"Mamma," asked Ernestine Alroy, "may I ask the girls to have their next meeting here and take tea with us?"

Mrs. Alroy looked at her daughter with some hesitation as she said: "Ernestine, you know I would like to please you, but have you sufficiently considered the matter? All of your friends are very comfortably situated, and it will be impossible for us to entertain them as they do you. Besides, I cannot be at home until after six, and it will make tea very late."

"I know all that, mamma, but I am sure I can make them have a pleasant time. I do not think we ought to be ashamed of being poor, when we think of the One who 'had not where to lay His head.' For your sake, poor mamma, I wish we had more money; but as for myself, I feel just as happy as if we were worth millions. I don't care a bit whether my friends have money or not, and I don't see why it should make any difference to anybody."

"My poor child!" said her mother, and she sighed as she remembered that at Ernestine's age she had never even seen apartments so poorly furnished as theirs, "you have much to learn; you will find that there are many people in the world to whom it will make a great deal of difference."

"Well, mamma, we don't care for the Madame Mucklegrands of the world, and Winnie Burton and all of her folks are as 'real folks' as any in Mrs. Whitney's book. Do let us have them!"

"Well, dear, I don't exactly like to have you accept hospitalities which we are not willing to return, and if you think you can make it pleasant for your friends, you shall do as you wish."

The next day, therefore, Ernestine told the four girls that her mother sent her compliments and would be much pleased to have them to tea on Friday evening. In the afternoon the girls all accepted, and Fannie said that if agreeable to Mrs. Alroy, her father would call for them at nine o'clock and see them home.

After school that day, as Fannie and Ernestine were walking down Court Street together, they met a little girl, dirty and uncombed, carrying a basket of soiled clothes. Two of the boys of their class, racing wildly down the street, boy-fashion, ran against the child, upset the basket, and the clothes, not being very tightly packed, fell out. There was quite a strong wind, and some of the napkins and handkerchiefs lying loose on top were caught up and sent blowing here, there and everywhere.

The boys ran on, totally indifferent, if not unconscious. The child, commencing to cry, gave chase to the wind-blown articles, and the basket rolled entirely over, and nearly every article fell out.

Fannie stood laughing, her sense of the ridiculous overcoming any pity she might have felt for the girl. Ernestine hesitated a moment. She was daintiness itself, and the sight of the soiled clothes, belonging to no one knew whom, was not an attractive one. But for three years she had been earnestly striving to follow the Golden Rule, so she righted the basket, picked up the soiled clothes, rolled them together more tightly, and replaced them in the basket by the time the child returned with the recaptured napkins. She also helped put these in, and with a few kind words sent the girl on her way far happier than she would have been if obliged to struggle with her burden alone.

Fannie had moved on some distance, much ashamed of being mixed up in such a scene to even so slight a degree, and feeling inclined to leave Ernestine entirely, for she knew that her mother would have characterized the whole affair as "plebeian," and she felt half angry with Ernestine.

When the latter rejoined her, she said with some irritation, "However could you touch those horrid, dirty clothes or go near that dirty child?"

"I didn't like to touch them," said Ernestine simply; "but Christ did a great many things he did not like to do."

"Well, you are a queer girl, Ernestine! I'm sure I can't make up my mind that it is my duty to be pleasant to every dirty little beggar who comes along. There might have been small-pox in those clothes!"

Ernestine smiled at that, but made no reply, and the two walked on in silence till they reached the corner where they separated.

Fannie went on, swinging her books by the strap, and thinking that dirt could not be so repulsive to Ernestine as to her; but if she could have seen Ernestine go straight to the kitchen sink the minute she reached home, before she stopped to touch anything, Fannie might have realized something of the self-restraint her friend had exercised in the matter. But few of us can be brought to believe that things we find unpleasant are often quite as unpleasant to other people.

Friday afternoon came, and five o'clock found the four girls entering a side yard in a pleasant if not an aristocratic neighborhood. They went up the stairs leading from a side hall, and were met at the top by Ernestine, who was holding open the door.

She led them into a tiny bedroom, not much larger than a closet, but scrupulously dainty and clean, from the white spread and pillows on the bed to the fresh towels hanging on the rack above the washstand.

