Helen Grant's Schooldays

by Amanda M. Douglas

"But there will be Jenny's wedding about the middle of the month, Aunt said."

"And on the tenth the High School opens."

"Oh, dear! My schooldays seem a great perplexity," and Helen gave a vague smile. "Some girls' lives run on so smoothly, but mine appears full of upsets."

"Take courage and go on. I think it will come out right. But I shall not make a single plan until you have passed the examination."

Then Mrs. Van Dorn's bell rang.

Helen slipped off her sacque, washed her hands, and suddenly bent down and kissed Mrs. Dayton's forehead. "Oh," she cried with deep tenderness, "I wish I had a mother! I wish you were my mother."

Mrs. Dayton looked after her, as she flashed through the dining room. All her motions were light and rapid, yet she never ran over chairs, or bumped up against doors or corners. It was a grace born in her, and Mrs. Dayton wondered that it had not all been wrenched out of her by the crude bustling life at the Mulfords'. And she wondered how it would seem to have a daughter growing up who would love her and care for her. Helen was overflowing with gratitude, and one of the best features of it was that it abounded in deeds rather than words. She always wanted to do something in return, she often did it without stopping to inquire, daily little things that evinced thoughtfulness. After all, her three years' board would hardly be felt, there would be the summer vacation. Only, if she should be sent away somewhere to teach afterward. But there would be three pleasant years. She could afford to do it now, she had gone past the pinches, and was putting by a little every year.

Mrs. Van Dorn, upstairs on her couch in the comfort of a dressing sacque, was amusing herself with plans as well. She did like to enjoy outgeneraling people. And this young Mr. Warfield's confidence rather piqued her. The same thought had entered her mind that this enthusiastic girl might repeat her mother's story, and she had a fancy that it had been one of disappointment.

Years ago the daughter of a cousin, the only relative who had ever befriended her, after a prosperous married life of a dozen years' duration, was thrown on her own endeavors for a livelihood, with two little girls. She had a beautiful house in a pretty, refined town, but there was a considerable mortgage on it. Mrs. Van Dorn had come to her assistance; she was not all selfishness. With a little aid, Mrs. Aldred had established herself in a day and boarding school, had added to her house, and become the pride of the pretty town of Westchester. One act of Mrs. Aldred had gone to her old cousin's heart. She had paid the whole sum loaned, interest and principal, and sent the most heartfelt thanks. She was a prosperous and happy woman, and her girls were growing up into usefulness, one was teaching, the other would be an artist. There was no hint or suggestion that she should like to be remembered in anyone's will, or would be grateful for any gift. The principle of the incident really touched Mrs. Van Dorn, who paid Mrs. Aldred a visit, and on her departure left her what she called a little gift in token of her courage and business ability, a check for a thousand dollars.

"I'm going to take the good of what I have," she announced with a rather grim smile, "so I shall have the less to leave behind when I die."