CHAPTER VI--The Fire-Maker's Desire

Outside the window of a small florist's shop Betty paused for an instant. Then she stepped in and a little later came out carrying half a dozen red roses and a bunch of holly and fragrant cedar. Curiously enough, her expression in this short time had changed. Perhaps the flowers gave the added color to her face. She was repeating something over to herself and half smiling; but, as there were no people on the street except a few dirty children who were playing cheerfully in the gutter, no one observed her eccentric behavior.

"As fuel is brought to the fire So I purpose to bring My strength, My ambition, My heart's desire, My joy And my sorrow To the fire Of humankind. For I will tend, As my fathers have tended, And my father's fathers, Since time began, The fire that is called The love of man for man, The love of man for God."

Betty's delicate, eyebrows were drawn so close together that they appeared almost heart shaped. "I fear I have only been tending the love of a girl for herself these past few months, so perhaps it is just as well that I should try to reform," she thought half whimsically and yet with reproach. "Anyhow, I shall telephone Meg Everett this very afternoon, though I am glad Esther does not know the reason Meg and I have been seeing so little of each other lately, and that the fault is mine, not hers."

By this time the girl had arrived in front of a large, dull, brown-stone building in the middle of a dingy street, with a subdued hush about it. Above the broad entrance hung a sign, "Home For Crippled Children." Here for a moment Betty Ashton's courage seemed to waver, for she paused irresolutely, but a little later she entered the hall. A week before she had promised an acquaintance at the church where Esther was singing to come to the children's hospital some day and amuse them by telling stories. Since she had not thought seriously of her promise, although intending to fulfill it when she had discovered stories worth the telling. This morning while worrying over her own affair it had occurred to her that the best thing she could do was to do something for some one else. Hence the visit to the hospital.

Yet here at the moment of her arrival Betty had not the faintest idea of what she could do or say to make herself acceptable as a visitor. She had a peculiar antipathy to being regarded as a conventional philanthropist, one of the individuals with the instinct to patronize persons less fortunate.

Long ago when through her wealth and sympathy Betty had been able to do helpful things for her acquaintances, always she had felt the same shrinking sense of embarrassment, disliking to be thanked for kindnesses. Yet actually in his last letter Anthony Graham had dared remind her of their first meeting, an occasion she wished forgotten between them both.

The matron of the children's hospital had been sent for and a little later she was conducting Betty down a broad, bare hall and then ushering her into a big sunlit room, not half so cheerless as its visitor had anticipated.

There were two large French windows on the southern side and a table piled with books and magazines. Near one of these windows two girls were seated in rolling chairs reading. They must have been about fourteen years old and did not look particularly frail. Across from them were four other girls, perhaps a year or so younger, engaged in a game of parchesi. On the floor in the corner a pretty little girl was sewing on her doll clothes and another was hopping merrily about on her crutches, interfering with every one else. Only two of the cot beds in the room were occupied, and to these Betty's eyes turned instinctively. In one she saw a happy little German maiden with yellow hair and pale pink cheeks propped up on pillows, busily assorting half a dozen colors of crochet cotton. In the other a figure was lying flat with the eyes staring at the ceiling. And at the first glance there was merely an effect of some one indescribably thin with a quantity of short, curly dark hair spread out on the white pillow.

The matron introduced Betty, told her errand, and then went swiftly away, leaving her to do the rest for herself, and the rest appeared exceedingly difficult. The older girls who were reading closed their books politely and bowed. Yet it was self-evident that they would have preferred going on with their books to hearing anything their visitor might have to tell. Among the parchesi players there was a hurried consultation and then one of them looked up. "We will be through with our game in a few moments," she explained with a note of interrogation in her voice.

"Oh, please don't stop on my account," the newcomer said hastily.

On the big table Betty put down her roses and evergreens, not liking to present them with any formality under the circumstances. She could see that the little girl who was sewing in the corner was smiling a welcome to her and that the little German Maedchen in bed was pleased with her winter bouquet. For she had whispered, "Schoen, wunderschoen," and stopped assorting her crochet work. Then the child on crutches came across the floor, and picking up one of the roses placed it on the pillow by the dark-eyed girl, who showed not the least sign of having noticed the attention.

"She will look at it in a moment if she thinks we are not watching her," explained Betty's one friendly confidant, motioning to a chair to suggest that their visitor might sit down if she wished.

