Dimple Dallas

The Further Fortunes of a Sweet Little Maid

BY AMY E. BLANCHARD

Author of "A Sweet Little Maid," "A Dear Little Girl,"
"Thy Friend Dorothy," "Kittyboy's Christmas," etc.

ILLUSTRATED BY IDA WAUGH

PHILADELPHIA
GEORGE W. JACOBS & CO
103-105 South Fifteenth Street

Copyright, 1900, by
George W. Jacobs & Co

TO
GWENYTH WAUGH
WELL BELOVED FOR HER OWN SAKE, AND FOR THE SAKE
ON THOSE WHOSE NAME SHE BEARS

A. E. B.

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

Dimple Dallas

CHAPTER I

The New Scholar

The schoolroom was very quiet except for the whisperings from many rosy lips as the children studied their lessons. Presently Miss Reese tapped the bell and immediately there was more of a commotion as sundry small skirts switched out from between the desks and several little girls took their places in class. Among them was one with fair hair who turned very red when a question was put to her by the teacher. It was Eleanor Dallas' first day in school and she was painfully shy at having to recite before others, for she had always been taught at home, and having no brothers and sisters, she felt that in the presence of twenty or more other girls that it would be impossible for her to remember how to spell parallel or separate or conscience, and she spoke so low when Miss Reese asked her a word that she could scarcely be heard.

"A little louder, my dear," said Miss Reese; "I cannot hear you." And then, with all the girls looking at her, and, with a growing uncertainty as to whether impartial were spelled with a t or a c, she could not say anything.

A titter ran around the class and poor Eleanor was in a state of abject misery. Miss Reese, however, said kindly, "Never mind, Eleanor, I will excuse you from recitations this first day, and give you a little examination after school."

"She's going to be kept in," whispered Laura Field to the girl next to her, and the words reached Eleanor's ears. She had heard of girls being kept in, and to think the disgrace had fallen upon her this first day. It was almost more than she could bear, and she sat for the rest of the period with downcast eyes to hide the tears which would keep welling up.

Recitations over, the girls flaunted out of the room with many backward glances directed toward the place where Eleanor was sitting with such a miserable little face that Miss Reese, looking up and seeing the trembling lips, felt that something out of the common must be the matter. "Come here, dear," she said. "Are you not feeling well?"

"Yes, Miss Reese," faltered Eleanor.

"I hope none of the girls have been unkind to you. The first day at school is always a trying one. I remember well enough how I felt when I was a little girl. Very much as you do, I fancy." She put her arm around the child and drew her close to her side. "Now," she said, "I will go over to-morrow's lessons with you. Your mamma has told me something of your methods of study, and since you have been using different books from these, it will be better for me to give you some idea of what we are going to do. There, now, these are your nice fresh new books. Shall I put your name in them?"

"If you please," responded Eleanor, quite interested and beginning to forget her shyness. This being kept in wasn't so dreadful after all.

Miss Reese went over all the next day's lessons and as she closed the last book a little negro girl appeared at the door. "Miss Dimple, yo' ma say, what de reason yuh ain't come home?" she said.

"I was kept in," said Eleanor rather shamefacedly.

Miss Reese laughed. "Why, my child, no you were not, at least not with the general intention that kept in means. I simply wanted to have you stay that I might go over the lessons with you. Did you think I meant it for punishment, you poor little girl?"

Eleanor looked up shyly. "I did think so," she answered. "One of the girls——" She stopped short. Her Cousin Florence had told her that it was very, very mean to tell tales about the girls, and that when she went to school she must never do it, or else the girls would dislike her.

Miss Reese noticed the sudden pause and with tact did not pursue the subject. "Now run along," she said. "To-morrow I hope you will have good recitations, and you mustn't be afraid to speak above a whisper."

True enough, the next day Eleanor was so sure of her tions and her sions that she did not miss a single word, and, moreover, she made friends with two of the nicest girls who invited her to come to their own special corner to eat luncheon with them, and in a few days she felt quite at her ease. She had known several of the girls before she entered school and before long she had entirely overcome her shyness of the others. But many of the experiences were novel, especially those which occurred in the big schoolroom where the whole school assembled to take part in the physical exercises, to listen to lectures or to view certain experiments in physics. Eleanor never forgot her first experience when the subject of electricity was before the school, and she was invited to stand upon a board set upon four tumblers, and after a contact with the electrical apparatus found her hair slowly rising on end. Seeing her startled look, one of her best friends among the larger girls, Hattie Spear, dropped on her knees and held out her arms. Eleanor threw herself into them and at the same moment Hattie gave her a kiss, then she gave a little scream and the girls all laughed, for Eleanor had given her friend an electric shock.

It took Mr. Dallas some time to explain the matter to his little daughter that evening, and she watched for the next thunderstorm with much interest, for she wanted to show off all this knowledge to Bubbles. "You know it's electricity that makes the lightning," she told her.

"Law, Miss Dimple, how you know that?" returned Bubbles.

"Papa told me. Just think, Bubbles, it is the same thing that makes the light burn in the electric lamps."

"Is dat so?" Bubbles raised her hands and appeared to be much impressed. Then after some moments given to thought, she said, "What you say de name of de man what makes de street lights, and de lightnin'? Mr. Elick Cristy? Whar he live?"

Eleanor looked at her quite puzzled, and then she laughed, but she did not offer any explanation, for at that moment her mother called her. But after that Bubbles always spoke of Mr. Elick Cristy's lights out on the street corner.

Eleanor's pet name at home was Dimple, but Mrs. Dallas felt that there was danger of her little daughter's becoming altogether known by it, and had asked Miss Reese to call her Eleanor. Dimple felt that this was a step toward young ladyhood, and was very particular to instruct Bubbles to call her Miss Eleanor upon every occasion. But Bubbles would forget and upon the very first rainy day appeared at school with an umbrella for "Miss Dimple."

"That's a funny little colored girl," said one of Eleanor's schoolmates. "I've seen her often but I never knew that she lived at your house."

