CHAPTER SIXTH.

AN INFORMAL AFFAIR.

It was not long before the Morrisons' apartment blossomed into a charmingly homelike place. Even Mrs. Bond, who on one of her tours of inspection in the wake of Wilson Barnes, the student, had been enticed in for a moment, agreed that the rooms were very fine, though she herself would not care to have so many things to keep clean.

Their sitting room was the greatest achievement. There was the new rug, which really was a beauty, and the couch, with its plump cushions all covered in a marvellous fifteen-cent stuff that looked like a costly Oriental fabric, together with the books and pictures, which had been left packed and ready to be sent to them whenever they should settle down, and last of all, in the sunniest corner was a beautiful sword fern, a rubber plant, and a jar of ivy.

"Transients can't afford many plants, but a little greenness is essential to happiness," Mrs. Morrison declared.

The cosey kitchen was presided over by Zenobia Jackson, who exactly suited her surroundings, being small and neat and quick, combining in a most satisfactory way the duties of a parlor maid and cook.

She was a friend of Wilson's, to whom Mrs. Morrison had applied. When asked if he knew any one she could get to do the work of their small flat, he replied, "Yes, ma'm; I know a young girl who would suit you, but she is going to school at present."

"If that is the case, she wouldn't suit at all," said Mrs. Morrison.

"Well, she's thinking of leaving school. Her ma she's sick, and her pa's out of work, and their insurance is getting in the rear, so Zenobia 'lows she'll have to get a place."

"Can she cook?" asked Mrs. Morrison.

"Yes, ma'm; her ma's one of the best cooks in town."

"Her mother has taught her, then, I suppose."

"No, ma'm; the best ones ain't taught. It comes by nature, and Zenobia is a naturalist." Wilson spoke with ministerial gravity.

Mrs. Morrison smiled. "I'd like to have her come to see me," she said.

Wilson promised to let her know, and added, "If you take her, Mrs. Morrison, she'll do her best, and angels can't do any better."

The result was that a few days later Zenobia was installed and proved herself worthy of her recommendation.

"She does beautifully," Mrs. Morrison wrote to her husband, "and while I am not in a position to assert that angels couldn't do better, I am inclined to believe it."

"Frances, I wish we knew those girls upstairs. I meet them so often in the hall. One of them—Miss Moore, I think she is—is exceedingly pretty." Mrs. Morrison was washing the glossy leaves of the rubber plant.

"I know them," her daughter replied, as she carefully measured the long bud that was about to open. "The pretty one is Miss Sherwin," she added. "I know, because when Emma and I went up to their room with a package that had been left downstairs by mistake, Miss Moore opened the door, and I heard her say, 'Here is your dress, Lillian.'"

"I can't see how that proves anything. How did you know that the one who opened the door was Miss Moore?"

Frances thought for a moment, "I know now! The package had Miss Sherwin's name on it. Doesn't that prove it?"

"Perhaps it does, Wink, though it seems something of a puzzle," replied her mother. "At any rate, I wish I knew them. I must remember to ask Mr. Clark about them; they look lonely."

"Let's go to see them," Frances suggested.

"They were here before we came; they may not wish to know us."

"I should think they would," Frances exclaimed, so earnestly her mother laughed.

"So should I, Winkie, but we don't know. Perhaps something will happen to make us acquainted."

Something did happen, and it was the General who brought it to pass.

Mrs. Bond often remarked that Emma's head never saved her heels, and it was quite true; for, although she went about her tasks willingly enough, her thoughts had a way of travelling off into a world of their own. She had long ago discovered this way of escape from the rather dull routine of her daily life, but her mother declared since the Morrisons came she had been worse than ever. And, indeed, the life upstairs in those bright rooms seemed very strange and delightful to Emma, so much so that in thinking about it she would forget the sugar bowl, or the tea-cups when she set the table, and do all sorts of absent-minded things.

One afternoon, soon after Frances and her mother had the conversation about their neighbors overhead, the former went down to see Emma.

She found her in the kitchen that was as usual tidy to the last degree; the General, however, true to the influence of his environment, was busy with a tiny broom and dustpan. Emma sat in the window reading, and on the stove something simmered and bubbled gently.

"This is a very nice kitchen," Frances remarked, as she walked in.

Emma closed her book. "Do you think so? I don't like kitchens, but your sitting room is beautiful. It reminds me of a house where I go sometimes for mother; oh, such a lovely place!"

"Don't get down; let me sit beside you," Frances begged, and quickly established herself in the other corner of the window-sill.

"Mother doesn't care for pretty things; she says she is thankful if she can be clean," Emma continued, with a sigh.

"I think you are very clean," said the visitor, looking around her; "but tell me about that beautiful house, won't you?"

Emma obediently began an animated description of it. It was just like a palace, she said, with a beautiful garden and conservatory, and rooms and rooms full of lovely things. "Mother sews sometimes for the lady who lives there, and I take the work home. I wonder, Frances, if you couldn't go with me next time."

"Look at the General!" cried Frances, suddenly, jumping down.

All unnoticed by the girls he had contrived to set his broom on fire and was now waving it aloft in great delight. He had no mind to give it up either, and frightened by the excited manner in which they rushed upon him, he clung to it for dear life, filling the house with his shrieks. In the struggle a roller towel caught fire and some damage might have been done, but for the appearance of Miss Moore and Miss Sherwin.

The former seized the baby with a practised hand while her companion unfastened the roller and let the towel fall to the floor, where the fire was easily put out. It was all over when Mrs. Morrison, who had heard the screams as she was dressing, came hurrying in, followed by Mr. Clark. The General sat quiet in Miss Moore's lap, a finger in his mouth, tears still on his cheek; Emma with a dazed expression was holding on to all that remained of the broom; and Frances danced around excitedly trying to explain how it happened.

