Title: The Lilac Lady
Author: Brown, Ruth Alberta
Language: English
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                             THE LILAC LADY

                THE SECOND OF THE PEACE GREENFIELD BOOKS

                          BY RUTH ALBERTA BROWN

     Author of "At The Little Brown House," "Tabitha At Ivy Hall,"
            "Tabitha's Glory," "Tabitha's Vacation," Etc.



THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY
CHICAGO    AKRON, OHIO    NEW YORK

COPYRIGHT, MCMXIV
By The Saalfield Publishing Co.


TO
EDITH HASERICK MCFARLANE,
THE SAINT ELSPETH OF MY GIRLHOOD,
THIS STORY IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED.



[Illustration: "Oh," cried Gail in quick sympathy, "what a feeble old
creature! It is a shame she has to beg her living. Where is my purse?"]



CONTENTS


       I. EXPLORING THE NEW HOME

      II. THE FLAG ROOM

     III. CHRISTMAS DAY WITH THE CAMPBELLS

      IV. A ZEALOUS LITTLE MISSIONARY

       V. AN UNEXPECTED INVITATION

      VI. PEACE'S SPRING VACATION

     VII. A VOICE FROM THE LILAC BUSHES

    VIII. A PICNIC IN THE ENCHANTED GARDEN

      IX. GIUSEPPE NICOLI AND THE MONKEY

       X. THE LAST DAY OF SCHOOL

      XI. PEACE FINDS NEW PLAYMATES

     XII. A LITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM

    XIII. CHILDREN'S DAY AT HILL STREET CHURCH

     XIV. HOW THE FOURTH OF JULY MONEY WAS SPENT

      XV. PEACE GIVES THE LILAC LADY AN IDEA

     XVI. THE LILAC LADY FALLS ASLEEP



THE LILAC LADY



CHAPTER I

EXPLORING THE NEW HOME


Two days after the night of the memorable surprise party in the little
brown house, the place stood dismantled and deserted under the naked,
shivering trees, good-byes had been spoken, and the six smiling sisters
had driven away from their Parker home amid much fluttering of
handkerchiefs and waving of hands. Everyone was sorry to see them go,
yet all rejoiced in the great good fortune which had befallen the little
orphan brood. Even after the Judge's carriage, which was to take them to
the station, disappeared around the bend of the creek road, the
enthusiastic crowd of friends and neighbors clustered about the sagging
gate continued to shout their joking warnings and happy wishes upon the
crisp, frosty, morning air.

"There," breathed Peace, grinning from ear to ear, as she slowly unwound
from the corkscrew twist she had assumed in her attempt to catch the
last glimpse of the old home. "They're all out of sight now. I can't
even see Hec Abbott any longer up in the tree with his dirty
handkerchief. Oh, Mr. Judge, I forgot you were our coachman this
morning, but his handkerchief _is_ awful dirty! It always is. I guess
his mother doesn't chase him up like Gail does us with clean ones. Faith
Greenfield, what do you mean by kicking me like that? Ain't there room
enough on that back seat for your big feet?"

"Little girls should be heard and not seen," quoted Cherry with her most
sanctimonious air, noting the gathering frown on the older sister's
face, and not quite understanding what had gone amiss.

"Yes, that's just what Peace believes, too," cried Hope with her happy,
contagious laugh in which Gail and the Judge and even Faith joined,
making the sharp air ring with their hilarity.

"Guess this ride must make you feel ticklish, too," suggested Peace,
looking over her shoulder with a comical, self-complacent air at the
crowded rear seat of the carryall. "I 'xpected to see some of you
bawling about now--"

"Bawling!" echoed the girls in genuine surprise, while the old Judge
chuckled to himself. "What for?"

"'Cause we've left Parker for good and all. We're never going to live
there any more."

"But we shall visit there often. Grandpa said so," cried Hope, warmly.
"It isn't as if we were bound for the poor-farm or some dreadful orphan
home. We might have reason to cry then; but as it is, we're going to
Martindale to live in a splendid great house with splendid, lovely
people; and I can't help wanting to jump up and shout for gladness, even
though we do love Parker and all the people there who have been so good
to us--"

"Good for you, Miss Hope! Hip, hip, hurrah!" broke in the Judge,
flapping the reins wildly as he doffed his hat and cheered heartily.
"That's the proper spirit! We Parkerites don't expect you to break your
hearts because you are going to a new home; we'd think it very queer
indeed if you did. But we are glad to know this old town holds a tender
spot in your memories. We shall miss you more than you will us, which is
only natural; but as Hope says, you will be often among us as visitors,
even though the little brown house will never be home to you again.
Doctor and Mrs. Campbell have not only opened the door of their big
house to you, but also the door of their hearts. Go in and take
possession. You can make them the happiest people on earth if you want
to--and I know you do. They intended to drive over after you this
morning, but we villagers said no. They ought to be in Martindale to
greet you, and we certainly deserved the privilege of escorting you
to--"

"Ain't it nice to be pop'lar?" sighed Peace in ecstasy. "We're all bones
of _condescension_ today--now what are you laughing at?"

"Oh, we've reached the station already," chirped Allee with a suddenness
which made everyone jump.

"And if there isn't Mr. Strong!" cried the older girls in astonishment.
"How did you ever get here ahead of us? We left you sitting on Peace's
gate-post."

"He sneaked," Peace declared without giving him a chance for reply. "He
can sneak in anywhere. Oh, I didn't mean that as a _complimemp_, Mr.
Preacher. You know I didn't! But you truly go so like a cat that people
never know when you will jump out at them. Where is Elspeth--I mean
Pet--I mean--Oh, there she is in the station house, and Miss Truesdale
and Miss Dunbar and Dr. Bainbridge! We're much obliged that so many of
you have come down to make sure we left town. Let me get out of here,
Judge! I want to kiss Glen again." Scrambling excitedly out of her seat
beside the dignified driver, she was over the wheels before he could
stop her, and into the arms of the waiting friends.

None of the orphan sisters had expected such a glorious send-off--nor,
indeed, had the Parker friends planned it beforehand. It was just one of
those acts of kindness born of the impulse of the moment and made
possible because of a shortcut to the station and the grocer's wagon
which stood hitched in front of Mr. Hartman's door. But the sight of the
little group of neighbors on the station platform was very gratifying to
every one of the youthful Greenfields, and each proceeded to show her
pleasure in her own characteristic way. This second farewell-taking was
very brief, however, for down the tracks came the puffing train,
stopping at the narrow platform only long enough for the laughing,
chattering girls to climb aboard, before it glided away again, with
Peace's shrill protests trailing off into silence: "I don't see why we
have to take the train when it is such a teeny short ride. I'd rather go
by street-car. I didn't kiss Elspeth but once, and the Judge looked as
if he was dying for another--"

Silently, soberly, the gay little company at the railroad station
dispersed to their various homes; but fortunately for the band of
inexperienced travellers aboard the flying train, there was no time for
serious thought, so brief was their journey. Scarcely were they settled
with their hand-bags and grips when the brakeman threw open the door and
strode down the aisle, bawling loudly, "Martindale, Martindale! Our next
stop is Martindale Union Depot!" And before they could realize what was
happening, the porter had bundled them off in the great, dark, noisy
station-yard, filled with throngs of excited, hurrying people passing in
and out of the heavy iron gates.

Caught in the jam, there was a moment of breathless bewilderment; a
frantic disentangling of themselves from the pushing, shoving crowd; a
hurried, frightened survey of the sea of unfamiliar faces around them,
and then straight into the arms of the smiling college President the
anxious sextette walked.

"Well, well, well!" he cried with boyish eagerness, trying to gather
them all in one embrace. "Here you are at last! I've waited one solid
hour for this train. Those Parker people tried to tell me it was my
place to stand in the doorway over at the house and welcome you there,
but blessed if I could wait! Neither could Grandma. I thought I had
stolen away without anyone seeing me, but before I had reached the
car-tracks, there she was right at my heels. Here, mother, are
your--own!"

No welcome from the doorsteps of the great house could have warmed and
thrilled those six hearts as did the husky, tremulous words of greeting
in the dim, smoky station amid the clanging engines and shouted orders
of trainmen. Home! Ah, what a glorious feeling of possession! The tears
which had not come at thought of leaving the old home now welled up in
the blue eyes and in the brown, but they were tears of joy and
thanksgiving.

"I knew someone would do some bawling before we got through with this,"
sniffed Peace, searching in vain for the handkerchief which was never to
be found in her pocket, and finally wiping her eyes on the august
President's coat-sleeve. "Let's go home now. I want to see what it's
like. You didn't bring the carriage, did you? It's just as well, I
guess, for I s'pose we'll have lots of rides anyway. Only I wanted to
see if the horses looked anything like Black Prince. Is this our car?
Oak Street--I'll remember that; I may want to do some travelling all by
myself some day. If you've got ten rooms in your house, how many are you
going to turn over to us? For our very own, I mean. Three in a room
makes things awfully crowded if the rooms are as teeny as they were in
our house in Parker. 'Tisn't so bad in winter, but in summer we nearly
roast to death nights. Do you have much comp'ny, and will we have to
give up our rooms to them all the time? I forgot to ask you about these
things before we said we'd come."

"Peace!" reproved Gail in an undertone, trying to check the flow of
questions and information pouring so rapidly from the lively tongue.
"Don't talk all the time. Give grandpa a chance to say a few words."

"Yes, I will," responded the child with angelic sweetness, in such loud
tones that she could be heard all over the car. "I'm waiting for him to
say a few words now. How about it, grandpa? Shall we each have a room or
must we double up or thribble--"

"Peace!" called Allee in wild excitement, "there is Frances Sherrar's
house!"

"Where? Is it, grandpa?" asked Cherry, a little twinge of envy seizing
her as she remembered her younger sisters' visit there a few weeks
before.

"Yes," he replied, glancing hastily out of the window, "I think very
likely it was, as they live on the corner we have just passed, and the
next street is where we get off. Press the button, Curlypate, or the
conductor will carry us by. I didn't know you were acquainted with the
Sherrars, Abigail. Frances is a student at the University; you will
probably be in some of her classes. Give me your hand, Hope. There,
mother, all our family are off. Right about face! One block west,
and--here we are. Welcome home, my children! Peace, how do you like the
looks of it?"

They had paused in front of a great, rambling, old house, set in the
midst of a wide lawn, brown and sere now with approaching winter, and
surrounded by huge, knotted, gnarled, old oaks, whose dry leaves still
clung to the twisted branches and rustled in the crisp air. A fat,
sleek, black Tabby lay asleep on the warm porch-rail; a gaunt, ungainly
greyhound lay sunning himself on the door mat, and from inside somewhere
came the sound of a canary's riotous song. The whole place breathed of
home, and with a deep sigh of content, Peace lifted her great, brown
eyes to the President's face and whispered, "It seems 'sif I b'longed
already."

"You do," he murmured huskily. "This is home, dear."

Hand in hand they walked up the path and through the door into the big
hall, flooded with warm sunshine and sweet with the smell of roses. Up
the stairway they marched, followed by the other sisters, all silent,
wondering, but happy, and paused in the doorway of a large, airy room,
furnished with easy-chairs and couches, a tempting array of late books,
and a dainty sewing-table, heaped with pretty materials such as young
girls love. "This is mother's domain," the President announced, stepping
aside to let them enter. "Hang your wraps in that closet for the time
being, make yourselves presentable--there is a mirror on purpose for
prinking--and then get acquainted with your new home. There is still an
hour and a half before luncheon will be served, and that ought to give
you quite an opportunity to make discoveries. Now away with you!"

"But--," "How," "What do you mean?" blurted out the astonished girls,
wondering whether he was in earnest or just joking, for this seemed a
queer way to introduce them to their new life.

"Just what I say," he laughed. "Mother thought we ought to conduct you
about the place and explain all the different phases of your new home,
but I am inclined to believe you will like it better if you can make the
tour all by yourselves. Young folks usually glory in unexplored fields.
Now to it, for time is fleeting! I shall call for a report of your
discoveries at luncheon. A prize for the one who has seen the most."

"Do we have to go by ourselves?" Peace lingered to ask.

"As you wish," was the brief response; and with his hat in his hand, the
busy President descended the stairs, leaving a very bewildered group in
the sewing-room behind him.

"Well!" Gail ejaculated. "How shall we begin?"

"I saw a piano as we came through the hall below," Faith half whispered.

"And books! Everywhere!" cried Cherry, her eyes fastened longingly upon
the little book-case in the corner. "Do they really belong to us now?"

"Yes, of course," answered Peace in business-like tones. "Come on,
Allee; let's get to work and see what we can find before lunch time.
This is a pretty big house, and we've got to hustle if we get all around
it in an hour and a half. Wonder where grandpa and grandma went. Shall
we commence at the bottom and work up, or start in at the attic? I guess
the attic first will be best, seeing we've come up one flight of stairs
already, and it would be just a waste of time to go down and have to
climb them all again." Answering her own question, she clutched Alice's
hand and disappeared in one direction, as the sisters, following her
example, scattered about the great house on their tours of inspection.

The next ninety minutes were busy ones in the Campbell house, and it was
necessary to ring the dinner bell twice before all members of the happy
family were summoned to the table.

"Well, how goes it?" smiled the President. "Judging from the time it
took to gather the clans, some of you must have been pretty busy."

"We were," dreamily murmured Cherry, who had been dragged bodily from
the stacks of books in the library.

"Made any great discoveries?"

"Yes, indeed!" they cried in unison.

"Good! I'm all impatience! Relate your adventures. We are anxious to
hear how you like your new home--mother and I. Abigail, you are the
oldest; suppose you begin."

"I didn't get very far, I am afraid," said Gail modestly. "Just a peep
into the rooms upstairs and a beginning down here when I found Gussie
almost on the verge of tears because her dessert had burned black and
she had no time to make any more; so I--"

"Bet our talking burned up her pies," Peace was heard to murmur
remorsefully.

"--helped her out a little," continued Gail, "and by that time the bell
rang, so there was no opportunity for any further investigations."

"Saint Elizabeth," said the President reverently, while the white-haired
mistress of the house beamed her approval.

"Now, Faith,--but there is really no need of asking her about her
discoveries. She got no further than the parlor with its piano. Now, did
you?"

"No, grandpa," Faith confessed unblushingly. "I saw it when we came in,
and I simply couldn't resist it a minute longer than was absolutely
necessary. There will be lots of days for getting acquainted here, and
besides, I knew Peace would carry off the prize--"

"Me carry off the prize!" Peace interrupted. "I've never got a prize for
anything in my life--"

"Only because there never was one offered before for the person who
could see the most or talk the longest," laughed Faith, and Peace
subsided suddenly.

"Saint Cecilia,--she could not get past the piano," teased Dr. Campbell,
when the shout of laughter at Faith's sally had died away. "Hope, what
have you to say for yourself?"

"Not much. I visited all the rooms upstairs and down; fed the canary;
got acquainted with Blinks, the cat, and Kyte, the hound; found Towzer
and tried to make him be friends with Kyte, but he wouldn't be coaxed.
Gussie said there were some kittens in the basement, so I went down
there to find them, but the boy from the hardware store was there
working on the furnace, and some way we fell to talking about studies,
and he was so discouraged over his algebra lesson for night-school that
I stopped to see if I could help him out a little, and the bell rang
Just as we got the third problem worked."

"My gentle Saint Lucia," he said in praise, as he turned from her to the
next sister in age. "Cherry, give an account of your wanderings."

"I wandered downstairs as far as the library--I guess that is what you
call it."

"And then what?" for she stopped as if her tale were told.

"That's all. I stayed there."

"Oh!" The President wilted, Mrs. Campbell stared, and for a moment even
the sisters were silent in surprise at the matter-of-fact tone of the
narrator; then the whole assembly burst into another merry shout, much
to the disgust of poor Cherry, who could see no cause for amusement, and
voiced her sentiments by saying petulantly, "I don't see anything the
matter with that! What difference is there between playing the piano all
the morning and reading books?"

"It wasn't what you did that amused us," said Mrs. Campbell soothingly.
"It was the way you told it. We won't laugh any more."

"Oh!" breathed the ruffled damsel in relief, "if that's all, I don't
care how much you laugh. But you'll have a better chance with Peace--she
never can tell anything straight."

"What kind of a saint is Cherry?" inquired the younger girl, ignoring
the compliment she had just received. "If Gail is Saint 'Lizabeth and
Faith is Saint Cecilia and Hope is Saint Lucy, what's Cherry?"

"Saint Bookworm, I guess, Miss Curiosity-Box. What have you been doing
this morning?"

"Oh, lots of things," she sighed heavily. "Allee and me went together.
We began with the attic, which is full of trunks of old clothes and
battered-up furniture and cobwebs, and has two rooms for the hired girls
to sleep in. Gussie's room is just _suburb_! It's dec'rated with the
queerest looking old bird of a bedstead--"

"Peace! What slang!" cried Faith in genuine horror.

"It's no such thing! It is a bird! She calls it a swan, for it's got a
tall, crooked neck for the foot-board, and if I had it in my room, I'd
hang curtains on its tail. It could be done just splendid! I'll show you
after lunch if you don't b'lieve me."

"Oh, we believe you! Go on. I'm interested in that room," begged Hope,
wondering why she too had not begun with the attic.

"Then on the wall she has a great fish-net full of the prettiest
postcards of Norway and Sweden and De'mark. She's a Swede, you
know,--Gussie is; and her married brother and two sisters and
grandmother still live over there. That's where the fish-net came from.
I didn't have time to stop long to look at the cards 'cause there was so
much else to do 'fore lunch time, but she's invited us to come up some
evening when she's through work and then she'll tell all about them.
There's the loveliest green and yellow quilt on her bed that she made
all herself. She said grandma had a red one for her to use, but it
seemed more like home with her own things, so she uses them instead of
those that b'long to the house. But the prettiest of everything is a
queer little piece of glass hanging in the window which makes her room
look like a real rainbow on sunny days, 'cause the _prison respects_ the
light and sorts out all the colors. Oh, you needn't laugh and think you
know better! Gussie told us all about it, didn't she, Allee?"

"Gussie did not call it a _prison_," Hope could not refrain from saying.
"It is a prism, and it re--it isn't _respects_ the light, grandpa--"

"No. Refracts is the word she wants to use. Peace tries to drink in so
much information that she can't digest it all."

"Maybe that is what's the matter," Peace agreed thoughtfully. "Anyway,
her room is a beauty--lots prettier that Marie's, though Marie has the
same chance of making hers look nice that Gussie has. There's the same
difference in the girls themselves that there is in their rooms, too."

"Why, what do you mean?" cried the astonished mistress of the house,
while the President nodded his head in approval at the child's
observations.

"Well, Gussie is good-natured and 'bliging, while Marie is cross and
grouchy. We hadn't got the knob of her door turned before she ordered us
out of her room and told us to mind our own business."

"Poor childie, I ought to have cautioned you not to go into either of
those attic rooms without the girls' permission. You see, while they
work here, that is the one place in the house which is really theirs,
and they don't want the rest of the family intruding."

"Yes, I know now. Gussie told me how it was when I spoke of Marie's
being cross, but we never touched a thing; we just looked, didn't we,
Allee? Marie had the tooth-ache, and that's enough to make anyone ugly.
I got her some funny stuff that a shoemaker in Parker gave me once when
I had the tooth-ache. After that she was a little pleasanter to us--that
is, for a time. It did stop the aching right away, but it took all the
skin off her cheek where she put the medicine--it is to be rubbed on
outside. I forgot to tell her it would do that, so she didn't like it
very well when her face began to peel off, 'cause she is going to the
theatre tonight with her beau. But when she jawed about it, I told her
I'd rather have a skinned face and a chance to go to the theatre, than
an aching tooth any day of the week, and fin'ly she decided she would,
too. I guess I'll like her in time, but I like Gussie better. Then we
went on downstairs and 'xamined the rooms on that floor. The big front
room is awfully pretty, and so is grandma's room where she sews, but the
other three bedrooms are very bare and ugly-looking. Is that where
you're going to put us, grandpa?"

"Peace!" shrieked the sisters in horrified chorus.

"Yes!" roared the delighted President, and even Mrs. Campbell joined in
his merriment.

"Well, I s'pose it is healthy," Peace reluctantly admitted; then as if
divining a joke somewhere, she smiled serenely and continued her
recital. "We looked through the parlor and library and dining-room and
where you put company when they come, and then we came to the kitchen.
We got there ahead of Gail all right, for Gussie was just making some
pies and reading a book at the same time."

"A book!" echoed Mrs. Campbell, a slight frown gathering on the usually
placid forehead.

"Yes, it was a _pome_ of some kind that she was trying to learn. She
wants to be a _neducated_ Swede. She got through High School, but she
wants to know more'n that, so's she can be a teacher some day. That's
how she comes to be cooking for other people. She is a good cook and can
make pretty good money that way. She isn't a big spender, so every month
she can put away 'most all of her wages towards going to Normal School.
I always thought Normal School was where they sent bad boys and girls
who couldn't be good at home, but she says I mean Reform School. I guess
she'll get to Normal School all right. I told her Gail would help her
with her lessons when they got too hard for her alone, 'cause Gail's to
go to the University right away; but I didn't think Faith would be much
good at that, as long's she isn't quite through High School herself. I
told her Faith could make lovely fancy things to eat and would like
awfully well to teach her when she had any spare time, and Gussie says
she'll be tickled to learn, 'cause she is only a plain cook and not up
on frills yet."

Faith and the President exchanged comical glances across the table, but
Peace was too much interested in her cake and fruit to notice what was
going on around her, and blissfully continued, "We went down in the
basement, too, and saw that boy from Benton's. His name is Caspar Dodds.
His father is dead--what a lot of dead folks there are in this
world!--and he has to earn money to take care of his mother and two
sisters. She does plain sewing, and I promised you'd hire her sometimes,
grandma. They live on Sixteenth Street, just at the corner where the
Pendennis car turns off from the bridge. He told me how to get there.
He's going to night-school so's he can learn the education he's missing
daytimes, and says he gets along well in everything but algebra. I guess
that's how he came to speak to Hope about it. I told him she'd be glad
to help him with 'xamples he couldn't do, 'cause she was Professor
Watson's star scholar in that. Gussie told _us_ about the kittens, too,
so I knew Hope would be down to find them, and that way she'd see
Caspar. She must have come along right after us or she wouldn't have
found him, 'cause he was 'most ready to go when we went out to the barn.

"Jud had just brought in the horses from exercising them, and I told him
I guessed likely we'd help him at that job after this, for all of us
like to ride. At first he wasn't going to let us see the horses and we
had to do a lot of talking 'fore he'd give in. He used awful poor
grammar, and when he told us the stable wasn't the place for little
girls and that we better go in the house and learn to cook like Gussie,
I asked him why he didn't get some books and learn to speak right like
Gussie, instead of sitting on an old box and reading yellow
newspapers--well, it _was_ yellow, just as yellow and musty and old as
it could be! And he's too nice looking to be nothing but a horseman all
his life. When I told him that, he got interested and fin'ly showed us
some books he was trying to study, but he can't see sense in the
grammar. Gussie promised to help him, but she never has much time for
such things, and he thinks she thinks he's a plumb dunce. I promised to
ask her if that's the way she felt, but he said I mustn't; so I did the
next best I could think of--I told him Cherry would study grammar with
him. She uses the same book he has in the barn, and--"

"Peace Greenfield, did you really tell him that?" gasped poor frightened
Cherry, looking as if she had just heard her death sentence pronounced.

"Why, yes! I thought you'd be glad to help him out that much. I haven't
got as far as grammar in school yet, or I'd teach him all myself; but I
promised to _talk_ proper grammar to him, so's to help all I could. What
do you look so scared about, Cherry? He really wants to learn; he ain't
fooling. And he's an awful nice man. He showed us the squirrels' hole in
the vacant oak by the barn--I mean the hollow oak--and took us down to
the boat-house on the river. You never told us anything about the river
being so near here, grandpa. And he pointed out the University buildings
through the trees, and promised to show us around the grounds right
after lunch if you didn't have time to bother. He let us go up in the
barn loft and says if you're willing, we can have a playhouse up there
in the part with the window that looks out over the river. Then he
pulled out his watch to let us know it was lunch time, but we told him
right square out that there was one more thing we wanted to see, lunch
time or no lunch time, and that was the horses. So after he grumbled
some more about children being such nuisances, he took us downstairs
again, and showed us your Marmalade and Champagne. Oh, but--"

"What?" shouted the whole family in shocked amazement.

"Marmalade and Champagne," Peace repeated more slowly. "That is what Jud
called them. They aren't as pretty as our Black Prince, 'cause they are
only red, and a red horse is never as nice as a black--"

"Horses! What funny names!" laughed Hope.

"She has made a mistake," smiled Mrs. Campbell. "They are Marmaduke and
Charlemagne. My nephew's children named them, which accounts for their
high-sounding titles. I am glad you like Marmaduke and Charlemagne,
Peace. We think they are very intelligent animals. Jud has succeeded in
teaching them several rather clever tricks."

"Yes, I like the horses and I like the people. It's going to be nice to
live with such a _neducated_ bunch. Marie's the only one that doesn't
want to learn more, but p'raps she'll get over it. Who wins the prize,
grandpa? That's all Allee and me saw. And what is the prize?"

"After dinner in the den tonight I'll tell you the secret," the
President promised. "I had no idea it would take so long to recount your
adventures, but my time is up now. I must go back to the University at
once. And by the way, Peace, I am afraid Jud will have to show you
around the campus if you must see it this afternoon. I have an important
meeting at two o'clock."



CHAPTER II

THE FLAG ROOM


Scarcely had the dinner hour ended that evening when the hilarious trio
of younger girls, followed by the more sedate, but no less eager older
sisters, scurried down the long corridor toward the den where the
President had already intrenched himself, waiting for the promised
visit.

"Here we are, grandpa!" announced Allee, tumbling breathlessly through
the doorway and into the nearest chair. "We raced and I beat."

"'Cause Cherry tripped me up," exploded Peace wrathfully. "It's no
fair--"

"Tut, tut, my children!" Dr. Campbell interposed. "No scrapping allowed
here. This is a home, not a kennel."

"Oh, we weren't scrapping," Peace hastily assured him, "but I'd have won
if Cherry hadn't got her feet mixed up with mine, so's Allee got in
ahead. I don't care, though. I can run the fastest of the bunch
outdoors. Jud says I'm a racer, all right. _Did_ I get the prize for
talking the most this noon? Gail and Faith and all of them think I ought
to have it--that is, Allee and me. We went together and saw the same
things, though I did do all the telling."

The President laughed. "Yes, I believe you and Allee won the prize all
right. Grandma thinks so, too, but that is just where the hitch comes;
because, you see, the prize was just to be your choice of rooms
upstairs, and with Peace in one room and Allee in another, how are we
going to settle the question as to who has first choice?"

"Do you mean that the winner can choose which of those three bare rooms
she wants for her very own?"

"That's it." His eyes twinkled merrily. Peace's untrammeled frankness
furnished him much amusement.

"Well, then, why is Allee going to be in one room and me in another?"

"Why--why--why--" stammered the learned Doctor, at loss to know how to
explain certain plans he and Mrs. Campbell had in mind. "We thought it
would be best to pair you off so one of you younger girls roomed with
one of the older sisters. Don't you?"

"No," was the emphatic reply. "It wouldn't do at all."

"Why not?" gently asked Mrs. Campbell, who had entered the room so
quietly that none of the girls was aware of her presence.

"Well, s'pose you paired us off 'cording to our looks," Peace explained,
without waiting for any of the sisters to register objections; "there'd
be Hope and Allee together, for they are the lightest; and Gail and
Cherry would have a room by themselves, 'cause they aren't either light
or dark; and that would leave Faith and me to each other, being the
darkest of them all. Now, Faith and me can't get along together two
minutes. Ask Gail, ask Hope. Any of them will tell you so. It ain't
because we like to fight, either. We just ain't made to suit each other,
that's all. Mother used to say there are lots of people in the world
like that, and the only way to get along is to make the best of it and
agree to disagree. But it would never do to put us in the same room.
That's too close. We don't like the same things, even. Faith'd be cross
'cause I'd want to put my b'longings certain places, and I'd get awful
ugly if she took all the nice spots for her things.

"Then, s'posing you paired us off by ages--the youngest with the oldest,
and the next youngest with the next oldest,--that would still leave
Faith and me together. It wouldn't do at all, you see."

"How would you suggest dividing the rooms among you, then?" meekly
inquired the President, casting a comical look of resignation at his
puzzled wife.

"Put the ones of us together that get along the best. Allee and me are
chums, and Cherry and Hope, and Faith and Gail. Then we'd all be suited
and there wouldn't be any fussing--'nless it was among the big girls."

The President coughed gently behind his hand, Mrs. Campbell bent over to
straighten an imaginary wrinkle in the rug at her feet, while Gail and
Hope were industriously studying a picture on the wall. But Faith
readily seconded Peace's proposition, saying heartily, "What she says is
true, grandpa. She and I can't seem to get along together at all, though
we do love each other dearly. We never have been interested in the same
things, and I don't believe we ever will be. We have always paired off
the way she says, and get along famously that way."

"But how will you furnish the rooms that way?" wailed Mrs. Campbell
suddenly. "I had planned it all out--the blondes together, the
brunettes, and--"

"The blondes and brunettes?" repeated Cherry in bewilderment.

"Yes; fair-haired, blue-eyed people are blondes, while those with dark
hair and eyes are brunettes," Hope explained.

"It would be so much easier to carry out a color scheme in each room if
you girls were paired off according to looks," sighed the woman in
disappointment.

"Colors wouldn't amount to much if we fought all the time," murmured
Peace, trying hard to look cheerful even at the prospect of having to
room with the one sister she could not understand or agree with.

"That's so," agreed the President, chasing away the disfiguring frown on
his forehead with a bright smile. "Besides, mother, the girls may have
altogether different plans for decorating their rooms than--Well, Peace
and Allee have first choice of room then. Which shall it be?"

"The one with the teenty porch!" quickly responded the duet, as though
the matter had already been privately discussed.

"Aha, conspirators! Had your minds all made up, did you?"

"Yes, grandpa," Peace answered. "We have both slid down the pillar into
the garden--what was the garden--and clum up the trellis as _easy_! Just
think how much time we can save going in and out that way instead of
having to run clear down the hall to the stairs every time--"

"Peace!" screamed Mrs. Campbell in horror.

"Peace!" echoed the scandalized sisters.

But for a long moment the President only stared. Then he spoke. "Now,
see here, children, if you have that balcony room for your own, you must
promise one thing. Don't _ever_ use the porch pillars for a stairway
again, either to get inside the house or out. Do you understand?"

"Yes, grandpa," came the reluctant promise.

"You will not forget?"

"No, grandpa," with still more reluctance.

"If you do, you will forfeit that room, remember. Porch pillars were
never made for such purposes. They are not only hard on your clothes,
but think what would happen if you should slip and fall."

The whole group shuddered at this direful picture, and the chief culprit
snuggled closer to this newly found guardian, and whispered contritely,
"We didn't think of that before. We'll be good."

"That's my girlie! Now for the other matters we must consider. When it
was settled that you were to come here to live, mother and I talked over
plans for refurnishing the rooms you are to occupy, but somehow we could
not come to any satisfactory conclusions, and finally decided it would
be best and wisest to let you select your own furniture and arrange it
to suit yourselves."

"Whee!" interrupted Peace with a delighted little hop. "Won't that be--"

"Don't say 'bully'," implored Cherry.

"No, I won't. I'll say jolly. Won't that be jolly? Hooray!" Her shout of
joy ended in such a queer, shrill squeak that the little company burst
into a gale of laughter, and it was some minutes before order was
restored, but when at last the merriment had subsided, each duet found
themselves holding a small slip of paper which quite took their breath
away.

"What is it?" asked Allee, standing on tiptoe to get a better view of
the yellow scrap in Peace's hand, though she could not read a word on
it.

"Grandpa! Is it to furnish our rooms with?" cried Hope, impulsively
dropping a kiss on the tip of Mrs. Campbell's nose.

"Oh, you precious people!" whispered Gail tremulously. "It is altogether
too much. We ought not to spend all that just on our rooms."

"Now, look here, my dearies," interposed Mrs. Campbell, beaming benignly
at the flushed, surprised faces of the six girls, "father and I figured
it all out carefully, and that is the amount we decided upon as
necessary for all the fixings you would want to make you cosy. And you
will find it won't go so far after all; but I know you can trim up some
very dainty, pretty rooms with that amount. The beds we already had, so
we left them there, but all the other furniture has been removed to the
attic or disposed of in other ways, so you can follow your own
inclinations in refurnishing your boudoirs. That is why I was so anxious
to have the blondes together, but--I don't believe it will matter much.
You will find some way of getting around that."

"Of course they will, and the room that is fixed up the prettiest a week
from today will be presented with an appropriate picture," declared the
President, hugely enjoying the pleasure and surprise of his adopted
family.

Silence for a breathless moment fell upon the eager group, then with
characteristic energy, Peace grabbed Allee's hand and started for the
door, saying, "Come on, sister, let's get to work right away. We've got
to win that picture to go with our porch." Just at the threshold another
thought occurred to her, and she faced about with the remark, "Say,
grandpa, do we have to spend _all_ this money for dec'rations?"

"No," he laughed. "If you can find anything in the attic which you can
use, take possession of it."

"And the money we don't spend is ours?"

For a fraction of a second he hesitated, wondering what scheme was
taking shape under the thatch of brown curls; then with a twinkle in his
eyes he answered, "Yes, I reckon it is."

"But, Donald," whispered Mrs. Campbell in his ear, "they are too young
to be intrusted with such a sum."

"Grandpa," Gail interrupted, looking thoughtfully at the check which
Faith was still studying curiously; "must we do this without help from
anyone else? Suppose we should all happen to choose the same plan?"

"Oh, there is no danger of that at all because your tastes are not all
the same, so far as I can discover; but I think it might be a good plan
to consult with some older or more experienced person--some one outside
the family. Grandma and I are to be the judges, you know; so it would
not be fair for us to know beforehand what you were intending to do."

"Oh, how splendid to have it all a secret from you two!" cried Hope.
"But who will help us?"

"We shall ask Frances Sherrar," announced Gail after a whispered
consultation with her room-mate. "She knows all about such things."

"Then let's us ask Mrs. Sherrar," suggested Cherry, anxious to have as
good authority to back them in their plans.

"That's a good idea," Hope conceded readily. "Whom shall you choose,
Peace?"

They all expected to hear her name Mrs. Strong, her patron saint, but to
their utter amazement she promptly retorted, "Gussie!"

"But, Peace," they protested, "Gussie won't know--"

"Gussie thinks just like I do about colors and such things. That's why I
chose her."

Nor could the sisters change her decision in the matter, but as the time
was short and there were many other affairs demanding their attention,
the girls soon forgot their concern over Gussie's barbaric tastes, and
Peace and Allee were left to their own devices.

For the next three days they spent their leisure moments in wandering
hand in hand about the house, looking very sober, and listening
anxiously to the sound of hammers in the rooms adjoining theirs. Then a
marked change came over them; there were many conferences with Gussie in
the kitchen; much prowling about the attic in secret, and even two or
three trips to the barn to interview Jud, the man of all work. The sound
of hammer and saw could be heard at almost any hour of the day, hurried
visits were made to the sewing-room when no one else was in sight, and
the pungent smell of paint and paste filled the house.

But at last all three rooms were in spick-and-span order, and the two
judges were summoned to behold the result of the week's labor. At the
first door they halted, and the President turned to his wife with a
ludicrous grimace as he said, "Dora, I am afraid I've got us into
trouble. How in this wide world are we going to be able to decide which
is the prettiest room! And if it should be easy to decide that question,
how shall we ever make our peace with the occupants of the other two?
Oh, Dora!"

"Open the door!" clamored the laughing girls. "You should have thought
of these things before you made such a rash promise." And they pressed
about him so relentlessly that he was forced to turn the knob and enter
the first bower of loveliness.

It was indeed a bower, so refreshingly cool and beautiful with its color
scheme of pink and green and brown that it required very little
imagination to transport one into the heart of some enchanted woods; and
instinctively the four younger girls as well as the judges burst into a
long-drawn exclamation of wonder and delight.

"Oh, I can smell the flowers," cried Hope, sniffing the air hungrily as
if expecting to find the woodland blossoms there.

"And hear the creek," added Peace.

"I suppose they have won the prize," sighed Cherry disconsolately, while
behind their backs Gail and Faith ecstatically hugged each other.

"Don't decide the question until we have seen the other two," suggested
Mrs. Campbell sagely, and the excited company flocked eagerly into the
next room.

Here everything was in blue and gold, even to the dainty curtains at the
windows. The walls were covered with a delicate blue paper, dotted with
sprays of cheerful goldenrod; the dresser and table were decorated with
blue silk scarfs embroidered with the same flower; gilt-framed pictures
hung upon the walls; and from the head of each narrow, gilded bedstead
floated soft draperies of blue.

"Sky and sunshine," murmured Gail, quick to feel the perfect harmony of
the room. "Isn't it lovely?"

"Yes, and it is fully as pretty as ours," whispered Faith, "though I
like ours best."

"Now for the last," Cherry urged eagerly, well content with the
rapturous exclamations her room and Hope's had brought forth. "This will
have to be awfully good to beat the other two."

"It _is_ awfully good," Peace informed her. "_I_ think it is the best."

"So do I!" "And I!" came the chorus of surprised voices as the last door
swung open and the beauties of the third chamber burst upon their view.

"It makes me think of fire-crackers," Cherry pensively observed.

"Nobody but Peace would ever have thought of such a thing," Faith put
in.

"A regular Fourth of July room," stuttered the President when he had
recovered his voice enough to speak. "Girlies, how did you do it?"

"Well," confessed Peace, meditatively chewing her finger in her endeavor
to appear modest in the midst of such unstinted praise, "at first we
didn't know what to do. The other girls kept talking about 'propriate
colors for their complexions. Faith is all _blunette_ and she looks best
in pink. Hope is all blonde and blue is her best color, while Gail and
Cherry have _blunette_ hair and blonde eyes, and they chose yellow and
green. I didn't know it then, but that is what they did. Anyway, they
talked about the different colors till I thought we ought to have our
rooms fixed up in things that fitted us. That made it hard for Allee and
me, you see, 'cause she is all blonde and I'm all _blunette_. To fit
her, the room would have to be all blue, and to fit me it would be all
red. Gussie said it wasn't stylish to use red and blue together any
more, so we didn't know what to do until one day when we were
_rummelging_ through the attic we found heaps and heaps of perfectly
whole bunting and two great, big flags. That decided us to make a flag
room of ours, and Gussie said it was a _splen-did_ idea. So that's how
it happened.

"Allee and me'd rather sleep together so's we can talk when we are
awake, instead of having to holler our thoughts clear across the room
from one bed to the other whenever we want to talk secrets; so we traded
beds with Gussie. She said she was willing, and I always did want that
bird of a bed after I saw it in her room. But the curtains wouldn't hang
from its tail like I thought they would, and we--"

"Stole my Paris doll to hold 'em up with!" cried Cherry, spying for the
first time the beautiful waxen image dressed to represent the Goddess of
Liberty, which stood on a tiny mantel over the quaint little bed, and
held the bunting curtains in one hand.

"We _borrowed_ it," Peace corrected. "We couldn't very well _ask_ you
'bout it without your teasing to know why, and Allee and me didn't have
a decent doll among us. Besides, you never play with it any more, and
like as not grandpa or some other person that's got money will give us
one of our own for Christmas. Then you can have yours back again. I
guess you can wait that long, can't you? We wanted the walls striped
with red and white, but Gussie thought that would look too much like a
barber shop, so we just had white paper. It doesn't much matter, for the
flags cover most of that wall, and Martha and George--we found them in
the attic--Washington take up all the space on that side under the
eagle--we got that out of the glass case that stands in the barn loft.
We were going to see if we couldn't find some rugs with flags in them,
but Gussie said it wasn't nice to _walk_ on our country's flag, so we
chose this red carpet that used to be on this floor."

