Before it stood a furniture van, and Charlotte idly watched the unloading.

She had made up her mind that life here was going to be hopelessly dull. She swung her foot listlessly, and, forgetting her letter, thought of Aunt Cora's home in a gay little suburb where something was always going on,--teas, dinners, receptions, where, although in the background, she had had her share of the excitement.

At the Landors', where she sometimes spent several weeks while Aunt Cora, worn by her strenuous social life, went down to Atlantic City to recuperate, it was much quieter. And still she loved to be there. The elder Mr. Landor was a busy lawyer, his son Francis a literary person, and they lived in a tall, brown stone house in the old part of Philadelphia, among any number of others exactly like it. It was a man's house, overflowing with books and pictures, and yet showing the lack of a woman's presence. Charlotte was very fond of her guardian and his son, who petted and made much of her on the occasions of her visits. She was conscious, however, that Uncle Landor was not quite satisfied with her. He had a way of looking at her long and steadily through his gla.s.ses, as if he were studying her.

Cousin Frank, perhaps because he had no responsibility in the matter, treated her as a comrade in a way that was flattering. She was, of course, an ardent admirer of his stories and verses, and upon one or two rare occasions had been made blissfully happy by being allowed to listen to one fresh from the typewriter. But most interesting of all had been a discovery made on her last visit in the spring. Between the leaves of a ma.n.u.script she had been allowed to read she found some verses beginning:--

"I love her whether she love me or no, Just as I love the roses where they blow In fragrant crimson there beyond the wall."

There was something more about roses being sweet although out of reach, and teaching a lesson to his heart; but before she had quite grasped the idea, Francis took the paper away from her with an exclamation of impatience.

"Why should Francis have minded, unless those verses meant something personal?" Charlotte wondered. As she thought it over, she recalled some remarks of Aunt Cora's about a little water-color portrait of a child in Uncle Landor's study.

"Who is this?" Mrs. Brent asked one day, pausing before it.

"That is old Peter Carpenter's granddaughter May, when she was ten years old. He had two portraits done of her, and liking the other better, gave this to me not long before he died."

Aunt Cora said, "Ah!" and studied it with interest. "So this is _the_ Miss Carpenter, is it? I presume Francis has a more recent likeness."

"I do not know that he has. We see very little of May in these days.

She is a great lady." Uncle Landor spoke as one who dismisses a subject.

Then one rainy afternoon Mrs. Wellington, the Landors' housekeeper, entertained Charlotte with stories of this same young lady who, it turned out, lived just across the street in a house distinguished from the rest of the block by a garden at one side. According to Mrs.

Wellington she was beautiful and rich, and if one more touch were needed to make her an irreproachable heroine, the long illness from which she was then beginning to recover supplied it. Watching at the window, Charlotte had the pleasure of seeing her carried out for a drive once or twice, but she never had a glimpse of her face.

Putting two and two together, she became quite sure that this Miss Carpenter was the rose which was out of reach; but though she was on the point of it several times, she never quite dared to question Cousin Francis about her.

Charlotte had woven a charming romance with these slender threads, being at the romantic age when real life is seen beneath the lime-light of fairyland. Was it any wonder things seemed dull here in Kenton Terrace?

These entertaining memories being for the time exhausted, her thoughts turned to the grievance that had sent her downstairs with such vehemence,--a thrilling, fascinating story taken from her at the most critically exciting point.

"I cannot allow you to read novels when you are going to school," Aunt Caroline had said; adding, "and this book is not at all the sort of thing for a little girl."

At the recollection Charlotte put her hand to her hair. Little girl, indeed! When people wished to be disagreeable, they reminded you that you were a little girl.

"I have always read what I pleased," she insisted, relinquishing the book unwillingly.

"I cannot understand Mrs. Brent's allowing it; but however that may have been, while you are with us your Aunt Virginia and I will exercise some supervision over what you read."

Questions about the owner of the novel followed, and here was another grievance. It had been lent to Charlotte by one of her schoolmates, a girl with fluffy yellow hair and many rings, whom after a week's acquaintance,--to use her own phrase,--she simply adored. Her name was Lucile Lyle--in itself adorable--and the intimacy with her had resulted in Charlotte becoming Carlotta.

"Lyle?" Aunt Virginia repeated questioningly.

"Don't you remember Maggie McKay, Virginia? This is her daughter," was Aunt Caroline's reply. To Charlotte she said, "To-morrow I shall give you this book to return, and while of course I wish you to be polite, I do not wish you to be intimate with this girl."

"I don't care what she says, I shall read it, and be as intimate as I please with Lucile," Charlotte told herself; which goes to show that Mr. Landor was right when he felt she needed different training.

And now having nothing else to do, she wandered to the piano, and finding an old music book, turned its pages, playing s.n.a.t.c.hes of "Monastery Bells" and "Listen to the Mocking-bird." She was putting a good deal of feeling into "I'm a Pilgrim, and I'm a Stranger," when a sound behind caused her to start.

"You have a pretty touch, my dear," said Aunt Virginia. "We have been out to Marat's greenhouse, and I have brought you some roses." She laid them on the piano as she spoke, and slipped away before Charlotte could make any response.

