Little Prudy's Cousin Grace

by Sophie May

I. THE CUP AND SAUCER

II. THE RUBY SEAL

III. THE PRIZE

IV. A SNAKE IN THE GRASS

V. FORTUNES

VI. MISFORTUNES

VII. THE REGARD-RING

VIII. PRUDY PARLIN

IX. BARBARA'S WEDDING

X. WHO GETS THE PRIZE?

XI. THE CHILDREN'S FAIR

COUSIN GRACE ——————

CHAPTER I.

THE CUP AND SAUCER.

Grace Clifford and Katharine Hallock were such dear friends, and spent so much time together, that you could not think of one without thinking of the other, and people linked their names together, and spoke of "Grace and Cassy," just as one speaks of a "cup and saucer" or a "hook and eye."

Yet they were not in the least alike. There was something very eager and vivid about Grace, with her bright blue eyes, auburn curls, and brilliant color. She had an ecstatic way of laughing, and a wild, agonized way of weeping. She clapped her hands for joy, or wrung them for grief. Her tears fell in showers, but afterward the sun was sure to shine out clearly.

Cassy, on the other hand, was a gentle, brown-eyed little maiden, with long lashes sweeping her cheeks, and brown hair lying quietly behind her ears. She never stormed nor raved.

It was a very rare thing for the girls to disagree. They had such a dear love for each other that they decided never to marry, but to live together in a charming cottage adorned with woodbine, and keep chickens, pigeons and a cat.

At the beginning of our story they were nearly twelve years old, and closer friends than ever. They had exchanged rings as pledges of everlasting fidelity. The ring which Cassy gave Grace was set with gems—ruby, emerald, garnet, amethyst, ruby, and diamond—the initials spelling the word "Regard." This regard-ring had once belonged to Mrs. Hallock; but after being broken and mended it was too small for her, and she had given it to Cassy.

In exchange, Grace put on her friend's third finger a pretty emerald, which had been a good-by present from Mr. Augustus Allen.

One day in March these two Hoosier girls were walking hand in hand down Vine Street, where there was always a fine shade in the summer. Now the trees were leafless, and the bright sun shadowed forth little flickering pictures of their branches on the girls' shawls and hats.

"Why, Cassy Hallock," said Grace, shading her face with one hand, "this sun is bright enough to blind an eagle."

"But it doesn't blind me," laughed Cassy. "I can almost look at it without winking."

"Then you must be a half-eagle, Cassy. Why, you don't mind the weather, or any of the bothers! You never fly out of patience! O, Cassy Hallock, I think you're splendid!"

As this was not the first time Cassy had been eulogized as "splendid," she was by no means astonished, but continued to move quietly along, with her usual composure. Grace Clifford seemed a little nervous. Every now and then she would drop her friend's hand, and gather a few blades of grass, or pick up a pebble, then seize Cassy's hand again, and walk on. Cassy watched her companion with some curiosity. "Now, Gracie Clifford," said she at last, "you're keeping something to yourself; I just know you are."

"What if I am?" said Grace, tossing an orange into the air and catching it as it fell; "I needn't tell you every single thing, Cassy!"

"Yes, you must, Gracie Clifford," was the firm reply. "I'm your dearest friend, and am I not going off next week visiting?"

"Well, I've nothing to tell, any way, but just thoughts," said Grace, pocketing her orange, and taking Cassy's hand again, while they each hopped on one foot like happy little robins. "I've a great many thoughts whizzing in my mind all the time, Cassy. I've been thinking lately about— I mean, I've been wishing, for ages and ages, that I'd been born a boy; but it's silly, and so I never say it."

"Why, Gracie Clifford, I've heard you say it five hundred times! I'd as soon be a girl, because I am, and there's the end of it."

"But to grow up and be a woman!" said Grace, with a shudder. "Do you ever think of the wrinkles, and the cross kitchen girls, and the children that have to cut their teeth? And you can't sleep nights; and then they won't let you vote!"

"I don't want to vote, Gracie; what would I vote for?"

"O, child! For union and liberty, and all the good things. Don't you go to encouraging slavery, Cassy!"

"No," laughed Cassy, "I won't."

"And don't let such swearing people as Mr. Blake go to Congress. But there, you can't help it, Cassy; you never'll vote, neither will I. And there's Horace, —what do you suppose that boy cares about politics? But he'll vote fast enough."

