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[Illustration: FROM AUNT TREMAYNE AND RALPH]




    SIX GIRLS

    _A HOME STORY_

    BY
    FANNIE BELLE IRVING

    ILLUSTRATED BY F. T. MERRILL

    BOSTON
    DANA ESTES AND COMPANY
    PUBLISHERS


    _Copyright, 1882_,
    By Estes and Lauriat.


    University Press:
    JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE.




    CONTENTS.


    CHAPTER                                                 PAGE

        I. UNDER THE TREES                                     7

       II. AROUND THE FIRE                                    18

      III. A FOUNDATION THAT BROUGHT KAT TO GRIEF             38

       IV. IN CONFIDENCE                                      51

        V. ONE DAY                                            65

       VI. A STRANGER                                         80

      VII. MR. CONGREVE SURPRISES HIMSELF AND EVERYBODY
           ELSE                                               97

     VIII. ODDS AND ENDS                                     113

       IX. WHAT OLIVE HEARD                                  128

        X. THE LITTLE BLACK TRUNK                            148

       XI. WHERE IS ERNESTINE?                               168

      XII. THE STORY                                         188

     XIII. A YEAR LATER                                      202

      XIV. STUDY OR PLAY?                                    221

       XV. CONGREVE HALL                                     240

      XVI. UNDER THE SHADY GREEN-WOOD TREE                   257

     XVII. SEVERAL THINGS                                    284

    XVIII. AT THE OPERA                                      306

      XIX. COMING HOME                                       336

       XX. A SAD STORY                                       355

      XXI. MY LADY                                           368

     XXII. TO REAR, TO LOVE, AND THEN TO LOSE                380

    XXIII. WHEN GOD DREW NEAR, AMONG HIS OWN TO CHOOSE       406

     XXIV. TWO SECRETS                                       420

      XXV. MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL, AND TO ALL A
           GOOD-NIGHT--FIVE YEARS LATER                      437




    LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.


    PAGE

    FROM AUNT TREMAYNE AND RALPH                  _Frontispiece_

    "O ERNESTINE, HOW LOVELY!"                                17

    KAT AND KIT                                               49

    THE OLD GENTLEMAN LIFTED JEAN UP ON THE POST              92

    "NOW LET'S SEE WHAT'S IN THIS WONDERFUL TRUNK"           167

    "WHY, HOW DO YOU DO, MY DEAR CHILD?"                     244

    "WHAT IS THE MATTER? WHAT HAS HAPPENED?"                 267

    MR. CONGREVE WOULD COME INTO THE GALLERY                 314




SIX GIRLS.

CHAPTER I.

UNDER THE TREES.


There were ripples of sunshine all tangled in the glowing scarlet of the
geranium bed and dancing blithely over the grass. A world of melody in
quivering bursts of happy song came from the spreading canopy of leaves
overhead, and as an accompaniment, the wind laughed and whispered and
kept the air in one continual smile with a kiss on its lips, born of
supreme contentment in the summer loveliness.

In the cool, deep shade, cast by the grandest of old beech trees, a girl
sat, her white dress in freshest relief against the green surroundings,
a piece of sewing in her nimble fingers, and the wind tossing her
loosened hair all about her face and shoulders. She was quite alone, and
seemed just the setting for the quiet, lovely surroundings, so much so,
that, had an artist chanced to catch the sight, he would have lost no
time in transferring it to canvas,--the wide stretch of grass,
alternately steeped in cool shadows and mellow sunshine, the branching,
rustling canopy of leaves, the white-robed figure with smiling lips and
busy fingers, and just visible in the back-ground an old house wrapped
in vines and lying in the shade.

Somebody came from among the trees just at this moment and crossed the
grass with a peculiarly graceful and swaying step, as though she had
just drifted down with the sunshine and was being idly blown along by
the wind, another girl in the palest of pink dresses, with ripples of
snowy lace all over it, and a wide-brimmed hat shading her eyes. And
speaking distance being gained, she said, with a breezy little laugh:
"Sewing? Why, it's too warm to breathe."

"That's the reason I sew," returned the other, with a nod of energy. "I
should suffocate if I just sat still and thought how warm it is. Where
have you been?"

"Down to the pond, skipping stones, and wishing that I could go in,"
answered the new-comer, sitting down on the grass with a careful and
gracefully effective arrangement of her flounces and lace. "I don't see
why papa won't let us take the boat; it did look too tempting. Suppose
we go and do it, anyhow, Bea, and just let him see that we can manage it
without being taught. The pond is all in the shade now, and a row would
be delicious."

"Why, Ernestine!" Bea said, with a glance of surprise; "You wouldn't, I
know. Papa will teach us right away, and then we will have delightful
times; but when he has been so good as to get us the boat and promise to
have us learn to manage it, I'm sure I wouldn't disobey and try alone."

Ernestine laughed again her pretty saucy laugh and threw her head back
so that it caught a dancing sunbeam and held it prisoner in the bright
hair.

