Part 10

The small Dunns were bursting now with joyful curiosity, and when Peggy produced a small package from the corner into which it had rolled, and held it close to Violetta’s nose, the hush in the kitchen was like the lull that precedes a storm. The storm broke in wild outcries and hilarious laughter when Violetta, having sampled the catnip, threw herself on her ridging backbone, waved her four paws in the air, and indulged in a low rumbling purr, like the sound of distant thunder. Even Mrs. Dunn deigned to smile.

"Law now!" she exclaimed. "That ain’t no common alley cat. She acts like she sensed it was Christmas, same as a human."

In spite of Peggy’s early start, the dark was coming on when they got away. Elaine slipped her hand through her friend’s arm in a fashion that almost had the effect of a caress. More wonderful still, meeting Peggy’s eyes, she smiled spontaneously, not as though it cost her an effort.

"It _was_ nice, Peggy," she acknowledged. "But at first I thought I wasn’t going to like it a bit. How do you put up with that woman?"

Peggy smiled indulgently. "Mother says," she quoted, "that ’gratitude is the flower of human nature at its best.’ I used to scold about some of the people she helped, because it seemed to me that they didn’t half appreciate it. But she always told me that it wasn’t fair to expect too much gratitude from poor, ignorant people. I guess it’s a good thing not to start out with your expectations too high. It keeps you from being disappointed."

"Your mother is so good, Peggy," Elaine said rather wistfully. "It’s no wonder--" She checked herself as if fearful of being misunderstood. "Anyway it was lovely to see the children," she hurried on, with a quick change of tone. "For a few minutes I felt as if it were really Christmas, and that’s more than I expect to feel again this year."

Peggy stared down the street, resolutely repressing a smile. She had good reason for knowing that Elaine was soon to have another reminder of the arrival of Christmas. She ran up to her room the minute she reached home, to take a look at the miniature Christmas tree, which Dick was to place on Elaine’s door-step as soon as it was dark enough so that he could venture out without being seen. It stood up bravely in a big flower-pot, plainly refusing to be considered insignificant because of its diminutive stature. Festoons of popcorn and tinsel hung on its boughs and gaudy ornaments made bright spots of color among the green. Each of the girls had contributed some little gift. Peggy, knowing Elaine’s sensitive pride, had emphasized the point that the presents were to be the merest trifles. Rhymes accompanied each, showing varied poetical endowments on the part of the givers. Amy, after having devoted several hours to the composition of something appropriate and effective, had finally fallen back on the couplet,

"When this you see Remember me."

Peggy, as self-appointed committee on arrangements, was very near rejecting this as unworthy the occasion. It was only Amy’s pathetic appeal and her bringing into evidence the sheets of foolscap, scrawled over with her vain attempts to be witty and epigrammatic, which caused Peggy’s resolution to weaken, and led her at last to accept reluctantly a contribution which could hardly be considered original.

Altogether it was a brave little tree, as significant of good will as if its tip had brushed the ceiling. It was like a cheery visible voice crying, "Merry Christmas." Peggy felt sure that at the sight of it Elaine would be forced to revise her wish that she could sleep through the twenty-fifth of December without once waking.

Peggy’s Christmas day was very much like other Christmas days. Indeed it is difficult to find a new fashion in Christmases, which will be any improvement on the standard variety. There were the usual thrilling moments when the stockings were rifled. As always there were little gifts put into big boxes and larger gifts skilfully concealed, so their presence could not be discovered till the last moment. There were the usual kisses and assurances that everything was exactly what everybody had been hoping for, words that somehow seemed to counteract the frost and chill of the season, and make the December world as balmy as June.

Of course Peggy had to make a number of Christmas calls along the Terrace, to see how beautifully everyone had been remembered, equally of course, the other girls all dropped in on Peggy during the day. That the stock of superlatives in the language had not given out long before the twenty-fifth of December drew to its close was proof positive that the supply was inexhaustible.

Peggy smiling, sleepy, and with the satisfying consciousness that everything had turned out just as she had hoped, was ready to go upstairs to bed, when the telephone bell rang. A sweet voice, with a plaintive undertone, spoke her name.

"Is this Peggy Raymond?"