"But where did you get such cute, quaint furniture?" asked Faith who was
trying the white enameled chairs one after another.

"Oh, that all came from the attic, too. Didn't cost us anything. It was
a dull, ugly brown--"

"Mother's mahogany set," whispered Mrs. Campbell to the amused doctor
standing at her side.

"--but a little white varnish made it just what we wanted."

"Did you do the painting?" asked Cherry, testing it with her finger to
see if it stuck.

"No; we tried, but it looked so streaked we thought we sure had spoiled
it. Gussie didn't have time to do a good job on it, either; so we asked
Jud to help us out, and he said he would if Gussie--" There was a
movement at the door, and the company glanced over their shoulders just
in time to see Gussie's dress whisk out of sight down the hall. "--would
give him a kiss. So you see we got that work done dirt cheap, too.
Altogether, we spent nine dollars and ninety-one cents of the money
grandpa gave us. Gussie kept the list. That's what the paper and white
paint and ribbons for tying back our curtains--oh, yes, and the curtains
themselves came to. They are just dotted _Swish_ and we got it at a
sale, so it didn't cost us much. Mrs. Grinnell says always watch for
sales, 'cause lots of bargains can be picked up that way, and we
remembered it this time. We spent the extra nine cents--to make just an
even ten dollars--for candy to treat Gussie and Jud, seeing they
wouldn't take any money for their work, but they didn't eat it all; so
Allee and me had the rest."

"Did you make the curtains yourselves?" asked Cherry, the inquisitive.

"Well, mostly. Gussie cut them for us, and I held them straight in the
machine while Allee made the pedal go. The seams ain't _very_ crooked,
but sometimes the needle would hit a lump in the pattern and teeter out
around it, in spite of all I could do. But the made-up curtains at the
store cost lots more than the raw cloth and weren't half so pretty, so
Gussie said she'd help us make our own. Didn't we do well?"

"You certainly did," was the unanimous verdict. "The prize is yours."

"And children," said the President impressively, as they still lingered
in the quaintly furnished room; "I hope every time you enter this door,
the spirit of patriotism, the love of country, will grow stronger and
greater in your hearts."

"Yes, grandpa, I guess it will," answered Peace in all seriousness,
"'cause we'll always be thinking of the rest of that check money which
we've saved from dec'rating our room so's we could buy fire-crackers and
rockets for next Fourth of July."



CHAPTER III

CHRISTMAS DAY WITH THE CAMPBELLS


The days which followed the advent of the orphan sisters in the great
house were happy ones. Oh, so happy! How can they be described? The two
lonely old hearts which had hungered all these long years for the little
children who had so early left them thrilled with gladness at every
sound of the eager, girlish voices. Boundless content reigned in their
hearts as they watched each expressive face and studied each different
character; and they wondered openly how they had ever managed to live
without this precious band of granddaughters, as they insisted upon
calling their charges.

And the girls were equally happy. Gail felt as if a great weight had
been lifted from her shoulders, as if her soul had been suddenly freed
from a dark prison. The care-worn look vanished from the thin face; the
big, gray-blue eyes sparkled with animation; her heart bubbled over with
gratitude and love; and in every possible way she tried to show these
new guardians how deeply and tenderly she loved them. And her attitude
was that of the other sisters also, except that each took her own
method of showing it. The Campbells were well satisfied with their
experiment and were never tired of saying to each, other, "They are ours
now."

"Yes," Peace had answered them once when she had overheard these words;
"we are yours now, but it seems to me 'sif we had always belonged to
you. Some way, we fit in just as slick! 'Sif we had only been away on a
vacation and just got home again, and you're tickled to see us and we're
tickled to see you. Only--s'posing we really had been your
granddaughters, s'posing you had been our Grandpa Greenfield, I bet
_you'd_ never have named me Peace."

"No," Dr. Campbell replied gravely, but with a quick thrill of
tenderness in his heart for this little scapegrace who seemed to win
from everyone an extra share of love; "no, I don't think I should have
named you Peace--that is, if I could have foreseen what the blossom was
to be when the bud unfolded. I should have called you Joy."

"Joy?" repeated Peace. "Humph! That sounds like a heathen name. We've
got a story book about Hop Loy, a Chinaman who was born on Christmas Day
and never saw a Christmas tree until he was older'n Cherry. Why-ee!
Ain't that terrible! I used to think I'd like to have my birthday come
on Christmas, but now I'm glad it doesn't, for then everybody'd make one
present do for the two days, and I'd get only half as many pretty
things as other children have. It's bad enough as 'tis, being born on
New Year's Day, for by that time most folks have spent all their money
on Christmas doings."

"Oho," he mocked, "is that what is bothering you? Well, now, don't you
worry! You shall have your share of birthday gifts as well as heaps of
Christmas presents as long as you live with us. This year Christmas will
be doubly merry, for it is the first holiday season we have had any
young folks to help us celebrate since the days when Dora's nephew used
to spend his vacations with us."

"Why doesn't he come any more?" asked Cherry curiously.

"Oh, he is a gray-haired man now with children of his own," laughed
grandma, then sighed, for the rollicking Ned who had been the life of so
many vacations with them had married a society dame whose one aim was to
see how many social victories she could score, and the poor children of
the family fared as best they could in the great, loveless palace which
they called home.

"Do they live in Martindale?" asked Hope, eager to add to her list of
acquaintances any whom the Campbells loved.

"No, their home is in Chicago now. That is a photograph of the
children." She pointed to a group picture on the fireplace mantel, and
the girls clustered about it with inquisitive eyes.

"What a sad-faced child the smaller one is," observed Faith. "How old is
she?"

"Six or seven weeks younger than Peace, I believe. She was born on
Valentine Day."

"How lovely!" Peace cried joyfully. "But I'd like it better if it was
the boy who was almost my age. He looks the nicest of the bunch. The big
girl is homely--"

"Peace!"

"Well, it ain't her fault, I know, and I wouldn't mind how homely she
was if she looked _sweet_, but she doesn't. She looks 'sif she thought
she owned the earth and I never did like a _darnimeering_ person. Now
Tom--his name is Tom, isn't it?"

"No, dear, it is Henderson. Henderson Meadows."

"Oh! Why, I was sure it was Tom; he has such a Tom-ish look--"

A shout of derision interrupted her, but she stoutly declared, "Well, he
has! Boys named Tom are always nice--all I ever knew. I'm sorry his name
is Henderson. It doesn't sound a bit like him."

"You are a queer chick," said the President indulgently, "but I quite
agree with you in regard to Henderson. He is a splendid fellow, however,
in spite of his long name. They ought to have called him Ned Junior. He
is big Ned all over again, just as Belle the second is the counterpart
of her mother. Lorene is the odd piece. Every family has one odd one, I
believe. Lorene is like neither her father nor mother."

"What funny names! They are as bad as ours. But I should like to know
the children--the folks, I mean. I s'pose Belle is too old to be called
a child any longer, ain't she?"

"Yes, Belle is sixteen and stylish," he answered grimly, as if that told
the story, and it really did, for little more could be said of the
frivolous, society-loving girl, brought up to follow in the footsteps of
her worldly mother.

"Do they come here often?" ventured Gail, still studying the group, none
of whom looked really happy.

"No, oh no," Mrs. Campbell answered hastily. "Martindale is too quiet
for Mrs. Meadows. Ned sent Henderson and Lorene up here for a month last
summer, but Belle has never been our guest. Grandpa and I have visited
them twice in Chicago, but that is all we have ever seen them."

"I wish they lived nearer," sighed Peace. "We never had any cousins of
our own, but maybe they'd adopt us too, like you did; then we'd know
what it feels like to have real relations."

"Suppose you write Lorene. I think she would enjoy getting letters from
a little girl so near her own age."

"That _would_ be nice, s'posing I liked to write letters," Peace
assented, "but I don't. I'll send her a Christmas present, though; and
a valentine when it comes time, and a birthday gift, too. She will like
that, won't she? What street does she live on in Chicago? It'll have to
go pretty soon if it gets there in time for Christmas. That's only a
week off. Mercy! What a lot of work we'll have to do before then,
getting ready for the parties. I do love parties! But I don't see what
you wanted to make two for. One would have been a plenty, and not near
so much work."

Mrs. Campbell laughed comfortably. "The house isn't large enough to
accommodate all we want to invite, so we had to make two parties.
Besides, the evening party is a sort of 'coming out' affair for my older
girls--"

"Coming out of what?"

"Oh, introducing them into college society--"

"And we littler girls ain't worth coming out for? Is that it?"

"Oh dear no! But _little_ girls don't come out into society. They have
to wait until they are grown up. Even Gail and Faith are too young for
the social whirl as the world understands that phrase. They must wait
until they are through with school and college life before they take up
social duties. But they have met so very few of our young people since
coming here to Martindale to live that we are giving this party to
introduce them to their own classmates really. Do you understand now?"

Peace did not, but she vaguely felt that she ought to, so she bobbed her
head slowly and fell to puzzling over the queer ways of the world.
Fortunately for the whole household, the last week of preparation for
the holiday season was a very busy one, so Peace had little time to
think of all these perplexing questions; and when Christmas Day dawned
at length, everyone thought she had forgotten her grievance over not
being invited to attend the evening party for the older sisters. But
Peace remembered, and in the gray of the early dawn before anyone else
was awake in the great house, the door of the flag room burst open with
a jerk and a joyous voice shrieked through the gloom:

"What have you got in your stockings, girls? Mine is stuffed so full it
fell off the nail, and one chair and half the dresser is loaded with the
left-over packages. And Allee's got as many as I have. There's a doll
for each of us--they beat yours all hollow, Cherry. Now we've got a
Goddess of Liberty all our own and you can have yours as soon as ever
you want it. And I've got seven books. Guess Santa must have mixed me up
with you again, Cherry. There are three puzzles and five games and a lot
of handkerchiefs and ribbons, two sashes, and oh, the loveliest white
dress for winter wear, all trimmed with the softest velvet--just the
thing for your party tonight, Faith, s'posing I was invited. And
there's a plaid dress and a plain red one and a brown one and a dark
blue--six in all--and two coats. _Two!_ Think of that! Mercy, ain't we
rich now? Are you awake, all of you? Are you listening? Ain't this
different from last year?"

Ah, how well they all remembered that last Christmas, and what a hymn of
praise and thanksgiving went up from each of those six hearts for the
joy and good tidings this Christmas had brought them!

Before Peace had finished shouting her catalog of gifts, the other
sisters were awake--and indeed, the whole household was astir--examining
the generous remembrances loving hands had heaped around their beds as
they slept. And what a merry time they made of it! Gussie could scarcely
prevail upon anyone to touch her tempting breakfast, for excitement had
dulled the usually hearty appetites; the young folks found their
treasures more alluring than any breakfast table could possibly be, and
the President and his wife hovered over them to enjoy the sight of their
joy.

"A body'd think they had never seen a Christmas Day before," muttered
Marie, waiting impatiently in her snowy cap and apron to serve the
rapidly cooling breakfast.

"It's many a long day since they have seen one like this," said Gussie
loyally, smiling gratefully as she thought of the liberal number of
packages old Santa had left hanging to her door during the night. But at
length the meal was ended, Marie had carried the dishes away, Jud
appeared with a step-ladder and hammer, and the younger trio were
banished upstairs to amuse themselves until the last of the party
decorations were put in place. This was not a hard thing to do,
fortunately, and for once not one of them raised any objection to being
exiled in this fashion.

"Why, I've enough things of my own to look at and think about to last me
a week," Cherry breathed ecstatically.

"Yes, and s'posing you did get tired of that," spoke up Peace, "there's
all the rest of the girls' bundles to 'xamine. They've each got a
hundred 'most near, I sh'd think."

So for a long time they fluttered from room to room, admiring the pretty
things that were now their own, nibbling chocolate drops, or discussing
the party scheduled for two o'clock that afternoon. Then gradually
conversation flagged; each girl sought a favorite retreat, and
surrounded by her pile of belongings, sat down to gloat over them.
Silence fell upon the rooms, broken only by the sound of rustling
ribbons caressed by admiring hands, the opening and shutting of boxes,
the fluttering of story-book leaves, the protesting squeak of Queen
Helen's bisque arms and legs, and the rattle of mysterious puzzles.

Cherry had retired to her own domain to regale herself with certain
tempting volumes, and Peace and Allee were alone in the flag room when
the older girl suddenly dropped the book in which she had been lost for
a full half hour, and said eagerly, "Allee, this is the most interesting
story I ever read. It tells how the little Swede children give the birds
a Christmas. Think of that! The birds! We tried to make it happy for
everyone we knew--Jud and Gussie and Marie and the flirty chimney-sweep
who goes by here every morning, and the washwoman who lives in the
alley, and the milk-boy who comes so far through the cold to bring us
our milk, and Caspar Dodds' family--and--and--all of them; and we even
remembered the canary and the dogs, but we never thought of the birds
outdoors."

"No, we didn't," Allee agreed, pausing in her occupation of undressing
the gorgeous Queen Helen to stare fixedly at her sister as if trying to
fathom her thoughts. "We might ask Gussie for some crumbs. It ain't too
late yet."

"Crumbs wouldn't do at all. The book says they tie a sheaf of wheat to a
tall pole in the yard so the birds will see it and come down and eat.
See, there is the picture."

"Um-hm. But we haven't any tall pole in our yard, 'cept the flag-pole
and that's on the roof."

"No, we haven't any pole like the book shows, but we could hitch the
wheat on our balcony-rail knobs and when the birds came down to get it,
we could watch them from this window. See?"

"Where'll you get the wheat?"

"From the barn. Jud's got a lot of different kinds of grain out there."

"But we can't go downstairs until party time. Even lunch is to be
brought up here, grandma said."

"That's so. But I don't think they'd care if we just slipped down the
stairs and straight out of the front door. It wouldn't take us but a
minute to get the wheat and come right back again."

"Grandma said if we went downstairs before she gave us leave, we
couldn't go to the party at all."

"Then how can we feed those birds?"

"I guess we can't feed them this year--'nless we do it tomorrow."

"Tomorrow won't be Christmas. We've got to do it today. Just think how
nice it will be to play we are little Swedes and how pleased Gussie'll
be to think we did something her people do."

"Why do just Swedes feed the birds?" inquired Allee, still a trifle
dubious about entering into Peace's plan, in view of the risk involved.

"Oh, I s'pose they thought of it first. Every kind of people do
something queer at Christmas which they call a custom. The Holland
children put out their shoes on Christmas Eve for Santa Claus to fill,
instead of hanging up their stockings."

"Their shoes?" Allee's eyes were as round as saucers with astonishment.

"Yes. They wear big, wooden boats for shoes. I guess their feet must be
extra big--anyway, their shoes are simply _e-mense_ and will hold a lot.
Then there's the French people,--_they_ always save up all the fusses
and scraps they have had with other folks during the year, and on
Christmas Day they go around and get forgiven. Wonder what Gail would
think of that! And the Irish folks stay up all night to hear the horses
talk."

"Peace, you're fooling!"

"Allee Greenfield, do I ever fool you?"

"N--o, you never have."

"And I ain't beginning now. That is just what this book says."

"But horses don't talk!"

"Only at Christmas time."

"I don't b'lieve they do then. Did you ever hear them!"

"N--o, but I'm going to stay up tonight and listen."

"Oh, we can't. This is party night and what would grandma say?"

"We'll never know if they talk unless we do stay up and listen--and I'd
like to find out what they say. It's just at midnight. That ain't long.
We go to bed at eight, and midnight is only twelve o'clock. We could
stay awake easily till then, 'cause the people who are invited will be
leaving just about that time. I heard grandma say so. We'll just skip
away to the barn and see if Duke and Charley are talking, and then we'll
come back before anyone knows we're gone."

The plan was truly very fascinating, but Allee still looked very
doubtful, and after a silent moment Peace broke out in an aggrieved
tone, "I don't see what is the matter with you, Allee. You are getting
to be just like Cherry. She always sets down on my plans. You won't help
me hang up the wheat for the Swedes or listen to the Irish horses. You
never used to be like that."

"I will too help you!" cried Allee, hurt at her boon companion's words
and tone. "I'll do anything you want me to, only I don't see how we can
carry out either one of those. We'll surely get scolded if we go
downstairs now, and it would be dreadful if we couldn't go to either
party."

Peace walked to the balcony window and threw up the sash, murmuring, "If
only grandpa hadn't made us promise not to slide down the pillars! Oh,
I've got it, Allee! Look here!"

Allee scrambled up from the floor and hurried to her side, shivering in
the cold blast that blew in through the open window, bearing with it a
few feathery flakes, for it was trying hard to snow. "See that piece of
the wall that sticks out there, and--"

"But how can you walk on that little mite of a piece?" gasped Allee,
growing pale at the very thought. "And how would you get down to the
ground?"

"Oh, that's easy! The rain-pipe is fastened just high enough for me to
hang onto, and 'sides, the trellis goes part of the way to the porch
roof, and Jud hasn't taken down the ladder he put up there yesterday."

"Yes, but s'posing you should fall," wailed Allee in sudden terror, for
the water-pipe looked like a very frail support even for a child as
small and light of foot as was Peace, and the corner with the projecting
porch roof seemed so far away.

"There's snow on the ground. I wouldn't get hurt. But you needn't think
I'm going to fall. I've clum lots harder places than that before. You
stay here and when I get back you can tack up the wheat on the rail
post."

Carefully she stepped out on the balcony, slipped over the low railing
and set out on her perilous journey along the narrow coping, clinging
tightly to the rain-trough with one hand, and hanging onto the trellis
supports with the other till at last she was safe on the porch roof at
the corner. With an exultant shout she turned and waved her hand at
rigid, white-lipped Allee in the window, then slid lightly down the
ladder and out of sight. She was gone a long time, and the small watcher
above was becoming alarmed at her stay, fearing that the daring acrobat
had been caught at her pranks, and wondering what punishment would
befall her in such an event, when the bare, brown head appeared over the
low porch roof once more, and Peace inquired in a worried tone, "Do you
know whether birds eat hay? 'Cause I can't find any whole wheat out
there. It's all shocked."

"Why, I never watched them long enough to see," began Allee, eyeing the
great twisted wisp the older child had in her hand.

"Well, I brought some grain, too, but I don't know how we can tie that
to a pole, 'nless we leave it in the bag, and then how can the birds get
at it!"

"We might throw it along the rail--it's wide enough to hold quite a
little--"

"Course! What a _nijut_ I am not to think of that myself!"

Slinging the bag of grain over one arm, and still clutching the hay
firmly in the other hand, she began her slow creeping along the coping
back to the balcony window. The rain-pipe shook threateningly under her
weight, and even the trellis supports swayed uncomfortably when once she
slipped and almost lost her frail footing. Allee gave a low moan of
horror and shut her eyes, but the daring climber did not fall, and when
next the watcher looked, she beheld the curly, brown head bobbing over
the balcony rail, as Peace swung up to safety beside her, and dropped
the burden--the birds' Christmas dinner--into her trembling hands.

Nor was Allee the only one who trembled. On the snowy walk below,
approaching the house with rapid strides, came the dignified President,
hand in hand with two children, a bright-eyed, black-haired boy of
perhaps a dozen years, and an under-sized, gipsy-like little girl, both
chattering like magpies as they raced along beside the tall, erect old
man, when suddenly the girl screamed faintly, "Oh, Uncle Donald, look!"

But he had caught sight of the apparition even before she spoke, and
halted abruptly, breathlessly, terror clutching at his heart. The boy
followed the gaze of his two petrified companions, and ejaculated in
amazed admiration, "Golly, but she's got grit! Why, Uncle Donald, that's
your house! That must be one of the girls you were telling us about. Is
it Peace?"

The President nodded his head mechanically, not knowing that he had
heard the question, but the next moment the frozen horror of his face
melted. The climber had reached the balcony and was unconcernedly
scattering a handful of grain over the narrow railing, while Allee
securely bound the wisp of hay to the balcony post. A great sigh of
relief escaped the watchers below, their hearts began to beat once more
and the red blood pounded through their veins.

"Oh," gasped the girl, "I thought sure she'd fall!"

"I didn't," declared the boy with a wise shake of his head. "She's a
reg'lar cat. I believe she could climb a wall. She's like that 'human
fly' the papers are always telling about. I'd like jolly well to see
_him_ do some of his stunts, you better believe!"

The President said nothing, but his mouth set in grim lines and a look
of determination replaced the fearful pallor of his face. Forgetful of
the guests he had in tow, he marched into the house and straight up the
stairway with the children still at his heels. At the door of the flag
room he knocked, then without waiting for a summons from within, he
entered.

The two scatterers of Christmas cheer had finished their work by this
time and were now gleefully watching the feathered folk of the air
settling about the unexpected repast, so they scarcely heard the steps
in the hall or the creak of the opening door. But at the peculiar sound
of the voice speaking to them, both girls wheeled quickly, and Peace
asked in guilty haste, "Did you want us, grandpa?"

"Yes, come here, both of you."

They went and stood at his knee, a secret fear tugging at each little
heart as they saw the unusually stern look he bent upon them.

"Is--is--what--why--," stammered Peace, wishing he would smile a little
to relieve the keenness of his glance.

"What were you doing just now?"

"Feeding the birds like the Swedes do on Christmas Day, only we didn't
have a pole to hitch our wheat to, and all our wheat was in kernels
anyway, and we were told not to go downstairs until Jud and the girls
were through dec'rating, so we clum out of the window and I got some hay
and grain just as slick! Don't the birds look as if they were enjoying
their Christmas dinner?" Peace rattled on, speaking so rapidly that the
words fairly tumbled out of her mouth.

"Didn't I tell you when you chose this room for your own that you would
forfeit it the first time you used the window for the stairway?"

"No, grandpa," came the astounding reply from both eager little girls.
"You said _porch_, _pillars_, and we have _never_ used them for
stairways since the time we told you about. We 'membered that
_carefully_, and this time we used that wide piece that sticks out of
the wall, and then clum down Jud's ladder from the back porch roof. That
ain't the balcony pillars, grandpa. You never said we couldn't go down
that way."

In absolute amazement the learned Doctor of Laws gazed long and
silently into the anxious, upturned faces. Allee's lips began to
tremble, and even Peace, remembering the Doctor's words in regard to
lickings the night of the surprise party in the little brown house,
shook in her shoes; but she steadfastly returned his gaze, and quietly
repeated, "You know you didn't, grandpa!"

"No," he said at last. "I did not forbid your going down that way, but
it was only because I never dreamed you or anyone else would ever try
such a feat." Suddenly his sternness vanished, he stooped quickly and
gathered the scared little souls in his arms, choking huskily, "My
little girlies, if you knew what a fright you have given your old
grandpa--"

"Oh, grandpa," quavered Allee from her retreat on his shoulder, "we'll
never do it again, truly!"

"And you won't take this darling room away from us this time, will you?"
wheedled Peace, her equilibrium restored at sight of this unusual
display of emotion.

"No," he promised, "not this time. We'll try you again, but remember--no
more window climbing of _any_ kind."

"Not even out onto the balcony?" wailed Peace in dismay.

There was a sound of suppressed laughter from the hall, and as the girls
in the flag room whirled about to discover the cause, the President
suddenly remembered his new guests and rose hurriedly to his feet. But
Peace had reached the door in a bound and with a cry of delight dragged
forth the embarrassed strangers, exclaiming, "It's Henderson and Lorene,
grandpa! They look 'xactly like their picture, don't they, only not
quite so grumpy? Grandma said I better write Lorene and I did and I
invited her to come up for my party. That's how they happen to be here.
Now we'll get acquainted with our relations, won't we? I invited Belle,
too. Why didn't she come?"

"Belle and mamma went to Evanston last week," Lorene explained
bashfully.

"And they let you come all alone?"

"They don't know yet that we aren't in Chicago," chuckled Henderson.
"Dad let us come. It's only a twelve-hour ride and we don't change cars
at all. Pooh! We've gone longer ways than that alone."

"But not when mamma knew it," supplemented Lorene. "She'd have
_insisted_ upon sending Nurse with us--if she had let us come at all.
Where shall we put our wraps? It's hot in here."

"Oh, I forgot!" cried Peace, abruptly recalled to her duties as hostess,
for dazed Dr. Campbell had gone in search of his wife the minute he saw
that the children were sufficiently introduced.

"Hang your coat on the hall-tree, Henderson; and Lorene, bring your
things in here. It's pretty near lunch time already, and then we must
dress for the party."

So in spite of their very unexpected arrival, the two strangers received
a royal welcome, and were soon very much at home with the six merry
girls whom they promptly adopted as cousins, just as Peace had hoped
they would. And how quickly the hours flew by! Before anyone realized
it, the great clock in the hall struck two, and promptly the small
guests began to arrive. Happy voices filled the house, happy faces
beamed from every corner, happy hearts beat high with Christmas cheer;
the very air seemed charged with happiness. The four younger sisters
made charming hostesses, Grandma Campbell proved to be a rare
entertainer, and the dignified President won everlasting fame as a
story-teller and leader in games.

"_Everything_ was a success," as Hope thankfully declared when the last
guest had departed, and the happy group had congregated in grandma's
room to talk things over while Jud and his corps of helpers were setting
things to rights for the evening party.

"Yes," Peace reluctantly conceded, "but think how much nicer it would
have been if we could have had it in the evening like grown-up folks."

"Still harping about that?" laughed Faith, pausing in the doorway with
her arms full of holly wreaths ready to be hung. "Daytime is made for
children. Gail and I didn't intrude at your party."

"That ain't 'cause you wasn't invited," Peace replied pointedly.

"But we couldn't very well come," Faith answered hastily. "There were so
many things we had to get ready for our tree tonight."

"Getting things ready for a tree ain't like having to lie in bed and
hear all the noise and music and know you can't have any share at _all_
in them," Peace persisted; but Faith had already vanished down the
stairway, and only a tantalizing laugh floated back in reply.

A hush fell over the little company in the cosy room, each busy with
happy thoughts or rosy day-dreams, as she stared at the glowing embers
in the great fireplace or watched the white flakes drifting down through
the early twilight outside. Then there was a firm step on the stair, a
cheery voice from the hallway broke the spell, and six pair of eyes were
lifted to greet the busy President as he briskly entered the room and
paused to survey the pretty scene.

"Well, well," he said bluffly, "what's the difficulty? Quarrelling?"

"No, sir!" they shouted emphatically.

"We were just thinking--" Henderson began.

"How nice it would be if little folks were invited to grown-up parties,"
finished Peace, who seemed possessed of only that one idea.

"That's just what I have been thinking, too," was the surprising
confession from the tall man on the hearth rug.

"Wh-at!"

"Well, when mother and I came to think over the subject seriously, we
both agreed that it did not seem exactly fair to put three, no, four
such charming little maids to bed--for of course Lorene would share your
fate, too--when there were to be such festive doings downstairs,
although neither one of us believes in late hours for children. I
presume we are very old-fashioned in some things--"

"No, you aren't," chorused the loyal girls.

"No? True patriots! And yet didn't you think grandma and I were just the
least teenty bit hard on you to make you go to bed at the regulation
hours tonight when it is Christmas?"

"W-e-ll, we would like awfully much to stay up and see if Gail and Faith
do as good entertaining their comp'ny as we did," confessed Peace with
unusual hesitation.

"Supposing I should tell you that we have decided to let you stay up an
hour or two longer?"

"Oh, grandpa, what a darling you are!"

"No, you must thank Faith. She begged so hard that we have had to give
in to satisfy her."

"Faith?" Peace was so completely dumbfounded that they had to laugh at
her.

"Yes, dear, Faith. She says you are so dreadfully anxious to see what a
grown-up Christmas party is like that she is afraid you will die of
curiosity if you can't have that wish fulfilled."

"Grandpa, you are just joking," Cherry reproved.

"I am thoroughly in earnest, I assure you. To be sure, Faith used
somewhat different words, but she sympathized so heartily with you that
we decided to let you enjoy part of the evening's program. In fact, the
only reason we planned _two_ parties in the first place was because the
old house wouldn't hold at one time all we wanted to invite; and we
thought it would be a great deal easier to entertain our guests if we
had the big folks at one party and the little people at another. Do you
understand now?"

"Yes, and I'll bet you've been figuring on letting us go all the while
we were stewing about it," cried Peace, the irrepressible.

"Maybe you are right," he chuckled.

She bounced off the floor with a squeal of delight, clutched Allee with
one hand and Lorene with the other, and rushed out of the room, calling
back over her shoulder, "Now, I'm _surblimely_ happy! You better go
dress, Cherry! Dinner will soon be ready and there won't be much time
after that before the party begins."

They had been happy before, but the granting of this one dear wish
transported them to such heights of bliss that they seemed to be walking
on clouds, and went about in such a state of rapture that it was
ludicrous as well as delightful to behold their antics.

Evening came, the guests arrived, music sounded, carols were sung, and
Peace, entranced, moved about through the gay, light-hearted throng like
one in a dream. To be sure, it was just as the President had
prophesied--little attention was paid to the children of the party, but
it was glorious fun just to watch the changing scenes and be a part of
them, instead of lying tucked away in bed upstairs listening with
ever-increasing curiosity and longing to the sounds of merrymaking
below.

With a happy sigh of content at the realization of her great ambition,
Peace dropped down upon a pile of cushions by one of the long French
windows, leaned her forehead against the cool pane and looked out into
the night, where by the flickering light of the street-lamps she could
see the white snowflakes drifting slowly, lazily downward.

"My, but hasn't this been a happy Christmas!" she said aloud, though no
one was near enough to hear her words. "Who'd ever have thought last
Christmas that we'd be here tonight? Do you s'pose the angels know we
don't live in Parker any more? We might set a lamp in the window so's
they'd see it and be sure. Gail says mother always did that when papa
was out after night, so he could find his way home all right. I'll tell
Allee and when we go to bed we'll just remind the angels that we don't
need so much looking after now that we're living here. I'll never forget
how s'prised Hec Abbott was when he found out that we'd all been 'dopted
together. I wonder what Hec is doing about now? He can't brag any more
about the good times they have at his house. We are just--what in the
world is that coming up the steps?"

Mechanically she rose to her feet, her nose still pressed flat against
the window-pane as she studied the huge, misshapen figure already on the
wide veranda. The footman who had ushered in the guests of the evening
was at that moment occupied in fastening up a strand of evergreen which
had fallen close above a gas-jet; the President was at the furthest
corner of the great parlor engaged in an animated discussion with a
pale-faced professor of Greek; and Mrs. Campbell was nowhere in sight.
With a wildly beating heart, Peace seized the door-knob, and not waiting
for the queer stranger outside to ring the bell, she flung wide the door
and confronted him.

"Why, it's Santa Claus!" they heard her say, for the sudden sharp blast
of winter air had drawn a crowd to the door to see what had happened.
"Don't you know, sir, that you can't come in this way? Go up to the roof
and climb down the _chimbley_, like you do at other houses," she
commanded, and in the face of the amazed Saint Nick she slammed the
door.

"Peace, what have you done?" cried Gail aghast, as she caught a glimpse
of the fat, knobby pack disappearing down the steps.

"It was just that Santa Claus forgot to go down the _chimbley_," she
explained. "He ought to have remembered that!"

A shout from the adjoining room cut short her defense, and as the crowd
surged forward in that direction, she beheld the jolly old Saint
shuffling across the floor dragging his heavy pack which certainly
looked as sooty and dirty as if he had really plunged down the tall
chimney and through the fireplace. Straight to her corner he came, and
fumbling in his sack, drew forth a tiny statue of the Goddess of
Liberty, which he presented with an elaborate bow, saying in a deep,
rumbling voice, "To the defender of all childhood traditions--Liberty
enlightening the world!" His words were greeted with mad applause, for
by this time everyone had heard the story of the flag room and peeped at
its quaint furnishings; but the laugh was quickly turned from one to
another, for St. Nick had remembered well the pet foibles of each guest
present, and had brought with him appropriate gifts for all.

Much too soon the hands of the clock crept around to the hour of half
past ten, and with sighs of resignation and disappointment, the four
smaller girls, Cherry, Peace, Lorene and Allee, slipped quietly away to
bed.

"I did so want to hear the rest of the carols," murmured Cherry, yawning
so widely that she nearly swallowed the rest of the exiled group.

"We can hear them after we're in bed," said Peace, rubbing her eyes
which were growing very heavy in spite of her efforts to stay awake.
"Gussie promised to leave our doors open until time for the folks to go
home. It's the charades I wanted to see."

"Charades?" questioned Lorene. "Were they going to have charades, too?"

"She means tableaux," explained Cherry. "She's crazy about them. They
make me cough too much--the lights they use, I mean. Come on, Lorene,
sleep with me tonight until Hope comes up to bed. Do, please! It isn't
fair for you three to stick in here and leave me all by myself in the
other room."

Lorene glanced hesitatingly from one sister to the other, and seeing no
opposition, answered, "All right, Cherry, I'll stay with you till the
folks go. You don't care, do you, girls?"

"Not for that long," Peace magnanimously replied, for a daring plan had
just popped her eyes wide open, and Lorene might hinder its fulfillment.
So they separated, and in a few short moments four white-robed figures
were tucked snugly under the coverlets, the lights turned out, and the
two doors left ajar that the sleepy exiles might hear the strains of
music floating up the wide staircase. There was the soft sound of
whispered words from bed to bed like the sleepy twitterings of birdlings
in their nests, and then silence. Cherry and Lorene were fast asleep.
Downstairs the carols ceased, the wail of violin and guitar died away,
and the murmur of voices was again borne to the straining ears of the
conspirators in the flag room.

"Do you s'pose they have begun tableauing?" asked Allee, after what
seemed an eternity of listening.

"Not yet; they have lights. There, that must be one. See how queer the
hall looks through the crack of the door? I guess it's time now. Come
on, but be awful still."

"It's cold after being in that warm bed," protested Allee as her bare
feet touched the polished floor in the hall.

"We'll get some wraps in here," Peace answered, inspired by a happy
thought to seize upon two beautiful white opera robes belonging to some
of the guests below, and with these heavy garments trailing behind them,
they stole softly down the wide stairway almost to the landing, where,
out of sight from the company massed in the parlor and adjoining rooms,
they could still see the tableaux taking place in the reception hall
below.

Fortunately for their health's sake, this part of the program was brief,
and had it not been for the very last scene pictured, no one would have
dreamed of their presence behind the palings. But it happened that the
girls had chosen as a climax for the evening the tableau of the first
Christmas Eve; and Hope, arrayed as the angel of good tidings, appeared
on the stairs just as Jud touched off the weird red light on the
landing,--for neither actor nor servant had discovered the hidden
culprits until too late to utter any words of warning or reproof.
Startled beyond measure at the sudden glow almost at their elbow, the
two conspirators scrambled to their feet and vanished hastily up the
stairway as the chorus below took up the song,

    "Angels ascending and descending,
      Chanted the wond'rous refrain,
    'Glory to God in the Highest,
      Peace and good will toward men.'"

The long, fur-lined opera cloaks streamed out behind them like misty
clouds in the unearthly glow of the sulphur light, and it seemed as if
they were really a part of the beautiful tableau, which brought forth
such thunderous applause from the delighted audience that it had to be
repeated. This Peace and Allee did not know, however, for with
chattering teeth and trembling limbs, they had fled to the refuge of
their room, pausing only long enough to drop their borrowed finery where
they had found it; and they were crawling underneath the covers once
more when Peace hissed sharply in her sister's ear, "What about the
horses?"

"What's the matter with them?" murmured Allee, too confused and sleepy
to know what her companion was saying.

"We were going out to hear them talk at midnight."

"So we were! Well, I guess they'll have to talk all to themselves again
tonight."

"What? Ain't you going out with me to listen?"

"We'd freeze in our nightgowns and we dahsent take those pussy-cat coats
to the barn," protested the younger sister, aroused by Peace's surprised
exclamation.

"We'll dress."

"Oh, Peace, and then have the fun of taking our clothes off again?"

"We'll put on our stockings and overshoes and bundle up in grandma's
shawls. How'll that do? But first, we better light that candle I told
you about to let the angels know where we are tonight. There--I guess
they'll see it, even if it isn't as big as a lamp. Come on, I heard the
clock strike a long time ago."

If Allee had not been so sleepy she might have remembered one other time
just a year before when Peace had heard the clock strike; but being too
near the land of Nod to realize anything but that Peace was calling her,
she stumbled out of bed once more and allowed herself to be bundled up
in wraps of all sorts until she was as shapeless as a mummy. In this
fashion they slipped down the back stairs and out to the barn without
betraying their presence, though the steps creaked under their weight,
and every door they opened squeaked so alarmingly that Peace held her
breath more than once for fear someone had heard.

Once inside the dark barn, they had to feel their way about, for not a
ray of light penetrated the blackness of the stormy night, and the grim
silence of the place filled them with nameless terror. It was not so bad
when they had finally found their way into Marmaduke's stall and cuddled
close to the friendly beast, who nosed them inquiringly, but even there
they did not dare speak above a whisper; and so they waited breathlessly
for the mystic midnight hour when the animals should break their silence
and talk, each secretly wishing she were safely back in bed again.

Up at the house the merry evening had at length drawn to a close, and
the guests had reluctantly departed. The President, returning from the
gate where he had escorted the last guest to her sleigh, made a
harrowing discovery. There was a light in the balcony window! Could it
be that burglars had entered the house during the merrymaking and were
even now ransacking the rooms? He looked again. It was such a tiny,
steady light. Was it possible that one of the children was sick and
Gussie had not told him? The last thought sent him flying up the stairs
three steps at a time, and he reached the flag room door so breathless
that he could scarcely turn the knob. The bed was empty. Only a wee
taper from the Christmas tree burned faintly on the window sill.

In frantic haste he called the family and they searched the house from
garret to cellar, but the missing children were not to be found.

"Do you suppose the tableau scared them to death?" asked Hope.

"Maybe they tried to see if Santa Claus really came down the chimney and
got stuck there themselves," suggested Henderson, who regarded the
disappearance of the duet as something of a lark.

"Wake Jud," commanded Mrs. Campbell, and the worried Doctor hastily
lighted a lantern and went down to the barn to rouse the man of all
work, wondering as he did so what good that would do. The horses
whinnied as he entered the stable, and in the dim light that flooded
the place, the President saw that the door of Marmaduke's stall stood
open.

"What can Jud be thinking of?" he muttered somewhat testily, stepping
along to slip the bolt in its place, but the next instant his eyes fell
upon two dark bundles huddled at the horse's feet, and with a startled
exclamation he bent over to examine his find, just as Faith burst in
through the door behind him, crying, "They must have left the house,
grandpa, because the back hall door is unlocked and the storm-door is
swinging."

"Yes, Faith, and here they are," he answered, tenderly lifting the
smaller warm bundle and depositing it in the girl's arms. "What in
creation do you suppose they were doing here?"

As if in answer to his question, the brown eyes of the child he was just
lifting fluttered slowly open, and Peace drowsily drawled, "We fed the
Swede birds for Gussie, and got French forgiveness from grandpa for
doing so, and had a German Christmas tree, and lots of Hung'ry company,
and 'Merican stockings and a 'Merican Santa Claus, but we didn't hear
the Irish horses talk, and I b'lieve it's all a joke."

In spite of their anxiety, Faith and the President gave a boisterous
shout, and Peace heard as in a dream her sister's voice saying, "It is
Christmas Eve that the animals are supposed to talk. Poor Peace!"



CHAPTER IV

A ZEALOUS LITTLE MISSIONARY


Strange as it may seem, neither child felt any ill effects from that
midnight escapade, but the next morning they awoke as chipper and gay as
if there were no such thing as after-Christmas feelings. They even
forgot the lonely vigil in the stable in their dismay at the discovery
that Lorene had slept all night with Cherry instead of returning to
their room as she had promised to do. An after-breakfast summons to the
President's study brought their pranks vividly to mind again, however,
and with considerable trepidation they saw the heavy door close behind
them, shutting them in alone with the grave-eyed man, for they stood
much in awe of the learned Doctor when that stern look replaced the
usual bluff kindliness of his face.

