THE LAST VIEW OF THE PICTURE-GALLERY.THE LAST VIEW OF THE PICTURE-GALLERY.
Donald and Dorry joined the merry line, wondering what was about to happen—when to their great surprise (ah, that sly Uncle George! and that innocent Liddy!) the double doors leading into the dining-room were flung open, and there, sparkling in the light of a hundred wax-candles, was a collation fit for Cinderella and all her royal court. I shall not attempt to describe it, for fear of forgetting to name some of the good things. Imagine what you will, and I do believe there was something just like it, or quite as good, upon that delightful table, so beautiful with its airy, fairy-like structures of candied fruits, frostings, and flowers; its jagged rock of ice where chickens and turtles, made of ice-cream, were resting on every peak and cranny; its gold-tinted jellies, and its snowy temples. Soon, fairy-work and temple yielded to ruthless boys, who crowded around with genteel eagerness to serve the girls with platefuls of delicacies, quite ignoring the rolling eye-balls of two little colored gentlemen who had been sent up from town with the feast, and who had fully expected to do the honors. Meanwhile Liddy, in black silk gown and the Swiss muslin apron which Dorry had bought for her in the city, was looking after the youngest guests, resolved that the little dears should not disgrace her motherly care by eating too much, or by taking the wrong things.
"Not that anything on that table could hurt a chicken," she said softly to Charity Cora, as she gave a bit of sponge-cake and a saucer ofblanc-mangeto little Isabel, "Mr. George and I looked out for that; but their dear little stomachs are so risky, you know, one can't be too careful. That's the reason we were so particular to serve out sandwiches and substantials early in the day, you know. But sakes! there's that molasses candy! I can't help worrying about it."
Charity Cora made no reply beyond a pleasant nod, for, in truth, conversation had no charms for her just then. If Donald had found you, hungry reader, modestly hidden in a corner, and with a masterly bow had handed you that well-laden plate, would you have felt like talking to Liddy?
But Liddy didn't mind. She was too happy with her own thoughts to notice trifles. Besides, Sailor Jack just at that moment came to lay a fresh log on the hall fire, and that gave her an opportunity to ask him if he ever had seen young folks "having a delighteder time."
"Never, Mistress Blum! Never!" was his emphatic, all-sufficient response.
At this very moment, Gory Danby, quite unconscious of the feast up stairs, was having his own private table in the kitchen. Having grown hungry for his usual supper of bread and milk, he had stolen in upon Norah and begged for it so charmingly, that she was unable to resist him. Imagine his surprise when, drowsily taking his last mouthful, he saw Fandy rush into the room with a plate of white grapes.
"Gory Danby!" exclaimed that disgusted brother, "I'm 'shamed of you! What you stuffin' yourse'f with common supper for when there'sa partyup stairs? Splendid things, all made of sugar! Pull off that bib, now, an' come along!"
GORY'S PRIVATE TABLE.GORY'S PRIVATE TABLE.
Again the march struck up. Feasting was over. The boys and girls, led by Uncle George, who seemed the happiest boy of all, went back to the parlor, which, meanwhile, had been rearranged, and there, producing a great plump tissue-paper bag, he hung it to the chandelier that was suspended from the middle of the parlor ceiling. I should like to tell you about this chandelier, how it was covered with hundreds of long, three-sided glass danglers that swung, glittered, and flashed in a splendid way, now that all its wax candles were lighted: but that would interrupt the account of the paper bag. This bag was full of something, they were sure. Uncle George blindfolded Josie Manning with a handkerchief, and putting a stick in her hand, told her to turn around three times and then try to strike the bag with the stick.
"Stand back, everybody," cried Donald, as she made the last turn. "Now, hit hard, Josie! Hard enough to break it!"
Josie did hit hard. But she hit the air just where the bag didn't hang; and then the rest laughed and shouted, and begged to be blindfolded, sure that they could do it. Mr. Reed gave each a chance in turn, but each failed as absurdly as Josie. Finally, by acclamation, the bandage was put over Dorothy's dancing eyes, though she was sure she never, never could—and lo! after revolving like a lovely Chinese top, the blindfolded damsel, with a spring, and one long, vigorous stroke, tore the bag open from one side to the other. Down fell the contents upon the floor—pink mottoes, white mottoes, blue mottoes, and mottoes of gold and silver paper, all fringed and scalloped and tied with ribbons, and every one of them plump with sugar-almonds or some good kind of candy. How the guests rushed and scrambled for them!—how Fandy Danby fairly rolled over the other boys in his delight!—and how the young folks tore open the pretty papers, put the candy into their pockets, and shyly handed or sent the printed mottoes to each other! Fandy, in his excitement, handed a couplet to a pretty little girl with yellow hair, and then seeing her pout as she looked at it, ran over to her again with a quick "Let me see't. What does it say?" She held out the little bit of paper without letting it go, and Fandy seizing it at the other end, read laboriously and in laughing dismay:
"You-are-the-nicest-boy-I-know,And-this-is-just-to-tell-you-so."
