"He isn't?"

Polly paused irresolutely at the gate, then turned in.

"What are you going to do, Polly?" asked Florence.

"I'm going up to see Alan," responded Polly.

"But I thought we were all going down to see Bridget."

"Bother Bridget!" returned Polly, with some energy. "The rest of you can go all the time, if you want to; but it's my impression that charity begins at home. Here we've all of us had that everlasting old Bridget on the brain, and let Alan get along as best he can."

"But Alan has mamma, and Bridget hasn't anybody but us," said Molly, in a virtuous tone of self-denial.

"I don't care if she hasn't," retorted Polly vehemently; "she has five of you to coddle her, and you just go there because you like the fun and think it sounds goody. There are enough of you without me, and one of you can take my afternoon, till Alan gets better."

"That's just like Polly," said Molly teasingly. "She always has liked boys better than girls."

Polly's face flushed.

"You know that's not so, Molly! I've done my fair share with Bridget, but now I think it isn't just right to go chasing off after her when we're leaving Alan all alone. If you knew--" Polly checked herself abruptly, then added more quietly, "I'll tell you what, girls, it isn't like Alan to be cross, and if he is, there's some good reason for it, so I think it's our place to find out what's the matter." And turning away, she went into the house, leaving her companions to go on to the hospital discussing, as they walked along, "Polly's last freak."

She stopped a moment to speak to Mrs, Hapgood, then ran directly up-stairs and looked in at the partly open door. Alan was half sitting, half lying on the sofa, with his book dropped, face downward, on his knee, and his hands clasped at the back of his head. Too much absorbed in his thoughts to notice her light step, his face was turned away from the door, and he was scowling moodily at a distant corner of the ceiling.

"May I come in, or are you making up a poem and don't want to be disturbed?" inquired Polly gaily, pushing the door wide open.

The boy started up with quick enthusiasm.

"Poll! How jolly of you to come in to see a fellow!"

"Then I'm not in the way?" she asked, as she pulled off her coat.

"What an idea! I was desperately lonesome, and somehow you always seem to fit in better than the others. Molly teases, and Jessie tires me. Katharine is better, only she's a little given to gushing, and boys don't like that sort of thing, you know,"

returned Alan frankly.

"I'm very glad if I suit you," said Polly, devoutly hoping she could succeed in avoiding the sin of teasing on the one hand, and of sentimentality on the other.

"Well, you do," replied Alan, with a heartiness which he did not often show, for he was not much given to direct praise. "You're first-rate company, Poll, and I'd been hoping you'd get time to run in, for it's stupid in the house. I knew you would, when you got round to it."

"Oh, Alan, you just make me ashamed!" said Polly contritely. "I ought to have been here before, and 'specially when I was the one to blame for all this, too."

"No use crying over spilt milk," answered Alan candidly. "I did think you'd come before this; but you're here now, and so it's all right. I've grown meek and am glad of small favors," he added, with a merry, sidelong glance from his gray eyes.

After that, not a day pa.s.sed without a call from Polly. Now that her conscience was awakened, she realized that she had rather neglected her friend, and did all that lay in her power to make amends for her past forgetfulness. Her mother encouraged her visits, for she had learned from Mrs. Hapgood that they were a benefit to Alan and a help to herself, so Polly dropped in at her will, morning, noon, or night, and never failed to find a hearty welcome. The other girls laughed a little at her devotion, but it had no effect, so they went on their way, giving the boy the odds and ends of their time, while Polly and Alan spent long, cosy hours together, reading or playing games, with a perfect enjoyment of each other's society which left them no opportunity to miss their absent friends. Damon and Pythias, the girls called them, and never were two friends more closely united, with a simple, true affection, which, however, had no trace of the consciousness that one was a boy, the other a girl. Two boys could not have been more free from sentimentality, two girls were never farther from any suggestion of budding flirtation. They were just well-tried friends of long standing; and when, after four weeks, Alan went back into school again, his loyalty to Polly was, if possible, increased by the knowledge of the good times she had given up for his sake.

Aside from Alan's illness, the past weeks had brought to light another cause for excitement. Aunt Jane was about to become the second Mrs. Solomon Baxter. How, when, or where the fateful words were spoken was never known. What powerful arguments Mr. Baxter had brought to bear upon her, to overcome her aversion, to domestic life, was never revealed. However, a week after Miss Roberts had, in the presence of the children, addressed her guest as "Solo--Mr. Baxter," she had taken her sister into her confidence, and long before Alan was in school again, the matter was publicly announced by Mr. Baxter's escorting her to church, one Sunday morning, and marching up the aisle by her side, in full view of the a.s.sembled congregation.