"O, yes," chimed in Cassy, beginning to grow indignant, "only because he's a boy!"

"And he'll come to me, Horace will, just as likely as not, Cassy, and
I'll have to tell him which way to vote."

The girls looked rather scornful as they pictured to themselves an imaginary Horace, tall and twenty-one, anxiously inquiring of his sister what ticket he should throw into the ballot-box.

"Now, you see," said Grace, "it's very absurd to make a fuss that way over boys. They feel it. It sets them up on a throne."

"O, yes, I reckon it does, Gracie. Isn't it right funny now to look at boys, and see the airs they put on?"

"It is so," said Grace, sweeping back her curls with a gesture of disdain. "There's their secret societies, Cassy."

"Yes, Gracie, and I don't approve of any such goings on. Johnny looks so wise and important! How I wish I knew what it's all about!"

"Why, Cassy, I wouldn't know if I could. I'd scorn to care."

"So would I scorn to care," replied Cassy, quickly. "O, of course!
It's of no account, you might know."

"What vexes me, Cassy, is the way they look down on us girls, and boast that they can keep secrets and we can't, when it's no such a thing, Cassy Hallock, as you and I very well know—we that have kept secrets for years and years, and never, never told, and never will to our dying days!"

Cassy nodded her head emphatically, implying that words could not do justice to the subject.

"Cassy, dear, you asked me, a little while ago, what I was thinking about; and now I'll tell you. I've been wondering if we mightn't get up a secret society our own selves!"

Cassy stopped short, laughed, and said, "Capital!" forgetting that not five minutes before she had expressed contempt for such "goings on." "How many girls will we have, Gracie?"

"Why, our graduating class, that's seven. We don't go much with the other girls, you know. I'm so glad you like the idea, Cassy! and, now you do, I'm going to have it. I've just made up my mind!"

"But suppose the others don't approve?"

"O, pshaw, Cassy! that's of no sort of consequence! What you and I think they'll think—all but Isa Harrington, and we'll soon manage her."

"Well," replied Cassy, drawing a long breath, "don't let's walk quite so fast, Gracie, we'll be at the schoolhouse before we know it, and you and I must have everything arranged between us. What name, Gracie?"

"What think of calling ourselves Princesses of the— the— some kind of a seal? The seal must be golden, or diamond, or something else that's precious."

"The Ruby Seal," suggested Cassy.

"O, that's it, dear! Our lips are the ruby seal, Cassy, and never, never will they open to utter the secrets of our order. We'll promise to love, honor and protect one another as long as we all shall live. Our motto will be, "Vera ad finem." I suppose you don't know what that means, Cissy; but it's "true to the end," Robin says."

"I've only one thing to say," interrupted Cassy; "this mustn't make any difference between you and me, Gracie; we'll be good friends enough with the others, but—"

"Yes, Cassy, good friends enough; but it's you and I that are the dear friends. We'll be "vera" —that's true —to the others, but never the least speck intimate. But hush! Here we are at the schoolhouse. Don't you breathe a word, you know, Cassy! We'll take our seats just as sober as if nothing had happened!"

CHAPTER II

THE RUBY SEAL.

The graduating class of the Girls' Grammar School comprised seven young misses, of whom Grace Clifford was the youngest, though by no means the most timid and retiring. They all met on Saturday afternoon at Mrs. Hallock's to talk over the new project.

The vote was unanimous in favor of the Ruby Seal. Isabel Harrington opposed it for a while, it is true; but this may possibly have been because she was not the very first one consulted.

"Now," said Grace, when she saw that, as usual, Cassy expected her to manage affairs, "here I sit with pencil and paper; and now we'll pass resolutions, if you please. I'm secretary."

"First place," said Isabel Harrington, with a toss of the head, "I'd like to ask what's the good of a society, any way?"

"What's the good?" repeated Grace; "ahem! it's to— to— make us better, of course."

"Then mightn't we pass one resolution to read the Bible?" asked gentle
Mahla Linck, the lame girl, whom everybody loved.

"Yes, we will, we will!" cried every voice.

"It's a vote," said Grace, writing down: "We hereby solemnly pledge ourselves to read two chapters in the Bible daily."

"And say our prayers," suggested Mahla again.

"O, that's all understood," replied Grace. "I'd be ashamed to put that down. It looks like we could ever forget our prayers!"

"Now," said Judith Pitcher, "I move we forbid the use of all unladylike words."

This vote was passed.

