She pondered much upon the subject and later in the summer--on the evening preceding their return to New York, it was--as they were talking about Elsie's studying, Miss Pritchard suddenly became serious.

"Elsie, there's something I want to say to you as an older woman to a young girl," she began. "You will have one difficulty to contend with that I had in newspaper work, only in your case the temptation will be greater, and your task correspondingly harder. There's a poem of a child-actor of Queen Elizabeth's time, little Salathiel Pavy, who constantly played the part of an old man. The verses relate that he acted the part so naturally that the fates mistook him for an old man and cut off his thread of life in his tender years. Now you, Elsie dear, concerned with make-believe--fiction--as you will constantly be in your study for the stage, eager, of course, to use every moment and occasion, with one subject dominating your thoughts, will need to be very, very careful with regard to your separate, personal life. In other words, in good old-fashioned terms, you'll have to guard your soul. Keep that good and pure and true. Keep that sacred, above and apart from your work, and then whether you are ever a great actress or not, you will be a good woman."

And then half shyly, but beautifully, she repeated Matthew Arnold's "Palladium":

"Set where the upper streams of Simois flow, Was the Palladium, high 'mid rock and wood; And Hector was in Ilium far below, And fought and saw it not, but there it stood.

It stood and sun and moonshine rained their light On the pure columns of its glen-built hall.

Backward and forward rolled the waves of fight Round Troy; but while this stood, Troy could not fall.

So in its lovely moonlight lives the soul.

Mountains surround it and sweet virgin air; Cold plashing, past it, crystal waters roll: We visit it by moments, ah, too rare!

Men will renew the battle on the plain To-morrow; red with blood will Xanthus be; Hector and Ajax will be there again, Helen will come upon the wall to see.

Then we shall rust in shade or shine in strife, And fluctuate 'twixt blind hopes and blind despairs, And fancy that we put forth all our life, And never know how with the soul it fares.

Still doth the soul from its lone fastness high, Upon our life a ruling effluence send: And when it fails, fight as we will, we die; And, while it lasts, we cannot wholly end."

CHAPTER XVII

"I suppose," observed the real Elsie Marley thoughtfully, drawing one of her long curls over her shoulder, "that if I'm going to be at the library regularly, I'd better put up my hair?"

She addressed Mr. Middleton, but his wife, who had of late fallen into the habit of sitting downstairs in the evening, replied. She had conceived a strong fancy to the girl, who secretly shrank from her, and bore herself toward her in a cold and distant manner.

"Oh, Elsie, love, it would be sweet to do it sort of _Grecian_," she cried in her sentimental fashion, "with a cla.s.sic knot at the nape of your neck, and little curls hanging down behind your ears."

"Let her leave it as it is a little longer, Milly," her husband pleaded, "for it's just as her mother wore hers."

This was not the fact, even though Elsie had been truly his niece. His sister had worn her hair in curls, but they had been many and riotous, and caught at the top of her head with a ribbon; while Elsie's two were fastened at her neck by a neat clasp, and hung as demurely as a braid would have done.

"Of course," a.s.sented Mrs. Middleton. "Elsie's the picture of her mother, I suppose?"

"She reminds me of her mother more and more every day," he said, "but she doesn't look like her at all. You remember I told you that Elizabeth had enormous dimples? They were so large that I'm not sure that they wouldn't have disfigured another face; but they added the last touch to hers--made it irresistible."

He gazed at the fire. It was late September and a chill rain beat against the windows.

"I suppose if Elizabeth had had a son, _he_ would have inherited the dimples," he remarked. "I believe they say girls take traits from their fathers and sons from the mother. Curious, isn't it?"

"Well, my dear, if Elsie had had dimples when she came, she would have lost them ere this," said Mrs. Middleton with unusual energy. "She's been put right into a treadmill, Jack. Only sixteen, sweet sixteen, and she hasn't had any of the gayety a young girl wants and needs, but has just slaved from morning until night ever since she came to us. At her age, she ought to be going to dances and lying late in the morning to make up sleep, and shopping and having beaux and all that sort of thing, just as her Aunt Milly did."

