Chapter 3

"Oh, yes, I will, too," declared Clem cheerfully; "I'll give something ten times better than that old dog sitting up on a cushion. And nobody would have bought it when it was done, except my mother--I'd made her--so what's the use of finishing it? Anyway, I've given it to Bridget; and now I'm going to make the most elegant thing--you can't guess, Polly Pepper."

"What is it?" cried Polly, with sparkling eyes.

"Oh, that's telling," said Clem, in a tantalizing way. "You must guess."

"Polly," said Phronsie, with a gentle little twitch on her arm, "can you find any pink ribbon?"

"Yes, yes; I mean no, not yet," said Polly, in a preoccupied way, her eyes on Clem's face. "Oh, I can't guess; it might be anything, you know, Clem."

"But it isn't; I mean it's something," declared Clem, in great triumph. "Oh, do hurry, you're so slow, Polly; it's too elegant for anything!"

Polly leaned her face in her hands, and her elbows on her knees. "Mm, mm--oh, I know!" She brought up suddenly, nearly overthrowing Phronsie, who had bent anxiously over her. "Take care, Pet, I came near bumping your nose. It's a workbag."

"A workbag!" exclaimed Clem, in great scorn. "Well, I guess not, Polly Pepper. What I'm going to make is ever so much better than an old workbag. Guess again."

At the mention of the workbag, Phronsie had gently pulled Polly's arm. But Polly was too deep in thought to notice, and she wrinkled her brows, and bent her head again in her hands. What could it possibly be that Clem was to make?

"Well, I think it is a sachet bag, then," she said at last.

"An old sachet bag, when all the girls are making oceans of 'em! I should think you'd be perfectly ashamed, Polly Pepper, to sit there and guess such things. I'm going to make a most beautiful, embroidered handkerchief case, with little violets all----"

"Why, you can't, Clem Forsythe!" Polly flew to her feet, sending the ribbon box flying, and nearly oversetting Phronsie. "You ought not to do any such thing," she ran on passionately, a little red spot coming on either cheek, "when you know it'll be just like mine. It would be too mean for anything."

"It won't be just like it," said Clem, twisting uncomfortably, and not looking up into Polly's face, "for mine is to be a wreath, and yours is a bunch."

"But it'll be the same thing," cried Polly, too angry to think what she was saying, "and you're perfectly mean and hateful to copy mine."

"Polly," cried Phronsie, in a distressed little voice. She had gotten up to her feet, and now hurried over to hold Polly's gown. "Oh, don't, Polly, don't!"

"Go away," commanded Polly, angrily twitching her gown free; "you don't know what you are doing, Phronsie, to stop me. She's gone and chosen the very thing I thought of all by myself."

"I guess there are other violet handkerchief cases in the shops," said Clem coldly. She was getting over her uncomfortable fit, and now she sprang to her feet. "And I think you are mean and stingy, too, Polly Pepper"--she tossed her head high in the air--"to expect to keep all the best things to yourself, and we're all working ourselves most to death over this old fair. And I did come to ask you to go down-town with me to buy my materials. Mother's given me five dollars to spend just as I like--but I shan't ask you now, so there!" She gave her head another toss, and walked off toward the door.

Phronsie deserted Polly and ran on unsteady little feet after her.

"Polly isn't mean and stingy," she quavered; "she couldn't be."

Clem looked down at her, and little uncomfortable thrills ran all over her.

"Well, anyway, she's mad at me," she said, with great decision.

"Oh, no, Polly isn't mad," declared Phronsie. She clasped her hands, and swallowed very hard to keep the tears back, but two big drops escaped and rolled down her cheeks. When Clem saw those, she turned away.

"Well, anyway, I'm going down-street by myself," she said, without a backward glance at Polly, and off she went.

"And if she thinks I'm going with her, or care what she does, after this," cried Polly, magnificently, with her head in the air, "she'll make a mistake."

"Polly, Polly!" The tears were rolling fast now, and Phronsie could scarcely see to stumble back across the room to her side.

"And you don't know anything about it, child. To think of making a violet handkerchief case, and mine is almost done, and none of the girls would copy mine! And Jasper drew the flowers on purpose." She was going on so fast now that she couldn't stop herself.

"Mamsie wouldn't like it," wailed Phronsie, clear gone in distress now, and hiding her face in Polly's gown.

