Bessie Bradford's Prize

by Joanna H. Mathews

Bessie's soft eyes opened wide, as she gazed at her father in pleased surprise. Although the money which had been devoted by her to Lena's relief had not come through him, it actually had not occurred to her until this moment that she would not be called upon to give up the music lessons. She had made the sacrifice freely for Lena's sake, and had had no thought of evading its fulfilment, even after circumstances had turned out so differently from anything that she had expected.

She flashed a grateful, appreciative glance at her father from out of the depths of those loving eyes, but said nothing; and, as Mr. Bradford had decreed, the subject was changed. The father and his little daughter understood one another.

Mr. Bradford did not, however, tell Bessie that he had never intended that she should be obliged to carry out her sacrifice; she had offered it unselfishly, and in good faith, and he would let her have the satisfaction of feeling that she had been willing to do this for her little friend.

Bessie was not sure whether or no she was in haste to see Lena and hear from her of the providential gift she had received. She was so little accustomed to conceal her feelings, to evasion, or to affectation of an ignorance which did not exist, that she did not know how she was to maintain an appearance of innocence when Lena should tell her that which she would doubtless believe to be surprising news; and more and more confirmed became her resolution "never, never, never to have another secret" which she could not share with her mother and Maggie.

But when she did see Lena—which was not until the latter had sent for her to come to her—all difficulty on that score was removed, for the news which her friend had to communicate to her was really so extraordinary and unlocked for that she did not need to affect surprise, or to feel embarrassed over her own share in the events Lena had to relate. And the possibility of Bessie being the donor of that sum of money never occurred to Lena. Perhaps she would have been glad to know it, for Lena was a proud child, with a very independent spirit, and in spite of the immense relief it was to her to be able to free Percy from the difficulties in which he had involved himself, there had been an uncomfortable feeling back of that from the sense of obligation to some unknown person. Who could have sent her that money? Who could have been aware of her extreme need of it?

There is small occasion to say that it had scarcely come into her hands when it was sent again on its travels; this time to Percy.

The hilarious acknowledgment which immediately came back to her was a relief in more ways than one, although she was half provoked at the insouciant, devil-may-care-now spirit which it evinced.

Percy wrote:

"DEAR LENA,

"You're the dearest of little sisters, the brickiest of bricks! But there is no need for me to rob you of your hundred dollars. You say somebody sent it to you anonymously; well, the same somebody, I suppose, has done the same good office for me, sent me a hundred dollars. You say you don't know who it could be; why, it was Russell, of course. You know he's just as generous as generous can be, and since he came into his own money he can't rid himself of it fast enough, but must always be finding out ways of spending it for other people. And I don't see anything so strange in this way of doing it. He knew the powers that be would make an awful row if they knew we had all that money to spend at our own sweet wills, so he took this way of sending it to us, so that we could keep our own counsel; and if they do find out we have it, we can say we don't know where it came from. It is a blessed thing they will never know that I had mine, at any rate, or ask where it went. You may be sure it did not stay in my hands long, but went into those of Seabrooke in five minutes. How I did want to keep it too. But there, Seabrooke is paid, and I'm free and no one the wiser; at least, no one that I'm afraid of, so no harm is done. But to think I've had to lose that money for such a thing as that. I suppose it was a shabby trick to play, and I tell you I think I never heard anything quite so scurvy as Flagg putting that stuff into Seabrooke's carafe to make him sleep, and I'm sure Seabrooke feels more put out about that than he does about the letter, because that was malice prepense, and the other was—well—an accident; at least, we did not know the mischief we were doing, and we have made it all right. But he can't get over the drugging, and I'm glad I had no hand in it, for I do not know what the doctor will say to it. He is not back yet; but his son is better, and he will be here when we come after the Easter holidays. I'm rather sick of Flagg anyway; he has mean ways, and our dear old Russell wouldn't tolerate him for a moment, so I'll shake him off all I can when I come back to school. I'll keep your hundred dollars till I come home, and hand it to you then. You're a trump, Lena, and I never would have taken it if I could have helped it. But I would have had to do it if this other hundred had not come. And, do you know, there is one thing that puzzles me. It came by post from New York in a hair-pin box, and done up in about a thousand papers-at least there were six—so I suppose Russell sent to some one in the city to do it for him; but the whole thing was awfully womanish. The address was in the most correct, copy-book-y handwriting, every point turned just so, every loop according to rule. But it came just in the nick of time, and saved me and your money. Bless your heart, how are the feet?