She sighed deeply, clasping her ringed hands. Elsie was indignant, even angry; but before she could protest, Mrs. Middleton went on.

"Instead of which, she started work at the library the first thing and has been off and on ever since, and is now going to do it permanently, besides teaching a cla.s.s in the Sunday-school, looking after the choir-boys, running errands for you, and what not."

"My dear Milly!" cried her husband, really distressed; and went on to explain that when they decided to open the library in the evening as well as the afternoon, some one had to relieve Miss Stewart for two of the afternoon hours, and every one had clamored for Elsie.

"And I love to do it," added Elsie, "and I'm so pleased that I am to have the hours when the children are out of school."

"Of course," agreed Mrs. Middleton, smiling; "dear lambs! I should have felt just the same. Indeed, you're so like I was at your age, Elsie, dearest, that I feel as if it were to _me_ that you are really related."

Elsie murmured a silent word of deprecation, forgetting, as she often did, that she wasn't related to Mr. Middleton, either.

The rain beat furiously. The minister rose and put another stick on the fire. He did not return to his seat but stood with his elbow on the mantel gazing at his wife. Though thin, John Middleton looked strong and well, in part, perhaps, because of his florid complexion, partly because of his serenity. But in moments of stress he had a way of seeming to grow worn and older under one's very eyes.

He felt the cogency of his wife's words. He had, indeed, he said to himself, taken possession of his sister's orphan child immediately upon her arrival, and had made a sort of drudge of her: he kept her constantly occupied, performing miscellaneous services for him--he wasn't sure that he could have demanded so much of a paid secretary.

And she, like her mother, unselfish and devoted, had made no complaint.

He spoke before Elsie, who was slow of speech and was regretting that she didn't share the real Elsie Moss's gift of expression, was able to put her feeling into words that would convince him.

"No wonder you felt like putting up your curls and saying farewell to youth, Elsie," he said whimsically yet ruefully. "Your aunt is just right, dear, and we'll make a change at once. What should you say to going on to New York to make your little actress friend a visit, and then starting anew after you come back?"

Now the color flew to Elsie's cheeks and words came.

"Oh, Uncle John, I wouldn't go now for the world!" she cried in genuine dismay. "I'm just longing to go to the library every day--I think it's just--splendid! And I like it all--everything--so very much. It isn't the least a treadmill, and I'm so happy doing it. Please, please, don't take anything away; only give me more."

He felt the sincerity of her words, and again said to himself that the girl was her mother over again. His wife went over to Elsie, and stroking back her hair, kissed her brow fondly. And the color died out of the girl's cheeks and the glow from her heart as she shuddered within herself. And presently when Mr. Middleton went to his study to work, she bade Mrs. Middleton a cool good night and fled to her room.

She sat by the window some time, then went to bed; but though the sound of the rain was soothing, she could not get to sleep. It came to her that it was very thoughtful of Uncle John to wish to send her to visit Elsie; and how she would have liked to go if it didn't entail leaving the library and all the fascinating round of her daily life, and leaving him to his wife's cold comfort. How she would like to see Elsie Moss at this moment, to confide her troubles and her happiness to that sympathetic ear. If they could talk together, she could make the other understand that even with Mrs. Middleton as a drawback, she was more content, happier, than she had ever been before. And she couldn't help feeling that she was useful, too, in a measure--that she would be missed if she were to go to New York.

Still she could not sleep, and presently she found herself puzzling over a problem that had been growing upon her and now bulked big. The truth was that already the weight of the top-heavy household had fallen upon the girl's shoulders. Utterly unprepared and ignorant, she had been thrust into a tangled labyrinth of domestic affairs. The more familiar she had become with the internal working of the household, the more was she baffled and daunted. And presently it seemed to her youthful inexperience as if it stood upon the brink of ruin.

