"Of course I had no business to do that. She went to her room, and stayed there all day, and when papa came home he went right up. I was on my way to my room, and I heard him say, 'I don't believe it is a headache at all. I think Lucy must have been annoying you,' and she said, 'No,' and papa said, 'I shall send that child away to school.' And she said, 'No, give us one more chance. I am going to see Miss Hooker, her Scout Captain, and see if her influence is strong enough to make Lucy see things in the right way.' As soon as I heard that I made up my mind to see the Captain first, so I went over and that was the day I saw you on the steps. We had had a long, long talk and she said I was all wrong and took away my trefoil. So here I am a dead Scout, and I am so unhappy that I don't know what to do and I am going to run away. I want you to have my pony. I am going to send it over to your house tomorrow."

"No, no, no!" cried Elise. "Everything is wrong; so wrong! Oh, let me think! That poor, poor lady! I am so, so sorry for her."

"Sorry for _her_!" cried Lucy. "There is no need to be sorry for _her_!

I am the one to be sorry for. _She_ has everything."

"Why has she?" asked Elise. "She has nothing that you have not. She has your most dear papa; so have you. You both have a most lovely home, everything beautiful, friends, comfort. You are safe in a great land, where no enemy may come and keel all you love. You have both the same things. You share them." She sat thinking. "Yes, she is the one to be sorry for, because she is so disappoint. When she go to marry your _pere_, she have something promised that she never gets and so she is full of mournsomeness."

"She has everything papa can get for her," said Lucy bitterly. "I wish you could see the pearls he gave her the other day."

"Pearls!" said Elise scornfully. "What are pearls? He promised her something only _you_ could give her, and now she has it not, and she is sad, and you are sad; everybody sad. What do you call her?"

"I don't call her anything," said Lucy stubbornly. "I wait until she looks at me and then I say what I want to say."

"Foolish, foolish one," said Elise, "That is what no one likes. Besides, it is what you call rude not to speak the name. Most rude!" She saw a frown deepen on Lucy's brow and gently pressed her hand.

"You wanted to tell me, did you not?" she said softly. "Now I want to tell you what I have not so many times told because I cannot speak of it unless my heart feels like it does bleed. I have had _such_ sorrows, and have seen such dreadfulness; I have been so cold, and hongry, and frightened. I have lived in the wet underground for so long time that all this makes a differentness in me from you. Something in me feels most old and weary. I keep it shut up because my darling Maman Hargrave wants me a happy child, and I want it for myself, but I do feel the oldness when I see others unhappy when they could so easily be full of joy. No, let me talk!" she added, as Lucy tried to speak.

"I must say this, I feel it on me, to save that poor lady her happiness.

I shall be sorry for you some other day, but now I am most sad for her.

When she marry your papa, she think all the time that she is going to have a most sweet daughter because that is how your dear papa would tell her of you, and then what happens? You know.

"Oh, Lucee, dear, _dear_ Lucee, there is one thing you must give to her, right now today quick."

"What is that?" said Lucy, startled by Elise's vehemence.

"_LOVE!_" cried Elise, her sweet voice thrilling. "Love! So easy, so sweet! Please, my Lucee, do not turn away. I know I am right on account of the oldness in my heart. That tells me. Think how most glad your own mother is to have the pretty one taking such good care of your papa and of you. Does she select your clothes?"

"Yes," said Lucy.

"They are always the prettiest," said Elise. "No other girl is so chic--what you call stunning. And so modest, so quiet. And you yourself say everyone but you loves her. You too must love her, and the best of all. You _must_! You are a Scout, and so you do always the right thing.

Where is she now?"

"Home, I suppose. I came down to bring some of my last winter's dresses.

Oh, Elise, even if I could, it is too late. I _can't_ go back to the beginning again and start over."

"Of course not," said Elise wisely. "It is a most bad waste of time when we try going back to beginnings. It is better to start right from here.

_Anywhere_ is the best place to start. When you go home you start then!

You start here by making some new sweet thoughts in your heart. Dear Lucee, please try! Please, for the sake of your Elise who also has to try to be always happy and not remember those blackness behind her.

Won't you, please? I know I am right. Will you try to give her love?"

Lucy, the tears pouring down her cheeks, leaned her head against the shoulder near her.

