ST. VALENTINE
There was a little buzz of interest in Miss Joslyn's room in the public school, one day in February, over the arrival of a new scholar. Only a very little buzz, because the new-comer was a plain little girl as to face and dress, with big, wondering eyes, and a high-necked and long-sleeved gingham apron.
"Take this seat, Alma," said Miss Joslyn; and the little girl obeyed, while Ada Singer, the scholar directly behind her, nudged her friend, Lucy Berry, and mimicked the stranger's surprised way of looking around the room.
The first day in a new school is an ordeal to most children, but Alma felt no fear or strangeness, and gazed about her, well pleased with her novel surroundings, and her innocent pleasure was a source of great amusement to Ada.
"Isn't she queer-looking?" she asked of Lucy, as at noon they perched on the window-sill in the dressing-room, where they always ate their lunch together.
"Yes, she has such big eyes," assented Lucy. "Who is she?"
"Why, her mother has just come to work in my father's factory. Her father is dead, or in prison, or something."
"Oh, no!" exclaimed a voice, and looking down from their elevated seat the girls saw Alma Driscoll, a big tin dinner-pail in her hand, and her cheeks flushing. "My father went away because he was discouraged, but he is coming back."
Ada shrugged her shoulders and took a bite of jelly-cake. "What a delicate appetite you must have," she said, winking at Lucy and looking at the big pail.
"Oh, it isn't full; the things don't fit very well," replied Alma, taking off the cover and disclosing a little lunch at the bottom; "but it was all the pail we had." Then she sat down on the floor of the dressing-room and took out a piece of bread and butter.
"Well, upon my word, if that isn't cool!" exclaimed Ada, staring at the brown gingham figure.
Alma looked up mildly. She had come to the dressing-room on purpose to eat her lunch where she could look at Lucy Berry, who seemed beautiful to Alma, with her brown eyes, red cheeks, and soft cashmere dress, and it never occurred to her that she could be in the way.
Ada turned to Lucy with a curling lip. "I should hate to be a third party, shouldn't you?" she asked, so significantly that even Alma couldn't help understanding her. Tears started to the big eyes as the little girl dropped her bread back into the hollow depths of the pail, replaced the cover, and went away to find a solitary corner, with a sorer spot in her heart than she had ever known.
"Oh, why did you say that, Ada?" exclaimed Lucy, making a movement as if to slip down from the window-seat and follow.
"Don't you go one step after her, Lucy Berry," commanded Ada. "My mother doesn't want me to associate with the children of the factory people. She'll find plenty of friends of her own kind."
"But you hurt her feelings," protested Lucy.
"Oh, no, I didn't," carelessly; "besides, if I did, she'll forget all about it. I had to let her know that she couldn't stay with us. Do you want a stranger like that to hear everything we're saying?"
"I feel as if I ought to go and find her and see if she has somebody to eat with."
"Very well, Lucy. If you go with her, I can't go with you, that's all. You can take your choice."
The final tone in Ada's voice destroyed Lucy's courage. The little girls were very fond of one another, and Lucy was entirely under strong-willed Ada's influence.
Ada was a most attractive little person. Her father, the owner of the factory, was the richest man in town; and to play on Ada's wonderful piano, where you had only to push with your feet to play the gayest music, or to ride with her in her automobile, were exciting joys to her friends. She always had money in her pocket, and boxes of candy for the entertainment of other children, and Lucy was proud of her own position as Ada's intimate friend. So when it came to making a choice between this brilliant companion and the gingham-clad daughter of a factory hand, Lucy Berry's courage and sympathy oozed away, and she sat back on the window-seat, while Ada began talking about something else.
This first school-day was Alma Driscoll's introduction into the world outside of her mother's love. She had never felt so lonely as when surrounded by all these girls, each of whom had her intimate friend, and among whom she was not wanted. She could not help feeling that she was different from the others, and day by day the wondering eyes grew shy and lonely; and she avoided the children out of school hours, bravely hiding from her mother that the gingham apron, which always hid her faded dress, seemed to her a badge of disgrace that separated her from her daintily dressed schoolmates.
Such was the state of affairs when St. Valentine's day dawned. Alma's two weeks of school had seemed a little eternity to her; but this day she could feel that there was something unusual in the air, and she could not help being affected by the pleasurable excitement afloat in the room. She knew what the big white box by the door was for, and when, after school, Miss Joslyn was appointed to uncover and distribute the valentines, Alma found herself following the crowd, until, pressed close to Lucy Berry's side, she stood in the centre of the merry group about the teacher.
While the dainty envelopes were being passed around her, a shade of wistfulness crept over the child's face, and her eager fingers crumpled the checked apron as though Alma feared they might otherwise touch the beautiful valentines that shone so enticingly with red and blue, gold and silver. Suddenly Miss Joslyn spoke her name,—Alma Driscoll; only she said "Miss Alma Driscoll," and, yes, there was no mistake about it, she had read it off one of those vine-wreathed envelopes.