"Yes, this is Peggy. But I’m afraid I don’t recognize your voice."

"It’s a little late to wish you a Merry Christmas, I’m afraid. But I couldn’t let the day close without good wishes of some sort. May the new year bring you all the happiness you deserve. I don’t think I could wish you anything better than that."

There was an earnestness in the strange voice that went to Peggy’s heart. "Thank you ever so much," she answered gratefully. "But I’m sure that every year, so far, has brought me lots of happiness I didn’t deserve at all. It’s queer," she added, changing the subject hastily, "But I can’t seem to think who you are."

"A girl who does as much as you do to make other people happy," the strange voice persisted, "deserves the best of everything. Good-night, Peggy, dear."

"But who--" Peggy was beginning, when a little click told her that her question, if completed, would fall on the empty air. She hung up the receiver, perplexed and as near disappointed as was possible at the close of so perfect a day.

"Why didn’t she say who she was?" Peggy asked herself. "It seems as if I ought to remember a voice so sweet, but it didn’t sound a bit familiar." She paused at the door of the parlor to take a last look at the denuded Christmas tree, and the table where the gifts were still displayed, for the benefit of friends who might drop in within a day or two, and went slowly to her room. But in her dreams, she heard again and again a gentle voice, pensive and sweet, whispering, "A happy new year to dear Peggy Raymond."

*CHAPTER XIV*

*A DISAGREEMENT*

It was a doleful Peggy who, coming home late one drizzly January afternoon, found the gas lighted in the living-room and Ruth waiting for her. Peggy acknowledged her friend’s presence by a rueful smile, immediately extinguished by an unseasonable shower, as sudden as an April rain.

"There! There! Don’t cry, Peggy. I know exactly how you feel." Ruth administered consolation in the shape of sundry comforting pats, while Peggy burrowed in the sofa cushions and sniffed without restraint. "It’s dreadful to have them both go at once," she explained in a stifled voice.

"Of course it is."

"I suppose I ought to be glad that Alice is well enough to have Dorothy home again. She must have missed her every minute. I know I shall." A sob.

"Nobody could help it. Such a darling child!"

"Of course she can’t travel by herself, and mother was hankering to see Alice, and, besides, she needed a rest. I’m a perfect goose, so there!" Peggy sat up, wiping her eyes with a severity that might have been intended to warn them against repeating their late indiscretion.

Ruth hastened to defend her friend against herself. "You’re nothing of the land. Anybody’d cry. And coming home after people have gone away is always dreadful."

"That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?" Peggy gave Ruth’s hand a grateful squeeze. "I could hardly get up my courage to come in, till I remembered something I wanted to tell Sally about the supper. You see I am housekeeper now."

"I’m afraid it will be pretty hard for you."

"O, no indeed." Peggy spoke with her usual blitheness. "Sally’s splendid if she’s looked after. Of course she hasn’t any head-piece, but she’s as willing as the day is long."

The sudden entrance of the object of this eulogy cut it short. Sally was dressed for the street, even to a faded cotton umbrella tucked under her arm at such an angle that the point would endanger the eyesight of all pedestrians. "I’m leaving," she announced cheerfully.

As Peggy’s amazement temporarily bereft her of the powers of speech, Ruth was driven to expostulate. "You don’t mean you’re going away to stay? You wouldn’t do that, I’m sure."

"My step-aunt’s husband’s had a stroke," explained Sally with unimpaired cheerfulness. "It’s his second and ’tain’t likely he’ll last long. I wouldn’t miss his fun’rel for anything."

Peggy by this time was capable of remonstrance. "But, Sally, wait till the time is set for the funeral. He may live some time yet. Just think how hard it will be for me if you leave me while mother’s away."

Ordinarily Sally would have been touched by this plea. She was a reliable creature, on the whole, and devoted to the Raymonds, one and all. But the temptation afforded by the serious illness of her step-aunt’s husband was of no common sort.

"My goodness, Miss Peggy!" she exclaimed indignantly. "The fun’rel ain’t the whole show. I wouldn’t miss his last hours for anything you could name. My step-aunt’s sister from West Virginia will come on, like enough, to say nothin’ of her kin up in Lester County. I ain’t the sort o’ girl to slight my duties every time the circus comes to town," declared Sally impressively, "but a reel death in the fambly don’t happen every day, and ’twould be flying in the face of Providence not to take notice."

