The S. W. F. Club by Caroline E. Jacobs

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"You see how beautifully she has us all in training?" Harry said to
Pauline.

Pauline laughed. Suddenly she looked up from her flowers with sobered
face. "I wonder," she said slowly, "if you know what it's meant to
us--you're being here this summer, Shirley? Sometimes things do fit in
just right after all. It's helped out wonderfully this summer, having
you here and the manor open."

"Pauline has a fairy-story uncle down in New York," Shirley turned to
Harry. "You've heard of him--Mr. Paul Shaw."

"Well,--rather! I've met him, once or twice--he didn't strike me as
much of a believer in fairy tales."

"He's made us believe in them," Pauline answered.

"I think Senior might have provided me with such a delightful sort of
uncle," Shirley observed. "I told him so, but he says, while he's
awfully sorry I didn't mention it before, he's afraid it's too late
now."

"Uncle Paul sent us Bedelia," Pauline told the rather perplexed-looking
Harry, "and the row-boat and the camera and--oh, other things."

"Because he wanted them to have a nice, jolly summer," Shirley
explained. "Pauline's sister had been sick and needed brightening up."

"You don't think he's looking around for a nephew to adopt, do you?"
Harry inquired. "A well-intentioned, intelligent young man--with no
end of talent."

"For making salads," Shirley added with a sly smile.

"Oh, well, you know," Harry remarked casually, "these are what Senior
calls my 'salad days.'"

Whereupon Shirley rose without a word, carrying off her vases of
flowers.

The party at the manor was, like all the club affairs, a decided
success. Never had the old place looked so gay and animated, since
those far-off days of its early glory.

The young people coming and going--the girls in their light dresses and
bright ribbons made a pleasant place of the lawn, with its background
of shining water. The tennis court, at one side of the house, was one
of the favorite gathering spots; there were one or two boats out on the
lake. The pleasant informality of the whole affair proved its greatest
charm.

Mr. Allen was there, pointing out to his host the supposed end of the
subterranean passage said to connect the point on which the manor stood
with the old ruined French fort over on the New York side. The
minister was having a quiet chat with the doctor, who had made a
special point of being there. Mothers of club members were exchanging
notes and congratulating each other on the good comradeship and general
air of contentment among the young people. Sextoness Jane was there,
in all the glory of her best dress--one of Mrs. Shaw's handed-down
summer ones--and with any amount of items picked up to carry home to
Tobias, who was certain to expect a full account of this most unusual
dissipation on his mistress's part. Even Betsy Todd condescended to
put on her black woolen--usually reserved for church and funerals--and
walk about among the other guests; but always, with an air that told
plainly how little she approved of such goings on. The Boyds were
there, their badges in full evidence. And last, though far from least,
in her own estimation, Patience was there, very crisp and white and on
her best behavior,--for, setting aside those conditions mother had seen
fit to burden her with, was the delightful fact that Shirley had asked
her to help serve tea.

The principal tea-table was in the studio, though there was a second
one, presided over by Pauline and Bell, out under the awning at the
edge of the lawn.

Patience thought the studio the very nicest room she had ever been in.
It was long and low--in reality, the old dancing-hall, for the manor
had been built after the pattern of its first owner's English home; and
in the deep, recessed windows, facing the lake, many a bepatched and
powdered little belle of Colonial days had coquetted across her fan
with her bravely-clad partner.

Mr. Dayre had thrown out an extra window at one end, at right angles to
the great stone fireplace, banked to-day with golden rod, thereby
securing the desired north light.

On the easel, stood a nearly finished painting,--a sunny corner of the
old manor kitchen, with Betsy Todd in lilac print gown, peeling apples
by the open window, through which one caught a glimpse of the tall
hollyhocks in the garden beyond.

Before this portrait, Patience found Sextoness Jane standing in mute
astonishment.

"Betsy looks like she was just going to say--'take your hands out of
the dish!' doesn't she?" Patience commented. Betsy had once helped out
at the parsonage, during a brief illness of Miranda's, and the young
lady knew whereof she spoke.

"I'd never've thought," Jane said slowly, "that anyone'd get that fond
of Sister Todd--as to want a picture of her!"

"Oh, it's because she's such a character, you know," Patience explained
serenely. Jane was so good about letting one explain things. "'A
perfect character,' I heard one of those artist men say so."

Jane shook her head dubiously. "Not what I'd call a 'perfect'
character--not that I've got anything against Sister Todd; but she's
too fond of finding out a body's faults."

