HAWKING VALLEY, NORTH CAROLINA,April 15, 1897.MY DEAR MRS. BLOSSOM,--Just a year ago to-day I sent my one child to you, trusting the judgment of my dear friend, Doctor Heath, in a matter which he felt concerned the future welfare of my daughter. My home has been very lonely without her. You, as a parent, can know something of what this separation has entailed.It seemed wise to me, and I know you concurred in my opinion, to take her away from the conditions, in which she has thriven so wonderfully, while you were burdened, both in heart and hands, by such a critical illness as your son's. The result confirms the wisdom of my action, for March's convalescence has been slow and long; I am thankful to be assured it is sure. The burden of an extra member in your family at this time would, in the long run, prove too heavy for you.I cannot tell you how I appreciate what you have done for Hazel. I have no words to express it. She returns to me full of life and joy, with no apparent unwillingness to take up her life again with me, which must seem dull to her in contrast to that which she had with you. Yet I know in her loyal little heart she belongs to you, is a part of your family henceforth--and I am glad to know it is so, for she needs, and will need, as a young girl, your motherly influence at all times.I 'm not taking her away from you for good. Oh, no! That would be her loss as well as mine; but I am testing her a little. I have said I had no words with which adequately to express my gratitude. I am your debtor for my child's physical well-being--for much else which I do not find it easy to define. Will you allow me to make some compensation for your year of devotion? I do not care what form it take, providing you will permit me to try to discharge something of the debt--the whole can never be repaid. Will you not let me send that splendid son of yours through college? and give him two years of Europe afterwards? That future profession of his has always been of great interest to me. If the boy is too proud, as I suspect is the case, to accept the necessary amount other than as a loan, make it plain to him that I will even yield a point there--a pretty bad state of affairs for me as a debtor to find myself in. If he won't do this for me--won't Rose help me out by permitting me to aid her in cultivating that voice of hers? I know your magnanimity, and depend upon you to help me in this.Hazel does not know I am writing to you, or she would send loving messages.My kindest regards to Mr. Blossom, with hearty congratulations for March, and all sorts of neighborly remembrances for all others of the Lost Nation.Sincerely your friend,JOHN CURTIS CLYDE.To Mrs. Benjamin Blossom."Oh, mother!"A wave of crimson surged into March's pale face, and the sensitive nostrils quivered; then two big drops plashed down upon the letter which he handed to his mother."Oh, mother! if only I could--but I can't!"He rolled over on the soft pasture turf, face downwards, his head resting on his arms."Why, March dear," said his mother, tenderly, "why can't you? I think it 's beautiful, so does father."A sob shook the long, thin frame. His mother laid her hand on the back of the yellow head. "What is it, my dear boy? Can't you tell me?"The head shook energetically beneath her hand, and muffled words issued from the grass."But, March, we thought it would please you to have such an opportunity. You have read what Mr. Clyde says--you can look upon it as a loan. I hope you won't have any false pride in this matter--""'Tis n't false, mother," came forth from the grass, "and I would like to accept his offer, if only it were n't just his.""Why not his, March? Surely, Hazel has been like one of us--a real little sister--" Another vigorous wagging of the yellow head arrested his mother in the midst of her sentence."Hazel is n't my sister.""Why, of course, you can't feel as near to her as to Rose, but then, you must see how dear she has become to us all--and Mr. Clyde has put it in such a way, that the most sensitive person could accept it without injury to any feeling of true pride. Take time and think it over, March. It has come upon you rather suddenly, and I have been thinking about it for two weeks.""It's no use to think it over." Deep tragedy now made itself audible, as March rolled over and sat up, displaying eyes bright with excitement, flushed cheeks, and a generally determined air of having it out with himself."Well, I can't understand you, March.""I wish you could."His mother smiled in spite of the gravity of the situation. "Can't you tell me? or give me some clue to this mysterious determination of yours?"March cast a despairing glance at his mother. "Mother, will you promise never to tell?""Not even your father, March?""No, father, nor any one--ever, mother.""Very well; I promise, March, for I trust you.""Oh, mother, have n't you seen?--don't you know, that I--that I love Hazel! And how can I take the money from her father, when I 'm going to try to make her love me and marry me sometime, when I get through studying, and--and--Oh, don't you see?"And Mrs. Blossom did see--at last.She spoke very gently, after a minute's silence, in which March's ears burned red to their tips, and his fingers were busy digging up a tiny strawberry-plant by the roots. "My son, I see, and I honor you for feeling as you do; but, March, have you thought of the difference between you and Hazel?""What difference, mother?"Now Mary Blossom was not a worldly woman, neither was she a woman of the world--and she found it difficult to answer."You know how Hazel is placed in life, although you do not know with what luxury she is surrounded in her home. She has beauty, a large circle of friends, immense wealth. There will be many who will seek her hand in four years' time, for she has a wonderful charm of her own, for all who come close to her.--Is it worth while to attempt, even, to win this little daughter of the rich? You, a poor boy, with his way to make?""But, mother,"--there was strong protest in the voice--"she did n't have any beauty till she came up here to us--and if shewasa rich girl, she was n't a healthy one till she lived up here, and I don't see the good of money and a lot of things, if you 're sick, and homely, too." March waxed eloquent in his desire to convince his mother of the justice of his cause. "And if she hadn't come up here she would n't have got well, and then she would n't have grown so beautiful--and sheisbeautiful, mother." (Mrs. Blossom nodded assent.) "And I don't see why I have n't just as much right to try to make her love me as any other fellow. You 've told us children, dozens of times, it's just character that counts, and not money, and if I try as hard as I can to keep straight and be a good man like father, I don't see why things would n't be all right in the end."Mrs. Blossom was silenced,--"hoist with her own petard." "How can I destroy this lovely, young ideal? I dare not," was her thought. But aloud, she said:--"You 're right, March. Nothing but character counts. Make yourself worthy of this little love of yours. We 'll keep this in our own hearts, and when you are tempted to wrong-doing--and there are fearful temptations for every young man to meet, March,--temptations of which you can form no conception here in the shelter of your home--just remember this little talk of ours, and keep yourself unspotted by the world just by the thought of this dear girl whom you hope some day to win. There is nothing, March, that will keep a young man in the right way like his love for just 'the one girl in the world'--if only she be worthy of his love. And I think Hazel will be--even of you."March flung his arms about her neck and kissed her heartily:"Dear, little Mother Blossom, I 'll try, and even if I fail, just the thought of such a glorious-filorious mother that does n't laugh at a fellow--I was afraid you would, though,--will keep me straight enough. Why, Mother Blossom! I 'd be ashamed to look you in the eyes, if I did a down-right mean thing."His mother laughed through her tears. "I wonder if many mothers get such a compliment? Come, dear, the dew is beginning to fall--it's been such a heavenly day, I had forgotten it is early spring. Do you feel chilly?""Not I," laughed March, and proceeded to relieve his feelings after his favorite method--by turning a double-back somersault down the pasture slope.As Mrs. Blossom leaned over to kiss tired, sleepy Budd that night, she thought complacently to herself:--"Well, thank fortune, here 's one who is heart-free," and laughed softly to herself. Chi had not told her of Budd's proposal."Wilkins, tell Miss Hazel to come down into the library when she is dressed for dinner.""Yes, Marse Clyde." Wilkins sprang upstairs two steps at a time, and, knocking at Hazel's door, delivered his message."Tell papa I 'm going to dress early, for I 've some things to attend to about the table, Wilkins.""Fo' sho', Miss Hazel," said Wilkins, with a broad smile of delighted surprise."And tell Mrs. Scott I 'll choose the service, if she will take out the linen, and I have ordered the flowers. Papa said I might."Wilkins skipped downstairs, delivered his message to the amazed housekeeper, and then flew into the kitchen to impart his news to the cook, his confidante and co-worker for years in the Clyde household.Minna-Lu was preparing a confection, and giving her whole soul to the making, when Wilkins made his appearance. She looked up grimly, the ebony of her countenance shining beneath the immaculate white of her turban:--"Wa' fo' yo' hyar?"Wilkins slapped both knees with the palms of his hands, and bent nearly double with noiseless laughter; then, straightening himself, approached Minna-Lu with boldness, despite the repelling wave of the cream-whip that she held suspended over the bowl, and confided to her the change of régime, to her edification and delight.She put down the bowl and whip, stemmed her fists on her broad hips, and gurgled long and low. "'F little missus done take rale hol' er de reins, dere ain't no kin' er show fo' sech po' trash." She indicated with an upward movement of her thumb the upper regions where the housekeeper was supposed to be."When I wan's a missus, I wan's quality folks, an' little missus do take de cake. Nebber see sech er chile. Dem great, shinin' eyes, lookin' at yo' out o' all de do's, an' dat laff soun'in' jes' like de ol' mocker dat nebber knowed nuffin' 'bout bedtime--yo' recollecks?" Wilkins nodded emphatically, but was unprepared for Minna-Lu's next move:--"Git out o' hyar, yo' good-fo'-nuffin' niggah. Huccome yo' stan'in' roun' wif yo' legs stiffer 'n de whites er dese yer eggs, an' yo' jaw goin' like de egg-beatah, an' de comp'ny comin' at rale sharp eight." Minna-Lu took up her bowl, and Wilkins beat a hasty retreat.It was a warm first of May, and just about the hour when March and his mother were leaving the Wishing-Tree, that Hazel appeared in the dining-room. Wilkins gazed at her in a species of adoration. Her orders appeared to him revolutionary, but he obeyed them implicitly and unhesitatingly."Take off the candelabra, Wilkins, it is too warm to-night to have them on; besides, people don't have a nice time talking when they have to peek around them to get a glimpse of the people they 're talking to." Wilkins whisked off the candelabra as if they had been made of thistledown."Dat's so, fo' sho', Miss Hazel. I see de folks doan' talk when dey ain' comf'ble; but I nebber tink ob de can'les.""When it's dark you can light all the sconces. I want you to use the pale green, Bohemian dinner set to-night; and I want just as little silver as possible."Wilkins looked blank, and Hazel laughed. "Oh, we 'll make it up with some cut glass, I 'll manage it. I want the table to look cool and simple, just to-night."Cool and simple. Wilkins failed to comprehend it, but such was his faith in "little Missy," that he carried out her orders to the letter, and the result was, according to Mrs. Fenlick, "a dream of beauty."When she had made her preparations to her entire satisfaction, as well as Wilkins's, and the latter had called Minna-Lu from her culinary tug-of-war to witness "little Missy's" triumph, Hazel ran into the library.Her father looked at her in amazement. Could this radiant, young girl be the same Hazel of a year ago? They had gone directly to North Carolina when Hazel had left Mount Hunger, and had been at home but two days. This little dinner was given to Mr. Clyde's intimate friends as an informal celebration and recognition of his daughter's return to the New York house.Now, as she ran into the room and linked her arm in his, her father looked down upon her with such evident pride and love, that Hazel laughed joyfully, kid her cheek against his coat-sleeve and patted his hand."Do I look nice, Papa Clyde?""Nice! that's no word for it, Birdie." And thereupon he took her in his arms and gave her such a hug and a kiss, that the pretty dress must have suffered if it had not been made of the softest of white China-silk."Oh, my flowers! you 'll crush them!" she cried, shielding with both hands a bunch of flowers at her belt."Where did you get all this--this style, daughter mine? It's--why, you 're nothing but a little girl, but it's 'chic.'"Hazel enjoyed her father's admiration to the full. She drew herself up, straight and tall, graceful and slender--her head was already above his shoulder--exclaiming:--"Little girl! Well, your little girl designed this gown herself. I would n't have any fuss or frills about it; it's just plain and full and soft and clingy, and this sash of soft silk--is n't it a pretty, pale green?