He recovered himself instantly, however, and wagging his handsome little head at her, exclaimed emphatically:
"Girl,girl, don't you see, I meant girl! It's pleposterous to think I meant boy, cause you ain't one, don't you see. Mottoes is awful foolish, anyway. Come over in the hall and see the gol'-fishes swimmin' in the 'quarium,"—and off they ran together, as happy as birds.
Then came a dance—the Lancers. Two thirds of the young company, including Don and Dorry, attended the village dancing-school; and one and all "just doted on the Lancers," as Josie Manning said. Uncle George, knowing this, had surprised the D's by secretly engaging two players,—for piano-forte and violin,—and their well-marked time and spirited playing put added life into even the lithe young forms that flitted through the rooms. Charity looked on in rapt delight, the more so as kind Sailor Jack already had carried the sleepy and warmly bundled Isabel home to her mother.
One or two more dances brought this amusement to an end, and then, after a few moments of rest came a startling and mysterious order to prepare for the
"THANK-YOU" GAME!
"What in the world is that?" asked the young folk of Don and Dorry; and their host and hostess candidly admitted that they hadn't the slightest idea what it was; they never had heard of it before.
"Well, then, how can we play it?" insisted the little spokes-people.
"I don't know," answered Dorry, looking in a puzzled way at the door.
"All join hands and form a circle!" cried a voice.
Every one arose, and soon the circle stood expectant.
"Your dear great-great fairy godmother is coming to see you," continued the voice. "She is slightly deaf, but you must not mind that."
"Oh, no, no!" cried the laughing circle, "not in the least."
"She brings her white gnome with her," said the invisible speaker; "and don't let him know your names, or he will get you into trouble."
"No, no, no!" cried the circle, wildly.
A slight stirring was heard in the hall, the doors opened, and in walked the big fairy godmother and her white gnome.
She was a tall, much bent old woman, in a ruffled cap, a peaked hat, and a long red cloak. He, the gnome, wore red trousers and red sleeves. The rest of his body was dressed in a white pillow-case with arm-holes cut in it. It was gathered at his belt; gathered also by a red ribbon tied around the throat; the corners of the pillow-case tied with narrow ribbon formed his ears, and there was a white bandage over his eyes, and a round opening for his mouth. The godmother dragged in a large sack, and the gnome bore a stick with bells at the end.
"Let me into the ring, dears," squeaked the fairy godmother.
"Let me into the ring, dears," growled the white gnome.
The circle obeyed.
"Now, my dears," squeaked the fairy godmother, "I've brought you a bagful of lovely things, but, you must know, I am under an enchantment. All I can do is to let you each take out a gift when your turn comes, but when you send me a 'Thank-you,' don't let my white gnome know who it is, for if he guesses your name you must put the gift back without opening the paper. But if he guesses the wrong name, then you may keep the gift. So now begin, one at a time. Keep the magic circle moving until my gnome knocks three times."
Around went the circle, eager with fun and expectation. Suddenly the blindfolded gnome pounded three times with his stick, and then pointed it straight in front of him, jingling the little bells. Tommy Budd was the happy youth pointed at.
"Help yourself, my dear," squeaked the fairy godmother, as she held the sack toward him. He plunged his arm into the opening and brought out a neat paper parcel.
"Hey! What did you say, dear?" she squeaked. "Take hold of the stick."
Tommy seized the end of the stick, and said, in a hoarse tone, "Thank you, ma'am."
"That's John Stevens," growled the gnome. "Put it back! put it back!"
But it wasn't John Stevens, and so Tommy kept the parcel.
The circle moved again. The gnome knocked three times, and this time the stick pointed to Dorry. She tried to be polite, and direct her neighbor's hand to it, but the godmother would not hear of that.
"Help yourself, child," she squeaked; and Dorry did. The paper parcel which she drew from the sack was so tempting and pretty, all tied with ribbon, that she really tried very hard to disguise her "Thank you," but the blindfolded gnome was too sharp for her.
"No, no!" he growled. "That's Dorothy Reed. Put it back! put it back!"
And Dorry, with a playful air of protest, dropped the pretty parcel into the bag again.
So the merry game went on; some escaped detection and saved their gifts; some were detected and lost them; but the godmother would not suffer those who had parcels to try again, and therefore, in the course of the game, those who failed at first succeeded after a while. When all had parcels, and the bag was nearly empty, what did that old fairy do but straighten up, throw off her hat, cap, false face, and cloak—and if it wasn't Uncle George himself, very red in the face, and very glad to be out of his prison. Instantly one and all discovered that they had known all along it was he.
"Ha! ha!" they laughed; "and now—" starting in pursuit—"let's see who the white gnome is!"
