CHAPTER I

NORA ENTERTAINS THE JUDSONS

“And Tommy began to run, and he ran and ran till he came to the top of the kitchen stairs, and then he tripped, and went bump, bump, all the way down to the bottom. And then he gave an awful scream, and sat up, and where do you think he found himself? Right in his own bed, with his mother leaning over him, saying, ‘Why, Tommy darling, whatever is the matter? You must have had a bad dream.’ And Tommy put his hand up to his mouth, and there wasn’t any orange-tree growing out of it at all. It was all just a dream, but he had such a dreadful scare, he never, never swallowed another orange-pit as long as he lived.”

Nora paused, being rather out of breath, and her audience gave a long sigh of relief.

“It’s very funny,” remarked May, reflectively. “You’ve told us that story a good many times, and we know just how it’s going to end, but every time you come to the part where the doctor pulls out his long knife, and says, ‘We shall have to cut Tommy open,’ I always have chills down my back.”

Nora smiled with the pardonable pride of the accomplished story-teller.

“I get rather excited at that part myself,” she admitted, “though of course it’s very silly, because I made it all up. Put your arms under the bedclothes, Jimmy, or you’ll take cold and send the rash in.”

“Well, suppose I do, it won’t make any difference, and if the rash goes in perhaps I won’t feel so uncomfortable,” argued Jimmy, who always objected to prompt obedience.

“You’d die,” stated his sister, calmly. “People always die when the rash goes in.”

“Shucks!” retorted Jimmy, but he took the precaution to draw the bedclothes up over his arms once more, nevertheless. The prospect of dying was not an agreeable one. His sister May was ten, and he was only eight and a half, and it was natural to suppose that a person nearly two years his senior might know more on certain subjects, even if that person did happen to be a girl.

“It’s great to have you come and tell us stories when Papa and Mamma are out,” observed May, politely. “Wasn’t it lucky you caught the measles first! If you had been sick at the same time with us, Mamma says she doesn’t know what in the world she would have done. You do make up such good stories, Nora. I don’t see how you ever think of them all.”

“Mother says I get my imagination from my father,” said Nora. “He was a great Irish actor, you know, and he wrote plays and poems, too, only no publisher would ever take them, because they were too good to suit the public.”

“I’m sure you could act if you tried,” said May. “Why, when you’re telling a story, and change your voice to talk like the different people in it, I can almost see the things happening. Papa says he thinks it’s a shame your mamma won’t let you come out in vaudeville.”

Nora sighed, and shook her curly head.

“I’ve coaxed and coaxed,” she said, regretfully, “but it isn’t any use. Mother says I may be a writer when I grow up, but she won’t let me act.”

“Well, it’s too bad,” agreed May. “Papa and Mamma are doing real well at The Palace; their pictures are going to be in next _Sunday Herald_. They’ve got a new sketch, and it’s taking wonderfully. I wish Jimmy and I could go on, but Mamma says we haven’t either of us got a particle of talent. I should think your mamma would like to have you make all the money you could.”

“Mother says money isn’t the only thing in the world,” said Nora, soberly. “She wants me to have a good education before I do anything else. You see my father had a wonderful education. He went to Oxford University in England, and graduated first in his class. Mother had a good education, too. She speaks French, and she used to play the piano beautifully, but it’s so long since we’ve been able to afford to have one she’s afraid she’s forgotten most of her music. My grandfather was a lawyer, and when Mother was a little girl they were very well off, but when Grandpa died there wasn’t much money left, and Mother had to be companion to a cross old lady till she met Father and they got married. Father always thought he was going to be very rich, but he wasn’t strong, and the managers wouldn’t put on his plays, and then he was very ill, and died, when I was a baby, and Mother has had to work hard ever since.”

Here the conversation was interrupted by a demand from the feverish Jimmy for a drink of water, and Nora departed for the kitchen sink, whence she returned with a glass of cold water, which she held tenderly to the little sufferer’s lips. Jimmy had come down with measles several days later than his sister, and was still in the uncomfortable, feverish stage of the disease.

“Tell us another story,” commanded Jimmy, when he had drunk his fill, and Nora had tucked the bedclothes about him again, and turned his hot pillow.

“All right,” said Nora, cheerfully, setting the empty glass down on the floor, the little dark apartment-house bedroom being destitute of all furniture except one chair and the two small iron bedsteads. “What story shall I tell?”