It was an extremely awkward situation. Betty sat down. She had come to make a call at a place where her society was not desired and though they were only children, and she a grown woman, still she had no right to intrude upon their privacy. She found herself blushing furiously. Besides, what story had she to tell that would be of sufficient interest to hold their attention? Had she not thought of at least a dozen, only to discard them all as unsuitable?

"I believe you were going to entertain us, I suppose with a fairy story," began one of the girls, still keeping her finger between the covers of Little Women. It was hard luck to be torn away from that delightful love scene between Laurie and Jo to hear some silly tale of princes and princesses and probably a golden apple when one was fourteen years old. However, this morning's visitor was so pretty it was a pleasure to look at her. Besides, she had on lovely clothes and was dreadfully embarrassed. Moreover, she was sitting quite still and helpless instead of poking about, asking tiresome questions as most visitors did. One could not avoid feeling a little sorry for her instead of having to receive her pity.

Both wheeled chairs were now rolled over alongside Betty and Little Women was closed and laid on the table. The next instant the parchesi game was finished and the four players glanced with greater interest at their guest. The girl who had been dancing about on her crutches hopped up on the table.

"I am 'Cricket' not on the hearth, but on the table at this moment," she confided gayly; "at least, that is what the girls here call me and it is as good a name as any other. Now won't you tell us your name?"

"Betty Ashton," the visitor answered, still feeling ill at ease and angry and disgusted with herself for not knowing how to make the best of the situation. Yet she need no longer have worried. For there was some silent, almost indescribable influence at work in the little company until almost irresistibly most of its occupants felt themselves drawn toward the newcomer. Of course, Polly O'Neill would have described this influence as the Princess' charm and that is as good an explanation as any other. But I think it was Betty Ashton's ability to put herself in other people's places, to think and feel and understand for them and with them. Now she knew that these eight girls, poor and ill though they might be, did not want either her pity or her patronage.

"Well, fire away with your tale, Miss Ashton," suggested Cricket somewhat impatiently, "and don't make it too goody-goody if you can help it. Most of us are anxious to hear." Cricket had pretty gray eyes and a great deal of fluffy brown hair, but otherwise the face was plain, except for its clever, good-natured expression. She gave a sudden side glance toward the figure on the bed only a dozen feet away and Betty's glance followed hers.

She saw that the red rose had been taken off the pillow and that the eyes that had been staring at the ceiling were gazing toward her. However, their look was anything but friendly.

For some foolish, unexplainable reason the girl made Betty think of Polly. Yet this child's eyes were black instead of blue, her hair short and curly instead of long and dark. And though Polly had often been impatient and dissatisfied, thank heaven she had never had that expression of sullen anger and of something else that Betty could not yet understand.

For Betty had of course to turn again toward her auditors and smile an entirely friendly and charming smile.

"May I take off my hat first? It may help me to think," she said. Then when Cricket had helped her remove both her coat and hat she sat down again and sighed.

"Do you know I have come here under absolutely false pretences? I announced that I had a story to tell, but I simply can't think of anything that would entertain you in the least and I should so hate to be a bore."

Then in spite of her twenty-one years, Betty Ashton seemed as young as any girl in the room. Moreover, she was exquisitely pretty. Her auburn hair, now neatly coiled, shone gold from the light behind her. Her cheeks were almost too flushed and every now and then her dark lashes drooped, shading the frank friendliness of her gray eyes. She wore a walking skirt, beautifully tailored, and a soft white silk blouse with a knot of her same favorite blue velvet pinned at her throat with her torch-bearer's pin.

Agnes Edgerton, the former reader of Little Women, made no effort to conceal her admiration. "Oh, don't tell us a story," she protested, "we read such a lot of books. Tell us something about yourself. Real people are so much more interesting."

"But there isn't anything very interesting about me, I am far too ordinary a person," Betty returned. Then she glanced almost desperately about the big room. There was a mantel and a fireplace, but no fire, as the room was warmed with steam radiators. However, on the mantel stood three brass candlesticks holding three white candles and these may have been the source of Betty's inspiration.

Outside the smoky chimney tops of old Boston houses and factories reared their heads against the winter sky, and yet Betty began her story telling with the question: "I wonder if you would like me to tell you of a summer twelve girls spent together at Sunrise Hill?" For in the glory of the early morning, with the Camp Fire cabin at its base, Sunrise Hill had suddenly flashed before her eyes like a welcome vision.