  “Mrs. Anna Oldham, the famous suffragette, will speak in the gymnasium on Saturday afternoon, at four o’clock, on ‘Woman’s Suffrage.’ All those interested in this subject are invited to be present.” Molly and Judy, with a crowd of friends, on the way from one classroom to another one busy Friday had paused in front of the bulletin board in the main corridor. “Mrs. Anna Oldham?” they repeated, trying to remember where they had heard the name before. “Why, Judy,” whispered Molly, “that must be Nance’s mother. Do you—do you suppose Nance knows?” “If she does, she has never mentioned it. You know she never tells anything. She’s a perfect clam. But this, somehow, is different.” Both girls thought of their own mothers immediately. “Shall we mention it to her, or do you think we’d better wait and let her introduce the subject?” asked Molly. “Surely she corresponds with her own mother,” exclaimed Judy without answering Molly’s question. “Her father writes to her about once a week, I know; but I don’t think she hears very often from Mrs. Oldham. You see, her mother’s away most of the time lecturing.” “Lecturing—fiddlesticks!” cried Judy indignantly. “What kind of a mother is she, I’d like to know? I’ll bet you anything Nance doesn’t know at all she’s going to be here. I think we ought to tell her, Molly.” “Poor Nance,” answered Molly. “I don’t know which would mortify her most: to know or not to know. Suppose we find out in some tactful roundabout way whether she knows, and then I’ll offer to go in with you Saturday night and give her mother my bed.” Judy cordially consented to this arrangement, having a three-quarter bed in her small room, although secretly she was not fond of sharing it It was not until much later in the day that they saw Nance, who appeared to be radiantly and buoyantly happy. Her usually quiet face was aglow with a soft light, and as she passed her two friends she waved a letter at them gayly. “You see, she knows and she is delighted,” exclaimed Judy. “Just as we would be. Oh, Molly, wait until you see my mother, if you want to meet a thing of beauty and a joy forever. You’d think I was her mother instead of her being mine, she is so little and sweet and dainty.” Molly laughed. “Isn’t she coming up soon? I’d dearly love to meet her.” “I’m afraid not. You know papa is always flying off on trips and mamma goes with him everywhere. I used to, too, before I decided to be educated. It was awfully exciting. We often got ready on a day’s notice to go thousands of miles, to San Francisco or Alaska or Mexico, anywhere. Papa is exactly like me, or, rather, I am exactly like him, only he is a hundred times “You funny child,” exclaimed Molly; “how do you know you are not all those things right now?” “I know I’m not,” sighed Judy. “Papa is brilliant, and not a bit lazy. He works all the time.” “So would you if you only wanted to. You only choose to be lazy. If I had your mind and opportunities there is no end to what I would do.” Judy looked at her in surprise. “Why, Molly, do you think I have any mind?” she asked. “One of the best in the freshman class,” answered her friend. “But look, here are some letters!” She paused in the hall of Queen’s Cottage to look over a pile of mail which had been brought that afternoon. There were several letters for the girls; Judy’s bi-weeklies from both her parents, who wrote to her assiduously, and Molly’s numerous home epistles from her sisters and mother. But there Molly opened hers first. “Oh, Judy,” she exclaimed, “do you remember that nice Exmoor Sophomore named ‘Upton?’ He wants to come over Saturday afternoon to call and go walking. Dodo has probably written the same thing to you. I see you have an Exmoor letter.” “He has,” answered Judy, perusing her note. “He wishes the honor of my company for a short walk. Evidently they don’t think we have many engagements since they don’t give us time to answer their notes.” “Judy!” “Molly!” The two girls looked at each other for a brief moment and then broke into a laugh. “Nance’s letter must have been from one of the others, Andy McLean, perhaps, that was why she was so——” Judy paused. Somehow, it didn’t seem very kind to imply that poor Nance was elated over her first beau. “Dear, sweet old Nance!” cried Molly, her heart warming to her friend. “She will probably “I’m sure I should camp on her trail if I were a man,” said Judy loyally. “But, Molly,” she added, laughing again, “what are we to do about old Mrs. Oldham?” “Oh, dear! I hadn’t thought of that. And poor Nance would have enjoyed the walk so much more than a learned discourse on woman’s rights.” Just before supper time Nance burst into the room. She was humming a waltz tune; her cheeks looked flushed, and she went briskly over to the mirror and glanced at her image quickly, while she took off her tam and sweater. The girls had never seen her looking so pretty. They waited for her to mention the note, but she talked of other