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HOPE BENHAM. 
 

HOPE BBNHAM. 
 
 ^ Storg for ffiirte. 
 
 By NORA PERRY, 
 
 AUTHOB OF " I.TBIOS AND LEGEITDS," '* ANOTHER FLOCK OF 
 OIBLB." "A B08EBVD OABDBB OF OIBLS." BIO. 
 
 inttsttatelr lis 
 FRANK T. MERRILL. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY. 
 
Copyright, 189^, 
 By Nora Pbkkt. 
 
 8. J. Pabkhiu a Co., Bostob, U, 9. A. 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 Faoi 
 "Ten cents a bunch" Frontispiece 
 
 " He lifted the bow and drew it across 
 
 THE strings " 38 
 
 " She took Hope's violin from her hands " . 86 
 
 " It was the work of a moment to possess 
 
 herself or THE book " 120 
 
 "How de do, Hope?" 166 
 
 " She stood there an image of grace, her 
 
 CHIN bent lovingly DOWN TO HER VIOLIN " . 202 
 
 " Don't, don't go " 244 
 
 "Hope knelt down by the couch where 
 
 Dorothea had flung herself" .... 304 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 TEN cents a bunch ! ten cents a bunch ! " 
 A party of three young girls coming 
 briskly around the southwest corner of the 
 smart little Brookside station, hearing this caU, 
 turned, then stopped, then exclaimed all to- 
 gether, — 
 
 " Oh, how perfectly lovely ! the first I have 
 seen. Just what I want! " and they pulled out 
 their purses to buy "just what they wanted," 
 just what everybody wants, — a bunch of trail- 
 ing arbutus. 
 
 " And they are made up so prettily, without 
 all that stiff arbor-vitse framing. What is this 
 dear little leafy border?" asked one of the 
 young ladies, glancing up from her contem- 
 plation of the flowers to the flower-seller. 
 
 "It 's the partridge-berry leaf." 
 
 "Oh! and you picked them all yourself, — 
 the arbutus and this partridge-berry leaf? " 
 
HOPE BEN HAM. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Oh!" repeated the young lady, giving a 
 stare at the little flower-seller, — a stare that 
 was quickly followed by another question, — 
 
 " Do you live near here ? " 
 
 " Yes ; very near." 
 
 "But you don't find this arbutus in Brook- 
 side?" 
 
 " No, in Riverview." 
 
 " In Riverview ! why, I did n't know that the 
 arbutus grew so near Boston as that." 
 
 " We have always found a little in Riverview 
 woods, but this year there is quite a large 
 quantity." 
 
 Riverview was the next station to Brookside. 
 In Riverview were manufactories, locomotives, 
 and iron-works, and in Riverview lived the 
 people who worked in these manufactories. 
 But in Brookside were only fine suburban resi- 
 dences, and a few handsome public buildings, 
 for in Brookside lived the owners of the manu- 
 factories and other rich folk, who liked to be 
 out of the smoke and grime of toil. The rail- 
 road station of Brookside, as contrasted with 
 that of Riverview, showed the difference in the 
 residents of the two places ; for the Brookside 
 station was a fine and elegant stone structure. 
 
HOPE BEN HAM. 
 
 suited to fine and elegant folk, and the River- 
 view station was just a plain little wooden 
 building, hardly more than a platform and a 
 shelter. 
 
 " But you don't live in Riverview, do you ? " 
 was the next question the young lady asked of 
 the flower-seller, about whom she seemed to have 
 a great deal of curiosity. 
 
 " Yes ; I live in Riverview," was the answer, 
 with an upward glance of surprise at the ques- 
 tioner and the question. Why should the young 
 lady question her in that tone, when she 
 said, "But you don't live in Riverview? " 
 
 The next question was more easily under- 
 stood. 
 
 " You come over to the Brookside station to 
 sell your flowers, don't you, because there are 
 likely to be more buyers here ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ; I could n't sell them at Riverview." 
 
 Just then other voices were heard, and other 
 people began to gather about the flower-seller, 
 who from that time was kept busy until the 
 train approached. As the cars moved away from 
 the station, the young lady who had been so 
 curious looked out of the window, and then 
 said to her companions, — 
 
 " She has sold every bunch." 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 » What ? Oh, that flower-girl ! Why in the 
 world were you so interested in her ? " one of 
 the girls asked wonderingly. 
 
 » Why ? Did you look at her ? " 
 
 " I can't say that I did, particularly. What 
 was there peculiar about her ? " 
 
 " Nothing. Only she did n't look like a poor 
 child, — a common child, you know, who would 
 sell things on the street. She was very prettily 
 and neatly dressed, and she spoke just like 
 — well, just like any well-brought-up little 
 girl." 
 
 " Did she ? " politely remarked her friend, in 
 an absent way. She was not in the least inter- 
 ested in this flower-girl. Her thoughts were 
 turning in a very different direction, — the 
 direction of her spring shopping, a gay little 
 party, and a dozen other kindred subjects. 
 
 In the mean time the little flower-seller, with 
 a light basket and a lighter heart, was waiting 
 for the down train. It was only a mile from 
 Brookside to Riverview, an easy walk for a 
 strong, sturdy girl of ten; but all the same, 
 this strong, sturdy girl of ten perferred to ride, 
 and you will see why presently. The down 
 or out-going train from Boston passes the in- 
 going train a short distance from Brookside, 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 and she had only five minutes to wait for it. 
 This five minutes was very happily employed 
 in mentally counting up her sales, as she 
 walked to and fro upon the platform. She had 
 brought twenty bunches of arbutus in her basket, 
 and she had sold every one. Twenty bunches 
 at ten cents a bunch made two dollars. She 
 gave a little hop, skip, and jump, as she thought 
 of this sum. 
 
 Two dollars ! Now, if she should go again 
 this very afternoon to the Riverview woods and 
 gather a new supply, she might come back to 
 Brookside and be ready when the 6.30 train 
 brought people home from the city. So many 
 people drove down to the station then to meet 
 their husbands or fathers or brothers, — ladies 
 and children too. It would be just the very 
 best hour of all to sell flowers. Yes, she would 
 certainly do it. It was only half-past one. 
 She would have ample time, and then perhaps 
 she would double — Cling-a-ling-a-ling, went 
 the electric announcement of the coming train, 
 and pouf, pouf, pouf, comes the train down the 
 line, and there is her father looking out for her 
 from the engine cab. He nods and smiles to 
 her, and in another minute she has been helped 
 up, and is standing beside him. 
 
6 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 "Well, Hope, how did the flowers go?" 
 
 " I sold them all, — twenty bunches. Now ! " 
 The* last word was thrown out as a joyful 
 exclamation of triumph. Her father laughed 
 a little. " And, father, I want to go to the 
 woods again this afternoon for more flowers, 
 and come back here for the 5.30 train, — there 's 
 such lots of people on that train." 
 
 The father looked grave. 
 
 " Oh, do let me, please ! " 
 
 "I don't like to have you hanging around a 
 station so much." 
 
 "But Brookside is different from a great 
 many stations. There are no rough people ever 
 about ; " and with a brisk little air, " It's busi- 
 ness, you see." 
 
 Mr. Benham laughed again, as he said, " Two 
 dollars a day is pretty good business, I should 
 think." 
 
 " But it won't last long, — only this vacation 
 week. 'T is n't as if I were going to make two 
 dollars every day all through the season." 
 
 "That is true. Well, go ahead and 'make 
 hay while the sun shines.' You '11 be a better 
 business fellow than your father if you keep 
 on. But here we are at Riverview. Mind, 
 now, that you leave Brookside to-night on the 
 
HOPE BEN HAM. 
 
 six o'clock train, no matter whether you 've sold 
 your flowers or not." 
 
 " Yes, sir." There was a joyful sound in this 
 "Yes, sir," and a happy upward look at her 
 father, which he did not catch, however, for not 
 once did his eyes move from their steady watch- 
 fulness of the road before him. 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 CHAPTER IL 
 
 " T^HERE he comes ! " and Hope ran forward 
 -•- out of the little garden to meet her 
 father, as he came down the street, while her 
 mother turned from the door where she had 
 been waiting and watching with Hope, and 
 went back into the tiny dining-room to put a 
 few finishing-touches to the supper-table. Mr. 
 Benham nodded as he caught sight of Hope. 
 Then he called out, — 
 
 " How *s business ? " 
 
 " Two dollars more ! " 
 
 " Well, well, you '11 be a big capitalist soon 
 at this rate, and grind the poor. " 
 
 " Poor engineers like John Benham ! " and 
 Hope laughed gleefully at their joint joke. 
 
 "Yes, poor engineers like John Benham, 
 who have extravagant daughters who want to 
 buy violins. But, Hope, you must n't get your 
 thoughts so fixed on this violin business that 
 you can't think of anything else. Your school, 
 you know, begins next week. " 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 "Yes, I know, I sha'n't neglect that. I 
 would n't get marked down for anything." 
 
 " You 're going to learn to be a teacher, you 
 know ; keep that in mind. " 
 
 "I do; I do. Oh, father dear, don't worry 
 about the music ! ' All work and no play makes 
 Jack a dull boy,' you said the other day. 
 Now, music is my play. Some of the girls in 
 my classes go to dancing-school, and do lots of 
 things to amuse themselves. They don't seem 
 to neglect their lessons, and why should I, with 
 just this one thing outside, that I like to do ? " 
 
 There was a twinkle in John Benham's eyes, 
 as he looked down at his daughter. 
 
 " Who taught you to argue, Hope ? " 
 
 "A poor engineer named John Benham," 
 answered Hope, as quick as a flash. 
 
 John Benham laughed outright at this quick 
 retort ; and as he opened the gate that led into 
 the little garden in front of his house, he put 
 his arm over his daughter's shoulder, and thus 
 affectionately side by side they walked along the 
 narrow pathway. They were great friends, he 
 and Hope. He used to tell her that as she was 
 an only child, she must be son and daughter 
 too, and he had very early got into the habit of 
 talking to her in a confidential fashion that 
 
10 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 had the effect of making her a sort of little 
 comrade from the first. 
 
 The young lady who had wondered at the 
 little flower-seller's looking and speaking just 
 like any other well-brought-up little girl would 
 have had further cause for wonder if she could 
 have followed the engineer and his daughter 
 into their home, and seen the good taste of 
 its pretty though inexpensive furnishing and 
 arrangements. Locomotive engineers were un- 
 known persons to this young lady. They be- 
 longed to the laboring-class; and that in her 
 mind included all mechanical workers, from 
 the skilled artisan to the ignorant hod-carrier 
 and wielder of pick and shovel. She knew that 
 the latter lived poorly, in poor quarters, crowded 
 tenement houses, or shabby little frame cottages 
 or cabins of two or three rooms. As the differ- 
 ence in the different work did not occur to her, 
 neither did the possible difference in the manner 
 of living. 
 
 There are older people than this young lady, 
 this pretty Mary Bering, who are almost as un- 
 intelligent about the workers of the world, and 
 they would have been almost as astonished as 
 she, not only at the good taste of the simple fur- 
 nishings, but at the sio-Tis of intelligent thought 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 11 
 
 in the collection of books and magazines on 
 the table. If pretty Mary Daring, however, 
 could have seen all these things, she -would not 
 have wondered so much at Hope's speaking and 
 looking like any well-brought-up little girl. 
 
 Hope was a well-brought-up little girl, as you 
 will see, — as well brought up as Mary herself, 
 or Mary's sister Dolly, who was just Hope's 
 age. If you had said this to Mary Dering, she 
 would have told you that she could not imagine 
 a well-brought-up child selling things on the 
 street. Dolly would never have been allowed 
 to stand in public places and cry, "Ten cents 
 a bunch ! ten cents a bunch ! " under any cir- 
 cumstances. But Mary did not know how 
 much circumstances altered cases ; and for one 
 thing, if she could have seen Dolly in Hope's 
 place for one half-hour, she would have had to 
 own that Hope was much the better behaved 
 of the two, for in spite of Dolly's bringing up, 
 she was the greatest little rattler in public 
 places, calling down upon herself this constant 
 remonstrance from each one of her family, 
 " Now, Dolly, do try to be quiet, like a lady ! " 
 
 "But why, why, why," you ask, "did Hope, 
 with such a nice, intelligent father, who could 
 buy all those magazines and books, — why did 
 
12 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 she need to earn the money herself, to buy a 
 violin? " 
 
 I '11 tell you. To begin with, all those books 
 and magazines were not bought by Mr. Benham ; 
 they were, with one or two exceptions, taken 
 from the Boston Public Library. Mr. Benham's 
 salary was only fifteen hundred dollars a year, 
 and it took every cent of this to keep up that 
 simple little home, and put by a sum every 
 week for a rainy day. 
 
 Hope loved music, and she loved the music of 
 a violin beyond any other kind. One day 
 when she was in Boston, she saw the dearest 
 little violin in a shop-window. What possessed 
 her I don't know, for she knew she hadn't a 
 penny in the world ; but she went in and asked 
 the price of it with the easiest air imaginable. 
 
 "Twenty-five dollars," the shopkeeper told 
 her. 
 
 " Oh ! " and Hope drew in her breath. 
 Twenty-five dollars! It might as well have 
 been twenty-five thousand dollars, for all the 
 possibility of her possessing it. 
 
 " Don't — don't they have cheaper ones? " she 
 asked timidly. 
 
 " They have things they call violins for ten, 
 fifteen, twenty dollars, but they 'd crack your 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 13 
 
 ears. If you 're going to learn to play, this is 
 a good little fiddle for you to begin with, for 
 it 's true and sweet ; " and the shopkeeper lifted 
 it up and drew the bow across the strings, in a 
 melodious, rippling strain that went to Hope's 
 heart. 
 
 The man thought that she was going to take 
 lessons; and she could, if she only had an 
 instrument, for Mr. Kolb, an old German neigh- 
 bor of theirs, who had once been the first violin 
 in a famous orchestra, had said to her more 
 than once when she had listened to his playing 
 with delight: "Some day your fader will puy 
 you a little violin, and I will teach you for net- 
 ting, Madchen; you have such true lofe for 
 music. " 
 
 But twenty -five dollars 1 Oh, no! it could 
 never be ! and Hope went out of the shop with 
 her plans laid low. 
 
 A few minutes later, as she was walking to 
 the station, she heard a boy's voice, crying, 
 " Ten cents a bunch ! ten cents a bunch ! " 
 
 She looked up, and saw that he held some 
 very meagre little nosegays of arbutus, -- 
 meagre, that is, as to the arbutus, but made 
 sizable by the border of stiff arbor-vitae. Then, 
 all at once, the thought flashed into her mind. 
 
14 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 Why should n't she turn flower-seller ? She 
 knew where the arbutus grew thick, thick ; and 
 why, why — There was no putting the rest of 
 her thoughts into words ; but right there on the 
 street she gave a little jump, and hummed the 
 rippling strain she had just heard drawn from 
 the good little fiddle. 
 
 Twenty-five dollars! What was that now 
 with " Ten cents a bunch ! ten cents a bunch ! " 
 ringing in her ears with such alluring possi- 
 bilities ? 
 
 Mr. Benham at first would not hear to the 
 flower-selling plan; but when he saw that 
 Hope's heart was set upon that "good little 
 fiddle," when he heard her say to her mother, 
 " If father can't buy the fiddle for me, it seems 
 to me he might let me try to buy it for my- 
 self, " he began to relent ; and when the mother 
 and he had a talk, and the mother said, 
 "Of course you can't afford to buy it, John, 
 for we are a little behind now, with your and 
 my winter suits, and the new range to pay for 
 yet ; but as I really think it will be a good thing 
 for Hope to learn to play the violin, I don't see 
 why it would n't be a good thing for her to earn 
 it herself," he relented still more, and when 
 the mother said further, in answer to his objec- 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 15 
 
 tions to having Hope hanging around in public 
 places, as a little peddler, " John, you can trust 
 Hope; she is a sensible child," he relented 
 entirely ; and the next week after, Hope entered 
 upon her business as a flower-seller. 
 
 The success of that first day was a surprise 
 to her father, and he warned her not to expect 
 anything like it on the succeeding days, telling 
 her that the weather would very likely turn 
 chilly and rainy, that fewer people might be 
 going and coming from town, and that even 
 these might not stop to buy flowers. He did 
 not want to discourage her ; he simply wanted 
 to prepare her for disappointment. But Hope 
 was not doomed to disappointment in this direc- 
 tion. The succeeding days proved both pleasant 
 and profitable ; especially profitable were Wed- 
 nesday and Saturday afternoons, when so many 
 ladies went in to the matinee performances. 
 Yet with all this success, this pleasantness of 
 weather, and steady increase in her sales, there 
 was something very wwpleasant for Hope to 
 bear, — something that she had not in the least 
 looked for, because she had never before met 
 with anything like it. 
 
16 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 IT was on Wednesday that a little party of 
 girls came hurrying into the Brookside 
 station, as if they had not a minute to lose, 
 when one of them exclaimed : " Why, our train 
 has gone ; look at that ! " pointing to the indi- 
 cator. "The next train goes at 1.40. We 
 shall have only twenty minutes to get from the 
 Boston station to the Museum." 
 
 " Time enough, " answered Mary Bering ; " we 
 always go too early. But there 's our little 
 girl. We shall have ample opportunity now to 
 buy all the flowers we want. Dolly," to her 
 younger sister, who was marching up and down 
 the platform with a friend of her own age, 
 " Dolly, don't you want to buy some flowers ? " 
 
 " Flowers ? Oh, yes ! " and Dolly came racing 
 up, calling out in a loud whisper, as she joined 
 the group, " Say, Mary, is that your wonderful 
 flower-girl ? " 
 
 "Hnsh, Dolly; don't!" 
 
 "Don't what?" 
 
HOrE BENHAM. 17 
 
 "Don't whisper so loudly; she can hear 
 you." 
 
 Dolly laughed. " What if she does ? I 
 didn't say anything that wasn't nice." 
 
 The group of girls pressed around Hope, and 
 bought lavishly of her stock. Dolly and her 
 friend Lily Styles were the latest of the buyers, 
 for coming up last they were on the outside of 
 the group. As they stood alone with Hope, 
 they picked and pecked first at one bouquet, 
 and then another. This was fuller, and that 
 was bigger, and still another was prettier and 
 pinker. At last they made a choice, and Hope 
 breathed a sigh of relief at the thought that 
 now her exacting purchasers would leave her to 
 herself. But Dolly Dering had no notion of 
 leaving Hope to herself. No sooner was the 
 purchase concluded than Miss Dolly, lifting her 
 big black eyes with a curious gaze to Hope's 
 face, asked abruptly, — 
 
 " Do you like to sell flowers on the street ? " 
 
 Hope flushed hotly. " I don't sell flowers on 
 the street. " 
 
 "Well, in a station, then. I should think 
 that was just the same as on the street; it's 
 out-of-doors in a public place." 
 
 Hope made no further reply. She would have 
 2 
 
18 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 moved away if she could have done so easily, 
 but the two girls stood directly in front of her, 
 completely shutting her into her corner. Per- 
 haps, however, they would go away if she 
 busied herself with her flowers, and she began 
 to re-arrange and spray them with water. But 
 Dolly, at sight of this operation, began with 
 fresh interest, " Oh ! is that the way you keep 
 'em fresh ? How nice ! let me try it, do ! " and 
 before Hope could say " yes " or " no, " she had 
 seized the sprayer out of her hands. Her first 
 effort, instead of benefiting the flowers, sent a 
 sharp little sprinkle directly against Hope's 
 light cloth jacket. Hope started back with an 
 exclamation of dismay. 
 
 " Oh, it won't hurt it ! " cried Dolly. Then, 
 as she saw Hope rubbing the wet place with her 
 handkerchief, she asked, "Will your mother 
 punish you if she finds the jacket spotted ? " 
 
 " Punish me ? " exclaimed Hope, looking up 
 at the questioner. 
 
 "Yes, punish you; whip you, perhaps." 
 "My mother — whip me ? " ejaculated Hope, 
 staring at Dolly, as if she thought her out of 
 her mind. 
 
 " Yes, whip you; I did n't know — " 
 "Would your mother whip you if you got 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 19 
 
 spots on your jacket ? " inquired Hope, in a 
 sharp, indignant voice. 
 
 "ify mother? No." 
 
 "Then why should you think my mother 
 would whip me ? " 
 
 Dolly was not a very sensitive young person, 
 but she could not blurt out exactly what was 
 in her mind, — that she thought all poor people, 
 working-people, whipped their children when 
 they offended them in any way. Her ideas of 
 poor people were very vague, and gathered 
 partly from the talk of her elders about the 
 North End poor that the Associated Charities 
 assisted. In this talk a word now and then 
 concerning the careless way in which these 
 people beat their children for the slightest 
 offence impressed her more than anything. 
 Then Bridget Kelly, who had been Dolly's 
 nurse, had often related stories of her own 
 childish naughtinesses, for her — Dolly's — 
 benefit, and she had almost invariably wound 
 up these stories with the remark, " And did n't 
 my mother beat me well for being such a bad 
 girl!" 
 
 Dolly had put this and that together, and 
 come to the conclusion that poor people were 
 all alike, — a good deal as her sister bad in- 
 
20 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 eluded all mechanical workers together. But 
 if Miss Dolly could n't blurt out all that was in 
 her mind, she had very little tact of conceal- 
 ment, and when she replied to Hope's question 
 something about people's being different, and 
 that she knew that some people beat their chil- 
 dren for doing things they did n't like them to 
 do, she unwittingly made things quite clear 
 enough to Hope, with her fine, keen intelli- 
 gence, so clear that she comprehended at once 
 the whole state of the case. What would have 
 happened when this moment of comprehension 
 suddenly came to Hope, what she would have 
 said if there had been time to say anything, it 
 is needless to conjecture, for there was n't an 
 instant of time for a word, as at that very 
 moment, pouf, pouf, pouf, the train steamed 
 into the station, and Dolly Dering and her 
 friend Lily ran scampering down the plat- 
 form. 
 
 Hope looked after them, with eyes blinded by 
 hot, angry tears. The last few minutes had 
 been a revelation to her of the thoughtless mis- 
 understandings of the world. To think that she 
 — ■ Hope Benham — should be ranked with that 
 vast ignorant class of " poor people " who " lived 
 anyhow," all because she was selling flowers 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 21 
 
 in a public place! "They might have known 
 better, if they had any sense ; they might have 
 known at a glance ! " And with this indignant 
 thought, Hope went into the ladies' waiting- 
 room, and surveyed herself in the mirror that 
 hung there. What did she see ? A bright- 
 faced girl, clean and fresh, with neatly braided 
 hair; clothed in a little fawn-colored jacket, a 
 brown dress, and with a pretty plain brown felt 
 hat upon her head. To be sure, she wore no 
 gloves ; but her hands were nicely kept, the nails 
 well cut and rosily clean. To mix her up with 
 poor people who " lived anyhow " ! Perhaps 
 they fancied, those girls, that the fawn-colored 
 jacket and the brown dress and the hat were 
 given to her, — gifts of charity ! Yes, that was 
 what they fancied, of course. They had talked 
 her over. " Is that your wonderful flower-girl ? " 
 she had overheard the younger girl say to the 
 older. She had been called this because she was 
 dressed decently, because she behaved herself 
 decently. They could n't understand — these 
 rich people — how any one who sold flowers, 
 who sold anything — on the street — yea, that 
 was what they called it — could be decent. Oh, 
 it was they who were ignorant, — these rich 
 people ! They did n't know anything about 
 
22 HOPE BENHAM. < 
 
 other people's lives, — other people wfeo were 
 dot rich like themselves. 
 
 Hope's little purse was full of shining silver 
 pieces as she went back to Riverview, but her 
 beart was fuller of bitterness. 
 
 "You look tired, Hope," said her mother, 
 anxiously, as Hope walked into the house. 
 But Hope declared that she was not in the least 
 tired, that it was only the tiresomeness of some 
 of her customers, — fussy folk, who picked and 
 pecked and asked questions. Not a word more 
 did she say. She was not going to worry her 
 mother, hurt her feelings as hers had been hurt 
 with the foolish, ignorant talk of those foolish, 
 ignorant, rich girls, — not she ! So she comforted 
 herself by counting up her silver pieces, and 
 reckoning how much nearer she was to the " good 
 little fiddle." She tried to keep the little 
 fiddle and the sweet strain the shopkeeper had 
 drawn from it, continually in her mind, as she 
 stood in the station again that night on the 
 arrival of the 5. 30 train. The good little fiddle, 
 with the sweet strain, should be the shield 
 against tormenting questionei-s and questions. 
 But she was not to be tormented that night by 
 any one. 
 
 Dolly Bering did not even look at her, as shp 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 23 
 
 skipped by. Dolly was too eager to secure a 
 place beside her father on the front seat of the 
 carriage, as they drove home, to see or think 
 about anything else. Even Mary Bering did not 
 find time, as she went by, to cast an interested 
 glance towards that "wonderful flower-girl." 
 There were plenty of purchasers, however, 
 without the little matinle group, — ladies and 
 gentlemen just returning from shopping or busi- 
 ness, — plenty of purchasers ; and Hope went 
 home with only the sweet sense of success 
 stirring at her heart, — a success unalloyed by 
 any new bitterness. She had not needed a 
 shield against tormentors. Thursday and Fri- 
 day were equally pleasant and fairly profitable. 
 Saturday would, of course, be the best day of 
 all, and bring her sales up to almost if not 
 quite the desired amount. But she dreaded 
 Saturday, for she was quite sure that "that 
 girl " would be at the station, and she could not 
 help keeping a nervous look-out from the 
 moment she took her stand in her chosen 
 corner. The 12.35, the 1, and the 1.15 trains, 
 however, went in, and Dolly was not to be 
 seen. If she was not on the 1.40 train, there 
 was little danger, Hope thought, that she would 
 be there at all, for the 1. 40 was the last early 
 
24 MOPE BENHAM. 
 
 afternoon train. The next was 3. 30, and Hope 
 would be back at Riverview by that time, pre- 
 paring another stock of flowers for her 5.30 
 sale. Just before the 1.40 steamed in, Hope 
 heard a gay chatter of voices. There she was I 
 But no ; a glance at the party sufficed to shov 
 that Dolly Bering was not one of the party, and 
 Hope drew a deep breath of relief. The week 
 would end without further annoyance, and with 
 tucTi a heap of bright silver pieces. 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 25 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 F^ORGETFUL of everything disagreeable, 
 Hope stood in her corner for the last 
 time, softly humming the sweet little strain she 
 had heard from the good little fiddle. She 
 was earlier than usual, — ten, fifteen minutes 
 earlier. "Turn, turn, ti turn," she was softly 
 humming, when — 
 
 "Do you stay here all day? " asked a clear, 
 confident voice. She turned her head, and 
 there stood that girl, — Dolly Dering. 
 
 " No, " answered Hope, politely, to this ques- 
 tion, but with a coldness and distance of manner 
 that was meant to check all further questioning. 
 But Dolly Dering was n't easily checked. 
 
 "My sister says that you live in Riverview, 
 and that you get your flowers in Riverview 
 woods," was her next questioning remark. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " What other kinds of flowers are you going 
 to sell when these arbutus are gone ? " 
 
 " I 'm not going to sell any. " 
 
26 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " Because I — I don't want to. " 
 
 "I should think you would. You must 
 make a lot of money." 
 
 No answer. 
 
 " To be sure, I don't suppose you 'd make 
 so much with garden flowers, but there are ever 
 so many kinds of wild flowers coming on by 
 and by, are n't there ? " 
 
 " I suppose so. " 
 
 " Perhaps you go to school, do you ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Oh! and this is vacation week at the 
 public schools ; that 's why you can be here. I 
 see. What you earn must be a great help, 
 is n't it ? " 
 
 Hope's patience and dignity were giving 
 way. She looked up with a fiery glance. 
 
 " A great help in what ? " she asked. 
 
 " Why, why, in your home, you know, — in 
 buying bread and things, — you know what I 
 mean. " 
 
 "Yes, I know what you mean," burst forth 
 Hope. "You mean that you think because I 
 am selling flowers here in the station that I 
 belong to poor people, who live anyhow, — 
 poor, ignorant people, who are helped by the 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 27 
 
 missions and the unions, — poor, ignorant 
 people like those at the North End." 
 
 Dolly Bering stared with all her might at the 
 flushed, excited face before her. 
 
 " Why — why — you are poor, are n't you, or 
 you wouldn't be selling things like this ? " she 
 blunderingly asked. 
 
 Hope, in her turn, stared back at Dolly, 
 Then in a vehement, exasperated tone, she 
 said, — 
 
 " I did n't think anybody could be so ignorant 
 as you are." 
 
 "I! ignorant! well!" exclaimed Dolly, in 
 astonishment and rising resentment. 
 
 "Yes, ignorant," went on Hope, recklessly, 
 "or you'd know more about the difference in 
 people. You 'd see the difference. You 'd see 
 that I did n't belong to the kind of poor folks 
 who live any way and anyhow. My father is 
 John Benham, an engineer on this road, and 
 we have a nice home, and plenty to eat and 
 drink and to wear, — and books and magazines 
 and papers, " she added, with a sudden instinct 
 that these were the most convincing proofs of 
 the comfort and respectability of her home. 
 
 " What do you sell flowers on the street for, 
 then, if you are as nice as all that ? " cried 
 
28 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 Dolly, now thoroughly aroused by Hope's words 
 and manner. 
 
 " Because I wanted to buy something for my- 
 self that my father couldn't afford to buy. 
 Don't you ever want anything that your father 
 doesn't feel as if he could buy for you just 
 when you wanted him to?" 
 
 "Well, if I did, I shouldn't be let to go out 
 on the street and peddle flowers to earn the 
 money," replied Dolly, with what she meant 
 to be withering emphasis. 
 
 " And I should n't be allowed to say ' let to 
 go,' like ignorant North Enders," retorted 
 Hope, with still more withering emphasis. 
 
 Dolly reddened with mortification and anger; 
 then she said haughtily, "I don't happen to 
 know as much as you seem to, how ignorant 
 North Enders talk." 
 
 " No ; I told you that you were ignorant, and 
 did n't know the difference between people." 
 
 " How dare you talk like this to me ! You 
 are the most impudent girl I ever saw," cried 
 Dolly, passionately. 
 
 "Impudent! How did you dare to speak to 
 me as you did, — to ask me questions ? You 
 did n't know me ; you never saw me before. 
 You would n't have dared to speak to a girl 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 29 
 
 that you thought was like yourself. But you 
 thought you could speak to me. You need n't 
 be polite to a girl who was selling things on 
 the street." 
 
 Hope stopped breathless. Her lips were dry ; 
 her heart was beating in hard, quick throbs. 
 As for Dolly she was for the moment silenced, 
 for Hope had divined the exact state of her 
 mind. Other things, too, had silenced Dolly for 
 the moment, and these were the evidences of 
 respectability that Hope had enumerated. She 
 was also faced by these evidences in Hope's 
 speech and manner, as those fiery but not vulgar 
 words were poured forth from the dry, tremu- 
 lous lips ; and the effect had been confusing and 
 disturbing to those fixed ideas about working- 
 people that had taken root in her — Dolly's 
 — mind. She was not a bad girl at heart, was 
 this Dolly. She was like a great many people 
 without keen perception or sensibility, and 
 thoughtless from this very lack. The youngest 
 of a prosperous family, she had been petted and 
 pampered until her natural wilfulness and high 
 spirits had made her heedless and over-con- 
 fident. She had not meant to insult Hope. 
 She had meant simply to satisfy her curiosity ; 
 and she thought that it was a perfectly proper 
 
30 HOPE BEN HAM. 
 
 thing to satisfy this curiosity about a poor girl 
 who sold flowers on the street, by asking this 
 girl plain questions, such as she had heard her 
 mother ask the poor people who came to get work 
 or to beg. But Hope's plain answers had at first 
 astonished, then angered, then enlightened her. 
 
 In the little breathless pause that followed 
 Hope's last words, the two girls regarded each 
 other with a strange mixture of feeling. Hope's 
 feeling was that of relief tinctured with triumph, 
 for she saw that she had made an impression 
 upon "that ignorant girl." Dolly, humiliated 
 but not humble, had a queer struggle with her 
 temper and her sense of justice. She had been 
 made to see that she was partly, if not wholly, 
 in the wrong, and that she had wounded Hope 
 to the quick. In another minute she would 
 have blunderingly made some admission of 
 this, — have said to Hope that she was sorry 
 if she had hurt her feelings, or something to 
 that effect, — if Hope herself had not suddenly 
 remarked in a tone of cold dislike, — 
 
 "If you are waiting to ask any more ques- 
 tions, I might as well tell you it 's of no use. 
 I sha'n't answer any more; so if you'll please 
 to go away from this corner and stop staring 
 at me, I shall be much obliged to you." 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 31 
 
 Scarlet with anger, all her better impulses 
 scattered to the winds, Dolly flashed out, — 
 
 "You're an ugly, impudent, hateful thing, 
 and I don't care if I have hurt your feelings, so 
 there!" 
 
 It happened that John Benham had exchanged 
 his hours of work for that day with a fellow 
 engineer on the 5. 30 train that came out from 
 Boston. Dolly, watching the train as it came 
 to a stop at the Brookside station, saw some- 
 thing that interested her greatly. It was an 
 exchange of glances between that " ugly, impu- 
 dent, hateful thing " and the engineer, as he 
 stood in his cab. 
 
 " So that is her father, is it, — that smutty 
 workman ! She 'd better set herself up and talk, 
 about her nice home ! " was Dolly's inward 
 comment out of the wrath that was raging 
 within her. 
 
 « What is the matter with Dolly ? " asked Mr. 
 Dering, fifteen minutes later, as Dolly, red and 
 pouting, and with a fierce little frown wrink- 
 ling her forehead, sat in unusual silence beside 
 him on the front seat of the carriage. Matter ? 
 and Dolly, finding her tongue, poured forth the 
 story of her grievance. With all her faults, 
 Dolly was not deceitful or untruthful ; and the 
 
32 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 story she told was remarkably exact, neither 
 glossing over her own words, nor her humil- 
 iating defeat through Hope's cleverness of 
 speech. 
 
 Mr. Dering seemed to find the whole story 
 very amusing, and at the end of it laughingly 
 remarked : " I don't think you had the best of 
 it, Dolly." 
 
 Her mother, from the back seat, was morti- 
 fied and shocked that Dolly should have been so 
 vulgar as to quarrel on the street. 
 
 "But Dolly began it by asking such ques- 
 tions, " spoke up Mary Dering. " Dolly is such 
 a rattler, I 'm sure that flower-girl would 
 never have spoken to her first." 
 . Then Mrs. Dering wanted to know what Mary 
 knew about "that flower-girl," and Mary de- 
 scribed Hope as she had seen her. 
 
 " She said her father was an engineer on this 
 road, did she ? " asked Mr. Dering, turning to 
 Dolly. 
 
 "Yes, papa." 
 
 " It must be John Benham. He is one of the 
 best engineers on this road, " — Mr. Dering was 
 one of the Directors of the road, — " yes, it must 
 be Benham. I should think he might have just 
 such a child as that." 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 33 
 
 " Why, papa ? " asked Mary Bering, leaning 
 forward. 
 
 " Well, because he 's a proud sort of fellow, 
 rather short of speech ; does n't give or take 
 any familiar words. But he 's an excellent 
 engineer, excellent, and is full of intelligent 
 ideas. He saved the road from quite a loss last 
 year by a suggestion of his. He 's always 
 tinkering, I 've been told, on one or another of 
 these ideas, — has quite an inventive faculty, 
 I believe ; and some of these days I suppose he 
 hopes, as so many of these fellows do, to make 
 a fortune out of some invention. Hey, what 
 do you say to that, Dolly ? " turning from this 
 graver talk, and pulling one of Dolly's black 
 locks. "What do you say to your impudent 
 little girl turning into a millionaire's daughter 
 one of these days ? " 
 
 " I 'd say ' Ten cents a bunch ' to her ! " cried 
 Dolly, vindictively. 
 
 Mr. Bering flung back his head, and laughed. 
 
 " Do you really think he may make a fortune 
 in that way ? " asked Mary, interestedly. 
 
 "Well, no; really I don't, Mary," her father 
 replied. "Such things don't happen very 
 frequently. Most skilled mechanics, like Ben- 
 ham, make inventive experiments in their 
 
 3 
 
34 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 peculiar line, but it 's only one in a thousand 
 who is a genius at that sort of thing, and pro- 
 duces anything remarkable or valuable enough 
 to bring them a fortune. Benham is a clever, 
 industrious fellow, but he is n't a genius; so we 
 won't make a hero for a story out of him, my 
 dear." And Mr. Bering nodded with a smile 
 at Mary, — a smile that brought a blush to 
 Mary's cheek, for she knew that papa was mak' 
 ing fun of what he called her sentimentality. 
 
HOPE BEN HAM. 35 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 ALMOST at the very moment that Mr. Ber- 
 ing was asking Dolly what was the 
 matter, John Benham, speeding along in his 
 cab, was mentally asking the same question in 
 regard to Hope ; for, as he caught that glimpse 
 of her as the train stopped, he saw at once that 
 something was amiss. There was a strained, 
 excited look about her eyes, and a hot, uncom- 
 fortable color in her cheeks. Had any one been 
 troubling her ? His own color rose at the 
 thought. Why had he allowed her to take such 
 a position ? But, thank Heaven, this was the 
 last night. Two hours after this he put 
 the question to Hope in words. What was 
 the matter ? 
 
 Hope had not meant to tell. She would be 
 brave and keep her annoyance to herself. But 
 the suddenness of the question broke down her 
 defences, and she burst into tears. 
 
 " My dear, my dear, what is it ? Who is it 
 that has been troubling you ? There, there ! " 
 
36 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 taking her in his arms, "have your cry out, 
 then tell father all about it." 
 
 Hope was to the full as honest and truthful 
 as Dolly, and her story was as exact; but she 
 did not, for she could not, do full justice to 
 Dolly, from the fact that she had not caught the 
 faintest idea of that good impulse that she her- 
 self had nipped in the bud; and without this 
 impulse Dolly's share in the story looked 
 pretty black, and John Benham, as he listened 
 to it, did not laugh, as Mr. Dering had done. 
 It was not amusing to him to hear how his 
 sweet little daughter had been hurt by all that 
 impertinent questioning. He saw better than 
 Hope that the impertinence was not malice, 
 and that the ignorance it proceeded from was 
 that old ignorance that comes from the selfish- 
 ness that is born of long-continued prosperity. 
 In trying to convey something of this to Hope, 
 and to show her that she must not let her mind 
 get poisoned by dwelling too much upon the 
 matter, he said, — 
 
 " Try to put it out of your mind by thinking 
 of something else. " 
 
 Hope lifted her head, and a faint smile irra- 
 diated her face. 
 
 "I '11 push it out with the good little fiddle," 
 she answered. 
 
HOPE BENIIAM. 37 
 
 " That 's my brave little woman ! " 
 
 That very night Hope carried her resolve into 
 action by going over to see Mr. Kolb to arrange 
 for the purchase of the violin. She had told 
 him at the first, of the shop where she had seen 
 the instrument that had taken her fancy, and 
 of her flower-selling plan to buy it. 
 
 "Yes, yes; it was a very good shop," he had 
 told her, and the plan was a very good plan, 
 and some day he would go with her to look at 
 the little fiddle. 
 
 He was quite astonished, however, when, on 
 Saturday night, she ran in to tell him that her 
 plan had succeeded so well that she wanted 
 him to go with her on Monday afternoon to buy 
 the little fiddle. 
 
 " What ! you haf all the money ? " he asked 
 incredulously. 
 
 " Yes ; I earned all but two dollars, and that 
 my f atBer gave me. " 
 
 The old German threw out his hands with a 
 gesture of surprise. " Ah ! you little American 
 madchen," he cried, "you do anything!" 
 ' But when, on Monday afternoon, the two set 
 out on their errand, Hope began to have a mis- 
 giving. Perhaps she had made a mistake. Per- 
 haps, after all, it wasn't a good little fiddle, 
 
38 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 and she looked anxiously at Mr. Eolb when he 
 entered the shop with her, and took the instra- 
 ment in his hands, for Mr. Kolb would know all 
 about it. And Mr. Kolb did know all about 
 it. He knew at the first sight of it ; and when 
 he lifted the bow and drew it across the strings, 
 his eyes were smiling with approbation. 
 
 " A good fiddle ! ach ! it is a peautiful little 
 fiddle ! " he exclaimed, as he ceased playing. 
 Then he complimented Hope by saying ; " You 
 haf the musical eye, as well as ear, Madchen, 
 to put your heart on this little fiddle, and we 
 shall haf so good a time, you and I, learning to 
 play it." 
 
 That night, just after supper, Hope took her 
 first lesson. As she tucked the little fiddle 
 under her chin, and drew the bow uncertainly 
 and awkwardly across the strings, her heart 
 beat, and her eyes filled with joyous tears. 
 The little fiddle for the time quite ''pushed 
 Dolly Bering and everything connected with 
 her out of her mind. 
 
 While she was thus happily occupied, her 
 father was busily engaged with what looked 
 like a toy engine. He was tinkering over one 
 of those ideas of his, that Mr. Bering had 
 spoken of. This particular idea was something 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 39 
 
 connected with the speed of the locomotive and 
 the economy of fuel at one and the same time. 
 Two years before, certain improvements in this 
 direction had been made, but they were not 
 fully successful, because they did not combine 
 harmoniously, — what was gained in one direc- 
 tion being partially lost in another. John 
 Benham's idea was to invent something that 
 should combine so harmoniously that a high 
 rate of speed could be attainable with a mini- 
 mum of fuel. 
 
 When he first started to work out this idea, 
 he was quite confident that he could carry it 
 through to success ; but he had been at it now 
 for months, and the harmonious combination 
 still evaded him. What was it ? What had he 
 missed ? Over and over again he would ask 
 himself this question, and over and over again 
 he would add here or take away there, and all 
 without achieving the result he desired. So 
 many failures had at length beaten down his 
 courageous confidence not a little, and he had 
 begun to think that he must be on the wrong 
 track altogether, and might as well give up the 
 whole thing. 
 
 He was thinking this very strongly that Mon- 
 day night when he sat in his workshop, — a 
 
40 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 long, low room he had arranged for himself at 
 the end of the house. The night was warm for 
 the season, and through the open doorway he 
 could hear the quavering, uncertain scraping 
 of the little fiddle. 
 
 " Dear little soul ! " he thought ; " I hope this 
 good time is paying her for that bad time of 
 hers. " 
 
 If he could only have known how thoroughly 
 it was " paying her," — that at that moment the 
 bad time was pushed completely out of mind 
 by the good time ! He hoped that she was com- 
 forted; that was the most that he expected. 
 For himself, nothing had put the story she 
 had told him out of his mind; and while he 
 sat there adjusting and readjusting the little 
 model, it was half mechanically, — his thought 
 being more occupied with his child's painful 
 little experience, and all that it suggested to 
 him. He was not a bitter or a violent man. 
 He did not think that the poor were always in 
 the right, and the rich always in the wrong in 
 their relations with each other, as a good many 
 working-people do. No ; he was too intelligent 
 for that. But what he did think, what he knew 
 was, that the rich were not hampered and hin- 
 dered by the daily struggle for existence, for 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 41 
 
 the means to procure food and clothing and 
 shelter from week to week. He knew that his 
 own abilities were hindered and hampered by 
 the necessity that compelled him to work almost 
 incessantly for the necessaries of life. If he 
 could have had only a little of the leisure of 
 the rich, a little of their money, he could have 
 had constantly at his hand, hot merely the 
 books that he needed, and the time to study 
 them, but various other ways and opportunities 
 would have been open to him to follow out his 
 strong taste for mechanical construction. As 
 it was, he had been obliged to grope along 
 slowly, working at odd times after his labor of 
 the day, and generally at some disadvantage, 
 either in the lack of proper tools, or needed 
 books of reference directly at his hand. All 
 these thoughts bore down upon him that night 
 with greater force than usual, because of Hope's 
 story ; for here it was again in another direction, 
 that difference between the rich and the poor. 
 And while he thought these thoughts, scrape, 
 scrape, went Hope's bow across the strings. 
 
 " Do you hear that, John ? " asked Mrs. Ben- 
 ham, as she came into the workshop. 
 
 " Yes, I 've been listening to it for some 
 time." There was an absent expression in 
 
42 HOPE BEN HAM. 
 
 John Benham's eyes, as he glanced up. His 
 wife noticed it. 
 
 "You look tired, John. I wouldn't bother 
 over that " — with a nod at the engine model 
 — " any more. " 
 
 " No ; I 've about made up my mind to give it 
 up. I don't seem to be on the right track with 
 it, anyhow." 
 
 There was a depressed, discouraged note in 
 the husband's voice that his wife at once 
 detected. It was a new note for her to hear in 
 that voice. She regarded him anxiously a 
 moment, and then, smiling, but with a good 
 deal of real earnestness, said, — 
 
 " Don't fret about it, John. Hope, maybe, '11 
 make all our fortunes yet. Mr. Kolb told me 
 that she had a wonderful ear for music, and 
 would be a fine performer some day." 
 
