Twice a week they held meetings in a large chamber at Mrs. Clifford's. Here they kept their pieces of work, each girl having a separate basket. Articles accumulated: unfinished pincushions, babies' socks, bookmarks, dolls' bodies, kettle-holders, and garments of "domestic muslin," known in New England as "factory cloth."
Mrs. Clifford, who was not only a patriotic lady, but an accomplished needlewoman, had a general oversight of matters, and spent an hour or two each afternoon with the children, making suggestions and adding finishing touches.
Before long, a dozen girls from the High School joined the R. S. S. Fancy articles grew apace. It was even hoped now that the Fair could be held before the opening of the schools in September.
Grace was fathoms deep in business. She wanted Horace to work too, and thought he and Phebe should be ready at all hours to run of errands, drive nails, or hold skeins of silk. Horace ought never be complain when called away from play; for what did she ask of him but to help the poor, bleeding soldiers? All he did for the R. S. S. was so much done for his country. Horace had his own opinion upon this subject, forgot his errands, and when sent shopping, stupidly asked if sewing-silk was "cloth," and if tape came in "skeins"? He was willing to work when he could manage for himself, but didn't like to be "anybody's waiter."
Grace's patience sometimes failed; but Cassy could effect wonders with her smiling—"Now, please, Horace." When Cassy wanted anything, the wilful boy put on what his sister called "his heroics," and went to work with a will.
To be sure, the "cup and saucer" were buried in cares; yet somehow they could steal time for long chats "down by the acorn-tree," their heads under an umbrella or a shawl. While thus pleasantly engaged, it was natural that Grace should think she had no time to assist her brother in pasting his scrap-books or making his kites.
"See, now," said Horace, when, after a search, he had found Grace and Cassy under the acorn-tree, "you make mighty small of some folks! Can't lift a finger to help me; but when you want some work done, it's 'Horace, dear,' and 'O, you darling!' Reckon I know a thing or two!"
The girls' friendship flowed on smoothly. It was hardly in the power of the most designing person to make any more mischief between them. Grace's highest hopes for her baby-sister were, that she might grow up as "smart and good as Cassy."
All this while, though Mahla Linck never lost interest in the society, she was growing weaker every day. Her little nerveless hands dropped the work they had attempted. She had no more use for her crutch, which lay on the table beside her bed, taking a long rest.
Grace and Cassy made daily visits to their sick friend. Mahla assured them that her writing-desk was one of her greatest comforts: it was almost as good as a sister. When she was too feeble to sit up, it was placed on the bed near her elbow, and she would lie and look over its contents, counting the sheets of perfumed note-paper, and feeling their gloss with her fingers.