"Did you ever see such a goose!" exclaimed Ada Singer, as she watched the mixture of shyness and eagerness with which Alma took her valentine and opened the envelope.
Poor little Alma! How her heart beat as she unfolded her prize—and how it sank when she beheld the coarse, flaring picture of a sewing girl, with a disgusting rhyme printed beneath it. She dropped the valentine, a great sob of disappointment choked her, and bursting into tears, she pushed her way through the crowd and rushed from the schoolroom.
"What is the meaning of that?" asked Miss Joslyn.
For answer some one handed her the picture. The young lady glanced at it, then tore it in pieces as she looked sadly around on her scholars.
"Whoever sent this knows that Alma's mother works in the factory," she said. "It makes me ashamed of my whole school to think there is one child in it cruel enough to do this thing;" then, amid the silent consternation of the scholars, Miss Joslyn rose, and leaving the half-emptied box, went home without another word.
"What a fuss about nothing," said Ada Singer. "The idea of crying because you get a 'comic!' What else could Alma Driscoll expect?"
Lucy Berry's cheeks had been growing redder all through this scene, and now she turned upon Ada.
"She has a right to expect a great deal else," she returned excitedly, "but we've all been so hateful to her it's a wonder if she did. I wish I'd been kind to her before," she continued, her heart aching with the remembrance of the little lonely figure, and the big, hollow dinner-pail; "but I'm going to be her friend now, always, and you can be friends with us or not, just as you please;" and turning from the astonished Ada, Lucy Berry marched out of the schoolroom, fearing she should cry if she stayed, and sure that if there were any more beauties for her in the white box, her stanch friend, Frank Morse, would take care of them for her. Among the valentines she had already received was one addressed in his handwriting, and she looked at it as she walked along.
"It's the handsomest one I ever saw," she thought, lifting a rose here, and a group of cupids there, and reading the tender messages thus disclosed.
"I know what I'll do!" she exclaimed aloud. "I'll send it to Alma. Frank won't care," and covering the valentine in its box, she started to run, and turned a corner at such speed that she bumped into somebody coming at equal or greater speed, from the opposite direction. A passer-by just then would have been amused to see a boy and girl sitting flat on the sidewalk, rubbing their heads and staring at one another.
"Lucy Berry!"
"Frank Morse!"
"What's up?"
"Nothing. Something's down, and it's me."
"Well, excuse me; but I guess you haven't seen any more stars than I have. I don't care anything for the Fourth now, I've seen enough fireworks to last me a year."
Both children laughed. "You've got grit, Lucy," added Frank, jumping up and coming to help her. "Most girls would have boo-hooed over that."
"Oh, I wouldn't," returned the little girl, springing to her feet. "I'm too excited."
"Well, what is up?" persisted Frank. "I skipped out of the side door to try to meet you."
"Well, you did," laughed Lucy. "Oh, Frank, I don't know how I can laugh," she pursued, sobering. "I don't deserve to, ever again."
"What is it? Something about that Driscoll kid? She was crying. I was back there and I didn't hear what Miss Joslyn said; but I saw her leave, and then you, and I thought I'd go to the fire, too, if there was one."
"Oh, there is," returned Lucy, "right in here." She grasped the waist of her dress over where her heart was beating hard.
Frank Morse was older than herself and Ada, and she knew that he was one of the few of their friends whose good opinion Ada cared for. To enlist him on Alma's side would mean something.
"Is Ada still there?" she added.
"Yes, she took charge of the valentine box after Miss Joslyn left."
"Oh, Frank, do you suppose she could have sent Alma the 'comic'?" Genuine grief made Lucy's voice unsteady.
"Supposing she did," returned Frank stoutly. "Is that what Big-Eyes was crying about? I hate people to be touchy and blubber over a thing like that."
"You don't know. Her mother works in the factory, and this was a horrid picture making fun of it. Think of your own mother earning your living and being made fun of."
"Ada wouldn't do that," replied Frank shortly. "What made you think of such a thing?"
"It was error for me to say it," returned Lucy, with a meek groan. "I've been doing error things ever since Alma came to school. Oh, Frank, you're a Christian Scientist, too. You must help me to get things straight."
"You don't need to be a Christian Scientist to see that it wasn't a square deal to send the kid that picture."
"No, I know it; but when Alma first came, Ada said her mother didn't allow her to go with girls from the factory, and so I stopped trying to be kind to Alma, because Ada wouldn't like me if I did; and it's been such mesmerism, Frank."
The boy smiled. "Do you remember the stories your mother used to tell us about the work of the error-fairies?"
"Indeed I do. My head's just been full of it the last fifteen minutes. I've done nothing for two weeks but give the error-fairies backbones, and I don't care what happens to me, or how much I'm punished, if I can only do right again."
"Who's going to punish you?" asked Frank, not quite seeing the reason for so much feeling.
"Ada. We've always had so much fun, and now it's all over."