 " Fortunes ! 't is n't money only, Martha ; I 
 hate to give up a thing like this. I felt so 
 sure of myself when I started ; and — and — it is 
 failure, you see ; and failure is harder to bear 
 than the hardest kind of labor. I 've always 
 thought, you know, that I was out out for this 
 sort of thing, — this inventive business, — but 
 it looks as though I had been more conceited 
 than anything else, does n't it ? " 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 43 
 
 "No, no; it doesn't, John. Your worst 
 enemy could n't say that you were conceited. 
 But you 've had so little chance, so little time ; 
 that 's what 's the trouble. But you have n't 
 come to the end yet, and I did n't mean that 1 
 wanted you to give up trying. I only meant 
 that I wouldn't bother over that. You must 
 start something new ; that 's all I meant, 
 John," cried Mrs. Benham, full of affectionate 
 sympathy and repentance. 
 
 "Oh! I understand, Martha; I understand. 
 What you said did n't discourage me. I dare 
 say I shall tinker away at something again by 
 and by ; but this thing " — striking the model a 
 little blow with his hand — " is a failure. " 
 
 At that moment the door-bell rang, and Mrs. 
 Benham hurried away to answer its summons. 
 Left alone, her husband stretched out his hand 
 towards the model, and opened the door of its 
 fire-box. There was still a tiny bed of coals 
 there. 
 
 " "We '11 have a last run," he said, with a half- 
 smile ; and opening the steam-valve, he saw the 
 beautiful little model start once more on its 
 way along the rails he had laid for it upon the 
 work-bench that ran around the room. As he 
 had constructed a self-acting pressure that 
 
44 HOPE BENHAM, 
 
 should close the steam-valve at a certain point, 
 the model was under as perfect control from 
 where he stood as if it were of larger propor- 
 tions, and he were managing and directing it 
 from its engine cab. A look of pride, followed 
 by an expression of sadness, flickered over the 
 builder's face, as he watched it. Where had 
 he failed? 
 
 Round and round the course the pretty thing 
 sped, not at any headlong speed, but at the pace 
 that had been set for it, to prove or disprove 
 the effectiveness of the combination. Click, 
 click, how smoothly it ran! everything appar- 
 ently perfect, from the wheels to the wire- 
 netted flues. If only — But what — what is 
 that? and John Benham starts forward with 
 sudden eager attention. His quick ear has 
 caught a slight sound that he had not heard 
 before, so slight that only his ear would have 
 detected it. The machine was on its finishing 
 round ; three seconds more, and the self-acting 
 steam-valve has shut, the engine slows up to a 
 stop, and its builder, with a quickened pulse, 
 bends eagerly forward. 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 45 
 
 CHAPTER VL 
 
 PERHAPS it is five minutes later that the 
 wife opens the door again. " John, who 
 do you think has just called ? " She receives no 
 answer. " Dear me ! " she says vexedly to her- 
 self, "he 's worrying at that machine again. I 
 wish he 'd give it up. John ! " Still no answer. 
 Mrs. Benham walks into the room. "John, I 
 wish — " But as she catches sight of her hus- 
 band's face, which is pale, and changed by some 
 strong feeling, she forgets what she was about 
 to say, and exclaims in a troubled tone, " What 
 is it ? What is the matter, John ? " 
 
 He starts and turns to her. Matter ? A 
 half-smile stirs his lips, and he points to the 
 engine without another word, 
 
 Mrs. Benham is frightened. She thinks to 
 herself : " This constant worry over that thing is 
 turning his head ; he will lose his mind. Oh, 
 John!" she cries, "if you would only come 
 away and rest and give this up, if only for a 
 little while! I — I — " and poor Mrs. Ben- 
 
46 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 ham's voice breaks, and the tears rush to her 
 eyes. 
 
 " Martha, Martha, you don't understand. My 
 worry is all over, — all over. The thing is a 
 success, — a success, Martha, and not a 
 failure ! " 
 " What — why — when I went out — " 
 " When you went out awhile ago, I 'd given it 
 up, and I thought I 'd say good-bye to it in a 
 last run, and on that run I heard a new sound. 
 Look here, Martha, do you see that link in the 
 valve gearing? I thought I had taken every 
 pains to suspend it properly. Well, it seems 
 I had n't. I suspended it in the usual way, 
 and it worked in the usual way; but it turns 
 out that was n't the way to work with my new 
 injector, and there is where the hitch was. Do 
 you remember when I brought my hand down 
 on the machine when we were talking ? I 
 must have displaced this delicate little bolt 
 or pin that you see here, at that blow, and in 
 that way put the link — it is what is called a 
 shifting link — into the right position to work 
 my injector combination. This little change 
 of position makes everything clear as day- 
 light, and I can put this little beauty into 
 fine shape now ; fasten the bolts and pins per- 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 47 
 
 manently instead of temporarily, for I don't 
 need any more changes. It will do its double 
 work of speed and fuel-saving every time ; for 
 see there ! " — and the exultant builder pointed 
 to some almost infinitesimal figures in two 
 different portions of the engine. They were the 
 registers that proved the result of this last tri- 
 umphant run, and the complete success of his 
 invention. 
 
 The tears were still in Mrs. Benham's eyes, 
 but they were tears of joy. " It seems too good 
 to be true," she faltered. 
 
 " And I thought the other thing — the failure 
 — too bad to be true," he returned. Then 
 smiling a little, " I shall name it ' Hope, ' " he 
 said. 
 
 " And it is Hope that will make our fortunes, 
 after all ; for this will make a fortune, won't it, 
 John ? " inquired Mrs. Benham, looking up into 
 her husband's face eagerly. But he didn't 
 hear her. His thoughts had gone back to that 
 valve gearing, and the link that had been so 
 happily put in place. 
 
 She touched his arm, and repeated her 
 question. 
 
 " Fortune ? " He turned from his loving con- 
 templation of the thing that he had builded. It 
 
48 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 seemed almost human to him. " Fortune, — 1 
 don't know," he answered absently. 
 
 Mrs. Benham did not repeat her question 
 again. She saw, as she glanced at her husband's 
 face, that it would be of no use, for she saw that 
 just for the present he was all absorbed in the 
 delight that had come to him, in the successful 
 accomplishment of his undertaking. This was 
 joy enough for him at the moment. He had 
 often said to her when she had advised him not 
 to tire himself out pottering over things that 
 might not bring him a penny, that he loved the 
 work for itself, independent of anything else. 
 And it was the work that he was thinking of 
 now, not the possible financial results. But by 
 and by — and Mrs. Benham's thoughts went 
 wandering off into that by and by, when these 
 results would take tangible form. Her ideas, 
 however, were extremely modest. This fortune 
 that she had in her mind, that she saw before 
 her at that instant, was very limited. Harry 
 Richards, an old friend of her husband's, had 
 made a comfortable little sum out of an im- 
 provement upon car-window fastenings, and it 
 was some such comfortable little sum that Mrs. 
 Benham was thinking of. A little sum that 
 would be sufficient, perhaps, to pay at once 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 49 
 
 what mortgage there was still left upon their 
 little home, to buy a new carpet for the parlor, 
 and the books her husband needed, and to give 
 Hope all the instruction she wanted upon the 
 violin, from Mr. Kolb, or any other teacher,, at 
 the teacher's price. 
 
 Just at this point of her thought, a quick, 
 flying step was heard, and a quick, humming 
 voice, — a little sweet, thready sound, as near 
 like a violin tone as the owner could ma.ke it, 
 — and the next minute Hope appeared in the 
 workshop rosy and radiant. 
 
 "Mr. Kolb says," she broke out, dropping 
 her humming violin note, "that I shall make a 
 very good little fiddler some day if I ' haf pa- 
 tience,' " gayly imitating the old German's pro- 
 nunciation. "He says — " But something in 
 her father's absorbed attitude, in her mother's 
 expression, stopped her. "What is it? what 
 has happened ? " she inquired, looking from one 
 to the other. 
 
 "Your father has got the little engine all 
 right." 
 
 " It does just what he wanted it to do ? " asked 
 Hope, eagerly. 
 
 " Yes, just what he wanted it to do. " 
 
 Hope danced about the room, humming hei 
 4 
 
50 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 little thready violin note. Her father, roused 
 from his reverie, looked up at her, and smiled. 
 
 " Well, Hope, the little fiddle was a success, 
 eh?" 
 
 "And the little engine too;" and the girl 
 danced up to her father, humming her note of 
 gladness. 
 
 " Yes, the little engine too. " 
 
 Mrs. Benham, looking across the work -bench 
 at her husband and daughter, nodded and 
 laughed at them. 
 
 "You're just alike, — you two," she said. 
 " There 's nothing now but the little engine and 
 the little fiddle. But how does it happen, 
 Hope, that Mr. Kolb could give you such a 
 long lesson ? Did n't he go in to play at the 
 concert to-night ? " 
 
 " No ; he has a cold, and his nephew, Karl, is 
 to take his place. It is Karl, you know, who 
 teaches at the Conservatory ; and Mr. Kolb says 
 that some time, when he gets too old and rheu- 
 matic to go out in the evening, he may give 
 up orchestra-playing altogether, and take to 
 teaching like Karl." 
 
 " Well, he '11 have to get more profitable 
 pupils than Hope Benham in that case," said 
 Mrs. Benham, laughingly. 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 51 
 
 "Mother, do you think — is it taking too 
 much — from — " 
 
 " No, no, Hope, " interrupted her mother. " I 
 don't think anything of the kind. Mr. Kolb 
 meant what he said when he told you he 'd like 
 to give you lessons. Don't you fret about that; 
 father will pay him some time. " 
 
 "Perhaps I'll pay him when — " But Mrs. 
 Benham did not stop to hear the end of hei 
 daughter's sentence. A patter of rain-drops 
 caught her ear, and she hurried away to close 
 the upper windows. Hope turned to her father 
 with her new idea ; she was aglow with it. 
 
 "Farver," she began, using her old baby 
 pronunciation, as she was in the habit of doing 
 now and then, — "Farver, Mr. Kolb says if I 
 practise hard, I may get to play the little fiddle 
 at a concert some day, and earn money, and 
 then — then, 1 shall pay Mr. Kolb for teaching 
 me, farver." 
 
 "Oh! that is your plan? Hope, the little 
 fiddle has done a good work already. It has 
 pushed all that bad time out of your mind, 
 has n't it ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes, it has pushed it away — away — 
 oh! ever so much further; but, farver," and 
 Hope put her head down on her father's shoul- 
 
52 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 der, "I — I — don't ever want to see that girl 
 again. " 
 
 " Yes, father knows ; " and drawing her closer 
 to him, John Benham stroked his daughter's 
 sleek brown head with a soft caressing touch. 
 
 And father did know. He knew that the 
 little daughter was having her first experience 
 of the world, and the way it made its separa- 
 tions, its class distinctions between rich and 
 poor and high and low. He was not envious 
 or jealous or bitter, but he was very observant 
 and thoughtful, and he could not help seeing 
 how ignorantly made were some of these dis- 
 tinctions, and how unchristian. He knew that 
 his little Hope was intelligent and refined, — 
 the fit companion for any refined child, however 
 placed in the world ; and he knew that he him- 
 self was a fit companion for intelligent, thought- 
 ful men, however placed, — for, though obliged to 
 be a hard worker since he came a boy of fifteen 
 from his father's farm, he had found time to 
 think and read and study, and he was conscious 
 that he had read and studied and thought to 
 some purpose, and that his thought was worth 
 something; yet because of this way that the 
 world had of separating people without regard 
 to their real natures or their real tastes, but 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 53 
 
 solely in regard to the accidents of poverty or 
 family influence, he was debarred from acquaint- 
 anceship on true, equal terms with many who 
 would naturally have been his companions and 
 friends, and whose companionship would have 
 been of service to him, as his would have been 
 of service to them, from the different knowledge 
 that had come to each, from their different 
 experiences. And here was Hope — he looked 
 down at her as his thoughts came to this point 
 — here was Hope, his cherished little daughter, 
 so fine, so sweet. Was that girl of the world's 
 so-called higher class, whose blunt speech had 
 hurt so deeply, — was she a fit companion for his 
 little daughter ? 
 
 He bent down and put his lips to the sleek 
 brown head, as he asked this question. Then 
 he saw that the child was asleep; but hia 
 movement roused her, and, stirring uneasily, 
 she murmured in her dreams, "Ten cents a 
 bunch!" then, half awakening, cried, "Far- 
 ver, farver, I don't ever want to see that girl 
 again. " 
 
 " No, no, you sha'n't. It 's all over, dear. 
 We 're not going to have any more of that ' Ten 
 cents a bunch!' — never any more of it," he 
 
54 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 repeated consolingly, but with an emphasis of 
 indignation and self-reproach. 
 
 But he was mistaken. Neither he nor Hope 
 had heard the last of that "Ten cents a 
 bunch!" 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 55 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 TO be a pupil in Miss Marr's school was a 
 distinction in itself. "Why don't you 
 give and write your name ' Mademoiselle Marr,' 
 as you have a right to do ?" asked one of Miss 
 Marr's acquaintances, when the school was first 
 started. 
 
 Miss Marr laughed ; then she answered so- 
 berly, " When my father came to America, he 
 made himself a legal citizen of the country and 
 he fought in its battles. He never called himself, 
 and he was never called by any one, 'Monsieur.' " 
 
 " Because he bore the title of General." 
 
 " Not at first, — not until he had earned it 
 here. But I — I was born and brought up 
 here, and I have been always Miss Marr here. 
 Why should I now suddenly change to Mademoi- 
 selle?" 
 
 " Because it would be of benefit to your 
 school. Americans are attracted by anything 
 foreign, and Mademoiselle Marr's school would 
 
56 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 sound so much more distinguished than Miss 
 Marr's school." 
 
 " Oh ! " and Miss Marr flung up her hands 
 impatiently ; " I am a better American than 
 these foolish people who like foreign titles so 
 much. But they shall come to me, they shall 
 send their children to Miss Marr's school. I am 
 not going to begin with any little tricks, — to 
 throw out any little bait to catch silly folk, for it 
 is not such folk's patronage that I want. I am 
 going to keep an honest school, and I shall start 
 as I mean to go on." 
 
 The acquaintance sighed, and shook her head, 
 and told all her friends how obstinate Miss Marr 
 was, how she had been advised and how she had 
 gone against the advice, and that the school 
 would n't come to anything, would get no start 
 as Miss Marr's school, whereas as Mademoiselle 
 Marr's it would at once impress everybody. 
 
 But Miss Marr went on in her own way, and 
 at the end of five years there was no school in 
 all New York that had the kind of high reputa- 
 tion that hers had. It was, in a certain sense, 
 the fashion, and yet it was not fashionable. 
 
 " It 's that French way of hers, after all," said 
 the acquaintance whose advice had not been 
 taken ; " it 's that French way that she inherited 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 57 
 
 from the General. Nobody had finer manners 
 than General Marr, and he had the qualities of a 
 leader, too, in some ways, — though he never 
 could keep any money ; and these qualities also 
 his daughter inherits." 
 
 Miss Marr laughed at this explanation when 
 she was told of it, — laughed, and declared that 
 the only secret of her success lay in the fact that 
 she liked her work, and put her whole heart into 
 it. And I'm inclined to think she was right. 
 If she got a start at first because she was General 
 Marr's daughter, she held it and made much of 
 it because she had character and purpose. She 
 put her heart into her work, and that meant that 
 she put the magic of lier lively sympathy and 
 interest into it ; and if she had not possessed this 
 character and purpose, she couldn't have done 
 what she did, even if she had been the daughter 
 of an even more distinguished man than General 
 Marr. She had said in the beginning : " I am 
 not going to model my school after any fashion- 
 able pattern, for I don't care to have what is 
 called a fashionable school, and I don't solicit 
 fashionable patronage. There are plenty of 
 quiet, cultivated people in New York and else- 
 where who, I am sure, want just such a school 
 as I mean to have, — a sensible, honest school, 
 
58 HOPE BEN HAM. 
 
 that shall give a sensible, honest, all-round edu- 
 cation." And she was right, as events proved. 
 The quiet, cultivated people came forth at once 
 to her support ; and then the queerest thing 
 happened, — the fashionable folk began to come 
 forward too, and in such numbers that she 
 could n't accommodate half of them, and they, 
 instead of accepting the situation, and going 
 elsewhere at this crisis, patiently bided their 
 time, waiting until a vacancy occurred. It will 
 readily be understood that when things had come 
 to this pass, it was considered a most decided 
 distinction to be a pupil at Miss Marr's school. 
 
 It was just at the climax of this popularity, 
 just before the beginning of a new year, that a 
 certain young lady said to her younger sister, — 
 
 "Now, Dorothy" — 
 
 "DoroiAea.' Dorothea! I'm going to have 
 my whole name, every syllable of it, to start off 
 in New York with." 
 
 " Well, Dorothea, then ; you must remember 
 one thing about Miss Marr, — she won't put up 
 with any of your flippant smartness." 
 
 " She need n't.^' 
 
 " But, Dorothea, you won't be punished, and 
 you won't be allowed to argue, as you did at 
 Miss Maynard's. It will be like this, — Miss 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 59 
 
 Marr will let you go on and reveal yourself and 
 all your faults without a word of comment, as 
 she would if you were a guest ; then if she finds 
 that you or your faults are of the kind that she 
 does n't care to have in her school, she '11 send 
 you home. She says, you know, that her school 
 is neither an infant school, nor a reform school, 
 — that by the time girls are fifteen, they are 
 young ladies enough to have some idea of good 
 breeding, and if they have n't, they are not the 
 sort of girls that she wants in her school. Now 
 remember that, Dorothea." 
 
 " I never heard of a school-teacher putting on 
 such airs as this Miss Marr does, in my life. It 's 
 always what sJie wants, what she expects, what 
 ihe is going to do. I know I shall hate her ! " 
 
 " Well, if this is the spirit that you propose to 
 start with, it is very easy to foresee the result." 
 
 " I don't care." 
 
 " Now, Dorothea, you do care. Just think — 
 your name has been on the list for a whole year 
 for this vacancy •, and it was your own idea, you 
 know. Nothing would satisfy you but to go to 
 Miss Marr's." 
 
 " Oh, I know, I know ; don't preach, you dear 
 Molly Polly ! I 'm not going to fly at Miss Marr 
 and call her an old cat, if I think she 's one." 
 
60 HOPE BEN HAM. 
 
 " No, I should say not, but you must n't fly at 
 a good many things, — at certain rules and regu- 
 lations, for instance, — and you must n't take any 
 saucy little liberties, such as you have been in 
 the habit of taking at Miss Maynard's." 
 
 " Oh, not a liberty ! " smiling and nodding at 
 her elder sister. " I shall pull my face down 
 like this " — drawing down her lips and lower- 
 ing her eyes — "when I meet the great Miss 
 Marr, and I shall say, in a little bit of a fright- 
 ened voice like this, ' Oh, Miss Marr, Miss Marr, 
 please don't shut me up in a dark closet and put 
 me on bread and water, whatever I do.' " 
 
 " What a goose you are, Dorothy ! " but the 
 elder sister laughed. 
 
 " Dorothea ! Dorothea ! remember now it 's 
 to be Dorothea, and you must write Dorothea on 
 the envelopes of your letters to me," was the 
 swift protest. 
 
 Three days after this conversation, Dolly, or 
 Dorothea Dering, sat waiting with her mother 
 in a handsome but rather old-fashioned-looking 
 parlor in a rather old-fashioned house in New 
 York, for the appearance of its hostess. Miss 
 Marr. Dolly had been fidgeting about, examin- 
 ing the ornaments on the tables and the pic- 
 tures on the walls, with a mingled expression 
 
HOPE BEN HAM. 61 
 
 of curiosity and irritability on her face, when 
 she caught the sound of a firm even footfall on 
 the polished oak floor of the hall. The girl made 
 a little face at this firm, even sound, and said to 
 herself, " It 's just like her, — old Madam Prim ! " 
 
 In another moment the footsteps came to the 
 threshold of the parlor, and Dolly looked across 
 the room to see — Why, there was some mis- 
 take ! This was one of the pupils, and no 
 Madam Prim ; and what a stylish girl, what a 
 stunning plain gown ! thought Dolly. The min- 
 ute after, " the stylish girl in the stunning plain 
 gown " was saying, " How do you do, Mrs. Der- 
 ing?" and Mrs. Dering was saying, "How do 
 you do, Miss Marr ? " 
 
 Dolly almost gasped with astonishment. 
 "This, Miss Marr! Why, she didn't look any 
 older than Mary." 
 
 The fact was, that Miss Marr was seven 
 years older than Mary Dering, who was only 
 twenty-three ; but Angelique Marr was one 
 of those persons who never look their age. 
 Though not childish or immature, she had a 
 fresh girl's aspect. In looking at her, Dolly 
 forgot all her little plans for saying or doing 
 this or that. Miss Marr looking at her said to 
 herself: "Poor child! how shy and awkward and 
 
62 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 overgrown she is!" and forthwith concluded 
 that it would be better not to notice her much for 
 a time, and therefore gave all her attention to the 
 mother, bestowing a swift fleeting smile now 
 and then upon the girl, — a young smile, like 
 that of a comrade in passing. Dolly was out of 
 all her reckoning; her program of word and 
 action which she had so carefully arranged be- 
 ing completely destroyed by this surprise of per- 
 sonality, — this substitution of the " stylish girl 
 in a stunning plain gown " for an old Madam 
 Prim. So absorbed was she in these thoughts, 
 she heard but vaguely what her mother was 
 saying, and was quite startled when the moment 
 of parting from her came, forgetting all the 
 fine little airs and good-bye messages she had 
 arranged. She was so dazed, indeed, that she 
 seemed stupid, and impressed Miss Marr more 
 than ever as shy and awkward and overgrown ; 
 and it was out of pity for this shyness that 
 Angelique Marr, as the door closed upon Mrs 
 Dering, turned to Mrs. Bering's daughter with 
 her sweetest and friendliest of young smiles, and 
 said to her, — 
 
 " Would you like to come up to my little 
 parlor and have a cup of chocolate with me 
 before I show you your room?" 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 63 
 
 As Dolly accepted the invitation, she had an 
 odd subdued sort of feeling, as if she had been 
 invited to lunch with one of Mary's fine young 
 lady friends ; and this feeling, instead of wearing 
 off, increased, as she found herself in the little 
 parlor drinking the most delicious foamy choco- 
 late from a delicate Sdvres cup, while her enter- 
 tainer helped her to biscuit or extra lumps of 
 sugar, telling, as she did so, a droll little story 
 about her first lesson in chocolate brewing from 
 an old French soldier, — a friend of her father. 
 
 Dolly listened and laughed, and felt more and 
 more that she was being treated in a very grown- 
 up way by a very grown-up young lady, and that 
 she must be equal to the occasion; so she sat up 
 in her chair with a great deal of dignity, and 
 endeavored to say the proper things in the 
 proper places, with a delightful sense that she 
 was doing the thing as well as Mary. It was 
 at this moment that some one knocked at the 
 door; and at Miss Marr's "Come in," there 
 appeared a tall youth, who cried out as he 
 entered, — 
 
 " Well, Aunt Angel ! " 
 
 "What I Victor?" 
 
 Then followed embraces and inquiries ; and 
 Dolly began to feel out of place, and the stran- 
 
64 HOPE BEN HAM. 
 
 ger that she was, when Miss Marr turned, smiled, 
 begged her pardon, and introduced her to her 
 nephew, — Victor Graham, who was just back 
 from his vacation at Moosehead Lake. With 
 the grace and tact that people called "that 
 French way " of hers, Miss Marr managed to 
 include Dolly in the conversation, and, finding 
 that she had spent several summers at Kiueo, 
 the Moosehead Lake region, drew her out by 
 clever questions to tell what she knew about it 
 And Dolly knew a great deal about it ; she had 
 paddled a canoe on the lake, she had caught 
 fish and helped cook them on the shore, and she 
 had camped out in the Kineo woods. 
 
 Victor Graham, tall as he was, was only six- 
 teen, — a real boy who loved out-of-door sports, 
 — and, delighted to find somebody who was so 
 familiar with the charmed region he had just 
 reluctantly left, was soon in the full swing of 
 reminiscences and questions. Had she been to 
 this place, did she know that point, etc., etc. ? 
 In short, he felt as if he had met a comrade, 
 and he treated her as such, — as a boy like him- 
 self; and Dolly for the moment responded in 
 the same spirit, and forgot her stiff dignity and 
 young lady manners, patterned after her sister 
 Mary's. 
 
HOPE BEN HAM. 65 
 
 Miss Marr sat back in her chair, looking and 
 listening and smiling. Dolly had not the least 
 idea that she was reading, as one would read in 
 a book, a little page of Dorothea Dering. But 
 she was. Dolly, in talking to Victor, forgot, as 
 I have said, her dignity and young-lady man- 
 ners, and was the Dolly Dering who romped 
 and raced and paddled and cooked at Moosehead 
 Lake. 
 
 " Not so very awkward, and not shy at all, but 
 a big overgrown girl, who may one day be an 
 attractive woman, when she is toned down and 
 less crude and hoydenish." 
 
 This was part of Miss Marr's reading as sho 
 looked and listened ; and as Dolly, getting more 
 excited with her subject, went on more glibly ♦ 
 her silent smiling listener thought, — 
 
 " A good deal of a spoiled child evidently, who 
 has been used to having her own way and been 
 laughed at for her smart sayings until she i* 
 quite capable, I fear, of being rude and overbear 
 ing, if not unfeeling on occasions. But I think 
 there is good material underneath. We '11 see, 
 we '11 see." 
 
 What would Dolly have said if she could have 
 beard this criticism of Dorothea Dering ? What 
 would Mrs. Dering have said if she could have 
 5 
 
66 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 heard her daughter called capable of being rude 
 and overbearing ? What would Mary have said 
 to the whole summing up, — Mary, who was not 
 of the kind ever to have been spoiled by indul- 
 gence, who was finer and had better instincts 
 than Dolly ? Mary would have said, " Oh, Dolly, 
 Dolly, what have I always told you ? " 
 
 Just as Miss Marr came to the conclusion of 
 these reflections, she looked up at the clock on 
 the mantel, and gave a quick start. Victor, 
 following the direction of her eyes, stopped the 
 story of camp-life that he was telling, and 
 jumped to his feet, saying, — 
 
 " Do excuse me. Aunt Angel ; I 'd no idea it 
 was so late." 
 
 Dolly's face fell like a disappointed child, and 
 she burst out impatiently, — 
 
 " Oh, finish the story, finish the story I " 
 
 Victor Graham gave her a glance of surprise ; 
 then, flushing a little, said gently, — 
 
 " This is Aunt Angel's busy hour ; I '11 finish 
 the story some other time." 
 
 The blood mounted to Dolly's forehead. That 
 glance of surprise pricked her sharply. It 
 angered her too. Who waa this boy to set his 
 priggish manners above hers? And in hot re- 
 bellion, she cried out flippantly, — 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 67 
 
 " No, no, tell it now, tell it now ! Ten minutes 
 longer can't make much difference." 
 
 She had been accustomed to persist in this 
 fashion at home ; and beyond a " Dolly, how 
 impolite ! " or " Be quiet, Dolly ! " spoken at the 
 moment by father or mother or Mary, not much 
 further notice was taken of her offence. But 
 neither Miss Marr nor Victor made the 
 slightest suggestion of a reproving comment 
 now. They made no comment whatever. The 
 boy simply stared at her a second, then lowered 
 his eyes, showing clearly' that he was em- 
 barrassed by the girl's rudeness. Miss Marr 
 looked at her with an expression of wonder- 
 ing astonishment that was in itself a shock 
 and a revelation to Dolly. There was not a 
 particle of personal resentment in this expres- 
 sion; it was the wondering astonishment of a 
 person who is regarding for the first time some 
 strange new species of development. Dolly had 
 hitherto gloried in her impertinence, as some- 
 thing witty and audacious. Now all at once she 
 was made to see that to another person, and 
 that person this " stylish girl in a stunning plain 
 gown," this audacious impertinence looked vulgar. 
 The shock of this revelation was so sudden to 
 Miss Dolly that all self-possession deserted 
 
68 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 her, and again Miss Marr saw her apparently 
 shy and awkward and speechless. The deep 
 red flush that overspread her face at the same 
 time added to the appearance of shyness, and 
 pleaded for her more than words would have 
 done. 
 
 " She 'd be a jolly girl, if she did n't break up 
 into such Hottentot ways. I wonder where she 
 came from ? " was Victor's inward reflection. His 
 concluding reflection,, as he went out of the 
 house, was, " Wonder what Aunt Angel will do 
 with her." 
 
 Aunt Angel wondered, too, as she accom- 
 panied Dolly up to the room that had been 
 arranged for her ; and as she wondered, she could 
 not help thinking, " How glad I am the girl is 
 going to have a room to herself, and not with 
 any one of the other girls ! " 
 
 The room was small, but it was charmingly 
 furnished, — a little pink and white chamber, with 
 all sorts of pretty contrivances for comfort and 
 convenience. As Dolly looked about her, when 
 Miss Marr closed the door upon her, she thought 
 of what her mother had said, after inspecting the 
 room the day before : " It is n't in the least like 
 a boarding-school, — it is like a visitor's room, 
 Dolly, as you will see." 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 69 
 
 And Dolly did see, but she was in no mood to 
 enjoy the pretty details just then, for the sense 
 of humiliation was weighing heavily upon her. 
 In vain she tried to blow it away with the breath 
 of anger, — to call Miss Marr " old Madam 
 Prim," and Victor " that prig of a boy." Noth- 
 ing of this kind availed to relieve lier. Never 
 in her life had she been so impressed by any- 
 body as by Miss Marr, and she was also sure 
 that she had also begun to impress Miss Marr, 
 in her turn. And now and now ! — and down 
 on the pink and white bed Dolly flung herself 
 in a paroxysm of mingled regret, rage, mortifi- 
 cation, and disappointment, and, like the big, 
 overgrown, undisciplined child that she was, 
 sobbed herself to sleep. 
 
 The short October afternoon had come 
 nearly to an end when she woke ; and she 
 looked about her in dismay. It must be late; 
 and, springing up, she glanced at her watch. It 
 was half-past four. At this moment she heard, 
 in the hall outside, a murmur of girls' voices. 
 One called, " Miss Marr ; " and another said, 
 " The Boston train was delayed, or I should have 
 been here earlier." 
 
 Then followed a soft tinkle of laughter, a little 
 tap of heels, and an opening and shutting of 
 
70 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 doors. Dolly, listening, knew what this meant, 
 — knew that these girls were the late arrivals, 
 the returning pupils. 
 
 " And they all know each other," she com- 
 mented rather lonesomely and enviously, " and 
 I shall dress myself and get down before them. 
 I'm not going to enter a room full of strange 
 girls, if I know it ! " 
 
 Dolly's taste was generally excellent. She 
 knew what to wear and when to wear it; 
 but some mistaken idea of outshining those 
 strange girls at the start took possession of 
 her, and instead of putting on a gown suited 
 to the occasion, she donned a fine affair, — a 
 combination of old-rose cashmere and velvet, 
 with rose ribbons at her throat. As she left the 
 room in this finery, she saw a door farther down 
 the hall open, and a tall slender girl, dressed 
 with the severest simplicity, come forth. 
 
 One of those strange girls! And Dolly, as 
 they met, stared at her, with her head in the 
 air. But the strange girl, with a matter of 
 course manner, gave a little courteous incli- 
 nation of greeting as she passed, whereat Dolly 
 grew rather red. " I wonder if that is the girl 
 who talked about 'my train,'" thought Dolly. 
 " I '11 bet it is. She has a look like that girl I 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 71 
 
 saw one day last spring with the Edlicotts at 
 Papanti's dancing-school. I wonder what her 
 name is." 
 
 As the girl ran lightly down the stairs, one of 
 the maids came up. Dolly stopped her and 
 asked, " Is that one of the pupils ? " 
 
 " Yes, miss." 
 
 " What is her name ?" 
 
 " Miss Hope Benham." 
 
72 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 CHAPTER VIIL 
 
 MISS HOPE BENHAM! It was five years 
 since Dolly's encounter with Hope in 
 the Brookside station, and four years since she 
 had heard her or the name of Benham referred 
 to. This later reference was made by Mr. 
 Bering one morning at the breakfast-table. 
 
 " Well, Dolly, " he had suddenly said, glanc- 
 ing up from his newspaper, " that little flower- 
 girl who got the better of you last season is 
 in luck." 
 
 Dolly looked up with a puzzled expression. 
 
 " What ! you 've forgotten the little girl at 
 the Brookside station who told you how igno- 
 rant and bad-mannered jou were 1 " 
 
 " Oh, Ten-cents-a-bunch ! " shouted Dolly, 
 "Yes, little Ten-cents-a-bunch. Well, her 
 father, the engineer, is on the high road to for- 
 tune by a certain successful invention of his. 
 Now, what do you say to that?" 
 
 "Ten cents a bunch," repeated Dolly, laugh- 
 ing. 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 73 
 
 "Oh, that Mr. Benham, the engineer you 
 told us of last season ? " asked Mary, with 
 interest. 
 
 " Yes, that 's the man. He has procured a 
 patent on a valuable invention of his, and is 
 going to be a rich man by means of it. He 's 
 a much cleverer fellow than I thought. I heard 
 him speak the other night before the Scientific 
 Mechanics' Association, and it was a very intel- 
 ligent speech, full of scientiiic knowledge, and 
 showing a great deal of ability. " 
 
 " And last year, father, you laughed at me for 
 asking you if he had this ability. " 
 
 Mr. Daring shook his head with a comic 
 smile. 
 
 "Oh, well, Mary, we are all liable to mis- 
 takes. I 've seen so much of this inventive 
 ambition that came to nothing, I 've grown to 
 be cautious in my judgments." 
 
 " Of course he is n't running an engine now ? " 
 
 " Bless you, no. He 's off to Europe this 
 month. He 's made some contract with a firm 
 in France for the use of his invention. They 
 had heard of it through a former fellow-work- 
 man of Benham's, — another clever fellow, 
 yet not a genius like Benham, though he 
 has gained for himself quite an important posi- 
 
74 HOPE BENE AM. 
 
 tion as an inspector of locomotives abroad ; but 
 there is an account of the whole thing in the 
 morning's paper, " 
 
 Dolly listened to this talk with a very divided 
 attention. She had a big picnic on her mind, 
 and all other matters were of very little impor- 
 tance beside that. It was thus that Ten-cents- 
 a-bunch and the name of Benham were quite 
 overborne for the time by this interest. After 
 four years more of picnics and other pleasur- 
 ings, Dolly heard the name again without the 
 slightest recognition, and in the tall young girl 
 of fifteen, with her womanly face and her hair 
 wound into a knot at the back of her head, she 
 received no suggestion of little Ten-cents-a- 
 bunch. 
 
 And how was it with Hope ? Hope remem- 
 bered. The last four years of her life had been 
 passed abroad, most of them in France, where 
 she had been at school in Paris, while her 
 father and mother were established near by, — 
 her father taking advantage of the great oppor- 
 tunities Paris offered him for scientific study. 
 It was a happy time for all of them, and in this 
 happy time Hope forgot some earlier depriva- 
 tions and discomforts, or at least forgot the 
 smart of them ; but she never forgot that encoun- 
 
HOPE BENE AM. 75 
 
 ter at the Brookside station, which was to her 
 her first close experience of the world's class 
 distinctions. Neither had she ever forgotten 
 the face of " that girl ; " and when, coming out 
 of her room at Miss Marr's, she looked down 
 the hall and saw those big black eyes and that 
 confident expression, she at once, in spite of the 
 change in Dolly's height and breadth, recog- 
 nized her. 
 
 But the five years had matured and educated 
 Hope so much that the thrill which accompanied 
 this recognition was not that shrinking of fear 
 and dislike which had once overcome her. It 
 was now the ordinary pang of repulsion that 
 one feels in meeting something or somebody 
 connected with what was once painful; and 
 there was an expression of this feeling in her 
 face, as she entered the library downstairs. 
 Two or three girls were already assembled 
 there ; and as Hope responded warmly to their 
 affectionate greetings, one of them exclaimed, — 
 
 " There ! now you look like yourself. When 
 you came in, you had a stand off sort of air, and 
 a little hard pucker between your eyes, as if you 
 were expecting to confront an army of enemies. " 
 
 Hope laughed ; and presently the whole group 
 were off on a regular girl chat, telling the story 
 
76 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 of their long summer vacation in the most ani- 
 mated manner. They were in the thick of this, 
 when some one pushed the portiere aside, with 
 the uncertain touch of a strange hand, and a 
 strange voice asked constrainedly, — 
 
 " Is this a private sitting-room ? " 
 
 The girls all turned to look at the speaker, 
 and there was a half moment of silence. Then 
 Kate Van der Berg answered politely, — 
 
 " Oh, no ; it is the library, where we all come 
 when we like." 
 
 " Oh, I did n't know where to go ; " and Dolly 
 came forward, trying to look indifferent and at 
 her ease, and succeeding only in looking rather 
 huffy and uncomfortable. The first glance she 
 had received was not reassuring. The four 
 girls whose chat she had interrupted were all 
 dressed in the simplest manner, with no frills 
 and furbelows anywhere; and that first glance 
 of theirs at the new-comer's fine gown was a 
 glance of surprise that there was no mistaking. 
 The fact of it was, every girl of them, as she 
 caught sight of Dolly, supposed for the moment 
 that she was a guest of Miss Marr's ; and when 
 enlightened to the contrary by Dolly's own 
 words, every girl of them involuntarily gave 
 another glance of surprise. 
 
HOPE BEN HAM. 
 
 They were well trained, however, and pres- 
 ently endeavored to make the new pupil feel at 
 home ; but it was rather up-hill work naturally. 
 Luckily at this crisis, Miss Marr appeared, to 
 adjust matters. 
 
 "Oh!" she exclaimed, glancing brightly at 
 Dolly, "you found your way down all alone. 
 I went to your room a little while ago ; and as 
 you were asleep, I did n't disturb you. " 
 
 Then, with the same bright look and manner, 
 she introduced the. girls to Dolly, and stood 
 talking with them all for a few minutes. When 
 she turned to leave them, a general protest 
 arose, Kate Van der Berg crying out, — 
 
 "Oh, no, no! don't go yet. Miss Marr! Just 
 think, we have n't had a sight of you for three 
 months, and we are positively hungry for you, 
 are n't we, Hope ? " appealing to Hope Benham, 
 who was standing near her. 
 
 Hope made no reply in words, but she gave a 
 quick upward look and smile which spoke more 
 eloquently than any words. Dolly, observant of 
 everything, saw not only this look and smile, 
 but the answering look and smile in Miss 
 Marr's eloquent face; and instantly a little 
 sharp feeling of something akin to both jealousy 
 and envy disturbed her. Not to lead off and 
 
78 HOPE BEN HAM. 
 
 take a first place was a new experience to 
 Dolly, and she did not enjoy it. At home in 
 Brookside or Boston she had always easily led 
 off in this way, partly on account of her belong- 
 ing to a family whose acquaintance was large, 
 and partly on account of her dominant desire. 
 But here she found herself for the first time 
 amongst strangers, who knew nothing about 
 her, and to whom she was of no importance. 
 An uneasy sense of all this had begun to assail 
 her before she left Miss Marr's little parlor. 
 It deepened as she entered the library and met 
 the three pairs of eyes turned upon her and her 
 fine gown. It deepened still more as she saw 
 that swift exchange of tender glances between 
 Miss Marr and Hope; and the little imp of 
 jealousy straightway sprang up with its un- 
 reasonable suggestions that she was not treated 
 with sufficient consideration, that she was, in 
 fact, neglected, and left out in the cold, when 
 she should, as the new-comer, have received 
 assiduous attention. That she, the daughter of 
 the Hon. James Bering, should be thus coolly 
 set aside ! It was at this climax of her resent- 
 ful feeling that Miss Marr happened to look 
 across at her. She caught at once something 
 of the true state of things, — not everything, but 
 
HOPE BEN HAM. 79 
 
 enough to show her that the girl felt awkward 
 and uncomfortable. 
 
 " Poor thing ! " she thought ; " she does n't 
 get on well at all. I must ask Hope to help me 
 with her. She, if anybody, will be able to 
 make her feel easier and more at home. " 
 
 There was no opportunity to speak with Hope 
 then, for down the hall came tap, tapping, an- 
 other little company of heels, and presently the 
 portiere was flung aside, and a troop of girls 
 entered, and rushing up to Miss Marr, claimed 
 her attention, with their gay and affectionate 
 greetings. No, no time then to speak to any 
 one privately and specially, only time to men- 
 tion Dolly's name, — " Miss Dorothea Dering, 
 girls," — only time for this before the clock 
 rung out the hour of six ; and at the last stroke 
 Miss Marr turned her head from the girls, who 
 were flocking about her, and looked back at 
 Hope Benham. 
 
 " Hope, will you ta,ke Dorothea — Miss Dering 
 — in to dinner ? " 
 
 Miss Marr did not see the change in Hope's 
 face, — the sudden stiffening, as it were, of every 
 feature ; but Kate Van der Berg saw it. It was 
 the same kind of stiffness that she had noticed 
 when Hope came into the library, — the rigid 
 
80 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 stiffness that she had called a "stand-off sort 
 of air," and there was that little hard pucker 
 again between the eyes. 
 
 " Hope will take her in to dinner and be as 
 polite to her as a Chinese mandarin, but she 
 won't ' take ' to her in any other way," was 
 Miss Kate's shrewd reflection. 
 
 The position was not an agreeable one to 
 Hope, but she bethought herself that it might 
 have been much more disagreeable if Dorothea 
 had remembered. That she did not, was per- 
 fectly apparent. But if she had remembered! 
 Hope shuddered to think of what might have 
 happened if this had been the case. How, with 
 that incapacity for understanding sensitive 
 natures unlike her own, this girl would in 
 some abrupt way have referred to that past 
 painful encounter, — painful, not because of 
 the different conditions of things at that time, 
 but painful because of that first cruel knowledge 
 of the world that had come through it. 
 
 Kate Van der Berg was not far wrong when 
 she prophesied that Hope would be as polite as 
 a Chinese mandarin to the new-comer. Hope 
 was very polite. You could not have found 
 fault with a single word or action. Even Dolly 
 saw nothing to find fault with; but all this 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 81 
 
 politeness did not warm and cheer her, did not 
 make her feel any easier or more at home. In 
 sitting there at the dinner-table in the bright 
 light she felt more uncomfortable than ever, for 
 by this searching light she saw now very clearly 
 the extreme plainness of each girl's attire ; and 
 as she caught every now and then the quick 
 observing glance of one and another, she saw 
 that she had made a great mistake, — that. 
 Instead of producing a fine impression by her 
 fine dress, she had produced an unfavorable 
 one, and was being silently criticised as rather 
 loud and — oh, horror ! — vulgar. 
 
 Miss Marr, looking across the table, did not 
 fail to see that Hope was not so successful as 
 usual in charming away the awkwardness and 
 discomfort of a stranger. Presently she caught 
 two or three little set speeches of Hope's, — 
 polite little speeches, but perfectly mechanical, 
 — and said to herself as Kate Van der Berg had 
 said, " Hope does n't take to her. " 
 
 It was generally the custom for the girls to 
 meet in the library before and after diniter for 
 a few minutes' social chat; but on this night 
 most of the girls, having just arrived, excused 
 themselves, and went directly upstairs to un- 
 pack their trunks and settle their various 
 
 6 
 
82 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 belongings. Hope was very glad to make hej 
 excuses with the others, and escape to her room, 
 that for a few days she was to occupy alone. 
 She was busily engaged in putting the last 
 things in their places, when there came a light 
 tap on the door, and to her "Come in," Miss 
 Marr entered, with a little apology for the late- 
 ness of her call, and an admiring exclamation 
 for Hope's quick dexterity in arranging her 
 belongings. After this she sat a moment in 
 silence, with rather a perplexed look on her 
 face; then suddenly she broke the silence. 
 
 " Hope, " she said, " I am afraid I gave you 
 an unpleasant task to perform to-night." 
 
 Hope reddened. 
 
 " You did n't find it easy, I perceived, to talk 
 with the new pupil." 
 
 "N— o, I didn't," faltered Hope. 
 
 " She was hard to get on with, was n't she ? " 
 
 "I — I don't know. J — talked to her — I 
 paid her what attention I could." 
 
 " But she was disagreeable to you ? " 
 
 " She did n't intend to be — I — I did n't fancy 
 her, Miss Marr." 
 
 Miss Marr looked the surprise she felt. She 
 had never known Hope to take such a sudden 
 dislike. 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 83 
 
 " I did n't fancy her, and I suppose I was stiff 
 with her ; but I tried — I tried to be polite to 
 her." 
 
 " Of course you did. I 'm not finding fault 
 with you, dear. You did what you could to 
 help me, and it was kind of you. I 'm sorry 
 you feel as you do, but don't trouble any 
 more about it; it will wear off, I dare say; 
 and now make haste and go to bed, — you look 
 tired." 
 
