A September twilight was coming on slowly, and in the grass the crickets chirped back and forth to each other. The house was all open, and through the windows came a merry chatter, a few rattling notes of the piano, and something that sounded very much like a warm argument, for a game of chess was going on by one window. Out on the broad porch that ran all along the front of the house, and was shrouded with vines, stood a girl, leaning idly against the post and watching the shadows gather across the long walk. She was not a pretty girl, nor one that you would care to look at twice, because of any pleasure it gave you; though had you really studied her face there might have been something found in it after all. There was a drawn, discontented look about her mouth, that made the lips look thin and snappish; it even spoiled the shape of her really pretty nose, which was straight and finely cut. The brows, straight and black, held a heavy frown between them, and the eyes beneath had an unsatisfied, sour look, not at all attractive. Her forehead was altogether too high for beauty of any kind; and as though there was a relief in making herself look just as ugly as possible, all her hair was drawn back painfully smooth, and tucked into a net. Everything about her, from the crooked look of her necktie to the toe of her slipper, with its rosette gone, plainly indicated that she was dissatisfied with herself and aided nature by her own carelessness and indifference, to make herself just as unattractive as possible. Some one came up behind her as she stood there indulging in thoughts anything but pleasing and laid a gentle touch on her arm.

"Olive?"

"Well?"

"What makes you like to stay by yourself so much, and where it isn't so nice? The yard is getting so dark, and it's real chilly. Don't you ever get afraid?"

"Afraid here on the steps? That's silly, Jean."

"Perhaps 'tis, but I'm such a big coward; I suppose it's because I couldn't run if anything ever was to happen;" and Jean gave a little sigh, as she smoothed the padded top of her crutch.

Olive gave a little start, half impatient, and turned around to ask, almost wistfully, "Jean, do you never get tired or impatient, or think sometimes that you'd rather be dead than always walk on a crutch and have your back grow crooked?"

"Why, Olive!" Jean lifted her beautiful eyes to look at her sister's restless face, "I couldn't be so wicked as that, could you?" In the twilight Olive flushed at the question and at the clear eyes searching her face. How many, many times had she wished she was dead, and for nothing except that she was ugly and awkward, and bound to see everything with the darkest side up.

"I'm not as good as you," she answered evasively.

"Oh I'm not good," said Jean, with a little laugh, half a sigh, "I do get real tired sometimes, Olive, and I do want to be straight and well so much; but Miss Willis told me something in Sunday-school last Sunday, that has made me feel so good; she said, 'Jeanie, don't get impatient or discouraged, for God has a reason why he wants you to be lame; it is to be for the best some way, and perhaps sometime you will see it;' and she said that when I tried to be happy and bear my lame back, it made God very happy; and when I was cross and fussy, it made him sad."

Olive gave her eyes a swift brush with the back of her hand, and asked with a little choke, "Do you believe all that, Jean."

"Why, Olive, yes! Don't you?"

"I don't know,—who is that?" was Olive's rather disjointed answer, as the click of the gate sounded through the still evening air.

"It's Ernestine, I know, 'cause she went up town;—yes, there she is;" answered Jean, as a figure appeared under the foliage and came toward the steps. How different she looked from Olive and Jean. Such a slim, graceful figure, with a proud little head and sunny shining hair, in loose puffs and curls and a jaunty hat. A face like a fresh lily, and beautiful brown eyes, the sweetest voice, and the vainest little heart ever known to a girl of fifteen, had Ernestine Dering; and yet she was a favorite, with all her little vanities, and home, without Ernestine's face, would have been blank to all the girls. She came running up the steps and stopped.

"Oh, Olive, such laces!" she cried, with a longing sigh. "They are selling out at cost, and the ribbons and laces are just going for almost nothing; if I had just had a little spending money I would have been in clover. One clerk just insisted upon my taking an exquisite lace scarf; oh it was so becoming! but I told him I didn't know they were selling out, and that I would have to come again."

"Pretty way of talking!" snapped Olive ungraciously. "You know you won't have any more money another day than you have this; why couldn't you say no?"

"Say that I couldn't afford it?" cried Ernestine gayly. "Not I. Besides, I reasoned that if one of you would loan me some, I'd have more another day."

"Suppose one of us won't," said Olive, looking darkly over her sister's pretty hat.

"I didn't suppose you would," laughed Ernestine "But fortunately for me, I have some obliging sisters," and with that shot, Ernestine went in, singing like a mocking bird, and Jean followed slowly, looking back once or twice to Olive's motionless figure.