"I don't see how I _can_," she said huskily. "But I will try. I am so sick of everything the way it is."

"Of course you are!" said Elise. "One is always seek of wrong. It makes a blackness over everything."

"What will I do? How will I begin?"

"I cannot tell you," said Elise. "You will know what to do. Something will tell you. Something always tells. I think it is _le bon Dieu_. Just trust and you will know what to do and to say. Come, let us go. I hear the meeting talking itself down the stairs. Is your car waiting?"

"Yes," said Lucy dully as she allowed Elise to lead her through the store. "Oh, Elise, I _don't_ love her, and I don't know what to do!"

"It is because of the hatefulness you put in your heart long ago that you do not love her," said the wise, sad little girl who had suffered beyond her years. She stood at the door of the limousine and smiled at the little girl who sank back so wearily.

"Don't forget it is _now_ we make those beginnings. And you owe her what your dear papa promised her, your love." She stepped back with a wave of her hand as the machine started away.

Lucy's heart throbbed violently as she approached her home. Her one hope was that Mrs. Breen was out, so the moment might be delayed. But as she pa.s.sed the door of the library she saw Mrs. Breen lying in a low lounging chair. How pale she looked! Lucy was quite startled to see the look of suffering and weakness on the beautiful young face. She had been too blind to notice what had been worrying her father of late. Was it _her_ fault? Had _her_ actions brought her self-made enemy so low? Lucy was shocked.

She went up and put away her wraps. Still she did not know what to do or what to say. Twice she pa.s.sed the library door. No thought came to her.

She went in, not speaking, and selected a book at random from the nearest shelf. Mrs. Breen did not speak but her great blue eyes seemed to follow Lucy appealingly. Then Lucy found her courage. What she said was rough and crude but it came from the heart--an honest statement and appeal for tolerance and understanding. She came, clutching her book, and stood facing Mrs. Breen.

Her voice sounded so husky and shaken that she did not know it for hers.

"Mamma," she said, stumbling over the unfamiliar word. "Mamma, you know I do not like you, but I am going to try to love you!"

And then, clasping her book with both hands, she fled.

CHAPTER XI

Years had pa.s.sed before Mrs. Breen and Lucy ever found the courage to speak of that day when Lucy had hurried from the room, leaving Mrs.

Breen too surprised to follow her, or even speak. She sat thinking, so glad and so happy and so proud of the courage shown by Lucy. She heard the front door close softly and was not surprised, a little later, to have one of the maids come and tell her that Miss Lucy had telephoned that she was at Mrs. Hargrave's, and would stay for supper with Elise.

Mrs. Breen sat thinking for an hour, then the right thought came to her.

She hastened to the telephone and had a long talk with her husband, and after a good deal of argument, she went to her room, packed a small trunk, ordered the car, had a talk with the housekeeper, and went out.

She drove to her husband's office, and he ushered her into his private room.

"Now what is all this?" he demanded.

"I told you over the telephone what happened in the library," Mrs. Breen said. "My dear, I am _so_ happy and so proud of Lucy! But there will be the most distressing awkwardness for a little, unless something out of the ordinary happens to help her out. Now I have never been away without you since we were married. So I have decided to give the child a chance to regain her poise and strengthen her new resolutions. Something has changed her, and I am contented to accept it without question until the time comes when she will tell me of her own accord. I will go home for a week, and you must spend all the time you can with Lucy. And when you feel like it, speak well of me."

"That will be a hard job," said her husband, smiling.

"I suppose so," said Mrs. Breen. "Another thing, to keep her interest in me, if you should decide to repaper my room and want to _surprise_ me, I would be perfectly satisfied with Lucy's taste."

So when Lucy came in that night, dreading the next step toward the right, she found only her father reading under the library light.

"h.e.l.lo, Donna Lucia," he said, looking up. "Did you know that we are orphans?"

"No," said Lucy. "What has happened?"

"Mamma decided very suddenly that she had to go home to Boston to attend to some matters, and she did not have time to telephone you or call around at Mrs. Hargrave's. But she managed to stop in at the office, and she has left me in your charge."

Lucy heaved a sigh of relief. Thank goodness, she would have a little time to herself anyway.