Apron-Strings | Page 5

dignity of her sixteen years, and with all the authority of
one who has graduated from the ranks of an Orphanage to the higher, if
rarer, air of a Rector's residence, Dora surveyed with shocked
countenance the saucy visages of the ten. On occasions she could
assume a manner most impressive--a manner borrowed in part from a
butler who had been installed, at one time, by a wealthy and high-living
incumbent of St. Giles, and in part from ministers who had reigned
there by turns and whose delivery and outward manifestations of
inward sanctity she had carefully studied during the period of her own
labor in the house. Now with finger-tips together, and with the spirit of
those half-dozen ecclesiastics sounding in her nasal sing-song, she
voiced her stern reproof:
"My dear brothers!"
"Aw," scoffed a boy, "we ain't neither your brothers."
"I am speaking in the broad sense," explained Dora, with the loftiness
of one who addresses a throng from a pulpit. Then shaking a finger,
"'The wicked flee when no man pursueth'--Proverbs, twenty-eighth
chapter, and first verse."

"We're not wicked," denied the boy. "Mr. Farvel told us to come."
"We're goin' to rehearse for the weddin'," chimed in the tow-headed
one.
Dora let her look travel from face to face, the while she shook her head
solemnly. "But," she reminded, "if Mrs. Milo finds you here, only a
miracle can save you!"
"Aw, I'm not afraid of her,"--the uncombed chorister advanced bravely.
"She's only a boarder. And after this, I'm goin' to mind just Mr. Farvel."
Something like horrified pity lengthened the pale face of Dora. "Little
boys," she advised, "in these brief years since I left the Orphanage, I've
seen ministers come and ministers go. But Mrs. Milo"--she turned
away--"like the poor----" Her ministerial gesture was eloquent of
hopelessness.
The boys in the passage stared at one another apprehensively. But their
leader was flushed with excitement and wrath. "Dora," he cried,
hurrying over to check her going, "do you know what I wish would
happen?"
She turned accusingly. "Oh, Bobbie! What a sinful thought!"
"But I wasn't wishin' that!"
"Drive it out of your heart!" she counseled, with all the passion of an
evangelist. "Drive it out of your heart! Remember: she can't live
forever. She ain't immortal. But let her stay her appointed time,"--this
last with the bowed head proper to the sentiment, so that two short,
tight braids stood ceilingward.
The stifled exclamations of the waiting ten brought her head up once
more. From the vestibule, resplendent in shining satin and billows of
tulle, had appeared a vision. The choir gazed on it in open-mouthed
wonder. "Oh, look! The bride! Mm! Ain't it beautiful!"

Hattie was equal to the occasion. Dropping all the tulle into place, she
walked from bay-window to table and back again, displaying her finery.
"Isn't it pretty?" she agreed. "See the veil. And look!"
Head on one side, the ever-philosophical Dora watched her. And Hattie,
halting, turned once around for the benefit of all observers, but with an
inviting smile toward the girl, as to a sister-spirit who would be certain
to appreciate.
Dora lifted gingham-clad shoulders in a weary shrug. "'Can a maid
forget her ornaments?'" she quoted; "'or a bride her attire?'"
"Well, I like that!" cried Hattie.
Quickly Dora extended a hand with a gesture unmistakably cleric.
"Jeremiah," she explained; "--second chapter, and thirty-second verse."
But Hattie was not deceived. She rustled forward. "Yes!" she retorted.
"And Hattie Balcome, first chapter, and first verse, reads: 'Can a maid
forget her manners?'"
Dora was suddenly all meekness. "If she forgets her duties," she
answered, "she shall flee from Mrs. Milo--and the wrath to come!"
Whereupon, with a bounce and a giggle, neither of which was in
keeping with her spoken fears, she went out, banging the library door.
Hattie turned, and here was the choir at her back, engrossed in the
beauties of her apparel. She gave the little group a friendly nod and a
smile. "So you are the boys," she commented.
Bobbie was quick to explain. "We're some of the boys," he said.
"There's about fifty more of us, and pretty near fifty girls, too, over in
the Orphanage."
"But--aren't you all rather big to be left in a basket?"
"Oh, not all of us are left in the basket." Bobbie shook his rumpled mop
with great finality.

"No." It was a smaller boy. "Just the fellers that never had any mothers
or fathers."
"Like me," piped a chorister from the rear.
"And me," put in the tow-headed boy.
Hattie looked them over carefully. "Which," she inquired, "is the one
that is borrowed from his aunt?"
The group stirred. A murmur went from boy to boy. "Mm! Yes! That
one! Oh, him!"
"That's Ikey Einstein," explained Bobbie. "And he's in