"Oh, I guess not. Ada Singer's all right."
Lucy didn't think so. She was convinced that her friend had done this last unkindness to Alma, and it was the shock of that discovery that was causing a portion of her suffering now.
Frank and Lucy talked for a few minutes longer, and it was agreed that the former should return to the school and get any other valentines that should be there for Lucy and himself; then, as soon as it grew dark, they would run to the Driscoll cottage with an offering.
Late that afternoon three mothers were called to interviews with three little girls. Lucy Berry surprised hers by rushing in where Mrs. Berry was seated, sewing.
"Oh!" exclaimed the little girl, "I'm so sorry all over, mother!"
"Then you must know why you can't be," returned Mrs. Berry, looking up at the flushed face and seeing something there that made her put aside her work.
Lucy usually considered herself too large to sit in her mother's lap, but now she did so, and flinging her arms around her neck, poured out the whole story.
"To think that Ada could send it!" finished Lucy, with one big sob.
"Be careful, be careful. You don't know that she did," replied Mrs. Berry. "'Thou shalt not bear false witness.'"
"Oh, I do hope she didn't," responded Lucy, "but Ada is stuck up. I've been seeing it more and more lately."
"And how about the beam in my little girl's own eye?" asked Mrs. Berry gently.
"Haven't I been telling you all about it? I've been just as selfish and cowardly as I could be." Lucy's voice was despairing.
"I think there's a beam there still. I think you are angry with Ada."
"How can I help it? If it hadn't been for her I shouldn't have been so mean."
"Oh, Lucy dear!" Mrs. Berry smiled over the head on her shoulder. "There is old Adam again, blaming somebody else for his fall. Have you forgotten that there is only one person you have the right to work with and change?"
"I don't care," replied Lucy hotly. "I've been calling evil good. I have. I've been calling Ada good and sticking to her and letting her run me."
"Was it because of what you could get from her, or because of what you could do for her?" asked Mrs. Berry quietly.
Lucy was silent a minute, then she spoke: "She wanted me. She liked me better than anybody."
"Well, now you see what selfish attachments can turn into," returned Mrs. Berry. "Do you remember the teaching about the worthlessness of mortal mind love? Here are you and Ada, yesterday thinking you love one another, and to-day at enmity."
"I'm going with Alma Driscoll now, and I'm going to eat my lunch with her, and everything. I should think that was unselfish."
"Perhaps it will be. We'll see. Isn't it a little comfort to you to think that it will be some punishment to Ada to see you do it?"
"I don't know," replied Lucy, who was so honest that she hesitated.
"Well, then, think until you do know, and be very certain whether the thoughts that are stirring you so are all loving. You see, dearie, we're all so tempted, in times of excitement, to begin at the wrong end: tempted to begin with ourselves instead of with God. The all-loving Creator of you and Ada and Alma has made three dear children, one just as precious to Him as another. If the loveliness of His creation is hidden by something discordant, then we must work away at it; and one's own consciousness is the place where she has a right to work, and that helps all. It says in the Bible 'When He giveth quietness who then can make trouble?' You can rest yourself with the thought of His great quietness now, and you will reflect it."
Mrs. Berry paused and her rocking-chair swayed softly back and forth during a moment of silence.
"You know enough about Science," she went on, at last, "to be certain that weeks of an offended manner with Ada would have no effect except to make her long to punish you. You know that love is reflected in love, and that its opposite is just as certain to be reflected unless one knows God's truth."
"But you don't say anything at all about Alma," said Lucy. "She's the chief one."
Mrs. Berry smiled. "No," she returned gently. "You are the chief one. Just as soon as your thought is surely right, don't you know that your heavenly Father is going to show you how to unravel this little snarl? You remember there isn't any personality to error, whether it tries to fasten on Ada, or on you."
Lucy sat upright. Her cheeks were still flushed, but her eyes had lost their excited light. "Frank Morse and I are going to take some pretty valentines to Alma's as soon as it is dark," she said.
"That will be pleasant. Now let us read over the lesson for to-day again, and know what a joyous thing life is."
"Well, mother, will you go and see Mrs. Driscoll some time?"
"Certainly I will, Sunday. I suppose she is too busy to see me other days."
In the Singer house another excited child had rushed home from school and sought and found her mother.
Mrs. Singer had just reached a most interesting spot in the novel she was reading, when Ada startled her by running into the room and slamming the door behind her.
"Mother, you know you don't want me to go with the factory people," she cried.
"Of course not. What's the matter?" returned Mrs. Singer briefly, keeping her finger between the leaves of her half-closed book.
"Why, Lucy Berry is angry with me, and I don't care. I shall never go with her again!"
"Dear me, Ada. I should think you could settle these little differences without bothering me. What has the factory to do with it?"
