CHAPTER VII.
MERRY WEATHER SIGNS
But the best of all, perhaps, was telling about it afterward. Sitting by the fire that evening, in the pleasant sitting-room, Hildegarde told her mother all about the Great Frisk, as she called it; and it would have been hard to say whether narrator or listener were the more interested.
"But, child," said Mrs. Grahame, "how was it possible for you to do so much, and see so many people in three days, or, rather, two days and a half? I cannot comprehend it!"
"Nor can I!" laughed Hildegarde. "But – it just happened, you know! Why, dear, it seemed to rain friends! Wherever I turned I ran into some one I loved. Oh, I feel so rich, – rich in every way! The money in my pocket is the least part of it all, and yet I am glad enough of that, too. Only think of my getting such a price! And eight or ten dozen to send every week! It is like a fairy story, isn't it, darling? And then to meet Helena, – dear Helena! Oh, she was so delightful! And just to see her was enough to fill one with beauty for the whole day. She wears her hair brushed back now, – you remember how it waves, – wonderful hair! And she was in dark blue velvet, trimmed with chinchilla, and – and altogether, my love, if the Queen of Sheba had seen her, her spirit would have died within her twice over. And just the same dear, whole-souled creature as ever! She never can change. She promises to come out here before she goes to Washington."
"That will be delightful!" said Mrs. Grahame. "I shall be very glad to see Helena again; I have always hoped that when she came back you would see something of her again. She was the one of your schoolmates that my heart always warmed to. How came Mrs. Desmond to be willing to leave Paris? When she went away, she said it was for life."
"Oh, Helena would come!" said Hildegarde. "She told me about it; they must have had a scene. She said to her mother, 'Mamma, I am an American! I have never committed any crime, and I refuse to be exiled from my native country any longer. If you will come with me, it will be much the pleasantest thing; if not, I go alone.' Well, it was not the thing to say, of course, but – "
"I am not sure about that!" said Mrs. Grahame, flushing slightly. "I am inclined to think Helena was perfectly justified. When a woman has not sense enough to guide her daughter, she must submit to be guided. The idea of keeping that girl over there five years, frittering about the continent; preposterous! My sympathy is entirely with Helena."
Mrs. Grahame sat very erect, and her eyes were very bright; then, catching Hildegarde's eyes, full of laughter, she relaxed her muscles, and began to laugh too.
"I am sorry, dear," she said. "I never could like Mrs. Desmond."
"I should think not!" said Hildegarde, promptly. "I should be under the painful necessity of disowning you if you did. But you love Mrs. Honiton, Mammina!"
"Ah, Mrs. Honiton! how could two sisters be so different? It is Margaret Honiton who should be Helena's mother, – they are wonderfully alike."
"Yes. Helena feels that. She is lovely with her mother, – firm, but devoted, – but Aunt Margaret is the one of the world to her. It is a terrible thing for a girl to have an incompetent mother!"
"Yes, darling, it is indeed," said Mrs. Grahame, meekly. "I feel it so in your case. No, don't kill me, Hildegarde! my time is not yet come. Tell me more about Rose and her husband. She is very happy, you say?"
"Happy as the day is long. I told you I did not see Doctor Flower, – the only one I missed, really; he was in Philadelphia. But their house is as pretty as pretty; it is evident that he furnished it, – you know what taste he has; and everywhere roses, roses! carved and painted and embroidered, – it is really the Rose-bower, as he calls it. Her own little sitting-room, up-stairs – oh, such a little rosy-posy nest! rosewood desk, – and everything soft covered with rose-flowered chintz – curtains, too, – and the most de-lightful sofa I ever did see! And her little work-table, and – oh, well, Mammina, I think, after all, that made me happier than anything, – unless it was the sight of Nurse Lucy's face when she recognised me! But, remembering all that Rose suffered, and all the cramped, anxious days and years, and then seeing her, a rose in full bloom, in her own pretty house, with such signs of loving care all about her, – it was good, good!"
