"'Men of the Lenni-Lenape,' he said, 'my race upholds the earth. Your feeble tribe stands on my sh.e.l.l. What fire that a Delaware can light would burn the child of my fathers?' he added, pointing proudly to the simple blazonry on his skin. 'The blood that came from such a stock would smother your flames!'"

Ah! and then the last speech, that she always spoke leaning against a tree, with her arms folded on her breast, and her gaze fixed haughtily on the awe-struck spectators: "Pale-face! I die before my heart is soft!" and so on. They all said she did that splendidly--better than any one else.

What was Clarice saying?

"And I said to him, I said: 'I don't know what you mean,' I said. 'Oh, yes, you do,' he said. 'No, I don't,' I said. 'I think you're real silly,' I said. And he said: 'Oh, don't say that,' he said. 'Well, I shall,' I said. 'You're just as silly as you can be!'" And so on and so on, till Sue could have fallen asleep for sheer weariness, save for those merry voices in her ear and the pain at her heart.

But when Clarice was gone, Sue unlocked her journal and wrote:

"I am very unhappy, and no one cares. I am alone in the world, and I feel that I have not long to live. My cheek is hollow, and my eyes gleam with an unnatural light; but I shall rest in the grave and no one will morn for me. I hear the voices of my former friends, but they think no more of the lonely outcast. I do hope that if I should live to be fifteen I shall have more sense than some people have; but she is all I have left in the world, and I will be faithful to death. They have taken my sister from me--" But when she had written these last words Sue blushed hotly, and drew her pen through them; for she was an honest child, and she knew they were not true.

Then she went downstairs. Her room was too lonely, and everything in it spoke too plainly of Mary. She could not stay there.

Mrs. Penrose looked up as she entered the sitting-room. "Oh! it is you, Sue," she said, with her little weary air; "I thought it was Lily."

"Would you like me to read to you, Mamma?" asked Sue, with a sudden impulse.

"Thank you, my dear," said Mrs. Penrose, doubtfully; "isn't Clarice here? Yes, I should like it very much, Sue. My eyes are rather bad to-day."

Sue read for an hour, and forgot the pain at her heart. When the reading was over, her mother said: "Thank you, my dear; that was a real treat. How well you read, Sue!"

"Let me read to you every day, Mother," said Sue. She kissed her mother warmly; and, standing near her, noticed for the first time how very pale and thin she was, how transparent her cheek and hands. Her heart smote her with a new pain. How much more she saw, now that she was unhappy herself! She had never thought much about her mother's ill health. She was an "invalid," and that seemed to account for everything. At least, she could be a better daughter while she lived, and could help her mother in the afternoon, as Lily did in the morning.

The day of the circus came. A week ago, how Sue had looked forward to it! It was to be the crowning joy of the season, the great, the triumphal day. But now all was changed. She had no thought of "backing out"; an engagement once made was a sacred thing with Sue; but she no longer saw it wreathed in imaginary glories. The circus was fun, of course; but she was not going in the right way, she knew--in fact, she was going in a very naughty way; and Clarice was no longer the enchanting companion she had once seemed, who could cast a glamour over everything she spoke of. Sue even suggested their consulting Mr.

Packard; but Clarice raised a shrill clamor.

"Sue, don't speak of such a thing! Puppa would lock me up if he had any idea; he's awfully strict, you know. And we have both vowed never to tell; you know we have, Sue. You vowed on this sacred relic; you know you did!"

The sacred relic was a battered little medal that Clarice said had come from Jerusalem and been blessed by the Pope. As this was almost the only flight of fancy she had ever shown, Sue clung to the idea, and had made the vow with all possible solemnity, feeling like Hannibal and Robert of Normandy in one. This was not, however, until after she had told Mary of the plan; but, somehow, she had not mentioned that to Clarice. Mary would not tell, of course; perhaps, at the bottom of her heart, Sue almost wished she would.

The day was bright and sunny, and Sue tried hard to feel as if she were going to have a great and glorious time; yet when the hour came at which she had promised to go to the hotel, she felt rather as if she were going to execution. She hung round the door of her mother's room. Could this be Sue, the foundling, the deserted child of cloudy British princes?

"If you need me, Mamma, I won't go!" she said several times; but Mrs.

Penrose did not notice the wistful intonation in her voice, and she had not yet become accustomed to needing Sue.

"No, dear!" she said. "Run along, and have a happy day. Lily and Katy will do all I need." Then, with an impulse she hardly understood herself, for she was an undemonstrative woman, she added: "Give me a kiss before you go, Susie!"

Sue hung round her neck in a pa.s.sionate embrace. "Mamma!" she exclaimed, "Mamma! if I were very, very wicked, could you forgive me?--if I were very dreadfully wicked?"

