A few days after the Pilgrim Rally, as Nathalie lay in the hammock dreaming day dreams as she was wont to do, her mother came and seated herself in a low chair near by.

Nathalie turned, and then with a quick movement sat up as she asked anxiously, “Oh, Mother, has anything happened?”

“I should say ‘anything’ has happened,” ejaculated Dick, who was lounging near, ignoring his mother’s gesture to be silent, “for your mother has been chief cook and bottle-washer all day!”

Nathalie, who had been off on a Pioneer demonstration most of the day, showed her dismay as she exclaimed, “Oh, where is Ophelia?”

Mrs. Page’s worry lines deepened as she answered, “Oh, she is ill. She has been complaining for some days, and when she begged to be allowed to go home this morning I did not have the heart to refuse her. Poor thing! she looked the embodiment of woe!”

“But isn’t she coming back?” inquired alarmed Nathalie.

“Not for several days,” was the answer, as Mrs. Page leaned wearily back in her chair.

“But can’t we get some one to help us?” demanded her daughter insistently.

“Dorothy went to the colored settlement, but could not get any one. Colored people don’t like to work in warm weather, and I don’t blame them,” her mother added in an undertone, “for standing over a fire in this heat is terrible.”

“Oh, what shall we do?” thought Nathalie ruefully, as she saw a pile of unwashed dishes confronting her. But a cheery “Hello?” caused her to look up to see her friend, with dust-brush in hand, cleaning the window shutters of the neighboring house. With gripping force she suddenly realized how useful Helen was, and the numerous things she managed to do to help her mother, notwithstanding the many hours she was compelled to spend at the stenography school.

Nathalie twisted about in the hammock; somehow it did not seem as comfortable as it did before her mother had come. Her sky visions had departed, and in their place had come the thought that she ought to help her mother. Oh, but dish-washing was degrading, such greasy work. She glanced down at her slim, white hands as if they would aid her in this argument with self.

“Oh, why do people have to do the very things they hate?” she questioned rebelliously as she arose from her comfortable position and with a long-drawn sigh started to enter the house.

“You have dropped your book!” exclaimed her mother as she stooped and picked up the Pioneer manual that had fallen from Nathalie’s lap and handed it to her.

“Thank you,” returned the girl and then, with a pang of regret as she noted her mother’s weary eyes, she bent and kissed her.

“Oh, I’m so sorry you had to work so hard!” she cried impulsively. “Isn’t there something I can do to help?” She almost wished her mother would say no.

“Not now,” replied her mother with a brighter expression than she had worn, “but perhaps you can help me later—when I get dinner.”

“All right,” returned her daughter with forced cheerfulness. As she entered the hall her eyes were caught by the word “Pioneer” in big, black letters on the manual. Reminded by the name that flaunted itself so determinedly before her, she remembered that she was a Pioneer, that she had taken vows upon herself, and that in order to keep these vows she should do the very things, perhaps, that she hated to do. This new thought jarred her uncomfortably as she hurried up to her room and began to make herself cool and comfortable after a rather strenuous morning spent in trying her hand at the many new interests that had come to her as a Pioneer.

But somehow she was haunted, as it were, by the thought that she was not making a good beginning as a Pioneer; oh, yes, being a Pioneer did not mean all play, or even doing the things that were interesting, or that one liked to do, those were the Director’s words that morning. The more one gives up or overcomes in order to do and accomplish the demands made upon her as a Pioneer, the greater the victory. She picked up the manual from the bureau and began to turn its leaves aimlessly, and then she halted, for two very small words held her eyes, “I can!” why, that was the Pioneer motto—the one Lillie Bell had mentioned when she told of the picked chicken. She would read the laws!

“A Girl Pioneer is trustworthy.” Oh, Nathalie was sure she was that. “Helpful,” her conscience pricked sharply. Was she helpful if she didn’t try and do all she could to help her mother? “O dear,” she ruminated, “I am shying at the first ‘overcome.’” She remembered that Mrs. Morrow had said all the disagreeable things that one didn’t want to do, but did in the end, were “overcomes.”

“Kind—” she heaved a sigh, well, she was afraid she hadn’t been very kind the other day when she had answered Lucille so sharply, but she was trying, and the hasty retort would slip out; she would have to put a button on her lips as her mother often told her.

“Reverent,” her religion taught her that. “Happy,” not always, for how could one be happy when life had been full of disappointments? Her eyes saddened as she thought of Dick, who was so patiently waiting for something to turn up, so that he could have the operation on his knee. Poor fellow! she had felt like crying the other day when she heard him telling how he had written to a law firm in the city in the hope that he could get some copying to do so that he could earn some money.