Patience went off then in search of empty tea-cups. She was having a
beautiful time; at present only one cloud overshadowed her horizon.
Already some tiresome folks were beginning to think about going. There
was the talk of chores to be done, suppers to get, and with the
breaking up, must come an end to her share in the party. For mother,
though approached in the most delicate fashion, had proved obdurate
regarding the further festivity to follow. Had mother been willing to
consider the matter, Patience would have cheerfully undertaken to
procure the necessary invitation. Shirley was a very obliging girl.

"And really, my dears," she said, addressing the three P's
collectively, "it does seem a pity to have to go home before the fun's
all over. And I could manage it--Bob would take me out rowing--if I
coaxed--he rows very slowly. I don't suppose, for one moment, that we
would get back in time. I believe--" For fully three minutes,
Patience sat quite still in one of the studio window seats, oblivious
of the chatter going on all about her; then into her blue eyes came a
look not seen there very often--"No," she said sternly, shaking her
head at Phil, much to his surprise, for he wasn't doing anything.
"No--it wouldn't be _square_--and there would be the most awful to-do
afterwards."

When a moment or two later, Mrs. Shaw called to her to come, that
father was waiting, Patience responded with a very good grace. But Mr.
Dayre caught the wistful look in the child's face. "Bless me," he said
heartily. "You're not going to take Patience home with you, Mrs. Shaw?
Let her stay for the tea--the young people won't keep late hours, I
assure you."

"But I think--" Mrs. Shaw began very soberly.

"Sometimes, I find it quite as well not to think things over," Mr.
Dayre suggested. "Why, dear me, I'd quite counted on Patience's being
here. You see, I'm not a regular member, either; and I want someone to
keep me in countenance."

So presently, Hilary felt a hand slipped eagerly into hers. "I'm
staying! I'm staying!" an excited little voice announced. "And oh, I
just love Mr. Dayre!"

Then Patience went back to her window seat to play the delightful game
of "making believe" she hadn't stayed. She imagined that instead, she
was sitting between father and mother in the gig, bubbling over with
the desire to "hi-yi" at Fanny, picking her slow way along.

The studio was empty, even the dogs were outside, speeding the parting
guests with more zeal than discretion. But after awhile Harry Oram
strolled in.

"I'm staying!" Patience announced. She approved of Harry. "You're an
artist, too, aren't you?" she remarked.

"So kind of you to say so," Harry murmured. "I have heard grave doubts
expressed on the subject by my too impartial friends."

"I mean to be one when I grow up," Patience told him, "so's I can have
a room like this--with just rugs on the floor; rugs slide so
nicely--and window seats and things all cluttery."

"May I come and have tea with you? I'd like it awfully."

"It'll be really tea--not pretend kind," Patience said. "But I'll have
that sort for any children who may come. Hilary takes pictures--she
doesn't make them though. Made pictures are nicer, aren't they?"

"Some of them." Harry glanced through the open doorway, to where
Hilary sat resting. She was "making" a picture now, he thought to
himself, in her white dress, under the big tree, her pretty hair
forming a frame about her thoughtful face. Taking a portfolio from a
table near by, he went out to where Hilary sat.

"Your small sister says you take pictures," he said, drawing a chair up
beside hers, "so I thought perhaps you'd let me show you these--they
were taken by a friend of mine."

"Oh, but mine aren't anything like these! These are beautiful!"
Hilary bent over the photographs he handed her; marveling over their
soft tones. They were mostly bits of landscape, with here and there a
water view and one or two fleecy cloud effects. It hardly seemed as
though they could be really photographs.

"I've never done anything like these!" she said regretfully. "I wish I
could--there are some beautiful views about here that would make
charming pictures."

"She didn't in the beginning," Harry said, "She's lame; it was an
accident, but she can never be quite well again, so she took this up,
as an amusement at first, but now it's going to be her profession."

Hilary bent over the photographs again. "And you really think--anyone
could learn to do it?"

"No, not anyone; but I don't see why the right sort of person couldn't."

"I wonder--if I could develop into the right sort."

"May I come and see what you have done--and talk it over?" Harry asked.
"Since this friend of mine took it up, I'm ever so interested in camera
work."

"Indeed you may," Hilary answered. She had never thought of her camera
holding such possibilities within it, of its growing into something
better and more satisfying than a mere playmate of the moment.

"Rested?" Pauline asked, coming up. "Supper's nearly ready."

"I wasn't very tired. Paul, come and look at these."

