Agnes flushed resentfully as she came forward and saw the confidential friendliness of the little group. For "that girl" she had been neglected and disregarded like this! Not a moment longer would she bear such insults. It was all nonsense,—all that stuff about being prosecuted for showing up facts. She would be stopped by that foolishness no longer. She would first take her stand boldly, and let everybody know what a fraud this Miss Smith was. These were some of the wild thoughts that leaped up out of the bitter fountain in Agnes's distorted mind at that instant, and her voice was sharper than ever as she again said,—
"I want my property,—the paper I gave you to keep for me."
Will had risen to his feet, and answered very coolly, "I can't give it to you."
"What do you mean? Have you lost it?"
"No, but I can't give it to you."
"Have you read it?"
"Yes, and that's the reason I don't give it to you. I know if I should you would—"
"Probably give it to Miss Smithson," cried Agnes, shrilly. "Miss Smithson," going toward Peggy, "I—"
"Oh, Peggy, Peggy, come with me. We're all your friends,—grandmother and I and Will and Tom; and we know how sweet and innocent you are. Oh, Peggy, come, come, and don't listen to her!" burst forth Tilly, in an agony of pity and horror, as she put an arm around Peggy to draw her away.
But Peggy was not to be drawn away.
"What in the world is the matter? What is it all about? What do you mean, Tilly, dear, by 'innocent'? What has she," glancing at Agnes disdainfully "been getting up against me?"
"Oh, Peggy, Peggy, don't!" moaned Tilly.
"Well, this is rich," laughed Agnes, jeeringly. "Nobody has been getting up anything against you, Miss Smithson."
"What do you mean by calling me Miss Smithson? That isn't my name."
"Oh, isn't it?" derisively. "How long since did you change it for Smith?"
"I have never changed it for Smith."
"Oh, I believe that 'Miss Smith' is down on the hotel register, and you answer to that name."
"I beg your pardon," said Peggy, looking at Agnes with great scorn. "'Mrs. Smith and niece' are down on the register. It was the clerk who registered us in that way, and all of you seemed to take it for granted thatmyname must be Smith also. Perhaps I ought to have corrected the mistake at once; but after I overheard that conversation on the piazza, and—saw somebody examining the register a few minutes later" glancing away from Agnes with a smile at Will, who looked rather sheepish—"after that I thought I'd let the mistake go until the rest of the family arrived, it was so amusing."
"Oh," retorted Agnes, "this all sounds very straight and pretty, but I dare say you've got used to telling such stories. Perhaps you'll tell us now what name you do call your own, and if it is by that those South American friends you write to are known."
"Perhaps Mr. Tom Raymond will tell you," answered Peggy, quickly. "I've thought for some time that he might be one of the Tennis Club that came out to Fairview at my brother's invitation last summer, and I thought he suspected who I was, and—and wouldn't tell because—because he saw, just as I did, what fun the mistake was. But now, if he will, he can introduce me—to my friends, Tilly and Will Wentworth, as—"
Miss Pelham! Miss Margaret Pelham!"Miss Pelham! Miss Margaret Pelham!"
"Miss Pelham! Miss Margaret Pelham!" shouted Tom, before Peggy could go any further.
"Pelham!" cried Tilly, in a dazed way.
"Pelham!" repeated Will.
"Yes, Pelham! Pelham!" exclaimed Tom, exultantly, flinging up his cap with a chuckle of delighted laughter.
"And you're not—you're not the daughter of that dreadful Smithson?" burst forth Tilly, in a little transport of happy relief.
"'That dreadful Smithson'? Who is he, and who said I was his daughter?"
"Shesaid it," roared Will, darting a furious look at Agnes; "and she cooked it all up out of this," suddenly pulling the paper from his pocket.
"Give it to me!" cried Agnes, breathlessly, springing forward to snatch the paper from his hand.
"No, no, you wanted me to give it to Miss Smith a minute ago, and now I'll give it to—Miss Pelham, and let her see what you've wanted to circulate about the house," answered Will.
"I—I—if I happened to notice it before the rest of you—and—and thought that it might be this Miss Smith—"
"That itmustbe! you insisted," broke in Will.
"With all that about the change of name, and the age of the girl, and—and—the 'South America' I saw on the blotting-pad, and the South American dress," went on Agnes, incoherently,—"if I happened to be before you, you thought afterward, I know you did, that it might be; and—"
"With a difference, with a difference!" suddenly rang out Peggy Pelham's clear young voice in tones of indignation. She had read the newspaper slip; and there she stood, scorn and indignation in her face as well as in her voice. "Yes, with a difference," she went on vehemently. "If they thought it might be, after you had paraded the thing before them, you," with a renewed look of scorn, "thought itmustbe, because you wanted it to be, because you had got to hating me. Oh, I can see it all now,—everything, everything; how you patched things together, even to that blotting-pad which I had used after directing my letter to my uncle, Berkeley Pelham, who lives in Brazil. Oh, to think of such prying and peering," with a shudder, "and to think of such enmity, anyway, all for nothing! I've heard of such enmity, but I never believed in it, for I never met it before. And all this time there was Tilly Morris,—oh, Tilly," whirling rapidly about, "what a dear, brave, generous, faithful little thing you've been," the ringing voice faltering, "for in spite of—even this—this dreadful Smithson, you stuck to me and tried to shield me."
"Oh, I knew, and so did grandmother, that you were innocent, whatever might just possibly have happened to—to—"
"Mr. Smithson—" And Peggy began to laugh. But the laugh ended in something like a sob, and she hurriedly hid her face on Tilly's shoulder. When an instant after she looked up, it was to see that Agnes had disappeared.
"Yes, the enemy has fled," said Tom Raymond. "The minute you dropped your eyes she was off. We might have stopped her, Will and I, but there wasn't much left of her. Oh, oh, oh! isn't she finished off beautifully, though?" and Tom gave way at last to the hilarity he had so long manfully repressed.
"Finished off! I should say so!" cried Will, joining in Tom's laughter.
"And to think that you were a Pelham,—one of Agnes's wonderful Pelhams all the time," put in Tilly, still with an air of bewilderment.
"And am now," laughed Peggy. "Oh, Tilly, you are such a dear!"
"One of Agnes's wonderful Pelhams!" shouted Tom. "Guess she won't be in a hurry to set up a claim to 'em now!" and Tom burst out again in wild chuckles of hilarity.
"And I never saw her, and I don't believe she ever met one of us before," cried Peggy.
"She told Amy that she didn't know the Pelhams yet, but that her Aunt Ann did, and her aunt was coming next month and would introduce her to them when they arrived," said Tilly, with a demure smile.
"Well, she'll probably like my sister Isabel's Skye terrier, with its fine name of Prince, much better than she does my poor little plebeian doggie, with its vulgar name of Pete," remarked Peggy, her eyes twinkling with fun.
"Oh, Peggy, to think of your hearing all that talk about the dog and everything."
"And everything? I should say so!" cried Will, starting up and looking rather red as he recalled his own words.
"Yes, and everything,—all about the dogs and the difference between the Wentworths and the Pelhams," took up Peggy, dimpling with smiles.