The next was against falsehoods of every hue, from little white lies up to the big black ones.

"We mustn't talk about 'oceans of tears,' and 'biting our tongues out,' I suppose," said Isabel, demurely, but with a sly glance at the secretary.

"That means me," said Grace, blushing. "And now," continued she, pausing and looking at Cassy, who would not speak for her, "—now let's all agree never— never to be married. If that be your minds, please to manifest it."

The girls looked astonished.

"I've been reading Mythology," pursued Grace, "and some of the nicest goddesses and nymphs didn't marry — Diana, and Minerva, and Clytie, and Sappho."

"We're not goddesses and nymphs, I hope," said Diademia Jones, shaking her head.

"Nor heathens," added Isa, with spirit.

"O, no; but if ladies want to be very great, and do oceans of good, and write poems and everything, why, they mustn't be married. You see how it is, girls; there's so much housekeeping and sewing to attend to."

"But, then," added Lucy Lane, mournfully, "if we're not married, we'll be—old maids!"

"O, no, indeed," said Grace, positively. "Why, if you're great and splendid, you never will—no such a thing! Maria Edgeworth was splendid, and she never was an old maid that ever I heard of. And there was—"

"Grace Greenwood," suggested Cassy, in the tone of one who has added the finishing stroke to an argument.

But the girls exclaimed,—"Why, Grace Greenwood is married; what are you talking about? There, there, people can be married, and be splendid, too."

Grace felt that her cause had received a blow.

"Now, girls," said she, after a pause, "I'll tell you how it is. Grace Greenwood was married a long while ago. If she was a little girl now, and saw such acting boys, she'd say, 'It's an awful thing!' Why, girls, I think, for my part," Grace went on with much dignity, "we lower ourselves, we degrade ourselves, when we associate with boys. They smoke, and chew, and use very improper language. It does seem to me we're white lilies, and they're nothing but—but thistles. Let's faithfully promise not to converse with boys, —unless it's to try and reform them, you know."

"Our brothers," urged soft-voiced Lucy Lane, timidly.

"Yes, our brothers," murmured the other girls.

"And our cousins, you know," added dashing Diademia Jones.

No one was quite so enthusiastic over this non-marrying resolve as Grace had expected; still, the vote was passed with much solemnity, the girls resigning themselves to the prospect of single lives like a little band of heroines. They were now certain of becoming distinguished, and might be doctors, judges, or ministers, just as they liked, though, as Grace very justly remarked, they need be in no haste about choosing professions.

It was decided that Grace should be queen of the Ruby Seal Society. The girls bound themselves to one another by solemn pledges, and if any member should, by word or deed, do anything to the injury of a princess, the offender was to be expelled at once. The name, and even the existence, of the society must be kept a profound secret. They agreed that a lecture should be delivered once a month, the queen leading off, and the princesses following in turn, according to ages.

Isa Harrington tried to pass a resolution against any two members of the society being especially intimate, and setting themselves up for "particular friends." She was quite eloquent upon this resolution, but was frowned into silence by Grace, who would have cried, "Down with the Ruby Seal," sooner than she would have given up Cassy for an intimate friend.

The society broke up mutually pleased, every one of the princesses sealing the compact with a kiss, and parting with the password for the month, "Vera." The only discontented face was Isa's, and her handsome eyes darkened with jealousy as she looked back and saw that Grace lingered, talking with Cassy. What was there about Cassy Hallock so very remarkable? For Isa's part, she couldn't see that she was better than other folks! Ah, Isa Harrington, look out for that tiny serpent of jealousy. Crush it before it grows to a monster.

[Illustration: Grace and Cassy]

Grace and Cassy walked slowly along, their arms about each other's waists, chatting socially, and making the most of the time, for Cassy was to go to Kentucky next week. There are few things more pure and delightful than the mutual friendship of two good little girls. Isa Harrington, to be sure, did not think so, but her jealousy was not more than half suspected by Grace and Cassy.

The Cliffords lived a little way out of town, and their beautiful grounds were soon in full view. The broad lawn, enclosed by a trimly-cut hedge, was now of a sleepy brown, in harmony with the freestone house which stood on a terrace overlooking the clusters of evergreen trees and well-trained shrubbery. On the other side of the house was a conservatory filled with choice flowers, and beyond that the cottage of Mr. Sherwood, the English gardener.