They caught him at the foot of the stairs, and were not very much astonished when Ed Tyler came to light.
"That is a royal game!" declared some. "Grand!" cried others. "Fine!" "First-rate!" "Glorious!" "Capital!" "As good as Christmas!" said the rest. Then they opened their parcels, and there was great rejoicing.
Uncle George, as Liddy declared, wasn't a gentleman to do things by halves, and he certainly had distinguished himself in the "Thank-you" game. Every gift was worth having. There were lovely bon-bon boxes, pretty trinkets, penknives, silver lead-pencils, paint-boxes, puzzles, thimbles, and scissors, and dozens of other nice things.
What delighted "Oh, oh's!" and merry "Ha, ha's!" rang through that big parlor. The boys who had thimbles, and the girls who had balls, had great fun displaying their prizes, and trying to "trade." After a deal of laughter and merry bargaining, the gifts became properly distributed, and then the piano and violin significantly played "Home, Sweet Home!" Soon sleigh-bells were jingling outside; Jack was stamping his feet to knock the snow off his boots. Mr. McSwiver, too, was there, driving the Manning farm-sled, filled with straw; and several turn-outs from the village were speeding chuck-a-ty-chuck, cling, clang, jingle-y-jing, along the broad carriage-way.
Ah! what a bundling-up time! What scrambling for tippets, shawls, hoods, and cloaks; what laughter and frolic; what "good-byes" and "good-byes;" what honest "thank-you's" to Mr. Reed; and what shouting and singing and hurrahing, as the noisy sleigh-loads glided away, and above all, what an "Oh, you dear, dear, dear Uncle George!" from Dorry, as she and Donald, standing by Mr. Reed's side, heard the last sleigh jingle-jingle from the door.
And then the twins went straight to bed, slept sweetly, and dreamed till morning of the house-picnic? Not so. Do you think the D's could settle down so quietly as that? True, Uncle George soon went to his room. Liddy and Jack hied their respective ways, after "ridding up," as she expressed it, and fastening the windows. Norah and Kassy trudged sleepily to bed; the musicians and colored waiters were comfortably put away for the night. But Donald and Dorothy, wide awake as two robins, were holding a whispered but animated conversation in Dorry's room.
"Wasn't it a wonderful success, Don?"
"Never saw anything like it," said Donald. "Every one was delighted; Uncle's a perfect prince. He was the life of everything too. But what is it? What did you want to show me?"
"I don't know, myself, yet," she answered. "It fell out of an old trunk that we've never looked into or even seen before; at least, I haven't. Some of the boys dragged the trunk out from away back under the farthest roof-end of the garret. It upset and opened. Robby Cutler picked up the things and tumbled them in again in a hurry; but I saw the end of a parcel and pulled it out, and ran down here to see what it was. But my room was full of girls (it was when nearly all of you boys were out in the barn, you know), and so I just threw it into that drawer. Somehow, I felt nervous about looking at it alone."
"Fetch it out," said Donald.
She did so. They opened the parcel together. It contained only two or three old copy-books.
"They're Uncle George's when he was a little boy," exclaimed Dorry, in a tone of interest, as she leaned over Donald, but with a shade of disappointment in her tone; for what is an old copy-book?
"It's not copy-writing at all," said Don, peering into the first one, "why, it's a diary!" and turning to look at the cover again, he read, "'Kate Reed.' Why, it's Aunt Kate's!"
"Aunt Kate's diary? Oh, Don, it can't be!" cried Dorry, as, pale with excitement, she attempted to take it from her brother's hands.
"No, Dorry," he said, firmly; "we must tie it up again. Diaries are private; we must speak to Uncle about it before we read a word."
"So we must, I suppose," assented Dorry, reluctantly. "But I can't sleep a wink with it in here." Her eyes filled with tears.
"Don't cry, Dot; please don't," pleaded Don, putting his arm around her. "We've been so happy all day, and finding this ought to make you all the happier. It will tell us so much about Aunt Kate, you know."
"No, Don, it will not. I feel morally sure Uncle will never let us read it."
"For shame, Dorry. Just wait, and it will be all right. You found the book, and Uncle will be delighted, and we'll all read it together."
Dorry wiped her eyes.
"I don't know about that," she said, decidedly, and much to her brother's amazement. "I found it, and I want to think for myself what is best to be done about it. Aunt Kate didn't write it for everybody to read; we'll put it back in the bureau. My, how late it must be growing," she continued, with a shiver, as, laying the parcel in, she closed the drawer so softly that the hanging brass handles hardly moved. "Now, good-night, Donald."
"What a strange girl you are," he said, kissing her bright face. "Over a thing in an instant. Well, good-night, old lady."
"Good-night, old gentleman," said Dorry, soberly, as she closed the door.
"IsMiss Dorothy in?"
"I think she is, Miss Josie. And yet, it seems as if she went over to the Danbys'. Take a seat, Miss, and I'll see if she's in her room."