"Why, there is a new girl at school, Alma Driscoll, and her mother works there; and she tried to come with Lucy and me, and Lucy would have let her, but I told her you wouldn't like it, and, anyway, of course we didn't want her. So to-day when the valentine box was opened, Alma Driscoll got a 'comic;' and she couldn't take a joke and cried and went home. I can't bear a cry-baby, anyway. And then Miss Joslyn made a fuss about it and she went home, and after that Lucy Berry flared up at me and said she was going to be friends with Alma after this, and she went home. It just spoiled everybody's fun to have them act so silly. Lucy got Frank Morse to bring out all his valentines and hers. I'll never go with her again, whether she goes with Alma or not!"
Angry little sparks were shining in Ada's eyes, and she evidently made great effort not to cry.
"What was this comic valentine that made so much trouble?"
"Oh, something about a factory girl. You know the verses are always silly on those."
"Well, it wasn't very nice to send it to her before all the children, I must say. Who do you suppose did it?"
"No one ever tells who sends valentines," returned Ada defiantly. "No one will ever know."
"Well, if the foolish child, whoever it was, only had known, she wasn't so smart or so unkind as she thought she was. Mrs. Driscoll isn't an ordinary factory hand. She is an assistant in the bookkeeping department."
"Well, they must be awfully poor, the way Alma looks, anyway," returned Ada.
"I suppose they are poor. I happened to hear Mr. Knapp begging your father to let a Mrs. Driscoll have that position, and your father finally consented. I remember his telling how long the husband had been away trying for work, and what worthy people they were, old friends of his. They lived in some neighboring town; so when Mrs. Driscoll was offered this position they came here. They live"—
"Oh, I know where they live," interrupted Ada, "and I knew they were factory people anyway, and you wouldn't want me going with girls like Alma."
"I'd want you to be kind to her, of course," returned Mrs. Singer.
"Then she'd have stuck to us if I had been. I guess you've forgotten the way it is at school."
Mrs. Singer sighed and opened her book wistfully. "You ought to be kind to everybody, Ada," she said vaguely, "but I really think I shall have to take you out of the public school. It is such a mixed crowd there. I should have done it long ago, only your father thinks there is no such education."
Ada saw that in another minute her mother would be buried again in her story. "But what shall I do about Frank and Lucy?" she asked, half crying.
"Why, is Frank in it, too?"
"Yes. I know Lucy has been talking to him. He came back and got her valentines."
"Oh, pshaw! Don't make a quarrel over it. Just be polite to Alma Driscoll. They're perfectly respectable people. You don't need to avoid her. Don't worry. Lucy will soon get over her little excitement, and you may be sure she will be glad to make up with you and be more friendly than ever."
Mrs. Singer began to read, and Ada saw it was useless to pursue the subject. She left the room undecidedly, her lips pressed together. All right, let Lucy befriend Alma. She wouldn't look at her, and they'd just see which would get tired of it first.
This hard little determination seemed to give Ada a good deal of comfort for the present, and she longed for to-morrow, to begin to show Lucy Berry what she had lost.
Meanwhile Alma Driscoll had hastened home to an empty cottage, where she threw herself on the calico-covered bed and gave way again to her hurt and sorrow, until she had cried herself to sleep.
There her mother found her when she returned from work. Mrs. Driscoll had plenty of troubles of her own in these days, adjusting herself to her present situation and trying hard to fill the position which her old friend Mr. Knapp had found for her. Alma knew this, and every evening when her mother came home from the factory she met her cheerfully, and had so far bravely refrained from telling of the trials at school, which were big ones to her, and which she often longed to pour out; but the sight of her mother's face always silenced her. She knew, young as she was, that her mother was finding life in the great school of the world as hard as she was in pretty Miss Joslyn's room; and so she kept still, but her eyes grew bigger, and her mother saw it.
To-day when Mrs. Driscoll came in, she was surprised to find the house dark. She lighted the lamp and saw Alma asleep on the bed. "Poor little dear," she thought. "The hours must seem long between school and my coming home."
She went around quietly, getting supper, and when it was ready she came again to the bed and kissed Alma's cheek.
"Doesn't my little girl want anything to eat to-night?" she asked.
Alma turned and opened her eyes.
"Guess which it is," went on Mrs. Driscoll, smiling. "Breakfast or supper."
"Oh, have you come?" Alma sat up. She clasped her arms around her mother. "Please don't make me go to school any more," she said, the big sob with which she went to sleep rising again in her throat.
"Why, what has happened, dear?" Mrs. Driscoll grew serious.
"I don't want to tell you, mother, only please let me stay at home. I'll study just as hard."
"You'd be lonely here all day, Alma."
"I want to be lonely," returned the little girl earnestly.
Mrs. Driscoll looked very sober. "Let's sit down at the table," she said, "for I have your boiled egg all ready."
Alma took her place opposite her mother. Supper was usually the bright spot in the day, but this evening there seemed nothing but clouds.
"I want to hear all about it, Alma, but you'd better eat first," said Mrs. Driscoll, as she poured the tea.
"It isn't anything very much," replied the little girl, torn between the longing for sympathy and unwillingness to give her mother pain; "only there aren't any lonely children in that school. Everybody has some one she likes to play with."