"Oh, I say now," began Will.
"Yes, you may say now just what you did then. I liked it,—I liked it. It was sensible and plucky of you, and it was such fun. Oh, when I think that but for auntie and me coming on ahead of the rest, and without a maid, and the hotel clerk writing only 'Mrs. Smith and niece' in the register, I should never have had all these wonderful experiences, and never have known what a friend my Tilly could be,—when I think of all this, I want to dance a jig, just such a jig as they are playing this minute;" and up she jumped, this smiling Peggy, and, catching Tilly in her arms, went waltzing down the path with her toward the hall from whence floated the gay strains of the "Lancers."
But what was that sound,—that long-drawn, jubilant sound that suddenly rang over and above the dance music?
"Ta-ra, ta-ra, ta-ra‑a‑a‑a," rang the clear, piercing notes; and out from halls and offices and parlors came a little flock of folk to see that most interesting of arrivals at a summer resort,—a coaching-party. "Ta-ra, ta-ra, ta-ra‑a‑a‑a," wound the coach horn; and up the carriage drive rattled a superb vehicle, drawn by four superb gray horses. The long summer daylight yet lingered, and showed the faces of the party atop of the coach.
"It's the Pelham team, and that's young Berk Pelham holding the reins," said a bystander.
Dora and Amy Robson, who had run out with the others from the dancing-hall, caught Tom Raymond as he was passing them; and Dora whispered,—
"Are they the Pelhams,—Agnes's Pelhams?"
"'Agnes's Pelhams'? Oh, oh!" gurgled Tom, nearly choking with suppressed laughter. Then, "Yes, yes, Agnes's Pelhams; but where is Agnes? She ought to be here to welcome her Pelhams."
"She's gone to bed with a headache or something. She came in looking dreadfully a few minutes ago."
"I should think she might; she had had a blow."
"What do you mean? But, look, look! those Pelhams are speaking to that Smith girl."
"No, they're not."
"But they are, Tom; don't you see?"
"No, I don't see any of them speaking to a Smith girl, but I do see Miss Pelham speaking to—Miss Peggy Pelham."
Dora tossed her head impatiently. "What a silly joke!" she thought; but—but—what was it that that tall young lady who had just jumped down from her top seat on the coach was saying?
"The minute I read your letter, Peggy, telling me of this little dance, Berk and I planned to drive over with the Apsleys and waltz a little waltz with you. Twenty miles in an hour and a half. Isn't that fine time? And you are looking so much better, Peggy, for the salt air, and away from all our racket. Mamma was wise when she sent you on ahead with auntie, but we're all coming to join you next week."
"Tom, Tom, you were not joking?" gasped Dora.
"When I said that girl was Peggy Pelham? Joking? No, it's a solid fact,—so solid it's knocked Agnes flat. Oh!" and Tom began to shake again; "it's too rich, it's too rich. Come over here away from the crowd, you and Amy, and let me tell you the whole story, and then you'll see what a blow Agnes has had."
Never had a narrator a more excitingly interesting story to tell, and never did narrator enjoy the telling more than Tom on this occasion; but though his hearers hung upon his words, these words were full of bitterness to them; and when at the close he flung his head back and said, "Isn't it the greatest fun?" Dora, out of her shame and mortification, cried,—
"Yes, fun to you,—to you and Will and Tilly, because you are on the right side of the fun; but I—we—are disgraced of course with Agnes. Oh, we've been just horrid—horrid, and such fools!"
"Well, I—I sort of forgot about you, that's a fact, in Agnes,—for it's her circus from the start; you and Amy," giving his little chuckling laugh, "are only humble followers, pressed into service, you know, by the ringmaster. The thing of it was, you hadn't sand enough to stand up against Agnes."
"And Tilly had," responded Dora, in a mortified tone.
"Oh, Tilly! Tilly's a trump, always and every time. She's on the right side of things naturally."
If Dora and Amy needed a still lower abyss of humiliation, they found it in this last sentence of Tom's, which showed them plainly what poor creatures he thought they were "naturally" to Tilly.
Before many hours the story of "that little Smith girl" was known throughout the house, and mothers and fathers and guardians heard with amazement that so serious a little drama had been going on without their slightest knowledge until this climax. One mother, however, Mrs. Robson, was more than amazed when she found what an influence Agnes had exerted over her daughter and niece.
"Don't offer as excuse that you didn't dare to tell me how things were going on for fear of offending Agnes Brendon," she said indignantly. "Didn't Tilly Morris dare to tell her grandmother?"
Everywhere it was Tilly Morris,—Tilly Morris, the kind, the brave, the honest! Even Mrs. Brendon, who came at last to know the fact, in her alarm and irritation assailed her daughter one day in the presence of the Robsons with these words,—
"Why couldn't you have behaved amiably and sensibly, like the little Morris girl? I don't see where you learned such suspicious, calculating, worldly ways of judging people and things?"
And then it was that Agnes turned upon her mother and gave utterance to these bitter, brutal truths,—
"I've learned them from the older people I've seen all my life,—the people who come to our house. They judge other people that they don't know anything about in just such calculating ways. They are always talking with you about this one or that one's social position, and they never make new acquaintances without finding out what set they belong to; and I was never allowed from a little girl to make acquaintances with any children whose mothers were not in the right set; and amiability and goodness had nothing to do with it,—nothing, nothing, nothing!"
Marge, Marge, here is the egg-boy!"
Marge dropped her book and ran to join her sister Elsie, who by this time was on the back piazza talking to a boy who had just driven up in a farm-wagon.
"We want two dozen more,—all nice big ones, and by to-morrow, for it is only three days before Easter, and they must be boiled and colored to be ready in season."
The boy stared. "Colored?" he repeated in a puzzled, questioning tone.
"Yes," answered Elsie, "colored. Don't you color eggs for Easter?"
"No."
"How queer! But you know about them, of course?"
"No, I don't."
"Not know about Easter eggs? Where in the world have you lived not to know about Easter? I thought everybody—"
"I do know about Easter," interrupted the boy, sharply. "All I said was that I didn't know about your colored eggs."
"Oh, well, I guess it is Episcopalians mostly who keep that old custom going in this part of the country, and I suppose your people are not Episcopalians, are they?"
"No."
"Well,weare, and we've lived in Washington, too, where everybody has colored eggs, and all the boys and girls there used to go to the egg-rolling party the Monday morning after Easter; and a good many of them go now."
"Egg-rolling party?" cried the boy, with such wide-open eyes of astonishment that Elsie and Marge both burst out laughing, whereat the boy flushed up angrily, and seizing the reins was starting off, when the cook called to him to wait until she had the butter-box ready for him to take back.
"Oh!" whispered Marge, "we've hurt his feelings, Elsie; it is too bad." Then she ran forward, and said gently: "'Tisn't anything at all strange that you didn't know about the rolling. Elsie and I didn't until we went to Washington to live, and saw the game ourselves, and had it explained to us; and I'll explain it to you. We had a lot of eggs boiled hard, and dyed all sorts of pretty flower colors and patterns; and these we took to the top of a little hill near the White House, and each one, or each party, started two or three or more eggs of different colors, and made guesses as to which color would beat. After the game was over, we exchanged the eggs we had, and gave away a good many to the poor children. Oh, it was great fun."