"Mamsie would say--" began Polly decidedly. Then she stopped suddenly. "Oh, what have I said!" she cried. "Oh, what can I do!" She clasped her hands tightly together. She was now in as much distress as Phronsie, and, seeing this, Phronsie came out of her tears at once.

"You might run after her," she said. "Oh, Polly, do."

"She won't speak to me," said Polly, with a little shiver, and covering her eyes. "Oh, dear, dear, how could I!"

"Yes, she will, I do believe," said Phronsie, putting down a terrible feeling at her throat. Not speak to Polly?--such a thing could never be! "Do run after her, Polly," she begged.

Polly took down her hands and went off with wavering steps to the door.

"I'll get your hat," cried Phronsie, running to the closet.

But Polly, once having decided to make the attempt at a reconciliation, was off, her brown braids flying back of her in the wind.

IV

MISS TAYLOR'S WORKING BEE

Looking both sides of the road, not daring to think what she would say if she really did see Clem, Polly sped on. But not a glimpse of the tall girl's figure met her eyes, and at last she turned in at a gateway and ran up the little path to the door. Mrs. Forsythe saw her through the window that opened on the piazza.

"Why, Polly Pepper," she cried, "what a pity that Clem didn't find you! She went over to your house."

"Oh, I know, I know," panted Polly, with scarlet cheeks.

"Don't try to talk," said Mrs. Forsythe, "you are all out of breath. Come in, Polly."

"Oh, I can't. I mean I would like to see Clem," mumbled Polly, with an awful dread, now that she was on the point of finding her, of what she should say. It was all she could do to keep from running down the piazza steps and fleeing home as fast as she had come.

"Why, Clem isn't at home," said Mrs. Forsythe, in a puzzled way; "you know I told you she had gone over to your house. She wanted you to go down-town with her, to buy some materials to take over to Miss Mary's this afternoon and begin something new for the fair."

"Oh!" said Polly, in a faint voice, and hanging to the piazza railing.

"You see, she was all tired out over that sofa-pillow. I told her it was quite too ambitious a piece to do, and she was so discouraged I gave her some more money, and advised her to get something fresh. She had almost made up her mind to give up working for the fair altogether."

"Oh, dear me!" gasped Polly, quite overcome.

"Yes." Mrs. Forsythe leaned comfortably against the door-casing. It was such a comfort to tell her worries to Polly Pepper. "Clem said all the other girls were making such pretty things, and it was no use for her to try. She can't get up new ideas quickly, you know, and she was ashamed not to take in something nice, and so she said she didn't mean to do anything. I couldn't bear to have her give it up, for she ought to keep with you girls." Mrs. Forsythe's face fell into anxious lines. "She gets unhappy by herself, with no young people in the house and only my mother and me to brighten her up. So I talked with her a long while this morning, and at last got her to be willing to try again. Well, it's all right now, for she's started to find you, and go down-town to buy the things," and Mrs Forsythe smiled happily.

Polly sank to the piazza steps and buried her face in her hands.

"Why, my dear, are you ill?" Clem's mother deserted the door-casing and came quickly out. "Let me get you something."

"Oh, no, no!" Polly sprang to her feet and hurried down the steps. "I must go home," she said hoarsely; and not pausing to think, only to get to Mamsie, she sped away on the wings of the wind, not stopping until she had turned in at the little green wicket-gate where she wouldn't be likely to meet any one.

"Oh, dear, dear!"--and she hurried across the grass--"supposing Mamsie isn't at home! She was going out for Auntie. What _shall_ I do?"

In her despair she raced over the greensward and plunged into the Wistaria arbor--to stand face to face with Clem!

Polly was too far gone in distress to say anything. Clem jerked up her head from the table, and raised a defiant pair of cheeks, wet and miserable. "Oh, dear, dear!" was all Polly could get out. But she stumbled in and put her arms around her neck, and down went the two heads together.

"I'm awfully sorry," blubbered Clem. "Oh, dear! I forgot my handkerchief."

"Take mine." Polly put a wet little wad into her hand. "Oh, Clem, if you don't let me go down-town with you and buy that handkerchief case!"

"Let you!" cried Clem. "You won't want to go with me, Polly. But I'm not going to work a handkerchief case."

"Oh, yes, you are," declared Polly positively. "If you don't, Clem Forsythe!"

"It was mean in me to choose it," said Clem, beginning to sniffle again, now that she had a handkerchief.

"Oh, no, no!" said Polly in alarm. "Now I know you won't forgive me when you say such things. For it was all my fault; I was stingy mean to want to keep it to myself."

