Part 14 (1/2)
”Oh, I'm quite patient _sometimes_.”
”Well, look here-I'll wait and see, then. But I'll tell you one thing-if things don't begin to get different pretty soon, I'm off!”
”All right,” said Jane, getting up. Paul stood up, too. Then suddenly he held out his hand.
”Listen, Janey-please don't mind me when I get rough and short. You've got more sense than I have, and I need someone to talk to like the d.i.c.kens.”
”_I've_ got more sense than _you_ have, Paul!” repeated Jane, sincerely amazed. ”How can you say that? Why, you're the most-the most clever person I ever knew in my life!”
Nothing cements friends.h.i.+p like mutual admiration; but Jane felt something warmer and better than mere admiration, as she put her hand into Paul's big paw; she felt that rare, happy pleasure that is stirred in a responsive young soul when it is first called upon to give sympathy and help; and their firm handclasp sealed a friends.h.i.+p that was to last to the end of their lives.
CHAPTER VII-GIRLS
Half a dozen feminine tongues babbled cheerfully. For once the Deacon's chilly parlor, with its slippery, horse-hair furniture, its stiff-featured portraits, and its big, black square piano, had lost a little of its funereal aspect, and a great deal of its oppressive neatness. Over the chairs, over the Brussels carpet, over the bow-legged table were scattered pieces of bright sateen, blue, red, orange and black, sc.r.a.ps of lace and gold tinsel, spangles and feathers. A coal fire glowed amiably in the grate, adding a deeper color to six blooming faces, and flas.h.i.+ng on the bright needles that were so industriously plied. Outside, the first heavy snow of the winter was falling, in big, lazy flakes, which had already covered streets and roofs, and weighted the twigs and branches of the trees.
”Well, I've got every one of my Christmas presents ready,” remarked one young lady with a comfortable sigh of relief. ”I start making them in June, but somehow I never get done until the _last_ minute.”
”I just never try to make mine,” said another, ”I take a day, and buy all of them in the city, when I go to visit Cousin Mary. It saves time and trouble, and _I_ think it's really more economical.”
”Oh, but then they don't have the personal touch,” said a third, a tall, thin anaemic-looking girl, with large, soulful eyes, and a tiny mouth.
”And that is what counts. It's what makes Christmas presents mean something. I always say that I never think of the gift, but of the thought of the giver.”
”But you make such clever things, Amelia,” said the one who bought her Christmas presents, feeling ashamed of her lack of sentiment.
”Very simple things, Dolly,” said Amelia, rinsing off her watercolor brush, and then dabbing it in a square of holly-red paint. ”But I think that just a little card, with a tasteful design, and an appropriate verse is a very suitable way of expressing the spirit of Christmas.”
”And quite right, my dear,” boomed in Mrs. Deacon, appearing in the doorway. ”But then you have such a charming gift of poesy. Not all of us are blessed with _your_ magniloquence.” She lifted one of Amelia's cards, and inspected it, through a pair of lorgnettes, which she held about six inches from her eyes, spreading out her little finger. ”_How_ charming! How effete with taste! Lily, my dear, you too should try to emulate Amelia's Christmastide mementos. You are not entirely devoid of poetic genius. Why, I have many little emblems of your youthful flights of fancy-where is that alb.u.m, my dear?”
”Oh, mamma!” cried Lily, blus.h.i.+ng crimson. ”Those silly poems of mine!”
”Indeed they are not silly,” said Mrs. Deacon, rummaging in the drawer of the table. ”No, the alb.u.m is not here. Lily, my dear, when will you remember that everything has its proper place? Now, I did want to read Amelia that delightful little Bandeau of yours on the Pine-Tree. She would be interested, I'm sure. And the Alb.u.m is not here. Perhaps though, I put it away myself.”
”Oh, mamma, don't get it now,” begged Lily, overcome with embarra.s.sment, adding, desperately, ”Do look at the lovely thing Elise is making.”
Mrs. Deacon, huge and majestic in her rustling black silk, turned her lorgnette on Elise's exquisite embroidery.
”Charming. Absolutely charming. Do not rise, my dear. Well, I see that you are all happily occupied. What are these gay colors?” she asked presently, indicating the pieces of sateen.
”Oh, I brought some things that I thought might do for costumes, Mrs.
Deacon,” said Annie Lee Webster. ”For our party you know, on New Year's Eve.”
”Ah! A Masquerade? How charming.”
”What are you going as, Amelia?” asked the fourth girl, the lively, apple-cheeked Dolly Webster. The poetess looked up dreamily.
”As Sappho,” she replied. Mrs. Deacon looked astonished, and interested.
”Sappho, my dear? How will you do that? Sappho was a race-horse!”