src="@public@vhost@g@gutenberg@html@files@25551@25551-h@images@illus02.jpg" alt=""O Ernestine, how Lovely!"" title="" tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}img"/> "O Ernestine, how Lovely!"

Rapturous applause followed, and a new voice cried out, "Oh! Ernestine, how lovely; do it over," and turning, they beheld an additional three to the audience. Jean leaning on her little crutch, wild with delight; Olive, tall and still with a curl on her lip to match the scowl on her forehead; and mother,—but what was the matter with mother, Bea wondered. She was very pale, and though she smiled, it did not hide the tremble that hung to her colorless lips.

Back to contents

CHAPTER II.

AROUND THE FIRE.

A September twilight was coming on slowly, and in the grass the crickets chirped back and forth to each other. The house was all open, and through the windows came a merry chatter, a few rattling notes of the piano, and something that sounded very much like a warm argument, for a game of chess was going on by one window. Out on the broad porch that ran all along the front of the house, and was shrouded with vines, stood a girl, leaning idly against the post and watching the shadows gather across the long walk. She was not a pretty girl, nor one that you would care to look at twice, because of any pleasure it gave you; though had you really studied her face there might have been something found in it after all. There was a drawn, discontented look about her mouth, that made the lips look thin and snappish; it even spoiled the shape of her really pretty nose, which was straight and finely cut. The brows, straight and black, held a heavy frown between them, and the eyes beneath had an unsatisfied, sour look, not at all attractive. Her forehead was altogether too high for beauty of any kind; and as though there was a relief in making herself look just as ugly as possible, all her hair was drawn back painfully smooth, and tucked into a net. Everything about her, from the crooked look of her necktie to the toe of her slipper, with its rosette gone, plainly indicated that she was dissatisfied with herself and aided nature by her own carelessness and indifference, to make herself just as unattractive as possible. Some one came up behind her as she stood there indulging in thoughts anything but pleasing and laid a gentle touch on her arm.

"Olive?"

"Well?"

"What makes you like to stay by yourself so much, and where it isn't so nice? The yard is getting so dark, and it's real chilly. Don't you ever get afraid?"

"Afraid here on the steps? That's silly, Jean."

"Perhaps 'tis, but I'm such a big coward; I suppose it's because I couldn't run if anything ever was to happen;" and Jean gave a little sigh, as she smoothed the padded top of her crutch.

Olive gave a little start, half impatient, and turned around to ask, almost wistfully, "Jean, do you never get tired or impatient, or think sometimes that you'd rather be dead than always walk on a crutch and have your back grow crooked?"

"Why, Olive!" Jean lifted her beautiful eyes to look at her sister's restless face, "I couldn't be so wicked as that, could you?"

In the twilight Olive flushed at the question and at the clear eyes searching her face. How many, many times had she wished she was dead, and for nothing except that she was ugly and awkward, and bound to see everything with the darkest side up.

"I'm not as good as you," she answered evasively.

"Oh I'm not good," said Jean, with a little laugh, half a sigh, "I do get real tired sometimes, Olive, and I do want to be straight and well so much; but Miss Willis told me something in Sunday-school last Sunday, that has made me feel so good; she said, 'Jeanie, don't get impatient or discouraged, for God has a reason why he wants you to be lame; it is to be for the best some way, and perhaps sometime you will see it;' and she said that when I tried to be happy and bear my lame back, it made God very happy; and when I was cross and fussy, it made him sad."

Olive gave her eyes a swift brush with the back of her hand, and asked with a little choke, "Do you believe all that, Jean."

"Why, Olive, yes! Don't you?"

"I don't know,—who is that?" was Olive's rather disjointed answer, as the click of the gate sounded through the still evening air.

"It's Ernestine, I know, 'cause she went up town;—yes, there she is;" answered Jean, as a figure appeared under the foliage and came toward the steps.

How different she looked from Olive and Jean. Such a slim, graceful figure, with a proud little head and sunny shining hair, in loose puffs and curls and a jaunty hat. A face like a fresh lily, and beautiful brown eyes, the sweetest voice, and the vainest little heart ever known to a girl of fifteen, had Ernestine Dering; and yet she was a favorite, with all her little vanities, and home, without Ernestine's face, would have been blank to all the girls. She came running up the steps and stopped.

"Oh, Olive, such laces!" she cried, with a longing sigh. "They are selling out at cost, and the ribbons and laces are just going for almost nothing; if I had just had a little spending money I would have been in clover. One clerk just insisted upon my taking an exquisite lace scarf; oh it was so becoming! but I told him I didn't know they were selling out, and that I would have to come again."

"Pretty way of talking!" snapped Olive ungraciously. "You know you won't have any more money another day than you have this; why couldn't you say no?"

"Say that I couldn't afford it?" cried Ernestine gayly. "Not I. Besides, I reasoned that if one of you would loan me some, I'd have more another day."

"Suppose one of us won't," said Olive, looking darkly over her sister's pretty hat.

"I didn't suppose you would," laughed Ernestine "But fortunately for me, I have some obliging sisters," and with that shot, Ernestine went in, singing like a mocking bird, and Jean followed slowly, looking back once or twice to Olive's motionless figure.

Oh how it cut! Olive grew flushed and white, then her brows came together darkly and her lips shut tight. "Ernestine is too frivolous to live," she said grimly; then looked straight off into the evening sky and was silent. But down to her proud, sensitive heart she was hurt, and in it was the longing wonder, "Why don't she come to me and ask as she does of Bea and the others. I would loan it to her;" but this feeling she fiercely refused to countenance, and shut her heart grimly, as she did her lips.

The broad old hall that ran clear through the house was growing quite dark with shadows; the game of chess had ended, and the players left the window, and presently Olive turned slowly and went into the house. Through the sitting-room came a lively chatter, and as she passed the door some one shouted, "Halloo!"

"Well I'm not deaf. Do you want me?"

"Pining to have you; come sit on my lap."

Olive passed in, but disregarded the hospitably inclined young lady who lounged in a big chair, and passed on to a dusky corner, where she curled up on the lounge.

"Olive," volunteered Kittie, who was in the window-sill, "mama has a plan; she's going to tell us after supper, and we've all been trying to guess what it is; what do you think?"

"I don't think anything."

"What a