"She has lived with us ever since I was a baby. She is quite a nice child," returned Eleanor in a dignified little way. "Come here, Bubbles, and put on my waterproof."

"Miss Dimple, yo' ma give me a ribbon fo' Floridy Alabamy, dis mawnin', an' she got one fo' you too," said Bubbles in a confidential tone.

"Has she?" returned Dimple indifferently. "You may carry my books, Bubbles. I am going to walk with Janet." Bubbles took the books and trotted along obediently behind the two girls. Janet was a new arrival in town and being lately entered at school Eleanor had a fellow feeling for her.

"Do you ever play with her?" asked Janet. "And she calls you Dimple; what does she do that for?"

"They call me that at home, and, yes, I play with her sometimes."

"Oh, do you?" said Janet looking surprised. "I believe I'll call you Dimple," she added.

"No, please don't. Mamma doesn't want any one to, because she says when I grow up it will sound ridiculous."

"All right, then I won't," Janet returned. "I wish you would come over to my house this afternoon."

"Oh, no, you come to mine. We can play out in my little house in the garden, even if it does rain."

"Have you a little playhouse?"

"Yes, one all my own. Papa had it built for me."

Janet was much impressed. "I'll come," she said. And the two little girls parted to meet an hour later.

It was Friday afternoon, and there were no lessons to be studied, and therefore Eleanor counted on having a fine time. "Mamma," she said, as she entered the house, "I have a new friend, at least I haven't known her very long and she has never been to see me, but she is coming this afternoon. Her name is Janet Forrester. She lives in that yellow house on Main Street, you know, the one by the church."

"Yes, I know."

"She hasn't been living in town very long, and that's why she doesn't know many people. Do you know her mother?"

"Only slightly. I have called upon her. I hope Janet is a good little girl, and one that is proper for you to associate with."

"Oh yes, she is. She wears lovely clothes, and her father keeps a carriage."

Mrs. Dallas smiled. "I don't think we can judge by either of those things. You would better play in your own little house, for your papa has come home feeling far from well, and I should like to keep the house quiet."

Eleanor looked distressed. "Oh, mamma, is he very ill? Will he have to have a doctor?"

"He will see Doctor Sullivan, but I hope he is not very ill. When your little friend has gone, come and tell me about your afternoon together, but try not to disturb me while I am with papa."

Eleanor promised, and then went down to her playhouse in the garden. It was a pretty place, and the little girl was justly proud of it. She spent much time there, and here she kept her toys, her favorite books and dolls, and here she most frequently entertained her little friends.

It was not long before Bubbles showed Janet into the room. Bubbles, too, was very proud of Miss Dimple's playhouse, and she had quite a grand air as she ushered this new acquaintance into the presence of the owner of the house, saying: "Company, Miss Dimple."

Janet looked around with a critical air, and was immediately seized with a feeling of envy. "It's a right nice little house," she said loftily, "but it isn't as big as the one I had at home in Hartford; and I had real lace curtains to my windows, and Turkey rugs on the floor. Oh, there's only one room, isn't there? My house had two. Do you keep your horse and carriage in that stable, I see out there?"

"No," Eleanor was obliged to confess. "We haven't any horse and carriage. We keep a cow and chickens, though."

"I had a pony and a little cart of my own," said Janet grandly. "How many dolls have you?"

"Six, I think."

"I have twenty. You're not going to let that nigger girl stay in here with us, are you?"

"Why, yes. She often used to play with my Cousin Florence and me."

"My mother doesn't let me play with servants," said Janet with a little haughty air.

Bubbles looked much crestfallen, but immediately retired when Eleanor said: "You needn't stay, Bubbles."

"Now, what shall we play?" said Eleanor, left alone with her guest and intent upon pleasing her.

"We'll pretend we are countesses or duchesses or something. No I choose to be a duchess, and you can be a countess. I'm company and I must be the finest lady. Duchesses are more important than countesses."

Eleanor didn't think this was very polite, but she yielded, and, furthermore, gave up her best doll to her guest. "My best doll is bigger than this," Janet remarked, "and she has a real gold chain to wear around her neck. Haven't you more than one silk dress for yours? All my dolls' dresses are silk. I think a duchess's child ought to be dressed in silk. I will have to pretend her clothes are much finer than they really are."

They played quite happily for a time, although Eleanor did not quite like the giving up of all her choicest things to her visitor, but she had been taught that her guests must always have the best of everything and she made no objections. It was toward the latter part of the afternoon that Janet suddenly exclaimed: "Oh, where is my pearl ring? It's gone."

"Really?" said Eleanor.

"Yes, I believe that servant girl, you call Bubbles, has stolen it."

"Oh, no, she couldn't have done that," Eleanor protested, quite shocked. "Not if you had it on when you came in here, and besides she wouldn't do such a thing."

"I don't know about that; anyhow, I had it on when I left home."

"Perhaps you dropped it somewhere. Let's look for it; you see it has stopped raining." But no amount of searching revealed the ring, and Janet repeated her charges against Bubbles.

"I'm just going to hunt her up, and tell her she's got it, and I'll make her give it back to me," she said.

"Oh, no, please," begged Eleanor; "I know she wouldn't take it."

"Just tell me this then. Has she never taken anything in all her life?"

Eleanor hesitated. Once Bubbles had possessed herself of some scraps which she coveted for doll clothes, but her offence had never been repeated, and Mrs. Dallas trusted her implicitly. "I know she hasn't taken it," repeated Eleanor, much distressed.

"You're just trying to shield her," said Janet. "I'm going home and get my father to send a police officer after her; that's what I'm going to do." And she flounced out leaving Eleanor in tears. Such a dreadful threat and poor Bubbles; perhaps she would have to go to prison. Eleanor's soft little heart was wrung at the thought, and she rushed up to the house to find her mother and pour the doleful tale in her ears.

