Grace Harlowe\'s Problem

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"MY DEAR GRACE:

"Just a line to let you know how much I regret leaving Overton
without seeing you again. There were several matters of which I was
anxious to speak with you at greater length. I had not contemplated
leaving here for at least another week, but I cannot resist the
invitation which a dear friend of mine has extended to me, to
travel west in her private car, so I shall join her in New York
City on Saturday evening, as she wishes to start on her tour at
once.

"As soon as I reach my destination I will forward you my permanent
address. I wish you to write me, Grace. I shall be anxious to know
what is happening at Harlowe House and throughout the college.
Remember distance can make no difference in my interest and
affection for you. You have been, and always will be, a girl after
my own heart. With my best wishes for your continued welfare and
success.

"Your sincere friend,
"KATHERINE WILDER."

Grace laid the letter down with a sigh and sat staring moodily at it,
her elbows on the table, her chin in her hands.

Emma, who had finished clearing the table, regarded her with
affectionate solicitude. Stepping over to her, she slid her arm over
Grace's shoulders. Grace raised her head. Her eyes met Emma's. Then she
pushed the letter into Emma's hand. "Read it," she commanded.

"Do you think she understood?" was Emma's question as she handed back
the letter.

"About Miss Wharton not liking me?" counter-questioned Grace.

Emma nodded.

"I am afraid she didn't." Grace's gray eyes were full of sad concern.
"And the most unfortunate thing about it is that I must never trouble
her with Miss Wharton's shortcomings. It would worry her, and that would
retard her recovery. If the year brings me battles to fight, I must
fight them alone."

CHAPTER XIII

A DISTURBING CONFIDENCE

Grace awoke the next morning with the weight of a disagreeable duty
hanging over her. She had given Jean Brent until after Thanksgiving to
decide upon her course of action. Jean's disregard for her wishes had
already placed the freshman in an unenviable prominence in college.
Conscientious to a fault, Grace believed herself to be partly to blame
for what had occurred during her week-end absence from Harlowe House.
She should have insisted, in the beginning, on absolute frankness on the
part of Jean. She had respected the girl's secret and invested her with
an honor which she did not possess. It now looked as though she, as well
as Jean, might already be in a position to reap the folly of such a
course.

With Miss Wilder as dean, Grace knew that Jean's indiscretion would be
treated with leniency, but she was by no means sure of what Miss
Wharton's attitude might be should the story reach her ears. Grace hoped
devoutly that it would not. But whatever happened Jean Brent must impart
to her what she had hitherto kept a secret. Grace was resolved upon
that much, at least. She could not decide as to the wisest course to
pursue until she had heard Jean's story. She decided to wait until the
girls were at luncheon, then ask Jean to come to her office that
afternoon before dinner. At luncheon, however, greatly to her surprise,
Jean walked directly up to her table and said in a low tone, "I have
decided to tell you my secret, Miss Harlowe. When may I talk with you?"

"I shall be in my office when you come from your classes this afternoon,
or I can wait for you in my room, if you prefer." A great wave of relief
swept over Grace as she answered the girl. She had feared that Jean
would prove stubborn in her determination to keep her secret.

"Thank you. I will come to your office." Jean turned away abruptly.

Emma Dean had noted Jean's unusually meek manner. She had endeavored not
to hear what was not intended for her ears, but low as were Jean's
tones, the words reached her. She made no comment, after Jean had taken
her place at one of the other tables, until Grace remarked, "Emma, you
could hardly help hearing what Miss Brent said to me."

"Yes, I heard what she said," responded Emma unemotionally.

"I am so glad she has decided to trust me."

"It might be better for all concerned if she had trusted you in the
beginning," was Emma's dry retort. "I can't help feeling a trifle out of
patience with that girl, Grace. She had no business to commit an act, no
matter how trivial, that would lay you open to criticism."

"Have you heard any one in particular criticizing me?" asked Grace with
quick anxiety.

Emma did not answer for a moment. Grace watched her, her gray eyes
troubled.