If Peggy had looked forward to a pensive evening, with leisure for occasional tears, this unexpected development necessitated an immediate change of program. She had neglected her lessons for the next day in helping her mother to get away, and the sudden accession of Sally’s duties in addition to her own meant that every minute must be accounted for. When her father went to bed that night he stood in the doorway for a full minute, his glance travelling from the clock to the desperate figure of his daughter. Peggy’s elbows were planted on the table, while her hands clutched her hair, and her lips moved noiselessly. On the whole, her attitude suggested Lady Macbeth rather than a high school girl, poring over one of the gems of English literature.

"Daughter."

Peggy did not hear.

"Daughter, it is eleven o’clock."

Peggy jumped.

"O, yes, father. I’ll go to bed as soon as I have finished reading this canto." She bent again over the page, but her father was not satisfied.

"If Sally’s likely to be gone any time, I think your mother had better come back. It won’t do, you know, to have you overworking--"

Peggy whirled about, quite forgetting the "Fairie Queen." "O, father, don’t do that. I’ll get along splendidly. It would be such a shame to spoil mother’s visit with Alice. And Sally may be back any day. I wouldn’t have them know for anything."

Mr. Raymond went upstairs only half convinced, as Peggy guessed from his expression. She made up her mind that in the future when it was necessary for her to study late she would do it in her own room, where it would disturb nobody. She further decided on rising at five o’clock to get as much as possible of the day’s work out of the way before school.

Peggy’s plan might have been feasible had she ever learned the gentle art of slighting. Perhaps there was an atom of foolish pride at the bottom of her determination to keep the house in as scrupulous order as if her mother and Sally had both been present to assist. She was out of bed long before daylight every morning, sweeping and dusting, rubbing and polishing, till by breakfast time she was faint and tired, and found it necessary to scrub her cheeks violently with a rough crash towel before she dared trust herself under her father’s eyes. With her mother the stratagem would probably have failed, but Mr. Raymond seeing the blooming cheeks and vivacious smile of the young person behind the coffee-pot, said to himself that it looked as if Peggy were getting on all right, and that it would be a pity to spoil his wife’s visit, unless it were absolutely necessary.

Dick enjoyed the new regime. Dick heartily approved of his sister’s cooking, even going so far as to brag of it in the neighborhood. One of the boys who received the brotherly boasts with a supercilious air, was immediately challenged.

"See here, you don’t believe it, do you? I tell you what! You and Tom come ’round to-night to supper. That’s all. Just come ’round and see for yourselves."

The challenge was accepted, and Dick went home with the high spirits of one who has defended the family honor. As he passed the kitchen window he experienced a distinct shock. Peggy was visible, but not the blooming Peggy of the morning. She was pale and heavy-eyed and a damp towel tied around her forehead gave the clue. Early rising, late study, and almost continuous work between had resulted in a sick headache, which Peggy, limp and languid, was doing her best to fight off.

Dick stood in the hall, a prey to remorse. Peggy was sick, and he had invited company to supper. He realized, with the fatal clearness, which so often accompanies an afterthought, that even if Peggy had not been suffering, the invitation was distinctly inconsiderate. With her school work, and the cares of the house on her shoulders, she was doing too much, at the best of times. Ordinarily Dick did not lack courage, but with his conscience against him the prospect of making a full acknowledgment to Peggy was an ordeal from which he shrank.

After ten minutes of aimless waiting Dick pushed open the door and advanced into the kitchen on tiptoe, a relic of earlier days, when he had somehow formed the impression that not making a noise was equivalent to being good. Peggy turned her pale face in his direction.

"Is that you, Dick? I wish--" She broke off, staring with surprise at her brother’s crestfallen figure. "Why, Dick? Is anything the matter?"

"Yes." The one miserable word came out with uncompromising bluntness.

Peggy was still staring. "But nothing much, is it, Dick?"

"Yes." Dick had taken a surreptitious glance at his sister, and his burden of self-reproach had at once grown heavier. "It’s awful."