The boy laughed. "Fun! I should call it baby play!" he said derisively.
"Well,youcan call it baby play if you like," returned Marge, with great dignity; "but the 'baby play' has come down through a good many years. It is an old Easter custom that was brought over from England by one of the early settlers at Washington."
"I—I didn't mean—I'm sorry—" began Royal, stammeringly; when—
"Royal! Royal Purcel!" called out a voice; and a little fellow scarcely more than six or seven years old came running up the driveway, and made a flying leap into the wagon.
"Do you belong to a circus?" cried Elsie.
"No; wish I did. I belong to Royal."
"Who is Royal?"
"Who is Royal?" repeated the child, making a cunning, impudent face at her.
"He means me. My name is Royal,—Royal Purcel; and he," nodding towards the child, "is my brother."
"Royal Purcel!Whata funny name! It sounds—"
"Don't, Elsie," remonstrated Marge.
"It sounds just like Royal Purple," giggled Elsie, regardless of her sister's remonstrance.
Rhoda Davis, the cook, coming out just then with the butter-box, Royal thrust it hastily into the back of the wagon, and without another word or glance at the sisters, drove off at a headlong pace.
"Well, I never saw such a tempery boy as that in my life," said Elsie. "A boy that can't take a joke I don't think is much of a boy."
"Them Purcels allers was pretty peppery, and I guess they're more'n ever so now," said Rhoda.
"Why?" asked Marge.
"Why? Because they used to be the richest farmers about here. They owned pretty nigh all Lime Ridge once. Now they hain't got nothin' but that little Ridge farm. It's a stony little place, and how they manage to get a livin' off of it beats me."
"How'd they happen to lose so much?"
"Oh, the boy's father took to spekerlatin', and then some banks they had money in bust up."
"Well, he needn't fly up at everything because he isn't rich," said Elsie. "That's regular cry-baby fashion. He's a royal purple cry-baby, that's what he is, and I mean to call him that, see if I don't;" and Elsie laughed in high glee as this mischievous idea struck her. And while she and her sister were discussing Royal and his temper, Royal was discussing that very temper with himself.
"To think of my being such a fool as to show mad before those girls. I'm a regular sissy," was his final conclusion as he drove down the road.
The next morning, bright and early, he was up at the Lloyds' with two dozen fine big eggs. "As handsome a lot of eggs as I ever see," commented Rhoda, as she took them in.
"Are they going to color them all?" asked Royal.
"I s'pose so. Here are some of their old ones. They've been b'iled as hard as stones. They'll keep forever;" and Rhoda handed out of the open window a little basket of colored eggs.
"But some of these are painted," said the boy, taking up an egg with a pattern of flowers on it.
"No, they ain't; they're jest colored in a dye-pot. Them that looks as if they was painted were tied up in a bit of figgered calico and b'iled, and when they come out of the b'iling they took the calico off, and there was the figgers set on the eggs. See?"
"Yes, I see;" and Royal turned the egg round thoughtfully for a moment, then suddenly put it down, and started off towards his wagon on a run.
"Land sakes!" called out Rhoda; "what's come to you all at once to set off like that?"
"Muskrats!" shouted Royal, with a laugh as he jumped into the wagon.
"Ben a-settin' traps for 'em, eh?"
Royal nodded as he went rattling down the driveway.
"Did Royal Purple bring the eggs?" asked Elsie Lloyd, a little later.
"His name ain't Purple; it's Purcel," corrected Rhoda, innocently.
Elsie giggled. "Well, did RoyalPurcelbring the eggs?" she asked.
"Yes, there they be."
"Oh, oh! aren't they beauties?"
"They be; that's a fact," agreed Rhoda. "Royal, he's done his best for ye now, anyway. He's kind o' quick, like all the Purcels, but he's real accommodatin'."
"So he is, Rhoda, and I'll give him one of the prettiest eggs we turn out for being so 'accommodatin';' and we are going to have some extra pretty ones this time. See this now, and this, and this!" and Elsie whipped out of her pocket several bits of bright calico. One was a pattern of tiny rosebuds; another a little lily on a blue ground.
"The lily ones will be just lovely if they turn out well, and they will be the real Easter egg with that lily pattern," said Marge, enthusiastically.
By Saturday afternoon a goodly array of eggs of all colors and patterns were "ready for company," as Elsie and Marge expressed it; for on Saturday night a party of their friends were coming to them for a three days' visit. It was about an hour after these friends had arrived, and they were all hanging admiringly over the pretty display of eggs, that a box was brought in by one of the servants. It was neatly tied, and directed in a bold round handwriting to "Miss Elsie and Miss Marge Lloyd."
"Whatcanit be?" said Marge, wonderingly.
"We'll open it and see," cried Elsie. And suiting her action to her word, she cut the string and lifted the cover; and there she saw six eggs undyed, but each painted delicately with a different design. On one was a cross with a tiny vine running from the base; on another a bunch of lilies of the valley; and another showed a little bough of apple blossoms. On the remaining three the subjects were strangely unusual,—a palm and tent, with a patch of sky; a bird with outstretched wings, soaring upward with open beak, as if singing in its flight; a cherub head with a soft halo about it.
"Oh! oh! oh!" exclaimed the girls, in a chorus; and, "Whocouldhave painted them?" wondered Marge; and, "Whocouldhave sent them?" cried Elsie.
In vain they hunted for card or sign of the donor. They could find nothing to give them the slightest clew.
"Perhaps, papa, it is Mr. Archer," said Marge at last, turning to her father. Mr. Archer was an artist friend.
"Oh, no, this isn't Archer's work; it's a novice's work, though very promising," her father replied.
"Cousin Tom's, then?"
"And too strong for Tom."
"Then it must be Jimmy Barrows."
"Well, it may be Jimmy. We shall know when he comes with Tom on Monday. It's bold enough for Jimmy, but I didn't think he had so much fancy."
And finally it was settled that it could be no other than Jimmy Barrows. Jimmy was a great friend of their cousin Tom; but while Tom was only an amateur artist, Jimmy was studying to be a professional one.
"It's such fun to have Jimmy do these, and send them without a word," said Elsie to her sister.
"Such a generous thing to do, too! I wonder if he would like some ofoureggs as specimens? We might give him one of each kind."
"Oh, Marge, don't think of offering him those calico-colored things,—anybody who can paint like this!"
"Very well; but, Elsie, which one are you going to give to Royal Purcel?"
"To Royal Purcel?"
"Yes; don't you remember you told Rhoda you were going to give him one for being so accommodating?"
"Oh, I'd forgotten. Well, here, I'll give him this,—it's the very thing;" and Elsie snatched up a bright purple one.
"Oh, Elsie, don't!"
But Elsie fairly danced with glee as she cried, "I will, I will; it's the very thing,—royal purple to Royal Purple!"
