Glenloch Girls Part 13

Charlotte pushed something crisp and crackling into her hand. "It's mine to do just what I please with," she cried exultantly, "and I never wanted to do anything more than I want to do this."

Melina stared at the five dollar bill in her hand. Then she held it out to Charlotte again. "I can't take your money," she said. "I ain't saying that I wouldn't like to have it, but I can't take it."

Charlotte looked at her pleadingly. Then she remembered how Ruth had won her over. "But, Melina, it's a favor to me. You've always been doing me favors, I know, but you might do just this one more."

Melina shook her head. "It's no use," she began, and then stopped aghast, for Charlotte, the self-controlled, the hater of tears, startled Melina and fell forever in her own estimation by bursting into sobs. "For the land's sake, child, don't do that," e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Melina, almost whirling herself off her feet in her frantic efforts to decide whether to throw water on her or burn feathers under her nose.

Those who rarely cry are likely to do so with great violence when they once give themselves up to it, and Charlotte's rending sobs drove poor Melina to the verge of distraction. At last she gathered the girl's slender figure into her arms and sat down in the big rocker.

"There, there, lamb," she said, "put your head on Melina's shoulder and cry all you want to," and she held her tenderly until the gasping sobs grew less frequent.

"Oh, Melina, if you could only make up your mind to take that money," said Charlotte at last, getting up and trying hard to keep back the persistent tears. "I do want that poor boy to have his bed right away. I think I could stop crying if you only would."

Melina's thin lips tightened.

"Well," she said at last, grudgingly, "I'll take it and call it a loan. I must say, though, that I think you took an unfair advantage of me. I ain't seen you cry since you was little more than a baby."

"I didn't do it to get my own way. I've been holding on to myself all day, and that was just the last straw that made me let go.

Don't call it a loan, for I never want to see it again. Keep it till you find some one who needs it as much as you do just now, and then pa.s.s it along. Wouldn't it be interesting to see how far five dollars could travel if it was pa.s.sed from one to another that way?"

"Talk about goodness," muttered Melina as Charlotte disappeared, "that child's a wonder,--sometimes."

CHAPTER IX

OUT OF THE SNOW

Charlotte woke the next morning feeling vaguely uncomfortable and wondering what was the reason for it. Suddenly it occurred to her that to-day she must see Ruth and must give a reason for not going to Boston with her. To explain what she had done with the money was out of the question, for Charlotte would have been more unwilling to tell of the performance of a good deed than to confess that she had done something wrong. If she gave no reason and simply said she couldn't go Ruth might think she was going to use the money for herself, and that would be unbearable. But, of course, it would be enough to say that it was Melina's only chance to go in town, and she couldn't disappoint her. The fact that her mother was still sick in bed would be sufficient reason why Charlotte couldn't leave on the same day.

Melina, herself, was cross, and worked as though she had a personal grudge against every dish and piece of furniture she touched. The twins and Molly were actually scared into silence, and forbore to make their usual demands on her time and patience. Charlotte, who understood, kept them and herself as much out of the way as possible, and helped all she could so that Melina might take an early train.

As soon as breakfast was over, Charlotte went to Mrs. Hamilton's and found Ruth just getting ready for her trip to Boston.

"Why, Charlotte, you're surely not ready so early as this," she said in surprise as her friend walked into her room.

"Why, no; the fact is I can't go to-day. Melina wants to go, and mother is still too sick to be left alone with the children. I came over early because I thought you might want to ask some one else."

"Oh, dear! Can't Melina wait till to-morrow? I'm dreadfully disappointed." Ruth looked so reproachful that Charlotte found it harder than she had antic.i.p.ated.

"You see," she explained, "Melina wants to send something off to her nephew in Maine, and if she doesn't start it to-day it won't get there for Christmas."

"Bother Melina's nephew! I'd set my heart on having you with me to-day, and you know why."

Charlotte did know why, and much to her own sorrow. "I'm sorry it's happened so," she began, but Ruth interrupted her.

"It isn't really necessary for me to go to-day. Why can't we both go to-morrow? We don't mind if the stores are crowded."

Poor Charlotte looked positively unhappy. In all the labyrinth of thought through which she had wandered this exceedingly simple solution of the matter hadn't occurred to her.

"Why, I might," she stammered feeling her way. "No, I can't," she went on decidedly. "The truth is, Ruth, I'm not going to buy any Christmas presents this year, after all."

"Oh," said Ruth coldly. "Then, of course, you won't want to go in town."

"No, I think I'd better not. I'm sorry,--I can't explain."

"You don't need to explain. You have a perfect right to do as you please, of course." Ruth's tone was so freezingly polite that Charlotte almost shivered.

"I must run back home," she said at last with an attempt at cheerfulness. "Would you like to have me ask Betty or Dolly to go with you?"

"No, thank you," and Ruth busied herself in the tying of a bow with such complete absorption that Charlotte felt that the best and only thing she could do was to go. She was so absorbed in her own disagreeable thoughts that she plodded along through the snow with her head down, and almost ran over Joe, who was patiently standing in the middle of the walk hoping for just that result.

"Why don't you warn a fellow when you are coming down upon him like a ship under full sail, Charlotte?" he asked with pretended indignation.

"Get right out of my way, little boy," answered Charlotte, with a.s.sumed scorn. "I suppose now that vacation has begun you children will be under my feet all the time."

Joe chuckled softly. He would have been disappointed if Charlotte had answered in any other way.

"What's the matter with you, Charlotte?" he asked as she pa.s.sed him and he fell into line behind her. "You look as though you had lost your last friend."

"I feel so," remarked Charlotte briefly, and in a flash was sorry she had said it.

"I didn't think Ruth was that kind," Joe said after a pause.

"What kind? She isn't. There isn't anything the matter, and it's all my fault. Ruth's all right, and I don't blame her a bit."

Joe grinned appreciatively behind her back over this mixed statement of affairs. Then he said, "Good for you, Charlotte. You're all right, too. What are you going to do this morning?"

"Shovel snow. It's the only kind of work that I really enjoy."

"Let me help. I like to shovel snow when it isn't in my own yard."

"Run off and play with the other boys," answered Charlotte ungratefully.

"I have the twins and Molly on my hands, and that will be enough for one day."

"Don't be foolish and refuse a good thing when it's offered you,"

said Joe good-naturedly. "I'll help you amuse them."

"Well, come along in then, and read while I get the children ready.

Oh, they're out now," she added, as they turned the comer and saw the twins, looking like industrious brownies, rolling a huge s...o...b..ll across the yard, while Molly was expending her artistic talent on the building of a snow-man.

The clean snow-drifts, glittering in the sunshine, fired Charlotte with the desire to play as she used to play when a child. "Get the shovels, Joe," she commanded, "and after we've cleared the piazza, let's build a snow-house and freeze it."

"And my man can be the man that owns it, out for a walk in his garden," chimed in Molly, who had been too much absorbed in her work to speak before.

"Nice weather for gardening," said Joe with a wink, as he started after the shovels.