Part 15

It was a good thing for Peggy to divert her mind with anxiety about Elaine, who, having been duly rubbed and given something hot to drink, was ordered to bed, while her clothing dried by the kitchen fire. By this time Isabel was sufficiently revived so that the other children could be admitted to admire her appearance as she lay between blankets smelling strongly of the ammonia which the farmer’s wife had applied to the bee stings. There was a gleam of envy in Estelle’s eyes as she gazed upon her sister. It was not fair that Isabel should have everything, first be stung by bees, and then nearly drowned. It would have been more generous of her to have divided those claims to distinction with some equally deserving member of the family.

"Seems like a shame to disturb that child by trying to take her home to-day," said the farmer’s wife. "Why don’t you leave her with me over Sunday? By that time she wouldn’t get any harm from going out."

"I don’t know as she would be willing to stay," Peggy replied, but when the case was laid before Isabel she indicated the greatest satisfaction with her present surroundings. Isabel was not accustomed to being a person of importance. She liked the sensation, as she liked the softness of the bed on which she lay and the brightness and neatness of the pleasant little room.

"Of course it would be a great deal better for her to stay. Do you think your mother would mind, Jimmy?" asked Peggy, reflecting that the responsibility of taking a party of children to the country for a day was greater than she could have imagined. Jimmy’s attitude was reassuring. "Ma! Why, she’ll be glad to get rid of her over Sunday," he declared. "Pa hates so many underfoot on Sundays." It was accordingly arranged that the farmer’s wife should bring Isabel home Monday morning, provided Isabel’s condition warranted it. Otherwise she was to communicate with Peggy, who assumed the responsibility of conveying the information to Mrs. Dunn.

The picnic was resumed, awaiting the drying of Elaine’s clothing, but it is safe to say that no one of the Dunn family had the opportunity again that day to get into mischief. Each girl made herself responsible for a child, and watched it with a hawk’s alertness, though not with a hawk’s motive. "We’ve let them steal flowers, and get stung by bees, and then pretty nearly drowned," Amy remarked. "And for one day that’s enough," a sentiment received without any dissenting voice.

But in spite of the drawbacks of the day and the fact that Isabel was left behind, the small Dunns were enthusiastic over the picnic. "Be you goin’ to take us again some day, Miss Peggy?" little Johnny asked, as he hugged his armful of flowers closer, and smiled at her over the heads of the blossoms.

"I don’t know," Peggy answered with a gasp. "I’ll have to wait to get thoroughly over this, before I’ll be able to make up my mind."

*CHAPTER XXI*

*AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR*

The papers Monday evening contained an account of a heroic rescue. There was a fancy sketch of a young woman diving from the deck of a pleasure yacht to save a child who with uplifted arms was drowning in the most dramatic manner imaginable. Elaine saw the sketch over the shoulder of the man who occupied the seat in front of her in the street car, and it was not till she reached home that she discovered that the theatrical young heroine was supposed to represent herself.

Along the Terrace they had found it out long before and each of the girls had made a beeline for the Marshall home with a paper under her arm. Peggy was the first arrival, with Amy a close second, while Ruth and Priscilla reached the door at the same minute. What with the rustling of papers, and the chorus of voices all explaining at once, Mrs. Marshall conceived the idea that something dreadful had happened, and it was necessary to produce the smelling-salts before she was equal to hearing the account.

The story had been written up with high regard for picturesqueness. The Dunn family had multiplied into a car-load of ragged children and the five Terrace girls had become wealthy young women who devoted a large share of their leisure to philanthropy. Upon Elaine, as the heroine of the occasion, adjectives were lavished with the generosity characteristic of newspaper reporters when they start out to be complimentary. Mrs. Marshall gradually lost her look of apprehension as she listened, and her face took on a motherly pride, which obliterated, for the time, its habitual expression of fretful weakness.

When Elaine arrived there was a rush in her direction. Four newspapers were shaken in her face. Four voices, each uplifted in the laudable effort to drown out the other three, read the most thrilling of the head-lines. Elaine stared incredulously at the heroine with the dishevelled hair, on the point of plunging from the deck of the yacht into tossing waves below. At last the truth dawned upon her.

"You don’t mean, girls," she gasped, "you can’t mean that it is intended for--me. O, it can’t be possible."

In chorus four voices read, "The heroine of the occasion is Miss Elaine Marshall, 2618 Friendly Terrace." Further disclosures were checked by Elaine’s putting her hands over her ears.

