A Pair of Them SUNSHINE LIBRARY. =Aunt Hannah and Seth.= By James Otis. =Blind Brother= (=The=). By Homer Greene. =Captainâs Dog= (=The=). By Louis Ãnault. =Cat and the Candle= (=The=). By Mary F. Leonard. =Christmas at Deacon Hackettâs.= By James Otis. =Christmas-Tree Scholar.= By Frances Bent Dillingham. =Dear Little Marchioness.= The Story of a Childâs Faith and Love. =Dick in the Desert.= By James Otis. =Divided Skates.= By Evelyn Raymond. =Gold Thread= (=The=). By Norman MacLeod, D.D. =Half a Dozen Thinking Caps.= By Mary Leonard. =How Tommy Saved the Barn.= By James Otis. =Ingleside.= By Barbara Yechton. =J. Cole.= By Emma Gellibrand. =Jessicaâs First Prayer.= By Hesba Stretton. =Laddie.= By the author of âMiss Tooseyâs Mission.â =Little Crusaders.= By Eva Madden. =Little Sunshineâs Holiday.= By Miss Mulock. =Little Peter.= By Lucas Malet. =Master Sunshine.= By Mrs. C. F. Fraser. =Miss Tooseyâs Mission.= By the author of âLaddie.â =Musical Journey of Dorothy and Delia.= By Bradley Gilman. =Our Uncle, the Major.= A Story of 1765. By James Otis. =Pair of Them= (=A=). By Evelyn Raymond. =Playground Toni.= By Anna Chapin Ray. =Play Lady= (=The=). By Ella Farman Pratt. =Prince Prigio.= By Andrew Lang. =Short Cruise= (=A=). By James Otis. =Smoky Days.= By Edward W. Thomson. =Strawberry Hill.= By Mrs. C. F. Fraser. =Sunbeams and Moonbeams.= By Louise R. Baker. =Two and One.= By Charlotte M. Vaile. =Wreck of the Circus= (=The=). By James Otis. =Young Boss= (=The=). By Edward W. Thomson. THOMAS Y. CROWELL & COMPANY, NEW YORK. [Illustration: âWHY, YES, BONNY-GAY! IâVE COME.â See page 77.] [Illustration] A PAIR OF THEM BY EVELYN RAYMOND [Illustration] NEW YORK. Thomas Y. Crowell & Co. Publishers. COPYRIGHT, 1901, BY THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. Where the Houses are Big 1 II. Where the Houses are Small 15 III. How the Pair Met 29 IV. Max Reappears 44 V. Mary Jane Goes Visiting 59 VI. The Flight and Fright of Mary Jane 78 VII. On the Way Home 95 VIII. Confidences 112 IX. By the Strength of Love 132 Afterward 150 A PAIR OF THEM CHAPTER I WHERE THE HOUSES ARE BIG âItâs a queer kind of a name, though it suits you,â observed the Gray Gentleman, thoughtfully. âHow came you by it?â Bonny-Gay flashed the questioner a smile, hugged Max closer and replied: âI was born on a Sunday morning. Thatâs how.â âAh, indeed? But I donât quite understand.â âDonât you? Seems easy. Letâs sit down here by âFather Georgeâ and Iâll explain. If I can.â The Gray Gentleman was very tall and dignified, yet he had a habit of doing whatever Bonny-Gay asked him. So he now doubled himself up and perched on the low curb surrounding the monument, while the little girl and the big black dog dropped easily down beside him. Then he leaned his head back against the iron railing and gazed reflectively into the face of the big bronze lion, just opposite. Both the child and the man were fond of the wonderful lion, which seemed a mighty guardian of the beautiful Place, and he, at least, knew it to be a world-famous work of art. Bonny-Gay loved it as she loved all animals, alive or sculptured, and with much the same devotion she gave to Max. The park without either of these four-footed creatures would have seemed strange indeed to her, for they were her earliest playmates and remained still her dearest. âNow you can tell me,â again suggested the Gray Gentleman. âIt was Easter, too. All the people were going to the churches, the bells were ringing, the organs playing, and everything just beautiful. Nurse Nance began it, my mother says. âFor the child that is born on the Sabbath Day is lucky, and bonny, and wise, and gay.â But my father says there isnât any âluckâ and a child like me isnât âwise,â so they had to leave them out and Iâm only Bonny-Gay. Thatâs all.â âA very satisfactory explanation,â said the Gray Gentleman, with one of his rare smiles, and laying his hand kindly upon the golden curls. âAnd now, my dear, one question more. In which of these beautiful houses do you live?â As he spoke, the strangerâs glance wandered all about that aristocratic neighborhood of Mt. Vernon Place, to which he had returned after many years of absence to make his own home. Since he had gone away all the small people whom he used to know and love had grown up, and he had felt quite lost and lonely, even in that familiar scene, till he had chanced to meet Bonny-Gay, just one week before. Since then, and her ready adoption of himself as a comrade, he had had no time for loneliness. She was always out in the charming Square, as much a part of it as the Washington monument, which the little folks called âFather George,â or the bronzes, and the smooth lawns. She seemed as bright as the sunshine and almost as well-beloved, for the other children flocked about her, the keeper consulted her and the keeperâs dog followed her like a shadow. With a toss of her yellow locks she pointed her forefinger westward. âThere, in that corner one, all covered by vines, with places for the windows cut out, and the chimneys all green, and I think itâs the prettiest one in the whole place, when it has its summer clothes on. Donât you?â The Gray Gentlemanâs glance followed the direction of the pointing finger. âYes. It is a very lovely home and a very big one. I hope you are not the only child who lives in it.â âBut I am. Why?â âWhy what?â âDo you hope it?â âYou would be lonely, I should think.â âLonely? I? Why--why--I just never have a single minute to myself. Thereâs my thirteen dolls, and the parrot, and the two canaries, and the aquarium, and my pony, and--Oh! dear! you canât guess. Thatâs why I have to come out here--to rest myself.