The young visitors, when all this was explained to them, joined in the merriment; but Marge—kind, tender little Marge—hid away one of the blue and white lily eggs, to get the advantage of Elsie's mischief by bestowingthatupon Royal.
But Royal was quite out of Elsie's thoughts by Monday morning. It was a beautiful morning; and by nine o'clock, when Tom and Jimmy Barrows arrived, the lawn and sloping knoll at the east of it were bright and dry with sunshine. On the piazza the various baskets of eggs were standing; only "Jimmy Barrows's gift" had been set aside as "too good to use."
"My! haven't you got a lot, though?" cried Tom, as he surveyed them. "But what are these in the box here?"
"Yes, what are they?" sparkled Elsie. "Ask Jimmy Barrows."
Jimmy, with a wondering expression on his face at this remark, came over and looked down at the treasured eggs. "Who did these?" he asked quickly.
"'Who did these?'" mimicked Elsie. "Oh, you needn't try that. We found you out at once, orIdid."
"You think I painted 'em—I sent 'em?" queried Jimmy.
"Of course I do. Now, Master Jimmy—"
"Miss Elsie, just as true as I'm standing here, I never saw them before."
Elsie shook her head at him, but Jimmy did not see her. He was lifting the eggs and examining them.
"No, honest, I didn't paint 'em, Miss Elsie. I wish I had; but I can't do things like that—yet. I can draw as well, am a better draughtsman, maybe, but I haven't got the ideas. The fellow who did these has got a lot of original ideas."
Mr. Lloyd came forward here with great interest. "Did any of you," turning to Elsie and Marge, "ask who brought the box?"
"Yes," answered Elsie. "I asked Ann, and she said 'a bit of a boy brought 'em;' she didn't know who he was."
"Ask Rhoda to come here. She knows the neighborhood."
Rhoda came, and Mr. Lloyd put the matter before her. Had she any idea who the "bit of a boy" was?
"I didn't see him, but it might be Bert Purcel," answered Rhoda. "Folks get him to do errands sometimes. He's just drove up with his brother to bring the chickens. I'll send him 'round, and you can ask him."
"Did you leave a box here Saturday night?" Mr. Lloyd inquired pleasantly, when the boy stood before him.
The red lips began to frame a "No," then closed tightly together, while the slim little figure whirled about and made an attempt to leap over the piazza railing,—an attempt that would have been successful if one foot had not caught in a stout vine.
Royal, waiting in the wagon at the back porch, heard a sudden cry, and hurried to see what had happened. He found Bert scrambling to his feet, brisk and angry. The child made a dash towards his brother, and seized his hand.
"What's the matter?" asked Royal. No answer, but a renewed tug at his hand to draw him away.
"The little fellow tried to jump the piazza railing and fell," explained Mr. Lloyd, laughingly.
"Papa just asked him a question,—if he brought us a box Saturday night; and as he didn't want to answer, he ran," spoke up Elsie.
"I didn't, I jumped!" cried the child.
Everybody laughed.
"Can'tyoutell us?" asked Marge, looking at Royal. "Didyour brother bring it?"
"Yes," answered Royal, flushing up.
"And who sent it?" asked Elsie, impatiently. She waited a moment for an answer. As none came, she asked still more impatiently, "Do youknowthe person who sent it?"
"Yes," in a hesitating voice.
"Did the person tell you not to tell?"
"No," in the same hesitating voice.
"Then why in the worlddon'tyou tell? You've no right to keep it back like this. It is our affair, not yours, and so it is our right to know who it is. Don't you understand that we don't want people to send us things—presents—and not know anything about who it is?"
Royal looked startled, and the flush on his face deepened. Elsie thought she had conquered him, and chirped out an encouraging, "Come, now, who was it?" But to her surprise the boy flung up his head with an angry movement, and with a defiant glance at her said stubbornly,—
"I've a perfect rightnotto answer your question, and I sha'n't!"
"Well, of all the brazen—"
"Elsie!" warned her father, "don't say anything more."
"You'll let me say one thing more, papa. Rhoda told us that this boy was very accommodating, and he brought me such nice big eggs, I thought he was, and meant to give him something to show my appreciation, and I'd like to give it to him now. Here," taking something from her pocket, "give this to your brother," she said to little Bert, who stood eying her curiously. The child's hand opened involuntarily. Into it dropped aroyal purpleegg.
Royal saw and understood. "Give it back to her!" he cried.
Bert, feeling the passion in his brother's voice, drew off, andflungthe egg with all his might at Elsie. Luckily for her, it missed its aim and whizzed past, striking some article with a breaking crash beyond her.
"Oh! oh! oh! it's fallen on the painted eggs!" cried Marge, "and," running forward, "it has spoiled the lovely cherub head; see, the shell is all cracked to pieces!"
"You horrid, wicked boys!" cried Elsie, in the next breath.
But Royal heard nothing of these comments. The moment he saw that Bert's recklessness had injured no one, he had turned away with him, and was now driving out of the yard, scolding the youngster roundly for his action, and not a little subdued himself at what might have been the result of it.
"Papa, I think they ought to be punished, and the big boy made to tell," exclaimed Elsie, when she found the two were out of her reach.
"What did you say was the name of the boys?" asked Jimmy Barrows, who had taken up the cross and vine egg, and was peering at it very closely.
"Purcel."
"Well, just look at this;" and with the tip-end of a tiny knife-blade Jimmy pointed out something in the delicate vined tendrils that had hitherto escaped notice. It was the name "R. Purcel," cunningly inwound in the tendrils. Every one crowded up to inspect this discovery.
"It must be some relation of the boy's, and that is why he felt he had a right to keep it secret," said Mr. Lloyd.
"But it was Royal's present, whatever relation he got to paint the eggs for him, for it was only Royal who knew aboutoureggs; and this is the way we've paid him!" cried Marge, with a glance of indignant reproach at Elsie.
"I don't think he got anybody to do it for him; I—I think he did it himself," spoke up Jimmy.
"Royal Purcel! that—that farm-boy?" shrieked Elsie.
"Yes," answered Jimmy. "I thought so all the time, when you—when he was standing under—under your questioning fire." And Jimmy laughed.
"But how did he learn?" cried Elsie, in astonishment.
"I don't think the boy has had much instruction," said Jimmy. "I think he has great natural talent, and has had very little opportunity to study." Jimmy was now peering at the palm and tent egg, and, "See, here's the name again, in this thready grass," he said, "and he has probably marked all the eggs in this cunning way."
Jimmy was right. On the bird's wing, amid the lily leaves, and on the apple bough, they also found "R. Purcel" hidden deftly from casual observation.
Elsie was silent as, one after another, these discoveries were made. Finally she could contain herself no longer, and burst out,—
"To think of his painting all these beautiful things and giving them to us,—to me, when I've been such a horrid little cat to him! Oh, papa, I must do something,—I just must!"
"Well, I should think it would become you to say you are sorry and to thank him," said Mr. Lloyd, smiling.
"But, papa, I want to take the pony-carriage and go after him, and ask him to come back to the egg-rolling; and if Jimmy Barrows will go with me—"
"I'd be delighted, Miss Elsie."