Was it a peace offering?

CHAPTER FOURTH

MISS WILBUR

Miss Wilbur was perplexed to the point of annoyance, a state of mind most unusual with her.

She was by nature a serene person, quite content with her easy, uneventful life. The outside world she faced with a timid reserve which had not diminished with years and indulgence, finding her life in her family circle and the round of small cares, her flowers and her embroidery. She disliked responsibility, and except in what she considered matters of principle was inclined to distrust her own judgment. She was full of family loyalty, and had been satisfied to look on from her place in the background, while her more clever and ambitious sisters and brothers one by one pa.s.sed from the home into the world.

Naturally enough she had not married. She had not cared to, and had never given any one the opportunity to combat this indifference. Most people liked her, but she had few intimate friends, having apparently no desire to be singled out in any way, and yet she was warmly affectionate. In truth Miss Virginia was an elusive sort of person, sometimes allowing a glimpse of herself in all her unselfish sweetness, and then, presto! her reserve had taken alarm, the vision was gone.

She was conventional, made so by her environment; yet her failings, many of them, so her sister Caroline declared, were those of an untrained child. She was careless,--as Charlotte had noticed, she sometimes forgot the fastenings of her skirt; when she wrote, she invariably inked her fingers; and she was constantly losing or breaking her gla.s.ses. She treated these matters lightly herself, but tried to conceal them from her sister.

In their girlhood this sister, a few years older than she, had been the object of her deepest devotion. Caroline was beautiful and clever, and to question her opinions never entered Miss Virginia's mind. It puzzled and hurt her loyal heart that she could not quite get back to the old att.i.tude when Caroline returned to her home a widow. She submitted when Caroline a.s.sumed command of the household; but after their father's death relieved her of the position of devoted nurse, Miss Virginia found life a little empty; and what made it the harder was that she no longer felt herself altogether in sympathy with her sister's opinions and methods.

Her aspirations had never gone beyond making home pleasant for somebody, and now even this was taken from her. The things that most absorbed Mrs. Millard were of little interest to her; she began to feel useless and unhappy. She was a failure. Life had somehow slipped by unawares. She felt old at forty-eight.

Above everything she disliked change, and the sale of the corner lot and the building of the shop caused her many a pang. In the midst of all this disquietude Mr. Landor's letter arrived.

"I have most agreeable recollections of your home," he wrote, "and I realize I am asking a good deal of you, for our little niece is a somewhat tumultuous person. She has suffered from both over indulgence and neglect. She needs a different atmosphere, and much in the way of training that her old guardian cannot give her, so he ventures for Helen's sake to ask if you will take charge of her daughter for a few years."

This half sister, twelve years younger than herself, had come and gone like some happy dream in Miss Virginia's life. She had grown up under the care of her grandmother, almost a stranger in her father's house, to which she returned in her gay young girlhood, and for the one time in her experience Miss Wilbur had been swept into a whirl of gayety as Helen's chaperon. Her charge had married early, and after a few years went abroad with her husband and little girl in search of health she was never to find.

The thought of Helen's child aroused memories both bright and sorrowful, but at least here was an opportunity to be useful again. It would be pleasant to have a child in the house, Miss Virginia thought, studying the photograph of Charlotte at seven, bright-eyed and demure.

The tall, well-grown girl had been a surprise to her aunts. Her a.s.sured manner and p.r.o.nounced style of dress were not exactly what one desired in a girl of fourteen. At sight of her Miss Virginia had been seized with a fit of shyness; in consequence the reins had been taken by Mrs. Millard, who was not shy and was, besides, a born manager.

Miss Virginia felt a sympathy for Charlotte, even while disapproving of her; she felt her sister to be too peremptory. In the matter of the novel it would have been better to allow Charlotte to finish it, with the understanding that it was to be the last. What could be more aggravating than to have to give up a story with only two-thirds of it read? It was an interesting story, too. Miss Virginia herself sat up till midnight to finish it. Some time perhaps she would tell Charlotte the end. Then she reminded herself that this would never do.

It was no use talking to Caroline, and yet Mr. Landor had asked _her_ to take charge of Charlotte, and Caroline had no right to a.s.sume command. Miss Virginia wished they had not agreed to take the child.

She paced back and forth on the front porch one afternoon, thinking of all this and of the peaceful days of the past, feeling that dulness was better than problems like these. Across Pleasant Street was the little shop already showing signs of habitation. As she stood idly with her hand on the rail, a boy came up the walk and handed her what at first glance she thought was a note, but it proved on investigation to be an announcement.

THE PLEASANT STREET SHOP WILL OPEN WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER SECOND

Dainty Turnovers Pretty Draperies Ribbons Bright Chintzes Baskets Pottery Needles and Pins and Other Small Matters A Specialty.

"How absurd!" thought Miss Virginia. "A shop of this sort in the Terrace!"

"Have you heard about the new shop, Miss Virginia?" called Alexina Russell from the gate.

Miss Wilbur held up the card. "I am just reading the announcement. Who can be starting it? and isn't it too bad?" As she spoke, she descended the steps and joined the young girl.