"I'll tell you precisely what I heard this morning. Before I left
Overton Hall to come here for luncheon I stopped for a moment to see
Miss Duncan. Miss Arthur, that new teacher of oratory, was with her. I
walked into the room just in time to hear Miss Duncan say 'I can
scarcely credit it. I am surprised that Miss Harlowe--' then she saw me,
turned red and stopped short. Miss Arthur looked rather sheepishly at
me. I pretended that I had heard nothing, asked the question I intended
to ask, and went on my way, much perturbed in spirit. I can't bear to
hear you criticized in the smallest degree, Grace," was Emma's vehement
cry. "I am sure it was about this sale they were talking. It's all very
well for Miss Brent to take the stand that she has the privilege of
doing as she pleases with her own clothing, but there is something
about the very idea of a sale of wearing apparel that quite upsets
Overton traditions and causes Harlowe House to lose dignity. One can't
imagine an enterprising clothes merchant living at Holland or Morton
House or even at Wayne Hall. The students should have had the good taste
to discourage it, but, from what I hear, Miss Palmer had expatiated on
the glories of Miss Brent's wardrobe to the clique of girls she chums
with, and they gathered like flies about a honey pot. You'll usually
find the girls with the largest allowances are always eager to obtain
much for the smallest possible outlay. I think, too, that Miss Palmer's
influence is not wholesome. It led to Evelyn Ward's folly last year.
Evelyn hasn't been unduly friendly with her so far this year. I've
noticed that."

"I can't believe Evelyn had anything to do with this sale," asserted
Grace. "She may have known of it, but she never sanctioned it."

"At least she didn't attend it," commented Emma, "but, come to think of
it, neither did Althea Parker. Don't you remember, I mentioned to you
that I met Evelyn on the campus that fateful Saturday and she said she
was going to spend the afternoon with Miss Parker?"

"Then if Miss Parker was ringleader in the affair, why didn't she have
the courage to attend the sale?" was Grace's quick question.

"For further information inquire of Miss Brent," advised Emma, shrugging
her shoulders.

"I will," sighed Grace. "I seem fated to puzzle over hard questions,
don't I?"

It was half-past four o'clock when Jean Brent entered the office where
Grace sat idly turning the leaves of a magazine.

"Sit down, Miss Brent," invited Grace. Then in her usual direct fashion,
"I am ready to listen to anything you wish to say."

Jean Brent flushed, then the color receded from her fair skin, leaving
her very pale. In a low tone she began a recital that caused Grace
Harlowe's eyes to become riveted on her in intense surprise, mingled
with consternation. An expression of lively sympathy sprang into her
face, however, as the story proceeded, and when Jean had finished with a
half sob, Grace stretched out her hands impulsively with, "You poor
little girl."

Jean clasped the outstretched hands and murmured, "You don't blame me so
much, then, do you, Miss Harlowe?"

"No, I can't," Grace made honest answer, "but I am so sorry that you did
not come to me with this in the beginning. I could have helped you
arrange your affairs nicely. You could have borrowed money from the
Semper Fidelis Fund and later, if you were desirous of selling your
wardrobe you could have disposed of it in New York City for fully as
much as you have received for it here. A dear friend of mine in New York
who is an actress has often told me that the women of the various
theatrical companies who play minor parts are only too glad to purchase
attractive wearing apparel which society women sell after one wearing."

"I didn't know. I am sorry I didn't tell you long ago." Jean was
thoroughly penitent. "Will it make so very much difference now?"

"I hope not. It is hard to say. Unfortunately the news of the sale has
reached the ears of several members of the faculty. Not only you, but I,
as well, have been criticized. We can do nothing except wait for the
gossip about it to die a natural death." Grace's quiet acceptance of the
unpleasantness which Jean's rash act had forced upon her stung the
freshman far more sharply than reproof.

"I can go to the dean and tell her what I have told you," faltered Jean.

Grace shook her head. "No, I should not advise it. This affair belongs
entirely to Harlowe House and should be settled here. I will write to
Miss Lipton to-night. If Miss Wilder were here I should not hesitate to
place matters before her, but I am not so sure of Miss Wharton, the
woman who is filling Miss Wilder's position. For the present, at least,
silence will be best. If Miss Wharton hears of it and sends for you,
then you had better be frank and conceal nothing."

"Do you mean that you intend to keep my secret, Miss Harlowe; that you
will let me stay on at Harlowe House and finish my freshman year?"

"Yes; not only the freshman year, but your sophomore, junior and senior
years as well, provided Miss Lipton approves and advises it. I shall
write to her exactly what has occurred. She is nearest to you and
therefore to her belongs the decision. But, while I am endeavoring to
work for your interest I wish you to work for it, too. I would like to
see you more self-reliant. You have been brought up in luxury, but you
must forget that. As matters now stand you will one day be obliged to
earn your own living. You must build your foundation for a useful life
during your freshman year."

Grace's voice vibrated with an earnestness that visibly moved her
listener.