“About your twin sister,” said May, eagerly. “You love that story, don’t you, Jimmy?”

“I like ‘The Talking Tree’ better,” objected Jimmy.

“Oh, that’s just a fairy story. Please let Nora tell about her twin sister; it’s so interesting.”

Jimmy was beginning to feel rather sleepy or he might not have acquiesced so readily, but as it was, he made no further objection, and May added an impatient, “Go on, Nora.”

But to her surprise, good-natured Nora did not respond with her usual alacrity. Her dark little face had grown suddenly grave and troubled.

“I don’t believe I’d better tell that story any more,” she said, doubtfully. “I should think you’d be tired of it, anyhow.”

“But we’re not a bit tired of it,” protested May. “It’s the most interesting story you tell. Besides, you always add new parts to it. Oh, please do go on, Nora; I heard the clock strike five, and Papa and Mamma will be in before you finish if you don’t hurry.”

“But don’t you think it’s a rather silly story?” urged Nora. “Let me tell ‘The Talking Tree’ instead; Jimmy likes that best.”

“Jimmy doesn’t care; he’s going to sleep. Oh, please do hurry and begin, Nora.”

Thus urged, Nora choked down her scruples, and began.

“Well, my twin sister lives in a beautiful big house, over on Fifth Avenue, opposite the park. It’s one of the grandest houses you ever saw. There are two men in livery, and sometimes one opens the front door, and sometimes the other. My twin sister has a big automobile of her very own, and every afternoon she goes for a ride. Some days her governess goes with her, and other days she takes her friends. Almost every Saturday she goes to the theatre. She has closets full of beautiful dresses, and when she was little she had the most wonderful toys you ever heard of. Her doll’s house had electric lights, and hot and cold water in it. She’s given all her toys away now, but she’s got books, shelves and shelves full of them, and the loveliest jewelry: pins, and rings, and bracelets. You ought to see her when she goes out walking with her father on Sunday afternoons. She’s so pretty you would just love to kiss her.”

“She looks just like you, doesn’t she?” remarked May, innocently.

Nora blushed.

“I didn’t mean her face was so pretty,” she explained, modestly; “it’s her clothes. She has a velvet suit, trimmed with chinchilla, and a muff to match, and the prettiest hat you ever saw. Then her curls hang loose over her shoulders, and--and--well, I can’t explain it exactly, but she really is lovely.”

“I think you might be quite lovely, too, if you were dressed like that,” said May, reflectively. “But your twin sister’s face is just exactly like yours, even if her clothes aren’t; at least you always say it is.”

“Oh, yes,” said Nora; “if we were dressed alike I don’t believe any one could tell which was which.”

“Tell us about the party,” said May, settling herself more comfortably; “you’ve only told us that part once.”

“Oh, the party was on her birthday, when she was twelve. Of course that was my birthday, too, but I didn’t have any party. It was the grandest party you ever heard of. The street was lined with carriages and automobiles, and there was an awning, and a carpet on the front steps. There were hundreds of children at the party, and real musicians played for them to dance, and a man did wonderful tricks, and a lady sang and told beautiful fairy stories.”

“Was there ice-cream?” This in a sleepy voice from Jimmy.

“Of course there was, quarts and quarts, and there were cakes and candies, and all sorts of delicious things besides. Sherry served the refreshments. There was a long account of the party in the _Sunday Herald_.”

“I wish I had some ice-cream now,” moaned Jimmy; “I’m awful hot and thirsty.”

“Maybe your mother will bring some when she comes in,” suggested Nora, hopefully. “My twin sister has so much ice-cream that she doesn’t care any more about it than we care about hash. She’s very generous, though. Once she went to a Home for crippled children, and brought them all candy, and when she went away, she ordered ice-cream and cake to be sent to them every Sunday. That was in the _Herald_, too. A great many things my twin sister does are in the newspapers. It’s because her father is so very rich that people are always interested in what his family do. His wife is dead, and he and my twin sister live in that big house all alone except for a lot of servants, and a housekeeper. My sister doesn’t go to school, but she has ever so many teachers, who come every day to give her lessons.”

“I should hate that,” declared May, with conviction. “I suppose she has to learn to speak French, and play the piano. It must be grand to live in that big house, though, and ride in an auto every day. Go on and make up some more, Nora. You make it sound so real I keep forgetting it isn’t all true.”

But before Nora could “make up any more,” the outer door of the apartment was heard to open and close, and a cheery voice called--

“Here I am, kids; did you think I was never coming?”