The conference was exceedingly brief and to the point, judging from the
sober, wilted little culprits who pattered up the stairway a few minutes
later and silently sought the flag room. Henderson and the girls were
consumed with curiosity to know the result of the interview, and their
amazement knew no bounds when the disgraced duet vanished within their
quiet retreat and turned the key in the lock. After waiting in vain
fifteen minutes for them to reappear Lorene crossed the hall and knocked
timidly at the closed door. There was no answer. She tried again, this
time with more vim, but with no better success. Then she called, but not
a sound from within greeted her straining ear. Cherry and Hope each took
a turn, and Henderson pounded his fists sore without receiving a single
word of reply from the prisoners.

"I believe they have climbed out of the window," he cried at last in
exasperation.

"No, they promised grandpa not to. I guess maybe they've been sent to
bed," said Cherry, inwardly thankful that she had not been in the latest
scrapes.

Neither was right. But after a time, tiring of their efforts to get some
sign from the culprits, the quartette in the hall dispersed to amuse
themselves in some more entertaining manner. No sooner had their
footsteps died away on the stairs, and Peace was convinced in her own
mind that they had really gone for good, than a change came over her.
She was sitting erect in a stiff-backed chair in one corner of the room,
while her companion in misery sat huddled in the opposite corner,
staring at the fresco of flags above her head. Both looked dreadfully
woe-begone, and as if the tears were very near the surface, for
punishment sat heavily upon these two light-hearted spirits,
particularly as such severe measures did not seem necessary or just to
them in view of the smallness of their sin. However, when the racket
outside their door finally fell away into silence, Peace suddenly gave a
little jump of inspiration, twisted her feet about the legs of her
chair, and began a slow, laborious hitching process across the red rug
toward the tiny dresser. Reaching this goal, she jerked open a drawer,
rummaged out paper and pencil and began a furious scratching.

Allee watched with fascinated eyes, but true to her promise to the
President in the den below, she never said a word, though she was nearly
bursting with curiosity and it was so hard to keep still. After a few
moments of rapid scribbling on a page of vivid pink stationery, the
brown-eyed plotter again commenced her queer march across the room until
she had reached the door, unlocked it, and after a hard struggle managed
to pin the slip to the outside panel. Then with a sigh of mingled relief
at having accomplished her object and resignation at her unjust fate,
she closed the door once more, and wriggled back to her place opposite
Allee, never so much as looking at the eager face questioning hers so
mutely.

Again silence reigned in the pretty room, and both girls fell to
wondering what the other members of the household were doing. Suppose
Cherry had taken Lorene down to the pond to skate. That was what Peace
herself had been planning on ever since she had looked into the small
dark face of the child who was only six weeks and two days younger than
she was. Suppose Hope had gone with Henderson to coast on the hill. He
had promised Allee the first ride just the night before. Suppose Jud
should choose this morning to take the girls sleighing as he had said he
would do when the first heavy snow fell.

It had stormed all night and the deep mantle of white lay tempting and
inviting in the bright winter sunshine. Oh, dear, what a queer world it
seemed! Some people were in trouble all the time and some were never
bothered with scrapes and punishments. There was Hope. Why was it Hope
never did such outlandish things to cause anxiety and dismay to those
around her? Hope never even _thought_ of the freakish pranks that were
constantly getting Peace into trouble.

What was it grandma was always quoting? "Thoughtfulness seeks never to
add to another's burdens, never to make extra work or care, but always
to lighten loads." She said it was because Hope was always thinking of
beautiful things that made folks love to have her near; that it was the
mischievous thoughts which cause the misery of the world. She said--what
did she say? The brown eyes winked slower and slower, the brown head
bent lower and lower. Peace was asleep.

An hour passed,--two. The luncheon bell tinkled, the family gathered
about the table for the mid-day meal, but the chairs on either side of
the President's place were vacant. Glances of inquiry flashed from face
to face. Were the children to be kept in their room all day?

"Where are Peace and Allee?" asked the Doctor, very much surprised at
their absence.

"I haven't seen them since you sent them upstairs this morning,"
answered Mrs. Campbell, who had been occupied all the forenoon writing a
paper for the Home Missionary Society which was to meet at the parsonage
that afternoon.

A guilty flush overspread the President's fine face, and forgetting to
excuse himself from the table, he abruptly pushed back his chair and
strode from the room, muttering remorsefully, "I deserve to be licked!
That was three hours ago and I promised to call them in an hour." He
returned shortly alone, looking very foolish, and holding in his hand a
square of brilliant pink.

"What is it?" asked his wife, surprised at the look on his face. "Where
are the little folks?"

"Asleep. They looked so worn out that I put them on the bed and left
them to have their nap out. This is what I found on the door."

He dropped the slip of paper into her hands as he resumed his seat, and
she read in tipsy, scrawling letters Peace's poster: "It won't do enny
good to raket or holler to us. We can't talk for an hour. If you want to
ask queshuns go to grandpa he is boss of this roost."

She smiled a little tremulously as she passed the pathetic scribble to
Henderson, sitting at her right, but he, being a boy, saw only the funny
side of the situation, and let out a lusty howl of joy as he read aloud
the words with much gusto to his delighted audience.

When the laughter had subsided somewhat, the President asked ruefully,
"How can I make my peace with them? I sent them to their room for an
hour and promptly forgot all about the affair."

"I'll take them to the Missionary Meeting with me this afternoon,"
suggested Mrs. Campbell, "and you can come for us with the sleigh. Peace
has begged to go over ever since she has been here. It seems that Mrs.
Strong is an enthusiastic missionary worker, and Peace's greatest
ambition is to be like her Saint Elspeth."

"So she can find another St. John and marry him," giggled Faith.

"Yes. I guess it is hard to decide which one of her saints she thinks
the most of," Mrs. Campbell agreed; "but I am so glad she has chosen
such a beautiful couple to pattern her own ideals after. Their
friendship will do much for our little--" she intended to say
"mischief-maker," but this white-haired woman with her mother instincts
seemed to understand that Peace's mischief was never done for mischief's
sake, so she changed the word to "sunshine-maker."

Thus it happened that when the brown eyes and the blue unclosed after
their long nap, they looked up into the dear face of their
grandmother-by-adoption, and saw by her tender smile that their
punishment was ended. They were surprised to find how long they had
slept, but the delight at being allowed to attend a grown-up missionary
meeting, as Allee called it, overshadowed whatever resentment they might
have felt at having been forgotten for so long a time, and they danced
away through the snow beside Mrs. Campbell as happy and carefree as the
little birds which they had fed yesterday.

The meeting was not as exciting as Peace had been led to expect from
Mrs. Strong's enthusiastic recitals regarding missionary work, but some
of the words spoken by the different ladies sank very deeply into the
children's fertile brains, and both were so silent on the homeward
journey behind the flying horses that finally Mrs. Campbell ventured to
ask, "Are you tired, girlies? Was the meeting a disappointment to you?"

"Oh, no," Peace hastened to assure her. "_I_ liked it lots, and Allee
likes the same things I do, don't you, Allee? The women were pretty slow
about doing things--they talked so long each time before they could make
up their minds about anything. But it's int'resting to know that at
last they decided to send some barrels to the poor ministers in the
little places who don't get enough to live on. 'Twould have been better
if they had done it before Christmas, though, so's the children wouldn't
have thought Santa Claus had forgotten them. Do--do you think like Mrs.
McGowan--that if we have two coats and someone else hasn't any, we ought
to give away one of ours? That's what she said, isn't it?"

"Yes, that is what she said," Mrs. Campbell agreed; "and in a large
measure I believe her doctrine, too. If we have more than we need and
there are others less fortunate, I think we ought to share our
blessings. But it takes a lot of good sense and tact to do this
judicially."

"I think so, too," answered Peace with such a peculiar thrill in her
voice that the President, at whose side she was sitting, turned and
looked quizzically at the rapt face. "I don't b'lieve in talking a lot
about giving and then when it comes to really _doing_ it, to give just
the left-over things that ain't any good to us any longer, and wouldn't
be to anyone else, either."

"Why, what do you mean, child?" the woman asked, taken by surprise at
such quaint observations from the fly-away little maid, whose serious
thoughts were regarded as jokes even by her own family.

"Well, there was Mrs. Waddler in Parker. She always talked so big that
folks who didn't know her thought she must have millions of money; but
when she came to giving, it was usu'ly skim milk or some of her
husband's worn-out pants."

Here the President exploded, but at the same instant the horses turned
in at the driveway; and in scrambling down from the sleigh Peace forgot
to press her argument any further. Nor did the older folks remember it
again for some days. Then Mrs. Campbell entered the doctor's study one
afternoon with a deep frown on her forehead, and a little note in her
hand.

At the sound of her voice, the busy man paused in his writing and
glanced up hastily, asking, "What seems to be the difficulty?"

"This letter. I don't understand it. Mrs. Scofield writes a note of
regrets because I found it impossible to be with them at the last
missionary meeting, and closes by thanking me for my generous donation.
Now, it happens that just before Christmas, I carefully went through all
the closets of the house, sorted out and hunted up all the good,
half-worn clothing that we could spare, and sent it to the Danbury
Hospital for distribution among their poor families; so I simply had
nothing of value to add to the barrels intended for the frontier
ministers--"

"Why didn't you buy something?"

"I did; or, rather, I thought the poor preacher might find the money
more acceptable than anything I could purchase, so I selected the family
of Brother Bennet of Idaho, and sent him a check. I mailed it to him
direct, not wanting to run the risk of the barrel being delayed or
destroyed. I also neglected to inform the ladies of what I had done; so
I am sure they know nothing about it, for it is yet too early to hear
from Mr. Bennet himself."

"Maybe it is a case of a little bird's having told the story," laughed
the doctor, taking up his pen to resume his writing, and his wife, still
musing over the strange occurrence, went away to receive a caller who
had just been announced.

An hour later she returned to the study looking more perplexed than when
she had left him before, and the President banteringly asked, "Haven't
you found out yet about that generous donation?"

"Yes, Donald. Mrs. Haynes has just told me the whole story. It was not
my donation at all."

"Ah, the worthy ladies just got mixed in their thanks--"

"Not at all! It was Peace's work, and naturally they thought I had
authorized it. That little rascal picked up about half her wardrobe, her
Christmas doll, several games and story books, and goodness knows what
all, and took them over to Mrs. Scofield's house to be packed in the
missionary barrels. Not only that, she persuaded Allee to do the same
with her treasures."

"The little sinner!" ejaculated the startled President. "Without saying
a word to anyone about her intentions?"

"She never consulted _me_."

"Nor me. Well, we must just send her back after them, and make her
understand she must ask us when she wants to dispose of her belongings."

"That is just the trouble. The barrels have already gone."

"You don't say so! The monkey! Send Peace to me when she comes in, Dora.
We must curb these philanthropic tendencies in their infancy and direct
them in the right channels. There is the making of a wonderful woman in
that small body."

"With the right training."

"Yes. God grant that we may be able to give her the right training."

Peace came radiantly in response to the message, dancing lightly down
the hall as a hummingbird might flutter along, and the mere sight of her
merry face as it popped through the study doorway was like a sudden
shaft of sunlight in the great room. The President had determined to
meet her gravely, even sternly, and show her that her uncalled-for
generosity had displeased them, but in spite of himself, his eyes
softened as they rested upon the sweet, round face upturned for a kiss,
and he gently drew her into his lap before telling her why he had sent
for her.

"Why, yes, grandpa," she readily confessed. "I did give away some of my
clothes and other things, and so did Allee, 'cause the children of the
ministers on the frontier need them so much more than we do. Why, we're
rich now and can have anything we want! You said so yourself, you know.
We couldn't give the things we didn't want ourselves, grandpa, 'cause
that wouldn't be a _sacrilege_; and the pretty lady who talked at the
missionary meeting that day said it was the _sacrileges_ we made in this
world that put stars in our crowns in the next world."

"Sacrifice, dear, not sacrilege."

"Is it? Well, I knew it was some kind of a sack. I want lots of stars in
my crown when I get to heaven. Just think how terrible you'd feel
s'posing when St. Peter let you inside the Gates, he handed you just a
plain, blank crown. Mercy! I know I'd bawl my eyes out even if it does
say there aren't any tears in heaven. So I picked out the things I liked
the very best of all I got on Christmas--that is, most of them were. I
don't care much for dolls, so that wasn't any sacri-_fice_ for me; but
Allee likes them awfully much yet, and it was a big sacri-_fice_ for her
to let hers go. But I sent my dear, beautiful plaid dress that I thought
was the prettiest of the bunch, though I let Allee keep the one she
liked best, seeing she cried so hard about Queen Helen. She didn't seem
to enjoy thinking about the big star she'll get in its place, so I told
her I thought likely you or grandma would give her even a prettier doll
for her birthday, which isn't very far off now. I sent the book which
tells all about the way little children in other lands spend Christmas
day, but it was pretty hard work to give that one up. I pulled it out of
the heap three times, and fin'ly had to run like wild up to Mrs.
Scofield's house with it, so's I wouldn't take it out and put it on the
shelf to stay."

"But why did you take so many things?" asked the Doctor lamely.

"There are five children in the family we sent our stuff to, and three
of them are girls. There are six girls in our family, and when we lived
all alone in the little brown house with just ragged, faded dresses to
wear and only plain things to eat, holidays and all, we'd have been
tickled to death if someone had given us such pretty things all for our
very own. Oh, wouldn't it have made _you_ happy if you had been a little
girl?"

The great, brown eyes shone with such a glorified light and the small,
round face looked so blissfully happy that the Doctor's lecture was
wholly forgotten, and for a long time he held the little form close in
his arms while his mind went backward over the long years to the time
when he was a homeless orphan and Hi Allen--Hi Greenfield--had shared
his treasures with him. They made a beautiful picture sitting there in
the gathering dusk, the white head bending low over the riotous brown
curls, the strong hands intertwined with the supple, childish fingers;
and so completely had she captured the great heart of the man that when
at length he set her on the floor and sent her away with a kiss, he
spoke no chiding word. And Peace skipped off well content with the
results of her first missionary efforts.

A few days later she danced into the house one afternoon from school,
wet from head to foot with a damp, clinging snow which was falling, and
at sight of her, Mrs. Campbell threw up her hands and exclaimed, "Peace,
my child, what have you been doing?"

"Ted and Evelyn Smiley and Allee and me and some others had a snow-ball
battle."

"That is expressly forbidden by the school board--" began the gentle
little grandmother reprovingly.

"Oh, we didn't battle with the school board, grandma! We waited until we
reached Evelyn's house and had it in their back yard. The snow is just
right for dandy balls."

"I should think as much. Come here!"

Peace obeyed, glancing hastily at her feet as she guiltily remembered a
certain pair of new shoes which she was wearing and saw the sharp, black
eyes fixed searchingly upon them.

"Peace Greenfield, what have you on your feet?"

"Shoes."

"Your new strapped shoes--slippers--for summer wear?"

Peace nodded.

"After I told you not to wear them until warmer weather!"

"You didn't say that, grandma," Peace expostulated. "You said as long as
I had any others, you guessed I had better put these away for party wear
until it got warmer."

As a rule, Peace's excuses rather amused the mistress of the house, but
this time she looked sternly at the little culprit, and briefly
commanded, "Go to your room and put on your other shoes immediately."

"I haven't got any others."

"No others? What do you mean?"

"I--I--gave mine all away."

"To whom did you give them?" asked the President, who had entered the
room unnoticed.

"To a little girl I met on the hill yesterday. Her toes were sticking
through hers and she looked dreadfully cold, and kept stamping her feet
to keep them from freezing."

The President swallowed a lump in his throat.

"She did not need _two_ pair to keep her feet warm, did she?"

"She was twins."

"Wh-at?"

Peace jumped. "Well, she said she had a sister just her same age at
home, who hadn't any shoes at all."

He took her by the hand, led her to her room, and after seeing that the
wet shoes and stockings were replaced with dry ones, he lectured her
kindly about giving away her belongings in such a promiscuous manner
without first consulting her elders. And having won her promise for
future good behavior, he went down town to purchase new shoes for the
shoeless culprit, satisfied that Peace would remember his words of
caution, and that they should not again be disturbed by the too generous
acts of this zealous little home missionary.

And Peace did remember for a long time, but one day when the two younger
children had been left alone with the servants, temptation again invaded
this little Garden of Eden, and the brown-haired Eve yielded.

It was late in the afternoon and Peace and Allee were standing by the
window watching the sinking sun, when a ragged, stooped, old man trailed
down the quiet street with a battered, wheezy, old hand-organ strapped
to his back and a wizened, wistful-eyed, peaked-faced child at his
heels. Seeing the two bright faces in the window and concluding that
money was plentiful in that home, the vagabond slipped the organ from
its supports, and began grinding out a discordant tune from the
protesting instrument, sending the ragged, weary, little girl to the
door with her tin cup for contributions.

Peace saw her approaching, and opened the door before she had a chance
to ring the bell, surprising the tiny ragamuffin so completely that she
could only stand and mutely hold out her appealing dipper, having
forgotten entirely the words she had been taught to speak on such
occasions.

"You're cold," said Peace, a great pity surging through her breast as
she saw the swollen, purple hands trying to hide under ragged sleeves of
a pitifully thin coat.

"Ver' col'," repeated the beggar, finding her tongue.

"And hungry?"

"Not'ing to eat today."

Peace made a sudden dive at the dirty, unkempt creature, jerked her into
the warm hall, and calling over her shoulder to the organ-grinder on the
walk, "Go on playing, old man, she'll be back pretty soon!" she slammed
the door shut, pushed the child into a chair by the glowing grate, and
turned to Allee with the command, "Go ask Gussie for something to eat.
Tell her a lunch in a bag will do. She's always good to beggars."

"No beggar," remonstrated the little foreigner. "Earn money. Some days
much. Little this day. It so col'."

"Is that all the coat you have?" Peace demanded, eyeing the scant attire
with horrified eyes.

"All," answered the child simply, and she sighed heavily.

"I've got two. You can have one of mine," cried Peace, forgetting
wisdom, discretion, everything, in her great pity for this hapless bit
of humanity.

"You mean it? No, you fool," was the disconcerting reply.

"I'm not a fool!"

"No, no, not a fool. You jus' fool,--joke. You no mean it."

"I do, too! Wait a minute till I get it, and see if it fits. You're
thinner'n me, but you're about as tall."

She rushed eagerly up the stairway, and soon returned with the pretty,
brown coat which she had found on her bed Christmas morning. Into this
she bundled the surprised beggar child, pleased to think it fitted so
well, and explained rapidly, "I got two new coats for Christmas. Grandma
said the red one was for best, so I kept that one, but you can have
this. Keep it on outside your old rag. It will be just that much warmer,
and tonight is awfully cold. Here's a pair of mittens, too. Wear 'em;
they're nice and warm."

Thrusting Allee's bag of lunch into the blue-mittened hands, Peace
opened the door and let the newly-cloaked figure run down the walk to
the impatient man stamping back and forth in the street. They watched
him minutely examining the child's new treasures, but they could not see
the avaricious gleam in his ugly eyes, nor did they dream that the
precious brown coat would be stripped off the shivering little form just
as soon as they were out of sight around the corner, and bartered for
whiskey at the nearest saloon.

So happy was Peace in thinking of this other child's happiness that she
never once thought of her promise made to her grandfather until she saw
Jud drive up the avenue and help the rest of the family out of the big
sleigh. At sight of the erect figure striding up the walk with the
gentle little grandmother on one arm and sister Gail on the other, she
suddenly remembered that he had told her when she gave away her shoes
that she must ask permission before disposing of her belongings, or he
should be compelled to use drastic measures. "Brass-stick" measures, she
called it, and visions of a certain brass rule on the desk in the
library rose before her in a most disquieting fashion as she recalled
that impressive interview.

"Don't tell him what you have done," whispered a little evil voice in
her ear.

"Tell him at once," commanded her conscience; and acting upon the
impulse of the moment, she flew into the old gentleman's arms almost
before he had crossed the threshold and panted out, "I 'xpect you'll be
_compendled_ to use your _brass-stick_ measures on me this time sure. I
guv away my coat!"

"You did what?" he cried, pushing her from him that he might look into
her face.

"Gave, I mean. I gave away my brown coat."

"Peace!"

The sorrowful tone of his voice cut her to the heart, but she flew to
her own defense with oddly distorted words, "I couldn't help it,
grandpa! She was so ragged and cold. S'posing _you_ had to go around
begging hand-organs for a squeaky old penny, without anything to eat on
your back or vittles to wear. Wouldn't _you_ like to have someone with
two coats give you one?"

"Very likely I should, my child. I am not blaming you for the unselfish
feeling which prompted you to give away your coat to one more
unfortunate than yourself, but you are not yet old enough to know how to
give wisely. You will do more harm than good by such giving. No doubt
your little brown coat is in the pawn-shop by this time."

"But grandpa, she was in _rags_!"

"Yes, and that is the way that brute of a man will keep her. Do you
suppose he would get any money for his playing if he sent around a
well-dressed child to collect the pennies? No, indeed! That is why he
makes her wear rags. He will sell or pawn your coat for liquor, and
neither you nor the beggar child will have it to wear."

"But I have my red one."

"You can't wear that to school."

"Why not?"

"It is not suitable."

"Then you'll get me another."

"No, Peace."

"You won't?" Her grieved surprise almost unmanned him.

"No."

"But you've got plenty of money!"

"I will not have it long if you are going to give it all away."

"You bought me some more shoes."

"Yes."

"That took money."

"Yes."

"I--I thought you'd give us anything we wanted."

"I have tried to, dear."

"But I shall want another coat."

He shook his head. "You deliberately gave away the one you had without
asking permission. I can't supply you with new clothes continually if
that is what you intend to do with them."

"Then how will I go to school any more?"

"You must wear the coat you had when you came here to live."

"So you hung onto that old gray Parker coat, did you?" she said
bitterly.

"Yes, and now you will have to wear it until spring comes."

She was silent a moment, then shrugged her shoulders and airily
retorted, "I s'pose you know! But, anyway, it was worth giving the new
coat away just to see how glad the Dago was to get it."

It was the President's turn to look surprised, and for an instant he was
at a loss to know what to say; then he took her hand and led her away to
the study, with the grave command, "Come, Peace, I think we will have to
see this out by ourselves."

She caught her breath sharply, but never having questioned his authority
since the days of the little brown house were over, she obediently
followed him into the dim library and heard the door click behind them.
As the gas flared up when he touched a match to the jet, she looked
apprehensively about the room, and shuddered as she saw the brass ruler
lying on top of a pile of papers on the desk. He even picked it up and
toyed with it for a moment, and she thought her hour of reckoning had
surely come. And it had, but not in the way she expected.

Dropping the ruler at length, he abruptly ordered, "Sit down in my lap,
Peace."

Usually he lifted her to that throne of honor himself, but this time he
made no effort to help her, and when she was seated with her face lifted
expectantly toward his, he disengaged the warm arms from about his neck
and turned her around on his knee until she was looking at the desk
straight in front of them. Then he picked up a book and began reading
silently.

Peace was plainly puzzled, for each time she turned her head to look at
him, he gently but firmly wheeled her about and went on reading. At last
she could be patient no longer, and with an angry little hop, she
demanded, "What's the fuss about, grandpa? What are you going to do?"

Without looking up from his book he laid one finger on his lips and
remained silent.

"Can't I talk?"

It was a terrible punishment for Peace to keep still, and knowing this,
just the faintest glimmer of a smile twitched at his lips, but he merely
nodded gravely.

"Aren't you going to say anything?"

Gravely he shook his head.

Peace stared at the chandelier, then surreptitiously stole a peep at the
face behind her. A big hand turned the curly head gently from him.

She studied the green walls with their delicate frescoing, then
cautiously leaned back against the President's broadcloth vest. Firmly
he righted her. Dismay took possession of her. This was the worst
punishment that ever had befallen her,--that ever could.

She gulped down the big lump which was growing in her throat, and
counted the books on the highest shelf around the wall.
Fifty--sixty--seventy--her heart burst, and with a wail of anguish she
kicked the book out of the President's hand and clutched him about the
neck with a grip that nearly choked him, as she sobbed, "Oh, grandpa,
I'll never, never, _never_ forget again! I'll be the most un-missionary
person you ever knew,--yes, I'll be a reg'lar heathen if you'll just
speak to me! I didn't think I was being bad in trying to help others--"

"My precious darling! I don't want you to be a heathen," he cried,
straining her to his heart. "I want you to be the best and most
enthusiastic little missionary it is possible for you to be, but in
order to be a good missionary, one must first learn obedience, and
cultivate good judgment. I wouldn't for all the world have my little
girl grow up a stingy, miserly woman. I am proud of the sweet, generous,
unselfish spirit which prompts you to try to make the burdens of others
lighter, but you are too little a girl yet to know how and where to give
money and clothes and such things so they will do good and not harm."

"I see now what you mean, grandpa. I thought when I gave my coat to the
little hand-organ beggar that she would keep it and use it. I never
s'posed her father wouldn't let her have it, and now when he takes it
away from her she will be sorrier'n she would have been if she had never
had it."

"Yes, dear; and the money the old fellow gets from selling it will
undoubtedly be spent for drink, or something equally as bad for him.
Just out of curiosity, I traced the shoes you gave to the child on the
hill not long ago, and I found that she had not told you the truth at
all. She had no twin sister, nor did she even need the shoes herself."

"Is--is--there no one that really is hungry and cold and needs things?"
gulped the unhappy child after a long pause of serious thought.

"Oh, yes, my dear! Thousands and thousands of them," he sighed
sorrowfully; "and I am deeply thankful that my little girlie wants to
make the old world happier. But after all, dear, the greatest need of
this world of ours is love. It is not the _money_ we give away which
counts; it is the _love_ we have for other people. I remember well a
little couplet your great-grandmother was fond of quoting--and she
practiced it every day of her life, too,--

    'Give, if thou canst, an alms; if not, afford
    Instead of that, a sweet and gentle word.'

"She had little of this world's goods to give away, but she was one of
the greatest sunshine missionaries I ever knew. My, how every one loved
her. And her son, Hi, was just like her--one of the biggest-hearted,
most lovable people God ever created. He was certainly a power for good
during his life, but his only riches were a great love for his fellowmen
and his warm, sunny smile."

Again a deep silence fell over the room, for Peace, cuddled in the
strong man's arms, with the tears still glistening on the long, curved
lashes, was thinking as she had never thought before. Suddenly the
dinner bell pealed out its summons, and as the President stirred in his
chair, the child lifted her head from his shoulder, and looking squarely
into the strong, kindly face, she said simply, "I'm going to be like
them and you, so's folks will love me, too. And I'm not going to give
away any more coats or shoes without you say I can, until I am big
enough to grow some sense. I'm just going to smile and talk."

He did not laugh at her quaint phrasing of her intentions, but
tightening his clasp upon the small body nestling within the circle of
his arms, he quoted,

    "'Work a little, sing a little,
      Whistle and be gay;
    Read a little, play a little,
      Busy every day.
    Talk a little, laugh a little,
      Don't forget to pray;
    Be a bit of merry sunshine
      All the blessed way.'"



CHAPTER V

AN UNEXPECTED INVITATION


Having a naturally light-hearted, merry disposition, Peace did not find
it hard work to "smile and talk," but it was hard, very hard, to
restrain her generous impulses to give away everything she possessed to
those less fortunate than herself, and it soon became a familiar sight
to see her fly excitedly into the house straight to the study where the
busy President spent many hours each day, exclaiming breathlessly as she
ran, "Oh, grandpa, there is a little beggar at the door in perfect rags
and tatters! Just come and look if she doesn't need some clothes. And
she is so cold and pinched up with being empty. Gussie has fed her, but
can't I give her some things to wear? I've more than I need, truly!"

Then the good man with a patient sigh would leave his work to
investigate the case, spending many minutes of his precious time in
satisfying himself as to whether or not Peace's newly found beggar was
genuine and really in need of relief,--for this small maid's thirst for
discovering vagabonds seemed insatiable, and the string of tramps which
haunted the President's doorstep led poor Gussie a strenuous life for a
time. But relief came from an unexpected source at length.

Late one dull spring afternoon, as Gail sat with her chum, Frances
Sherrar, in the cosy window-seat of the reception-hall, studying the
next day's Latin lesson, a shadow fell across the page. Looking up in
surprise, for neither girl had heard the sound of approaching footsteps,
they beheld on the piazza the bent, shriveled, ragged form of what
appeared to be a tiny, deformed, old woman. An ancient, faded shawl,
patched and darned until it had almost lost its identity, enveloped her
from head to foot, and she looked more like an Indian squaw than like a
civilized white being. Her head and hands shook ceaselessly as with the
palsy, and the way she tottered about made one fearful every minute last
she fall.

"Oh," cried Gail in quick sympathy, "what a feeble old creature! It is a
shame she has to beg her living. Where is my purse?"

"Are you going to give her money?" asked Frances in surprise.

"Doesn't she look as if she needed it?"

"She is a fake. I've seen her ever since I can remember--always just
like this. She wouldn't dare beg in town, but we are so far out--well,
if you are really determined to do it, here's a quarter."

Gail took the proffered coin, added a shining dollar to it, and
stepping to the door where the palsied beggar stood mumbling and whining
a pitiful hard luck tale, she pressed the silver into the leathery,
claw-like hand, smiled a sympathetic smile and bade the old woman a
God-speed.

Frances stayed for dinner that evening, and as the family gathered
around the table for this, the merriest hour of the whole day, the
President suddenly clapped his hand against his pockets, searched
rapidly through them, and finally brought forth a crumpled sheet of
paper, daubed with many ink blots and tipsy hieroglyphics, which read,
"No more beggars, tramps and vagabuns allowed on these promises. We have
already given away enuf to keep a army. There are two dogs and two men
in this family--so bewair!"

Even the presence of Peace, the author, did not prevent an explosion of
delighted shrieks from the little company, but the child merely fixed
her brown eyes, somber with reproof, upon the perfectly grave face of
the Doctor of Laws, and demanded, "Now, grandpa, what made you take it
down?"

"I didn't, child," he defended. "It had blown down, I think, and lodged
about the door-knob. I thought it was a hand-bill, and rescued it as I
came in."

"Where had you put it?" asked Cherry, grinning superciliously at the
distorted characters on the soiled paper.

"On the side of the house by the front door," she confessed. "That's
where I put that one."

"That one! Are there more?" laughed Frances, whose affection for this
original bit of femininity had only increased with the months of their
acquaintance.

"Of course! There had to be one for each door, 'cause the beggars don't
all go the back way, and to be sure everyone saw the tag, I stuck one on
the corner of the barn nearest the road, and another on each gate. That
surely ought' to be enough, oughtn't it?"

"I should think so," Mrs. Campbell agreed, making a wry face at thought
of the queer-looking signs scattered so liberally about the property
"How did you come to make them?"

"'Cause of that beggar at the front door this afternoon," Allee
volunteered unexpectedly.

"What beggar?" asked the President with interest, while Gail and Frances
exchanged knowing glances.

"A teenty, crooked, old woman came to the house while grandma was out
this afternoon," Peace began. "She looked as if she might be a witch or
old Grandmother, Tipsy-toe--I never did like that game--"

"We thought she _was_ a witch," again Allee spoke up, unmindful of the
frown on her older sister's face; "and we hid."

"But we watched her," Peace continued hastily, "and saw Gail give her
some money. She did look awful forlorny and squizzled up as if she never
had enough to eat to make any meat on her bones, and she nearly tumbled
over, trying to kiss Gail's hand 'cause she gave her some money. So
after she was gone, we ran down to the gate to watch her, and what do
you think? Just as she turned the corner, there was a cop--"

"A what, Peace?"

"I mean a p'liceman, coming along with his club swinging around his
hand, and when the beggar woman saw him, she straightened up as stiff
and starchy as anybody could be, and hustled off down the street 'most
as quick as I can walk. She was a--a fraud, and Gail got cheated just
like I did when I gave that hole-y shoed girl on the hill my shoes."
Here Frances shot a look of triumph at discomfited Gail. "So I made up
my mind that grandpa is right--they are all frauds."

"Why, Peace, child, I never said that in the world," the President
disclaimed, surprised out of his usual serenity by her words.

"That's so,--you said only half were frauds. Well, I guess it's the
fraud half that come here to beg of us. Gussie is tired of feeding them,
Jud's getting ugly, and if they keep on coming I'm 'fraid they'll really
eat grandpa out of house and home. Jud says they will. There were seven
tramps last week, and already we have had two this week, and one beggar.
So I made these signs and stuck them up where everybody'd see them and
know they meant business, w'thout Jud's having to turn the dogs loose or
get his shotgun like he said he ought to. He told me that all hoboes
have some way of letting other hoboes know where they can get a square
meal, and that's why we have so many. He says they never used to bother
so until I came here to tow them along by coaxing Gussie to feed 'em. I
thought I was being good to 'em. S'posing we had sent grandpa away when
he came tramping around to our house in Parker--Faith wanted to--where
would we be now? Still grubbing in Parker trying to get enough to eat,
'most likely; or maybe in the poorhouse, for 'twas grandpa who paid the
mortgage on the farm. I guess I must wait till I'm grown way up to have
any missionary sense."

She spoke so dejectedly and her face looked so pathetic and utterly
discouraged that no one had the heart to laugh, but a sudden feeling of
restraint fell upon the group. Even the President had no words in which
to answer the poor, disheartened little missionary.

"Do you belong to Miss Smiley's Gleaners?" It was Frances who spoke, and
though the words themselves signified little, her tone of voice was like
an electric thrill, and the faces of the whole company turned
expectantly toward her as she waited for Peace's answer.

"No, not yet. Evelyn has been after us ever since we came here to join
them, but something has always kept us away from the meetings each
month, so we haven't been 'lected yet. Evelyn says they don't do much
but have a good time, anyway, though it is a missionary society. That's
about all our Sunshine Club in Parker ever did, too, 'xcept make comfort
powders for the sick and _mained_ in the hospital."

"Evelyn is right about what the Gleaners used to be, but since her aunt
has taken up the work, they are doing lots of real missionary work. Why,
since Christmas they have raised enough money to take care of two
orphans in India for a year. Edith Smiley is such a beautiful girl--"

"Ain't she, though!" Peace burst out with customary impetuosity. "I've
wanted her for my Sunday School teacher ever since we began to go to
South Avenue Church, but she's got a class of _boys_."

"And don't they adore her!"

"No more'n I would."

"It is easier to get teachers for girls' classes; and besides, Miss
Edith has had these boys from the time she started to teach. She
certainly has her hands full with her Sunday School class, the Gleaners
Missionary Band and the Young People's Society, for she is our president
this term. There is no lag about her. She is always planning something
beautiful for somebody. _Everyone_ loves her. When Victor was in the
hospital the time he was hurt by the runaway, Miss Edith took him
flowers several times; and the nurse told us that she visits the
children's ward twice a month regularly and takes them fruit or flowers
or scrap-books or something nice. They always know when to expect her,
and she never disappoints them."

"She certainly knows how to make sunshine for those around her," said
Mrs. Campbell warmly. "I am so pleased to think she could take charge of
the Gleaners. We ladies were really afraid the society must die. Miss
Hilliker had neither strength, time nor talent to do justice to the
work; but, poor soul, she did try so hard, and she did give the children
a good time, whether or not they ever accomplished anything else."

"I am glad Miss Smiley has taken the Gleaners, too," said Peace
meditatively. "Me and Allee 'xpect to join at next meeting. I guess
maybe Cherry and Hope will, too, though I haven't asked them yet."

"I think you have headed them in the right direction, Frances,"
whispered the President in grateful tones, when at last the dinner was
ended and the chattering group were filing out of the dining-room. "I
was beginning to wonder what in the world to do with our little Peace,
but I think perhaps Miss Smiley will help solve the problem for us."

"I know she will," Frances replied confidently. "I can understand how
discouraged poor Peace must feel. I've been there myself, only instead
of giving away my own things as she does, I gave away other people's
belongings. I can never forget the seance I had with mother the day I
handed over father's best, go-to-meeting overcoat to a dirty,
evil-looking tramp, and gave away Victor's velocipede to the ash-man's
little boy. I came to the conclusion that the whole world was just a
sham and all men--yes, and women--were liars. Mrs. Smiley came to my
rescue, and what missionary spirit there is left in me is due to her
good work and untiring efforts. Edith is a second edition of her
mother."

"And I think Frances must be second cousin at heart," said the Doctor,
gently pressing her hand.

"I don't deserve such praise," she protested, blushing with pleasure at
his compliment. "I have only tried to make the most of the best in me,
remembering the little verse we had for a motto:

    'No robin but may thrill some heart,
      His dawnlight gladness voicing.
    God gives us all some small sweet way
      To set the world rejoicing.'

"We were only children when we took that as our class motto, but we have
kept it all these years, and I know there is not one of the girls who
considers it childish sentiment even yet."

"That is why I am particularly thankful for your words at the table
tonight. I want my girls to meet and mingle with and be influenced by
such people as Miss Edith and her mother--and Miss Frances!"

"I shall work hard to keep the reputation you have given me," she
laughed gayly, flitting away to join Gail in the Grove, as the pink and
green and brown room was called; but she was secretly much touched and
helped by the President's words, and rejoiced openly when a few days
later the four younger Greenfield girls really did join the Gleaners
Missionary Band and became active workers in that field.

"It is kind of a queer missionary society," Peace reported after one of
the meetings. "Sometimes we don't say hardly a word about heathen or
poor ministers on the frontier all the time we are at the church. We
talk about how we can help each other and our families and folks who
live close by us. Miss Edith says first and foremost a good missionary
must be cheerful and sunshiny. Our motto is "Scatter Sunshine," and our
song is the prettiest music I ever heard. She says it isn't the music
that counts, it's the words, but just s'posing we sang:

    'In a world where sorrow
      Ever will be known,
    Where are found the needy,
      And the sad and lone;
    How much joy and comfort
      You can all bestow,
    If you scatter sunshine
      Everywhere you go.'

to the tune of 'Go tell Aunt Rhody,' it wouldn't cheer _me_ up very
much. "Would it you?"

"No," laughed Mrs. Campbell, who chanced to be her confidante on this
particular occasion, "I don't think it would; but on the other hand,
meaningless words would not cheer anyone, either, no matter how pretty
the tune. Is that not so?"

"Yes, I s'pose it is. I guess it takes both together to do the work.
This week our verse is:

    'Can I help another
      By some word or deed?
    Can I scatter blessings
      O'er a soul's sore need?
    If I can, then let me
      Now, within today,
    Help the one who needs me
      On a little way.'

"The next time we tell if we remembered the verse and worked it."

"Worked it?" Mrs. Campbell was not yet accustomed to Peace's queer
speeches, and often did not understand her meaning.

"Yes. Miss Edith says just helping Gussie carry the dishes away nights,
or buttoning Marie's dress when she is cross and in a hurry, or getting
grandpa's slippers ready for him when he comes home from the University
all cold and tired, or holding that squirmy yarn for you when you knit
those ugly shawls, or talking nice to Jud when he makes me mad, is being
a missionary. She says it is the little, everyday things that count; for
some of us may never get a chance to do anything real big and splendid,
and if we wait all our lives for such a time to come along, we will be
just wasting our talents. But all of us have hundreds of little things
each day to do, and if we do them cheerfully and sweetly, we are being
sunshine missionaries and are making others happier all the time. She
says Abr'am Lincoln's greatest wish was to have it said of him when he
died that he had always tried to pull up a thistle and plant a flower
wherever he got a chance. Thistles mean hard feelings and mean acts, and
the flowers are kind words and deeds."

"Miss Edith has found the key to true happiness," murmured Mrs.
Campbell, glancing out of the window at a tall, slender, gray-eyed
young lady hurrying down the street, surrounded by a bevy of
bright-faced, adoring boys and girls.

"Yes, she's another Saint Elspeth, isn't she? How nice it is to have her
here as long as I can't have my dear Mrs. Strong! And do you know,
grandma, she and Mrs. Strong were chums when they went to college? Isn't
that queer?"

"How did you happen to find that out?"

