Without commenting or appearing surprised, Betty brought over to her bedside a quantity of bright straw and straightaway commenced showing the girl the first principles of the art of basket-weaving which she had learned in the Sunrise Camp Fire. Very little instruction was necessary; for, before the first lesson was over, the pupil had learned almost as much as her teacher. Indeed the French girl’s skill with her hands was an amazement to everybody. With her third effort and without assistance, Angel manufactured so charming a basket that Betty bore it home in triumph to show to her brother and sister. Then quite by accident the basket was left in Esther’s sitting room, where a visitor, seeing it and hearing the story of its weaving, asked permission to purchase it.
After some discussion, and fearful of how the girl might receive the offer, Betty finally summoned courage to tell Angelique. Thus unexpectedly Betty came upon one of the secrets of her new friend’s nature. Angel had an inordinate, a passionate desire for making money. She was older than any one had imagined her, between fourteen and fifteen. Now her hands were no longer clenched on her coverlid nor did her eyes turn resolutely to gaze at nothingness. Propped up on her pillows, her white fingers were ever busy at dozens of tasks. Betty had found a place in Boston where her baskets were sold almost as fast as she could make them. Then Angelique knew quite amazing things about sewing, so that Esther sent her several tiny white frocks to be delicately embroidered, and always the other girls at the hospital were asking her aid and advice.
Quite astonishing the doctors considered the girl’s rapid improvement. Perhaps no one had told them the secret, for she now had an interest in life and a chance not to be always useless. Was it curious that she no longer disliked Betty Ashton and that she soon became the leading spirit in the new Camp Fire?
Afterwards the Wohelo candles were placed on a small table near Angel’s bed while the girls formed their group about her.
Then one day in early April the Princess had whispered something in Angel’s ear. It was only a hope or at best a plan, yet, after all, Betty Ashton was a kind of fairy godmother to whom all impossible things were possible.
For Sunrise cabin was undoubtedly open once again with four girls as its occupants—Betty Ashton and Mollie O’Neill, Cricket and “The Angel.”
“I am afraid you won’t find my story as interesting as you would like it to be,” Angel said after a moment. “And perhaps it may prejudice you against me. I don’t believe Americans think of these things as French people do. But my father was a ballet master and ever since I was the tiniest little girl I had been taught to dance and dance, almost to do nothing else. You see I was to be a première danseuse some day,” Angel continued quite simply and calmly, scarcely noticing that Betty’s face had paled through sympathy and that she was biting her lips and resolutely turning away her eyes from the fragile figure stretched out in the long steamer chair.
“I was born in Paris, but when I was only a few years old my father came to New York and was one of the assistant ballet masters at your great opera house. Ten years later, I think it must have been, I was trying a very difficult dance and in some way I had a fall. I did not know it was very bad, we paid no attention to it, then this came.” The little French girl shrugged her shoulders. “My father died soon after and mother tried taking care of us both. She did sewing at the theaters and anything else she could. She wasn’t very successful. One day a chance came for me to have special treatment in Boston. I was sent there and mother got some other work to do. I have only seen her once in months and months. But you can understand now why I am so anxious to make money. I was afraid perhaps you would not. I don’t want to be a burden on mother always and now I think perhaps I need not be.”
Angel spoke with entire cheerfulness and decision. It did not seem even to have occurred to her that she had been telling her friend an amazingly tragic little history. Nor did Betty Ashton wish her to realize how deeply affected she was by it. So, jumping up with rather an affectation of hurry and surprise, she kissed her companion lightly on the cheek.
“Thank you a thousand times for confiding in me, dear, and please don’t be hopeless about never getting well. See how much you have improved! But there comes the first of our guests to lunch, a whole half hour too soon. But as long as Billy Webster promised to bring us the mail from Woodford I suppose I must forgive him. Anyhow I must try to keep him from worrying Mollie. She would be dreadfully bored to have him see her before she is dressed.” Betty walked away for a few steps and then came back again.