A pang of understanding went through the mother's heart, so tender that she forced a smile.
"Oh, my dearie," she said, "you remind me of the old song,—
'Every lassie has her laddie,
Nane, they say, have I,
But all the lads, they smile on me,
When comin' thro' the rye.'
If my Alma smiles on all the children, they'll all smile on her."
Alma shook her head. It was too great an undertaking to explain all those daily experiences of longing and disappointment to her mother. The child's throat grew so full of the sob that she could not swallow the nice egg.
"This is Valentine's Day," she said, with an effort. "They had a box in school. Everybody got pretty ones but me. They sent me a 'comic.'"
She swallowed bravely between the sentences, but big tears rolled down her cheeks and splashed on the gingham apron.
"Well, wasn't it meant to make you laugh, dearie?"
"N-no. It was—was a hateful one. I—I can't tell you."
A line came in Mrs. Driscoll's forehead. Her swift thought pictured the scene only too vividly. She swallowed, too.
"Silly pictures can't hurt us, Alma," she said.
"But please don't make me go back," returned the child earnestly. "I cried and ran away, and I know all the other children laughed, and, oh, mother, I can't go back!" She was sobbing again, now, and trying to dry her tears with her apron.
Mrs. Driscoll's lips pressed firmly together to keep from quivering.
"Mother," said Alma brokenly, as soon as she could speak again, "when do you think father will come home?"
For a minute the mother could not reply. The last letter she had received from her husband had sounded discouraged, and for six weeks now she had heard nothing. Her anxiety was very great; but it made her position at the factory more than ever important, while it increased the difficulty of performing her work.
"I can't tell, dearie," she answered low. "We must pray and wait."
As she finished speaking there came a loud knock at the door. A very unusual sound this, for no one had yet called on them, except Mr. Knapp, once on business.
"I'll go," said Mrs. Driscoll. "Wipe your eyes, Alma."
To her surprise, when she opened the door no one was there. Something white on the step caught her eye in the gloom. It was a box, and when she brought it to the light, she saw that it was addressed to Miss Alma Driscoll.
Her heart was too sore to hand it to the child until she had made certain that its contents were not designed to hurt. One glimpse of the gold and red interior, however, made her clap on the cover again. She brought the box to the table and seated herself.
"What's all this?" she asked, passing it to the child. "It seems to be for you. There was nobody there, but I found that on the step."
Alma's swollen eyes looked wonderingly at the box as she took off the cover and discovered the elaborate valentine.
"My! What a beauty!" exclaimed her mother.
The little girl lifted the red roses and looked at the verses. The catches kept coming in her throat and she smiled faintly.
"Who is this that hasn't any friend?" asked Mrs. Driscoll cheeringly.
"Somebody was sorry," returned Alma. "I wish they didn't have to be sorry for me."
"Oh, you can't be sure. When I was a little girl all the best part of Valentine's Day was running around to the houses with them after dark. How do you know that this wasn't meant for you all day?"
"Because I remember it. Miss Joslyn handed it to Lucy Berry out of the school box. Lucy is the prettiest"—
Another loud knocking at the door interrupted.
Mrs. Driscoll answered the call. A big white envelope lay on the step, and it was addressed to Alma. This time the latter's smile was a little brighter as she took out a handsome card covered with garlands and swinging cupids and inscribed "To my Valentine."
"Well, I never saw any prettier ones," said Mrs. Driscoll.
"But they weren't bought for me," returned Alma.
When soon again a knocking sounded on the door and a third valentine appeared, blossoming with violets, above which butterflies hovered, Mrs. Driscoll leaned lovingly toward her little girl.
"Alma," she said. "I think you were mistaken in saying that all the children laughed when you received that 'comic.' Now," in a different tone, "let's have some fun! Some child or children are giving you the very best they have. Let's catch the next one who comes, and find out who your friends are!"
"Oh, no," returned Alma, smiling, but shrinking shyly from the idea.
"Yes, indeed. We all used to try when I was little. I'm going to stand by the door and hold it open a bit and you see if I don't catch somebody."
Alma lifted her shoulders. She wasn't sure that she liked to have her mother try this; but Mrs. Driscoll went to the door, set it ajar in the dark, and stood beside it.
She did not expect there would be any further greetings, and did this rather to amuse Alma, who sat examining her three valentines with a tearful little smile; but it was a very short time before another knock sounded on the usually neglected door, and quick as a wink it opened and Mrs. Driscoll's hand flying out caught another hand. A little scream followed, and in a second she had drawn a young lady into the tiny hall.
They couldn't see one another's faces very well in the gloom.
"Oh, I beg your pardon!" exclaimed Mrs. Driscoll, very much embarrassed. "I was trying to catch a valentine."
"Well, you did," laughed the stranger. "There's one on the step now, unless my skirt switched it off when I jumped. I didn't intend to come in this time, though I meant to return after I had done an errand; but now I'm here I'll stay a minute if it isn't too early."
