“Oh, I wish you would tell me something about your school life in New York,” begged Helen wistfully; “I had a friend who used to go to one of the high schools. I hear they are very fine.”

It was Thursday, the day the Girl Pioneers were to call on Nathalie, and Helen Dame had run over a few moments before their arrival to have a short chat with her new friend.

“Oh—I,” Nathalie hesitated with rising color, “I did not go to high school. Yes, I know they are very fine, but I attended a private school kept by Madame Chemidlin.”

An “oh!” escaped Helen involuntarily, as her eyes gloomed a little, but her companion plunged recklessly on.

“It is considered one of the finest schools in the city, because, well, for one thing, Madame is adorable, her father was one of the nobility, a political refugee from France, and then because the girls who attend come from the best families in New York. They were just dears—” with a sigh of regret—“Nellie Blinton, she was my chummiest chum, she’s the one I told you Miss Tyson reminded me of, she has the same kind of a face as Nell, with big, dark eyes and the same gentle, ladylike way about her that my friend has.

“Then there was Puss Davidson, she’s awfully clever. She writes stories, and last year won a gold medal from St. Nicholas. She was Valedictorian of our class last Spring. You know I graduated then, but took a post-graduate course last winter and expected to enter college this fall, but now, of course, things are different.” She spoke a little sadly.

Helen could not help feeling somewhat disappointed as she heard about these rich schoolmates of Nathalie’s; she had taken a great liking to this girl with the daintily colored face with its rounding curves, lighted by eyes that held you captive with their frank, direct gaze. Although bright and clever-looking, this Girl Pioneer possessed no claim to beauty, for, as she ruefully commented at times, she had a nose with a knob on it. For that reason, perhaps, being free from that enviousness that characterizes so many girls, she was a beauty-lover. Too often she had made friends with girls just because they appealed to her love for the beautiful, only to realize when it was too late that good looks do not always mean pleasing traits of character. In fact, Helen was somewhat tired of being disappointed, and had vowed to her mother that she was never again going to care for a pretty girl. She was not sure that Nathalie was a real beauty, but surely, with her lovely brown eyes and the gracious little way she had, not at all self-conscious, but just real “self,” she was in a fair way to become very popular with the girls.

Her eyes clouded momentarily and something caused an unpleasant jar. No, she was not jealous of Nathalie, for she was willing to have her know and be liked by the other girls, but as she had been the first one to know her, she wanted to be her special friend. But then if she had always had so many high-toned schoolmates, perhaps she would not care to be a friend to a girl who was learning to be a wage-earner. Helen had always felt proud to think that some day she could be ranked among that class of highly regarded women, but would Nathalie think as she did?

There was something so straightforward, however, so honest, about Nathalie as she went on and told of her studies, her friends, and a few of the incidents in her school life in the big city, that Helen forgot her fears, and was compelled to believe that she would be doing her an injustice in fearing that she would choose her companions for what they had and not for what they were.

“Oh, here they come!” cried Nathalie at this moment as she caught a glimpse of a group of girls in brown uniforms coming down the street. She half rose from her chair and with sparkling eyes watched them as they came, a dozen or more, perhaps, up the steps of the veranda. In another second her eyes grew big as she saw each girl’s hand placed quickly over her heart, then up to her forehead, and lastly held with open palm at a level with the right shoulder. It was the Girl Pioneers’ salute to their leader, for Helen with a sudden straightening of the shoulders had responded to the greeting with a similar movement.

Nathalie had already stepped forward, leaning on Dick’s crutch,—he had been relegated to the couch in the hall,—and was crying, as her color came and went in pink flushes, “Oh, I am so glad to see you!” extending her hand to the foremost girl, Grace Tyson. “I think it’s just lovely for you all to come to see me!” nodding towards the rest of the group, with eyes that attested the cordiality of her welcome. She stopped abruptly, for the girls had broken forth into

“Hear!hear!hear!GirlPioneer!
Come,giveacheer,G-i-r-lPi-o-neer!”

“And a cheer for our hostess!” added Grace Tyson, lifting up her hand as she faced her companions. Before Nathalie could catch her breath there came another ringing cheer as each girl with smiling eyes shouted,

“Hear!hear!acheerforNathaliedear!
GirlPi-o-neer!GirlPi-o-neer!”