Supper was served on the lawn; the pleasantest, most informal, of
affairs, the presence of the older members of the party serving to turn
the gay give and take of the young folks into deeper and wider
channels, and Shirley's frequent though involuntary--"Do you remember,
Senior?" calling out more than one vivid bit of travel, of description
of places, known to most of them only through books.

Later, down on the lower end of the lawn, with the moon making a path
of silver along the water, and the soft hush of the summer night over
everything, Shirley brought out her guitar, singing for them strange
folk-songs, picked up in her rambles with her father. Afterwards, the
whole party sang songs that they all knew, ending up at last with the
club song.

"'It's a habit to be happy,'" the fresh young voices chorused, sending
the tune far out across the lake; and presently, from a boat on its
further side, it was whistled back to them.

"Who is it, I wonder?" Edna said,

"Give it up," Tom answered. "Someone who's heard it--there've been
plenty of opportunities for folks to hear it."

"Well it isn't a bad gospel to scatter broadcast," Bob remarked.

"And maybe it's someone who doesn't live about here, and he will go
away taking our tune with him, for other people to catch up," Hilary
suggested.

"But if he only has the tune and not the words," Josie objected, "what
use will that be?"

"The spirit of the words is in the tune," Pauline said. "No one could
whistle or sing it and stay grumpy."

"They'd have to 'put the frown away awhile, and try a little sunny
smile,' wouldn't they?" Patience observed.

Patience had been a model of behavior all the evening. Mother would be
sure to ask if she had been good, when they got home. That was one of
those aggravating questions that only time could relieve her from. No
one ever asked Paul, or Hilary, that--when they'd been anywhere.

As Mr. Dayre had promised, the party broke up early, going off in the
various rigs they had come in. Tom and Josie went in the trap with the
Shaws. "It's been perfectly lovely--all of it," Josie said, looking
back along the road they were leaving. "Every good time we have seems
the best one yet."

"You wait 'til my turn comes," Pauline told her. "I've such a scheme
in my head."

"Am I in it?" Patience begged. She was in front, between Tom, who was
driving, and Hilary, then she leaned forward, they were nearly home,
and the lights of the parsonage showed through the trees. "There's a
light in the parlor--there's company!"

Pauline looked, too. "And one up in our old room, Hilary. Goodness,
it must be a visiting minister! I didn't know father was expecting
anyone."

"I bet you!" Patience jumped excitedly up and down. "I just bet it
isn't any visiting minister--but a visiting--uncle! I feel it in my
bones, as Miranda says."

"Nonsense!" Pauline declared.

"Maybe it isn't nonsense, Paul!" Hilary said.

"I feel it in my bones," Patience repeated. "I just _knew_ Uncle Paul
would come up--a story-book uncle would be sure to."

"Well, here we are," Tom laughed. "You'll know for certain pretty
quick."

CHAPTER X

THE END OF SUMMER

It was Uncle Paul, and perhaps no one
was more surprised at his unexpected coming,
than he himself.

That snap-shot of Hilary's had considerable
to do with it; bringing home to him the
sudden realization of the passing of the years.
For the first time, he had allowed himself to
face the fact that it was some time now since
he had crossed the summit of the hill, and that
under present conditions, his old age promised
to be a lonely, cheerless affair.

He had never had much to do with young
people; but, all at once, it seemed to him that
it might prove worth his while to cultivate
the closer acquaintance of these nieces of his.
Pauline, in particular, struck him as likely to
improve upon a nearer acquaintance. And
that afternoon, as he rode up Broadway, he
found himself wondering how she would
enjoy the ride; and all the sights and wonders
of the great city.

Later, over his solitary dinner, he suddenly
decided to run up to Winton the next day.
He would not wire them, he would rather like
to take Phil by surprise.

So he had arrived at the parsonage,
driving up in Jed's solitary hack, and much plied
with information, general and personal, on the
way, just as the minister and his wife reached
home from the manor.

"And, oh, my! Doesn't father look
tickled to death!" Patience declared, coming
in to her sisters' room that night, ostensibly
to have an obstinate knot untied, but inwardly
determined to make a third at the usual
bedtime talk for that once, at least. It wasn't
often they all came up together.

"He looks mighty glad," Pauline said.

"And isn't it funny, bearing him called
Phil?" Patience curled herself up in the
cozy corner. "I never've thought of father
as Phil."