"'Cause on my list of missionary doings this week I had 'not getting mad
when Gray chawed up St. Elspeth's letter 'fore I had read it more'n
three times.' And she asked me who Saint Elspeth was."

"Do you make out a list of missionary doings each week?" asked Mrs.
Campbell, amused at Peace's version of the occurrence, for the child had
been so angry at the destruction of the letter from this beloved friend
that she had seized a heavy club and rushed at the cowering pup as if
bent on crushing its skull. Before the blow descended, however, she
dropped her weapon, bounced into a nearby chair, and glared wrathfully
at poor Gray until he shrank from her almost as if she had struck him.
Then suddenly the anger died from her eyes, and clutching the surprised
animal about the neck she fell to petting him energetically, exclaiming
in pitying tones, "Poor Gray, I don't s'pose you know how near I came to
knocking your head off any more'n you know how much I wanted that
letter you've just swallowed, but I'm sorry just the same. Shake hands
and be friends!"

Peace, not understanding the smile that crept over the gentle face of
the dear old lady, hastened to explain, "We write them so's folks won't
laugh. We don't mean to laugh at each other, but sometimes children do
say the funniest things. There is Bernice Platte for one. She can't say
anything the way she wants to, and it makes her feel bad when we giggle.
So Miss Edith took to having us write our lists. I don't care how much
they laugh at me, I get so much of that at home that I am used to it,
but some folks ain't brought up that way and I s'pose it hurts."

Mrs. Campbell caught her breath sharply. It had never occurred to her
before that Peace was sensitive, but the gusty sigh with which these
words were spoken told her companion much, and slipping her arm about
the little figure crouched at her side, the woman said gently, "Would
you mind telling grandma some of the bits of sunshine you have been
scattering this week?"

The wistful round face brightened quickly. "Would you care to hear?"

"I should love to, dearie."

"I didn't _make_ much sunshine, I guess, 'nless 'twas here at home where
folks know me, but I tried. You know Hope has been taking flowers to
one of her teachers at High School, and the other day Miss Pope told her
that she gave them all to her brother who is lame and can't walk, and he
spends all his days drawing and painting the pretty things he sees.
Well, there is a teacher in our school who looks awful turned-down at
the mouth, and kind of sour like, and last week Minnie Herbert told me
that it was 'cause the woman had lost her brother in a wreck. So I
thought maybe she'd like some flowers, and I took her some. I didn't
know her name, but she was sitting in the hall to keep order during
recess time, and I carried the bouquet right up to her and laid them in
her lap. I 'xpected to see her smile, but instead, she picked them up
and looked kind of red as she asked me what made me bring them to her. I
meant to tell her I was sorry she looked so lonely and sad, but what I
really said was 'homely and bad.' I don't see why it is I always twist
things up so, but that made her mad and I couldn't explain it so's she
would take the flowers again, and I had to give them to one of the girls
whose mother has _delirious tremors_."

"Oh, Peace, you have made a mistake."

"What is it, then?"

"I presume the poor woman is delirious with a fever of some sort."

"_Tryfoid_," supplied Peace. "Stella told teacher so. That same day on
my way home from school I saw a little girl lugging a heavy pail, and
the handle kept cutting her hands, so she had to set it down every few
steps and change to the other side. When I asked her to let me help, she
gave me hold, and we carried the bucket down the alley to a
chicken-coop, where it had to be dumped, 'cause it was slops for the
hens. There was a big box there to stand on, and I lifted the pail to
the top of the fence and emptied it, but the woman which owns the
chickens was right under where the stuff fell, and she didn't like it a
bit, and scolded us both good.

"Then there was Birdie Holden who wanted a bite of my apple, and when I
turned it around to give her a good chance at it, she bit straight into
a worm, and said I did it on purpose, though I never knew the worm was
there any more'n she did.

"But the worst of all was the day teacher sent me to the office for
thumb tacks to fasten up our drawings around the room. She told me to
see how quick I could get back, but she never counted on the principal's
not being there, which she wasn't. So I had to wait. Then all at once I
saw a big sign on the wall which said if Miss Lisk wasn't in and folks
were in a hurry, to ring the bell twice.

"I was in a _big_ hurry for I had waited so long already that I thought
sure Miss Allen would be after me in a minute to see if I was making the
tacks; so I grabbed the cord and jerked the bell hard twice, and then
twice again, and then twice the third time. I 'xpected she'd come
a-running at that, but what do you think, grandma? Everyone in that
schoolhouse just got up and hustled out of doors as fast as they could
march. We never used to have fire drill in Parker and I hadn't heard of
such a thing here, either, so I was dreadfully s'prised to find what my
gong-ringing had done. Maybe Miss Lisk wasn't mad for a minute, when she
saw me hanging out of the window yelling to know what was the matter,
'cause I was in a hurry for my thumb-tacks! But afterwards she laughed
like anything and said the children made record time in getting out,
'cause no one, not even she herself, knew whether it was just a fire
drill or whether the janitor had rung the gong on account of the
school's really being burned up."

No one could blame the good dame for smiling at the vivid pictures Peace
had painted of her missionary efforts, but Mrs. Campbell knew how sore
the little heart must be over these seeming failures, so she pressed the
nestling head closer to her shoulder and said comfortingly, "But think
of all the smiles you have won from the washerwoman. When I paid her
last night, she showed me the big bunch of flowers you had cut from your
hyacinths and lilies in the conservatory, and told me how eagerly her
poor, sick little girl watched for her home-coming the days she washed
here, knowing that you would never forget to send her something. And Jud
was telling your grandpa only this morning how the ash-man's horse
always whinnies when the team stops in the alley, because you never fail
to be there with a lump of sugar or a handful of oats. Mrs. Dodds says
it is a real pleasure to make dresses for you, just to hear you praise
her work. I was in the kitchen this morning when the grocer brought our
order, and after he was gone, Gussie showed me a sack of candy he had
slipped in for you, because you are so kind to his little girl at
school. I don't need Jud's words to tell me how the horses and other
animals on the place love you. And why? Because you love them and never
hurt them."

"But, grandma," interrupted Peace, her eyes wide with amazement at this
recital; "you don't call those things scattering sunshine, do you?"

"What would you call it, dear?"

"But--but--I didn't do those things on purpose, grandma. They--they just
did themselves. I like to see Mrs. O'Flaherty's eyes shine and hear her
say, 'May the saints in Hivin bliss ye, darlint,' when I give her
anything for Maggie; and the ash-man's horse doesn't get enough to
eat--really, it is 'most starved, I guess; and Mrs. Dodds does look so
tickled when I say anything she makes is pretty. They _are_ pretty, too.
And the grocer's little girl is so scared if anyone speaks to her that
a lot of the bigger girls got to teasing her dreadfully and I couldn't
help lighting into them and telling them they ought to be ashamed of
themselves; and--"

"That is what _I_ call scattering sunshine, dear. It is these little
acts of ours which count, these acts done unconsciously, without any
thought of others seeing, done simply because our hearts are so full of
love and sympathy that they bubble over without our knowing it, and
others are made happy because of our unselfishness."

"I guess you're right," said Peace thoughtfully; "'cause when folks are
watching and I want to be 'specially sweet and nice and helpful, I just
make a dreadful bungle of it, and everyone laughs. It's the things we do
without thinking that make folks happiest. That is what Saint Elspeth
used to tell me. Some way I could understand her better than Miss Edith,
I guess; but maybe it was 'cause I knew her better. When do you s'pose
we can go to see her, grandma? Saint Elspeth, I mean. It has been such a
long time since--"

"She wants you next week, you and Allee."

It was the President who spoke, and with a startled cry, Peace leaped up
to find him in the doorway behind them. "Why, Grandpa Campbell, how did
you sneak in here so softly? I never heard you at all, you came so
catty. Did you hear what we were talking about?"

"Not much of it. I arrived just in time to catch your remarks about Mrs.
Strong, and as I happen to have a note in my pocket this minute from
your Saint John, I spoke right out without thinking. I was intending to
make you and grandma jump a little."

"You made me jump a lot," she retorted, throwing her arms about him and
giving him a rapturous hug. "Did you really mean that Mrs. Strong wants
me next week? That is our spring vacation here in Martindale."

"Yes, so the letter said. You see, the Strongs are living in Martindale
now, too."

"Grandpa! You're fooling!"

"Not this time. I have known for a whole month that there was some
prospect of their coming to the city, but I waited until I was sure
before saying anything, because I knew you girls would be disappointed
if they did not get the place."

"What place? How did it happen? What will Parker do without him? Will he
live near us? Can we see them often? Where did you get the note?"

"One question at a time, please," he cried laughingly. "Mr. Strong
dropped in at the University a minute this afternoon. He has been called
to fill the vacancy at Hill Street Church, and has accepted, but as his
pastorate is about three miles from this part of the city, he will not
live very close to us. However, it will be possible for you to see each
other more frequently than if they had remained at Parker. They moved
yesterday into the new parsonage, and Mrs. Strong wants to borrow our
two youngest next week to help her with the baby while they are getting
settled. Do you want to go?"

"Oh, I can hardly wait! Can we really stay the whole week?"

"You ungrateful little vagabond!" he thundered in pretended anger. "You
want to leave your old grandpa for a whole week, do you?"

"Yes," she giggled. "A change would do us both good. Besides, we live
with you all the time, and I don't get a chance to see Saint Elspeth and
Glen very often--but I'd lots rather have my _home_ with you, though I
do like to go visiting once in a while, same as you do."

"Teaser! Well, if grandma thinks it wise, you and Allee may go next week
to visit your patron saints--What is the matter, Dora? Doesn't the plan
please you?"

For grandma looked unusually grave and thoughtful, but at his question
she merely answered, "Peace may accept if she wishes, but unless Allee's
cold is much better by Monday, I don't think it best for her to go. I
kept her home from school today."

For a moment the brown-haired child stood silent and hesitating on one
foot in the middle of the floor. It would be hard to be separated from
this golden-haired sister for a whole week, but--it had been _such_ a
long time since she had seen these other precious friends; and anyway,
Elspeth needed someone to help her. Besides, Allee might be well enough
to go by Monday, or perhaps she could come later in the week. It would
be wisest to accept the invitation at once, so with a little hop of
decision, she announced serenely, "Tell Saint John I'll come, and
prob'ly Allee will, too. Her colds don't usu'ly last long, and she'll be
all right by Monday."



CHAPTER VI

PEACE'S SPRING VACATION


Allee's cold was no better Monday morning, but it was decided that Peace
should go alone to the new parsonage on Hill Street, with the promise
that if possible the younger child should join her before the week's
visit was ended. So Peace departed. But it was with a heavy heart that
she went, for, much as she wanted to see her former pastor's family, she
dreaded being separated from this dearest of sisters even for seven
days; nor could she shake off the vague feeling of unrest which had
gripped her when she saw the sick, sorrowful look in Allee's great blue
eyes as they said good-bye.

"Get well quick, dear," she whispered tenderly, holding the tiny, hot
hand against her cheek after a quaint fashion they had of saying
good-night to each other. "I can't have a good time even with Saint
Elspeth and Glen if you are at home sick. Take your med'cine like a good
girl, and about Wednesday I 'xpect Saint John will be coming after you
if grandpa hasn't brought you before."

And Allee had promised to do her best, but Peace could not forget her
last glimpse of the wistful, flushed face, pressed against the
window-pane to watch her out of sight around the corner. And so sober
was she that Jud, who was driving her to the dovecote on the hill,
looked around inquiringly more than once, and finally ventured to ask,
"Have you caught cold, too?"

"No, indeed!" she flung back at him. "I'm never sick. Why?"

"Your eyes look pretty red."

His ruse was effective, for in trying to see herself in a tiny scrap of
a mirror which she carried in her satchel, she forgot her desire to cry,
and looked as gay and chipper as usual when the carriage drew up at the
parsonage curbing and Mr. Strong bounded boyishly down the walk to meet
her, holding his beautiful year-old boy on one arm, and dragging the
sweet girl wife by the other.

"Oh, but it's good to see you again!" cried Peace, vaulting over the
wheels to the ground before either Jud or the minister could lift her
down. "It doesn't seem 'sif you'd really moved to Martindale to live.
How did it happen? Grandpa couldn't make me understand about bishops and
preachers and congregations, but I'm glad you've come. Did you have a
hard time getting out of Parker and was there a farewell reception?
Ain't it too bad Faith wasn't there to make you another cake? Mercy! How
the baby has grown! Why, I b'lieve he knows me. He wants to come. Oh,
he ain't too heavy and I won't break his precious neck, will I, Glen?
How do you like my new dress and did you get my hand-satchel 'fore Jud
drove off? I forgot all about it the minute I saw the baby. Grandpa was
going to bring me, but the faculty had to plan a meeting for this
morning, of course, and grandma couldn't come on account of Allee's
cold. What a cute little house you've got! It looks wholer than the
Parker parsonage. I'm just dying to see all the little cubby-holes and
closets. How many rooms are there?"

"It is the same old Peace, Elizabeth," laughed Mr. Strong, rescuing his
boy and leading the way to the house. "Prosperity has not changed her a
whit. She has hundreds of questions stored up under that curly wig
waiting to be asked. I can see them sticking out all over her. My dear,
you are here for a week's visit. Don't choke yourself trying to ask
everything in one breath, but 'walk into our parlor' and we will show
you all we have, and let you rummage to your heart's content."

So they initiated her into the mysteries of the new parsonage with its
pretty, cheerful rooms, unexpected cosy corners, tiny kitchen and
cunning little cupboard, and for a week she fairly revelled in the
playhouse, as she immediately named the spandy new cottage, amusing the
baby, who promptly attached himself to her with the devotion of a
lap-dog, dusting furniture, washing dishes, and causing her usual
commotion trying to help where her presence was only a hindrance. But
they enjoyed it! Oh, dear, yes! Her quaint speeches were a constant
delight to them, and the sight of her somber brown eyes, so at odds with
her merry disposition, and the sound of her gay whistle or rippling
little giggle were like the breath of spring to these homesick hearts.

So the days slipped happily by in the dovecote on the hill, in spite of
Peace's vague fears for the little sister at home who did not get well
enough to join them; and before anyone was aware of it, the whole week
was gone and Sunday night had arrived. The evening service was over,
Peace had said good-night to the pastor and his wife, and the house was
in darkness when suddenly there was the sound of hurried steps on the
walk, the door-bell jangled harshly, and the brown eyes in the room
across the hall flew open just as the front door closed with a bang, and
Mrs. Strong's frightened voice called through the darkness, "What is it,
John? A telegram?"

"A messenger boy."

"Oh, what is the trouble? Someone hurt or sick at home? Here is a light,
dear."

Flickering shadows danced across the walls of Peace's room, she heard
the tearing of paper, and then Mr. Strong's quick exclamation,
"Elizabeth! It is Allee!" "_What_ is Allee?" A white gown shot out of
the door opposite them, and terrified Peace threw herself into the
woman's arms, demanding again, "What is Allee? Is she--dead?"

"No, dear," he hastily assured her, provoked to think he had frightened
the child so badly; "only ill--quarantined for scarlet fever."

"Scarlet fever!" gasped the girl. "That's what killed Myrtle Perry. Oh,
will Allee die, too? Why didn't I stay at home with her?"

"There, there, little girlie, you mustn't cry about it like that," said
Mrs. Strong, stroking the brown head in her arms with comforting
touches. "Lots of people have scarlet fever and get over it. The letter
says Allee's case is not at all severe, but she will be quarantined for
some weeks and you can't go home until the house has been fumigated. You
must be our girl for a month or two longer. Will that be hard work?"

"N-o, but s'posing she _should_ die! I ought to be there to have it,
too."

"No, indeed! That would make it only harder for Grandma Campbell. You
must stay here and keep well so they won't be worrying about you, too.
Allee isn't going to die, but in a few weeks will be as well as ever."

"S'posing I've caught it already and give it to Glen?"

"Dr. Coates thinks you would have been sick by this time if you were
going to have the disease, but he is taking no chances, and has sent
some medicine as a preventive."

"What about school?" The case was becoming interesting to Peace, now
that she was assured that Allee would not die.

"Oh, you can have another week of vacation from lessons, and then if
everything is all right, you can finish your term at Chestnut School.
That is only four blocks from here, and Miss Curtis is a splendid
principal. I knew her when I went to college, and I am sure you will
like her."

This was not exactly what Peace had expected or hoped for. She would
have preferred no more school at all, as long as the sisters at home
were to have an enforced vacation of several weeks, and her face clouded
again as she heard Elizabeth's plan. "But--I can't--I don't want--I
would rather--" she stammered.

"Remember your motto and 'scatter sunshine,' dear. It will help the home
folks to know you are cheerful and happy here, and it will help us,
too."

She had touched the right chord. Peace slowly dried her tears, gave a
final gulp or two, and lifted her face once more smiling and serene,
saying gravely, "You can bet on me! I won't bawl any more. You folks
better get to bed now and not stand here shivering until you catch cold.
Good-night again!" With a hearty kiss for each, she trailed away to her
tiny room and was soon fast asleep among the pillows.

In spite of her determination to be brave, however, she often found it
hard to wear a smiling face during the week which followed the
messenger's coming, for much as she wanted a vacation from her books,
time hung heavily on her hands. She could not help fretting about Allee
lying ill at home, Glen took a sleepy spell and spent many hours each
day napping when she wanted to play with him, the little house had soon
been put in order, everything was unpacked and in its place, the
minister and Elizabeth were compelled to devote much of their time to
making the acquaintance of their new parishioners and becoming familiar
with this new field of labor; so Peace was necessarily left to her own
devices more than was good for her.

To make a bad situation worse, a drizzly spring rain set in, which
lasted for days and kept the freedom-loving child a prisoner indoors,
when she longed to be dancing in the fresh air and exploring a certain
inviting grove which she had discovered on the hillside behind the
church.

"I b'lieve it's raining just to spite me," she exclaimed crossly one
afternoon as she stood drumming on the window-sill and watching the
pearly drops course down the pane in zigzag rivulets. "It just knows how
bad I want to get out to play."

Elizabeth looked up from a tiny dress which she was mending carefully,
and said in sprightly tones,

    "'Is it raining, little flower?
      Be glad of rain.
    Too much sun would wither thee,
      'Twill shine again.
    The sky is very black, 'tis true,
    But just behind it shines the blue.'"

"Oh, yes, you can say that all right," Peace snapped, "cause you ain't
just a-dying to get out and dig. Why, Saint Elspeth, the air just fairly
smells of angleworms and birds' nests, and I do want to make a garden so
bad!"

"Poor girlie," smiled the woman to herself, "what a hard time she would
have in life if she could not run and romp all she wanted." But aloud
she merely said, "It is too early to make a garden yet, dear. The ground
is so cold that the seeds would rot instead of sprouting, and if any
little shoots were brave enough to climb through the soil into open air,
they probably would get frozen for their trouble. We are apt to have
some hard frosts yet this spring. See, the leaves on the trees have
scarcely begun to swell yet. They know it isn't time. Be patient a
little longer; it can't rain forever."

"It's hard to be patient with nothing to do," sighed the child, pressing
her nose flatter and flatter against the glass as she looked up and
down the dreary, deserted street, vainly hoping for something to
distract her dismal thoughts.

"Have you finished dressing the paper dolls for Allee?"

"Yes, I made ten different suits for every single doll, and there were
fifteen, counting in the father and mother and grandma. Saint John has
already mailed them. I've read till I'm tired and the back fell off of
the book--it wasn't a nice story anyway, 'cause the good girl was always
getting whaled for what the bad one did. I whistled Glen to sleep before
I knew it and then couldn't wake him up, though I shook and shook him.
I've sewed up all today's squares of patch-work and two of tomorrow's;
but it isn't int'resting work when you ain't there to tell me stories
about them. And anyway, I _hate_ sewing--patch-work 'specially! When I
grow up and get married, my husband will have to buy our quilts already
made. I'll never waste my time sewing on little snips to hatch up some
bed-clothes. They're always covered up with spreads anyway. Rainy days
are the dismalest things I know!"

"That is very true if we let it rain inside, too," Elizabeth agreed
quietly.

"Let it rain inside! Whoever heard tell of such a thing--'nless the roof
was leaky." Peace giggled in spite of her gloom.

"You are letting it rain inside now when you frown and sigh instead of
trying to be cheerful and happy in spite of the storm outside. One of
our poets says:

    "'Whatever the weather may be,' says he,
    'Whatever the weather may be,
    It's the songs ye sing, and the smiles ye wear
    That's a-making the sunshine everywhere!'"

Peace abruptly ceased her drumming on the window-sill and stared
thoughtfully through the wet pane at a row of draggled sparrows chirping
blithely on a fence across the muddy street. Then she remarked, "What a
lot of poetry you know! Seems 'sif I'd struck a poetic bunch since we
left Parker. Grandma and grandpa and Miss Edith and Frances, and now you
have taken to talking in rhymes--and they are mostly about sunshine,
too."

    "'When the days are gloomy
    Sing some happy song,'"

hummed Elizabeth, leaning suddenly forward and drawing out a drawer in
her desk close by. She rummaged through its contents for a moment, and
then laid a dainty brown and gold book in the girl's hands, saying,
"That reminds me. When I was a little girl not much older than you are
now, my mother was very ill for a long time, and my sister Esther and I
were sent away from home to live with a lame old aunt in a lonely little
house about a mile from the nearest neighbor's. Needless to say, we got
very homesick with no one to play with or amuse us, and the days were
often so long that we were glad when night came so we could sleep and
forget our childish troubles. Though Aunt Nancy was not accustomed to
children, she soon discovered our loneliness and set about to mend
matters as best she could. But the old house had very little in it for
us to play with, the books were all too old for us to understand, and
like you, we were not overly fond of sewing. So poor old auntie was at
her wit's end to know what to do with us when she happened to think of
her diary."

"Did she have many cows?"

"Cows?"

"In her diary."

"Oh, child, that is dairy you mean. A diary is a record of each day's
events--all the little things that happen from week to week--sort of a
written history of one's life."

"H'm, I shouldn't think that would be fun," Peace commented candidly,
still holding the unopened volume in her hand, thinking it was another
uninteresting story-book. "I don't like writing any better than I do
sewing."

"Neither did I, but Esther was rather fond of scribbling, and Aunt
Nancy's diary was one of the brightest, sprightliest histories of
common, everyday affairs that we ever read, and we were both greatly
amused over it. She had kept a faithful record for years--not every day,
or even every week, but just when she happened to feel like writing, so
it was no drudgery.

"She was quite given to making rhymes, as you call it, and we were
astonished to find several very beautiful little poems and stories that
she had written just for her own enjoyment; for she had always lived
alone a great deal, and these little blank books of hers held the
thoughts that she could not speak to other folks because there were no
folks to talk with. Esther was several years older than I, and she knew
a lady who wrote for magazines. So, unbeknown to Aunt Nancy, she copied
a number of the prettiest verses and sent them to this author, who not
only had them printed, but begged for more. I never shall forget how
pleased Aunt Nancy was, and I think it was that which decided us girls
to try keeping a diary, too. We raced each other good-naturedly, to see
who could write the queerest fancies or longest rhymes, and many an hour
have we whiled away, scribbling in the dusty attic."

"Did you ever get anything printed?" Peace was becoming interested, for
Gail had secret ambitions along this line, and such matters as poems,
stories and publishers were often discussed in the home circle.

"No," sighed Elizabeth, a trifle wistfully, perhaps, as she thought of
that dear dream of her girlhood days. "I soon came to the conclusion
that poets are born and not made. But Esther has been quite successful
in writing short stories for magazines, and she lays it all to the
summer we spent with Aunt Nancy on that dreary farm."

"How long did you write your dairy?"

"_Diary_, Peace. I am still writing it--"

"Ain't that book full yet?"

"Oh, yes, a dozen or more, but most of them were burned up in the fire
at--"

"I thought maybe this was one of them." She held up the brown and gold
volume, much disappointed to think it did not contain the record of
those early attempts which Elizabeth had so charmingly described.

"No, dear, that is a notebook which I was intending to send John's
youngest brother, Jasper, who thinks he wants to be an author, so he
might jot down bits of information or interesting anecdotes to help him
in his work. However, it just occurred to me that perhaps Peace
Greenfield would like such a book to gather up sunbeams in."

"To gather up sunbeams?"

"Yes, dear. Don't you think it would be a nice plan these rainy, dreary
days to write down all the cheerful bits of poetry you know or happy
thoughts that come to you, or the pretty little fairy tales you and
Allee love to make up about the moon lady and the brownies in the dell?
You see, I have painted little brownies all along the margins of the
various pages--"

"And they are carrying sunflowers," Peace interrupted.

"Sun-flowers if you wish," and Elizabeth made a wry face at her
reflection in the mirror. "I called them black-eyed Susans, but
sun-flower is a better name for them, because this is to be a sunshine
book. Another coincidence--I have written on the fly-leaf the very verse
I just quoted:

    "It's the songs ye sing, and the smiles ye wear
    That's a-makin' the sunshine everywhere!'"

"And ain't the fly's leaf dec'rations cute!" Peace pointed a stubby
forefinger at the painted brownie chorus, armed with open song-books and
broad grins, who seemed waiting only for the signal of the leader facing
them with baton raised and arms extended, to burst into rollicking
melody. "I think it's a splendid book and you're a _nangel_ to give it
to me when you meant it for someone else. But it ought to have a name.
Just _dairy_ sounds so milky and barnlike; and I don't like 'sunbeam
book' real well, either. What did you call yours?"

Elizabeth laughed. "Esther's was 'Happy Moments,' but I was more
ambitious, and called mine 'Golden Thoughts.' How would 'Sunbeams,' or
'Gleams of Sunshine' do for yours?"

"Oh, I like that last one! That's what I'll call it, and I'll begin
writing now. Shall I use pen and ink?"

"Ink would be best, wouldn't it? Pencil marks soon get rubbed and
dingy."

"That's what I was thinking," Peace answered promptly, for the
possibilities of the ink-pot always had held a great charm for her, and
at home her privileges in this direction were considerably curtailed,
ever since she had dyed Tabby's white kittens black to match their
mother. So she drew up her chair before the orderly desk, and began her
first literary efforts, having first sorted out five blotters, six
pen-holders, two erasers, a knife and a whole box of pen-points to
assist her.

It was a little hard at first to know just what to write, but after a
few nibbles at the end of her pen, she seemed to collect her thoughts,
and commenced scratching away so busily on the clean, white page that
Elizabeth smiled and congratulated herself on having so easily solved
the problem of what to do with the restless, little chatter-box until
she could go back to school the following Monday. There were only three
days of that week remaining, and if the book would just hold the child's
attention until these were ended, she should count her scheme
successful, even though she did have to find another present for
Jasper's birthday.

So she smiled with satisfaction, for Peace had become so engrossed with
her new amusement that she never heard the door-bell ring, nor the voice
of the visitor in the adjoining room, but scribbled away energetically
until words failed her, and she paused to think of something to rhyme
with "bird." Then her revery came to a sudden end, for through the open
door of the parlor floated the words, "And so we decided to adopt her
resolutions."

"Poor thing," murmured Peace under her breath. "I s'pose it's another
orphan. Beats all how many there are in this world! I am glad she's
going to be adopted, though; but if she was mine, I'd change her name to
something besides Resolutions. That's a whole lot worse'n Peace. It
sounds like war."

She glanced out of the window, and with a subdued shout dropped her pen
and rushed for her coat and rubbers. The rain had ceased and the sun was
shining! Not only that, but trudging down the muddy hill, hand-in-hand
and tearful, were two small, fat cherubs, the first children Peace had
seen while she had been visiting the parsonage, except as she met the
boys and girls of the Sunday School. Elizabeth had told her that this
part of the city was still new, and consequently few families had
settled there as yet; but she had longed for other companionship than
Glen could give her, and this was too good an opportunity to miss. So,
flinging on her wraps, she hurried out of the back door, so as not to
disturb Elizabeth and her caller, and ran after the children already at
the street crossing, preparing to wade into the rushing torrent of muddy
water coursing down the hillside.

"Oh, wait!" she cried breathlessly, but at the sound of her voice both
children started guiltily, and with a snarl of anger and defiance,
plunged boldly into the flood, not even glancing behind them at the
flying, gray-coated figure in pursuit. However, the water was swift in
the gutter, the mud very slippery, and the little tots in too great a
hurry. So without any warning, two pair of feet shot out from under
their owners, two frightened babies plumped flat in the dirty stream,
and two voices rose in protest against such an unhappy fate.
Nevertheless, when Peace waded in to their rescue, they fought and bit
like wild-cats, till she dragged them howling back to the sidewalk and
safety. Then abruptly the wails ceased, two pair of round gray eyes
stared blankly up at their rescuer, and two voices demanded
aggressively, "Who's you?"

"Are you twins?" asked Peace in turn, noticing for the first time how
very much alike were the small, snub-nosed, freckled faces of the dirty
duet.

"Yes."

"What are your names?"

"Lewie and Loie."

"Lewie and Loie what?"

"That's all."

"Oh, but you must have another name."

"That's all," they stubbornly insisted.

"Where do you live?"

"Nowhere."

"Haven't you any mamma?"

"She's gone."

"But who takes care of you?"

"Nobody," gulped the one called Loie.

"Mittie did, but she runned away and lef' us," added Lewie.

"Where are you going now?"

"To fin' mamma."

"But you said she was dead."

"She just goned away and lef' us, too," murmured Loie, looking very much
puzzled.

Peace was delighted. Years and years ago, when her grandfather was a
boy, he had adopted a little, homeless orphan and kept him from being
taken to the poor-farm. Here were two waifs needing love and care. Who
had a better right to adopt them than she who had found them? Grandpa
Campbell surely would not turn them away, for did he not know what it
was to be homeless and friendless? But she could not take them home
while Allee was in bed with scarlet fever, and perhaps the Strongs would
not feel that they could open the parsonage doors to two more children,
seeing that the house was so very tiny. What could she do with her
charges?

There was a rush of feet on the walk behind her, someone gave her a
violent push, and she sprawled full length in the gutter. Surprised,
drenched to the skin and dazed by her fall, she staggered to her feet
only to be knocked down the second time, while a jeering, mocking voice
from the sidewalk taunted, "You're a pretty sight now, you nigger-wool
kidnapper! Get up and take another dose! I'll teach you to steal
children!"

Blind with rage and half choked with mud, Peace shook the water from her
eyes and flew at her assailant with vengeance in her heart, pounding
right and left with relentless fists wherever she could hit. But the
enemy was a larger and stronger child, and it would have gone hard with
the brown-eyed maid had not the minister himself arrived unexpectedly
upon the scene and separated the two young pugilists, demanding in
shocked tones, "Why, Peace, what does this mean? I thought you were
above fighting."

"She hit me first!" sputtered Peace, trying to wipe the blood from a
long scratch on her cheek.

"She stole my kids!"

"They are orphans, Saint John, and I was going to adopt them like my
grandfather did Grandpa Campbell."

"They ain't either orphans!" shouted the other.

"They said their mother was dead and they had no home."

"Mamma goned away and locked up the house," volunteered Lewie from the
parsonage porch where he had taken refuge with his twin sister at the
first sign of the fray.

"Are you their sister?" sternly demanded Mr. Strong of the older girl.

"No, I ain't! They live next door and Mrs. Hoyt left the kids with me
till she got back."

"Where is your house?"

"On top of the hill," she muttered sullenly.

"Then how does it come they are so far from home?"

"They ran away."

"She shut us out of hern house," said Loie, "and we went to fin' mamma."

Just at this moment the parsonage door opened, and Elizabeth's visitor
stepped out on the piazza, almost stumbling over the crouching twins;
and at sight of them she exclaimed in surprise, "Why, Lewis and Lois
Hoyt, what are you doing down here? Does your mother know where you
are?"

"Ah, Mrs. Lane, how do you do?" said the minister, extending his hand in
greeting. "Are these tots neighbors of yours?"

"They live just across the street from us. I often take care of them
when the mother is away." Then her eye chanced to fall upon the
shrinking figure of Mittie, and she demanded wrathfully, "Have you been
up to your tricks again, Mittie Cole? I shall certainly report you to
your father this time sure. I will take the twins home, Mr. Strong. It
is too bad your little guest has been hurt, but you can mark my words,
she was not to blame. There is trouble wherever Mittie goes. I don't see
why Mrs. Hoyt ever left the children with her in the first place. She
might have known what would happen."

Shooing the little brood ahead of her, she marched out of sight up the
hill, and Peace followed the minister into the house, wailing
disconsolately, "I thought they were orphans and I could adopt them like
grandpa did."

"But think how nice it is that they have a mother and father and a nice
home of their own. Aren't you glad they are not friendless waifs?"

It was a new thought. Peace paused in her lament, and then with a bright
smile answered, "It is nicer that way, ain't it? 'Cause even if they had
been orphans, maybe grandpa would think he had his hands full with the
six of us, and couldn't make room for any more. Lewie can bite like a
badger and I 'magine grandpa wouldn't stand for much of that. Anyway _I_
wouldn't. When I grow bigger and have a house of my own, then I can
adopt all the children I want to, can't I? Just like that lady that was
here a minute ago."

"Mrs. Lane? Why, she has no adopted children!" exclaimed Elizabeth, who
had been a silent spectator of part of the scene.

"But I heard her tell you so myself," insisted Peace.

"When?"

"This afternoon while I was writing in my book. She said they decided to
adopt Resol--Resol--something."

Fortunately the minister was lighting the fire in the kitchen stove, so
Peace could not see the laughter in his face, and Elizabeth had long
since learned to hide her mirth from the keen childish eyes, so she
explained, "It was not a child, Peace, which she was talking about.
Doesn't your Missionary Band ever adopt resolutions of any sort in their
business meetings?"

"I never saw any they adopted, though we're s'porting two orphan heathen
in India."

Elizabeth could not refrain from smiling slightly, but she carefully
explained to Peace the meaning of the perplexing phrase, as she bustled
about her preparations for supper, and the incident was apparently
forgotten.

While she was putting things to rights for the night, long after the
children had been tucked away in their beds, she found the preacher
seated by her desk chuckling over a little book among the papers before
him, and peeping over his shoulder she saw it was the brown and gold
volume which she had given Peace that afternoon. On the fly-leaf, just
above the quaint brownie chorus, in straggling inky letters, Peace had
penned the title, "Glimmers of Gladness," this being as near as she
could recall the name Elizabeth had suggested. Then followed the most
extraordinarily original diary the woman had ever seen, and she laughed
till the tears ran down her cheeks, as she read the words written with
such painstaking care and plenty of ink:

"This is the first dairy I ever kept. Saint Elspeth gave me the book
which she ment for Jasper Strong, St. John's brother who wood rather be
a writer than a huming boy. He ought to change places with me, cause I'd
rather be a live girl any day than a norther which is what Gale wants to
be and that is one reason I am going to keep a dairy as she may find it
usful when she gets to be famus like St. Elspeth's sister Ester. I
should not want to keep a dairy if I had to tend to it every day, but
St. Elspeth says just to rite when I feel like it which I don't s'pose
will be offen as there is usuly something to do which I like better. I
am riting today becaus it rains and I cant go out doors.

    "The sparrow is playing in the mud
      Don't I wish I could, too.
    He don't need rubbers on his feet,
      Behind the clouds it's blue.
    He wears feathers stead of close
      And to him the rain aint wet.
    I wisht that I wore feathers, too,
      Then I'd stay out doors you bet.

"The raindrop fairy is my newest fairy. I'll tell Allee all about it
when she gets well enough so's I can go home. They are very wet but it
aint their fault. If they wuz dry they wouldnt be water. They go about
doing lots of good to the trees and flowers which couldnt grow without
water, and we mustn't fuss cause there is always sun somewhere and its a
cumfert to no it wont rain all the time. When the storm is over the
raindrop faries strech a net of red and blue and green and yellow &C
akros the sky which means it wont rain any more until the next time.
Thats the way with huming beings. If we skowl and growl we're making a
huming thunder-storm, but just as soon as the smile comes out thats the
rainbow and shows the sun is shining, 'cause there is never a rainbow
without the sun is in the clouds behind it. I'm going to smile and smile
after this and be a reglar sunflour all myself."

"Dear little Peace," murmured Elizabeth, as she closed the book and laid
it back on the desk. "It's mean to laugh at her precious diary,
particularly when she has taken such pains with it and tried her best to
please."

"She'll make an author yet," chuckled the minister. "I am proud of our
little philosopher. She is scattering more sunshine than she dreams of,
and some day will harvest a big crop of sunflowers."



CHAPTER VII

A VOICE FROM THE LILAC BUSHES


It was a glorious morning in May. Spring had really come at last with
its warm, life-giving sunshine, and the air was heavy with the smell of
growing things. Overhead the blue sky was clear and cloudless, underfoot
the new grass made a thick carpet invitingly cool and refreshing. The
trees were sporting fresh garlands of leaves, and in woods and gardens
the bright-colored blossoms glowed and blushed. How beautiful it all
was!

Peace paused at Elizabeth's side in the open doorway to drink in the
rich fragrance of the lilacs, whose purple plumes nodded so temptingly
from the hedge across the way. For days it had been part of her morning
program to rush out of doors as soon as she was dressed to sniff
hungrily at the lilac-laden air, but never before had they smelled so
sweet nor looked so beautiful and feathery as they did this morning, for
now they had reached the height of their perfection. Tomorrow some of
their beauty would be gone; they would be growing old.

"Oh, Elspeth, ain't they lovely?" she sighed. "Don't they make you feel
like heaven? Wouldn't you like a great, big bunch of them under your
nose always? I wonder why the folks who live there don't give them away.
I should if they b'longed to me. Think how many people would be glad to
get them. May I go over in the field to play? I won't break one of Saint
John's plants or touch a single lilac, truly, if I can just play where I
can smell their smell as it comes fresh from the bush. We only get the
wee, ragged edges of it over here."

Elizabeth came out of her own revery at the sound of Peace's gusty sigh
of longing, and readily gave her consent, as this was Saturday morning
and school did not keep. So, like a bird trying its wings after a long
imprisonment, the brown-eyed maid with arms flapping and curls bobbing,
skipped happily across the road to the field where she had helped the
minister plant a little vegetable garden, and which already was lined
with irregular rows of pale green shoots where beans and potatoes,
turnips and cabbages, had pushed their way up through the black earth.

Peace was even prouder of the small truck patch than the preacher
himself, if such a thing were possible, and it was a favorite pastime of
both these gardeners to walk back and forth between the rows each day
and count the tender sprouts which had appeared during the night. So
this morning from force of habit, Peace strolled up and down the length
of the garden, counting in a sing-song fashion as she greedily filled
nostrils and lungs with the sweet scent of the lilac bushes just beyond,
drawing nearer and nearer the hedge with its delicate, dainty sprays.

Unconsciously her counting changed into the humming refrain of the
Gleaner's motto song, and she danced lightly down the last row of crisp
cornblades, joyously chanting words which fitted into the happy music:
"Oh, you pretty lilacs, growing by the wall! How I'd like to have you
for my very own. I would pick your blossoms, lavender and white, and
give them all to sick folks, shut in from the light.--Why, that rhymed
all of its own self!"

She paused abruptly beside the lilac bushes, her arms still uplifted and
fingers outstretched as if beckoning to the plumy sprays above her Head.
"Isn't it queer how such things will happen when if I'd been trying to
make poetry in my dairy I couldn't have thought of those words for an
hour? I guess it was the lilacs that did it. Oh, you are so beautiful!
You'd make anything rhyme, wouldn't you? What is it that gives you your
sweetness? I wish you could tell me the secret. Oh, you lovely lilacs,
growing up so high; swinging in the sunshine--" Again her made-up words
came to a sudden end, and she stood motionless, her head cocked to one
side, listening intently to a brilliant trill of melody from the other
side of the hedge.

"There goes my bird again! Saint John says it must be a canary which
b'longs to the stone house that owns these lilacs, but I don't b'lieve
it would sing like that if it was shut up in a cage."

