The girls began to miss Henrietta almost as soon as she was gone. For a small person, she left a tremendous vacancy. She was so lovely, so bright, so friendly with everybody and so very good to look at that it seemed, as Sallie put it, as if the sun had suddenly deserted the whole state of Illinois. Henrietta wrote to her friends, of course, but that wasn’t quite like having her actually on the premises.
One day, however, when Sallie was distributing the mail, the post girl experienced a joyful moment. She pulled a letter from the bag and read aloud the name on the envelope: “Miss Sallie Dickinson.”
“Why,” gasped Sallie, pink with surprise and delight. “That’s for me—from Henrietta.”
Henrietta had expected to return within three weeks. But did she? Not a bit of it. She and her delightful grandmother, Mrs. Slater, were having too good a time visiting their relatives in England to be willing to return at once to America. They were shopping in London.
“And oh, such shops as there are in London!” wrote Henrietta. “And oh, such funny English as I hear! My cousins took me to something they called a ‘Cinema’—and what do you think it was? Just a movie. When I come back I’ll talk some real English for you so you can see what it’s like.”
“I guess,” laughed Jean, “Henrietta is more American now than she is English.”
“I wish she’d come back,” said Bettie. “The days seem twice as long with her so far away.”
It was undeniably dull without Henrietta; but Maude managed on one occasion at least to cheer the other girls considerably. She had been unnaturally good for several weeks; but now the spirit of impishness that sometimes controlled her had been bottled up too long for safety and was just about ready to break loose.
A full length mirror stood at the end of the West Corridor, across one of the corners. It swung on pivots, from an upright frame. It was possible to unscrew those pivots and remove the framed mirror from this outer frame. Indeed, Sallie had once mentioned casually that this feat might easily be accomplished by two girls, whereupon curious Maude had examined the screws with much interest and had satisfied herself that Sallie’s statement was true.
At certain times of the day, Miss Woodruff, who was as regular as a clock in all her habits, strolled to that mirror to make certain that her skirts hung properly; for no one was more particular as to her appearance than was stout Miss Woodruff. She invariably wore gray, for school use. She possessed three serge gowns, made precisely alike, from the same piece of goods. She spoke of these garments as her “uniform.” When not in use, these gowns hung in her bedroom closet.
But one dreadful day, when excellent Miss Woodruff looked in the glass at the usual time, she started back in horror. There was her reflection, dark gray frock, unmistakable hair-do and all, yet what in the world was the matter with it? The face was different, the figure was shorter and fatter and its outline was curiously lumpy in places.
There were stifled giggles from the nearby doorways as the puzzled lady leaned forward to look closer—at Maude. For of course it was Maude, attired in one of Miss Woodruff’s gray gowns, with pillows stuffed inside; and her hair, skilfully arranged by Cora, closely resembled Miss Woodruff’s. The naughty but ingenious girl standing just back of the vacant frame, was faithfully imitating every movement made by Miss Woodruff, every expression that flitted across her astonished face.
“Nous avons,” began Maude, stepping through the frame, with her hands crossed meekly on her dark gray breast, “les raisins blancs et noirs—”
But at this point, to the uproarious delight of the entire West Corridor, Miss Woodruff seized her reflection by the shoulders and shook it until pillows began to drop from beneath the gray gown.
“Maude Wilder,” gasped the breathless lady, finally, “you may keep right on learning American History—two pages a day until Commencement.”
Ten minutes later, when Miss Woodruff took her daily walk on the long veranda she was surprised to meet herself halfway, as it were.
“Don’t be cross,” laughed Maude, slipping her hand under Miss Woodruff’s substantial elbow. “I just came down to apologize. I know I’m bad but if I didn’t keep this place cheered up, think how dull we’d be. We’d all get in a rut. And you know I do respect you, tremendously, even if I do seem a little disrespectful towards your clothes at times. And I do like you a lot, even if I can’t help teasing you. Come on and be a sport. Let’s show the girls what lovely twins we make.”
“But—”
“Come along, do,” pleaded Maude’s sweetly persuasive voice. “You know you aren’t really cross about this. Let’s be friends.”
“You’re incorrigible,” sighed Miss Woodruff, falling into step with her wheedling tormentor. “I don’t know what ever will become of you, but, in spite of my better judgment, I can’t help liking you. And just to show you that I can do it, I will be a sport just for once.”