"Oh, no, Kassy! I'll run up myself and surprise her."
So the housemaid went down stairs to her work, for she and Liddy were "clearin' up" after the house-picnic of the day before; and Josie Manning started in search of Dorry.
"I'll look in her cosey corner first," said Josie to herself.
Only those friends who knew the Reeds intimately had seen Dorry's cosey corner. Mere acquaintances hardly knew of its existence. Though a part of the young lady's pretty bedroom, it was so shut off by a high folding screen that it formed a complete little apartment in itself. It was decorated with various keepsakes and fancy articles—some hanging upon the walls, some standing on the mantelshelf, and some on the cabinet in which she kept her "treasures." With these, and its comfortable lounge and soft Persian rug, and, more than all, with its bright little window over-head, that looked out upon the tree-tops and the gable-roof of the summer-kitchen, it was indeed a most delightful place for the little maid. And there she studied her lessons, read books, wrote letters, and thought out, as well as she could, the plans and problems of her young life. In very cold weather, a wood fire on the open hearth made the corner doubly comfortable, and on mild days, a dark fire-board and a great vase of dried grasses and red sumac branches made it seem to Dorry the brightest place in the world.
Josie was so used to seeing her friend there that now, when she looked in and found it empty, she turned back. The cosey corner was not itself without Dorry.
"She's gone to the Danbys' after all," thought Josie, standing irresolute for a moment.
"I'll run over and find her.No, I'll wait here."
So stepping into the cosey corner again, but shrugging her pretty shoulders at its loneliness, she tossed her hood and shawl upon the sofa, and, taking up a large book of photographic views that lay there, seated herself just outside the screen, where she would be sure to see Dorry if she should enter the room. Meantime, a pleasant heat came in upon her from the warm hall, not a sound was to be heard, and she was soon lost in the enjoyment of the book, which had carried her across the seas, far into foreign scenes and places.
But Dorry was not at the Danbys' at all. She was over-head, in the garret, kneeling beside a small leather trunk, which was studded with tarnished brass nails.
How dusty it was!
"I don't believe even Liddy knew it was up here," thought Dorry, "for the boys poked it out from away, 'way back under the rafters. If she had known of it, she would have put it with the rest of the trunks."
Dorry laid the dusty lid back carefully, noting, as she did so, that it was attached to the trunk by a strip of buff leather inside, extending its entire length, and that its buff-paper lining was gay with sprays of pink rose-buds. In one of the upper corners of the lid was a label bearing this inscription:
Kate Reed. From Papa. October 1849. For my Dolly.
"Oh! it's Aunt Kate's own writing!" exclaimed Dorry, under her breath, as, still kneeling, she read the words.
"'From Papa,'" she repeated slowly,—"herPapa; that was Donald's and my Grandfather. And she wrote this in October, 1849—ten whole years before we were born! and when she was only a little girl herself!"
Then, with reverent hands Dorry lifted the top article—a soft, pink muslin dress, which had a narrow frill of yellowish lace, basted at the neck. It seemed to have been cast aside as partly worn out. Beneath this lay a small black silk apron, which had silk shoulder-straps, bordered with narrow black lace, and also little pockets trimmed with lace. Dorry, gently thrusting her hand into one of these pockets, drew forth a bit of crumpled ribbon, some fragments of dried rose-leaves, and a silver thimble marked "K. R." She put it on her thimble-finger; it fitted exactly.
"Oh dear!" thought Dorry, as, with flushed cheeks and quick-beating heart, she looked at the dress and apron on her lap, "I wish Don would come!" Then followed a suspicion that perhaps she ought to call him, and Uncle George too, before proceeding further; but the desire to go on was stronger. Aunt Kate was hers,—"my aunty, even more than Don's," she thought, "because he's a boy, and of course doesn't care so much;" and then she lifted a slim, white paper parcel, nearly as long as the trunk. It was partly wrapped in an old piece of white Canton crape, embroidered with white silk stars at regular intervals. Removing this, Dorry was about to take off the white paper wrapper also, when she caught sight of some words written on it in pencil.
"Dear Aunt Kate!" thought Dorry, intensely interested; "how carefully she wrapped up and marked everything! Just my way." And she read:
My dear little Delia: I am fourteen to-day, too old for dolls, so I must put you to sleep and lay you away. But I'll keep you, my dear dolly, as long as I live, and if I ever have a dear little girl, she shall wake you and play with you and love you, and I promise to name her Delia, after you. Kate Reed. August, 1852.
My dear little Delia: I am fourteen to-day, too old for dolls, so I must put you to sleep and lay you away. But I'll keep you, my dear dolly, as long as I live, and if I ever have a dear little girl, she shall wake you and play with you and love you, and I promise to name her Delia, after you. Kate Reed. August, 1852.