 " Miss Marr, " and Hope put a detaining hand 
 on Miss Marr's arm. "What is it — what 
 else is it you were thinking of — of asking me 
 to do ? " 
 
 " Never mind, dear. " 
 
 " Tell me, please. Miss Marr. " 
 
 " I was going to ask you to let Miss Bering 
 occupy the other bed in your room to-night. 
 Some one left the water nmning before dinner 
 in the room over hers, and the bed and carpet 
 are drenched; but I will make some other 
 arrangement for her now, — you sha'n't be 
 troubled with her." 
 
 " But the other rooms are full. " 
 
 "Yes, but I will have a cot put up in the 
 little parlor. Good-night;" and with a soft 
 touch of her hand on Hope's cheek, Miss Marr 
 
84 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 left the room. She wae half-way down the hall 
 when Hope ran after her, 
 
 " Miss Marr, Miss Marr, don't — don't put up 
 the bed in the little parlor. It is nine o'clock. 
 Let her come to my room. " 
 
 "My dear, go back; don't think any more 
 about the matter. " 
 
 "No, no, let her come to my room, please, 
 Miss Marr." 
 
 Miss Marr looked at the pleading face uplifted 
 to hers, and understood. At least she under- 
 stood enough to see that Hope was already accus- 
 ing herself of being disobliging and selfish, and 
 that she would be far more uncomfortable now 
 if left alone than she would be in sharing her 
 room with the obnoxious new comer; and so 
 without more hesitation she yielded the point, 
 with a "Very well, dear; it shall be as you 
 say," and went on down the hall to Dorothea. 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 85 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 " T AM very sorry to have intruded upon you," 
 -•- said Dolly, as Hope met her at the door 
 of her room. 
 
 Dolly meant to be very dignified and rather 
 haughty, but she behaved instead like what she 
 was, — a cross, tired, homesick girl. Hope, 
 seeing the red, swollen eyelids, forgave the 
 crossness, and saying something pleasant about 
 its being no intrusion, pointed out the little 
 bed behind the screen that Dolly was to oc- 
 cupy, and went on with the work of regulating 
 her bureau drawers, that Miss Marr had inter- 
 rupted, begging to be excused as she did so. 
 If Dolly had done the proper thing, the thing 
 that was expected of her, she would have 
 retired behind the screen and gone to bed then 
 and there. But she had no idea of going to 
 bed, so long as there was a light burning, and 
 anybody was stirring; so she dropped down 
 into an easy-chair that stood near the door, and 
 took up a book that was lying on the table. It 
 was a copy of "Le Luthier de Cr^mone," — a 
 
86 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 charming little play by Franqois Coppde. Miss 
 Dolly turned the leaves over a moment, then 
 put the volume down, and cast an interested, 
 curious look at Hope, who at that moment was 
 busy arranging her boxes. Dolly had studied 
 French sufficiently to enable her to read some 
 very simple stories, but "Le Luthier de Gvi- 
 mone " was quite beyond her power, and her 
 glance at Hope was compounded of envy and 
 admiration. Hope, without apparently observ- 
 ing her, Was yet nervously conscious of every 
 movement, and thought to herself, — 
 " Oh, dear ! why does n't she go to bed ? " 
 Putting down the book, Dolly's eyes next 
 turned to a certain oblong case that was lying 
 upon a chair near her". 
 
 " Oh ! " she exclaimed, " do you play the 
 violin ? " 
 
 "Yes, a little," answered Hope. 
 " So do I. May I look at your violin ? " 
 Hope hesitated a second, then lifted the in- 
 strument from its case. It was not the good 
 little fiddle that she had earned for herself five 
 years ago. That was safely packed away. This 
 was a much more costly fiddle, and had been 
 purchased in Paris for her by a brother of Mr. 
 Kolb, who was an extensive dealer in violins 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 87 
 
 Dolly had taken leasons of an excellent teacher, 
 who was also an excellent judge of a violin, 
 and had chosen hers for her. She had at various 
 times heard him talk about some of the famous 
 old violin-makers, and recognized their names 
 when she heard them spoken. As she took 
 Hope's violin from her hands, she said, — 
 
 " Oh, yours is about the size of mine. Mine 
 is English, but it is modelled on the famous 
 old Stradivari pattern of Cremona, my teacher 
 said. You know Stradivari was one of the most 
 famous of the Cremona makers, " looking up at 
 Hope with an air of wisdom. 
 
 Hope nodded. 
 
 " But this is a pretty little violin, — sort of 
 quaint-looking," went on Dolly, amiably. She 
 was fast recovering her spirits, forgetting her 
 grievances and homesickness in her present 
 interest, with her accustomed alacrity. 
 
 "Yes, I think it is pretty," Hope answered 
 quietly. 
 
 "Very pretty; I really think it is prettiej 
 than mine, and what a nice red color it has! 
 Who made it, do you know ? " 
 
 "An Italian named Montagnana." 
 
 " Oh ! does he have a shop in London ? Did 
 your teacher get it for you there ? " 
 
88 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 "No, I don't think he was ever in London, 
 even when he was living. But he died a great 
 while ago. He lived in Cremona first, then in 
 Venice. " 
 
 " In Cremona ! How long ago ? '' 
 
 " Well, he was a pupil of Stradivari, and he 
 lived in Cremona in the year 1740, and after 
 he had studied for a time with Stradivari, he 
 went to Venice, where the manufacture of vio- 
 lins was very flourishing." 
 
 "What! this is a real Cremona violin?" 
 cried Dolly. "Why — why, Mr. Andrews, my 
 teacher, said that they were very rare, and when 
 you did succeed in getting hold of one that it 
 took a lot of money to buy it. " 
 
 Hope made no response to this speech; and 
 Dolly, looking up at her, caught the expression 
 of her face, and hastened to say, — 
 
 " I did n't mean that I did n't believe it was a 
 Cremona violin; but I was so astonished, you 
 know, because I 'd heard Mr. Andrews go on so 
 about Cremona violins." 
 
 Hope was old enough now to see that Dolly 
 was honest in her excuse, — that she had really 
 meant no ofifence, — and, relenting a little, 
 replied, — 
 
 " Yes, I suppose it is hard to find a genuine 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 89 
 
 old Cremona ; but my first teacher was an old 
 German musician, and his brother, who is a 
 dealer in violins in Paris, procured this for 
 me." 
 
 " But did n't it cost a lot of money ? " 
 
 " It was expensive. " 
 
 Dolly would have given a great deal to know 
 just how expensive was that beautiful little 
 instrument, with its nice red color ; but even she 
 could n't bring herself to ask the question out- 
 right of that tall, reserved girl, who was so per- 
 fectly polite and yet so far off from her. Who 
 was this girl, anyway, she thought, — this girl, 
 no older than herself, whose father could and 
 would buy a Cremona violin for her ? Her own 
 father — the Hon. James Bering — was a rich 
 man, and a generous one, but he would have 
 laughed at the proposition of buying a Cremona 
 violin for his daughter. Why, Cremona violins 
 were for professionals — when they could get 
 them — and enthusiastic collectors. But per- 
 haps — perhaps this girl was going to be a pro- 
 fessional. With this new idea in her mind, 
 Dolly gave another glance at Hope. A profes- 
 sional ? No, that could not be. A girl who 
 was preparing to be a professional would n't be 
 here at Miss Marr's school. But a Cremona 
 
90 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 violin! Dolly wouldn't have been at all as- 
 tonished if a girl had shown her a fine watch- 
 case set about with diamonds. Mary had a 
 very valuable watch of that kind, and she her- 
 self had the promise of one like it when she 
 was as old as Mary. It did n't occur to her 
 that a Cremona violin was a piece of property 
 that was yearly advancing in value; that it 
 was, in fact, a better investment, as the phrase 
 is, than diamonds even. She had heard her 
 father say often that diamonds would always 
 bring their market value, and that they were 
 therefore very safe property to hold, though 
 not bringing in any interest. That a violin of 
 any kind could have this property value did 
 not enter her head, and Hope's possession grew 
 more and more puzzling to her. Hope all the 
 time had a keen sense of her companion's 
 wonder and curiosity, and was half amused, 
 half irritated by it. But she succeeded very 
 well in concealing the state of her feelings, and 
 was as polite as ever, even when Dolly nearly 
 dropped the precious Cremona, only giving ut- 
 terance to a little gasping " Oh ! " Dolly herself 
 was rather frightened at the possible accident, 
 and was glad to hand the instrument back to its 
 owner. As she did so, she asked suddenly, — 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 91 
 
 " Have you lived abroad ? Did you take les- 
 ions abroad ? " 
 
 " Yes, I have lived abroad, and I took lessons 
 nearly all the time I was away. " 
 
 "Where were you, — in Germany ? " 
 
 " No, in Paris part of the time and part of the 
 time in London." 
 
 "How jolly!" 
 
 " Yes, it was rather jolly sometimes, though 
 both my French and English teachers were very 
 exacting, and made me work hard. " 
 
 "Oh! I don't mean the work, — the violin 
 lessons; I mean the living in London and 
 Paris," answered Dolly, frankly. 
 
 Hope could n't help laughing at this frank- 
 ness. 
 
 Dolly laughed a little too, but she was quite 
 in earnest, nevertheless, and began another 
 string of questions, — what Hope saw, where 
 she went, what she bought, etc. 
 
 Hope's answers did not open the field of 
 entertainment that Dolly expected, for galleries 
 and museums and music and quiet pleasures of 
 that kind were not what Dolly was thinking of 
 in connection with Paris and London. 
 
 "But didn't you visit people, and go to thea- 
 tres and things, and have fun ? " she asked at 
 length. 
 
92 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 Hope smiled a queer, amused smile that 
 Dolly didn't understand, as she answered: "1 
 did n't go abroad to have fun of that sort, but 
 I had a beautiful time. "' 
 
 " I suppose you had a beautiful time slaving 
 away at that violin. " 
 
 "I did, indeed," answered Hope, laughing 
 . outright. 
 
 " What a lot you must know about a violin ! " 
 
 "I? Oh, no, no!" 
 
 Hope at that instant was putting a pile of 
 music upon a little music-rack. Dolly caught 
 sight of the upper sheet. 
 
 "What! you play those things of Bach? 
 Well, you must know a lot ! " 
 
 " No, I love a lot, and I 've studied hard, 
 that's all." 
 
 "I should say so; and here," turning over 
 the pages, " are Mendelssohn and Beethoven and 
 Chopin. Why, I should think you were study- 
 ing to play in public. Oh ! but here is some- 
 thing more frivolous, more in my style," pounc- 
 ing upon a waltz. " Oh, I just dote on waltzes ; 
 try this now, do. " 
 
 I " Oh, no, not now ; it is too late. We must 
 have our lights out by ten, and it is fifteen 
 minutes to ten this moment." 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 93 
 
 " Oh, bother ! " and Dolly wrinkled up her 
 forehead. " I hate to go to bed. " 
 
 Hope's only reply to this remark was, "Then, 
 if you '11 excuse me and turn out the gas when 
 you are ready, I '11 say good-night, for I 'm very 
 tired ; " and hastily retreating behind her 
 screen, she left Dolly to her own devices. 
 
 Tired as she was, howeyer, it was a long time 
 before Hope could sleep. Dolly, too, lay awake 
 for a while, thinking over the many incidents of 
 the day. But her thoughts were not perplexed 
 thoughts like Hope's. She had no hurt remem- 
 brance of the past to perplex her. She had not 
 by any means entirely forgotten the little flower- 
 girl, though she had forgotten her name; but 
 the memory of her was a latent one, and was 
 not for an instant stirred by her present com- 
 panion's personality. Hope was quite a new 
 acquaintance to her. It never occurred to 
 Dolly that she had ever seen her before, unless 
 she was really that girl whom she had seen 
 with the Edlicotts last spring. It was one of 
 Dolly's characteristics not to brood long over 
 anything disagreeable; and lying there in the 
 still darkness, and reflecting upon the incidents 
 of the day, the little surprises and mortifications 
 began to give way to a sense of interest and 
 
94 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 anticipation, the principal point of interest at 
 the moment being Hope and her violin. Oddly 
 enough, from the time that Dolly had seen Hope 
 coming down the hall, and had received that 
 courteous little greeting from her, she had been 
 attracted towards her. The rather stiff polite- 
 ness that had followed, if disappointing, had not 
 been repelling, and the subsequent bedroom 
 chat, with its revelation of musical accomplish- 
 ments and foreign experiences, to say nothing 
 of that wonderful Cremona violin, had made a 
 fresh impression upon Dolly of such power 
 that even Miss Marr's attractiveness became 
 quite secondary in her mind. 
 
 Hope could not but see something of this. 
 She was not flattered by it, however, for as she 
 thought over it, she said to herself, — 
 
 " It is not the real Hope Benham who attracts 
 her, but a young lady who has lived abroad, and 
 who is rich enough to own a Cremona violin, 
 and to play Bach and Beethoven studies upon 
 it. If she knew that I was the girl who sold 
 her the flowers at the Brookside station, things 
 would be quite different. " 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 95 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 IT was the next morning just after breakfast 
 that Miss Marr, coining out of her little 
 parlor, met Hope in the hall, and said to her, — 
 
 " I 'm afraid you did not sleep well, my dear ; 
 you look heavy-eyed." 
 
 "No, I didn't sleep very well," answered 
 Hope, coloring slightly. 
 
 " Did Miss Bering keep you awake ? " 
 
 "Y — es, I suppose so — but — it wasn't so 
 bad as I expected." 
 
 Miss Marr laughed. " Oh ! it was not so bad 
 as you expected. She wears better on further 
 acquaintance. I 'm glad to hear that, but I am 
 afraid she 's a great chatterer. However, her 
 room will be in order to-night, so you won't be 
 together again." 
 
 Hope drew a deep breath of satisfaction, and 
 her face showed unmistakable signs of relief. 
 Miss Marr took note of these signs, and 
 thought, — 
 
 "It is not like Hope to take prejudices 
 against people. I wonder what it is that she 
 
96 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 finds so unbearable in this girl. It might help 
 me a good deal if I knew." 
 
 A few guarded questions at once revealed Miss 
 Marr's state of mind to Hope, and she immedi- 
 ately hastened to say, — 
 
 " I 'm afraid I 've given you a wrong impres- 
 sion; it is only a personal feeling with me, 
 Miss Marr. I — I met this girl, Dorothea, — 
 they called her * Dolly ' then, — five years ago, 
 when I was only ten years old. She has for- 
 gotten me, but I never forgot her, for she spoke 
 so rudely, so unkindly to me at the time, 
 that I can't get over it. That 's all. I dare say 
 the other girls will like her, and I — I 've noth- 
 ing else against her," 
 
 Miss Marr touched Hope's cheek with her 
 finger, — a caressing way she had at times, and 
 said gently, — 
 
 " Thank you, Hope, for being so honest; I can 
 always trust you. " 
 
 Hope had been with Miss Marr for the past 
 year, and had won her confidence and love by 
 the fine sweet strain of her character. 
 
 " She 's such an upright, sympathetic little 
 soul, I can trust her with anything," the 
 Frenchwoman had said to her friends. 
 
 It was one of these friends, — the wife of a 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 97 
 
 scientific man, — that the Benhams had become 
 acquainted with in Paris, who had suggested 
 Hope as a pupil to Miss Marr, and told her 
 something of John Benham's career, 
 
 "Such an interesting man," the friend had 
 said, in summing up her account of him, — 
 "what we call a self-made man, because he 
 has had to cultivate his tastes by books and 
 private study unhelped by the schools ; but God- 
 made after the finest pattern if ever a man was, 
 and with a nice sensible wife and this dearest 
 little daughter, whom they have so wisely 
 determined to send home to their own country 
 to complete her education. " 
 
 Angelique Marr recalled these words as she 
 looked at Hope. It was just at that moment 
 that a door farther down the corridor was 
 energetically flung open, and Miss Dorothea 
 Bering appeared with her arms full of books. 
 Hope started, and was turning away in the 
 other direction, when Dolly called out, — 
 
 " Oh ! Miss — Miss — er — er — Benham, wait 
 a minute ; I want to ask you something. " 
 
 Hope waited, putting a detaining hand at the 
 same time upon Miss Marr, who made a move- 
 ment to step back into her parlor. 
 
 "I wanted to ask you," said Dolly, as she 
 
 7 
 
98 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 hurried up, " if you would let me practise with 
 you sometimes. You play a great deal higher 
 kind of music than I do, but I can play better 
 things, and I 've got a lovely violin duet that I 
 want awfully to practise with somebody ; and if 
 you only would ! " with an appealing glance at 
 Hope. 
 
 There was a slight pause, in which Miss Marr 
 regarded Hope with a little curiosity. Hope 
 Benham's violin-playing was known throughout 
 the school as something out of the common, 
 and the best of the piano pupils felt that they 
 were hardly up to playing her accompaniments ; 
 and here was this new-comer proposing a violin 
 duet with her ! What would be Hope's answer 
 to this proposition ? There was only the slight- 
 est possible pause ; then came this answer, — 
 
 " My violin practice is very rigidly confined to 
 the studies that my teacher gives me, and he is 
 very unwilling that I should play anything else. " 
 
 "Oh, music-teachers are always that way! 
 J don't mind 'em," cried Dolly, airily; "and 
 anyway, you can try some things with me in off 
 times, can't she. Miss Marr ? " 
 
 " Oh, I never encourage pupils to disobey a 
 teacher," answered Miss Marr, a little amused 
 at Dolly's density in appealing thus to her 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 99 
 
 "Of course not. I forgot; you don't seem 
 like a teacher or anything of that sort yourself 
 to me; you seem somehow like one of us," said 
 Dolly. Then turning again to Hope, with a 
 confident nod, — 
 
 " You just ask your teacher if you can't play 
 with me at off times, won't you ? " 
 
 Hope murmured something vague in the way 
 of reply, but Dolly had no doubt that her propo- 
 sition would be carried into effect in due season. 
 In the mean time, as it had not yet been decided 
 about her own violin lessons, she determined to 
 practise what she could by herself, and at odd 
 intervals after this there was heard issuing 
 from her room a variety of shrill scrapings, at 
 which the girls would shrug their shoulders, 
 and shake their heads at one another. One 
 day Kate Van der Berg accosted Hope with this 
 question, — 
 
 "When do you begin practising that duet 
 with Miss Dering ? " 
 
 " Oh, how did you hear about that ? " 
 
 "Not from you. Miss Closemouth." 
 
 " But Miss Marr, I know, did n't speak of 
 it." 
 
 "No, Miss Dorothea Dering herself told us 
 that when things were all settled, the classes 
 
100 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 arranged, etc., you were going to practise a 
 violin duet with her. " 
 
 " She spoke to Miss Marr and to me about it," 
 answered Hope, evasively. 
 
 " Oh, she spoke to Miss Marr and you about 
 it, and Miss Marr and you didn't say ' Yes,' 
 and you thought that would be enough of an 
 answer ; and it would, ordinarily, but it won't 
 in this case, you '11 see, my dear. Miss Doro- 
 thea Bering is used to having her own way, and, 
 Hope, I 'm of the opinion she '11 have it now. " 
 
 Hope straightened her slim figure, and that 
 little pucker came into her forehead that Kate 
 Van der Berg knew so well, whereat Kate 
 laughed, and said gayly, — 
 
 " How ungrateful you are, Hope ! " 
 
 " Ungrateful ! how am I ungrateful ? " 
 
 "Not to embrace your opportunities and 
 respond to such overtures. Hope, what is it 
 that you dislike about Dorothea Dering ? I saw 
 from the first that you had taken a dislike to 
 her." 
 
 Hope flushed uncomfortably. 
 
 "And she seems to admire you immensely. 
 What is it ? "What have you seen in her ? what 
 do you know about her ? " 
 
 "I don't know anything about her for any- 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 101 
 
 body else, only I — It is entirely my feeling ; 
 it need n't prejudice anybody else, " cried Hope, 
 dismayed. 
 
 Kate Van der Berg was a warm-hearted, 
 demonstrative girl, and at the trouble in Hope's 
 voice and in her face she flung her arms around 
 her, and said, — 
 
 " There, there, never mind about her or what 
 I said. It 's all right ; or you are all right, 
 whatever she may be." 
 
 Hope put her cheek down upon Kate's shoul- 
 der for a moment; then suddenly lifting her 
 head, she burst out, — • 
 
 " No, no, you must n't think as you do, that 
 there 's anything very bad that I 'm holding 
 back. I must n't let you think so ; it would be 
 wicked in me. It is only just about myself, — 
 something that she said to me long ago, — five 
 years ago. She 's forgotten it ; she 's forgotten 
 me. I only met her for a few minutes, two or 
 three times." 
 
 " The disagreeable thing ! I shall hate her ! " 
 Kate cried impulsively. 
 
 " No, no, don't say so. I dare say you would 
 have liked her if I — if I could have kept what 
 I felt to myself, and I thought I did, I thought 
 I did. Oh, dear ! " and Hope stopped abruptly, 
 
102 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 ts she realized that her own excitement was 
 making matters worse. 
 
 " Liked her ! Not if she could have said any- 
 thing bad enough to hurt you like this, — to 
 have hurt you for five years." 
 
 " It does n't hurt me as it did then, but I 
 remember it. " 
 
 " Well, that shows what a hurt it must have 
 been. " 
 
 " What she said was out of ignorance. She 
 did n't know any better, " Hope went on, deter- 
 mined to do the honorable thing by her childish 
 enemy. 
 
 " I don't believe she knows much better now. 
 Oh, you needn't try to smooth it all over to me, 
 you little conscientious thing ; it 's of no use, " 
 
 " But, Kate, promise me one thing, — that 
 you won't — you won't talk to the other girls 
 about it." 
 
 "Yes, I '11 promise you that I '11 be as mum 
 as an oyster. " 
 
 " And you won't — you won't be — " 
 
 " Disagreeable to her ? " interrupted Kate, 
 laughing. " Well, I '11 try not to be ; I '11 take 
 pattern by you, and be so politely fascinating 
 that she '11 ask me to play duets with her. " 
 
 Hope could not help laughing at this, but all 
 
EOPE BENHAM. 103 
 
 the time she felt disturbed and troubled. Kate 
 Van der Berg had playfully jibed at her for her 
 conscientiousness. Kate thought she was over- 
 conscientious, and she might have been some- 
 times, for she was a sensitive creature, with 
 high notions and ideas of truth and justice and 
 honor, and her father had developed these ideas 
 by his advice and counsel. One of the things 
 that he had impressed upon her was never to 
 take advantage of any one, especially any one 
 that you had had a quarrel with. " Pair play, 
 my dear, always; remember that, and so you 
 must remember to be open and above board after 
 you 've had any differences with people, and 
 never let yourself say or hint damaging things 
 about them, to prejudice others, " was one of his 
 favorite pieces of counsel, put in one form and 
 another, at various times. Hope thought of 
 these words even when she joined in Kate 
 Van der Berg's laughter. She thought of them 
 after Kate had left her, and all through the 
 rest of the day they would start up to torment 
 her. At last she said to herself: "This is 
 over-conscientious, for I did n't mean to preju- 
 dice any one against Dolly Bering. I tried not 
 to show how I felt, and if I did n't succeed, it 
 Ib n'fe »ny fault ; but I 'm a great goose to fuss 
 
104 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 80. Kate will keep her promise, I know, and 
 Mias Dorothea Bering won't be unpopular be- 
 cause of anything I have said. " 
 
 So the matter rested, and the days went on, 
 the school arrangements settling into order, 
 and the school companionships falling into the 
 usual adjustment by personal choice. When 
 everything seemed to be running smoothly, 
 Dolly came forward again with her proposition. 
 It was one afternoon when she heard the sound 
 of a violin floating down from the music-room. 
 It was the first time she had heard it, and obey- 
 ing her headlong impulse, she ran swiftly up 
 the stairs and knocked at the door. A voice 
 called out, "Come in;" and obeying it, she 
 found herself not only in the presence of Hope, 
 but of Kate Van der Berg, Myra Donaldson, — 
 Hope's lately returned room-mate, — and Anna 
 Fleming. Myra was seated at the piano, a sheet 
 of music before her, waiting for Hope to signal 
 to her. All the girls looked up and bowed as 
 Dolly entered, but no one spoke. They were 
 intent upon watching Hope, who, bow in hand, 
 was carefully testing the strings that she had 
 just tightened. 
 
 Dolly came round and stood beside Kate Van 
 der Berg at the back of the piano, which waa 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 105 
 
 a parlor grand placed half-way down the room. 
 She started to whisper, " What is it they — " 
 but was checked by Kate's " Hush ! hush ! " and 
 just then the bow was brought to bear softly 
 upon the strings, as Hope began playing the 
 sonata in F major by Beethoven. Once or twice 
 as the music progressed, Kate glanced at Dolly 
 with a new interest. What was this cool in- 
 truder — for such Kate dubbed her — thinking 
 as she listened to these exquisitely rendered 
 strains ? Was she properly astonished and 
 ashamed of herself for proposing to join such 
 a performer in a violin duet ? Dolly's face 
 betrayed nothing, however. She simply stood 
 perfectly still, leaning a little forward against 
 the piano, her big black eyes fixed in a steady 
 gaze, now upon Hope's violin bow, and now 
 upon Hope herself. She stood thus until near 
 the close, when the difficult and delightful 
 passages approach the climax. Then her eyes 
 wandered, her features relaxed, and when the 
 end came, she was ready with a little outburst 
 of vigorous applause, which she followed up 
 with, — 
 
 "You ought to play in public at concerts. 
 But how you must have worked ! I 'm not up 
 to the classic, and 1 can't play like you, any- 
 
106 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 way. What I like, what I love, is dance music, 
 — waltzes, — and I 've got the loveliest duet 
 in that time. It '11 be as easy as A B G too. 
 I '11 run and get it now, and my yiolin, and 
 you just try it with me, and — oh, say, have 
 you asked your teacher what I told you to ? 
 You have n't ? Well, never mind for anybody's 
 permission. 'T won't take you long ; I '11 — " 
 
 "You really must excuse me, but I can't 
 play any more now," interrupted Hope's voice, 
 as Dolly turned to go for her violin. 
 
 " Oh, dear, I wish I 'd come sooner, before 
 you had started off on that long thing. But 
 will you play with me to-morrow about this 
 time ? Or why not to-night after dinner ? " 
 
 "But," with a queer little smile, "I haven't 
 asked my teacher's permission yet. " 
 
 " No, and I don't believe you care two pins 
 about that," answered Dolly. 
 
 "Well, I don't believe it would be of any 
 use," responded Hope, guardedly. 
 
 " Then say to-night after dinner. " 
 
 "To-night after dinner I had promised to 
 read French with Kate Van der Berg." 
 
 "Oh, well, there '11 be time enough for that 
 too; and you won't mind, will you, if she 
 plays with me first ? " addressing Kate. 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 107 
 
 "Mind? I shall mind a great deal," Kate 
 made haste to reply. " I know how it is when 
 these musical people get started; they never 
 know when to stop. No, she 's promised to me 
 to-night, and I 'm not going to let her off. " 
 
 All this was said in a bright, laughing way, 
 that hadn't an atom of unfriendliness in the 
 tone of it ; and Dolly had not the faintest idea 
 that her proposition was being decidedly 
 snubbed, as she listened. The other girls 
 were wiser. The moment that Hope refused 
 to play in the way she did, they knew that the 
 proposition was distasteful to her; and when 
 Kate Van der Berg came to the support of this 
 refusal with that quick, bright decision, they 
 knew that she knew more than they did why 
 the proposition was distasteful. 
 
 Anna Fleming, who was Kate's room-mate, 
 . said to her a little later, — 
 
 " Kate, did n't you think it was rather dis- 
 obliging of Hope Benham not to play that duet 
 with Dorothea Dering ? " 
 
 "Disobliging! Well, that is a way to put it. 
 I think it was the most forward, presuming — 
 what my brother Schuyler would call ' the 
 cheekiest thing' for that girl to take it for 
 granted that such a violinist as Hope Benham 
 
108 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 would want to practise her little rubbishy 
 waltzes with her." 
 
 "But she didn't know probably what a splen- 
 did player Hope was, when she first asked 
 her." 
 
 " She knew, did n't she, after she had heard 
 the sonata ? " 
 
 "Yes, I suppose she had some idea, but she 
 might not have been a very good judge. She 
 said, you know, at once that she could n't play 
 like Hope, anyway." 
 
 "Yes, I heard her; so kind of her to say 
 that," cried Kate, sarcastically. 
 
 Anna laughed. Then, "What's the matter 
 with ' that girl, ' as you call her ? " she asked. 
 
 " Matter ! well, I should think you could see 
 as well as I that she is a forward sort of thing ; 
 that 's all I 've got against her, " Kate concluded 
 hastily, remembering her promise to Hope. 
 
 "Hope must have taken a great dislike to 
 her." 
 
 "Why should you think that ? " 
 
 " Because I never knew Hope Benham to set 
 herself up on her violin-playing before, and 
 refuse to play with anybody." 
 
 " Nobody has ever asked her to play a violin 
 duet. It is she who has asked one of us to 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 109 
 
 play an accompaniment for her now and then. 
 You know that we should never have thought of 
 going forward and offering to play for her. " 
 
 "Oh, well, we knew all about her playing 
 from Miss Marr. But you say nobody has ever 
 asked her to play a violin duet. How about 
 that little Vernon girl who left last term ? 
 Hope used to play with her a great deal, and 
 Milly used to ask her too. Hope did n't care 
 particularly for Milly Vernon. " 
 
 " But she wanted to help her. " 
 
 " And she wanted to be obliging too. Hope 
 Benham has always been one of the kindest 
 and most obliging girls in school. " 
 
 "And she is now, but she has some sense 
 and spirit, and probably does n't mean to have 
 a new-comer like Dorothea Bering take full 
 possession of her on short acquaintance. " 
 
 "Yes, it is a pretty short acquaintance," re- 
 sponded Anna, thoughtfully. 
 
 " That last remark of mine was a happy hit, " 
 thought Kate, triumphantly. " It has disposed 
 of all the surmises about Hope's dislike, but," 
 she further thought, " I wonder how this violin 
 business is going to end. I prophesy that 
 Miss Dorothea Dering will carry the day, and 
 Hope will play that duet with her yet. " 
 
110 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 THE first two months at school generally 
 pass very quickly; after that, the time 
 is apt to move a little slower. The first two 
 months at Miss Marr's school passed so quickly 
 that the girls all confessed themselves "so 
 surprised " when December came with Christ- 
 mas scarcely more than three weeks away. Miss 
 Marr gave a vacation on Christmas week, when 
 the boarding-girls, as those who were inmates 
 of her house were called, could go to their 
 homes, if not too far off, and return by New 
 Year's eve, for it was a fixed rule that they 
 must all be back by that time, and not one of 
 them but was delighted to obey this rule, for not 
 one of them would have lost Miss Marr's New 
 Year's party, which, according to Kate Van der 
 Berg, was the best fun of the year. 
 
 " But what do you do, what is the fun ? " 
 inquired Dolly Dering, who was present when 
 Kate made the above statement 
 
HOPE BEN HAM. Ill 
 
 " What do we do ? " answered Kate. " Well, 
 in the first place, on New Year's eve, we have 
 a jolly little party of just ourselves, — we girls 
 in the house, none of the outside girls, the day 
 pupils, — and we play games, sing songs, tell 
 stories, do anything, in fact, that we want to 
 do, and at half-past ten there is a little light 
 supper served, such as ices, and the most deli- 
 cious frosted sponge-cakes, and seed-cakes, and 
 then there is bread and butter, and hot cocoa 
 for those that want it. After this we feel as 
 fresh and rested as possible, and all ready to sit 
 the old year out and the new year in. " 
 
 "Oh, you don't do that?" cried Dolly, de- 
 lightedly, for to sit up late was one of her 
 ideas of happiness. 
 
 "We do just that" 
 
 "Well, and then?" 
 
 " Then, " went on Kate, laughing, " we begin 
 to grow a little quieter. We tell stories in 
 lower voices; we watch the clock, and as it 
 strikes twelve, we jump to our feet, and all break 
 out singing a New Year's song or hymn. Some- 
 times it is one thing and sometimes it is 
 another. Last year it was Tennyson's 
 
 "Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky: 
 The year is dying ; let him die." 
 
112 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 "And Hope's violin playing," exclaimed 
 Myra Donaldson here. "Don't you remember 
 how Hope played the violin last year ? She 
 just made it talk ; don't you remember ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, " went on Kate, hurriedly. " Hope 
 played, and then we all wished each other a 
 ' Happy New Year, ' and went to bed. The 
 next day — " 
 
 " What did she play ? " asked Dolly, break- 
 ing in upon Kate here. 
 
 " Oh, she played — she played — " 
 
 "Robert Franz's 'Good-night' song and 
 Behr's ' Good-morning, ' " struck in Myra 
 again, impatient at Kate's hesitation. 
 
 "Oh, I know Franz's ' Good-night,' and 
 doesn't the ' Good morning ' go like this?" 
 asked Dolly, beginning to whistle the air of 
 Behr's. 
 
 " Yes, that is it, and I played the accompani- 
 ment, " answered Myra, " It was just delicious. 
 We all cried, for it seemed as if the violin sang 
 the very words. " 
 
 " I never heard either of them on the violin, 
 but my sister sings them both, " said Dolly. 
 
 " I think these were arranged for the violin 
 by Hope's teacher, specially for Hope," ex- 
 claimed Myra. " I think Hope — " 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 113 
 
 "Don't you want to hear what we did the 
 next day and the next evening ? " called out 
 Kate, exasperated at Myra's harping on Hope 
 and her violin to Dolly. 
 
 " Oh, yes ; " and Dolly brightened Tip expec- 
 tantly. Myra, at that moment receiving a sharp 
 little reminder under the table from Kate 'a 
 foot, and another reminder from Kate's warn- 
 ing look, subsided into silence, while Kate took 
 up her story of New Year's day and evening, 
 
 "Of course, after that midnight watch, we 
 breakfasted late, — oh, so late ! and the best 
 part of it was, we breakfasted in our rooms. " 
 
 " In your rooms ? " exclaimed Dolly. 
 
 "Yes, at ten o'clock, tap, tap, came on our 
 doors, and enter Susette with a tray, on which 
 was a delicious breakfast for two, and a dear 
 little bouquet of flowers for each of us. Is n't 
 Miss Marr a dear to think of such things ? " 
 
 " Will she do the same this year ? " ques- 
 tioned Dolly, eagerly. 
 
 "Oh, yes; she has always done the same in 
 the main things, — the evening luncheon or 
 little supper on New Year's eve, the sitting 
 out, then the breakfast, and the reception party 
 New Year's night. She only varies some of the 
 details." 
 
 a 
 
114 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 " Oh, you have an evening party New Year's 
 night ? " 
 
 "Yes, indeed." 
 
 " Who is invited ? Who comes ? " 
 
 "Well, I can tell you one thing, — that every- 
 body comes who is lucky enough to be invited, 
 and the invited are all the outside girls and 
 one friend of each ; that is, each girl can in- 
 vite one friend. We boarding-girls have the 
 same privilege. I always invite one of my rela- 
 tions, and is n't there a scramble amongst them 
 to see which it shall be ? " 
 
 " And what do you do at the party ? " 
 
 Kate looked a little disgusted at this ques- 
 tion. " What do we do ? We do what most 
 people do at a party," she answered rather 
 tartly. 
 
 " Well, what I meant was, do you dance ? " 
 asked Dolly, in a half -apologetic tone. 
 
 " Dance ? I should think we did, and we have 
 music, and at the very end the best fun of all. " 
 
 "I shouldn't think it would be such great 
 fun, just to dance with girls. " 
 
 " You are not obliged to dance with girls. " 
 
 "What! You don't mean — that there are 
 young fellows — men ? " 
 
 " There are boys, — that 's what I call them, 
 
HOPE BENE AM. 115 
 
 — boys like my brother Schuyler. Schuyler ia 
 seventeen. " 
 
 Dolly gave a long drawn " Oh ! " It was evi- 
 dently an " Oh " of relief ; but directly she asked, 
 with demure mischief, — 
 
 " Can't you have 'em over seventeen ? " 
 
 Kate laughed. " Well, we can't have regular 
 grown-ups, you know, and we don't want them. 
 But we can have them all the way from fifteen 
 to eighteen, I believe. " 
 
 "How odd! Doesn't Miss Marr think we 
 are up to conversation with grown-up young 
 gentlemen ? " 
 
 " She thinks probably that ' grown-up gentle- 
 men, ' as you call them, — gentlemen out in 
 society, — would n't care to come to a school- 
 girl party, and that it is much more suitable to 
 have boys of our own age, — boys we all know, 
 or most of us know, at any rate, and who have 
 something the same interests that we have, — 
 school interests, and things of that kind. For 
 my part, I should n't know what to say to gen- 
 tlemen 80 much older than myself. " 
 
 " Oh, would n't you ? " cried Dolly, with an 
 air — a knowing sort of air — that exasperated 
 Kate. " I have a grown-up sister, and I 've 
 seen a good many of her gentlemen visitors. 
 
116 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 I never found it hard to talk to them, " went on 
 Dolly, with a still more knowing air. 
 
 "And I have a grown-up brother," retorted 
 Kate, " and I 've heard him tell how men go on 
 about half-grown girls and their forwardness 
 and boldness and pertness, and how they — the 
 young men — disliked that kind of thing, or 
 else amused themselves with it for a little 
 while, and then made fun of it." 
 
 Dolly's face had flushed scarlet at these 
 words, and at the end she burst forth angrily, — 
 
 " I suppose you mean that when I talked with 
 my sister's, I must have been forward and bold 
 and pert. " 
 
 It was Kate's turn now to flush. She saw 
 that in her irritation — Dolly was apt to irri- 
 tate her — she had been unwarrantably rude, 
 and swallowing her mortification, she at once 
 made haste to say, — 
 
 "I beg your pardon, I — I shouldn't have 
 spoken as I did. I am very sorry. " 
 
 Dolly gave a quick glance at the speaker, 
 hesitated a moment, as if waiting for something 
 further, then jumped up and flounced out of 
 the room with an angry impetus that there was 
 no mistaking. 
 
 "Well, that is interesting, I must confess," 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 117 
 
 ejaculated Kate. " I begged her pardon ; what 
 more did she want ? " 
 
 " She wanted you to say that you had n't the 
 least idea of her in your mind, — that you 
 did n't mean that s?ie was forward or pert, 
 and you said nothing of the sort; you only 
 begged her pardon for having spoJcen as you 
 did," explained Myra Donaldson, giggling a 
 little. 
 
 " And that is what I meant, — just that, — 
 that I was sorry for having spoken — " 
 
 "Your thoughts," said Myra, giggling again. 
 
 " Dorothea is generally a good-natured girl, " 
 spoke up Anna Fleming here, with a kind im- 
 pulse to be just. 
 
 "Oh, / like Dorothea very well. I should 
 like her better if she did n't bounce and flounce 
 so. You can't say that her manners are as nice 
 as they might be, can you ? " said Myra, look- 
 ing appealingly at Anna. 
 
 "N — 0, I can't say that her manners are 
 really nice," answered Anna. 
 
 "/ think she is vulgar! " Kate suddenly 
 snapped out, with a vehemence that quite 
 startled the other two girls. 
 
 " Vulgar ! why, Kate, she 's one of the Boston 
 Derings. " 
 
118 HOPE BENE AM. 
 
 Kate made a little face, and then in a sarcas 
 tic voice, " Who are the Boston Derings ? " she 
 asked. 
 
 " Now, Kate, you know perfectly well that the 
 Boston Derings belong to the best society in 
 Massachusetts, and that they have always be- 
 longed to it from the first," protested Anna, 
 getting things rather mixed in her eagerness. 
 
 "From the first!" repeated Kate, laughing 
 derisively. "I suppose you mean from the 
 time of Adam. " 
 
 "Now, Kate, you know perfectly well what 
 I mean. The Derings came from an old 
 family. " 
 
 " Like Sandy MacDougal. " 
 
 "Eh — what — who is Sandy MacDougal? " 
 
 " Our gardener. He came straight to us from 
 Scotland, and he 's as proud as a peacock of his 
 family. He says the MacDougals have been 
 first-class gardeners for generations." 
 
 Myra Donaldson gave another of her giggles, 
 but Anna did not join in her levity. Instead 
 of that she said with dignity, — 
 
 "What / mean is an old family like the 
 Van der Bergs." 
 
 Kate flushed rosy red. This was "a retort 
 courteous," and for a moment she was dumb; 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 119 
 
 but a moment after, she sat up in her chair, and 
 cried laughingly, — 
 
 " The Van der Bergs are not proud, except of 
 one thing in their family history. " 
 
 " What 'a that ? " inquired Anna, quickly. 
 
 Kate laughed again. " It is the performance 
 of a long-ago ancestor, — a Dutch boatman 
 named Van der Berg. It was in that early time 
 when the Netherlanders were struggling against 
 Spain to establish their own liberty and inde- 
 pendence. William the Silent, Prince of 
 Orange, you know, who had been the Nether- 
 landers' best friend when he was at the head of 
 their commonwealth, was dead, and his son, 
 Maurice, Prince of Nassau, was working with 
 John of olden Bameveld to help the Nether- 
 landers, as his father had been doing, to become 
 strong enough to get altogether out of the 
 clutches of Spain. But how ridiculous of me 
 to talk history to you like this, just because of 
 that old story! To change the conversation, 
 what is it you are knitting, Anna, — a shawl 
 or a cape ? " 
 
 " No, no, we don't want to change the conver- 
 sation," protested Anna and Myra, who knew 
 quite well what a delightful story-teller Kate 
 was, and never more delightful than when she 
 
120 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 was " talking history," — telling " true stories," 
 as they expressed it. Neither of the girls was 
 very fond of studying history, but they were 
 very fond of listening to Kate whenever she 
 would "talk it," or whenever she would pick 
 out of it its — to them — labyrinthine mazes 
 some stirring incident, and read it to them. 
 So their protest now was very decisive against 
 any change of conversation ; and thus urged to 
 go back to her subject, Kate went on with the 
 story of her ancestor. She had not gone far, 
 however, when she stopped short again, 
 saying, — 
 
 " But wait ! Motley tells the story so beauti- 
 fully in his ' United Netherlands ; ' let me read 
 it to you in his own words. It 's too bad to try 
 to tell it in my words ; and here 's the book 
 right on this lower library shelf." 
 
 It was the work of a moment to possess 
 herself of the book; and the girls, settling 
 themselves comfortably in their chairs, gave 
 themselves up to the pleasure of listening to 
 the following spirited narrative: — 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 121 
 
 CHAPTER XIL 
 
 " nr^HE fair and pleasant city of Breda lies 
 J- on the Merk, — a slender stream navi- 
 gable for small vessels, which finds its way 
 to the sea through the great canal of the Dental. 
 It had been the property of the Princes of 
 Orange, Barons of Breda, and had passed with 
 the other possessions of the family to the 
 house of Ch&lons-Nassau. Henry of Nassau had, 
 half a century before, adorned and strengthened 
 it by a splendid palace-fortress, which, sur- 
 rounded by a deep and double moat, thoroughly 
 commanded the town. A garrison of five com- 
 panies of Italian infantry and one of cavalry 
 lay in this castle, which was under the com- 
 mand of Edward Lanzavecchia, governor both of 
 Breda and of the neighboring Gertruydenberg. 
 Breda was an important strategical position. 
 It was, moreover, the feudal superior of a large 
 number of adjacent villages, as well as of 
 the cities of Osterhout, Steenberg, and Rosen- 
 daal. It was obviously not more desirable for 
 
122 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 Maurice of Nassau to recover his patrimonial 
 city than it was for the States-General to drive 
 the Spaniards from so important a position. 
 
 "In the month of February, 1590, Maurice, 
 being then at the castle of Voorn, in Zeeland, 
 received a secret visit from a boatman, — Adrian 
 Van der Berg by name, — who lived at the vil- 
 lage of Leur, eight or ten miles from Breda, 
 and who had been in the habit of supplying the 
 castle with turf. In the absence of wood and 
 coal-mines, the habitual fuel of the country was 
 furnished by those vast relics of the antedilu- 
 vian forests, which abounded in the still par- 
 tially submerged soil. The skipper represented 
 that his vessel had passed so often into and out 
 of the castle as to be hardly liable to search 
 by the guard on its entrance. He suggested a 
 stratagem by which it might be possible to sur- 
 prise the stronghold. The prince approved of 
 the scheme, and immediately consulted with 
 Barneveld. That statesman at once proposed, 
 as a suitable man to carry out the daring ven- 
 ture. Captain Charles de Heraugiere, — a noble- 
 man of Cambray, — who had been long in the 
 service of the States, had distinguished himself 
 at Sluys and on other occasions, but who had 
 been implicated in Leicester's nefarious plot 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 123 
 
 to gain possession of the city of Leyden, a few 
 years before. The advocate expressed confi- 
 dence that he would be grateful for so signal an 
 opportunity of retrieving a somewhat damaged 
 reputation. Heraugiere, who was with his 
 company in Voom at the moment, eagerly 
 «ignified his desire to attempt the enterprise as 
 soon as the matter was communicated to him, 
 avowing the deepest devotion to the House of 
 William the Silent, and perfect willingness to 
 sacrifice his life, if necessary, in its cause and 
 that of the country. Philip Nassau, cousin of 
 Prince Maurice, and brother of Lewis William, 
 Governor of Gorcum Dorcum and Lowenstein 
 Castle, and colonel of a regiment of cavalry, 
 was also taken into the secret, as well as Count 
 Hohenlo, President Van der Myle, and a few 
 others ; but a mystery was carefully spread and 
 maintained over the undertaking. Heraugiere 
 selected sixty-eight men, on whose personal 
 daring and patience he knew that he could rely, 
 from the regiments of Philip Nassau and 
 Pamars, governor of the neighboring city of 
 Hensden, and from his own company. Besides 
 himself, the officers to command the party were 
 Captains Lozier and Pervet, and Lieutenant 
 Matthew Held. The names of such devoted 
 
124 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 soldiers deserve to be commemorated, and are 
 still freshly remembered by their countrymen. 
 