"Yes, indeed!" said Mrs. Grahame, heartily. "I am sure that was a real treat, darling. And Bubble – you say he is grown such a fine lad!"
"Bubble is enchanting! not handsome – well, but you need not laugh, Mammina, for he is very good looking, and certainly has an air of distinction. He holds his head so well; and he walks well, and, altogether – oh, I am proud of Bubble. And Rose says that Doctor Flower is sure the boy has a career before him; he never had so apt a pupil. And he speaks such beautiful English, Rose says."
"Rose says!" repeated Mrs. Grahame. "I thought you had a good little talk with the boy himself."
"Oh, so I had, but he would not talk anything but the broadest Yankee. He insisted that he was precisely the same freckled boy that he was when I first saw him; and he carried on in the most absurd way. He was almost like Gerald; dear Gerald! I didn't see any of the Merryweathers, Mamma; so there was something lacking, after all."
"It would be a weary world if there were not," said her mother. "But speaking of the Merryweathers – have you noticed, Hilda dear, whether the night is clear?"
"Whether the night is clear, Mammina? No, I did not look. What do you mean, darling? Shall I go to the door – "
"No; not to the door," said Mrs. Grahame. "Go to the window, child; the west window, that looks across the hedge. Tell me if the stars are out."
Wondering greatly at this sudden solicitude about the weather, Hildegarde crossed the room and drew the curtain.
"Clear as a bell," she said. "Stars all out, and wind, – oh, oh, Mammina! Why, there are lights in the windows of Pumpkin House! Mamma, they have come!"
She turned upon her mother with eyes alight with happy inquiry.
"They have come," Mrs. Grahame repeated. "Some of them, that is. Oh, things can happen here as well as in New York, mademoiselle! They came yesterday, – Mrs. Merryweather and Kitty and – "
"And you never told me!" cried Hildegarde. "And you have let me talk on and on for three, – four hours, – oh, Mrs. Grahame!"
"You never asked me," replied that lady, demurely. "You had a great deal to tell, and I wanted very much to hear it; perhaps, too, I did not want to have your mind distracted until I had had my turn. Mrs. Merryweather is looking very well."
"Oh, the dear!" cried Hildegarde. "Oh, Mammina, do you think I might go over? Do you think it is too late? It is only half-past eight. Don't you think I might run over now?"
"Hark!" said Mrs. Grahame, raising her hand. "What is that?"
Hildegarde, in full tide of excitement, checked herself, and listened. Under the window some unseen hand swept the strings of a guitar, lightly, yet firmly; and next moment a voice broke out, singing the old air of "Gentle Zitella."
"Under thy window,
Maiden, I sing,
Though the night's chilly
For this kind of thing.
Weather is merry,
Hearts too are light;
Speak to thy Jerry,
Hilda the Bright!"
Hildegarde threw up the sash.
"Come in, Gerald!" she cried. "Oh, you dear boy, I am so glad to see you – hear you, rather! come in, quick!"
She shut the window hastily.
"Did you feel the air, Mamma? I thought if I opened it just for a second, – the room seemed pretty warm. Sure you are not cold, love?"
Mrs. Grahame was quite positive; but Hildegarde must feel her hands to make assurance doubly sure; must tuck a shawl round her mother's shoulders, and throw an encouraging glance towards the fire, before she turned to the door, which now opened to admit Mr. Gerald Merryweather.
"You dear boy!" she repeated, going to meet him with outstretched hand. "To think that you have been here two days without my seeing you. Gerald, how you have grown!"
"'Great weeds do grow apace,'" said the tall lad, looking down on her. "I forestall the remark, you observe. It is the one with which I am commonly greeted by my affectionate family. But it's awfully good to see you, Hilda. I say, how well you're looking!"
"You, too," said Hilda. "And they are all well? and all here, or coming? Oh, sit down and tell me all about everything, do!"