Though the minister was unaware that the bills were not paid promptly at the beginning of each month, Mrs. Middleton owed practically every establishment in the place accounts that dated far back. At this time the small sums she could pay on account when her funds came in were insufficient to satisfy any one, and one and another began to threaten Kate with going to Mr. Middleton and demanding a settlement. They declared it wasn't respectable for him to be giving away so much money when he owed probably more than a year's salary.

Kate's only recourse was to her mistress, who would be temporarily depressed, now and then to the point of tears. But shortly she either forgot all about it or postponed consideration until another month; and meantime she never parted with her last penny: she always kept enough on hand for an ample supply of novels, chocolate drops, and headache-powders, the latter being especially expensive, according to Kate.

Ignorant as Elsie was, it did not take her long to understand that the household was managed--or allowed to run on--with the utmost extravagance and waste. She had prevailed upon Kate to set the greater part of the big house in order and to keep it tidy, and she tried to induce her to be less wasteful and reckless. But the girl was developing a certain sense of justice, and she rather doubted her right to insist. Devoted as Kate was to Mr. Middleton, and attached, in an apologetic, shame-faced way, to her mistress, overworked and unpaid, save for the sums Elsie forced upon her, how could she demand that Kate be more scrupulous about details? It would seem that she had all she could carry without that.

The girl fell asleep at last, and woke next morning with the pleasant reflection that she was to begin to-day at the library as a regular salaried a.s.sistant. Second thought was still more cheering. As soon as the minister was out of the house, and she heard Kate go down-stairs from Mrs. Middleton's room, she betook herself to the disorderly kitchen. At her entrance Kate rose suddenly and went and peered anxiously into the oven--which was empty. Elsie would have liked to tell her that she didn't begrudge her those stolen moments for resting her tired feet, but she hadn't yet learned to express her new sensations. It was sufficiently difficult to explain her errand.

"Katy, here are your wages for last week," she said rather brusquely, trying to press the money into her hands. "Mrs. Middleton will--I hope she'll pay you in full very soon, but at any rate she--that is, you're going to get your wages regularly every week, and I'm going to see to it so that it shan't be neglected. And always come to me if there's anything to ask. Please don't go to her unless about the back pay."

"Oh, Miss Elsie, you're so good!" cried Kate warmly, believing she had arranged it with Mr. Middleton. "I'm sorry I complained. You must 'a'

known I didn't mean half what I said. I wouldn't really 'a' gone to himself about it. But honest, I ain't got a whole pair o' stockin's, and can't wear them pumps I got last summer on account o' the holes, and her a-growin' yellower every day and a-layin' round and eatin'

chocolate drops and headache-powders that cost good money and ain't no benefit."

She stuffed the money into a drawer of the table with a miscellaneous a.s.sortment of less valuable things. While Elsie was wondering if she could speak about the condition of the kitchen, which Elsie Moss would have p.r.o.nounced unspeakable, Kate drew near to her with real appeal in her blue eyes.

"And, Miss Elsie, I wish you hadn't let what I've confided to you sort o' set you against your aunt. Everybody has their failin's, they do say, and after all if she don't do worse than eat choc'late-creams and munch headache-tablets, why, she's pretty harmless as ladies go. Mis'

Jonathan Metcalf as goes to his church is just as yellow and I don't know but what yellower, and bedizened as well, and a regular shrew in her own house."

"Katy, I don't know what you mean," Elsie returned with dignity.

"Well, you call her Mis' Middleton, when you speak of her, with your voice like a buzz-saw, and it ain't because you're high and mighty with me, 'cause you ain't. You're like a sister to me, and I ain't once thought of up and leavin' sence you come as I did frequent before. And besides, when you talk of himself, you always say Uncle John. And she's good at heart, Miss Elsie; honest, she is. She'd be just as good as himself if she knew as much. Her heart's in the right place, and she takes to you and don't mistrust you don't to her."