 "On the 25th of Februai-y, Maurice and his 
 staff wen^ to Willemstad, on the isle of Klun- 
 dert, it having been given out on his departure 
 from the Hague that his destination was Dort. 
 On the same night, at about eleven o'clock, by 
 the feeble light of a waning moon, Heraugiere 
 and his band came to the Swertsenburg ferry, 
 as agreed upon, to meet the boatman. They 
 found neither him nor his vessel, and they 
 wandered about half the night, very cold, very 
 indignant, much perplexed. At last, on their 
 way back, they came upon the skipper at the 
 village of Terheyde, who made the extraordinary 
 excuse that he had overslept himself, and that 
 he feared the plot had been discovered. It 
 being too late to make any attempt that night, a 
 meeting was arranged for the following evening. 
 No suspicion of treachery occurred to any of the 
 party, although it became obvious that the skip- 
 per had grown faint-hearted. He did not come 
 on the next night to the appointed place, but he 
 sent two nephews, boatmen like himself, whom 
 he described as dare-devils. 
 
 " On Monday night, the 26th of February, the 
 seventy went on board the vessel, which was 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 125 
 
 apparently filled with blocks of turf, and packed 
 themselves closely in the hold. They moved 
 slowly during a little time on their perilous 
 voyage, for the winter wind, thick with fog and 
 sleet, blew directly down the river, bringing 
 along with it huge blocks of ice, and scooping 
 the water out of the dangerous shallows, so as 
 to render the vessel at any moment liable to be 
 stranded. At last the navigation became im- 
 possible, and they came to a standstill. From 
 Monday night till Thursday morning those 
 seventy Hollanders lay packed like herrings in 
 the hold of their little vessel, suffering from 
 hunger, thirst, and deadly cold; yet not one of 
 them attempted to escape or murmured a wish to 
 abandon the enterprise. Even when the third 
 morning dawned, there was no better prospect of 
 proceeding, for the remorseless east wind still 
 blew a gale against them, and the shoals which 
 beset their path had become more dangerous than 
 ever. It was, however, absolutely necessary to 
 recruit exhausted nature, unless the adventurers 
 were to drop powerless on the threshold when 
 they should at last arrive at their destination. 
 In all secrecy they went ashore at a lonely 
 castle called Nordam, where they remained to 
 refresh themselves until about eleven at night, 
 
126 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 when one of the boatmen came to them with 
 the intelligence that the wind had changed and 
 was now blowing freshly from the sea. Yet 
 the voyage of a few leagues, on which they 
 were embarked, lasted nearly two whole days 
 longer; on Saturday afternoon they passed 
 through the last sluice, and at about three 
 o'clock the last boom was shut behind them. 
 There was no retreat possible for them now. 
 The seventy were to take the strong castle and 
 city of Breda or to lay down their lives every 
 man of them. No quarter and short shrift, — 
 such was their certain destiny, should that 
 crippled, half -frozen little band not succeed in 
 their task before another sunrise. 
 
 " They were now in the outer harbor, and not 
 far from the water-gate which led into the inner 
 castle-haven. Presently an officer of the guard 
 put off in a skiff and came on board the vessel. 
 Those inside could see and hear his every move- 
 ment. Had there been a single cough or sneeze 
 from within, the true character of the cargo, 
 then making its way into the castle, would have 
 been discovered, and every man would, within 
 ten minutes, have been butchered. But the 
 officer, unsuspecting, soon took his departure, 
 saying that he would send some men to warp the 
 vessel into the castle dock. 
 
HOPE BEN HAM. 127 
 
 " Meantime, as the adventurers were making 
 their way slowly towards the water-gate, they 
 struck upon a hidden obstruction in the river, 
 and the deeply laden vessel sprang a leak. In 
 a few minutes those inside were sitting up to 
 their knees in water, — a circumstance which 
 scarcely improved their already sufficiently dis- 
 mal condition. The boatmen vigorously plied 
 the pumps to save the vessel from sinking out- 
 right; a party of Italian soldiers soon arrived 
 on the shore, and in the course of a couple of 
 hours they had laboriously dragged the con- 
 cealed Hollanders into the inner harbor and 
 made their vessel fast, close to the guard-house 
 of the castle. And now a crowd of all sorts 
 came on board. The winter nights had been 
 long and fearfully cold, and there was almost a 
 dearth of fuel both in town and fortress. A 
 gang of laborers set to work discharging the 
 turf from the vessel with such rapidity that the 
 departing daylight began to shine in upon 
 the prisoners much sooner than they wished. 
 Moreover the thorough wetting to which, after 
 all their other inconveniences they had just 
 been exposed, in their narrow escape from 
 foundering, had set the whole party sneezing 
 and coughing. Never was a catarrh so sud- 
 
128 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 den, 80 universal, or ill-timed. Lieutenant 
 Held, unable to control the violence of his cough, 
 drew his dagger and eagerly implored his next 
 neighbor to stab him to the heart, lest his in- 
 firmity should lead to the discovery of the whole 
 party. But the calm and wary skipper who 
 stood on the deck instantly commanded his 
 companion to work at the pump with as much 
 chatter as possible, assuring the persons present 
 that the hold was nearly full of water. By this 
 means the noise of the coughing was effectually 
 drowned. Most thoroughly did the bold boat- 
 man deserve the title of " dare-devil " bestowed 
 by his more faint-hearted uncle. Calmly 
 looking death in the face, he stood there, quite 
 at his ease, exchanging jokes with his old ac- 
 quaintances, chaffering with the eager pur- 
 chasers of peat, shouting most noisy and 
 superfluous orders to the one man who composed 
 his crew, doing his utmost, in short, to get rid 
 of his customers and to keep enough of the 
 turf on board to conceal the conspirators. At 
 last, when the case seemed almost desperate, 
 he loudly declared that sufficient had been 
 unladen for that evening and that it was too 
 dark and he was too tired for further work. 
 So giving a handful of stivers among the work- 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 129 
 
 men, he bade them go ashore at once and have 
 some beer, and come next morning for the rest 
 of the cargo. Fortunately, they accepted hia 
 hospitable proposition and took their departure ; 
 only the servant of the captain of the guard 
 lingered behind, complaining that the turf was 
 not as good as usual, and that his master would 
 never be satisfied with it. 
 
 " ' Ah ! ' returned the cool skipper, ' the best 
 part of the cargo is underneath. This is ex- 
 pressly reserved for the captain. He is sure to 
 get enough of it to-morrow.'' 
 
 " Thus admonished, the servant departed, and 
 the boatman was left to himself. His com- 
 panion had gone on shore with secret orders to 
 make the best of his way to Prince Maurice, to 
 inform him of the arrival of the ship within the 
 fortress, and of the important fact which they 
 had just learned that Governor Lanzavecchia, 
 who had heard rumors of some projected en- 
 terprise, and who suspected that the object 
 aimed at was Gertruydenberg, had suddenly 
 taken his departure from that city, leaving as 
 his lieutenant his nephew Paola, a raw lad, 
 quite incompetent to provide for the safety of 
 Breda. A little before midnight, Captain 
 Heraugiere made a brief address to his com- 
 » 
 
130 HOPE BENE AM. 
 
 rades in the vessel, telling them that the hour 
 for carrying out their undertaking had at length 
 arrived. Retreat was impossible, defeat was 
 certain death; only in complete victory lay 
 their own safety and a great advantage for the 
 Commonwealth. It was an honor for them to 
 be selected for such an enterprise. To show 
 cowardice now would be an eternal shame for 
 them, and he would be the . man to strike dead 
 with his own hand any traitor or poltroon. 
 But if, as he doubted not, every one was pre- 
 pared to do his duty, their success was assured, 
 and he was himself ready to take the lead in 
 confronting every danger. He then divided the 
 little band into two companies, — one under him- 
 self to attack the main guard-house, the other 
 under Fernet to seize the arsenal of the fortress. 
 Noiselessly they stole out of the ship where they 
 had so long been confined, and stood at last on 
 the ground within the precincts of the castle. 
 Heraugiere marched straight to the guard-house. 
 
 " ' Who goes there ? ' cried a sentinel, hearing 
 some movement in the darkness. 
 
 " ' A friend, ' replied the captain, seizing him 
 by the throat, and commanding him, as he valued 
 his life, to keep silence except when addressed, 
 and then to speak in a whisper. 
 
HOPE BENE AM. 131 
 
 " ' How many are there in the garrison ? ' 
 muttered Heraugiere. 
 
 " ' Three hundred and fifty, ' whispered the 
 sentinel. 
 
 " 'How many ? ' eagerly demanded the nearest 
 followers, not hearing the reply. 
 
 " ' He says there are but fifty of them,' said 
 Heraugiere, prudently suppressing the three 
 hundred, in order to encourage his comrades. 
 
 " Quietly as they had made their approach, 
 there was nevertheless a stir in the guard- 
 house. The captain of the watch sprang into 
 the courtyard. 
 
 " ' Who goes ? ' he demanded in his turn. 
 
 " ' A friend, ' again replied Heraugiere, strik- 
 ing him dead with a single blow as he spoke. 
 
 "Others emerged with torches. Heraugiere 
 was slightly wounded, but succeeded, after a 
 brief struggle, in killing a second assailant. 
 His followers set upon the watch, who retreated 
 into the guard-house. Heraugiere commanded 
 his men to fire through the doors and windows, 
 and in a few minutes every one of the enemy 
 lay dead. It was not a moment for making 
 prisoners or speaking of quarter. Meantime 
 Fervet and his band had not been idle. The 
 magazine house of the castle was seized, its 
 
132 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 defenders slain. Young Lanzavecchia made a 
 sally from the palace, was wounded, and driven 
 back with a few of his adherents. The rest of 
 the garrison fled helter-skelter into the town. 
 Never had the musketeers of Italy — for they all 
 belonged to Spinola's famous Sicilian Legion — 
 behaved so badly. They did not even take the 
 precaution to destroy the bridge between the 
 castle and the town, as they fled panic-stricken 
 before seventy Hollanders. Instead of encourag- 
 ing the burghers to their support, they spread 
 dismay as they ran through every street. Young 
 Lanzavecchia, penned into a corner of the castle, 
 began to parlej', hoping for a rally before a sur- 
 render should be necessary. In the midst of the 
 negotiation, and a couple of hours before dawn, 
 Hohenlo, duly apprised by the boatman, arrived 
 with the vanguard of Maurice's troops before the 
 field-gate of the fort. A vain attempt was made 
 to force this portal open, but the winter's ice 
 had fixed it fast. Hohenlo was obliged to batter 
 down the palisade near the water-gate, and enter 
 by the same road through which the fatal turf- 
 boat had passed. Soon after he had marched 
 into the town at the head of a strong detach- 
 ment, Prince Maurice himself arrived in great 
 haste, attended by Philip Nassau, the Admiral 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 133 
 
 Justinus Nassau, Count Solms, Peter Van der 
 Does, and Sir Francis Vere, and followed by 
 another body of picked troops; the musicians 
 playing merrily that national air, then, as now, 
 so dear to Netherlanders, — 
 
 ' Wilhelmus van Nassonwen 
 Ben ick van Duytsem bloed.' 
 
 " The fight was over. Some forty of the gar- 
 rison had been killed, but not a man of the 
 attacking party. The burgomaster sent a 
 trumpet to the prince, asking permission to 
 come to the castle to arrange a capitulation; 
 and before sunrise the city and fortress of 
 Breda had surrendered to the authority of the 
 States-General and of his Excellency. 
 
 " There, I ought not to have read all that long 
 story, — I 've tired you out, I know, " exclaimed 
 Kate, apologetically, as she closed her book. 
 
134 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 « nniRED ua out ? No, indeed, you haven't," 
 J- cried the giria in a breath ; and one of 
 the girla waa Hope, who had come in softly 
 juat aa Kate had begun to read, and who now 
 added, — 
 
 " It 'a lovely to liaten to anything when you 
 read it, Kate. " 
 
 " la n't it I " took up Myra. " Miaa Marr 
 ought to pay Kate a salary for the good ahe does 
 in this history businesa. I hate to study it ; I 
 alwaya get all in a wabble with the datea and 
 the namea and the places, and by and by, when 
 I try to tell about it or think about it, I get 
 a fifteenth-century king into the sixteenth cen- 
 tury just aa likely aa not. But when Kate 
 picks out her little nuggeta of gold from the 
 masa, and sets them before me, I begin to see 
 daylight." 
 
 "So do I, so do I!" cried Anna Fleming; 
 " and another thing, — I am not ashamed to 
 ask Kate ignorant questions." 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 135 
 
 "Nor I," declared Myra; and then they all 
 laughed, and Myra followed up the laugh by 
 immediately proceeding to ask two or three of 
 these "ignorant questions," — the first being, 
 " If Spain had possession of Breda, what does it 
 mean by the Italian infantry and cavalry being 
 there to defend it ? " 
 
 "It means that at that time," answered 
 Kate, "Philip II., called Philip the Prudent, 
 had possession of the better portion of Italy, 
 with other territory that he had gobbled up, 
 and 80, of course, he made use of Italian 
 soldiers." 
 
 " Who was Lewis "William ? " 
 
 " He was the stadt of Friesland, — Friesland 
 was part of the Netherlands. " 
 
 "Oh, and what became of the dare-devil 
 skipper, — Van der Berg, — your ancestor ? " 
 
 " Oh, he did n't come to anything wonderful, 
 — he ' fought and bled ' in freedom's cause like 
 most of those Dutchmen, I suppose. " 
 
 " But there was a family of Van den Bergs 
 who were cousins to Maurice," here spoke up 
 Hope. " Were these any relations to Van der 
 Berg, the skipper ? " 
 
 "Oh, no, — we didn't descend from princes 
 and counts, " laughed Kate. 
 
136 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 " I don't believe but that it is the Van den 
 you belong to, anyway, " said Anna. 
 
 "Nonsense," cried Kate; "if we ' belong,' as 
 you say, to a family of that early day, it is to 
 the dare-devil Van der Bergs, and that 's good 
 enough for me. My brother Schuyler ought to 
 hear you give preference to the Van den Bergs. 
 He would be ready to fight a duel with you ; for, 
 from a little boy, he has been perfectly enchanted 
 with that story of the dare-devil, and when we 
 were all at home five years ago, — little things 
 of ten and eleven and twelve, — we used to 
 play the story, and we called it ' The Siege of 
 Breda. ' It was when we were up at our summer 
 place on the Hudson. It was such fun. We 
 had a queer little cottage on the place, that 
 had a lot of gables and turrets. It was unoccu 
 pied, except as a sort of storehouse for fruit; 
 and this cottage we called ' the castle. ' A 
 rather wide stream of water runs through the 
 grounds, and broadens out into a sort of minia. 
 ture lake at the foot of the garden. It was just 
 across this broader part, where it was also quite 
 deep, that the cottage showed its turrets and 
 gables, and we got the gardener and one of the 
 stable men to build up a sort of palisade of 
 bricks and stones and boards all about it. 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 137 
 
 Inside this we made a guard-house, and the 
 arsenal was in the castle itself. Then we knew 
 an old sailor who fixed up our little yacht, made 
 a cabin and hold, where the boys crept in, — the 
 boys who represented the attacking party, the 
 seventy Hollanders, — and we packed around 
 them a lot of dry moss we had prepared, to 
 represent turf. Mr. Brown — our old sailor — 
 also fixed up something that did duty for a 
 water-gate. Well, when we had got everything 
 as near to our minds as possible, we dressed 
 ourselves up in our costumes, — oh, yes, we had 
 regular costumes. My uncle Schuyler said it 
 was a real history lesson for us, and he should 
 do all he could to help it along; and so he 
 hunted up some books that had the illustra- 
 tions of the costumes of that time, and we got 
 mamma and a seamstress we had to help us 
 make up suits for us." 
 
 " And did you take part ? " asked Myra. 
 
 "Did J take part? Well, 1 should think I 
 did. /was Captain Charles de Heraugiere, if 
 you please. And oh, the cunning little suit I 
 had, — a regular fighting suit of imitation leathei 
 and a rough-looking sort of stuff like frieze, and 
 a sort of waistcoat of chamois skin, and then a 
 dear little hat with a feather; — oh, and boots 
 
138 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 with tops that came 'way up to the knee-bend. 
 We made the tops ourselves of mock leather, 
 russet color, and sewed them to our russet shoes- 
 Oh, it was such fun ! " 
 
 "But your brother — what character did he 
 take ? " 
 
 "Oh, there was but one character that he 
 would take, and that was the dare-devil boat- 
 man who stood on the deck and joked with the 
 purchasers of the peat. You should have seen 
 Schuyler as he did it. It was moonlight, for 
 mamma and papa would n't let us play it as we 
 wanted to on a dark night, for there might be 
 an accident; but we ran the boat down by some 
 sheltering bushes, and the boys who took the 
 part of the purchasers from the castle stood in 
 the lighter place where the moonlight fell, and 
 that left the place where our hidden soldiers 
 were quite dusky and mysterious. But Schuy- 
 ler stood in the light, the moon shining straight 
 in his face. His suit was a good deal rougher 
 than mine, but a good deal like it ; only he had 
 a cap on, and that was pushed back, and he 
 looked so handsome and bold when he joked 
 and laughed and answered the purchasers. 
 Then when we soldiers stole out of the ship 
 where we were in hiding — What ! how could I 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 139 
 
 see Schuyler when I was hidden ? Oh, I peeped 
 through the moss. And how many boys had we ? 
 Oh, twenty in all, — about eight in the boat, 
 — it would n't hold any more ; but the eight of 
 them made tucli a show in their costumes. 
 They were all our neighbors and close friends, 
 the whole twenty of them. Four were the 
 Dyker brothers, and the Burton boys with their 
 cousins who had come up a-visiting them from 
 Philadelphia ; and there were our boys and the 
 Van Loons and Delmars to make up the twenty. 
 But, as I was saying, when we soldiers stole up 
 out of the vessel, and I marched at the head of 
 my band, the dare-devil would lead the way. I 
 told him it was all out of order, but he declared 
 that Captain Heraugiere could nH know the way 
 as the dare-devil who had carried the peat so 
 often must know it, and that of course he must 
 be guided ; so I had to give in. 
 
 We started our play at the point where the 
 officer of the guard puts off from the castle in 
 a skiff, and comes on board our vessel; then, 
 after that, we slip down through the water- 
 gate, — of course we don't have any leak, — the 
 Burton boys and the Van Loons come to the 
 shore and drag us into the harbor and make 
 the vessel fast, close to the guard-house. It 
 
140 HOPE BEN HAM. 
 
 was just after that, you know, that the dare- 
 devil receives the purchasers, and goes through 
 all that joking and sending the people off, say- 
 ing that he was tired. And then 1 followed as 
 Captain Heraugiere ; and what do you think ! 
 — Schuyler at first wanted to be Captain 
 Heraugiere too. He said he could easily man- 
 age it ; but it was when he found he would n't 
 be allowed to gobble up the two characters, he 
 insisted upon showing the captain the way, and 
 so he stuck to me all through, flourishing his 
 wooden sword on the slightest excuse. But 
 how we did lay about us! Whack, whack, we 
 knocked over the Burtons, and all the rest of 
 the Italians, with the young Lanzavecchia at 
 their head ; and then came the great end of the 
 victory, the arrival of Hohenlo with the van- 
 guard of Maurice's troops, and then Prince 
 Maurice himself with his fine attendants, — his 
 counts and admirals, and these were the Van 
 Loons and the Burtons again, who had rigged 
 themselves up in other clothes, — nice honest 
 Dutch clothes to play the Netherlander parts. 
 So we turned and twisted our twenty boys, just 
 as they do on the stage, and you 'd have thought 
 there were a host of them. Well, when the 
 vanguard arrived, we all joined together and 
 
HOPE BENE AM. 141 
 
 marched into the town — that is, around our 
 grounds and into the castle, the Dyker brothers, 
 who are musical, playing the national air with 
 a drum and fife and cornet, and some of the rest 
 of us, breaking out now and then at the top of 
 our voices into the chorus, — 
 
 • Wilhelmus van Nassonwen 
 Ben ick van Duytsem bloed,' 
 
 which means, 
 
 ' William from Nassau, 
 I am from German blood.' 
 
 William from Nassau, you know, was the great 
 Prince of Orange. 
 
 " And marching to this playing and singing, 
 we entered the castle, — our cottage, — where a 
 table had been set with a lot of Dutch dainties, 
 made by our German cook, Wilhelmina, who 
 had lived in Holland and knew everything about 
 the dear little Dutch cakes and things they 
 eat there. Then, after we had partaken of the 
 feast, the table was carried out, and we danced 
 to our heart's content. Oh, we did have such a 
 good time, and we kept it up every year until 
 we got too old for it. " 
 
 " What fun it must have been ! " cried Myra. 
 " I wish I could have been there ; but did n't 
 
142 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 you have any other girl but yourself in the play 
 with those twenty boys ? " 
 
 "No, not in the play; but we had plenty 
 of girls as spectators and at the feast and 
 dancing. " 
 
 "And did you ever make a play out of 
 any other historical incident ? " asked Anna 
 Fleming. 
 
 " Yes, several ; and I think that is the reason 
 why historical events became so fixed in my 
 mind, and I got so interested in reading history. 
 It began by accident, as you might say, — that 
 is, by Schuyler's delight in the Van der Berg 
 story, and insisting on playing it. It 's the best 
 way in the world, let me tell you, to play his- 
 tory like this, — it teaches you more than any 
 ordinary study possibly can, and you find that 
 through it you get events and epochs per- 
 fectly clear in your mind, and everything by 
 and by spreads out before you like reality. " 
 
 " I wish Miss Marr would let us have history 
 lessons this way," said Myra. 
 
 "Perhaps she will, some time, if Kate tells 
 her what she has told us, " said Anna, hopefully ; 
 "and you will tell her some time, won't you, 
 Kate ? " 
 
 "Yes, I'll tell her, but I don't think it is 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 143 
 
 the thing to do in school days ; you ought to get 
 it up in the summer, during vacations. It 
 would interfere with other studies to go into all 
 the preparation and work of such performances 
 in school." 
 
 " Did you ever like any other of your plays as 
 well as the Siege ? " asked Hope. 
 
 "No, never; but what made you ask that, 
 Hope ? " 
 
 " Because it was so stirring and out-door-sy, 
 and the boatman was so jolly and brave, I 
 thought it was n't possible that there could have 
 been another story quite so playable as that. " 
 
 " I said the Van der Bergs were proud of only 
 one thing, — this performance of the boatman ; 
 but there was another of our ancestors of a later 
 day who is very interesting, I think, and just as 
 plucky and brave in another way. " 
 
 " Oh ! " ejaculated Anna Fleming, with such 
 an air of anticipation that they all laughed, for 
 they all knew Anna's weakness for ancestors; 
 and this "Oh," said very plainly, "Now we are 
 to hear of something more worth while than an 
 old boatman, something probably about those 
 aristocratic Knickerbocker ancestors of Kate's. " 
 
 Kate herself, thoroughly appreciating Anna's 
 state of mind, went on demurely : " This ances- 
 
144 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 tor was my mother's great-great-grandfather. 
 He was the son of a small farmer in England, 
 and he came to New York a poor boy, with only 
 a few shillings in his pocket; and with these 
 few shillings he started, and, working at all 
 sorts of things, — as a stevedore, and anything 
 else he could find to do, — he at last worked his 
 way up to a little clerkship in a little mercan- 
 tile house, and from there he climbed step by 
 step into a bigger clerkship, in the same little 
 house, and then step by step into a clerkship 
 in a big house, until after a while, after all 
 sorts of working and waiting and hardships, 
 he came to be at the head of the big house, and 
 one of the first merchants of the day in New 
 York. We have in our family now one of 
 those English shillings that he brought over 
 and saved for luck when he was working on the 
 wharves, and we keep it for luck; and there is 
 a packet of old letters and a diary he kept, 
 telling the whole story, that we have too. Oh, 
 yes, we are very proud of our great-great-great- 
 grandfather, I can tell you, " smiling up at the 
 girls. 
 
 " But where did those lovely old shoe-buckles 
 and gold buttons, and that old silver with the 
 V. der B. engraved on it, that I saw when I 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 145 
 
 visited you, — where did those come from, if 
 that boatman was the only Dutch ancestor you 
 had that you were proud of ? " anxiously and 
 disappointedly asked Anna here. 
 
 "Oh, they came from some of the later V. 
 der B. 's; some descendants that had nothing 
 specially interesting about them, — were not 
 heroes of any kind, but just rich old burghers. " 
 
 " But were n't they what are called the Knick- 
 erbocker families ? " 
 
 " Yes ; but you know how that name came to 
 be given to them, don't you ? " 
 
 "No, not exactly," answered Anna, shame- 
 facedly. 
 
 " And I have n't the least idea. I know 1 
 ought to know, but I don't," burst out Myra, 
 blithely and boldly ; " so do tell us. " 
 
 " Well, it came about in this way. Washing- 
 ton Irving wrote a burlesque history of New 
 York, — that is, it was a burlesque on a pom- 
 pous handbook of the city, that had just been 
 published. He called it ' A History of New 
 York from the beginning of the world to the 
 end of the Dutch Dynasty, by Diedrich 
 Knickerbocker. ' 
 
 "He made up the name of Knickerbocker 
 probably, as people now make up a name for a 
 10 
 
146 HOPE BEN HAM. 
 
 nom de plume. But at the time by a facetious 
 advertisement, such as Hawthorne might have 
 written at a later day, — an advertisement ' in- 
 quiring for a small, elderly gentleman, dressed 
 in an old black coat and cocked hat, by the name 
 of Knickerbocker, who was said to have disap- 
 peared from the Columbus Hotel in Mulberry 
 Street, and left behind a very curious kind of a 
 written book, ' — he fooled some of those Dutch 
 ancestors of mine into thinking that this was a 
 veritable Dutch name, and that this old gentle- 
 man was a veritable owner of the name, and 
 writer of the History of New York, which they 
 thought was meant for a veritable history. 
 Then some of them finding it was a burlesque 
 were seriously offended, and made a great fuss 
 about it ; but in spite of all this, the name stuck, 
 and as it was really meant as a sort of inter- 
 pretation of the aristocratic Dutch character, it 
 was after a while accepted as a title for the 
 descendants of the old Dutch burghers, and so 
 grew into a term for the gentry or aristocratic 
 class. That is all there is to it." 
 
 "Well, then, that proves that you are from 
 the Dutch gentry, — an old Knickerbocker 
 family ! " exclaimed Anna, in a tone of satisfac- 
 tion, that brought forth a perfect shout of 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 147 
 
 laughter from Kate, and after the laughter the 
 immediate answer, "Oh, yes; and the New 
 York head of this old Knickerbocker family 
 of mine kept a shop down near the wharves, 
 where he bought and sold flour and molasses, 
 just as that dear old Joris Van Heemskirk did 
 in Mrs. Barr's dear, delightful story, ' The 
 Bow of Orange Ribbon. ' In trade, you see, — 
 shopkeepers!" and Kate nodded her head and 
 laughed again, as she looked at Anna, who had 
 a silly way sometimes of talking as she had 
 heard some English people talk of " people in 
 trade." 
 
 But Anna, who did not like to be laughed at, 
 any more than the rest of us, retorted here : " It 
 will do for you to go on in this way about 
 family, and ancestors, and all that. You can 
 afford to tell the truth because you do belong 
 and have belonged, or your family has belonged, 
 for years to the upper class ; but if you had only 
 just come up from — from — " 
 
 " Selling flour and molasses, " struck in Kate, 
 mischievously. 
 
 "No, I did not mean that, for I suppose 
 things were different then ; but if you belonged 
 to new rich people, — people who had just made 
 money, people who had been common working- 
 
148 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 people, mechanics, or something of that sort, — 
 you would n't talk like this, you 'd keep still. " 
 
 "Yes, if I belonged to common working- 
 people, people whose minds were common and 
 vulgar ; but how if I belonged to working-people 
 like George Stephenson, the father of English 
 railways, and the locomotive ? Oh, Anna, don't 
 you remember we had to study up about Watt 
 and Boulton and the Stephensons last term in 
 connection with our applied-science lessons ? " 
 
 " Last term ! " cried Anna ; " you can't expect 
 me to remember everything I studied up on, last 
 term. Things like that don't stick in my mind 
 as they do in yours. " 
 
 " Well, you ought to remember about George 
 Stephenson, who was the son of a fireman of a 
 colliery engine in England, and how he worked 
 up, and educated himself, and finally con- 
 structed the steam locomotive that made him 
 famous, and led to his being employed in the 
 construction of the Liverpool and Manchester 
 Railway. And there was his son Robert, who 
 followed in his father's footsteps and became an 
 authority on everything connected with rail- 
 ways and engines; and then there was James 
 Watt, who preceded them as the inventor of 
 the condensing steam-engine for manufacturing 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 149 
 
 purposes, which led the way to Stephenson's 
 locomotive. Watt was only a poor boy, the 
 son of a small trader in Scotland, and was an 
 apprentice to a philosophical-instrument maker, 
 where he worked so hard and lived so poorly 
 that he nearly lost his health. Do you think 
 that men like these would n't dare to talk about 
 their humble beginnings ? Do you think tliey 
 would keep still, or do you think their families 
 would keep still, because they were ashamed of 
 the humble beginnings ? No, no, not unless 
 they were miserable cowards and did n't know 
 what to be proud of, and that indeed would 
 make them dirt common and vulgar, and not 
 deserving their good fortune. " 
 
 " Well, I was n't thinking of geniuses, of 
 course. I don't suppose that anybody who was 
 connected with such people as you speak of 
 would be ashamed exactly of the ' humble be- 
 ginnings, ' as you call them, — the people 1 
 mean are the ordinary people, who have just 
 come up from nowhere, with a lot of money 
 made out of — " 
 
 " Flour and molasses ; yes, I see — you think 
 the molasses sticks to them, and they pretend 
 to ignore it. Well, all I 've got^ to say is 
 that I do 80 hate cowardice, I think, if I were 
 
150 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 in their places, with the molasses so new and 
 sticky, that I should blurt out, ' Molasses ! 
 molasses ! ' if anybody so much as looked at me 
 attentively. But goodness, girls, do you know 
 what time it is ? " 
 
 "Half -past eight," guessed Myra and Anna, 
 confidently. 
 
 " Half-past eight ! you geese, it 's half -past 
 nine. " 
 
 There was a chorus of "Oh's" and "Ah's," 
 and then a general good-night and scampering 
 off to bed. 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 151 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 IT was very late before Hope fell asleep that 
 night. Generally sleep came to her quickly 
 while Myra dawdled and pottered about, until 
 the lights were put out. But on this night 
 Myra, from her little bed in the opposite comer 
 of the room, heard her usually quiet room- 
 mate tossing and turning in a very restless 
 fashion. 
 
 " What in the world is the matter with you, 
 Hope ? " she asked her at length. " Are you 
 ill?" 
 
 "HI? Oh, no; I'm only a little restless," 
 Hope answered. " I am sorry I disturbed you, 
 — I '11 try to be quieter. " 
 
 " Oh, you did n't disturb me, Hope, — such a 
 little thing as that would n't disturb me, — but 
 I thought you must have something the matter 
 with you, you are such a mouse generally. 
 You 're sure there is n't anything the matter ? " 
 
 " Yes, quite sure. " 
 
 " Not even Dorothea ? " 
 
152 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 " Not even Dorothea ? What do you mean ? " 
 
 " Well, I did n't know but you had Dorothea 
 on your mind, — that you might be worrying 
 over her persecution of you, — her determination 
 to make you play that duet with her," said Myra, 
 laughing. 
 
 "Oh, no, I don't worry over Dorothea," 
 answered Hope, laughing a little herself at this 
 suggestion. 
 
 "How Kate does dislike her!" exclaimed 
 Myra. 
 
 " Dislike Dorothea ? " cried Hope, startled at 
 this strong assertion. 
 
 " Well, I should say so ; and you don't like 
 her any better, either, Hope-y dear. I think 
 that you and Kate know something about her 
 that the rest of us don't, for I 've noticed from 
 the very first that you were very distant to 
 her." 
 
 " ' Know something about her ! ' Now, Myra, 
 just because I was not pleased with Dorothea's 
 ways and have held off from playing duets with 
 her, you take that extraordinary notion into 
 your head. ' Know something about her ! ' Of 
 course, you mean by that, something to her 
 disadvantage. I know just what you all know^ 
 that she is the daughter of the Hon. Mr. 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 153 
 
 Bering of Boston. What I know to her disad- 
 vantage is her lack of good manners, and that 
 you all know. There, if that is n't enough — " 
 
 "Oh, it is, it is, Hope-y, do forgive me, 
 that 's a dear ; I was only half in fun, anyway. 
 I feel just as you and Kate do about Dorothea ; 
 her manners are horrid, horrid, — so forward 
 and consequential." 
 
 " But I do hope I have n't influenced you 
 to feel in this way, Myra; that is, that my 
 manner — " 
 
 " No, no, I did n't like her ways at the very 
 first, — they are so domineering. I dare say the 
 outside is the worst of her, though, and that very 
 likely she may be good-hearted. But there 'a 
 Kate Van der Berg, she 's good-hearted, and has 
 good manners too ; and is n't she jolly, Hope ? 
 Wasn't it fun to hear her go on with Anna 
 about the flour and molasses ? And, Hope, 1 do 
 believe that she would do just as she said, if ghe 
 were a new rich person, — that is, if she were 
 the kind of girl she is now. She would just 
 come right out with the flour and molasses, — 
 talk about everything perfectly frankly, because 
 she hates anything that looks like being 
 ashamed, anjrthing that looks like cowardice. 
 Yes, I do believe she would. But I could n't, 
 could you 1" 
 
154 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 There was no answer to this question; and 
 after a moment or two, Myra looked across at 
 the motionless figure clearly outlined in the 
 moonlight, and thought, " She 's gone to sleep. " 
 
 But Hope had not gone to sleep. She was 
 never more widely awake in her life than she 
 was when Myra asked her question, — never 
 more widely awake and never more unhappy ; for 
 as she lay there motionless and silent, she knew 
 that she was acting a lie because she did not 
 want to answer that question, — a question that 
 was almost the same that she had been asking 
 herself ever since she had listened to Kate's 
 emphatic arraignment of cowards; for from 
 that moment she had said to herself : " I wonder 
 if I am not just this kind of a coward, because I 
 have kept silent before these girls, — have not 
 told them that I belonged to the new rich people, 
 — that my father was a poor mechanic, and that 
 I — had sold mayflowers at the Brookside sta- 
 tion ? Kate would have told them long ago, I 
 suppose, if she had been in my place. She 'd 
 say I was ' dirt common ' and vulgar not to 
 speak of father, — that I ought to be so proud of 
 him that I could n't help speaking. And I am 
 proud of him, — I am, I am, nobody could be 
 prouder, — it is n't that I 'm in any way ashamed 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 155 
 
 of anything, — of anything, — the engineer cab, 
 the workman's clothes, or the flower-selling; 
 but — but, oh, I could n't talk about it to those 
 girls, — they have never known what it was to 
 live differently from the way they live now, and 
 they would stare at me, as if I were a curi- 
 osity, something unlike themselves, and they 'd 
 have 80 many questions to ask, because it would 
 all be so odd to them ; and then there is Doro- 
 thea now, to make it worse, — Dorothea would 
 take all the dignity out of anything; and how 
 she would go on about the mayflowers and our 
 quarrel, and exclaim and wonder and laugh! 
 No, no, I can't bring all this on myself, — it 
 may be very cowardly of me, but I can't, I 
 can't" 
 
 Agitated by thoughts like these, it was not 
 strange that sleep failed to come quickly to 
 Hope that night, and that, in consequence, she 
 should look heavy-eyed and pale the next morn- 
 ing, and that, in further consequence, Miss Marr, 
 who was very observant, should say : " What is 
 the matter, Hope ? You don't look well. " And 
 when Hope had no answer to give but that she 
 was restless and didn't sleep very well. Miss 
 Marr glanced at her rather anxiously, and said 
 admonishingly, "1 'm afraid you 've been study- 
 
156 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 ing too hard, Hope. You have n't ? Then you 
 must be homesick." But when Hope assured 
 her that she could n't be homesick in her house, 
 Miss Marr, laughingly declaring that she was a 
 little flatterer, came to the conclusion that there 
 was nothing amiss that the week's vacation so 
 near at hand and the New Year festivities would 
 not rectify. 
 
 Where Hope was to spend her week's vaca- 
 tion had been a matter of some consideration. 
 She would have gone to her grandmother Ben- 
 ham up in the New Hampshire hills if the 
 distance at that season of the year had not 
 been an objection. Miss Marr, too, would 
 gladly have kept her little favorite with her ; and 
 there was Kate Van der Berg pining for her 
 company, backed by Mrs. Van der Berg's cordial 
 note of invitation; and the Sibleys also — the 
 friends whom the Benhams had met abroad, 
 and who had spoken to Miss Marr so admiringly 
 of John Benham's " dearest little daughter " — 
 had entreated her to come to them. Another 
 invitation was from the Benhams' old neighbors 
 and friends, — the Kolbs. All these invitations 
 had been received by Hope early in November, 
 and she had immediately sent them to her 
 parents in Paris, with a little note of her own. 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 157 
 
 that simply said, without a word of her own 
 personal preference: "I want you to tell me 
 which place you would rather I would choose. 
 Jlike them all." 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Benham laughed as they read 
 these words. They laughed because this was 
 BO like Hope. When she was quite a little 
 girl, her mother had thought it would be a good 
 plan to teach her to be careful in her selections, 
 by making her choose entirely for herself what 
 she would like, and abiding by that choice for 
 the time being. Hope was delighted with this 
 plan at first She fancied that with such liberty 
 »8he was going to have a very happy time ; but 
 after she had made several mistakes, had chosen 
 what had brought her, if not serious disappoint- 
 ment and discomfort, a knowledge that she had 
 much better have chosen differently, she hit 
 upon a little change of plan; and this was to 
 submit to her mother and father whatever was 
 set before her for her choosing, with the pro- 
 vision that they should give her the benefit of 
 their opinions, while still leaving her her own 
 liberty of choice. They were very much amused 
 at this proposed change, but readily consented 
 to its being tried ; and the trial, on the whole, 
 had turned out very satisfactorily, the child only 
 
158 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 upon rare occasions, when greatly tempted by 
 some special predilection, going against the 
 parental opinion. The odd plan thus childishly 
 begun had settled into a fixed habit, though as 
 Hope had grown older it had become little more 
 than an interchange of opinions. On the 
 present occasion, however, the girl had very 
 evidently gone back to her first idea, for it was 
 quite plain to both father and mother that 
 while she had some special predilection for one 
 of these invitations, she did not want to betray 
 it, as she wanted a perfectly unbiassed opinion 
 from them, — or, in other words, wanted to 
 know their preference before she acknowledged 
 her own ; and this Mr. Benham decided at once 
 not to give. " I will write to her that she must 
 make her choice quite independent of us," he 
 said to his wife. "There can be no harm in 
 her accepting any one of these invitations, but 
 what we want to know now is the bias of her 
 own mind. " 
 
 John Benham, as well as his wife, had tried, 
 from the very first of their change of fortunes, 
 to keep Hope untouched by the temptations of 
 sudden wealth ; and one of their fears in regard 
 to the New York school had been that Hope 
 would meet there girls whose influence might 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 159 
 
 be of a worldly and fashionable nature. But 
 Miss Marr's reputation for right thinking and 
 right doing had carried the day over all these 
 fears, and they had seen no reason from term 
 to term to regret this decision. It was with 
 no little curiosity, then, coupled with some 
 anxiety, that she and her husband awaited 
 Hope's choice of invitations. She had now 
 been a pupil of Miss Marr's a year, a year in 
 close association with the young people in the 
 school. The parents had seen her twice in this 
 time, and she had seemed to them the same 
 child Hope. Her letters, too, gave them very 
 satisfactory accounts of her school life and 
 companions. In all these accounts the name 
 of Kate Van der Berg held a prominent place, 
 and they could see that this friend was of more 
 importance to Hope than any of the other girls. 
 When, therefore, they pondered over Mrs. Van 
 der Berg's invitation, with its hints of luxu- 
 rious entertainment, they thought it quite natu- 
 ral that any girl should choose to accept it. 
 Then, too, there was Mrs. Sibley, with Ker 
 offer of hospitality in a fine house where the 
 visitor would be petted and made much of. If 
 not to the Van der Bergs', would not any ordi- 
 nary girl choose to go to this delightsome place ? 
 
160 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 The Kolbs could offer nothing like this hospi- 
 tality. Their house at Riverview was small, 
 their means not large, and their acquaintance, 
 outside the musicians with whom the old vio- 
 linist was brought in contact, very limited, and 
 in this limited acquaintance there were no 
 young people, except Mr. Kolb's nephew and 
 his little German wife. But the old violinist's 
 heart was full of warm regard for the little 
 madchen whom he had taught for love five years 
 ago, and what he did offer was out of the ful- 
 ness of this regard, as the following quaint 
 letter will show : — 
 
 Mr DEAR LnTLE Madchen, — The good f rau 
 and myself have wondered for long time if the little 
 madchen remembers the Christmas Day when she 
 stood beside Papa Kolb, to help him strip the 
 Christmas tree; and if she remembers, the good 
 frau and myself wonders if she would not like to 
 stand by Papa Kolb again and strip a Christmas 
 Tree that shall grow up purposely for her if she will 
 come to Papa Kolb's house for the holiday week 
 that is near at hand. The good frau will take best 
 care of the little madchen. She shall have the 
 blue and white chamber with the little porcelain 
 stove, and the good frau will herself make for her 
 the little cakes she likes so well, and Papa Kolb 
 will make his violin sing the music that they botb 
 love. 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 161 
 
 " How can the child resist this letter ? " ex- 
 claimed Mr. Benham, as he laid it down after 
 reading it twice over. 
 
 "Yes; but you might have asked the same 
 question after reading Mrs. Sibley's and Mrs. 
 Van der Berg's, with their cordial offers of 
 Christmas dances and performances," said Mrs. 
 Benham. 
 
 "Yes, I might, but I didn't," replied Mr. 
 Benham, with a smile. 
 
 "No, you didn't; but you must remember 
 though, John, that to Hope, Christmas dances 
 and matinee performances in a big city must 
 naturally be more attractive than they are to 
 you." 
 
 " Oh, yes, yes, of course ; and it 's of course, 
 I suppose, that any young girl would naturally 
 prefer the fine gay things that fine gay people 
 can offer to the more humdrum things that the 
 Kolbs can give." 
 
 It will readily be seen, from this little con- 
 versation, where John Benham's preference 
 lay in this question of invitations; and as a 
 matter of fact, Mrs. Benham's interests were 
 in the same quarter. They both leaned very 
 strongly to Papa Kolb's affectionate home offer, 
 but they were both agreed in their resolve 
 n 
 
162 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 that they would say nothing to Hope of their 
 feeling. 
 
 In this way they looked to find out the 
 natural bias of the girl's mind, and ascertain 
 exactly the direction that her tastes and incli- 
 nations were now taking. But as Mrs. Benham 
 read over again the notes from the Van der 
 Bergs and Sibleys, she felt that it was absurd 
 for her to expect that a young creature like 
 Hope would turn from such attractions to the 
 Kolbs, and she told her husband so. Like the 
 man of sense that he was, Mr. Benham ad- 
 mitted the truth of his wife's conclusions. It 
 was but a step from this admission to a final 
 agreement that Hope of course, thus left to her- 
 self, would choose the New York gayeties, like 
 any other girl ; and when her next letter arrived, 
 Mrs. Benham ran her little pearl paper-cutter 
 through the envelope, with the remark, "Now 
 we shall hear all about the fine preparations 
 for the fine doings at the Van der Bergs', for 
 I am quite sure it will be to Kate Van der Berg 
 and not to Mrs. Sibley that the child has 
 chosen to go; and I do hope that Miss Marr 
 has seen to her preparations, and helped her 
 to choose some new things, if she needs them. 
 And she must need a new gown or two, and 
 
HOrE BENHAM. 163 
 
 gloves, and perhaps a fresh wrap, going about 
 as she will with the Van der Bergs to the holi- 
 day entertainments. I told Miss Marr when 
 we came away, to order anything that Hope 
 needed, if at any time — " 
 
 There was a sudden cessation of Mrs. Ben- 
 ham's voice; then after a moment: "John, 
 John, what do you think! — " 
 
 Mr. Benham looked up from his desk, where 
 he was busy studying the plan of a new French 
 locomotive. 
 