She held her breath again to harken to the music, then puckered her lips
and mocked its song. The feathered musician broke off in the midst of
his rhapsody, surprised at the strange echo of his own notes. There was
a moment of silence; then he began again, and once more Peace mimicked
the warbler. This time there was a stir on the other side of the bushes,
and the purple-tasseled branches were cautiously parted where the
foliage was thinnest, but Peace was too much absorbed in watching the
topmost boughs--for the music seemed to come from overhead somewhere--to
see the startled eyes looking at her through the tangle of leaves and
blossoms. All unconscious of her hidden audience, she joyously trilled
the canary bird's chorus.

Then miracle of miracles--or so it seemed to Peace--there was a whir of
wings, and a bright-eyed, yellow-coated, saucy, little bird perched on a
twig just above her head. Peace gasped and was silent.

The bird chirped a note of defiance and hopped to the branch below.
Peace advanced a cautious step; the canary did not retreat, but tipped
its dainty head sidewise and eyed the child curiously. A small brown
hand shot out unexpectedly, dexterously, and the yellow songster found
itself a helpless prisoner in the child's tight grasp.

Peace was almost as surprised as the bird. She had not really thought to
capture the creature so easily, and to find it in her hand sent a thrill
of delight through her whole being. She snuggled it close in her neck
and crooned:

"You little darling! Saint John was right, you _are_ a canary! But I was
right, too. You ain't caged. I'm mighty glad I've caught you. I always
did like pets. I wonder what you will think of Muffet, grandma's canary?
If I just had these lovely lilacs now, little birdie, I'd be perfectly
happy. But a bird in the hand is worth--a whole bushel of blossoms. I
guess I'll take you home to Elspeth--"

"Oh, you mustn't!" cried a distressed voice behind the purple tassels.
"That is my bird, Gypsy. I just let him loose to see if it was really
you mocking him. Bring him home, won't you? And I'll give you all the
lilacs you want."

Startled at the sound of a human voice almost at her elbow when she
could see no sign of the speaker, Peace let go her hold on the
frightened captive, and with a relieved chirp, it flew out of sight
among the thick branches. But she made no attempt to follow its flight,
she was too scared. "Are--are--was it a real woman which did that
talking?" chattered Peace, wetting her lips with her tongue.

"Yes," answered the voice, with just the tinge of a laugh in it. "I live
in the stone house this side of the lilac bushes. I saw you through the
leaves and heard what you said, but won't you please bring my little
Gypsy home? I'll give you all the flowers you want. Go down to the road
and come in through the front gate. I am here in my chair."

"Your bird has gone home already," Peace answered, reassured by this
explanation. "But I'll come and get those lilacs you spoke about."

She ran nimbly down the length of the lilac hedge, dodged out of sight
around the corner, and appeared the next moment at the iron gate which
shut out the street from the grand stone house with its wide lawns,
great oaks, smooth, flower-bordered walks, and splashing fountain.

"Oh, how beau-ti-ful!" cried the child in delight, as the gate swung
shut behind her. "I've always wanted to know what this place looked
like, but the tall hedge all along the fence is too thick to see through
and one can get only a teenty peek through the gate. There is your bird
on top of its cage now. See, I didn't keep him, though I'd like to. He
is a splendid singer. I sh'd think you'd be the happiest lady in the
whole world with all these lovely flowers and--are you a lady?"

For the first time since entering the great gate, Peace turned her big,
brown eyes full upon the occupant of the reclining chair in the shade
of the lilac bushes, and her lively chatter faltered, for the face
pillowed among the silken cushions seemed neither a child's nor yet a
woman's. The eyes, intensely blue and clear, the broad, high forehead,
the thin cheeks and colorless lips, even the heavy braids of brown hair
with their auburn lights, did not seem to belong to a mere mortal. And
yet she could not be an angel, for even Peace's youthful, untrained mind
swiftly read the bitterness and rebellion which lurked in those deep,
wonderful eyes. It was as if some doomed soul were looking out through
the bars of a prison fortress, without a single ray of hope to break the
gloom, without a single thought to cheer or comfort. And so Peace, in
her childish ignorance, asked, "Are you a lady?"

"A woman grown," the sweet voice answered, and a faint smile of
amusement flitted across the marble-white face.

"Your--your hair is in braids," stammered Peace, unable to put her
subtle feelings into words.

"It is more restful that way," the speaker sighed; then again that
fleeting smile lighted up the beautiful features, and holding out her
hand to the puzzled child, she said coaxingly, "Tell me about yourself.
Is it really you who whistles so divinely in the garden each morning? I
have heard it so often but never could locate it before. Aunt Pen
thought it must be another canary at the parsonage. It always seemed to
come from that direction."

"That's 'cause Saint John and I live there. He whistles, too, though I
do it the best."

"Saint John?" The flicker of amusement became a genuine smile.

"That's the new preacher of Hill Street Church. He used to be our
minister in Parker and he lets me call him by his front name when we are
alone, but it was so easy to forget and do it when we weren't alone that
I named him _Saint_ John, 'cause Faith says he is my pattern--no patron
saint. I call Elizabeth Saint Elspeth, too, for the same reason. She is
his wife."

"But I thought you were their little girl."

"Mercy, no! They ain't old enough to have a little girl my age yet. Glen
is their only children. I'm just visiting."

"You have been with them ever since they came here, haven't you?"

"Almost. They were a week ahead of me. They moved in from Parker last
March, the very week before our spring vacation from school, and they
begged grandpa so hard to let me come and help them settle that he said
I might. Then Allee got the scarlet fever, so I had to stay for a time.
Just as she was getting well so they 'xpected to _fumergate_ 'most any
day, Cherry went to work and caught it, and now Hope is in bed. There
are two more yet to have it, 'nless you count me, and I ain't going to
get it. I don't think Gail and Faith will, either, 'cause they have been
staying with Frances Sherrar ever since the doctor decided he knew what
ailed Allee. Anyway, they had it when they were little."

"What quaint names!" murmured the lady, softly repeating them one by
one.

"Yes, they are, but as it ain't our fault, we've quit fretting about
'em. Our grandfather was a minister, and he named us--all but Gail and
Allee. Papa named the oldest, and mamma named the youngest. Grandpa
fixed up all the rest."

The ludicrous look of resignation in the small round face was too much
for the questioner, and she burst into a rippling peal of laughter, so
hearty that a much older woman popped a surprised face out of the door
to see what was the matter. Peace caught a glimpse of her as she
vanished within doors once more, and demanded, "Who is that?"

"Aunt Pen."

"That's a quaint name, too. I'd as soon be called 'pencil'," she
retaliated.

"It isn't very common these days," smiled the woman. "The real name is
Penelope, but I shortened it to 'Pen.' Poor Aunt Pen, she has a hard
time of it."

"Why? I sh'd think it would be easy work living in such a beautiful
place as this."

"A beautiful place isn't everything in life," came the bitter retort,
and the rebellious look clouded the lovely eyes once more.

"No, it ain't," Peace acknowledged; "but it's a whole lot. Just s'posing
you had to live in a mite of an ugly house without nice things to eat or
wear and with no father or mother to take care of you, and a mortgage
you couldn't pay, and an old skinflint of a man ready to slam you
outdoors and gobble up the farm, furniture and everything, the minute
the mortgage was due. How'd you like that?"

"Have you no father or mother?" The voice was very soft and sweet again,
and the blue eyes glowed tenderly.

Peace shook her head. "They are both inside the gates."

"Then who takes care of you?"

"Grandpa Campbell, what was adopted by my own grandpa when he was a
boy."

"Tell me about it, won't you, dear?"

So Peace related the pathetic story of the two souls who had gone into
the Great Beyond, leaving the helpless orphan band to battle by
themselves; of the struggle the little brown house had witnessed; of the
tramp who came begging his breakfast, and afterwards proved to be the
beloved President of the University; and of the beautiful change which
had come in their fortunes when he had adopted the whole flock.

When she had finished her recital there were tears in the blue eyes, and
the white-faced lady murmured compassionately, "Poor little sisters!
There are so many orphans in this big world."

Something in her tone and the far-away expression of her eyes impelled
Peace to say with conviction, "You are an orphan, too."

"Yes, child."

"Since you were a little girl?"

"Since I was five years old."

"Oh, as little as Allee when mamma died! Wasn't there anyone to take
care of you? Did your Aunt Pen adopt you?"

"Aunt Pen has always lived with us. I don't remember any other mother."

"And did you always live here?"

"Yes, I was born here. It wasn't part of the city then."

"But you don't look real old."

"I am not _real_ old. I was twenty-four last November."

"And Gail was nineteen the same month! You're only four, five years
older than she is. That's not much--but there's a bigger difference."

"How, dear?"

"Oh, she looks 'sif she liked to live better'n you do."

The woman drew a long, shivering breath and closed her eyes as if a
spasm of pain had seized her; and Peace, frightened at the death-like
pallor of the face, quavered, "Oh, don't faint! What is the matter? Are
you sick? Or is it just a chill? Maybe you better run around a bit until
you get warm."

The deep, unfathomable blue eyes opened, and the voice said bitterly, "I
can _never_ run again. I must lie in this chair all the rest of my life
with nothing to do but think, think, think! Do you wonder now that I am
not happy? Do you understand now why Aunt Pen has a hard time? Do you
see the reason for that tall, thick hedge all around the yard?"

"No," Peace replied bluntly. "I can't see a mite of sense in it! If I
had to live in a chair all my days, I'd want it where I could watch the
world go by. I'd cut down all the hedges and let the sun shine in. If I
couldn't run about myself, I'd just watch the folks that did have good
feet. I'd wave my hands at the children and give 'em flowers, and they'd
come and talk to me when I was tired of reading. I'd have a bird like
you've got, and I'd make a pet of it, too. I'd have more'n one; I'd have
a whole m'nagerie of dogs and cats and rabbits and squirrels and--and
ponies, maybe, and a monkey or two. And I'd teach them to do tricks, and
then I'd call all the poor little children who can't go to the circus to
see my animals perform. I'd have gardens of flowers for the sick people
and vegetables for those who haven't any place to raise their own and
no money to buy them. That's what Saint John is going to do with all
they don't use at the parsonage. I'd make a park of my back yard and let
dirty children play there so's they would not get run over in the
street; I'd--oh, there are so many things I'd do to enjoy myself!"

Peace paused for breath, the well of her imagination run dry, but her
face was so radiant that instinctively her listener knew these were not
idle words, though she could not keep the hard tone out of her voice as
she answered, "Ah, that is easy enough to say, but--wait until you are
where I am now, and I think you will find it lots harder to practice
what you preach. You will turn your face to the wall, say good-bye to
those who you thought were your friends, build a high fence around
yourself and hide--_hide_ from the world and everything!"

"Oh, no," Peace protested, shuddering at the picture she had drawn. "I
should _die_ if I couldn't see the sun and flowers and kind faces of the
folks I love. But--it--would be--awfully hard _never_ to walk again."

"Hard? It is _torture_!" She had forgotten that she was talking to a
mere child, one who could not understand what it was to have dearest
ambitions thwarted, one who could not even know yet what it was to have
ambitions. "I had dreamed of being a great singer some day--"

"Oh, do you sing?" cried Peace, who was passionately fond of music in
whatever guise it came.

"Masters said I could--"

"Then please sing for me. I can only whistle, and then folks say,

    "'Whistling girls and crowing hens
    Always come to some bad ends.'

"I'd like awfully much to hear you sing."

"Oh, I don't sing any more! That is all past now; but oh, how I loved
it! We were going to Europe, Aunt Pen and I, and when we came back after
months and years of study, I thought I should be a--Jenny Lind, perhaps.
I thought of it by day, I dreamed of it by night. It was _everything_ to
me. And then--my horse fell--and here I am."

"Was it long ago?" whispered Peace, strangely stirred by the passionate
words of the girl before her.

"Five years."

"And you've been here ever since?"

"Ever since."

Oh, the hopelessness of the words, the bitterness of the face!

Involuntarily Peace turned her eyes away, and as her glance fell upon
the delicate bloom of the lilac bushes beside her, she began to hum
under her breath, "Oh, you lovely lilacs, growing up so high."

"Sing to me," commanded the lame girl imperiously.

"Sing? I can't sing! All I can do is whistle."

"But you were singing just now."

"I was humming."

"Don't quibble!" A faint smile smoothed away the hard lines about the
young mouth. "Please sing that little tune for me. I have heard you so
often in the garden and that seems quite a favorite of yours, but I can
never make out the words."

"That's 'cause the words ain't usu'ly alike."

"What?"

"Why, Allee and me have always fitted talking words into our song music
and--"

"I don't understand, I am afraid."

"Why, we just sing things instead of talking them like other folks
would. They don't rhyme, but they fit into tunes which we like, and our
Gleaners' motto song is our favorite, so that's the one we usu'ly hum,
and that's how you hear it so much."

"Then sing the motto song. The tune is very pretty."

"Yes, it is pretty, but the reason we like it so well is 'cause it
sounds glad. We never can sing it when we're cross or bad. It's made
just for sunshine."

Softly she began to chant the words:

    "'In a world where sorrow
      Ever will be known
    Where are found the needy
      And the sad and lone.'"

Peace was right in saying that she could not sing, and yet her happy
voice, warbling out those joyous words, made very sweet music that
bright May morning. The lines of weariness gradually left the invalid's
face, a feeling of rest stole over her, and with a tired little sigh,
she closed her eyes.

    "'When the days are gloomy,
      Sing some happy song,
    Meet the world's repining
      With a courage strong;

    "'Go with faith undaunted
      Thro' the ills of life,
    Scatter smiles and sunshine
      O'er its toil and strife,'"

piped Peace, staring at the waving plumes of lavender above her head.

    "'Sca-atter sunshine all along your wa-ay,
    Cheer and bless and bri-ighten--'"

The song ceased in the midst of the chorus.

The big blue eyes flashed open and the lame girl demanded in surprise.
"Why did you stop?"

"Oh," breathed Peace, a look of great relief passing over her face, "I
thought sure you'd gone to sleep and I wouldn't get my lilacs after
all."

"You little goosie! I don't go to sleep that easily. Sing the chorus
again for me, and then Hicks shall cut all the flowers you can carry."

"He better begin now, then, 'cause the chorus ain't long and it sounds
'sif Elspeth was calling me. I've been out of sight from the parsonage
quite a spell and likely she's getting anxious. Besides, Glen may be
awake and wanting me."

"Very well," she laughed. "Hicks shall begin right away. See, there he
comes with his basket and scissors. Now sing."

So Peace repeated the sprightly chorus with a vim, and was rewarded with
such a huge bouquet of the fragrant blossoms that she was almost hidden
from sight as she stood clasping them tightly in her arms, and
exclaiming in rapture, "All for me? Oh, dear Lilac Lady, I didn't 'xpect
that many! You better have Aunt Pen put some of these in the house for
you."

"No, I don't want them in my house!" exclaimed the girl fiercely. "They
are all for you--and Saint Elspeth."

"Oh, she'll love you for sending them. Can I bring her over to see you?
Her and Saint John?"

"No, I don't care to meet them. Saint John has already called, but--I
sent him away again."

"Then--I s'pose--you won't care to have me call again either."

This beautiful garden seemed like the Promised Land to Peace's childish
eyes, and the thought of never being allowed to enter it again was
dreadful.

"Oh, yes, _do_ come again! You _must_ come again! Come every day. No,
not every day, some days I couldn't see you if you came. I will hang a
white cloth on the lilac bushes--see,--on the other side, where you can
see it from the parsonage, and you will come then, won't you?"

"Yes, if Elspeth doesn't need me and Glen is asleep. He likes flowers,
too, even if he is just a baby, and he never tears them to pieces."

"I'll have Hicks cut you some tulips--"

"You better not today. I'll get them next time I come. These are all I
can carry now, and they are a lot too many for our little parsonage. But
I'm awful glad you gave me such a big bunch, 'cause there are ever so
many of the church people sick, and Elspeth will be so pleased to have
me _distribit_ bouquets amongst 'em. Some of 'em it will be like
slinging coals of fire at their heads, too. There's old Deacon Hopper
for one. He doesn't like Saint John and calls him a meddlesome monkey of
a minister. Now he's sick, I'll take him a bunch of lilacs and tell him
the meddlesome monkey's minister has sent him some flowers and hopes he
soon gets onto his feet again.

"Mittie Cole is another that needs some fire on her head. She pushed me
into the gutter three times the day I tried to adopt the runaway twins,
and we'd have had a grand scrimmage if Saint John hadn't happened along
to stop it. But she's got lung fever now, and there was days the doctor
said she wouldn't live. I reckon she doesn't feel much like fighting any
more, but likely she'll enjoy the smell of these lovely lilacs. She
seemed awful glad to see me the day I carried her some chicken broth.

"The Foster baby is sick, and Grandma Deane, and little Freddie James,
and Mrs. Hoover, and Dan'l Fielding. You see that's quite a bunch, and
it will take a big lot of flowers to go around. I'll tell 'em all that
you sent 'em--"

"No, indeed!" There was real alarm in her voice. "Because I did not send
them. I gave them to you."

"But if you hadn't given them to me, I couldn't share 'em with other
folks, so it's really you who is to blame. You--you don't care if I give
some away, do you?"

"Certainly not, dear. You may give them all away if it will make you any
happier."

"Oh, it does! I just love to see sick faces smile when someone brings in
flowers to smell or nice things to eat. Miss Edith sometimes takes us to
the hospital with bouquets to _distribit_, and my! how glad the patients
are to get them. They say it is almost as good as a breath of real,
genuine air. I'm going with Saint Elspeth tomorrow afternoon--"

"Then you must come over here and get some more lilacs. Hicks will cut
all you can carry."

"Oh, do you mean it? You darling Lilac Lady--that's what I mean to call
you always, 'cause you give away so many lilacs to make other folks
happy. I'll bring the biggest basket I can find. There is Elspeth
calling again. I must hurry home."

"You haven't told me your name yet. I forgot to ask it before, but if I
am to be your Lilac Lady, I must know what to call you, too."

"Peace--Peace Greenfield. Good-bye. I'll be here tomorrow just the
minute dinner is over."

The blue eyes followed her longingly as she danced away through the
fresh clover and disappeared beyond the heavy gates. Then the lame girl
turned in her chair,--almost against her will, it seemed--and looked up
at the fragrant purple plumes nodding above her head. "Peace," she
murmured. "How odd! 'The peace which passeth understanding.'"



CHAPTER VIII

A PICNIC IN THE ENCHANTED GARDEN


After that Peace came often to the handsome stone house, half hidden
from the road by its thick hedges and giant trees. Almost daily the
white cloth fluttered its summons from the lilac bushes, and Elizabeth,
having heard the sad story of the young girl mistress, rejoiced that the
tumble-haired, merry-hearted little romp could bring even a gleam of
sunshine into that darkened life.

At first it was the great, beautiful gardens which lured the child
through the iron gates, for she could not understand the different moods
of the imperious young invalid, and secretly stood somewhat in awe of
her. But gradually the natural childish vivacity and quaint philosophy
of the smaller maid tore down the barriers behind which the older girl
had so long screened herself, and Peace found to her great amazement
that the white-faced invalid, who could never leave her chair again, was
a wonderful story-teller and a perfect witch at inventing new games and
planning delightful surprises to make each visit a real event for this
guest. So the calls grew more and more frequent and the chance
acquaintance blossomed into a deep, tender friendship.

Of course, Peace did not realize how much sweetness and sunshine she was
bringing into the garden with her, but in her ignorance supposed that
the many visits were all for her own happiness. How could she know that
her lively prattle was making the weary days bearable for the frail
sufferer? And had anyone tried to tell her what an important part she
was playing in that life drama, she would not have believed it. Perhaps
it was the very unconsciousness of her power which made her such a
beautiful comrade for the aching heart imprisoned in the garden. At any
rate, Peace not only made friends with the lonely Lilac Lady, but she
also captivated gentle Aunt Pen and the adoring Hicks, who met her with
beaming faces whenever she entered the garden, and sighed when the brief
hours were over. But none of them would listen to her bringing Elspeth
or the minister, much to her bewilderment.

"It isn't because _I_ don't want them," explained Aunt Pen one day when
Peace had pleaded with her and had been grieved at her refusal. "Your
Lilac Lady isn't ready to receive other callers yet. You can't
understand now, dearie. God grant you may _never_ understand. She shut
herself up four years ago when she found out that she would never get
well enough to walk again, and you are the first person she has ever
seen since that time, except her own household and the physician.
Perhaps you are the opening wedge, child. Oh, I trust it may be so!"

Peace did not understand what an opening wedge was, but it did not sound
very appetizing, and she had grave doubts as to whether she had better
continue her visits under such conditions. But when she went to
Elizabeth with the story, that wise little woman answered her by
singing:

    "'Slightest actions often
      Meet the sorest needs,
    For the world wants daily,
      Little kindly deeds;
    Oh, what care and sorrow
      You may help remove,
    With your songs and courage,
      Sympathy and love.'"

Peace was comforted and went back to the shady garden with a deeper
desire to brighten the long, dreary, aimless days of the helpless
invalid. She said no more about introducing her beloved minister's
family, but in secret she still mourned because the lame girl so
steadfastly refused to welcome her dearest friends.

So the days flew swiftly by and the month of May was gone. Summer was
early that year, and the first day of June dawned sultry and still over
the sweltering city. It was a half-holiday at the Chestnut School, so
Peace returned home at noon, hot, perspiring, but radiant at the thought
of no more lessons till the morrow. She came a round-about way in order
to pass the great gates of the stone mansion, hoping to catch a glimpse
of the well-known chair under the lilac bushes; but the lawn was
deserted, and she was disappointed, for she had counted much on spending
these unexpected leisure hours in the cool garden with the lame girl.

To add to her woe, she found Elizabeth lying on the couch in the
darkened study, suffering from a nerve-racking headache, and the
preacher, looking very droll togged out in his little wife's
kitchen-apron, was flying about serving up the scorched, unseasoned
dinner for the forlorn family. He was too much concerned over the
illness of the mistress and the unfinished condition of his next
Sunday's sermon to sample his own cooking, and as Glen fell asleep over
his bowl of bread and milk, Peace was left entirely to her own devices
when the meal was ended.

It was too hot to romp, it was too hot to read, and there was no one to
play with. She swung idly in the hammock until the very motion was
maddening. She prowled through the grove behind the church, she dug
industriously in the small flower garden under the east window, she did
everything she could think of to make the time pass quickly, but at
length threw herself once more into the hammock with a discouraged sigh.

"School might better have kept all day. It is horrid to stay home with
nothing to do that's int'resting. I've watched all the afternoon for the
Lilac Lady's table-cloth and haven't had a peek of it yet. But there--I
don't s'pose she'd know there was only one session today, so she ain't
apt to hang it out until time for school to let out, like she usu'ly
does. Guess I'll just walk over in that d'rection and see if she ain't
under the trees yet. It's been two days since I've seen a glimpse of
her. Hicks says she's been dreadful bad again. P'raps I better take her
some flowers this time--and there is that little strawberry pie Elspeth
made for my very own. I might take her some sandwiches, too,--yes, I'll
do it!"

She tiptoed softly into the house, so as not to disturb the two
slumberers, and went in search of the minister in order to lay her plan
before him; but he, too, had fallen asleep and lay sprawled full length
by the open window, beside his half-written manuscript.

"If that ain't just the way!" spluttered Peace under her breath. "I
never did go to tell anyone nice plans but they went to sleep or were
too busy to be disturbed. Well, I'll do it anyway. I know they won't
care a single speck. I'll ask 'em when I get home and they are awake."

Back to the kitchen she stole, and into the tiny pantry, where for the
next few minutes she industriously cut and buttered bread, made
sandwiches, sliced cake and packed lunch enough for a dozen in the
picnic hamper which she found hanging on a nail in the shed. With this
on her arm, she returned to the little garden under the window and dug
up her choicest flowers, stacked them in an old shoe-box with plenty of
black dirt, as she had often seen Hicks do, and departed with her
luggage for the stone house across the corner.

She paused at the heavy gates, wondering for the first time whether or
not she would be welcome at this time, when no signal had fluttered from
the lilac bushes, but at sight of the motionless figure under the
largest oak, her doubts vanished, and, boldly opening the gate, she
marched up the gravel path and across the lawn toward the familiar
chair, bearing the lunch-basket on one arm and a huge box of
cheerful-faced pansies on the other.

Hearing the click of the latch and the sound of steps on the walk, the
lame girl frowned impatiently, and without opening her eyes, said
peevishly, "If you have any errand here, go on to the house. I won't be
bothered."

"Oh, I'm sorry," cried Peace in mournful tones. "I brought a picnic with
me, but--"

The big blue eyes flashed wide in surprise, and their owner demanded
sharply, "Why did you come this time of day? I have not sent for you."

"I didn't say you had. I came 'cause I thought you'd be glad to see me,
but if you ain't, I'll go straight home again and eat my picnic all
alone, and plant my flowers in my garden again. You don't have to have
them if you don't want 'em."

She whirled on her heel and stamped angrily across the grass toward the
gate, too hurt to keep the tears from her eyes, and too proud to let her
companion see how deeply wounded she was.

Astonished at this flash of gunpowder, the lame girl cried contritely,
"Oh, don't go away, Peace! I didn't mean to be cross to you. This has
been _such_ a hard week, dear, I hardly know what I am doing half the
time."

"Is the pain so bad?" whispered Peace tenderly, dropping on her knees
before the sufferer, having already forgotten her own grievance in her
longing to ease and comfort the poor, aching back.

"It is better now," answered the girl, smiling wanly at the sympathetic
face bending over her. "The heat always makes it worse, but I do believe
it is growing cooler now. Feel the breeze? What have you brought me? A
picnic lunch!"

"Yes--my strawberry pie--"

"Did Mrs. Strong know?"

"She made the pie all for my very own self to do just what I please
with. Don't you like strawberry pie?" Peace paused in her task of
unpacking the basket to look up questioningly at the face among the
pillows.

"Oh, yes, dear, I am very fond of it, and it is sweet of you to share
yours with me. I shall put my half away for tea."

"Oh, you mustn't do that," protested the ardent little picnicker,
passing her a plate of generously thick, ragged looking sandwiches,
spread with great chunks of butter fresh from the ice-box, and filled
with delicate slices of pink ham. "I want you to eat it with me. This is
a 'specially good pie, and Elspeth can 'most beat Faith when it comes to
dough. Mrs. Deacon Hopper sent us the ham--a whole one, all boiled and
baked with sugar and cloves. It's simply _fine_! The lilacs I took the
deacon did the work all right. He was so tickled that he got over being
grumpy, and calls Saint John a promising preacher now. Please taste the
sandwiches. I know you'll like them even if I didn't get the bread cut
real even and nice. Then after we get through eating, I'll plant the
pansies."

"Pansies!" She stared past the brown head bobbing over the hamper, to
the box of nodding blossoms in the grass. "What made you bring me
pansies?"

"'Cause you ain't got any, and no garden looks quite finished without
some of those flowers in it. Don't you think so?"

"I _de-spise_ pansies!"

Peace eyed her in horrified amazement an instant, then swept the
rejected blossoms out of sight beneath the basket cover, saying tartly,
"You needn't be ugly about it! I can take them home again. I s'posed of
course you liked them. I didn't know the garden was empty of them 'cause
you _wouldn't_ have them. _I_ think they are the prettiest flower
growing, next to lilacs and roses."

"Those mocking little faces?"

"Those darling, giggly smiles!"

"What?"

"Didn't you ever see a giggling pansy?"

"No, I can't say I ever did." A faint trace of amusement stole around
the corners of the white lips.

"Well, here's one. Oh, I forgot! You _de-spise_ them!" She had half
lifted a gorgeous yellow blossom from the hidden box, but at second
thought dropped it back in the loose earth.

"Let me see it!" The Lilac Lady extended one blue-veined hand with the
imperious gesture which Peace had learned to know and obey. Silently she
thrust the moist plant into the outstretched fingers, and gravely
watched while the keen blue eyes studied the golden petals which, as
Peace had declared, seemed fairly teeming with sunshine and laughter.
"It does--look rather--cheerful," she conceded at length.

"That is just what I thought. I named it Hope."

"Hope! The name is appropriate."

"Yes, it is very 'propriate. Hope is always so sunshiny and smily--"

"Oh, you named it for your sister."

"Who did you think it was named for?"

"I didn't understand. Is it a habit of yours to name all your flowers?"

"N-o, not all. But we gener'ly name our pansies, Allee and me. See, this
beautiful white one with just a tiny speck of yellow in the middle I
called my Lilac Lady."

"Why?" A queer little choke came in her throat at these unexpected
words, and she turned her eyes away that Peace might not see the tears
which dimmed her sight.

"You looked so sweet and like a _nangel_ the first time I saw you, and
this pansy has a reg'lar angel face."

"Don't I look sweet and like an angel any more?"

"Some days--whenever you want to. But lots of times I guess you don't
care how you look," was the reply, as the busy fingers sorted out the
different colored blossoms from the box, all unconscious of the stinging
arrow she had just shot into the heart of her friend. "This blue one's
Allee. Blue means truth, grandma says, and Allee is true blue. Red in
our flag stands for valor. Cherry ain't very brave, but I named this
for her anyway, in hopes she'd ask why and I could tell her. Then maybe
when she found out that folks thought she was a 'fraid cat, she'd get
over it. Don't you think she would?"

"Perhaps--if you were her teacher," the older girl answered absently.
"Who is the black one?"

"Grandpa. Isn't it a whopper? He is real tall but not fat like the
flower. He always wears black at the University--that's why I picked
that one for him. This one is grandma and here is Gail. The striped one
is Faith. She is good in streaks, but she can be awful cross sometimes,
too,--like you. This tiny one is Glen, and the big, brown, spotted
feller is Aunt Pen. It makes me think of old Cockletop, a mother hen we
used to have in Parker, which 'dopted everything it could find wandering
around loose. That's what Aunt Pen looks as if she'd like to do."

This was too much for the lame girl's risibles, and she laughed
outright, long and loud, to Peace's secret delight, for when the Lilac
Lady laughed it was a sure sign that she was feeling better.

When she had recovered her composure, she said gravely, "Speaking of
Aunt Pen reminds me that she told me this morning the cook had made some
chicken patties for my special benefit and was hurt to think I refused
them. You might run up to the house and ask for them now to go with our
picnic lunch. Minnie will give them to you--cold, please. Some lemonade
would taste good, too. Aunt Pen knows how to make it to perfection."

Peace was gone almost before she had finished giving her directions, and
as she watched the nimble feet skimming through the clover, she smiled
tenderly, then sighed and looked sadly down at her own useless limbs
which would never bear her weight again. How many years of existence
must she endure in her crippled helplessness? Oh, the bitterness of it!
And yet as she gazed at the slippers which never wore out, and compared
her lot with that of the dancing, curly-haired sprite, tumbling eagerly
up the kitchen steps after the promised goodies, the old, weary look of
utter despair did not quite come back into the deep blue eyes; but
through the bitterness of her rebellion flashed a faint gleam of
something akin to hope. She was thinking of Peace's latest sunshine
quotation which had been laboriously entered in the little brown and
gold volume and brought to her for her inspection:

    "'To live in hope, to trust in right,
      To smile when shadows start,
    To walk through darkness as through light,
      With sunshine in the heart.'"

Below the little stanza, Peace had penned her own version of the words
in her quaint language: "This means to smile no matter how bad the
world goes round and to keep on smiling till the hurt is gone. It don't
cost any more to smile than it does to be uggly, and it pays a heep site
better."

What a dear little philosopher the child was! A sudden desire to meet
the other sisters of that happy family sprang up within her heart. Why
should she stay shut away from the world like a nun in her cloister?
What had she gained by it? Nothing but bitterness! And think of the joys
she had missed!

An insistent rustling of the lilac bushes behind her caught her
attention, and by carefully raising her head she could see the thick
branches close to the ground bending and giving, as a small, dark object
twisted and grunted and wriggled its way through the tiny opening it had
managed to find in the hedge.

The girl's first impulse was to scream for help, but a second glance
told her that it was not an animal pushing its way through the twigs,
for animals do not wear blue gingham rompers. So she held her breath and
waited, and at last she was rewarded by seeing a round, flushed,
inquisitive baby face peeping through the leaves at her. She smiled and
held out her hands, and with a gurgle of gladness, the little fellow
gave a final struggle, scrambled to his feet and toddled unsteadily
across the lawn to her chair, jabbering baby lingo, the only word of
which she could understand was, "Peace."

"Are you Glen?" she demanded, smoothing the soft black hair so like his
father's.

"G'en," he repeated, parrot fashion.

"Where is your mamma?"

"Mamma." He pointed in the direction he had come, and gurgled, "S'eep.
Papa s'eep. All gone."

The baby himself looked as if he had just awakened from a nap. One cheek
was rosier than the other, his hair lay in damp rings all over his head,
and his feet were bare and earth-stained from his scramble through the
vegetable garden on the other side of the hedge.

A sudden gust of cool wind blew through the trees overhead, a rattling
peal of thunder jarred the earth, a blinding flash of lightning startled
both girl and baby, and before either knew what had happened, a torrent
of rain dashed down upon them. The storm which had been brewing all that
sultry day broke in its fury. Hicks came running from the stable to the
rescue of his helpless young mistress, Aunt Pen flew out of the house
like a distracted hen, and Peace rushed frantically to the garden to
save the precious picnic lunch and the box of pansies which were to be
planted under the gnarled old oak nearest the lame girl's window.

So it happened that baby Glen was borne away into the great house to
wait until the deluge of rain and hail should cease. In the flurry of
getting everything under shelter, no one thought of the mother at home,
crazed with anxiety and fright; and the whole group was startled a few
moments later to behold a bare-headed, wild-eyed woman, drenched to the
skin, dash through the iron gates, up the walk, and straight into the
house itself, without ever stopping to knock.

"It's Elspeth!" cried Peace, first to find her voice.

"Glen, where's Glen?" was all the frantic mother could gasp as she stood
tottering and dripping in the doorway.

"Ma-ma," lisped the little runaway, struggling down from Aunt Pen's lap,
where he had been cuddling, and running into Elizabeth's arms.

"Peace, why did you take him without saying a word?" she reproached,
sinking into the nearest chair, and hugging her small son close to her
breast.

"I didn't--" Peace began.

"I think he must have run away," volunteered the Lilac Lady, staring
fixedly at Elizabeth's face with almost frightened eyes. "He squirmed
through the hedge while I was alone in the garden. I had not seen the
storm approaching, and it broke before I could call Peace or--"

At the sound of the sweet voice, Elizabeth had abruptly risen to her
feet, and after one searching glance at the white face among the
cushions, cried out with girlish glee, "Myra! Can it be that Peace's
Lilac Lady is my dear old chum?"

"You are the same darling Beth!" cried the lame girl hysterically,
clinging to the wet hand outstretched to hers. "Why didn't I guess it
before? Oh, I have wanted you _so_ often--but I never dreamed of finding
you here. And to think I have refused all this while to let Peace bring
you!"

"No, don't think about that. Her desire is accomplished, however it came
about--and you are going to let me stay?"

"I would keep you with me always if I could. I have been learning
Peace's philosophy and find it very--"

"Peaceful?" They laughed together, and in that laugh sounded the doom of
the hedges which Peace had lamented so long.



CHAPTER IX

GIUSEPPE NICOLI AND THE MONKEY


The next morning dawned bright and clear and cool, and Peace, hurrying
to school with her nose buried in a great bunch of early roses from the
stone house, pranced gaily down the hill chanting under her breath,
"Roses, roses, yellow, red and white, you are surely lovely, sweet and
bright--another rhyme! They always come when I ain't trying to make 'em.
I wonder if I'll ever be a big poet like Longfellow was. It must be nice
to have folks learn the things you write and speak 'em at concerts and
school exercises like I'm going to do his 'Children's Hour' next Friday.
I've got it so I can say it backwards almost. Elizabeth says I know it
perfectly. I hope Miss Peyton will think the same way. She is lots
harder to please and I 'most never can do anything to suit her."

She sighed dolefully, for her ludicrous mistakes and blunt remarks were
the bane of her new teacher's methodical life, and many an hour she had
been kept after school as a punishment for her unruly tongue.

Unfortunately, Miss Peyton belonged to that great army of teachers who
teach because they must, and not because they love the work. To be
sure, she was most just and impartial in her treatment of the fifty
scholars under her supervision, but, possessed of about as much
imagination as a cat, she failed to analyze or understand the
dispositions of her charges; and well-meaning Peace was usually in
disgrace.

But her sunny nature could not stay unhappy long, and as she thrust her
small nose deeper among the fragrant blossoms, she smilingly added, "I
guess she'll like these roses, anyway. They are the prettiest I ever
saw, even in greenhouses. There goes the first bell. I 'xpected to be
there early this morning, but likely Annie Simms has beat me again.
Well, I don't care, there is only one more week of school and then
vacation--and p'raps I can go home. Why, what a crowd there is on the
walk! I wonder if someone is hurt again. Where can the principal be?"

She broke into a run, forgetful of her cherished bouquet, and dashed
heedlessly across the school-grounds to the group of excited, shouting
boys and girls, gathered around the tallest linden, throwing stones and
missiles of all sorts up into the branches at some object which Peace
could not see. But as she drew near, she could hear a queer, distressed
chattering, which reminded her of the monkeys in the park zoo, and
turning to one of her mates, she demanded, "What is it the boys have got
treed there?"

"A monkey."

"A monkey?" shrieked Peace in real surprise. "Where did they get him?"

"I guess he b'longs to a hand-organ man. He's dressed in funny little
pants and a red cap. Thad DePugh found him on his way to school and
tried to catch him, but he run up the tree."

"And you stand there without saying a word and let them stone a poor
little helpless monkey!"

"It don't b'long to me," muttered the child, angered by the indignant
flash of the brown eyes and the scathing rebuke which seemed directed
against her alone. "Anyway, I ain't stoning it."

"You ain't helping, either. Let me through here!" She pushed and elbowed
her way into the midst of the throng and boldly confronted the
ringleaders of the tormentors, screaming in protest, "Don't you throw
another stone, you big bullies! Ain't you ashamed of yourself, trying to
kill that poor little thing!"

"We ain't trying to kill it," retorted the nearest chap, pausing with
his arm uplifted ready to pitch another pebble.

"You mind your own business!" growled another. "This monkey isn't yours.
We're trying to make it come down so we can catch it."

"You'll quit throwing things at it, or I'll tell Miss Curtis."

"Tattle-tale, tattle-tale!" mocked the throng, and another handful of
rocks flew up among the branches.

"O-h-h-h-h!" shrieked Peace, beside herself with rage. "You d'serve to
have the stuffing whaled out of you for that!"

Flinging aside the treasured roses, she seized the biggest boy by the
hair and jerked him mercilessly back and forth across the yard, while he
sought in vain to loosen the supple fingers, and bawled loudly for help.

"Teacher, teacher! Miss Curtis, oh teacher!" shouted the excited
children; and at these sounds of strife from the playgrounds, the
principal and half a dozen of her staff rushed out of the building to
quell the riot. But even then Peace did not release her grip on the
lad's thick topknot.

Pulled forcibly from her victim by the long-suffering Miss Peyton, she
collapsed in the middle of the walk and sobbed convulsively, while the
rest of the scholars huddled around in scared silence, eager to see what
punishment was to be meted out to this small offender, for it was a
great disgrace at Chestnut School to be caught fighting.

The grave-faced principal looked from the pitiful heap of misery at her
feet to the blubbering bully who had retreated to a safe distance and
stood ruefully rubbing his smarting cranium, minus several tufts of
hair; and though inwardly smiling at the spectacle, she demanded
sternly, "Peace Greenfield, aren't you ashamed of yourself for fighting
Thad--"

"Yes," hiccoughed Peace with amazing promptness and candor; "I'm
terribly ashamed to think I _touched_ him--he's so dirty. But I ain't
half as ashamed of _myself_ as I am of him."

Even Miss Peyton caught her breath in dismay. But the principal had not
forgotten her own childhood days, and being still a girl at heart, and
secretly in sympathy with the small maid on the ground, she only said,
"Explain yourself, Peace."