--feel--" She caught up a handful of the delicate fabric and crushed it in her hand, then smoothed it again, and it showed no wrinkles. "I 've put it on to match the dinner. I 've had it all my own way--Wilkins did just as I said--and it's all cool and green and springy. You 'll see.""Where did you get these flowers?" Mr. Clyde touched the bunch of arbutus, that showed so delicately pink and white against the white of her dress and the green of her sash.A wave of beautiful color shot up to the roots of the little crinkles of chestnut hair on her temples; she touched the blossoms caressingly. "I wrote March about this dinner-party, and how it was the first at which I had been hostess, and he wrote back and wanted to know what I was going to wear, and I told him--and this morning these lovely things came by mail all done up in cotton wool in a tin cracker-box, the kind Chi uses to put his worm-bait in, when he goes fishing. Are n't they lovely? And was n't March lovely to think of them, papa?""They are n't half as lovely as you are," said Mr. Clyde, earnestly, replying to half of her question only. "You are my unspoiled Hazel-blossom--" Then a sudden, intrusive thought caught and arrested his words. "Hazel Blossom," he repeated to himself, looking at her unconscious face as he uttered the last word, "Good heavens! Could such a thing be?""De Cun'le an' Mrs. Fenlick," announced Wilkins.And when they were all seated at the table--the Colonel and Mrs. Fenlick, Doctor and Mrs. Heath, Aunt Carrie and Uncle Jo, the Masons and the Pearsells--with no candelabra to interfere with the merry speech and glances, with the light from the candles in the sconces shining softly on the exquisite napery, on the low bed of white tulips in the centre and the grace of the pale, green porcelain, with the tall Bohemian Romer-glasses before the plates--what wonder that Mrs. Fenlick pronounced it a "dream of beauty"?When their guests had gone, Mr. Clyde turned to Hazel:--"I shall be glad to open the Newport cottage again, Birdie, with such a little hostess to help me entertain.""The Newport house, papa!" Hazel exclaimed, a distinct note of disappointment sounding in her voice."Why not, dear? I thought of getting down there by the tenth; in fact, gave my orders to Mrs. Scott to begin packing to-morrow."Hazel was evidently struggling with herself. She fingered the arbutus nervously; took them out of her belt; inhaled their fragrance. Then she looked up with a smile, although the corners of her mouth drooped and trembled a little:--"Why, of course, why not, papa? It's so much pleasanter there in May, than when everybody is down for the summer."Her father sat down in an easy-chair, put an arm around his daughter, and drew her down to a seat on the arm of the chair."Now, Hazel, I want you to tell me all about it. Don't you want to go?""Yes, if you 're there, papa, but--" she turned suddenly and her arm stole around his neck--"don't leave me there alone, papa, please don't.""Leave you--I? Why what do you mean, dear?""Oh, it is so lonesome when you are away, papa, when you go off yachting with the Colonel--and the house is so big, and there 's nobody to talk to and say good-night to--and--and, oh, dear!" The tears began to come, but she struggled bravely for a few minutes."Why, little girl, you have never told me you were lonesome without me: indeed, you have never shown any sign of it, or of wanting me around much. I never thought--why, Hazel." Down went the curly head on his shoulder, and the sobs grew loud and frequent."There, there, Birdie," he said soothingly, stroking her head, "you 're all tired out; this party has been too much for you--"An energetic, protesting head-shake was followed by broken sentences--"It was n't that--I 'm not tired--you don't know, papa--I didn't know--know I was lonesome, and that I was--I think I was homesick--dreadfully--but Barbara Frietchie, you know--I had to be brave--and, I have tried not to show it to make you feel unhappy--and I love you so! but, oh, dear! I miss them so dreadfully, and I hoped--I was a member of the N.B.--B.O.--O., Oh--dear me,--Society, and the by-law says--I mean March read it--Oh, papa!""Well, well, there, there, dear," said the somewhat mystified father, bending all his efforts to soothe this evidently perturbed spirit, "why did n't you tell me before?""Because I was Barbara Frietchie.""Now, Hazel, sit up and look me in the face and tell me what you mean. I supposed I was holding Hazel Clyde in my arms and not old Barbara Frietchie. Please explain.""I thought I wrote you, papa," Hazel could not help smiling through her tears, for it did strike her as rather funny about papa's holding the patriotic, old lady in his arms."Well, you did n't tell me that." So Hazel explained.Mr. Clyde nodded approval. "Very good, I approve of the N.B.B.O.O. Society, and of the present Barbara Frietchie's heroism--but no more of it is called for. You see, I fully intended you should pay your friends--my friends--a visit this summer, but I thought it would be much better later in the season when Mrs. Blossom would be rested from the fatigue of March's illness--""Oh, papa!" A squeeze effectually impeded further utterance. "I don't care how soon we go to Newport, or anywhere--of course, ifyouare with me--as long as I can go to Mount Hunger sometime this summer. And, besides," she added eagerly, "we planned next winter's visit from Rose, didn't we?""I should rather think we did. We shall be very proud of our beautiful friend, Rose, and delighted to have our friends meet her, shan't we?" Another squeeze precluded, for the moment, articulate speech."Yes," Hazel cried, enthusiastically, "we 'll take her to concerts and operas--just think, papa, with that lovely voice she has never heard a concert!--and we 'll take her to the theatre and--""And," her father went on, growing enthusiastic himself at the prospect, for he was the soul of hospitality, "and we 'll give her a dainty dinner or two, and possibly a little dance--few and early, you know--""Oh--ee!" cried Hazel, forgetting her woe, "and Mrs. Heath will give a lunch-party for her, and, perhaps, Aunt Carrie a tea, and Mrs. Fenlick a reception--""Heavens!" interrupted her father, "you 'll kill her with kindness--that fresh, wild rose can't stand all that--""Oh, yes, she can, papa; she can stand that just as well as I stood going up there where everything was so different.""True," said Mr. Clyde, thoughtfully, "it was different.""Oh, it was, papa! I never had to go to bed alone. Mrs. Blossom always came to say good-night and to kiss me, and to--to--""To what?" asked her father."You won't mind if I tell you?" Hazel asked, half-shyly."Mind! I should say not; I should mind if you did n't tell me.""--to say 'Our Father' with me, papa; you know no one ever said it with me before, and it's--it's such a comfy time to feel sorry and talk over what you 've done wrong; and it'sthatI miss so.""I don't blame you, Birdie," said her father, quietly. "But now see how late it is!"--he pointed to the clock--"Eleven! This will never do for adébutante. Good-night, darling. Sweet dreams of Rose and the N.B.B.O.O. Society.""Good-night, Papa Clyde; Doctor Heath says you are the most splendid fellow in the world--but I know you are the dearest father in the world; good-night, I 've had a lovely party."She ran upstairs, but, in a moment, her father heard her tripping down again. Her head parted the portières. "I just came back to tell you, that this kind of a talk we 've had is just as good as the Mount Hunger bedtime-talks. I shan't be homesick any more." And away she ran.Now John Curtis Clyde was a pew-owner--as had been his father and grandfather before him--in one of the Fifth Avenue churches, and duly made his appearance in that pew every Sunday morning. He entered, too, into the service with hearty voice, and made his responses without, the while, giving undue thought to the world. But when he had said "Our Father" with his little daughter by his side, he had supposed his duty performed to the extent of his needs--of another's, his child's, he gave no thought.To-night, however, as he sat in the easy-chair where Hazel had left him, it began to dawn upon him slowly that his little daughter, during her fourteen years, might have had other needs, for which he had not provided, nor, perhaps, with all his riches was capable of providing.The clock chimed twelve,--one,--two--; John Clyde, with a sigh, rose and went up to bed--a wiser and a better man.XXIIROSEWhat a summer that was! Mr. Clyde sent Hazel up to the Blossoms for July and again for September, when he, the Colonel and Mrs. Fenlick, the Pearsells and the Masons, Aunt Carrie and Uncle Jo took possession of the entire inn at Barton's River, and for a month coached and rode throughout the "North Country," all in the cool September weather. Jack Sherrill joined them for the last three weeks, and, this time, Maude Seaton was not of the party."I just headed her off every time she made a dead set at any one of us for an invitation," said Mrs. Fenlick one day in confidence to her intimate, Mrs. Pearsell, as they sat on the vine-covered veranda of the inn, "but she proved a regular octopus. She got the Colonel in her toils one morning at the Casino, and I pretended to be faint--yes, I did--just to get his attention for a sufficient time to make a fuss, and get him alone in the carriage; then, of course, I settled it. Oh, dear! men are so guileless in spots!"--Mrs. Fenlick gave a weary sigh--"What I have n't been through with that girl! Anyway, she's been out two winters, now, and she has n't caught Jack Sherrill yet. I don't think there is much chance after the first season for a girl to make a really fine match, do you?" Then they fell to discussing the pros, and cons, of the question with evergreen interest.Jack Sherrill, for one, had no thought of Miss Seaton. He had sent the valentine-flowers, and the sentiment from Barry Cornwall's love-song, with a strange kind of "kill or cure" feeling.He had communed with himself, at twilight of one February day, as he lay at full length on the cushioned window-seat of his room from which he looked down upon the darkening, snow-covered campus and the anatomy of the elms showing black against it. His pipe had gone out, but he derived some satisfaction in pulling away at it mechanically, while he thought out the situation for himself."What's the use of a man's hanging fire when heknows?" he thought. "Now, I love her--love her." (Jack's hand stole into the breast of his jacket and crushed a bit of paper there; he smiled.) "Of course she does n't know, and won't know for a while, but it shan't be through any neglect of mine that she does n't; and when she knows--there 's the rub!