With a strange conflict of feeling, and for the moment forgetting everything else, Dorry read the words over and over, through her tears; adding, softly: "Delia! That's why my little cousin was named Delia."
And, as she slowly opened the parcel, it almost seemed to her that Cousin Delia, Aunt Kate's own little girl, had come back to life and was sitting on the floor beside her, and that she and Delia always would be true and good, and would love Aunt Kate for ever and ever.
But the doll, Delia, recalled her. How pretty and fresh it was!—a sweet rosy face, with round cheeks and real hair, once neatly curled, but now pressed in flat rings against the bare dimpled shoulders. The eyes were closed, and when Dorry sought for some means of opening them, she found a wire evidently designed for that purpose. But it had become so rusty and stiff that it would not move. Somehow the closed eyes troubled her, and before she realized what she was doing, she gave the wire such a vigorous jerk that the eyes opened—bright, blue, glad eyes, that seemed to recognize her.
"Oh, you pretty thing!" exclaimed Dorry, as she kissed the smiling face and held it close to her cheek for a moment. "Delia never can play with you, dear; she was drowned, butI'llkeep you as long as I live—Who's that? Oh, Don, how you startled me! I am so glad you've come."
"Why, what's the matter, Dot?" he asked, hurrying forward, as she turned toward him, with the doll still in her arms. "Not crying?"
"Oh, no, no, I'm not crying," she said, hastily wiping her eyes, and surprised to find them wet. "See here! This is Delia. Oh, Don, don't laugh. Stop, stop!"
Checking his sudden mirth, as he saw Dorry's emotion, and glancing at the open trunk, which until now had escaped his notice, he began to suspect what was the matter.
"Is it Aunt Kate's?" he asked, gravely.
"Yes, Don; Aunt Kate's doll when she was a little girl. This is the trunk that I told you about—the one that the diary fell out of."
A strong, boyish step was heard coming up the garret stairs: "Who is it? Run, Don, don't let any one come up here!" begged Dorry.
"It's Ed Tyler,—Hold up, Ed!" cried Don, obediently. "I'll be there in a minute." Then hurriedly kissing Dorry, and with a hearty "Cheer up, little sister!" he was gone.
Don's pleasant tone and quick step changed the current of Dorry's thoughts. More than this, a bright beam of sunlight now shone through the dusty window. Sobbing no longer, she carefully wrapped the doll in the same paper and piece of silk that had held it for so many years. As she arose, holding the parcel in her hand, the pink dress and black silk apron on her lap fell to the floor.
A sudden thought came to her. Dorry never could remain sad very long at a time. She hastily opened the parcel again.
"Lie down there, Delia dear," she said, gently placing the doll on the rose-buds of the still open trunk-lid. "Lie down there, till I put on these things. I'm going to take you down to see your uncle!"
"Won't he be astonished though!" murmured Dorry, as, half smiling, half sighing, she took off her dress in great excitement, and put on, first the pink muslin, and then the black silk apron, fastening them at the back as well as she could, with many a laborious twist and turn of her white arms, and with a half-puzzled consciousness that the garments were a perfect fit.
The dress, which was high at the neck, had short sleeves, and was gathered to a belt at the waist. Tying the apron at the back, so that the ends of its black ribbon bow hung down over the full pink skirt, she proceeded to adjust the silk straps that, starting in front at the belt, went over the shoulders and down again at the back.
As she did this, and perceived that each strap was wide on the top and tapered toward the belt, it struck her that the effect must be quite pretty. Bending to take up Delia, she saw, for the first time, among the bits of calico and silk lying in the bottom of the trunk, what proved to be a wide-brimmed straw hat. In another moment it was on her head, and with a quick little laugh, she caught up Delia and ran down the stairs.
Looking neither to right nor left, Dorry sped down the next flight; across the hall, on tiptoe now, and so on to the study door, which stood ajar just enough to admit her slight figure.
Mr. Reed, who sat at the table busily writing, did not even look up when she entered.
"How d'ye do?" she exclaimed, courtesying to her uncle, with the doll in her arms.
He sprang to his feet in amazement.
"Don't be frightened. It's only Dorry. I just wanted to surprise you! See," she continued, as he stood staring wildly at her, "I found all these things up stairs. And look at the dolly!"
By this time the hat had fallen off, and she was shaking her tumbled hair at him in a vehement manner, still holding Delia in her extended arms.
"Good-bye, Ed!" rang out Donald's clear voice from the piazza, and in an instant he was looking through the study window, much surprised to see a quaint little pink figure folded in Uncle George's embrace, while Dorry's voice was calling from somewhere: "Be careful! Be careful! You'll break Delia!"
Ed Tyler, sauntering homeward, met Josie Manning on her way to the Danbys'. "I think Dorry has gone to see Charity Danby," she said, "and I'm going after her. I've been waiting at her house, ever so long."
"I've been at Don's too," said Ed. "Just come from there."
