Clara Lyndesay stood in the doorway of her Brookmeadow house, listening for the coming trolley. As she waited, she looked about her with satisfaction.

The big square house, freshly painted white, with green blinds at the windows, stood just at the edge of the broad elm-shaded road, known as the Albany Road because it had been, in stage-coach days, the main line between Albany and Boston. Just opposite the house was a broad meadow with a single elm in the center, and a clear line of hills for background. Boulder walls enclosed the meadow, and vines ran riot over them. The artist, looking, drew a deep breath.

“‘The lot is fallen unto me in a fair ground. Yea, I have a goodly heritage,’” she thought to herself. “I think I shall call my wander-years over, and settle down here as Aunt Abigail hoped I would, and care for her old mahogany as she did, painting a picture now and then from my own doorway. The doorway itself is the most beautiful 134 thing about the house,” she added, stepping down the flagged path, to view it for the hundredth time that week. Brookmeadow houses were famous for their wonderful old doorways, with carved lintels, and this was not surpassed by any of them.

Its owner’s contemplation was cut short by the far-off whir of the trolley, sounding clearly through the still morning. Miss Lyndesay walked quickly along the curving road to the Common where she was to receive her guests. Reaching the long narrow green, where a few cows nibbled placidly as in the days when a green in the center of the village was a necessary defensive measure, she walked idly up and down. The straggling road under the great elms passed the plain white meeting-house, dating from 1813, the Academy with its belfry, the little general store and post-office combined, and wound out of sight between dignified old houses, “like Aunt Abigail’s–mine now,” she corrected her thought happily. No one was in sight. Up the road came the trolley, jogging comfortably along. It stopped at the Common and its two passengers almost fell into the arms that waited to receive them.

“O-eeeeee!” sighed Hannah, getting as close to Miss Lyndesay as she could on one side, while Frieda did the same on the other with a similar ejaculation.

“Two blue girls this time!” exclaimed Miss Lyndesay. 135 “That is a very becoming suit, Frieda,” and then forestalling any answer, for she had known of Frau Lange’s letter to Mrs. Eldred and had guessed that Frieda would not take altogether kindly to the new clothes, she inquired of Hannah as to the health of her father and mother.

“They’re all right,” answered Hannah briefly. “And I am so glad to be here! Isn’t it just the dearest, sleepiest place you ever saw in all your life?”

“Is it your first visit here?” asked Miss Lyndesay. “I supposed you knew these villages by heart.”

“I don’t,” confessed Hannah. “I go to school all winter, and in the summer we go to the shore, and we haven’t any aunts or grandmothers or things like that living around here, so I don’t see places like this except in passing through them.”

“Well, you have a sort of aunt and grandmother combined living in Brookmeadow now, and I shall expect you to visit her often. How does it seem to you, Frieda?”

“It’s bigger than I thought it would be,” answered Frieda. “Hannah said it was a Dorf. I thought there would be only two or three houses, and many little huts all close together, but we passed many houses.”

“It is a good thing for you to see a New England village,” said Miss Lyndesay, “as part of the 136 education you came for. And when you get out to Wisconsin, you will think you are in a different country altogether.”

“I did,” laughed Hannah. “Why, it looked as though it had been laid out with a ruler, and the trees were so little I felt as though they ought to be in flower-pots.”

“Not the beech woods, surely?”

“Dear me, no. But in the town itself. The beech woods are real forest. Is this the house? O, Aunt Clara, wouldn’t Catherine love it?”

Miss Lyndesay was so unused to the house, herself, that she took a keen delight in showing the girls all over it, taking them from one big room into another, and telling them how to appreciate the fine old furniture.

“The hangings are all new,” she explained. “Aunt Abigail’s taste was not like her heart! She kept the old furniture, but she had gaudy wall-papers and thick lace curtains, and I have had them all replaced. They aren’t done yet, everywhere, but these main rooms are. And she had the fireplace bricked up and a stove in the living-room. I found these andirons in the garret.”

“O, let’s see the garret,” begged Hannah. “We haven’t any, with old things in it, I mean. You know our house is only a little older than I am, and mother came from the West and she didn’t have heirlooms, and father had nothing whatever 137 when they started. I should think this house would have been full of treasures.”