--will she care for me, Jack Sherrill? I 've never done anything in my life to make a girl like that care for me."But there's one thing I 'd stake my life on--she would n't marry a man for his money. A man 's got to be loved for himself--not for what he can give a woman, or do for her, but just for himself, if it's going to be the real thing, andlast. And what am I that a girl like that should love me--" Jack was growing very humble. He pulled himself together: "Anyhow, I'll send the flowers and the sentiment,I mean it; I don't care what she thinks!" Jack's courage rose as he began to feel something like defiance of Fate.Just then his chum came in."There's no use, Sherrill," he said, flinging himself down upon the cushioned seat Jack had just vacated; "we can't have the theatricals unless you take the girl's part. It won't put you out any--smooth face and no scrub. You 've been it once, and it will be a dead failure if you aren't in it now.""I don't see how I can," replied Jack, shortly, for this intrusion on his mood irritated him. "I told you, all of you, at the Club last year, that I would n't play after I was a Junior.""Well, what if you did?" rejoined his chum, a little crossly. "You 're not so uncompromisingly steadfast in other things that you can't afford to change your mind in such a trifle as this.""Come, don't be touchy," said Jack, good-humoredly. "Hit right out from the shoulder, old man, and tell me what you mean."Dawns smiled, clasped his hands under his head, and raised his merry blue eyes to Jack, who was lighting up."They say over at the Club that you have thrown Maude Seaton over, but Grayson took up the Seaton cudgels and made the statement that she had thrown you over, and you won't take the girl's part in the play because she is coming on for it."Jack hesitated. He hated to play at any comedy of love when his heart was throbbing with the genuine article. But, after all, it might be the best way to silence the Club's tongues as well as some others in Boston and New York."I 'll help you out this once, Dawns, but I tell you plainly I won't have anything more to do with the Club theatricals while I 'm in college," he replied, ignoring both of Dawns' statements, which omissions his chum noticed, and made his own thoughts: "Just like Sherrill. You can't get any hold of him to know what he really feels and thinks."Jack played his part accordingly, repeating the success of the year before, and scoring new triumphs. He was glad when it was over, and he could go back to his room "dead tired," as he said to himself, but with the conviction that he had settled matters to his own satisfaction if not to that of one other.The room was in such disorder! Evidently, Dawns had been having a little spree before Jack's late return, and the smoke had left the air heavy.Jack dropped his paraphernalia in the middle of the floor--peeling himself as he stood yawning and thanking his lucky star that he was not born a woman to be handicapped by such things!--décolletéwhite satin waist, long-trained satin gown, necklace--Jack gave the string a twitch, for it had knotted, and the Roman pearls rolled into unreachable places all over the floor. Off flew one white satin slipper--number ten, broad at the toes!--with a fine "drop kick" hitting the ceiling and landing on the book-shelves; the other followed suit. White fan with chain, white elbow gloves, corsage bouquet--all dropped in a promiscuous heap. A general stampede loosened silk under-skirt and dainty muslin petticoat, lace-trimmed. A wrench,--corset-cover and corsets were torn from their moorings. Jack groaned--or something worse--at the flummery, and, leaving everything as it had dropped, rushed off into his bedroom, only to find that he had forgotten to take off the blonde wig and wash off the rouge.At last, however, he was asleep, and slept the sleep of the justified.He slept both soundly and late, but when he awoke the next morning his first thought was of the flowers for Mount Hunger and the appropriate sentiment. Accordingly, having reckoned the arrival of train, departure of stage, etc., to a minute, he selected the flowers, wrote the sentiment, not without forebodings of the usual kind, and despatched both to Mount Hunger with high hopes, notwithstanding prescient feelings. Then, metaphorically, he sat down to await an answer. He waited just two months, and during that time had turned emotionally black and blue more than once at the thought of his temerity in sending such a message.Hazel had written him at once from North Carolina to tell him of March's illness, and on the same day she sent a penitent note to Rose, confessing her shame at her attempt at deception, and explaining that it was because she loved her cousin so dearly she could not bear to see his gift slighted.When March was out of danger, Rose had written to Hazel a frank, loving letter, blaming herself for her want of self-control, and begging Hazel's forgiveness for her harsh words:"It's all my old pride, Hazel dear," she wrote, "that I have to fight very often. It was most kind of Mr. Sherrill to remember me when he has so many, many other friends whom he has known longer, and I shall write and tell him so. Now that my heart is lighter on account of dear March, I can write more easily."We miss you so! when are you coming back to us? Chi looks perfectly disconsolate, and we all feel a great deal more than we care to say."I wish you were here to have the fun of the French evenings, three times a week. You speak it so beautifully, Mr. Ford says, and I thank you so much for all the help you gave me in teaching me. Mr. Ford speaks it very well, too, so Miss Alton says. We all meet at our house once a week on March's account, and then one evening in the week, Miss Alton and I (she 's lovely) go over to the Fords' for music. He has sent for some lovely songs for me--old English ones, and we're going to have a little celebration for March's birthday in May. How I wish you were to be here!"March is lying on the settle, dreaming over that exquisite photograph of Cologne Cathedral you sent him; I've just asked him if he had any messages for you, and he smiled--oh, it's so good to see his dear smile again! You can't think how tall he's grown since his illness, and he's so thin--and said, 'I sent one to her this morning myself; she can't have two a day.' But you know March's ways."Now I must stop; Mr. Ford is coming over on horseback and I am riding Bob now. I wear an old riding-habit of Martie's--it fits fine! I have more to tell you, but will finish after I get back from the ride--there comes Mr. Ford--"This letter Hazel duly forwarded to her cousin. "He 'll know by what she says in it that she really was pleased, for all she acted so queer," she said to herself as she enclosed it in one to Jack, in which she took special pains to inform him that he had never told her whether he had given those verses Rose sang to Miss Seaton."I told Rose I was sure they were for Miss Seaton, and Rose said she did n't mind copying them herself for you if you wished them. Do tell me if you gave them to her. I told Rose your valentine to her last year was a rose-heart. I hope you don't mind my telling, for, you know, Jack, all our family think you are engaged to her--"Jack dropped Hazel's letter at this point and gave a decided groan."What luck!" he muttered. "It's all up with the whole thing now. No girl of any spirit would stand all that--and Hazel meddling so! thinking she is doing her level best to explain matters;--What an ass I was to send that flower-valentine to Maude--and she thinks I gave her those verses! and there 's this Ford skulking round and having it all his own way; he 's just the kind a girl would care for--those musical cranks are no end sentimental. Hang it all!"Jack thrust his hands deep into his pockets, took several decided turns up and down the room, squared his shoulders, pursed his lips, cut his two classroom lectures, ordered up Little Shaver and rode out to the polo grounds, where, finding himself alone, he put the little fellow through his best paces, ignoring the fact that snow and ice wore on the pony's nerves--and had a game out to himself.When just two months had passed, he received a note from Rose, his first, and it was accorded the reception due to first notes in particular. After this, Jack developed certain wiles of diplomacy, he had thus far, in his various experiences, held in abeyance. He wrote sympathetic notes to Mrs. Blossom; commissioned Chi to find him another polo pony--Morgan, if possible--among the Green Hills; sent March a set of illustrated books on architecture, and complained to Doctor Heath of a pain that racked his chest; at which the Doctor's eyes twinkled. He said he would examine him later, but he was convinced it was heart trouble, the symptoms were apt to mislead and confuse. He added gravely: "Too much hard polo riding, Jack; get away into the country--mountains if you can, and you 'll recuperate fast enough. I 'll make an examination in the fall."Jack obeyed to the letter, and what a month of September that was!There were glorious rides with Rose along the beautiful river valley and over the mountain roads. There were delightful evenings at the Fords', and silent, beatific walks with Rose homewards beneath the harvest moon. There were morning rambles with Rose up over the pastures and deep into the woodlands for late ferns and hooded gentians. There were adorable hours of doing nothing but adore, while Rose was busy about her work, setting the table for tea (Jack paid his board at the inn, but he lived at the Blossoms'), or laying the cloth for dinner, or on Saturday morning even making rolls for the tea to which the whole party at the inn were invited.Chi was in his glory. Little Shaver came trotting regularly every day up through the woods'-road, and whinnied "Good-morning" first to Fleet, then to Chi. There were general coaching-parties to Woodstock and Brandon, in which Mrs. Blossom was guest, and a grand tea at the Fords' for all the guests, with a musicale for a finish, and an informal dance in the Blossoms' barn to which all the Lost Nation were invited.They accepted, one and all. Captain Spillkins was in his element, so he said. He and Mrs. Fenlick danced a two-step in a manner to win the commendation of the entire assembly. Miss Elvira and Miss Melissa went through the square dance escorted by Jack and Uncle Jo. There were round dances and contra dances. Uncle Israel contributed an "1812" jig, and Mr. Clyde passed round the hat for his sole benefit. There were waltzes for those who could waltz, and polkas for those who could polka, and schottische and minuet. "There never was such a dance since before the Deluge!" declared Mrs. Fenlick, when Captain Spillkins escorted her to a seat on a sap-bucket; and then they all went at it again in a grand finale, the Virginia Reel--Chi and Hazel, Mr. Clyde and Aunt Tryphosa for head and foot couple; Maria-Ann with Jack; Alan Ford with Mrs. Fenlick; the Colonel with Mrs. Blossom whom he admired greatly; March and Miss Alton--such a double row of them!Poor Reub sat in one of the empty stalls and watched the fun with slow, half-understanding smile, and Ruth Ford reclined in a rocking-chair in the corner, and with merry