Here she helped the girls remove their wraps, and then they went into the adjoining room, which was a pleasant surprise, particularly to Fannie. So pretty and pleasant and homelike it appeared that, at first, it almost seemed elegant, until one had time to observe that there was not an expensive article in the room. The floor was covered with a blue and white checked matting, the chairs and rockers were simply "cane," and the only piece of upholstered furniture was the lounge. But there were some engravings, plainly framed; hanging baskets at both of the windows; a window-box of lilies-of-the-valley, just beginning to bloom, and in the other window a similar box of mignonette, which filled the whole room with its delicate fragrance.

A bright fire blazed in the grate, and the four girls felt at home more quickly than they had done at either of the two places of their previous meetings, probably because Ernestine was their only hostess, her mother not yet having returned from the store.

A late magazine lay on the table, together with a copy of that charming story, "Little Lord Fauntleroy," and Mrs. Whitney's "We Girls" and "Real Folks." Winnie could not help picking them up to see what they were, and it turned out that all of the girls except Gretta had read them, so they immediately began talking about them.

"Mamma and papa and brother Jack took turns in reading 'Fauntleroy' aloud to us when it came out in the magazine," said Winnie, "and for a day or two in each month we hardly talked of anything else."

"I liked the scene of the dinner party best, when the little lord talked to the guests, but stayed close beside the pretty lady and paid her such cunning compliments," said Fannie.

"I enjoyed reading about him in the grocery store with Mr. Hobbs," said Miriam. "I can see them now; Hobbs was so funny! My sister said he was more of a child than the little hero of the story."

"I think I liked him best when he was with his grandfather," said Ernestine; "it was lovely of him to think that wicked old man was so good."

"My mother says that every child in the land, and particularly every boy, ought to read that story, if for no other reason than to learn what it is to be a real gentleman and a real lady. She says no depths of poverty could ever have made 'Dearest' and her son anything else."

"I was just about frantic," said Fannie, "when I began to be afraid he wasn't the heir after all. It seemed horrid to think that that rough woman's son should own those fine lands and the title, and I felt almost as glad when it turned out all right as if he had been one of my nearest friends."

"I wish I read more," said Gretta. "I do love my music; and if I didn't, I'd have to keep it up all the same. But I would like to read the book you are talking about."

"You may take it," said Ernestine, "and keep it just as long as you wish."

"Speaking of borrowing books," said Miriam, "reminds me that I did the most dreadful thing to-day. Miss Carter had lent me Mrs. Gaskel's 'Life of Charlotte Bronte,' and I had just returned it yesterday, feeling very grateful, for I think it is nice in Miss Carter to take an interest in so many girls. I should think she would just get to hating us, for it is the same thing year in and year out, and most of us are so trying.

"But although I love her dearly, you know how angry she gets, and she was giving Josie Thompson such a lecture about there being no punctuation in her composition, and then she read a paragraph as it was punctuated—just 'like commas and periods shaken out of a pepper-box,' she said. The subject was 'Joan of Arc,' and Josie, as usual, had rather a mixed idea of her character, and what Miss Carter read sounded something like this:

"'Joan of Arc, was a poor, girl who heard a great many, ghost stories and these turned her head and she imagined, that, it would be a great deal more fun to lead soldiers. To battle in the war. With England than to be spending her time tending sheep? on the mountains she thought she would enjoy herself better.'

"That last was so much like Josie—who, as you know, is always talking about enjoying herself—that I could hardly keep in, and when Josie made a mouth at Miss Carter the minute her back was turned, three or four of us giggled out loud, and Miss Carter stopped lecturing Josie and turned her wrath on us.

"That was yesterday, but this morning the whole affair was still fresh in my memory, and three or four of the girls in Miss Brownlow's room happening to come about the same time that I did, I began to tell them about it. I began in a high key, a great deal worse than Miss Carter ever uses, although she does pitch her voice very high when she is vexed. I said:

"'Miss Thompson, I am surprised at you; in fact, I am more than surprised. It almost passes belief that a girl should begin to study punctuation almost as soon as her school life begins, as in our schools, and after six or seven years should not be able even to use a period, to say nothing of the more complicated marks; to know nothing, absolutely nothing, of her own language.' "Here I interrupted myself to show them the kind of mouth Josie made, and of course they all laughed, for they know how her mouth and nose go up at every little thing. Then I went on.

"Miss Carter didn't see the mouth that Josie made, and she caught us laughing, and said, 'Can it be possible that there are girls in this class, girls of good rank and standing, and of moderately good behavior, who can laugh, yes, actually laugh, at the ignorance of one of their school-mates? Something is wrong, radically wrong,'—and here I made the gesture she always makes when she says 'radically wrong,' and—what do you think? There she stood, right behind me!"

