You see, I know what it is to be poor and not have nice things like other folks, and now that grandpa's taken us home to live with him in a great, big house where there's always plenty and enough to spare, seems like it was just the proper thing to give some of it away to make the less _forchinit_ a little happier. It takes _such_ a little to make folks smile!"

"Indeed it does, little philosopher. Your name should have been Lady Bountiful. Giuseppe may go with you to the Home as often as he wishes with his violin, and help you make them happy."

"Oh, you're such a darling!" cried Peace in ecstasy, hugging the hand between her own pink palms. "I wish you could go, too. Tony says they have song services every Sunday afternoon, and they are great! I'm to go next Sunday and hear them, but I wish you could, too."

"You are very generous," murmured the lame girl a trifle huskily.

Then--perhaps it was because Peace's enthusiasm was contagious, perhaps it was due to a growing desire in her own heart for the world from which she had shut herself so long ago--the older girl suddenly electrified her companion by adding, "I should like to hear them myself. Do you think the matron would allow them to visit me in my garden, seeing that I can't go to the Home as other folks do?"

"Oh, do you mean that?"

"Every word!"

"Miss Chase couldn't say no to anything so beautiful, and I don't think the Lady Boards would object, either; but I'll find out. Saint John can tell me, I'm sure. Oh, I never dreamed of anything so lovely! I wouldn't have _dared_ dream it!" She hugged herself in rapture, and her eyes beamed like stars. How grand it was to have friends like the Lilac Lady!

So it came about that a few days later fifty shining-faced, bright-eyed boys and girls from the Home marched proudly up Hill Street and in through the great iron gates to the Enchanted Garden, where the lame girl, with Aunt Pen and the parsonage household to a.s.sist her, waited to greet them.

That was a gala day, talked about for weeks afterward, dreamed of in the silent watches of the night, and recorded in memory's treasure book to be lived over again and again in later years,--one of those heart's delights, the fragrance of which never dies.

The Home children were charmed with the beautiful garden and its cool fountain, just as Peace had known they would be, and the frail young hostess was as charmed with her guests. They had games on the wide lawn, they sang their sweet, happy choruses, Giuseppe played and danced, Peace and the preacher whistled, Elizabeth told them stories, and Aunt Pen surprised them all by serving sparkling frappe with huge slices of fig cake, such as only Minnie, the cook, could make. Then, as the afternoon drew to a close, and the matron began lining up her charges for the homeward walk, Tony and Lottie stepped out of the ranks and sang a pretty little verse of thanks for the good time all had enjoyed.

So surprised was the Lilac Lady at this unexpected little turn, that for an instant her eyes grew misty with unshed tears; then she smiled happily, and obeying a sudden impulse, she lifted her voice and carolled,

"Come again, my little friends, You have brought me joy today; In my heart you've left a hymn That shall linger, live alway."

"Oh, my!" cried Peace, squeezing Elizabeth's hand in her astonishment and pleasure, "is it an angel singing?"

"Your Lilac Lady, dear. Didn't you know she could sing?"

"She told me she used to once, but I never heard her before."

"At college she was our lark. How we loved that voice! I think, little girl, you have saved a soul."

But Peace did not hear the words. She was joining in the wild applause that greeted this burst of melody from the long silent throat. Everyone had been taken by surprise, the children were dancing with delight, the matron's homely face was beaming, Aunt Pen's lips worked pathetically, and Hicks, still busy filling small arms with the choicest flowers from the garden, could only whisper over and over again, "Praise be, praise be, she has found her voice!"

The Lilac Lady herself seemed almost unconscious of the fact that she had torn down this last and strongest barrier between self and the world, and if she noticed the pathetic surprise on the loving faces hovering about her, she did not show it, but smiled serenely and naturally when the applause had died away. She would sing no more that afternoon, however, and the little visitors had to be contented with a promise of another song the next time they came. So they said good-bye to their charming hostess and filed happily down the walk to the street.

As the iron gates closed behind the little company homeward bound, Peace turned to blow a good-night kiss between the high palings to the young mistress, lying in her chair where they had left her, but paused enraptured by the picture her eyes beheld. A rosy ray of the setting sun filtered through the oak boughs overhanging her couch and fell full upon the white face among the cushions, bringing out the rich auburn tints of the heavy hair till it almost seemed as if a crown of gleaming gold rested upon her head, and the wonderful blue eyes reflected the light like sea-water, clear and deep and--unfathomable.

"Oh," whispered Peace, thrilling with delight, "I ought to have called her my _Angel_ Lady!"

CHAPTER XIII

CHILDREN'S DAY AT HILL STREET CHURCH

"What do you think's happened now?" asked Peace, seating herself gloomily upon the footstool beside the invalid, and thrusting a long gra.s.s-blade between her teeth.

"I am sure I don't know," smiled the older girl. "You look as if it were quite a calamity."

"It's worse'n a c'lamity. It's a _capostrophe_. Glen's gone and got the croup--"

"Yes, so his papa told Aunt Pen this morning. How is the poor little fellow now?"