If Nathalie’s color had been going and coming, it now flooded her face as she laughingly held out her hand to each one in turn, giving a soft little squeeze that made each girl vote her a comrade.

Grace and Helen now led Nathalie back to her chair, somewhat solicitous as to the sprained foot; but she laughingly assured them that she was all right. Then with animated eyes she bowed and smiled as Helen, who was spokesman for the group, began to introduce each one of the Pioneers in turn, in an offhand, half quizzing way that relieved the formality of the ceremony.

“This is Miss Jessie Ford, our literary scribe and Editor-in-chief of ‘The Pioneer,’ a penny newspaper issued monthly, devoted to the news and doings of the Girl Pioneers.”

Jessie, a wholesome-looking girl with golden hair worn in a coronet braid, and with bright, keen eyes, shook hands pleasantly, half smiling at the words of their leader. “Yes, she is clever, our Jess, and progressive, too,” went on Helen, her eyes twinkling, “which means a lot in these times.” There was the suspicion of laughter in her tone.

“That she’s progressive can’t be denied,” interposed Grace Tyson laughingly, “for when we had a Pioneer party a short time ago, Jess wasn’t going to be outdone by any newspaper reporter and wrote a detailed description of each girl’s costume and sent it to the ‘Town Journal.’ The paper appeared the afternoon of the ‘come-off,’ one of the girls saw the article, and suggested as a joke that we all change costumes. O dear, what a laugh we had on Jess!”

Miss Jessie, however, only smiled at all of this chaffing, as if proud of this proof of her alertness and stepped to one side.

“And this bluebird—oh, Miss Page did I tell you that each Pioneer group is named after a bird, and that ours is the Bluebird Group?” Helen had forgotten her teasing tone in her eagerness to impart this information.

“What a pretty idea,” responded Nathalie, “and bluebird, the name of your group!” thinking of the nest of bluebirds she had found down in the old cedar.

Helen nodded with pleasure and then said, “This is Miss Kitty Corwin; we call her our pot-boiler—that means that Kitty always manages to keep the pot boiling not only by holding up her end of the line, but all the other ends, too, when the derelict Girl Pioneers forget to do so.”

“And you might say she always carries all the pots and pans, too, when there’s a hike,” interposed the newcomer, with a nervous laugh. She was an awkward-looking girl about fourteen, all arms and elbows, but with a rather winsome face lighted by big, serious eyes. There was such nervous activity about her grip as she yanked Nathalie’s hand like a pump-handle that that young lady had no doubts as to her surplus energy. As Kitty tried to make her escape there was a suppressed howl, and then a twitter, for alas, she had backed into one of her companions with such force that the victim almost lost her balance.

The girls, each one smiling, but with a palpitating heart as if doubtful what Helen would say when her turn came, all looked up expectantly as a tall girl, somewhat older than the others, but with a certain dash about her that added to her charm, came forward. She moved with willowy grace and had an ease of manner that accentuated the Pot-Boiler’s embarrassed movements.

“Miss Page, allow me to introduce you to Miss Lillie Bell.” There was a certain emphasis in Helen’s tone as she presented this pretty, attractive girl, that indicated her pride in one of the most popular girls belonging to the group.

Miss Bell smiled in a self-assured manner as Helen introduced her, and then greeted Nathalie with sweet graciousness as she waited expectantly for her characterization to be given.

“Lillie is our story-teller,” continued Helen with a gleam of mischief in her eyes, “a would-be thriller, for we all shiver with the creeps when she begins her yellow-journal romances. Her specialty is ghost tales, the kind that, as we sit in the dark around our cheer fire, its glare (blood-red, please note), casting weird shadows over our pallid faces—” Helen intoned in tragic burlesque, and then stopped with a laugh.

Lillie Bell, however, did not appear at all annoyed at this banter, but returned coolly, “I hope Miss Page, you will not believe all Helen says, for she dotes on teasing, but we get even with her when the chance comes.” From a certain gleam in the smiling gray eyes Nathalie did not doubt her, but as her voice was musical, and her manner impressive, bordering on the dramatic, she wished she could hear one of her thrillers.