When Mrs. Bond walked in, everything quieted down as if by magic. Explanations were needless, her quick eyes took it all in: "Emma wasn't minding what she was about," she said decidedly.

The Spectacle Man chuckled to himself as they all filed out, leaving her restoring order. "The General is too much for Emma," he remarked; "it is odd to see how like his mother that baby is already—as alert and determined in the pursuit of mischief as she is in her more important affairs."

"I have a dozen erratic infants not more than a year older than the General, at my table in kindergarten, so I know something about it," said Miss Moore.

The excitement had broken the ice, and the Morrisons and their third-floor neighbors went upstairs together chatting sociably. Miss Sherwin, indeed, had not much to say; but her companion made up for her silence, and accepted without hesitation Mrs. Morrison's invitation to come in and make her and Frances a call.

"I have been wanting to come, but Lillian wouldn't let me," she said.

"It is not fair to say that without giving my reason," put in Miss Sherwin, coloring in a way that was most becoming.

"I believe she thought you wouldn't care to know us," said Miss Moore, laughing.

"That was a great mistake," answered Mrs. Morrison. "Frances and I are sociable persons, and besides, we are strangers here."

"So are we, and we came here because Mr. Clark is an old friend of my father's." As she spoke, Miss Moore looked about her with frankly admiring eyes. "I am taking the kindergarten course; and my friend is keeping house and amusing herself, and keeping me from dying of home-sickness."

Mrs. Morrison thought Miss Sherwin, with her rather melancholy dark eyes, looked much more like a subject for home-sickness than her merry companion. In the course of the conversation she discovered that their home was in a Southern town, and that Miss Moore, who was the oldest daughter in a large family, was studying kindergarten in order to support herself. What Miss Sherwin was doing was not so clear. She had no home ties and was free to go where she pleased, and it was evident that her friend looked up to her with deep admiration.

While Mrs. Morrison and Miss Moore were talking, Frances and Miss Sherwin were making friends over their favorite story-books, and before the call was over they all had the pleasant feeling of being old acquaintances; and the acquaintance was not allowed to languish.

The very next evening Frances and Emma in great glee knocked at the door of what Miss Moore called their sky parlor, with an invitation to a candy pulling. It was just the night for a little fun, being Friday and stormy, and the young ladies promptly accepted.

Delicious odors were finding their way into the sitting room when the guests entered, Miss Sherwin looking pretty and pensive in her big apron, Miss Moore as flyaway and merry as usual.

Mrs. Morrison met them at the door and led the way to the kitchen, where the children were watching the kettle that gave forth the pleasant fragrance. "Frances wanted something to do, and as Friday evening is a sort of holiday, I thought perhaps our neighbors would join us in pulling candy," she said.

They made molasses candy first, and while this was being pulled Mrs. Morrison made some chocolate caramels; and even Miss Sherwin was unable to resist the laughing and nonsense that went on, and was presently taking part in it as merrily as anybody.

They were sitting around the fire in a sociable group enjoying the fruits of their labor, when the Spectacle Man knocked at the door. He had to come to see Mrs. Morrison on business, but when Frances invited him in to have some candy he did not decline.

"This looks very pleasant," he said, surveying the company, a piece of chocolate in his hand.

"Sit down, Mr. Clark; I want to ask you something," said Mrs. Morrison. "It is about the song Frances is always singing,—

"'The bridge is broke—'"

"What is the rest of it?"

"I will tell you all I know, but that isn't much," he replied, crossing his legs and looking into the fire. "I used to like to hear it from my grandfather when I was a child, and I found it interested Mark, my nephew, when he was a little chap. This is the way it goes.

"A man was once taking a long journey on foot. After walking several hours he came to a deep, swift stream over which there had once been a bridge, but now it was not to be seen. On the opposite side of the river a man was chopping wood, and the traveller called to him to know what had become of the bridge. The reply—and this is always sung—was:—

"'The bridge is broke and I have to mend it,

Fol de rol de ri do, fol de rol de ri do,

The bridge is broke and I have to mend it,

Fol de rol de ri.'

"'How deep is the river?' the traveller then asked.

"'Throw in a stone, 'twill sink to the bottom,

Fol de rol de ri do, fol de rol de ri—' etc.

"'How can I get across?' was the next question.

"'The ducks and the geese they all swim over,

Fol de rol de ri do—' etc.

"And that is all."

"Doesn't the poor man ever get across?" asked Mrs. Morrison.

"I have told you all I know, madam," the Spectacle Man answered, with a little wave of his hand.

"I think there is a story hidden in it, and that is perhaps why children enjoy it; it is like having a picture to look at." It was Miss Sherwin who spoke.

"That is a bright idea," said Mr. Clark; "but who will find the hidden story for us?"

"I believe Miss Sherwin herself can find it," suggested Mrs. Morrison. "Suppose we give her two weeks to hunt for it, and then have a meeting to hear it."

"Oh, please—" began Miss Sherwin.

"Don't say a word, Lil, you know you can," urged Miss Moore, as her friend tried to make herself heard above the chorus of approval.

"The meeting to be held in my study," added the Spectacle Man.

"But suppose I can't do it," cried Miss Sherwin.

"Father could, if he were here," put in Frances; "he is splendid for stories!"

"Is he the John Chauncey Morrison who writes so charmingly?" asked Miss Sherwin.

"Why, do you know him?" exclaimed Frances.

"No, but I have read his stories."

"I think he writes the nicest ones in the world," said the little girl.

"But we don't expect everybody else to think so, Wink," her mother added, laughing.