Children's Book Classics - Kate Douglas Wiggin Edition: 11 Novels & 120+ Short Stories for Children. Kate Douglas Wiggin

not only may, but you must. Good-by.”

      Polly went upstairs, and, after washing the lunch-dishes in a reflective turn of mind which did away with part of the irksomeness of the task, went into the parlor and sat on a stool at her mother’s feet.

      A soft rain had begun to fall; the fire burned brightly; the bamboo cast feathery shadows on the wall; from a house across the street came the sound of a beautiful voice singing,—

      “Oh, holy night! the stars are brightly shining.

       It is the night of the dear Saviour’s birth!”

      All was peaceful and homelike; if it would only last, thought Polly.

      “You are well to-night, mamacita.”

      A look of repressed pain crossed Mrs. Oliver’s face as she smoothed the bright head lying in her lap. “Very comfortable, dear, and very happy; as who would not be, with such a darling comfort of a daughter? Always sunny, always helpful, these last dear weeks,—cook, housekeeper, nurse, banker, all in one, with never a complaint as one burden after another is laid on her willing shoulders.”

      “Don’t, mamma!” whispered Polly, seeking desperately for her handkerchief. “I can stand scolding, but compliments always make me cry; you know they do. If Ferdinand and Isabella had told Columbus to discover my pocket instead of America, he would n’t have been as famous as he is now; there, I ‘ve found it. Now, mamma, you know your whole duty is to be well, well, well, and I ‘ll take care of everything else.”

      “I ‘ve been thinking about Edgar, Polly, and I have a plan, but I shall not think of urging it against your will; you are the mistress of the house nowadays.”

      “I know what it is,” sighed Polly. “You think we ought to take another boarder. A desire for boarders is like a taste for strong drink; once acquired, it is almost impossible to eradicate it from the system.”

      “I do think we ought to take this boarder. Not because it will make a difference in our income, but I am convinced that if Edgar can have a pleasant home and our companionship just at this juncture, he will break away from his idle habits, and perhaps his bad associations, and take a fresh start. I feel that we owe it to our dear old friends to do this for them, if we can. Of course, if it proves too great a tax upon you, or if I should have another attack of illness, it will be out of the question; but who knows? perhaps two or three months will accomplish our purpose. He can pay me whatever he has been paying in Berkeley, less the amount of his fare to and fro. We might have little Yung Lee again, and Mrs. Howe will be glad to rent her extra room. It has a fireplace, and will serve for both bedroom and study, if we add a table and student-lamp.”

      “I don’t believe he will come,” said Polly. “We are all very well as a diversion, but as a constancy we should pall upon him. I never could keep up to the level I have been maintaining for the last twenty-four hours, that is certain. It is nothing short of degradation to struggle as hard to amuse a boy as I have struggled to amuse Edgar. I don’t believe he could endure such exhilaration week after week, and I am very sure it would kill me. Besides, he will fancy he is going to be watched and reported at headquarters in Santa Barbara!”

      “I think very likely you are right; but perhaps I can put the matter so that it will strike him in some other light.”

      “Very well, mamacita; I ‘m resigned. It will break up all our nice little two-ing, but we will be his guardian angel. I will be his guardian and you his angel, and oh, how he would dislike it if he knew it! But wait until odious Mr. Tony meets him to-night! What business is it of his if my hair is red! When he chaffs him for breaking his appointment, I dare say we shall never see him again.”

      “You are so jolly comfortable here! This house is the next best thing to mother,” said Edgar, with boyish heartiness, as he stood on the white goatskin with his back to the Olivers’ cheerful fireplace.

      It was Wednesday evening of the next week. Polly was clearing away the dinner things, and Edgar had been arranging Mrs. Oliver’s chair and pillows and footstool like the gentle young knight he was by nature.

      What wonder that all the fellows, even “smirking Tony,” liked him and sought his company? He who could pull an oar, throw a ball, leap a bar, ride a horse, or play a game of skill as if he had been born for each particular occupation,—what wonder that the ne’er-do-wells and idlers and scamps and dullards battered at his door continually and begged him to leave his books and come out and “stir up things”!

      “If you think it is so ‘jolly,’” said Mrs. Oliver, “how would you like to come here and live with us awhile?”

      This was a bombshell. The boy hesitated naturally, being taken quite by surprise. (“Confound it!” he thought rapidly, “how shall I get out of this scrape without being impolite! They would n’t give me one night out a week if I came!”) “I ‘d like it immensely, you know,” he said aloud, “and it’s awfully kind of you to propose it, and I appreciate it, but I don’t think—I don’t see, that is, how I could come, Mrs. Oliver. In the first place, I ‘m quite sure my home people would dislike my intruding on your privacy; and then,—well, you know I am out in the evening occasionally, and should n’t like to disturb you, besides, I ‘m sure Miss Polly has her hands full now.”

      “Of course you would be often out in the evening, though I don’t suppose you are a ‘midnight reveler.’ You would simply have a latch-key and go out and come in as you liked. Mrs. Howe’s room is very pleasant, as you know; and you could study there before your open fire, and join us when you felt like it. Is it as convenient and pleasant for you to live on this side of the bay, and go back and forth?”

      “Oh yes! I don’t mind that part of it.” (“This is worse than the Inquisition; I don’t know but that she will get me in spite of everything!”)

      “Oh dear!” thought Mrs. Oliver, “he does n’t want to come; and I don’t want him to come, and I must urge him to come against his will. How very disagreeable missionary work is, to be sure! I sympathize with him, too. He is afraid of petticoat government, and fears that he will lose some of his precious liberty. If I had fifty children, I believe I should want them all girls.”

      “Besides, dear Mrs. Oliver,” continued Edgar, after an awkward pause, “I don’t think you are strong enough to have me here. I believe you ‘re only proposing it for my good. You know that I ‘m in a forlorn students’ boarding-house, and you are anxious to give me ‘all the comforts of a home’ for my blessed mother’s sake, regardless of your own discomforts.”

      “Come here a moment and sit beside me on Polly’s footstool. You were nearly three years old when Polly was born. You were all staying with me that summer. Did you know that you were my first boarders? You were a tiny fellow in kilts, very much interested in the new baby, and very anxious to hold her. I can see you now rocking the cradle as gravely as a man. Polly has hard times and many sorrows before her, Edgar! You are old enough to see that I cannot stay with her much longer.”

      Edgar was too awed and too greatly moved to answer.

      “I should be very glad to have you with us, both because I think we could in some degree take the place of your mother and Margery, and because I should be glad to feel that in any sudden emergency, which I do not in the least expect, we should have a near friend to lean upon ever so little.”

      Edgar’s whole heart went out in a burst of sympathy and manly tenderness. In that moment he felt willing to give up every personal pleasure, if he might lift a feather’s weight of care from the fragile woman who spoke to him with such sweetness and trust. For there is nothing hopeless save meanness and poverty of nature; and any demand on Edgar Noble’s instinct of chivalrous protection would never be discounted.

      “I will come gladly, gladly, Mrs. Oliver,” he said, “if only I can be of service; though I fear it will be all the other way. Please borrow me for a son, just to keep me in training, and I ‘ll try to bear my honors worthily.”

      “Thank you,