The girls parted at their trysting-place, the "acorn-tree," and Grace walked the rest of the way alone, musing upon the glorious destiny which awaited the distinguished Miss Clifford in the rosy future.

When within a few steps of the gate, she saw her mother coming from Mr. Sherwood's cottage in apparent haste. There was evidently some cause of disturbance, for every member of the Sherwood family ran out of the house, one after another, followed by Barbara Kinkle, with her apron over her head.

"What is the matter," cried Grace, rushing into the yard in breathless haste.

"Nothing much," replied Barbara, trying to speak calmly. "Your brother has only been and lost himself. But don't you have no fears, Miss Grace; he never did go and fall in the river."

Every particle of color fled from Grace's face. She forgot that Horace belonged to the condemned race of "awful boys." The bare possibility that he might be drowned was too horrible!

"O, Barby," she cried out. "O, Mr. Sherwood, run for the river."

And for her own part, she ran round and round in a maze, wringing her hands, peeping under the hedge, examining the gravel path, and all the places where Horace certainly could not be, even if he had tried to conceal himself. Mr. Sherwood and his wife had gone to the river.

"It is, perhaps, a foolish alarm," said Mrs. Clifford, pacing the yard. "Horace asked me to let him go, with some other boys, shooting squirrels, but I said No, very decidedly. I cannot think Horace would disobey me so."

"Hurrah!" shouted a boyish voice from the house. "Here is the runaway, safe and sound. Please come here, Mrs. Clifford, if you want to see a curiosity."

Mrs. Clifford, Grace, and Barbara went up stairs with hearts wonderfully lightened.

"Further yet," said Robert Sherwood's voice from a distance.

Ascending the fourth flight of stairs, they entered the square, unfinished room called the Observatory. Here sat the boy who had caused this anxiety, surrounded by a chaos of tools, blocks of wood, pieces of tin, and coils of rope.

"Now, there!" cried he, bending his elbows into acute angles, and trying to hide his work in his leather apron. "What made you come in my shop? My pa said—"

"My son," said Mrs. Clifford, trying not to smile at the boy's perplexed gestures and eager attempts to put things out of sight, "if you had only told us you kept shop in the roof of the house, we would have been spared this needless alarm."

"Yes, Horace Clifford," said Grace, loftily, "I do despise to see anyone so secret and mysterious."

"I wonders we didn't think he was whittling sticks some-place," said
Barbara, glancing admiringly at Horace.

"Well, now you know," said the boy, fidgeting. "You've found me, and
I wasn't lost; now can't you go off?"

"Pretty talk to your ma," cried Grace.

"O, ma, I don't mean you. But I just don't want anybody to see this thing I'm making till it's plum done."

"Plum done!" repeated Grace; "where did you pick up such droll words? and why will you twist your mouth so, Horace?"

The boy threw down his jackknife with a jerk of despair.

"There, now, can't you go away?—I mean you and Barby. 'Tisn't fair play. This is my own shop-room, and my pa said I could keep my tool-chest in it, and there shouldn't anybody—"

But Horace found himself talking to empty air, for his visitors had disappeared. He unrolled his leather apron, removed the bit of straw matting from sundry boards, and gazed at them fondly, muttering, "Too good for Gracie, now, isn't it, when she blows me up so?" But for all that, he set to work again till it was so dark that he could not see to guide his jackknife; when he went downstairs, declaring—to use his own words—that he "was hungry enough to eat ginger."

Phebe, the little colored girl, who, during all the excitement about Horace, had been obliged to stay in the nursery with the baby, was glad now to wash dishes for Barbara, and pour into her ears complaints of wee Katie, who was, she said, "a right cross one—as cross as two hundred sticks."

Barbara listened in indignant silence, only asking at last, "What for a baby would she be now, if she goes to cut her teeth and doesn't cry?"

"Bravo! Chalk Eyes," cried Horace, suddenly rushing out upon Phebe, "none of your grumbling."

"O, Horace," whispered Grace, reprovingly, "hush saying Chalk Eyes.
Haven't you any feeling for poor discolored creatures?

"Poh, Gracie! Niggroes don't feel any worse than we do. Come, let's play catch."

They played till they were called into the parlor to learn their
Sabbath school lessons.

Grace's last waking thought was about the new society. Who knew but they might some day build a little asylum for poor children? People would wonder and admire. Well, nobody should know a word about it yet,—not for a year and a day. Just as if girls couldn't keep secrets! And Grace at last dropped to sleep with her finger on her lip.