laughter and sparkling wit soothed the dull ache in her heart that the knowledge that she was henceforth to be a "Shut-out" from all that life had at first given her.The next day after the dance there was a grand dinner given at the inn by the Newport party to all the Lost Nation; and, later on, private entertainments for Mr. and Mrs. Blossom and the Fords. At last, when the first maple leaves crimsoned and the frost silvered the mullein leaves in the pasture, Hazel, her father, Jack, and their friends bade good-bye to the Mountain and all its joys of acquaintance, and in some cases, friendship, and turned their faces, not without reluctance on the part of some of them, city-wards."Oh, mother! has n't it been too beautiful for anything?" exclaimed Rose, turning to her mother, as the last of the riding-party waved his cap in farewell to those on the porch. It was Jack."We have had a happy summer, Rose;--I think they have, too," her mother added, shading her eyes from the setting sun. "You 'll be very lonely here at home, dear, after all this gayety.""Lonely! Why, Martie Blossom, how can you think of such a thing!" said Rose, still scanning the lower road for a last glimpse of the riders. "See, see, they are all waving their handkerchiefs!"The whole Blossom family laid hold of what they could--napkins, towels, a table-cloth, and Chi seized his shirt, which he had hung on the line to dry, and waved frantically until the party was no longer to be seen."Lonesome! the idea," said Rose, turning to her mother. "Think of all the studying March and I have to do, and the French evenings, and the Fords, and Thanksgiving coming, and then Christmas, and then--"Then," said Mrs. Blossom, interrupting her, "my Rose takes a little plunge into that whirlpool of gay life and fashion in New York.""Yes," said Rose, with a happy smile that spoke volumes to her mother, "I do look forward to it, Martie dear; but the whirlpool shan't suck me under; I shall come home just your old-fashioned Rose-pose.""I hope so, dear," said her mother, a little wistfully, and called the children in to supper.Indeed, they found little opportunity to miss their friends in the ensuing months; for there came kindly letters, and friendly letters, and something very nearly resembling love-letters. The mail brought papers, books, and magazines. The express brought to Barton's River many a box of lovely flowers. At Christmas came more than one remembrance for them all, including Aunt Tryphosa and Maria-Ann, and four special invitations for Rose to visit in New York directly after the holidays. One was from Mr. Clyde--with an urgent request from Hazel to say "yes" by telegram and "relieve her misery," so she put it--; one from Mrs. Heath; one from Aunt Carrie, and a gushingly cordial one from Mrs. Fenlick! Each claimed her for a month. But Mrs. Blossom shook her head."No, no, dear, you would wear your welcome out. I shall need you at home by the last of February. I think you can accept only Mr. Clyde's and Mrs. Heath's. You can accept social courtesies from the other four of course.""But, mother," Rose's face was the image of despair, "what shall I wear? Just hear what Hazel has planned--'lunches, dinners, theatre, concerts'--why! I can never go to all those things.""I 've thought of that, too, Rose; but the little colt shan't go bare this time--it will take some courage, dear, to wear the same things over and over again, not to mention the puzzle of planning for it all.""I 'm not 'Molly Stark' for nothing," laughed Rose, and the two women began to plan for what Chi called "Rose's campaign." The pretty white serge was lengthened and made over to appear more grown up, as Cherry put it; the dark blue wash silk--Hazel's gift that had never been made up--was fashioned into a "swell affair"--so March pronounced it; the old-fashioned blue lawn was cut over into a dainty full waist, and then Mrs. Blossom added her surprise--a delicate blue taffeta skirt to match the waist. Rose went into raptures over it, and sought the best bedroom regularly three times a day to feast her girl's eyes on the silken loveliness as it lay in state on the best bed. A new dark blue serge was to do duty for a street suit, with a plain felt hat. For best, there was a turban made of dark blue velvet to match the wash silk."And four pairs of gloves! Martie Blossom, you are an angel, to give me these that Hazel gave you a year ago last Christmas. Have you been keeping them for me all this time?"Mrs. Blossom smiled assent, and was rewarded by a squeeze that interfered decidedly with her breathing apparatus.The night before she left, Rose "costumed" for the benefit of the entire family, who were assembled in the long-room, together with Aunt Tryphosa and Maria-Ann, to see Rose in her finery."I 'll make it a climax," said Rose, laughing half-shamefacedly, as she slipped upstairs to change her street suit, which had brought forth admiring "Ohs" and "Ahs" from the children, and favorable criticism from their elders.Down she came in her white serge; there were nods and smiles of approval.Her reappearance in the wash silk and velvet turban was the signal, on March's part, for a burst of applause, and cries of admiration from Budd and Cherry."Grand transformation scene!" cried March, as Rose tripped down in the blue taffeta, looking like a very rose herself."Beats all!" murmured Chi, who had become nearly speechless with admiration, "what clothes 'll do for a good-lookin' woman; but for a ravin', tearin' beauty like our Rose--George Washin'ton! She 'll open those high-flyers' eyes.""Cinderella--fifth act!" shouted March as, after a prolonged wait, he heard Rose on the stairs.But was it Rose?The beautiful India mull of her mother's had been transformed into a ball-dress. She had drawn on her long white gloves and tucked into the simple, ribbon belt three of Jack's Christmas roses.Maria-Ann gasped, and that broke the, to Rose, somewhat embarrassing silence.Marshalled by March, the whole family formed a procession, and Rose was reviewed:--back breadths, front breadths, flounces, waist, gloves; all were thoroughly inspected.Chi touched the lower flounce of the half-train gingerly with one work-roughened forefinger, then, straightening himself suddenly, sighed heavily."What's the matter, Chi?" Rose laughed at the dubious expression on his face."You ain't Rose Blossom nor Molly Stark any longer. You 're just a regular Empress of Rooshy, 'n' you don't look like that girl I took along to sell berries down to Barton's last summer, 'n' I wish you--" he hesitated."What, Chi?" said Rose."I wish you was back again, old sunbonnet, old calico gown, patched shoes 'n' all--""Oh, Chi, no, you don't," said Rose, laughing merrily; "you forget, I shall probably see Miss Seaton down there in New York, and you wouldn't want me to appear a second time before her in that old rig.""You 're right, Rose-pose," replied Chi, his expression brightening visibly. He drew close to her and whispered audibly:"Just sail right in, Molly Stark, 'n' cut that sassy girl out right 'n' left. She never could hold a candle to you.""Sh-sh, Chi!" said Mrs. Blossom, meaningly, but with a twinkle in her eye."I mean just what I say, Mis' Blossom. Folks can't come up here on this Mountain to sass us to our faces, 'n' shedid;--I've stayed riled ever since, 'n' I hope she'll get sassed back in a way that 'll make her hair stand just a little more on end than it did, when she gave that mean, snickerin' giggle--""Chi, Chi," Mrs. Blossom interrupted him in an appeasing tone."You need n't Chi me, Mis' Blossom. These children are just as near to me as if they was my own, 'n' when they 're sassed, I 'm sassed too; 'n' my great-grandfather fought over at Ticonderogy, 'n' I ain't bound to take any more sass than he took--"By this time the whole family were in fits of laughter over Chi's persistent use of so much "sass," and, at last, Chi himself joined in the laugh at his excessive heat:--"Over nothin' but a wind-bag, after all," he concluded.On the following morning, Mr. Blossom, Chi, March and Budd drove down to Barton's to see Rose off. The old apple-green pung had been fitted with two broad boards for seats, and covered with buffalo robes and horse blankets. There was just room in the tail for Rose's old-fashioned trunk and a small strapped box, which held two dozen of new-laid eggs, six small, round cheeses, and a wreath of ground hemlock and bitter-sweet--a neighborly gift from Aunt Tryphosa and Maria-Ann to Hazel and Mr. Clyde.As the train moved away from the station, Chi watched it with brimming eyes."She'll never come back the same Rose-pose, livin' among all those high-flyers--never," he muttered to himself; but aloud he remarked, with forced cheerfulness, turning to Mr. Blossom while he dashed the blinding drops from his eyes with the back of his hand:"Looks mighty like a thaw, Ben; kind of wets down, don't it?""Yes, Chi," said Mr. Blossom, busy with conquering his own heartache, "we 'd better be getting on home;" and the masculine contingent of the Blossom household climbed into the pung and took their way homeward in silence.But what a reception that was for the transplanted Rose!Mr. Clyde met her at the Grand Central Station, and Rose felt how welcome she was just by the hand-clasp, and his first words:"We have you at last, Rose; I would n't let Hazel come because I thought the train might be late, and there's a cold rain falling. Martin, take this box--""Oh, no; I must carry that myself," laughed Rose, looking up at the liveried footman with something like awe. "I promised Aunt Tryphosa and Maria-Ann I would n't let any one take them till they were safe in the house; thank you," she bowed courteously to Martin, who confided to the coachman so soon as they were on the box: "Hi 'ave n't seen nothink so 'ansome since Hi 've bean in the States."As the brougham whirled into the Avenue, and the electric lights shone full into the carriage, Rose could see the luxuriously upholstered interior, and a sudden thought of the old apple-green pung and the buffalo robes dimmed her eyes. But it was only for a moment; Mr. Clyde was telling her of Hazel's impatience, and how the coachman had had special orders from her to hurry up so soon as he should be on the Avenue, and he had hardly finished before the coachman drew rein, slackening his rapid pace as he turned a corner, Martin was opening the door, and Hazel's voice was calling from a wide house entrance flooded with soft light:"Oh, Rose, my Rose! Is it really you, at last?""And this, I am sure, is Wilkins," said Rose, when finally Hazel set her arms free. "We 've heard so much of you, that I feel as if I had known you a long time." Rose held out her hand with such sincere cordiality that Wilkins' speech was suddenly reduced to pantomime, and he could only extend his other hand rather helplessly towards the box that Rose still carried. But Rose refused to yield it up."Here, Hazel, I promised Maria-Ann and Aunt Tryphosa I would n't give it into any hands but yours. Oh! be careful--they 're eggs!""Eggs!" repeated Hazel, laughing. "Here, Wilkins, unstrap it for me, quick--Oh, papa, look!" She held out the box to Mr. Clyde, and, somehow, John Curtis Clyde for a moment thought with Chi, that there was going to be a "thaw." Each egg was rolled in white cotton batting and wrapped in pink tissue paper. The six little cheeses were enclosed in tin-foil, and cheeses and eggs were embedded in the Christmas wreath. On a piece of pasteboard was written in unsteady characters:
HAWKING VALLEY, NORTH CAROLINA,April 15, 1897.
MY DEAR MRS. BLOSSOM,--Just a year ago to-day I sent my one child to you, trusting the judgment of my dear friend, Doctor Heath, in a matter which he felt concerned the future welfare of my daughter. My home has been very lonely without her. You, as a parent, can know something of what this separation has entailed.