"It ain't half as bad for a little girl like me to fight a big bully
like him, as it is for a big bully like him to fight a little monkey--"

"I wasn't fighting the monkey," sullenly muttered the boy, hanging his
head in shame.

"You were stoning him, and he couldn't hit back, so there!"

"What monkey?" demanded the principal, glancing swiftly around the yard
for any evidence of such a creature.

A dozen hands pointed toward the linden tree, and one small voice piped,
"He's up there!"

"A real monkey?"

"Yes, dressed up in hand-organ pants," Peace explained, scrambling to
her feet and peering up among the thick leaves for a glimpse of the
frightened animal, which had ceased its wild chattering and sat huddled
close against the tree trunk almost within reach. "See it? Poor little
Jocko, I won't hurt you!" She stretched out her hands at the same moment
that unknowingly she had spoken its name, and to the intense amazement
of teachers and pupils, the tiny, trembling creature unhesitatingly
dropped upon her shoulder, threw its claw-like arms about her neck and
hid its face in her curls.

"Whose monkey is it?" gently asked Miss Curtis, breaking the silence
which fell upon the group watching the strange sight.

"I never saw it before," Peace answered.

"But you called it by name," chorused the children, crowding closer
about her.

"That was just a guess. There's a story in our reader about Jocko, and I
happened to think of it. I didn't know it was this monkey's name."

"How odd!" murmured the primary teacher.

"She's the queerest child I ever saw," confided Miss Peyton; but the
principal had seen the janitor approaching the open door to ring the
last bell, and being at loss to know what to do with the unwelcome
little animal in Peace's arms, she suggested that the child take it home
and put it in a box until the owner could be found. This Peace was only
too delighted to do, for as no one in the neighborhood seemed to know
where it came from or whose it was, she had fond hopes that no one would
inquire for it, and that she might keep it for a pet.

So she joyfully carried it back to the parsonage, and burst in upon the
little household with the jumbled explanation, "Here's a stone I found
monkeying up a tree and Miss Curtis asked me to bring it home and box it
till the owner comes around after it. And if he doesn't come, I can keep
it myself, can't I, Saint John? He jumped right into my arms and won't
let go, but just shakes and shakes 'sif he was still getting hit by
those rocks. I pulled Thad DePugh 'most bald headed, and didn't get
scolded a bit hardly. She made him go to the office, though, and I hope
he gets licked the way I couldn't do but wanted to."

"Here, here," laughed the minister, looking much bewildered at the
twisted story. "Just say that again, please, and say it straight. I
haven't the faintest idea yet how you got hold of that little reptile or
what Thad's hair had to do with it."

"It isn't a reptile!" Peace indignantly denied. "It's a monkey which hid
in the linden tree at the schoolhouse to get away from the boys and they
stoned it."

Little by little the story was untangled, while the monkey still
tenaciously clung to Peace's neck and wide-eyed Glen hung onto her
skirts.

"So you think there is a chance of your keeping him for a pet?" said the
preacher, when at length the tale was ended.

"Can't I?"

"You are hoping too much, little girl. If this animal belongs to an
organ-grinder, he will be around for him very soon, you may be sure. It
is the monkey's antics that bring in the pennies. He can't afford to
lose such a valuable. Besides, Peace, the poor little thing is almost
dead now."

"Oh, Saint John, he is only scared. S'posing you were a monkey and
hateful boys stoned you, wouldn't you tremble and shake?"

"I don't doubt it, girlie, but it isn't only fear that ails that animal.
Look here at his back--just a solid mass of sores. Elizabeth, isn't that
shocking? This is surely a case for the Humane Society. It is a shame to
let the creature live, suffering as it must be suffering from those
cruel wounds. His owner ought to be jailed."

"Oh, Saint John, you aren't going to kill Jocko, are you?"

"No, dear, he is not my property, and I have no legal right to put him
out of his misery, but we must call up the Humane Society and notify
them at once. They will be merciful. It is better to have him die now
than live and suffer at the hands of a brutal owner, Peace. You must not
cry."

For great tears of pity were coursing down the rosy cheeks, and Glen was
trying his best to wipe them away with his fat little fists. Elizabeth
supplied the missing handkerchief, and as Peace raised it to her face,
the monkey gave a sudden convulsive shudder, the tiny paws loosed their
grasp about the warm neck, and Jocko lay dead in the child's arms.

For a full moment she stared at the pitiful form, and Elizabeth expected
a storm of grief and protest; but instead, the little maid drew a long,
deep breath as of relief, and said soberly, "Saint John is right. Jocko
is better off dead, but I'm glad he died in my arms, knowing I was good
to him, 'stead of being stoned to death by those cruel boys in the tree.
Where is Saint John? Has he already gone to telephone the Human Society?
He needn't to now. The monkey is dead. I'll run and catch him on my way
back to school. Good-bye."

She was off like a flash down the hill once more, but the preacher had
either taken a different route or already reached his goal, for he was
nowhere in sight. So Peace continued her way to the schoolhouse, racing
like mad to make up lost time. As she panted up the steps into the
dimness of the cool hall, she stumbled over a trembling figure crouching
in the darkest corner by the stairway, and drew back with a startled
cry, which was echoed by her victim, a frail, ragged, young urchin with
a thatch of jet black curls and great, hollow, dusky eyes.

"Who are you?" demanded Peace, not recognizing him as one of the regular
pupils at Chestnut School. "And what are you doing here?"

"Giuseppe Nicoli," answered the elf, looking terribly frightened and
shrinking further into his corner. "Me losa monk'. He come here but gona
way. W'en Petri fin', he keel me." The thin face worked pathetically as
the little fellow bravely tried to stifle the sobs which shook his
feeble body; and Peace, with childish instinct, understood what the
waif's queer, broken English failed to tell her.

"Is Petri your father?" she asked.

"No, no, no!" He shook his head vehemently to emphasize his words.

"Then why are you afraid of him?"

"He playa de organ, me seeng, me feedle, de monk' he dance and bring in
mon'. Monk' los', Petri keel me."

"The monkey is dead." The words escaped her lips before she thought, but
the frozen horror on the boy's face brought her to her senses, and she
hastily cried, "But he was _so_ sick and hurt! His back was just a mess
of solid sores. It is better that he is dead!"

"Oh, but Petri keel me!"

"Sh! The teachers will hear you if you screech so loud. Come upstairs
with me. Miss Curtis will know what to do. She won't let Petri get you.
Don't be afraid, Jessup. I wouldn't hurt you for the world."

He did not understand half that she said, but the great brown eyes were
filled with sympathy, and with the same instinct which had led the
monkey to leap into her arms a few moments before, the ragamuffin laid
his grimy fists into hers, and she led him up the winding stairs to the
principal's office.

When the worthy lady had heard the queer story, she could only stare
from one child to the other and gasp for breath. Peace was noted for
finding all sorts of maimed birds or sick animals on her way to school,
but never before had she appeared with a human being, and Miss Curtis
almost doubted now that little Giuseppe was a real human. He looked so
pitifully like a scarecrow. What could she do with him? It would be
criminal to let the brutal organ-player get him again if the lad's story
were true, and she did not doubt its truth after the waif had slipped
back his ragged sleeves and showed great, ugly, purple welts across his
naked arms.

"Poor little chap," she murmured. "Poor little chap!" As she gingerly
touched the bony hands, she was seized with a happy inspiration, and
bidding the children sit down till she returned, she entered a little
inner office, and Peace heard her at the telephone. "Give me 9275."

There was a pause; then the child grew rigid with horror. The voice from
the adjoining room was saying, "Is this the Humane Society?"

It was to the Humane Society that Saint John had intended telephoning,
in order that they might come up and kill the poor monkey. Was Miss
Curtis a murderer? Surely Giuseppe was not to be killed, too. Then why
had she telephoned the Humane Society?

Tiptoeing across the floor to the Italian waif's chair, she clutched him
by the hand, dragged him to his feet, and signalling him to be quiet,
she stole cautiously from the room with him in tow. Down the long stairs
they hurried, and out into the bright sunshine, though poor, frightened
Giuseppe protested volubly in his own tongue and the little broken
English which he knew, for once on the streets, he feared that the bold,
bad Petri would find him and drag him away to dreadful punishments
again. But the harder he protested, the faster Peace jerked him along,
repeating over and over in her frantic efforts to make him understand,
"Petri shan't get you, Jessup. But if we stay there the Human Society
will, and that's just as bad. They killed Deacon Skinner's old horse in
Parker, and Tim Shandy's lame cow, and were coming to finish Jocko when
he died of his own self. You don't want to go the same way, do you?"

Poor Peace did not know the real mission of the Humane Society, or she
would not have been so shocked at the idea of little Giuseppe's falling
into their hands; but her fear had its effect upon the struggling
urchin, and his feet fairly flew over the ground, as he tried to keep
pace with his leader. When only half a block from the parsonage, Peace
abruptly halted, and the boy's dark eyes looked into hers inquiringly,
fearfully. What was the matter now? This was certainly a queer child at
his side. Perhaps it would have been wiser had he stayed with the
gentle-faced lady in the schoolhouse.

"Run," he urged, tugging at her hand when she continued to stand
motionless in the middle of the walk. "Petri geta me."

"No, no, Petri shan't have you, I say!" Peace declared savagely. "But if
I take you home to Saint Elspeth, like as not the Human Society will be
right there to nab you; and if they ain't now, Miss Curtis will send 'em
along as soon as she finds we've run away. Where can I take you?"

Anxiously she looked about her for a hiding place, and as if in answer
to her question, her glance rested upon the stone house, surrounded by
its tall hedges. "Sure enough! Why didn't I think of that before? My
Lilac Lady will take care of you, I know, until Saint John can find some
nice place for you to live always. Come on this way."

She whisked around the corner, threw open the gate, and ushered the
trembling waif into the splendid garden, with the announcement, "Here is
the place I mean, and there is the Lilac Lady under the trees."

The boy surveyed the masses of brilliant flowers, the sparkling
fountain, the shifting shadows of the great oaks above him where birds
were singing. Then he turned and scanned the white, sweet face among the
pillows, and clasping his thin hands in rapture, he breathed, "Italy!
Oh, eet iss Paradise!" And as if unable to restrain his joy any longer,
he burst into a wild, plaintive song, with a voice silvery toned and
clear as a bell. Peace paused in the midst of a turbulent explanation to
listen; Aunt Pen came to the door with her sewing in her hand; Hicks
stole around the corner of the house, thinking perhaps the young
mistress had broken her long silence; and the lame girl herself lay with
parted lips, charmed by the glorious burst of melody.

The song won her heart, even before she heard the pitiful story of the
wretched little musician, and when Peace had finished recounting the
morning's events, the mistress of the stone house turned toward her aunt
with blazing, wrathful eyes, exclaiming impetuously, "Isn't that
shocking? Oh, how dreadful! We must help him, Aunt Pen. Poor little
Giuseppe! See the Humane Society about him at once--Now don't look so
horrified, Peace. They don't kill little boys and girls. They take good
care of just such waifs as this, and provide nice homes for them. Even
if Giuseppe were related to Petri, the Humane Society would take the
child away from him on account of his brutality. He is worse than a
beast to treat the boy so, and Giuseppe shall never go back to him as
long as I can do anything. He shall go to school like other children and
get an education. Then we'll make a splendid musician of him; and who
knows, Peace, but some day he will be a second Campanini?"

Peace had not the faintest idea of what a Campanini was, but she did
understand that Giuseppe Nicoli had found a home and friends, and she
was content.



CHAPTER X

THE LAST DAY OF SCHOOL


Peace was panic stricken. Almost at the last minute Miss Peyton had
changed her mind about the poem which she was to speak, and had given
her instead of "The Children's Hour" which she had so carefully learned,
those other lines called "Children"; and there were only five days in
which to learn them. Memorizing poetry, particularly when she could not
quite understand its meaning, was not Peace's strong forte, and it was
small wonder that she was dismayed at this change of program; but it was
useless to protest. When Miss Peyton decided to do a certain thing, "all
the king's horses and all the king's men" could not alter her decision.
Peace had learned this from bitter experience and many hours in the dark
closet behind the teacher's desk. So, inwardly raging, though outwardly
calm, she accepted her fate, and marched home to air her outraged sense
of justice before the little parsonage family, sure of sympathy and help
in that quarter. Nor was she disappointed.

Elizabeth recognized the small maid's failings as a student, and was
much provoked at Miss Peyton's want of understanding, but very wisely
kept these sentiments to herself, and set about to help Peace in her
difficult task. At her suggestion, the young elocutionist waited until
the following morning before beginning her study of the new lines, and
with the teacher's copied words in her hand, went out to the hammock
under the trees to be alone with her work. There she sat swinging
violently to and fro, gabbling the stanzas line by line, while she
ferociously jerked the short curls on her forehead and frowned so
fiercely that Elizabeth, busy with her Saturday baking, could not resist
smiling whenever she chanced to pass the door, through which she could
see the familiar figure.

Slower and slower the red lips moved, lower and lower the hammock swung,
and finally with a gesture of utter despair, Peace cast the paper from
her, and dropped her head dejectedly into her hands.

"Poor youngster," murmured the flushed cook from the window where she
sat picking over berries. "John, have you a minute to spare? Peace is in
trouble--Oh, nothing but that new poem, but I thought perhaps you might
invent some easy way for her to memorize it. You were always good at
such things, and I can't stop until my cake is out of the oven and the
pies are made."

He assented promptly, and strolling out of the door as if for a breath
of fresh air, wandered across the grass to the motionless figure in the
hammock. "What seems to be the matter, chick?" he inquired cheerfully,
rescuing the discarded paper from the dirt and handing it back to its
owner.

"Oh, Saint John, this is a perfectly _dreadful_ poem! I don't b'lieve
Longfellow ever wrote it, and even if he did, I know I can _never_ learn
it. The verses haven't _any_ sense at _all_. Just listen to this!" She
seized the sheet with an angry little flirt, and read to the amazed man:

    "'Ye open the eastern windows,
      That look toward the sun,
    Where shots are stinging swallows
      And the brooks in mourning run.

    "'What the leaves are to the forest,
      Where light and air are stewed,
    Ere their feet and slender juices
      Have been buttoned into food,--

    "'That to the world are children;
      Through them it feels the glow
    Of a brighter and stunnier slimate
      Than scratches the trunks below.

    "'Ye are better than all the ballots
      That ever were snug and dead;
    For ye are living poets,
      And all the blest ate bread.'"

With difficulty the preacher controlled his desire to shout, and mutely
held out his hand for the paper, which he studied long and carefully,
for even to his experienced eyes, the hastily scribbled words were hard
to decipher. But when he had finished, all he said was, "You have
misread the lines, Peace. Wait and I will get you the book from the
library. Then you will see your mistake."

Shaking with suppressed mirth he went back to his study, found the
volume in question, and returned to the discouraged student with it open
in his hands. Half-heartedly Peace reached up for it, but he shook his
head, knowing how easy it was for her to misread even printed words and
what ludicrous blunders it often led to, and gravely suggested, "Suppose
I read it to you first. Then if there is anything you do not understand,
perhaps I can explain it so it will be easier to memorize."

"Oh, if you just would!" Peace exclaimed gratefully. "I never could read
Miss Peyton's writing, and then she marks me down for her own mistakes."

So in sonorous tones, the preacher read the poet's beautiful tribute to
childhood:

    "'Come to me, O ye children!
      For I hear you at your play,
    And the questions that perplexed me
      Have vanished quite away.

    "'Ye open the eastern windows,
      That look towards the sun,
    Where thoughts are singing swallows
      And the brooks of morning run.

    "'In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine,
      In your thoughts the brooklet's flow,
    But in mine is the wind of Autumn
      And the first fall of the snow.

    "'Ah! what would the world be to us
      If the children were no more?
    We should dread the desert behind us
      Worse than the dark before.

    "'What the leaves are to the forest,
      With light and air for food,
    Ere their sweet and tender juices
      Have been hardened into wood,--

    "'That to the world are children;
      Through them it feels the glow
    Of a brighter and sunnier climate
      Than reaches the trunks below.

    "'Come to me, O ye children!
      And whisper in my ear
    What the birds and the winds are singing
      In your sunny atmosphere.

    "'For what are all our contrivings,
      And the wisdom of our books,
    When compared with your caresses,
      And the gladness of your looks?

    "'Ye are better than all the ballads
      That ever were sung or said;
    For ye are living poems,
      And all the rest are dead.'"

"Well," breathed Peace in evident relief, as he lingeringly repeated the
last stanza, "that sounds a little more like it. Maybe with that book I
can learn her old poem now."

"Those are beautiful verses, Peace," he rebuked her.

"Yes, I 'xpect they are. I haven't got any grudge against the verses,
but it takes a beautifully long time for me to learn anything like that,
too." She seized the fat volume with both hands, tipped back among the
hammock cushions, and with her feet swinging idly back and forth, began
an animated study of the right version of the words, while the minister
strolled back to the house to enjoy the joke with Elizabeth.

But though Peace studied industriously and faithfully during the
remaining days, she could not seem to master the lines in spite of all
the minister's coaching, and in spite of Miss Peyton's struggle with her
after school each day.

"There is no sense in making such hard work of a simple little poem like
that," declared the teacher, closing her lips in a straight line and
looking very much exasperated after an hour's battle with the child
Tuesday afternoon. "You have just made up your mind that you will learn
it, and that is where the whole trouble lies."

"That's where you are mistaken," sobbed Peace forlornly, though her eyes
flashed with indignation as she wiped away her tears. "It's you which
has got her mind made up, and you and me ain't the same people. I just
can't seem to make those words stick, and I might as well give up trying
right now."

"You will have that poem perfectly learned tomorrow afternoon, or I
shall know the reason why."

"Then I 'xpect you'll have to know the reason why," gulped the unhappy
little scholar, who found the hill of knowledge very steep to climb.
"You can't make a frog fly if you tried all your life. It takes me a
_month_ to learn as big a poem as that, and you never gave it to me
until Friday afternoon."

"Nine four-line stanzas!" snapped the weary instructor, privately
thinking Peace the greatest, trial she had ever had to endure.

"It might as well be ninety," sighed the child. "If Elizabeth was my
teacher, or the Lilac Lady, I could get it in no time, but I never could
learn anything for some people. Just the sight of them knocks everything
I know clean out of my head."

Longfellow slammed shut with a terrific bang, and Miss Peyton rose from
her chair, choking with indignation. "You may go now, Peace
Greenfield," she said icily, "but that poem must be perfect by tomorrow
afternoon, remember."

So with a heavy heart Peace trudged home and took up her struggle once
more in the hammock; but was at last rewarded by being able to say every
line perfectly and without much hesitation. Elizabeth and her spouse
both heard her repeat it many times that evening and again the next
morning, and sent her on her way rejoicing to think the task was
conquered.

But when it came to the afternoon's rehearsal, poor Peace could only
stare at the ceiling, and open and shut her lips in agony, waiting for
the words which would not come, while Miss Peyton impatiently tapped the
floor with her slippered toe and frowned angrily at the miserable
figure. Finally Peace blurted out, "P'raps if you'd go out of the room,
I could say it all right."

"You will say it all right with me in the room!" retorted the woman
grimly.

"Then s'posing you look out of the window and quit staring so hard at
me. All I can think of is that scowl, and it doesn't help a bit."

The dazed teacher shifted her gaze, and Peace slowly began, "'Come to
me, O ye children!'" speaking very distinctly and with more expression
than Miss Peyton had thought possible.

"There!" exclaimed the woman, much mollified, when the child had
finished. "I knew you could say it if you wanted to. Now try it again."

So with the teacher staring out of the window, and Peace gazing at the
ceiling, the poem was recited without a flaw six times in succession,
and she was finally excused to put in some more practice at home.

Elizabeth thought the day was won, but poor Peace took little comfort in
the knowledge that she had acquitted herself creditably at the last
rehearsal. "It would be different if that was tomorrow afternoon," she
sighed. "But I just know she'll look at me when I get up to speak, and
with her eyes boring holes through me, I'll be sure to forget some part
of it. None of my other teachers were like her a bit. Miss Truesdale and
Miss Olney and Miss Allen all liked children; but I don't b'lieve Miss
Peyton does. There's lots of the scholars that she ain't going to let
pass, and the only reason they didn't have better lessons is 'cause she
scares it out of 'em. Oh, dear, school is such a funny thing!"

"Would you like to have me come to visit you tomorrow?" suggested
Elizabeth, who dreaded the ordeal almost as much as did Peace.

"No, you needn't mind. S'posing I should make a _frizzle_ of everything,
you'd feel just terribly, I know, and I should, too. I guess it will be
bad enough with all the other mothers there. But I wish there wasn't
_going_ to be any exercises. I'm sick of 'em already. And what do you
think now! She told us only this afternoon that we must all have an
_antidote_ for some of the Presidents to tell tomorrow for General
Lesson."

"A what!"

"An _antidote_. A short story about some of the Presidents of the United
States."

"You mean anecdote, child. I didn't suppose you were old enough to be
studying history in your room."

"Oh, this ain't hist'ry! We have a calendar each month telling what big
men or women were born and why. Then teacher tells us something about
their lives. Lots of 'em are very int'resting, but I can't remember
which were Presidents and which were only _manner-fracturers_. That's my
trouble."

"Well, it just happens that I can help you out there, my girlie," smiled
Elizabeth, smoothing the damp curls back from the flushed cheeks. "John
has a book in his library of just such things as that. We'll get it and
hunt up some nice, new stories that aren't hoary with age."

The volume was quickly found, and several quaint anecdotes were selected
for the next day's program, so if by chance other pupils had come
prepared with some of them, there would be still others for Peace to
choose from. And when school-time came the next day, she departed almost
happily, with the Presidential book tucked under one arm and the
well-fingered Longfellow under the other; for she meant to make sure
that the words were fresh in her mind before her turn came to recite.

The session began very auspiciously with some happy songs, and Peace's
spirits rose. Then came the drawing lesson. Peace was no more of an
artist than she was an elocutionist, but she tried hard, and was working
away industriously trying to paint the group of grape leaves Miss Peyton
had arranged on her desk, when one of the little visitors slipped from
his seat in his mother's lap and wandered across the room to his
sister's desk, which chanced to be directly in front of Peace; so he
could easily see what she was doing. He watched her in silence a moment,
and then demanded in a stage whisper, "What you d'awing?"

"Grape leaves," Peace stopped chewing her tongue long enough to answer.

"No, they ain't neither. They's piggies."

The brown head was quickly raised from her task, and the would-be artist
studied her work critically. The boy was right. They did look somewhat
like a litter of curly-tailed pigs. All they needed were eyes and
pointed ears. Mechanically Peace added these little touches, made the
snouts a little sharper, drew in two or three legs to make them
complete, and sat back in her seat to admire the result of her work.

"Ah," simpered Miss Peyton, who had chanced to look up just that
minute, "Peace has finished her sketch. Bring it to the desk, please, so
we may all criticize it."

Peace had just dipped her brush into the hollow of her cake of red
paint, intending to make the piggies' noses pink, but at this startling
command from the teacher, she seemed suddenly turned to an icicle. What
could she do? She glanced around her in an agony of despair, saw no
loophole of escape, and gathering up the unlucky sketch, she stumbled up
the aisle to the desk, still holding her scarlet-tipped paint brush in
her hand.

Usually Miss Peyton examined the drawings herself before calling upon
the scholars to criticise; but this was the last day of school, and the
program was long; so she smiled her prettiest, and said sweetly, "Hold
it up for inspection, Peace."

Miserably Peace faced the roomful of scholars and parents, and extended
the drawing with a trembling hand. There was an ominous hush, and then
the whole audience broke into a yell of laughter. Miss Peyton's face
flushed scarlet, and holding out her hand she said sharply, "Give it to
me."

Peace wheeled about and dropped the sheet of pigs upon the desk, but at
that unfortunate moment, the paint-brush slipped from her grasp and
spilled a great, scarlet blot on the teacher's fresh white waist.
Dismayed, Peace could only stare at the ruin she had wrought, having
forgotten all about her drawing in wondering what punishment would
follow this second calamity; and Miss Peyton had to speak twice before
she came to her senses enough to know that she was being ordered to her
seat.

"Oh," she gasped in mingled surprise and relief, "lemon juice and salt
will take that stain out, if it won't fade away with just washing."

Again an audible titter ran around the room, and the teacher, furiously
red, repeated for the third time, "Take your seat, Peace Greenfield!"

Much mortified and confused, the child subsided in her place and tried
to hide her burning cheeks behind the covers of her volume of anecdotes,
but fate seemed against her, for Miss Peyton promptly ordered the paint
boxes put away, the desks cleared, and the scholars to be prepared to
tell the stories they had found. Now it happened that generous-hearted
Peace had lent her book of Presidential reminiscences to several of her
less lucky mates that noon, and as she was one of the last to be called
upon, she listened with dismay as one after another of the tales she had
taken so much pains to learn were repeated by other scholars.

In order that all might hear what was said, each pupil marched to the
front of the room, told his little story and returned noiselessly to
his seat; so when it came Peace's turn, she stalked bravely up the
aisle, faced the throng of scared, perspiring children and beaming
mothers, made a profound bow, and said, "George Washington was
pock-marked."

She was well on her way to her seat again, when Miss Peyton's crisp
tones halted her: "Peace, you surely have something more than that. Have
you forgotten?"

"No, ma'am. I lent my stories to the rest of the scholars this noon and
they have already spoke all I knew, 'xcept those that are _hairy_ with
age. Everyone knows that George Washington was bled to death by
over-_jealous_ doctors."

The harder Peace tried to do her best, the more blundering she became;
and now, feeling that the visitors were having great fun at her expense,
she sank into her seat and buried her face in her arms, swallowing hard
to keep back the tears that stung her eyes.

Directly, she heard Patty Fellows reciting, "The Psalm of Life," and
Sara Gray answer to her name with, "The Castle-Builder." Next, the
children sang another song, and then--horror of horrors!--Miss Peyton
called her name. It was too bad! Any other teacher would have excused
her, but she knew Miss Peyton never would. So with a final gulp, she
struggled to her feet and advanced once more to the platform.

Her heart beat like a trip-hammer, her breath came in gasps, and her
mind seemed an utter blank. "'Come to me,'" prompted the teacher,
perceiving for the first time the child's panic and distress; but Peace
did not understand that this was her cue, and with a despairing glance
at the immovable face behind the desk, she cried hastily, "Oh, not this
time! I've thunk of it now. Here goes!

    "'Between the dark and the daylight
      When the night is beginning to lower,
    Comes a pause in the day's occupation,
      That is known as the Children's Hour.'"

Verse after verse she repeated glibly, racing so rapidly that the words
fairly tumbled out of her mouth. Suddenly the dreadful thought came to
her. She had begun the wrong poem! Her voice faltered; she turned
pleading, glassy eyes toward the teacher; and Miss Peyton,
misunderstanding the cause of her hesitation, again prompted, "'They
climb--'"

Peace was hopelessly lost.

    "'They climb up onto the target,'"

She recited in feverish tones:

    "'O'er my arms and the back of my hair;
    If I try to e-scrape, they surround me;
      They scream to me everywhere,'"

Someone tittered; the ripple of mirth broke into a peal of laughter; and
with a despairing sob, Peace cried, "Oh, teacher, I've got the
stage-_strike_! I can't say another word!" And out of the room she
rushed like a wounded bird.

Usually Elizabeth was her comforter, but this day some blind instinct
led her to take refuge in the Enchanted Garden, and she sobbed out her
sorrow and humiliation in the skirts of her beloved Lilac Lady.

Peace in tears was a new sight for the invalid, and she was alarmed at
the wild tempest of grief. But the small philosopher could not be
unhappy long, and after a few moments the tears ceased, the storm was
spent, a flushed, swollen face peeped up at the anxious eyes above her,
and with a familiar, queer little grimace, she giggled, "I made 'em all
laugh, anyway, and they did look awful solemn and _funerally_ lined up
there against the wall. But I s'pose teacher won't let me pass now, and
I'll have to take this term all over again."

"Tell me about it," said the lame girl gently, stroking the damp curls
on the round, brown head in her lap.

So Peace faithfully recounted the day's events to the amusement and
indignation of her lone audience; but when she had finished, she sighed
dolefully. "The worst of it is, I've got to go back to school tomorrow
for my books and dismissal card. Oh, mercy, yes! And Miss Peyton has
got my Longfellow. I don't b'lieve I can ever ask her for it, even if
it is Saint John's."

"Oh, yes, you can," assured the Lilac Lady. "By the time tomorrow comes,
the teacher will have forgotten all about the mistakes of today."

"It's very plain that you don't know Miss Peyton," was the disconcerting
reply. "There's nothing she ever forgets. My one comfort is I won't have
to go to school to her next year even if she doesn't let me pass now,
'cause by that time the girls will all be well and I can go home again.
There's always a grain of comfort in every bit of trouble, grandma
says."

"Sca-atter sunshine, all along the wa-ay," sang the lame girl, surprised
out of her long silence in her anxiety to cajole her little playmate
into her happy self again; but Peace did not even hear the rich
sweetness of the voice, so surprised was she to have her motto turned
upon her in that manner, and for a few moments she sat so lost in
thought that the lame girl feared she had offended her, and was about to
beg her forgiveness when the round face lifted itself again, and Peace
exclaimed, "That's what I'll do! Tomorrow, when I have to go back for my
card, I'll offer to kiss her good-bye, and I'll tell her I'm sorry I've
been such a bother to her all these weeks. I never thought about it
before, but I s'pose she's just been in _ag-o-ny_ over having me upset
all her plans like I've managed to do, though I never meant to. The
worse I try to follow what she tells us to do, the bigger chase I lead
her. My, what a time she must have had! Do you think she she'd like to
hear I'm sorry?"

"What a darling you are!" thought the lame girl. "I don't wonder
everyone loves you so much." But aloud she merely answered heartily, "I
think it is a beautiful plan, dear. When she understands that you have
tried your best to please her, I am sure she will be kind to my little
curly-head."

So it happened that when Peace received her dismissal card from Miss
Peyton the next morning, she lifted her rosy mouth for a kiss, and
murmured contritely, "I'm very sorry you have caused me so much bother
since I came here to school, but next term I won't be here, for which
you bet I'm thankful." She had rehearsed that little speech over and
over on her way to school; but, as usual, when she came to say it to
this argus-eyed teacher, she juggled her pronouns so thoroughly that no
one could have been sure just what she did mean.

However, Miss Peyton had done some hard thinking since the previous
afternoon, and a little glimmer of understanding was beginning to
penetrate her methodical, order-loving soul, so she stooped and kissed
the forgiving lips raised to hers, as she said heartily, "That is all
right, my child. I wish I could erase all the troubles that have marred
these days for you. I am sorry I did not know as much three months ago
as I do now."

"I am, too, but folks are never too old to learn, grandpa says," Peace
answered happily, and departed with beaming countenance, for Miss Peyton
had "passed her" after all.



CHAPTER XI

PEACE FINDS NEW PLAYMATES


It had been decided that Giuseppe Nicoli was to live at the stone house
and be educated as the Lilac Lady's protégé.

The Humane Society had thoroughly investigated the case and found that
the poor little waif was an orphan, whom greedy-eyed Petri had taken in
charge on account of his unusual musical talent. There were no relatives
on this side of the water to claim the homeless lad, and those in old
Italy were too poor to be burdened with his keep; so the Society gladly
listened to the lame girl's plea, and gave Giuseppe into her keeping.

It would be hard to tell which was the more jubilant over his good
fortune, the child himself, or Peace, who was never tired of rehearsing
the story of his rescue from the brutal organ-grinder's clutches. So the
minute she knew that the big house was to be his future home, she raced
off to the corner drug store to telephone the good news to Allee and the
rest at home, who were much interested in the doings at the little
parsonage, and only regretted that the Hill Street Church was not yet
able to afford a telephone of its own, for Peace could make only one
trip daily to the drug store, and often the girls thought of something
else they wanted to ask her after she had rung off. Also, the drug clerk
was sometimes impolite enough to tell Peace that she was talking too
long, and that does leave one so embarrassed.

This day, however, he had no occasion for uttering a word of complaint,
for after a surprised exclamation and three or four rapid questions of
the speaker at the other end of the line, Peace banged the receiver on
its hook, and turned rebellious eyes on the idle clerk lolling behind
the counter, saying, "Now, what do you think of that?"

"What?" drawled the man, who was in his element when he could tease
someone. "Do you take me for a mind reader?"

"I sh'd say not!" she answered crossly. "It takes folks with brains to
read other folks' minds."

"Whew!" he whistled, delighted with the encounter. "Your claws are out
today. What seems to be the matter?"

"Grandpa has taken grandma and the little girls to the Pine Woods
without so much as saying a word to me about it; and Gail and Faith have
gone to the lake with the Sherrars and never invited me."

"If the whole family is away, who is keeping house?"

"Gussie and Marie, of course. Who'd you s'pose? Grandma told Gussie that
when I called up she was to 'xplain matters to me so's I'd understand
how it all happened and not feel bad about their going off. Gail and
Faith went first. I 'xpected that part of it, but none of 'em ever
hinted a word to me about the Pine Woods. I s'pose they've lived so long
without me at home that they've got used to it and so don't care any
more about me."

Two tears stole out from under the twitching lids and rolled down the
chubby cheeks. The clerk moved uneasily. He did hate to see anyone cry,
but had not the slightest idea how to avert the threatened deluge. As
his eye roved about the small store for something to divert her
attention, it chanced to rest upon the candy cabinet, and hastily diving
into the case, he brought forth a handful of tempting chocolates, and
presented them with the tactful remark, "Aw, you're cross; have some
candy to sweeten you up!"

The brown eyes winked away the tears and blazed scornfully up at the
face above her. "Keep it yourself! You need it!" she growled savagely,
pushing the extended hand away from her so fiercely that the candy was
scattered all about the floor, and without a backward glance, she
flounced out of the store.

"Well, I vum!" exclaimed the astonished clerk. "Next time I'll let her
bawl." Stooping over to collect the hapless chocolate drops before they
should be tramped upon, he began to whistle, and the notes followed
Peace out on the street--just a bar of her sunshine song, but the
woe-begone face brightened a bit, although the girl said to herself,
"Oh, dear, seems 'sif that song chases me wherever I go. I get it sung
or whistled or spoke at me a dozen times a day. And it's hard work
always to remember it, 'specially when folks go off and forget all about
you when you've just been counting the _days_ till 'twas time to go home
and see Allee and grandpa after being away so long. S'posing I should
die 'fore they get back, I wonder how they'll feel. Why, Peace
Greenfield, you hateful little tike! Ain't you ashamed of yourself? Yes,
I am. Of course they didn't run away a-purpose. Grandpa didn't know he
had to go until an hour 'fore the train went, and there wasn't time to
send for me and get my clo'es ready to go, too. It was awful nice of him
to think of taking the girls and grandma to the Pine Woods to get real
well and rested while he did up his business in Dolliver. They'll come
back lots better than they'd be if they had to stay here through all
this hot.

"Think of being shut up three months in the house so's they couldn't
plant gardens or go flower-hunting, or have picnics, or even go to
school! I've been doing all those things while they've been sick. I'm
truly 'shamed of myself to be so cross about their going off. Elizabeth
and Saint John are just the dearest people to me, and the Lilac Lady
really cried tears in her eyes when she thought I was going to leave
here Monday. She'll be glad to know that I am to stay two or three weeks
longer. And it will be such fun to get letters from the girls in the
woods all the while they are gone. After all, I b'lieve I'll have a
better time here anyway."

The cloud had passed over without the threatened storm, and the round
face, though still a little sober, looked quite contented again. But
during this silent soliloquy, the young philosopher had been wandering
aimlessly through the streets, without any thought of the direction she
was taking, and was suddenly roused from her revery by the mingled
shouts and laughter of a throng of boys and girls playing noisily in a
great yard fenced in by tall iron pickets.

"Why, school is closed for the summer!" murmured Peace to herself,
pressing her face against the iron bars in order that she might watch
the lively games on the other side of the palings. "Elizabeth says all
the Martindale schools close at the same time. What can these children
be doing here then? P'raps this is where the old lady who lived in a
shoe had to move to when the shoe got too small for her fambly. Do you
s'pose it is?"

"Yup, I guess that's how it happened," answered a voice close beside
her, and she jumped almost out of her shoes in her surprise, for
unconsciously she had spoken her thoughts aloud, and a merry-faced
urchin, sprawled in the shade of a low-limbed box-elder, had answered
her. His peal of delight at having startled her so brought another lad
and two girls to see the cause of his glee, and Peace was shocked to
behold in the smaller of the girls her own double, only the stranger
child was dressed in a long blue apron, which made her look much older
than she really was. As the children stood staring at each other through
the close-set pickets, the boy in the grass discovered the likeness of
the two faces, and with a startled whoop sat up to ask excitedly of
Peace, "Did you ever have a twin?"

"No."

"Oh, dear, I was sure you must have! You're just the _yimage_ of Lottie.
She's a _norphan_, and the folks that brought her here didn't even know
what her real name was or anything about her, and we've always 'magined
that some day her truly people would come and find her and she'd have a
mother of her own."

"Is this a--a school?" asked Peace. She wanted to say orphan asylum, but
was afraid it would be impolite, and she did not wish to offend any of
these friendly appearing children.

"It's the Children's Home."

"Who owns it?"

"Why--er--I don't know," stammered the second youth, who seemed the
oldest of the quartette inside the fence.

"I guess the splintered ladies do," remarked the cherub in the grass.

"The wh-at?"

"Tony's trying to be smart now," said the larger girl scornfully. "The
Lady Board is meeting today, and he always calls them the splintered
ladies."

"What is a Lady Board?" inquired mystified Peace, thinking this was the
queerest home she had ever heard tell of.

"Why, they are the ladies who say how things shall be done here--"

"The number of times we can have butter each week and how much milk each
of us can drink, and the number of potatoes the cook shall fix," put in
the boy called Tony.

"Don't you have butter every day!" cried Peace in shocked surprise.

"Well, I guess not! We have it Sunday noons and sometimes holiday
nights."

"And we never have sugar on our oatmeal, or sauce to eat with our
bread," added Lottie, shaking her curls dolefully.

"What do you eat, then?"

"Oh, bread and milk, and mush of some kind, or rice, and potatoes and
vegetables and meat once a week and pie or pudding real seldom."

"Who takes care of you?" asked Peace again after a slight pause.

"The matron and nurses."

"What's a matron?"

"The boss of the caboose," grinned Tony irreverently.

"Is she nice?"

"That's what we're waiting to find out. She's just come, you see, and we
don't know her real well yet. The other one was a holy fright."

"But the new one _looks_ nice," said Lottie loyally. "She smiles all the
time, and Miss Cooper never did. She always looked froze."

"She must be like Miss Peyton. She was my teacher at Chestnut School and
I didn't like her a bit till the day school ended. She did get thawed
out then, though, and I b'lieve she'll be nicer after this."

"Do you live near here?" asked Tony, thinking it was their turn to ask
questions of this debonair little stranger, who evidently belonged to
rich people, because her brown curls were tied back with a huge pink
ribbon, a dainty white pinafore covered her pretty gingham dress, and
her feet were shod in patent leather slippers.

"No, grandpa's house is three miles away, but I am staying at the Hill
Street parsonage." Briefly she explained how it had all come about, and
the story seemed like a fairy tale to the four eager listeners.

"Then you are an orphan, too," cried Tony triumphantly, when she had
finished. "How do you know Lottie ain't your twin sister?"

"'Cause there never were any twins in our family, and if there had been,
do you s'pose mother'd have let one loose like that, to get put in a
Children's Home? I guess not!"

"Maybe she's a cousin, then."

"We haven't got any. Papa was the only child Grandpa Greenfield had, and
mother's only brother died when he was little."

"But Lottie's just the _yimage_ of you," insisted Tony, bent on
discovering some tie of relationship between the two.

"I can't help that. I guess it's just a queerity, though I'd like to
find out I had some sure-enough cousins which I didn't know anything
about. Besides, Lottie is lots darker than me. Her hair is black and so
are her eyes. Least I guess they are what you'd call black. Mine are
only brown."