"He'd make it easier,—he'd know what to say, and Royal would know what to say to him. The others will excuse us; we won't be long. Oh, may I—may we, papa?"
"Well, as you seem to have settled everything, I don't see but I must—"
But Elsie did not wait to hear more. She knew she had not only her father's consent, but his approval, and was off like a flash to order the carriage.
If the Lloyds had been better acquainted in Lime Ridge, Royal's work would not have been such a great surprise to them. A good many of the Lime Ridge people could have told them of the boy's talent, and how it had been discouraged by his family. There was no money now to support and educate him in that direction, and it had been arranged with an old friend who was in the wool business that the boy should go into his employ as soon as he had graduated from the Lime Ridge High School. This was considered a very lucky prospect for him, but Royal hated it. From a little fellow he had shown a great love for pictures, and had covered every scrap of paper he could find with crude drawings.
When he was eight years old, a visitor had given him a box of paints and brushes. Two years later he had become acquainted with an artist who was staying a few weeks at Lime Ridge, and went with him on his sketching-tramps. With him he learned something about an artist's methods, and received from him as a parting gift, various artist's materials that he had made industrious use of.
The whim of painting the eggs and sending them to the sisters had come to him as a sort of apology to them for his exhibition of temper, and he had no idea that his name, so palpable to his artist eye, would escape their observation as it did. He expected his gift and its motives to be recognized at once. Instead, he was questioned as if he were nothing but an ignorant errand-boy; and, bitterest of all, even when he had confessed to a knowledge of the giver, the possibility of his being the painter himself was not for a moment suspected. But while he stood leaning over the farm-gate thinking these bitter thoughts, a stout little pony was bringing him what he little dreamed of. "Catch me ever going amongst 'em again,—an overbearing lot of city folks," he was saying to himself, when, patter, patter, patter, round the turn of the road came the stout little pony, and before the boy could make a movement to get away, Elsie Lloyd had jumped from the wagon, and stood in front of him.
"I've come to ask you to go back with us, and forgive me for being such a horrid little cat to you. I didn't understand. I thought—" and then in a perfect jumble of words Elsie went on, and poured forth her contrition and explanation, at the same time introducing Jimmy Barrows, who knew just what to say, and said it with such effect that Royal's spirits went up with a bound, and almost before he knew to what he had consented, he was sitting on the little back seat of the phaeton, talking with these "city folks" as if they were his best friends, as they turned out to be.
All this happened four or five years ago, and to-day where do you suppose Royal Purcel is, and what do you suppose he is doing? In Mr. Carr's mills, learning to pick and buy wool?
Not he. He is in Paris with Jimmy Barrows, studying hard, and supporting himself by making business illustrations for various newspapers. It is humble work, but it serves for his support while he is preparing for higher things; and the "higher things" are not far off, for two or three of his sketches in oils have attracted the attention of the critics, and he has furnished a set of drawings for a child's book that has been well paid for and well spoken of. And Jimmy Barrows wrote home to Tom Lloyd the other day,—
"Royal is going to be a howling success, as I always prophesied; but what a time your uncle and I had to persuade his family of this possibility, and to get him off from that wool-picking! But I guess they began to believe we were right when this spoiled wool-picker wrote them last week that he'd paid the last cent of his indebtedness to Mr. Lloyd. Houp-la!"
"'A howling success'! And it's all through me," laughed Elsie, as she read this portion of Jimmy's letter; "for if I hadn't eaten humble-pie, and run after Master Royal that morning, he would not have met Jimmy Barrows, and might have been wool-picking to this day. Yes; it's all through me and my humble-pie. Houp-la!"
Never had a Christmas present?"
"No, never."
"Why, it's just dreadful! Well, there's one thing,—youshallhave one this year, you dear thing!" and Molly Elliston flung down the Christmas muffler she was knitting, and stared at her visitor, as if she could scarcely believe what she had just confessed to her. The visitor laughed, showing a beautiful row of small white teeth as she did so. She was a charming little maiden of twelve or thirteen, this visitor,—a charming little maiden with the darkest of dark hair that hung in a thick shining braid tied at the end with a broad red ribbon. Molly Elliston thought she was a beauty, as she looked at her dimpled smiling face,—a beauty, though shewasan Indian. Yes, this charming little maiden was an Indian, belonging to what was once a great and powerful tribe. When, three years ago, Molly Elliston had come out to the far Northwest with her mother to join her father on his ranch, she had thought she should never feel anything but aversion to an Indian. Molly was then seven years old, and had always lived at some military post, for her father had been an army officer until the three years before, when he had given up his commission to enter into partnership with his brother upon a sheep and cattle ranch. A few miles from this ranch was an Indian reservation. The tribe that occupied it had for a long time been quite friendly with white people, and were therefore not altogether unwelcome neighbors to the Ellistons. Molly thought they were very welcome, indeed, when one day, in the third summer of her ranch life, she made the acquaintance of this pretty Wallula, who was not only pretty, but very intelligent, and of a loving disposition that responded gladly to Molly's friendly advances.
"But to think that you've never had a Christmas present!" exclaimed Molly again, as Wallula's laugh rippled out. "If I'donlyknown you the first year we came! But I'll make it upthisyear, you'll see; and oh! oh!" clapping her hands at a sudden thought, "I know—I know what I'll do! Tell you?" as Wallula clappedherhands and cried, "Oh, tell me, tell me!" "Of course I sha'n't tell you; that would spoil the whole. Why, that's part of the fun that we don't tell what we are going to do. It is all a secret until Christmas eve or Christmas morning."
"Yes, I know,—Metalka told me; but I forgot."
"Of course your sister must have known all about Christmas after she came back from school. Why didn'tshemake you a Christmas present, then, Lula?"
"Metalka?" A cloud came over the little bright face. "Metalka didn't stay long after she came back. She didn't stay till Christmas; she went 'way—to—to heaven."
"Oh!"
"If Metalka had stayed, I might have gone to school this year."
"I thought youhadbeen to school, Lula."
"Oh, no! only to little school out here summers,—little school some ladies made; and Metalka tole me—taught me—showed me ev'ry day after she came back—ev'ry day, till—til she—went 'way. I can read and write and talk, talk, talk, all day in English,"—smiling roguishly, then more seriously and anxiously. "Is it pretty fair English,—white English,—Major Molly?"
"'White English'!" laughed back Major Molly. "You are such fun, Lula. Yes, it's pretty fair—white English."
Lula dimpled with pleasure, then sighed as she said, "If I could go 'way off East to Metalka's school, two, three, four, five year, as Metalka did, then I could talk splen'id English, and I could make heap—no, all sort things, and help keep house nice, and cook like Metalka."
"But why don't you go, Lula?"
"Why don't I? Listen!" and Wallula bent forward eagerly. "I don't go because my father won't have me go. Metalka went. When she first came back, she was so happy, so strong. She was going to have everything white way, civ—I can't say it, Maje Molly."
"Do you mean civilized?"