"I will try. I _will_ try," she declared fervently. "It is wonderful in
you to care so much about me, when I have been so troublesome."

"We won't think of that any longer," smiled Grace. "However, there is
one question which I must ask you. Did Miss Ward know of the sale?"

"No," admitted Jean, looking ashamed. "I kept it a secret from her. Miss
Parker purposely invited her to luncheon that afternoon. She picked out
the things she wanted to buy beforehand and took them out afterward.
Evelyn was very angry. We quarreled, and have not spoken to each other
since. It was my fault."

"Then, to please me, will you try to be friends with Miss Ward again?"

"Yes."

"You must tell no one else what you have told me," stipulated Grace
further. "It must be a secret between us."

"I will tell no one," promised Jean.

The ringing of the door bell and the entrance of the maid with a card,
brought the confidential talk to an end. Grace rose and held out her
hand. "I must go," she said. "I will talk with you again when I hear
from Miss Lipton."

"Thank you over and over again, Miss Harlowe." Jean's eyes were lit with
a strength of purpose rarely seen in them. As she left the office and
thoughtfully climbed the stairs to her room she resolved anew to be
worthy of Grace Harlowe's approval and respect.

CHAPTER XIV

THE RETURN OF THE CHRISTMAS CHILDREN

"Holy night, peaceful and blest," rose Nora Wingate's clear voice, high
and sweet on the still winter air. A chorus of fresh young voices took
up the second line of the beautiful hymn, filling the calm of the snowy
night with exquisite harmony.

A little old lady, with hair as white as the snow itself, her cheeks
bright with color, her eyes very tender, appeared in the library window
as the song ended. She had concealed herself in the folds of the curtain
while the singing went on, fearing it might come to a sudden stop should
she reveal herself.

Her appearance, however, inspired the singers to fresh effort, for,
immediately they spied her, led by Nora, they burst into the old English
carol, "God Rest You, Merry Gentlemen." They sang it with their rosy,
eager faces raised to her, a world of fellowship in every note, while
she stood motionless and listened, a smile of supreme love and content
making her delicate features radiant.

As they ended this second carol she raised the window. "Come in, this
minute, every one of you blessed children. You can't possibly know how
happy you have made me this Christmas Eve."

"Coming right in the window," declared Hippy, as he made an ineffectual
spring and failed to land on the wide sill.

"Just as I expected," jeered Reddy Brooks, dragging him back. "You might
know Hippy would spoil everything. We all start out, on our best
behavior, to sing carols to our fairy godmother. Then at the most
effective moment, when we are feeling almost inspired, he ruins the
whole effect by trying to jump in the window."

"He might as well try to jump through a ten-inch hoop," seconded David.
"He'd be just as successful."

"They are slandering me, Nora," whimpered Hippy, "and I am the sweetest
carol singer of them all. Protect me, Nora. Tell Reddy Brooks it was his
singing that nearly ruined that last carol. Tell him his voice is as
loud and obnoxious as his hair. And tell David Nesbit that--" Hippy gave
a sudden agile bound out of reach of Reddy's avenging hands, and tore
across the lawn and around the corner of the house, shrieking a wild,
"Good-bye, Nora. Remember I've always been a good, kind husband to you.
Don't forget me, Nora."

[Illustration: "Holy Night, Peaceful and Blest."]

"I'll pay him yet for that remark about my obnoxious hair," grinned
Reddy, as the carol singers trooped across the lawn and into the house.

Mrs. Gray met her Christmas children with welcoming arms. "I am going to
kiss every one of you," she announced.

"We are willing," assured David, and she was passed from one pair of
arms to another, emerging from this wholesale embrace, flushed and
laughing.

"You didn't kiss me," observed a plaintive voice from behind the
portieres that divided the library from the hall. Hippy's round face was
thrust engagingly into view. He had slipped in the side door,
unobserved.

"There he is, Reddy. How did he get in so quietly?" David took a
vengeful step forward. The face disappeared.

"Just wait until I hang up my overcoat," threatened Reddy.

"Don't let him hang it up, Nora. If you value the safety of your
husband, make him stand and hold it," pleaded the plaintive voice.

"Here, Reddy, give me your hat and coat," ordered Nora cruelly.

"Ha! I defy you." Hippy suddenly bounced from behind the curtain into
the midst of the group in the hall. "I would defy forty David Nesbits
and fifty Reddy Brooks for a kiss from my fair lady." He bowed before
Mrs. Gray.

"Bless you, Hippy," she said, as she kissed his fat cheek, "that was
nicely said."