“It was. I found several good chairs and a desk in the garret. I shall have them refinished as soon as I can get around to it. There is a trunk that I have only peeped into. I saved it for you girls to open. But you must come out into the garden now, while the sun is there.”

Frieda had taken only a moderate interest in the house, but when they entered the tangled garden, German exclamations poured from her lips in a rapturous stream.

“Himmlisch! Reizend! Famos! Ach, wie wunderhÜbsch! Was nennt man dies? Und dies?” She flew from one blossom to another, sniffing, admiring, and asking questions about those that were unknown to her, naming the others in German, and altogether showing a degree of enthusiasm which nothing American had hitherto been able to arouse in her. It was not because of Karl’s compact, but because of her mighty love of flowers. She seemed to forget the others as she knelt before a little white tea-rose, kissing it and calling it pretty names.

Miss Lyndesay and Hannah watched her.

“Now she seems more like herself,” said Hannah frowning, “the way she was in Berlin. I wish she would stay that way!”

Miss Lyndesay looked at Hannah searchingly.

138“Frieda,” she called, “will you gather flowers for the luncheon table, please? Hannah is going to pick raspberries with me. I have a most beautiful old glass bowl to put them in.”

Frieda undertook the task assigned her joyfully, and Hannah followed Miss Lyndesay to the kitchen, where Aunt Abigail’s old servant, inherited with the house, supplied them with pails for the berry-picking. The bushes were at the other end of the garden, where they could speak without being overheard.

Miss Lyndesay said nothing at first, but she had not long to wait. Hannah had poured out her puzzles and worries in letters to this friend often, since the evening at Three Gables, long ago, when she had poured them out in words and tears, and found comfort.

It was a torrent of words this time, but Miss Lyndesay, listening, distinguished between essentials and non-essentials by a divine gift which had always been hers.

“She doesn’t seem the same Frieda,” declared Hannah, at last. “I don’t feel acquainted with her. Mamma says it is just because everything is new and strange to her. She hasn’t criticised things since she and Karl went off together for a little trip the other day, but she looks bored or unhappy and I don’t know what to do. I was a stranger when we were together before, but I’m 139 sure I didn’t act so, and I don’t see why she should now. So there!”

“Did you go to Germany alone?” Miss Lyndesay put the question casually, and Hannah looked up, surprised.

“Why, no. Dad and Mamma were there all the time, of course. I couldn’t have lived without them–O! I see what you mean,” and the berries dropped slowly into the half-full pail while Hannah meditated.

Clara Lyndesay, observing her bent face, felt satisfied. It was not the first time she had seen Hannah Eldred come out of a quandary with very little help.

“She doesn’t do things by halves, either,” she thought. “Frieda won’t have such a lonely time from now on.” Aloud she said:

“I wondered, when I heard you speak to Frieda in that careful explanatory way, as you might to a child who had been left in your care rather against your will, if you seemed just natural to Frieda! Frau Lange realized that there was some risk in sending Frieda over here. She told me that she knew young girls changed rapidly in tastes and ideals, and it might be that you two would not care so much for each other now. But she hoped, for the sake of the friendship between your mother and herself, that the two years would prove not to have separated you greatly. I assured her that, while 140 there might be some little difficulty at first, you would probably come out better friends than ever. There! I think we have quite enough berries. If you will just take them in to Evangeline, I’ll see about Frieda’s flowers. You’ll find a pitcher of shrub on the ice, and goblets on the tray all ready to bring out. We’ll arrange the flowers on the back stoop, I think, and you might bring us some refreshment there.”

Frieda had gathered flowers eagerly, but without much discrimination. Miss Lyndesay helped her sort them and make several bouquets instead of one variegated one, talking with her the while of incidents of their journey, till Frieda was entirely at her ease. By the time Hannah came out with the cool drink, the slight constraint that had existed for days between Frieda and herself seemed to have vanished. Joyfully, Hannah entered into the new spirit, and when Miss Lyndesay went in to answer Evangeline’s questions about luncheon, her guests were bubbling with mirth over some reminiscence of their Berlin days.