"If you'll excuse the table," returned Mrs. Driscoll "Alma and I have a late tea." She stooped at the door and picked up a valentine from the edge of the step, and both women were smiling as they entered the room where Alma was standing, flushed and wide-eyed, scarcely able to believe that she recognized the voice.
Sure enough, as the visitor came into the lamplight, the little girl saw that the valentine her mother had caught and brought in out of the dark was really Miss Joslyn. She could hardly believe her eyes as she looked at the merry, blushing face which she was wont to see so serious and watchful. All the pretty teacher's scholars admired her, but she had a dignity and strictness which gave them some awe of her, too, and it seemed wonderful to Alma that this important person should be standing here and laughing with her mother, right in their own sitting-room.
Miss Joslyn's bright eyes saw signs of tears in her pupil's face, and she also saw the handsome valentines strewn upon the table. "Well, well, Alma!" she exclaimed softly, "you have quite a show there!"
"And here is another," said Mrs. Driscoll, handing the latest arrival to the little girl. Alma smiled gratefully at her teacher as she opened the envelope and took out a dove in full flight, carrying a leaf in its beak. On the leaf was printed in gold letters the word Love.
"I was caught in the act, Alma," laughed Miss Joslyn, "but I guess I am too old and slow to be running about at night with valentines."
"I like it the best of all," replied the little girl. "It was bought for me," she added in her own thought, and she was right. Twenty minutes ago the white dove had been reposing at a stationer's, with every prospect of remaining there until another Valentine's Day came around.
"Please sit down, Miss Joslyn," said Mrs. Driscoll.
"Well, just for a minute," replied the young lady, taking the offered chair, "but I wish you would finish your supper."
"We had, really," replied Mrs. Driscoll, smiling, "or I shouldn't have been playing such a game by the door. You haven't been the giver of all these valentines, I suppose?"
"Oh, no, indeed. Those are from some of the school children, no doubt. I've been trying to find an evening to come here for some time, but my work isn't done when school is out."
"I'm sure it isn't," replied Mrs. Driscoll, while Alma sat with her dove in her hands, watching the bright face that looked happy and at home in these unusual surroundings. It seemed so very strange to be close to Miss Joslyn, like this, where the teacher had no bell to touch and no directions to give.
She looked at Alma and spoke: "The public school is a little hard for new scholars at first," she said, "where they enter in the middle of a term. You are going to like it better after a while, Alma."
"I think she will, too," put in Mrs. Driscoll. "My hours are long at the factory and I have liked to think of Alma as safe in school. Does she do pretty well in her studies, Miss Joslyn?"
"Yes, I have no fault to find." The visitor smiled at Alma. "You haven't become much acquainted yet," went on Miss Joslyn. "I have noticed that you eat your lunch alone. So do I. Supposing you and I have it together for a while until you are more at home with the other scholars. I have another chair in my corner, and we'll have a cosy time."
Alma's heart beat fast. She had never heard that an invitation from royalty is equivalent to a command, but instantly all possibility of staying at home from school disappeared. The picture rose before her thought of Miss Joslyn as she always appeared at the long recess: her chair swung about until her profile only was visible, the white napkin on her desk, the book in her hand as she read and ate at one and the same time. Little did Alma suspect what it meant to the kind teacher to give up that precious half-hour of solitude; but Miss Joslyn saw the child's eyes grow bright at the dazzling prospect, and noted the color that covered even her forehead as she murmured thanks and looked over at her mother for sympathy.
The young lady talked on for a few minutes and then said good-night, leaving an atmosphere of brightness behind her.
"Oh, mother, I don't know what all the children will say," said Alma, clasping her hands together. "I'm going to eat lunch with Miss Joslyn!"
"It's fine," responded Mrs. Driscoll, glad of the change in her little girl's expression, and wishing the ache at her own heart could be as easily comforted. "Do you suppose Valentine's Day is over, dearie, or had I better stand by the door again?"
"Oh, they wouldn't send me any more!" replied Alma, looking fondly at her dove. "I think Lucy Berry was so kind to give me her lovely things; but I'd like to give them back."
"No, indeed, that wouldn't do," replied Mrs. Driscoll. "I'm going to stand there once more. Perhaps I'll catch somebody else to prove to you that Lucy isn't the only one thinking about you."
Mrs. Driscoll returned quietly to her post, and Alma could see her smiling face through the open door.
Alma had very much wanted to send valentines to a few children, herself; but five cents was all the spending money she could have, and she had bought with it one valentine which had been addressed to Lucy Berry in the school box. She was glad it had not come back to her to-night. That would have been hardest of all to bear.
Just as she was thinking this there did come another knock at the door. The child looked up eagerly, and swiftly again Mrs. Driscoll's hand flew out, and grasping a garment, pulled gently and firmly.
"Well, well, ma'am!" exclaimed a bass voice, and this time it was the hostess's turn to give a little cry, followed by a laugh, as a stout, elderly man with chin whiskers came deliberately in.