CHAPTER II

Changes

Mrs. Dallas greeted Eleanor's tempestuous entrance with, "Softly, dear, you know papa is not well." Eleanor lowered her excited tones and poured forth her grievance, Mrs. Dallas listening quietly. At the close of the recital she said: "I am sorry, my child, that it has happened, and from what you tell me, I do not think Janet will prove to be just the kind of a friend you would prefer. I think the best plan will be for me to send a note to Mrs. Forrester and tell her that we will use every means to find the ring, and ask her to let us know if it is discovered at her own home."

"Please don't let Bubbles take the note."

"No, I will not. I am going to send a prescription to the drug store, and the note can be taken at the same time, but if Bubbles does not take it, I think you will have to."

"O, mamma, I don't want to. Can't Sylvy go?"

"I cannot spare her."

Eleanor was silent for a moment. She did not want to subject Bubbles to a possible wordy attack from Janet, and yet she dreaded seeing her late companion again. But her loyalty to Bubbles at last overcame all other feeling, and she said: "I don't have to go in, do I, mamma? I can leave the note at the door?"

"Yes, that will be quite sufficient."

"Then I will go instead of Bubbles."

Her mother smiled. "I thought you would decide it so. I can generally be sure of my little daughter's good heart."

"You don't believe Bubbles took the ring, do you, mamma?"

"No, I think Janet has probably dropped it somewhere."

Eleanor started off on her errand, and after going to the drug store, she went on to deliver the note, and reached the gate just in time to meet Mrs. Forrester coming out with Janet. The two little girls looked at each other in rather an embarrassed way. It was not an agreeable meeting for either of them.

"This is one of your little school friends, isn't it, Janet?" Mrs. Forrester asked. "Oh, you have a note for me? Wait a minute."

Eleanor would rather have made her escape at once, but she obediently remained while Mrs. Forrester read the note. "Why, I don't know anything about this," said the lady. "What does your mamma mean? What ring is it she mentions?"

"Janet lost a pearl ring at our house," Eleanor answered.

"Did she? I didn't know she had one," said Mrs. Forrester laughing. "That is one of your fairy tales, Janet."

"I did have a pearl ring, and that nigger girl stole it," Janet returned.

Eleanor flushed up. "She means Bubbles, and I know she didn't steal it."

"You are a silly little creature, Janet," said Mrs. Forrester airily. "Where did you get your valuable ring?"

"I bought it for five cents."

Mrs. Forrester laughed again. "So precious it must have been. Here, take this five cents and go buy another, and that will end the matter."

"I don't want another, I want that one."

"You spoiled child, I don't believe you did lose it, you just wanted me to give you the nickel." She turned to Eleanor. "Don't pay any more attention to it, my child," she said. "It is really of no consequence."

"Her name is Dimple," broke in Janet.

"My name is Eleanor," maintained the other, sturdily.

"It's of no consequence, Dimple," Mrs. Forrester said. "You can tell your mother that Janet has her ring."

"But she hasn't," said Eleanor in surprise.

"She will have as soon as we can go to the shop and get it."

This sort of reasoning was quite new to Eleanor, and she stood stock still puzzling over it. While she stood thus a housemaid came out with something in her hand. "You left this in the sitting-room on the windowsill," she said to Janet, holding out a little trumpery ring. Janet shot one look at Eleanor, and Eleanor with a dignified "Good-evening," turned away thoroughly disgusted with this new acquaintance, and it is safe to say that Bubbles was immediately informed of the finding of the ring, and was, moreover, told that Eleanor did not intend to play with Janet any more, a fact which pleased Bubbles mightily.

The next few days, however, were very anxious ones for Mrs. Dallas, for her husband was found to have a severe attack of rheumatic fever, and even after he was pronounced better, his recovery was so slow that at last the doctor said he must go away to some famous springs in the far west. The day after this was decided upon, Mrs. Dallas called Eleanor to her. "My little girl," she said, "I am going to ask you to do a very hard thing for papa and me."

Eleanor looked up with wide open blue eyes. "Of course I'll do it, mamma."

"Wait, dear, till you know what it is. You know the doctor says papa must go away; now, I do not feel as if he were well enough to travel that distance alone, besides, in every way it would be better for me to go with him. He is greatly depressed, and if he were to go off alone he would mope and be homesick, and the trip would not do him the good that it ought to. Now, dear, it will be a very expensive journey and it will not be possible for us to take our little daughter, and besides, now that she is fairly started in school we do not want her to be interrupted, so dear——"

"Oh mamma!" came with piteous entreaty.

Mrs. Dallas put her arm around the child and drew her close to her. "Darling, you do not know how hard it is going to be for me to leave you."

Eleanor winked away her tears. "Oh mamma, why can't I go to Aunt Eleanor's and go to school with Florence?"

"Because several of your Aunt Eleanor's children have the whooping-cough. Florence was the last to succumb, so a letter from Aunt Eleanor to-day told me, and you know your Uncle Heath and Aunt Dora have gone to California to look after some business there that must be settled up, and Rock will be sent to boarding-school, so you cannot go to them."

"And shall you leave me here all alone?"

"No, indeed; papa and I have talked it over and we have decided to ask Cousin Ellen Murdoch to come here with her family, and remain while we are gone."

"She is the one whose husband died a little while ago and left her with—how many children?"

"Four. Yes, she is the one."

"But, mamma——"

"Well, dear."

"I thought—I didn't know that you were very fond of her."

Mrs. Dallas smiled. "Perhaps I am not so fond of her as I am of some persons."

"Then why do you let her come to your house?"

"Because she needs a change of scene, and it would be a good thing for her if she could come here till her affairs are straightened out. It is not only toward those we like that we should show consideration. We ought not to be so selfish as to entertain only those persons who are agreeable to us. If a person needs our sympathy we ought to offer it in whatever way we can."

"Do you think I ought to entertain Janet?"

"No," answered Mrs. Dallas smiling, "I don't think she needs your consideration; if she were in trouble and you could do her a kindness I think you should do it. Some day you may have an opportunity of doing some such thing, and then I hope you will not hesitate to do it."