“Hurrah for the Woodruff twins!” cried Maude, enthusiastically. But Maude’s enthusiasm was doomed to wane. Sturdy Miss Woodruff, with a wicked gleam in her eye, kept her absurd twin walking back and forth on the veranda for a good two hours. The day was warm and the pillows tied firmly about Maude’s waist added nothing to her comfort; the girls on the railing were obviously enjoying her predicament; but unmerciful Miss Woodruff proved tireless. Maude was tired of being a twin long before her teacher was; but revived somewhat when that surprising lady said, at last:
“Now, I will be a sport. I’m going to excuse you from learning that history. I think we’re just about even without it.”
“I didn’t think she had it in her,” commented Maude, reclining at length on the pillows she had gladly removed from her person. “There’s more to that lady than I supposed there was.”
There was much talk these days of Commencement. The three Seniors were to be graduated and, by some mysterious process, the five Juniors were to become Seniors. No wonder the Miller girls, quiet Virginia Mason, Sarah Porter and studious Mary Sherwood of the North Corridor had led a life apart from the younger girls. Of course, with a solemn thing like that hanging over them, and only a year away, they couldn’t associate with a flock of careless infants in the lower grades.
There were to be Commencement clothes—white dresses, white shoes, white stockings for everybody, young or old. There was to be a class photograph of the Seniors, framed like all the rest, and hung in the big drawing room for future classes to admire. There were to be Exercises. Miss Julia’s pupils were to play solos and duets; and everybody was to sing the songs that they were now practising daily and there were to be Essays. One of the Seniors, Miss Pratt, was known to be laboring over a strange thing called a Valedictory, Miss Wilson was struggling with the Class Prophecy and Miss Holmes was having a harrowing time with the Class Poem. Mabel hoped that none of these mysterious things would ever fall to her lot. Cream puffs and unlimited chocolate creams, it appeared, were not the only things that happened to a Senior.
And now, everybody was discussing clothes. Should they wear silk stockings or cotton ones? White pumps or Oxfords? Should their dresses be tucked or ruffled, full or scant? Should their sleeves be long or short or half way between? The Seniors were keeping their clothes a dark mystery; but all the other girls were willing to tell all they knew.
Jean, Bettie, Mabel and Marjory were to buy their dresses, shoes and stockings in Chicago. Mrs. Henry Rhodes and Miss Blossom were to take them to town for a whole joyous Monday.
They loved every inch of the way to the city, where Mrs. Henry piled them all into a ’bus at the station, took them to a big store on State Street, and whisked them aloft in an elevator. She and Miss Blossom spent a long morning trying fluffy white frocks on their lively charges.
There were large numbers of just-exactly-right frocks for Marjory and Bettie. They were easy to fit. Jean was tall and rather slender and it was some time before the interested clerk could find just the right pretty gown for Jean. As for plump Mabel—— Well, the sleeves were tight, the waists wouldn’t button and the skirts were too scant.
“You see,” explained the patient clerk, “she isn’t a ready-made child. She hasn’t got her shape yet. But you’ll be all right, dearie (she called everybody ‘dearie,’ Mabel noticed), when you’re older. Your shoulders are fine and you’re right good looking; but they don’t put cloth enough in Misses’ garments these days for a real plump child. We’ll have to make you a dress to order. You can pick out the style you like and our own Miss Williamson will measure you and in three days you’ll have your dress. You’ll look just as nice as anybody and your dress will be just exactly right.”
“Yes,” agreed Mrs. Henry and Miss Blossom, “that’s the thing to do.”
Then they all got into the elevator and went up still higher and the Lakeville girls tried not to look surprised at finding a dining room so near the sky. After they had had lunch and purchased shoes and stockings it was time for their returning train.
Sallie listened to the thrilling news of the new dresses and the lovely new shoes rather soberly and with a lengthening countenance; but none of the girls noticed that she was not rejoicing with them until thoughtless Marjory suddenly asked:
“What are you going to wear, Sallie?”
“I have an old white dress,” returned Sallie, flushing painfully. “It was new three years ago but I’ve worn it hard every summer, so it isn’t new any more. All the tucks have been let out and the hem has been faced and it’s still too short. Besides there’s a bad rust stain on it and it’s too tight across the chest I don’t know what to do. I’ve been thinking I’d better put on a cap and apron and just pretend to be one of the regular maids. You see, ever so many parents and other guests will be coming so I’ll have to answer the doorbell and run upstairs to announce guests and help in the dining room, anyway.”