 " What do you think, John ? She is n't going 
 to the Van der Bergs' ! " 
 
 " She prefers the Sibleys, then ; well, they '11 
 be very good to her. " 
 
 " No, she does n't prefer the Sibleys, — it 's 
 the Kolbs, after all. Do listen to her letter ! " 
 and Mrs. Benham read aloud : — 
 
 Dear Tapa and Mamma, — I 'm going to the 
 Kolbs'. I wanted to go the minute I got Papa 
 Kolb's dear kind invitation ; but when on the very 
 same morning I received the two others, I thought 
 I would send them all off to you, hoping that you 
 would say that ymi would like to have me go to the 
 Kolbs'. But when your answer came, and I knew 
 that I must make my own choice quite indepen- 
 dently of you, I wrote at once to Mrs. Van der Berg 
 and to Mrs. Sibley, that I had had an invitation 
 from seme old friends who had known me from a 
 
164 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 little chil(j and been very kind to me, and I loved 
 them very much, and felt that I must go to them. 
 
 I told Kate what I had written, and I told her 
 something about the Kolbs, and that Papa Kolb had 
 been my first teacher ; and she laughed, and said 
 that nobody need expect to get me away from a 
 fiddler. And she is quite right when the fiddler is 
 Mr. Kolb. I love Kate Van der Berg dearly, and 
 BO would you if you knew her; and if you had 
 heard her talk the other day about the right and the 
 wrong kind of pride of ancestry, you would admire 
 her very much. And I love Mrs. Sibley too, and 
 if there had been no invitation from the Kolbs, I 
 should have been very glad to have gone to her or 
 to Kate. But the Kolbs are like — well, like — like 
 my very own. They have known me so long and I 
 have known them so long that I feel at home with 
 them all the time ; and then the fiddles and the 
 music and the Christmas Tree — everything there 
 is what I love best. 
 
 Mr. Benham forgot for the moment the loco- 
 motive plan that lay before him, as he listened 
 to this portion of his daughter's letter; and 
 when his wife put the letter down and said, 
 " We need n't be afraid of Hope's being spoiled 
 by these fine people, John, " his eyes lighted up, 
 as he replied smilingly, — 
 
 "Hope is set to a home tune, Martha, that 
 she is never going to forget." 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 165 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 TROLLY BERING was beating time with 
 -L>' her fan to the closing passages of the 
 Mendelssohn concerto, when she suddenly canght 
 sight of Hope Benham, three seats before her. 
 Dolly's quick start, and a smothered " Oh ! " 
 excited the curiosity of her companion, — a 
 yoimg cousin of hers, — Jimmy Bering, who, 
 following the direction and expression of her 
 eyes, whispered, — 
 
 " What 's the matter with her, Dolly ? " 
 
 BoUy made no reply, but continued to stare, 
 and, Jimmy repeating his question, BoUy whis- 
 pered back : " ' Matter with her ' ? That girl I 
 was looking at ? Nothing ; what do you 
 mean ? " 
 
 " You looked so astonished I thought she was 
 a ghost, or that something was the matter with 
 her." 
 
 Bolly giggled under her breath, and whis- 
 pered : " No, it *8 only that I was so surprised 
 to see her here in Music Hall. She is one of 
 
166 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 the girls from my school, — Hope Benham. I 
 thought she was going to stay in New York 
 this week with the Van der Bergs, — awful 
 swells ! I wonder who she 's visiting here. " 
 
 " Some other ' awful swells, ' — Boston swells, 
 I suppose. She looks that way herself. Why 
 didn't you invite her to stay with you, 
 Dolly ? " 
 
 "I should as soon have thought of inviting 
 Bunker Hill Monument, — though I like her, — 
 sort of — she 's stiffish, but fascinating, and 
 plays the violin like — Oh ! " with an emphatic 
 emphasis, to convey the inexpressible. 
 
 " Like ' Oh ' ! You must waylay her and 
 introduce me to her, Dolly. I want to know 
 any girl who plays the violin like ' Oh. ' I 
 never heard it played like that. Say, 
 Dolly — " 
 
 "H — ush!" breathed Jimmy's mother, Mrs. 
 Mark Dering, shaking her head at the two 
 whisperers, as the violin solo began. Jiiiimy, 
 who was enthusiastically fond of the music 
 of the violin, was now quite willing to be 
 hushed, and, leaning back, gave himself up 
 to silent enjoyment. Toward the close of the 
 exquisite strains he happened to glance at the 
 girl three seats in front of him. Her lips were 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 167 
 
 slightly parted, her eyes were shining, her 
 whole attitude expressive of the deepest 
 delight. 
 
 "How she does like it, and how she knows 
 music ! " thought Jimmy. " 1 'd like to hear Ker 
 play the violin. I wonder if I can't manage 
 it. I mean to make Dolly introduce me to 
 her." 
 
 Hope was pulling up her little sealskin cloak 
 at the end of the concert, when she heard a 
 voice say: "How de do, Hope? I never was 
 so surprised in my life as when I saw you here. 
 I thought Kate Van der Berg had invited you 
 to stay with her through the vacation." 
 
 The " deep delight " on Hope's face vanished 
 as if by magic as she heard this; and as she 
 turned to the speaker, Jimmy said to himself: 
 
 " My ! how she does dislike Dolly ! " 
 
 When, in the next breath, Dolly repeated, " I 
 thought Kate Van der Berg invited you to stay 
 with her," Jimmy, who was a little gentleman 
 with much tact and taste, groaned in spirit: 
 " How could she ; oh, how covld Dolly put the 
 thing in that way ? As if — as if a girl had 
 only to be invited by a Kate Van der Berg to 
 accept ! As if she could n't refuse a Kate Van 
 der Berg, or anybody — such a girl as this ! " 
 
168 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 But the next instant Jimmy's groan had 
 become a chuckle as he heard this girl say: 
 "Yes, Kate invited me to spend my vacation 
 with her, but I had older friends than the Van 
 der Bergs. " 
 
 Not much in the words, but, oh, the way they 
 were spoken, — the tone, the little straight stare 
 at Dolly ! Jimmy, little gentleman though he 
 was, had a wild desire to throw up his cap and 
 " hurrah " as he looked and listened. " It was 
 all such a set-down for Dolly," as he told his 
 mother later. But Dolly did n't seem to mind 
 it much. She colored a bit, and then she 
 laughed, and then before Hope could make a 
 move away from her, she was introducing her 
 to "my cousin, Jimmy Dering;" and Jimmy, 
 tactful little fellow, began to speak in his soft, 
 sweet voice that was like the G string of a 
 violin, of the music they had been listening to; 
 and he spoke so intelligently and appreciatively 
 that Hope could not but be interested; and 
 when, by the greatest good luck in the world 
 for him, he asked her if she had noticed the 
 beautiful expression on the face of the first 
 violinist when he played, and then procee&ed to 
 tell her that this violinist was a German, and 
 that his name was Kolb, and that he was a real 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 169 
 
 genius, Hope turned such a radiant face towards 
 the boy that be was quite taken aback at the 
 first start; then he thought to himself, "She 
 appreciates old Kolb as well as we do;" and 
 delighted at this, was going on to say more, 
 when Dolly's voice again broke in with, — 
 
 " Hope, I want to introduce you to my aunt, 
 Mrs. Bering. This is Miss Hope Benham, 
 auntie, one of the girls at my school." 
 
 "iMy school!" Jimmy groaned again when 
 he heard this; and as he observed Hope's 
 sudden stiffening and coolness, he inwardly 
 exclaimed: "I shall never hear this girl play 
 if Dolly goes on like this, with ' my school,' 
 and that my-everything-way of hers ! " 
 
 But when Mrs. Dering came up with that 
 pretty manner, and said that she was always 
 glad to meet one of Miss Marr's girls, Jimmy 
 breathed easier; and when she asked Hope if 
 she was fond of music, and Dolly burst out, 
 " Fond ? You would n't ask that question if 
 you could hear Hope play the violin," Jimmy 
 took courage and said, — 
 
 " Mother, if Miss Benham would only come to 
 our Monday night musicale ! " 
 
 "Yes, to be sure," cried Mrs. Dering, de- 
 lighted at the suggestion. If Hope was a 
 
170 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 musical genius, she might perhaps be interested 
 to help them, for the musicale was for a charity. 
 That she was one of Miss Marr's girls spoke for 
 her desirability in all other ways. It had got 
 to be a sort of voucher to be one of Miss Marr's 
 girls. 
 
 " And if you have your violin with you — 
 she 's got a wonderful violin, auntie — and will 
 bring it, and play something for us — it 's for a 
 charity, you know — " 
 
 "Yes, if you would, it would be so kind of 
 you ; the charity is such a worthy one, — a 
 little kindergarten bed at the children's hospi- 
 tal," took up Mrs. Bering, persuasively. 
 
 " I have n't my violin with me ; and — " 
 
 " Oh, well, that need n't make any difference. 
 I have two, and you can have one of mine," 
 interrupted Dolly, with perfect confidence. 
 
 "And I have an engagement on Wednesday 
 to another musicale, or rather a concert," said 
 Hope, finishing the answer that Dolly had so 
 confidently interrupted. 
 
 "But can't you come and see me some day 
 and — if you '11 tell me where you 're staying 
 I '11 call on you — I '11 call and fetch you any 
 day you '11 say, and Jimmy '11 come, and we '11 
 all play together — Jimmy plays very well. " 
 
aOPE BENHAM. 171 
 
 Dolly, with this, pulled out a little tablet, and 
 fixing her eyes on it in a business-like way, 
 said, "Now, then, give me your address; 
 and — " 
 
 "It would be of no use, I cannot come to 
 you, for I return to New York Thursday 
 morning. " 
 
 " But it 's only Saturday now — there 's four 
 days to Thursday — if you 'd say Monday or 
 Tuesday." 
 
 " I am engaged Monday and Tuesday, — you 
 must excuse me — Ah ! " with an air of relief, 
 " there 's Mr. Kolb, I must bid you good-by ; " 
 and with a very polite bow, including the three, 
 — Mrs. Daring, her son, and Dolly, — and with 
 a very small smile, Hope made her escape, and 
 hastened towards Mr. Kolb. 
 
 "She knows old Kolb, after all," exclaimed 
 Jimmy, in astonishment. 
 
 " She knows all the musical people that were 
 ever born, /believe," snapped out Dolly; "stiff 
 as she is, she 's just crazy over musical folks. 
 But did you ever see anybody so stiff and oflSsh 
 as she was ? " 
 
 "I never saw anybody so persistent as you 
 were, Dolly ; you fairly pushed her into stiffness 
 and offishness. You asked her to help in the 
 
172 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 musicale as if it would be simply a privilege for 
 Tier, and then, when anybody could see with half 
 an eye she did n't want to come and did n't 
 mean to come, you went at her in the same way 
 about coming to you, whipping out that tablet 
 with a ' Now, then, give an account of yourself ' 
 air that was — that was — " But Jimmy could 
 find no words to express adequately his feelings 
 on this point, and finished up suddenly in his 
 wrath and disappointment, " Dolly, you are the 
 biggest bully I ever met. If you were a boy 
 amongst boys, you 'd get a licking! " 
 
 "Children, children, stop quarrelling, right 
 here in public ! " admonished Mrs. Bering, in a 
 low, shocked tone. 
 
 " 'T is n't me that 's quarrelling," said Dolly, 
 regardless of grammar and in a tearful sniffle. 
 " Jimmy 's always setting me up to do things 
 for him, and then he 's al-al-always finding 
 fault with the way I do 'em, " Dolly went on, 
 in a still more tearful sniffle. 
 
 " Setting you up to do things for him ? What 
 did he set you up to do now ? " asked her aunt. 
 
 " To introduce him to Hope. He wanted to 
 know her, he wanted to hear her play; and 
 I" — sniff, sniff, sniff — "I — " 
 
 " Well, there, never mind ; tell me when we 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 173 
 
 get into the carriage," broke in Mrs. Bering, 
 mindful of the proprieties, as she saw several 
 persons observing Dolly. 
 
 " Yes, don't cry on the street, — you might get 
 taken up for a nuisance, Dol ; a policeman 's got 
 his eye on you now," growled Jimmy, with a 
 savage little grin. Dolly had a queer, childish 
 way of accepting everything seriously some- 
 times ; and the startled seriousness of her face 
 at this was too much for Jimmy's gravity, and 
 he burst into a fit of laughter that cleared the 
 atmosphere not a little, and made Dolly her- 
 self forget to sniffle. She forgot also to air 
 her grievance against Jimmy, when, as they 
 were seated in the carriage, her aunt said 
 animatedly, — 
 
 " Benham — I wonder if this girl is the 
 daughter of a Mr. and Mrs. Benham I met when 
 I was in Paris. " 
 
 "Her father and mother are in Paris now; 
 that is the reason why Hope does n't spend her 
 vacations with them," said Dolly. 
 
 "This Mr. Benham was a distinguished 
 scientific man of some sort, I believe. He was 
 distinguished for something, I know, and he 
 was with scientific men. I met him at Pro- 
 fessor Hervey's, and he came into the room, 
 
174 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 I remember, with two or three English gentle- 
 men of note. I recollect it, because I know I 
 felt quite proud at the time that he was an 
 American, — he looked so manly and earnest, 
 
 — and some one told me he had just had a 
 fortune come to him." 
 
 "Well, Hope's father must ha,ve a lot of 
 money, for she 's got a violin that cost enough. 
 It 's a regular Cremona. " 
 
 " No ! " exclaimed Jimmy, incredulously. 
 
 " Yes ; she told me it was made by an Italian 
 who was a pupil of Stradivari and lived in 
 Cremona. " 
 
 " You don't say so ! " cried Jimmy, excitedly. 
 " How I should like to see it, for I tell you to 
 see a real old Cremona would be worth while. 
 Lots of people think they 've got a Cremona, 
 when it 's only an imitation. Karl Myer- 
 witz, who makes violins, and knows all about 
 them, told me that if everybody who claims to 
 have a Cremona violin, really had one, the num- 
 ber of them would count up to twice as many as 
 had ever been made. " 
 
 " Well, all I know is that Hope told me that 
 her violin was made in seventeen hundred and 
 something by a pupil of Stradivari. " 
 
 " Where did her father get it, do you know, 
 
 — did she tell you that ? " 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 175 
 
 "An old teacher of hers got it, — a German 
 who has a brother who deals in rare violins in 
 Paris." 
 
 " How soon did she begin to take lessons ? " 
 
 " Oh, when she was quite a little girl. " 
 
 " What kind of music — whose compositions, 
 I mean, does she play ? " 
 
 Dolly rattled off what she knew of Hope's 
 repertoire. 
 
 " Well, she mint have been at it from a small 
 youngster," ejaculated Jimmy, emphatically, 
 at the list Dolly gave. " And she must have a 
 great — a great taste for music. The idea of 
 your thinking I would play with any one who 
 was up to what she is!" 
 
 " But you play very well, — you play better 
 than I do." 
 
 " What 's that to do with it ? You don't mean 
 to say that you think — that you propose — " 
 But Jimmy stopped short, remembering the 
 recent outbreak of sniffles and tears. But he 
 had gone far enough for Dolly to understand, 
 and she took up his words, not tearfully, but 
 indignantly, as she replied, — 
 
 " I do mean to say that I propose to play a 
 duet with Hope at school this very winter. " 
 
 "Is it a school arrangement, — Miss Marr's 
 
176 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 plan ? I did n't know that you studied the 
 violin at Miss Marr's." 
 
 "Well, we do, if we wish to. There is a 
 teacher, a very fine teacher, who comes in 
 from the outside for that, as there is for the 
 harp, or any other special accomplishment. " 
 
 " Oh ! and Miss Benham wants you to prac- 
 tise with her, — I suppose you can help each 
 other, — I see," remarked Jimmy, demurely. 
 
 " I did n't say she wanted me to practise with 
 her. I said that I proposed to play a duet 
 with Hope sometime this winter. " 
 
 Jimmy made no further remark concerning 
 the matter, but he said to himself : " Yes, that 's 
 it ; Dolly has had the nerve to propose to play 
 a duet with that girl, and my opinion is that 
 she '11 get snubbed. Miss Hope Benham is n't 
 going to stand Dolly's impudence, — not a bit 
 of it." 
 
 " What concert is it, Jimmy, that comes off on 
 Wednesday ? " suddenly asked Mrs. Dering here. 
 
 " I don't know of any except that affair at the 
 Somersets'." 
 
 "Oh, that for Mr. Kolb! I wish I had been 
 told of that earlier. I only heard about it at 
 the last minute, and then I could n't get any 
 ticket for love or money." 
 
HOPE BENUAM. 177 
 
 "Mamma tried to get tickets too," said 
 Dolly, " but they seemed to be all snapped up 
 at the very start by that Somerset clique. I 
 think it was real mean. There are other people 
 in Boston, besides the Somersets, that know 
 about music, and can appreciate — " 
 
 " But there was a limit of tickets, — there had 
 to be ; for Mrs. Somerset's parlors, big as they 
 are, can only hold just so many," put in Jimmy, 
 in explanation. 
 
 " Your young friend may be going to this con- 
 cert," suggested Mrs. Dering, reflectively. 
 
 Dolly bounced up like an India-rubbef ball at 
 this suggestion, and cried out, — 
 
 " Why, of course that 's where she 's going, I 
 might have known it." And then Dolly leaned 
 back discontentedly, and reflected upon the 
 good fortune that seemed to attend Hope Ben- 
 ham at every step. There was Kate Van der 
 Berg lavishing all sorts of attentions upon 
 her ; and here was this testimonial concert that 
 the Somersets had got up for Mr. Kolb, and 
 that everybody was pining to go to, open to 
 her ! " Wonder who she is visiting, anyway, " 
 Dolly pondered, in the course of these reflec- 
 tions, — " perhaps the Somersets themselves, — 
 'twould be just like her luck." 
 
 13 
 
178 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 And while Dolly pondered these things, Mrs. 
 Daring mused with regret of what her musicale 
 had lost, and Jimmy chuckled anew as he 
 recalled "that girl's" high and mighty manner 
 with Dolly. But his chuckle ended in a sigh, 
 as he thought: " It 's of no use for me to expect 
 to hear that girl play; Dolly has spoilt all 
 that." 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 179 
 
 CHAPTEE XVL 
 
 IT was " New Year's night " at Miss Mart's, 
 and every girl was as bright and fresh as if 
 the night before she had not watched the old 
 year out and the new year in; for the happiness 
 of it all, and the long morning rest had been 
 like a tonic. 
 
 "DidrCt we have a good time last night!" 
 exclaimed Myra Donaldson, in a sort of general 
 questioning tone, as she stood with a group of 
 the girls by the big hall-fire, just before the 
 hour appointed for the guests to assemble. 
 
 " A tip-top time, for that kind of a time, " 
 answered Dolly, speaking first, in her usual for- 
 ward fashion. 
 
 "What do you mean by ' that kind of a 
 time ' 1 " asked Myra. 
 
 " I mean a girl -party. It was the best girl- 
 party I ever went to ; but I like parties best with 
 boys in 'em, just as I like cake best with cur- 
 rants or raisins in it. " 
 
180 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 The girls all laughed; and Kate Van der 
 Berg called out : " The boys then stand for the 
 currants and raisins with you, Dorothea ? " 
 
 " Of course they do. I hate to dance with a 
 girl ; that 's one reason 1 don't like a girl-party. 
 I never can remember which I am, the boy or 
 the girl, when the figures are called, and I 'm 
 just as likely to prance out in the square dances 
 as a girl when I 'm taking the boy's place, and 
 to set off in a waltz with the wrong foot, and 
 muddle things generally. Then we girls see 
 girls all the time, or we see so much more of 
 girls than we do of boys that we like a change, 
 or / do. I dare say the rest of you, " making 
 up a defiant little face, "don't feel like this 
 at all. I dare say you had just as lief dance 
 with girls, and would n't care if you never had 
 boys at your parties. " 
 
 "Oh, yes, we would; we like currants and 
 raisins in our cake, too, don't we, Hope ? " 
 
 " Yes, indeed, " laughed Hope. 
 
 " You 'd have thought so last year if you 
 could have seen Hope with my youngest brother, 
 my little eleven-year-old," continued Kate, 
 merrily. " He thought Hope was just perfect, 
 and the way he followed her up ! He was n't 
 in the least bashful, like some of the older boys, 
 
HOPE BENEAM. 181 
 
 and he did n't have the slightest hesitation in 
 trotting after her. I believe he asked her to 
 dance every dance with him. I know I had to 
 interfere and curb his ardor, or Hope would n't 
 have danced with anybody else, for she really 
 encouraged him in his attentions in the most 
 decided manner." 
 
 " He was such a dear little fellow, " said Hope, 
 — " he told me 1 was just as good company as a 
 boy." 
 
 When the laugh that this called forth had 
 subsided, Dorothea said rather soberly, "I 
 didn't know that you had such young boys." 
 
 "Look at her, look at her!" cried Kate. 
 " Did you ever see such a worried, disappointed 
 face ? But cheer up, Dorothea, cheer up ; we 
 do have a few older ones. My brother Schuy- 
 ler will be here this year." 
 
 " Oh ! " exclaimed Hope, with a falling inflec- 
 tion to her voice, " and not Johnny ? " 
 
 "And not Johnny," laughed Kate; "one at a 
 time, you know." 
 
 " How old did you say your brother Schuyler 
 is ? " asked Dorothea. 
 
 " Seventeen, — quite old, you see, for a 
 boy. He '11 do for you to dance with, won't 
 he?" 
 
182 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 "Johnny dances beautifully; one couldn't 
 have a better partner, " said Hope, 
 
 " Oh, 't is n't only a dancing partner Dorothea 
 wants," spoke up Bessie Armitage, a keen-eyed, 
 keen-witted girl, whose quiet observation was 
 never very much at fault. "Dorothea wants 
 a talking partner as well. " 
 
 Dolly gave a little conscious giggle, and 
 simperingly declared, with a toss of her head : 
 " Oh, I know what you mean. You mean that 
 I want a flirting partner; people are always 
 accusing me of that, and I — " 
 
 " Flirting ! how I hate that word, and how I 
 hate the thing itself ! " burst out Kate Van der 
 Berg. " It 's the cheapest word, and the cheap- 
 est thing to do ; and for girls like us to put on 
 such airs, and think we are doing something 
 fine and grown-up. My brother Maurice, my 
 oldest brother, has told me enough what young 
 men think of half -grown girls who do such 
 things. " 
 
 " Oh, yes, I know ; you told me, before I went 
 away, how your brother made fun of young 
 girls," cried Dorothea, angrily. 
 
 The hot color rose to Kate's very forehead, in 
 her sudden shock of indignation. Then, as it 
 slowly ebbed away, she said in a low, intense 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 183 
 
 tone : " I told you that I had heard my brother 
 tell how men either disliked the pertness of 
 young girls, or else amused themselves by it for 
 a little while, and then made fun of it, — that 
 was what I said to you. He did not say that 
 he made fun of them, — he could n't do such a 
 thing ; and the reason he told me what others 
 did, was to show me how such things were 
 looked upon." 
 
 "And you told me because you thought /was 
 one of those pert, forward, bold girls ! " snapped 
 out Dorothea. 
 
 "I was not telling you what he said, any 
 more than the rest of the girls who were 
 present; and what I told was brought out by 
 something that was said at the time." 
 
 " Something that / said, /know. I was talk- 
 ing about my sister's gentlemen friends, and I 
 said that I never found it hard to talk to them; 
 and then you — " 
 
 " Hush, girls, there 's the bell ; the company 
 is coming," broke in Myra Donaldson, "and we 
 must get back into the ' drorrin'-room, ' as 
 Patrick calls it." 
 
 "Yes, it is high time we were all there," said 
 some one here who was coming up from the 
 lower end of the hall. It was Miss Marr. 
 
184 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 " I wonder if she has heard any of this talk, 
 and how much of it ? " thought Hope. 
 
 But Miss Marr gave no sign of having heard 
 anything of it. She came forward brightly, 
 smiled on this one and that with equal sweet- 
 ness, and playfully drove them all before her 
 into the long flower-scented room. 
 
 The guests were all received in this room; 
 then by twos and threes and fours, after a 
 little interchange of greetings and introduc- 
 tions, they were conducted to the elevator and 
 taken up to the great hall at the top of the 
 house. It was an immense room that Miss 
 Marr had had built several years ago, when her 
 school plan had grown from its first modest 
 limit to a promise of its present more liberal 
 dimensions, and was intended at the start for 
 a gymnasium and play-room. Later it was 
 fitted up so that the gymnastic appliances could 
 be easily removed, and a dance-room or recital- 
 hall made of it upon short notice. On the 
 night of the New Year's parties it always pre- 
 sented a most enchanting aspect, with its flower 
 and fern and palm decorations, and its soft 
 yet brilliant lights. Dolly, to whom it was all 
 new and fresh, cried out enthusiastically as she 
 entered, " Oh, how perfectly beautiful ! " 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 185 
 
 " la n't it ? " agreed another new-comer, a 
 visitor, who was following close upon Dolly's 
 heels ; and this visitor was no less a person than 
 our friend Jimmy Bering, who had come on 
 from Boston at Dolly's particular, request and 
 to his own particular satisfaction ; for now, he 
 argued, " I may stand a chance of hearing ' that 
 girl ' play on that Cremona violin. " 
 
 It was Jimmy's ring at the door-bell that had 
 interrupted that gusty little conversation in the 
 hall. He was the first guest ; and as he came 
 into the drawing-room quite alone, and her- 
 alded portentously by the solemn butler's loudly 
 spoken "Mr. James Dering," he might have 
 been expected to flinch a little, especially under 
 the battery of all those girls' glances; but 
 Jimmy was not a self-conscious youth, and he 
 had a happy knack of always adjusting himself 
 to circumstances, and making the best of a try- 
 ing situation. So now he came forward in his 
 own modest, pleasant way, without a bit of 
 awkwardness; and though he blushed a little, 
 it was with such a confiding sort of manner, 
 — a manner that seemed to say, "Now do be 
 friendly to me, " — that every girl there, in- 
 cluding Miss Marr herself, was his friend at 
 once. 
 
186 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 "He is charming," thought Miss Marr, "so 
 modest and well-mannered, and with such a 
 bright merry boyishness about him." 
 
 Even Dolly could n't spoil the impression he 
 made, as she put up her head and looked 
 about her with a self-congratulatory air, that 
 said plainly, — 
 
 " Now, this is my guest and my cousin ! " 
 
 No, even Dolly could n't spoil Jimmy Der- 
 ing's popularity. People liked him in spite of 
 Dolly, and oftentimes they softened towards 
 Dolly herself, and forgave her her blundering, 
 domineering tactlessness, because she was 
 Jimmy's cousin, as these girls did on this 
 occasion, before the evening was over. 
 
 Kate Van der Berg, who had been very wroth 
 at the start, very much disgusted with Miss 
 Dolly, who had felt as if she never wanted to 
 have anything more to do with her, before the 
 evening was over began to say to herself, — 
 
 "Dorothea must have some good in her, and 
 must belong to nice people — really nice, well- 
 bred people — to have such a cousin. " 
 
 And then when the other boy visitors ap- 
 peared, — when Schuyler Van der Berg, Ray- 
 mond Armitage, Peter Van Loon, and others 
 of the New York youngsters were in full force, 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 187 
 
 — it was found that they too were taken cap- 
 tive by Jimmy's pleasant ways. 
 
 " Nice little chap ! " said Schuyler to his great 
 friend, Peter Van Loon. 
 
 "Yes," responded Peter; "nicest Boston 
 fellow I 've ever seen. Don't like Boston fel- 
 lows generally, they 're so cocky." 
 
 "And this little chap might be cocky, easy. 
 What do you think, — he 's the quarter -back in 
 the Puritan eleven ! " 
 
 " No ! " and Peter looked up with greater 
 animation than he had shown since he came 
 into the house. 
 
 "And he 's coxswain in the Charlesgate boat- 
 crew. " 
 
 " I say now ! " ejaculated Peter, with increased 
 animation. 
 
 " Yes, and he plays the fiddle too, — knows 
 all about music." 
 
 Peter rounded his lips into a whistling shape. 
 Then, "How 'd you find all this out ? " 
 
 " His cousin — that big, handsome, black- 
 eyed girl over there, I 've just been dancing 
 with — told me. " 
 
 "That girl with the yellow gown and all 
 those daffodils ? " 
 
 "Yea." 
 
188 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 "She is handsome, and she knows how to 
 dance. " 
 
 " Yes, she knows how to dance, but she rattles 
 too much." 
 
 "But she knows how to dance," repeated 
 Peter, " and I 'm going to ask her to dance with 
 me in the Virginia reel. I always get mixed 
 up in those old-fashioned things ; but this girl 
 will fetch me through, I know." 
 
 And Peter was right. Dorothea fetched 
 him through beautifully, and Peter did n't in 
 the least mind her rattling. Indeed, he 
 seemed to encourage it and to be amused by 
 it; for Peter, I am afraid, was that kind of 
 young man that Kate Van der Berg declared 
 that her brother was not, — the young man who 
 encourages rattling, to make fun of it. But 
 whatever Peter did was very lazily done, and 
 his fun-making was confined mostly to his 
 own inward reflections, with now and then the 
 dropping of a humorous word to some favorite 
 companion. To be sure, this humorous word of 
 Peter's had its full effect, for Peter was not a 
 great talker, and as he was known to be a keen- 
 witted fellow, whatever he did say was made 
 much of. But Peter himself had n't a bit of 
 malice in him, and if he had his laugh now and 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 189 
 
 then at some foolish rattler, I, for one, think 
 the rattler deserved the laugh, and came off 
 very easily at that ; for, as Jimmy Dering said 
 once of his cousin, — 
 
 " Girls of Dolly's sort have got to learn that 
 people are not going to be careful of them and 
 their feelings, unless they are careful, to begin 
 with." 
 
 And I will add that girls of Dolly's sort teach 
 all girls how not to do it, — how not to romp 
 and rush and rattle, and make themselves 
 objects of ridicule, in the fond delusion that they 
 are objects of admiration, as Dolly did on this 
 very night. 
 
 She began her rattle with Schuyler Van der 
 Berg ; she kept it up with Peter Van Loon and 
 fine handsome Victor Graham, and concluded 
 it at the end of the evening with Raymond 
 Armitage, who was of a very different fibre 
 from the others, — a harder, coarser fibre 
 altogether. 
 
 But Dolly found Raymond Armitage the most 
 interesting of the four, for it was Raymond who 
 to her mind was the most polite, the most 
 attractive in his way of doing and saying things, 
 — his way of listening admiringly to everything 
 she said, of laughing and applauding all her 
 
190 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 blunt speeches and frisky ways. If Jimmy 
 had not been so popular, and consequently so 
 necessarily engaged in responding to this popu- 
 larity, he would have noticed how Dolly was 
 "carrying on," and have tried at least to check 
 her ; but when Jimmy was not talking with a 
 little knot of boys and girls about boat-crews 
 and foot-ball and the coming season's races, 
 he was dancing with Hope, and in every pause 
 of the dance he talked about music; and that 
 entirely absorbed both of them. But there 
 came at last the grand concluding dance that 
 brought them all more closely together. It was 
 that concluding dance that Kate Van der Berg 
 had spoken of as the best fun of all. This 
 dance had been introduced and taught by Miss 
 Marr herself at the very start of her school, 
 and was by this time perfectly well known to 
 all her girls, and readily understood by any 
 new guest of the evening under the guidance 
 of his partner. It was an old French dance, — 
 a " gavotte, " so called. Miss Marr had told them 
 its history. It was a kind of minuet that Marie 
 Antoinette had introduced as a pendant to the 
 minuet proper, adding other steps, and re- 
 naming it. She told them that another point in 
 its history was, that the name was said to be 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 191 
 
 derived from the town of Gap, whose inhabi- 
 tants were called " Gavots " and " Gavottes, " 
 and that it was not unlikely that it was an old 
 country dance of that region, and that Marie 
 Antoinette made use of it in her re-arrangement, 
 and also called it a minuet de la cour. 
 
 But wherever it had its origin, it was a charm- 
 ing dance, and Miss Marr had been taught it 
 thoroughly in her early youth when she visited 
 her French relations in Prance as a pretty 
 French costume-party dance; and she in her 
 turn had introduced various pretty changes, the 
 prettiest and most novel being at the very end, 
 where, swinging all around together, they pair 
 off at last in regular appointed order, and pass 
 through an archway of flowers, each pair receiv- 
 ing in this passing a beautiful little basket, its 
 woven cover of flowers concealing two New 
 Year's gifts, — one a pretty trinket, a ring 
 or brooch or bracelet, sent by some member of 
 the pupil's family for the pupil herself; the 
 other a comic accompaniment in the way of a 
 gay mirth-provoking toy, to be bestowed upon 
 the partner, — the guest of the pupil on this 
 occasion, — these latter being furnished by Miss 
 Marr, and most choicely selected, some of them 
 coming from Paris and Vienna. The girls were 
 
192 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 quite as much interested in these funny toys as 
 in their own trinkets ; and when all had passed 
 the archway, there was a gathering together of 
 the whole party, and a great frolic over the 
 examination of the basket's contents; Kate 
 almost forgetting the glow and sparkle of her 
 new amethyst ring in the fun of the little 
 gutta-percha man, who was made to wink and 
 laugh and shake his fist at Victor when it was 
 presented to him by Kate. And when Hope 
 lifted her basket-cover and found beside the tiny 
 Geneva watch sent to her by her father, the 
 merry little figure of a girl playing a violin, 
 while a woolly bear danced before her on a 
 wooden stand, Jimmy, who was Hope's partner, 
 with gay mimicry began to imitate the bear, 
 and Kate cried out, — 
 
 " Would n't you, would n't you though, really 
 like to dance to Hope's playing ? " and quick as 
 a flash, Jimmy answered, with a gallant little 
 bow, — 
 
 "I 'd like better to listen." 
 
 " You 'd like to listen and to dance, too, if 
 you could hear Hope play the Gungl' waltzes ; 
 you could n't keep your feet still," added 
 Kate. 
 
 " Oh, if I could hear you play, Miss Benham ! " 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 193 
 
 and Jimmy turned eagerly to Hope. "There 
 are no waltzes I like so well as those. I 'm 
 coming in to-morrow afternoon to bring my 
 cousin some music that I 've brought on for 
 her from her old teacher in Boston, and she is 
 going to try it with me in the music-room here 
 at half-past three o'clock. Miss Marr has 
 kindly given us permission, and oh, would you, 
 could you, Miss Benham, join us at four o'clock 
 and play one of the Gungl' waltzes, just one ? 
 It would give me such pleasure." 
 
 "I — I don't know that Miss Marr would — " 
 
 " Oh, I am sure she would ; I '11 ask her. — 
 Miss Marr," and Jimmy put out a detaining 
 hand, as Miss Marr at that moment was pass- 
 ing, and in three minutes more his request was 
 made and granted. Hope had her full permis- 
 sion to join the two in the music- room the next 
 afternoon and play the Gungl' waltzes if she 
 would like to do so. 
 
 " And you will like, won't you ? " pleaded 
 Jimmy, in his naive boyish way. 
 
 Hope hesitated a second ; then, with a little 
 laugh, assented to his pleading. All this had 
 been a little aside, in the midst of the hum and 
 buzz of the frolic ; and then, just then, it was, 
 that suddenly, over the ordinary clamor. Doro- 
 
 13 
 
194 HOPE BEN HAM. 
 
 thea's voice rose in a noisy laugh above every- 
 thing, and her exclamation, " I told you I 'd 
 get even with 'you!" was heard from end to 
 end of the hall. 
 
 Jimmy started as he heard it, 
 
 " What is Dolly carrying on like that for ? " 
 he thought. 
 
 Miss Marr, too, started forward, with the 
 same thought. And there was Dolly, still 
 laughing loudly, and shaking a carnival figure 
 of paper, free of the last scrap of its contents of 
 sugary snow, over the person of Mr. Raymond 
 Armitage, her gay threat of getting even with 
 him the culmination of some joke that had 
 passed between them. Miss Marr, as she 
 started forward, had evidently an intention of 
 putting a decided check upon Miss Dorothea 
 then and there ; but a look at Jimmy's face, and 
 his half-uttered "Oh, if Dolly would think 
 what she *s about ! " seemed to change Miss 
 Marr's intention somewhat, as it tempered her 
 feeling; for as she caught sight of the boy's 
 face, she said to herself, — 
 
 "Poor little fellow, I won't add to his dis- 
 comfort by speaking now. " 
 
 And so Dolly went on in her wild way un- 
 checked except by Jimmy's, "Don't, Dolly, 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 195 
 
 don't ! You 're making such a noise, and every- 
 body 's looking at you. " 
 
 But Dolly only laughed at this. She was 
 having a very jolly time. She fancied it was a 
 very successful time, and that she was really 
 the belle of the evening, because Raymond 
 Armitage plied her with flattery, and because a 
 good many of the others watched her with what 
 she supposed were entirely admiring glances. 
 Getting glimpses of herself, too, in a large 
 long mirror occasionally, she saw that she had 
 never looked better; and, in fact, she did look 
 very handsome, with her clear, bright com- 
 plexion, her silky black hair and brilliant ey&s, 
 framed in golden yellow, and "all those daffo- 
 dils," as Peter Van Loon had said. Yes, she 
 was looking very handsome; they all recog- 
 nized this, — all these young fellows who looked 
 at her, and laughed and chatted with her, and 
 criticised her as "a rattler," 
 
196 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE next afternoon at half-past three o'clock 
 Jimmy made his appearance punctually 
 at Miss Marr's, and was received with great 
 satisfaction hy his cousin. 
 
 " It 's such luck that you got Hope to come 
 and play with us. I must say you know how 
 to manage people, Jimmy," cried Dolly, glee- 
 fully, after she had greeted him. 
 
 " Play with us ! She 's coming to play /or us, 
 or for me, the Gungl' waltzes." 
 
 " Oh, well, she '11 play that duet with me now, 
 and you '11 play our accompaniment. " 
 
 "I shall do no such thing. I am going to 
 play your accompaniment now. Miss Benham 
 is n't coming in until four, and after she plays 
 the waltzes I shall go away. As if I should 
 take advantage of her kindness in such a man- 
 ner! And how you can think of doing it, I 
 can't understand, Dolly. " 
 
 " Yes, now begin to find fault with me ! " 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 197 
 
 "Find fault with you! I should think I 
 might. You do such things, Dolly. Last 
 night, now, everybody was looking at you. " 
 
 " Why should n't they ? A cat may look at 
 a king, and I had an awfully pretty gown, 
 Jimmy ; " and Dolly began to hum the closing 
 bars of the gavotte. 
 
 Jimmy saw how she understood, or misunder- 
 stood things, and burst out, — 
 
 " Look here, Dolly, don't you fancy now that 
 those fellows were thinking of your good looks 
 and nothing else all the time they watched you. 
 I know fellows better than you do. I don't say 
 they did n't like your looks, that they did n't 
 admire you, but I do say they did n't admire 
 the way you went on." 
 
 " 'The way I went on ' ? What do you mean ? " 
 
 " You know, — the way you giggled, and 
 tossed your head, and ' made eyes,' as the 
 French people say, at that Armitage fellow. I 
 did n't happen to be near you to notice what you 
 were doing until the last of the evening, but 
 that was enough. I knew, by what I did see, 
 how you 'd been going on, for I 've seen you at a 
 party before, Dolly." 
 
 " Oh, I know what you mean ; you mean that 
 \ flirt, I've heard that before, Jimmy. 1 
 
198 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 can't help it if I have more attention than other 
 girls, just because I 'm lively, and know how to 
 talk." 
 
 " Flirt ! yes, that 's what you call it, — that 
 giggling, and tossing your head, and saying 
 pert things. It 's like a girl at a Park Beach 
 picnic, — what you call ' flirting. ' It is vulgar, 
 and that 's what all the fellows I know think of 
 it; and while you think they are paying you 
 admiring attentions, they 're just having fun at 
 your expense; and it makes me ashamed, for 
 you are my cousin, and — " 
 
 "And you are the most conceited boy that 
 ever lived. You think you know everything, and 
 you don't know a«?/thing about society. A girl 
 is always older than a boy in all society matters ; 
 everybody says so ; and though you 're sixteen, 
 and I 'm only fifteen, I 'm a whole year ahead of 
 you, — you 're just a little hoy to me. One of my 
 sister's friends, a man who knows, said to me, 
 this vacation, that I seemed to be eighteen 
 rather than fifteen." 
 
 Jimmy stared at his cousin for a moment in 
 sheer astonishment ; then he exclaimed, — 
 
 "Dolly! what are you thinking of, not to 
 see — " 
 
 "Oh, I know what you 're going to say, — not 
 to see that it is I who am conceited." 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 199 
 
 "And where did you get all that stuff in your 
 head about society; and what idiot told you 
 you seemed to be eighteen rather than fifteen ? " 
 
 " It was no idiot, " triumphantly ; " it was Mr. 
 George Atherton." 
 
 " George Atherton. Oh, then it is you who 
 are the idiot not to see that Mr. Atherton was 
 poking fun at you, or else he meant that you 
 looked eighteen with your height and size alto- 
 gether. But it is of no use talking to you, I see 
 that." 
 
 "No, it isn't of the slightest use. We've 
 wasted time now, — the time we ought to be 
 trying this nocturne ; and, if you please. Master 
 Jimmy," and Dolly bowed, with a patronizing 
 air, "we'll begin to play, or we sha'n't get 
 through before Hope comes in." 
 
 Jimmy stared again. He was seeing Dolly in 
 a new phase. Instead of flying into a passion, 
 instead of turning upon him with tears and 
 reproaches, she stood her ground with a sem- 
 blance of cool superiority that astonished him. 
 What did it mean ? Was she getting so spoiled 
 and puffed up by her vanity that the truths he 
 had placed before her went for nothing against 
 the flattery that she provoked ? He knew that 
 Dolly was not very finely sensitive, was what he 
 
200 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 called " dense ; " but he had never thought that 
 her good sense could be obscured by this den- 
 sity to the extent of making her positively 
 impervious to criticism, as she seemed to be now. 
 But such really was the fact. Not finely sensi^ 
 tive at the start, as I have endeavored to show, 
 Dolly was full of self-confidence, and also full 
 of animal spirits. With such a combination 
 of qualities, it was nqt strange that she should 
 be convinced that her own way was the only 
 right way, and when led by her vanity through 
 a little additional flattery, this conviction be- 
 came so strong that no amount of criticism oi 
 opposition could move her. It would be only 
 through some individual experience, some suf- 
 fering in connection with this experience o\ 
 having her own way, that Dolly would be likely 
 to have her eyes opened to her own mistakes, 
 and be able to see where she had blundered and 
 what her blunders meant to others, as well aa 
 herself. Fresh, however, from what she thought 
 her success of the night before, even Jimmy's 
 words of protest, which usually moved her either 
 to anger or tears, had no effect upon her. For 
 the time she felt herself vastly superior to 
 Jimmy in years and judgment, and from this 
 standpoint she had met his criticism with a 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 201 
 
 calmness that he could not at first understand. 
 Of course this assumption of superiority was 
 not a little irritating to Jimmy, modest though 
 he was ; and as he sat there playing the accom- 
 paniment to the nocturne, and pausing at almost 
 every bar to correct Dolly's false notes, he was 
 also pondering over her false notes in more 
 important directions, and puzzling himself with 
 suppositions as to her present attitude. 
 
 They were in the last passages of the piece, 
 and Dolly was listening to his corrections in 
 an absent-minded way that exasperated him, 
 when the door opened, and there was Hope, with 
 her violin, followed by Myra Donaldson, who 
 was to play her accompaniment. Dolly did not 
 wait to finish the bar she was scraping at, but 
 jumped up at sight of Hope, with a " Oh, there 
 you are, and you 've got that dear little violin. 
 Is n't it a beauty, Jimmy ? See here ! " and with 
 one of her quick, confident movements, she 
 took the instrument — one could almost say 
 she snatched it — from Hope's hands, and held 
 it out to her cousin, pointing to the shape and 
 the beautiful red coloring with its dark vein- 
 ing, repeating, as she did so, — 
 
 "See! is n't it beautiful?" 
 
