The Pleasant Street Partnership | Page 4

it," Norah cried presently. "The Pleasant Street Shop."
"Or The Neighborhood Shop," Marion suggested.
"No, let us have Pleasant Street in it. It seems a good omen that the
street is called Pleasant."
Marion smiled. "Have you told Dr. Baird?" she asked.

"Yes. He said I should be a novelist, and confine my wild-goose
schemes to paper."
"The Notions of Norah would be a taking title," laughed Marion, the
weariness gone from her face.
"But as I told him, 'Deeds, not Dreams,' is my motto, and I'll show him
if it is a wild-goose scheme. I am convinced that deep down in his heart
he was interested; and although he made no promises, I believe we may
count on him."
CHAPTER THIRD
AN ALIEN
With the swiftness of a small tornado, Charlotte descended the long,
straight stairway only to sink in a heap on the broad step at the bottom.
"Oh, dear!" she said, her chin in her hand, "Oh, dear!"
A ray of sunlight falling through the side-lights of the door with their
pattern of fleur-de-lis on a crimson ground, cast a rosy stain on the
neutral-tinted carpet and brought to notice a few atoms of dust on one
of the rosewood chairs that stood to attention on either side of the tall
hat-rack. The wall against which they were ranged was done in
varnished paper to represent oak panelling, and on it hung one or two
steel engravings.
"If only something were crooked!" Charlotte sighed.
Now at Aunt Cora's nothing was straight. Etchings and water colors
fought for the honors of the walls, and chased each other up the side of
the stairway. Tables and shelves were crowded with trifles, costly and
otherwise, the chairs were deep and cushiony, except now and then a
gilt toy which was distinctly for show; the divans were smothered with
gay pillows. In contrast this house in Kenton Terrace seemed
unbearably stiff and prim.
Why had not Uncle Landor allowed her to stay with him instead of

sending her so far away? Perhaps, after all, he had not wanted her.
Nobody wanted her--dreadful thought!--unless it were Aunt Cora; and
Charlotte knew in her heart Uncle Landor was wise in deciding she was
not to travel about with Aunt Cora any more.
Since she had been taken away, a child of seven, her memories of this
southern town had grown vague, and it seemed strange to hear Uncle
Landor refer to it as her home. He also said it was the sort of a
background she needed for the next few years, until she should be
ready for college. After that he promised, if she still wished it, she
might come and keep house for him.
But it would be so long. How could she stand it? If only she might have
gone to boarding-school. Why had Aunt Caroline and Aunt Virginia
agreed to her coming? They did not like her. Nothing she did pleased
them. Charlotte looked about for a refuge where she might fling herself
down and cry her heart out. She rose and stole on tiptoe into the
drawing-room.
Here the same absolute order prevailed. She felt sure the carved chairs
and sofas, with their covering of satin brocade, had occupied these
same positions ever since they first appeared on the scene when Aunt
Caroline made her début, more than thirty years ago. Fancy Aunt
Caroline having a party! Aunt Virginia had described it to her, but it
sounded unreal. Thirty years ago was too far in the past. Charlotte's
own mother had been a little girl then.
The buhl cabinet near the window, the inlaid chess table in the corner
beside the white marble mantel, even the folds of the handsome lace
curtains, seemed petrified into their present positions. For thirty years
the mantle mirror had been reflecting the Dresden clock and candelabra,
and the crystal pendants of the chandelier; the face and figure that
confronted Charlotte in the pier glass was, however, something new
and alien.
It was a brown face with blue eyes that danced with mischief or flashed
with anger, or grew soft with entreaty beneath their black lashes, as
occasion might demand. Her hair, too, was brown, and shadowed her

face in a wavy mass held most objectionable by her aunts. That a girl
barely fourteen should have decided views on the subject of dress, and
insist upon wearing what she called a pompadour and having her belts
extremely pointed in front, was surprising to Aunt Virginia, shocking to
Aunt Caroline.
As she stood facing her own image, the sound of sweeping skirts on the
stairway sent her flying behind the half-open door.
"What has become of Charlotte?" she heard Aunt Virginia ask.
"I am sure I don't know," responded Aunt Caroline.
"And what is more, you don't