"Do tell us," she begged. "We'll do it too, whatever it is; won't we girls?"

"But what if it is something that isn't funny at all, something for which you have to give up your own good times?"

Polly's face fell, but she answered steadily,--

"We'll do it, just the same."

"I am glad to hear you say so," remarked Aunt Jane approvingly. "I have felt that it was high time you girls were made to take an interest in something really useful."

"What is it, Dr. Adams?" implored Jessie, whose curiosity was by this time fired.

"Well, it's just this: down in the hospital there's a girl about Katharine's age shut up in a room by herself, where she must stay a year. She isn't pretty; she isn't especially bright; she is an Irish girl from one of the hill towns in the northern part of the state. But she has something the matter with her back, so all she can do is to lie there on a sort of frame, and look at the wall of her room."

The doctor paused. While he had been talking, he had watched the faces of the girls, curious to see the effect which his short story would have on them. Polly's cheeks were flushed, Jean's eyes were shining with her interest, but Katharine's lashes drooped on her cheek, and were a little moist. He nodded approvingly to himself, as he looked at her.

"Go on, papa," urged Polly.

"There isn't much more to say," returned her father, resting his arm on the back of her chair. "It occurred to me to-day to wonder if you girls couldn't each of you take a day a week,--there are just the six of you, you know,--and run in to see her for a few minutes after school. She is perfectly well, except for her back, and you can imagine how dull it must be for her there. Now, suppose you could drop in for half an hour and get acquainted with her, or read something simple to her? She's not up to 'Pilgrim's Progress' yet." And he pinched Polly's cheek playfully.

He stopped again. This time there was a murmur of a.s.sent from his hearers. Then he resumed,--

"Now, talk this over among yourselves and see what you think of it. I don't say you ought to do it, remember; you all have a good deal to do, I know. I only suggest the chance to you. I would think of it well, for unless you could be regular, it might be worse than nothing, for she would come to depend on it, and be disappointed. I warn you, she isn't very attractive, she is only ill and lonely."

"What's her name?" asked Florence, as the doctor started to leave the table.

"Bridget O'Keefe."

"What!" And in spite of herself, Jessie wrinkled her nose in disgust.

"Yes, I told you she was Irish, you know," answered the doctor briskly. "Now I must be off. Think it over till Monday and then let me know."

And a moment later, the front door shut behind him.

Aunt Jane went out after dinner, and Mrs. Adams made an excuse to leave the girls to themselves. Gathered around the parlor fire, they had an animated discussion, and, with many a practical suggestion from Alan, their plan of work was agreed upon. Each was to take her own day, and give up half an hour after school to a call on this other girl, who was condemned to lie still and know that the world was going on around her just as usual. There was no difficulty in planning for the first five days of the week; but the girls, though fired with a desire to do good, yet drew back from pledging themselves to break into their Sat.u.r.day afternoons, the one holiday of the week.

"What's the use of going Sat.u.r.day?" said Florence. "If we go to see her every other day but that, it ought to be enough."

"I don't want any half-way work," said Jean decidedly, "and yet, it does seem too bad to upset our fun when we've always been together. What if we draw lots for it?"

But Alan objected.

"That's kind of a shirky way to do. If I'm ever ill, I don't want you drawing lots which shall go to my funeral. I'll go Sat.u.r.day, myself."

"You can't, Alan; you aren't a girl," said Molly. "No," added Katharine, as she leaned over to lay her small, slim hand on his; "the boy can't go, but he can teach the girls a lesson in generosity. I'll take Sat.u.r.day myself, girls."

Alan turned to her impulsively.

"Good for you, Kit!" he said warmly. "I'm proud to have you for a cousin."

Katharine laughed lightly.

"It's nothing, after all. I have more time than most of you, and it's only a little while, anyway."

It was only a little thing, as Katharine had said, but by it she gained far more than the one short half-hour a week would ever cost her; and, too, from that time onward, Alan looked on his cousin with a new admiration which her beauty and her attempts to win his liking could never have brought.

The girls entered into their work heartily, charmed by the novelty of their experiment. It was an unknown sensation to them to feel sure that some one was eagerly listening for their step in the outer room, to see the dull, plain face before them brighten with a new life, as they came through the door. For the first few weeks, they begged to be allowed to prolong the half-hour; but the doctor, mindful of the fate of "Pilgrim's Progress," and knowing that a reaction would probably come, checked their zeal, and only encouraged their shorter visits. How much good they did to their young patient, they never knew. The healthy, out-of-door atmosphere which they brought in, their sc.r.a.ps of news, and their gay chatter did as much to brighten the rest of the long, lonely days, as the one or two pictures they brought did towards beautifying the plain, white walls of the little room where Bridget was learning her lesson of patience. Still less did they realize how much they themselves were gaining from the quiet half- hour in the corner of the great hospital. The little self- sacrifice, the interest in this girl so far removed from their usual world, their girlish desire to gain her liking, and the womanly tact which was needed to win her from her rough shyness, all these had their influence on their young maidenhood, an influence which lasted far on through their lives.