Oh how it cut! Olive grew flushed and white, then her brows came together darkly and her lips shut tight. "Ernestine is too frivolous to live," she said grimly; then looked straight off into the evening sky and was silent. But down to her proud, sensitive heart she was hurt, and in it was the longing wonder, "Why don't she come to me and ask as she does of Bea and the others. I would loan it to her;" but this feeling she fiercely refused to countenance, and shut her heart grimly, as she did her lips.

The broad old hall that ran clear through the house was growing quite dark with shadows; the game of chess had ended, and the players left the window, and presently Olive turned slowly and went into the house. Through the sitting-room came a lively chatter, and as she passed the door some one shouted, "Halloo!"

"Well I'm not deaf. Do you want me?"

"Pining to have you; come sit on my lap."

Olive passed in, but disregarded the hospitably inclined young lady who lounged in a big chair, and passed on to a dusky corner, where she curled up on the lounge.

"Olive," volunteered Kittie, who was in the window-sill, "mama has a plan; she's going to tell us after supper, and we've all been trying to guess what it is; what do you think?" "I don't think anything."

"What a glorious lack of curiosity," laughed Kat.

"I suppose I'm just as contented as any of you with your guessing," returned Olive.

"Well I wish," said Ernestine with an energy that brought instant attention, "I wish papa was going to increase our allowances. Two dollars a month is a shameful little."

"But it amounts to ten dollars when paid to five girls," added Beatrice quickly, "besides Jean's twenty-five cents."

"A girl isn't supposed to spend two dollars every month for foolishness," said Olive severely. "You might call it a little if you had to live on it."

"I exist on my pretty things almost as much as I do on my food," answered Ernestine flippantly, "and what does two dollars buy?"

"Suppose you go awhile without spending it, then you'll have more," suggested Kittie practically.

"Yes," added Kat with a laugh. "Kittie saved fifty cents last month, and I saved just three; why don't you do as we do and economize."

"How much have each of you saved altogether since papa began paying us?" asked Beatrice. "I have nine dollars and thirty-four cents."

"Whew!" whistled Kittie. "I've got just three. I tell you caramels are disastrous to my pocket money."

"I wear out my gloves, love butter-scotch, and lost my head over a certain pair of slippers; consequence, two dollars and eight cents in my treasury," moaned Kat, with great self reproach.

"Well, I do everything that is frivolous, and unwise, and extravagant, but I have a good time, and the result is that I haven't a cent, and am in debt a dollar," laughed Ernestine, kicking out her pretty foot with its fancy little slipper, as if in defiance to anyone's criticisms or reproofs.

"Two more to hear from yet," said Beatrice, as silence fell. "Jeanie, have you spent all your quarters?"

"No," said Jean slowly and with much hesitation, "I had two dollars and spent one for a sash."

"And I borrowed the other," interrupted Ernestine, seeing that the child did not want to tell on her. "How much have you, Olive?"

"I made no promise to tell," leaped to Olive's lips; but instead of speaking it, she electrified them by saying, with a quiet smile of satisfaction, "Thirty dollars."

It did more than surprise them; it was almost a stun for a minute or two; then Ernestine slowly opened her lips: "Why, Olive Dering! wherever did you get it? If you'd never spent a cent of your allowance, papa hasn't been paying us long enough for it to amount to that."

"I suppose, for a girl that isn't a fool, there are more ways of getting money than sitting down with her hands folded and letting her father give it to her," retorted Olive with a snap. "That's so, Olive," echoed Beatrice, with a heartiness that made them jump. "But what did you do? tell us quick; see every one of us stiff with curiosity."

It just occurred to Olive to let them remain stiff with curiosity, but perhaps an amount of satisfaction in the way she had earned her money is what changed her mind; at any rate, she began more readily than the others expected: "I sold the old iron out in the barn, and several bags of rags; then I've done some writing for papa's clerk, because he was hurried; and last week I sold my picture. Of my allowance I only spent enough for two pairs of gloves, that have lasted me with mending; so that's how I made my money."

"Blessings on you!" cried Kat enthusiastically. "I look upon you as a model, Olive, a living——"

"Nothing of the kind," interrupted Olive sharply, and rising up out of her corner, as if warming to the subject. "I'm only trying to be sensible; we're all old enough to be that, and be something more too. I wonder if we are never going to do anything but sit here at home, with papa to feed and dress us, besides giving us an allowance for little things and nonsense. I think it's wrong, and lazy, and a namby pamby way of being a useless thing, just because you are a girl! Besides, papa is worried and troubled; yes he is;—" warming still more at the breathless attention given her. "The other night, he and mama talked for hours, and I couldn't help hearing a little, because the transom was open. His voice was troubled, so was mama's, and sad, and he said something about 'lessening expenses,' and the difficulty of getting any ready money, and all that, and I believe in my heart that we ought to help him!"