"I have already told her, Gerald," said Mrs. Grahame; "but I don't think she paid much attention; you may as well tell her over again."
"Well, I was so excited, you see!" cried the girl. "I have been having the most wonderful time in town; and then to come out here and find you, – my cup is rather brimming over, that's all. Now tell, Jerry."
"We came," said Gerald, curling up his long legs on the hearth-rug; "we have seen – several things; we expect to conquer – shortly – the dust, and to get the house to rights. Our holidays – Ferguson's and mine – began on Saturday, so the Mater thought we'd better come right down and get things ready for the others. Then she reflected that she could not trust us; so she decided to come herself; then she further reflected that she could not possibly leave the kids alone with the Pater, so she brought them along. Behold us! Bell and Toots arrive next week, and the Codger at some time known to himself. He is in Arizona, or somewhere this side of it, – sent for to inspect a mine, and see whether it is a good place for planting cabbages."
"Gerald!" said Hildegarde.
"Honoured miss!" replied the boy. "I may not be quite accurate in the details, but there is a mine, I do assure you."
"And what kind of winter have you all had? You have been in Boston all the time, – that is, your mother and father?"
"In Boston, yes. The winter has been such as might have been expected, far from the sun which etcetera. Barring the fact that we have all existed in a state of acute anguish at being separated from you, we have all been exceedingly well, thank you."
"And how do you and Phil like college? Is it as much fun as you thought it would be? Do you like your rooms? Are you doing all right in your Greek?"
"Hilda," put in Mrs. Grahame, "do let the boy draw breath, and allow yourself to do so. Two such panting young creatures I have seldom seen. And Gerald is not going away on the night train."
"I suppose not!" said Hildegarde. "But, oh, it does seem so long since I have heard anything about him and Phil. Bell, you see, writes the most enchanting letters, but they are mostly about college and music, – her college, I mean; and she tucks in a little postscript to say that all are well at home, and that is all the news I get."
"Which accounts for your pallid and emaciated appearance!" said Gerald.
"'Thy cheek, my love, of late a living rose,
Which could the bulbul cheat with its rich hue,
Looks pale – '
"I don't remember any more. I learned that in the Finden book, when I was six years old."
"Why, Gerald, did you have the Finden books, too? How delightful! Dear, ridiculous books! We have them now. I still think the 'Diamond' lady the most beautiful creature that ever lived, – and simpered. But you are not telling me a word about college!"
"I have had so much opportunity, you observe!" said Gerald, appealing to Mrs. Grahame. "My natural diffidence has been allowed such free play by the silent and unconversational attitude of your daughter – "
Mrs. Grahame shook her head, and declared that there was a pair of them, and she would have nothing to say on either side.
Finally, however, boy and girl settled down into an amicable and more or less coherent exchange of information. It appeared that the boys were doing well in college, enjoying the new life to the full, and keeping well in their classes.
"Of course we started in with about three times as much sail as we could carry. I had five courses, and Ferguson seven. But some of them were half ones, and after the first term we began to see where we were a bit, – and to perceive that Roger and Pater were right. We couldn't see it at first, of course, being such as we are."
"And such as boys have been since the beginning of colleges!" said Mrs. Grahame.
"Dear madam, how well you know! Well, Greek has been pretty stiff, but still we peg away, and like it no end. Then we both have Chem. 2, – that's great sport! I blew myself up – "
"Gerald!"
"Fact, I assure you! Pounding something in a mortar – nice little glass mortar, you know, – pounding away, having fine sport; suddenly I pounded a little too hard, – old Comprehensive told us we must not pound hard, – and away went the mortar, and away went I. My eyebrows are only just growing out; and you never noticed!" And the boy looked deeply injured.
"My dear boy! What a narrow escape! Oh, your mother must have had a fright!"