And by degrees their interest widened. At first they had shrunk from the suffering around them, dreading and almost fearing to look on its outward signs. But as they became more accustomed to the place and its a.s.sociations, they no longer hurried along the corridors, with their eyes fixed on the ground; but glanced in, now and again, through some open door, to see the long lines of little beds and the white-capped nurses moving quietly about the room, or sewing cosily by the sunny window. Winter was not half over before the girls used to turn aside, now to spend a few moments among the forlorn midgets in the children's ward, then to pa.s.s slowly along through the accident ward, giving a pleasant word or two in exchange for the smiles that never failed to greet their coming. Each one of them had her own particular circle of friends whom she gravely discussed with the doctor, learning much of the history and needs of these fellow-beings, for whom, until lately, they had thought and cared so little. Molly and Jessie devoted themselves to the little girls, Polly lavished all her attentions on three or four small boys, while the others preferred the older patients. But all this was only incidental, and the girls considered Bridget as their especial property, the younger ones regarding her as a superior sort of toy, to take the place of the dolls which they had cast aside.

However, Katharine, who was older and more mature than the others, had come to understand Bridget and to be friends with her, before any of the others. At first she could feel nothing but repugnance for this uncultivated, unwholesome-looking girl, a repugnance which she struggled hard to conceal; but, little by little, as she talked to her, she was won by her quiet endurance and courage. At length, one day, Katharine coaxed the girl's story from her, how she was left an orphan with younger children to care for; how she had fallen and hurt her back; how she had strained it with overwork, when it was still weak; how she had struggled to keep on, until the doctor had brought her where she was; and how she must hurry to get well, in order to earn money to pay the neighbors for caring for the little children. It was a homely tale and simply told; but when it was ended, Katharine was surprised to find her eyes full of tears, as she bent over and touched her lips to the girl's forehead. "I am glad you told me this, Bridget," she said. "Now we can talk about it together, and it will make us better friends."

And Bridget answered gratefully, as she looked up into the clear eyes above her own,--"Thank you, miss. It's nice to have a body know all about it. Somehow it helps along."

Three weeks later, as Katharine went into the room and dropped two or three scarlet carnations on the girl's idle hand, she was saluted with exciting news.

"A letter from home, to-day, Miss, and somebody has sent money enough to pay the children's board for ever and ever so long; and they don't know at all who it is. Isn't it wonderful!"

Not so wonderful, perhaps, as it appeared to the simple girl. No one but Katharine and her parents ever saw the letter that went hurrying westward to remind her father that Christmas was coming, and to tell him in what way she would prefer to take her present.

The secret was kept, and no thanks were ever spoken; but Katharine cared for none. It was enough to watch the girl's happy content, now that her one anxiety was removed. Mrs. Hapgood, alone, had a suspicion, when Molly told her of the affair; but she wisely asked no questions, and in silence rejoiced over the broader sympathy her niece was daily gaining.

"How queer it is, the way things are divided up!" Katharine said to Molly, one day when they were out driving.

It was a clear, cold December day, and Cob trotted briskly over the frozen ground, as if he too, as well as the girls themselves, were enjoying the air and motion.

"What is divided up?" asked Molly vaguely, rousing herself from a half-formed plan for Alan's Christmas present.

"Oh, everything,--at least, everything isn't divided," returned Katharine a little incoherently. "Some of us have so much more fun out of things than other people do. There's us; and then there's Bridget and that little pet of Polly's, d.i.c.ky what's-his-name. You know the one I mean. And then, just in our set, there's ever so much difference. Jessie and I have everything we want, and Jean has to pinch and scrimp; Jean is as strong as a bear, and Alan can't do anything at all, without being laid up to pay for it; Polly wails for a family of young brothers, and Jean has more of them to take care of than the old woman that lived in a shoe. Now what's the reason things are so mixed up, I'd like to know."

"I can't see why myself," said Molly, tucking in the robe about herself and her cousin. "Maybe, if we knew all about it, they aren't as mixed up as they seem."

"Yes, they are," Katharine insisted. "If they weren't, some people wouldn't have everything, and some go without, as they do. I don't suppose there is much of anything in the world I couldn't do, if I wanted to, and tried hard enough for it; but everybody isn't so."

"I have sort of an idea," answered Molly profoundly, "that most everybody can get what she wants, if she is willing to work and wait long enough. It's only a question of what you want."

CHAPTER X.

POLLY'S POEM.

"Molly, don't you want to come and take a walk with me?" asked Polly, appearing in the door one Sat.u.r.day morning.

Molly sprang up and tossed her book down on the table.

"Yes, indeed I do. It's too pleasant to stay in the house such a day as this. I'll go and call the others."

"But I don't want the others, at least, not this morning," said Polly mysteriously. "I want you all to myself, for I've something to tell you, to show you.". Polly blushed and stammered a little.

"What is it, Poll?" asked Molly curiously.