Part 9 (1/2)

And she poured out an indignant account of the cruelty she had witnessed and put a stop to. The stranger's eyes were stern enough, as she listened. ”I heard only the end of it,” she said, briefly, ”but where I see Blanche Haight, I am never surprised at anything cruel or cowardly.

I am very glad to know you; it was a mercy that you happened to come along just then. I hope we shall be friends, Miss--is it Miss Montfort?”

”Oh, that I will!” cried Peggy, responding with all her warm heart to the sweet smile and the lovely look in the clear blue eyes. ”Oh, I should like to ever so much; but I don't know your name, do I?”

The stranger smiled again. ”They call me the Snowy Owl,” she said, ”but my name is Gertrude Merryweather.”

CHAPTER VI.

THE OWL'S NEST.

When Peggy escorted Lobelia Parkins back to her room, she found that it was the one directly above her own. Point for point, the rooms were alike, fire-escape and all,--so far as the actual outlines were concerned; there, however, the likeness ended. There had been no Uncle John, no Margaret, in this case. The room was furnished, evidently, by the same hand that had dressed the girl, and with equal taste. The carpet on the floor was costly, but hideous as staring colours and execrable design could make it. The furniture was c.u.mbrous, and the fact that the ugly chairs were rosewood, and their cus.h.i.+ons brocade, made them neither beautiful nor comfortable. On the bureau were some bottles of red Bohemian gla.s.s, such as were thought handsome fifty years ago; an elephant of a writing-desk, staring with plush and gilding, almost covered the table. Altogether, the room was as desolate as its occupant; more could not be said. Lobelia seemed smaller and more shrunken than ever amid all this tasteless display; she seemed conscious of it, too, as she gazed piteously at Peggy. She had been crying, in a furtive, frightened way; and, gazing at her, Peggy felt that it must be years ago that she was crying, too, and hoping for nothing in the world save to get to her room and have a good solid deluge of tears. At present it seemed hardly likely that she should ever weep again; she felt strong and confident, and was still burning with indignation, none the less hotly that the outward flame had gone down. Her kind companion had been obliged to leave them, with the promise of seeing them soon again. Peggy thought she might stay a few minutes, though the gong for gym had already rung.

”Now, Lobelia,” she was saying,--”I am going to call you Lobelia, you know, and you are to call me Peggy, and we are going to be friends.

Now, Lobelia, mind what I say! if those girls ever give you any more trouble, you are to come straight to me. Do you hear?”

”Yes,” said Lobelia, faintly.

”Have they tormented you before? Beasts! Or was this the first time?”

”Oh, not--not so much!” said the girl, deprecatingly. ”A little yesterday; but--I don't know whether they meant to be unkind, Peggy. I know that my dress _is_ queer!”

”Don't be so meek!” cried Peggy, unable to repress a little stamp of her foot, which made Lobelia start. ”Have some spirit of your own, Lobelia.

I tell you, these girls are mean, cowardly wretches, not fit for girls like the Owls to speak to. They don't speak to them much, either,” she added, ”and I'm not going to any more than I can help.”

Lobelia looked more miserable than ever. ”Don't!” she said. ”I can't bear to have any one get into trouble on my account. It--it needn't matter to you, Peggy. Of course you are very, very kind, and I think I should have died if you had not come along just then, for I couldn't seem to bear much more; but I don't want you to get into trouble.”

”Who's going to get into trouble?” demanded Peggy. ”Guess I can take care of myself against such a set as that.”

”I don't want you to get into trouble!” repeated Lobelia; and, as she spoke, she glanced around the room with a peculiar shrinking look, one would say a look of dread, that Peggy did not understand.

”Who's next door to you?” she asked, briefly. ”Rose Barclay, for one, I know. Who is on the other side?”

Lobelia thought it was another freshman, but was not sure.

”Have they troubled you?” asked Peggy, suspiciously.

But Lobelia shook her head, and seemed so distressed at the question that Peggy did not know what to think.

”Please, please don't bother about me!” she implored. ”I dare say it will be a good deal better now, after you and Miss Merryweather being so brave and so kind. I don't want to say anything against anybody.

Please, please forget all about it, Peggy.”

”I want you to be brave yourself,” cried Peggy; and Lobelia started again, and shrank in her chair. ”Don't be so--so--well, I don't know any word but meeching, and Margaret won't let me say that. But have a spirit of your own, and stand up to them, and give 'em as good as they send. I would, I tell you, quick enough, if they tried it on me.”

Lobelia looked at her with hopeless eyes. ”But I am not you!” she said.

”I--Peggy, I know just how I look, and how I seem, and how little and ugly and queer I am. I don't wonder they laugh, I don't, really. I haven't any spirit, either; I can't have. You can't do anything with me; it isn't any use.”

Peggy gazed at her, with eyes almost as hopeless as her own. Yet she must make one more attempt; and with it the honest blood came into her face.