"I would," she said flippantly. "I'd like to, just for the sake of doing
something. Do you know, Bea,"--knitting the arched brows with a petulant
air,--"Sometimes I think I'll do something dreadful; perfectly dreadful,
you know, so as to have things different for a little bit. It's horrible
to live right along, just so, without anything ever happening."

"Well I'm sure," said Bea, laying down her sewing and surveying her
sister slowly, "you have just about as good and easy a time as ever I
heard of a girl's having. What are you all dressed up so for?"

"Just for something to do. I've tried on all my dresses and hats, and
wasted the blessed afternoon parading before the glass," laughed
Ernestine, swinging her pretty hat with its shirrings of delicate pink,
around on her white hand. "I do think this dress is lovely, so I made
believe I was being dressed by my maid and coming out to walk in my park
like an English lady, you know."

"English fiddlesticks!" said Bea, with energy. "You are a goosey.
Suppose you had to work and couldn't have pretty things and waste your
time trying them on?"

"What misery," cried Ernestine, jumping up and whirling around on her
heel with an airy grace that the other girls might have practiced for in
vain. "I wouldn't want to live; it would be dreadful, Bea," falling into
an attitude with the sunshine over her, "wouldn't I do well on the
stage? I know I was born for it; now look here, and see if I don't do as
Miss Neilson did. Just suppose this ring of sunshine is a balcony and
I'm in white, with such lovely jewels in my hair and all that:

    "Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?"--

and away went Ernestine with a tragically pathetic energy that made Bea
watch and listen, in spite of the disapproving laugh on her lips.

"Don't I do it well?" Ernestine asked complacently, after she had gone
through the entire balcony scene, with great success in the management
of two characters.

"Yes, you do; how can you?" asked Bea, won from disapproval by wondering
admiration.

"Easiest in the world. I've been through it ever so many times since
papa took us to the city to see her. Oh, Bea! how happy she must be! I'd
give worlds and worlds to be in her place," cried Ernestine, with
longing energy, and pacing restlessly up and down the grass. "I wonder
if I ever can."

"Indeed!" said Bea with decision. "The idea! what would papa and mama
say; you, Ernestine Dering, parading out on a stage before crowds of
people, and flying around like she did. Mercy on us!"

"I'd do it in a minute, and if I can't now, I will sometime anyhow,"
Ernestine exclaimed with emphasis. "I wasn't born to be smuggled up in
this little musty town all my life and I won't, either. Some day I'll do
something desperate; you see if I don't."

"Well, I do declare!" said Bea slowly, having never witnessed quite such
an energetic ending to Ernestine's spells of restless dissatisfaction.
"What talk! I think you'd better sit down and cool off now. Where are
Olive and Jean?"

"Olive is sketching out on the roof, and crosser than thirteen sticks.
Jean is asleep on the porch, and mama is out showing Huldah how to make
cream puffings."

"Dear me," said Bea, by way of answer and looking up with a slight
pucker to her smooth forehead, "Just look at those girls; I never saw
the like."

Ernestine looked up, to catch a glimpse of two flying figures just
clearing the fence, and come dashing across the grass like unruly
arrows, to throw themselves under the shade of the beech, with a supreme
disregard for flesh and bones.

"Goodness gracious!" gasped Kittie.

"Gracious goodness!" panted Kat.

"I beat."

"No sir, I did."

"You didn't! I was on this side of the fence before you jumped."

"Just listen! why I was pretty near to the tree before you got to the
fence."

"Why Kat Dering! You know better."

"I don't."

"You do."

"Well I'd fight about it," said Ernestine, as the two sat up and faced
each other with belligerent countenances. "You are a pretty looking
couple anyhow. I'd be ashamed."

"Don't care if you would. I beat anyhow," said Kat with decision.

"Indeed you didn't; I did myself," said Kittie with equal certainty, but
smiling more amicably as she fanned energetically with her hat. "Oh
girls such fun! I must,----"

"Now Kittie," cried Kat with a warning jump and scowl.

"Bless us, I'm going to tell; indeed I am. You're a trump, Kat, and they
shall hear all about it; don't you want to girls?"

"To be sure, go on," said Bea with interest and creasing down a hem with
much satisfaction in the thought that her hands looked very pretty and
white, almost as pretty as Ernestine's.

"Well you see," began Kitty, as Kat retired under her hat in a spasm of
unusual modesty, "when we came in from recess this afternoon, Kat wanted
to sit in my side of the seat, and told me to act as if I was she, so I
thought it was to be a lark of some kind and did, but dear me----"

"Well go on," said Ernestine with languid curiosity, as Kittie paused to
laugh at some recollection.