"Rather!" said Gerald. "Roger, you know, had that bad time ten years ago, and she thought I had done something of that sort, and would have to live on dark room and excruciating tortures for months. But I got my eyes shut all right, you see; so it only burned my hyacinthine locks a bit, and took off my eyebrows, and spoiled a good suit of clothes. But I learned something, and now I pound the way old Comp tells me to."
"What is the professor's name?" inquired Hildegarde.
"Comprehensive? Oh, well, his real name is Worcester, you know. Of course no one could stand that, and he is so short that it would never do to call him 'Unabridged,' so I suggested 'Comprehensive,' which is the size you have in school, you know; and the fellows took to it, and now he is called that altogether, or 'Comp' for short."
"I see! By the way, what are you and Phil called? Anything except your own names, I suppose!"
"Pretty much!" Gerald admitted. "Phil is called the 'Holy Poker' – don't know why, I'm sure! – and 'Thumbling,' – he has grown about nine feet, Phil has; really, he is a whole head taller than I am!"
"Dear me!" said Hildegarde, innocently. "I had no idea your head was so big as that, Gerald! of course I knew it was rather– "
"Mrs. Grahame!" cried Gerald, in a tone of anguish. "Will you speak to her, please? She is trampling all over my delicate sensibilities, and talking slang besides!"
"Hildegarde," said Mrs. Grahame, "I am surprised at you!"
"Yes, dear madam!" said Hildegarde, meekly. "You didn't hear the things he said. Go on with the names, Gerald!"
"They call him 'Bottle-washer,' too, and 'Cappadocia.' I think that is rather the favourite name for Ferguson."
"Why 'Cappadocia?'" asked Hildegarde.
"Oh, well, there isn't really much reason, – but then, it doesn't take much. They call me 'Capsicum,' you see, and we are twins, and 'Cappadocia' begins, – surely I need explain no further even to a person of limited intelligence?"
"Go on, Master Impudence! Do they call you 'Cayenne,' too?"
"Yes, indeed! And 'Bricks,' and 'Mortar,' and 'Flag,' – short for 'Conflagration,' – and everything of that sort. I don't care; I don't mind any of these; but when they call me 'Hamlet,' I knock them down."
"Dear Jerry! Why do they call you 'Hamlet?'"
"Oh! just some idiot started it, – you can't tell how these things start. One comfort is, – I called him the 'Grave-digger,' and it will stick to him through college, for he looks it to the life. And the joke of it, – I don't know whether it's safe to tell you the joke of it, Hilda."
"Try and see!"
"Well, the real joke of it is that his father is an undertaker, and I never knew it.
"But I haven't finished about the courses!" he added, hastily, seeing Hilda look serious. "I am taking French, and Ferguson German. We have delightful conversations every evening, I speaking my language, and he his. You shall have a specimen when you see us togeth – Hullo! What's that?"
Mrs. Grahame uttered a slight cry, and rose hastily to her feet.
"I – I don't know," she said. "I thought – I surely did see a face looking in at the window. Hark!"
They listened, and heard a rustling in the great linden-tree outside. Then something gleamed white at the window, – a face, beyond all doubt.
"Ferguson!" said Gerald. "If I don't give it to him for startling you, Mrs. Grahame; he shall be flayed, I assure you! Set your mind at rest on that point! Flayed an inch at a time!"
"May I come in?" asked Phil's voice, as he swayed back and forth on the linden branch.
"'Begging for a dole of crumbs,
Little Robin Redbreast comes!'"
"Quick!" said Hildegarde, as she threw up the window once more. "When will you boys learn to move and act like reasonable mortals? How are you, Phil? I am delighted to see you!"
Phil wriggled his length swiftly into the room, and closed the sash with a single quick movement. Then, after shaking hands warmly with his two friends, he fixed a withering glance on his brother.
"How about that box?" he asked.
"Now may Julius Cæsar promote you to a captaincy in the Skidmore Guards!" replied Gerald, with great sweetness. "I clean forgot the box, sweet chuck! And I just threatening to flay you! Didst open it with thine own fairy paws, beloved?"