"You aren't ever mean, Polly Pepper!" Clem hugged her so tightly by the neck that the neat little ruffle Mamsie sewed in that very morning was quite crushed. When she saw that, Clem was in worse distress than ever.

"See here! Why, Clem Forsythe!" Polly Pepper flew up to her feet so suddenly, that Clem started in amazement, and stared at her as well as she could with her eyes full of tears.

"Why, can't you see? Haven't we been two goosies--geese, I mean--not to think of it before!"

"What?" asked Clem helplessly.

"Why, you might make a violet _glove_ case," said Polly, in a burst. Then she began to dance around the arbor. "Oh, Clem, how perfectly lovely!"

"I don't see," began Clem dismally, "and I don't know how to make a glove case."

"Why, make it just like my handkerchief case, only long," flung Polly over her shoulder, as she danced away.

"But I don't want to copy yours," protested Clem, "for it really would be mean."

"But this would make a set, yours and mine," said Polly breathlessly, and coming up to shake the downcast shoulders, "don't you see? Oh, you goosie! and I've been another, not to think of it before. And oh, such a set! Why, it would sell for a lot of money. And I'll ask Jasper to draw you the same kind of bunch of violets on your glove case, and we'll go right down-town, now. I can make Phronsie's bag when I get home. Come on!"

When Clem once had the idea in her mind, she got off from the bench, and Phronsie, watching anxiously from Polly's window for her return, saw the two girls hurrying across the lawn, their arms around each other and talking busily. And it wasn't but a moment or two, and she was flying over the grass to meet them. Polly had explained that the little ribbon bag was to be made just as soon as the materials for the new glove case were bought. Polly had run up for her hat, and to get her little purse, for she just remembered that her green silk for the violet stems was nearly out, and Phronsie had said good-bye and gone back to the house on happy feet, to tell Clorinda and watch at the window till Polly should come again.

And just after luncheon, for they must start early in order to have a good long afternoon at Miss Mary's, Polly and Phronsie set forth, the new little bag hanging from Phronsie's arm. Jasper went with them as far as the corner, where he turned off to go to Jack Rutherford's, for the boys were to meet there to write letters for the post office. They had promised to be there bright and early.

"Oh, Jasper, it was so good of you to draw that dear bunch of violets for Clem," said Polly for about the fiftieth time; "it was too sweet for anything."

"Too sweet for anything," hummed Phronsie, all her eyes on her bag, dangling as she walked.

"Take care, you came near falling on your nose, Phronsie." Jasper put out a warning hand.

"I think it's so nice there's a pink stripe in it, Polly," said Phronsie, patting her bag affectionately.

"Yes, isn't it, Pet!" cried Polly, glad she hadn't snipped up that very ribbon for little sachet bags. "And the green stripe, too, is pretty, Phronsie."

"It's pretty," cooed Phronsie, "and my cushion-pin is inside, Japser," she announced.

"Is it really?" said Jasper.

"Yes, it is really and truly, Japser, and I'm going to work on it," she added, with a very important air.

"You don't say so, Pet!" he cried. "Why, you are going to a working bee just the same as the big girls, aren't you?"

"I'm very big," said Phronsie, stepping so high she nearly fell into a mud-puddle. Whereat Jasper picked her up, bag and all, and marched off, laughing, not to set her down till they reached the corner.

"Well, good-bye. Take care now, Phronsie," and he gave her a kiss. "Good-bye, Polly, and good luck to your bee."

"And I do hope you'll have splendid success with the letters, Jasper," Polly craned her neck around the corner to say, the last thing. Then she took Phronsie's hand and hurried along to meet a throng of girls, all bound for Miss Mary's.

There on the big stone steps was Mr. Hamilton Dyce.

"I heard there was to be a bee here this afternoon," he said, looking down at them all with a smile, "so I thought I'd come."

"I'm coming," announced Phronsie, breaking away from Polly and holding up her bag; and she began to mount the steps.

"So I perceive," said Mr. Dyce, running down to meet her. "Well, Phronsie, I must tell you I came partly to see you."

"And I've got a cushion-pin inside," said Phronsie confidingly, as she toiled up.

"Have you, though?" cried Mr. Dyce. "Take care, don't go so fast. Let some of these girls race ahead of us; we'll take our time. How d'ye, Polly, and Alexia, and all the rest of you?"