Into the stunned silence that followed this outburst from short-spoken, reticent Olive, there came a new voice; such a sweet, lovely voice with a tender ring that made every one start to welcome the speaker.

"How dark you are, dears. Are all my steps here?"

"All here, solemnly engaged," answered Kat, unfolding herself from the big chair to make a seat for mother.

"And just think," cried Kittie, with a lurch that pretty near tipped her out of the window. "Olive——"

"Has done wonders," interrupted Beatrice. "Be still all of you! Let's not tell mama yet."

Mrs. Dering laughed cheerily, at the sudden popping of a secret into the air, but announced that supper was ready, at which there was such a stampede as only a lot of hungry, healthy girls can make, and the sitting-room was left dark and still.

You see there were six of them—five strong bright girls, and one little lame sister, to laugh and sing, and make that big, roomy, comfortable, old home happy. Beatrice, seventeen; Ernestine, sixteen; Olive, fifteen; then Katherine and Kathleen or Kittie and Kat, twelve, and lastly, little Jean, with her flower-like, patient face and poor crooked little back. To help and guide them, was the dear, loving mother who called them her 'steps;' and the strong, helpful father, who romped and played, or read and studied with them and called Kittie and Kat 'his boys;' Olive his 'right hand man;' Ernestine, 'his picture;' Beatrice, his 'little woman,' and Jean his 'little pansy.' So now that you know them a little better, let us go into the dining-room and see what they are doing. Meetings at the Dering table are always lively ones, "Good for digestion and spirits," said papa Dering, so everybody talked and laughed and ate heartily, and went away without sour faces or sour stomachs. To-night, though, there is a change. Mr. Dering had a remark for each of the girls as they came in, then lapsed into silence, and stirred his coffee absently. Even Mrs. Dering could not hide a little anxiety, though she tried to be gay and interested in the girls' talk, as usual. With Olive's words fresh in their minds, the rest closely watched the faces of both parents, and each girl had thoughts and made plans, in every way characteristic of their respective selves.

Mr. Dering presently broke a silence by asking to be excused, as he must go back to the store—two most unusual things; for he always sat and talked at supper 'till all were through, and rarely ever let anything take him away from an evening at home; so no wonder the meal was shortened, and the party broke up. "Oh how nice!" cried Jean, as they returned to the sitting-room, where in their absence, a bright fire had been built in the grate, and filled the room with a warm rosy glow. "Here's my seat."

"We'll tell our secrets by the first fire of the season," said Mrs. Dering, as the girls all followed Jean's example, by pulling their chairs into the circle of warmth and light. "I thought it was so chilly this evening that firelight would be more cosy and cheerful than a lamp. Now then, who shall begin?"

"Oh you, please," cried Kittie. "We are so anxious."

Every face warmly seconded her words, so Mrs. Dering began, after a moment's silence.

"When you were all little children mama never let anything worry or disturb you if she could help it, and if anything ever did, you came right to her to be comforted and helped. Papa never let you be cold or hungry, and without clothes, or be sick, if he could help it, and they both loved you tenderly, didn't they?"

"Why goodness, yes!" cried Kat, with glistening, astonished eyes.

"And now that you have become such big daughters, they love you none the less, but more if possible; because now they must give you more thought as you grow to womanhood. Now if——"

"Oh you needn't say another word!" cried Beatrice impulsively. "You look as if you didn't know how to tell us; but we know. Your secret is the same as ours; papa is worried, and we are all, every one of us, ready to help him!"

"Why my dear girls!" cried mama, with her eyes full of tears. "How did you know?"

"Olive saw, and then heard the other night," cried Kittie excitedly. "She's got thirty dollars already, and was giving us a regular lecture just before supper. Now I'm going to——"

"Wait a minute, dear," said mama, laughing as she shook her finger. "I knew Olive was saving her allowance, and that she had earned some money, and I was very much pleased; but I am more than happy to find that she was doing it for papa."

To every one's surprise, Olive grew scarlet and turned her face clear away from the light; but she brought it back in a minute, and said, with lips that tried to be stiff and firm—for praise was dear to Olive—"I didn't do it for papa—I didn't know then—I——" and then, sooner than cry, Olive stopped, and left them to think what they would.