â âAh, so! Well, I should judge that you spend the most of your time in âresting,ââ commented the other. âWhenever I come out youâre always here.â Bonny-Gay laughed; so merrily that Max lifted his head and licked her cheek. That reminded her of something and she asked: âHave you seen him get his second dinner?â âNot even his first!â âYou havenât? How odd!â Bonny-Gay shook out her skirts and proceeded to enlighten her comradeâs ignorance. She took it for granted, or she had done so, that he knew as much about things as she herself; but if not, why, there was a deal to tell. Maxâs history first. She began by declaring: âHeâs the smartest dog in the world. Everybody knows that. Heâs lived in the Place nine years. Thatâs one year longer than I have. All the childrenâs big brothers and sisters have played with him, sameâs we do now. He never lets a tramp come near. He never steps on a flower bed or lets us. If we forget and go on the grass he barks us off. He gets his first dinner at our house. When the clocks strike twelve he goes to the gardener and gets his basket. Then he walks to our back entrance, puts the basket down, stands up on his hind feet and pushes his nose against the âlectric bell. That rings up the cook and--sheâs a man just now--he--she takes the basket and puts in some food. Then Max walks down that side street, about a square, and sits on the curb to eat it. âJust like a beggar,â the gardener says, ââcause he likes to feed his own dog his own self.â I would, too, wouldnât you?â âIf I owned the âsmartest dog in the whole worldâ I presume I should.â âMax feels ashamed of it, too; donât you, dear?â The dog replied by dropping his black head from Bonny-Gayâs shoulder to the ground and by blinking in a deprecating way from that lowly position. âThen, in a few minutes, he comes back to the gardener with the empty basket and stands and wags his tail as if he were the hungriest dog that ever was. Then the keeper says: âYes. You may go, Max!â And off he trots, away down the other way, to some place where his master lives and gets a second basket full. That he brings back here, and the man puts a paper on the ground under the bushes and he eats again. Just like folks to their own table, that time; donât you, Max Doggie, smart doggie!â The handsome animal shook his wavy fleece and sprang up, ready for a frolic and evidently aware that he had been the subject of discussion. âNo, not yet, sir. The best thing hasnât been told. Listen, please, Mr.----â The stranger waited a moment, then inquired: âMr. what, Bonny-Gay? I wonder if you know my name.â âNot your truly one, but that doesnât matter.â âWhat do you happen to call me, if you ever speak of me when Iâm not here?â The little girl hesitated an instant, then frankly answered: âWhy, just the âGray Gentleman.â âCause you are all gray, you see. Your hair, and your moustache, and your eyes, and your clothes, and your hat, and your gloves, and--and--things.â âExactly. Trust a child to find an appropriate nickname. But I like it, little one. Go on, about Max and the best thing yet.â âThat splendid dog has--saved--his--masterâs life! As true as true!â cried Bonny-Gay, impressively. âIndeed! Wonderful! How was it?â âIt was pay-day night and Mr. Weems, thatâs his name, had a lot of money. And some bad men knew it. And they came, do you believe, right in the middle of that night, and broke a window in Mr. Weemsâs house; and Max heard them and flew--and flew--â The Gray Gentleman stooped and searched for the dogâs wings. âWell, ran, then,â laughed Bonny-Gay, âand he drove them all off and they had revolvers or something and one was shot and a policeman caught him and Max was shot and the gardener would have been killed--â âOnly he wasnât,â interrupted somebody, coming from behind them. So the child paused in her breathless description of a scene she had often pictured to herself and looked up into the face of the hero of the affair, himself. âWhy, Mr. Weems! you almost frightened me! and you please tell the rest.â But though the gardener smiled upon her he nodded his head gravely. âGuess it wonât do for me to think about that just now, or any other of our good times, old Max! Good fellow, fine fellow! Poor old doggie! Itâs going to be as hard on you as on me, Iâm afraid.â By this time Bonny-Gay saw that something was amiss. She half fancied that there were tears in the keeperâs eyes, and she always afterward declared that there were tears in his voice. As for Max, that sagacious animal sank suddenly upon his haunches, looked sternly into his masterâs face, and demanded by his earnest, startled expression to know what was wrong. Something was. He knew that, even more positively than did Bonny-Gay. âItâs an outrageous law. There ought to be exceptions to it. All dogs--Well, thereâs no other dog like Max. Ah! hum. Old doggie!â The Gray Gentleman was tempted to ask questions, but the little girl was sure to do that; so he waited. In a few minutes she had gotten the whole sad story from her old friend, the gardener, and her sunny head had gone down upon the dogâs black one in a paroxysm of grief. A moment later it was lifted defiantly. âBut he shanât. He shall not! Nobody shall ever, ever take our Max away! Why--why--it wouldnât be the Place without him! Why--why--the children--Oh! Nettie! oh! Tom!â and catching sight of a group of playmates Bonny-Gay darted toward them, calling as she ran: âTheyâre going to take him away! Theyâre going to take him away!â Tom planted his feet wide apart upon the smooth path and obstructed her advance. âTake who away, Bonny-Gay? Where to? When?