 She was turning it over, when Jimmy said, 
 
202 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 with a certain quick, sharp note in his 
 voice, — 
 
 " I hope you '11 excuse my cousin, Miss Ben- 
 ham ; she has been so used to handling her own 
 violin carelessly she forgets that other people 
 may feel differently with regard to their in- 
 struments; and — " 
 
 "Jimmy is as cross as two sticks this morn- 
 ing, Hope ; he 's done nothing but lecture me 
 ever since he came in," Dolly declared airily; 
 but at the same moment she gave the violin 
 back into its owner's hands, to the owner's 
 great relief, who could not help glancing grate- 
 fully at Jimmy as she received it. This glance 
 of gratitude did more to restore Jimmy's good- 
 humor, that had been so sorely disturbed, than 
 anything else could have done; "for," he said 
 to himself, " she does n't think I 'm exactly like 
 Dolly if I am her cousin, and, in spite of Dolly, 
 I believe we should be first-rate friends if we 
 saw more of each other. " 
 
 He was still more convinced of this possible 
 friendliness as he listened to Hope's playing, 
 ■ — as he saw how thorough an artist she was, 
 how she loved and lived in her music, when the 
 violin was in her hands. No silly little tricks 
 about her, no showing off in her pose and ex- 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 203 
 
 pression like some girl-players he had seen, — 
 like Dolly, for instance, — and yet how pretty 
 she was, with that smooth, brown hair ruffling 
 out around her forehead, and the color coming 
 and going, and the brown eyes, too, coming 
 and going, as it were, in their expression, as 
 she played. As pretty as Dolly and not think- 
 ing about it, — not thinking about it a bit, as 
 she stood there, an image of grace, her chin bent 
 lovingly down to her violin, her skilful hands 
 evoking such exquisite strains. And those 
 waltzes ! Were there any that were ever written 
 fuller of perfect melody ? So absorbed was 
 Jimmy in all this listening and looking, he 
 quite forgot that he had meant to run away 
 directly after Hope had played. Dolly saw 
 that he had forgotten; and while he was yet in 
 the tide of his enthusiastic thanks for the Gungl' 
 waltzes, she slipped the duet she had brought 
 down with her on the music-rack, and said, — 
 " Now, Hope, do just try this with me. " 
 "Dolly — Miss Benham must be tired; she 
 must want to rest," broke in Jimmy, his face 
 flushing, his tone revealing his mortification. 
 
 Hope saw the flush, and noted the tone. She 
 could not add to his mortification, and going 
 back to the music-stand, she said quietly, — 
 
204 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 "Oh, it is one of those pretty folk-songs. 
 Yes, I 'U try it with you; I 'm not tired." 
 
 And so it was in this way that Kate Van der 
 Berg's prophecy was fulfilled. 
 
 " I knew it would come ahout, I knew it, I 
 knew it!" cried Kate, triumphantly, when 
 Myra Donaldson told her what had happened, 
 "for I never saw such a persistent girl in my 
 life as Dorothea, — so persistent and so thick- 
 skinned, " 
 
 "But Hope couldn't help giving in to her," 
 explained Myra; "she was so sorry for Doro- 
 thea's cousin." 
 
 "Of course. I do wonder if Dorothea was 
 clever enough to see that, — to plan it, 
 perhaps. " 
 
 "No, I don't think she planned it, and I don't 
 think she saw in the least why Hope gave in 
 to her. She prohably thought Hope had the 
 leisure just then, and felt like it." 
 
 "Well, she is the queerest girl; but her 
 cousin is a dear little fellow. My brother 
 Schuyler and Peter Van Loon like him im- 
 mensely. Schuyler likes him so much he wants 
 to get him to come up and visit us this summer. 
 I hope he will; he knows everything about a 
 boat, and that means a great deal in the way 
 of a good time with us." 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 205 
 
 " Why don't you inyite Dorothea to come up 
 with him ? " 
 
 "Yes, why don't I?" and Kate langhed. 
 Then all at once she burst out seriously: 
 "How she did go on at the party; and look 
 here, Myra, I '11 tell you something if you won't 
 speak of it to any one, — any one but Hope, — 
 I 'yc told Hope." 
 
 " No, I won't say a word about it " 
 
 " Well, you saw how she carried on, — flirted in 
 that silly, loud way with Raymond Armitage ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well, what do you think? She — she's 
 carrying on the flirtation still. " 
 
 "No — no, you don't mean it!" 
 
 "I do." 
 
 "Mow is she carrying it on ? " 
 
 "The next day after the party, the next 
 morning, — that 's day before yesterday, — I 
 was down early, hunting for my camelian pin; 
 I 'd dropped it somewhere, and I thought it 
 might be in the reception-room, as I missed it 
 soon after I had left the room to go upstairs 
 the night before. I found it at last under a 
 chair by the window. It was a little bent, and 
 I stood at the window trying to straighten it, 
 when I saw three or four of the Institute boya 
 
206 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 coming along on their way to school. One of 
 them was Raymond Armitage ; and as he parsed 
 by, 1 heard him say to the others, — 
 
 " ' I have a note from my sister that I 've got 
 to leave here. Walk on slowly, and I '11 catch 
 up with you. ' 
 
 " Ann was in the hall dusting, and so his ring 
 was answered immediately ; and as the reception- 
 room door was ajar, I heard him say to her, — 
 
 " ' Will you give this note to Miss Dorothea 
 Bering ? ' 
 
 "Then I knew that he dropped something, 
 some piece of money, into the girl's hand, for 
 I could hear her say, — 
 
 " ' Oh, thank you, sir, I '11 go right up with 
 it now,' which she did the instant she had 
 closed the door. " 
 
 " Well, if I ever ! " 
 
 "Wait a minute; this isn't all. Just after 
 luncheon that very day, mamma called and took 
 me down town to be measured for my new 
 jacket. After that was over, I sat waiting in 
 the carriage, while mamma went into a shop to 
 give an order. Michael drew up just beyond 
 to make room for another carriage, and that 
 brought us right in front of Huyler's; and 
 there, through the clear glass of the door, I saw 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 207 
 
 Dorothea Bering and Raymond Armitage laugh- 
 ing and talking together at the ice-cream soda 
 counter." 
 
 «0f all — " 
 
 " But wait again ; this is n't all. At the same 
 hour after luncheon to-day, as I came along the 
 corridor past Dorothea's room, I saw Ann 
 standing at the open door, and whipping out 
 from under her apron what I knew at once was 
 a box of candy, and I heard her say, ' The same 
 young gentleman as sent the note, miss.' 
 Now, what do you think of all this ? " 
 
 "I think it is perfectly disgusting. What 
 are you going to do about it ? Something ought 
 to be done to stop it. " 
 
 « What can I do ? " 
 
 " Ought n't you to tell Miss Marr ? " 
 
 " Yes, I suppose I ought, if nothing else will 
 do ; but I hate to be a tell-tale. Boys never tell 
 tales of each other. I 've got brothers, you 
 know, and I 've heard them talk so much about 
 that. I 've heard Schuyler say that girls grew 
 up to be women gossips because they tattle so 
 much at school. If I thought it would do any 
 good, I would speak to Dorothea ; but she would 
 resent it, and would very likely tell me, in her 
 blunt way, that she could manage her own 
 
208 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 affairs, and that I 'd better mind my own busi- 
 ness, or something of that kind. " 
 
 " Yes, I suppose that she would ; but it is our 
 business as well as hers, when she is doing some- 
 thing that is going to hurt the school. "What 
 did Hope say when you told her about it ? " 
 
 " She said it ought to be stopped some way, 
 just for that reason, — that it would hurt the 
 school dreadfully, as well as Dorothea, and 
 nearly kill Miss Marr." 
 
 " Of course it would ; it *s so vulgar and 
 cheap. When did that cousin of Dorothea's 
 go back ? " 
 
 "Yesterday." 
 
 " He was staying with some relatives, was n't 
 he?" 
 
 "Yes, cousins, I believe." 
 
 " Why could n't somebody tell them ? They 
 might stop it; and it must be stopped, or — 
 you know what Miss Marr might do ? She 
 might, you know, send her home, — expel her 
 at once." 
 
 "Yes, I thought of that; and that was one 
 reason I had for not telling her. " 
 
 " Oh, it 's all so silly I What fun could there 
 be in sneaking off to drink ice-cream soda with 
 Raymond Armitage ? " 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 209 
 
 "No particular fun in the soda itself. The 
 fun to Dorothea was just the sneaking off. You 
 can see she thinks she 's having ' great larks,' 
 as she 'd call it, — is being independent and 
 having adventures and being a great flirt, and 
 that Raymond Armitage admires her for it. 
 And Raymond Armitage is simply laughing in 
 his sleeve at her. Oh, I should think any girl 
 would have better sense, better taste ; and Anna 
 Fleming talks about her family. " 
 
 " But she is n't the only one of her family. 
 There 's her cousin ; look at him : he 's a little 
 gentleman if ever there was one. What would 
 he say to her if he knew ? And just think ! 
 there she was back again, playing on her vio- 
 lin with him as cool as you please, directly 
 after her lark, and no doubt pluming herself 
 on it." 
 
 " I wonder what excuse she made to get off as 
 she did ? " 
 
 " Excuse ? You don't suppose she made any 
 excuse ? Not she. She just skipped out, in the 
 rest hour, when Miss Marr and the other teach- 
 ers were off duty; and she managed to come 
 back at the right time. Oh, it makes me more 
 and more indignant the longer I think of it, for 
 it 's a bigger shame because Miss Marr is so 
 11 
 
210 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 nice about our school parties and our recep- 
 tions, and treats us like ladies, and trusts us to 
 be ladies, and not to deceive her. But hark! 
 it 's striking six, and I must get ready for 
 dinner. " 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 211 
 
 CHAPTER XVIIL 
 
 ""X/'ES, I suppose that is the best thing for 
 
 J- me to do; but oh, Hope! you don't 
 know, you can't think how I dread it." 
 
 " Yes, I can think ; " and Hope laughed a little. 
 
 " She '11 be so angry she '11 say horrid things 
 to me. " 
 
 " Yes, you may count on that. " 
 
 " When would you tell her ? " 
 
 " I 'd go now and tell her this very minute , 
 it ought to be done at once. " 
 
 "Oh, dear! well, I '11 take your advice, and 
 you '11 wait for me here, won't you ? " 
 
 " Yes, I '11 wait for you here and study up my 
 history lesson. " 
 
 "All right; and wish me courage and suc- 
 cess." Then, with a little nod and a rueful 
 smile, Kate Van der Berg went on her mission 
 to Dorothea; for it had finally, after much 
 consultation between the three friends, been 
 thought best for Kate to go straight to Dorothea 
 and appeal to her. 
 
212 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 Dorothea was at the desk in her room writing 
 a note as Kate entered, — a note she hastily- 
 turned over blank side up as she saw her 
 visitor. There was a rather flurried look on 
 her face, as Kate said, "Am I interrupting 
 you ? " though she answered readily enough, 
 " Oh, no ; I thought it was one of the servants 
 when you knocked, that 's all. " Then, not very 
 cordially, " Won't you sit down ? " 
 
 This was not a very promising beginning, 
 and Kate's heart began to fail her. At this 
 point, however, she caught sight of a photo- 
 graph. It was the photograph of Raymond 
 Armitage, and her courage returned. 
 
 Dorothea had seen her glance of recognition, 
 and remarked coolly: "Isn't it like him? 
 He 's very handsome, I think, don't you ? " 
 
 "I — I don't know, " stammered Kate ; then, 
 throwing all hesitation to the winds, she began 
 to speak, and this she did at the start in the 
 kindest, gentlest way in the world, telling of 
 what she had seen and heard, as she had told 
 Hope and Myra, and winding up with : " I felt 
 that I ought to speak to you — to tell you what 
 you might not know — how much all-this would 
 affect Miss Marr and injure yourself ; that if — 
 if she heard — if she knew — she might — might 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 213 
 
 write to your parents, and aak them — to — to 
 take you home." 
 
 " Oh, I see — expel me, that 's what you 
 mean. The old cat, she won't do any such 
 thing! I never saw anything like the way you 
 all go on over that woman. 1 like her well 
 enough. 1 was tremendously taken with her 
 and her tailor gowns when I first came, but I 
 did n't bow down before her as the rest of you 
 did, and I have never believed she was of so 
 much consequence as she was set up to be ; and 
 as for her throwing away a lot of money by 
 sending a girl off for being a little independent 
 and having a little fun in her own way, she 's 
 too smart to do any such thing. My gracious ! 
 1 should think I had tried to set the house on 
 fire by the fuss you make ! And what have I 
 done ? Just had a little sociable time with an 
 acquaintance without asking leave of her High- 
 and-Mightiness. " 
 
 Kate had hard work to control herself. At 
 the phrase "old cat," her very soul had risen 
 up in revolt. To speak in such terms of Miss 
 Marr ! — Miss Marr, who was so fine and sweet, 
 so considerate and sympathetic, who was indeed 
 like an older girl friend to them alL And 
 then, " What have I done ? Just had a little 
 
214 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 sociable time with an acquaintance, without 
 asking leave of her High-and-Mightiness. " 
 Kate lifted up her chin suddenly, as she re- 
 called these words, and as coolly as she could, 
 said, — 
 
 " I suppose you know that if you had asked 
 for leave to write notes to Raymond Armitage, 
 and to receive them from him, and to make 
 appointments with him to go down town, and all 
 that, it would have done no good, — that, of 
 course. Miss Marr, or any head of a school, 
 would not have given you permission." 
 
 "No, of course they wouldn't; but that's 
 only one of the stiff little bars that boarding- 
 schools set up. " 
 
 " And you would n't want to do such things 
 half as much if there were no bars against 
 them." 
 
 " But what harm is there in ' such things, ' as 
 you call them ? Suppose my cousin Jimmy was 
 at boarding-school, and took a notion to write 
 a note to a girl, and to meet her down town and 
 drink ice-cream soda with her, would any 
 teacher think he had done such a dreadful 
 thing, — a thing for which he deserved to be 
 expelled ? " 
 
 " They 'd think he had done wrong in going 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 215 
 
 against the laws of the school, but it would iCt 
 do him the harm that it would a girl, because a 
 girl is supposed to be a little differently situated 
 from a boy. If she has been brought up like a 
 lady, she is n't expected to be planning meet- 
 ings with young men on the sly. She is sup- 
 posed to have a little dignity ; and as everybody 
 knows that no boy would think of proposing 
 such silly out-of-the-way things to a girl unless 
 he had been encouraged by her to dare them, 
 so the girl who is found to have gone on in such 
 silly ways is talked about as bold and unlady- 
 like, and that is an injury that may leave a 
 black and blue spot on her forever; and you 
 must see, if you will stop to think about it a 
 minute, that such a girl would injure the school 
 she happened to be in, — would leave a black 
 and blue spot on that. " 
 
 Kate had tried to be very forbearing at the 
 start ; but as she was confronted by Dorothea's 
 density, as she saw how vain and foolish, not 
 to say ignorant, were her estimates, her 
 patience gave way, and she spoke the whole of 
 her mind then and there, without reserve and 
 without softening her words. It is needless 
 to say that Dorothea was furious to be called 
 by implication bold and unladylike, and a pos 
 
216 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 sible injury to the school. Out of this fury she 
 burst forth, — 
 
 " I never, never in all my life heard of such 
 impudence! You to talk of being brought up 
 like a lady! You are the most conceited, 
 meddling, wwladylike girl I ever met! What 
 business is it of yours, anyway ? Who set you 
 up to manage this school ? You think you can 
 manage everybody, and that you know more 
 about society and propriety than anybody else. 
 You 're nothing but a Dutch girl, anyway; and 
 as for being expelled from this school, I '11 
 expel myself if this kind of interference is to 
 be allowed. 1 'm about tired, anyhow, of such a 
 peeking, prying, puss-puss-in-the-corner place. 
 Miss Marr is making you into a little lot of 
 primmy old maids just as fast as she can ; and 
 I for one — " 
 
 But Kate did not wait to hear any more of 
 this outburst. She did not dare, in fact, to 
 trust herself to reply. Hope, who was sitting 
 curled up in the library waiting, as she had 
 promised, heard the quick, flying footsteps, as 
 they came along, and said to herself, " She 's 
 had a horrid time, I know." But how horrid 
 she had not imagined until poor Kate poured 
 forth the story. It was a very honestly told 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 217 
 
 story, — not a word of her own part in it 
 omitted in the whole detail. But as she thus 
 honestly, and with just her own peculiar lift of 
 the head and emphatic way, repeated all she 
 had said, Hope's lips began to twitch, and at 
 last she began to laugh. 
 
 " How mean of you ! " cried Kate. Then she 
 joined in the laugh, as she realized how little 
 adapted her words had been to soften Dorothea, 
 and how fully adapted to rousing her resentment 
 and rebellion. 
 
 "But I began beautifully, Hope. I was as 
 mild and persuasive as possible ; but when she 
 called Miss Marr ' an old cat,' I could nH keep 
 on being mild and persuasive. How could I ? " 
 
 " I think it must have been hard work, and 
 I don't wonder you said just what you did; 
 and perhaps, after all, the plain truth, though 
 it makes her so angry now, will have the most 
 effect in the end. " 
 
 " Yes, in the end ; but — but, Hope, what I 've 
 been afraid of is that she '11 do something right 
 away, — something reckless and daring, just to 
 show she is n't afraid of anything and does n't 
 care. " 
 
 "Oh, I didn't think of that; but I don't be- 
 lieve she will. She '11 remember what you said 
 
218 HOPE BEN HAM. 
 
 about Miss Marr's writing to her parents, and 
 that will stop her. " 
 
 " I don't know, " responded Kate, doubtfully. 
 " She looked to me as if she would brave any- 
 thing, she was so angry." 
 
 For a day or two the three — Hope and Myra 
 and Kate — were on the qui vive, expecting 
 some catastrophe; but as at the close of the 
 second day everything seemed to go on as usual, 
 and Dorothea, with the exception of holding 
 aloof from them, was the same as ever, they 
 relaxed a little of their apprehension. 
 
 Once or twice in these days they had noticed 
 that Bessie Armitage had regarded Dorothea 
 with a queer, quizzical sort of look, — " Just as 
 if she knew something was or had been going 
 on," Myra declared. 
 
 Hope laughed at this declaration. What 
 could Bessie know ? She was not a boarding- 
 pupil, only "an outsider," as they called the 
 girls who were the day pupils ; and the outsid- 
 ers never knew what was going on in the house 
 unless some one of the boarding-girls told them, 
 and there was certainly no one to tell Bessie 
 about this affair. 
 
 " Perhaps Raymond may have told his sister, " 
 suggested Myra. 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 219 
 
 " Raymond Armitage ! " exclaimed Kate. 
 "Not he; there are brothers and brothers. 
 Baymond Armitage is not one of the brothers 
 who are confidential with their sisters. It 
 would be much more his way to tell a boy friend, 
 — to tell him and brag about it to him. That 's 
 just the kind of boy Raymond Armitage is, in 
 my opinion. I like Bessie, but I never liked 
 that brother of hers. I never like boys who have 
 such awfully flattering ways with girls. Ray- 
 mond Armitage is always paying compliments 
 to girls, always agreeing with everything they 
 say, or pretending to. He — he 's — I don't 
 know just how to put it — but he 's too con- 
 scious all the time. Now, there 's Peter Van 
 Loon and Victor Graham and that nice Jimmy 
 Bering, they 're polite enough for anybody ; but 
 they treat me as if I was a human being like 
 themselves, and agree with me or disagree with 
 me as they do with each other. They 're honest, 
 and that 's the kind I like and trust, and I don't 
 trust the other kind. 1 always feel as if these 
 smiling, smirking, constantly agreeing kind 
 were making fun of me." 
 
 "So do I," "And so do I," exclaimed Hope 
 and Myra, in a breath. 
 
220 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE next day was Saturday, and directly 
 after a very early twelve-o'clock luncheon 
 the girls were all going to the Park to skate. 
 Miss Marr had a cold, and was not able to 
 accompany them, as she usually did on these 
 outings. She sent, in her stead, two of the 
 under teachers, — Miss Stephens and Miss 
 Thompson. 
 
 "And if we can't have Miss Marr, Stevey 
 and Tommy are not bad, " Kate Van der Berg 
 declared, rather irreverently, as she ran up to 
 her room to make herself ready. Several girls 
 were following in her wake ; amongst them was 
 Dorothea, who suddenly retorted to Kate's 
 words, — 
 
 "Perhaps some of us had quite as lief have 
 Stevey and Tommy as Miss Marr. " 
 
 It was the first time that Dorothea had re- 
 sponded even indirectly to any remarks of 
 Kate's since their stormy interview; and though 
 there was a sharp flavor in what was said, Kate 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 221 
 
 held herself in, and did not reply to it. But 
 one of the younger girls called out in protest, — 
 
 " Oh, how can you say that ! There 's nobody 
 like Miss Marr. I never skate half so well 
 with any one else as I do with her. " 
 
 " Yes, but you are contented to skate her way, 
 I suppose," flung back Dorothea, with a little 
 disagi'eeable laugh. 
 
 "Course I am, because she knows just how; 
 and so her way 's better than mine, " was the 
 innocent answer to this. 
 
 " And I like my way best sometimes, and take 
 it," returned Dorothea, with another disagree- 
 able laugh. 
 
 Kate understood perfectly well that these 
 flings were aimed at her, and not at little Lily 
 Chester; but she was determined to take no 
 notice of them. 
 
 Dorothea, however, in spite of this sudden 
 outburst of rancor, seemed to be in excellent 
 spirits, and laughed and talked with one and 
 another of the girls with even more than her 
 usual volubility. Arrived at the Park, how- 
 ever, her spirits seemed to flag. Kate, who 
 had caught her quick, searching glance across 
 the pond, thought at once: "She is disap- 
 pointed in not finding somebody here that she 
 
222 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 expected. I wonder if it is Raymond Armi- 
 tage ? " But just at that moment a shrill halloo 
 reached Kate, and wheeling about she saw Peter 
 Van Loon, with her brother Schuyler and little 
 Johnny, skating down the ice towards her, 
 and Dorothea and her affairs vanished from her 
 mind. ? It was some time later that she was 
 curiously recalled to her, by Peter Van Loon 
 suddenly exclaiming, " Hello, there 's Armitage 
 now, going off with the daffodil girl ! " 
 
 "The daffodil girl!" What did he mean? 
 Kate followed the direction of Peter's eyes, and 
 saw Raymond Armitage with Dorothea, who 
 had a lot of daffodils stuck in her belt, — a 
 fresh offering, evidently, from her escort. 
 
 "But why do you call her the ' daffodil 
 girl ? ' " asked Kate, wonderingly, 
 
 "Oh, you know she had such a lot of them 
 when I first saw her — and with the yellow 
 gown — she looked all daffodils, and I did n't 
 know her name then. " 
 
 " And so you called her ' the daffodil girl ; ' " 
 and Kate laughed : this was so like Peter. 
 
 " Yes ; so I called her the ' daffodil girl, ' " 
 assented Peter, smiling a little at Kate's laugh. 
 
 The pond by this time had become pretty well 
 covered with skaters, and it was not easy to keep 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 223 
 
 any one in view; but Dorothea was tall, and 
 for a while the nodding plumes in her hat were 
 distinctly visible to Kate and her companion, 
 as they held on their way; but presently the 
 nodding plumes turned in another direction, 
 and they lost sight of them, and out of sight 
 was out of mind again. In the mean time 
 Hope, with Schuyler Van der Berg and little 
 Johnny, was coursing about in the mer- 
 riest manner, little Johnny proudly showing 
 Hope how to use a hocky stick on the ice. In 
 this absorbing occupation the two approached the 
 spot where some of the attendants and chaperons 
 of the different parties were made comfortable ; 
 and as they did so, Hope, to her surprise, saw 
 Dorothea Dering leaving the ice in company 
 with Raymond Armitage. 
 
 What did this mean ? Dorothea was always 
 the last one to leave the ice. But there was 
 Miss Stephens — Miss Stephens would know 
 what it meant; and skating up to her, Hope 
 asked the question, and was told, in Miss Ste- 
 phens's placid, easy way, that Miss Dering had 
 got tired of skating, and Miss Bessie Armitage 
 and her brother, who were just leaving, had 
 taken charge of her to Miss Marr's. 
 
 Dorothea tired of skating at this early hour 1 
 
224 ROPE BENHAM. 
 
 Why, they had but just begun! And where 
 was Bessie ? Miss Stephens had said, " Miss 
 Bessie Armitage and her brother ; " and she, 
 Hope, had only seen the brother, Raymond 
 Armitage. Perhaps, however, Bessie had gone 
 on ahead ; but — but — and a whole host of sup- 
 positions came crowding into Hope's mind. If 
 it had been any other of the girls, none of these 
 suppositions would have arisen. If Myra 
 Donaldson or Anna Fleming had confessed to 
 being tired, and had given out that she was 
 going home under the escort of Bessie Armitage 
 and her brother, who would have thought but 
 that it was the most natural and proper thing 
 in the world, and who — who would have 
 thought of questioning the statement as it 
 stood ? But Dorothea, with her little plots and 
 plans, had clearly shown herself another person 
 entirely, and it was little wonder that Hope, 
 under the circumstances, should suspect further 
 plotting and planning. 
 
 " What is it, — what 's up ? " asked ten-year- 
 old Johnny, as his companion suddenly forgot 
 all interest in the hockey stick, and stood bal- 
 ancing herself on her skates, with a puzzled 
 frown drawing her brows together. 
 
 For answer, Hope turned about with a "I 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 225 
 
 don't know, Johnny, but we '11 go and find Kate. 
 I want to ask her something. " 
 
 " All right ; " and Johnny struck out to the 
 left, where he saw his sister's Scotch skating- 
 cap, with its glittering aigrette, shining in the 
 sun. 
 
 " Tired of skating ? Gone home ? " cried 
 Kate, when Hope told her story. "I don't 
 believe it! Schuyler!" 
 
 " Oh, I would n't ! " expostulated Hope. 
 
 " Yes, I 'm going to ask Schuyler — I want 
 to know — Schuyler, did Raymond Armitage 
 come out in the same car with you ? " 
 
 "Part way, but he left the car at Madison 
 Square ; he had ordered some theatre seats, and 
 he stopped at the theatre to see if they were 
 all right." 
 
 "Oh, and then he came on here to meet 
 Bessie ? " 
 
 "Bessie?" 
 
 " Yes ; funny, though, I have n't seen her. 
 Have yoM seen her ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " And yet Hope says that Miss Stephens told 
 her that Dorothea had gcc tired of skating, and 
 gone home under the escort of Bessie Aimitage 
 and her brother. " 
 
 14 
 
226 HOPE BEN HAM. 
 
 " Miss Stephens ? " 
 
 "Yes, Miss Stephens, one of ^e under- 
 teachers, who is blind and deaf ^ovA, some ' 
 things, — a good, dear stupid, whottMpks every- 
 body is a lamb, and Raymond ^mitage the 
 Prince of Lambs, 1 suppose, and Iffie the father 
 of his country, and cannot tell a^ie, and — " 
 
 "But perhaps Bessie was JiBt ahead, and 
 Miss Stephens did see her," put in jpope. 
 
 "And didn't take her for gi^inS," scoffed 
 Kate. Then, as she caught a'l^P that her 
 brother and Peter exchanged, she Jned, — 
 
 "What is it? Peter!" bringing one little 
 skate-clad foot down on the ice with an empha- 
 sis that sent out a shower of sparkles, "tell me 
 instantly what you know.' i&on't you see, you 
 two boys, that it 's for the credit of the scl^ool, 
 — of dear Miss Marr, of Dorothea (silly goose 
 that she is), and all th£ rest of us, — that this 
 kind of thing shall hemppei in the bud ? Don't 
 you see that you ougnt to tell what you know, 
 that some of us can stop the foolishness, and 
 save Dorothea from being sent home ? " 
 
 "Come now, you don't mean that;" and 
 Peter stopped short in that odd way of his. 
 
 "Yes, I do mean that Miss Marr would send 
 Dorothea straight home i .' she heard of her going 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 227 
 
 off for a lark with Raymond Armitage. She 
 says at the start that her school is neither an 
 infant school nor a reform school, and if she 
 finds that girls of fifteen and sixteen don't know 
 how to behave like ladies in the ordinary ways 
 of good manners, they are not the kind of girls 
 she wants in |ier house, and so she sends them 
 out of it. There is n't any nagging or any little 
 punishments. She advises us and talks to us 
 in a nicei friendly way at the beginning, and 
 sometimes, later ; but she lets a girl alone enough 
 to find out just what she is, and then, when she 
 finds out that the girl has faults and habits that 
 may injure the other girls, she won't have her 
 in her school ; and so now I want you to tell 
 us — Hope and me — what you know about 
 this going off with Raymond Armitage, so 
 that — " 
 
 "You may go and tell Miss Marr, and have 
 her pack the girl off honie. " 
 
 "Schuyler!" 
 
 " Oh, well, I did n't mean exactly that, of 
 course ; but what do you propose to do ? " 
 
 "Stop the foolishness, whatever it is, that 
 may be going on. " 
 
 " Well, after what you told me the other day 
 of your undertaking in that line with this par- 
 
228 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 ticular party, I should n't think you 'd attempt 
 anything further with her. " 
 
 "But somebody must do it. I don't like 
 Dorothea, I didn't from the first; but I want 
 her to have another chance, and I do so hate to 
 have things come to the pass of her being 
 expelled; it would be perfectly horrid for all 
 of us. But we 're only wasting time if you 
 won't help us by telling — " 
 
 " But what is it you want to know ? " 
 
 " What you know ; in the first place, if Ray 
 Armitage said that he was coming here to meet 
 his sister, and if he expected her to be here ? " 
 
 " Well, no ; he did n't say anything about his 
 sister. " 
 
 " Did he say anything about Dorothea ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " That he was coming here to meet her ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And that he was going to take her with 
 him this afternoon to the matinee ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Then, oh, Schuyler, you must come with me 
 down to the Madison Square Theatre and head 
 them off!" 
 
 " Head them off ! They 've got there by this 
 time. " 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 229 
 
 " No ; they were going out on the other side, 
 where they had just left Miss Stephens, because 
 that was the way they would take to go straight 
 to Miss Marr's. Don't you see ? Ray Anni- 
 tage 's cunning ! Now, if we go out on this 
 side, and take the elevated, we shall get ahead 
 of them, and — " 
 
 "Well, I just sha'n't do anything of the 
 kind ! I 'd like to see myself playing private 
 policeman like that I If the girl is such a 
 blooming idiot as this, she won't pay any 
 attention to you ! No, I guess I don't try any 
 such missionary work, to be laughed at by all 
 the fellows in town. " 
 
 " Laughed at ! " A glance upward as she said 
 this, and Kate caught the grin on Peter Van 
 Loon's face, and burst forth : " Oh, that 's all 
 your manliness is worth ! You 're afraid, — 
 afraid some other selfish fellows will laugh at 
 you for doing your duty. " 
 
 '''T isn't my duty!" 
 
 "No, it isn't, Kate; he 's right." 
 
 Kate turned about in astonishment, for it 
 was Hope who had spoken, and Hope who went 
 on speaking, — 
 
 " And you — you ought not to go, Kate ; 
 Dorothea would — would — " 
 
230 HOPE BENE AM. 
 
 "Be madder than ever. But what can be 
 done ? " 
 
 "J'Zigo." 
 
 "You?" 
 
 "Yes, with Mrs. Sibley. I 've just caught 
 sight of her; see, she is over there talking to 
 Johnny. If I tell her how it is — what I want 
 to do, she '11 understand, she '11 be glad to help ; 
 and Dorothea will listen to her, when she 
 would n't to you or to me, I dare say. " 
 
 " Well, that 's a much more sensible plan 
 than yours, Kate," commented Schuyler Van 
 der Berg, as Hope darted off ; " but all the same 
 it 's my opinion that Miss Dorothea Dering 
 is n't going to be kept from that matinee per- 
 formance, even if they catch her in time. " 
 
 "Which they won't," spoke up Peter, as he 
 looked at his watch. 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 231 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 AND Peter was right; for, as Mrs. Sibley 
 and Hope neared the theatre, they saw 
 Dorothea's nodding plumes just disappearing 
 through the wide open doorway. 
 
 "And we 're too late," cried Hope, — "too 
 late, after all. " 
 
 "Too late to try to prevent the girl from 
 going into the theatre, — yes, and I thought we 
 should be when we started; there had been 
 too much time lost before you spoke to me. 
 "We should have taken the car that preceded 
 the one that we came in; but I doubt if it 
 would have done any good if we had been 
 earlier. But I '11 tell you what we '11 do now. 
 We '11 go in to the matinee ourselves. Miss 
 Marr," smiling down at Hope, "would be 
 perfectly willing that you should go under my 
 chaperonage. " 
 
 " Oh, yes, yes, of course. " 
 
 "You see, in doing this, we may be able to 
 help this foolish girl, after all, by taking hei 
 
232 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 home under our escort, after the matinee ia 
 over. She will hurry out, naturally, to get 
 home before dark, and I am sure even such a 
 harum-scarum creature will see that it is wiser 
 for her to go back to Miss Marr's in our com- 
 pany than with young Armitage. " 
 
 "Mrs. Sibley, you don't think it is wrong, 
 do you, for us to keep all this from Miss Marr, 
 — to go on covering everything up from her 
 while we try to get Dorothea out — out of all 
 these queer ways of hers ? It makes me feel as 
 if — as if there might be something sly and 
 underhand in going on like this, — something 
 like being disloyal to Miss Marr, and deceiving 
 her." 
 
 " You need n't worry about that, my dear. I 
 know Angelique Marr, and I am sure it would 
 be a relief to her to have Dorothea helped out 
 of her queer ways, as you put it, by girls like 
 you and Kate. Miss Marr knows perfectly well 
 that a teacher^ » opposition would n't influence a 
 girl like Dorothea favorably, — that it would be 
 more likely to rouse a counter opposition. It 
 is only girls of her own age who would be likely 
 to influence her; and so, knowing this, the 
 teacher has to be silent a good many times 
 when she may suspect things that she would 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 233 
 
 like to oppose ; then, when the flagrant offence 
 is forced upon her, there would be no alternative 
 but to see that the offender was punished accord- 
 ing to the stated rules of the school government, 
 if the school itself was to be respected and to 
 maintain its position. " 
 
 Greatly comforted by these words, Hope fol- 
 lowed Mrs. Sibley into the theatre. There 
 had been no difficulty, even at this late moment, 
 in obtaining very good back seats, — seats from 
 which one could command an excellent view of 
 the audience, if not of the stage ; and Hope at 
 once began a careful survey of this audience, 
 her far-seeing young eyes roving rapidly from 
 section to section in keen investigation. She 
 was suddenly interrupted in this investigation 
 by a whisper from Mrs. Sibley. 
 
 " Are n't you looking too far down in front ? 
 Is n't that the girl ? " 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 " Two rows in front of us, to the right. " 
 
 Hope looked in the direction indicated ; and 
 there, two rows in front, to the right, sure 
 enough, was Dorothea. 
 
 She was laughing and whispering with her 
 companion, evidently in the gayest spirits ; and 
 Hope's heart sank within her at the thought of 
 
234 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 what she had undertaken, as she caught sight 
 of her. Why, oh, why, had she been so rash as 
 to think of interfering with this girl in any 
 way ? For, as she regarded her there, she felt 
 sure that she would look upon their suggestion 
 of taking her home as an interference, to be 
 resented and rejected. "Even such a harum- 
 scarum creature will see that it is wiser for her 
 to go back to Miss Marr in our company than 
 with young Armitage, " Mrs. Sibley had confi- 
 dently declared. But Mrs. Sibley did n't know 
 Dorothea, Hope now reflected, as there came 
 crowding up to her, at the sight of that hand- 
 some, arrogant face, all her own bitter knowl- 
 edge of her. And with this knowledge, why — 
 why had she been so rash ? And to have brought 
 kind, sweet Mrs. Sibley here to be, perhaps, 
 insulted ; for if Dorothea did resent their sug- 
 gestion, she wouldn't hesitate to express her- 
 self with her usual freedom. For a moment, 
 overcome by all these thoughts, poor Hope had 
 a mind to say to Mrs. Sibley : " Our plan won't 
 be of the slightest use. Dorothea won't accept 
 our offer, and we might as well give it up." 
 The next moment, ashamed of her cowardice, 
 she said to herself : " How can I be so mean ? 
 It 's my duty to go ahead and try to carry out 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 235 
 
 what I 've undertaken. If I fail — if Dorothea 
 does turn upon me, I must bear it, — that 'a 
 all." 
 
 And with this resolve, she directed her atten- 
 tion to the stage. It was only when the curtain 
 fell after the first act that she glanced again 
 towards the pair to the right She was just in 
 time to see Mr. Raymond Armitage bowing 
 with effusion to a party of ladies several seats 
 in front; and then, evidently with a word of 
 explanation and excuse to Dorothea, he jumped 
 up and went forward to speak to them. The 
 youngest of the party was a very elegant young 
 woman, whose notice seemed to be much appre- 
 ciated by Mr. Raymond Armitage, as he bent 
 before her. The other ladies, too, were appar- 
 ently of consequence to him. But when Hope 
 saw him linger beyond the moment of greeting, 
 her glance wandered back to Dorothea. What 
 did Dorothea think of being left to herself like 
 this by her fine escort ? There might be the 
 excuse of some message or other, for his leav- 
 ing her for a moment, but to linger moment by 
 moment for Ms own pleasure, — yes, that was 
 it, — how would Miss Dorothea take this ? A 
 sudden turn of her head showed Hope pretty 
 plainly how she took it, for in place of the gay 
 
236 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 satisfaction that had made her face radiant, 
 there was a very unmistakable look of astonish- 
 ment and mortification. 
 
 Mrs. Sibley, who had also been observant of 
 this little by-play, here whispered to Hope, — 
 
 " How rude to leave her like that ! " 
 
 " And how mortified she is — look ! " responded 
 Hope. 
 
 Several times after this they saw him make a 
 movement as if to return to his place, but each 
 time some word addressed to him by one of the 
 ladies would be enough to detain him. When 
 finally he did return, the orchestra was playing 
 the last of its selections before the rising of 
 the curtain again. That he was profuse in his 
 apologies, the two interested observers could 
 plainly perceive. They could also perceive 
 that Dorothea was by no means disposed to 
 accept these apologies in a benignant spirit. 
 At last, however, he seemed to make his peace 
 in a measure, for a half smile began to hover 
 about Dorothea's lips, and by the time the cur- 
 tain had risen again, and the merry little play 
 that was on the boards was again making every- 
 body laugh, Dorothea was joining in the laugh 
 as heartily as any one. The play ended in a 
 little whirlwind of applause. In the midst of 
 
BOPE BENHAM. 237 
 
 this, Mrs. Sibley noticed that young Armitage 
 was hurrying his companion off in great haste, 
 and whispered to Hope, — 
 
 " They are hurrying probably to catch the next 
 car ; and if we go put at once by the right aisle, 
 we shall meet them face to face, and it will be 
 quite easy for you then to propose to take Doro- 
 thea with us. She must see the point, — that 
 it is much better for her to go back to Miss 
 Marr's in our company, and be glad of the 
 opportunity we offer her." 
 
 Hope nodded assent; but her heart quaked, 
 as she followed Mrs. Sibley through the pas- 
 sages between the seats, and fancied that 
 moment when she should meet Dorothea face 
 to face and see her stare of astonishment, and 
 then, oh, then, hear, perhaps, her scornful 
 rejection of the opportunity offered her! But 
 they were not to meet Dorothea face to face as 
 they came out on that right aisle. A little 
 delay in pushing through brought them behind 
 instead of in front of the pair, and — 
 
 " No, I thank you, I can find the car by my- 
 self ! " were the words that they heard on that 
 instant ; and the tone in which these words were 
 delivered was sharp and angry, not the tone of 
 friendly agreement. Evidently young Armitage 
 
238 HOPE BEN HAM. 
 
 had not waited for his companion to suggest 
 that she had better return without his escort to 
 Miss Marr's door, and evidently Dorothea had 
 resented the fact that the suggestion had come 
 from him. 
 
 "But you ought not to be angry with me," 
 they heard him protest. " I should n't think of 
 letting you go alone if it was n't better for you. 
 The car is on the line of your street, and you 
 might meet — might meet — one of your teach- 
 ers, you know, and that would make trouble for 
 you. It 's just to help you that I — " 
 
 " Oh, really, it 's a pity you did n't think of 
 this earlier before you said we would go back 
 by the other line, where we should n't run the 
 risk of meeting the teachers. " 
 
 "Yes, I know; but as I have come to think 
 it over, I see that the other cars will keep you 
 out so much longer, I thought you would 
 rather — " 
 
 " As you have come to think it over since you 
 met your friends, you see that it will be more 
 convenient for you not to take up the time by 
 going round by the other line. Perhaps your 
 friends want you to find their car for them. 
 Anyway, whatever engagement you 've made 
 with them, don't keep them waiting for me ; 
 I can find my car by myself, as I said. " 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 239 
 
 " Miss Bering ! " in an expostulating tone, 
 " I have n't made any engagement to hurry me 
 away ; I 'm only going to dine at the Waldorf 
 by and by with these friends, — they 're Wash- 
 ington friends of my mother and Bessie, — but 
 I need n't hurry, not the least, and of course I 
 shall take you home by the other line if you like 
 that best." 
 
 " But I don't like it best — now. I _ I — '» 
 
 Hope here caught sight of Dorothea's face, — 
 the quivering lips, the eyes that were striving 
 against tears, — and obeying a swift, warm im- 
 pulse of pity and sympathy, forgot her fears in 
 it, and called out softly, — 
 
 " Dorothea ! Dorothea ! " 
 
 Dorothea turned a startled glance behind 
 her at this call. Then, "What! you here, 
 Hope ? " she exclaimed. 
 
 "Yes, with Mrs. Sibley." 
 
 " Oh, and you 're going straight home — to 
 Miss Marr's ? Mrs. Sibley is to take you ? " 
 stepping back to Hope's side. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And may I — will you let me come with 
 you?" in a whisper, and clutching Hope's 
 wrist nervously. 
 
 "Yes, oh, yes; I was going to ask you if 
 you wouldn't like to come with us." 
 
240 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 " Were you ? " A quick glance at Hope from 
 the black eyes still struggling against tears, a 
 closer clutch upon Hope's wrist, then a sudden 
 conquering of the quivering lips, and, "1 
 need n't keep you waiting any longer, I have 
 found friends who will take me home," Mr. 
 Raymond Armitage was told with a dignity 
 that surprised and rather abashed him. Hope, 
 too, was surprised at the real dignity displayed, 
 and slid her hand into the hand that was 
 clutching her wrist, with a sudden movement 
 of approbation and sympathy. Dorothea gave 
 a quick start, and turned an inquiring look upon 
 Hope's face at this movement, — a look that 
 seemed to ask, "Do you really feel like this 
 toward me ? " 
 
 With wise forethought, Mrs. Sibley, on leav- 
 ing the Park, had directed her coachman, who 
 was awaiting her with the carriage at that 
 point to drive round to the theatre and await 
 her there. If he did not find her ready for him 
 at once, he was to return at four o'clock. She 
 had thus provided for either result of her expe- 
 dition. If the elevated, swift though it was, 
 did not enable them to reach the theatre in 
 time to interview Dorothea as she arrived, the 
 carriage would be on hand at four to take her 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 241 
 
 back with them after the play, for Mrs. Sibley 
 had no manner of doubt from the first that 
 the girl would go with them, though she 
 little thought it would be under the present 
 conditions. 
 
 Indeed, she had looked forward to a Tery 
 different state of things; and sure though she 
 felt of ultimate success, she fully expected to 
 bring it about by adroit management. Instead 
 of this, however, here was this diflBcult-to- 
 be-dealt-with Dorothea not only willing, but 
 gratefully glad, to avail herself of the oppor- 
 tunity offered her. 
 
 M 
 
242 HOPE BEN HAM. 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 " A ND you mean that you won't tell her 
 ■^*- about Ray Armitage'a rudeness ? " 
 
 "No, I won't tell her if you feel like this, 
 — if you don't want me to tell her. " 
 
 "Of course I don't want you to, but of 
 course I expected that you would tell her; 
 she 's such a chum of yours. I know it would 
 have been the first thing / should have done 
 with a chum of mine." 
 
 "Well, /should have spoken of it to Kate, 
 naturally, but for your feeling ; and she would 
 have been very nice about it, just as indignant 
 and disgusted with him as I am. " 
 
 "Perhaps so; but she's tried to do me good 
 and failed too much to be very sorry for any- 
 thing that would mortify me ; and I know if she 
 heard of this rudeness to me, she 'd think it 
 served me right, — would teach me a lesson. " 
 
 Hope could n't help laughing a little at this. 
 Then she said suddenly, "How do you know 
 that I don't feel just the same ? " 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 243 
 
 "Oh, I know you don't exactly approve of 
 me ; but you have n't cut me up as she has, and 
 then tried to set me right in that superior way ; 
 and you have n't meddled with me or my 
 affairs. " 
 
 "You don't know what I have done. You 
 took it for granted that I happened to go to 
 the theatre with Mrs. Sibley to please myself, 
 that I happened to be behind you, and so hap- 
 pened to hear your talk with Raymond Armi- 
 tage. But I did n't go there to please myself. 
 I went there on purpose to — to meddle with 
 you and your affairs ! " 
 
 " What in the world do you mean ? " 
 
 "I'll tell you." And then and there Hope 
 told the whole story of her meddling, and why 
 she did it, — the whole story, from the moment 
 she had observed Dorothea leaving the Park 
 with Raymond Armitage to her own departure 
 with Mrs. Sibley ; and this, of course, included 
 the consultation with Kate, and the information 
 regarding Raymond Armitage's movements that 
 was wnmg from Schuyler Van der Berg. As 
 she neared the end of this story, Hope rose from 
 her chair. Dorothea would not now desire her 
 presence, as she had desired it a few minutes 
 ago when they entered the house together after 
 
244 HOPE BEN HAM. 
 
 Mrs. Sibley had left them, and when, full of re- 
 lief and gratitude, she had said : " Oh, do come 
 up to my room for a few minutes ! I want to 
 ask you something. " No, she would no longer 
 desire her presence, even with the added relief, 
 — the added debt of gratitude for Hope's volun- 
 tary offer to say nothing of Baymond Armitage's 
 rudeness. She would not only no longer desire 
 her presence, but she would doubtless turn upon 
 her with hot resentment, as she had turned 
 upon Kate on a previous occasion; and it was 
 to avoid the outburst of this resentment that 
 Hope rose to make herself ready to leave the 
 room when she had come to the end of her story. 
 But as she said her last word, as she turned 
 to go, — 
 
 " Don't, don't go ! " was called after her, in a 
 queer stifled voice, not at all like Dorothea's 
 usual high loud tones when she was protesting 
 against anything, — a queer stifled voice that 
 had — could it be possible ? — a sound of tears in 
 it ? and — and there was a look in Dorothea's 
 eyes, — yes, a look, as if the tears were there 
 too, were almost ready to fall. 
 