"Mamma."

"Well, dear?"

"Was Cousin Ellen ever hateful to you?"

"You mustn't ask such searching questions, dear child. All you have to do is to make it as pleasant as possible for her while she is here. She has had much trouble and sorrow, but I know she will take excellent care of you, and the rest we must not think about. Sylvy and Bubbles will be here and you will be in your own home."

"But, mamma, I shall miss you so."

"And I shall miss you, my pet." They hugged each other, but when Eleanor felt tears splash down from other eyes than her own she squeezed her mother tighter and said: "Please don't cry, mamma, I will be very good, I will so."

"Thank you for the promise, dear. If papa sees you are bright and cheerful about our going it will make him feel easier, and so will help him to get well the sooner. See what a baby your mamma is. I must not go before papa with such teary eyes."

"With blue eyes trimmed with red," said Eleanor laughing. "Let me go tell him that I don't mind so very, very much, and—oh mamma, is there a baby?"

"You mean among Cousin Ellen's children? Yes, there is a little girl about a year and a half old."

"I shall like that. I love babies." And with this Eleanor left the room to go to her father.

The next few days were full of excitement, for the packing and arranging required Mrs. Dallas' constant attention. Mrs. Murdoch was not to arrive till the evening of the day which saw Mr. and Mrs. Dallas take their departure. Eleanor kept up bravely till she saw the carriage turn the corner and then she sobbed unrestrainedly. It was not only that it wrung her heart to see her father come hobbling on crutches out of the house, but he looked so pale and thin that the thought of being separated from him and from her mother was more than she could bear. Never before did she remember having her mother parted from her for any length of time, certainly a week, at the furthest, was the very longest time that they had ever been away from each other.

Bubbles tried her best to comfort her. "Ne' mind, Miss Dimple," she said. "Yo' pa goin' off on crutches, but terreckly he comin' back 'thout 'em. Yuh don' want him go hippy-hop all he lifetime."

"Bubbles tried her best to comfort her"

"No," sobbed Eleanor, "of course I don't, but I do wish he hadn't that horrid rheumatism, and I want my mamma, I do, I do. It will be so long before I see her again. I wish I could go, oh, I wish I could go!" she sobbed afresh.

Bubbles clasped her knees entreatingly, the tears rolling down her own cheeks in sympathy. "Miss Dimple, ef yuh cries that-a-way, I git so miserble I won't know what to do," she said.

"I'm miserable," said Eleanor. "I wish Florence didn't have the whooping-cough, then I could go to Aunt Eleanor's." Then suddenly she thought of Rock Hardy, who this year was at boarding-school. That must be worse than being left in one's own home, and she began thinking so hard about him that the tears ceased to flow, and, although it was a very mournful little face which was seen about the house for the next hour, no more tears were shed that afternoon.

Mrs. Dallas had suggested that Eleanor should go with Bubbles to the train to meet her relatives, and about five o'clock they started down to the railroad station. "I don't like to see the cars," said Eleanor; "they make me think of mamma and papa; they are traveling on and on, and every minute takes them further away." But at this moment the train came in sight and in watching for the newcomers Eleanor for the moment, forgot her griefs.

"There they are, Bubbles," she cried. "I am sure that lady in black is Cousin Ellen, and there are the two little girls and the boy. Where is the baby, I wonder. Oh, the conductor is lifting her down. She can walk, you see, for he has set her down on the platform." She went forward rather timidly, saying, "I am Eleanor Dallas, and this is Bubbles. You are Cousin Ellen, aren't you? Shall Bubbles carry the baby?"

Mrs. Murdoch assented. "I shall be glad if some one will take charge of her. I am tired to death. Here, Donald, take these checks and find an expressman to take the trunks. Eleanor will show you where to go. Come, Olive, come, Jessie, we can go on."

Thrust thus suddenly into the company of a strange boy, Eleanor had nothing to say for some minutes. She was not used to boys, and, as a rule, avoided them. The one before her was not specially attractive, she thought, but after a while she found her voice and said: "Here is the place."

Donald threw down the checks. "Where are the trunks to go? What is your number?" he asked Eleanor curtly.

She told him and when the address was given they went on, Donald striding along with his hands in his pockets and vouchsafing no reply to Eleanor's "we go this way."

"Do we have to walk? Aren't there any electric cars?" he asked when they had turned the first corner.

"Yes, but it isn't very far, and the cars don't go by our house," Eleanor told him.

"'Tisn't much of a place, is it?"

"It isn't a real big city, of course. Did you think it was?"

"No, but you needn't be so smart."

Eleanor wondered wherein she had shown her special smartness, and made up her mind, then and there, that this boy was not going to be any company for her. He was about nine years old, but assumed the manner of a boy older. The two girls seemed to be about six and eleven.

Eleanor was glad when they reached home; the others had already arrived. It gave the child a pang to see Mrs. Murdoch established in her mother's room, although it seemed perfectly proper that the girls should occupy the guest chamber. A little room back of it was set apart for Donald.

"Say, mamma, I don't like that room," he said on seeing it. "I want one next to you. Isn't there one there?"

"Yes, but it is Eleanor's room."

"Well, I don't care. I always have a room next to you. Her mother isn't here and she won't care."

"You will be next to your sisters," said Mrs. Murdoch.

"I don't want to be next to a pair of giggling girls. I want to be next to you, so I can call you if I have earache or anything."

Mrs. Murdoch looked uncertainly at Eleanor. "Perhaps Eleanor would just as lief be next the girls," she said.

"Mamma said I was to keep my own room," returned Eleanor with rising color. "It has always been my room since I had one."

"Oh, very well," said Mrs. Murdoch. "We'll see about it after a while, Donald." But Donald's black looks did not add to Eleanor's serenity, and she felt that every mouthful of supper would choke her although Sylvy had prepared a specially appetizing meal.