"Yes, yes; civ'lized—white way. And she worked, she talked, she tried, and nobody'd pay much 'tention but my father. The girls, some o' them, wanted to be like her; but the fathers and mothers would n' help, and some, good many, were set hard 'gainst it; and then there was no money to buy white people's clothes, they said. It took all the money was earned to pay big 'counts up at agency store, where Indians bought things,—things to eat, you know; so what's the use, they said, to try to live white ways when everything was 'gainst them, and they stopped trying; and Metalka was so dis'pointed, for she was going do so much,—going help civ-civ'lize. She was so dis'pointed, she by-'n'-by got sick—homesick, and just after the first snow came, she—she went 'way to heaven. And that's why my father won't have me go to the school. He say it killed Metalka. He say if she'd stayed home, she'd been happy Indian and lived long time. He say Indian got hurt; spoiled going off into white man's country."
"How came he to let your sister go, Lula?"
"Metalka wanted to go so bad. She'd heard so much 'bout the 'way-off schools from some white ladies up at the fort one summer, and my father heard too. A white off'cer tole him if Indian wanted to know how to have plenty to eat, plenty ev'rything like white peoples, they must learn to do bus'ness white ways, be edg'cated. So he let Metalka go;hecould n' go, he too old; but Metalka could go and learn to read all the books and the papers and keep 'counts for him, so 't he'd know how to deal with white men. When Metalka first took 'count for him, after she came back, my father so pleased. He'd worked hard all winter hauling wood, and killing elk and deer for the skins; and my mother 'n' I had made bewt'ful moccasins and gloves out o' the skins, all worked with beads; and so he'd earned good deal money, and he 'd kept 'count of it all,—hisway, and 't was honest way; and kept 'count, too, what he'd had out of agency store; and Metalka understood and reckoned it all up, and said he 'd have good lot money left after he'd paid what he owed at the store. But, Maje Molly, he didn't! he didn't! They tole him he owedallhis money, and when he said they'd made mistake, and showed 'em Metalka's 'counts, they laughed at him, and showed him big book oftheir'counts, and tole him Metalka didn't know 'bout prices o' things. Then he came home and said: 'What's the use going to white people's schools to learn white people's ways, when white people can come out to Indian country and tell lies 'bout prices o' things?' And that's the way 't is ev'ry time, my father say; the way 't was before Metalka went to school. The bad white trader comes out to Indian country to cheat Indians.Heknows white prices, but he don't tell Indian white prices; he tell Indian two, three time more price. That's what my father say. And Metalka, when she see it all, she so disjointed, she never get over it, and my father say it killed her, like arrow shot at her."
"But your father doesn't think all white people bad; he doesn't dislike all their ways?"
"No; it's only white traders he thinks bad, and the white big chiefs who break promises 'bout lands. He like white ways that Metalka brought back, and he built nice log house to live in instead of tepee, 'cause Metalka wanted it; and he like all you here, Maje Molly, 'cause you good to me. But, Maje Molly"—and here the little bright face clouded over—"my mother sayallwhite peoples forget, and break promises to Indians."
"No, no, they don't, Lula; they don't, you'll see.Isha'n't forget;Isha'n't breakmypromise, you'll see,—you'll see, Lula. On Christmas eve I shall send you a Christmas present, sure,—now remember!" answered Molly, vehemently.
It was the day before Christmas,—a beautiful, mild day, very unlike the usual winter weather in the far West. At the Ellistons' windows hung wreaths of pine, and all about on tables and chairs tempting-looking packages were lying. Some of these were from their military friends, and most of them were directed to "Major Molly," the name that had been given to Molly when she was a little tot of a thing, and the pet of the fort where she lived. On this Christmas day, as she watched her mother fold up the pretty bright tartan dress that was to be her Christmas present to Wallula, she said gleefully,—
"Don't forget, mamma, to write on the box, 'Wallula's Christmas present from Major Molly.'"
It had been Molly's intention to have Wallula to tea on Christmas eve, and then and there to bestow upon her the pretty gift. But invitations to dine at the fort had frustrated this plan, and so it was arranged that Barney McGuire, one of the ranchmen, should come up and carry the box over to the reservation late that afternoon; and as the short winter day progressed, and Molly found that she must have a little more time to finish off the table-cover she wanted to take up to the Colonel's wife, she said to her mother,—
"Instead of going on with you and papa at five o'clock, let Barney escort me to the fort after he leaves Wallula's present; that will give me plenty of time to finish the cover, and plenty of time to get to the dinner in season."
"Very well," answered Mrs. Elliston; "but you must promise me to start with Barney as soon as he comes back for you, whether the cover is finished or not. You mustn't be late."
At five o'clock, when Captain Elliston and his wife rode off, Molly was working away at her cover with the greatest industry. Now and then, as she worked on, she glanced up at the clock. If everything went smoothly,—if the silk didn't knot or the lace didn't pucker,—she would be through long before Barney came back for her. But presently she thought, wherewasBarney. He ought to be there for the box by this time. She worked on a little longer, her ear alert for the sound of Barney's horse. At last she went to an upper window and looked out. She could see, even in the gathering dusk, a great distance from that window, away across toward the sheep-corrals and cattle-pens; but nobody was in sight. What did it mean? Barney was punctuality itself.
Five, ten, fifteen, twenty minutes more she worked with flying fingers, and still there was no sight or sound of Barney; but her work was finished, and now—now, what then?
There was only Hannah and John, the two house-servants, at hand. Hannah couldn't go, and John had strict orders never to leave the premises in Captain Elliston's absence. She looked at the clock; every second seemed an age. If Barney didn't come, ifno one was sent in his place, her promise to Wallula would be broken, and Molly remembered Wallula's words, "My mother say all white peoples forget, and break promises to Indians;" and her own vehement reply, "Isha'n't forget; I sha'n't breakmypromise, you'll see, you'll see, Lula!" Break her promise after that! Never, never! Her father himself would say she must not,—would say thatsomebodymust go in Barney's place, and there was nobody,—nobody to go but—herself!
"Yer goin' alone, yer mean, over to the Injuns!" demanded John, as Molly told him to bring her pony, Tam o' Shanter, to the door.
"Yes, yes, and right away, John; so hurry as fast as you can."
"Do yer think yer'd orter, Major Molly? Do yer think the Cap'n would like it?" asked John, disapprovingly.
"John, if you don't bring Tam 'round this minute, I'll go for him myself."
"'T ain't safe fur yer to go over there alone!" cried Hannah.
"Safe! I know the way, every inch of it, with my eyes shut, and so does Tam; and I know the Indians, and Wallula is my friend; and I told her she should have her present Christmas eve, sure, and I'm going to keep my promise. Now bring Tam 'round just as quick as you can."
John obeyed, though with evident reluctance, and Hannah showed her disapproval by scolding and protesting; but they had both of them lived on the frontier for years, and their disapproval therefore was not what it might have been under different circumstances. Molly, they knew, could ride as well as a little Indian, and was familiar with every inch of the way, as she had said, and Wallula was her friend.
