"I'm so glad you thought of phoning, Miss Pat," she said, taking her plate and cup from Bruce and seating herself by Miss Jinny. "Doris was--well, I can't tell you what she said, but she certainly isn't as bad as we thought her. She's just wrapped up in Geraldine and she seems to think that this illness is a judgment on her for the prize study."

"Poor thing," exclaimed Griffin. "Did you tell her we all asked for her?"

Elinor nodded. "She said I might as well tell you all, for it would be in the papers tomorrow. Her father has failed, and they're dreadfully poor. It's been coming on for a long while, and that was why she wanted the prize so much--not that she excused herself for it, she only said I could see how she came to stoop so low. She was frantic for the money and was so worried that she couldn't think of any subject for herself. She thought I was rich and happy and wouldn't care. She even thought I might not turn in my study at all, when I got sick that night. She's had a terrible time about it, but she was so glad to have the chance to explain."

"Why in the world didn't she say so before?" cried Griffin indignantly.

"She had a chance to defend herself. We're not absolutely inhuman."

"She couldn't, don't you see, without telling her father's private affairs?" said Elinor gently. "She didn't feel that it was any excuse for her conduct, anyway."

Patricia heaved a deep sigh. "Well, I must say," she said with a triumphant look at Miss Jinny, "I do believe in first impressions and I'm glad I always liked Doris Leighton."

Miriam Halden rose regretfully. "Sorry to break up the festivities, Miss Jinny," she said, shaking hands, "but our train leaves in just ten minutes, and Madalon has on bran-new pumps with heels that cut her down to a mile an hour. We'll see you all again next week at the house-breaking, as Judith calls it."

"We'll be here," promised Madalon, following her sister's example.

"We'll have to miss lunch and the Senior dance, but what's a mere dance compared to helping a neighbor say farewell to their happy little home.

Look for us at twelve-thirty sharp and prepare an extra mess of pottage, for we'll both be fearfully hungry. Tell David and Tom Hughes we'll come in on the same train they do. Good-bye, be good till Sat.u.r.day and then we'll all be happy."

CHAPTER XVI

APRIL SHOWERS

"That Miller girl needs a good rest," said Miss Jinny emphatically.

She had come in from her visit to the Academy, where she had interviewed the model with a thoroughness that left little of her past unexplored, and her face was sad and thoughtful as she stood pulling off her gloves, finger by finger, by the big side window in the studio.

Mrs. Sh.e.l.ly went on with her knitting, but Patricia, who was mending a long rent in her best blouse, looked up with eager interest.

"Did you have a chance to talk to her much?" she asked, snapping off her thread in her absorption. "What is she really like? Does she remember Rockham? And does she know we have the old place?"

Miss Jinny chuckled and then grew grave and thoughtful.

"I guess she wouldn't last much longer at this business," she said, smoothing the creases out of the glove fingers. "She's got a pinched look and her cheeks are mighty pink. No, it ain't paint; I asked right out, and she answered just as nice as could be. She seems tired, poor girl, and mortally glad to have some one take an interest. She says the cla.s.s rooms are so hot, and the change from living in eighty degrees to sixty-five, like it is in her room, has made her downright sick part of the time."

"It must be hard on her," acquiesced Patricia. "Why didn't she get something else to do?"

"Couldn't," said Miss Jinny, briefly. "A girl without friends or money hasn't much show in a big town. I'm going to take charge of that girl, Patricia."

Patricia felt a thrill of alarm.

"You aren't going to bring her _here_?" she queried, a faint flush of shame at the selfishness of her speech creeping into her cheeks.

"Certainly _not_," said Miss Jinny crisply. "I'm merely a guest here.

I'm going to do something more practical, and I want you to help me, if you can stop being jealous of the poor girl, for----"

Patricia flung the sewing aside and threw her arms about her friend in a tempest of contrition. "I didn't mean to be horrid," she cried.

"You know I wouldn't really be so selfish--if I thought you wanted it.

But we have been so happy together here, and I wanted it to go onto the end, just like a beautiful story that ends happily. I'm sorry I seemed mean."

Miss Jinny gave her a pat and a kiss. "I guess I feel quite as much that way as you do, Miss Pat," she said with unusual softness. "I hadn't the wildest notion of bringing Mary Miller here. I'm going to take her to Rockham with me."