“Happiness does not always mean having what we want; it is being contented with what we have,” that was another of Mrs. Morrow’s interpretations of the Pioneer laws. “Cheerful,” here Nathalie broke into a laugh, quite sure she was always cheerful when she had the things she wanted. “There!” she cried aloud, “I am not going to read any more of those laws, for if I am to—” she stooped, for the manual had fallen to the floor. As she picked it up she again encountered the words, “I can.”

“I can!” she repeated once or twice mechanically. Then her face lighted, as if the meaning of the words had suddenly flashed themselves clear of the thoughts that had been revolving in her mind.

“But what can I do?” she continued doubtingly.

“You can wash the dishes for your mother in the morning so that she can read her morning paper,” some one seemed to whisper. She started. “And you can get up and get breakfast the way Helen does when her mother is not feeling well,” this time the some one spoke very loudly.

“Oh, but I can’t cook, nobody would eat my breakfast,” she thought, still holding back.

“But if you are a Pioneer you should learn to do these things.” She frowned as if to brush aside an unpleasant thought.

“Yes, I suppose I can do these things,” she reluctantly admitted after a moment’s thought. “O dear—I have been lamenting that I had no purpose in life, that I was just drifting. I cried the other day because Mother said my talents were gilt-edged. ‘Yes, I Can,’” suddenly broke from her. “I’m going to begin right now, too; I’ll show Mother that I am not a gilt-edge drifter. I’ll learn to cook—oh, I’ll just make myself do those horrible, horrible things—I’ll show you, Miss I Can, so there!” She hastily wiped away the tears that would come, and then, as was her wont after a mental conflict, she began to sing. A few moments later she was down in the kitchen hustling about, seeing what there was for dinner.

A steak, oh, yes, she knew how to broil that—and potatoes—oh, they were easy! The next minute she had seated herself before the kitchen table, and as she peeled the potatoes she sang with unwonted animation:

“Westicktoworkuntilit’sdone
We’rePioneers,GirlPioneers.
Weneverfromourdutyrun,
We’rePioneers,GirlPioneers.
Welearntocook,tosew,tomend
Tosweep,todust,toclean,totend,
Andalwayswillinghandstolend.”

As she paused to think how she could manage the next vegetable, Mrs. Page entered, showing amazement as she saw what her daughter was doing, for full well she knew that Nathalie disliked anything in the way of housework.

“Why, Nathalie!” she exclaimed, “you need not do that. I will get dinner; there is not so much to do, for Felia made some pies yesterday, and with a steak, thank goodness! there will not be much to cook.”

“Now, see here, Mumsie,” cried the new housewife, flourishing her knife menacingly at her mother, “I am chief of this ranch. You have lamented that I was just a gilt-edged doll, now I’m going to show you I’m not. I’m a Pioneer, and I’m going to learn everything useful. Now be off!” As her mother protested there ensued a little wrestling-match in which the girl came off victor, and Mrs. Page, subdued into meekness, retired to the veranda, somewhat relieved to think she could rest awhile.

As Nathalie snuggled down to sleep that night—she was so tired she could hardly keep her eyes open—she felt supremely happy, for she had cooked dinner all by herself. To be sure Dick had growled and claimed the steak was burnt, and Lucille had volunteered the information that Felia never mashed her potatoes that way, but it made no difference to the happy Blue Robin—as Dick had called her—for she was pleased to think that for once in her life she had helped. Of course, Mother had laughed at her blunders, but it was in the old happy way that she used to do when Papa had been with them.

Next morning Nathalie awoke with a start, she smiled drowsily at some passing remembrance of the day before, and then turned over for a beauty nap. Suddenly she sat up with eyes keen and alert; if she was to be maid of all work that day she must get at her job. In fifteen minutes she was creeping stealthily down the kitchen stairs with her shoes in her hands, so as not to awaken her mother.

Oh! the fire was out; that was a difficulty she had not taken into calculation. For a moment she was tempted to crawl up those stairs and leave the fire to the next one who discovered it. Oh, but that would not do at all. She didn’t know how to make a fire, but the words “I can,” made her close her mouth determinedly, and in a few moments clouds of rising smoke attested that she was learning. But alas, the smoke soon drifted into space, and the blaze disappeared in a mass of black paper!

Nathalie’s tears came at this; oh, why would not that wood catch fire? Tried to the soul, she went to the window and gazed through a mist of tears at the dew sparkling on bush and grass. A low, sweet whistling caused her to look up to see Helen, as fresh as a new-blown rose, throwing open the shutters of her room.

Nathalie pursed up her lips and then broke into a “Tru-al-lee!”

Helen glanced down quickly, her eyes lighted, and then came a quick Bob White call that sounded much like “More wet! More wet!” In another instant she was down on the porch calling merrily to her friend, “Oh, Nathalie, how are you this morning?”

Nathalie dimpled cheerily. “Oh, fine!” making a dab at her eyes, “but at my wits’ end trying to make a fire. Will you tell me why it will insist upon going out? It is maddening! I have lighted it six times.”