Peggy’s thoughts flew to her mother. Or perhaps Dorothy had met with an accident. She was such a flyaway. Or could it be that Alice-- She dropped into a chair. "Tell me, Dick," she begged, her lips very white.

"I--I hate to so I can’t." Shame made Dick’s voice tragic.

Peggy’s fingers gripped the sides of her chair. Whatever had happened she must control herself. Like one in a dream she heard Dick floundering on.

"Maybe something will happen yet, so--so it won’t be so bad." Dick was thinking hopefully that perhaps one of his invited guests would find himself unable to accept.

"Go on," gasped Peggy. But her appearance, instead of encouraging Dick to confession, made it seem impossible.

"I--I guess I’ll wait," he choked. "Maybe you’ll feel better before supper."

Peggy’s strength returned with miraculous suddenness. She pounced upon her brother as he was about to escape. "Tell me now, Dick. I--I can bear it."

"I--" Dick swallowed. "I asked Skits to supper."

Peggy waited stupidly.

"And Tom, too. I wanted to show ’em what a good cook you were."

Another pause. "Go on," prompted a stifled voice. "What about mother?"

It was Dick’s turn to be startled. "Mother? Why, has anything happened to mother?"

Peggy’s wits were in working order again. "Dick Raymond, you don’t mean that you’ve almost scared me to death because you invited two boys to supper!" And then, reading in his face that she had hit the mark, Peggy’s overtaxed nerves played her false, and she sat down promptly on the floor, where she laughed and cried together.

Poor Dick, at his wit’s end, tried vainly to allay the storm. "See here, Peggy. You don’t need to have ’em if you don’t want ’em." That was when her sobs were most violent. Then with sudden indignation: "I’d like to know what you’re laughing at anyway, Peg Raymond. _I_ don’t see anything funny."

The laughter had the better of the tears at last and Peggy wiped her eyes, took a long breath, and climbed unsteadily to her feet.

"Dick."

"What?"

"The next time you have any bad news to tell, don’t try to break it gently. Just blurt it out, no matter what happens. I think that’s safer, on the whole." Peggy moved languidly to the sink, where she removed the encircling towel and proceeded to bathe her eyes. "Dick."

"What d’ye want?" The conscience-stricken Dick was on his feet instantly, ready to fly in any direction at a word.

"You needn’t tell the boys not to come. If one of the girls will come over and help me, I guess we can fix up some sort of supper. You run and ask Elaine."

But when Dick appeared fifteen minutes later he was accompanied by Priscilla instead of Peggy’s next-door neighbor. "Elaine couldn’t come," explained Dick. "She’s sick, too. Her mother said she couldn’t lift her head from the pillow."

It was Priscilla’s first intimation that she had been second choice, and, to a girl of her temperament, the news was disquieting. "I’m sorry you couldn’t have the one you wanted, Peggy," she said, with dangerous sweetness. "But I’ll do my best to take her place." Then catching sight of poor Peggy’s swollen eyes and drooping figure, she had the grace to be ashamed of herself.

It was a very good supper, though Peggy, sitting pale and heavy-eyed, at the end of the table, ate little of it. Strawberry preserves, and some of Sally’s fruit cookies, had helped out so nicely that it had not been necessary to do much cooking, and in Dick’s present state of penitence he would have eaten pine shavings and sworn that they were delicious. As he watched Skits, gorging himself with preserves, Dick suddenly realized that the supper invitation was not at all in accordance with Skits’ deserts. "I’d ought to have punched his head when he acted as if he didn’t believe about Peggy’s cooking," thought Dick, scowling darkly at his unconscious guest. "Just as though everybody along the Terrace didn’t know that she’s got ’em all skinned."

Unconscious of the regrets disturbing their host’s peace of mind, Skits and Tom made out an excellent meal, and withdrew to the next room to examine some new stamps Dick had recently added to his collection. Priscilla, who had quite recovered from her little pique, pushed Peggy into the rocking-chair, when she attempted to assist with the work.

"You sit still," she scolded. "Don’t you dare move! I’ll be through the dishes in no time."

The offer was too tempting to refuse. Peggy sat in the kitchen rocking-chair, where Sally rested when her daily labors were over, and watched Priscilla as she proceeded deftly with the work. "It seems a shame," she said, but without conviction, "to leave everything to you."