"I am always saying nice things," assured Hippy airily. "Better still
they are always true things. There are some persons, though, who can't
stand the white light of truth. May I rely upon you for protection, Mrs.
Gray? Alas, I am now alone in the world. The person who is supposed to
have my welfare at heart is hob-nobbing with my traducers. Miriam Nesbit
used to be a fairly good protector, but she hasn't done much along that
line lately."

"Come on, Hippy. I'll take care of you. I'm sorry I've neglected you."
Miriam held out her hand. Hippy hung his head and simpered. Then with
his Cheshire cat grin he seized Miriam's hand and toddled beside her
into the library. The others followed, laughing at the ridiculous
spectacle he presented.

"Both our fairy godmother and I are disgusted with you," taunted Nora as
she directed a glance of withering scorn at Hippy, now calmly seated
beside Miriam on the big leather davenport, the picture of triumph. "You
asked her to protect you; then you deserted her and deliberately went
over to Miriam for help."

"Wasn't that awful?" deplored Hippy. "Such inconstancy makes me blush."

"You couldn't blush if your life depended upon it," was David Nesbit's
scathing comment.

"There are others," retorted Hippy.

David glared ferociously at the grinning Hippy.

"There are others," went on Hippy blandly, "who, I might venture to say,
have even greater trouble in producing that much lauded rarity, a blush.
But what does blushing mean? It means turning very red. It isn't always
confined to one's face, either. I once knew a man, a rare creature,
whose very hair blushed. That is, it turned red when he was an infant
and blushed more deeply every year. In fact it never quit blushing."

"I once knew a person, a senseless creature, who didn't know when he was
well off," began Reddy, in an ominous voice. "From the time he learned
to talk he made ill-natured remarks about his friends. But at last he
came to a terrible end. He----"

"I never knew him," interrupted Hippy. "I'm not interested in persons I
don't know. I'd rather talk to Grace. I've known her for a long time,
and we've always been on friendly terms. Come and sit beside me,
Grace."

"Jilted," declared Miriam tragically, as Grace accepted the invitation
and seated herself on Hippy's other side.

"Not a bit of it. I believe in preparedness. The
constant-reinforcements-arriving-every-minute idea appeals to me. You
are both bulwarks of defense."

"I'm surprised that anything except eats appeals to you." This from
Reddy.

"'Eats' did you say? What are eats? Or, better, _where_ are eats?"
demanded Hippy, beaming hopefully at Mrs. Gray.

"They will appear very soon, Hippy," assured Mrs. Gray. "I sent a
dispatch to the kitchen the moment you finished singing."

"For goodness' sake, Grace and Miriam, keep Hippy quiet for a while. No
one else has had a chance to say a word," complained David. "I'd like to
hear a few remarks on 'Life in Chicago' by our estimable pals, Jessica
and Reddy."

"Life in Chicago can't compare with life in dear old Oakdale," said
Jessica. "In spite of the theatres, concerts and all the pleasures that
a big city offers one, Reddy and I are always a little lonely."

"That is because you and Reddy miss me," observed Hippy with positive
modesty.

"You're right, old man. We do miss you," agreed Reddy, with
unmistakable sincerity. For once Hippy forgot to be funny. "You aren't
the only ones who miss the old guard," he answered seriously; then he
added in his usual humorous strain, "I hope some day the Eight Originals
Plus Two and all their friends will emigrate to a happy island and
colonize it. Then there won't be any missed faces or any letter writing
to do, for that matter. David and Reddy can run the business of the
colony and see that we aren't cheated when we trade glass beads and
other little trinkets with the savages. Of course there will be a few
moth-eaten old cannibals. Tom can classify the trees of the forest and
make the obstreperous beasts and reptiles behave. I will represent the
law. I will settle all disputes and administer justice. I'll be a
regular old Father William, like the one in 'Through the Looking Glass,'
I always did love that poem, especially this verse:

"'In my youth,' said his father, 'I took to the law,
And argued each case with my wife.
And the muscular strength which it gave to my jaw,
Has lasted me all of my life.'"

Nora pretended to pay no attention to Hippy, who waited for her to
protest, an expansive smile wreathing his fat face. "She didn't
understand," he said sadly, after beaming at Nora in vain. "There's no
use in trying to explain. I suppose I'll have to give her an appointment
of some kind on my island. Nora, you may have charge of me. Isn't that a
noble mission? Still she doesn't answer. Oh, well, never mind, I'll go
right on appointing."