 A lump began to rise in Hope's throat. Had 
 she been too harsh in what she had told, or in 
 the way she had told it ? Had they all been 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 245 
 
 too harsh, too cold in their treatment of this 
 girl's offences ? It was true that they were all 
 against her, — the " all " who comprised the 
 little set of the older girls, and perhaps — per- 
 haps — But what was that that Dorothea was 
 saying ? 
 
 " I think you 've been awfully kind to take all 
 this trouble for me ; and I 've always thought 
 you were so indifferent, — that you did n't in the 
 least care what became of me. " 
 
 " Kind ? indifferent ? I don't understand, " 
 faltered Hope, staring blankly in her amaze- 
 ment at Dorothea. 
 
 "Yes, I should never have thought of your 
 taking the least trouble, putting yourself out 
 for me. I knew you did n't approve of me very 
 much, but I supposed that you were so indif- 
 ferent that it did n't matter to you. I don't 
 half believe, and I never have, that such dread- 
 ful consequences would come of going against 
 Miss Marr's rules; but you do, I see, and it 
 was awfully kind of you to take all this trouble 
 to pull me out of the danger you thought I was 
 in, — awfully kind, and I sha'n't forget it ; and 
 if you call this meddling, it 's a very different 
 sort of meddling from some other people's. 
 It 's easy enough for some folks to talk and criti- 
 
246 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 cise everything you do, telling you what you 
 ought and what you ought not to do, as if you 
 were a mere ignoramus. I never would stand 
 that kind of thing. Yes, it 's a very different 
 sort of thing that you 've done, to put yourself 
 out, and maybe run a risk yourself in doing it ; 
 and then to promise, as you have, not to say any- 
 thing about that horrid part of the whole affair, 
 
 — Raymond Armitage's hateful impoliteness! 
 Well, I don't think there are many girls that 
 would hold their tongues like that ; and I — I 
 
 — I just — just — love you for it ! " wound up 
 Dorothea, her voice breaking in a sudden little 
 tempest of tears. 
 
 " Oh, but I — I — I 'm not what you — what 
 you think — I 'm not — I don't deserve — you 
 don't know me," stammered Hope, astonished 
 and embarrassed beyond words. 
 
 "I knew you from the first, the very first," 
 went on Dorothea. 
 
 Hope started. 
 
 " From the very first, when I saw you coming 
 down the corridor that afternoon I arrived, as 
 the kind of girl I 'd like, — a girl who would n't 
 be mean and meddlesome; and I knew you 
 were a lady of the real stuff, and you are — ■ 
 a long shot ahead of most of 'em here ; and oh, 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 247 
 
 I say — " Dorothea had now conquered her 
 tears, — " are n't you the girl I saw last year at 
 Papanti's with the Edlicotts ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Well, you look so like her I thought you 
 might be, or some relation of hers maybe. 
 You're just of her stamp, any way. Anna 
 Fleming is always talking about those Knicker- 
 bocker Van der Bergs as if they were ahead of 
 everybody else, and she is always quoting Kate 
 Van der Berg as being so swell in her looks and 
 her manners. Looks and manners ! I told 
 Anna the last time she said this to me, that you 
 were a great sight more swell. And you are. 
 Oh, I know who 's who ; there can't anybody 
 tell me ! Manners ! I don't call it very good 
 manners to talk at people as Kate Van der Berg 
 has talked at me, with all that stuff of what her 
 brother Schuyler says about girls. She never 
 liked me from the start, and she did what slie 
 could to set you, and, for that matter, the rest 
 of the girls against me. I soon caught on to 
 that. If it hadn't been for her — " 
 
 " Oh, Dorothea ! Dorothea ! '■' burst in Hope 
 at this point, " I can't let you go on any more 
 like this, — it would be mean and cowardly and 
 dishonorable in me. You 're all wrong, all 
 
248 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 wrong ! Kate has n't set me or any one else 
 against you. You don't know, you don't re- 
 member — you think I — I would have been 
 more — more sociable — more friendly, if it 
 had n't been for Kate, but — but it is — it is 
 Kate who would have been more sociable, more 
 friendly perhaps, if it had n't been for me ! You 
 have forgotten me — you have forgotten that we 
 have ever met before, but we have, and 1 have 
 never forgotten, for you — you hurt me horribly 
 
 — horribly at that time. I remember every- 
 thing about it — every word; and when I met 
 you in the corridor, the day you arrived here in 
 the autumn, I knew you at once, but I saw that 
 you had forgotten me, and I — " 
 
 " But when — where — how long ago was , it 
 
 — that time we met first — and what in the 
 world did I say to hurt you so?" interrupted 
 Dorothea with wide-open eyes of amazement. 
 
 " It was at Brookside, years ago." 
 
 " At Brookside ? I never knew a girl like you 
 at Brookside." 
 
 " Not like me now. I was only ten years old 
 then, and I — was selling mayflowers in the 
 Brookside station." 
 
 " Oh, I remember ! I remember ! " cried 
 Dorothea, leaping down from the bed where 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 249 
 
 she was sitting. " And you — you are that 
 girl ? » 
 
 " Yes, ray father was an engineer on that 
 road, and could n't afford to buy me what I 
 wanted more than anything in the world — a 
 violin, and I thought I would have to give it up 
 — to go without it, until one day on the street I 
 heard a boy with a basket of mayflowers crying 
 ' Ten cents a bunch,' and then I saw how I might 
 earn the money that I wanted so much, and buy 
 my violin myself." 
 
 "And you — you are that little girl — that 
 little ' Ten-cents-a-bunch,' as I called you after- 
 ward to my father ! Oh, oh, it all comes to me 
 now ; how mad I got because you stood up to 
 me, and talked back to me. I suppose I was a 
 great inquisitive brat, and fired off a lot of 
 inquisitive questions at you, — I was always 
 asking questions, — and you got mad at 'em and 
 went for me, and then -Tgot mad with you, and 
 we had a regular squabble. I told my father 
 about it, and he laughed and said, ' I don't 
 think you had tlie best of it, Dolly ; ' and then I 
 remember, too, something he said to Mary, my 
 sister, — Mary had taken a great fancy to you, — 
 something about your father knowing a lot about 
 engines, — being a genius at that kind of thing ; 
 
250 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 and then papa laughed again and asked me, if 
 your father should turn out a millionaire some 
 day, how 'd I like my impudent little girl — 
 that 's you, you know — turning into a million- 
 aire's daughter, and I said I 'd say, ' Ten cents 
 a bunch to her,' and I have, I have ! For your 
 father has turned into a millionaire, has n't he ? 
 and that 's what it means, your being here, and 
 your having a Stradivari violin ! Oh, oh, oh, 
 it 's just like a story, just like a play — a Cin- 
 derella play ; but," catching a queer expression 
 on Hope's face, " I 'm awfully sorry I hurt your 
 feelings as I did, but you must n't lay it up against 
 me, — nobody ever lays anything up against 
 me. I did n't mean to hurt your feelings, but I 
 did n't know any better then, and anyhow, 
 everything 's come out all right for you now, — 
 you 've come up out of the soot and ashes just 
 as Cinderella did, only your soot was engine 
 soot, and you 've come up at the top of every- 
 thing, and I do say, now, that you are a great 
 sight more swell in your looks and your man-' 
 ners and in yowrself than Kate Van der Berg, 
 I don't care what soot and ashes you came up 
 from." 
 
 The queer expression on Hope's face had by 
 this time deepened into something that looked 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 251 
 
 like a wondering smile, a smile that seemed to 
 say, " How perfectly astonishing this girl is ! " 
 
 Dorothea saw the smile, and with a sudden 
 acuteness that now and then came to her, hit 
 upon its meaning, and cried out, — 
 
 " Oh, I see what you think, — I surprise you all 
 round, I know, I'm so outspoken and blunt. 
 Jimmy says I'm beastly blunt sometimes. I 
 suppose in the first place that you expected me 
 to have laid things up against you as you did 
 against me ; but, goody gracious, I never re- 
 member a quarter of what I say nor a quarter 
 of what anybody else says after a while, and I 'm 
 always ready to make up, to jump over anything 
 that's disagreeable if I'm met half-way; and 
 you, — well, you 've met me more than half-way in 
 this business about Raymond Armitage, and if 
 I had laid up anything you 'd ever said, — and I 
 do remember," laughing, " you said I was the 
 most ignorant girl you 'd ever seen, — I could n't 
 be mad with you for it now. No, I could n't be 
 anything but friendly to you, — and it's such 
 jolly fun, too, the whole story, — my not remem- 
 bering you, and the way it 's turned out, and all ; 
 but look here, what 's that you said about Kate 
 Van der Berg, — that she might have been more 
 sociable if it had n't been for you ? Did you tell 
 
252 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 her — I suppose you did — of our first meeting in 
 the Brookside station, and the scrimmage we 
 had, and that I hurt your feelings so dreadfully ? " 
 
 " No ; but after you had been here for a little 
 time, Kate noticed that I — was rather stiff 
 toward you." 
 
 "Yes, stiff and offish, but dreadfully polite, 
 and in spite of it — the offishness, I mean — I 
 liked you. Is n't it funny ? But go on — Kate 
 noticed that you were stiff toward me — " 
 
 " And she asked me what it was that I dis- 
 liked in you, and I told her just this, — that you 
 and I had met long ago when we were little girls, 
 and that you had said something then that had 
 hurt me that I had never forgotten, but that you 
 had forgotten it and forgotten me. That was 
 all. I thought it was better to tell her what I did 
 than to try to turn the subject, because if I tried 
 to do that she would have thought the matter 
 worse than it was." 
 
 " Wel^j I suppose she told the girls what you 
 said, and made much of it, and — " 
 
 " She told no one. I asked her at once not to 
 speak of it, and she promised that she would n't, 
 and I know that she did n't." 
 
 " But you — I don't see, when you have talked 
 with her, as you must have done, you are so 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 253 
 
 iDtimate with her — about your mayflower busi- 
 ness and everything — how you could help men- 
 tioning our scrimmage." 
 
 " I never have talked to her about the may- 
 flower business, as you call it." 
 
 " Do you mean to say that she does n't 
 know that you sold those flowers to buy a 
 violin ? ' 
 
 Hope colored painfully as she answered, — 
 
 "I — I have never said anything about those 
 things to her." 
 
 " You have n't ? Well, now look here ; you 've 
 been so nice keeping my secret, I '11 keep yours. 
 The girls, not one of them, shall hear a word 
 from me of that poor time and the flower-selling, 
 
 — not one word ; you can trust me." 
 
 "Oh, no, no, Dorothea! You think I am 
 ashamed of that ' poor time,' as you describe it, 
 
 — that dear time, it ought to be described. No, 
 no, it is n't because I was ashamed of that time 
 that I have n't spoken to Kate or to the others. 
 It is because I 'm always shy of talking about 
 myself, always, and I was more than ever shy 
 of talking to girls about a way of living and 
 doing that they knew nothing of, and that they 
 would wonder at as I told of it, — wonder at and 
 stare at me in their wonder, because they knew 
 
254 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 nothing only of one kind of living and doing, — 
 their kind. It would have been like what it is 
 sometimes for a musician to play to an audience 
 a new composition that is full of strange chords 
 and harmonies. The audience listens and won- 
 ders but does n't understand, and so is not in 
 sympathy with the player, and the player is 
 made to feel awkward and uncomfortable, and 
 as if he had made a mistake in producing the 
 composition at that time. That was what I 
 knew that I should feel if I talked to these girls. 
 Don't you see what I mean ? " 
 
 "Yes, I see, now that you've put it before 
 me in this way, but I should n't, if you had n't 
 laid it out as you have ; and — well, I suppose 
 I might have felt just as you did in your place, 
 only I should n't have known how to explain it 
 to myself as you have." 
 
 " And then after you came," went on Hope, 
 more as if she were relieving her own mind than 
 addressing any particular person, " after that, it 
 would have been more' difficult to talk of that 
 old time — " 
 
 " Because you thought I 'd stowed away in my 
 mind that old squabble just as you had, and 
 would jump on you, and say a lot of disagreeable 
 things. Well, I might have burst out with a lot 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 255 
 
 of remarks and exclamations and questions, and 
 stared at you as you say you expected to be stared 
 at, but I should n't have had any feeling of spite 
 against you, any more than I have now this 
 minute, for, as I tell you, I 'd never laid up any- 
 thing, but you 're so sensitive, you would n't 
 have liked my remarks and questions before all 
 the girls, I dare say." 
 
 " And I dare say this sensitiveness has made 
 me cowardly. I thought one day last term when 
 Kate Van der Berg was talking with Anna 
 Fleming about people who had risen in the 
 world by their own ability, and yet did n't like 
 to refer to their early days of poverty and 
 struggle, that I must be a great coward, and I 
 was very unhappy over it for a while; but I 
 know now that my cowardice is n't shame at all, 
 but just that shrinking from talking to those who 
 could n't fully understand what I was talking of, 
 and who would stare at me with wonder and 
 curiosity because they did n't understand. But 
 now, now, I 'm not going to shrink any longer, 
 I 'm not going to have anybody ever think for a 
 single moment that I 'm ashamed of that dear 
 time when we lived in that tiny cottage at 
 Riverview, where I first began to learn to play 
 on the little violin I earned myself, and where 
 
256 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 ray dear, dear father made the little model of 
 the engine that made his fortune." 
 
 " Oh, do you mean, then, that you are going to 
 tell Kate now, right away, — Kate and the other 
 girls, — what you 've told me ? " asked Dorothea 
 eagerly, and with her usual blunt inquisitiveness. 
 
 " Well, I don't know that I shall rush ' right 
 away ' now, this minute, and tell them ; it is n't 
 exactly a matter of such importance as that," 
 answered Hope, with a laugh that was half 
 amused and half annoyed. " I think I shall 
 dress for dinner first, and I mai/ sleep on it." 
 
 " Oh, now you 're snubbing my inquisitiveness, 
 I know ! But, Hope, see here a minute. I — I 
 want to say that I 'm not going to talk to the 
 girls about you. Of course, you expected that I 
 would — would go on ■ over that Brookside 
 station squabble, and I might, if things had n't 
 turned out as they have — if I — I did n't feel 
 as I do — as if I knew you better now, and 
 knew how you felt about being made a show of." 
 
 Hope winced a little at this presumption on 
 Dorothea's part that there was still a secret be- 
 tween them, — a secret dependent on Dorothea's 
 own good will, — and she made haste to say, — 
 
 " It is very nice of you, I 'm sure, Dorothea, to 
 want to consult my feelings, but it is n't neces- 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 257 
 
 sary for yon to think that you mnst keep silent 
 on my account." 
 
 Dorothea looked a little disappointed, and Hope 
 felt a twinge of self-reproach as she glanced at 
 her ; but it was impossible for her to accept the 
 attitude of indebtedness that seemed about to be 
 thrust upon her. As she turned to leave the 
 room, however, she said more warmly than she 
 had yet spoken, — 
 
 " I think you have been very good-natured, 
 Dorothea, to have taken everything that I have 
 said so nicely — and — and " — smiling a little 
 — "you are better-natured than I am, because 
 you don't lay things up as I do." 
 
 " No, I don't lay up grudges, but I can lay up 
 a little gratitude, I hope, and that helps me to 
 be good-natured sometimes." 
 
 As she said this, Dorothea showed all her milk- 
 white teeth in a frank laugh ; and Hope, regarding 
 her, thought to herself : " She ix better natured 
 than I am about some things, and she can be 
 generous." 
 
 J7 
 
258 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 " A ND she did n't make any objection to going 
 
 ■t\ with you?" 
 
 " No, not the slightest. Indeed she seemed 
 glad to go with us." 
 
 Hope flushed a little, as she said this in answer 
 to Kate's question that night, as the two sat talk- 
 ing over the day and its exciting events. The 
 flush was the result of that pang of tender con- 
 science that springs up in revolt at even a mo- 
 mentary want of candor. 
 
 " And Ray Armitage, — how did he take it ? " 
 
 " Oh, quite easily ! " 
 
 " And you did n't have — either you or Mrs. 
 Sibley — to argue with her ; you did n't have to 
 tell her that the only thing to save her from the 
 consequences of her silliness was to go home in 
 a proper way under proper chaperonage ? " 
 
 " No, we did n't have to knock her down with 
 that bludgeon," laughed liope. 
 
 " Well, I suppose she had begun to think ! 
 I 'm glad she had so much sense. Schuyler 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 259 
 
 made all manner of fun of me after you and Mrs. 
 Sibley left. He said, in the first place, that he 
 did n't believe you 'd be in time to see them be- 
 fore they entered the theatre, and if you did, you 
 wouldn't stop them." 
 
 " Mrs. Sibley was of the same opinion exactly." 
 
 "How clever it was of her to do the next 
 thing, — take you into the theatre, and then 
 manage the whole thing so perfectly ! " 
 
 " Yes, was n't it clever, and so kind." 
 
 " When you drove up did you see any of the 
 teachers ? " 
 
 "We met Miss Stephens as we entered the 
 hall." 
 
 " You don't mean it ? What did she say at 
 seeing Dorothea with you ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Sibley came in with us for a moment, 
 and Miss Stephens looked at the three of us with 
 some surprise, and then said, — 
 
 " ' I thought Dorothea was coming home long 
 ago under the escort of Bessie Armitage and her 
 brother.' 
 
 " At that, Mrs. Sibley answered at once, ' We 
 met Dorothea, and took her with m».' 
 
 " Oh ! and when Miss Stephens saw Mrs. Sibley 
 and heard her say that, she felt that everything 
 was all right, I suppose. She ought to have been 
 
260 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 sure of that before, and then you would n't have 
 lost your afternoon's skating, and had such a lot 
 of bother." 
 
 " Oh, well, it 's all turned out satisfactorily." 
 Hope could n't tell Kate how satisfactorily, — 
 couldn't tell her that if Miss Stephens had 
 been sure that everything was right at an earlier 
 hour and Dorothea had thus been hindered from 
 doing what she did, she would also have missed 
 that mortifying experience, that might do more 
 to shake her unlimited confidence in her own 
 estimates and opinions than anything else could 
 possibly do. 
 
 No, Hope could n't tell Kate of this, for her 
 lips were sealed. But if she could not express 
 herself freely in this direction, she could, and 
 she would, say something to show Dorothea as 
 she had just seen her, — at her best ; and so she 
 held forth, with what amplitude was possible 
 within the limit of her promise, on the girl's sur- 
 prising gentleness and reasonableness. Doro- 
 thea had really behaved exceedingly well, she 
 told Kate, and was not only appreciative of what 
 had been done for her, but of the good intention 
 that prompted the doing. And here Hope could 
 not help repeating this characteristic speech of 
 Dorothea's, — 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 261 
 
 " I don't half believe, and I never have, that 
 such dreadful consequences would come of going 
 against Miss Marr's rules ; but you do, I see, and 
 so it was awfully kind of you to take all this 
 trouble to pull me out of the danger you thought 
 I was in." 
 
 " She said that ? Well, I must say, she 's got 
 more sense and feeling than I gave her credit 
 for ; and to think of her flying at me as she did. 
 My intentions were as good as yours." 
 
 " Yes, but you gave her advice, and she hates 
 advice. What seemed to impress her was our — 
 Mrs. Sibley and my — taking the trouble to leave 
 the Park, and actually going in to the matinee 
 and waiting to do her the service we did." 
 
 " Well, I hope her gratitude and appreciation 
 will last long enough to keep her out of any more 
 silly scrapes for a while." 
 
 " I don't believe she will want to get into any 
 more such scrapes. I — I think she feels sort 
 of ashamed of what she has done. And, Kate, 
 could n't we — would n't it be a good plan if we 
 tried to help her to keep out of such things ? " 
 
 "Help her — how?" 
 
 " Well, I — I feel as if I may have been too 
 hard on her. I have cherished my feeling of 
 dislike constantly, and have done her an injury 
 
262 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 all round — with you, and the other girls by the 
 way I have held off from her. She feels that 
 the girls don't like her, and thinks that you 
 were the first to dislike her, and that it was you 
 who had influenced me. I told her what a mis- 
 take that was, — that it was I who had influ- 
 enced you — by my manner at the start ; and 
 then, then I recalled myself to her mind. I 
 told her what she had forgotten, — that I was 
 the little girl she had met five years ago, — the 
 little girl she had had a quarrel with at the 
 Brookside station, and that I had always remem- 
 bered what she had said to me there, — always 
 remembered and resented it, and that it was 
 that that had affected my manner towards her, 
 had made me stiff and offish to her." 
 
 " Oh, Hope, do, do tell me about that time ! 
 I 've never liked before to urge you to tell me 
 the whole story, but I wish now that you would 
 tell me." 
 
 There was a moment of hesitation, — just a 
 moment; then with a little rising of color, a 
 little tremulousness of voice, Hope said, — 
 
 " Kate, do you remember that piece of music 
 that I brought back from Boston, — that ' Idyl 
 of the Spring ' that Mr. Kolb had composed for 
 me to play at our coming May festival ? " 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 263 
 
 " That piece dedicated to you, and so oddly 
 named ' Mayflowers : Ten Cents a Bunch ' ? " 
 
 " Yes, and do you remember, when you asked 
 me how he came to give it such an odd title, that 
 I told you he had known a little girl once that 
 he was very fond of, who had sold mayflowers 
 at ten cents a bunch ? " 
 
 « Yes." 
 
 « Well, J was that little girl." 
 
 " You ! you ! When — where — how did you 
 come to sell them ? " 
 
 " I '11 tell you ; " and then, for the second 
 time that night, Hope told her story of that 
 ' poor time,' as Dorothea had blunderingly called 
 it, — that dear time, as she herself rightly and 
 happily called it, — when she lived with her father 
 and mother in the little cottage at Riverview, 
 and carried out her joyous plan of earning that 
 wonderful twenty-five dollars to buy the good 
 little fiddle. As she told the story now, as she 
 went back to the details of her plan, with Kate 
 for audience, and described the little fiddle in the 
 shop-window as she had first seen it, and the 
 sinking of her heart as she was told the price, 
 and then the happy relief of her inspiration when 
 she heard the boy on the street call out " Ten 
 cents a bunch," she began to lose her shyness 
 
264 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 in the warmth of her recollection, — to lose her 
 shyness and to forget her shrinking from a possi- 
 ble auditor who would vHt understand. Would n't 
 understand ! As she neared the end, as she 
 came to her meeting with Dorothea in the Brook- 
 side station, and said, " It was there that I first 
 met Dorothea," Kate burst in, — 
 
 " And she insulted you, she insulted you in her 
 ignorance and stupidity ! I can see it all, — all. 
 She couldn't comprehend such a dear darling 
 brave little thing as you. She took you for an 
 ordinary little street huckster, — the horrid thick- 
 headed, thick-skinned creature, — and sneered and 
 jeered at you, and very likely called you names, 
 or did other dreadful things." 
 
 " Oh, no, no, Kate ! she was n't malicious. She 
 did n't mean to hurt me ; but she was ignorant 
 of an}! way of living but her own way, and she 
 thought that anybody who sold things on the 
 street must be one of those very poor people 
 who lived anyhow, like the people at the North 
 End, and so she asked me questions, — questions 
 that hurt me, because they showed that she 
 thought I was so different from herself. No, it 
 was n't malice that made her ask these ques- 
 tions, it was simply ignorance ; and I — I told 
 her 80 at last." 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 265 
 
 « You did ? HurraL ! Tell me — tell me ex- 
 actly what you said," cried Kate, laughing 
 delightedly. 
 
 " Well, I said exactly that, — that she must be 
 very ignorant or she would know more about 
 the difference in people, that she would see 
 the difference ; and then I told her that my father 
 was an engineer on the road, and that we had a 
 nice home and plenty to eat and to drink and 
 to wear, and books and magazines and papers, 
 and then she asked me what I sold flowers on 
 the street for, if we were as nice as that, and I 
 told her that I wanted to buy something for 
 myself that my father could n't afford to buy 
 for me ; and then I remember " — and a little 
 dimpling smile came over Hope's face here — 
 " I asked her, ' Don't you ever want anything that 
 your father does n't feel as if he could buy for 
 you just when you want him to ? ' and she 
 was so irritated at my accusing her of being 
 ignorant that she answered, ' Well, if I did, I 
 shouldn't be let to go out on the street and 
 peddle flowere to earn the money.' " 
 
 " The hateful, impudent — " 
 
 " But wait, wait ! I was as bad as she was here, 
 because I answered back, ' And I should n't be 
 allowed to say " let to go," like ignorant North 
 Enders.' " 
 
"^66 BOPE BENBAM. 
 
 " Oil, Hope, Hope, this is beautiful, beautiful ! " 
 and Kate began to dance wildly around the 
 room, thrumming an imaginary pair of castanets 
 as she danced. 
 
 "I don't think it was very beautiful," pro- 
 tested Hope ; " but you can see by this speech 
 that I was as bad as she after I got my temper 
 up." 
 
 " Bad ! it was beautiful, beautiful, — just the 
 best thing I ever heard. Bad! well, I should 
 say not." 
 
 " But she did n't mean to hurt me, to begin 
 with, and I — I meant to hurt her in everything 
 I said. Remember that." 
 
 "You meant to enlighten her, and I fancy 
 you did, and you certainly got the better of her." 
 
 " Yes, and her father told her so, she said, 
 when I recalled the ' scrimmage,' as she termed 
 it, to her mind ; and yet in spite of that she 
 didn't lay up anything against me. She had 
 forgotten my face, and was fast forgetting the 
 whole affair when I brought things back to her. 
 She had never had a bit of grudge against me, 
 and she only laughed when she recalled some of 
 the things I had said. I 'm glad now to tell you 
 the whole story, for you must see by what I 
 have told you, that she is n't in the least mall' 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 267 
 
 cious, and you must see, too, that she is really 
 much better natured than we have thought her, 
 not to have laid up anything ; yes, much better 
 natured than I am." 
 
 " Well, she was the attacking party. You 
 were only on the defensive, and you knocked her 
 down with the truth. Of course you would 
 remember the kind of things she said to you 
 more than she would remember your replies; 
 and then you are much finer and more sensitive 
 than she, anyway. But I will allow that she has 
 turned out better in the end than I would have 
 expected. That telling you what her father said 
 was n't bad. But, Hope dear, sensitive as you 
 are, how could you recall yourself and that old 
 time to her ? " 
 
 " I told you how I came to do it ; it was 
 because she had got it into her head that it was 
 you who had made me stiff and offish, and I had 
 to tell her then just how it was." 
 
 " Oh, yes ; and you sacrificed yourself in 
 that way for me. You hated to tell her, Hope, 
 I know you did, — you are such a sensitive, 
 shrinking creature." 
 
 "Yes, that is just my fault, — a cowardly 
 shrinking, that makes me keep silent sometimes 
 when I ought to speak. Oh, Kate, Kate, I dare 
 
268 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 say now, this minute, you are thinking how 
 strange it is, — my not having spoken to you 
 before, of all this old life of mine, when I lived 
 so differently from the way I live now. I dare 
 say you think I — I was ashamed to talk about 
 it, because my father was a working-man, a 
 poor locomotive engineer. Oh, I shall never 
 forget how I felt that day last term when you 
 talked about the people who kept still and never 
 spoke of their humble beginnings ; and when you 
 brought up the Stephensons and said, * Do you 
 think they 'd keep still, because they were 
 ashamed of their humble beginnings, after they 
 had worked out of them and become prosperous V 
 and then when you went on and declared how 
 you hated the cowardice of those people who 
 did n't dare to speak of these things, and what 
 you would do under such circumstances, I felt 
 that / was the most miserable coward, and that 
 you would despise me forever if you knew what 
 I was keeping to myself. But I knew — I knew 
 all the time, that I was n't ashamed of anything, 
 — of the little home without a servant or of the 
 engine-cab and my dear, dear father. I knew I 
 was proud of him and what he had done, and yet 
 I knew that I could n't bear to think of telling all 
 these things to girls who had never known what 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 269 
 
 it was to live as we had. I felt that you 
 wouldn't, that you couldn't understand; that 
 you would take it aU something as Dorothea 
 had, years ago, though you would n't say a word 
 of how you felt, but you would look it. You 
 would stare at me with wonder and curiosity, — 
 that vou — you — " 
 
 " Oh, Hope, Hope, my dear, I do understand 
 it all — all — everything. I know that you 
 could n't be ashamed of that old time, and I 
 imderstand just how you felt about us, how and 
 why you shrank from telling us. One such expe- 
 rience as that with Dorothea was enough to 
 make you shrink from all girls like tis. You 
 were a dear delicate little child, and you had 
 never known that there was such ignorance as 
 Dorothea's, and that you could be so misunder- 
 stood, and it has made a great bruise on you 
 that you have never got over. Oh, Hope, this 
 is all Dorothea's doing. She meant no harm, 
 but she has done the harm nevertheless, for she 
 has taken away your belief and trust and confi- 
 dence. To think that you couldn't trust me, 
 after all you 've known of me, to understand just 
 a difference in the way of living! Why, the 
 life you've just told me of — that little home 
 where you were so close to each other, where 
 
270 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 you lived so near to all your father's hopes and 
 plans — seems to me beautiful, something to 
 be envied. And to think you should think I 
 should n't understand, should n't appreciate it — 
 should look at it with — with such eyes as — as 
 Dorothea's ! Oh, Hope ! Hope ! does n't this 
 prove what harm Dorothea has done you ? " 
 
 " And if it does, Kate, and I don't deny that 
 it does, I say again that she did n't mean to do 
 any harm, — I see that now as clear as can be, — 
 and that ought to make all the diflference ; and 
 then when I think what 1 have done — " 
 
 " You ! what have you done but to forgive 
 her ninety-and-nine times ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, no, Kate, I 've — I 've dis — no, I 've 
 hated her all these years, and this hate has 
 affected my manner towards her so much that 
 it influenced you and all the other girls against 
 her ; and as she has been harmed through that, 
 I don't see but that I ought to cry quits." 
 
 " Yes, five months against five years. Do you 
 call that quits ? " 
 
 " Yes, and maybe more than quits, because 
 I 've made enemies for her, or at least influenced 
 people against her, while she had no feeling to 
 prejudice people against me. She has liked me 
 all this time that we 've been here at school to- 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 271 
 
 gether, spite of my being so stiff ; and when she 
 came to find out who I was, — the little girl who 
 got the best of her in that childish quarrel, s\e 
 had n't the least ill wiU towards me. Quits ? 
 Yes, I say it 's more than quits for me. Oh, Kate, 
 I can't teU you everything she said to me just 
 now, but she did show herself generous and grate- 
 ful ; and even when I confessed that it was I who 
 had prejudiced you, even then she had no ill wiU. 
 Yes, yes, I agree that I was harmed and hurt 
 by what happened five years ago ; but, Kate, I 've 
 been thinking very fast and very hard for the 
 lasb hour or two, and I 've come to believe that 
 if I had known nothing of Dorothea before she 
 came here — if I and you had started without 
 any prejudice, things might have been dififer- 
 ent, we might have been easier and pleasanter 
 with her, and that might have brought her out 
 in pleasanter ways. But instead of that, we 
 picked up every little thing, and, well, she wat 
 cold-shouldered awfully by all of us at times ; 
 and we can't tell — we don't know what we 
 might have done, if we had tried to make her 
 one of us more. We might have kept her from 
 doing such foolish reckless things as she has ; 
 and so, as I think that I am to blame for the 
 beginning of this prejudice that has hurt her, I 
 
272 HOPE BEN HAM. 
 
 think that I may have been the means of doing 
 her greater harm than she has ever done me ; 
 for think, thinlc, Kate, what harm it must be to a 
 girl to have Raymond Armitage able to boast 
 about her accepting his attentions, and for your 
 brother and Peter Van Loon, and nobody knows 
 who else, getting such a cheap opinion of her 
 through these things." 
 
 " Yes, I see. But what do you propose to do 
 about it ? " 
 
 "Well, I think — I ought to do or try to do 
 what I can now, to help her not to hurt herself 
 any more by these pranks." 
 
 " How are you going to work to make her 
 over like this ? " 
 
 "I — I don't expect to make her over, Kate, 
 but I think she may get a different idea of hav- 
 ing a good time if we are very friendly to her, 
 and bring her into our good times, and she sees 
 that the girls, and the boys too, that she really 
 wants to associate with, really and truly look 
 down on these pranks that she has thought were 
 only ' good fun,' — look down upon them and 
 think them vulgar." 
 
 " And you want me to help in this missionary 
 work ? " asked Kate, half laughing. 
 
 " Yes, I — I want you to be nice to her, Kate, 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 273 
 
 When you meet her to-morrow morning, now, I 
 want you to give her something more than a 
 stiff nod ; I want you to smile a little, — not too 
 much, or she '11 think I 've been talking to yon 
 about her." 
 
 "A little, but not too much," laughed Kate, 
 " Oh, Hope, Hope, you dear delightful darling 
 you, this is too funny, too funny ! " 
 
 " But won't you try — won't you try, Eate, 
 to—" 
 
 " To smile upon her a little but not too much ? 
 Yes, yes, I '11 try, I'll try," still laughing. 
 
 "And, Kate dear," suddenly enfolding the 
 laughing girl in a close embrace, " will you try 
 to do something else for me, — will you try to 
 forgive me for — for being so stupid as not to 
 trust you to — to understand? Will you try 
 to forgive me, and to — to love me as well — 
 as you did before?" 
 
 " Try to forgive you — to love you as well as 
 I did before," cried Kate, pressing Hope's cheek 
 against her own. " I 've nothing to forgive ; and 
 as for loving you as well as I did before, I love 
 you better, if that were possible, for before, though 
 I thought I knew you pretty well, I did n't know 
 how more than generous you could be. Love you 1 
 I love and admire you beyond anybody ; I — " 
 18 
 
274 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 " Girls, girls, it 's after talking hours," whis- 
 pered Anna Fleming, as she pushed open the door. 
 " I 've just come from your room, Hope, where I 've 
 been with Myra, and the lights are all being 
 turned down in the halls, and so we must say 
 good-night and scatter to bed." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I ought not to have stayed so long," 
 whispered back Hope, apologetically. " Good- 
 night!" and "Good-night!" "Good-night" re- 
 sponded Anna and Kate in chorus; but Kate 
 managed to add slyly in a lower whisper to 
 Hope, — 
 
 " I '11 smile upon her a little, but not too much, 
 Hope dear." 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 275 
 
 CHAPTER XXni. 
 
 THE next morning was rather dreaded by 
 Dorothea. She had really suffered from 
 a headache the night before, and with that ex- 
 cuse had been allowed to keep her room, and 
 have a light supper sent up to her. 
 
 " But I wish I had n't — I wish to goodness 
 I 'd gone down last night ! " she said petulantly 
 to herself, as she faced the morning's sunshine. 
 She had full faith in Hope and her promise, 
 and was therefore quite secure that not one of 
 the girls would know of that mortifying little 
 episode at the end of yesterday's escapade ; and 
 this was the most that she cared for. But yet, 
 in spite of this, she had a certain very uncom- 
 fortable feeling about meeting Kate Van der 
 Berg and "that set," as she called the little 
 group of girls of which Kate seemed the nat- 
 ural head and leader. A very uncomfortable 
 feeling ; for though that mortifying episode was 
 a safe secret, the rest of the escapade was the 
 common property of Kate and Hope ; " and of 
 
276 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 course," argued Dorothea, " Kate Van der Berg 
 has told all she knows to the others, and they '11 
 just take her little pattern of things, and set up 
 and look at me, and think how the naughty girl 
 was taken care of by Mrs. Sibley and Hope. Oh, 
 oh, if it had n't been for that horrid Raymond 
 Armitage's being so mean and selfish at the end, 
 — well, I 've found him out ! — I should n't have 
 had to accept Hope's offer, — though it was 
 awfully good of her, and I was awfully glad to 
 accept, as things turned out. But if things 
 hadn't turned out as they did, — if Ray Ar- 
 mitage had behaved himself, I needn't have 
 accepted, and then if I had come back in the 
 cars, as I went, I should have taken the risks 
 and they 'd have known that I was independent. 
 But now, though thank Heaven they won't 
 know why I accepted Hope's offer, they'll 
 know that I did accept it, and so they '11 stare 
 at me as the naughty little girl who had to 
 give in ! " 
 
 It will be seen by this argument that Doro- 
 thea's state of mind was not yet what it should 
 be. It will also be seen that, harboring such a 
 state of mind, it was quite natural that she 
 should find herself decidedly uncomfortable at 
 the prospect of facing " that set." But it had 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 277 
 
 to be done, however. There was no use in put- 
 ting it off; and with a final glance at the mirror, 
 a final pat to her smooth shining hair, Dorothea 
 started off toward the dining-room. As she 
 gained the lower hall, she heard a mingled 
 soimd of various voices issuing from the room, 
 and ruefully thought : " Late as it is, they 're aU 
 there ! Why did n't I get up earlier ? I might 
 have known they'd be late Sunday morning. 
 Now all eyes will be glaring at me when I open 
 the door!" 
 
 But as she opened the door, beyond one or 
 two of the girls looking up with a preoccupied 
 air and a hasty good-morning, no notice was 
 taken of her. " That set " and indeed the whole 
 assembled company were in the very thick of 
 an animated talk concerning the origin and ob- 
 servance of Saint Valentine's Day. 
 
 " Of course we have kept up the Valentine 
 fun year after year, because there 's such a lot 
 of children in our family. I don't suppose that 
 grown up people nowadays would make anything 
 of it, if it was n't for children, — except maybe 
 vulgar people who use those horrid comic valen- 
 tines to play a vulgar joke on some one," Kate 
 Van der Berg was saying just as Dorothea 
 stepped over the threshold. A little nod and 
 
278 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 smile was given to Dorothea the next moment, 
 — a little easy nod and that happy half-smile 
 that was " not too much," recommended by 
 Hope. 
 
 " It says in Chambers' Book of Days," here 
 spoke up Anna Fleming, " that Valentine's Day 
 is now almost everywhere a much degenerated 
 festival, but that it was once a very general 
 custom with everybody — grown-up-people as well 
 as children — to send valentines to each other ; 
 and it says, too, that the origin of this custom 
 is a subject of some obscurity. Those are the 
 very words ; I read them last night to Myra, 
 didn't I, Myra?" 
 
 " Yes ; and you read too that the Saint Valen- 
 tine who was a priest of Rome and martyred in 
 the third century seems to have nothing to do 
 with the matter beyond the accident of his day 
 being used for the festival purpose." 
 
 " Then, if that is true, the whole thing is a 
 sentimental muddle of nonsense, starting off 
 with the mating of birds for origin, as some of 
 the old writers seem to believe," cried Kate, in a 
 disgusted tone. " But I 'm not going to believe 
 any such thing. I'm going to believe what 
 Bishop Wheatley says about it. He says that 
 Saint Valentine was a man so famous for his love 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 279 
 
 and charity that the custom of choosing valen- 
 tines upon his festival took its rise from a 
 desire to commemorate that very love and 
 charity by choosing a special friend on his day, 
 — I suppose his birthday, — which was, as nearly 
 as can be reckoned, the fourteenth of February. 
 Now, I shall stick to this explanation of the day. 
 Bishop Wheatley *s authority is good enough for 
 me, and I shall choose my valentine on his lines 
 this year as I did last." 
 
 " Oh, who was your Valentine last year ? " cried 
 little Lily Chester, with eager curiosity. 
 
 " My aunt Katrine, — a great-aunt whom I had 
 never seen until last year, when she came over 
 from Germany to visit us." 
 
 " An old aunt, — how funny ! " exclaimed Lily. 
 
 " Why funny ? " 
 
 " Why ? Because — because whoever heard of 
 anybody choosing an old aunt for a valentine ? " 
 
 " Whom do you choose, Lily ? " 
 
 " I ? Oh, I choose children I know, — boys, 
 
 An outburst of laughter greeted this declara- 
 tion ; and in the midst of it Kate said gayly, with 
 a little confidential nod to Dorothea, " It 's cur- 
 rants and raisins again, Dorothea." 
 
 The gay tone of good-fellowship, the confiden- 
 
280 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 tial nod and smile took Dorothea so by surprise 
 that for the moment her ready speech failed her. 
 What she had thoug'ht,vrha,i she might have said 
 if she had not thus been surprised into silence, 
 was something in her usual truculent vein, with 
 a very decided declaration of sympathy with 
 Lily's choice. But surprised and silent for the 
 moment, she was all ready to agree with Myra 
 Donaldson, who followed Kate's remark with a 
 laughing confession that she too had chosen 
 " boys always," — that she thought that was the 
 customary, the proper valentine way. And 
 agreeing with Myra in an emphatic " It is 
 — it always has been the proper valentine way," 
 Dorothea was again surprised at the gentleness 
 of Kate's tone as she disagreed, — as she said : 
 
 " Oh, no, no, Dorothea ; the good old Bishop 
 Wheatley did n't mean that it was nothing but a 
 sweethearting custom, for there is another record 
 that says distinctly that the early Church looked 
 upon that custom as one of the pagan practices, 
 and observed the day as a real Saint 's Day, when 
 one chose a particular patron saint for the year 
 and called him, or her, my ' valentine.' And it 
 was in that way that I chose dear old Aunt 
 Katrine for my valentine last year." 
 
 " And I chose my dear Mr. Kolb, my first 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 281 
 
 mnsic-teacher," said Hope, looking up brightly. 
 " He taught me to play on that little violin I 
 was telling you about," glancing at Kate with a 
 significant smile. Dorothea saw the snule, and 
 instantly said to herself : " She 's told her, — she 's 
 told her all that Mayflower and fiddle story, every 
 word of it, T can see by their looks. I wonder 
 if she 's told the other girls ? " 
 
 But what was that that Myra Donaldson was 
 referring to ? — something that had evidently 
 brought up all this talk. Dorothea had lost a 
 sentence or two in her momentary preoccupation 
 over Hope and Kate ; but now catching the 
 words " It 's to be a valentine party as usual," 
 she asked eagerly, — ^ 
 
 " Whose party is it, — who gives it ? " 
 " Bessie Armitage. The fourteenth of February 
 is her birthday, and she always has a party on 
 that day, or on the evening of the day. She 
 has n't sent her invitations out yet, but she wiU 
 next week. I went to her last year's party, and 
 it was such a pretiy party, was n't it ? " looking 
 at Kate and Hope, who at once gave cordial 
 agreement that it was a very pretty party, " But 
 you '11 see for yourself this year, Dorothea," 
 Myra went on, " for I suppose Miss Marr wiU 
 let us go, as she did last winter, though it is 
 
282 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 stretching a point to go to any party outside ; but 
 Bessie has been here so long — she was only ten 
 when she first came to Miss Marr's — that she 
 has exceptions made in her favor ; and then 
 these birthday-parties of hers are always early 
 parties, and that makes a great difference." 
 
 A party, — a Valentine party at Bessie Armi- 
 tage's ! Dorothea could n't, for the life of her, 
 keep the hot angry color from rushing to her 
 face as she heard the name of Armitage; and 
 her first thought was : " Catch me going to a 
 party at his home, where I 've got to be polite to 
 him ! " At the next thought, — the thought that 
 her refusal to go would be thoroughly understood 
 by Raymond himself, would be taken by him 
 as a direct cut and snub, her spirits rose, and a 
 little triumphant smile began to curl her lips. 
 
 " Look at Dorothea ! She ' s planning some mis- 
 chief," laughed Myra, who had noted the sudden 
 change in her opposite neighbor's face. All eyes 
 were now indeed turned upon Dorothea. 
 
 " Yes, you look like yourself again," spoke up 
 Anna Fleming, " you were quite pale when you 
 first came in. Has your headache all gone ? " 
 
 "My headache?" 
 
 " Yes ; they said you did n't come down to 
 dinner last night on account of a headache." 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 283 
 
 " Oh yes, I forgot to ask you how you were, we 
 were so full of Bessie 's Valentine party when 
 you came in," said Myra, apologetically. Then, 
 politely : " You had to leave the Park yesterday 
 almost directly after you arrived there, some one 
 said. 'Twas too bad. I didn't see you at all 
 after we entered, for I went at once over on the 
 other side of the pond with Anna and some of 
 her friends. What a scattered party we were, 
 
 — Anna and I on one side and Kate and Hope 
 on the other, and the rest I don't know where : 
 and how we straggled home, — Anna's friends in 
 charge of us, while Miss Thompson had another 
 party and Miss Stephens still another." 
 