CHAPTER III

Trouble With Donald

Eleanor soon found that her favorite among the Murdoch children would prove to be Jessie. Olive, the eldest girl, was not a very pleasant child, being "touchy," critical, prim, and absorbed in herself. She was fond of reading, but did not enter very heartily into the plays which entertained Eleanor and Jessie. Mrs. Murdoch was a careful housekeeper, and also a careful mother but a very indulgent one, and although she attended most conscientiously to all of Eleanor's creature comforts she did not give her any of the tenderness which she lavished upon her own children, and very soon Eleanor came to feel like an outsider in her own home.

Her refusal to give up her room to Donald won her that spoiled youngster's ill-will, and he never lost an opportunity of teasing her, to Bubbles' great distress, so that finally there was open warfare between the boy and the little colored girl.

To Bubbles was given the care of the little baby, Alma, and Eleanor was seldom allowed to have any of her old-time plays with the little nursemaid. "You have Jessie and Olive now to play with," her Cousin Ellen told her, "and I can find other things for Barbara to do." Cousin Ellen was very precise in some matters and she considered the name which Eleanor in her baby days had bestowed upon the small negro girl as a ridiculous one, she therefore called her Barbara. At first Bubbles declined to respond to this, but she soon found that she must. Sylvy took her leave shortly after Mrs. Murdoch's arrival, declaring that she would not come back till Mrs. Dallas returned. "I don't like nobody al'ays fussin' roun' my kitchen," she said, "an' I wants to res' up, anyway."

Therefore another woman was installed in Sylvy's place and Eleanor was never allowed to go into the kitchen to make patty-cakes or to help Bubbles in order that she might the sooner get through her work and come out to play with her beloved Miss Dimple.

Nevertheless, Bubbles was permitted to take little Alma down to the playhouse, on occasions, and many a good time Eleanor promised herself there, for this was specially her own, and if she wanted a quiet place of retreat she could always go there.

But one Saturday morning when she was skipping down to her little house, she was surprised to see Donald busily engaged in carrying her toys out on the small porch, and depositing them there. She stood still in amazement, and then cried out sharply, "What are you doing, Donald? Let my things alone."

"I'm not hurting your old things," Donald returned. "I'm putting them down carefully enough, silly dolls and trash as they are."

"They are not trash, and I'll thank you to put them back again."

"I'm not going to do anything of the kind; I'm going to have this for my house while I'm here."

"Where did you get the key?"

"From where it belongs, on the nail behind the dining-room door."

Eleanor was aghast, then, with a lump in her throat, which threatened every moment to be followed by a flood of tears from her eyes, she ran back to the house, and hunted up Mrs. Murdoch. "Oh, Cousin Ellen," she cried in a tumult, "Donald is taking all my toys out of my playhouse. Please, won't you make him stop?"

Mrs. Murdoch put down her piece of sewing very deliberately. "Donald asked me if he could have the use of the playhouse," she said. "I never allow him to play in the street, and his room is so small that he cannot enjoy playing there, and there is no room that can be spared for a play room in the house, besides, if there were it would be much better to let him play out there in the garden where he can make all the noise he chooses."

"But," said Eleanor, the tears beginning to rise, "that is my owny-doney house. Papa had it built e'spressly for me. It's my own, my very own, and I don't want Donald to have it. I should think he could play in the garden and the wood-shed and in such places as the other boys in the town do."

Here spoke up Olive. "I think you are very selfish. Don't you, mamma? I always give up to Donald when mamma asks me to, don't I, mamma?"

"I don't care; he is your brother and that is different," replied Eleanor.

"All the more that he is not your brother," returned Olive. "I don't think you are a bit generous about your things when Donald is a stranger here, too, and he doesn't know near so many people as you do. Mamma said that if he got acquainted with one or two nice boys that she would allow him to have them here to play if they could play in the playhouse."

Poor Eleanor looked the picture of distress. To be accused of selfishness and to be robbed of her dearly loved place of refuge, that was too much to stand, and she turned from the room without a word, scarcely hearing Mrs. Murdoch's words: "You can have Barbara, for a little while to help you move your toys. Olive will be kind enough to give a portion of her time to the baby, I am sure. Go, Olive, and tell Barbara to help Miss Eleanor to carry in her things. Your room will be quite large enough to hold them, Eleanor."

By this time Eleanor had fled to the garret and there Bubbles found her, after some searching, crying as if her heart would break. "He stole my key, Bubbles, he did, and he's moving everything out of my dear house, and——Oh, I wish mamma would come home. Nobody loves me here. I want my own mamma." Bubbles was the picture of distress, she possessed herself of one of Eleanor's hands; patting and stroking it, she begged the unhappy child not to cry, comforting her as best she could, so that after a while Eleanor, with a great sigh, stopped her sobbing and said: "I suppose I am very selfish, for mamma gave up her house to Cousin Ellen, and I ought to give up mine to Donald. Come, Bubbles, let's move the things, but I hate Donald; I just can't bear him."

They proceeded to the garden where Donald was still busy setting dolls and dishes outside the little house. Without a word Eleanor and Bubbles began picking up the things to carry them to the house. "You can just leave the books and pictures," said Donald, condescendingly. "I don't mind having them there. Most of the books are girl books, but some of them, those fairy tales and things like that, I can read."

"I shall not leave one single thing," said Eleanor shortly.

"You're a mean, selfish girl," retorted Donald, and catching sight of her swollen cheeks and red eyelids, he added: "Cry-baby, cry-baby, had to give up your house whether you wanted to or not, didn't you?"

"No, I didn't," returned Eleanor fiercely. "I gave it up because my mother was kind enough to give up her house to your mother when she didn't have anywhere else to go, and I am doing the same, but I wish my Cousin Rock were here to fight you. I'd fight you myself if I were a boy, and I wish my father would whip you till you couldn't see."

