The girls went into the bedroom. It was a pretty and unusual-looking apartment. The furniture was simple as could be, but bed and toilet and windows were curtained and frilled with white, and the walls were covered thick with pictures, photographs, and pen-and-ink sketches, and water-colour drawings, unframed, most of them, and just pinned up without regularity, so as to give each the best possible light. It was an odd way of arranging pictures; but Katy liked it, and would gladly have lingered to look at each one, only that she feared Mrs Agnew would expect them and would think it strange that they did not come back.
Just as they went out again to the piazza, Louisa came running downstairs with her little sister in her arms.
‘I was curling her hair,’ she explained, ‘and did not hear you come in. Daisy, give Katy a kiss. Now another for Clover. Isn't she a darling?’ embracing the child rapturously herself; ‘now isn't she a little beauty?’
‘Perfectly lovely!’ cried the others, and soon all three were seated on the floor of the piazza, with Daisy in the midst, passing her from hand to hand, as if she had been something good to eat. She was used to it, and submitted with perfect good nature to being kissed, trotted, carried up and down, and generally made love to. Mrs Agnew sat by and laughed at the spectacle. When Baby was taken off for her noonday nap, Louisa took the girls into the parlour, another odd and pretty room, full of prints and sketches, and pictures of all sorts, some with frames, others with a knot of autumn leaves or a twist of ivy around them by way of a finish. There was a bowl of beautiful autumn roses on the table; and, though the price of one of Mrs Page's damask curtains would probably have bought the whole furniture of the room, everything was so bright, and homelike and pleasant-looking, that Katy's heart warmed at the sight. They were examining a portrait of Louisa with Daisy in her lap, painted by her father, when Mr Agnew came in. The girls liked his face at once. It was fine and frank; and nothing could be prettier than to see him pick up his invalid wife as if she had been a child, and carry her into the dining-room to her place at the head of the table.
Katy and Clover agreed afterward that it was the merriest dinner they had had since they left home. Mr Agnew told stories about painters and painting, and was delightful. No less so was the nice gossip upstairs in Louisa's room which followed dinner, or the afternoon frolic with Daisy, or the long evening spent in looking over books and photographs. Altogether the day seemed only too short. As they went out of the gate at ten o'clock, Mr Agnew following, lo! a dark figure emerged from behind a tree and joined Clover. It was Clarence!
‘I thought I'd just walk this way,’ he explained, ‘the house has been dreadfully dull all day without you.’
Clover was immensely flattered, but Mrs Page's astonishment next day knew no bounds.
‘Really,’ she said, ‘I have hopes of Clarence at last. I never knew him volunteer to escort anybody anywhere before in his life.’
‘I say,’ remarked Clarence, the evening before the girls went back to school, ‘I say, suppose you write to a fellow sometimes, Clover?’
‘Do you mean yourself by “a fellow”?’ laughed Clover.
‘You don't suppose I meant George Hickman, or that donkey of an Eels, did you?’ retorted Clarence.
‘No, I didn't. Well, I've no objection to writing to a fellow, if that fellow is you, provided the fellow answers my letters. Will you?’
‘Yes,’ gruffly, ‘but you mustn't show 'em to any girls, or laugh at my writing, or I'll stop. Lilly says my writing is like beetle-tracks. Little she knows about it, though! I don't write to her. Promise, Clover!’
‘Yes, I promise,’ said Clover, pleased at the notion of Clarence's proposing a correspondence of his own accord.
Next morning they all left for Hillsover. Clarence's friendship, and the remembrance of their day with the Agnews, were the pleasantest things that the girls carried away with them from their autumn vacation.
10
A BUDGET OF LETTERS
‘Hillsover, October 21st
‘DEAREST ELSIE, – I didn't write you last Saturday, because that was the day we came back to school, and there hasn't been one minute since when I could. We thought, perhaps, Miss Jane would let us off from the abstracts on Sunday, because it was the first day, and school was hardly begun; and if she had, I was going to write to you instead; but she didn't. She said the only way to keep girls out of mischief was to keep them busy. Rose Red is sure that something has gone wrong with Miss Jane's missionary during the vacation -she's so dreadfully cross. Oh, dear, how I do hate to come back and be scolded by her again!