things until Judy, always impatient to force events, exclaimed: “What was that note you were waving at us this afternoon, Nance?” “Oh, that was from——” A tap on the door interrupted her and Margaret Wakefield entered. “Oh, Nance,” she cried, “I am so excited over your mother’s coming to speak at college to-morrow Except that her face turned perfectly white, Nance showed no sign whatever that she had received a staggering blow, but her two friends felt for her deeply and Molly came to her rescue. “By the way, Nance, dearest,” she said, “I thought you might want to have your mother with you to-morrow night, and I was going to offer you my bed and turn in with Judy.” “Thanks, Molly,” answered Nance, huskily; “that would be nice.” Very little ever escaped the alert eyes of Margaret Wakefield; but if she noticed anything strange in Nance’s manner, she made no comment whatever. She was a fine girl, full of sympathy and understanding, with a certain well-bred dignity of manner that is seldom seen in a young girl. “It will be quite a gala event at Queen’s if Mrs. Oldham eats supper here,” she said gently; “but no doubt she will be claimed by some of the faculty.” Then she slipped quietly out of the room, just in time, for quiet, self-contained Nance “And she never even took the trouble to tell me,” she sobbed brokenly. “She has probably forgotten that I am even going to Wellington.” It was a difficult moment for Molly and Judy. Would it be more tactful to slip out of the room or to try and comfort Nance? After all, she had had very little sympathy in her life, and sympathy was what she craved and love, too, Molly felt sure of this, and with an instinct stronger than reason, she slipped down beside her friend on the couch and put her arms around her. “Darling, sweetest Nance,” she cried, “I am sure the message will come. Perhaps she’ll telegraph, and they will telephone from the village. Judy and I love you so dearly, it breaks our hearts to see you cry like this. Doesn’t it, Judy?” “Indeed, it does,” answered Judy, who was kneeling at the side of the couch with her cheek against Nance’s hand. It was a comfort to Nance to realize that she had gained the friendship and affection of these two loving, warm-hearted girls. Never in her life had she met any girls like them, and presently “Perhaps she will telegraph,” she said, drying her eyes. “It was silly of me to take on so, but, you see, I had a little shock—I’m all right now. You’re dears, both of you.” Judy went into her own room and returned in a moment with a large bottle of German cologne. Filling the stationary wash basin with cold water she poured in a liberal quantity of the cologne. “Now, dearest Nance,” she said, “bathe your face in that, and then powder with Molly’s pink rice powder, and all will be as if it never had been,” she added, smiling. The others smiled, too. Somehow, Nance’s outburst had done her more good than harm. For the first time in her life she had been coddled and sympathized with and petted. It was almost worth while to have suffered to have gained such rewards. After all, there were some pleasant things in life. For instance, the note which had come to her that afternoon from young Andy McLean, son of Dr. McLean, the college physician. To think that she, “the little gray mouse,” as her father had often called her, had inspired any one with a desire to see her again. “Dear Miss Oldham,” it said, in a good, round handwriting, “I have been wanting so much to see you again since our jolly day at Exmoor. I am bringing some fellows over on Saturday to supper at my father’s. If you should happen to be in about four o’clock, may I call? How about a walk before supper? I can’t tell you how disappointed I’ll be if you have another engagement. “Yours sincerely, Of course, she would have to give up the walk now, but it was pleasant to have been remembered and perhaps he would come again. That night at supper Nance was unusually bright and talkative. She answered all the many questions concerning her famous mother so easily and pleasantly that even Margaret Wakefield must have been deceived. The two sophomores at Queen’s were giving a dance that evening, and while the girls sat in the long sitting room waiting for the guests to arrive, Judy took occasion to whisper to Molly: “Why should she have to appear at the lecture, anyhow?” “Because it would be disrespectful not to,” answered Molly. “She must be there, of course. Would you go gallivanting off with a young man if your mother was going to give a lecture here?” “I should say not; but that’s different.” “No, no,” persisted Molly; “it’s never different when it’s your mother, even when she doesn’t behave like one. Can’t you see that Nance would rather die than have people know that her mother isn’t exactly like other mothers?” The next day was one of the busiest in the week for Molly. Two of her morning hours she spent coaching Judy in Latin. Then there were