Hilary paused in the braiding of her long
hair. "I'm glad we've got to know him--Uncle
Paul, I mean--through his letters, and
all the lovely things he's done for us; else, I
think I'd have been very much afraid of him."

"So am I," Pauline assented. "I see now
what Mr. Oram meant--he doesn't look as if
he believed much in fairy stories. But I like
his looks--he's so nice and tall and straight."

"He used to have red hair, before it turned
gray," Hilary said, "so that must be a family
trait; your chin's like his, Paul, too,--so
square and determined."

"Is mine?" Patience demanded.

"You cut to bed, youngster," Pauline
commanded. "You're losing all your beauty
sleep; and really, you know--"

Patience went to stand before the mirror.
"Maybe I ain't--pretty--yet; but I'm going
to be--some day. Mr. Dayre says he likes
red hair, I asked him. He says for me not to
worry; I'll have them all sitting up and taking notice yet."

At which Pauline bore promptly down
upon her, escorting her in person to the door
of her own room. "And you'd better get to
bed pretty quickly, too, Hilary," she advised,
coming back. "You've had enough excitement for one day."

Mr. Paul Shaw stayed a week; it was a
busy week for the parsonage folk and for
some other people besides. Before it was
over, the story-book uncle had come to know
his nieces and Winton fairly thoroughly;
while they, on their side, had grown very well
acquainted with the tall, rather silent man,
who had a fashion of suggesting the most
delightful things to do in the most matter-of-fact manner.

There were one or two trips decidedly
outside that ten-mile limit, including an all day
sail up the lake, stopping for the night at a
hotel on the New York shore and returning
by the next day's boat. There was a visit to
Vergennes, which took in a round of the shops,
a concert, and another night away from home.

"Was there ever such a week!" Hilary
sighed blissfully one morning, as she and her
uncle waited on the porch for Bedelia and
the trap. Hilary was to drive him over to
The Maples for dinner.

"Or such a summer altogether," Pauline
added, from just inside the study window.

"Then Winton has possibilities?" Mr. Shaw asked.

"I should think it has; we ought to be
eternally grateful to you for making us find
them out," Pauline declared.

Mr. Shaw smiled, more as if to himself. "I
daresay they're not all exhausted yet."

"Perhaps," Hilary said slowly, "some
places are like some people, the longer and
better you know them, the more you keep
finding out in them to like."

"Father says," Pauline suggested, "that one
finds, as a rule, what one is looking for."

"Here we are," her uncle exclaimed, as
Patience appeared, driving Bedelia. "Do you
know," he said, as he and Hilary turned out
into the wide village street, "I haven't seen the
schoolhouse yet?"

"We can go around that way. It isn't
much of a building," Hilary answered.

"I suppose it serves its purpose."

"It is said to be a very good school for the
size of the place." Hilary turned Bedelia
up the little by-road, leading to the old
weather-beaten schoolhouse, standing back
from the road in an open space of bare ground.

"You and Pauline are through here?" her uncle asked.

"Paul is. I would've been this June, if I
hadn't broken down last winter."

"You will be able to go on this fall?"

"Yes, indeed. Dr. Brice said so the other
day. He says, if all his patients got on so
well, by not following his advice, he'd have
to shut up shop, but that, fortunately for
him, they haven't all got a wise uncle down in
New York, to offer counter-advice."

"Each in his turn," Mr. Shaw remarked,
adding, "and Pauline considers herself through school?"

"I--I suppose so. I know she would like
to go on--but we've no higher school here and--She
read last winter, quite a little, with
father. Pauline's ever so clever."

"Supposing you both had an opportunity--for
it must be both, or neither, I judge--and
the powers that be consented--how about
going away to school this winter?"

Hilary dropped the reins. "Oh!" she
cried, "you mean--"

"I have a trick of meaning what I say," her
uncle said, smiling at her.

"I wish I could say--what I want to--and
can't find words for--" Hilary said.

"We haven't consulted the higher authorities
yet, you know."

"And--Oh, I don't see how mother could
get on without us, even if--"

"Mothers have a knack at getting along
without a good many things--when it means
helping their young folks on a bit,"
Mr. Shaw remarked. "I'll have a talk with her
and your father to-night."

That evening, pacing up and down the
front veranda with his brother, Mr. Shaw
said, with his customary abruptness, "You
seem to have fitted in here, Phil,--perhaps, you
were in the right of it, after all. I take it
you haven't had such a hard time, in some ways."