‘I forget if I told you about the abstracts. They are of the sermons on Sunday, you know; and we have to give the texts, and the heads, and as much as we can remember of the rest. Sometimes Dr Prince begins, “I shall divide my subject into three parts,” and tells what they are going to be. When he does that, most of the girls take out their pencils and put them down, and then they don't listen any more. Katy and I don't, for she says it isn't right to act in that way. Miss Jane pretends that she reads all the abstracts through, but she doesn't; for once, Rose Red, just to try her, wrote in the middle of hers, “I am sitting by my window at this moment, and a red cow is going down the street. I wonder if she is any relation to Mrs Seccomb's cow?” and Miss Jane never noticed it, but marked her “perfect” all the same. Wasn't it funny?
‘But I must tell you about our journey back. Mr Page came all the way with us, and was ever so nice. Clarence rode down in the carriage to the depot. He gave me a real pretty india-rubber and gold pencil for a good-bye present. I think you and Dorry would like Clarence, only just at first you might say he was rather rude and cross. I did; but now I like him ever so much. Cousin Olivia gave Katy a worked collar and sleeves, and me an embroidered pocket-handkerchief with clover leaves in the corner. Wasn't it kind? I'm sorry I said in my last letter that we didn't enjoy our vacation. We didn't much; but it wasn't exactly Cousin Olivia's fault. She meant we should, but she didn't know how. Some people don't, you know. And don't tell any one I said so, will you?
‘Rose Red got into the train before we did. She was so glad when we came that she cried. It was because she was home-sick waiting four hours at the Nunnery without us, she said. Rose is such a darling! She had a splendid vacation, and went to three parties and a picnic. Isn't it queer? – her winter bonnet is black velvet trimmed with pink, and so is mine. I wanted blue at first, but Cousin Olivia said pink was more stylish; and now I am glad, because I like to be like Rose.
‘Katy and I have got No. 2 this term. It's a great deal pleasanter than our old room, and the entry-stove is just outside the door, so we shall keep warm. There is sun, too, only Mrs Nipson has nailed thick cotton over all the window except a little place at the top. Every window in the house is just so. You can't think how mad the girls are about it. The first night we had an indignation meeting, and passed resolutions, and some of the girls said they wouldn't stay – they should write to their fathers to come and take them home. None of them did, though. It's perfectly forlorn, not being able to look out. Oh, dear, how I wish it were spring!
‘We've got a new dining-room. It's a great deal bigger than the old one, so now we all eat together, and don't have any first and second tables. It's ever so much nicer, for I used to get so dreadfully hungry waiting that I didn't know what to do. One thing is horrid, though and that is, that every girl has to make a remark in French every day at dinner. The remarks are about a subject. Mrs Nipson gives out the subjects. Today the subject was “Les oiseaux”, and Rose Red said, “J’aime beaucoup les oiseaux, especialement ceux qui sont rôtis,” which made us all laugh. That ridiculous little Bella Arkwright said, “J'aime beaucoup les oiseaux qui sing.” She thought sing was French! Every girl in the school began, “J‘aime beaucoup les oiseaux”! Tomorrow the subject is “Jules César”. I'm sure I don't know what to say. There isn't a word in Ollendorf about him.
‘There are not so many new scholars this term as there were last. The gi
rls think it is because Mrs Nipson isn't so popular as Mrs Florence used to be. Two or three of the new ones look pleasant, but I don't know them yet. Louisa Agnew is the nicest girl here next to Rose. Lilly Page says she is vulgar, because her father paints portraits, and they don't know the same people that Cousin Olivia knows; but she isn't a bit. We went to spend the day there just before we left Ashburn, and her father and mother are splendid. Their house is just full of all sorts of queer, interesting things, and pictures; and Mr Agnew told us ever so many stories about painters, and what they did. One was about a boy who used to make figures of lions in butter, and afterward he became famous. I forget his name. We had a lovely time. I wish you could see Lou's little sister Daisy. She's only two, and a perfect little beauty. She has got ten teeth, and hardly ever cries.