It seemed wise to me, and I know you concurred in my opinion, to take her away from the conditions, in which she has thriven so wonderfully, while you were burdened, both in heart and hands, by such a critical illness as your son's. The result confirms the wisdom of my action, for March's convalescence has been slow and long; I am thankful to be assured it is sure. The burden of an extra member in your family at this time would, in the long run, prove too heavy for you.
I cannot tell you how I appreciate what you have done for Hazel. I have no words to express it. She returns to me full of life and joy, with no apparent unwillingness to take up her life again with me, which must seem dull to her in contrast to that which she had with you. Yet I know in her loyal little heart she belongs to you, is a part of your family henceforth--and I am glad to know it is so, for she needs, and will need, as a young girl, your motherly influence at all times.
I 'm not taking her away from you for good. Oh, no! That would be her loss as well as mine; but I am testing her a little. I have said I had no words with which adequately to express my gratitude. I am your debtor for my child's physical well-being--for much else which I do not find it easy to define. Will you allow me to make some compensation for your year of devotion? I do not care what form it take, providing you will permit me to try to discharge something of the debt--the whole can never be repaid. Will you not let me send that splendid son of yours through college? and give him two years of Europe afterwards? That future profession of his has always been of great interest to me. If the boy is too proud, as I suspect is the case, to accept the necessary amount other than as a loan, make it plain to him that I will even yield a point there--a pretty bad state of affairs for me as a debtor to find myself in. If he won't do this for me--won't Rose help me out by permitting me to aid her in cultivating that voice of hers? I know your magnanimity, and depend upon you to help me in this.
Hazel does not know I am writing to you, or she would send loving messages.
My kindest regards to Mr. Blossom, with hearty congratulations for March, and all sorts of neighborly remembrances for all others of the Lost Nation.
JOHN CURTIS CLYDE.
To Mrs. Benjamin Blossom.
"Oh, mother!"
A wave of crimson surged into March's pale face, and the sensitive nostrils quivered; then two big drops plashed down upon the letter which he handed to his mother.
"Oh, mother! if only I could--but I can't!"
He rolled over on the soft pasture turf, face downwards, his head resting on his arms.
"Why, March dear," said his mother, tenderly, "why can't you? I think it 's beautiful, so does father."
A sob shook the long, thin frame. His mother laid her hand on the back of the yellow head. "What is it, my dear boy? Can't you tell me?"
The head shook energetically beneath her hand, and muffled words issued from the grass.
"But, March, we thought it would please you to have such an opportunity. You have read what Mr. Clyde says--you can look upon it as a loan. I hope you won't have any false pride in this matter--"
"'Tis n't false, mother," came forth from the grass, "and I would like to accept his offer, if only it were n't just his."
"Why not his, March? Surely, Hazel has been like one of us--a real little sister--" Another vigorous wagging of the yellow head arrested his mother in the midst of her sentence.
"Hazel is n't my sister."
"Why, of course, you can't feel as near to her as to Rose, but then, you must see how dear she has become to us all--and Mr. Clyde has put it in such a way, that the most sensitive person could accept it without injury to any feeling of true pride. Take time and think it over, March. It has come upon you rather suddenly, and I have been thinking about it for two weeks."
"It's no use to think it over." Deep tragedy now made itself audible, as March rolled over and sat up, displaying eyes bright with excitement, flushed cheeks, and a generally determined air of having it out with himself.
"Well, I can't understand you, March."
"I wish you could."
His mother smiled in spite of the gravity of the situation. "Can't you tell me? or give me some clue to this mysterious determination of yours?"
March cast a despairing glance at his mother. "Mother, will you promise never to tell?"
"Not even your father, March?"
"No, father, nor any one--ever, mother."
"Very well; I promise, March, for I trust you."
"Oh, mother, have n't you seen?--don't you know, that I--that I love Hazel! And how can I take the money from her father, when I 'm going to try to make her love me and marry me sometime, when I get through studying, and--and--Oh, don't you see?"
And Mrs. Blossom did see--at last.
She spoke very gently, after a minute's silence, in which March's ears burned red to their tips, and his fingers were busy digging up a tiny strawberry-plant by the roots. "My son, I see, and I honor you for feeling as you do; but, March, have you thought of the difference between you and Hazel?"
"What difference, mother?"
Now Mary Blossom was not a worldly woman, neither was she a woman of the world--and she found it difficult to answer.
"You know how Hazel is placed in life, although you do not know with what luxury she is surrounded in her home. She has beauty, a large circle of friends, immense wealth. There will be many who will seek her hand in four years' time, for she has a wonderful charm of her own, for all who come close to her.--Is it worth while to attempt, even, to win this little daughter of the rich? You, a poor boy, with his way to make?"
"But, mother,"--there was strong protest in the voice--"she did n't have any beauty till she came up here to us--and if shewasa rich girl, she was n't a healthy one till she lived up here, and I don't see the good of money and a lot of things, if you 're sick, and homely, too." March waxed eloquent in his desire to convince his mother of the justice of his cause. "And if she hadn't come up here she would n't have got well, and then she would n't have grown so beautiful--and sheisbeautiful, mother." (Mrs. Blossom nodded assent.) "And I don't see why I have n't just as much right to try to make her love me as any other fellow. You 've told us children, dozens of times, it's just character that counts, and not money, and if I try as hard as I can to keep straight and be a good man like father, I don't see why things would n't be all right in the end."
Mrs. Blossom was silenced,--"hoist with her own petard." "How can I destroy this lovely, young ideal? I dare not," was her thought. But aloud, she said:--"You 're right, March. Nothing but character counts. Make yourself worthy of this little love of yours. We 'll keep this in our own hearts, and when you are tempted to wrong-doing--and there are fearful temptations for every young man to meet, March,--temptations of which you can form no conception here in the shelter of your home--just remember this little talk of ours, and keep yourself unspotted by the world just by the thought of this dear girl whom you hope some day to win. There is nothing, March, that will keep a young man in the right way like his love for just 'the one girl in the world'--if only she be worthy of his love. And I think Hazel will be--even of you."
March flung his arms about her neck and kissed her heartily:
"Dear, little Mother Blossom, I 'll try, and even if I fail, just the thought of such a glorious-filorious mother that does n't laugh at a fellow--I was afraid you would, though,--will keep me straight enough. Why, Mother Blossom! I 'd be ashamed to look you in the eyes, if I did a down-right mean thing."
His mother laughed through her tears. "I wonder if many mothers get such a compliment? Come, dear, the dew is beginning to fall--it's been such a heavenly day, I had forgotten it is early spring. Do you feel chilly?"
"Not I," laughed March, and proceeded to relieve his feelings after his favorite method--by turning a double-back somersault down the pasture slope.
As Mrs. Blossom leaned over to kiss tired, sleepy Budd that night, she thought complacently to herself:--
"Well, thank fortune, here 's one who is heart-free," and laughed softly to herself. Chi had not told her of Budd's proposal.
"Wilkins, tell Miss Hazel to come down into the library when she is dressed for dinner."
"Yes, Marse Clyde." Wilkins sprang upstairs two steps at a time, and, knocking at Hazel's door, delivered his message.
"Tell papa I 'm going to dress early, for I 've some things to attend to about the table, Wilkins."
"Fo' sho', Miss Hazel," said Wilkins, with a broad smile of delighted surprise.
"And tell Mrs. Scott I 'll choose the service, if she will take out the linen, and I have ordered the flowers. Papa said I might."
Wilkins skipped downstairs, delivered his message to the amazed housekeeper, and then flew into the kitchen to impart his news to the cook, his confidante and co-worker for years in the Clyde household.
Minna-Lu was preparing a confection, and giving her whole soul to the making, when Wilkins made his appearance. She looked up grimly, the ebony of her countenance shining beneath the immaculate white of her turban:--
"Wa' fo' yo' hyar?"
Wilkins slapped both knees with the palms of his hands, and bent nearly double with noiseless laughter; then, straightening himself, approached Minna-Lu with boldness, despite the repelling wave of the cream-whip that she held suspended over the bowl, and confided to her the change of régime, to her edification and delight.
She put down the bowl and whip, stemmed her fists on her broad hips, and gurgled long and low. "'F little missus done take rale hol' er de reins, dere ain't no kin' er show fo' sech po' trash." She indicated with an upward movement of her thumb the upper regions where the housekeeper was supposed to be.
"When I wan's a missus, I wan's quality folks, an' little missus do take de cake. Nebber see sech er chile. Dem great, shinin' eyes, lookin' at yo' out o' all de do's, an' dat laff soun'in' jes' like de ol' mocker dat nebber knowed nuffin' 'bout bedtime--yo' recollecks?" Wilkins nodded emphatically, but was unprepared for Minna-Lu's next move:--
"Git out o' hyar, yo' good-fo'-nuffin' niggah. Huccome yo' stan'in' roun' wif yo' legs stiffer 'n de whites er dese yer eggs, an' yo' jaw goin' like de egg-beatah, an' de comp'ny comin' at rale sharp eight." Minna-Lu took up her bowl, and Wilkins beat a hasty retreat.
It was a warm first of May, and just about the hour when March and his mother were leaving the Wishing-Tree, that Hazel appeared in the dining-room. Wilkins gazed at her in a species of adoration. Her orders appeared to him revolutionary, but he obeyed them implicitly and unhesitatingly.
"Take off the candelabra, Wilkins, it is too warm to-night to have them on; besides, people don't have a nice time talking when they have to peek around them to get a glimpse of the people they 're talking to." Wilkins whisked off the candelabra as if they had been made of thistledown.
"Dat's so, fo' sho', Miss Hazel. I see de folks doan' talk when dey ain' comf'ble; but I nebber tink ob de can'les."
"When it's dark you can light all the sconces. I want you to use the pale green, Bohemian dinner set to-night; and I want just as little silver as possible."
Wilkins looked blank, and Hazel laughed. "Oh, we 'll make it up with some cut glass, I 'll manage it. I want the table to look cool and simple, just to-night."
Cool and simple. Wilkins failed to comprehend it, but such was his faith in "little Missy," that he carried out her orders to the letter, and the result was, according to Mrs. Fenlick, "a dream of beauty."
When she had made her preparations to her entire satisfaction, as well as Wilkins's, and the latter had called Minna-Lu from her culinary tug-of-war to witness "little Missy's" triumph, Hazel ran into the library.