Josie laughed. "As if I didn't know that," she said. "Why, I was in Dorry's room all the time. First I heard Don run up to the garret for something, then you went up after him, and then you both passed down again, and out upon the piazza. I suppose you went to the old carriage-house, as usual, didn't you?"
JOSIE MANNING WAITS FOR DORRY. (See page 156.)JOSIE MANNING WAITS FOR DORRY. (Seepage 156.)
"Of course we did. We're turning it into a first-class gymnasium. Mr. Reed has given it to Don outright, and I tell you it will be a big thing. Jack's helping us. Don has saved up lots of pocket-money, and Mr. Reed gives him all the lumber he wants. Just you wait. But, by the way, Dorry isn't out. Don told me himself she was rummaging up in the garret."
"Why, that's queer!" was Josie's surprised exclamation. "Then it must have been Dorry who ran down stairs. It couldn't be though; some one, with a hat on and a short-sleeved pink dress, went by like a flash."
"Don't you know Dorry Reed yet?" laughed Ed, "she is always dressing up. Why, one day when I was there, she came into Don's room dressed like an old woman,—cap, crutch, corked wrinkles and all complete; never saw anything like it. What a little witch she is!"
"I think she's an angel!" said Josie, warmly.
"A pretty lively angel!" was Ed's response.
But the tone of admiration was so genuine that it satisfied even Josie Manning.
"Well!" exclaimed Donald, noting Dorry's strange costume, as he entered the room, after shouting a second good-by to Ed Tyler.
"Well!" echoed Dorry, freeing herself from her uncle's arms, and with a little jump facing Donald,—"what of it? I thought I'd pay Uncle a visit with my pretty doll-cousin here" (hugging Delia as she spoke), "and he started as if I were a ghost. Didn't you, Uncle?"
"I suppose I did," assented Mr. Reed, with a sad smile. "In fact, Dorry, I may as well admit, that what is fun to you, happened, for once, not to be fun to me."
"But itwasn't funto me!" cried that astonishing Dorry. "It was—it was—tell him, Don;youknow."
There was no need for Don to speak. Dorry's flushed cheeks, shining eyes, and excited manner told their own story; and both her brother and uncle, because they knew her so well; felt quite sure that in a moment Dorothy's own self would have a word to say.
Still folding the dolly to her heart and in both arms, and with the yearning look of a little child, the young girl, without moving from the middle of the room, looked wistfully toward the window, as though she saw outside some one whom she loved, but who could not or would not come to her. Then she stepped toward her uncle, who had seated himself again in the big chair, and laying her hand upon his shoulder, said earnestly:
"Uncle, I've been brought nearer to Aunt Kate to-day than ever in my life before, and the lonely feeling is almost all gone. I found a little old trunk, far back under the rafters, with her doll in it, her clothes and her writing; and now I see howrealshe was,—not like a dream, as she used to seem, but just one of us. You know what I mean."
"A trunk, Dorry! What? Where?" was all the response Uncle George made, as, hastening from the room, he started for the garret, keeping ahead of the others all the way.
Donaldand Dorothy followed their uncle closely, though he seemed to have forgotten them; and they were by his side when he reached the little treasure-trove, with its still opened lid.
Paying no attention to their presence, Mr. Reed hurriedly, but with the tenderest touch, took out every article and examined it closely.
When he came to the diary, which Dorry that day had restored unopened to the trunk, he eagerly scanned its pages here and there; then, to the great disappointment of the D's he silently laid it down, as if intending later to take it away with him.
"May we see that, Uncle?" asked Dorry, softly. "Isn't it right for us to read it? We found out it was her diary; but I put it back."
Without replying, Uncle George went on with his examination. Finally, replacing the last article in the trunk, he closed the lid with a hopeless air, and turned toward Dorry, saying:
"Dorothy, where is that doll? It must go back where you found it, and the clothes too."
She handed it to him without a word—all her hope turned to bitterness.
But as he took it, noting her grieved expression, he said:
"Thank you, my dear. You are too old to play with dolls—"
"Oh, Uncle, it is too bad for you to speak so! YouknowI didn't mean toplaywith it. It isn't a dolly to me; she's more like—like something with life. But you can shut her up in the dark, if you want to."
"Dorry! Dorry!" said Don, reproachfully. "Don't be so excited."
In a flash of thought, Dorry made up her mind to speak—now or never.
"Uncle!" said she, solemnly, "I am going to ask you a question; and, if it is wrong, I can't help it. What is the reason that you always feel so badly when I speak of Aunt Kate?"
He looked at her in blank surprise for an instant; then, as she still awaited his reply, he echoed her words, "Feel badly when you speak of Aunt Kate! Why, my child, what do you mean?"
"I mean, Uncle dear, that there is a secret in the house; something you have never told Don and me. It's always coming up and making mischief, and I don't think it's right at all. Neither does Don."
