“It is true,” said the First Violin—a pensive maid known to her elders as Dorothy Gray,—“that we have not attended the meetings so regularly as we used to; but that was all because Frances has seemed so different.”
“In what way ‘different’?” queried Miss Carlyon quietly.
“Oh! in every way. She used to talk such a lot about helping people, and to be full of plans for all sorts of ways to make our Society some real good to the Woodend poor folks. We were going to have a bazaar in the summer, and build a club-room which would be open in the evenings and entice the men from that dreadful inn at Lumber’s Yard. It was to be a secret until we had held another meeting.”
“I thought you were bringing me some news, Dorothy.”
“Of course we were going to tell you all about it before we decided anything.”
“Well, dear. And must the project fall through?”
“Why, I suppose so. We could not get on without Frances. She is so good at arranging and managing. Besides, it would seem so strange and unfriendly to throw ourselves into anything heartily with Frances out in the cold.”
“But if Frances has chosen that uncomfortable position?”
“Can’t we get her away from it? Do help us, Miss Carlyon!”
There was a minute’s silence, while Muriel watched observantly the half-dozen young faces turned eagerly to hers.