In a transport of rage Donald picked up one of Eleanor's dolls and hurled it to the ground, and then sprang at Eleanor. But Bubbles interfered between them and received the blow; then she caught the boy by the shoulders and shook him with all her might, and being a strong little creature, she managed to throw him down and began to pound him while he shouted lustily: "Mamma! Olive! Come quick! They're murdering me!"

His yells brought Mrs. Murdoch in great excitement. "Eleanor! Barbara! Stop!" she said in stern tones. "My poor boy, what are they doing to you?"

"They set upon me just because I wanted the house to play in," said Donald, scrambling to his feet, more dusty than hurt.

"Oh," cried Eleanor, "it wasn't that at all, it was because you broke my doll and tried to strike me."

"No, it wasn't, mamma," protested Donald, "they were just mad, and I didn't break the doll on purpose; it slipped out of my hand. Why didn't Eleanor come and take out her old things herself? Here I was trying to help her, and that's all the thanks I get."

Such a statement of the case amazed Eleanor, but no matter how she tried to protest, Donald was ready with his excuses, and to his tale alone would his mother listen, so that Eleanor and Bubbles were marched back to the house in disgrace, Mrs. Murdoch declaring that she would not have such a desperate character as Bubbles in the house and that she must be sent away. "I cannot imagine how Cousin Florence could keep such a creature, a perfect savage," said Mrs. Murdoch, "and as for you, Eleanor, you are a very bad example to my children: ill-tempered, untruthful, selfish; I am almost tempted to write to your mother and tell her that I will give up the house altogether, and go back to the city, for even poor rooms would be better than a spot where my children are in danger. I cannot stand such scenes. Perhaps, however, if we can remove the evil influence of that colored girl we can get along. I will see at once about her going."

At this Bubbles burst into loud weeping, and implored Mrs. Murdoch not to send her away, reiterating that she was only standing up for Miss Dimple, and that no boy had any right to hit a girl; to all of which Mrs. Murdoch was deaf, and both Bubbles and Eleanor were sent to their respective rooms in a very desperate state of mind.

From her window Eleanor could see her little house bereft of her toys. These lay on the ground outside, and Eleanor wondered whether they would still be allowed to remain there in case of rain. She stood looking wistfully out when she heard a queer noise from the garret window above, and leaning out with eyes directed to the window, she saw Bubbles making mysterious signs.

Eleanor hesitated for a moment, and then stole into the entry and up the stairs to the garret. "What are you doing up here, Bubbles?" she asked in a whisper.

"I jus' a-tryin' to git a-holt o' yuh, Miss Dimple. I gwine run away."

"Oh, Bubbles, please don't."

"Yass, m', I is. I ain't gwine let nobody boss me an' call me story-teller an' all kin' o' names."

"Oh, but Bubbles, where will you go?"

"I gwine to Sylvy. She let me come. She res'n up, yuh knows. She at her father's house in de country."

"But that is, oh, ever so far?"

"Yass, miss."

"Do you know the way there?"

"No, m', but the butterman, he do. Sylvy live jes' noways fum his house, an' when he come I gwine ax him will he tek me."

"Oh, Bubbles, and I will be left all alone."

Bubbles looked distressed. "She gwine sen' me off, anyway."

"I'll beg her not to. She has no right to do it."

"Dat don' do no good. She kaint see nothin' 'cepin' them childern o' hern, an' ef dey lies den it all right, an' ef we speaks truff we ain't all right."

"I wish I could go, too," said Eleanor mournfully. But just then came a voice. "Eleanor, where are you? I forbade your leaving your room."

"You jes' sass her," said Bubbles. "Ef she believe I'm bad, I'm gwine be bad."

And Eleanor answered flippantly, "I'm up here, Cousin Ellen."

"Come down."

"Tell her yuh won't," urged Bubbles.

Eleanor hesitated. "What do you want me for?" she compromised by saying.

"Come down, and I will tell you."

"You are not my mother, I don't have to come," encouraged by Bubbles, she said.

"You are a very bad, impertinent child. Come at once. I want you to go and bring in those toys that are lying out on the ground cluttering up the place."

"I'll do that," said Eleanor, turning to Bubbles. "I'll be there directly," she called to Mrs. Murdoch. "Tell me before we go, Bubbles, when are you going to Sylvy? I won't tell."

"Wednesday, when de butterman comes. I'll sneak out an' tek my bun'le an' git in de wagon."

"He comes in the morning when I am at school, doesn't he?"

"Yass, miss."

"All right, I reckon you'd better do that. I am sorry, but oh, Bubbles, I shall miss you."

Bubbles' fists went up to her eyes and she sat sniffling as Eleanor departed.

The latter went immediately to the garden, taking no notice of Donald, except to make a face at him as she began removing her toys. He answered with a mocking "Cry-baby!" and Eleanor longed with helpless rage to do something to punish him, but she could only toil back and forth from the big house to the little one, carrying her toys, her books, her pictures. The broken doll she took up tenderly looking down upon it with sorrowful eyes. "You were such a pretty little thing," she whispered, "and I did love you so much. Oh, that wicked boy! I'd like to see how he would feel if some big giant were to dash his brains out on the ground; you poor dear little thing. You were such a nice size to play with, and I could do all sorts of things with you that I can't do with my big dolls."

She was very tired when the last one of her possessions was removed, but she called Jessie and told her that she meant to bury her dear Florence, and Jessie cheerfully acquiesced when asked to attend the funeral. So Florence was buried under a lilac bush, and then Eleanor dragged her tired little legs into the house, feeling as if the clouds were gathering thick and fast over her usually sunny sky.

But when she went up to her room for the last time that evening she found on her table two letters, and both of them brought comfort. One was from her mother. It was full of words of love and bade Eleanor be a good girl and give her cousin no trouble. Her papa was very tired after his journey, but hoped he would begin to improve as soon as he was rested.

The other letter was from Rock Hardy, and among other things it said: "Boarding-school isn't much like home, and I'm having a pretty tough time, but I'm only telling this to you, for I wouldn't be so mean as to bother mamma about it. I guess I can stand it if the other fellows can." And these words set Eleanor thinking.