“What, you making a fire?” said Helen, and then, “Just wait a moment and I will come over and see what is wrong.”

Under Helen’s nimble fingers the brown paper was taken out, the fire-pot filled with loosely wrapped newspaper, small sticks laid crisscross, a few larger ones on top, and then a match applied. Like magic the tiny blue flame sputtered, caught hold of an edge of paper, and then in a few moments a blazing fire was seething and swirling. Nathalie, in exuberant joy, seized her friend and the two girls waltzed merrily around the kitchen.

Of course Nathalie knew how to make toast, but when Helen showed her how to hold it over the coals until it was a golden-brown, butter it while hot, and then cut off the scraggly edges and a rim of crust, she realized that toast-making was indeed a domestic science. Scrambled eggs came next, simple, but deliciously done, as her friend showed her. Then came putting the coffee in the percolator with the water heated beneath by the tiny alcohol lamp, thus drawing from the beverage the most nutritious qualities, Helen declared, without injuring one’s digestion.

But the grape-fruit—that was another new thing learned—was prepared the way Helen said a trained nurse had taught her, one time when her mother was ill. It was cut in half, the pulp dug out with a spoon into a cup or saucer, and after the pith had been removed, chopped finely, returned to shell, and then sugared and put on the ice. But perhaps the best part of helping Mother that morning was when, after striking the Japanese gong eight bells, Nathalie arrayed herself in Felia’s freshly laundered cap and apron and stationed herself back of her mother’s chair to serve breakfast.

How pleased and surprised her mother was! Dick “Blue Robined” her again, while Lucille patronizingly exclaimed, “Oh, Nathalie, you make a swell maid—and how smart you are getting!”

Just before dinner, Helen appeared again, and taught her how to make soup from a few boiled bones and a chunk of meat, a few left-over tomatoes, and a bit of onion and seasoning. She taught her to broil a steak,—this time without a burnt speck—how to make white sauce for some left-over fish, how to scrape new potatoes economically, and the right way to cook peas. Then came a delicious dessert of stale pieces of cake and canned peaches, laid in layers with beaten cream, and topped off with little white pigs, as Nathalie called the tiny bits of egg froth floating on its surface. Truly, it was a dinner fit for a king!

After dinner her sensitive soul rebelled at the pile of greasy dishes, but the task grew lighter when Helen showed her how to make the water hot and soapy, using a lot of dried bits of soap that Nathalie was going to throw away, by sewing them in cheese-cloth bags. She washed the glasses and silver first, then the china, and then—oh, horrors—the pots! But when the new Pioneer saw how her friend put them on to boil, thus doing away with so much grease, it was a revelation. And when the dish-towels were washed and hung out in the sun to sweeten, and the sink was scrubbed with a brush and a cleansing soap, Nathalie was again forced to admit that she had mastered another household science.

Oh, no, it wasn’t all plain sailing—the world isn’t run that way—and the new Pioneer’s back, eyes, and feet made themselves forcibly known before she went to bed that night. Many a time she had had to grit her teeth, summon Miss I Can to her side, and with forced determination go on with the job; but after all, she declared, as she turned out the light, “I have helped Mother!” and then sleep claimed the tired girl.

When Saturday morning came, however, and no Felia made her appearance according to promise, Nathalie’s face grew somber, and she could not help going to the door every few minutes to see if she were not in sight, for she had planned to go on a bird-hike that morning with the Pioneers to learn bird-calls. As the clock struck nine she dropped her broom—she was sweeping the kitchen—and rushed to her room. Here she wept copiously for a while in her clothes closet with her head buried in the skirts of her dresses, so no one could hear, and then she heard her mother calling her.

She dried her eyes guiltily, scrubbed her face to brush away all trace of tears, and then answered blithely, “Here I am, Mumsie, I’m coming right down to finish the kitchen.” When she came tearing down the stairs she found the kitchen swept and garnished, and lo! there stood Mother with big, surprised eyes pointing to Lucille, who, as she caught sight of her cousin, bobbed her head and dropped a curtsy, crying, “Sure, ma’am, it’s a new job I’m afther takin’ on meself, but do yez see the loikes of it for the claneness?”

Nathalie gave one bewildered stare, and then a merry peal of laughter broke from her, seconded with a minor note from her mother, and with a bass accompaniment added by Dick, as he entered and sensed the situation. Yes, Miss I Can must have caught Lucille in her meshes, too, for that young lady, generally so dainty in her labor preferences, had condescended to sweep the kitchen.

“Well,” she explained apologetically, “I was jealous of the praise bestowed upon Nathalie, and thought I’d show you folks that people can do things even if they are not Blue Robins.”

“Oh, Lucille, you aren’t a Blue Robin, you’re a duck of a dear,” bubbled Nathalie as she hugged her cousin rapturously. “It was just lovely of you. But Mother, did you know what she was doing?”

