'She'll come out all right,'
said a dear old-fashioned grandfather of hers whom she had left way
back in a Vermont farmhouse. 'She's got to be purged o' considerable
dross, but she'll come out pure gold, I tell you.'
Pretty, wise, tender Margery Noble, with her sleek brown braids, her
innocent, questioning eyes, her soft voice, willing hands, and shy,
quiet manners! 'She will either end as the matron of an orphan
asylum or as head-nurse in a hospital.' So Bell Winship often used
to say; but then she was chiefly celebrated for talking nonsense, and
nobody ever paid much attention to her. But if you should crave a
breath of fresh air, or want to believe that the spring has come,
just call Bell Winship in, as she walks with her breezy step down the
street. Her very hair seems instinct with life, with its flying
tendrils of bronze brightness and the riotous little curls on her
brow and temples. Then, too, she has a particularly jaunty way of
putting on her jacket, or wearing a flower or a ribbon; and as for
her ringing peal of laughter, it is like a chime of silver bells.
Elsie Howard, the invalid friend of the girls, was as dear to them as
they were to each other. She kept the secrets of the 'firm'; mourned
over their griefs and smiled over their joys; was proud of their
talents and tenderly blind to their faults. The little wicker
rocking-chair by the bedside was often made a sort of confessional,
at which she presided, the tenderest and most sympathetic little
priestess in the universe; and every afternoon the piazza, with its
lattice of green vines, served as a mimic throne-room, where she was
wont to hold high court, surrounded by her devoted subjects.
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