"But I must hurry," said Phronsie, with a very pink face, as the bevy rushed by, "for I'm going to work on my cushion-pin."

"So you must. Well, then, here goes!" Mr. Dyce swung her up to his shoulder and went, two steps at a time, in through the crowd of girls, so that he arrived there first when the door was opened. There in the hall stood Miss Mary Taylor, as pretty as a pink.

"I heard there was to be a bee here this afternoon, and I've brought Phronsie; that's my welcome," he announced.

"See, I've got a bag," announced Phronsie from her perch, and holding it forth.

So the bag was admired, and the girls trooped in, going up into Miss Mary's pretty room to take off their things. And presently the big library, with the music-room adjoining, was filled with the gay young people, and the bustle and chatter began at once.

"I should think you'd be driven wild by them all wanting you at the same minute." Mr. Dyce, having that desire at this identical time, naturally felt a bit impatient, as Miss Mary went about inspecting the work, helping to pick out a stitch here and to set a new one there, admiring everyone's special bit of prettiness, and tossing a smile and a gay word in every chance moment between.

"Oh, no," said Miss Mary, with a little laugh, "they're most of them my Sunday-school scholars, you know."

"That's all the more reason that you ought not to be bothered with them week days," observed Mr. Dyce. "Now why can't you sit down here and amuse me?" He pushed up an easy-chair into a cosy-corner, then drew up an ottoman, on which he sat down.

"Oh, look at that Mr. Dyce," said Clem, quite in a flow of spirits, as she threaded her needle with a strand of violet silk; "he's going to keep Miss Mary off there all to himself. What did make him come this afternoon?"

"Well, he isn't going to have Miss Mary!" cried Alexia Rhys, twitching her pink worsted with an impatient hand. "Horrors! Now I've gone and gotten that into a precious snarl. The very idea! She's our Sunday-school teacher. Oh, Miss Mary!" she called suddenly.

Miss Taylor, just sitting down in the easy-chair, turned. "What is it, Alexia?"--while Mr. Dyce frowned. At which Alexia laughed over at him.

"Please show me about my work," she begged.

"You little tyrant!" called Mr. Dyce, as Miss Mary went over.

"Do I slip one stitch and then knit two?" asked Alexia innocently. Polly, next to her on a cricket, opened wide eyes.

"Yes," said Miss Mary, "just the same as you have been knitting all along, Alexia."

"Well, I couldn't think of anything else to ask," said Alexia coolly. Then she laid hold of Miss Mary's pretty, gray gown.

"Oh, don't go back to him," she implored. "Do stay with us girls, we're all your Sunday-school class--that is, most of us. _Please_ stay with us, Miss Mary."

Miss Mary cast an imploring glance over at the gentleman, which he seemed to see, although apparently he wasn't looking.

"Phronsie, you and I will have to move over, I think"; for by this time he had her in his lap; and so he bundled her across the room unceremoniously.

"Oh, I've lost my needle!" cried Phronsie, peering out from his arms in great distress.

"Dear me!" exclaimed Mr. Dyce; so he set her down and dropped to all-fours to peer about for the shining little implement, Phronsie getting down on her knees to assist the search.

Alexia, seeing the trouble, deserted her knitting, and flew out of her chair to help look for it.

"You little tyrant!" exclaimed Mr. Dyce, as she added herself to the group, "to call Miss Mary over there! I should think it was quite bad enough to have you Sundays, Alexia."

"Miss Mary thinks a great deal of me," said Alexia composedly. "Dear me, what a plaguey little thing that needle is! Never mind, Phronsie, don't feel badly. I guess--oh, here it is, and sticking straight up."

"And all this would never have happened but for your calling Miss Mary away," observed Mr. Dyce, getting up straight again. "What a little nuisance you are, Alexia!" All of which she had heard from him so many times before that it failed to disturb her, so she went back to her seat in high spirits, Phronsie hopping over like a small rabbit to a little cricket at Polly's feet. At this there was a bustle among the girls.

"Sit next to me, Miss Mary," begged Silvia Horne, sweeping a chair clear.

"No, no," cried Amy Garrett, "she's coming here!"

"I call that nice," exclaimed Alexia decidedly, "when I asked her to come across the room! I'm going to sit next to her of course."

"You'd much better have stayed with me," laughed Mr. Hamilton Dyce, "since there'll be one long fight over you. Better come back."

But Miss Mary, protesting that the girls needed her, finally settled it by getting her chair into the middle of the group, which she made into a circle.