‘Please ask papa –’
Just as Clover had got to this point, she was interrupted by Katy, who walked in with her hat on, and a whole handful of letters.
‘See here!’ she cried. ‘Isn't this delightful? Miss Marsh took me with her to the post office, and we found these. Three for you, and two for me, and one for Rose. Wait a minute till I give Rose hers, and we'll read them together.’
In another moment the two were cosily seated, with their heads close together, opening their budget. First came one from papa.
‘MY DEAR DAUGHTERS,’
‘It's for you, too, you see,’ said Katy.
‘Last week came your letter of the 31st, and we were glad to hear that you were well, and ready to go back to school. By the time this reaches you, you will be in Hillsover, and your winter term begun. Make the most of it, for we all feel as if we could never let you go from home again. Johnnie says she shall rub Spalding's Prepared Glue all over your dresses when you come back, so that you cannot stir. I am a little of the same way of thinking myself. Cecy has returned from boarding-school, and set up as a young lady. Elsie is much excited over the party dresses which Mrs Hall is having made for her, and goes over every day to see if anything new has come. I am glad, on this account, that you are away just now; for it would not be easy to keep steady heads and continue your studies, with so much going on next door. I have sent Cousin Olivia a cheque to pay for the things she bought for you, and am much obliged to her for seeing that you were properly fitted out. Katy was very right to consider expense, but I wish you to have all things needful. I enclose two ten-dollar bills, one for each of you, for pocket-money; and, with much love from the children, am,
‘Yours affectionately,
‘P. CARR
‘PS – Cousin Helen has had a sharp attack, but is better.’
‘I wish papa would write longer letters,’ said Katy. ‘He always sends us money, but he don't send half enough words with it.’ She folded the letter, and fondled it affectionately.
‘He's always so busy, replied Clover. ‘Don't you remember how he used to sit down at his desk, and scribble off his letters; and how somebody always was sure to ring the bell before he got through? I'm very glad to have some money, for now I can pay the sixty-two cents I owe you. It's my turn to read. This is from Elsie, and a real long one. Put away the bills first, Katy, or they'll be lost. That's right; now we'll begin together.’
‘DEAR CLOVER – You don't know how glad I am when my turn comes to get a letter all to myself. Of course I read papa's, and all the rest you write to the family; but it never seems as if you were talking to me unless you begin, “Dear Elsie”. I wish some time you'd put in a little note marked “private”, just for me, which nobody else need see. It would be such fun! Please do. I should think you would have hated staying at Cousin Olivia's. When I read what she said about your travelling-dresses looking as if they had come out of the ark, I was just as mad as fire. But I shouldn't think you'd want much to go back to school either, though sometimes it must be splendid. John has named her old stockinet doll, which she used to call “Scratch-face”, “Nippy”, after Mrs Nipson; and I made her a muslin cap, and Dorry drew a pair of black spectacles round her eyes. She is a perfect fright, and John plays all the time that dreadful things happen to her. She pricks her with pins, and pretends she has the earache, and lets her tumble down and hurt herself, till sometimes I nearly feel sorry, though it's all make-believe. When you wrote us about only having pudding for dinner, I didn't a bit. John put her into the ragcloset that very day, and has been starving her to death ever since; and Phil says it serves her right. You can't think how awfully lonely I sometimes get without you. If it wasn't for Helen Gibbs, that new girl I told you about, I shouldn't know what to do. She is the prettiest girl in Miss McCrane's school. Her hair curls just like mine, only it is four times as long, and a million times as thick; and her waist is really and truly not much bigger round than a bed-post. We're the greatest friends. She says she loves me just exactly as much as if was her sister, but she never had any real sisters. She was quite mad the other day because I said I couldn't love her quite so well as you and Katy; and all recess-time she wouldn't speak to me, but now we've made up. Dorry is so awfully in love with her, that I never can get him to come into the room when she is here, and he blushes when we tease him about her. But this is a great secret. Dorry and I play chess every evening. He almost always beats, unless papa comes behind and helps me. Phil has learned, too, because he always wants to do everything that we do. Dorry gives him a castle, and a bishop, and a knight, and four pawns, and then beats him in six moves. Phil gets so mad that we can't help laughing. Last night he buttoned his king up inside his jacket, and said, “There! you can't checkmate me now any way!”