“Observe,” tantalized the spokesman as Lillie disappeared and her place was taken by a young girl who looked as if she was all blood and muscle, with ruddy cheeks, alert eyes, and the poise and bearing of one who was a frequenter of the gym.

As Helen said, “This is Miss Edith Whiton,” she made an old-time curtsy, “generally dubbed the Sport, as she is the champion knee-doubler, arm-stretcher, toe-raiser, and all the rest of the ball-and-socket team.”

With attempted nonchalance Edith twisted her shoulders and flashed Helen a quick glance as much as to say, “Wait, my turn is coming later!” She then stepped forward and shook Nathalie’s hand, smiling pleasantly down at her with frank friendliness.

As she made her way back to her seat, a pale, studious-looking young girl with a head that looked almost top-heavy with its black braids, and who wore glasses, presented herself before Nathalie. She smiled nervously as Helen began, “Oh, this owl-like individual is Barbara Worth; she is very learned—she knows it all.”

“Oh, Helen!” came in pained expostulation from the girl, as her eyes turned distressfully upon her hostess in shamed embarrassment.

“Oh, Barbara, don’t mind,” spoke up Lillie Bell kindly, “Helen is only in fun.”

Barbara looked somewhat relieved at this brace to her injured feelings, and then stood nervously clasping and unclasping her hands together.

“Yes,” went on Helen relentlessly, “we call her the Encyclopedia for short. Wait until you want to know something in a hurry, she will help you out, for she has the best heart in the world.” With a little ripple of laughter Helen leaned forward and looking up at Barbara cried, “There, did I say anything so dreadful?”

Barbara smiled gratefully and then said quietly, “Yes, Miss Page, I have a fine library, it is grandfather’s, and I shall—” she drew a deep breath—“always be glad to live up to my name.”

There was loud clapping at this brave remark and then she was gone, but in her place stood a little lass who smiled bewitchingly at the girl in the chair, showing a coy little dimple in one cheek, and then with a slight frown waited for her executioner to behead her.

“This little damsel is Louise Gaynor,” introduced Helen; “she is the Flower of the family—spelt both ways. We call her flower, because she resembles one,” Louise bowed prettily with a surprised glance, “and then because she is an expert manipulator of the flour bag; she makes most edible flapjacks when we go on a hike. It is needless to say that we always have indigestion afterwards.” There was a laugh at this, and then as the Flower disappeared, Helen drew to her side a diminutive girl who wore her flaxen hair in two large braids down her back. With her broad, good-natured face and cornflower blue eyes she was a miniature Gretchen.

“This is Carol Tyke—we spell it T-i-k-e, because she is a tike and the fag of the group as well.” The little girl, who was about eleven, but small for her age, grinned at Nathalie and ducked her head. “She is a Junior Pioneer, not yet twelve. But we have her in training and she is taking tests daily, which doesn’t give her much leisure time, does it, Tike?”

At last, much to Nathalie’s relief, the introductions were over, and then she listened intently as the girls began to tell her of a hike they had taken the week before, when one of their number had found a hundred different leaf specimens.

“Yes, it was a leaf hike,” said Grace. “We all have our own note-books; and make impressions from the leaves; that is, we print them in our books, and then write the date of the hike, the name of the leaf, and any other data we have gathered.”

“I should think it would be very interesting,” remarked her listener, as she thought of the outings she and her schoolmates used to take on Saturday mornings when they visited Bronx Park, and studied “cooped-up nature” as one of the girls used to call it, when they eyed some fierce monarch of the forest in his iron cage, or exclaimed over the beauties of some hot-house flower.

“We are going to have a wild-flower hike soon,” volunteered the Tike, smiling at Nathalie in a most friendly manner. “The Sport says there are a lot of beautiful flowers in the woods near Edgemere, didn’t you, Sport?”

“But I wish you would tell me something about your tests—is that what you call them?” Nathalie asked. “I should think they would be no end of fun if they mean making one do stunts, or anything in the hazing line?”

“Oh, we do not haze, or anything of that sort, for that would not be kind, and kindness is one of the laws of the Girl Pioneer,” explained Grace. “By tests we mean trying to see what a girl can do that is useful, and if she can’t do it, we teach her. We have to sew, cook, and know all the emergency things.”

