Poor Milly was so slight, so shy, so unpretending, that it did seem as if she might have been allowed to slip in without remark among her more fortunate classmates, on the Saturday half-holiday. It was soon settled, however, that she was “not their kind at all,” that it had been all a mistake having her in the first place, and she must be made to feel that now she had left school she ought of course to resign from the Club. There being no dissent from this proposition, the girls were about to take up the programme for their next meeting, when a clear young voice with the least bit of foreign accent suddenly broke in upon the talk.
“Girls, I’ve been reading in an old book how the New England Indians made the first white men welcome and gave them the best they had, and how the poor exiles here and in Virginia would have starved many times if it hadn’t been for the Indians’ corn. I wondered, just at first, why they did it, because the strangers were so different, and you know we don’t usually like people who are a different color or race or even dress or live differently. And then I remembered that we Indians are always taught to be kind to strangers—to feed even our enemies if they come to us hungry or in trouble—what you call hospitality. The Christian white people don’t teach their children hospitality, do they?”
There was a minute’s surprised silence.
“After all, girls, it won’t hurt us a bit to let Milly come whenever she can; prob’ly it won’t be very often,” hesitated Doris.
“Have any of you seen her lately?” Cynthia broke in. “She was always little, you know, but now! Why, there’s nothing to her at all. She looks just as neat and nice as ever, but oh my! Just as if she didn’t get enough to eat. Her father doesn’t work regularly, you know; and her mother was in the hospital six months; Milly earns three dollars a week and has to work from seven in the morning until six at night, except Saturday afternoons and Sundays. I asked her why she hadn’t been to Sunday-school lately, and she said she spent all day Sunday washing and ironing her clothes, because she was so tired she simply couldn’t do it evenings; but I think it was partly because she dreaded meeting the girls she used to go with.”
Here Doris began to cry quietly, and the other girls, who were really good-hearted enough at bottom, looked so ashamed of themselves that Stella slipped away as soon as she could.
“There’s one thing more I must speak about, girls,” she said, as soon as the three inseparables were out of hearing. “You know I haven’t taken my turn at entertaining the Club—and this is our third year—and each of you has had them at your house two or three times. I’ve been thinking and thinking.”
“Oh, don’t, Jibby darling!” cried Doris, distressed. “Nobody expects you to entertain; we all understand.”
“Everybody in Laurel knows Miss Sophia,” declared Cynthia, with bitter emphasis.
“I can’t help it; I must do something for the others, just once! No, I can’t ask Miss Sophia to have them at her house, even if I buy all the refreshments with my own money. She is very particular about her floors—and the dishes—a cup might get broken or something. But oh, Doris! do you suppose Uncle Si—?”