"I hope so, dear!" said Mrs. Penrose, settling her hair. She had pretty hair, and did not like to have it disarranged. "But you are not wicked, Sue. What is the matter, my dear?"

But Sue, after one more almost strangling embrace, ran out of the room. She felt suffocated. She must have one moment of relief before she went. Dashing back to her room, she flung herself upon her journal.

"I go!" she wrote. "I go because I have sworn it, and I may not break my word. It is a dreadful thing that I do, but it is my fate that bekons. I don't believe I am a foundling, after all, and I don't care if I am. Mamma is just perfectly sweet; and if I _should_ live, I should never, never, _never_ let her know that I had found it out.

Adieu!

"The unfortunate

"SUSAN PENROSE."

After making a good flourish under her name, Sue felt a little better; still, her heart was heavy enough as she put on her pretty hat with the brown ostrich-feathers, which went so well with her pongee dress.

At least, she looked nice, she thought; that was some comfort.

The circus was a good one, and for a time Sue forgot everything else in the joy of looking on. The tumbling! She had never dreamed of such tumbling. And the jumping over three, four, six elephants standing together! Each time it seemed impossible, out of the question, that the thing could be done. Each time her heart stood still for an instant, and then bounded furiously as the lithe, elastic form pa.s.sed like an arrow over the broad brown backs, and lighted on its feet surely, gracefully, with a smile and a courtly gesture of triumph.

That one in the pale blue silk tights--could he really be human, and go about on other days clad like other men?

Then, the wonderful jokes of the clown! Never was anything so funny, Sue thought. But the great, the unspeakable part, was when the Signora Fiorenza, the Queen of Flame, rode lightly into the arena on her milk-white Arabian charger. Such beauty Sue had never dreamed of; and, indeed, the Signora (whose name was Betsy Hankerson) was a handsome young woman enough, and her riding-habit of crimson velvet, if a little worn and rubbed, was still effective and becoming. To Sue's eyes it seemed an imperial robe, fit for coronations and great state banquets, or for scenes of glory like this.

Round and round the Signora rode, bending graciously from the saddle, receiving with smiling composure the compliments of the clown.

"Well, madam! how did you manage to escape the police?"

"The police, sir?"

"Yes, madam! All the police in Chester--and a fine-looking set of men they are--are on your track."

"Why, what have I done, sir, that the police should be after me?"

"What have you done, madam? Why, you have stolen all the roses in town and put them in your cheeks, and you've stolen all the diamonds and put them in your eyes; and worse than that!"

"Worse than that, sir?"

"Yes, madam. You've stolen all the young fellows' hearts and put them in your pocket." Whack! "Get up there, Sultan!"

And he smacked the white horse with his hand, and the Signora cantered gaily on. This was delightful; and it was all true, Sue thought, every word of it. Oh, if she could only look like that, what would she not give?

But now, a new wonder! The Signora had leaped lightly to her feet, and was standing on the back of the fiery steed, always galloping, galloping. She was unfastening the gold b.u.t.tons of her riding-habit; it fell off, and she stood transformed, a wonderful fairy in gold-spangled gauze, with gold slippers, and a sparkling crown--had she had it on all the time under her tall hat?--set in her beautiful black hair. The clown shouted with glee, and Sue could have shouted with him:

"Glory hallelujah! See the fireworks! Oh, my! somebody get my smoked gla.s.ses; she puts my eyes clean out. Smoked gla.s.s, ladies and gentlemen, five cents a piece! You'll all go stone-blind if you try to look at her without it."

The music quickened its time, the snow-white steed quickened his pace.

The Signora called to him and shook the reins, and the good beast sprang forward in response. Faster and faster, louder and louder, till the air was palpitating with sound, and that glittering figure flashed by like a fiery star. And now two men in livery came running out, holding a great ring of living flame. They sprang up on two stools.

They held the ring steady while the flames leaped and danced, and Sue fancied she could actually hear them hiss. The clown shouted and waved his hat; the ring-master cracked his whip; the music crashed into a maddening peal; and with a flash and a cry, horse and girl dashed through the circle of fire.

[Ill.u.s.tration: AT THE CIRCUS.]

It was over. The flames were gone. The Signora was once more seated, cantering easily round the ring, bending again to the clown's remarks.

But Sue still sat breathless, her hands clasped together, her eyes shining. For a time she could not speak. At last she turned to Clarice with burning cheeks and fluttering breath.

"Clarice, from this moment that is what I live for! I can do that, Clarice, I know; I feel that I can. Do you suppose she would take me as a pupil? Do you think she would? If I can do that just once, then I can die happy!"

"How you talk, Sue Penrose!" said Clarice. "The idea! Who ever heard of a young lady going into a circus? Say, don't look over opposite.