CHAPTER IV

A New Doll

Mrs. Murdoch was very cool to Eleanor after this, and Olive followed suit, while Donald did everything in his power to annoy his cousin. Jessie, however, was too sweet-tempered to make herself disagreeable, and little Alma was too much of a baby to be influenced against any one who was always kind to her and ready to amuse her. Mrs. Murdoch kept Bubbles strictly under her eye, and would not allow her to take Alma out of her sight, a fact which Eleanor resented more than Bubbles did. "As if Bubbles would be cruel to a little baby," she said to Jessie.

"But you know she beat Don dreadfully," Jessie replied.

"She didn't hurt him hardly one bit, and besides, he was going to strike me."

"Well, you know he didn't strike you," returned Jessie, and Eleanor felt helpless to argue the point.

Rock's letter had cheered her and strengthened her. If Rock would not tell his mother that he was having a hard time, neither would she tell her mother about her worries, for she was sure that her dearest mamma had more to trouble her than had Mrs. Heath, Dallas Rock's mother, and the child bore Olive's snubs and Mrs. Murdoch's cold looks with open defiance, but she would not tell any one but Rock; to him she wrote quite a long letter.

"It is so dreadful here now," she wrote. "My little house in the yard is all full of all sorts of stuff, and it is oh, so dirty, for the boys that Don brings in there do just as they please. Cousin Ellen is very partikular about mamma's house, but she don't care what comes of mine. I'm not going to worry mamma, Rock, but I wish you and Florence were here instead of Don and Olive. Jessie is a right nice little girl but she is a good deal littler than I am." These and other things Eleanor wrote to Rock and he answered in kind, so that Eleanor felt that they were comrades in misery as they had been comrades in pleasure the summer before.

It was the day before the butterman made his appearance, that an express package, addressed to Miss Eleanor Dallas, was left at the door. As it happened Eleanor was in her room when Bubbles came running upstairs saying: "Somepin fo' yuh! Somepin fo' yuh! Miss Dimple. Ain't I glad!"

With eager fingers Eleanor undid the string, uncovered the box and very carefully lifted the soft paper snugly packed around the prettiest little doll just about the size of the one which Donald had so wantonly destroyed. The child's little scream of delight brought Olive and Jessie from the next room, and they were soon all examining this new arrival. The doll wore a pretty traveling dress of grey with hat to match and grey suede shoes. Pinned to her frock was a note which read:

"Dear Dimple:

"I am sending you a little friend of mine who, I hope, will be able to comfort you while your mamma is away. Her name is Ada and she is ready to be loved very much. I should like to have her taught from the books which you will find in her trunk, and I hope you will have no trouble in teaching her to be obedient and attentive.

"Your very loving
"Aunt Dora."

The note was type-written and was very easy to read.

"Oh, my dear lovely child!" cried Eleanor. "I am so glad you have come. But where is the trunk, Bubbles?"

"Law! I nuver brought it up; I thought hit were fo' somebody e's," and Bubbles skurried downstairs as fast as her legs could take her, coming back in a moment with the trunk in her arms. Eleanor proceeded immediately to open it and found it filled with a most complete little wardrobe: two school dresses, a handsome suit for extra occasions, a fine white frock for parties. Then there were stockings, tiny handkerchiefs, all manner of under-clothing, a set of furs, ribbons, a little hood trimmed with fur, a cunning hat in a small bandbox, and at the very bottom of the trunk were found a slate and several funny little books. Even Olive could not resist many ohs and ahs as one after another of the dainty garments appeared. Aunt Dora had evidently made everything with her own hands and the tiny hems, the neat little seams, so excited the children's admiration that Jessie begged to take them to her mother to look at.

"Eleanor proceeded to open the trunk"

Mrs. Murdoch's remark was: "They are very nice, Jessie, but I wish Eleanor were more worthy of such kindness."

Eleanor, hearing the words, retreated to the door of her own room; standing there she retorted: "I am worth Aunt Dora's kindness as much as you are worth my mamma's. She wouldn't treat one of your children the way you do me, and I think when she lets you have her nice house to live in that you might be a little more polite to me."

"Such a want of fine feeling," sighed Mrs. Murdoch. "When you show a sweet and amiable spirit, Eleanor, I shall be ready to give you more affection, but you cannot expect it from those whom you twit and taunt because of their misfortunes."

"My mamma has a trouble, too," returned Eleanor, "and you are making a lot for me. I wish I had never seen you."

"Such a dreadfully spoiled child," sighed Mrs. Murdoch. "I would rather you did not come into my room, Eleanor, since you only stir up strife, and seem to delight in making impertinent speeches."

"You just keep out of my mother's room," said Olive, looking defiantly at Eleanor.

With a little choking sob, Eleanor turned and went away, saying only: "It's my mamma's room; my own mamma's room, and I was never turned out of it before."

"Never mind her, Olive," she heard Mrs. Murdoch say. "She is a spoiled, badly-managed child, and you must try to set her a good example. I am grieved to find that Florence is so indulgent and injudicious a mother."

Eleanor hearing, turned in a perfect storm of tears goaded beyond endurance to say, "You shall not say such things about my mother. She is the dearest and best in the world, and I'd like to know where anybody could find such a hateful, spoiled, wicked, wicked child as Donald. And as for Olive, she is a horrid little sneak. I saw her steal cake from the pantry and she told you that Bubbles did it. I don't tell stories and I don't take things without leave."

"Oh, mamma, I didn't," said Olive turning very red, but denying Eleanor's charge with emphasis.

"Don't add falsehood to your other sins, Eleanor," said Mrs. Murdoch. "Go to your room. Indeed, I wish to do my duty by you, but I cannot have you shield that favorite of yours by telling falsehoods about my children."