"What did she do?" asked Fannie.

"Do? She didn't do anything, and I half thought she was smiling. But I felt as if I would like to sink through the floor, I was so mortified. And only yesterday I was walking down the street with her, talking to her as if I thought her my best friend! She'll think I'm a perfect hypocrite."

"Why don't you apologize?" asked Gretta.

"I can't go and apologize to someone for making fun of her as soon as her back is turned, can I? And I really didn't intend to make fun of Miss Carter, either; it was only that the whole affair seemed amusing to me."

"She probably understands, and does not think any more about it," said Ernestine. "But now, if you'll excuse me, I'll have to go into the kitchen for a few minutes; or perhaps you'll come, too."

"Oh, we'd like to come, if we won't be in the way," said Fannie. So they all trooped into the kitchen.

What a tiny box of a place it was, to be sure! When all five of the girls were there, there was not room for anybody else. Fannie and Gretta squeezed close to each other on the box beside the window, Miriam sat on a chair in one corner, and Winnie stood in the doorway between the two rooms, watching Ernestine, and thinking how cross she had been only a week or two before because she had to do a little cooking in the morning, while Ernestine had to do it every day and go to school beside.

But Ernestine did everything so easily and pleasantly that it was a pleasure to watch her. She did her cooking on a little oil stove, and there seemed so little to be done—for Mrs. Alroy and Ernestine had prepared things the day before—that her young visitors could not feel as if it were a bit of trouble to entertain them. It was as nice as a play, too, to see her cut the potatoes in delicate, thin slices and drop them into the boiling fat, and see them come out delightfully crisp and brown.

Then the girls all followed her into the sitting-room, laughing and chattering as only girls can, while Ernestine set the table. The table linen was white and fine, and the cups and saucers were real old china, these being about the only things which Mrs. Alroy had saved from her past grandeur.

Everything was ready and on the table, except the food which was to be served hot, when Mrs. Alroy came in, looking tired and reserved. She disappeared for a few moments into the bedroom, and when she came out, seeming somewhat refreshed, they all sat down to the table.

To the surprise of the girls, Ernestine, in her simple, unaffected manner, asked a blessing on what was set before them. It seemed queer to them that if it were to be done at all, it should not be by Mrs. Alroy. But Ernestine's mother was not yet perfectly resigned to what had come upon her, and it was that, perhaps—yes, certainly—which made her burden so hard to bear; but at least she did not interfere with Ernestine in these matters.

The girls were hungry, and everything tasted delicious, from the sliced cold ham and the potatoes which they had seen Ernestine frying, to the dessert of ice-cream and cake.

When supper was over, the girls begged to be allowed to clear off the table, and Ernestine washed the dishes as they brought them out, while Winnie wiped them.

Mrs. Alroy sat down and glanced over the newspaper. Fannie watched her curiously, and privately came to the conclusion that she was the proudest woman she had ever seen. This conviction came to her with something of a shock, for she had heretofore supposed that pride and wealth and fine living belonged together. She furthermore came to the conclusion that while pride might be fine, it was not especially charming, for though Mrs. Alroy had been pleasant when the girls were presented to her, her manner had been only polite, not interested.

When the girls had finished washing and putting away the supper things, she roused herself and talked with them about their school and amusements, but as soon as Ernestine returned, excused herself and went into the little room and closed the door. Ernestine followed her, with a troubled look on her usually calm face. When she returned, she said:

"Mamma has a severe headache, and begs to be excused for awhile, but hopes to feel better before you go home."

"We were all to have a text or a verse to-night, weren't we?" asked Fannie. "The only thing I could find was our Golden Text for last Sunday, 'Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth.' I spoke to papa about it, and, although he is not very religious, he said he didn't believe there was any better way of remembering our Creator than by trying to do what was right, and he was glad to see that I was thinking about such things."

"Mamma says there are very few things said in the Bible about the dangers of delay," said Winnie, "but she gave me this one from Proverbs: 'Boast not thyself of to-morrow, for thou knowest not what a day may bring forth.'" "I couldn't find anything in the Bible," said Miriam, "but I found a poem by Adelaide Procter which I copied, thinking you might like to hear it all, as I scarcely knew which verse to select. I will read it to you:

"How much better we understand things than we did three months ago!" said Winnie. "I used to dream of the grand things I was going to do when I grew up." Then she added, blushing a little as she remembered her cross Saturday morning, "I do yet, sometimes, but I don't think I neglect quite so many things as I used to."