“No, I did not,” rejoined Mrs. Page; “I thought it was you working all by yourself and came in to help, as I knew you wanted to go on the hike. But before you go, dear,” she added anxiously, “I want you to go down to Felia’s and see how she is. If she is not coming back by Monday you will have to hunt around for a washerwoman; the clothes can’t go another week.”

An hour later, Nathalie, delighted to think she could take a day off with a clear conscience, hurried in the direction of Ophelia’s little gray shanty; but to her surprise, as she came near the door she heard a loud wailing and the confused hum of several voices.

As she entered the stuffy parlor hung with gay colored prints and dingy-looking chromos, she found Ophelia seated in a rocking chair with her face buried in a gingham apron, wailing and crying hysterically. Pushing her way through the crowd of sympathizing friends, Nathalie grabbed the arm of a colored woman who stood by Felia’s side crying, “Oh, please, won’t you tell me what’s the matter?”

“Sure, Miss,” respectfully answered the woman, wiping a tear from her eye. “It’s little Rosy, she’s lost—we can’t find her—ah, honey, don’t take on so!” she ended, turning towards the grieving mother and giving her a caressing pat on the shoulder. “Surely some one will find her.”

Nathalie now stepped to Felia’s side and pulled her gently by the sleeve, determined to get some definite information about black Rosebud, as Dick called the little pickaninny who had often come to the house with her mother, and who, being a bright child, had become a prime favorite. “Ophelia, please tell me about your trouble!” insisted the girl. “Is Rosy surely lost?”

“She lost sure nuff, Missy, down at de bottom of de pond,” quavered Felia’s mother dismally, an aged negress standing by the side of her daughter, as she rolled up her eyes until the whites looked like saucers on a shelf. “I’se gwine to tell you de trufe—dat chile is drowned. Oh, I see her face a-shinin’ in de water—”

Her horrible prognostication as to Rosy’s woeful fate was terminated by her daughter’s renewed wails of anguish, as she again began to rock herself to and fro with redoubled force.

“Oh,” thought Nathalie, frowning angrily in the direction of the old mammy, “I do wish she would stop.” Then she cried, “Oh, Felia, don’t cry so—I am sure she will be found—perhaps she is at one of the neighbors’ houses, you know she is fond of visiting.”

There was such sympathetic concern in the girl’s voice that Felia desisted from her lamentations long enough to cry, “Oh, Miss Natty, she done go and get lost—she ain’t nowhere hereabouts!” Then in answer to further questioning she said that the child had been seen just before dark picking posies over in a meadow with several children, but when bedtime came she could not be found.

“Has any one looked for her?” demanded Nathalie, turning towards the group of colored women as poor Felia went back to her apron wailing pitifully, “I’se gwine promise yo’, Lord, if yo’ bring my baby back, I’ll never get mad with her again. I’ll promise sure—” but the rest of Felia’s prayer was lost as the women crowded around Nathalie and eagerly explained that Dan Washington, Paul Jones, and Abe Smith had searched the town for her. They had been up all night, but when morning came had to return to their jobs, and there was no one looking for her at that time.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Felia!” sympathized Nathalie again to the weeping mother. Then, after asking if the town authorities had been notified, she decided to hasten home, knowing that she could not get any one to promise to work for her at that time.

“Oh, it is too bad!” she lamented as she hurried down Main Street. “It does seem as if some one ought to be searching for her now, why the poor child may be injured or something!” Her too vivid imagination pictured her, not down at the bottom of the pond, as mammy had done, but crying piteously of fear and hunger in some lonely place. “I suppose the police in this town will take some hours to get on to the job, as Dick says.” She suddenly paused and her eyes shone with a bright light. She wrinkled her brow thoughtfully a moment as if going over something in her mind, and then with the glad cry, “Oh, I know we can do it—it will be just the thing!” She broke into a run as if her sudden inspiration would escape her if she did not hurry.

With good speed she soon reached the house, hurriedly told her mother what had befallen Rosy and the condition she had found things in at the negro settlement, and then, telling her she would be back in a few moments, she flew post-haste across the road to Mrs. Morrow’s house. Here the Pioneers with eager, expectant faces were all talking animatedly, their brown uniforms, red ties, and broad-brimmed hats suggestive of the good time in store for them.

“Oh, here she comes!” sang out Helen, as she spied Nathalie hastening up the path towards the veranda. “Why, where have you been? We began to think you were not coming.”

“I had to go on an errand for Mother!” Then with glowing eyes she told them of the visit to the colored settlement and about the lost Rosy, the grief of her mother, and how there was no one looking for the child. “Oh, girls,” she ended in a quiver of excitement, “let’s give up the bird-hike for to-day, and see if we cannot find little Rosy!”