â âMax! Our Max! He can never come here any more. This is his last day in our park--his very last!â and the child flung herself headlong upon the shaven grass, for once regardless of rules. Not so regardless was Max, the trusty. It didnât matter to him that this was Bonny-Gay, his best-loved playmate, or that her frantic sorrow was all on his account. What he saw was his duty and he did it, instantly. From a distance the Gray Gentleman watched the dog race toward the prostrate little girl and shake her short skirts vigorously, loosing them now and then to bark at her with equal vigor. Presently she sprang up and to the footpath, and again indulged in a wild embrace of the faithful canine. Indeed, he was at once the center of an ever-increasing company of small people, who seemed to vie with each other in attempts to hug his breath away and to outdo everybody in the way of fierce indignation. Finally, this assembly resolved itself into an advancing army, and with Tom and Bonny-Gay as leaders--each tightly holding to one of the dogâs soft ears, as they marched him between them--they returned to the spot where the lion calmly awaited them, and Tom announced their decision: âWe wonât ever let him go. Thereâs no need for you nor the law-men nor nobody to interfere. This dog belongs to this park; and this park belongs to us children; and if anybody tries to--tries to--to--do--things--he wonât never be let! So there! And if he is, weâll--weâll augernize; and weâll get every boy and girl in all the streets around to come, too; and weâll all go march to where the law-men live; and we wonât never, never leave go talking at them till they take it all back. âCause Max isnât going to be took. Thatâs the fact, Mr. Weems, and you can just tell them so.â âYes,â cried Nettie, âand my big brother goes to the law school and heâll suesan them. And my big sisterâs friends will help; and if he does have to, Iâll never, never--NEVER--play in this hateful old park ever again. I will not!â âWhew!â whistled the Gray Gentleman, softly. âThis looks serious. A childrenâs crusade, indeed. Well, that should be irresistible.â And this old lover of all little people looked admiringly over the group of flushed and indignant faces; and at the noble animal which was the very center of it, and whose silent protest was the most eloquent of all. His own heart echoed their indignation and he quietly resolved to make an effort on their and Maxâs behalf. But the dire, unspoken threats of the children, and the silent resolution of the Gray Gentleman, were useless. For when upon the next morning the sun rose over the pleasant Place, and the monument and the lion began to cast their shadows earthward, there was no Max to gambol at their feet, and over the heart of Bonny-Gay had fallen her first real grief. She was out early, to see if the dreadful thing were true; and the Gray Gentleman met her and scarcely knew her--without the smiles. When he did recognize her he said, hopefully: âWeâll trust itâs all for the best, my dear. Besides, you will now have more time for the thirteen dolls, and the parrot, and the two canaries, and--â âBut they--they arenât Max! He was the only! We loved him so and now heâll just be wasted on strangers! Oh! itâs too bad, too bad!â The Gray Gentleman clasped the little hand in sympathy. âI am very sorry for your sorrow, Bonny-Gay, and yet I canât believe that Max is âwasted.â No good thing ever is. Besides that, I have a plan in my head. With your parentsâ permission, I am going to take you this day to visit your twin sister.â âMy--twin--sister! Why there isnât any. Donât you remember? I told you. Iâm the only, only one. There never was any other.â âNevertheless, I am obliged to contradict you. Very rude, I know, and I shouldnât do so, if I were not so positive of what I claim. I hope youâll love her and I think you will. After breakfast Iâll see you again. Good morning.â With that he walked briskly away and Bonny-Gay saw him enter the big gray house in the middle of the Place. The house where the wooden shutters had always been up, ever since she could remember, until just this spring, when a few of the windows had been uncovered to let the sunlight in. âMy--twin--sister! How queer that is!â mused the watching child. CHAPTER II WHERE THE HOUSES ARE SMALL Mary Jane dropped her crutches on the floor and readjusted the baby. He had a most trying habit of not staying âput,â and sometimes the other children slapped him. Mary Jane never did that. She merely set him up again, gave his cheek a pat or a kiss, and went on about her business. For, indeed, she was almost the very busiest small body in the world. Besides her own motherâs five other children there were the neighborsâ broods, big and little, with never a soul to mind them save their self-constituted nurse. That very morning Mrs. Bump had paused in her washing to look up and exclaim: âI never did see how the little things do take to her! She can do just wonders with them, that she can; and I reckon it was about the best thing ever happened to her, that falling out the top window, like she did. Seemed to knock all the selfishness out of her. Maybe itâs _that_ settled in her poor body. Yes, maybe itâs that, dear heart. Anyhow, her insideâs all right. The rightest there ever was. If this world was just full of Mary Janes, what a grand place it would be!â Then, after a regretful sigh for this beatific state of things, the mother thrust her strong arms again into the suds, with a splash and a rub-a-dub-dub which told plainly enough from whom Mary Jane inherited her energy. Just then Mrs. Stebbins thrust her head out of the window, next door, to remark: âThere was fifty-four of them gardens given out. My boyâs goinâ to raise cabbages.