Olive whispered something to her, and she nodded in reply while Eleanor walked from the room and threw herself sobbing into Bubbles' arms. "Oh, Bubbles, Bubbles," she cried, "they say I tell stories and it is they who do, and they call me selfish and wicked when it is they who are. Oh, what shall I do?"

"Ne'm mind, Miss Dimple," said Bubbles, soothingly. "'Tain't goneter las' fo'ever, an' yuh jes' go 'long an' don' min' what Miss Murder say." Then she whispered: "Don' min' 'bout me. She ain't a goin' to fin' no place fo' me, an' yuh know I is goin' to Sylvy. Mebbe she won't be so cross when I'm gone. Come, now, le's play with yo' new dolly. My, ain't she pretty with them big eyes an' them rosy cheeks?"

"She is lovely," returned Eleanor, drying her eyes, "and I shall just love her, but I wish I could run away with you, Bubbles."

"Sh!" said Bubbles, for just then Olive entered and said in a prim way: "Mamma says you are not to stay in here with Eleanor, Barbara. She says you are to go down and set the table for tea, and you are not to stay in Eleanor's room nor even come in here without express permission."

Bubbles arose and obediently went below stairs, but she muttered much to herself and racked her brain for some way in which she could avenge the trials of her beloved Miss Dimple, who, meanwhile was trying to comfort herself with her new doll. A letter from her mother that day had said that Mr. Dallas was not quite so well but that Eleanor was not to worry, for she hoped to have better news the next time she wrote, and she was glad to hear that her little daughter was getting along well at school and that she was well. She must try to be kind and obedient and helpful to her Cousin Ellen.

"I won't, I won't, I won't," whispered Eleanor to herself. "I can't be. She is too hateful to me. I wish I had never seen her and I wish I could stay out of the house all the time." And indeed this is what she tried to do, starting early for school, and trying to spend as much of the afternoon as possible with some of her schoolmates. Olive had made friends with Janet Forrester, and Jessie had found a playmate nearer her own age, so Eleanor was free to select her own friends. Upon one occasion there came a clash upon this very subject, for Mrs. Murdoch insisted that Eleanor should go to Janet Forrester's to spend the afternoon. "I feel myself responsible for you, Eleanor," she said, "and I should like to know that you are somewhere with Olive that I may be able to account for you."

"Mamma doesn't like me to play with Janet," Eleanor blurted out.

"Why not?"

Eleanor hung her head. She did not like to tell tales, in school or out, but Olive spoke up: "I know, mamma; it's because Barbara stole a ring from Janet and she and Eleanor quarreled about it."

"Oh, what a story," cried Eleanor. "She didn't steal it, any such a thing. Janet said she did just to get Bubbles into trouble and she found the ring afterward at her own house. So there."

Mrs. Murdoch and Olive exchanged glances and Mrs. Murdoch lifted her eyebrows slightly, in a way that Eleanor much disliked.

"That's what Janet told me, anyhow, mamma," said Olive meaningly.

"There are always two sides to a question," said Mrs. Murdoch, "but if you are sure, Eleanor, that your mamma does not like you to play with Janet you needn't go. Mrs. Forrester has doubtless the same objection on her side."

Eleanor looked at her with blazing eyes; then stamping her foot she cried: "I wish you'd just write to mamma and ask her. She will tell you the truth, anyhow, if you don't believe me. I never tell stories. I never do such things. You can ask mamma." And she turned away.

This was on Wednesday before school, and on her return home she found Mrs. Murdoch in quite a perturbed state. "Eleanor," she said, "have you seen anything of Barbara? She hasn't been seen since about eleven o'clock."

"I haven't seen her," returned Eleanor curtly.

"Do you know where she is?"

Eleanor hesitated, then remembered that she did not know just where Sylvy's parents lived; it was somewhere in the country, but where she could not tell.

"Answer me," said Mrs. Murdoch. "Where is she?"

"I don't know, Cousin Ellen, at least, I know she has gone away somewhere in the country, but I don't know where the place is. You said you were going to send her away, and so she went anyhow."

"And you have known this all the time and haven't told me? Such deceit!"

"I don't know why I should have told," retorted Eleanor. "It wouldn't have done Bubbles any good, and I love her a thousand million times more than I do you, if she is black. She is white inside and I know you are not."

"Eleanor!" Mrs. Murdoch spoke very sternly. "You are really the most dreadful child I have ever encountered. I never had any one speak to me as you have done. You are completely contaminated by your association with servants."

"I don't tell stories, and I don't steal from the pantry, and I don't do lots of things your children do," returned Eleanor thoroughly defiant.

"Hush!" cried Mrs. Murdoch. "If it were not for worrying your mother I should tell her very plainly what I think of you, but as it is, my hands are tied. I shall have to pass over this as I have over many other things. If Barbara has gone I wash my hands of her, and when your mother returns she can do as she thinks fit about the affair. I am not in a position to punish you as you deserve, but I wish you not to address me or any of my family, except when absolutely necessary, while we remain here."

However much Mrs. Murdoch was pleased at Bubbles' departure to Eleanor it was a sore loss, and she went to bed that night clasping her dear Ada close to her heart and shedding many tears for Bubbles. The absence of the little colored girl in more ways than one, made it hard for Eleanor, for now Bubbles could not be used as a scapegoat for Olive's sly pilferings, nor for Don's tricks, and so by degrees it was Eleanor herself upon whom all the blame was laid. Did anything happen to be out of place, Eleanor had it last. Were there mud tracked through Mrs. Murdoch's clean halls, Eleanor did it; and, since Mrs. Murdoch's blind idolatry of her children did not permit her to see a fault in any one of them, poor Eleanor was gradually made to believe herself a most wicked person, and she was in danger of acquiring some of the very qualities which were attributed to her.

It was Miss Reese who first noticed this, for she saw that the child's sunny little face was now habitually clouded and that, whereas she had formerly been responsive to gentle chiding for some slight fault, she was beginning to show open defiance, and so the teacher called upon Mrs. Murdoch and very tactfully brought around the conversation to the subject which was upon her mind.