Patricia's heart sank, but she concealed her feelings sufficiently to rea.s.sure Miss Jinny, who went on briskly:

"I'm going to take her out with us day after tomorrow--she's not going back to the Academy--and I'm going to get work for her. There's where you can help. She's a good sewer, she says, though she'd rather live with someone and do housework."

"Shouldn't think she'd be strong enough for housework," said Patricia, puckering her brow. "Mrs. Hand wants a 'lady houseworker,' but I don't believe she'd have an ex-model. She's so awfully particular, you know."

Miss Jinny nodded. "She'd work her to death, anyway," she agreed.

"She's mighty inhuman under her soft outside. Her help don't hear much of her purry ways, I can tell you. That's why they're always leaving.

No, Mrs. Hand won't do." She sighed in perplexity. "I wish we were well enough off to keep her ourselves. I've taken a liking to her quiet ways, and I'd enjoy having her about, I'm sure. Most country girls are so loud and clumping that I've never wanted help before, but she's mighty different."

Patricia rubbed the end of her nose with the scissors. "There are the Haldens and the Berkleys and Tattans," she mused. "They're all supplied. Perhaps someone will leave and then she can get their place.

Maybe Hannah Ann will have her help sometimes,--we can't afford to have anyone regularly, you know."

Miss Jinny rose abruptly, and putting away her things, began preparations for tea.

"Well, it's settled that she's going with us," she said comfortably.

"I guess the future will take care of itself. If we do the best we can and leave the rest to the Lord, we can't go far astray. I feel that Mary Miller is going to be taken care of some way."

It had been raining all the afternoon, a gentle persistent rain that gave no sign of clearing, and they decided, after a cozy dinner at home, that their projected trip to Rockham the next day would have to be given up; but when Bruce pulled aside the curtain from the studio window to compare his watch with the illuminated disc of the St.

Francis clock tower, he gave an exclamation of satisfaction.

"It's cleared off, after all," he said. "It's going to be a ripping fine day tomorrow."

They crowded to the big window, and saw, through the wet flicker of tiny sprouting leaves, a wind-swept sky with racing clouds and brilliant stars blazing in the dark, serene s.p.a.ces between the hurrying ma.s.ses of billowy vapor.

Judith clapped her hands. "We'll go, won't we, Bruce, and Elinor, and Miss Jinny?" she asked, whirling to each authority in turn. "We'll see dear, delectable Greycroft and have our picnic in the barn?"

"And the pup-pup-pergola, too," added Patricia mischievously.

Miss Jinny meditated for a moment. "I don't believe I'll go," she said. "I'm going back in another day or so, and mama and I will have enough of Rockham anyway. I'll stay with her and finish that library book that Mr. Spicer lent me. It's overdue now, anyway."

So it was arranged that the four of them, Elinor, Patricia, Judith, and Bruce, should take the early train to Rockham and spend the day in adjusting matters at Greycroft for their return the following Sat.u.r.day, coming back to town in the late afternoon or early evening.

Just as they had finished, to their great satisfaction the studio knocker sounded the quick double knock that always heralded Griffin, and Judith flew to welcome her.

"I didn't ring," she explained, standing on the little blue rug by the umbrella stand, and jabbing her dripping umbrella into the stand. "The hall door was open and I came right in." She hesitated, and then rushed on, directing most of her speech to Elinor. "Geraldine Leighton is dying, they say, and I thought we might each send a little note to Doris--she's awfully alone, now that Mrs. Leighton is ill, you know.

It mightn't help her much, but it would show her that we----"

"Dying!" cried Patricia, aghast. "Why they said she was better this morning."

Judith crept near to Mrs. Sh.e.l.ly and caught her hand close in both of hers. The others put eager questions. Griffin, who was deeply stirred, answered breathlessly. Suddenly, in the midst of the quiet, home-like, cozy evening, had come tragedy and the shadow of death.

Patricia had known Geraldine Leighton in a very slight and casual way, but with the word "dying," she became the heroic center of her hurrying thoughts. She saw her in the dim room with Doris and the nurse and doctor, each agonizingly intent on the slow, faltering heart-beats and the fitful, irregular breathing. As her swift mind galloped on to the end, and the subdued sounds of grief caught her inner ear, another face began to print itself rapidly on that quick-moving scene--Doris, white and haggard, looked into her eyes, and she felt her whole heart go out to her.

Griffin was just ending the sentence that had hurried the fleeting pictures through her mind when Patricia slipped away unnoticed into the hall, where she flung on a cape and soft hat of Judith's and softly let herself out.