"You're the same size. Ain't they, Ethel?" asked the older lad.

"Yes, that was what I was thinking. I don't believe many folks would
know them apart if they changed clothes."

"Oh, let's do it!" cried Peace, charmed with the suggestion. "We've got
a book at home that tells how a little beggar boy changed places with a
prince, and they had the strangest 'xperiences! It'll be lots of fun to
fool the others. They haven't been paying any 'tention to our talking
here. Where's the gate?"

"At the other side of the yard. There's only one--"

"But visitors aren't allowed to come and play with us without a permit
from the matron," began the larger boy, cautiously.

"Oh, bother, George," Tony cried impatiently. "We can't get a permit now
with all the Lady Boards here, and you know it."

"Why not?" asked Peace.

"'Cause Miss Chase is busy with them in the parlors and we can't see her
till they are gone."

"How long will that be?"

"Oh, hours, maybe."

"Then I'll come in now and get my permit later."

Without waiting to hear what comments they might have to make about this
plan, she flew around the corner Tony had indicated a moment before, and
in through the great iron gates, standing slightly ajar. Following the
wide walks leading from the front yard to the back, she came to another
lower gate, where Ethel and Lottie met her; and in a jiffy the white
apron was exchanged for the long, blue pinafore of the black-eyed child.

"You'll have to give her your hair-ribbon, too," said Ethel, surveying
the two figures critically. "We don't wear ribbons here on common days,
and that would give away that you weren't really Lottie."

Peace gleefully jerked off her rampant pink bow, and the older girl
deftly tied it among the raven locks of the other orphan.

Tony and George now came slowly around the corner of the building, to
discover whether the visitor had really kept her promise, and were
themselves puzzled to know which was their mate and which the stranger
child until Peace laughed. "That's where you are different," said
George, critically. "You don't sound a bit alike. Come on and see who
will be first to find out the secret."

So the masqueraders were led laughingly away to meet the other children,
still boisterously playing at games under the trees. It did not take the
fifty pair of sharp eyes as long to discover the difference as the five
plotters had hoped, but they were all just as charmed with the result,
and gave Peace a royal time. She was a natural leader and her lively
imagination delighted her new playmates. But Lottie, in her borrowed
finery, received scant attention, and being, unfortunately, rather a
spoiled child, she resented the fact that Peace had usurped her place.
So she retired to the fence and pouted. At first no one noticed her
sullen looks, but finally Ethel missed her, and finding her standing
cross and glum in the corner, she tried to draw her into the lively
game of last couple out, which the stranger had organized.

"I won't play at all," declared the jealous girl. "No one cares whether
I'm here or not, and 's long as you'd rather have _her_, you can just
have her!"

"But we wouldn't rather," fibbed the older girl. "She's our comp'ny and
we have to be nice to her."

"'Cause you like her better'n you do me," insisted the other.

"No such thing! Come on and see!"

"I won't, either!"

"What's the matter?" asked Peace, hearing the excited voices and
stepping out of line to learn the cause.

"Oh, Lottie's spunky," answered Ethel carelessly, turning back to join
her companions.

"I'm not! You horrid thing, take that!" Out shot one little hand and the
sharp nails dug vicious, cruel scratches down Ethel's cheek.

"You cat!" cried Peace, horrified at the uncalled-for act, and springing
at the white-aproned figure, she caught her by the shoulder, and shook
her till her teeth rattled. Lottie doubled up like a jack-knife and
buried her sharp teeth in the brown hand gripping her so tightly, biting
so viciously that the blood ran and Peace screamed with pain.

Frightened at the sight of the two girls clinched in battle, the other
children danced excitedly about the yard and shrieked wildly. Tony even
started for the matron, but remembered the Lady Board meeting, and flew
instead for the new cook, busy preparing refreshments for the
distinguished visitors, gasping out as he stumbled into the kitchen,
"Oh, come quick! There's a strange girl in the yard and Lottie's chewing
her into shoe-strings!"

Bridget was new at the business, or she would never have meddled in the
affair. Glancing out of the window, she saw what looked to be a small
riot in the corner, and knowing that the matron and her assistants were
engaged with their visitors in the other wing of the building, she
dropped her plate of sandwiches, and rushed to the rescue as fast as her
avoirdupois would permit. She was familiar enough with the rules of the
institution to know that the Home children did not wear white aprons and
pink hair-ribbons except on special occasions, and also that fighting
was severely punished. It never occurred to her that the matron was the
proper authority to whom to report trouble. She made a lunge for the two
struggling children, jerked them apart, shook them impartially, and
blazed out in rich, Irish brogue, "Ye dirty spalpeens, phwat d'ye mane
by sich disorderly conduct? It'll be a long toime afore ye'll iver git
inside this fince again to play, ye black-eyed miss! Make tracks now or
I'll call the p'lice! You, ye little beggar, march straight inter the
house! The matron'll settle with ye good and plenty whin she gits
toime!"

Both girls tried to explain, and the frightened, excited Home children
shouted in vain. Irish Bridget seized the resisting Lottie, thrust her
forcibly out through the gate, and hustled poor Peace into the dark
entry, in spite of her protests and frantic kicking. "I'm not Lottie,
I'm not Lottie!" she wailed. "I don't b'long here, I tell you!"

"I don't care if ye're Lottie or Lillie," screamed the angry cook,
pinioning the struggling child and carrying her bodily up a short flight
of stairs into a wide hall. "Ye've been breaking the rules by fightin'
and in that room ye go! The matron'll settle with ye afther a bit. An'
ye'll catch it good, too, if ye kape on screeching loike that."

Peace was dumped into a small, office-like apartment, the key turned in
the lock, and she was left alone. Frantic with excitement and fear, she
let out three or four piercing screams, rattled the knob, and pounded
the door until her fists were sore, but no one came to release her, and
after a few moments she seemed to realize how useless it was to expect
help from that quarter. She looked around her prison hopefully,
curiously, for some other avenue of escape. A window stood open across
the room, but the screen was fastened so tightly that she could not
move it even when she threw her whole weight upon it. Besides, it was a
long way to the ground below. Would she dare jump if the screen were not
in her way?

Then her restless eyes spied the telephone on the desk behind her, and
with a shriek of triumph she seized the receiver and called breathlessly
over the wire, "Hello, central! Give me the drug store where I telephone
every day. Number? I don't know the number. It's on Hill Street and
Twenty-ninth Avenue. What information do you want? Well, I've thunk of
the drug store's name now. It's Teeter's Pharmacy, and it's on the
corner--Well, I'm giving you the information 's fast as I can. My name
is Peace Greenfield, and the crazy cook's taken me for someone else and
shut me in when I don't b'long to this Home at all. I changed clothes
with--well, what is the matter now? If you'll give me that drug
store--Teeter's Pharmacy, corner of Hill Street and Twenty-ninth
Avenue,--I'll have them go after Saint John, so's he can come and get me
out of here. A--what? Policeman? Are you a p'liceman? No, I ain't one,
and I don't want one! Do you s'pose I want to be 'rested for getting
bit? Oh, dear, I don't know what you are trying to say! Ain't you
central? Then why don't you give me Teeter's Pharmacy, corner of Hill
Street and--now she's clicked her old machine up! Oh, how will I ever
get out of here?"

Dismayed to find that central had deserted her, she puckered her face to
cry, but at that moment there were hasty steps in the hall, a key grated
in the lock, and the door flew open, showing a startled, white-faced
woman and frightened Tony in the doorway, while a whole string of
curious-eyed ladies were gathered in the hall behind them.

Silently Peace stared from one to another, and then as no one offered to
speak, she asked, "Where's the cook? Have you seen her lately?"

"No," laughed the matron, very evidently relieved at her reception.
"Tony tells me that a mistake has been made and that you don't belong to
the Home."

"He is right, I'm thankful to say," returned Peace with such a comical,
grown-up air that the ladies in the hall giggled and nudged each other,
and one of them ventured to ask, "Why?"

"Just think of having to live here day after day without any butter on
your bread, or gravy for your potatoes, or sugar in your oatmeal,
without any pies or cakes or puddings 'cept on Sundays and special
holidays,--with only mush, mush, mush all the time, and not even all the
milk you wanted, maybe! Hm! I'm glad I live in a house where there ain't
any Lady Boards to tell us what we have to do and what we can have to
eat. Come to think of it, I'm part of a _norphan_ 'sylum, really.
There's six of us at Grandpa Campbell's but he doesn't bring us up on
mush. We have all the butter and sugar and gravy and pudding and sauce
that we want--"

"This isn't an orphan asylum," said the matron kindly, wondering what
kind of a creature this queer child was, but already convinced that
Bridget had blundered, in spite of her startling resemblance to Lottie.

"It isn't? What do you call it then?"

"It is a Home for the purpose of taking care of children who have one or
both parents living, but who, for some reason, cannot be taken care of
in their own homes for a time."

"Oh! Then you take the place of mother to them?"

"I try to."

"Do you like your job?"

"Very, very much!"

"You do sound 'sif you did, but I sh'd think you'd hate to sit all those
little children down to butterless bread and gravyless potato and
sugarless mush. Oh, I forgot! That ain't your fault. It's the Lady Board
which says what you have to feed your children. Did you ever ask
them--the ladies, I mean--to be common visitors and eat just what the
rest of you had? I bet if you'd just try that, they'd soon send you
something different! I don't see how you stay so fat and rosy with--but
then you've only just come, haven't you? I s'pose there's lots of time
to get thin in. I wonder if that's what is the matter with Lottie,"
Peace chattered relentlessly on. "She is awfully ugly today; but then
I'd be, too, if I had to live on such grub. It's worse than we had at
the little brown house in Parker--"

"If you will slip off that apron and come with me," interrupted the
matron desperately, not daring to look at the faces of her dismayed
"Lady Board," "we will find Lottie and get your own clothes so you can
go home. The next time you come, be sure to get a permit first. Then
this trouble won't happen again."

"Oh, will you let me come some more?"

"Aren't you Dr. Campbell's granddaughter? Tony said you were."

"Yes, he's my adopted grandpa now."

"Mrs. Campbell is interested in the Home--"

"Is she a splinter?"

"A _what_?"

Tony giggled and dodged behind the matron to hide his tell-tale face,
and Peace, remembering Ethel's explanation, said hastily, "I mean a
piece of the Lady's Board?"

"No, she is not one of the Board of Directors, if that is what you mean;
but she often sends the children little treats--candy and nuts at
Christmas time, or flowers from the greenhouse after the summer blossoms
are gone."

"Oh, I see. She told me one time that she would take us to visit the
Children's Home, but I didn't know it was this. We've got scarlet fever
at our house--."

"Child alive! What are you doing here?"

"Oh, I ain't got it, and anyway, I haven't been home since our spring
vacation in March. I am staying with Saint John, the new preacher at
Hill Street Church, and I 'xpect if I don't get home pretty soon, he'll
think I am lost, sure. I went down to the drug store to telephone
grandma, and when Gussie told me they had gone to the Pine Woods, I was
so mad for a time that I just boiled over. So I walked on and on till I
came to this place. I never have been so far before, and I didn't know
there was such a Home around here. I know they'll let me come often.
There aren't many children up our way to play with and sometimes it gets
lonesome. There's Lottie now! Cook must have found out that I knew what
I was talking about. Here's your apron, Lottie; and say, I'm awful sorry
I shook you. Will you pretend I didn't do it, and be friends with me
again?"

"I--I bit you," stammered the child, as much astonished at this greeting
as were the matron and the "Lady Board," who still lingered in the hall,
fascinated with this frank creature, who so fearlessly voiced her own
opinions of their work.

"So you did!" exclaimed Peace, in genuine surprise, glancing down at the
ugly, purple bruise on her hand, which she had completely forgotten.
"Well, I won't remember that any more, either. Two folks which look so
much alike ought to be friends, and I want you to like me."

"I--do--like you," faltered the embarrassed child. "I'm sorry I was
hateful. Here are your apron and ribbon."

"Keep the ribbon," responded Peace generously. "I s'pose I've got to
take the apron back, 'cause grandpa says I mustn't give away my clothes
without asking him or grandma about it, and I can't now, 'cause they are
both gone away. But a hair-ribbon ain't clothes, and, anyway, that's one
Frances Sherrar gave me, so I know you can have it." She pressed the
pink bow back into Lottie's hand, and throwing both arms around her,
kissed her fervently, saying, "I am coming again some time soon, and
I'll bring you a bag of sugar and some real butter so's you can have it
extra for once, even if the Lady Boards didn't order it for that
p'tic'lar day. Good-bye, Mrs. Matron, and Tony, and--all the rest. I've
had a good time here--till I run up against the cook, I mean. Mercy!
She's strong! But I'm glad grandpa adopted us so's I didn't have to come
here to live." She waved her hand gaily at them, and danced away down
the walk, whistling cheerily.

"She's a quaint child!" murmured the lady who had questioned her.

"She's a trump!" declared Tony to Lottie, as they departed together for
the playgrounds.

And in her heart the matron whispered, "She's a darling!"



CHAPTER XII

A LITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM


"Oh, Elspeth, you can't guess where I've been!" shrieked Peace, puffing
with excitement as she stumbled up the steps after her long run home.

"Why, I thought you were playing with Giuseppe and the Lilac Lady,"
replied the young mother, looking up in surprise from the little white
dress she was hemstitching.

"But I went down to the drug store to telephone grandma!"

"I know you did, but I thought you stopped to tell the news at the stone
house on your way home."

"What news?"

"That the invalids have run away and left you."

"How did you know that?"

"The postman came just after you left, and he brought a letter from Dr.
Campbell, explaining all about it."

"Then he did take time to write, did he? I was pretty hot about it at
first," Peace admitted candidly, "But I don't care at all now. I've had
such a splendid time here with you all the while they've been shut up
sick, that no matter how long they stay in the Pine Woods, it couldn't
make up for all they've missed by not being me."

"Do you really feel that way about it, dear?" cried Elizabeth, much
pleased and touched at the child's unlooked-for declaration.

"You just better b'lieve I do! Why, I've had just the nicest time! I
'xpected I'd miss seeing the girls just dreadfully, but Gail and Faith
have come up every single week, and I've telephoned home 'most every
day, and the rest of the time has been filled so full that I haven't
minded how long I've been away at all. This must be my other home, I
guess."

"You little sweetheart! I wonder if you have any idea how much we are
going to miss you when grandpa takes you away again."

"Oh, yes, I 'magine I do. I make such a racket wherever I go that when I
leave, the stillness seems like a hole. But don't you fret! I'm coming
up here real often--just as often as grandma will let me. 'Cause I've
got not only you to visit now, but the Lilac Lady and Juiceharpie and
the Home children--Oh, that's what I started to tell you about when I
first came up.

"I've just been there. I never knew there was a Home so near here, or
I'd have been there before this. And what do you think? There's a girl
living in it named Lottie, which looks so much like me that when we
changed aprons the other children didn't know the difference at first.
They think she must be my twin sister or some cousin I don't know
anything about, though I kept telling them there weren't any cousins in
our family, and if mother'd ever had twins, she'd have kept 'em both and
not throwed one away to grow up without knowing who her people were.
Don't you think so?"

"I most assuredly do," Elizabeth answered promptly. "Gail has often told
me that your papa was an only child, and the one brother your mamma had
died when he was a little fellow. So there can't be any near cousins,
and you are not a twin, so Lottie isn't your sister. How did it all come
about?"

The story was quickly told, to Elizabeth's mingled amusement and horror;
and Peace ended by sagely remarking, "So I'm going to ask Allee if she's
willing that we should use some of our Fourth of July money to buy them
a treat of sugar and butter for a whole day--or a week, if it doesn't
take too much, and grandpa don't sit down on the plan. I don't think he
will, 'cause these children aren't fakes. They really d'serve having
some good times 'casionally, and it did make them so happy to have
someone extra to play with. I s'pose they get awfully tired of fighting
the same children all the time. Besides, we've got lots of money in our
bank, 'cause we used only about ten dollars of our furnishing money to
dec'rate our room with, and the rest we saved for patriotism. I am awful
glad there are such places for poor children to go to when their own
people can't take care of 'em, but I do wish the Lady Boards weren't so
stingy."

Elizabeth knew it would do no good to argue the matter, and besides, she
was not well posted concerning this particular Home, so she merely
agreed that Peace's plan would no doubt make the little folks happy, but
wisely suggested that she say no more about it until she had consulted
with the family at home and received their consent. "Because, you see,
dear, if you make some rash promises which you can't fulfill, it will
only make the children unhappy, instead of bringing sunshine into their
lives."

"But isn't it a good way to spend money? They ain't beggars with bank
accounts somewhere, like the old woman which got Gail's dollar last
spring."

"I think it is a very nice way, dearie, and I am sure grandpa will not
object a mite; but the best way is not to make any promises that we
don't intend to carry out, or that we are not sure we can fulfill. Then
no one will be disappointed if our plans don't come through the way we
hoped they would. Do you see what I mean?"

"Yes; never promise to do _anything_ until you're sure you can. But that
would keep me from doing lots of things, Elspeth. I could not ever
promise to be good, or--"

"Oh, Peace, I didn't mean that!" Elizabeth never could get accustomed to
this literal streak in the small maiden's character; and, in
consequence, her little preachments often received an unexpected
shower-bath. "I meant not to promise to do favors for other folks unless
we can and will see that they are done."

"Ain't it a favor to be good when it's easier and naturaler to be
bad--not really bad, either, but just yourself?"

"No, dear. We ought to _try_ to be good without anyone's asking us to,
and just because it is easier to do wrong than right is no excuse for us
at all."

Unconsciously she said this very severely, for she thought she heard
Saint John chuckling behind the curtains of the study window; but Peace
interpreted the lecture literally, and hastily jumping up from the step,
said, "I think I'll go and tell the Lilac Lady about the children, and
see if she hasn't got more roses than she knows what to do with, 'cause
I know they'd like 'em at the Home. Do you care?"

"No, Peace. Glen is asleep. But don't stay long, for it is nearly five
o'clock now, and tea will soon be ready."

"All right. I'll bring you some roses for the table if she has any to
spare today, and she ought to, 'cause the pink and white bushes have
just begun to open."

She whisked out of sight around the corner in a twinkling, and was soon
perched on the stool beside the lame girl's chair, regaling her with an
account of the afternoon's adventures.

The white signal fluttering from the lilac bushes had been discarded
long ago, and Peace was welcome whenever she came now, for with her
peculiar childish instinct, she seemed to know when the invalid found
her chatter wearisome. At such times she would sit in the grass beside
the chair, silently weaving clover chains, or wander quietly about the
premises, revelling in the beauty and perfume of the garden flowers, or
better still, whistling softly the sweet tunes which the pain-racked
body always found so soothing.

But this afternoon the young mistress of the stone house was lonely, for
Aunt Pen and Giuseppe were in town shopping, and she wished to be
amused; so Peace was doubly welcome, and felt very much flattered at the
attention her lengthy story received. To tell the truth of the matter,
the lame girl had just discovered how cunningly the small, round face
was dimpled, and in watching these little Cupid's love kisses come and
go with the child's different expressions and moods, she did not hear a
word that was said until Peace heaved a great, sympathetic sigh, and
closed her tale with the remark, "And so I'm going to see if I can't
take them some--enough to last a week maybe--for it must be _dreadful_
to eat bread and potatoes every day without any butter or gravy."

The older girl roused herself with a start, and promptly began asking
questions in such an adroit fashion that in a moment or two she had the
gist of the whole story, and was much interested in the picture Peace
drew of the Home children's life. "Why, do you know, I used to go there
with Aunt Pen--years ago--to carry flowers and trinkets, and sometimes
to sing. My! How glad they used to be! They would sit and listen with
eyes and mouths wide open as if they simply couldn't get enough. Aunt
Pen used to be quite interested in the Home. Poor Aunt Pen! She gave up
all her pet hobbies when I was hurt."

"Didn't you like to go?"

"Oh, it was flattering to have such an appreciative audience, of course;
but--my ambitions soared higher than that. They were as well satisfied
with a hand-organ."

"Oh, Tony ain't! And neither is Ethel! They both just _love_ music, and
they kept me whistling until I was tired. And how they do love stories!
I 'magined for them till my thinker ran empty. I couldn't help wishing I
was you, so's I could tell them all the beau-ti-ful fancies you make up
as you lie here under the trees day in and day out. I told 'em about
you and pictured this garden for 'em, and the flowers which Hicks cuts
by the _bushel-basket_, and Juiceharpie which plays the fiddle and
dances and sings like a cheer-up--"

"A cherub, do you mean? Giuseppe is inconsolable to think he can't teach
you to say his name correctly."

"Yes, and I'm the same thing to think he's got such a name that won't be
said right. He doesn't like Jessup any better. But never mind, I know
he'd like Tony and the other Home boys; and I thought maybe you would
let him go some day and play for the children there. Miss Chase is
awfully sweet and nice, even if she is fat, and she'd be tickled to
pieces to give him a permit any time he could come."

The lame girl laid a thin, waxen hand on the curly head bobbing so
enthusiastically at her side, and murmured gently, "How do you think up
so many beautiful things to do for other people?"

"I don't," Peace frankly replied. "I guess they just think themselves.
You see, I know what it is to be poor and not have nice things like
other folks, and now that grandpa's taken us home to live with him in a
great, big house where there's always plenty and enough to spare, seems
like it was just the proper thing to give some of it away to make the
less _forchinit_ a little happier. It takes _such_ a little to make
folks smile!"

"Indeed it does, little philosopher. Your name should have been Lady
Bountiful. Giuseppe may go with you to the Home as often as he wishes
with his violin, and help you make them happy."

"Oh, you're such a darling!" cried Peace in ecstasy, hugging the hand
between her own pink palms. "I wish you could go, too. Tony says they
have song services every Sunday afternoon, and they are great! I'm to go
next Sunday and hear them, but I wish you could, too."

"You are very generous," murmured the lame girl a trifle huskily.
Then--perhaps it was because Peace's enthusiasm was contagious, perhaps
it was due to a growing desire in her own heart for the world from which
she had shut herself so long ago--the older girl suddenly electrified
her companion by adding, "I should like to hear them myself. Do you
think the matron would allow them to visit me in my garden, seeing that
I can't go to the Home as other folks do?"

"Oh, do you mean that?"

"Every word!"

"Miss Chase couldn't say no to anything so beautiful, and I don't think
the Lady Boards would object, either; but I'll find out. Saint John can
tell me, I'm sure. Oh, I never dreamed of anything so lovely! I wouldn't
have _dared_ dream it!" She hugged herself in rapture, and her eyes
beamed like stars. How grand it was to have friends like the Lilac
Lady!

So it came about that a few days later fifty shining-faced, bright-eyed
boys and girls from the Home marched proudly up Hill Street and in
through the great iron gates to the Enchanted Garden, where the lame
girl, with Aunt Pen and the parsonage household to assist her, waited to
greet them.

That was a gala day, talked about for weeks afterward, dreamed of in the
silent watches of the night, and recorded in memory's treasure book to
be lived over again and again in later years,--one of those heart's
delights, the fragrance of which never dies.

The Home children were charmed with the beautiful garden and its cool
fountain, just as Peace had known they would be, and the frail young
hostess was as charmed with her guests. They had games on the wide lawn,
they sang their sweet, happy choruses, Giuseppe played and danced, Peace
and the preacher whistled, Elizabeth told them stories, and Aunt Pen
surprised them all by serving sparkling frappé with huge slices of fig
cake, such as only Minnie, the cook, could make. Then, as the afternoon
drew to a close, and the matron began lining up her charges for the
homeward walk, Tony and Lottie stepped out of the ranks and sang a
pretty little verse of thanks for the good time all had enjoyed.

So surprised was the Lilac Lady at this unexpected little turn, that for
an instant her eyes grew misty with unshed tears; then she smiled
happily, and obeying a sudden impulse, she lifted her voice and
carolled,

    "Come again, my little friends,
      You have brought me joy today;
    In my heart you've left a hymn
      That shall linger, live alway."

"Oh, my!" cried Peace, squeezing Elizabeth's hand in her astonishment
and pleasure, "is it an angel singing?"

"Your Lilac Lady, dear. Didn't you know she could sing?"

"She told me she used to once, but I never heard her before."

"At college she was our lark. How we loved that voice! I think, little
girl, you have saved a soul."

But Peace did not hear the words. She was joining in the wild applause
that greeted this burst of melody from the long silent throat. Everyone
had been taken by surprise, the children were dancing with delight, the
matron's homely face was beaming, Aunt Pen's lips worked pathetically,
and Hicks, still busy filling small arms with the choicest flowers from
the garden, could only whisper over and over again, "Praise be, praise
be, she has found her voice!"

The Lilac Lady herself seemed almost unconscious of the fact that she
had torn down this last and strongest barrier between self and the
world, and if she noticed the pathetic surprise on the loving faces
hovering about her, she did not show it, but smiled serenely and
naturally when the applause had died away. She would sing no more that
afternoon, however, and the little visitors had to be contented with a
promise of another song the next time they came. So they said good-bye
to their charming hostess and filed happily down the walk to the street.

As the iron gates closed behind the little company homeward bound, Peace
turned to blow a good-night kiss between the high palings to the young
mistress, lying in her chair where they had left her, but paused
enraptured by the picture her eyes beheld. A rosy ray of the setting sun
filtered through the oak boughs overhanging her couch and fell full upon
the white face among the cushions, bringing out the rich auburn tints of
the heavy hair till it almost seemed as if a crown of gleaming gold
rested upon her head, and the wonderful blue eyes reflected the light
like sea-water, clear and deep and--unfathomable.

"Oh," whispered Peace, thrilling with delight, "I ought to have called
her my _Angel_ Lady!"



CHAPTER XIII

CHILDREN'S DAY AT HILL STREET CHURCH


"What do you think's happened now?" asked Peace, seating herself
gloomily upon the footstool beside the invalid, and thrusting a long
grass-blade between her teeth.

"I am sure I don't know," smiled the older girl. "You look as if it were
quite a calamity."

"It's worse'n a c'lamity. It's a _capostrophe_. Glen's gone and got the
croup--"

"Yes, so his papa told Aunt Pen this morning. How is the poor little
fellow now?"

"He's better, doctor says; but his cold is dreadfully bad and may last
for days, so Elspeth can't hear the children practise for next Sunday--I
mean a week from tomorrow. That is Children's Day, you know. And Miss
Kinney has ab-so-lute-ly refused to sing for us, 'cause Elspeth asked
Mildred George to take a solo part, too, and Miss Kinney doesn't like
Mildred. Why are huming beings so mean and horrid to each other? Now, I
wouldn't care if I found someone which could sing better'n I,--s'posing
I could sing at all. I'd just help her make all the music she could and
be glad there was somebody who could beat me."

"Would you really?" asked the lame girl with a queer little note of
doubt in her voice.

"Why, of course! I sh'd hate to think I was the best singer God knew how
to make."

This was an idea which the invalid had never heard expressed before; but
still somewhat skeptical, she asked, "Do you feel that way about
whistling, too?"

"I sure do! I like to whistle, and it's nice to know I can beat all the
boys that go to our school, and even Saint John. But you should hear
Mike O'Hara! Oh, but he can whistle! It sounds like the woods full of
birds. It's--it's--it's--" words failed her--"it's _heaven_ to listen to
him. I'm glad I _know_ someone who whistles better than I can, 'cause
there's that to work for, to aim at. But if I ever get so I can whistle
as well as he does, I s'pose there will be lots better ones still. Miss
Kinney wants to be the very best singer at Hill Street Church, though,
and she's afraid if Mildred gets to taking solo parts in the exercises
folks will want her all the time; so she's just trying to spoil the
whole program that Saint Elspeth has worked so hard over."

Peace's observations were sometimes positively uncanny, and as she
voiced this sentiment, the Lilac Lady asked curiously, "How do you know
that is her reason? Did she tell you, or did Mildred?"

"Neither one. I heard Mrs. Porter tell Elspeth yesterday that Miss
Kinney had cold feet; so after she was gone, I asked about it. Saint
John was there, and Elspeth just laughed and said it was a remark I must
forget, 'cause it wasn't real kind to speak so about anybody. But when I
was in bed and they thought I'd gone to sleep, I heard Saint John ask
Elizabeth about it, and she told him how Miss Kinney was acting, and how
the program would all be spoiled, 'cause there isn't anyone to take her
place in the solo parts, and it is too late now to drill the children
for anything else. It's even worse now, with Glen down sick so's Elspeth
can't help get up some other program."

"What kind of exercises were you going to have, may I ask? You have had
such hard work to keep from telling me at different times that I thought
perhaps it was a secret."

"Elspeth wanted it as a surprise, you know, so I thought it would be
better not to talk about it even with you. Do you care?"

"Not a bit, dearie, only I had an idea that possibly I might take
Elizabeth's place for a few days, with Aunt Pen's help. She used to be a
famous driller for children's entertainments, and I know she would be
more than pleased to have her finger in this pie, for she admires your
young preacher very much, while Beth is an old friend of hers. The
children could come here to rehearse--"

"Oh, but wouldn't that be fine! You do have the splendidest thinks!
Who'd take Miss Kinney's part? That's the most important of all. Would
you?"

"I? Oh, Peace, how could _I_ take part--a cripple? I haven't been
outside these gardens for years."

"It's time you had a change, then. It wouldn't hurt you to be rolled
down the street in your chair, would it?"

"So everyone could see and pity me?" The voice was full of scathing
bitterness.

"So everyone could know and love you, my Lilac Lady! They couldn't
_help_ loving you. I wanted to hug you the first time I ever laid eyes
on you, and I don't feel any different yet."

"All the world is not like you."

"No, I reckon it ain't, 'cause there's millions and millions of
pig-tailed Chinamen and little brown Japs, and Esquimeaux who take baths
in whale oil 'stead of water, which ain't a bit like me. But I'm
speaking of 'Merican children. They'd love you for the way you sing and
tell stories first, most likely; but when they came to know you
yourself, they'd like just the bare you. Tony and Ethel and Lottie and
George and all the rest of the Home children can't talk enough about
you, and Miss Chase says they're 'most wild to think you want 'em to
come every week steady this summer. She says a person like you can do
'em more good now than years of sermons after they are older. She calls
you the children's 'good angel.' I meant to tell you before, 'cause I
thought you'd like to know, but somehow this fuss of Elspeth's made me
forget everything else. Say! Why couldn't we get the Home children to
help us in our choruses? They usu'ly go to the church just across the
street from there on account of it being nearer, but I'm sure the matron
would let 'em help us this one time, 'specially as tomorrow is their
Children's Sunday. Tony told me."

"That is a splendid plan, Peace. If you think Aunt Pen and I can take
Elizabeth's place until Glen is better, I'll send Hicks over to the Home
with a note for Miss Chase, and we will have a rehearsal this very
afternoon. Can you get me the music?"

"Yes, Elspeth's got the song-books at the parsonage now. There was to be
a practise this afternoon for the _corn-tatter_, but she thought she'd
just have to send 'em home as fast as they came. I'll run right over and
tell her your plans so's she'll have the children come over here
instead. It will be ever so nice to have the boys and girls from the
Home take part, 'cause there didn't begin to be enough lilies or poppies
or vi'lets, and so many had dropped out of the rose chorus that only
Mittie Cole is left. She's a good singer, though, if she doesn't get too
scared."

"Well, you run along and get me as many copies of the cantata as you
can. Tell Elizabeth I will be very careful of them."

"Shall I tell her you'll take Miss Kinney's part?"

"No, indeed," was the hasty answer. "If she asks about it, you might say
that it will be taken care of, so she need not fret the least little
bit."

"Oh, and say, what about the flowers for the Home children? I guess
likely we can't have them after all, 'cause we're to be dressed up in
flowers to represent our parts."

"Flowers? Oh, I will attend to that. Our French maid is perfection when
it comes to getting up costumes of any kind."

"It ain't _costumes_. It's just our flowers, but there are daisies and
poppies and vi'lets and maybe others that ain't in blossom yet or else
are all done for; so's we would either have to buy them at the
greenhouses or get artificial ones."

"That is easily done, dear. Elise can do wonders with crêpe paper and
the glue-pot. Don't you worry about the Home children if Miss Chase will
let us borrow them."

So Peace skipped joyously home to pour out the good news to the
preacher's troubled little wife, who was worrying alternately over the
hoarse, sick little man lying in her arms and the program for
Children's Sunday, which now looked as if it must prove a failure in
spite of all the time and hard work she had given it. So when the child
explained the Lilac Lady's plans, Elizabeth gladly resigned the cantata
music, expressed her sincere thanks by kissing Peace warmly--for she
knew, of course, that whatever beautiful plans the young crippled
neighbor might have, they were prompted by the active brain under the
bobbing brown curls--and returned with a lighter heart to her vigil over
Glen.

Miss Chase was glad to lend the children to Hill Street Church, and they
were overjoyed at the idea of being loaned. As they proved to be apt
pupils, they were already quite familiar with the beautiful songs by the
time the original chorus members put in appearance at the parsonage for
the afternoon's rehearsal. At first, the regular scholars were inclined
to criticize the new plans which dragged in the little Home waifs; but
Aunt Pen, who had readily agreed to help, was very tactful, the lame
girl very lovable, and in a few minutes all the objections had been
swept aside and harmony reigned supreme. Then they settled down to hard
work, and how they did practise! Aunt Pen played the piano, Giuseppe
took up the refrain on his violin, and the great stone house fairly rang
with the chorus of the hundred or more voices. Indifference melted into
interest, and interest into enthusiasm. Before the afternoon had drawn
to a close, every heart present was fairly aching for the coming of
Children's Sunday with its beautiful service of song, and the Lilac Lady
was triumphant.

"But who will take Miss Kinney's part?" frowned Marjorie Hopper, the
deacon's granddaughter. "She told papa last night that she simply
washed her hands of the whole affair."

"Never you fret," said Peace, nodding her head sagely. "Let her wash!
We've got someone to take it who can sing lots prettier than she ever
thought of doing."

"Not Mildred--"

"No, Mildred's got her own part, but--"

There was a sudden movement in the invalid's chair, and the lame girl
sat up with a most becoming blush tinting the waxen cheeks. "Can you
keep a secret, children?" she asked.

"Of course!" they shouted, gathering around her to hear what the secret
might be.

"Well, I am going to--"

"Take Miss Kinney's place," finished Tony, with a deep sigh of
anticipated pleasure.

"I knew she'd do it!" crowed Peace, dancing a jig for pure joy.

"Will you?" asked Marjorie.

"Would you like it?"

"Like it! Well, I guess yes!" they shouted again.

"You can beat Miss Kinney all hollow," added George with blunt, boyish
admiration.

"I am not figuring on that," smiled the invalid, amused at the thought.
"I don't care any more about being 'it,' as you children say. I just
want to help Hill Street Church, for it has brought me the sun again
when I thought I had lost it forever."

They looked at her mystified, uncomprehending, but no one asked her to
explain; they were content to know that she was to take the important
solo part which Miss Kinney had thrown down.

Thus the days flew by, and Children's Sunday dawned bright and cool.
Glen was almost well, but Elizabeth did not feel that she could leave
him in any other hands, and he was still too fretful to attend the
service. In her quandary she flew to Aunt Pen, and that worthy lady
smiled happily as she answered, "Of course, I can take charge if you
wish, and I shall count it a privilege. You have done so much for
Myra--"

"Thank Peace for that. She is the one who found out her hiding-place."

"I do thank Peace with all my heart, and it has been a pleasure to help
her with her beautiful, generous, impulsive plans. She suggested--well,
you must come this morning and hear the children. We simply can't let
you off. Sit near the door if you like, so you can take the baby out if
he frets,--but I don't think he will. He loves music, and we've quite a
surprise in store for the congregation."

And indeed, it proved a great surprise, for no one saw the wheel-chair
which Hicks rolled stealthily into the tiny church early that morning
and hid so skilfully behind tall banks of fern and great clusters of
roses that only the lovely face of the lame girl could be seen by the
congregation--she was still very sensitive concerning her sad
affliction. And when the happy-hearted children, almost covered with the
garlands of flowers they carried, took their places around their queen,
the platform looked like some great, wonderful garden, where children's
faces were the blossoms.

And the music! How can words describe the joyous anthems which filled
the sanctuary with praise and thanksgiving, or the gloriously sweet,
silvery tones of the garden queen when she lifted her voice and poured
out her soul in song that bright June morning. All the bitterness of the
long months of anguish, despair and rebellion had been swept forever out
of her heart, and in its place reigned the gladness, the rapture, the
supreme joy which triumphs even over death. It seemed almost as if some
angel choir had opened the gates of heaven and let the strains of
celestial music flood the earth. It was inspiring, uplifting, sublime!

But that was not all. When the beautiful service had ended, and the
congregation was slowly filing out into the sunshine again, there stood
the wheel-chair by the door, and the lame girl, her blue eyes alight
with happiness, her face wreathed in smiles, greeted one by one the
friends of the old days from whom she had so long hidden herself away.



CHAPTER XIV

HOW THE FOURTH OF JULY MONEY WAS SPENT


"Just one week more and Fourth of July will be here," announced Peace
from her seat on the grass, as she counted off the days on her fingers.
They were all gathered under the trees that warm afternoon, Aunt Pen and
Elizabeth with their sewing, the minister with a magazine from which he
had been reading aloud, Giuseppe with his beloved violin, from which he
was seldom separated, the lame girl lying in her accustomed place, and
Peace and Glen gambolling in the grass at their feet.

"Why, so it will," said the invalid in surprise.

"Do you s'pose grandpa will get back by that time?"

"Should you care if he did not?" asked preacher teasingly.

"John!" reproved Elizabeth, tapping him gently on the head with her
thimble. "Aren't you ashamed of yourself to ask such a question?"

"No offense, ladies, no offense intended, I assure you! I merely
wondered if Peace could be getting homesick."

"Me homesick! Oh, no, I'm not _homesick_, but I'll bet the other folks
are by this time. I've been gone so long. One week of March, all of
April and May, and nearly all of June--that's three months already; and
I've never been away from the girls more'n a night or two at a time
before."

There was a wistful look in the brown eyes in spite of her emphatic
denial that she was homesick, and Elizabeth sought to turn the
conversation by saying meditatively, "I wonder what Glen will think of
the Fourth of July celebration? He was almost too young last year to
notice anything of that sort, and besides, we had a very quiet day at
Parker. Everyone had gone to the city for their fun."

"Yes, it was quiet in Parker last year. Hec Abbott was away all day, and
I didn't have any fire-crackers," Peace observed; then, noting the broad
smile that bathed all the faces, she added hastily, "I s'pose it was
just as well, 'cause it was an awful dry summer, and like enough we
would have set the place on fire. That's why Gail wouldn't let us have
any, but this year we're going to make up for all we've missed--if
grandpa gets home in time. We've got dollars and dollars in our
bank--Allee and me--left over from dec'rating our room, and we're going
to blow it all up celebrating the Fourth, so's to be patriotic. Grandpa
says love of country is something every 'Merican needs, so we're
beginning young at our house. Grandpa says--"

"What does grandpa say?" boomed a dear, familiar voice behind her, and
she bounced to her feet with a wild shriek of joy, for leaning against
the iron gates at the end of the walk stood the genial President, while
in the carriage just beyond sat Grandma Campbell and the three younger
sisters, all fidgeting with eagerness to meet the small maid whose face
they had not seen for so long a time.

"Oh, grandpa, grandma, girls, when did you get here? I never so much as
heard you drive up!"

Scarcely touching the gravel with her toes, she fairly flew through the
gate into the five pair of arms reaching out to embrace her, hugging and
kissing them impartially in her delight to be with them again, and
asking questions as fast as her tongue could fly. "How did you like the
Woods? Where are Gail and Faith? Haven't they come in from the Lake yet?
I haven't seen them for _three weeks_ now. Are you perfectly well,
Allee? What's the matter with Cherry's nose, grandma? It looks skinned.
Does scarlet fever make people grow tall, or what has happened to Hope?
My, but you've missed it, being _quadrupined_ up in the house all the
spring! Yes, I'd like to have seen the Woods, too, but 's long as you
didn't take me, I had a better time here. Oh, it's been jolly. There
come Aunt Pen and Elspeth. I s'pose they think you've kissed me enough
for one time and you better climb out and go speak to my Lilac Lady.
She's been wanting to see you all, 'specially Gail and Faith which ain't
here."