"Nonsense! As if you weren’t always doing things for other people." Priscilla crossed the room to lower the shade and stood transfixed. "I thought Dick said Elaine was sick."

"She hasn’t been out of bed to-day. You know she’s rather subject to sick attacks," explained Peggy. "But they don’t last more than a day or two."

Priscilla’s laugh was rather disagreeable. "It hasn’t lasted as long as that," she replied. "She’s up and dressed. Just passed the window. Rather a remarkable recovery, isn’t it?"

Peggy did not speak.

"Elaine isn’t particularly fond of housework, I imagine," continued Priscilla, lowering the shade, and turning back to the waiting dishes. "But I’d rather say right out I didn’t want to help, than make a pretence of being sick. And especially after all you’ve done for her, Peggy."

Peggy was in a mood to be an easy prey to suspicion. Tired, half sick, with over-strained nerves, and throbbing temples, it was not strange that for a moment she half believed that Elaine’s plea of illness was only an excuse for evading work she did not like. In spite of Peggy’s lessons, Elaine still found housekeeping duties very irksome. In a moment, however, Peggy’s sense of fairness revolted against the assumption, which for the moment she had accepted as proved.

"Perhaps she felt better, all at once. People often do, after being sick all day."

"She trotted by the window as if she’d never felt better in all her life," remarked Priscilla tartly.

"Maybe her mother exaggerated a little," persisted Peggy. "Or perhaps Dick didn’t quite understand."

"O, of course, if you’re bound to find excuses for her, Peggy, you can do it. You can excuse anything in anybody, if you simply won’t believe what you see with your own eyes." The dishes in the pan clicked ominously, as Priscilla splashed with energy.

Peggy was saved the necessity of replying by the sudden opening of the back door. A tall, ungainly figure appeared on the threshold and the girls united in a rapturous shriek. "Sally!"

Sally came in and removed her coat. Her manner was dejected, and with a pang of conscience Peggy recalled the melancholy reason for her absence, as well as for her return. With a determined effort to keep her own relief out of her voice, she suggested sympathetically "Your uncle, I suppose--"

"My _step_-uncle, Miss Peggy. He’s better a’ready, and quarrelling with his victuals. Doctor thinks he’ll be out o’ bed by the first o’ the week. It might have been such a good fun’rel, too," added Sally, with evident disapproval of the ill-timed recovery. "All the Lester County folks was down, and my aunt’s sister from West Virginia. Stands to reason she can’t pick up and run again very soon. Like enough when he’s laid away at last there won’t be a baker’s dozen, outside the neighbors. I’ll finish them dishes, Miss Priscilla. This is a disappointing world sure enough."

Peggy went to bed at eight o’clock and knew nothing more till fifteen minutes of breakfast time. Her head was clear, and the knowledge that Sally was in the kitchen made her light of heart, though her pallor told that she was still in arrears, as far as sleep was concerned. As she dressed with speed, the discovery Priscilla had announced the evening before came back to her, but she was no longer disposed to attach much importance to it.

"Some little mistake, of course, or else Elaine did feel better all at once. I’m sure she wouldn’t have tried to fib out of helping me when I wanted her." Peggy was herself again, and nothing could have persuaded her to accept Sally’s dictum that it was a disappointing world.

*CHAPTER XV*

*A PATHETIC STORY*

"I’ve got three tickets. We students always have two, you know, and a girl who didn’t want to invite anybody gave me her extra one. Amy doesn’t care for concerts, and Ruth is going somewhere with Graham. So I thought--"

Priscilla paused impressively. She was about to do an magnanimous thing, and she meant to get full credit.

"I thought perhaps you’d like to have me invite Elaine. Didn’t you say she was fond of music?"

Peggy beamed. "She adores it. And it’s lovely of you to ask her. Those conservatory concerts are always splendid."

"They get the best talent that’s to be had," said Priscilla. "They go on the principle that hearing good music is part of our education." Priscilla was studying the violin in addition to her work in the high-school, and though possessed of no extraordinary talent, was at least learning a better appreciation of the work of the great artists to whom she listened at frequent intervals.