"I didst, beloved! And I intend to do the same by thy head, at a convenient season. He promised to be back in ten minutes," Phil added, turning to Mrs. Grahame, "to open a box for the Mater. I was putting up bookcases the while. It's frightful, the way books multiply in our family. I've put them up all along all the up-stairs passages now, and it gives us a little breathing-space, but not enough."
"That is a good idea!" said Mrs. Grahame. "We must remember that, Hilda; though, indeed, there is still plenty of space in these rooms."
"I wish there were in ours," said Phil. "The disadvantage of the passage bookcase is, that the whole family stops and reads as it goes along, and we seldom get anywhere. Which reminds me! I'm afraid I must go back, Mrs. Grahame, and take this wretched object with me. It is nearly ten o'clock, and my Obadiah should have been tucked up in his little nest some time ago."
"Your Obadiah will inquire into the condition of your little nest before he sleeps!" said Gerald, threateningly.
"But remember that the Mater said the next time we scrapped a bedstead to pieces, we must sleep in the pieces. Come along, Child of Doom!"
And with many hearty greetings, and promises to meet the next day, the friends separated, the boys saying good-night, and clattering off down the stairs like a regiment of horse.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHRISTMASING
The next day seemed to be largely spent in running to and fro between the two houses. Kitty and Willy were at Braeside before breakfast, eager to embrace their dear Mrs. Grahame and Hilda, and full of wonderful tales of school and play. Then, as soon as Hildegarde had finished breakfast, she must go back with them to greet Mrs. Merryweather, and tell her how delighted she was at their coming, and hear a more detailed account of the girls' movements. Mrs. Merryweather was sitting at her desk, with a pile of papers before her, and books heaped as high as her head on every side.
"My dear," she said, after greeting Hildegarde most affectionately, "I am just looking for the girls' letter. It came this morning, and I put it somewhere, – in quite a safe place, as I knew the boys would want to see it, and then I meant to send it on to your father, – I mean to their father, of course. Here it – oh, no! that is an old one! Now, this is really unfortunate, for I was to send something to Gertrude, and I cannot remember what it was. Dear me! I am really too – would you mind saying over a few things, Hildegarde, that she would be likely to want? Perhaps it will come back to me; and I can keep on looking all the while, not to lose time."
Much amused, Hildegarde began to suggest, – "Boots, hat, muff, handkerchiefs, gloves," – but at each article named Mrs. Merryweather shook her head, and sighed as she sorted papers.
"No, dear, no! Thank you just as much; but it was none of those. This only shows, dear Hildegarde, the dreadful misfortune of being unmethodical. I have no manner of doubt that I have wasted at least ten good years of life in looking for things. My sister-in-law, now, could find a needle in a top bureau drawer at midnight, without a moment's hesitation. It is a gift! I trust you cultivate – now, you see, I may spend half the morning hunting for this letter, when I might – what amuses you, my dear?"
For Hildegarde's eyes were dancing, and her whole face eloquent of fun.
"Dear Mrs. Merryweather, – I know you will excuse me, – but is not that the letter, pinned to your dress? It looks like Gertrude's handwriting."
Mrs. Merryweather looked down, and gave a sigh of relief.
"My child, your coming in was providential, nothing less. Of course, I remember now, I pinned it there for fear I should do – what I thought I had done. Well, well! and it is a Roman sash that the child wants, – I am sure I should never have thought of that. Ah, dear! I do miss my girls, Hildegarde. You see, they inherit from their father a sense of order, – in a measure, – and they help me a great deal. Are my glasses on my forehead, dear? Whereas Gerald and Phil are rather like me, I am afraid. I wonder if Gerald has found his waistcoat yet? He is wearing – ah, there he is now! Gerald, you are really an object for a circus, my son."