Her father looked at her in amazement. Could this radiant, young girl be the same Hazel of a year ago? They had gone directly to North Carolina when Hazel had left Mount Hunger, and had been at home but two days. This little dinner was given to Mr. Clyde's intimate friends as an informal celebration and recognition of his daughter's return to the New York house.
Now, as she ran into the room and linked her arm in his, her father looked down upon her with such evident pride and love, that Hazel laughed joyfully, kid her cheek against his coat-sleeve and patted his hand.
"Do I look nice, Papa Clyde?"
"Nice! that's no word for it, Birdie." And thereupon he took her in his arms and gave her such a hug and a kiss, that the pretty dress must have suffered if it had not been made of the softest of white China-silk.
"Oh, my flowers! you 'll crush them!" she cried, shielding with both hands a bunch of flowers at her belt.
"Where did you get all this--this style, daughter mine? It's--why, you 're nothing but a little girl, but it's 'chic.'"
Hazel enjoyed her father's admiration to the full. She drew herself up, straight and tall, graceful and slender--her head was already above his shoulder--exclaiming:--
"Little girl! Well, your little girl designed this gown herself. I would n't have any fuss or frills about it; it's just plain and full and soft and clingy, and this sash of soft silk--is n't it a pretty, pale green?--feel--" She caught up a handful of the delicate fabric and crushed it in her hand, then smoothed it again, and it showed no wrinkles. "I 've put it on to match the dinner. I 've had it all my own way--Wilkins did just as I said--and it's all cool and green and springy. You 'll see."
"Where did you get these flowers?" Mr. Clyde touched the bunch of arbutus, that showed so delicately pink and white against the white of her dress and the green of her sash.
A wave of beautiful color shot up to the roots of the little crinkles of chestnut hair on her temples; she touched the blossoms caressingly. "I wrote March about this dinner-party, and how it was the first at which I had been hostess, and he wrote back and wanted to know what I was going to wear, and I told him--and this morning these lovely things came by mail all done up in cotton wool in a tin cracker-box, the kind Chi uses to put his worm-bait in, when he goes fishing. Are n't they lovely? And was n't March lovely to think of them, papa?"
"They are n't half as lovely as you are," said Mr. Clyde, earnestly, replying to half of her question only. "You are my unspoiled Hazel-blossom--" Then a sudden, intrusive thought caught and arrested his words. "Hazel Blossom," he repeated to himself, looking at her unconscious face as he uttered the last word, "Good heavens! Could such a thing be?"
"De Cun'le an' Mrs. Fenlick," announced Wilkins.
And when they were all seated at the table--the Colonel and Mrs. Fenlick, Doctor and Mrs. Heath, Aunt Carrie and Uncle Jo, the Masons and the Pearsells--with no candelabra to interfere with the merry speech and glances, with the light from the candles in the sconces shining softly on the exquisite napery, on the low bed of white tulips in the centre and the grace of the pale, green porcelain, with the tall Bohemian Romer-glasses before the plates--what wonder that Mrs. Fenlick pronounced it a "dream of beauty"?
When their guests had gone, Mr. Clyde turned to Hazel:--"I shall be glad to open the Newport cottage again, Birdie, with such a little hostess to help me entertain."
"The Newport house, papa!" Hazel exclaimed, a distinct note of disappointment sounding in her voice.
"Why not, dear? I thought of getting down there by the tenth; in fact, gave my orders to Mrs. Scott to begin packing to-morrow."
Hazel was evidently struggling with herself. She fingered the arbutus nervously; took them out of her belt; inhaled their fragrance. Then she looked up with a smile, although the corners of her mouth drooped and trembled a little:--
"Why, of course, why not, papa? It's so much pleasanter there in May, than when everybody is down for the summer."
Her father sat down in an easy-chair, put an arm around his daughter, and drew her down to a seat on the arm of the chair.
"Now, Hazel, I want you to tell me all about it. Don't you want to go?"
"Yes, if you 're there, papa, but--" she turned suddenly and her arm stole around his neck--"don't leave me there alone, papa, please don't."
"Leave you--I? Why what do you mean, dear?"
"Oh, it is so lonesome when you are away, papa, when you go off yachting with the Colonel--and the house is so big, and there 's nobody to talk to and say good-night to--and--and, oh, dear!" The tears began to come, but she struggled bravely for a few minutes.
"Why, little girl, you have never told me you were lonesome without me: indeed, you have never shown any sign of it, or of wanting me around much. I never thought--why, Hazel." Down went the curly head on his shoulder, and the sobs grew loud and frequent.
"There, there, Birdie," he said soothingly, stroking her head, "you 're all tired out; this party has been too much for you--"
An energetic, protesting head-shake was followed by broken sentences--"It was n't that--I 'm not tired--you don't know, papa--I didn't know--know I was lonesome, and that I was--I think I was homesick--dreadfully--but Barbara Frietchie, you know--I had to be brave--and, I have tried not to show it to make you feel unhappy--and I love you so! but, oh, dear! I miss them so dreadfully, and I hoped--I was a member of the N.B.--B.O.--O., Oh--dear me,--Society, and the by-law says--I mean March read it--Oh, papa!"
"Well, well, there, there, dear," said the somewhat mystified father, bending all his efforts to soothe this evidently perturbed spirit, "why did n't you tell me before?"
"Because I was Barbara Frietchie."
"Now, Hazel, sit up and look me in the face and tell me what you mean. I supposed I was holding Hazel Clyde in my arms and not old Barbara Frietchie. Please explain."
"I thought I wrote you, papa," Hazel could not help smiling through her tears, for it did strike her as rather funny about papa's holding the patriotic, old lady in his arms.
"Well, you did n't tell me that." So Hazel explained.
Mr. Clyde nodded approval. "Very good, I approve of the N.B.B.O.O. Society, and of the present Barbara Frietchie's heroism--but no more of it is called for. You see, I fully intended you should pay your friends--my friends--a visit this summer, but I thought it would be much better later in the season when Mrs. Blossom would be rested from the fatigue of March's illness--"
"Oh, papa!" A squeeze effectually impeded further utterance. "I don't care how soon we go to Newport, or anywhere--of course, ifyouare with me--as long as I can go to Mount Hunger sometime this summer. And, besides," she added eagerly, "we planned next winter's visit from Rose, didn't we?"
"I should rather think we did. We shall be very proud of our beautiful friend, Rose, and delighted to have our friends meet her, shan't we?" Another squeeze precluded, for the moment, articulate speech.
"Yes," Hazel cried, enthusiastically, "we 'll take her to concerts and operas--just think, papa, with that lovely voice she has never heard a concert!--and we 'll take her to the theatre and--"
"And," her father went on, growing enthusiastic himself at the prospect, for he was the soul of hospitality, "and we 'll give her a dainty dinner or two, and possibly a little dance--few and early, you know--"
"Oh--ee!" cried Hazel, forgetting her woe, "and Mrs. Heath will give a lunch-party for her, and, perhaps, Aunt Carrie a tea, and Mrs. Fenlick a reception--"
"Heavens!" interrupted her father, "you 'll kill her with kindness--that fresh, wild rose can't stand all that--"
"Oh, yes, she can, papa; she can stand that just as well as I stood going up there where everything was so different."
"True," said Mr. Clyde, thoughtfully, "it was different."
"Oh, it was, papa! I never had to go to bed alone. Mrs. Blossom always came to say good-night and to kiss me, and to--to--"
"To what?" asked her father.
"You won't mind if I tell you?" Hazel asked, half-shyly.
"Mind! I should say not; I should mind if you did n't tell me."
"--to say 'Our Father' with me, papa; you know no one ever said it with me before, and it's--it's such a comfy time to feel sorry and talk over what you 've done wrong; and it'sthatI miss so."
"I don't blame you, Birdie," said her father, quietly. "But now see how late it is!"--he pointed to the clock--"Eleven! This will never do for adébutante. Good-night, darling. Sweet dreams of Rose and the N.B.B.O.O. Society."
"Good-night, Papa Clyde; Doctor Heath says you are the most splendid fellow in the world--but I know you are the dearest father in the world; good-night, I 've had a lovely party."
She ran upstairs, but, in a moment, her father heard her tripping down again. Her head parted the portières. "I just came back to tell you, that this kind of a talk we 've had is just as good as the Mount Hunger bedtime-talks. I shan't be homesick any more." And away she ran.
Now John Curtis Clyde was a pew-owner--as had been his father and grandfather before him--in one of the Fifth Avenue churches, and duly made his appearance in that pew every Sunday morning. He entered, too, into the service with hearty voice, and made his responses without, the while, giving undue thought to the world. But when he had said "Our Father" with his little daughter by his side, he had supposed his duty performed to the extent of his needs--of another's, his child's, he gave no thought.
To-night, however, as he sat in the easy-chair where Hazel had left him, it began to dawn upon him slowly that his little daughter, during her fourteen years, might have had other needs, for which he had not provided, nor, perhaps, with all his riches was capable of providing.
The clock chimed twelve,--one,--two--; John Clyde, with a sigh, rose and went up to bed--a wiser and a better man.
XXII
ROSE
What a summer that was! Mr. Clyde sent Hazel up to the Blossoms for July and again for September, when he, the Colonel and Mrs. Fenlick, the Pearsells and the Masons, Aunt Carrie and Uncle Jo took possession of the entire inn at Barton's River, and for a month coached and rode throughout the "North Country," all in the cool September weather. Jack Sherrill joined them for the last three weeks, and, this time, Maude Seaton was not of the party.
"I just headed her off every time she made a dead set at any one of us for an invitation," said Mrs. Fenlick one day in confidence to her intimate, Mrs. Pearsell, as they sat on the vine-covered veranda of the inn, "but she proved a regular octopus. She got the Colonel in her toils one morning at the Casino, and I pretended to be faint--yes, I did--just to get his attention for a sufficient time to make a fuss, and get him alone in the carriage; then, of course, I settled it. Oh, dear! men are so guileless in spots!"--Mrs. Fenlick gave a weary sigh--"What I have n't been through with that girl! Anyway, she's been out two winters, now, and she has n't caught Jack Sherrill yet. I don't think there is much chance after the first season for a girl to make a really fine match, do you?" Then they fell to discussing the pros, and cons, of the question with evergreen interest.
Jack Sherrill, for one, had no thought of Miss Seaton. He had sent the valentine-flowers, and the sentiment from Barry Cornwall's love-song, with a strange kind of "kill or cure" feeling.