“It’s Mamma,” announced May, joyfully, and Jimmy opened his heavy eyes, to inquire--

“Oh, Mamma, did you bring ice-cream?”

“Ice-cream! Well, now, what ever made you think of that?” inquired Mrs. Judson, appearing in the doorway, her plump, good-humored face wreathed in smiles.

“I bet you did!” cried Jimmy, his own face brightening perceptibly at sight of his mother. “Oh, say, Mamma, did you?”

“To be sure I did,” said Mrs. Judson; “that’s just what kept me so long. I’d have been home ten minutes sooner if I hadn’t stopped at the confectioner’s. Why, Jimmy, my poor little chick, you’re as red as a lobster. No doubt about yours being a thorough case. I hope they’ve both been good while I was away, Nora?”

“They’ve been as good as gold,” declared Nora. “I’ve been telling stories all the afternoon. I gave them their medicine at three, as you told me to.”

“You’re a jewel,” declared Mrs. Judson. “I don’t believe there are many children of your age who could be trusted as you can. Now you must just stay and have some ice-cream; there’s plenty for everybody.”

Nora accepted the invitation with pleasure, and followed Mrs. Judson to the kitchen, in quest of saucers and spoons. In theatrical circles Mrs. Judson was known as Mrs. Leroy Newcomb, and her husband, Mr. Judson, appeared on the vaudeville programmes as Mr. Leroy Newcomb. In earlier life Mr. Judson had been greatly admired for his graceful dancing, but flesh and advancing years had seriously interfered with his career as a dancer, and at the present time he and Mrs. Judson eked out a rather scanty income as “vaudeville artists.”

“Nora’s been telling us such an interesting story,” said May, as the party settled down to the enjoyment of ice-cream and lady-fingers. “It’s about her twin sister, who’s awfully rich, and lives in a big house over on Fifth Avenue, opposite the park. Tell Mamma about it, Nora; it’s lovely.”

“Yes, do, dear,” urged good-natured Mrs. Judson, but Nora blushed and shook her head.

“I’ve got to go,” she said; “Mother told me to come home as soon as you got back.”

“Finish your cream first,” advised Mrs. Judson, “and don’t hurry. You’ve been a great help, and I wish you’d tell your mother how much obliged to her I am for letting you stay with the children. That Jimmy of mine is such a limb, he’d never keep inside the bedclothes for five minutes if there wasn’t somebody to watch him. It isn’t so bad in the evening, when they’re both asleep, and the janitor’s wife looks in once in a while to see that everything’s all right, but if it wasn’t for you I’m sure I don’t know how I should ever manage in the afternoons now they’re both in bed at once. I wish your mother’d let me pay you something, but when I suggested it to her the other day, she seemed quite upset at the very idea.”

“Of course Mother wouldn’t let you pay me,” said Nora, blushing. “I love taking care of people, and I’d rather tell stories than do almost anything else. I hope May will be up by Monday, though, for Mother thinks I will have to go back to school. The measles quarantine is only two weeks, and I’ve been out since Wednesday.”

“Well, I suppose you’ll have to go, then,” said Mrs. Judson, with a sigh, “though how I’m going to get along without you I don’t see. Your mother’s very strong on education, isn’t she?”

“Yes,” said Nora, regretfully; “she wants me to be able to teach when I leave school.”

“I know she does, and it seems a pity, too. Why, with your talent for acting, you might be bringing in a good salary by the time you’re sixteen. But, there, what’s the use of talking? Your mother has her views, and she’s a lady, if there ever was one. Must you really go? You’ve left ’most a whole spoonful of cream on your plate. That’s right, scrape around the edges. I was brought up never to waste anything, and it’s a good rule, too.”

Nora laughed, as she put down her empty saucer, and having bidden the Judsons a hasty farewell, she hurried away up to her own quarters, in the big studio at the top of the apartment house. There was no elevator, but Nora was accustomed to stairs, and ran lightly up the three long flights, and opened the door of the studio, which served her mother and herself as parlor, kitchen and bedroom all in one.

Before one of the windows, a delicate little woman, who looked almost too young and pretty to be the mother of such a big girl, was busy with a typewriter, her nimble fingers flying over the keys with a speed which would have surprised any one less accustomed to it than Nora. At the little girl’s entrance, Mrs. O’Neil looked up from her work with a smile.

“’Most finished, Mummy?”