â âYou donât say! Now, ainât that fine? I wish I had a son to get one, but all my boys is girls, save the baby, and he donât count. Though heâll grow, wonât he, motherâs lamb? Heâll grow just as fast as he can and get a playground garden, goodâs the next one, so he will, the precious!â chirruped Mrs. Bump, to the year-old heir of the house. âGah, gah!â cooed the baby; and emphasized his reply by losing his balance against the wall and rolling over on his face. He was too fat and too phlegmatic to right himself, so Mary Jane hopped back across the narrow room and set him up again, laughing as if this were the funniest thing she had ever seen. âPshaw, daughter! If I was you and you was me, Iâd leave him lie that way a spell. He donât âpear to have the sense the rest of you had, no he donât, the sweet! Maybe thatâs because heâs a boy. But even a boy might learn something after a while, if he was let. Only youâre so right on hand all the time he expects you to just about breathe for him, seems.â âNow, mother, now! And you know heâs the biggest, roundest--â âPudding-headedest!â growled a masculine voice, at the narrow doorway. Mrs. Bump wheeled round so sharply that her rubbing-board fell out of the tub and scared the baby, who promptly began to scream. âWhy father! You home? It canât be dinner-time, yet. Whatâs happened? Anything wrong?â âIs anything ever right?â demanded the man, sulkily. âPlenty of things,â answered the wife, cheerfully, though her heart sank. âOne of the right things is my getting kicked out, I sâpose.â âFather! you donât mean it! No.â âIâm not much of a joker, am I?â âNo. That youâre not. But tell me, man.â With a quiver in the usually cheerful voice, Mrs. Bump wiped the suds from her arms and went to her husband. Laying her hand kindly upon his shoulder she demanded, as was her right, to know the facts of the disaster that had befallen them. ââTwonât take long to tell, woman. The companyâs cuttinâ down expenses and I was one of the expenses lopped off. Thatâs all.â âIs that all--_all_, William Bump?â The question was sternly put and the man cowered before it. âItâs the truth, any way. No matter how it happened, here I am and no work.â With that he dropped his arms upon the window sill and his face upon his arms, and lapsed into a sullen silence. Mrs. Bump caught her breath, whisked away a tear that had crept into her eye, and returned to her tub. Mary Jane ceased staring at her parents, tipped the babyâs home-made go-cart on end, rolled him into it, righted the awkward vehicle, threw its leather strap over her shoulders, called to the children: âCome!â and hopped away upon her crutches. Though she paused, for just one second, beside her father and imprinted a hasty kiss upon the back of his bent head. A kiss so light it seemed he could scarcely have felt it, though it was quite sufficient to thrill the manâs soul with an added sense of regret and degradation. âWeâre off to the park, mother, and Iâve taken a loaf with me!â she called backward, as she clicked out of sight. Again the woman idled for a moment, looking through the open doorway toward the small, misshapen figure of her eldest child as it swung swiftly forward upon its âwooden feet.â The babyâs soap-box wagon rattled and bumped along behind, bouncing his plump body about, and drawn by Mary Jane in the only manner possible to her--with a strap across her chest. She needed both her hands just then to support herself upon her crutches; for her lower limbs were useless and swung heavily between these crutches--a leaden weight from which she never could be free. Even so, there were few who could travel as rapidly as Mary Jane and this morning she was especially eager to get on. Because down at the pretty park upon which her own dingy street terminated, the childrenâs âPlaygroundsâ had been opened for the summer and the small gardens given out. She was anxious to see the planting and seed-sowing, by the tiny farmers of this free kindergarten, and down in her heart was a faint hope that even to her, a girl, might a bit of land be assigned; where she, too, could raise some of the wonderful vegetables which would be her very own when the autumn came and the small crops were harvested. The hope was so deep and so intense, that she had to stop, turn about, shake up the baby and tell him about it. âYou see, Baby Bump, they donât give âem out to just girls. Only Iâm not a regular plain kind of girl, Iâm a crippley sort. That might make a difference. Though thereâs Hattie Moran, sheâs lame, too. Not very lame, Baby, only a little lame. She doesnât have to have crutches, she just goes hoppety-pat, hoppety-pat, easy like. Sophia Guttmacher, sheâs a hunchback, sameâs me, course, but she can walk. Besides that she doesnât want a garden and I do. As for Ernest Knabe, his footâs just twisted and thatâs all. Then, too, heâs a boy. He could have one if he wanted. Heâd have to dig one, I guess, if it wasnât for his foot. Oh! Baby dear. Do you sâpose I might--I might, maybe, get one?â âGoo, goo,â murmured the infant, encouragingly, and vainly trying to bring his own foot within reach of his mouth. âOh! you sweet! You canât do that, you know. Youâre far too fat. And I declare, all the other children have gone on while Iâve stood here just talking to you. That wonât do, sir, much as I love you. Sit up, now, thereâs sisterâs little man, and Iâll hurry up.