Girl to Come Home To by Grace Livingston Hill Page B

and blue, binding edges of tiny white flannel jackets and wrappers with pink and blue satin ribbon. The third girl was buttonholing scallops with silk twists on tiny flannel petticoats. They were making several charming little layettes for a number of new babies who had arrived overnight without bringing their suitcases with them, and these three girls had promised to see that the needy babies were supplied before night. And because these three girls were used to having all things lovely in their own lives, it never occurred to them to sling the little garments together carelessly. They set their stitches as carefully and made their scallops as heavy and perfect as if they had been doing them for their own family. Others might sling such outfits together by expeditious rule, but they must make them also beautiful.
    “Aren’t they darling?” said Isabelle Graham. “I feel as if I were making doll clothes and I’d like to play with the dolls myself. They say that a couple of these poor little mothers have wept their hearts out mourning for their husbands and they haven’t taken time to get anything ready for their babies. The husband of one baby’s mother has been reported killed, and another one is taken prisoner. A terrible world for a little child to be born into.”
    “Yes,” said an elderly woman coming over from a group across the room to take the measurement of the hems the girls were putting into the little petticoats, “I think it’s a crime! Bringing little helpless babies into a world like this. And all because their silly mothers couldn’t wait till their men came back from fighting. It’s ri
di
culous!”
    Alida Hopkins shut her pretty lips tightly on the three pins she was holding in her mouth, ready to set the measurement of the little petticoat she was working on, and cast a scornful look at the woman.
    But the woman pursued the subject. “Don’t you think so, Alida?”
    “I don’t think it’s any of my business,” said Alida with a little laugh. “It certainly isn’t the poor babies’ fault, and they’re here and can’t go around without clothes in this freezing weather, so I’m here to make clothes for them. Beryl, have you got any more of that lovely white silk twist? I’ve an inch more scallops to make on this petticoat, and I don’t like to change color.”
    “Oh yes,” said Beryl Sanderson, fishing in her handbag for the spool and handing it out. “I have a whole lot at home. I bought it before they stopped selling such things. I thought it might fit in somewhere.”
    “Well you certainly were forehanded,” said the critical woman sharply. “But I wouldn’t waste real silk twist on baby garments for little war foundlings. It won’t be appreciated I tell you. Better save it for your own children someday.”
    Beryl smiled sweetly and covered the rising color in her cheeks with a dimple. “Well, you see, Mrs. Thaxter,” she said amusedly, “I haven’t reached that need yet, so I guess we’d better let this little war baby have the benefit.”
    Mrs. Thaxter cast a pitying, disapproving glace at the girl, pursed her lips and tossed her head. “Oh, well, I guess you’re as improvident as the rest,” she said sharply. “I thought you had better sense.”
    “Improvident?” laughed Beryl. “Why should I provide for children I don’t possess and may never have and let some other little child suffer?”
    “Hm!” said Mrs. Thaxter. “I guess they won’t do much suffering for the lack of a few needlefuls of buttonhole twist.” And she marched off to the other end of the room with her head in the air. Her departure was announced to the room by little rollicking ripples of laughter from the girls she had left.
    “Shhh!” warned Beryl softly. “There’s no need to make her angry, even if she is an old crab. Do you know she has worked all this week cutting out garments, worked hours over time?”
    “Yes,” said Bonny Stewart with a twinkle, “and ripped every last