She retreated. "Oh, Mr. Knapp, please excuse me! I thought you were a valentine!"
"Nobody'd have me, ma'am. Nobody'd have me. Not a mite o' use to try to stick a pair o' Cupid's wings on these shoulders. It would take an awful pair to fly me. Well, come now," he added, with a broad, approving smile at the laughing mother and child, "I'm right down glad to see you playin' a game. I've thought, the last few days, you was lookin' kind o' peaked and down in the mouth; so, seein' as we found a letter for you that was somehow overlooked this afternoon, I decided I'd bring it along. Might be fetchin' you a fortune, for all I knew."
Mrs. Driscoll's smile vanished, and her eyes looked eagerly into the good-humored red face, as Mr. Knapp sought deliberately in his coat pocket and brought forth an envelope, at sight of which Alma's mother flushed and paled.
"You have a valentine, too!" cried the little girl.
"Yes, it is from father. Won't you sit down, Mr. Knapp?"
"No, no, I'll just run along and let you read your letter in peace. I know you want to, and I hope it brings good news. If it don't, you just remember it's always darkest before day. Frank Driscoll's bound to come out right side up. He's a good feller."
So saying, the kind friend to this couple took his departure, and Mrs. Driscoll's eager fingers tore open the envelope.
At the first four words, "It's all right, Nettie," she crushed the paper against her happy eyes and then hugged Alma.
It was all right. Mr. Driscoll had a position at last, and by the time summer should come he was sure they could be together again.
After the letter had been read and re-read, the two washed and put away the supper dishes with light hearts, and the next morning Mrs. Driscoll went off smiling to the factory, leaving a rather excited little girl to finish the morning work and arrange the lunch in the tin pail which was to be opened beside Miss Joslyn's desk.
There were two other excited children getting ready for school that morning. They had both slept on their troubles, but were very differently prepared to meet the day. Ada Singer's mental attitude was, "I'll never give in, and Lucy Berry will find it out."
Lucy felt comforted, but there remained now the great step of eating lunch with Alma and being punished by Ada in consequence. Her heart fluttered at the thought; but she was going to try not to think of herself at all, but to do right and let the consequences take care of themselves.
"There isn't any other way," her mother said to her at parting. "Anything which you do in any other spirit has simply to be done over again some time."
"Not one error-fairy shall cheat me to-day," thought Lucy stoutly, and then a disconcerting idea came to her: supposing Alma shouldn't come to school at all!
But Alma was there. Ada Singer, too, wearing a charming new dress and with a head held up so stiffly that it couldn't turn to look at anybody. Frank Morse, from his seat at the back of the room, looked curiously from one to another of the three girls and shook his head at his book.
At the first recess Ada Singer spoke to him as he was going out. "Wait a minute, Frank. It is so mild to-day, mother is coming for me after school with the auto. We're going to take a long spin. Wouldn't you like to go?"
"Yes, indeed," replied Frank; "but don't you want to take Lucy in my place?" He was a little uncomfortable.
"If I did I shouldn't ask you," returned Ada coolly.
"All right. Thank you," said Frank, but as he joined the boys on the playground he felt still more uncomfortable.
Lucy Berry, as soon as the recess bell had sounded, had gone straight to Alma. Her cheeks were very red, and the brown eyes were full of kindness.
Alma looked up in shy pleasure at her, a little embarrassed because she didn't know whether to thank Lucy for the valentines or not.
The latter did not give her time to speak. She said: "I came to see if you won't eat your lunch with me to-day."
Alma colored. How full the world was of kind people! "I'd love to," she answered, "but I think Ada wants to have you all alone and"—
"But I'd like it if you would," said Lucy firmly, "because I want to get more acquainted. My mother is coming to see yours on Sunday afternoon, too."
"I'm real glad she is," replied Alma, fairly basking in the light from Lucy's eyes. "I'd love to eat lunch with you, but Miss Joslyn invited me to have it with her to-day."
"Oh!" Lucy's gaze grew larger. "Why, that's lovely!" she said, in an awed tone.
They had very little more time for talk before the short recess was over. As the children took their way to their seats, Alma was amazed to see Ada Singer pass Lucy without a word, and even turn her head to avoid looking at her. The child had watched this close friendship so wistfully that she instantly saw there was trouble, and naturally thought of her invitation from Lucy as connected with it.
At the long recess, thoughts of this possible quarrel mingled with her pleasure in the visit with Miss Joslyn, who was a charming hostess. Many a girl or boy came to peep into the forbidden schoolroom, when the report was circulated that Alma Driscoll was up on the platform laughing and talking with the teacher and eating lunch with her in the cosy corner.
Miss Joslyn insisted on exchanging a part of her lunch for Alma's, spreading the things together on the white napkin, and chatting so eagerly and gayly that the little girl's face beamed. She soon told the teacher about the good news that came after she left the night before, and Miss Joslyn was very sympathetic. "It's a pretty nice world, isn't it?" she asked, smiling.