‘Cecy has come home. She is a young lady now. She does her hair up quite different, and wears long dresses. This winter she is going to parties, and Mrs Hall is going to have a party for her on Thursday, with real, grown-up young ladies and gentlemen at it. Cecy has got some beautiful new dresses – a white muslin, a blue tarlatan, and a pink silk. The pink silk is the prettiest, I think. Cecy is real kind, and lets me see all her things. She has got a lovely breast-pin, too, and a new fan with ivory sticks, and all sorts of things. I wish I was grown-up. It must be so nice. I want to tell you something, only you mustn't tell anybody except Katy. Don't you remember how Cecy used to say that she never was going out to drive with young gentlemen, but was going to stay at home and read the Bible to poor people? Well, she didn't tell the truth; for she has been out three times already with Sylvester Slack in his buggy. When I told her she ought not to do so, because it was breaking a promise, she only laughed, and said I was a silly girl. Isn't it queer?
‘I want to tell you what an awful thing I did the other night. Maria Avery invited me to tea, and papa said I might go. I didn't want to much, but I didn't know what to tell Maria, so I went. You know how poor they are, and how Aunt Lizzie used to say that they were “touchy”, so I thought I would take great care not to hurry home right after tea, for fear they would think I was not enjoying myself. So I waited, and waited, and waited, and got so sleepy that I had to pinch my fingers to keep awake. At last I was sure that it might be almost nine, so I asked Mr Avery if he'd please take me home; and don't you believe, when we got there, it was a quarter past ten, and papa was just coming for me! Dorry said he guessed I must be enjoying myself to stay so late. I didn't tell anybody about it for three days, because I knew they'd laugh at me, and they did. Wasn't it funny? And old Mrs Avery looked as sleepy as I felt, and kept yawning behind her hand. I told papa if I had a watch of my own I shouldn't make such mistakes, and he laughed and said, “We'll see.” Oh, do you suppose that means that he's going to give me one?
‘We are so proud of Dorry's having taken two prizes at the examination yesterday. He took the second Latin prize, and the first mathematics. Dr Pullman says he thinks Dorry is one of the most thorough boys he ever saw. Isn't that nice? The prizes were books; one was the life of Benjamin Franklin, and the other the life of General Butler. Papa says he doesn't think much of the life of Butler; but Dorry has begun it, and says it is splendid. Phil says when he ta
kes a prize he wants candy and a new knife; but he'll have to wait a good while unless he studies harder than he does now. He has just come in to tease me to go up into the garret and help him to get down his sledge, because he thinks it is going to snow; but there isn't a sign of it, and the weather is quite warm. I asked him what I should say for him to you, and he said, “Oh, tell her to come home, and anything you please!” I said, “Shall I give her your love, and say that you are very well?” and he says, “Oh, yes, Miss Elsie, I guess you'd think yourself mighty well if your head ached as much as mine does every day!” Don't be frightened, however, for he's just as fat and rosy as can be; but almost every day he says he feels sick about school-time. When papa was at Moorfield, Miss Finch believed him, and let him stay at home two mornings. I don't wonder at it, for you can think what a face he makes up; but he got well so fast that she pays no attention to him now. The other day, about eleven o'clock, papa met him coming along the road, shying stones at the birds, and making lots of noise. He told papa he felt so sick that his teacher had let him go home; but papa noticed that his mouth looked sticky, so he opened his dinner-basket, and found that the little scamp had eaten up all his dinner on the road, corned beef, bread and butter, a great piece of mince pie, and six pears. Papa couldn't help laughing, but he made him turn round and go right back to school again.
‘I told you, in my last, about Johnnie's going to school with me now. She is very proud of it, and is always talking about “Elsie's and my school”. She is twice as smart as the other little girls of her age. Miss McCrane has put her into the composition class, where they write compositions on their slates. The first subject was, “A Kitten”; and John's began, “She's a dear, little, soft, scratching thing, only you'd better not pull her by the tail, but she's real cunning.” All the girls laughed, and Johnnie called out, “Well, it's true, anyhow.”
What Katy Did at School Page 12