“You mean the First Aid to the Injured methods,” corrected Helen; “knowing what to do to revive a person when almost drowned, how to put out a fire—”

“How to bathe and bandage a sprained foot—”

“You needn’t tell me you know that,” cried Nathalie with sparkling eyes, “for I know by experience,” and then she told the girls what the doctor had said about Helen’s skillful way of binding her foot—in spite of that young lady’s blushes at this open praise—and how clever her mother thought the girls were for the ready way in which they had made the stretcher from their khaki skirts.

“Then we have to know how to restore a person who has fainted,” some one volunteered.

“And learn the Fireman’s Lift,” added another girl.

“Oh, let’s tell things from the beginning!” interrupted some methodical girl from the farther end of the porch.

“Oh, but I told Miss Page—” Helen stopped, for her hostess was looking at her with beseeching eyes, clearly due to the formal title.

“Won’t you please call me Nathalie?” the owner of that name ventured with a coaxing little smile.

“If you will say Helen,” replied the girl with evident delight.

The girls both laughed, shook hands on it, and then Helen continued. “Yes, I told Nathalie all about the tests for the third-class Pioneer. Well, to become a second-class Pioneer it is necessary to have been a third-class Pioneer for at least a month. Then you have to know how to cook a piece of meat properly—”

“Boil a potato as it should be done!” interrupted Lillie Bell. This was impressively said, and followed by a chime of laughter from the girls.

“And make a coal fire in a cooking-stove—ye stars!” ejaculated Grace, “when I made my first, I literally smoked every one in the house to a ham—but when I made my first out-of-door fire—”

“You didn’t do any better,” cried Lillie Bell irrelevantly, “for you sooted the whole bunch of us.”

“Oh, Lillie,” cried Grace in dismayed tone, “that wasn’t from making the fire, for I was the only one who made it with a single match, but it was from putting it out.”

“Now girls, don’t tell tales; for, as Mrs. Morrow says, we are all breakable and no one should cast the first stone,” called out their leader.

“Oh, the tests are all easy but the next one,” cried Edith Whiton, “that is not a cinch by any means: how to remove a cinder from the eye—”

“Or any other foreign substance!”

“We have to know all the primary colors, too,” went on Edith.

“Pshaw, any kindergarten kid knows that,” spoke the Encyclopedia, who up to this moment had taken no part in this flow of information, “but to tie a bundle properly, that means hard labor.”

“Yes, indeed,” added Jessie Ford quickly, “one has to have an awful lot of practice to do that. I worked so hard tying up bundles at home for every one in the house that Father suggested I apply for a position as bundle-wrapper at some department store. And I would have, just for a joke, if I hadn’t succeeded in making every one for whom I tied a bundle give me five cents—and I made a dollar.” Her eyes gleamed reminiscently.

“You have forgotten about the trees!” called out the Sport.

“Yes, we have to name three kinds of trees, three flowers and three birds.”

“Easy!” chimed the girls in unison.

“But the hardest—that was for me—” exclaimed Grace (Nathalie bent forward eagerly, for somehow she did like Grace), “was to earn or to save fifty cents and put it in the bank.” There was a general shout at this, for, as Helen explained in an aside to Nathalie, Grace was the richest girl in the Pioneer group. She had a beautiful home, her own automobile, her own allowance, and yet she was always hard up.

“She’s awfully generous, you know, and doesn’t know how to count her pennies,” she added wisely, “the way we girls do, because we have to. But she’s learning.”

But Helen’s whispered comments about her friend were not all heard by Nathalie, who suddenly stiffened, and with a quick exclamation leaned forward and stared curiously at a gray figure that was walking past the house with strained, averted eyes, as if fearful that she might see the group of merry girls on the veranda.

“Who is that lady all in gray?” she demanded, abruptly clutching Helen’s arm as her eyes followed the gliding figure of the strange-appearing woman whose library card she had found the day of her accident in the woods.

Helen looked up quickly in response to Nathalie’s question, but before she could answer, Kitty Corwin cried hastily, “Girls, look! there goes ‘The Mystic’!”