He had communed with himself, at twilight of one February day, as he lay at full length on the cushioned window-seat of his room from which he looked down upon the darkening, snow-covered campus and the anatomy of the elms showing black against it. His pipe had gone out, but he derived some satisfaction in pulling away at it mechanically, while he thought out the situation for himself.
"What's the use of a man's hanging fire when heknows?" he thought. "Now, I love her--love her." (Jack's hand stole into the breast of his jacket and crushed a bit of paper there; he smiled.) "Of course she does n't know, and won't know for a while, but it shan't be through any neglect of mine that she does n't; and when she knows--there 's the rub!--will she care for me, Jack Sherrill? I 've never done anything in my life to make a girl like that care for me.
"But there's one thing I 'd stake my life on--she would n't marry a man for his money. A man 's got to be loved for himself--not for what he can give a woman, or do for her, but just for himself, if it's going to be the real thing, andlast. And what am I that a girl like that should love me--" Jack was growing very humble. He pulled himself together: "Anyhow, I'll send the flowers and the sentiment,I mean it; I don't care what she thinks!" Jack's courage rose as he began to feel something like defiance of Fate.
Just then his chum came in.
"There's no use, Sherrill," he said, flinging himself down upon the cushioned seat Jack had just vacated; "we can't have the theatricals unless you take the girl's part. It won't put you out any--smooth face and no scrub. You 've been it once, and it will be a dead failure if you aren't in it now."
"I don't see how I can," replied Jack, shortly, for this intrusion on his mood irritated him. "I told you, all of you, at the Club last year, that I would n't play after I was a Junior."
"Well, what if you did?" rejoined his chum, a little crossly. "You 're not so uncompromisingly steadfast in other things that you can't afford to change your mind in such a trifle as this."
"Come, don't be touchy," said Jack, good-humoredly. "Hit right out from the shoulder, old man, and tell me what you mean."
Dawns smiled, clasped his hands under his head, and raised his merry blue eyes to Jack, who was lighting up.
"They say over at the Club that you have thrown Maude Seaton over, but Grayson took up the Seaton cudgels and made the statement that she had thrown you over, and you won't take the girl's part in the play because she is coming on for it."
Jack hesitated. He hated to play at any comedy of love when his heart was throbbing with the genuine article. But, after all, it might be the best way to silence the Club's tongues as well as some others in Boston and New York.
"I 'll help you out this once, Dawns, but I tell you plainly I won't have anything more to do with the Club theatricals while I 'm in college," he replied, ignoring both of Dawns' statements, which omissions his chum noticed, and made his own thoughts: "Just like Sherrill. You can't get any hold of him to know what he really feels and thinks."
Jack played his part accordingly, repeating the success of the year before, and scoring new triumphs. He was glad when it was over, and he could go back to his room "dead tired," as he said to himself, but with the conviction that he had settled matters to his own satisfaction if not to that of one other.
The room was in such disorder! Evidently, Dawns had been having a little spree before Jack's late return, and the smoke had left the air heavy.
Jack dropped his paraphernalia in the middle of the floor--peeling himself as he stood yawning and thanking his lucky star that he was not born a woman to be handicapped by such things!--décolletéwhite satin waist, long-trained satin gown, necklace--Jack gave the string a twitch, for it had knotted, and the Roman pearls rolled into unreachable places all over the floor. Off flew one white satin slipper--number ten, broad at the toes!--with a fine "drop kick" hitting the ceiling and landing on the book-shelves; the other followed suit. White fan with chain, white elbow gloves, corsage bouquet--all dropped in a promiscuous heap. A general stampede loosened silk under-skirt and dainty muslin petticoat, lace-trimmed. A wrench,--corset-cover and corsets were torn from their moorings. Jack groaned--or something worse--at the flummery, and, leaving everything as it had dropped, rushed off into his bedroom, only to find that he had forgotten to take off the blonde wig and wash off the rouge.
At last, however, he was asleep, and slept the sleep of the justified.
He slept both soundly and late, but when he awoke the next morning his first thought was of the flowers for Mount Hunger and the appropriate sentiment. Accordingly, having reckoned the arrival of train, departure of stage, etc., to a minute, he selected the flowers, wrote the sentiment, not without forebodings of the usual kind, and despatched both to Mount Hunger with high hopes, notwithstanding prescient feelings. Then, metaphorically, he sat down to await an answer. He waited just two months, and during that time had turned emotionally black and blue more than once at the thought of his temerity in sending such a message.
Hazel had written him at once from North Carolina to tell him of March's illness, and on the same day she sent a penitent note to Rose, confessing her shame at her attempt at deception, and explaining that it was because she loved her cousin so dearly she could not bear to see his gift slighted.
When March was out of danger, Rose had written to Hazel a frank, loving letter, blaming herself for her want of self-control, and begging Hazel's forgiveness for her harsh words:
"It's all my old pride, Hazel dear," she wrote, "that I have to fight very often. It was most kind of Mr. Sherrill to remember me when he has so many, many other friends whom he has known longer, and I shall write and tell him so. Now that my heart is lighter on account of dear March, I can write more easily.
"We miss you so! when are you coming back to us? Chi looks perfectly disconsolate, and we all feel a great deal more than we care to say.
"I wish you were here to have the fun of the French evenings, three times a week. You speak it so beautifully, Mr. Ford says, and I thank you so much for all the help you gave me in teaching me. Mr. Ford speaks it very well, too, so Miss Alton says. We all meet at our house once a week on March's account, and then one evening in the week, Miss Alton and I (she 's lovely) go over to the Fords' for music. He has sent for some lovely songs for me--old English ones, and we're going to have a little celebration for March's birthday in May. How I wish you were to be here!
"March is lying on the settle, dreaming over that exquisite photograph of Cologne Cathedral you sent him; I've just asked him if he had any messages for you, and he smiled--oh, it's so good to see his dear smile again! You can't think how tall he's grown since his illness, and he's so thin--and said, 'I sent one to her this morning myself; she can't have two a day.' But you know March's ways.
"Now I must stop; Mr. Ford is coming over on horseback and I am riding Bob now. I wear an old riding-habit of Martie's--it fits fine! I have more to tell you, but will finish after I get back from the ride--there comes Mr. Ford--"
This letter Hazel duly forwarded to her cousin. "He 'll know by what she says in it that she really was pleased, for all she acted so queer," she said to herself as she enclosed it in one to Jack, in which she took special pains to inform him that he had never told her whether he had given those verses Rose sang to Miss Seaton.
"I told Rose I was sure they were for Miss Seaton, and Rose said she did n't mind copying them herself for you if you wished them. Do tell me if you gave them to her. I told Rose your valentine to her last year was a rose-heart. I hope you don't mind my telling, for, you know, Jack, all our family think you are engaged to her--"
Jack dropped Hazel's letter at this point and gave a decided groan.
"What luck!" he muttered. "It's all up with the whole thing now. No girl of any spirit would stand all that--and Hazel meddling so! thinking she is doing her level best to explain matters;--What an ass I was to send that flower-valentine to Maude--and she thinks I gave her those verses! and there 's this Ford skulking round and having it all his own way; he 's just the kind a girl would care for--those musical cranks are no end sentimental. Hang it all!"
Jack thrust his hands deep into his pockets, took several decided turns up and down the room, squared his shoulders, pursed his lips, cut his two classroom lectures, ordered up Little Shaver and rode out to the polo grounds, where, finding himself alone, he put the little fellow through his best paces, ignoring the fact that snow and ice wore on the pony's nerves--and had a game out to himself.
When just two months had passed, he received a note from Rose, his first, and it was accorded the reception due to first notes in particular. After this, Jack developed certain wiles of diplomacy, he had thus far, in his various experiences, held in abeyance. He wrote sympathetic notes to Mrs. Blossom; commissioned Chi to find him another polo pony--Morgan, if possible--among the Green Hills; sent March a set of illustrated books on architecture, and complained to Doctor Heath of a pain that racked his chest; at which the Doctor's eyes twinkled. He said he would examine him later, but he was convinced it was heart trouble, the symptoms were apt to mislead and confuse. He added gravely: "Too much hard polo riding, Jack; get away into the country--mountains if you can, and you 'll recuperate fast enough. I 'll make an examination in the fall."
Jack obeyed to the letter, and what a month of September that was!
There were glorious rides with Rose along the beautiful river valley and over the mountain roads. There were delightful evenings at the Fords', and silent, beatific walks with Rose homewards beneath the harvest moon. There were morning rambles with Rose up over the pastures and deep into the woodlands for late ferns and hooded gentians. There were adorable hours of doing nothing but adore, while Rose was busy about her work, setting the table for tea (Jack paid his board at the inn, but he lived at the Blossoms'), or laying the cloth for dinner, or on Saturday morning even making rolls for the tea to which the whole party at the inn were invited.
Chi was in his glory. Little Shaver came trotting regularly every day up through the woods'-road, and whinnied "Good-morning" first to Fleet, then to Chi. There were general coaching-parties to Woodstock and Brandon, in which Mrs. Blossom was guest, and a grand tea at the Fords' for all the guests, with a musicale for a finish, and an informal dance in the Blossoms' barn to which all the Lost Nation were invited.
They accepted, one and all. Captain Spillkins was in his element, so he said. He and Mrs. Fenlick danced a two-step in a manner to win the commendation of the entire assembly. Miss Elvira and Miss Melissa went through the square dance escorted by Jack and Uncle Jo. There were round dances and contra dances. Uncle Israel contributed an "1812" jig, and Mr. Clyde passed round the hat for his sole benefit. There were waltzes for those who could waltz, and polkas for those who could polka, and schottische and minuet. "There never was such a dance since before the Deluge!" declared Mrs. Fenlick, when Captain Spillkins escorted her to a seat on a sap-bucket; and then they all went at it again in a grand finale, the Virginia Reel--Chi and Hazel, Mr. Clyde and Aunt Tryphosa for head and foot couple; Maria-Ann with Jack; Alan Ford with Mrs. Fenlick; the Colonel with Mrs. Blossom whom he admired greatly; March and Miss Alton--such a double row of them!
Poor Reub sat in one of the empty stalls and watched the fun with slow, half-understanding smile, and Ruth Ford reclined in a rocking-chair in the corner, and with merry laughter and sparkling wit soothed the dull ache in her heart that the knowledge that she was henceforth to be a "Shut-out" from all that life had at first given her.