This was the reason that, on the night of the play, Miss Roberts and Mr. Baxter occupied two armchairs placed side by side in the very front row of spectators, and that the captain's opening speech was interrupted by a little giggle, as his eyes fell on the faces before him.

The curtain, rose on a "glade in the forest primaeval," as was announced by the dozen playbills which did duty for the audience.

Evergreen boughs, a few potted plants, and a dingy, greenish carpet were supposed to transform the stage into the glade in question; but the audience had little time to study the scenery, for the prompt entrance of the captain and a chosen companion called up a hearty burst of applause. The over-critical might have objected that English sailors do not, as a rule, have braids of brown hair escaping from their hats, and that the brave captain and explorer walked with some difficulty; but the speech and action of the sailor were spirited, and the captain's halting step was doubtless owing to temporary fatigue. Moreover, one glance at the boyish face under the great c.o.c.ked hat was enough to make the most carping critic forget all other defects while, in strangely modern idioms and with a lofty disregard for dates, the old-time hero reminded his comrade of their long and perilous voyage over the sea, of the great wilderness which lay before them, and of the glory of reclaiming that wilderness to the civilization of the Virgin Queen. The sailor resisted his eloquence and refused to proceed, uttering mutinous threats. against his leader's life. But even in this crisis, the captain's presence of mind did not fail him, and, seeing that his persuasions and commands were of no avail, he promptly bound the sailor, hand and foot, and was preparing to carry him forward on his shoulders, when a fierce war-whopp was heard, and three ferocious savages rushed in upon them, just as the curtain fell.

The second scene, was regarded by the actors as being their most elaborate attempt. The room was darkened, and at the back of the stage, three or four dusky braves were crouched about their camp fire which, for the moment, had taken the form of an oil stove; while in the foreground lay Alan and Jessie, bound and motionless, awaiting the death which seemed inevitable. Jean had expended all her energies on this scene, and the warriors smoked the peace- pipe, inspected their medicines, and danced a war-dance with befitting solemnity, while the captain writhed uneasily, not so much with mental anguish as on account of the rheumatic twinges which his cramped position had set to running up and down his legs and back. Then, with a close fidelity to the old histories, an imposing throne was brought in, and Jean, as Powhatan, mounted the insecure structure; two stones were rolled into place at her feet, the captives' heads were arranged on these comfortless pillows, and a brave, ball-club in hand, took his place beside each. The sailor proved himself a coward, but the captain was bold to the last, and alternately defied the king and encouraged his weaker companion, who was whimpering by his side. Then, in one long speech which, absurdly out of keeping with the surroundings as it was, yet had the ring of true pathos, the captain bade farewell to home, wife, and children, and welcomed death in the name and for the honor of queen and country. Even Aunt Jane's face grew a little gentler as the boy voice went on to the close, and there was a momentary hush, followed by a hearty burst of applause, while Mrs. Adams, at the side, held Polly back, that her too hasty entrance should not mar the scene. Then Pocahontas dashed wildly in and, regardless of consequences, cast herself down on the captain's prostrate body with a force that elicited a sudden "Ow!"

from the hero who had just dared to defy a savage king. But his anguish was quickly repressed, and the scene went finely to its close, when the fair Pocahontas herself loosed his fetters, raised him to his feet, and once more threw herself into his arms, while Powhatan embraced them both, with many paternal remarks uttered in the choicest Indian gutterals. While the stage was being arranged for the next scene, John and his Pocahontas were called before the curtain to receive the applause they had fully earned.

In the next two scenes, Jean had departed widely from the traditional story. In the former one, the captain took the stage alone and told over the story of his past life, dwelling with especial emphasis on his charming wife and thirteen beautiful children at home in mother England. His soliloquy was interrupted by the entrance of a messenger from a ship just landed, and, after a little political discussion, the messenger incidentally told him of a cyclone which had blown down his house and destroyed his entire family. The agony of the captain was tragic to behold, and moved Mr. Baxter to wipe his eyes sympathetically, and then cast a furtive glance at Aunt Jane who was apparently unmoved by this strange similarity of fate. Perhaps she was reserving her sympathy for Pocahontas. However, the captain's grief spent itself, and he finally recovered himself with the novel consolation that "thirteen always was an unlucky number." Then, dismissing the messenger, he proceeded to walk up and down his cabin and take counsel with his heart, how best to comfort himself in the future.

After suggesting many a plan and rejecting it as soon as suggested, he resolved to set off immediately to Powhatan and ask for the fair hand of Pocahontas. As the curtain fell on this third scene, no one applauded more enthusiastically than Mr. Baxter.

