"I'm simply perishing to hear from you, Elsie-Honey," the letter concluded. "Uncle's a darling saint, I know, but you must tell me about Aunt Milly so I can describe her to my stepmother. I sort of glossed her over in this letter I enclose for you to forward so that it will have the Enderby postmark. I came out strong on Uncle John and the station at Boston, however. And tell me about the servants. I know there's a servants' hall like in English books, so I suppose they have a lot. If there's a butler, I almost envy you, for that would be good practice for me, because most plays have a butler and a French maid. I shall probably be French-maided to the limit if I ever get a start, though I'd rather be a slavey or a chimney-sweep!

"Do you leave your shoes outside the door at night? I should never remember. The first day I was here I made my own bed! The chambermaid nearly fell over.

"Do tell me a lot to write to auntie (that's my stepmother); I have always told her everything I'm thinking about, and now it will be rather difficult for I only think now about the stage and Cousin Julia and you, Elsie-Honey. I hope you think of me?"

CHAPTER XIII

"Oh, Miss Moss, I think I can come earlier to-morrow afternoon and stay longer," said little Mattie Howe eagerly. "It's been such a good week for drying clothes that mother's way ahead on her work, and she'll mind the baby herself. Charles Augustus is going to take back the last load this afternoon with his cart."

"That's nice for you, Mattie, but I shan't be here. Miss Stewart's coming back to-morrow," replied Elsie.

The child's bright, thin little face clouded.

"Oh, dear, oh, dear, these changes are most too much for me, I declare!" she cried. "I mean changes-_back_ is. The change that brought you here, Miss Moss, was just sweet. Only I wish it had turned into a _stay_."

Elsie drew the little thing close to her. At the moment she herself almost wished it had been a _stay_.

"I wonder if that's my _hard_," prattled the child. "Mother says everybody, even rich people, have hard things to bear. Do you bleeve so, Miss Moss?"

Elsie looked startled.

"Why, Mattie, I hardly know," she faltered. "Ye-es, I suppose every one does, really."

"Even you, Miss Moss?"

Elsie couldn't answer. On a sudden that first day she and Elsie Moss had been together came back to her. She recalled Elsie's fresh grief for the death of her mother and her own sense of remissness, and the cla.s.s motto that signified through hardships to the stars. Since she had been at Enderby, things had been disagreeable enough almost to make up for her former immunity. And yet, she hadn't been here ten days, and she didn't really have to endure it. Furthermore, she was to escape from it very shortly.

"No, Mattie, I don't believe I have had so much that is hard as most people have," she owned.

"You are like the princess, you see," murmured the child. "But I s'pose you feel awfully sorry about your auntie being so poorly? When mother was sick once I felt as bad _here_ as if I had the stomachache hard."

Elsie evaded the issue by hoping politely that the little girl's mother was quite well now.

"Oh, yes, Miss Moss, and does four peopleses' washings besides our own," Mattie declared. "Father works steady most of the time, but there's five of us, counting the baby, and--sometimes he gets drunk.

Not so very often, he doesn't, but n.o.body can ever tell when he will and when he won't, so mother has to help out. Well, I must go now.

When will I see you?"

Elsie didn't know what to say. Miss Stewart's return had been delayed from day to day and she had postponed making her decision as to her course until that matter was settled. Only to-day had she learned that the librarian would resume her work to-morrow, Sat.u.r.day, and she expected to give up her evening to forming her own plans. Until this moment, she hadn't thought of Mattie as a complication. It didn't seem possible that one could become so attached to a child of ten years in--it wasn't yet ten days--that one not only hated to leave her, but even felt remiss, almost conscience-stricken, in so doing.

"Won't you come to see us, mother and me and the baby--you'll just love him, Miss Moss, he can pat-a-cake and by-by and almost talk and lots else, too. Won't you please come?" the child begged.

Even with her arm about the child's shoulders, the incongruity of calling upon a woman who took in washing came to Elsie Marley--likewise the fact that she wasn't likely to be in Enderby beyond Monday at the latest. But she surprised herself and delighted Mattie by suddenly agreeing to come the next day.

When she spoke of it to Mr. Middleton that night at dinner, expecting him to be surprised and, perhaps, to protest, she found him interested and eager.

"Oh, Elsie, that's capital!" he exclaimed. "She's the nicest sort of woman, Mrs. Howe is. She's hardly more than a girl in spite of that little brood of five. She gets out very little, and if you would go around once in a while it would mean a lot to her. Besides, I'm sure you'll enjoy her."

As Elsie sat in her room by the window that evening, she wondered whether one visit from a person one is never to see again would mean anything to Mattie's mother? Well, for that matter, whether it would or not, she had promised to make it and must keep her word. And she mustn't allow her thoughts to be diverted by that.

For the opportunity she had sought to complete her plans was hers. Mr.

Middleton had gone out to attend a committee meeting directly after dinner. Mrs. Middleton she hadn't seen all day. The matter of the library had settled itself, and her way was clear.