Gerald looked down thoughtfully at himself. He was attired in white corduroy knickerbockers, an ancient swallow-tail coat so large that it hung in folds upon him, and a red velvet waistcoat reaching to his knee.
"I hesitated about coming in," he said. "Hildegarde is so susceptible, I fear the impression I shall make upon her tender heart. The lily is painted, the fine gold is gilded. Hilda, confess that I am the dream of your existence."
"What does it mean?" asked Hildegarde, laughing.
"Trunks not come yet; not mine, at least. Upset a bath-tub over my only suit this morning, – lo, the result! Wouldst not that I were ever habited thus, mirific Mammy? Consider the beauty of your offspring."
He seated himself on his mother's desk, drawing the folds of the dress-coat about him, and beamed upon her.
"If you would send him away, dear Mrs. Merryweather," said Hildegarde, "I should be so glad to help you a little with the papers and books. I have a whole hour to spare, – do let me help!"
"My dear, I should be only too thankful," said Mrs. Merryweather. "Jerry, go away, and find something to do! You might unpack the blankets, like a dear."
But Gerald declared that a wet blanket was the only one with which he had any concern after this cruel treatment, and retired weeping bitterly, wiping his eyes with a long coat-tail.
Hildegarde devoted the morning to helping her friends, and when she went home at noon the rooms wore a very different aspect. The books were all off the chairs and on the tables, or in the bookcases.
"Not that it makes any permanent difference," said Mrs. Merryweather, plaintively. "They will put books on the chairs, Hildegarde. It is against the rules, – but it is their nature. I made a rhyme about it once:
"'The book is on the chair,
And the hat is on the stair,
And the boots are anywhere,
Children mine!'"
Hildegarde especially enjoyed helping to arrange the girls' room, tacking up the curtains, and putting fresh flowers (from the Roseholme greenhouse) in the vases. To-morrow she would see those dear girls, and then who so happy as she!
And to-morrow came, and with it Bell and Gertrude, escorted by their father. All the Merryweathers were now here, except Roger. The question was on Hildegarde's lips several times, "When will he come?" but somehow she waited a little each time, and the moment passed, till she heard Mr. Merryweather say:
"A letter from Roger, Miranda! He will be here next week, – day uncertain, but surely in time for Christmas."
A chorus of joy arose, in which Hildegarde joined heartily.
"Think!" said Bell. "We have not seen Roger since the summer; hardly since we have seen you, Hildegarde. Oh, my dear, how long it seems since camp! and yet when you look at it the other way, it might be yesterday. Heigh, ho! whose turn is it to get supper to-night? and who is going to get the fish for the chowder?"
"Dear, happy days!" said Hildegarde. "I have not lost a minute of one of them, Bell. If I should wake up to-morrow morning and find myself at camp, I should not be in the least surprised, but should just 'put the kettle on and stand by to go about.'"
"Dear old camp motto!" said Bell. "It makes a pretty good one anywhere, Hilda, do you know? If they give me the class oration, – the girls are talking about it, – I might take that for my text."
"Are you talking camp and graduation," put in Gertrude, who came into the room at this moment, "when Christmas is almost here? Oh, think of it, and we have not planned what we are going to do, or – or anything!"
"Speak for yourself, Gertrude," laughed Hildegarde. "I have three bureau drawers full of things ready, and I ought to be tying up a box this minute, to go out West."
"Missionary box?" asked Bell.
"No, – at least, not in the regular way. But there are some distant cousins out in Colorado, – they have a hard time to get along, and there are a great many of them, – and Mamma and I always send them a box at Christmas. A kind of grab-bag box, with clothes and whatever we can think of."