The next scene opened with the preparations for the marriage of Pocahontas to the young planter, John Rolfe, which were interrupted by the sudden appearance of the captain, who bent on one knee before Powhatan, to ask his daughter's hand. Powhatan consented joyfully, and when Rolfe quite naturally objected, the captain proposed a duel, and killed his rival, under the very eyes of Pocahontas, who smiled rapturously as she watched the expiring agonies of her former lover. Then, turning to the captain, she said confidingly,--

"And now, dear John, everything is all prepared, so what if we get married at once?"

Accordingly, the marriage was at once solemnized, with the warriors as witnesses, while Powhatan descended from the throne to give the bride away, and Rolfe opportunely came back to life in time to serve as the clergyman who performed the ceremony.

There was a long delay between the marriage and the closing scene of the play; and while the audience discussed the past scenes, there went on a great commotion behind the curtain, sounds of murmuring and of moving furniture, mingled with excited whispers,--

"Where is my crown?"

"Do somebody see if my train is all right!"

"Where is my sword?"

"Hush! Hush!"

All this was enough to rouse the expectations of the audience, but even they were not prepared for the blaze of glory which met their eyes as the curtain rose on the court of England. Katharine and Florence sat on the throne, as pretty and dainty a royal couple as could be imagined. The play-bills had announced it as the court of Queen Elizabeth, and Florence looked the queen to perfection, in her trailing white silk gown, and with her mother's diamonds blazing in her golden hair; but opinions varied as to the ident.i.ty of the haughty king by her side, for no one present was aware that Elizabeth's kingdom had any such lordly appendage. Still, it was all very picturesque and, as Polly had said, a great deal could be attributed to poetical license, so n.o.body complained, if the throne was a little overcrowded. Back of the queen were grouped three maids of honor, elaborately and richly dressed in gowns that rivalled the rainbow in variety and brilliancy of color; while at the king's left, as a fitting symbol of the British Lion, crouched old Leo, the Langs's great Saint Bernard. After a long pause to allow the audience to study this gorgeous scene, Pocahontas and her captain swept in and knelt at the foot of the throne. The queen bowed gracefully, in recognition of their homage, and bade them rise. Then, addressing the Lion and the maids, she called them "the free men of England" and, bidding them recall the captain's services to her realm, she announced her determination to knight him on the spot. The captain and his bride knelt again, while the queen not only gave him the royal accolade and dubbed him Sir John, but went on to extend the ceremony to his devoted wife, and saluted her as "My Lady Pocahontas, the fairest savage in all London town." Then the royal pair stepped down from the throne and, joining hands with My Lord, My Lady, and the maids, and escorted by the British Lion who amiably wagged his tail in token of approval, they advanced and bowed low to the audience as the curtain fell on the play. The applause was enthusiastic and prolonged, and the actors were rejoicing in their success when, as the clapping of hands died away, Aunt Jane's voice was heard, solemnly remarking,--

"Well, I do hope those children realize that all this story about Pocahontas has been proved to be entirely without foundation. It seems to me a great waste of time to get up a play that hasn't a word of truth in it."

"Isn't that just like Aunt Jane!" whispered Pocahontas in disgust.

"I wonder if she'd have liked it any better, if we'd acted out all about her and her Mr. Baxter."

A few moments later, the actors appeared, all in costume, to bring small trays laden with good things for the refreshment of their guests, and to receive congratulations on their play. Then they gathered in the dining-room to have their share of the goodies and discuss the evening, feeling that the best part of the whole was the merry time of talking it over afterwards.

"Oh," groaned Alan, taking off his hat as he helped himself to a macaroon; "I didn't much think I should ever breathe again, to say nothing of eating, after Pocahontas came down on me. Polly, I do wish you'd go and get weighed, in the morning." "There's one favor I'd like to ask," said Jessie. "If we ever play it over again, I wish that when you get ready to kill us, you'd put us inside the curtain. You were so eager about untying Alan that you forgot all about me, and when the curtain came down, I was half inside it and half outside, so that Mrs. Adams had to come and pull me back, before I could get up."

"If we ever play it again!" echoed Jean. "But you never will, with my consent. I thought 'twas splendid, while I was writing it; when we were rehearsing it, I thought 'twas pretty good; but while we were playing it to-night before all those people, I thought it was simply dreadful, and I was ashamed of myself for ever trying to write such trash."

"If you don't like it, you can write us another," said Jessie; "but, for my part, this is good enough for me."

"Are you through eating, children?" asked Mrs. Adams, putting her head in at the door. "Mrs. Hapgood wants you all to sing something, just to finish up the evening."

It was an unexpected request, and for a moment, the actors demurred, then held a hasty consultation. A few minutes later, they appeared in Indian file, John Smith and his sailor leading the way, and the rest following in their Indian costumes.

Katharine sat down at the piano and played a few solemn, slow chords, then the others took up the chorus, the words of which they had adapted for the occasion:

"John Smith had a little Injun, One little Injun girl."

CHAPTER XVI.