"And 't wouldn't 'a' done the least bit o' good to hev set myself any more against her. If I had, just as like as not the Cap'n would 'a' sided with her and been mad at me, for he thinks the Major's ekal to 'most anything," John confided to Hannah, as he brought the pony round.
The pony shied a little as Wallula's Christmas present was strapped to his back. But at Molly's whispered, "Tam! Tam! be a good boy. We're going to see Wallula,—to carry her something nice, just as quick as we can go," the little fellow whinnied softly, as if in response; and the next moment, at Molly's "Now, Tam," he started forward at his best pace,—a pace that Molly knew so well, and knew she could trust,—firm and even and assured, and gaining, gaining, gaining at every step.
"Good boy, good boy!" she said to him as he sped along. But as he began to hasten his pace, it occurred to her that it was only about half an hour's easy riding to the reservation, and that after leaving there she could easily reach the fort in another half-hour,—so easily that there was no need of hurrying Tam as she was doing; and she pulled him up with a "Take it easy, Tam dear." As she spoke, Tam flung up his head, pricked up his ears, and made a sudden plunge forward. What was it? What was the matter? What had he heard? He had heard what Molly herself heard in the next instant,—the beat of a horse's hoofs. But the minute it struck upon Molly's ear she said to herself, "It's Barney; for that's old Ranger's step, I know." Ranger was an old troop horse of her father's that Barney often rode. But in vain she tried to rein Tam in. In vain she said to him, "Wait, wait! It's Ranger and Barney, Tam!"
The pony snorted, as if in scorn, and held on his way. Whatwasthe matter with him? He was usually such a wise little fellow, and always knew his friends and his enemies.And he knew them now! He was wiser than she was, and he scented on the wind something that spurred him on.
But, hark! What was that whirring, singing sound? Was that a new signal that Barney was trying? Was it—Whirr, s‑st! Down like a shot dropped Tam's head, and like an arrow he leaped forward, swerving sideways to escape the danger he had scented,—the danger of a lariat flung by a practised hand.
Oh, Tam, Tam! fly now with all your speed, your mistress understands at last. She is a frontier-bred girl. She knows now that it is no friendly person following her, but some one who means mischief; and that mischief she has no doubt is the proposed capture of Tam, who is well known for miles and miles about the country as a wonderful little racer. Yes, Molly understands at last. She hasseen in the starlightthe lariat as it missed Tam's head, and she knows perfectly well that only Tam's speed and sure-footedness can save them. Her heart beats like a trip-hammer; but she keeps a firm hold upon the rein, with a watchful eye for any sudden inequalities of the road, while her ears are strained to catch every sound. Tam's leap forward had given him a moment's advantage, and he keeps it up bravely, his dainty feet almost spurning the ground as he goes on, gaining, gaining, gaining at every step. In a few minutes more they will be out of the reach of any lariat, then in another minute safe at Wallula's door.
In a few minutes! As this thought flashes through Molly's mind, wh‑irr, s‑st! cuts the still air again. Tam drops his head, and plunges forward.
Though the starlight is brighter than ever, Molly does notseethe lariat, but there is something, something,—what is it?—that prompts her to fling herself forward face downwards upon Tam's mane; and the lariat that was about to drop over her head once more falls harmless to the ground, and Tam once more seems to know what danger has been escaped, and starts forward again with an exultant bound. They are almost there! Molly sees the smoke from the tepees of the reservation, and a light from a log cabin, and draws a breath of relief. But not yet, O brave little frontier girl, O gallant little steed, is the race won and the danger passed! Not yet, oh, not yet! for just ahead there is a treacherous pitfall which neither Tam nor his mistress sees,—a hollow that some little animal has burrowed out, and into this Tam plunges a forefoot, stumbles, and falls!
"Shesaid, 'I sha'n't forget; I sha'n't breakmypromise. You'll see, on Christmas eve, I shall send you a Christmas present, sure. Now remember.' On Christmas eve! And to-night is Christmas eve!"
Wallula had said this over and over to herself ever since the sun went down. She had kept count of the days from the day that Molly had made her that vehement promise. That promise meant so much to Wallula. It meant not merely a gift, but keeping faith, holding on, making real friends with an Indian girl. And her mother had said, "She'llforget, like the rest. White peoples always forget what they say to Indians." And her father had nodded his head when her mother said this. But Wallula had shakenherhead, and declared with passionate emphasis more than once,—
"Major Molly will never forget,—never! You'll see, you'll see!"
Wallula had awakened very early that morning, and the minute she opened her eyes she thought, "This is the day before Christ's day. To-night, 'bout sundown, Major Molly'll keep her promise." All through the day this happy thought was uppermost. In the afternoon she followed Major Molly's instructions, and hung pine wreaths about the cabin.
The short afternoon sped on, and sundown came, and the gray dusk, and then the stars came out.
"Where's your Major Molly now?" asked the mother. There was a sharp accent in the Indian woman's voice, and a bitter expression on her face. But it was not for Wallula; it was for the white girl,—the Major Molly who, in breaking her promise to Wallula, had brought suffering upon her; for on Wallula's face the mother could see by this time the shadow of disappointment gathering. It made her think of Metalka. Metalka had gone amongst the white people. She had come back full of belief in them, and it was the white people's white traders with their lies and their broken promises that had hurt Metalka to death. There was only little Wallula left now. Was it going the same way with Wallula? These were some of the Indian mother's bitter resentful thoughts as she watched Wallula's face.
Wallula found it very hard to bear this watchfulness. She felt as if her mother were glad that her prophecy had proved true, that the white girl had broken her promise; but Wallula was wrong. Her mother's bitterness and resentment were the outcome of her anxiety. She would have given anything, have done anything, to have saved Wallula this suffering. If something would only happen to rouse Wallula, she thought, as she watched her. There had come a visitor to their cabin the other day,—the chief of a neighboring tribe. When he saw Wallula, he said he would come again and bring his little daughter. If he would only come soon! If he would only—But, hark! what was that? Was it an answer to her wish,—her prayer? Was he coming now—now? And, jumping to her feet, the woman ran to the door and flung it open. Yes, yes, it was in answer to her prayer; for there, over the turf, she could see a horse speeding towards her. It was coming at breakneck speed. "Wallula! Wallula!" she turned and called. An echo seemed to repeat, "Lula, Lula!" At that echo Wallula leaped up, and sped past her mother with the fleetness of a fawn, calling as she did so, "I'm coming, coming!" In the next instant the wondering woman saw her child running, as only an Indian can run, by the side of a jet-black pony whose coat was flecked with foam, and whose breath was well-nigh spent. As they came nearer into the pathway of light that the pine blaze sent forth from the open door, something that looked like a pennon of gold streamed out, and a clear but rather shaken voice cried, "Lula, Lula, I've kept my promise; I've kept my promise!"
The next moment the owner of the voice had slid from the pony's back into Wallula's arms, and Wallula was stroking the streaming golden hair, and crying jubilantly, "She's kept her promise, she's kept her promise!"