But somehow her thoughts didn't proceed as she had expected them to do.

She had rather looked for marshalled ranks of reasons standing at either hand--those saying _go_, of course, largely predominating--which she would only have to review. Instead her mind wandered, roving back to the conversation with Mattie, and the little girl's quoting her mother that every one has a hard to bear.

Was it really true? She supposed it must be. Mr. Middleton, despite his serenity, looked as if he had undergone all sorts of things. So had Elsie Moss. Even poor old Kate had had her share. On the other hand, there was Mrs. Middleton, there was Elsie's own grandmother and her mother. And there was Elsie herself. She had never had anything hard in her life until within a fortnight.

How curious it was that Mattie should have put her finger upon Mrs.

Middleton as being her particular difficulty, mistaken though her sense of the situation was. Mrs. Middleton was truly the only _hard_ Elsie had ever known. Undergoing a certain amount of her society and submitting to her caresses, sometimes once a day, often less frequently, was the only ordeal she had ever undergone. And severe though it was, there were wide s.p.a.ces between, and those s.p.a.ces were the happiest moments she had ever known.

Now she was planning to throw away all the happiness, the delight, because of the discomfort. It came to her rather vaguely that perhaps that was the way with people who seemed never to have had hardships.

They evaded them somehow. And she wondered if some one else had to shoulder them as so much extra burden? It almost seemed so.

And yet, why should she remain and endure that dreadful Mrs. Middleton?

What good would it do? Mightn't it, on the contrary, do real harm?

The girl couldn't imagine it as being any easier as the days went by, but in case it should, what would it mean but that she herself was becoming coa.r.s.e--even vulgar?

In a sense, there wasn't any one now to care whether she was coa.r.s.e or not. Elsie Moss might, and Mr. Middleton. He liked her as she was.

He wouldn't like her to be different. And yet, he not only endured Mrs. Middleton but actually cared for her, and he was as refined as any one she had ever known, besides being so much more interesting than any one except Elsie Moss. Possibly he would rather have her altered somewhat than have the shock of learning the truth of the matter, and of having a reluctant, and perhaps unwilling, Elsie Moss in the house.

Elsie Moss, too, liked her as she was. She had called her a princess.

Surely she wouldn't endure any change. And yet again--what if enduring Mrs. Middleton would mean actually doing something for the other Elsie?

What if not enduring her--flying from difficulty--would mean disappointment--breaking her ardent heart?

The clock struck nine, and immediately she heard Mr. Middleton enter the house. He called to her and Elsie went down.

He wanted to tell her of a plan they had been discussing at the meeting in regard to a course of lectures for the coming winter. All eagerness, he reviewed the whole situation for her benefit, then went on to tell her of the lectures they had had in other years, and to compare those in prospect. Elsie, who was already learning to talk, to express some of the interest she felt, enjoyed it the more that she was able to respond in a measure--quite enough to satisfy him completely.

When she went to her room again, it was only to postpone the decision.

To-morrow she would go to see Mattie Howe without knowing whether it was a farewell call or not. The next day, Sunday, she would decide.

She promised herself solemnly that she would do so. She would shut herself up in her room directly after dinner, and would not emerge until she had made up her mind.

CHAPTER XIV

Had Elsie Marley been possessed of more imagination, or had she been accustomed to use what she had, she might have been better prepared to meet little Mattie's mother. The child was unusual and showed the influence of careful upbringing. Further, Mr. Middleton had spoken of her as looking like a girl and as worth seeking out; and already Elsie had had a chance to discern that, broad and tolerant as he was, he saw things as they were (except in the case of his wife), never misstated and rarely overstated. For all that, she set out on Sat.u.r.day afternoon prepared to meet the typical washerwoman of fiction--worn, bedraggled, shapeless, and forlorn. She was prepared to go into a steaming kitchen with puddles on the floor and dirty children all about, and have this red-faced personage take a scarlet hand out of the tub, dry it on a dirty ap.r.o.n, and hold it out to her. And for her part she was prepared to take it, damp or clammy as it might be, without a squirm.

Wherefore, when Mattie ushered her proudly into a pretty, tidy living-room with a square piano in the corner, and she saw a tall, slender person with a plain, sweet, girlish face advancing to meet her, in spite of her resemblance to Mattie, Elsie had no idea who she might be. She had a confused sense of some neighbor having been brought in to receive her, and a vague idea of asking to be taken into the kitchen.

"Oh, mother, here's Miss Moss!" cried Mattie, then dropped her hand and exclaiming, "My goodness, there's that baby already!" fled into the entry.

"I'm so pleased to see you, Miss Moss," said Mrs. Howe quietly. "Sit there by the window where you get a view of the hill. It's more than good of you to come. I hope Mattie didn't tease you too much?"

"No, indeed, she asked me very prettily," said Elsie. "She's a sweet child."