Everybody called her “pretty Miss Kate.” It was an odd title, and she had come by it in an odd way. A sort of half-witted nurse, whose one supreme merit was her faithfulness, had tended Squire Oswald’s baby daughter all through her early years; and she it was who had first called the girl “pretty Miss Kate.”

It was a small neighborhood where everybody knew everybody else; and, by dint of much hearing this title, all the neighbors grew to use it. And, indeed, at fifteen Kate Oswald deserved it. She was a tall, slight girl, with a figure very graceful, and what people call stylish.

She had blue eyes; not the meaningless blue of a French doll, but deep and lustrous, like the tender hue of the summer sky. She had hair like some Northland princess. It had not a tint of yellow in it, but it was fine and fair, and so light as to be noticeable anywhere. Her skin was exquisite, too, as skin needs must be to match such hair. When any color came to the cheeks it was never crimson, but just the faintest tint of the blush rose; her lips alone were of rich, vivid bloom. A prettier creature, truly, seldom crosses this planet; and the few such girls who have lived among us, and grown to womanhood, have made wild work generally, using hearts for playthings; and, like other children, breaking their toys now and then. But pretty Miss Kate was not at the age yet for that sort of pastime, and her most ardent worshipper was little Sally Green.

There was a curious friendship between these two, if one may call that friendship which is made up of blind worship on one side and gentle pity and kindliness on the other.

Squire Oswald owned the poor little house where Widow Green lived, and whenever there was an unusual press of work at the great house above, the family washing used to be sent down to Mrs. Green at the foot of the hill. Many an hour the widow worked busily, fluting the delicate ruffles and smoothing the soft muslins, out of which pretty Miss Kate used to bloom as a flower does out of its calyx. And on these occasions Sally used to carry the dainty washing home, and she nearly always contrived to be permitted to take it up to Miss Kate’s room, herself.

Nobody thought much about little Sally Green any way,—least of all did any one suspect her of any romantic or heroic or poetical qualities. And yet she had them all; and if you came to a question of soul and mind, there was something in Sally which entitled her to rank with the best. She was a plain, dark little thing, with a stubbed, solid, squarely-built figure; with great black eyes, which nobody thought any thing about in her, but which would have been enough for the whole stock-in-trade of a fashionable belle; with masses of black hair that she did not know what to do with; and with a skin somewhat sallow, but smooth. No one ever thought how she looked, except, perhaps, pretty Miss Kate.

One day, when the child brought home the washing, Kate had been reading aloud to a friend, and Sally had shown an evident inclination to linger. At that time Kate was not more than fourteen, and the interest or the admiration in Sally’s face struck her, and, moved by a girl’s quick impulse, she had said,—

“Do you want to hear all of it, Sally? Wait, then, and I will read it to you.”

The poem was Mrs. Browning’s “Romance of the Swan’s Nest,” and it was the first glimpse for Sally Green into the enchanted land of poetry and fiction. Before that she had admired pretty Miss Kate, but now the feeling grew to worship.

Kate was not slow to perceive it, with that feminine instinct which somehow scents out and delights in the honest admiration of high or low, rich or poor. She grew very kind to little Sally. Many a book and magazine she lent the child; and now and then she gave her a flower, a bit of bright ribbon, or some little picture. To poor Sally Green these trifles were as the gifts of a goddess, and no devotee ever treasured relics from the shrine of his patron saint more tenderly than she cherished any, even the slightest, token which was associated with the beautiful young lady whom she adored with all her faithful, reverent, imaginative heart.

One June evening Sally had been working hard all day. She had washed dishes, run her mother’s errands, got supper, and now her reward was to come.

“You may make yourself tidy,” her mother said, “and carry home that basket of Miss Kate’s things to Squire Oswald’s.”