 Dorothea forgot her embarrassment, forgot 
 everything, as she listened to these words, but 
 the amazing fact that Kate had told neither 
 Anna nor Myra the story of yesterday 's escapade, 
 
 — and Anna was Kate's room-mate! Could it 
 be that Kate Van der Berg, — who had always 
 been so ready to find fault, to say disagreeable 
 things, to put her — Dorothea — in the wrong, 
 
 — could it be possible that of her own will, her 
 own thought, she had refrained from repeating 
 what she knew ? And if she had, what was her 
 motive ? Dorothea asked herself suspiciously, 
 for she could not understand how one so out- 
 
284 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 spoken and lavish in her fault-finding could 
 suddenly put such restraint upon her tongue ; 
 for she could not comprehend, this quick-tem- 
 pered yet obtuse Dorothea, that a nature which 
 might be lavish of fault-finding and criticism upon 
 certain occasions, upon certain other occasions, 
 from a nice sense of honor and generosity, might 
 also be able to keep a golden silence. Yet this 
 was just what Kate Van der Berg had done. 
 She had had the impulse at the first to rush 
 at once to Myra, to whom she had already told 
 so much, with this amazing story of Dorothea's 
 latest exploit. But a second impulse came to 
 her, — a kindly impulse of restraint, wherein she 
 said to herself : " No, I won't prejudice Myra 
 any further, perhaps I 've prejudiced her too 
 much already by what I 've told her ; at any 
 rate, I '11 keep silent about this affair." How 
 more than glad she was that she had thus kept 
 silent when Myra's innocently betrayed ignor- 
 ance brought that look of surprise and relief into 
 Dorothea 's face. And Dorothea, presently turn- 
 ing her gaze from Myra to Kate herself, caught 
 on the latter 's face something of the expression 
 of this gladness, and experienced a fresh sur- 
 prise thereat ; but in this surprise was mixed a 
 little feeling of self-gratulation that matters 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 285 
 
 were turning out so easily and happily; and 
 then her volatile spirits began to rebound again, 
 and her thoughts to run in this way, — 
 
 " How silly I 've been to get so nervous and 
 fidgety ; but it 's all owing to Ray Armitage's 
 behavior. I haven't done anything to be 
 ashamed of anyhow, and I dare say in her secret 
 heart Kate Van der Berg thinks I haven't. 
 Any way everything is blowing over beautifully 
 now, and I 'm not going to bother about things 
 another bit, not even about that horrid Ray 
 Armitage, — though I '11 manage to get even 
 with him yet ! " And so solacing herself, in 
 this fashion, Dorothea's spririts continued to 
 rise higher and higher, and by Monday she was 
 in her usual mental as well as bodily condition, 
 her headache and her heartache — if the latter 
 term could be employed to describe her pangs of 
 sore mortification — no longer conquering her. 
 Indeed, so jubilant was the reactionary state of 
 mind following upon her depression, that she at 
 once set about readjusting various little plans 
 to suit her present mood. One of these plans 
 was the determination she had made to refuse 
 Bessie Armitage's invitation to the birthday 
 valentine party. It would only make the girls 
 talk for her to stay away, she concluded. It 
 
286 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 would be a great deal better plan to go to the 
 party, and show Ray Armitage that he was n't 
 of enough consequence to keep her away. And 
 when there she could manage to snub him beau- 
 tifully in a dozen different ways, though it was in 
 his own house, — oh yes, in a dozen different 
 ways, and be outwardly very polite too; yes, 
 indeed, she knew how to do it! 
 
 In thoughts and plans like these, the days 
 flew swiftly by. " Next week," Myra had in- 
 formed them, the invitations were to be sent out, 
 and she had had her information from Bessie 
 herself, who was at that time confined at home 
 with a severe cold. Next week, and then another 
 week would bring the anticipated fourteenth. 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 287 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 " "pUT there must be some mistake, some 
 -L' accident, that has delayed yours, for all 
 the other girls received theirs yesterday," ex- 
 claimed Myra Donaldson in surprise, when Dor- 
 othea mentioned the fact to her on Tuesday of 
 that following week, that she had not received 
 her invitation. " Yes, there must be some acci- 
 dent," reiterated Myra ; " it no doubt slipped out 
 in some way, and you '11 get it to-morrow." But 
 " to-morrow " came and went and Dorothea failed 
 to receive the invitation. 
 
 "Of course there must be some mistake," 
 Anna Fleming also declared, when she was told 
 of the fact; and then one and another echoed 
 the same declaration as they heard of the cir. 
 cumstance. Of course there was some mistake ! 
 By Thursday, certainly, everybody thought the 
 " mistake " would be discovered and rectified ; 
 but Thursday too came and went, and Friday 
 passed by without the desired result. On Satnr 
 day morning Dorothea said to Hope, — 
 
288 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 "I — I wish you would do something for me, 
 Hope." 
 
 "Yes, certj^inly I will if I can," returned 
 Hope. 
 
 " Well, it 's just this : I heard that you were 
 going out to drive with Kate Van der Berg this 
 afternoon, and I wondered if you could -^ if 
 f ou would call and see Bessie Armitage, — see 
 how she is, you know — and then — and then 
 you might ask her — you might tell her about the 
 invitation, — that I had n't received it. Of course 
 I don't want to speak to her about it, but some- 
 body else might, and she would want to be told 
 — she 'd feel horribly — / should, I 'm sure, in 
 her place if I was iCt told — if the mistake 
 was n't rectified ; and so I thought if you would 
 just speak of it — " 
 
 " Yes, indeed I will. I 'm glad you asked me. 
 I wonder I had n't thought of it myself, but I '11 
 go round directly the first thing this afternoon," 
 responded Hope, cordially. 
 
 " Some mistake ? " repeated Bessie Armitage, 
 in a queer, hesitating, questioning way, as Hope 
 sat before her, waiting for the explanation that 
 she had expected would at once make everything 
 right for Dorothea. 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 289 
 
 "Yes, for she hasn't received her invitation 
 at all, you understand," answered Hope, think- 
 ing that Bessie had not understood. 
 
 " Yes ? " began Bessie, and then stopped, her 
 eyes cast down and the color coming into her 
 cheeks, while Hope and Kate glanced at each 
 other in embarrassed silence. What did it 
 mean ? What could be the matter ? They were 
 wildly conjecturing all sorts of strange impos- 
 sible things, and Hope was just determining to 
 break the dreadful silence with these very 
 questions, when Bessie looked up and said : 
 
 " I '11 tell you — I must tell you ; there was n't 
 any mistake — I knew that Dorothea had no 
 invitation." 
 
 "Oh!" breathed Hope, faintly; and "Oh!" 
 echoed Kate, in the same tone. 
 
 "No, it was meant that she shouldn't have 
 one ; but I had written one, and I was going to 
 send it if — if my mother had n't stopped it. " 
 
 " Your mother ? " 
 
 "Yes, my mother. I had already sent out 
 quite a number of invitations, and had just got 
 another lot ready, when my mother came in and 
 saw Dorothea's name on one of the notes. The 
 moment she saw it, she forbade me to send it. 
 Mother was at the New Year's party, — perhaps 
 
 19 
 
290 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 you remember, — just at the last of it, when 
 Dorothea was going on so, and she took a great 
 dislike to Dorothea then. Dorothea was noisy, 
 you know. Mother thought she was very loud 
 and underbred. But that — that wasn't all. 
 A little while ago some acquaintances of ours 
 from Philadelphia — the Cargills — were stay- 
 ing at the Waldorf. The next day after they 
 arrived, they went to a matinee at the Madison 
 Square Theatre, and saw there my brother Ray- 
 mond, and with him a young girl. Of course 
 they thought the girl was some member of our 
 family; and when he went to speak to them, 
 they asked him if that was another sister he had 
 with him, and he told them no ; that it was only 
 an acquaintance, — a girl who was in a boarding, 
 school in the city. Mrs. Cargill thought this was 
 very odd ; and as Raymond was so young, she 
 spoke about it to mamma. Mamma was aston- 
 ished, and she went straight to Raymond and 
 asked him what it all meant, and who the girl 
 was ; and Raymond had to tell the whole story 
 then, — that it was Dorothea Dering, from Miss 
 Marr's school ; that he had invited her to go to 
 the matinee with him, and that she had accepted 
 the invitation ; and then that he had met her 
 at the skating-pond in Central Park, and had 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 291 
 
 gone from there with her to the theatre, unsus- 
 pected by any of the teachers. The minute 
 mamma heard the name, ' Dorothea Bering,' she 
 recalled the New Year's party and Dorothea's be- 
 havior there ; and so, and so, don't you see, when 
 she saw Dorothea's name on the envelope, the 
 other day, she thought of all these things, and — 
 and forbade my sending the note. I tried my 
 best to get her to let me send it ; I told her 
 what Anna Fleming had said to me, — that 
 Dorothea came from one of the first families of 
 Massachusetts; that her father was the Hon. 
 James Dering, and all her people were in the 
 very best society. But the more I tried to talk 
 Dorothea up in this way, the more decided 
 mamma grew ; until, at last, she said that there 
 had been too much of this falling back upon 
 one's family nowadays ; that bad, loud manners 
 and rude behavior were not to be overlooked and 
 excused on that account, and that she did n't 
 propose to overlook Dorothea's by having her 
 invited to her house. And when I said I 
 thought that Raymond was as much to blame, 
 in asking her to go to the matinee, as Doro- 
 thea was in going, mamma said that that 
 didn't help her case at all; that Raymond's 
 invitation was only the result of her own 
 
292 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 loud, free ways ; that he would never have 
 thought of inviting her like that, if she had been 
 a dififerent kind of girl. Oh," — with a quick 
 look at Hope and Kate, — " mamma did n't 
 altogether exonerate Raymond ; she did n't 
 think he was altogether right, by any means ; 
 but then she does think — and so do I, girls — 
 that boys and young men are apt to treat a girl 
 a good deal as the girl treats them ; and — and 
 — Dorothea was too forward with Raymond. I 
 saw it myself from the first ; and she led him 
 on, — she encouraged him to treat her as he 
 would n't have treated either of you two. She 
 thought he admired just those free, foolish ways 
 of hers ; but he did n't, — he was only amused 
 by them. Oh, I know Raymond ; and I know if 
 he had seen me going on with any one as Doro- 
 thea did, he would have scolded me well. It 
 wouldn't have amused him to have seen his 
 sister going on so, to have seen me amusing 
 any one like that. But, Hope, Kate, all the same, 
 I felt dreadfully at leaving Dorothea out, — 
 dreadfully, for there I 'd sent off almost all the 
 school invitations ; there was no getting them 
 back. If I could have got them back, I would ; 
 and — yes, truly, I would n't have sent any invi- 
 tations to an/ one at Miss Marr's, if I had 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 293 
 
 known I had got to cut Dorothea. No; I 
 would n't have sent one, and then I could have 
 explained it to the rest of you privately, or I 
 could have said I could n't make so large a party 
 this year. Yes, I would certainly have done 
 this if it had n't been too late, — if mamma had 
 only seen and stopped Dorothea's invitation be- 
 fore the other school notes had been sent. Yes, 
 I would have done just that ; and not because 
 I 'm at all fond of Dorothea, but because I hate 
 to hurt anybody's feelings, and to — to make 
 such a time. I should have gone back to school 
 this week if it had n't been for this happening ; 
 but I 'm not going now until after the party, and 
 I may not go until next term if my father will 
 take me away with him to Florida, where he is 
 going next month ; and I hope, oh, I hope he 
 will ! " And here suddenly, to Hope and Kate's 
 astonishment, this quiet, self-contained Bessie 
 Armitage covered her face with her hands and 
 burst into tears. 
 
 " Oh, Bessie ! Bessie ! " broke forth Hope and 
 Kate, with a warm outrushing of sympathy, 
 and a desire to say something comforting, — " oh, 
 Bessie, Bessie ! " and then suddenly they both 
 stopped, for what could they say further with- 
 out saying something that would seem like a 
 
294 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 protest against Mrs. Armitage's decision, — that, 
 in fact, would be a protest, for both girls were 
 protesting in their hearts at that moment, were 
 saying something like this to themselves, — 
 
 " What harm could it have done to let this 
 invitation go, — just this one ? They need n't 
 ever have invited her again." And at that 
 very moment, as they were thus thinking, they 
 heard the rings of a portiere slip aside, and 
 there was Mrs. Armitage herself, entering from 
 the next room with a kind look of concern on her 
 face, and in another moment, after her friendly 
 greeting, she was saying, — 
 
 " Bessie has told you my decision about the 
 invitation to Miss Bering, and I dare say you 
 think I am very stiff and hard, not to let the invi- 
 tation go, — that it can't make much difference 
 for this once ; but, my dears, it is this once, this 
 one party, where my little ten-year-old Amy and 
 her little cousins will be in amongst the older 
 ones, that will make all the difference, for I don't 
 want these little girls to see such an exhibition 
 of loud manners, and those — I hate to say it — 
 vulgar flirting ways such as I saw New Year's 
 evening. If it were any other party, a party where 
 there were older girls only, I might have let the 
 invitation go ; but I have seen the ill effects of 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 295 
 
 very young girls like my Amy and her cousins 
 being brought into contact even for a short time 
 with a handsome showy girl who does and says 
 the kind of things that Miss Bering does, especi- 
 ally when that girl is accepted as a guest by their 
 own friends ; and so, if only for this one reason 
 apart from any other, don't you see, my dears, 
 that I could nH let this invitation go ? " 
 
 " Yes, I do see, I do see ! " cried Kate, impul- 
 sively ; " but — Mrs. Armitage, do you think she 
 — Dorothea will understand — wiU know that it 
 is her own fault ? " 
 
 "I — I think she will, I think she must," 
 answered Mrs. Armitage. There were tears in 
 her eyes as she said this ; and as she bent down 
 and kissed them good-by, both Hope and Kate 
 felt the depth and sincerity of her purpose, and 
 respected her for it. 
 
 " She 's right, she 's right of course ! " burst 
 forth Kate, as the two girls were driving away 
 together ; " but, oh, I do wish she had n't been 
 quite so right, quite so high-minded just now ; 
 for wTiat an uncomfortable time is ahead of us ! 
 Oh, Hope, I pity you ; what shall you — what 
 can you tell Dorothea ? " 
 
 " I don't see that I can tell her anything but 
 the trutL" 
 
296 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 « Not the whole truth ? " 
 
 " What else could I tell her ? " 
 
 " My ! I would n't be in your shoes for some- 
 thing ! She '11 be so furious, she '11 fall upon 
 you, — you or anybody who is nearest, — and 
 chew you into mince-meat ! Oh, Hope, don't tell 
 her ! Tell her — tell her — oh, I have it — tell 
 her that you spoke to Bessie about the invitation, 
 and that there was none sent because Bessie is 
 offended with her for some reason, — that you 
 can't tell her what it is, but that she must go 
 to Bessie herself for the reason. There ! there 
 you are all fixed up, and with the great high- 
 minded muss shoved off on to the Armitage 
 shoulders, where it ought to be. Houp la ! 
 I 'd dance a jig if I were out of the carriage ! " 
 
 " But I — I sha'n't shove it off like that, Katy 
 dear. I shall tell Dorothea everything, — it is 
 the only way. I shall tell her as gently as I 
 can, but I shall tell her. If I turn it off in the 
 way you suggest, it will make more trouble. 
 She'll go to Bessie the minute she gets back 
 and say something disagreeable to her, or she '11 
 treat her in an angry disagreeable manner, and 
 just as like as not say something, — something 
 purposely impertinent to irritate Bessie, — for 
 she won't stop at anything then." 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 297 
 
 "But do you thiuk it will be any better — 
 do you think she '11 be any less angry if you 
 tell her that it is Mrs. Armitage who is at the 
 bottom of the business ? " 
 
 " Yes, I do ; I think it will be a great deal 
 better. She '11 be angry, — she may be furious, 
 as you say ; but I shall tell her just how Bessie 
 felt about Twt sending the note, — how she cried 
 over it, and how Mrs. Armitage felt; and Doro- 
 thea has too much sense not to see herself, after 
 the first burst of temper, that the whole thing has 
 been made too serious a matter for her to quarrel 
 about it in a little petty way. And then — then 
 I think, after she gets over the anger, that she 
 is going to be helped by the whole experience, 
 going to see what she has never seen before, — 
 that she is all in the wrong in her way of doing 
 and saying the things that she does, and that 
 she will be left out of everything if she does n't 
 do differently ; and nothing — no, nothing but 
 something like this — would ever show her how 
 she has been hurting herself." 
 
 " Well, you may be right, Hope ; but I believe 
 this spoilt baby will scream and kick and bang 
 her head in some sort of tantrum way, and then 
 she '11 pack up her clothes and rush off to Bos- 
 ton, shaking the wicked dirty dust of New York 
 
298 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 from her feet, and calling us all a lot of primmy 
 old maids, or something worse." 
 
 Hope laughed a little, but she was more than 
 a little anxious and troubled; for, spite of her 
 brave stand, she did have a very decided dread 
 of applying that heroic treatment of the whole 
 truth to Dorothea ; and her dread by no means 
 diminished as she went down the long corridor 
 and saw at the end of it Dorothea's room-door 
 standing open, and within the room Dorothea 
 herself, humming a gay waltz as she shook out 
 the folds of the yellow gown ; and " Oh," groaned 
 Hope, " she 's getting it ready for the party ; she 
 thinks everything is all right, and she 's so sure 
 she 's going. Oh, dear ! " 
 
 And then it was, when Hope's heart was 
 quaking with fear and pity, that Dorothea 
 glanced up from the yellow gown and cried out 
 joyfully, — 
 
 " Oh, there you are ! Come in, come in, and 
 tell me all about it, — how the mistake was 
 made ; and where is it, — the invitation ? — you 
 brought it with you, did n't you ? " 
 
 "No — I — she — " 
 
 " Thought it was n't necessary, — that you 
 could tell me ? Was the note lost ? " went on 
 Dorothea, in her headlong way of anticipating 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 299 
 
 everything as usual, and only brought up at last 
 by Hope's faint, distressed cry of — 
 
 " Oh, Dorothea, there was n't any invitation ! " 
 
 " Was n't any ? What — what do you mean ? " 
 exclaimed Dorothea, dropping her yellow gown 
 to the floor, and staring with great dilating eyes 
 at Hope. 
 
 " I mean that Bessie — that Bessie did n't — 
 that — that it was stopped — that her — " 
 
 "Her brother stopped it? Baymond Armi- 
 tage? He was so mean as that — because I 
 resented the way he treated me there at the 
 theatre ? He — he has told her some lie, then, 
 and I will tell her — " 
 
 "Oh, Dorothea, Dorothea, wait, wait — listen 
 to me ! It is not — it was not her brother, not 
 Raymond Armitage, who stopped it; it was — it 
 was — their mother — it was Mrs. Armitage." 
 
 " Mrs. Armitage ! and Raymond went to her 
 — he got her to stop it ? Oh, how — " 
 
 " No, no, he did not go to her. Oh, Dorothea," 
 going forward and taking Dorothea's hand, 
 " won't you wait, won't you listen to me ? " 
 
 The soft touch of Hope's hand, the soft 
 tone, so full of pity it sounded like love, seemed 
 to surprise Dorothea out of her gathering wrath 
 for a moment, and her own fingers closing 
 
300 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 over Hope's with a sudden clinging movement, 
 she answered hastily, — 
 
 " Yes, yes, I '11 listen, I '11 listen ; go on, go 
 on!" 
 
 And Hope, holding the girl's hand with that 
 soft, firm touch, went on to tell her the story that 
 was so difficult for her to tell, — that " whole 
 truth " that she had decided that Dorothea 
 must now know once for all. As gently as pos- 
 sible, the talk with Bessie, the interview with 
 Mrs. Armitage was given ; nothing, not even the 
 reference to the New Year's party episode and 
 its prejudicial effect, being withheld ; and yet 
 through it all Dorothea made no interruption, 
 made no sign to show her feeling, beyond now 
 and then a convulsive clutch at the hand that 
 was holding hers, and a gradual fading away of 
 the hot red color that had suffused her face at 
 the start. As Hope felt this clutch of her fingers 
 now and then, as she saw toward the end of her 
 story the increasing pallor of her companion's 
 face, she could not help a thrill of apprehension, 
 for these signs seemed to her the signs of 
 a storm that would presently break forth ; and 
 as she came to the end, the very end of 
 what she had to say, she had a feeling of 
 trying to steady herself, to hold herself in 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 301 
 
 readiness to argue or assert or soothe, which- 
 ever method might seem best suited to stem or 
 stay the outbreak she expected. But what — 
 what did this mean — this dead silence that fol- 
 lowed, when she had ceased speaking ? Was 
 this the calm before the dreaded storm? And 
 Hope, who had lowered her eyes toward the end 
 of her story, instinctively looked up, — looked up 
 to see great tears rolling down the colorless 
 cheeks before her, and over all the face a pale 
 passion of emotion that did not seem to be the 
 passion of anger. Could it be the passion of pain 
 only ? Could it be that there was to be no storm 
 of angry protest and defiance even at the very 
 first? No, there was to be no storm of that 
 kind. Dorothea had again surprised her! 
 
302 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 BUT as the fears and apprehensions that beset 
 her began to lessen, Hope's pity and 
 sympathy rose afresh, and with added vigor. 
 She was thinking how best to express this pity 
 and sympathy without striking a note of criticism 
 that might injure the effect of what she had 
 placed before Dorothea, when Dorothea herself 
 showed the way, as she suddenly said, — 
 
 " There 's no use for me to stay here any 
 longer. I 'd better go home, where people know 
 me, and — and don't think my ways are so 
 dreadful." 
 
 There was no angry temper in this speech. 
 Though the tone was rather morose and bitter, it 
 seemed to spring from a sudden appalled sense 
 of defeat and danger such as she had never 
 heretofore experienced. And this was just the 
 situation. Hope's tact and kindness had pre- 
 sented the whole truth so carefully that petty 
 irritation was swallowed up in the something 
 serious that Dorothea herself but half compre* 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 303 
 
 hended, but from which her first instinct was to 
 flee, — to go home where people knew her and 
 didn't think her ways so dreadful. 
 
 But, " No, no," Hope urged against this desire. 
 " You must stay, Dorothea, — stay and take a 
 better place than you 've ever taken before with 
 us ; for you can, oh, you can, Dorothea. You can 
 make us all love and admire you if you have a 
 mind to, if you won't — won't be quite so head- 
 long, so — so sure you are right in some things, 
 so — childish in some ways." 
 
 " I childish ! 'T is n't childishness your Mrs. 
 Armitage is finding fault with ! " blurted out 
 Dorothea, in a bitter yet broken tone. 
 
 "But it is just that. If you were small for 
 your age instead of so big, it would be called 
 childishness ; and as it is, I 've heard you spoken 
 of as ' a spoilt child.' But you are so tall, so big, 
 80 womanly, most people think you are a grown 
 up young lady ; and — and grown up young 
 ladies don't go on just in the way that you do, 
 Dorothea." 
 
 " ' Just the way that I do ! ' Oh, I laugh, and 
 I make too much noise in my fun, I suppose 
 you think ; but what 's the reason the Brookside 
 people and the lots of people we know aU about 
 Brookside, — what 's the reason they don't find 
 
304 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 fault with my ways and leave me out of their 
 parties ? " 
 
 " You are a stranger here, Dorothea. You 
 must remember that we never have the same 
 freedom, or are looked upon quite the same, in a 
 place where we are strangers, as where we have 
 always lived," answered Hope, gently. 
 
 " Then it 's all the more reason why I 'd better 
 go home, where people know me and don't think 
 my ways so dreadful." 
 
 " Dorothea, you have told me once or twice 
 that your cousin found fault with your ways, and 
 perhaps — if he had not been your cousin, have 
 known you so well — if you had been a stranger 
 to him, he might not have made a friendly 
 allowance for you ; and, Dorothea, tell me one 
 thing : did you ever — ever go on there at home 
 as you have here, — receiving gifts and atten- 
 tions, and going to the theatre on the — on the 
 sly?" 
 
 « N— o." 
 
 " If you had, and it had been found out, do 
 you think it would have been passed over 
 unnoticed ? " 
 
 "N — 0, I don't* suppose it would, but I 
 shouldn't have been treated like this, — left 
 "•ut like this." 
 

 if ^ ■ ;| 4 
 
 2r I iV^lL,:^ 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 305 
 
 " No ; because — because, Dorothea, you and 
 your family are not strangers, — because you 
 are well known, and people forgive friends for 
 a long time." 
 
 " Then I 'd better go back to them, I 'd better 
 go back to them, and I will, I will ! Oh, I can't 
 stay here, Hope, I can't, I can't ! I see how 
 you '11 aU feel, how you '11 think that I Ve been a 
 disgrace to the school, when this gets out that 
 Mrs. Armitage would n't have me at the party, 
 and I can't, I can't stay." 
 
 " Dorothea, Dorothea ! " and Hope knelt down 
 by the couch where Dorothea had flung herself 
 in an agony of tears, — knelt down, and putting 
 her arms about the suffering girl begged her 
 never for a moment to think that either she or 
 Kate or Bessie would speak to the other girls 
 about Mrs. Armitage's action in regard to the 
 invitation. " No, they will never know from us, 
 Dorothea, — never, never." 
 
 " But — but what wi — will they think whe — 
 when I — I don't — go to the party ? " sobbed 
 Dorothea. 
 
 " Of course they '11 think there 's been a falling 
 out of some kind, and there has ; but it is n't 
 necessary that they should be told what it is, 
 is it?" 
 
 30 
 
306 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 «N — 0, n — 0, but it wi — will ge — get out 
 somehow. You — you '11 see, Hope, and I — I 
 can't — I can't stay, and have them talking 
 about my — my being left out on — on pur- 
 pose li — like this." 
 
 " But even if the truth did get out, it would 
 be a great deal worse for you to run away than 
 to stay, for it would look — it would he — cow- 
 ardly. No, no, Dorothea ! you must stay, and 
 I — I will help you all I can ; I will be your 
 friend, whatever happens, and so will Kate." 
 
 " Whatever happens." "When Hope said this, 
 she had little thought that anything further in 
 connection with the matter was to happen. She 
 had spoken out of her deep pity and sympathy, 
 to soothe and sustain Dorothea through a hard 
 crisis, — to soothe ai^d sustain and strengthen 
 her to do the courageous thing. She was quite 
 sure, as she had said, that neither Bessie nor 
 Kate would tell the story of the arrested invita- 
 tion ; but she made it still surer by exacting a 
 solemn promise from them not to do so, — a 
 promise as solemnly kept as it was made. And 
 yet, and yet, somehow and from somewhere — 
 was it through Mrs. Armitage or Raymond, both 
 of whom had given their word to Bessie to make 
 no mention of the subject? — a whisper of the 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 307 
 
 truth, found its way, before the week was over, 
 into the schoolroom circle. And before the 
 week was over, Dorothea knew it ! She knew it 
 by the suddenly withdrawn glances as she looked 
 up ; she knew it by the suddenly changed con- 
 versation as she approached ; she knew it by 
 numberless little signs and indications in all 
 directions. And Hope, when she was presently 
 beset by eager questions from one and another, 
 — Had she heard ? and what did she think ? and 
 could it be true ? — poor Hope had hard work to 
 fence and parry and hold her ground without 
 violating the truth. She succeeded at last, how- 
 ever, in silencing her questioners ; but she was 
 perfectly well aware that she had only silenced 
 them as far as she herself was concerned. 
 
 Kate Van der Berg also had a good deal of 
 the same trying experience, and bore it less 
 amiably. 
 
 " I 'm sick to death of the whole subject," she 
 said at length to Hope. " I wish to mercy 
 Dorothea Dering had never entered this house ! 
 But don't be alarmed ! " as she caught a startled 
 look from Hope ; " I 'm not going to back down. 
 I '11 be good to her, and I do pity her." 
 
 " Pity her ! I should think anybody might 
 pity her," cried Hope, with almost a sob. " It 
 simplv breaks my heart to see her." 
 
308 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 And to Dorothea, who came to her with this 
 further trouble, — who said to her, "You see, 
 you see, it has all come out just as I thought it 
 would," — to Dorothea she was an angel indeed, 
 this sweet-souled Hope, — an angel of real help 
 in the stanch devotion of her companionship, 
 and the constant influence it exerted in soothing 
 and encouraging her to accept the condition of 
 things as they were, and make the best of them 
 by making no aggressive protest. It was not 
 easy for Dorothea to pursue this course, and 
 Hope could not help admiring the new spirit of 
 dignity which she seemed to develop in sticking 
 to it. 
 
 But there was a new element of knowledge 
 coming to Dorothea through her bitter expe- 
 rience. She had always heretofore been ready 
 to fight against any and every opposition, as 
 I have shown. Now, for the first time, she 
 was beginning to feel the pressure of that great 
 power of the great world which we call the senti- 
 ment of society, and dimly but surely to per- 
 ceive that she must submit to it, or at least that, 
 if she tried to fight against it, it would be to her 
 own destruction. But this new sense of things, 
 valuable though it was in its present restraining 
 influence and its promise of right development, 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 309 
 
 did not tend to make Dorothea feel easier or 
 happier at the moment. Rather, the restraint 
 chafed and depressed her. In spite of this de- 
 pression, however, she said no more about going 
 back to Brookside. She was discovering for her- 
 self that Hope was right, — that it would be not 
 only cowardly for her to run away, but preju- 
 dicial to her interests in every direction. But 
 how difl&cult it was for her to live through these 
 days with apparent calmness, only Hope guessed. 
 What Hope did not guess was the extent and 
 power of her own helpfulness at this crisis. 
 Dorothea, however, was fully aware of it ; and 
 one day, — it was the morning after the Valen- 
 tine party, — when the girls had naturally been 
 very voluble in their reminiscences of the even- 
 ing, she said to Hope, — 
 
 " Hope, you 've helped me to live through this 
 thing, and I shall always remember it, and 
 always, always love you for it. But for you I 
 could never have stayed here and stood things, 
 — never, never, never ! " 
 
 Yet not then had she received the full meas- 
 ure of Hope's help. It was when the days went 
 by, and she found that the curiosity about her- 
 self had subsided, she also found that in the 
 indifference that had succeeded this curiosity 
 
310 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 there was a shado-w of something that she could 
 give no name to, — that she could not at once 
 understand, — but that by and by she came to 
 know was that shadow of the world's disapproval 
 that she had been made acquainted with through 
 Mrs. Armitage. It was then, when the girl felt 
 herself in the settled atmosphere of this shadow, 
 that Hope showed the full measure of her power 
 to help. 
 
 Not immediately realizing the condition of 
 things, she could not comprehend what seemed 
 to her Dorothea's persistent shrinking from the 
 companionship of the others, and at last remon- 
 strated with her in this wise : — 
 
 " Dorothea, you must n't keep by yourself, 
 and neglect the girls, as you do. It is n't right 
 or sensible." 
 
 And to this Dorothea had replied, with a 
 mirthless laugh, — 
 
 " Neglect them ! If there is any neglect going 
 on, / 'm not guilty of it." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " Just what I say. Pm not neglecting any- 
 body." 
 
 " You mean — that — that they are neglecting 
 you?" 
 
 Dorothea nodded. She could not command 
 her voice to speak further. 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 311 
 
 Hope was about to protest, — to say that there 
 must be a mistake, — that she had seen nothing, 
 when suddenly the meaning of certain little 
 things, that she had but vaguely noticed at the 
 time, flashed over her, bringing the instanta- 
 neous conviction that Dorothea was right. And 
 with this conviction there sprung up in Hope's 
 heart a hot flame of indignation, and she set her- 
 self to think what further she could do — what 
 strong measure could be taken — to show these 
 girls that they were not to sit in judgment in 
 this wholesale fashion, and to show them, too, 
 that Dorothea had stanch friends who believed 
 in her virtues, even while they admitted her 
 faults, and would stand by her through thick 
 and thin. 
 
 But what could she do further ? She had 
 indicated to the girls how friendly she felt 
 toward Dorothea, by bestowing upon her what- 
 ever kindly attentions she could, — had walked 
 with her and talked with her, and made little 
 visits to her room, which latter she had never 
 been in the habit of doing before. She had also 
 influenced Kate to join her in these attentions, 
 and Kate had tried to do so, — not always success- 
 fully, however ; and yet all this had seemed to 
 go for nothing against the tide that had risen 
 
312 HOPE BENRAM. 
 
 against the girl. What more could be done ? 
 There was nothing, nothing more. 
 
 Yes, yes, yes, there was — there was some- 
 thing more, there was something ! And as 
 this " something " flashed into Hope's mind, she 
 seized Dorothea's hands in hers, and — 
 
 " Dorothea, Dorothea ! " she cried, " I have a 
 plan, — something I want you to do for me and 
 with me. I am to play, you know, at the May 
 festival, — first, something Mr. Kolb has written 
 specially for me ; then, later, a waltz also by 
 Mr. Kolb. It is a duet, and Fraulein Schiller 
 was to play it with me ; but she has got news of 
 the illness of her mother, and has gone home to 
 Germany, and I have to choose some one to fill 
 her place ; and I choose you, if you will take 
 it." 
 
 " Choose me, — me ? Oh, Hope, Hope, Hope, 
 I don't care for anything else now, — not any- 
 thing else ! But, oh, can I, can I, — I 'm afraid 
 it 's too hard, that it 's beyond me." 
 
 " No, it is n't too hard, but I '11 give you 
 lessons ; I '11 practise with you every day, if 
 you'll study hard." 
 
 " Study ! I '11 study every minute that I can 
 get ; " and then, quivering with excitement, 
 Dorothea flung herself upon the floor, and, 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 313 
 
 putting her head down on Hope's lap, cried 
 brokenly, — 
 
 " Oh, Hope, Hope, how angelic of 70U to do 
 this for me now, now!" 
 
 It was the last of March when this proposition 
 was made, and the festival was to come o£E the 
 last of May, that being the end of the school 
 year at Miss Marr's ; the festival itself being a 
 sort of celebration of the year's work, — a grand 
 general class day. 
 
 To have a special part assigned to one in the 
 program of this day was to be specially honored, 
 and great was the surprise when it was found 
 that Dorothea had been thus honored. 
 
 There were two or three others — outside 
 pupils, to be sure, but Fraulein Schiller was an 
 outside pupil — from whom it was expected that 
 Hope would make her choice, as they were known 
 to be, if not particularly brilliant, yet very faith- 
 ful students of the violin ; and to pass these by 
 for Dorothea was surprising indeed, and not to 
 be explained by any mere good-nature. Hope 
 Benham wag a very good-natured girl, and had 
 been very kind and polite to Dorothea, the little 
 school circle decided; but they all knew how 
 refined and fastidious and very, very sensitive she 
 was, and what she thought about things ; and if 
 
314 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 she thought seriously that Dorothea had really 
 — really been so dreadfully loud and horrid as 
 they had heard, she would never have chosen her 
 to stand up there before all that festival audience 
 with her. And arguing thus, this little world, so 
 like the big world under like circumstances, began 
 to re-consider things, — to think that perhaps — 
 perhaps it might have made mistakes in ranging 
 itself so decidedly, and that it might be well in 
 that case to be a little less censorious in one's 
 attitude. From this there arose a slight change 
 of tactics, — slight, but significant enough if one 
 were on the alert to take note of them; but 
 Dorothea — Dorothea was no longer so sensi- 
 tively alert in these directions, — for morning, 
 noon, and night, at every regular practice hour, ; 
 and sometimes at irregular ones, her fiddle bow ' 
 could be heard diligently at work, under Hope's 
 tutelage ; and as she worked, as she surmounted 
 difficulty after difficulty in the musical score, she 
 became so absorbed in her occupation that she 
 had little time to bestow upon other difficulties. 
 And so, day after day, the weeks went by, and 
 brought at last the great day they were all anti- 
 cipating so anxiously, — the day of the May 
 Festival. 
 
 It looked like the very heart of summer in 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 315 
 
 the great hall at the top of the house that festi- 
 val morning, for it was literally made into a 
 perfect . bower of wood and garden glories ; 
 windows, dome, aisles, and stage wreathed and 
 hung with forest growths, and set about with 
 flowering plants. At the back of the stage the 
 arched doorway that led into the anteroom was 
 so skilfully decorated that it appeared like a 
 natural opening into some woodland way ; and as 
 the audience began to fill the seats, and there 
 came to them through this sylvan opening a 
 soft overture from unseen violins and piano, 
 there was at first a hush of delight and then a 
 general burst of applause. The group of girls 
 who were not to take special parts and who sat 
 together well down in front, looked at each 
 other inquiringly. The overture was a surprise 
 to them, as it was to all but the two or three 
 behind the scenes. 
 
 " It is Hope 's doing, of course," one girl 
 whispered. " And of course the second violin 
 is Dorothea ! " whispered another, and then 
 presently still another whisper arose. It was 
 Hope 's doing, of course — because — Dorothea 
 probably had failed to perfect herself in the duet 
 she had undertaken — or — or Hope herself 
 perhaps had failed in her courage to — to stand 
 
316 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 up there before that festival-audience with 
 Dorothea ! This last suggestion was caught at 
 and turned over and over, until at length it 
 seemed to become a certainty. Yes, that was 
 the only explanation of this little overture 
 being sprung upon them without warning. 
 Hope 's courage had failed, and to console Doro- 
 thea in a measure, she had brought her into this 
 new arrangement ! 
 
 The little gi cup of girls would not have owned 
 to the disappointment that they felt as they set- 
 tled down upon this explanation ; but with all 
 the Armitages, except Raymond, present in full 
 force, every girl of the group had somehow 
 counted upon rather a sensation when Dorothea 
 appeared. How Bessie would stare, they had 
 thought — Bessie, who had not been back to 
 school since her birthday party, — how she would 
 stare and wonder, and how surprised Mrs. Armi- 
 tage would look to see the girl that she had so 
 disapproved of brought forward so conspicu- 
 ously! But now — well, things began to fall a 
 trifle flat in the failure of such a delectable sen- 
 sation, and they gave a somewhat wavering 
 attention to what immediately followed. They 
 brightened up, however, as Hope played her 
 " Mayflowers," and, applauding vigorously, found 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 317 
 
 time to wonder what that queer sub-title, 
 " Ten Cents a Bunch," meant, and resolved that 
 they would ask her sometime; and then they 
 yawned and fidgeted, and looked at their little 
 chatelaine watches, and craned their necks to 
 look at the people behind them, and nodded at 
 this one and that one, and finally fell to study- 
 ing their programs, and glanced significantly, 
 and with a little air of " I told you so," at each 
 other, as they saw that the duet number had just 
 been passed over. After this they settled them- 
 selves comfortably back to wait for the close of 
 the exercises, when the best of the festival to 
 their thinking was to come, — the meeting with 
 their friends, the introductions to the other girls' 
 friends, the gay talking and walking about, and 
 the merry end of it all, when, as if by magic, the 
 pretty bowery stage was to be converted into a 
 sylvan tea-room, presided over by a chosen mmi- 
 ber of the school-girls. 
 
 Only two brief exercises, — a short essay by 
 Anna Fleming and a little aria of Schumann's 
 by Myra Donaldson, and then ho, for the antici- 
 pated festival fun, these waiting girls jubilantly 
 thought; and so absorbed were they in this 
 thought that their attention was only half given 
 to Anna's clever little essay upon School Friend- 
 
318 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 ships, which had some sharp hits in it ; but 
 they nevertheless joined in the vigorous applause, 
 though by that time their attention had entirely 
 wandered from the stage to the movements of 
 a new late arrival just outside the doorway, 
 — a tall fine-looking man that Mrs. Sibley, 
 Hope's friend, was smiling radiantly upon, and 
 beckoning to her seat. Who could he be ? But 
 hark ! what — what sound was that ? A violin ? 
 But Schumann's aria was a solo, — Hope was 
 not to play with Myra ! No, no, Hope was not 
 to play with Myra, for there — there upon the 
 stage, Hope in her white dress was standing 
 beside — Dorothea! The duet had not been 
 omitted then, only carried forward ! 
 
 No more yawning and fidgeting now from 
 the group of girls ; with eager interest they 
 leaned forward to see the two white-robed figures 
 as they stood there side by side, — one with her 
 waving golden-brown hair, her golden-brown 
 eyes, and fair soft coloring ; the other with her 
 shining black locks, her great sombre orbs, — 
 for there was no light of laughter in them at 
 this moment, — and the strange pallor of color- 
 ing that at that instant lent almost a tragic look 
 to her face. No, no more yawning and fidgeting 
 now, and no more doubt or question of Dorothea's 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 319 
 
 ability to play her part, as the sweet full strains 
 rose harmoniously together. Dorothea had stud- 
 ied, indeed, — had studied so ardently that she 
 had greatly surprised Hope at the last by her accu- 
 racy and finish. But as she stood there before 
 the festival audience, she surprised her still fur- 
 ther by the something more than the accuracy 
 and finish, — that something that every musical 
 artist recognizes, that Hope at once recognized, 
 — the touch of living, breathing, individual emo- 
 tion, of passionate personal appeal. With a 
 thrill of sympathy, Hope instinctively responded 
 to this, and there arose a strain of such moving, 
 melting power that the audience, listening in 
 breathless delight, broke forth at the end in a 
 little whirlwind of applause. 
 
 The aria that followed was beautifully ren- 
 dered, but the audience could not seem to fix its 
 attention upon it as it should have done ; and 
 Myra had scarcely struck her last note when 
 there was a general uprising, and hastening for- 
 ward toward the little flock of girl-students who 
 had taken part in the exercises. In the centre 
 of this flock, standing together, were Hope and 
 Dorothea, and there was a buzz of girl talk going 
 on about them, — a buzz of congratulation, 
 of enthusiasm, not one of the girls hanging 
 
320 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 back, — when over it all, Hope suddenly caught 
 the sound of another voice, — a deep manly voice, 
 — the voice of — of — oh, could it be ? Yes, yes, 
 it was ; and starting forward, she cried joyfully, 
 " Oh it is — it is my father ! " and the next in- 
 stant her father's arms were round her, and hia 
 kisses on her cheek. 
 
 Her father ! Dorothea glanced up eagerly. 
 That, that distinguished-looking man the man 
 who was once a locomotive engineer ! Had she 
 heard aright ? Yes, she had heard aright, for 
 presently there was Mrs. Sibley saying in answer 
 to some questioner, — 
 
 " It 's her father, yes ; he 's the great inventor, 
 you know. He came on unexpectedly, and is to 
 take Hope back with him to spend the summer 
 in the north of France." 
 
 And presently, again, Dorothea saw Miss Marr 
 and the Van Der Bergs and the Sibleys and — 
 yes, the Armitages, looking up and listening with 
 the most admiring interest to this man who was 
 once a locomotive engineer ! 
 
 What would Dorothea have thought, how 
 would she have felt, if she had heard Mrs. Armi- 
 tage say to one of her acquaintances a little 
 later, — 
 
 "There must be something fine and good, 
 after all, in this Dorothea Dering, to attract to 
 
HOPE BENHAM. 321 
 
 herself and make a friend of such a girl as 
 Mr. Benham's daughter; and certainly she has 
 shown a very refined taste in her manner of 
 playing. I wonder if she has n't been improved 
 all round by Miss Benham's influence 1 " 
 
 And what would she have thought if she had 
 heard Miss Marr talking in somewhat the same 
 strain to Mr. Benham, — telling him what a re- 
 straining, refining influence his dear little daugh- 
 ter had had over one of the most difficult of all 
 her charges ; and what would she have felt if 
 she could have known all Mr. Benham's thoughts 
 on this subject as he listened there with that 
 rather grave smile of his? 
 
 But Dorothea heard and knew nothing of all 
 this. She only heard and felt the warmth of 
 appreciation that had followed her violin per- 
 formance. She only saw that the little world 
 that had turned away from her was now turn- 
 ing toward her, and her spirits began to rise 
 once more. But they did not overflow all rea- 
 sonable bounds as before. There was a new 
 reserve in her demeanor that certainly did not 
 rob her of her attractiveness, if one could judge 
 from the kindly looks cast upon her by some 
 of the older people, as she helped in the tea- 
 table hospitalities. 
 
 81 
 
322 HOPE BENHAM. 
 
 Some of the younger people too seemed not 
 to be blind to this new attractiveness. But it 
 remained for Peter Van Loon to express the 
 real effect produced, and he did it fully, as he 
 suddenly turned to Hope from a long observa- 
 tion of Dorothea at her tea-table duties, — turned 
 and said in that odd way of his, — 
 
 "I say, now, she'll get to be an awfully nice 
 girl by and by, won't she, if she keeps on — on 
 this track ? " 
 
 Hope felt a little startled, though she could n't 
 help being amused at this queer remark of Peter's ; 
 but she quite agreed with it, and told him so ; 
 and then Peter said in the same emphatic way, — 
 
 "I've heard all about it — how you've stuck 
 to her — from Kate — Kate Van der Berg ; and 
 I 'd — I 'd like to say, if you don't mind, that 
 you 're a trump. Miss Benham ; and the other 
 fellows think so too." 
 
 THE END. 
 
KATHARINE RUTH ELLIS 
 WIDE AWAKE GIRLS SERIES 
 
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