“In a few minutes, chicken. Don’t bother. The boy from the office is to call at six, and it’s long past five already. I’m in a great hurry.”

“All right,” promised Nora, “I won’t say a word, and I’ll be as quiet as a mouse. I’ll just read the newspaper till you’re through.” And suiting the action to the words, she picked up the morning paper and settled herself in the rocker by the opposite window, to catch the last rays of afternoon sunshine.

For the next fifteen minutes the only sounds in the room were the steady click of the typewriter, and an occasional rustle from Nora’s paper. Then Mrs. O’Neil finished her last sheet, and began gathering her manuscript together. Nora was on her feet in a moment.

“The paper says fair and warmer for to-morrow,” she announced. “Don’t you hope it’ll come true? Just think, it’s three whole weeks since we’ve been to the park. First it rained one Sunday, and then came the horrid old measles. Let me help you tie them up, Mother. Is the story as good as the one last week?”

“I am afraid not,” said Mrs. O’Neil. “This tiresome cold has given me such a headache that my brain is duller than usual. I sat here for nearly an hour before I could think of an opening sentence for my article.”

“Poor Mummy! Well, it’s finished now, at any rate, and I’m sure it’s all right. I know people must just love reading your things. I wish I were grown up, so I could write for the newspapers, too.”

“You will probably write better than I do,” said her mother; “you inherit your father’s talent.”

Nora blushed with pleasure.

“I’ve been telling the Judsons stories all the afternoon,” she said. “I made up two new ones, and then I told ‘Tommy and The Orange Pits,’ and just before Mrs. Judson came in, they wanted me to tell about ‘Her.’”

Mrs. O’Neil looked a little troubled.

“You really must be careful, Nora,” she said, gravely. “Suppose the Judsons, or some one else, were to find out?”

“Oh, they won’t; they couldn’t possibly!” declared Nora. “I never talk about her to anybody but Jimmy and May, and they think I make it all up, like the other stories. I’m sorry I ever began it, but it was one day when May was in bed with bronchitis, and I’d told every story I knew, and couldn’t think of a new one. I didn’t mean ever to mention her again, but May was so interested, and she’s been asking me to make up about my twin sister ever since.”

Mrs. O’Neil sighed, and a look of pain flitted across her sweet face.

“Well, I suppose it can’t be helped,” she said. “I am afraid the fault was mine in the beginning. I ought not to have told you the story till you were old enough to keep it to yourself.”

“Oh, Mother!” cried Nora, the tears starting to her eyes.

“There, there, dearie, don’t worry. There isn’t anything to cry about, and as long as the Judsons think it is only one of your make-ups, no harm can be done. I only reproach myself for not keeping the secret better, but it was so cruelly hard never to be able to mention my Kathleen’s name----” The sentence ended in a quickly suppressed sob.

“Mummy darling, I’m so sorry!” and Nora’s arms were round her mother’s neck. “I’ll never say another word about her to any one, not even to the Judsons, only please, please don’t be sorry you told me. Why, it’s been the most interesting thing that ever happened. Just think of those wonderful Sunday afternoons in the park, and really seeing her sometimes at the windows, or going out with her father! Why, it’s been almost like living in a story.”

Mrs. O’Neil kissed the eager, quivering little face, and smiled through her tears.

“Then I am glad I did tell you, darling,” she said, “and I am sure I can trust my little girl not to get her mother into trouble. Now come and help me do up my article; the boy from the office will be here in five minutes.”

“All right,” said Nora, drying her tears, “and then you’re going to lie down and rest your poor head while I get tea. You won’t have to go out again to-night, will you?”

“Yes, dear, I am afraid I must. I had a telephone message from the office this afternoon, and they want me to report on a big dinner of Colonial Dames at the Waldorf.”

Nora’s face fell, but she said nothing. Long experience had taught her that arguing with this plucky, resolute little mother of hers was never of any use. But there was a troubled look in her brown eyes, as she helped tie up the bundle of manuscript, and later, when the boy from the newspaper office had come and gone, and Mrs. O’Neil had thrown herself wearily on the couch, for a few minutes’ well earned rest, she covered her mother’s feet carefully with a shawl, before starting her preparations for the simple supper.

“If we only had a little bit of Kathleen’s money,” she said to herself, regretfully, as she lighted the gas stove, and put the kettle on to boil. “I’m sure she’d love to help Mother, if she only knew, but of course I can never, never tell.”