Immediately after luncheon, a caller arrived, with the obvious intention of spending some time. Miss Lyndesay gave the girls a trunk key and sent them off to do their garret exploring by themselves, giving them permission to do whatever they liked with anything they might find. They climbed the polished stairs, with arms interlaced, chattering 141 in German and English mixed, and reached the big shadowy garret out of breath. The trunks were piled in a cobwebby corner, and their key proved to belong to the lowest one in the pile. That meant much mighty tugging, but at last the encumbering ones were removed and they turned the key in the lock and lifted the heavy lid.

“O!” They spoke softly and leaned over, clinging to each other with excitement. In the top tray lay a doll dressed as if for a wedding. She wore a white satin gown, short-waisted, with a long panel down the front, embroidered with tiny pearls and gold thread. Her little feet were adorned with high-heeled slippers of white silk, also embroidered in the tiny pearls. A necklace of shining stones, and two little earrings made them gasp with delight. In the soft wavy hair was a high shell comb. The little lady held a book in her clasped hands, and her eyes, half closed, looked sleepily out from under long eyelashes.

“See! Here is a card,” said Frieda, touching the soft folds of yellowed tissue paper that lay around the little figure in the tray.

Hannah lifted the card with awe, and read: “The doll of Millicent Wadsworth, as she dressed it on her own Wedding Day, to be put aside and never played with more. The Bishop said it was a sinful Waste to dress her so, but my Husband said he did not care!”

142“What a reckless man My Husband was!” said Hannah, looking back at the doll once more. “Think of playing with dolls up to your wedding day! I wonder how old she was.”

“Let’s look in the other trays,” suggested Frieda. They removed the top one carefully, to find almost as delightful treasures in the next. Quite as delightful, perhaps, for here was the little Millicent’s wedding-gown, with her slippers and necklace and high shell comb, all like those the doll wore. Here, too, was a card, but written in an older hand:

“The Wedding Clothes of Millicent Wadsworth Berryfield, married on the 16th anniversary of her birth to John Berryfield, Esq., a Devoted Lover and Husband. She died three months and two days after of an Unknown Malady. John Berryfield returned to England, leaving these, Her Possessions, to be kept sacredly till he should come after them.”

“It’s dated almost a hundred years ago. Of course, he is dead too, now. I wonder if she pined for her doll to play with.”

Frieda, leaving speculation to Hannah, was taking the pretty garments out, one by one.

“Here is another dress!” she exclaimed. “A pink one. O, Hannah, you would look so pretty in this!” She held it up, quaint in style as the other, with a little train, flowered silk over a straight front panel of plain pink, tight sleeves with a little puff at the shoulder.

143“I wonder–Do you suppose we dare try them on? They look almost big enough.”

“Of course, we dare. Miss Lyndesay told us to do what we liked and she had peeped into this trunk, so she knew what was in it. We will be as careful as careful can be.”

They piled their arms with the delicate old fabrics and carried them down to their own room where they proceeded to dress up. It was not an easy process, for they dared not tug too hard, and Millicent had been slenderer than they, though quite as tall. The little slippers defied them, and the necklace of pearls they did not touch. “I think her husband gave her that, and no one else should ever wear it,” said Hannah, and Frieda agreed.

By the time they had finished dressing, they were flushed and rosy. They stole out into the hall and peered over the banisters to see if the caller showed signs of departure. Miss Lyndesay was just closing the door upon her. As she turned back, she heard steps on the stairs and, looking up, saw a sight she loved always afterward to remember. Two little Old World ladies, one in white and brocade, the other in flowered pink satin, came down the winding stairs, their eyes bright with excitement, their hair rough, and the big blue hair-ribbons, which they had quite forgotten to remove, showing incongruously above their minuet gowns.

144“O you pretty children!” cried Miss Lyndesay. “Millicent herself wasn’t sweeter, I’m sure, when the Bishop married her off to John. Why didn’t you bring the doll?”

“We were afraid we’d drop her,” said Hannah, stepping to the floor. “There! I’m glad I’m safely down. You can’t think what awkward skirts these are to walk in. O!”

For as she turned, Frieda stepped on her train, and with shrieks both fell to the floor, splitting their hundred-year-old seams.

