Cicely and Other Stories | Page 5

very life-blood of such girls was
being sacrificed for her own selfish pleasure. If she had not hurried
madame so, there would have been no night-work for this poor child,
no fagged-out nerves for her the next day.
Suddenly Miss Balfour crossed the room and, to her cousin's
astonishment, caught Cicely's cold hands in hers.
"Look up here, you poor little thing," she said, kindly. "Now don't cry
another tear, or grieve another bit about this. It's no matter at all. I'll just
get some new stuff to replace the front of the skirt, and madame can
make it over next week for me and send it on East after me. I'll pay for
it myself, of course, for I'll be very glad to have the silk that must be
ripped out. Mamma is making me a silk quilt, and the rosebuds will
work in beautifully. I shall have it put in, blood-spots and all, to remind
me that my selfish pleasure may often prove a cruel thorn to somebody
else. I don't want to go through the world leaving scratches behind me."
"Why, Rhoda!" gasped Miss Shelby; but with a proud lifting of her
head, Miss Balfour went on:
"I realise it is my own fault in rushing you with the work, madame, and
the consequences of my own unreasonableness are not to be laid at this
girl's door. Do you understand, madame? Not a cent is to come out of
her wages, and you are to keep her and be good to her, if you want my
good-will. I am coming back this way in the spring, and this gown is so
beautifully made that I shall be glad to order my entire summer
wardrobe from you."
"Why, Rhoda Balfour!" exclaimed her cousin again, while madame
bowed and smiled and bowed again.
As for Cicely, she went back to the workroom almost dazed, and
tingling with the remembrance of Miss Balfour's friendly tones. It was
several hours later when she climbed the stairs to her little back
bedroom to light her coal-oil stove, and make her toast and tea. Her

eyes were still swollen from crying, but she had not felt so light-hearted
for weeks.
Just inside her door she stumbled over a big pasteboard box. There was
a note on top, and she hurried to light her lamp. "I know that you will
be glad to hear I am going to the party, after all," she read. "I have
found a very pretty white dress in my cousin's wardrobe that fits me
well enough. As long as you have had such a thorny time on my
account, it is only fair that you should share my roses; so I send them
with the earnest wish that the coming year may bring you no thorn
without some rose to cover it, and that it may be a very, very happy
New Year indeed to you. Sincerely your friend, Rhoda Balfour."
Cicely tore aside the paraffine paper, and found six great roses, each
with a leafy stem half as long as Cicely herself. She caught them up in
her arms and laid her face against their velvety petals. For a moment, as
she stood with closed eyes, drinking in their summer fragrance, she
could have almost believed she was back in the old garden.
"Marcelle, dear," she murmured, "I can be brave now! I can hold out a
little longer, for she wrote, 'Sincerely your friend.'"
The little room was glorified in Cicely's eyes that night by the flowers
she loved best. She ate her scant supper as if she were at a festival, sent
a little letter of thanks that made the tears come to Miss Balfour's
handsome eyes, and afterward wrote a bright, hopeful letter to Marcelle
that lifted a burden from the elder sister's heart. Marcelle had been half
afraid that Cicely would be growing bitter against all the world.
"Think of it, sister!" Cicely wrote. "American Beauties are a dollar
apiece, and I have six! There is a music-teacher who has the room
across the hall from mine. She is at home this week with a cold on her
lungs, and to-morrow, when I go to work, I am going to loan her all my
beautiful roses. It's too bad to have them 'wasting their sweetness on the
desert air' all day while I am gone. So she shall have them until I come
home at night."
Madame Levaney gave no holiday to her employees on New Year's day,

but Cicely did not care. She left her roses at Miss Waite's door with the
announcement that they were hers for the day, but that she would have
to call for them and claim them at night. The oddness of the
arrangement, and the quaint way in which