"That's so, Uncle," said Donald, emphatically; "we feel sure there is something that gives you trouble. Why not let us share it with you? Remember, we are not little children any longer."
The uncle looked quickly from one to the other, mentally deciding that the children could be told only the facts that were positively known to him; then seating himself on the corner of a large chest, he drew Don and Dorry towards him.
"Yes, my children," he said, in his own hearty way, as if already a load had been taken from his mind, "there is something. It is right that I should tell you, and this is as good a time as any. Put the doll away, Dorry" (he spoke very gently now), "wherever you please, and come down stairs. It is chilly up here—and, by the way, you will catch cold in that thin gown. What have we been thinking of all this while?"
"Oh, I'm as warm as toast, Uncle," she replied, at the same time taking her pretty merino dress from the old chair upon which she had thrown it, scarcely an hour ago; "but I suppose it's always better to be on the safe side, as Liddy says."
"Much better," said Uncle, nodding with forced cheerfulness. "Down with you, Dot. We'll join you in a minute."
Dorry, as she left them, saw her uncle stooping low to peer into the far roof-end of the garret, and she had time to place Delia carefully in her treasure-cabinet, put on the warmer dress, and be ready to receive her uncle and Donald before they made their appearance.
"May we be your guests, Dot?" asked Uncle George, at her door.
"Oh, yes, sir; come right in here," was her pleased response, as, with a conflict of curiosity and dread, Dorry gracefully conducted them into her cosey corner.
"It is too pretty and dainty here for our rough masculine tread, eh, Don?" was Mr. Reed's remark, as, with something very like a sigh, he placed himself beside Dorry upon the sofa, while her brother took a seat close by.
"Well," began Dorry, clasping her hands tightly, and trying to feel calm. "We're ready now, Uncle."
"And so am I," said he. "But first of all, I must ask you both not to magnify the importance of what I am going to reveal."
"About Aunt Kate?" interposed Dorry.
"About Aunt Kate. Do not think you have lost her, because she was really—no, I should say not exactly—"
"Oh," urged Dorry, "don't stop so, Uncle! Please do go on!"
"As I was about to say," resumed Mr. Reed, in a tone of mild rebuke at the interruption, "it really never made any difference to me, nor to your father, and it should make no difference to you now. You know," he continued, with some hesitation, "children sometimes are adopted into families; that is to say, they are loved just the same, and cared for just the same, but they are not own children. Do you understand?"
"Understand what, please, Uncle? Did Aunt Kate adopt any one?" asked Dorry.
"No, but my father and mother did; your grandfather and grandmother Reed, you know," said he, looking at the D's in turn, as though he hoped one of them would help him.
"You don't mean, Uncle," almost screamed Dorry, "that it was that—that horrid—"
Donald came to her assistance.
"Was itthat man, Uncle?" he asked, quickly. "Ben Buster told me the fellow claimed to be related to us; washeever adopted by Grandfather Reed?"
"Ugh!" shuddered Dorry.
Very little help poor Uncle George could hope for now from the D's. The only way left was to speak out plainly.
"No, not that man, my children; but Aunt Kate. Aunt Kate was an adopted daughter—an adopted sister; but she was in all other respects one of our family. Never was daughter or sister more truly beloved. When she came to us she was but two years old, an orphan. Grandpa and Grandma Reed had known her parents, and when the little"—here Mr. Reed hastily resolved to say nothing of Eben Slade for the present—"the little girl was left alone in the world, destitute, with no relatives to care for her, my father and mother took her into their home, to bear their name and to be their own dear little daughter.
"When Aunt Kate was old enough, they told her all; but it was her wish that we boys should forget that we were not really her brothers. This was before we came to live in this house.
"Our Nestletown neighbors, never hearing anything of the adoption, naturally supposed that little Kate Reed was our own sister. The secret was known only to our relatives, and one or two old friends, and to Lydia, who was Kate's devoted young nurse and attendant. In fact, we never thought anything about it. To us, as to the world outside, she was Kate Reed—the joy and pride of our home—our sister Kate to the very last. So it really made no serious difference. Don't you see?"
Not a word from either of the listeners.
"Of course, Dorry darling," he said, coaxingly, "this is very strange news to you; but you must meet it bravely, and, as I said before, without giving it undue importance. I wish now that, from the first, you and Donald had been told all this; but indeed your Aunt Kate was always so dear to me that I wished you to consider her, as she considered herself, a relative. It has been my great consolation to think and speak of your father and her as my brother and sister, and to see you, day by day, growing to love and honor her memory as she deserved. Now, do you not understand it all? Don't you see that Aunt Kate is Aunt Kate still?"
"Yes, indeed.Isay so, most decidedly," broke forth Donald. "And I am very glad you have told us, Uncle. Aren't you, Dorry?"
Dorry could not speak, but she kissed Uncle George and tried to feel brave.
"Mamma and Aunt Kate were great friends, weren't they?" Donald asked.