"All that in the paper about me? How perfectly dreadful! How in the world could they have found out about it?"

Ruth looked a little guilty. On her arrival home Saturday night, she had painted Elaine’s exploit in glowing colors, and Graham’s friend, Jack Rynson, was a reporter on the _Star_. Fortunately Elaine did not notice the incriminating color in Ruth’s cheeks, and Peggy was saying consolingly, "Why, I think it’s splendid. Just listen, Elaine! ’Seeing the peril of the child, the intrepid young woman, with a magnificent disregard for her own peril--’"

"Please," implored Elaine, her cheeks flaming. "I feel like a hypocrite, when I look at that yacht and those foaming waves, and think of that ridiculous old dug-out and the smooth little pond. Heroine! It’s the most absurd thing I ever heard of."

But though Elaine protested, the fact remains that there are more unpleasant things than to be overpraised for what one has done. Her mother’s air of radiant pride, the satisfaction the other girls took in the highly decorated account of the exploit, even the reporter’s superfluous adjectives were not without their agreeable side. When the departure of the girls with the rustling newspapers left the house to its customary quiet, Elaine was aware of an inconsistent, and thoroughly inexplicable impression that something very pleasant had happened.

The peremptory ringing of the telephone bell interrupted Elaine’s supper. Mrs. Marshall and Grace listened to the following one-sided conversation.

"Yes, yes, it’s the same one."

"Why, I didn’t know."

"O, it was dreadfully exaggerated. It really wasn’t anything."

"No indeed. I feel as well as ever."

"She’s very well, thank you, and Grace too."

"I’m sure we’re glad to know our friends haven’t forgotten us."

"O, we’d be so pleased to see you any time. O, thank you, very much. Good night."

When she had hung up the receiver she turned a luminous face upon her family. "What do you think," she cried tremulously. "That was Mrs. Winthrop."

"Not Mrs. Littleton Winthrop!" Mrs. Marshall set down her tea-cup, her hand shaking.

"Yes. She had read that ridiculous account in the paper, and she said the nicest things. And she and Vivian are coming to see us very soon. O, dear, I’m too excited to eat."

But the excitements of the evening were not over by any means. Shortly after eight o’clock, a motor coughed outside the door. There was a sound of feet on the walk and then a ring at the bell which somehow suggested that somebody who knew exactly what he wanted had his finger on the button.

Elaine opened the door, for enough of Grace’s shrinking remained so that she found that simple office difficult. A plump, red-cheeked gentleman, who looked rather like an understudy for Santa Claus, greeted her with something more than cordiality.

"Elaine Marshall! Well, upon my word! You’ve grown almost out of knowledge." He put his hand upon her shoulder and gave her a smacking kiss on the cheek nearest him. "That’s for the heroine," he said. "Mother in? And Grace? Good. First rate."

He had his arm about the girl’s shoulder when he walked into the living-room, where Mrs. Marshall and Grace had sprung to their feet at the sound of his voice, and he held Elaine firmly while he shook hands with the others. Then he seated himself, stroking his snowy beard, and looking about him with eyes that twinkled serenely. He looked more like Santa Claus than ever.

"Look here," he said. "I’m not going to scold. That isn’t my way. But for you to hide yourselves away from your friends isn’t a square deal, you know. I could say considerable on the subject if I were that sort of a man. But as long as our little heroine here--"

"Little!" cried Elaine, her indignation over the adjective eclipsing for the time being her modest reluctance to accept the noun.

"Has given me the clue to your whereabouts," continued the visitor, ignoring the interruption. "We’ll let bygones be bygones."

The talk turned to less delicate topics. But presently the caller, who gave increasing evidence of being a man who knew his own mind, turned on Grace with a question.

"Given up the idea of finishing your college course?"

"O, yes, Mr. Clement."

"Why?"

Grace hesitated. "If there were no other reason," she said at last, in a low voice, "the question of expense would settle it."

"That’s what I fancied. Suppose you start in next fall, and send your bill to me."

"But, Mr. Clement--"

"It’s good business sense, Grace. A thing half done is undone, and that’s all you can say. Go ahead and get your education. Fit yourself for the work you like, and the work you want to do."

"But, Mr. Clement, I wouldn’t think of accepting--"

"Stop right there, my dear. You’re going to talk nonsense about being under obligations and that sort of thing. Your father and I were friends in our boyhood and it was the sort of friendship that stood by in a rough sea. More than once your father has come to my help when his name on my note was all that stood between me and bankruptcy." Santa Claus took out his handkerchief and blew his nose violently. "And after that if his daughter had a silly pride which wouldn’t allow her to accept my help in making as much of herself as possible, I should be driven to conclude that she wasn’t worthy the name she bears."