“But you have to help with the singing,” said Bettie. “You have the best voice of all the girls. What are you going to do about that?”
“Perhaps I can stand behind a tree,” offered Sallie. “Or I might burrow down in the tall grass and not be noticed. Of course I’d sing better if my clothes were all right; but I’ll just try not to think about them.”
The next day, some of the girls sat on a bench in the shady grove and talked this weighty matter over.
“It’s a shame,” said Jean. “Sallie’s such a dear girl—one of the very sweetest girls in this school, I think, and she has a lovely voice. She ought to be able to stand right in the front row and be seen as well as heard.”
“It isn’t right,” said Bettie, “for all the rest of us to be all dressed up and having a good time when Sallie can’t—just because she’s a boarding school orphan.”
“Sometimes I’ve offered to lend her things,” said Jean, “but she doesn’t like it. I think it hurts her pride or something.”
“I thought we might write home for money,” said Marjory, “and get her a dress that way; but I’m sure Aunty Jane wouldn’t give me a cent for it. She might, after a long, long time—if I’d begun to tease for it last September, for instance, she’d begin about now to loosen up a little.”
“And my folks are too far away,” mourned Mabel, “so they’re no good.”
“And mine,” said Jean, “have to spend more on me now than they can afford.”
“And of course,” added Bettie, “the best my folks could do would be something out of a missionary box—something made of outing flannel most likely. Those boxes do run just awfully to outing flannel. Of course there’s Mr. Black—but I wouldn’t like to ask him.”
“No,” agreed Jean, “it wouldn’t be right. Of course, if we’d started soon enough and saved all our weekly spending money—”
“Oh, why didn’t we?” cried Bettie. “I do wish we had.”
“If we four had saved half our money,” said Marjory, who had been making figures with a stick in the sand, “we could have bought her a more expensive dress than any we are going to have. And shoes, too.”
“Just think of that!” said Jean. “Next year I’m going to save a few cents every week—it’s mighty useful to have money when something like this comes up.”
“Of course,” said Marjory, who had been making more sums in the sand, “thirty cents isn’t much when you put a nickel in the plate every Sunday and chip in every now and then for spreads. Anyway, it’s all gone and poor Sallie hasn’t a dress.”
At mail time the next day, the schoolroom resounded with excited and delighted squeals. Sallie had had another letter from Henrietta. It was mailed in New York; and Henrietta was coming back.
“Grandmother is going to visit an old friend in Chicago,” wrote Henrietta, “and I’m coming back to study like mad to catch up with my classes. Tell the girls to have all their note books ready for me and I can do it. And Sallie, dear, I’m bringing you a present. I have something for all my best friends but if anybody can guess what I’m bringing you I’ll give her two presents.”
Jean looked at Bettie. Bettie nudged Marjory and Mabel managed—but not without difficulty—to wink at Jean.
“It’s a dress,” whispered Marjory. “I’m sure it’s a dress.”
“That’s just what I think,” agreed Jean.
Just two weeks before the close of school, Henrietta returned. She arrived during school hours and slipped quietly into her seat in the Assembly room; but she was so fidgety and there was such a fluttering among the other girls, who declared afterwards that she looked good enough to eat, that Miss Woodruff said: “Henrietta, I’ll excuse you for today. There’s only an hour left anyway.”
“Thank you,” said Henrietta. “I’m dying to unpack my new steamer trunk—Charles brought it right up along with me.”
The girls found Henrietta’s gifts in their rooms when they went upstairs at two o’clock. She had tried to find lovely, unusual things for them and had succeeded. A little gem of a picture in a silver frame for Jean, some lovely blue beads almost like Hazel’s for Marjory, an adorable turquois ring for Bettie and an exquisite enameled locket for Mabel. There was something for every girl in the West Corridor and a nice little graduating present for each of the three Seniors. There were some lovely white silk stockings “right straight from Paris” for Sallie.
“The rest of Sallie’s present is coming later,” said Henrietta, “I didn’t have room in my trunk for it. And on second thought, I’m not going to encourage any guessing. I might give the secret away and that wouldn’t do. I’m not going to tell what it is, but I’ll say this much. Don’t worry about your clothes, Sallie.”
“Did you get it in London?” demanded Mabel.
“Yes,” laughed Henrietta, “and that’s the last word I’m going to tell you about it.”
“I sort of hoped,” sighed Marjory, “it might have been Paris, like the stockings.”
But Henrietta only laughed harder than ever.