"My dear," cried Bell, sitting up with shining eyes, "don't you want some contributions? Let me tell you, – this is the position! We also have such cousins, – fourteen in number, – in Minnesota. And there was an auction at school, and I got all kinds of odd picknickles and bucknickles, thinking they would do for the box, – and I returned to find that Mother had sent it off three days ago, filled to overflowing. You see, the boys are just behind ours in age and size, so there are always lots of jackets (never any trousers, of course), and she thought they would be needed for the cold weather, – and I forgot to tell her about my purchases. What do you say, Hilda? Oh, come up into my room, and see some of the things! They are rather nice, some of them, and others just funny. Come on!"
Away went the three girls, up to Bell's sunny room, where the trunks stood open, with trays of hats on the bed, and a general effect of "just-arrived-and-haven't-had-time-to-get-settled" pervading all. Bell cleared a chair for Hildegarde, and bidding Gertrude "perch where she could," began to pull things out of the big, brown trunk, talking as she went.
"You see, girls, the way of it was this. There is always an auction at the end of the year, and generally things stay over for that; but this time there had been a fire in the town, and a good many poor families were left destitute. Mrs. Tower suggested that, perhaps, we might make up a little purse, or take charge of one family for the winter. We agreed to do the latter, and made up a committee to order coal and wood, and another to make clothes for the children, – seven children, poor little things! and the father so badly hurt in saving the youngest baby that he will not be able to work for several weeks. Well, I was on the committee to order the things; but when I came to collect the money, some of the girls, who wanted most to help, were very hard up, myself included. So near the end of the term, you see, and we had been buying Christmas things and all. So I said, 'Suppose we have an auction!' for there were some girls – not many, but I suppose there are a few everywhere – who didn't care a bit about the poor family, and yet we knew they had money, and we were bound to get some of it. I had the sale in my room. It was great fun. I hung out a red flag, and posted flaming notices in all the halls and corridors; and we had a great crowd. Me! oh, no, I was not auctioneer! I could not possibly talk fast enough. Caroline Hazen did it splendidly. Her mother was Irish, and she can drop into the most delicious brogue you ever heard, and she was so funny, we were in fits of laughter all the time. We made twenty dollars, – think of it! – all in a little over an hour. And some of these things I bought with what little money I had, and the rest were just left over, and as the girls would not take them back, I brought them along for the box. See! here is a pair of knitted shoes, – really perfectly new. Anna Waring said that she had a dear aunt who sent her a pair every Christmas and every birthday, and she has ten pair now, and never hopes to catch up. Three pair were sold beside these; got them for ten cents, and see how pretty they are!"
"Why, charming!" cried Hildegarde. "Bell, why don't you wear these yourself?"
"I! Perish the thought! I never wear any shoes in my room, Hilda; bare feet are part of my creed."
"But – but you have no carpet here, dear," said Hildegarde, with a little shiver. "And it must be very cold – "
"Delightfully cold!" cried Bell. "I know few things pleasanter than the touch of a good cold floor to the bare feet on a winter morning."
"She is volcanic, Hilda!" put in Gertrude. "She sleeps under a sheet all winter, and never looks at a blanket; it is true!"
Bell nodded gaily in answer to Hildegarde's horrified look. "No use, dear! I am hardened in mind as well as in body, and cannot change my ways. Look here! Perhaps one of the boys might like this?"
She held up a string of chenille monkeys, and danced them up and down.
"Of course he would," said Hildegarde. "And what – what is that, Bell Merryweather?"
Bell looked rather ruefully at the object she now drew from the trunk.
"Nobody else would buy it," she said. "The girl who brought it down is new and shy, and – well, somehow, you felt that she wanted to help, and had nothing else to bring. I was so sorry for her, – I gave my last quarter for it."
It was a long strip of coarse twine lace, with a yellow ribbon quilted in and out its entire length. One of those objects that sometimes appear at fancy fairs, for which no possible use can be imagined.
"It is queer," said Bell. "I suppose it must have been meant for something; I didn't like to ask her what."
"Oh, but, my dear, it is a lovely ribbon!" said Hildegarde. "Why not take the ribbon out, and make bows and things? I am sure you must want ribbon for some of your Christmasings."