"But you are willing for it to go to papa now," finished Mrs. Dering, smiling brightly, and bringing some of the cloud from Olive's eyes. "That is just as noble, dear," and with these skillfully thrown in words, mother smiled again, for only she understood her daughter's peculiar disposition. "When I was a girl," went on Mrs. Dering, "Grandpa was very wealthy, you know, and of course gave me every advantage. I took music from the most distinguished professors, also painting and the languages, and at the age of eighteen, was handed over to society as finished in every way. I loved the gayeties that surrounded me, just as well as ever a girl could, but after a while, it struck me as being such an idle, aimless life, for a well educated, sensible girl to live, so I determined to make use of all that I had received. I had a small class in music, and one in painting and drawing; some of them paid, and some, members of my Sunday-school class, did not. After that, I felt so much happier and more contented, and enjoyed all my fun so much more, so I decided that if ever I had any daughters, they should be fitted to be independent, whether it was ever necessary or not. I have never been able to supply you with masters as I was, but I have taught you thoroughly myself, and while I did not intend that you should begin quite so early, the time has come suddenly, when we must all help. So you, my older girls, I want you to choose as your choice lies, and fit yourselves so as to make it your stand-by, in this and other times of trouble."

"Oh," exclaimed Ernestine, with a sudden smile; she had looked very much worried, for work or self-denial was distasteful, and yet it seemed so near. But now she smiled and nodded brightly, "I know what I will do, mama. I'll go on cultivating my voice and work hard, so that I may take a position in some city church, where everything is so elegant and prima-donnas get such immense salaries."

"Yes, dear, music is unmistakably your talent," said Mrs. Dering, and if they had only noticed it, she did not smile, and her eyes, fixed on the fire, were tinged with deep sadness for a moment. "Cultivate your voice, and your fingers too; for the positions as prima-donnas are sometimes lacking, then you have a little class to fall back on."

When no one was looking, Ernestine gave her head a decided little shake. It would be altogether touching and delightful, to stand up in a choir before a beautiful congregation, with a pale lily in your hat, the sunlight through a stained glass falling all around, and sing something pathetic, that would make people cry, and then have everyone say: "Such a noble young girl, she does it to help her father." But a class! A lot of little children to talk to, and teach, no one to ever see, or compliment;—no! Ernestine would never cultivate her fingers; that was sure.

"I'm a sort of jack at all trades," said Beatrice breaking a thoughtful pause with a little sigh. "I play a little, sing a little, draw a little, but I've no talent for either, or anything else."

"I know some one who is very fond of books and children," said Mrs. Bering, with a suggestive smile. "Oh! to be sure," cried Beatrice, brightening. "Teach, so I could. Well now, I'll go right on, harder than ever with my studies, and work up the French; I never can get German; I haven't the necessary twist to my tongue."

Olive was studying the fire with an intense dreamy gaze. She did not say what she would do, but every one knew, or at least supposed they knew. Olive's talent lay in her pencil. Such wonderful pictures as she could rapidly sketch, when the different moods took her!

"Well, I should like to know," cried Kittie abruptly. "What will Kat and I do? We haven't got a shadow of a talent of any kind, and don't really know how to behave ourselves yet; why, mama——,"

"I have you all fixed, dear," interrupted mama. "Just wait a minute."

"There isn't anything that I can do either," said Jean, with a pathetic little smile. "But I will give up my quarter every month; perhaps that will help papa a very little bit."

"That's it, Jeanie," cried Kat, with a startling suddenness. "We'll do it too, Kittie, and that will make four dollars and a quarter less for papa to hand over every month. Second the motion, Kittie?"

"Done!" echoed Kittie, and every body had a hearty laugh as the twins shook hands violently over the table.

"But, mama," said Olive's quiet voice, breaking in upon the racket, "You say papa is worried now, and yet what the girls have decided to do, they can only do when they have fitted themselves for it; can't we do anything to help right away?"

"Quite right, dear," answered Mrs. Dering. "You can all help right away; though in a way that papa will strongly object to, for he does not like to deprive home of any pleasures, or little luxuries that he can afford. But we will go ahead and make our plans and take him by storm. First, there is the horse and carriage; it will seem hard and strange for a while without it, but it is a great expense, together with Jack's wages. Papa has an opportunity of selling the buggy, and Mr. Phillips will take 'Prince' until we can afford to keep him again. Are you willing?"