"Yes'm, it's just a lovely world to-day, only—only there's one thing, Miss Joslyn."
"What is it?"
"I think Lucy Berry and Ada Singer have had a quarrel."
"Oh, the inseparables? I guess not," the teacher smiled.
"Yes'm. The worst is, I think it's about me. Could I go out in the dressing-room to get my handkerchief, and see if they're on their usual window-sill?"
"Yes, indeed, if it will make you feel easier."
So Alma went out and soon returned. Lucy and Ada were not on their window-sill. Each was sitting with a different group of girls.
Miss Joslyn saw the serious discomfort this gave her little companion, and persuaded her away from the subject, returning to the congenial theme of Mr. Driscoll's new prospects.
But as soon as recess was over, Alma's thoughts went back to Ada Singer, for she felt certain that whatever had happened, Ada was the one to be appeased. The child could not bear to think of being the cause of trouble coming to dear, kind Lucy.
When school was dismissed, Ada Singer, her head carried high, put on her things in the dressing-room within a few feet of Lucy, but ignoring her presence. "I love her," thought Lucy, "and she does love me. Nothing can cheat either of us."
Ada went out without a look, and waited at the head of the stairs for Frank Morse. Alma Driscoll hastened up to her.
Ada drew away. Alma needn't think that because she had shared Miss Joslyn's luncheon she would now be as good as anybody.
"Can I speak to you just one minute?" asked the little girl so eagerly, yet meekly, that Ada turned to her; but now that she had gained attention, Alma did not know how to proceed. She hesitated and clasped and unclasped her hands over the gingham apron. "Please—please"—she stammered, "don't be cross with Lucy. She felt sorry for me, but I'll never eat lunch with her,—truly."
"You don't know what you're talking about," rejoined Ada coldly.
"Yes, she does." It was Frank Morse's voice, and Ada, turning quickly, saw him and Lucy standing a few feet behind her. The four children were alone in the deserted hall.
"Here," went on Frank bluntly, "I want you two girls to kiss and make up."
Ada blushed violently as she met Lucy's questioning, wistful look.
"Are you coming down to the auto, Frank?" she asked coolly. "Mother will be waiting."
"Oh, come now, Ada, be a good fellow. If you and Lucy want to put on the gloves, I'll see fair play; but for pity's sake drop this icy look business. Great Scott, I'm glad I'm not a girl!"
The genuine disgust in the boy's tone as he closed did disturb Ada a little, and then Lucy added at once, beseechingly:
"Oh, it's like a bad dream, Ada, to have anything the matter between us!"
"Whose fault is it?" asked Ada sharply. "Why did you fly at me so yesterday?"
Both girls had forgotten Alma who, like a soberly dressed, big-eyed little bird, was watching the proceedings in much distress.
"You just the same as accused me of sending Alma the 'comic,'" continued Ada.
"Oh, didn't you send it?" cried Lucy, fairly springing at her friend in her relief. "I don't care what you do to me then! I deserve anything, for I really thought you did."
Her eloquent face and the love in her eyes broke down some determination in Ada's proud little heart, and raised another, perhaps quite as proud, but at least with an element of nobility. She foresaw that the dishonesty was going to be more than she could bear.
"I did send it," she said suddenly, with her chin up. Then, ignoring Frank and Lucy's open-mouthed stares, she turned toward Alma. "I sent you the 'comic,'" she went on. "I thought it would be fun, but it wasn't, and I'm sorry. I should like to have you forgive me."
Her tone was far from humble, but it was music to Alma's ears. The little girl clasped her hands together. "Oh, I do," she replied earnestly, "and it made everybody so kind! Please don't feel bad about it. I got the loveliest valentines in the evening, and Miss Joslyn came to see us, and we had a letter from my father and he has a splendid place to work and—and everything!"
Ada breathed a little faster at the close of this breathless speech. Alma's eagerness to ascribe even her father's good fortune to the sending of the 'comic' touched her. In her embarrassment she took another determination.
"If you'll excuse me, Frank," she said turning to him, "I think I'll take Alma home in the auto, instead of you."
"All right," returned the boy, his face flushed. "You're a brick, Ada!"
This praise from one who seldom praised gave Ada secret elation, and made her resolve to deserve it. "Good-by, Lucy," was all she said, but the girls' eyes met, and Lucy knew the trouble was over.
As Ada and Alma went downstairs, Lucy ran to the hall window, and Frank followed. "Don't let them see us," she said joyfully.
So, very cautiously, the two peeped and saw the handsome automobile waiting. Mrs. Singer was sitting within and they saw Ada say something to her; then Alma, her thick coat over the gingham apron, and the large dinner-pail in her hand, climbed in, Ada after her, and away they all went.
Lucy turned to Frank with her face glowing.
"It's all right now," she said. "When Ada takes hold she never lets go; and now she's taken hold right!"