Miss Lyndesay helped them up, laughing at their rueful faces, and kissing away the tears that would come at the sight of the havoc they had wrought.

“Cheer up, dear hearts! It was purest accident. And Millicent’s pretty gowns have served their purposes long ago. I’ve no doubt they can be put together again well enough, and in any case you must not care! I forbid it. Come, let’s get back into our own century, and take a walk before the sun goes down. I have no end of pretty by-paths to show you.”

That evening, there was enough chill in the air for a small fire in the living-room fireplace, and Miss Lyndesay seated herself before it on a high-backed settle, with a girl on either side of her.

“If I didn’t remember that one of the things Hannah liked me for first was my habit of sitting quietly without work,” she said, “I should be 145 tempted to improve these minutes by finishing the carving design I am making to go over the fireplace.”

“What is it? Let us see it, and maybe we’ll let you. You have such a peaceful way of working you don’t make me nervous as some people do.”

“It is there on the desk.”

Hannah brought the brown paper, and she and Frieda bent over it together.

“L-a-e,” spelled Hannah, but Frieda looked up, delighted.

“I know. Laetus sorte mea! It means ‘Happy in my lot!’ It is in the book Tante Edith sent me for my birthday, about the little cripple.”

“O, yes, The Story of a Short Life. I’ve read that, too,” said Hannah, “but I didn’t recognize it just at first. I should think, if it is to be your motto, you’d have to change the gender and make it ’laeta,’ Aunt Clara.”

Miss Lyndesay laughed. “I’m glad you both know the story. I expected Hannah to, but hardly Frieda. Did you read it all by yourself, dear?”

“Yes,” answered Frieda proudly. “I have read seven English books, and I like that best. Mother and I made a list of Poor Things the way Leonard did.”

“O, how nice!” cried Hannah. “Did you put Bertha’s lame sister on it?”

“Yes, and Onkel Heinrich’s brother who can not 146 see and is always cheerful, and the little woman who sells string and roses in the shop under us, and Edna Helm who had to stop school and go to work because her father couldn’t afford to take care of her.”

“Poor Edna!” said Hannah. “I liked her best of all your friends. I’m going to start a Poor Things book myself, when I get home.”

“Have you ever heard of the Guild of Brave Poor Things in England?” asked Miss Lyndesay, and as the girls showed their interest she went on to tell them of the organization which took its name and its motive from Mrs. Ewing’s little story, and has grown into a large organization with industrial schools and shops.

“So all these people, boys and men and women and girls who cannot work in factories, because of some infirmity, are enabled to make beautiful things and to sell them. I bought some of their doll furniture when I was last in London. Let me see. Yes, it was in the box I unpacked yesterday.”

“Let me get it,” begged Frieda, and as soon as she had been told where to look she was off. She came quickly back again bringing a doll’s white-wood bed, strong and well-made as the fine old furniture which had outlived Aunt Abigail and her parents.

“It is just right for Millicent’s doll,” cried Frieda, as she brought it in. “Couldn’t we put her in it, 147 Tante Clara, to make up for having torn the pretty dresses?”

“Indeed you may. I had no one in mind to give it to, but bought it because I had enjoyed visiting the school at Chailey.”

“Can all the cripples make pretty things like this?” asked Hannah, wondering, as Frieda placed the bed in her hands.

“O, no, only a very few. But the Guild of Brave Poor Things does many other things, besides establishing the schools. All maimed persons may belong, and the guild makes investigations, finds out if they can be helped by surgery, and, if not, tries to make their lives happier in every possible way. Of course, those of them who can use their hands are happier doing so than they could be in any other way. Every Friday afternoon, from three to six, they meet in the settlement rooms and have music and games and reading, and hear talks on interesting subjects by ladies and gentlemen who are glad to tell them of their particular lines of work. Then they have a short service of prayer–”

“Do they sing the tug-of-war hymn?” asked Hannah eagerly. “I remember about that better than anything else in the book.”

“Yes, they almost always sing that. I heard them, myself,” and Miss Lyndesay’s eyes grew sweeter at the thought. “I have never heard anything more affecting than that singing:

148“‘Who best can drink His cup of woe,
Triumphant over pain,
Who patient bears His cross below,
He follows in His train.’”