"There, now, we're all comfy together," she announced. "Now, Mr. Dyce, you must read us something."

"Oh, tell us a story," put in Alexia, who didn't relish listening to reading.

"Oh, yes, a story, a story," they one and all took it up. Even Phronsie laid down her big needle which she was patiently dragging back and forth, with a very long piece of red worsted following its trail across the face of her "cushion-pin" in a way to suit her own design, to beg for the story.

"Oh, Phronsie!" exclaimed Polly, for the first time catching sight of this, "you can't work with such a long thread. Let me cut off some of it, do."

"Oh, no, no," protested Phronsie, edging off in alarm.

"Why, it'll get all knotted up," said Polly, in concern; "you better let me take off a little--just a little, teenty bit, Phronsie."

"No, no," declared Phronsie decidedly, "I must hurry and get my cushion-pin done."

"She thinks she'll get it done faster with a great, long thread," giggled one of the girls over in the corner. Mr. Dyce turning to fix her with a stare, she subsided, ducking behind her neighbor's back.

"Phronsie, I must buy that cushion-pin at the fair," he announced. "I want such an one very much indeed."

Phronsie got off from the little cricket where he had placed her, and went straight over to him, to lay her hand with the "cushion-pin" in it on his knee. "Then I will sell it to you," she said gravely, "and the poor children can go into the country." Then she went back to her seat and took up her work once more.

Some of the girls laughed, but Alexia frowned furiously at them; and Mr. Dyce and Miss Mary apparently seeing no amusement in it, they all began to beg for the story again, till the clamor bade fair to stop the needles from doing their work.

"I guess you'll have to," Miss Mary smiled over at him from the center of the circle, while the color deepened on her cheek.

"I want a story told to me first," he said coolly, leaning back in his chair. "What is all this bee for, and this fair? I know just a hint about that, but let me have the whole story from beginning to end. Now then, some one tell me. I am very anxious to hear."

"You tell, Polly," cried Alexia, and "Let Polly Pepper tell, can't she, Miss Mary?" begged all the girls, every one saying the same thing. So Miss Mary said yes, and Polly laid down her violet handkerchief case in her lap, although she hated to stop working, and began:

"You see, Miss Mary said one day in Sunday-school----"

"Oh, Polly, not that!" said Miss Taylor, in dismay.

"Go on, Polly, and tell every word," said Mr. Hamilton Dyce. "I'm to be told the whole story; from the very beginning, now mind. You said, 'One day in Sunday-school.' Now go on."

"Yes," said Polly, her cheeks like a rose for fear her dear Miss Mary might not like it, "Miss Mary said we ought to be doing things, not always talking about them and learning how to be good; and she said there were so many poor children who were waiting for us to help them. And----"

"Polly, you don't need to tell that. He wants to know about the fair," Miss Taylor broke in suddenly.

"Oh, dear!" said poor Polly, blushing rosier than ever and moving her cricket so that she need not see Miss Mary's face, while Mr. Dyce, protesting that he was not to be cheated out of a single word of the narration, made her go back and tell over the last thing she said. This was so much worse that Miss Mary decided she would let the story go on at all hazards, so she leaned back in her chair resignedly, while Polly went on:

"Well, and so we said, 'Yes, Miss Mary, we'd like to' and what could we do, for we didn't know how to help poor children."

"And I said I didn't want to," broke in Alexia suddenly.

"But you did, Alexia!" cried Polly, whirling around on her cricket to regard her affectionately. "Oh, Mr. Dyce, she did help"--looking over at him anxiously.

"Oh, yes, I see," nodded that gentleman, "and she's working on some fandango for the fair just as hard as you other girls."

"Oh, this horrible old shawl!" said Alexia, regarding the worsted folds dangling from her needle with anything but favor. "Well, I didn't want it, and nobody will buy it, I know, but the other girls were all going to do things, so I had to."

"Well, go on, Polly," said Mr. Dyce, with a laugh. So Polly, quite satisfied that he really understood how Alexia was helping along the work for the poor children the same as the others, hurried on with the story.

"Well, so then Miss Mary proposed that we hold a fair, and Grandpapa said we might have it on his grounds; and Auntie Whitney said why not have a garden party, and sell tickets, for perhaps some people wouldn't care to buy things and----"

"And I'm going to put my cushion-pin on the table," piped Phronsie suddenly, her checks all aglow with excitement, and dropping her needle again.