her lace collars to be done up, her stockings to be darned; a trip to be made to the library, where she stood in line for more than twenty minutes waiting for a certain volume of the EncyclopÆdia Britannica, and spent more than an hour extracting notes on “Norse Mythology.” It was well on toward lunch time when she finally hastened across the campus to Queen’s to fill some orders for “cloud-bursts,” which were intended to be part of the refreshments for certain Saturday evening suppers. So weary was she and so intent on getting through in what she called “schedule time,” that “Oh, I beg your pardon,” she exclaimed, a wave of color sweeping over her pale face. “Why are you hurrying so fast on Saturday?” he asked pleasantly. “Don’t you ever give yourself a holiday?” “Oh, yes; lots of them,” she answered; “but I’m a little rushed to-day with some extra duties.” She thought of the “cloud-bursts,” which must be made and packed in boxes by the afternoon. “You are overdoing it, Miss Brown. You are not obeying the doctor’s orders. When I see you there to-night I shall confront you in his presence with the charge of disobedience.” “There to-night?” repeated Molly. “Certainly. Have you forgotten about the supper to-night?” “But I’m not invited.” “Oh, yes, you are,” answered the Professor, with a knowing smile. “You’ll probably find the note waiting for you. And you must be sure and come, because the McLean’s are real characters. They will interest you, I am sure.” “Poor Nance,” was Molly’s first thought. And her second thought was: “If her mother is invited Molly led such a busy, concentrated life, that when she did relax for a few moments, she sometimes seemed absent-minded and inattentive. The Professor was looking at her closely. “You are pleased at being asked to the McLean’s?” he said. “I was thinking of something else,” she said. “I was wondering if, after all, Nance couldn’t arrange to go. Of course, she’ll be invited, too; but, you see, her mother is to be here.” “Is Mrs. Oldham, the Suffragette, her mother?” he asked in surprise. “Yes.” “Mrs. Oldham is to dine at the President’s to-night. I know, because I was asked to meet her, but”—he looked at her very hard indeed—“I had another engagement.” “Then Nance can go. Isn’t it beautiful? I am so glad!” Molly clasped her hands joyously. Professor Green gave her such a beautiful, beaming smile that it fairly transfigured his face. “You are a very good friend, Miss Brown,” “Oh, I hope she won’t. You see, Nance has never had much pleasure with young people, and”—it was difficult to explain—“and her mother——” she hesitated. “Her mother, being the most famous clubwoman in America, hasn’t spent much time at home? Is that it?” “Well, yes,” admitted Molly. “In fact, she hardly remembers she has a daughter,” she added indignantly, and then bit her lip, feeling that she was bordering on disloyalty. The Professor cleared his throat and thrust his hands into his pockets. He was really very boyish-looking to be so old. “So you have set your heart on Miss Oldham’s going to the supper to-night?” he said gravely. “If there is any fun going, Judy and I would be sorry to have her miss it,” she answered. “And I don’t suppose it would be thrilling to dine at the President’s with a lot of learned older people.” “I’m just on my way to President Walker’s On the table in her room she found a note from Mrs. McLean, inviting her to supper that evening. Two other invitations from the same lady were handed to Nance and Judy, but Nance was at that moment seated at her desk accepting an invitation from Miss Walker to dine there with her mother at seven. She was writing the answer very carefully and slowly, in her best handwriting, and on her best monogram note paper. “Do you think that’s good enough?” she demanded, handing the note to Molly to read. “Why, yes,” answered Molly, looking it over hastily while she prepared to write her own answer Just as the lunch gong sounded, Bridget, the Irish waitress at President Walker’s house, appeared at their half-open door. “A note for Miss Oldham,” she said; “and the President says no answer is necessary. Good afternoon, ma’am; they’ll be waitin’ lunch if I don’t make haste.” “‘My dear Miss Oldham,’” Nance read aloud. “‘I have just learned that you are invited to a young people’s supper party to-night at Mrs. McLean’s, and I therefore hasten to release you from your engagement to dine with me. Your mother will spare you, I am sure, on this one evening, and I hope you will enjoy yourself with your friends. With kindest regards, believe me, “‘Cordially yours, “Isn’t she a brick?” cried Judy, dancing around the room and clapping her hands. “It was awfully nice of her,” said Nance thoughtfully. “I wonder how she knew I was invited to the McLean’s?” “Some good fairy must have told her,” answered Molly, half to herself, as she stirred brown sugar into a saucepan. |
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