"Mrs. Gray, you will be the queen, and Grace can be prime minister. Anne
can have charge of the amusements, and Miriam can help her. Miriam has a
decided leaning toward the drama."

The color in Miriam's cheeks suddenly deepened at this apparently
innocent remark. "I don't think I like your island idea very well," she
said lightly. "I'd much rather have the Originals live right here in
Oakdale." She rose and strolled across the room to where Jessica sat.

"It's not the island idea. It's the dramatic idea that Miriam objects to
discussing," confided Hippy in a low tone to Grace.

"How did you find it out?" asked Grace.

"First of all by observation, my child. Second, through David. He knows
it, too. Southard told him. They have seen a good deal of each other
since the Nesbits have lived in New York. David thinks him worthy of
Miriam."

"I knew he cared. I wonder if Miriam does? She never mentions Mr.
Southard. I hope she loves him. It is so hard when one cares and the
other doesn't." Grace's gray eyes grew sad. Conversation languished
between Hippy and Grace for a little. Then with a half sigh Grace rose,
"I am going to ask Nora to sing," she said.

Before she had time to carry out her intention John appeared pushing a
small table on wheels ahead of him. Its shelves were laden with
sandwiches, olives, salted nuts and delicious fancy cakes, while a maid
followed him with a chocolate service.

Mrs. Gray poured the chocolate, and Anne, always her right-hand man,
assisted her in serving it. Grace, with her ever-present youthfulness of
spirit, found trundling the table about the room a most pleasing
diversion. They were a very merry little company, entering into the joy
of being together with all their hearts, and deeply thankful for the
opportunity to gather once more in the same spirit of friendly affection
that had characterized all their meetings.

It was well toward midnight when the party broke up.

"Mayn't I take you home in my car, Grace," pleaded Tom. Grace stood for
the moment, a little detached from the others, arranging the veil over
her hat.

"Oh, no, Tom," she made quick answer. "It is late. You mustn't go to
that trouble. David is going to take Anne and I in his car. Hippy, Nora,
Reddy and Jessica are going home in Hippy's machine."

Tom's face fell. "May I come to see you to-morrow afternoon, then?"

"Yes, do. Miriam and David are coming over for a while," returned wily
Grace. Her one idea was to avoid being alone with Tom. His sole idea was
to be alone with her. His pride, however, would allow him to go no
further. He had been rebuffed twice in rapid succession.

"Thank you. I'll drop in on you then," he said, trying to summon an
indifference he did not feel.

After his aunt's guests had departed with much merriment and laughter,
Tom turned to go upstairs. He was sure Grace did not intend to be
unkind. It was not her fault if she did not love him. He had determined,
however, to plead with her once more. Then, if she still remained
obdurate, as he feared she might, he would give up all hope of her,
forever, and go his lonely way in the world.

CHAPTER XV

THE NEW YEAR'S WEDDING

It was New Year's, and Anne Pierson's wedding night. At half-past seven
the ceremony linking her life forever to that of her school-day friend,
David Nesbit, was to be performed in the beautiful old stone church on
Chapel Hill which, in company with her chums, she had faithfully
attended during her years spent in Oakdale.

Anne had, at first, steadily refused to countenance the idea of a church
wedding. She was a quiet, demure little soul, who, aside from her work,
detested publicity. It was Mrs. Gray's wish, however, to see the girl
she had befriended married in the church which bore the memorial window
to the other Anne, her daughter, who had died in her girlhood. So Anne
had yielded to that wish.

Although Grace was Anne's dearest friend, she had insisted that Miriam
should be her maid of honor. Privately she had said, "I'd rather be a
bridesmaid with Nora and Jessica. You know there were only four of us in
the beginning." It had also been decided that in spite of the fact that
Jessica and Nora were really eligible to the position of matrons of
honor, that phase of wedding etiquette should, for once, be disregarded,
and the three friends who had welcomed Anne as a fourth to their little
fold should serve as bridesmaids and be dressed precisely alike. "It
was," declared Anne, who heartily despised form, "as though they were
still three girls together, with husbands in the dim and distant
future."

It was to be a yellow and white wedding, therefore the gowns they had
chosen were of white silk net over pale yellow satin, and very youthful
in effect. Miriam's gown was a wonderful gold tissue, which made her
appear like the princess in some old fairy tale, while Anne, contrary to
tradition, had not chosen white satin. Her wedding dress was of soft,
exquisite white silk, clouded with white chiffon, and was much better
suited to her quiet type of loveliness than satin could possibly have
been.

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