The next day after the dance there was a grand dinner given at the inn by the Newport party to all the Lost Nation; and, later on, private entertainments for Mr. and Mrs. Blossom and the Fords. At last, when the first maple leaves crimsoned and the frost silvered the mullein leaves in the pasture, Hazel, her father, Jack, and their friends bade good-bye to the Mountain and all its joys of acquaintance, and in some cases, friendship, and turned their faces, not without reluctance on the part of some of them, city-wards.
"Oh, mother! has n't it been too beautiful for anything?" exclaimed Rose, turning to her mother, as the last of the riding-party waved his cap in farewell to those on the porch. It was Jack.
"We have had a happy summer, Rose;--I think they have, too," her mother added, shading her eyes from the setting sun. "You 'll be very lonely here at home, dear, after all this gayety."
"Lonely! Why, Martie Blossom, how can you think of such a thing!" said Rose, still scanning the lower road for a last glimpse of the riders. "See, see, they are all waving their handkerchiefs!"
The whole Blossom family laid hold of what they could--napkins, towels, a table-cloth, and Chi seized his shirt, which he had hung on the line to dry, and waved frantically until the party was no longer to be seen.
"Lonesome! the idea," said Rose, turning to her mother. "Think of all the studying March and I have to do, and the French evenings, and the Fords, and Thanksgiving coming, and then Christmas, and then--
"Then," said Mrs. Blossom, interrupting her, "my Rose takes a little plunge into that whirlpool of gay life and fashion in New York."
"Yes," said Rose, with a happy smile that spoke volumes to her mother, "I do look forward to it, Martie dear; but the whirlpool shan't suck me under; I shall come home just your old-fashioned Rose-pose."
"I hope so, dear," said her mother, a little wistfully, and called the children in to supper.
Indeed, they found little opportunity to miss their friends in the ensuing months; for there came kindly letters, and friendly letters, and something very nearly resembling love-letters. The mail brought papers, books, and magazines. The express brought to Barton's River many a box of lovely flowers. At Christmas came more than one remembrance for them all, including Aunt Tryphosa and Maria-Ann, and four special invitations for Rose to visit in New York directly after the holidays. One was from Mr. Clyde--with an urgent request from Hazel to say "yes" by telegram and "relieve her misery," so she put it--; one from Mrs. Heath; one from Aunt Carrie, and a gushingly cordial one from Mrs. Fenlick! Each claimed her for a month. But Mrs. Blossom shook her head.
"No, no, dear, you would wear your welcome out. I shall need you at home by the last of February. I think you can accept only Mr. Clyde's and Mrs. Heath's. You can accept social courtesies from the other four of course."
"But, mother," Rose's face was the image of despair, "what shall I wear? Just hear what Hazel has planned--'lunches, dinners, theatre, concerts'--why! I can never go to all those things."
"I 've thought of that, too, Rose; but the little colt shan't go bare this time--it will take some courage, dear, to wear the same things over and over again, not to mention the puzzle of planning for it all."
"I 'm not 'Molly Stark' for nothing," laughed Rose, and the two women began to plan for what Chi called "Rose's campaign." The pretty white serge was lengthened and made over to appear more grown up, as Cherry put it; the dark blue wash silk--Hazel's gift that had never been made up--was fashioned into a "swell affair"--so March pronounced it; the old-fashioned blue lawn was cut over into a dainty full waist, and then Mrs. Blossom added her surprise--a delicate blue taffeta skirt to match the waist. Rose went into raptures over it, and sought the best bedroom regularly three times a day to feast her girl's eyes on the silken loveliness as it lay in state on the best bed. A new dark blue serge was to do duty for a street suit, with a plain felt hat. For best, there was a turban made of dark blue velvet to match the wash silk.
"And four pairs of gloves! Martie Blossom, you are an angel, to give me these that Hazel gave you a year ago last Christmas. Have you been keeping them for me all this time?"
Mrs. Blossom smiled assent, and was rewarded by a squeeze that interfered decidedly with her breathing apparatus.
The night before she left, Rose "costumed" for the benefit of the entire family, who were assembled in the long-room, together with Aunt Tryphosa and Maria-Ann, to see Rose in her finery.
"I 'll make it a climax," said Rose, laughing half-shamefacedly, as she slipped upstairs to change her street suit, which had brought forth admiring "Ohs" and "Ahs" from the children, and favorable criticism from their elders.
Down she came in her white serge; there were nods and smiles of approval.
Her reappearance in the wash silk and velvet turban was the signal, on March's part, for a burst of applause, and cries of admiration from Budd and Cherry.
"Grand transformation scene!" cried March, as Rose tripped down in the blue taffeta, looking like a very rose herself.
"Beats all!" murmured Chi, who had become nearly speechless with admiration, "what clothes 'll do for a good-lookin' woman; but for a ravin', tearin' beauty like our Rose--George Washin'ton! She 'll open those high-flyers' eyes."
"Cinderella--fifth act!" shouted March as, after a prolonged wait, he heard Rose on the stairs.
But was it Rose?
The beautiful India mull of her mother's had been transformed into a ball-dress. She had drawn on her long white gloves and tucked into the simple, ribbon belt three of Jack's Christmas roses.
Maria-Ann gasped, and that broke the, to Rose, somewhat embarrassing silence.
Marshalled by March, the whole family formed a procession, and Rose was reviewed:--back breadths, front breadths, flounces, waist, gloves; all were thoroughly inspected.
Chi touched the lower flounce of the half-train gingerly with one work-roughened forefinger, then, straightening himself suddenly, sighed heavily.
"What's the matter, Chi?" Rose laughed at the dubious expression on his face.
"You ain't Rose Blossom nor Molly Stark any longer. You 're just a regular Empress of Rooshy, 'n' you don't look like that girl I took along to sell berries down to Barton's last summer, 'n' I wish you--" he hesitated.
"What, Chi?" said Rose.
"I wish you was back again, old sunbonnet, old calico gown, patched shoes 'n' all--"
"Oh, Chi, no, you don't," said Rose, laughing merrily; "you forget, I shall probably see Miss Seaton down there in New York, and you wouldn't want me to appear a second time before her in that old rig."
"You 're right, Rose-pose," replied Chi, his expression brightening visibly. He drew close to her and whispered audibly:
"Just sail right in, Molly Stark, 'n' cut that sassy girl out right 'n' left. She never could hold a candle to you."
"Sh-sh, Chi!" said Mrs. Blossom, meaningly, but with a twinkle in her eye.
"I mean just what I say, Mis' Blossom. Folks can't come up here on this Mountain to sass us to our faces, 'n' shedid;--I've stayed riled ever since, 'n' I hope she'll get sassed back in a way that 'll make her hair stand just a little more on end than it did, when she gave that mean, snickerin' giggle--"
"Chi, Chi," Mrs. Blossom interrupted him in an appeasing tone.
"You need n't Chi me, Mis' Blossom. These children are just as near to me as if they was my own, 'n' when they 're sassed, I 'm sassed too; 'n' my great-grandfather fought over at Ticonderogy, 'n' I ain't bound to take any more sass than he took--"
By this time the whole family were in fits of laughter over Chi's persistent use of so much "sass," and, at last, Chi himself joined in the laugh at his excessive heat:--
"Over nothin' but a wind-bag, after all," he concluded.
On the following morning, Mr. Blossom, Chi, March and Budd drove down to Barton's to see Rose off. The old apple-green pung had been fitted with two broad boards for seats, and covered with buffalo robes and horse blankets. There was just room in the tail for Rose's old-fashioned trunk and a small strapped box, which held two dozen of new-laid eggs, six small, round cheeses, and a wreath of ground hemlock and bitter-sweet--a neighborly gift from Aunt Tryphosa and Maria-Ann to Hazel and Mr. Clyde.
As the train moved away from the station, Chi watched it with brimming eyes.
"She'll never come back the same Rose-pose, livin' among all those high-flyers--never," he muttered to himself; but aloud he remarked, with forced cheerfulness, turning to Mr. Blossom while he dashed the blinding drops from his eyes with the back of his hand:
"Looks mighty like a thaw, Ben; kind of wets down, don't it?"
"Yes, Chi," said Mr. Blossom, busy with conquering his own heartache, "we 'd better be getting on home;" and the masculine contingent of the Blossom household climbed into the pung and took their way homeward in silence.
But what a reception that was for the transplanted Rose!
Mr. Clyde met her at the Grand Central Station, and Rose felt how welcome she was just by the hand-clasp, and his first words:
"We have you at last, Rose; I would n't let Hazel come because I thought the train might be late, and there's a cold rain falling. Martin, take this box--"
"Oh, no; I must carry that myself," laughed Rose, looking up at the liveried footman with something like awe. "I promised Aunt Tryphosa and Maria-Ann I would n't let any one take them till they were safe in the house; thank you," she bowed courteously to Martin, who confided to the coachman so soon as they were on the box: "Hi 'ave n't seen nothink so 'ansome since Hi 've bean in the States."
As the brougham whirled into the Avenue, and the electric lights shone full into the carriage, Rose could see the luxuriously upholstered interior, and a sudden thought of the old apple-green pung and the buffalo robes dimmed her eyes. But it was only for a moment; Mr. Clyde was telling her of Hazel's impatience, and how the coachman had had special orders from her to hurry up so soon as he should be on the Avenue, and he had hardly finished before the coachman drew rein, slackening his rapid pace as he turned a corner, Martin was opening the door, and Hazel's voice was calling from a wide house entrance flooded with soft light:
"Oh, Rose, my Rose! Is it really you, at last?"
"And this, I am sure, is Wilkins," said Rose, when finally Hazel set her arms free. "We 've heard so much of you, that I feel as if I had known you a long time." Rose held out her hand with such sincere cordiality that Wilkins' speech was suddenly reduced to pantomime, and he could only extend his other hand rather helplessly towards the box that Rose still carried. But Rose refused to yield it up.
"Here, Hazel, I promised Maria-Ann and Aunt Tryphosa I would n't give it into any hands but yours. Oh! be careful--they 're eggs!"
"Eggs!" repeated Hazel, laughing. "Here, Wilkins, unstrap it for me, quick--Oh, papa, look!" She held out the box to Mr. Clyde, and, somehow, John Curtis Clyde for a moment thought with Chi, that there was going to be a "thaw." Each egg was rolled in white cotton batting and wrapped in pink tissue paper. The six little cheeses were enclosed in tin-foil, and cheeses and eggs were embedded in the Christmas wreath. On a piece of pasteboard was written in unsteady characters: