Part 3

It was the day before the butterman made his appearance, that an express package, addressed to Miss Eleanor Dallas, was left at the door. As it happened Eleanor was in her room when Bubbles came running upstairs saying: "Somepin fo' yuh! Somepin fo' yuh! Miss Dimple. Ain't I glad!"

With eager fingers Eleanor undid the string, uncovered the box and very carefully lifted the soft paper snugly packed around the prettiest little doll just about the size of the one which Donald had so wantonly destroyed. The child's little scream of delight brought Olive and Jessie from the next room, and they were soon all examining this new arrival. The doll wore a pretty traveling dress of grey with hat to match and grey suede shoes. Pinned to her frock was a note which read:

"DEAR DIMPLE:

"I am sending you a little friend of mine who, I hope, will be able to comfort you while your mamma is away. Her name is Ada and she is ready to be loved very much. I should like to have her taught from the books which you will find in her trunk, and I hope you will have no trouble in teaching her to be obedient and attentive.

"Your very loving "AUNT DORA."

The note was type-written and was very easy to read.

"Oh, my dear lovely child!" cried Eleanor. "I am so glad you have come. But where is the trunk, Bubbles?"

"Law! I nuver brought it up; I thought hit were fo' somebody e's," and Bubbles skurried downstairs as fast as her legs could take her, coming back in a moment with the trunk in her arms. Eleanor proceeded immediately to open it and found it filled with a most complete little wardrobe: two school dresses, a handsome suit for extra occasions, a fine white frock for parties. Then there were stockings, tiny handkerchiefs, all manner of under-clothing, a set of furs, ribbons, a little hood trimmed with fur, a cunning hat in a small bandbox, and at the very bottom of the trunk were found a slate and several funny little books. Even Olive could not resist many ohs and ahs as one after another of the dainty garments appeared. Aunt Dora had evidently made everything with her own hands and the tiny hems, the neat little seams, so excited the children's admiration that Jessie begged to take them to her mother to look at.

[Illustration: "ELEANOR PROCEEDED TO OPEN THE TRUNK"]

Mrs. Murdoch's remark was: "They are very nice, Jessie, but I wish Eleanor were more worthy of such kindness."

Eleanor, hearing the words, retreated to the door of her own room; standing there she retorted: "I am worth Aunt Dora's kindness as much as you are worth my mamma's. She wouldn't treat one of your children the way you do me, and I think when she lets you have her nice house to live in that you might be a little more polite to me."

"Such a want of fine feeling," sighed Mrs. Murdoch. "When you show a sweet and amiable spirit, Eleanor, I shall be ready to give you more affection, but you cannot expect it from those whom you twit and taunt because of their misfortunes."

"My mamma has a trouble, too," returned Eleanor, "and you are making a lot for me. I wish I had never seen you."

"Such a dreadfully spoiled child," sighed Mrs. Murdoch. "I would rather you did not come into my room, Eleanor, since you only stir up strife, and seem to delight in making impertinent speeches."

"You just keep out of my mother's room," said Olive, looking defiantly at Eleanor.

With a little choking sob, Eleanor turned and went away, saying only: "It's my mamma's room; my own mamma's room, and I was never turned out of it before."

"Never mind her, Olive," she heard Mrs. Murdoch say. "She is a spoiled, badly-managed child, and you must try to set her a good example. I am grieved to find that Florence is so indulgent and injudicious a mother."

Eleanor hearing, turned in a perfect storm of tears goaded beyond endurance to say, "You shall not say such things about my mother. She is the dearest and best in the world, and I'd like to know where anybody could find such a hateful, spoiled, wicked, wicked child as Donald. And as for Olive, she is a horrid little sneak. I saw her steal cake from the pantry and she told you that Bubbles did it. I don't tell stories and I don't take things without leave."

"Oh, mamma, I didn't," said Olive turning very red, but denying Eleanor's charge with emphasis.

"Don't add falsehood to your other sins, Eleanor," said Mrs. Murdoch. "Go to your room. Indeed, I wish to do my duty by you, but I cannot have you shield that favorite of yours by telling falsehoods about my children."

Olive whispered something to her, and she nodded in reply while Eleanor walked from the room and threw herself sobbing into Bubbles' arms. "Oh, Bubbles, Bubbles," she cried, "they say I tell stories and it is they who do, and they call me selfish and wicked when it is they who are. Oh, what shall I do?"

"Ne'm mind, Miss Dimple," said Bubbles, soothingly. "'Tain't goneter las' fo'ever, an' yuh jes' go 'long an' don' min' what Miss Murder say." Then she whispered: "Don' min' 'bout me. She ain't a goin' to fin' no place fo' me, an' yuh know I is goin' to Sylvy. Mebbe she won't be so cross when I'm gone. Come, now, le's play with yo' new dolly. My, ain't she pretty with them big eyes an' them rosy cheeks?"

"She is lovely," returned Eleanor, drying her eyes, "and I shall just love her, but I wish I could run away with you, Bubbles."

"Sh!" said Bubbles, for just then Olive entered and said in a prim way: "Mamma says you are not to stay in here with Eleanor, Barbara. She says you are to go down and set the table for tea, and you are not to stay in Eleanor's room nor even come in here without express permission."

Bubbles arose and obediently went below stairs, but she muttered much to herself and racked her brain for some way in which she could avenge the trials of her beloved Miss Dimple, who, meanwhile was trying to comfort herself with her new doll. A letter from her mother that day had said that Mr. Dallas was not quite so well but that Eleanor was not to worry, for she hoped to have better news the next time she wrote, and she was glad to hear that her little daughter was getting along well at school and that she was well. She must try to be kind and obedient and helpful to her Cousin Ellen.

"I won't, I won't, I won't," whispered Eleanor to herself. "I can't be. She is too hateful to me. I wish I had never seen her and I wish I could stay out of the house all the time." And indeed this is what she tried to do, starting early for school, and trying to spend as much of the afternoon as possible with some of her schoolmates. Olive had made friends with Janet Forrester, and Jessie had found a playmate nearer her own age, so Eleanor was free to select her own friends. Upon one occasion there came a clash upon this very subject, for Mrs. Murdoch insisted that Eleanor should go to Janet Forrester's to spend the afternoon. "I feel myself responsible for you, Eleanor," she said, "and I should like to know that you are somewhere with Olive that I may be able to account for you."

"Mamma doesn't like me to play with Janet," Eleanor blurted out.

"Why not?"

Eleanor hung her head. She did not like to tell tales, in school or out, but Olive spoke up: "I know, mamma; it's because Barbara stole a ring from Janet and she and Eleanor quarreled about it."

"Oh, what a story," cried Eleanor. "She didn't steal it, any such a thing. Janet said she did just to get Bubbles into trouble and she found the ring afterward at her own house. So there."

Mrs. Murdoch and Olive exchanged glances and Mrs. Murdoch lifted her eyebrows slightly, in a way that Eleanor much disliked.

"That's what Janet told me, anyhow, mamma," said Olive meaningly.

"There are always two sides to a question," said Mrs. Murdoch, "but if you are sure, Eleanor, that your mamma does not like you to play with Janet you needn't go. Mrs. Forrester has doubtless the same objection on her side."

Eleanor looked at her with blazing eyes; then stamping her foot she cried: "I wish you'd just write to mamma and ask her. She will tell you the truth, anyhow, if you don't believe me. I never tell stories. I never do such things. You can ask mamma." And she turned away.

This was on Wednesday before school, and on her return home she found Mrs. Murdoch in quite a perturbed state. "Eleanor," she said, "have you seen anything of Barbara? She hasn't been seen since about eleven o'clock."

"I haven't seen her," returned Eleanor curtly.

"Do you know where she is?"

Eleanor hesitated, then remembered that she did not know just where Sylvy's parents lived; it was somewhere in the country, but where she could not tell.

"Answer me," said Mrs. Murdoch. "Where is she?"

"I don't know, Cousin Ellen, at least, I know she has gone away somewhere in the country, but I don't know where the place is. You said you were going to send her away, and so she went anyhow."

"And you have known this all the time and haven't told me? Such deceit!"

"I don't know why I should have told," retorted Eleanor. "It wouldn't have done Bubbles any good, and I love her a thousand million times more than I do you, if she is black. She is white inside and I know you are not."

"Eleanor!" Mrs. Murdoch spoke very sternly. "You are really the most dreadful child I have ever encountered. I never had any one speak to me as you have done. You are completely contaminated by your association with servants."

"I don't tell stories, and I don't steal from the pantry, and I don't do lots of things your children do," returned Eleanor thoroughly defiant.

"Hush!" cried Mrs. Murdoch. "If it were not for worrying your mother I should tell her very plainly what I think of you, but as it is, my hands are tied. I shall have to pass over this as I have over many other things. If Barbara has gone I wash my hands of her, and when your mother returns she can do as she thinks fit about the affair. I am not in a position to punish you as you deserve, but I wish you not to address me or any of my family, except when absolutely necessary, while we remain here."

However much Mrs. Murdoch was pleased at Bubbles' departure to Eleanor it was a sore loss, and she went to bed that night clasping her dear Ada close to her heart and shedding many tears for Bubbles. The absence of the little colored girl in more ways than one, made it hard for Eleanor, for now Bubbles could not be used as a scapegoat for Olive's sly pilferings, nor for Don's tricks, and so by degrees it was Eleanor herself upon whom all the blame was laid. Did anything happen to be out of place, Eleanor had it last. Were there mud tracked through Mrs. Murdoch's clean halls, Eleanor did it; and, since Mrs. Murdoch's blind idolatry of her children did not permit her to see a fault in any one of them, poor Eleanor was gradually made to believe herself a most wicked person, and she was in danger of acquiring some of the very qualities which were attributed to her.

It was Miss Reese who first noticed this, for she saw that the child's sunny little face was now habitually clouded and that, whereas she had formerly been responsive to gentle chiding for some slight fault, she was beginning to show open defiance, and so the teacher called upon Mrs. Murdoch and very tactfully brought around the conversation to the subject which was upon her mind.

"You find Olive and Jessie tractable, I hope," said Mrs. Murdoch.

"Yes," returned Miss Reese, "Jessie particularly. I have some times thought that Olive was not as frank as I should like her to be, but I may be mistaken."

Mrs. Murdoch's visible resentment showed Miss Reese that she was upon dangerous ground. "That is a quality that belongs to Eleanor rather than to Olive," Mrs. Murdoch said. "The child has been brought up very unwisely."

"Why, what do you mean?" Miss Reese was surprised into saying. "I have always thought Mrs. Dallas one of the tenderest and most devoted of mothers. Every one thinks Eleanor one of the best behaved little girls in town; for myself I think she is a charming child."

"One can never tell unless one lives in the house with such a character," said Mrs. Murdoch, sighing. "Your estimate simply proves what I say that Eleanor is vain and deceitful."

Miss Reese began to take in the situation but she only said:

"I think a teacher has an excellent opportunity for judging of the characters of those placed in her care, and I cannot agree with you, Mrs. Murdoch." Then she took her leave, resolved to give more attention to Eleanor from this out.

_CHAPTER V_

_More Trouble_

It was about two weeks after Bubbles' departure that Eleanor, coming home one day from school, found her new doll missing and her precious Jungle Book out of its place on her shelves. She searched high and low but could find neither book nor doll. She gave to her dolls a devoted affection. They seemed real persons to her and any indignity offered to them cut her to the very heart. Once in a while she had forgotten and had left some special member of her family out in the garden all night and her self-reproach upon discovering it was great. It was as if she felt upon her own tender body the dews of night, and as if pangs of hunger had been hers, and after that, for days, the victim of her forgetfulness would be treated with extra care and tenderness.

For her books she had the feeling that is that of every true book-lover. It hurt her to see her treasured volumes laid face down, or to see thumb-marks soiling one of the clean pages or to come across a leaf turned down; therefore she dreaded to see one of her beloved books in Donald's hands. Donald was no respecter of the property of others, and if he wanted a book he usually helped himself to it and kept it in the playhouse as long as it suited him. He was very tenacious, it may be said, about his right to the playhouse, and always kept the door locked and the key in his pocket when he was not in the small building, so that Eleanor had no opportunity of going in there to search for any of her lost treasures.

She sighed as she thought some day she would probably find her Jungle Book, soiled and with dingy covers, returned to her shelves, but Donald professed to despise dolls and what could he want to do with her dear Ada? She determined to ask him if he had seen her doll, and to be very polite when she did it; so she waited patiently till she should hear him come in.

It was cold November weather and the winter was fast approaching. Eleanor shuddered as she thought of Ada lying somewhere out in the chill wind, but she said very sweetly, "Donald, have you seen anything of my new doll?"

"What do you suppose I know about your old doll?" he returned.

"I can't find her anywhere," Eleanor went on wistfully. "I left her sitting on my bed this morning, and I have hunted high and low for her."

"You didn't look in the flour barrel, I suppose," said Donald laughing.

"No. Oh, you didn't put her in there, did you? She will smother." And she hurried off to the pantry to examine the contents of the barrel.

Mrs. Murdoch coming saw her there. "Eleanor, what are you doing?" she asked sharply. "You charge Olive with pilfering from my store of cakes and I find you in here. What does this mean?"

"I am only looking for my doll, Cousin Ellen," Eleanor replied, too much worried to notice the implied charges.

"A queer place to look for a doll."

"Donald asked me if I had looked in the flour barrel, and I want so much to find her."

"As if he would put a doll in there. He has better sense than to do such a thing," said Mrs. Murdoch. "Your excuse is a very lame one, Eleanor."

But Eleanor paid little heed to her and again sought Donald, who jeeringly said: "When she's up she's up, and when she's down she's down, and when she's half-way up she's neither up nor down." And that was all Eleanor could get out of him.

Up and downstairs she trudged, looking in every room but no Ada was to be found. All over the garden she searched, but no Ada was there, but at last the child caught sight of something swinging from the garret window, and going closer, she saw Ada clad in her little nightgown and tied by the neck to a string which was suspended from a nail in the eaves. Upstairs Eleanor rushed, feeling as if she could not endure such treatment of her doll. She was in an agony of sympathy for poor Ada, but, try as she would, she could not grasp the string which hung just beyond her reach and could only be touched by standing on the ledge outside the window.

Eleanor was always desperately afraid to stand on high places, but her eagerness to gain possession of her doll, nerved her to climb out and stand upon the sill. She caught the string in one hand and with a dreadful feeling that Ada's body was thumping against the side of the house, she managed to climb in again and drew up the precious burden to find the doll a little scarred, but otherwise unhurt.

The child was now in such a nervous tremor that she felt her limbs shaking under her as she sank down on the garret floor giving vent to quick little sobs. "We won't stand it, Ada; we won't," she said. "We will run away, too. We will go with the butterman and find Sylvy and Bubbles. They love me better than these cousins." She had always been used to having negro servants about her and the idea of going to Sylvy did not affect her as it might have done a child not accustomed to being petted and coddled by a negro nursemaid.

"To-morrow the butterman comes again and we will hide somewhere, Ada, and go with him. I hope Bubbles found Sylvy. I haven't heard a word about her, but I hope she got there all right. I must write a note to Miss Reese, for she will wonder why I am not at school. I will mail it in the morning." The little inconsequent mind did not see any further troubles arising from her purpose, and she began to make her plans. "I will write to mamma and tell her I did not mean to be bad but that they made me so, and I'll tell her I am safe and that I am going to stay till she comes back," she told her doll. Then she tied up a little bundle of her own clothing, and put in what she considered proper apparel for Ada, and then she wrote her little note to Miss Reese:

"DEAR MISS REESE:

"I can't come to school because I am going away. I'm so miserble without mamma and nobody loves me. Ime not going because I dont like to go to school and plese excuse my lessons I will study very hard when mamma comes back

"Affectionately yours "ELEANOR DALLAS.

"P.S.--I forgot to tell you ime going to stay with Sylvy and Bubbles."

She decided that she would go to school and at recess she would slip out and be on the corner when the butterman drove by. She would leave her bundle with old Mrs. Wills who kept a small shop near the school. She felt distressed at leaving her other dolls and Nyxy, her little black cat, but she laid the former carefully away in a drawer, after fondly kissing each smiling face, locked the drawer and took the key with her. Nyxy she knew would be well cared for. Jessie was devoted to him and the cook was fond of cats, and therefore with a soft whisper and a loving pat, Eleanor bade good-bye to her furry pet the next morning and started out alone. She did not often walk to school with her cousins nowadays, for Olive usually stopped for Janet Forrester and Jessie had a friend about her own age who called for her almost every morning, therefore Eleanor was not observed as she stepped out with her bundle and hurried along to Mrs. Wills before the others started.

Mrs. Wills cheerfully took charge of the bundle, patted Eleanor's shoulder and gave her a cocoanut cake. Her little shop was beginning to show Christmas wares and it gave Eleanor a pang to think that perhaps this year there would be no mamma on hand to plan delightful surprises. The tears gathered in her eyes as she went on to school, stopping to mail her letter to Miss Reese on the way.

She arrived quite early and found the schoolroom empty of every one except her teacher. Miss Reese looked up with a smile. "Good-morning, Eleanor," she said. "This is quite a frosty morning, isn't it? It promises cold weather soon. I suppose you are glad of that, for your mamma thought she would be home by Christmas, I remember."

"I'm afraid she won't be," returned Eleanor. "Papa wasn't so well when she last wrote."

"Oh, that's too bad. Never mind, you can have a good time with your cousins. It must be very lively for you to have so many playmates, after being the only child in the house."

Eleanor did not reply, but there was a quivering of her lips that told Miss Reese more than words could have done. "Did you come to school on your wheel?" Miss Reese asked, changing the subject.

"No, Miss Reese. Don has broken it. I hate Don."

"Why, my child."

"I do. I can't help it if I am wicked and selfish and--and deceitful, I just hate him," she said, going to her desk and hiding her face behind the lid as she raised it that Miss Reese might not see her tears. But just then in came a troop of girls and no more was said, although Miss Reese made a mental note of Eleanor's words.

At recess Eleanor asked permission to go to Mrs. Wills' little shop. This was often accorded the girls and consent was given to the child, who, however, waited till the last moment and then ran out, passing the girls returning from having made their purchases of sour balls or ginger cakes or buns.

"You'd better hurry up," said Laura Field; "the bell will ring in a minute."