"He's better, doctor says; but his cold is dreadfully bad and may last for days, so Elspeth can't hear the children practise for next Sunday--I mean a week from tomorrow. That is Children's Day, you know. And Miss Kinney has ab-so-lute-ly refused to sing for us, 'cause Elspeth asked Mildred George to take a solo part, too, and Miss Kinney doesn't like Mildred. Why are huming beings so mean and horrid to each other? Now, I wouldn't care if I found someone which could sing better'n I,--s'posing I could sing at all. I'd just help her make all the music she could and be glad there was somebody who could beat me."

"Would you really?" asked the lame girl with a queer little note of doubt in her voice.

"Why, of course! I sh'd hate to think I was the best singer G.o.d knew how to make."

This was an idea which the invalid had never heard expressed before; but still somewhat skeptical, she asked, "Do you feel that way about whistling, too?"

"I sure do! I like to whistle, and it's nice to know I can beat all the boys that go to our school, and even Saint John. But you should hear Mike O'Hara! Oh, but he can whistle! It sounds like the woods full of birds. It's--it's--it's--" words failed her--"it's _heaven_ to listen to him. I'm glad I _know_ someone who whistles better than I can, 'cause there's that to work for, to aim at. But if I ever get so I can whistle as well as he does, I s'pose there will be lots better ones still. Miss Kinney wants to be the very best singer at Hill Street Church, though, and she's afraid if Mildred gets to taking solo parts in the exercises folks will want her all the time; so she's just trying to spoil the whole program that Saint Elspeth has worked so hard over."

Peace's observations were sometimes positively uncanny, and as she voiced this sentiment, the Lilac Lady asked curiously, "How do you know that is her reason? Did she tell you, or did Mildred?"

"Neither one. I heard Mrs. Porter tell Elspeth yesterday that Miss Kinney had cold feet; so after she was gone, I asked about it. Saint John was there, and Elspeth just laughed and said it was a remark I must forget, 'cause it wasn't real kind to speak so about anybody. But when I was in bed and they thought I'd gone to sleep, I heard Saint John ask Elizabeth about it, and she told him how Miss Kinney was acting, and how the program would all be spoiled, 'cause there isn't anyone to take her place in the solo parts, and it is too late now to drill the children for anything else. It's even worse now, with Glen down sick so's Elspeth can't help get up some other program."

"What kind of exercises were you going to have, may I ask? You have had such hard work to keep from telling me at different times that I thought perhaps it was a secret."

"Elspeth wanted it as a surprise, you know, so I thought it would be better not to talk about it even with you. Do you care?"

"Not a bit, dearie, only I had an idea that possibly I might take Elizabeth's place for a few days, with Aunt Pen's help. She used to be a famous driller for children's entertainments, and I know she would be more than pleased to have her finger in this pie, for she admires your young preacher very much, while Beth is an old friend of hers. The children could come here to rehea.r.s.e--"

"Oh, but wouldn't that be fine! You do have the splendidest thinks!

Who'd take Miss Kinney's part? That's the most important of all. Would you?"

"I? Oh, Peace, how could _I_ take part--a cripple? I haven't been outside these gardens for years."

"It's time you had a change, then. It wouldn't hurt you to be rolled down the street in your chair, would it?"

"So everyone could see and pity me?" The voice was full of scathing bitterness.

"So everyone could know and love you, my Lilac Lady! They couldn't _help_ loving you. I wanted to hug you the first time I ever laid eyes on you, and I don't feel any different yet."

"All the world is not like you."

"No, I reckon it ain't, 'cause there's millions and millions of pig-tailed Chinamen and little brown j.a.ps, and Esquimeaux who take baths in whale oil 'stead of water, which ain't a bit like me. But I'm speaking of 'Merican children. They'd love you for the way you sing and tell stories first, most likely; but when they came to know you yourself, they'd like just the bare you. Tony and Ethel and Lottie and George and all the rest of the Home children can't talk enough about you, and Miss Chase says they're 'most wild to think you want 'em to come every week steady this summer. She says a person like you can do 'em more good now than years of sermons after they are older. She calls you the children's 'good angel.' I meant to tell you before, 'cause I thought you'd like to know, but somehow this fuss of Elspeth's made me forget everything else. Say! Why couldn't we get the Home children to help us in our choruses? They usu'ly go to the church just across the street from there on account of it being nearer, but I'm sure the matron would let 'em help us this one time, 'specially as tomorrow is their Children's Sunday. Tony told me."

"That is a splendid plan, Peace. If you think Aunt Pen and I can take Elizabeth's place until Glen is better, I'll send Hicks over to the Home with a note for Miss Chase, and we will have a rehearsal this very afternoon. Can you get me the music?"

"Yes, Elspeth's got the song-books at the parsonage now. There was to be a practise this afternoon for the _corn-tatter_, but she thought she'd just have to send 'em home as fast as they came. I'll run right over and tell her your plans so's she'll have the children come over here instead. It will be ever so nice to have the boys and girls from the Home take part, 'cause there didn't begin to be enough lilies or poppies or vi'lets, and so many had dropped out of the rose chorus that only Mittie Cole is left. She's a good singer, though, if she doesn't get too scared."

"Well, you run along and get me as many copies of the cantata as you can. Tell Elizabeth I will be very careful of them."

"Shall I tell her you'll take Miss Kinney's part?"