Elaine looked at her sister furtively, and something she saw in Grace’s face made her heart flutter with a glad expectancy so keen as to be almost pain. Grace’s brow was knit, and her face was pale, visible signs of an inner battle. Elaine breathed hard, guessing the tremendous importance of the struggle, and the significance of victory.

"I’ve grounds for being very angry," Mr. Clement went on with his whimsical smile. "When the three of you disappeared without a word or sign, I was hurt, and many of your friends felt as I did. I tried to make myself think that you would write me soon, but the weeks and months went by, and not a line from any of you. I had a right to be angry, and I was. However, I’m not a man to continue bringing up old scores. We’ll call it square, Grace, if you’ll close with my offer. What do you say? Is it a bargain?"

His compelling eyes were on her. For a moment he looked less like Santa Claus than some old viking, fearless of tempestuous seas, accustomed to conquest. As Grace’s troubled gaze met his a curious change was apparent in her face, as if a spark of his resolution had fired hers.

"I’ll--I’ll do it, Mr. Clement," she faltered, and checked herself quickly, as if frightened by the rashness of her own promise. But Mr. Clement gave her no time for wavering.

"Done!" he cried, and catching the frail hand in his he shook it heartily. "And this spring and summer devote yourself to getting a little color, and putting a few pounds of flesh wherever you need them most. If you’re not careful, this little sister of yours will be putting on airs, and ordering you about just because she’s the biggest."

It was not early when Mr. Clement left, but, in spite of the lateness of the hour, Elaine yielded to an overwhelming desire to see Peggy. It was to Peggy alone that she had confided her great unhappiness, and it seemed to her that she could not sleep unless Peggy had heard the good news, the wonderful sequel to the incident which had made the close of the previous week eventful.

Elaine framed some excuse for a late call on Peggy which she herself had forgotten as soon as the door shut behind her, and made her way across the dewy grass. Overhead the stars twinkled in friendly fashion. The splendid winter constellations had given place to the less showy pageant of the summer, but it flashed across Elaine’s mind that she had never before dreamed there were so many stars. The sky seemed golden with them. Peggy, upstairs in her own room, struggling with an essay due the end of the week, looked up amazed at an Elaine to whom she had never been introduced. For the new stars which Elaine had seen flashing in the sky, were only reflected from her shining eyes. Her radiant face prepared Peggy for the best news that could be spoken.

"O, Peggy! What do you think? Grace is going back to college."

"To college!" Peggy’s sympathy was never of the half-hearted sort. Now the two words fairly tinkled as she spoke them, as if Elaine had announced some tremendous good fortune which had befallen Peggy herself.

"An old friend of papa’s, Mr. Clement, is going to send her. And, O, Peggy, another old friend, Mrs. Winthrop, called up while we were eating supper. She had seen that account in the paper and was so sweet about it. I’m afraid that perhaps we weren’t just fair to the people we used to know. Perhaps they were better friends than we thought."

"Of course," cried Peggy. "People are almost always better than you think. The things that seem horrid can generally be explained."

"And isn’t it funny!" Elaine found in a burst of laughter the relief that might as easily have come through tears. "All this wouldn’t have happened, if it hadn’t been for those blessed Dunns."

Peggy jumped, as if the name had touched a nerve. "O, I’ve just been aching to tell you that Isabel was going to stay."

"To stay?"

"Jimmy came over and told me just before supper. That farmer’s wife came in bright and early this morning. She wanted to keep Isabel, and Jimmy said his mother was willing, because it would be one less to take care of. There’s a sad side to it," Peggy concluded, her bright face falling, "to think that the mother of any child would give her up as easy as that, but I can’t help being glad that little Isabel will grow up with grass and flowers around her, and plenty to eat, and all the rest of the things they don’t have on Glen Echo Avenue."

Elaine had risen to go. "I feel like staying and talking all night but I must get to bed and be ready for my work to-morrow. Yes, indeed. I’m awfully glad about little Isabel. It seems as if everything was turning out right for everybody."

"It’s a pretty good world after all," smiled Peggy, voicing a favorite theory.

The words rang in Elaine’s ears as again she sped across the dewy clover under the spangled sky. "Of course," she told herself. "How could it help being a good world as long as it has such people as Peggy Raymond in it?"

THE END.