â But just then, Baby made a final, desperate effort to taste his toes, lost his balance, and rolled forward out of his box, as a ball might have done. Mary Jane, burst into a peal of laughter which recalled the other children to the spot and she explained between breaths: âThe cute little fellow was trying to make âhuckleberry-breadâ; I do believe he was, the darling! Well, heâs so round it doesnât matter which way he tumbles, and heâs so soft nothing ever hurts him. Does it, precious?â They all lent a hand in setting the infant right again. Several holding the soap-box level, a couple supporting Mary Jane without her crutches which left her arms free to lift and replace the dislodged baby. When things were once more in order the caravan started onward afresh. By this time the small, dingy houses bordering the narrow unpaved street had given place to open lots and weedy patches, where the sun lay warmly and a fresh breeze blew. To the right of the open space was a railway embankment, and on the left there was the cling-clanging of a mighty steel structure, in process of building. The railway and the monster âshedsâ belonged to the same company for which William Bump had toiled--when he felt inclined--and by which he had just been discharged. Mary Jane had been accustomed to look for him, either along the rails, with the gang that seemed always to be replacing old âtiesâ by new ones; or else serving the skilled workmen, who hammered, hammered, all day long upon the great metal girders. As she now caught the echo of these strokes a pang shot through her loving heart and for a moment her sunny face clouded. She need look no more, to either right or left, for the blue-shirted figure, which had been wont to wave a salutation to her as she passed with her brood of nurselings. Fortunately, the baby was on hand to banish the cloud, which he promptly did in his accustomed manner--with a slight variation. For his small charioteer had not observed a big stone in the path, though the loose ricketty wheel of the wagon found and struck it squarely. This raised the soap-box in front and its occupant performed a backward somersault. âOh! my sake! Mary Jane--Mary Jane!â shrieked several small voices in wild reproach. Mary Jane picked up the little one, who smiled, unhurt; and the others helped her shake him back to a normal condition and pose. After which, the park lying just before them, between the railway and the buildings, they scurried into it, and over the slope, and around to a sunny spot where scores of other little people were hard at work or play. âHi! Mary Jane! Oh, Mary Jane!â shouted one and another; and the kind-faced âteachersâ who guided the wee ones, also nodded their friendly welcome. For well they knew that there was no âassistantâ in the whole city who could be as useful to them as this same humble little girl from Dingy street. âThirteen, Mary Jane! Iâm thirteen! Come see. Cucumbers!â cried Bobby Saunders, dragging her forward so eagerly that the soap-box strap slipped up across her throat and choked her. But she quickly released herself now from her burden, certain that in the midst of so many friends no harm could befall her darling; and once freed from this incubus, she outstripped Bobby in reaching the long rows of well-prepared garden plots, wherein as yet was never a sign of any growing thing. But oh! how soft and rich and brown the earth did look! How sweet the fragrance of it in Mary Janeâs nature-loving nostrils! And how, for once, she longed to be a boy! As straight-limbed, as strong, as unhindered at her toil, as any of these happy little lads who clustered about, each interrupting his neighbor in his eagerness for her sympathy and interest. âFifty-one, Mary Jane!â cried Joe Stebbins, pointing proudly to the numbered stick at the foot of his plot. âCabbages--cabbages! The gardenerâs bringing a box of plants this minute. Iâll give you one to bile when they get growed. Like that?â âPrime!â answered the girl, her own face aglow. âBut Iâm limas, Mary Jane. Iâm Seven. Away over here. Iâve sowed âem and to-morrer Iâll hoe âem, I guess.â âAnd I guess I wouldnât till they sprout,â laughed she hopping along, at perilous speed, to inspect number seven. âDonât go so fast, Mary Jane! I canât keep up with you. See. Iâm right up front--number Three. Iâm tomatuses, I am. Like âem?â demanded Ned Smith, a seven-year-old farmer. âIâm potatoes. Theyâre the best for your money,â observed Jimmy OâBrien. âWeâll roast some in the ashes, bime-by. Does the baby like âtatoes?â âDonât he? You just ought to see him eat them--when we have them,â she added, cautiously. âOh! youâll have âem, plenty. When I dig my crop. Why, I sâpose thereâll be enough in my âfarmâ to keep your folks and mine all winter; and I might have some to sell on the street,â observed Jimmy, casting a speculative glance upon the diminutive plot of ground over which he was now master. âMight you; ainât that splendid!â commented Mary Jane, delightedly. âWhy, if you could give us all our potatoes, mother could easy wash for the rent and the bread and things. My sake! I âmost forgot the baby. Whereâs he at? Can you see him?â âHeâs right in the middle of the sand-heap and the teacher has give him a little shovel. Say, what you bring him for? this ainât no day-nursery, this ainât. Itâs a playground farm and one-year-olds donât belong.â âMaybe they donât, but the baby belongs. That is if I do,â said the sister stoutly; âmaybe youâll say next I donât.â âNo, I shanât say that. Why, what could we do without you? And say, Mary Jane.â âWell, say it quick. The girls are calling me to swing on the Maypole. âCause thatâs one thing I can do without my crutches.â âWell, in a minute. But, say. Sometimes I used to let you hoe in my garden, last summer. Remember?