“But the picture shows is great fun, ’specially when the boys take ye in,” the other flung back.
There was a laugh at that, and the little bundle-wrapper added, “an’ finish up with a promenade on the avenue in the ’lectric lights.”
Laura’s heart sank at these frank expressions of opinion. What had she to offer that would offset picture shows, dances and “the boys” for such girls as these? But now one of the High School girls was speaking. “We have most of our good times at the school. There is always something going on—lunches or concerts or socials or dances—and once a year we get up a play. Some girl in the class generally writes the play. It’s great fun.”
Laura brightened at that. Here were three at least who cared for something besides picture shows. For half an hour longer she let the talk run on, and that half-hour gave her sidelights on many of the girls. Except Olga—she had not opened her lips during the discussion.
When there came a little pause, Laura spoke in a carefully careless way. “I told you, girls, that this is our Camp Fire room and I want you to feel that it belongs to you—every one of you owns a share in it. We shall have the Council meetings here every Saturday, but this room is not to be shut up all the other evenings. We may have no moving pictures, but you can come here and dance if you wish, or play games, or sing—I’m going to have a piano here soon—or if you like you can bring your sewing—your Christmas presents to make. What I want you to understand is that this room is yours, to be used for your pleasure. You haven’t seen all yet.”
Rising, she touched a button, and as the room was flooded with light, threw open a door. The girls, crowding after her, broke into cries of delight and admiration; for here was a white-tiled kitchen complete in all its appointments, even to a small white-enamelled gas range and a tiny refrigerator. On brass hooks hung blue and white saucepans and kettles and spoons, and a triangular corner closet with leaded doors revealed blue and white china and glass.
“All for the Camp Fire Girls,” Laura said, “and it means fudge, and popcorn, and toasted marshmallows and bacon-bats and anything else you like. You can come here yourselves every Wednesday evening, and if you wish, you can bring a friend with you to share your good times.”
“Boy or girl friend?” Lena Barton’s shrewd eyes twinkled as she asked the question, with a saucy tilt to her little freckled nose.
“Either,” returned Laura instantly, though until that moment she had thought only of girls.
“Gee, but you’re some Guardian, Miss Laura!” Lena replied.