"Just as soon as we got in Miss Howard told us to put books away; then
she gave us the breeziest lecture and was as solemn as an owl. I
couldn't imagine what was up. Susie Darrow was crying with her
handkerchief to her nose, Kat looked as if she was sitting on pins and
needles, and I really thought that Sadie Brooks and May Moor would eat
us up, the way they actually glared at us. Well, the first thing I knew,
Miss Howard was saying something about a needle in Susie Barrow's pen,
that she had stuck her nose with, and she wanted whoever had put it
there to come to her desk. That's the way she always does, you know;
never calls a name unless she finds she has to, and bless you! who
should I see walking off but Kat, and what does Miss Howard do but take
her ruler and give her fifteen slaps on the hand. Kat, I'm meaner'n
dirt, and you're a jewel; you did beat, I'll own up."

"No such thing, you beat yourself," came in a sepulchral growl from
under the hat.

"Well I'm sure I don't see the point," said Ernestine with impatience.
"It was very rude and unlady-like to put a needle in Susie's pen and you
deserved your fifteen slaps."

"Just wait 'till I finish, will you," cried Kittie, as the hat
maintained perfect silence, "Kat didn't do it, but she heard that I did,
and that I was going to be whipped, so she took my seat and jumped up
the minute Miss Howard spoke, and the only way I found out was when Miss
Howard said, 'Now Kittie you must beg Susie's pardon before the school.'
Then I knew something was up, and just popped right out of my seat and
said that that was Kat, not me, and didn't it make a hub-bub, and didn't
Miss Howard look funny!"

"It was lively," broke in Kat, and coming out from under the hat as if
inspired with the recollection, "Miss Howard looked as blank as you
please, and like to have never gotten at the straight of it; but after
awhile lame Jack told how he had seen Sadie and May fix it themselves,
and plan to tell it was Kittie, and oh didn't they look cheap, and
didn't they creep off to-night and take every book along?"

"But wasn't Kat just too dear and good to take a whipping to save me,"
cried Kittie, throwing both arms around her twin in a hug full of
devotion. "I'll never forget it, Kat Dering, never!"

"Well you'd better," said Kat, on whom praise and glory rested
uneasily, though she looked pleased and returned the hug with interest.
"You'd have done it for me, I know, and I would again for you any day.
Let's go out on the roof; it's much cooler than here."

"You'd better not," laughed Ernestine. "Olive's out there sketching, and
she'll take your head off with her usual sweetness, if you bother any."

"Who cares? I'm going. Come on Kittie."

"No let's not; it's cool here," returned Kittie lazily. "Where have you
been Ernestine, all rigged in your best?"

"Been at home pining for some place to go," said Ernestine drawing the
sewing from Bea's hand, and leaning over into that sister's lap with a
caressive gesture. "Say Bea, dear, Miss Neilson is going to be in New
York next week, and I want you to ask pa if he won't take us again;
won't you?"

"Not fair," cried Kat; "this is our turn."

"You, indeed; nothing but children! Will you, Bea? He will listen more
if you ask because you're not so frivolous as I am."

"Yes, I'll ask. I'd love to go again," said Bea with girlish delight in
anticipating such a bliss as the repetition of going to the city and to
the theatre. "What play would you like to see?"

"Romeo and Juliet again," cried Ernestine eagerly. "Oh Bea, beg him to,
for there are some other parts that I want to see how to do."

"Do!" echoed Kittie, "Whatever do you mean?"

"Just what I say. I'll show you how they do; shall I, Bea?" exclaimed
Ernestine, springing gayly into the sunshine and striking an attitude.

"Yes, go on; you do it beautifully," said Bea; so Ernestine plunged
blithely into the play, thoroughly entrancing her three listeners with
the ease and grace with which she spoke and acted, and receiving showers
of applause as she paused.

"How delightful," cried Kittie, in a longing rapture.

"Nonsense," exclaimed Kat, who had listened intently with her nose
steadily on the ascent, "It looks all very pretty and nice here, but I
should think anybody would feel like a fool to get out on a stage and go
ranting about like that."

"Oh! it's too delightful," cried Ernestine, as Bea passed no comment
except a little sigh. "I shall run away some day sure as the world and
become a great actress; then I'll be rich and famous and you'll all
forgive me."

"I thought you always wanted to sing," said Kittie, chewing grass
thoughtfully, as she meditated on this new and startling talent and
wondered what would next develop.

"So I do, but I shall sing and act both. Now then pretend that I am
Marguerite, in Faust, you know, and see if you don't think I can do
both, as well as one." So they all looked and listened, while she sang
and sang, 'till the very birds hushed their music in envious listening,
and the rustling leaves seemed to grow still in very amaze. The sunshine
danced over her bright hair, and the lovely face flashed with a radiant
excitement that showed how deep an enjoyment even the pretense was to
her.

[Illustration: "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.




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 glorious lack of curiosity," laughed Kat.

"I suppose I'm just as contented as any of you with your guessing,"
returned Olive.

"Well I wish," said Ernestine with an energy that brought instant
attention, "I wish papa was going to increase our allowances. Two
dollars a month is a shameful little."

"But it amounts to ten dollars when paid to five girls," added Beatrice
quickly, "besides Jean's twenty-five cents."

"A girl isn't supposed to spend two dollars every month for
foolishness," said Olive severely