"Miss South feels that she can judge them only very superficially this year; but she hopes that next year she will know them so well that she can give them definite advice. In the mean time they are at the mercy of laymen like yourself and myself, and we have the responsibility of guiding them toward the heights of art, whether in the æsthetic or the culinary line."
Theoretically Pamela took some of the girls each Saturday to the Art Museum; really the average was hardly oftener than every other week. There were rainy Saturdays, there were days when Pamela had special work of her own, or an occasional invitation would come for her to go out of town. Three girls at a time were invited to go. Julia would not permit Pamela to leave the house with more than that number, lest she should be mistaken for the head of an orphan asylum.
Pamela made these trips so interesting that for a girl to be forbidden to go when her day came was the greatest punishment that could be inflicted on her. Julia and Miss South had discovered this, and the discovery had solved one of their greatest problems,—this question of punishment; for although the girls were old enough to be beyond the need of punishment, yet there were certain rules that only the very best never broke, and to the breaking of which certain penalties were attached.
Thus it happened that on this particular Saturday afternoon Haleema, whose turn it was to go, was not of the trio, and in her place was Maggie, triumphant in the knowledge that for a whole week she had not broken a single cup or saucer, nor in fact a dish of any kind.
"That means that I have my whole quarter to do as I like with," she said as they left the house.
"That means," interpolated Concetta, "that you'll put it in your little bank. She's a regular miser, Miss Northcote."
"No, I ain't," responded Maggie, "only just now I'm saving."
"That's right," said Pamela. "'Many a little make a mickle.'"
"Yes, 'm," and Maggie lapsed into her wonted silence.
Concetta, however, was inclined to be more talkative.