"Yes, mama," in a rather feeble chorus, with Ernestine's voice lacking. 'Prince' was such a pet—O dear!

"And then, Lizzie," continued Mrs. Dering, apparently not noticing the way all faces were going down. "We can get along with one girl, if we all make up our minds to work. The house is large and it will take all of our hands to do the necessary cleaning; but we can, can't we?"

"Yes, mama." A little more energy this time. Only Ernestine sighed dolefully, and laid her hands out on her lap. Such slim little hands and so white. It was perfectly horrible to be poor and have to go to work; yes it was, and she privately resolved to shirk just as much as possible. They had a long evening's talk over the coming change and how they were going to do, but at ten o'clock, as Mr. Dering was still absent, they separated for the night, and mama carried sleepy little Jean off to bed in her arms.

Beatrice and Ernestine roomed together in the front room, the twins in one next, and Olive alone across the hall. Generally, while getting ready for bed, the doors were left open, and a merry conversation carried on; but to-night, they were full of thought, and had not much to say, so everything settled into quiet very soon after the "good nights" had been spoken.

In the front room, the girls were wakeful. Beatrice, as the oldest sister, felt, in her quiet thoughtful way, that perhaps, the way she did in the coming change, would act as an example to the others; and that an extra duty rested on her, to be as patient and willing as possible, in whatever might be necessary for them to do, and to be all to mother, that an elder daughter should be, in time of trouble. Ernestine was also deep in thought, and had twisted her pillow into such a position, that the moonlight made quite a halo around her yellow hair and made her face, with its beautiful eyes, look like a cameo in golden setting. She knew it, too, just as well as Beatrice, who at that moment, turned and looked at her, and furthermore, she knew just how to go on with what she wanted to accomplish. "Bea," she said, with her voice dropped to its sweetest, "I want you to do something for me."

"What?"

"You said you had nine dollars, will you loan me five?"

"How? I was going to give it to papa to-morrow."

"You know he wouldn't take it," began Ernestine, impatiently; then smoothed her voice carefully again, and went on: "Papa won't have us give up everything, Bea. We are all willing to lessen expenses at home, but we are not to scrimp and pinch ourselves all to pieces. I'll pay you back just as soon as——"

"It isn't that," interrupted Bea, "But I don't see how you can want to spend it now."

"But I do; there are the loveliest lace scarfs——"

"Lace scarfs;" cried Bea again, in shocked surprise. "Would you, Ernestine?—Five dollars?"

"Certainly! Since we've made my old black silk over, it looks so nice, and I've nothing fit to wear around my neck. I'm sure its not much and I'm going to work this winter, am I not?"

Bea turned her pillow over and laid her head down thoughtfully. Was Ernestine selfish, or had she much heart? The question had often come silently up, and been put as silently down, but now it lingered persistently, though Bea moved her head restlessly, as if to get rid of it. If Ernestine wanted anything, she left no avenue untried, and got it if possible, no matter at whose expense or self-denial. All through fifteen years of her life, she had kept a clear unfaltering eye on herself, her wants, and her welfare, and after they were all supplied, she was ready and willing to help any one else; but no one must ever ask, or expect it at the expense of her personal comfort or plenty. Yet with her candies, the girls had lion shares; her pretty things,—and somehow all of Ernestine's things were so pretty and graceful,—she loaned willingly, and was never too tired or unwilling to help the girls' dress on great occasions; for though Olive was the artist, Ernestine had the artist's quick eye for graceful draping, harmony of colors, and picturesque structures of hair. Moreover, she was always good natured, nothing ever ruffled her, except for a passing moment, and any hour of the day, you might hear her voice, just like a bird's, filling the house with music, while her lovely face made sunshine; so it came, that she received the credit for making home happy, when she did it with no such intention, or exertion, only because she loved to sing, and it was perfectly natural for her to be gay and untouched by anything.

"I'm sure," she said, speaking suddenly, as Bea gave a restless twist to her head. "You needn't, if you don't want to, Bea. Perhaps you want to buy——"

"You know better," cried Bea, flying up from her rumpled pillow. "I don't want to buy anything, and if you want to spend five dollars for a lace scarf, why you're welcome to my money. That's all. Good night." Next Sunday, when the girls went to church, Ernestine wore a cob-webby scarf of ivory white over her "made-over" silk, and put a creamy day lily in her yellow hair, and the girls looking at her, silently thought: "No wonder papa calls her his picture!"

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