They answered her questions as best they could--they had enjoyed their
brief sojourn in the Pine Woods very much, for they had found it more
than tiresome to be quarantined all those beautiful weeks, but Peace's
telephone messages and queer adventures had helped brighten many an
hour. They were particularly interested in the Lilac Lady and the little
Italian musician, and were anxious to meet the big-hearted Aunt Pen. So
they clambered out of the carriage and were properly introduced by the
preacher and his wife, while Peace fluttered from one to another of the
happy group, too excited to remember such things as introductions.

The lame girl was very sorry to lose this little will-o'-wisp neighbor
who had brought so much sunshine into her life during her short stay at
the parsonage, but Elizabeth was to visit her every day, and the
Campbells promised not only to lend Peace often to the stone house, but
also to come with her; so they said good-bye at length, and the curly
brown head bobbed out of sight down the long avenue, behind prancing
Marmaduke and Charlemagne.

Peace was glad to get home again, and spent the next few days renewing
her acquaintance with the place, philosophizing with Gussie, Marie and
Jud, and regaling family and servants alike with accounts of her long
stay at the parsonage, for it seemed to her that she had been away three
years instead of three months.

On the third day she suddenly remembered the approaching Fourth and the
generous bank account which she and Allee had kept for just that
occasion. So she sat down on the stairs to plan out the list of
fireworks that they should buy with their precious hoard, and was busy
trying to add up a lengthy column of figures, when she heard Hope in the
hall below say, "Yes, grandma, it's a letter from Gail. They aren't
coming home for another week unless you want them particularly, because
they have discovered a family of eight children out there by the lake
who have never had a real Fourth of July celebration in their lives, and
Frances is planning a picnic for them and wants the girls to help her
out."

Peace heard no more. Frances was planning a gala day for a family of
eight children who would have no fireworks for the glorious Fourth. Why
could she and Allee not do the same thing for the Home children? There
were more than fifty little folks in that institution who would have no
celebration either, unless some good fairy provided it. She and Allee
would have more than enough fire-crackers for the whole family, even if
grandpa did not buy a single bunch himself, and of course he would do
his part to make the day a grand success.

She went in search of Allee, unfolded her new plan, and as usual won her
ready consent, for the smallest sister found this other child's quaint
ideas delightfully thrilling, and was always willing to join her in any
escapade, however daring.

"I knew you'd say yes," Peace sighed with satisfaction, when they had
agreed upon the list of fire-crackers, caps and torpedoes. "Now the thing
of it is, will grandpa be as easy? He has such very queer thoughts on
some things. Still, he's usu'ly right, too. I've found out that it is
lots better to try to help such folks as the Home children 'stead of
tramps and hand-organ men, who are only fakes or lazy-bones. There was
Petri, now,--he made loads of money off of Juiceharpie and Jocko, but he
was mean as dirt to both of them. The Home children are different.
Anything nice you do for them makes them happy and they like you all the
better. Well, we better go see grandpa about it first, so's he can't
kick after we get started real well with our plans. Besides, I don't
s'pose Miss Chase would listen to us if grandpa doesn't know what we are
up to."

Hand in hand they descended the stairs to the study and knocked, but the
weary President was stretched on his couch fast asleep and did not hear
their gentle tapping.

"He's here, I know," Peace declared. "I saw him when he went in, and he
told grandma that he should be home the rest of the day."

"P'raps he's upstairs in his room."

"But he ain't, I tell you! Didn't we just come from upstairs! We'd have
heard him moving about if he'd been up there."

"Maybe he's asleep."

"I'm going to see."

Cautiously she opened the door a little crack and peeped in. The west
window curtains were drawn and the room was very dim, but after a few
rapid blinks, Peace became accustomed to the subdued light, and saw the
long figure lying on the davenport beside the fireplace, now filled with
summer flowers.

"There he is," she whispered triumphantly, and pushing the door further
ajar, she stepped across the threshold.

"Oh, we mustn't 'sturb him!" protested Allee, holding back; but Peace
serenely assured her, "I ain't going to touch him. I'm just going to
stay till he wakes up. Are you coming?"

Allee, followed, still a little reluctant, and the door closed
noiselessly behind them. With careful hands, they drew up a long Roman
chair in front of the couch, and sat down together to await the
President's awakening. The room was almost gloomy in its dimness, and
so quiet that they could hear their own breathing. But not another sound
broke the silence, save the ticking of the little French clock on the
mantel, which drove Peace almost to distraction. Then she chanced to
remember a discussion she had heard a long time before, and settling
herself with elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands, she fixed
her somber eyes full upon the sleeping face before her, and stared with
all her might.

"Look at him," she commanded Allee in a stage whisper.

"What for?"

"Just 'cause. Glare for all you're worth!"

"But why?"

"I'll tell you byme-by."

So dutiful Allee "glared for all she was worth," and soon the sleeper
grew restless. Then he opened his eyes.

"We did it!" crowed Peace shrilly, spatting her hands together so
suddenly that he jumped.

"Did what, you young jackanapes?" he growled, rubbing his sleepy eyes, a
trifle vexed at having been disturbed before his nap was out.

"Woke you up with just looking at you! We never touched you at all--just
glared and glowered as hard as ever we could, and you woke up like Faith
said you would."

"Faith? Did she send you here to wake me up? Have she and Gail come
home?"

"Oh, no, they ain't coming till after the Fourth. They're going to stay
and help Frances celebrate a family of eight children which have never
had any fireworks in all their lives. That's what we came to see you
about, but you were asleep and we got tired of waiting, so we tried to
see if we could stare you awake, like the girls said folks could do if
they looked long and hard enough. It worked."

"Something did," he smiled grimly. "Was it so important that you had to
tell it immediately? Couldn't it have kept until dinner hour?"

"You and grandma are invited out for dinner this evening, and anyway, we
wanted to have a private _conflab_ with you all by yourself before we
told the others our plan."

"Plan? Another plan! My sakes, Peace, where do you keep them all?"

The round, eager face grew long. It wasn't like grandpa to make fun of
her. What could be the matter?

"I guess you're not int'rested," she said in heavy disappointment.
"Come, Allee, we better be going."

"Indeed you better not!" he cried, thoroughly aroused by her look and
tone, and remembering that she was unaccountably sensitive to the moods
of her loved ones. "I won't tease you another speck. Come and tell
grandpa what it is now that you want me to help with."

"We don't want your help at all," she answered gravely, letting him draw
her down to one knee, while he enthroned Allee on the other. "All you've
got to do is say yes."

Knowing from experience what wild-cat schemes were often evolved by that
tireless brain, he cautiously replied, "'Yes' is an easy word to speak,
girlies, but sometimes 'no' is wisest, even if it is hard to learn."

"Oh, I think you will like this plan, grandpa." Peace was warming up to
the subject. "It hasn't anything to do with tramps or beggars, and I
don't want to give away any more of my clo'es--'nless p'raps that white
apron to Lottie, 'cause she likes it so well. This is about the Home
children. You know our Fourth of July money?"

"Did you think I had forgotten that?" Inwardly he was shaking with
merriment. He never recalled the dedication of the flag room without
wanting to shout.

"No, but I did think maybe it had skipped your mind just for a minute."

"Well, it hasn't. What does your Fourth of July money have to do with
the Home children and white aprons?"

"White aprons ain't in it--only that one I should like to give Lottie,
but that can be any day. What we want to do is share our fire-crackers
with the Home children, 'cause the Lady Boards don't allow for such
things in raising money to take care of the Home, and so the children
won't have any to celebrate with, 'nless their fathers bring them a few,
and mostly the fathers are too hard up for that. Allee and me have
dollars and dollars in our bank just to _cluttervate_ our love of
country with, and we thought this would be a splendid chance to--"

"Spread the d'sease," finished Allee, as Peace paused for want of words
to express her ideas.

"It ain't a _disease_, Allee Greenfield! To make 'em happy--that's what
I meant to say."

"A very worthy object, my dear."

"Then you like it and won't kick?"

"If you have considered the matter carefully and want to share your
Fourth of July with the Home children, I am perfectly willing, girlies,
and will do all I can to help you succeed."

"That's what we wanted to know, grandpa," she cried gleefully. "You'll
have all kinds of chances to help, too, 'cause I've just thought of
ice-cream and watermelon--if they are ripe by that time--and ice-cream
anyway, with a nice picnic dinner to go with the fire-crackers and
_Roming_ candles. Some of 'em have never had but two or three dishes of
ice-cream in all their lives. Think how tickled they will be! P'raps my
Lilac Lady will invite them all over to her house to celebrate, 'cause
it always seems so much nicer to go away somewhere for a picnic, even if
'tis only a few blocks. And the stone house has great wide lawns,
bigger'n ours, though I like ours best on account of the river, even if
we haven't all the lovely flowers which Hicks has planted in his
gardens."

Thoughtfully the President lifted the shade behind the couch and looked
out across the smooth velvet turf, sloping gently to the river bank in
one long, even stretch, broken by an occasional posy-bed, and liberally
dotted with giant oaks and stately lindens. It was an ideal spot for a
picnic or lawn social such as Peace had described; and Japanese lanterns
suspended among the branches and hung about the wide verandas would make
it a veritable fairyland for the little folks of the Home, whose gala
days were so few and far between.

Unconsciously he spoke aloud: "The mis'es would enjoy it as much as the
rest; that is the beauty of it."

"What _are_ you talking about, grandpa?" cried the children, amazed at
the remark which seemed to have no bearing whatever on the subject.

"Did I speak?" he asked sheepishly. "I was just wondering how they would
enjoy coming here for their celebration instead of going to the stone
house--"

"Oh, grandpa! That would be _splendid_! How did it happen that I never
thought of it myself?" Peace exclaimed in comical surprise. "We'll ask
Saint Elspeth and John and my Lilac Lady and Aunt Pen to come and help.
Hicks took her to church for Children's Sunday. Don't you s'pose he
could bring her down here, even if it is three miles?"

"If she will come, dear, we will find a way of bringing her," he
promised, drawing the little girls closer to him as if to shield them
from such sorrow as had darkened that other young life.

"And that will mean Juiceharpie and Glen will come, too," murmured
Allee, who was much charmed with these two little gentlemen,
particularly with the Italian waif, whose strange history still seemed
like a story-book tale to her.

"Yes, the children will come, too, of course, and we will even borrow
the cook and Hicks, if the Lilac Lady will lend them. Do you suppose she
will?"

"Let's go and see this very minute," proposed Peace. "The Fourth is too
near already to let it get any closer before we find out about these
things. And we've still to see Miss Chase about the Home folks coming,
you know."

Thoroughly interested now in her project, the President drew forth his
watch, glanced at the hour, and rang for Jud to harness the horses.

Of course Miss Chase accepted the invitation at once, and the Home
children were jubilant. The little parsonage family was equally charmed
with the plan and agreed to help it along all they could. But at the
stone house, when the matter was explained, it quite took Aunt Pen's
breath away, and for a moment even the Lilac Lady looked as if she were
about to refuse. But Giuseppe was radiant, and seizing his beloved
violin, ha capered about the white-faced invalid, crying in delight,
"An' I feedle an' ma angel seeng. Oh, eet be heaven!"

Perhaps it was his happy face, perhaps it was Peace's wistful entreaty,
but at any rate, the lame girl suddenly smiled up at the President
beside her and answered heartily, "Tell Mrs. Campbell we shall all be
there to help her if the day is clear, and it surely must be when the
happiness of so many people depends upon it."

The day _was_ clear and delightfully cool, Jud had accomplished wonders
with flags, bunting and lanterns, and the place looked even more like
the haunts of fairies than the girls had dared dream. Rustic benches and
porch chairs were scattered about under the trees, two immense hammocks
hung on the wide veranda, and a strong swing had been fastened among the
branches of the tallest oak. The barn chamber, which Peace had planned
on having for a playhouse, was swept and scrubbed, furbished up with old
furniture from the garret, and stocked with toys of all sorts, that the
children who might not care for games all day could find other amusement
to fill the hours. The boat-house, too, was put in order and decorated
with ferns and flowers, for Hope was to preside here behind great jars
of lemonade and frappé, and it proved to be a very popular resort all
day long. It is surprising how thirsty one does get at a picnic!

Early in the morning, Hicks brought the preacher's family, Aunt Pen and
his young mistress in the great red automobile, which was now used so
seldom that Peace had not even discovered its existence; but when she
saw it, she let out a whoop of surprise that startled the rest of the
household, and dashed down the driveway to meet it, screaming shrilly,
"When you've dumped out that load, Hicks, you better begin going after
the Home children. It will take Duke and Charley a long time to bring
them here alone; and besides, I'll bet none of the boys and girls there
have ever ridden in an auto yet. I know I haven't."

"That is a good idea, Peace," said the lame girl happily. "I never would
have thought of it. Those who drive down in the carriage can go home in
the auto, so they will all get a ride. Just put the baskets and traps on
that table, Hicks, and start as soon as possible."

An hour later all the guests had assembled, and the day's program was
begun. Of course there were some mishaps. Was there ever a picnic
without them? But no one was badly hurt. It was Giuseppe's first
celebration of Independence Day with gunpowder and torpedoes, and in his
excitement and delight at the noise he was making, he thoughtlessly
thrust a stump of burning punk into his trousers' pocket along with a
bunch of fire-crackers, and would have been seriously burned, no doubt,
had not Cherry promptly turned the hose on him. As it was, he was nearly
drowned, and very much frightened, but soon recovered from the shock,
and returned with energy to his crackers again.

Lottie fell through the hay-mow in the barn, trying to escape her
pursuer in a lively game of tag. George tumbled into the river and was
rescued just in time. Tony got hit by the swing-board and lost one tooth
as a result. Allee sat down in a tub of lemonade, and Peace toppled out
of a tree into a trayful of ice-cream which Jud had just dished up. But
these were mere trifles, swallowed up in the greater events of the
day--the boisterous games on the smooth lawn, the picnic dinner under
the trees, the beautiful music made by the lame girl and the little
songbird of Italy; the destruction of the sham fort built by the
dignified doctor and sedate young minister; the row on the river in the
late afternoon; the gorgeous beauty of the place when the lanterns were
lighted at dusk; and, fitting climax of that wonderful day, the
brilliant display of fireworks which Jud set off when finally darkness
had fallen over the land.

But like all happy days, this Fourth of July came to an end at last, the
guests departed, and Peace, walking slowly up the path from the gate,
felt suddenly tired. Slipping her hand into the doctor's big one, she
sighed, "Well, it's all over with! Our flag room money has gone up in
smoke and down in ice-cream."

"Are you sorry?" asked the President, a little surprised at her
long-drawn sigh and tone of regret.

"Oh, no, I ain't sorry for that part of it. I'm sorry the day is gone.
That's the trouble with having a good time. It always comes to an end."

"But the memory of it still lives. Think how many hearts you have made
happy today."

"Yes, that's so," she answered, brightening visibly; "and the best of it
is, there's at least one more _patriarch_. Juiceharpie has always been
an Italian till today, but after this he's going to be an American. The
fire-crackers did it."



CHAPTER XV

PEACE GIVES THE LILAC LADY AN IDEA


The Home Missionary Society of the South Avenue Church was holding its
monthly meeting in the Campbell parlors, and Peace, feeling very forlorn
and left out, because grandma had suggested that she better join the
sisters in the barn playhouse, wandered down to the gate and stood
looking up the street in search of something to occupy her attention.
She was tired of playing games in the barn, she had read the latest St.
Nicholas from cover to cover, and the postman had not yet brought the
Youth's Companion, although this was the regular day for it. Anyway, she
didn't care to read. She would rather stay and listen to what the women
in the house were talking about, but if grandma did not want her, she
certainly should not bother them with her presence. Likely the meeting
would be very dry; it usually was when Mrs. Roberts stayed away, and she
had not put in appearance yet.

Grandma had half promised that she might visit the Lilac Lady that
afternoon, but for some reason had changed her mind and put off the
visit until the morrow. Ho, hum! What was a small girl to do to amuse
herself this warm day, when she had already done everything she could
think of, and had been forbidden to go where she most wanted to go?

Slowly she unlatched the gate and strolled down the avenue, swinging her
white sunbonnet by one string, and whistling plaintively under her
breath. The wide street, shaded by immense oaks and maples, felt
deliciously cool and restful, but it was also very quiet, and Peace had
wandered several blocks without meeting a soul, when without warning she
stumbled over two mites of tots, almost hidden in the rank grass and
weeds in front of a ragged-looking unkempt little cabin of a house,
which in its better days had evidently been used for a barn. The
children were as much surprised as Peace, and after one frightened
glance at the intruder, they both buried their heads in their patched
aprons and cowered still lower among the weeds. But from the fleeting
glimpse Peace had caught of the little faces, she knew they had been
crying, and her first thought was, "They are lost."

Impulsively she kneeled on the walk beside them and coaxingly asked,
"What is the trouble, little girls? Have you run away?"

"No, we ain't!" retorted the older child, lifting a streaked,
tear-stained face to eye her questioner indignantly. "We ain't girls,
either! I am, but he ain't!"

"Oh," murmured Peace, much abashed by her fierce reception, "I took him
for a girl on account of his clo'es. He's wearing dresses."

"He ain't old enough for pants. He's only two."

"Oh, mercy! He's lots bigger than Glen. But then Glen won't be two until
next January."

"Is Glen your brother?" asked the other girl, somewhat mollified by the
friendliness of the stranger's voice.

"No, he's the minister's little boy which we used to have in Parker
where we lived 'fore we came here. What's your baby's name?"

"Rivers."

"His first name, I mean."

"That's his first name. Rivers Dillon, and I'm Fern."

"Oh! They're as bad as ours, ain't they? I'm always running up against
horrid names. Gail says it's 'cause I am always looking for them--"

"Our names ain't horrid!" Fern Dillon bounced off the grass like an
angry hornet, then collapsed beside the baby brother, who evidently was
not given much to talking, for he had not said a word, but simply stared
in round-eyed surprise at the pretty stranger child. "Oh, dear,
everybody is so mean!"

"Fern, what have I done? I didn't mean to be hateful," cried Peace
remorsefully. "Please, I'm sorry I've made you mad. Don't mind anything
I said. I've always hated my own name so bad that I am always glad when
I can find a worse one. That is all I meant."

Strange to say, Fern's wrath was at once appeased, in spite of the
explanation, and she smiled faintly as she brushed away the fresh tears.
"I thought you was going to be just like Mrs. Burnett," she explained.
"She's always scolding mamma 'cause she won't put Rivers and me in a
Home--"

"In a _Home_?" cried Peace in horrified accents. "What for?"

"So's she can get more work to do. Lots of people won't give her their
washing 'cause she has to take both of us with her, and folks think
three is too many to feed, I guess."

"Is your papa dead?"

"He--he's gone. Mabel Cartwell says he's in jail," her voice dropped to
an awed whisper; "but when I asked mamma, she just cried and cried. Now
she's sick and they are going to take her to a hospital, and I don't
know what Rivers and me'll do. Mrs. Burnett says of course we can't go
with her, 'cause there ain't any sickness the matter with us,
and--and--oh, we can't stay with _her_! She shakes Rivers for everything
he touches. Oh dear, oh dear!"

"Have they--taken your mamma--away yet?"

"No, she's in there--"

"In that barn?"

"That's where we live since papa--went away."

"I'm going to ask her if you can't go home with me. Grandma will know--"

"You mustn't bother mamma," cried Fern, clutching Peace about the ankles
as she started toward the sagging door of the ramshackle old house.
"Mrs. Burnett will chase you out with the broom like she did us. And
'sides, mamma won't know you. She doesn't even know Rivers and me--her
own little children."

Peace pondered. Here was an unlooked-for predicament. Would she be doing
wrong if she took the brother and sister away without saying anything to
the mother who did not know her own children any longer? She might speak
to Mrs. Burnett, but how about that broomstick? For a moment she stood
irresolute, scratching her head thoughtfully. Then with characteristic
energy and decision, she grabbed Rivers with one hand and Fern with the
other, and trotted off down the street, saying briefly, "I'm going to
show you to grandma. She will know what to do."

"Will you bring us back again?"

"Course! You don't think I am a kidnapper, do you? That's what Mittie
Cole called me when I thought I was going to adopt the twins that were
only runaways. Mittie got to like me afterwards, though."

"I like you now."

"Of course. Most folks do, but it takes a longer time with some to make
up their minds. I'm glad you are quick at d'ciding. We turn this
corner."

Hurrying them along as fast as Rivers' short legs could toddle, she at
length reached the big, old-fashioned house, and burst in upon the
Missionary Meeting with a torrent of jumbled explanation.

"Here's two folks that need home missionarying if anybody does. Their
mother is so sick she doesn't know people any more, and the father is
either in jail or heaven. Mrs. Burnett chases 'em out of the house with
the broomstick, and I borrowed them to show you just how ragged and
dirty they really are, so's you will know I ain't got hold of a fake
mistake again. They live in a horrid little barn of a house, quite a
piece from here, and the hospital is coming after the mother any time.
They won't take Fern and Rivers, of course, 'cause they are both well,
but I thought likely Mrs. Burnett might begin to use the broomstick
again if the children were left with her, so I brought 'em along with me
until you could decide what to do with them. They don't want to go to a
Home, and I don't want them to, either." Her breath gave out, and the
astonished ladies recovered their poise sufficiently to ask questions
until the whole pitiful tale had been unravelled.

"We'll send a committee at once to investigate," proposed the fat
secretary, whom Peace disliked for no reason whatever.

"Then send somebody who's got a heart," suggested the little maid. "This
is a truly sick woman which needs help. I'll show you the place. Fern,
you and Rivers stay here with grandma till I get back. Ladies, who are
the committee?"

Spurred on by Peace's enthusiastic leadership, the society hastily
appointed a committee, and they departed on their errand of mercy. The
house was even more squalid than Peace had pictured it, and the woman's
case more desperate. An hour later a subdued, sympathetic trio of
ladies, with Peace in tow, returned to the Campbell residence with their
report.

"It is worse than we expected," said the chairman in a voice that
trembled in spite of her efforts to speak naturally. "The father is
in--Stillwater. Embezzlement. The mother, destitute, without relatives
or friends, naturally a frail little woman, and now ill with typhoid,
brought on by overwork and anxiety. These two children dependent upon
her, and none of the neighbors really situated so they can take care of
them. We secured a bed in Danbury Hospital for the mother, and told the
authorities that we would be responsible for the babies. We simply
could not think of leaving them there to be buffeted about by unwilling
neighbors--no telling how long the mother will be unable to take care of
them, if she ever is again. Now, the question is, what shall we do with
these two tots?"

Immediately there was a buzz of comment, and an avalanche of theory and
advice began to flow from fifty tongues.

Peace, interested in the controversy, had been banished to the
dining-room to amuse Rivers, who had developed an unlimited propensity
for mischief-making since his arrival at the big house, but through the
open door she caught bits of the conversation, and her heart beat quick
with fear.

"They are trying to _passle_ Fern and Rivers off among different
families," she said with bated breath. "What a shame that would be! Mr.
Dillon in Stillwater, the mother in Danbury Hospital, Fern with Mrs.
York, and Rivers at the Weston's. Oh, they mustn't part Fern from her
baby! They can't get along without each other. Ain't it too bad we don't
have a Home around here like they've got in Kentucky! Why didn't I think
of that before?"

She gathered Fern and Rivers under her wing once more, and noiselessly
departed from the house by way of the kitchen.

"Where are we going this time? Home?" questioned Fern, loath to leave
the great house so full of beautiful things for one to admire.

"Not yet. I've just got a think. I b'lieve I know a lady which'll take
you both till your mother gets well. She's lame herself, but Aunt Pen
isn't, and they both love children. You'll have to ride on the cars.
Come on, don't be afraid. I've done it lots of times and I never get
lost."

Somewhat reluctantly, Fern allowed herself and brother to be lifted onto
the car by the big conductor, who evidently knew Peace, for he greeted
her with a cheery shout, "Hello, my hearty! Going to see your Lilac Lady
again?"

"Yes," Peace answered promptly. "I've got another bunch of orphans--that
is, they will be until their mother gets well and the father comes back,
if he can." She remembered at that moment that she did not yet
understand what had actually happened to the breadwinner of this
unfortunate family. "And I knew my Lilac Lady would be glad to take care
of them for a little while, so's they wouldn't have to be sep'rated."

With that, she ushered the children to seats inside the moving car, and
they were quickly whirled away to the corner where stood Teeter's
Pharmacy. Here they were helped off by the genial conductor, and Peace
led the way up the hill to the beautiful stone house which could be
plainly seen from the roadway now, because the thick cedar hedges had
all been cut down, and only tall iron palings enclosed the lovely
gardens.

Under her favorite oak by the lilac hedge lay the lame girl in her
prison-chair, looking whiter and frailer than ever before, and Peace
stopped in the midst of a rapturous kiss to ask fearfully, "Have you
been sick again?"

"No, dear," smiled the marble lips. "I am a little tired these days, but
perfectly well. Whom have you here?"

"Fern and Rivers Dillon. Their mother is dreadfully sick with _tryfoid_
fever and their father is in--well, it's either a jail or a graveyard. I
found them crying 'cause Mrs. Burnett had driven them out of the house
with the broomstick, and when I took them home to the lady missionaries
who are meeting at our house this afternoon, they began planning right
away to divide them up among some families of our church. I couldn't
bear to think of that, so I brought them up to you. I knew you'd be glad
to keep them till the mother gets well, and they don't want to go to the
Children's Home a bit. Rivers can't keep still a minute, but I know how
he feels. It's the same way with me. At first I couldn't see how any
mother would name her little boy such a name as that, but now I know. He
upset three vases of flowers in the reception hall, and spilled a glass
of frappé down his dress when I tried to give him some to drink, and
pulled over the bird-cage, so's the water was all spilled, and stepped
into the dog's drinking trough at the back door while I was trying to
get them out of the house without the ladies seeing me. He makes rivers
out of every bit of water he comes near."

"Doesn't your grandmother know where you have gone?" asked the invalid
in surprise, not half understanding what Peace was trying to tell her.

"Why, no! She's one of the missionaries herself. She might think I ought
to let her s'ciety look after these children as long as they've got hold
of the mother already; but I--they'd be sep'rated as sure as fits,
and--just look how teenty Rivers is to be taken away from _all_ his
folks at once."

"I don't want him tookened away," Fern spoke up. "Mamma told me to stay
with him all the time, and I said I would. He can't talk much yet and
there ain't anybody else can tell what he wants, now that mamma is
sick."

"Come here, dear." The lame girl held out her thin, blue-veined hands,
and little, homeless Fern ran to her with a desolate cry.

Peace was satisfied, and dropping down cross-legged in the grass at
their feet, she remarked thoughtfully, "I _had_ to bring them here, you
see. Our house is full already, and grandpa says grandma has all she can
'tend to with the six of us. The parsonage is too small to hold any
more, and besides, Saint John is away on his vacation, so the house is
shut up for a few days. I knew Aunt Pen could mother a dozen, and I knew
you'd want her to if she got the chance, so I brought 'em along.

"Isn't it too bad there isn't a nice Children's Home in this state like
there is in Kentucky or some place down South, where one lady has forty
daughters? They ain't any of 'em her very own. She's really just the
matron of the Home, like Miss Chase is of our Children's Home, only they
don't call the place a Home. The lady is just like a real mother to
them, and she won't let any of her girls be adopted away from her. She
just takes care of them until they are old enough to look out for
themselves or get a husband to look out for them. Then she takes some
more in their place and keeps on that way. And they just love her to
pieces. They wear nice clothes and she teaches 'em music and manners and
how to keep house and makes useful wives out of them. Oh, that's the
kind of a Home I'd like to have here! Then Lottie could live there
'stead of being sent to the 'sylum."

"Lottie sent to the asylum? Why, what do you mean, Peace?" cried the
startled invalid, sitting almost upright in her chair.

"Haven't you heard?" It was Peace's turn to look surprised.

"Not a word of that sort."

"Why, you know Lottie is a _norphan_, and when she was a baby somebody
adopted her, but her new mother died last winter, and her new father put
her in the Home 'cause he couldn't take care of her himself. Now he's
been killed on the railroad, and his people don't want to be bothered
with her, so she's to be sent to a Norphan 'Sylum, 'cause the Home takes
only children who have somebody who will look after them a little.
Lottie feels dreadfully bad and has 'most cried her eyes out already. I
couldn't get her even to smile when I was up there this week. She is
going to leave next Wednesday."

For a long moment the lame girl lay in deep thought, still holding
Fern's chubby hand in hers, though she had evidently forgotten all about
the little stranger children in her concern for the friendless orphan,
Lottie. When she spoke, she asked absently, "What was that you were
telling me about the Kentucky lady? Where did you hear about it?"

"That girls' Home in Kentucky? Oh, grandma was reading about it in
Blank's Magazine the other day, and grandpa said that's the way all
children's Homes ought to be carried out. Then the boys and girls would
be happier and grow up into better men and women. That's what I think,
too."

"We take Blank's Magazine," said the lame girl irrelevantly. "Here
comes Aunt Pen. We must tell her about Fern and Rivers, and she will
telephone the ladies that they are safe with us. Poor little waifs! You
are home now--until the dear mother is able to care for you again. Then
we'll see."

That was the beginning of it, but the next time Peace visited the Lilac
Lady, she found a crew of noisy carpenters at work on the stone house,
and in answer to her surprised questions, the invalid said, "This is to
be an Orphan Asylum, dear. We shall not call it by that ugly name, but
that is what it is really to be, and we have already two real orphans,
not counting Fern and Rivers, who may be here for only a few weeks or
months."

"Who are the orphans?"

"Giuseppe and Lottie."

"Oh, my Lilac Lady! How did you ever think of such a splendid plan?"

"I didn't, Peace. It was you."

"Me?"

"Yes, dear. When you told me about that Kentucky Home which all the
children love, I wondered why Aunt Pen would not make a good mother for
such a place in this state, and when I asked her, she was _so_ happy!"

"But you? Where will you live if you turn your lovely house into a
_norphan_ 'sylum?"

"Right here--till the time comes to go home. It won't be long now, but I
shall be content if I know the fortune which failed to make me happy is
bringing joy and sunshine into the lives of scores of homeless
children--hundreds in time, perhaps--and is giving them the education
and self-reliance and refinement and love which will make them noble
citizens of a noble country."

Peace only vaguely understood her words, but it was clear to her that
the stone mansion was to become a home nest now for helpless little ones
whose own parents had been taken from them, and the thought that she had
had even a small share in bringing to pass this splendid plan sent a
thrill of joy singing through her heart. Hugging her knees together with
both lithe brown arms, she puckered her lips and began to whistle the
refrain:

    "'Sca-atter sunshine
      All along the wa-ay;
    Cheer and bless and bri-ighten
      Every passing da-ay.'"

The lame girl joined in with her rich, sweet tones, and they sang it
through to the end. Then as silence once more fell upon them, the young
mistress of the place dropped her waxen hand lightly upon the brown
curls resting against the arm of her chair, and said musingly, "That is
to be the motto of our Home, dear. The song has brought me more
happiness than any other thing in my life, I think. I want to pass it
on."

"And let me help," eagerly put in Peace.



CHAPTER XVI

THE LILAC LADY FALLS ASLEEP


So the summer swept rapidly on. The remodelled stone mansion was
finished at last and daintily furnished to meet every requirement. There
were school-rooms and work-rooms and play-rooms. There were parlors and
pianos and piazzas. There were long windows and wide doors everywhere.
The whole place was filled with sunshine and fresh air. Rare flowers and
ferns from the conservatory peeped out from every corner; the polished
floors were covered with thick, soft carpets; easy chairs and tempting
couches were harmoniously arranged about the rooms. A wing of the
basement was converted into a gymnasium with a brave array of dumbbells,
Indian clubs, trapezes and ladders. The great house was complete in
every detail, and all Martindale was interested in this unique Home
which the Lilac Lady was founding. But, though the offers to help were
many, the lame girl refused them all and pushed the work with untiring
energy.

Lottie had joined the three waifs already in the Palace Beautiful, as
the Greenfield girls called it, although its real name was to be Oak
Knoll; and one other little orphan maid had slipped in through the open
doors. Aunt Pen had been persuaded to take a flying trip to the southern
Home which Peace had so enthusiastically described, and returned fired
with zeal for the new work which held so many opportunities. Plans were
discussed, a Board of Directors elected, the business routine adjusted,
and everything legalized in order that there might be no hitch in
proceedings after the institution had been opened to the public.

The lame girl developed a surprising business ability, and insisted upon
looking after all the details personally, seeming to grow stronger as
the work progressed, and she saw her plans nearing completion. Even Aunt
Pen was deceived by the delicate flush which tinted the once colorless
cheeks, and the keen, alive look in the deep blue eyes; but the girl
herself understood, and so hurried carpenters and lawyers alike, until
at length everything was done, and Oak Knoll had been formally dedicated
and opened for its noble work.

Autumn lingered long that year, cool and calm, as if to make up for the
fierce heat of the summer months. But at last the frosts came and tipped
every leaf and flower with gorgeous colors; the grass grew brown on the
hillside; the brilliant foliage of the trees fluttered down with every
breath of wind that stirred; and the crisp, hazy air was filled with the
smell of fall. Then, when the chill of winter seemed upon them, the warm
days of Indian Summer again held it in check and revived the fading
flowers for one last bloom before going to sleep under blankets of ice
and snow.

Such a day was it the Sunday following Gail's twentieth birthday; and
after dinner had been served, the family repaired to the wide veranda
with books and papers to enjoy the freshness of the air and drink in the
glories of the autumn afternoon, while they read or talked together,
feeling that this was the last time for many weeks that they could sit
in this fashion out-of-doors.

But Peace was restless. There was a subtle something in the smell of the
hazy atmosphere which appealed to her forcefully, and leaving the family
gathered about the President on the piazza, she wandered down the
driveway to the great bed of chrysanthemums growing in a sheltered nook
where the frosts had not yet found them, and stood gloating over their
splendid blossoms.

"Chrysanthemums, chrysanthemums, oh, you dear chrysanthemums," she
hummed to herself, then stooped and plucked one long spray, another, a
whole armful, and with shining eyes she returned to the porch.

"My, what beauties!" exclaimed Faith, looking up from her book as Peace
passed. "Why didn't you leave them in the garden? They look so cheerful
growing, now that all the other flowers are gone."

"Hicks is coming after me this afternoon to visit Palace Beautiful, and
the Lilac Lady loves chrysanthemums."

She thrust her head deep into her bouquet, and they laughed at the
roguish, round face peeping from between the great yellow and white
balls. It was indeed a pretty picture, for both flowers and face seemed
radiating sunshine.

The chug-chug of an approaching automobile drew their attention to the
road, and Allee exclaimed, "There's Hicks now!"

"It's Hicks' machine, but that ain't him driving," answered Peace,
studying the car slowing up in front of the gate. "Hicks always comes up
the driveway, too. Why, it's Saint John and Elspeth!" They waved their
hands at the little group on the porch, and the doctor walked down to
the gate to meet the minister, who had leaped to the ground from his
place at the wheel.

"Run, get your hat and jacket, Peace," called Mrs. Campbell, as the
child started as if to join her friends in the street, so she darted
into the house for her wraps, impatient to be off in the throbbing, red
car. She was back in a moment, her jacket thrown over one arm and her
hat dangling down her back, but as she leaped onto the step beside
Elizabeth, she was vaguely conscious that both the preacher and his wife
looked strangely exalted, and they greeted her more tenderly and with
less boisterous fun than was usual. Indeed, Saint John hugged her so
tightly that it hurt, but she could not rebuke him, because he was
speaking to the family gathered at the gate, and she caught the words,
"Only an hour ago. We have just come from there."

She wondered a little what they were talking about, but before she could
ask, the preacher sprang to his place, released the wheel, and the car
leaped forward as if alive, toppling Peace into Elizabeth's arms. When
she had righted herself, she demanded, "Where is Glen?"

"We left him with Mrs. Lane."

"That's queer. Is he sick?"

"Oh, no, but we thought it best to leave him at the parsonage this
time," she answered evasively. "Those are beautiful chrysanthemums you
have."

"Ain't they, though? Jud does have the best luck with his asters and
chrysanthemums. These beat Hicks' all hollow. Where is Hicks? I 'xpected
he'd come for me today. I didn't know Saint John could drive well enough
yet."

"Hicks was--busy. So we came."

"I s'pose that's why you left Glen. You didn't want to take the chances
with Saint John driving the car. Is that it?"

Elizabeth smiled faintly. "No, we never once thought of that, Peace.
Mrs. Lane offered to stay with him, and so we let her."

"Oh! Well, I s'pose I would have too, if I'd been you, 'cause 'tain't
often Mrs. Lane makes such an offer," Peace chattered on. "Allee wanted
to come today, but grandma said the Lilac Lady had asked for only me, so
she wouldn't listen to Allee's going, too, I should like to have had
her."

"She can come Tuesday."

"What's going to happen Tuesday?" asked the child, surprised at having
so definite a date named. Elizabeth caught her breath sharply, but at
that moment the auto drew up in front of the iron gates, and there stood
Aunt Pen on the walk waiting for them, smiling her gentle smile of
welcome, a little sweeter, perhaps, and infinitely more tender, for,
like Moses, she had just come from her Mount of Transfiguration.

Peace spied her first. "How is my Lady, my Lilac Lady?" she cried,
springing into her arms and hugging her warmly. "It's been _so_ long
since I've seen her! Is she _lots_ better, Aunt Pen?"

"She is perfectly well now, darling," the woman answered, closing her
fingers tightly over the little brown hand in her own, and leading the
way up the path to the house.

"She's not under the trees, and--"

"It is November, childie. Have you forgotten?" interrupted Elizabeth.

"So it is! Winter is 'most here. But look at the lovely chrysanthemums
I've brought her. It isn't too cold for them yet. Won't she be pleased?"

"I am sure she will," smiled Aunt Pen, and involuntarily she lifted her
eyes to the clear blue sky above.

The hall, as they entered its dim coolness, was deserted, and though
Peace looked inquiringly about her for her small playmates who usually
rushed eagerly to meet her, not one was in sight. From the rooms above,
however, floated the sweet strains of Giuseppe's violin and the
unrestrained, riotous melody of the lame girl's pet canary, and Peace
skipped lightly up the wide stairway, eager to greet each member of this
happy family.

The door of the invalid's chamber stood open, and beside the window,
shaded by the great oak, still hung with autumn colors, lay the beloved
form of the Lilac Lady among her silken cushions. She was clad in simple
white, with the heavy bronze braids trailing across her shoulders, and
the waxen fingers twined in a familiar pose upon her breast. A soft
smile wreathed the colorless lips, but the beautiful blue eyes were
closed in slumber, and she looked as if she were resting after a
hard-fought battle. So lovely a picture did she present that Peace
paused on the threshold, and the gay words of greeting bubbling up to
her lips died away in a deep breath of awe.

The room was flooded with autumn sunshine and banked with the flowers
the invalid loved best; a plate of luscious fruit stood on the table
beside the wheel-chair, a late magazine lay open on the floor close by,
and Gypsy sang deliriously from his perch in the big bay window. All
this Peace saw, and more. The thin fingers clasped a knot of the
once-despised, bright-faced pansies, and a single white one nestled in
the red-brown waves at the left temple.

"Oh," breathed Peace, scarcely above a whisper, "isn't she beautiful?
She got tired of watching and fell asleep while she was waiting for me!"

Softly she tiptoed across the thick carpet and laid her burden of golden
chrysanthemums in the arms of the sleeping girl, and once more repeated
the words, "She fell asleep while she was waiting for me! My Lilac Lady
has fallen asleep!"

"Yes," said Aunt Pen softly. "'He giveth His beloved sleep.'"


THE END





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