She wondered what Bess and Louise would think if she were found frozen to death on their doorstep. Her mother would be sorry she had not allowed one of the servants to take her note. There was some comfort in this thought. Then--was that really someone coming down the walk at the side of the house? She held her breath. Yes, it certainly was. She immediately returned to life.

It was Dora on her way home, so busy thinking that she started when Elsie called her.

"Why, Elsie Morris," she exclaimed as she caught sight of the forlorn figure on the doorstep.

"Oh, Dora, please help me. I am caught and can't get out."

"Have you been here all this time?" Dora asked, running up the steps in great surprise. "Shall I ring the bell or go around?" pausing with her hand on the k.n.o.b.

"You'd better ring. I don't want to see the girls."

Dora's hand still rested on the bell, but she hesitated. "Elsie," she said, "I just believe this has happened so we can make up. Won't you?

I know that Bess and Louise will if you will. Think how unhappy we are! We can't have any more good times." Dora felt that she had the advantage.

"No," said Elsie crossly; "and I wish you would ring that bell; I am as cold as I can be. It was my turn, and it was selfish and mean in them not to let me have it."

"Oh, Elsie, they are not selfish; they are always ready to do what we like, but they thought it was my turn. That is why I feel so badly about it; for if it had been her own turn I think Bess would have given up. Please, _please_ promise to make up."

That Dora cared a great deal was plain, for her eyes were full of tears, and those tears did much towards gaining the victory.

"I am not the least bit mad with you, Dora," Elsie hastened to say, "but I am with Bess. Please ring the bell."

"In one minute, if you will only promise to make up."

"Dora Warner, I tell you I _can't_," stamping her foot. "I can't say it wasn't my turn, for that would be a story."

"That won't make any difference, for you need not say anything about it, only that you are willing to make up. You think you were right, and Bess thinks she was right, so all you have to do is not to say anything about it. _Please_, Elsie."

Dora's logic may not have been altogether convincing, but her earnestness was not to be resisted.

"Well," began the prisoner, "I suppose I shall freeze to death if I don't, so I will only--"

Dora waited for nothing more, but gave the bell a joyous pull.

Louise, who was on her way upstairs, ran back to see who was at the door.

"Why, it is Dora!" she exclaimed, opening it.

It did not take long to explain, and Elsie was glad to sit down by the register in the hall and make it up in earnest.

Bess, who heard them talking and ran down, was quite ready to meet her more than half way, and no one would have guessed, seeing their friendliness, that an hour ago they were not on speaking terms.

Elsie was pitied and petted to her heart's content, while Dora beamed on them like a genial little sun which had at last made its way through the clouds.

Aunt Zelie heard the whole story that night.

"Wasn't it funny, Elsie's getting caught?" said Louise. "I believe it is really a magic door; Dora thinks so too."

"I don't know. It seems to me if the rest of you had been as anxious for peace as she was, the door need not have come to your relief. If you had each been trying to help," said her aunt.

"I believe I have been forgetting the text," Bess said gravely.

If only the quarrel between Carl and Ikey could have been settled as quickly. A week pa.s.sed and matters did not mend. The walk to and from school was now taken alone, and neither made any sign of recognition when they met. Ikey was miserable at the sight of Carl's intimacy with Jim, and he imagined, too, that Mrs. Howard took her nephew's part, and this was hardest of all.

The fact was Aunt Zelie knew little or nothing about it. She had a house full of company, and Carie was sick besides.

In spite of appearances to the contrary, Carl was no happier than his friend, and quite as keenly missed the daily companionship in lessons and play. It had its effect in making him overbearing and fault-finding in an unusual degree. The family began to wonder what had happened to merry, good-tempered Carl, when one Sat.u.r.day morning matters reached a climax. As he came upstairs from the library where he had been copying a composition, his father called to him from the hall below. Running into the girls' room, he laid his paper on the table there, with strict injunctions to them not to touch it.