Sally flew upstairs, and brushed back her black locks, and tied them with a red ribbon Miss Kate had given her. She put on a clean dress, and a little straw hat that last year had been Miss Kate’s own; and really for such a stubbed, dark little thing, she looked very nicely. She was thirteen—two years younger than her idol—and while Miss Kate was tall, and looked older than her years, Sally looked even younger than she was. Her heart beat as she hurried up the hill. She thought of the fable of the mouse and the lion, which she had read in one of the books Miss Kate had lent her. It made her think of herself and her idol. Not that Miss Kate was like a lion at all,—no, she was like a beautiful princess,—but she herself was such a poor, humble, helpless little mouse; and yet there might be a time, if she only watched and waited, when she, even she, could do pretty Miss Kate some good. And if the time ever came, wouldn’t she do it, just, at no matter what cost to herself? Poor little Sally! The time was on its way, and nearer than she thought.

She found Miss Kate in her own pretty room,—a room all blue and white and silver, as befitted such a fair-haired beauty. The bedstead and wardrobe were of polished chestnut, lightly and gracefully carved. The carpet was pale gray, with impossible blue roses. The blue chintz curtains were looped back with silver cords; there were silver frames, with narrow blue edges, to the few graceful pictures; and on the mantel were a clock and vases with silver ornaments.

Pretty Miss Kate looked as if she had been dressed on purpose to stay in that room. She wore a blue dress, and round her neck was a silver necklace which her father had brought her last year from far-off Genoa. Silver ornaments were in her little ears, and a silver clasp fastened the belt at her waist. She welcomed Sally with a sweet graciousness, a little conscious, perhaps, of the fact that she was Miss Oswald, and Sally was Sally Green; but to the child her manner, like every thing else about her, seemed perfection.

“Sit down and stay a little, Sally,” she said, “I have something to tell you. Do you remember what you heard me read that first time, when your eyes got so big with listening, and I made you stay and hear it all?”

“Yes, indeed,” Sally cried eagerly. “I never forgot any thing I ever heard you read. That first time it was ‘The Romance of the Swan’s Nest.’”

“Yes, you are right, and I know I was surprised to find how much you cared about it. I began to be interested in you then, for you know I am interested in you, don’t you, Sally?”

Sally blushed with pleasure till her face glowed like the June roses in Miss Kate’s silver vases, but she did not know what to say, and so, very wisely, she did not say any thing. Miss Kate went on,—

“Well, that very same poem I am going to read, next Wednesday night, at the evening exercises in the academy. The academy hall won’t hold everybody, and so they are going to be admitted by tickets. Each of us girls has a certain number to give away, and I have one for you. I thought you would like to go and see me there among the rest in my white gown, and hear me read the old verses again.”

You would not have believed so small a thing could so have moved anybody; but Sally’s face turned from red to white, and from white to red again, and her big black eyes were as full of tears as an April cloud is of rain-drops.

“Do you mean it, truly?” she asked.

“Yes, truly, child. Here is your ticket. Why, don’t cry, foolish girl. It’s nothing. I wanted to be sure of one person there who would think I read well, whether any one else did or not. And I’ve a gown for you, too—that pink muslin, don’t you know, that I wore last year? I’ve shot up right out of it, and it’s of no use to me, now, and mamma said I might give it to you. This is Saturday; you can get it ready by Wednesday, can’t you?”

What a happy girl went home that night, just as the rosy June sunset was fading away, and ran, bright and glad and full of joyful expectation, into the Widow Green’s humble little house! Widow Green wasn’t much of a woman, in the neighbors’ estimation. She was honest and civil, and she washed well; but that was all they saw in her. Sally saw much more. She saw a mother who always tried to make her happy; who shared her enthusiasms, or at least sympathized with them; who was never cross or jealous, or any thing but motherly. She was as pleased, now, at the prospect of Sally’s pleasure as Sally herself was; and just as proud of this attention from pretty Miss Kate. Together they made over the pink muslin dress; and when Wednesday night came the widow felt sure that her daughter was as well worth having, and as much to be proud of, as any other mother’s daughter that would be at the academy.

