first visit, but when, at the sound of a knock at her door, she turned to greet her little neighbors, her smile was as bright and her voice as cheerful as ever.

“My dear children,” she cried joyfully, “how glad I am to see you. And you’ve brought your visitor, too. How do you do, Paul? You see I know your name. These little friends of mine have told me a great deal about you. It was kind of you to come to see me.”

Paul stepped forward and held out his hand.

“I’ll sing for you if you’d like to have me,” he announced abruptly. “I don’t like doing it generally, but I don’t mind this time. Dulcie says you like music.”

Miss Polly beamed.

“I do indeed,” she said, heartily. “I should love to hear you sing. It was dear of you to think of offering.”