"Yes, I've kept my promise. I've brought your Christmas present. There it is in that box strapped across Tam. If somebody'll unstrap it and see to Tam, we'll go into the house, and I'll tell you what a race I've had. I can only stay a few minutes, for I must get to the fort if your father'll go with me. I don't dare to go alone now."
"To the fort?" asked Wallula, wonderingly.
"Yes, I'm going there to dinner; but let's go in. I'm so tired I can hardly stand; and Tam—"
But as a glance showed her that Tam was being cared for, and that Wallula's mother was carrying the box into the house, Major Molly followed on with a sigh of relief, and, doffing the riding-suit that covered her dress, flung herself down before the blazing fire, and began to tell her story. When she came to the point where Tam stumbled and fell forward, she burst out excitedly,—
"Oh, Lula, Lula! I thought then I should never get here, and I don't know how we did it, Tam and I; I don't know how we did it, but I kept my seat, and I gave a great pull. I felt as strong as a man, and I cried, 'Tam! Tam! Tam!' and Tam,—oh, I don't know how he did it,—Tam got to his feet again, and then he flew, flew,flewover the ground. We'd lost a minute, and I expected every second the lariat would catch us sure after that, but it didn't, it didn't, and I'm here safe and sound. I've kept my promise, I've kept my promise, Lula."
"Yes, she kep' her promise, she kep' her promise!" repeated Wallula in glad triumphant accents, glancing at her mother, and at the tall gaunt figure of her father standing in the shadow of the doorway.
Wallula clapped her hands with delightWallula clapped her hands with delight
Wallula was a young girl, and this mystery of a Christmas-box was full of delight to her; but just then a greater delight—the joy of Major Molly's fidelity—made her forget everything else. But Molly did not forget. The minute she had finished her story she sprang to her feet, and produced the contents of the box. Wallula clapped her hands with delight when the pretty bright dress was held up before her.
"Just like Major Molly's,—just like Major Molly's! See! see!" she called out to her father and mother.
The mother nodded and smiled. The father's eyes lighted with an expression of deep gratification; then he leaned forward eagerly, and said to Molly,—
"Tell 'gain 'bout where you saw—heard—lar'yet."
"Just as we got to the little pine-trees where the old Sioux trail stops," answered Molly, promptly.
"Yah!" ejaculated the Indian, grimly, in a tone of conviction. Then, turning, he took down a Winchester rifle, slung it over his shoulder, and started towards the door, saying to Molly as he did so: "You stay here with Wallula. I go up to fort and tell 'em 'bout you."
"Oh, take me with you, take me with you!" cried Molly, jumping up.
The Indian shook his head. When Molly insisted, he said tersely: "No, not safe for little white girl yet. Maje Molly stay here till I come back."
Molly's face fell. Wallula stole up to her. "I got bewt'ful Chris'mas present for Maje Molly," she said softly. "Maje Molly stay see it with Wallula."
"You dear!" cried Molly, flinging her arm round Wallula.
The Indian father nodded his head vigorously, and his face shone with satisfaction. "Yes, yes!" he said. "Wallula take care you. You stay till I come back."
In looking at and trying on the "bewt'ful Chris'mas present,"—a pair of elaborately embroidered moccasins lined and bordered with rabbit fur,—and in dressing Wallula up in the tartan dress, the time flew so rapidly that long before Molly expected it the cabin door opened again, and the tall gaunt figure reappeared.
Behind it followed another figure. Molly ran forward as she saw it, and, "Papa, papa!" she cried, "I waited and waited for Barney, and he didn't come; and I couldn't bear for Lula not to have her Christmas present to-night, for I'd promised it to her to-night. She told me, when I promised, that white people always broke their promises to Indians, and I said over and over thatIwouldn't breakmypromise; and I couldn't—I couldn't break it, papa."
"You did quite right, my little daughter,—quite right."
There was something in her father's manner as he said this, a seriousness in his voice and in his eyes, that surprised Molly. She was still more surprised when the Indian suddenly said,—
"She little brave; she come all 'way 'lone to keep promise, so she not hurt my Wallula. She make me believe more good in white peoples; so I go to fort,—I keep friends."
"You've been a friend indeed. I sha'n't forget it; we'll none of us forget it, Washo," said Captain Elliston; and he put out his hand as he spoke, and grasped the brown hand of the Indian in a warm friendly clasp.
At the fort everything was literally "up inarms,"—that is, set in order for business, and that meant ready for resistance or attack. Molly had lived most of her fourteen years at some Western military post, and she recognized at once this "order" as she rode in.
"Whatdidit mean?" she asked again, as the Colonel himself met her and hurried her into the dining-room; and the Colonel himself answered her,—
"It means, my dear, that Major Molly has saved us from being surprised by the enemy, and that means that she has saved us from a bloody fight."
"I—I—" faltered Molly. Then like a flash her mind cleared, and she struck her little hand on the table and cried,—
"It was an Indian, an unfriendly Indian, who followed me, and Washo knew it when I told my story!"
"Yes, Washo knew it, and, more than that, he had known for some days that those particular Indians had been planning a raid upon us, and he didn't interfere; he didn't warn us because he had begun to think that we were all bad white traders, and he wouldn't meddle with these braves who proposed to punish us, though he wouldn't go on the war-path with them. But, Major Molly, when he heard your story, when he saw how one of us could be a little white brave in keeping a promise to an Indian,for your sakehe relented towards the rest of us."
"And when he asked me to tell him where I first heard the lariat—"
"When he asked you that, he was making sure that it was his Sioux friends,—for he knew they were to send out a scout who would take exactly that direction."
"But why—why did the scout chaseme?"
"He was after Tam, no doubt,—for this Sioux band is probably short of ponies, and Tam, you know, is a famous fellow,—and the moment the scout caught sight of him he would give chase."
"Did he get Ranger that way? And where, oh, where is poor Barney?"
"The probability is that the scout visited the corral first, and captured Ranger, who is almost as famous as Tam."
"But, Barney—oh, oh,doyou think Barney has been killed?"
"We don't know yet, my dear. Your father has gone off to the ranch with a squad of men. He'll soon find out what's happened to Barney. And don't fret, my dear, about your father," seeing a new anxiety on Molly's face. "The raiders by this time have seen our signals, and have found out we're up and doing, and more than a match for them; so don't fret,—don't fret, any of you," turning to his wife and Mrs. Elliston. "I don't think there'll be so much as a skirmish."
And the Colonel was right. When the Indians saw the signals and the other signs of activity, they knew that their only chance of overcoming the whites by taking them unawares was gone. There were a few shots fired, but no skirmish; and by the time the moon rose, the fort scouts brought in word that the whole band had departed over the mountains. A few minutes after, when Captain Elliston rode in, the satisfaction was complete, for he brought with him the news of Barney's safety. Ranger, however, was gone. The Indian—or Indians, for there were two of them at that point—had succeeded in capturing him just as Barney had started out from the corral. A stealthy step, a skilful use of the lariat, and Barney was bound and gagged, that he might give no alarm; and all this with such quiet Indian alertness that a ranchman farther down the corral heard nothing.
So harmlessly ended this raid, that might have been a bloody battle but for Major Molly's Christmas promise!