â âCourse. I helped you a lot.â âDonât know about that. But you might this year. That is, maybe. If we went partners, you see; and if the teacher didnât get on to it; and if there was a medal give and you let me have it, âcause Iâm the one has the farm, course. What you say?â âI say we couldnât do such a thing without the teacher knowing and I wouldnât if we could. And youâll never get a medal, youâre too lazy. But youâre real genârous, too, and Iâll be so glad to help. Oh! I love it! I just feelâs if I could put my face right down on that crumbly ground and go to sleep. Itâs so dear.â âHuh! If you did I sâpose youâd get earwigs in your ears and--and angleworms, and--things. Maybe snakes. But Iâll let you,â concluded Jimmy, graciously. Then they turned around and there was--what seemed to the beholders, a veritable small angel! Mary Jane was so startled she dropped her crutches and, for an instant, quite forgot all about the baby. The apparition was clothed in white, so soft and fine and transparent that it seemed to enwrap her as a cloud; and above the cloud rose a face so lovely and so winning that it made Mary Janeâs heart almost stand still in ecstasy. CHAPTER III HOW THE PAIR MET But when things cleared a little, it was only Bonny-Gay! and the Gray Gentleman was supporting Mary Jane without her crutches--though she didnât realize that, at first. Afterward she was able to look up into his face and smile a welcome, because he and she were already quite close friends. What had happened was this: the Gray Gentleman had sent his elderly black âboyâ with a note to the vine-covered house in Mt. Vernon Place and had requested âthe favor of Miss Beulahâs company upon a drive, that morning. He intended to visit one of the âPlaygroundsâ in the south-western part of the city, and he felt that the little girl whose society he so greatly enjoyed would find much to interest her, if she might be with him.â To this he had signed a name which was quite powerful enough to secure Mrs. McClureâs instant and delighted assent; and she had at once returned a very graceful note of acceptance by the âboy.â Then at ten oâclock precisely, the Gray Gentlemanâs carriage had gone around for âMiss McClure,â and she had been lifted into it and to a seat beside her friend. A half-hourâs drive followed; through streets and avenues which Bonny-Gay had never seen before, and which continually grew narrower and more crowded. Even the houses seemed to shrink in size, and the little girl had finally exclaimed: âWhy, itâs like the buildings were so little that they just squeeze the folks out of them, upon the steps and through the windows. I never, never saw! Will they get to be just playhouses, by-and-by?â âNo, Bonny-Gay, Iâm sure you never did. Yet itâs the same city in which is your own big home, and they are just the same sort of human beings as you and I.â âAre they? It doesnât--doesnât just seem so, does it? And why do they all stare at us like that?â âBecause we do at them, maybe; and itâs not a common thing to see carriages with liveried attendants pass this way. I suppose you, in your dainty clothes, are as much a âshowâ to them as they to you in their coarse attire, or rags.â Bonny-Gay looked thoughtfully at her frock. She would have preferred to wear a simpler one; and a comfortable âTamâ instead of the feathered hat which adorned her sunny head. But her mother had decided otherwise; since the Gray Gentleman had done her the honor of that morning it was but courtesy to show appreciation of it by a good appearance. After a moment she looked up and observed: âItâs the queerest thing! I feel as if I ought to get out and walk; and as if I should give this hat to that little girl who hasnât any.â The Gray Gentleman smiled. âThat would be going to the other extreme, my dear, and would help neither you nor them. Besides, this is not all we came to see, and here we are!â Then the street had suddenly ended and the carriage had turned in at a big gate, to roll almost silently onward till it stopped before a âMansion,â with ancient wooden shutters and a clematis-draped porch. This was natural and quite suggestive to Bonny-Gay of her own beloved Druid Hill, wherein she was accustomed to take her stately drives in her fatherâs own carriage; and when she heard the shouts and laughter of children from the tree-hidden âPlaygrounds,â her spirits rose to the normal again and she laughed in return. Dancing along beside him, with her hand in his, she had demanded eagerly: âIs it here I am to see my âtwin sister?â Oh! I want to find her--quick, quick!â âYes, it is here, and this is--she;â answered her guide, as they paused behind Jimmy and Mary Jane, toward whom he silently nodded. This was how the pair met; and while Mary Jane saw what she fancied was an âangelâ that which Bonny-Gay saw was a girl of her own age, with short, limp legs, very long arms, and a crooked back. But the dark head above the poor humped shoulders was as shapely as the âangelâsâ own; the dark eyes as beautiful as the blue ones; and from the wide, merry mouth flashed a smile quite as radiant and winning. As soon as she saw the smile Bonny-Gay began to understand what the Gray Gentleman had meant, and she telegraphed him a glance that said she did. Then she laughed and held out her two hands to Mary Jane. âI guess youâre the girl Iâve come to see: my âtwin sister!â How-de-do?â âHow-de-do?