The minister did not answer immediately.
Looking back nearly twenty years, he told
himself, that he did not regret that early
choice of his. He had fitted into the life here;
he and his people had grown together. It had
not always been smooth sailing and more than
once, especially the past year or so, his
narrow means had pressed him sorely, but on the
whole, he had found his lines cast in a
pleasant place, and was not disposed to rebel
against his heritage.

"Yes," he said, at last, "I have fitted in;
too easily, perhaps. I never was ambitious,
you know."

"Except in the accumulating of books," his
brother suggested.

The minister smiled. "I have not been
able to give unlimited rein even to that mild
ambition. Fortunately, the rarer the
opportunity, the greater the pleasure it brings
with it--and the old books never lose their charm."

Mr. Paul Shaw flicked the ashes from his
cigar. "And the girls--you expect them to
fit in, too?"

"It is their home." A note the elder
brother knew of old sounded in the younger
man's voice.

"Don't mount your high horse just yet,
Phil," he said. "I'm not going to rub you up
the wrong way--at least, I don't mean to; but
you were always an uncommonly hard chap to
handle--in some matters. I grant you, it is
their home and not a had sort of home for a
girl to grow up in." Mr. Shaw stood for a
moment at the head of the steps, looking off
down the peaceful, shadowy street. It had
been a pleasant week; he had enjoyed it
wonderfully. He meant to have many more such.
But to live here always! Already the city
was calling to him; he was homesick for its
rush and bustle, the sense of life and movement.

"You and I stand as far apart to-day, in
some matters, Phil, as we did twenty--thirty
years ago," he said presently, "and that eldest
daughter of yours--I'm a fair hand at reading
character or I shouldn't be where I am to-day,
if I were not--is more like me than you."

"So I have come to think--lately."

"That second girl takes after you; she
would never have written that letter to me
last May."

"No, Hilary would not have at the time--"

"Oh, I can guess how you felt about it at
the time. But, look here, Phil, you've got
over that--surely? After all, I like to think
now that Pauline only hurried on the
inevitable." Mr. Paul Shaw laid his hand on the
minister's shoulder. "Nearly twenty years is
a pretty big piece out of a lifetime. I see now
how much I have been losing all these years."

"It has been a long time, Paul; and,
perhaps, I have been to blame in not trying more
persistently to heal the breach between us. I
assure you that I have regretted it daily."

"You always did have a lot more pride in
your make-up than a man of your profession
has any right to allow himself, Phil. But if
you like, I'm prepared to point out to you
right now how you can make it up to me.
Here comes Lady Shaw and we won't
waste time getting to business."

That night, as Pauline and Hilary were in
their own room, busily discussing, for by no
means the first time that day, what Uncle Paul
had said to Hilary that morning, and just
how he had looked, when he said it, and was
it at all possible that father would consent,
and so on, _ad libitum_, their mother tapped at the door.

Pauline ran to open it. "Good news, or
not?" she demanded. "Yes, or no, Mother Shaw?"

"That is how you take it," Mrs. Shaw
answered. She was glad, very glad, that this
unforeseen opportunity should be given her
daughters; and yet--it meant the first break
in the home circle, the first leaving home for them.

Mr. Paul Shaw left the next morning.
"I'll try and run up for a day or two, before
the girls go to school," he promised his
sister-in-law. "Let me know, as soon as you have
decided _where_ to send them."

Patience was divided in her opinion, as to
this new plan. It would be lonesome without
Paul and Hilary; but then, for the time
being, she would be, to all intents and purposes,
"Miss Shaw." Also, Bedelia was not going
to boarding-school--on the whole, the
arrangement had its advantages. Of course,
later, she would have her turn at school--Patience
meant to devote a good deal of her
winter's reading to boarding-school stories.

She told Sextoness Jane so, when that
person appeared, just before supper time.

Jane looked impressed. "A lot of things
keep happening to you folks right along," she
observed. "Nothing's ever happened to me,
'cept mumps--and things of that sort; you
wouldn't call them interesting. The girls to home?"

"They're 'round on the porch, looking at
some photos Mr. Oram's brought over; and
he's looking at Hilary's. Hilary's going in
for some other kind of picture taking. I wish
she'd leave her camera home, when she goes to
school. Do you want to speak to them about
anything particular?"

"I'll wait a bit," Jane sat down on the
garden-bench beside Patience.

"There, he's gone!" the latter said, as the
front gate clicked a few moments later. "O
Paul!" she called, "You're wanted, Paul!"

"You and Hilary going to be busy
tonight?" Jane asked, as Pauline came across
the lawn.

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