Some minutes pa.s.sed before his return, and Helen, who was apt to be attracted by forbidden fruit, could not resist going over to look at it. "I only want to see if I can read it," she said in reply to a warning word from Bess, who pa.s.sed through the room on her way to the star chamber, where she and Louise were busy.

Helen, left to herself, was seized with a desire to make a capital S like Carl's. Finding a pen and some ink, she set to work, forgetting everything else till Bess, returning for something, exclaimed, "Why, Helen, what are you doing? Here he comes."

Very much startled, she looked around quickly, and the pen fell from her unaccustomed fingers upon the composition, scattering ink in every direction. At this moment her brother entered the room, and at one glance took in Helen's frightened look and the blotted paper.

"Didn't I tell you not to touch that?" he thundered, all the stored-up anger of weeks coming to the surface, and, springing forward, he caught her by the shoulder, gave her a furious shake, and pushed her from him with all his strength. With a frightened scream she fell backwards, striking her head against the edge of the half-open door.

"You wicked boy!" cried Bess, greatly shocked; "perhaps you have killed her."

But Helen's cries told that it was not so bad as this. Everybody came running to see what the matter was, and Joanna picked her up and carried her into Aunt Zelie's room, where it was found that a large lump on her head and a bruise on her arm were the worst of her injuries. Bess told how it happened.

"I can't think what ails Carl lately," said Louise.

"He is a mean, hateful boy," sobbed Helen; "I don't care if I _did_ spoil his composition."

Feeling that it would be of no use to talk to her then, Aunt Zelie left her to the tender ministrations of her sisters and Joanna, and went to seek the chief offender.

He was still in the girls' room, standing his ground defiantly.

The moment's fright lest he had hurt Helen badly had pa.s.sed, and the sight of his composition stirred his anger afresh.

"Is it true that you threw your sister down?" His aunt stood before him with a look in her dark eyes which it was not pleasant to meet.

Carl glanced down, but answered, "Yes, and here is what _she_ did!"

holding up the blotted paper.

"Does that excuse your unmanliness, your--you might have killed her, you know. I can't talk to you now, Carl; you'd better go to your room.

I can't tell you how disappointed I am."

He never thought of not following her suggestion; indeed, he was glad to get away from those indignant eyes.

"Of course," he muttered to himself, "I am all to blame and nothing is said to Helen about spoiling my work. Boys are always found fault with, but girls can do anything."

Down in his heart he knew this was not true, but he chose to think it.

He flung himself into a chair by the window. It was a gloomy, thawing day; the snow, as if aghast at the trouble it had caused, was melting sadly away. There was nothing in the prospect to make him feel cheerful. After awhile he went to work on his composition again, and as he wrote he felt more and more like a martyr. When it was finished he folded it and put it away, and began to think it must be near lunch-time. With the door closed, there in the third story he could not hear the bell; however, he would not go down; if they wanted him they might send for him. By two o'clock he was feeling deeply injured.

n.o.body cared whether he starved or not. Then he remembered that Uncle William was to take them to see Hermann that afternoon. By this time they must have gone without him. Carl threw himself on the bed and shed some tears of vexation and disappointment. All the while something was whispering to him that he deserved to be unhappy. The afternoon dragged slowly; he grew very hungry, and at last saying to himself that he would go and get some biscuit, and "Tom Sawyer," one of his favorite books, he went softly downstairs.

The house was so quiet that the sight of Mr. Smith asleep on a hall chair was a positive relief. After visiting the pantry he went to the library for his book. The door was half open, and when he reached it he suddenly stopped, for there was Aunt Zelie by the table with her head bowed on her arms. Evidently she had not heard him, and Carl almost held his breath. He thought she was crying; he was not sure, but certainly she was unhappy. It came to him in that moment, as it never had before, how tender and sweet and helpful she was. She had sorrow of her own, he knew, and who was there to comfort her as she comforted others? And he had disappointed her--had behaved shamefully.

As he stood there it seemed to him that he must have been crazy. He could not endure the sight of that sorrowful figure, and turning to go away, instead; the next minute he was kneeling beside her saying, "Aunt Zelie, I am _so_ sorry."