â echoed Mary Jane, too astonished to say more. The Gray Gentleman quietly slipped her crutches under the crippleâs arms, and seizing Jimmyâs hand walked swiftly away. Both girls looked after him with regret but he neither glanced back nor expected them to follow. Then they regarded each other with curiosity, till Mary Jane remembered she was the hostess. âLetâs sit down,â she said pointing to the grass. Bonny-Gay hesitated, and, seeing this, the other whisked off her apron and spread it for her guest. âYou might spoil your dress, thatâs so. Salt and lemon juiceâll take out grass-stain. My mother uses that when thereâs spots on the âwash.ââ âDoes she? I wasnât thinking of my frock, though, but of _that_;â answered the visitor, pointing to a âKeep Offâ sign behind them. âOh! that? Nobody minds that. You see, this is _our_ park now. We play where we choose, only on the terraces and slopey places. Youâd better use my apron though, itâs such a splendid dress. Your mother would feel bad if you smirched it.â âI suppose she would. Sheâs very particular.â âSoâs mine. They say sheâs the very neatest woman in Dingy street. The neighbors say it.â âAnd our cook says mine is the âfussiestâ one in the Place. That might be some of the âsisterâ part, mightnât it?â âIt might. Only, course, heâs just fooling.â âI donât believe the Gray Gentleman ever fools. He means things. Heâs made us children think a lot. Moreân we ever did before. And he says things mean things, too, every single one. Even âFather George,â and the lion, and Max, and--and everything.â After this exhausting speech Bonny-Gay removed her hat and laid it upon the grass, where Mary Jane regarded it admiringly. It was so pretty she would have liked to touch it, just once. The hatâs owner saw the admiration, and remarked: âPut it on, Mary Jane. See if it will fit you.â âOh! I darenât!â gasped the other. âI might hurt it.â Bonny-Gay lifted the hat and placed it upon the crippleâs dark head, which was held perfectly motionless, while the face beneath the brim took on an expression of bewildered happiness. âMy! ainât it lovely! I should think youâd want to wear it all the time!â âI donât, then. I like my âTamâ better, and nothing best of all. You can wear it as long as I stay, if you wish.â âThatâs good of you. Some of the other girls wouldnât even let me touch their best hats, they wouldnât.â âMust be selfish things, then. How old are you, Mary Jane?â âHowâd you know my name? and whatâs yours?â Bonny-Gay stated it and explained: âI heard that Jimmy boy call you. How old did you say?â âI didnât say, but Iâm eight, going on nine.â âWhy, so am I. Iâm a âSundayâs bairnâ.â âAnd I!â cried Mary Jane, breathlessly. After that confidences were swift; and, presently, each little girl knew all about the other; till, in one pause for breath, the cripple suddenly remembered the baby. Then she caught up her crutches, swung herself upon them, and started off in pursuit of him. Bonny-Gay watched her disappear in the midst of the crowd of children, who had all shyly held aloof from herself, saw how they clung about her and how some of the tiniest ones held up their faces to be kissed. She saw her stoop to tie the ragged shoe of one and button the frock of another; saw her pause to listen to the complaint of a sobbing lad and smartly box the ears of his tormentor. Then another glimmering of the Gray Gentlemanâs meaning, when he called these two âsisters,â came into Bonny-Gayâs mind. âShe has to take care of the children down here just as I do in our park. I suppose we two are the only ones have time to bother, but how can she do it! Her face is so pretty--prettier, even, than Nettieâs, but I dare not look at the rest of her. I just dare not. Poor little girl, how she must ache! Supposing I was that way. My arms stretched way down there, and my feet shortened way up here, and my back all scrouged up so! Oh! poor, poor Mary Jane! It hurts me just to make believe and she has it all the time. But here she comes back and I mustnât let her see I notice her looks. I mustnât, for anything. Itâs bad enough to have her body hurt, I mustnât hurt her feelings, too.â However, there was no sign of suffering about the little cripple as she returned to the side of her guest, dragging the soap-box wagon behind her and recklessly rolling the baby about in it, so eager was her advance. There were tears in Bonny-Gayâs eyes for a moment, though, till she caught sight of the baby and heard Mary Jane exclaim: âDid you ever see such a sight? What do you sâpose mother will say? The teacher set him in the sand-box and somebody gave him a stick of âlasses candy, and heâs messed from head to foot. But isnât he a dear?â and dropping to the ground she caught the little one to her breast and covered his sandy, bedaubed countenance with adoring kisses. âHeâs the funniest thing I ever saw!â laughed Bonny-Gay, so merrily that the Gray Gentleman drew near to join in the fun. After him trailed an army of young âfarmersâ and in another moment the visitor had ceased to be a stranger to anybody there. âLetâs see-saw!â cried Joe Stebbins, seizing her hand and drawing her to the playground. Then somebody swung Mary Jane and the baby upon the beam beside her, some other girls took the opposite end, and they all went tilting up and down, up and down, in the most exciting manner possible. Then there was the Maypole, furnished with ropes instead of ribbons, from the ends of which they hung and swung, around and around, till they dropped off for sheer weariness. And here Bonny-Gay was proud to see that Mary Jane could beat the whole company. Her arms were so long and so strong, they could cling and outswing all the others; and when she had held to her rope until she was the very last one left her laughter rang out in a way that was good to hear. âSeems to me I never heard so much laughing in all my life!