"I never had much chance either to neglect things or to dream," said Gretta, "for papa or mamma or my sister was always reminding me that it was time to do this or that or the other. But I am beginning now to think of some of my faults. I couldn't find anything for this afternoon, except the Memory Gem we learned in the First Reader. You know I don't read a great deal myself, and we all seem to have so much to do at our house; when it isn't something else, it's practice, practice, practice! Even this little verse I don't suppose I should have remembered if I hadn't heard the children reciting it at the 'Colony':

"Why, that's the very thing, Gretta! I'm surprised that none of the rest of us thought of it. How queer that the same piece of advice, in one form or another, has been given to us ever since we were little girls, and that we have just begun to realize what it all means!" said Fannie.

"What have you, Ernestine?" said Miriam.

"I took mine from Ecclesiastes," was the reply. "'When thou vowest a vow unto the Lord, defer not to pay it.'"

"I like that, too," said Gretta; "but I think Miss Benton's pretty card is helping me more than anything else."

"I think that was lovely, too," said Fannie. "I liked the story ever so much, but it will be nice for us to do as she suggested, and take a motto this week. How would it do to take the one Winnie brought? It seems the easiest for us to understand." So they all learned it, and, at Miriam's suggestion, added the verse that Gretta had recited.

Mrs. Alroy came back into the sitting-room just as the girls had finished reading their mottoes, and, though her eyes looked heavy, as if she were suffering, she joined the little band, and told them that she thought they were adopting a very good plan to help them over the rough places of life, and perhaps also enable them to make fewer mistakes than they might otherwise do.

While she was talking to them, footsteps were heard coming up the stairs.

"That's papa, I think," said Fannie, and she went with Ernestine to the door.

Ernestine had seen Mr. Allen often, for he was one of the trustees of their school, but of course Mrs. Alroy had never met him, so the girls led him through the narrow hall into the room beyond.

Mrs. Alroy met him at the door and extended her hand, as Fannie said, "My papa, Mrs. Alroy."

Mr. Allen seated himself, at Mrs. Alroy's invitation, while the girls went to get on their wraps. As they talked of the weather and the usual subjects discussed by strangers, Mr. Allen looked at the lady in rather a puzzled manner, as if wondering where he had seen her before. Finally he said:

"Excuse me, Mrs. Alroy, but may I ask what was your maiden name?"

She told him, but rather coldly, as if she considered the question impertinent.

He read her thought well enough, but unhesitatingly continued:

"The Van Ortons of New York?"

"Of New York, yes."

"I thought so; it must be one of your brothers whom you so strongly resemble. I could not think whom you were like, the day of the celebration over at the school-house, but that, I see, was what puzzled me. I know your brother and his family quite well. I have had business relations with him for years, which have been very pleasant ones."

"I am glad to meet someone who has seen my brother recently. I have seen no member of my family for years; it has been impossible for me to go home, and my circumstances have been such that I have managed to prevent their visiting me, for I had no desire to have them do so. Should you have any communication with him, I ask as a favor that my name may not be mentioned."

"Your wishes, of course, will be respected, madam," the gentleman replied courteously.

The girls appeared at this moment, ready for the walk home, and Mr. Allen rose, adding:

"Permit me to thank you for the pleasure you have given my daughter, and to express the wish that you will allow her to make a return soon." Then they took their departure.

Ernestine went into the little kitchen to prepare things for breakfast, and when she came back she was shocked to find her mother sobbing violently. It frightened her, too, for though her mother was never very cheerful, the girl seldom saw her shed tears.

"Mother dear, what is it?" she said. "Have I been selfish? Was the evening too much for you?"

"Selfish? No, dear," was the reply. "I am the selfish one, and I am grateful to know that you have such perfect faith and hope that all is well. Otherwise your young life would have been darkened long ago by my constant sorrow and regret. Poor child! It is a hard life for one so young."

"But, mother, some day you will be happy again."

"I hope so, dear," replied Mrs. Alroy. But she thought to herself that there was nothing in this world that could make life endurable to her, unless she could forget. And that, to her proud, sensitive nature, seemed impossible.