burst out Myra, blithely and boldly; "so do tell us."

"Well, it came about in this way. Washington Irving wrote a burlesque history of New York,--that is, it was a burlesque on a pompous 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 _nom de plume_. But at the time by a facetious advertis.e.m.e.nt, such as Hawthorne might have written at a later day,--an advertis.e.m.e.nt 'inquiring for a small, elderly gentleman, dressed in an old black coat and c.o.c.ked hat, by the name of Knickerbocker, who was said to have disappeared 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 gentleman 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 interpretation of the aristocratic Dutch character, it was after a while accepted as a t.i.tle for the descendants of the old Dutch burghers, and so grew into a term for the gentry or aristocratic cla.s.s. 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 satisfaction, that brought forth a perfect shout of 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 mola.s.ses, 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 cla.s.s; but if you had only just come up from--from--"

"Selling flour and mola.s.ses," 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-people, mechanics, or something of that sort,--you wouldn'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 constructed 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 railways and engines; and then there was James Watt, who preceded them as the inventor of the condensing steam-engine for manufacturing 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 wouldn't dare to talk about their humble beginnings?

Do you think _they_ 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 didn'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 wasn'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 beginnings,' as you call them,--the people _I_ mean are the ordinary people, who have just come up from nowhere, with a lot of money made out of--"

"Flour and mola.s.ses; yes, I see--you think the mola.s.ses sticks to them, and they pretend to ignore it. Well, all I've got to say is that I do so hate cowardice, I think, if I were in their places, with the mola.s.ses so new and sticky, that I should blurt out, 'Mola.s.ses! mola.s.ses!' 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.

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 corner 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?"

"Ill? Oh, no; I'm only a little restless," Hope answered. "I am sorry I disturbed you,--I'll try to be quieter."

"Oh, you didn't disturb me, Hope,--such a little thing as that wouldn't disturb me,--but I thought you must have something the matter with you, you are such a mouse generally. You're sure there isn't anything the matter?"

"Yes, quite sure."

"Not even Dorothea?"

"Not even Dorothea? What do you mean?"

"Well, I didn'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 a.s.sertion.

"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. Dering of Boston. What I know to her disadvantage is her lack of good manners, and that you all know. There, if that isn'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_ haven't influenced you to feel in this way, Myra; that is, that my manner--"

"No, no, I didn'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's Kate Van der Berg, _she's_ good-hearted, and has good manners too; and isn't she jolly, Hope? Wasn't it fun to hear her go on with Anna about the flour and mola.s.ses? And, Hope, I do believe that she would do just as she said, if _she_ 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 mola.s.ses,--talk about everything perfectly frankly, because she hates anything that looks like being ashamed, anything that looks like cowardice. Yes, I do believe she would. But _I_ couldn't, could you?"

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 station? 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 couldn't help speaking. And I _am_ proud of him,--I am, I am, n.o.body could be prouder,--it isn't that I'm in any way ashamed of anything,--of _anything_,--the engineer cab, the workman's clothes, or the flower-selling; but--but, oh, I couldn'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 curiosity, something unlike themselves, and they'd have so many questions to ask, because it would all be so odd to them; and then there is Dorothea 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 morning, 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, "I'm afraid you've been studying too hard, Hope. You haven't? Then you must be homesick." But when Hope a.s.sured her that she couldn'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 vacation had been a matter of some consideration. She would have gone to her grandmother Benham 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, 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. _I_ like them all."

Mr. and Mrs. Benham laughed as they read these words. They laughed because this was so 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 she was going to have a very happy time; but after she had made several mistakes, had chosen what had brought her, if not serious disappointment 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 provision 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 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 unbia.s.sed 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 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 a.s.sociation 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 luxurious entertainment, they thought it quite natural that any girl should choose to accept it. Then, too, there was Mrs. Sibley, with _her_ 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 ordinary girl choose to go to this delightsome place? The Kolbs could offer nothing like this hospitality.

Their house at Riverview was small, their means not large, and their acquaintance, outside the musicians with whom the old violinist 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 fulness of this regard, as the following quaint letter will show:--

MY DEAR LITTLE MaDCHEN,--The good frau 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 both love.

"How _can_ the child resist this letter?" exclaimed 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 conversation, 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 that they would say nothing to Hope of their feeling.