â exclaimed Bonny-Gay to the Gray Gentleman when, tired out with fun, she nestled beside him as he rested on a bench. âYes, itâs a fine thing, a fine thing. And you see that it doesnât take big houses or rich clothes to make happiness. All these new friends of yours belong to those tiny homes we passed on our way down.â âThey do! Even Mary Jane, my sister?â âEven in an humbler. Dingy street is just what its name implies. But weâll drive that way back and what do you say to giving Mary Jane a ride thus far?â âOh! Iâd love it! Sheâs so jolly and friendly and seems never to think of her--her poor back and--things.â âYouâll like her better and better--if you should ever meet again. She won my heart the first time I saw her, over a month ago. I met her dragging home a basket of her motherâs laundry work, in that same soap-box wagon she utilizes for the baby. The family chariot it seems to be. I was taking a stroll this way, quite by myself, and thinking of other things than where I was walking when I stumbled and my hat flew off. Then I heard a rattle and squeak of rusty small wheels, and there was Mary Jane hopping up to me on her âwooden feetâ and holding out my hat, with the most sympathetic smile in the world. âHere it is, Mister, and I do hope it isnât hurt; nor you either,â said she; and in just that one glimpse I had of her I saw how sweet and brave and helpful she was. So Iâve been proud to call her my friend ever since.â Just then arose a cry so sudden and boisterous it could have been uttered by no lips except the babyâs. For a teacher had tapped a bell, and somebody had cried âLuncheon!â and he knew what that meant as well as anyone. So Mary Jane swung round to where he lay upon his back in the sunshine and set him up against a rock, and thrust a piece of the loaf she had brought into his chubby fists, and cocked her head admiringly while she cried out: âDid anybody ever see so cute a child as he!â Then she remembered the visitors and with the truest hospitality proffered them the broken loaf. âI ought to have given it to you the first, I know that, but heâd have yelled constant if I hadnât tended him. Itâs wonderful, I think, how he knows that bell!â âWonderful!â echoed the Gray Gentleman, as he bowed and gravely broke a tiny portion from the small stale loaf. Bonny-Gay was going to decline, but when she saw the Gray Gentlemanâs action, she checked her âNo, I thank youâ unspoken and also accepted a crumbly crust. After which Mary Jane distributed several other bits among some clamorous charges and finally sat down with the last morsel to enjoy that herself in their presence. âI think dinner never tastes so good as it does out-doors here, in our park,â she remarked with a sigh of satisfaction. âDinner!â cried Bonny-Gay and looked into the Gray Gentlemanâs face. But from something she saw there she was warned to say no more; and she made a brave effort to swallow her own crust without letting her entertainer see how distasteful a matter it was. After this the Gray Gentleman saw a cloud arising and though he did not fear a shower for himself he was anxious that Bonny-Gay should take no harm from her unusual outing. So he called the coachman to bring up the carriage and had Mary Jane and the baby lifted in. Then Bonny-Gay sprang after them, and the master himself made his adieux to the teachers and followed, watched by the admiring, maybe envious, glances of many bright eyes. However, one carriage, no matter how capacious, cannot hold a whole kindergarten, and neither could it carry the pleasant âPlaygroundsâ away; so if there was any envy it did not last long. Which was a good thing, too, seeing what happened so soon afterward. The landau had not progressed far toward Dingy street and Mary Jane was still wearing the feather-trimmed hat, which her new friend had persuaded her to put on just to surprise Mrs. Bump, when there came a rush, a bark, a series of shrieks, and the high-spirited horses were off at a mad gallop; which grew wilder and wilder, and soon passed quite beyond control of coachman or even the Gray Gentleman, who had promptly seized the reins as they fell from the driverâs hands, but had been powerless to do more than retain them in his tightly clutched fingers. It seemed an age that the frantic beasts sped onward, following their own will, before the crash came and they tore themselves free, leaving the hindering vehicle to go to ruin against the great post, where it struck. But it was, in reality, not more than half a moment, and when the reins were wrenched from his grasp the Gray Gentleman looked anxiously about him to learn if anyone was hurt. Mary Jane and the baby were on the floor of the carriage, safe and sound. The terrified footman was clinging to his seat behind; the coachman had either leaped or been thrown out, but had landed upon his feet; but where was Bonny-Gay? A white, motionless little figure lay face downward in the dust, a rod away, and over this bent a black, shaggy dog, whining and moaning in a way that was almost human. âMax! Max! Was it you, was it you! Oh! wretched animal, what have you done!â Max it was. But, at the sight of his silent playmate and the altered sound of a familiar voice, a cowed, unhappy Max; who crouched and slunk away as the Gray Gentleman lifted from the roadway the limp figure of his own beloved Bonny-Gay. CHAPTER IV MAX REAPPEARS There was neither drug store nor doctorâs office near, and the Gray Gentlemanâs instant decision
{'title': 'A Pair of Them by Evelyn Raymond', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}