“You must go very early,” she said, “to get a good seat; and you need not be afraid to go right up to the front. You’ve just as good right to get close up there as anybody.”

When Sally was going out, her mother called her back.

“Here, dear,” she said, “just take the shawl. Do it to please me, for there’s no knowing how cold it might be when you get out.”

“The shawl” was an immense Rob Roy plaid,—a ridiculous wrap, truly, for a June night; but summer shawls they had none, and Sally was too dutiful, as well as too happy, not to want to please her mother even in such a trifle. How differently two lives would have come out if she had not taken it!

She was the very first one to enter the academy. Dare she go and sit in the front row so as to be close to pretty Miss Kate? Ordinarily she would have shrunk into some far corner, for she was almost painfully shy; but now something outside herself seemed to urge her on. She would not take up much room,—this something whispered,—and nobody, no, nobody at all, could love Miss Kate better than she did. So she went into the very front row, close up to the little stage on which the young performers were to appear,—a veritable stage, with real foot-lights.

Soon the people began to come in, and after a while the lights were turned up, and the exercises commenced. There were dialogues and music, and at last the master of ceremonies announced the reading of “The Romance of the Swan’s Nest,” by Miss Kate Oswald.

Other people had been interested in what went before, no doubt; but to Sally Green the whole evening had been but a prelude to this one triumphant moment for which she waited.

Pretty Miss Kate came forward like a little queen,—tall and slight, with her coronet of fair, braided hair, in which a shy, sweet rosebud nestled. She wore a dress of white muslin, as light and fleecy as a summer cloud, with a sash that might, as far as its hue went, have been cut from the deep blue sky over which that summer cloud floated. A little bunch of flowers was on her bosom, and other ornament she had none. She looked like one of the pretty creatures, half angel and half woman of fashion, which some of the modern French artists paint.

As she stepped forward she was greeted with a burst of irrepressible applause, and then the house was very still as she began to read. How her soft eyes glowed, and the blushes burned on her dainty cheeks, when she came to the lines:—

She had the whole audience for her lovers before she was through with the poem, and the last verse was followed with a perfect storm of applause. Was she not young and beautiful, with a voice as sweet as her smile? And then she was Squire Oswald’s daughter, and he was the great man of the village.

She stepped off the stage; and then the applause recalled her, and she came back, pink with pleasure. A bow, a smile, and then a step too near the poorly protected foot-lights, and the fleecy white muslin dress was a sheet of flame.

How Sally Green sprang over those foot-lights she never knew; but there she was, on the stage, and “the shawl” was wrapped round pretty Miss Kate before any one else had done any thing but scream. Close, close, close, Sally hugged its heavy woollen folds. She burned her own fingers to the bone; but what cared she? The time of the poor little mouse had come at last.

And so pretty Miss Kate was saved, and not so much as a scar marred the pink and white of her fair girl’s face. Her arms were burned rather badly, but they would heal, and no permanent harm had come to her.

Sally was burned much more severely, but she hardly felt the pain of it in her joy that she had saved her idol, for whom she would have been so willing even to die. They took her home very tenderly, and the first words she said, as they led her inside her mother’s door, were,—

“Now, mother, I know what I took the shawl for!”

I said how differently two lives would have ended if she had not taken that shawl. Pretty Miss Kate’s would have burned out then and there, no doubt; for if any one else were there with presence of mind enough to have saved her, certainly there was no other wrap there like “the shawl.” And then Sally might have grown up to the humblest kind of toil, instead of being what she is to-day; for Squire Oswald’s gratitude for his daughter’s saved life did not exhaust itself in words. From that moment he charged himself with Sally Green’s education, and gave her every advantage which his own daughter received. And, truth to tell, Sally, with her wonderful temperament, the wealth of poetry and devotion and hero-worship that was in her, soon outstripped pretty Miss Kate in her progress.

But no rivalry or jealousy ever came between them. As Sally had adored Kate’s loveliness, so, in time, Kate came to do homage to Sally’s genius; and the two were friends in the most complete sense of the word.