"Yes, indeed. Though they became acquainted only a few months before your parents married and departed for Europe, they soon became very fond of each other."
"Then, Uncle," pursued Donald, "why didn'tyouknow mother too? I should think she would have come here to visit Aunt Kate sometimes."
"As your mother was an only child, living alone with her invalid father, she was unwilling to leave him, and so Aunt Kate visited her instead. I wish it had been different, and that I could speak to you and Dorothy more fully of your mother, whom I rarely saw. We all know that she was good and lovely, but I should like to be able to bring her familiarly to your minds. This old home would be all the dearer, if it could be associated with thoughts of your mother and happy days which she had passed here with Aunt Kate."
At this point Mr. Reed was summoned to his study. A gentleman from town had called to see him on business.
"Keep up a good heart, my girl," he said, tenderly, to Dorry, as he left her, "and as soon as you feel like it, take a run out-of-doors with Donald. The bracing air will drive all sad thoughts away."
Dorry tried to smile pleasantly, as she promised to follow his advice. She even begged Don not to wait any longer, assuring him that she would go out and join him very soon.
"That's a good old Dot," said Don, proudly. "I'll wait for you. Where's your hat?"
"No, you go first, Don. I'll be out soon. I really will."
"All right. Ed's out there again by this time. You'll find us in the gymnasium." And off he ran, well knowing that Dorry's heart was heavy, but believing that the truest kindness and sympathy lay in making as light as possible of Uncle George's revelation; which, in his boyish logic, he felt wasn't so serious a thing after all, if looked at in the right spirit.
Dorothy waited until he was out of sight, and then sat down to think it all over.
The result was that when Liddy chanced to pass through the hall, a few moments later, she was startled by hearing half-suppressed sobs.
According to the custom of the house, which made the cosey corner a sort of refuge for Dorry, the good woman, upon entering at the open door, stood a moment wondering what to do. But as the sound of another little sob came from behind the screen, she called out in a cheery voice:
"May I come in, Miss Dorry dear?"
"Y-yes," was the answer. "Oh, Liddy, is that you? Uncle has told us all about it."
"Sakes alive!" cried Liddy, holding up her hands in dismay—"not told youeverything?"
"Yes, he has," insisted Dorry, weeping afresh, as Lydia's manner seemed to give her a new right to consider that an awful fact had been revealed to her. "I know now all about it. I haven't any Aunt Kate at all. I'm a-all alone!"
"For shame, Miss Dorry; how can you talk so? You, with your blessed uncle and your brother, to say nothing of them who have cherished you in their arms from the day you were a helpless baby—for shame, Miss, to say such a thing!"
This was presenting matters in a new light.
"Oh, Liddy, you don't know about it. There's no Aunt K-Kate, anyway," sobbed Dorry, rather relieved at finding herself the subject of a good scolding.
"There isn't, eh? Well, I'd like to know why not!" retorted Lydia, furtively wiping her eyes. "I guess thereis. I knew, long before you were born, that she was a dear little adopted girl. But what of that? that doesn't mean she wasn't ever a little girl at all. Don't you know, Miss Dorry, child, that a human being's a human being, and folks care for 'em for what they are? It wasn't just belonging to this or that family made Miss Kate so lovely,—it's what she was herself; and I can certify to her bein' as real as you and me are—if that's all that's wanted."
By this time Dorry, though half-comforted, had buried her face in the sofa-pillow.
"Not that I can't feel for you, poor dear," Liddy continued, gently patting the young girl's shoulder, but speaking more rapidly, "many's the time I've wept tears, just to think of you, longing with all your little heart for a mother. I'm a rough old body, my dove, and what are your dear good uncle and Master Donald but menkind, after all, and it's natural you should pine for Aunty. Ah, I'm afraid it's my doings that you've been thinkin' of her all these days, when, may be, if I'd known your dear mother, which I didn't,—and no blame to me neither,—I wouldn't always have been holding Miss Kate up to you. But she was a darling, was your Aunt Kate, as you know by her picture down stairs—don't you, dear?"
Dorry nodded into the cushion, by way of reply.
Liddy gazed at her a moment in sympathizing silence, and then, in a more cheerful tone, begged her to rouse herself.
"It won't do any good to fret about it, you know, Miss Dorry. Come, now, you'll have the awfulest headache that ever was, if you don't brighten up. When you're in trouble, count your blessings—that's what I always say; and you've a big share of 'em after all, dear. Let me make you a nice warm cup of tea—that'll build you up, Miss Dorry. It always helps me when I—Sakes! what's that?"
"What's what, Liddy?" said Dorry, languidly raising her head from the pillow. "Oh, that's—that'sher—that's Aunt Kate's frock and apron. Yes, and here's something else. Here's Delia—I'll show her to you."
And so saying, she rose and stepped toward the cabinet.
"Show me Delia! Merciful heavens," cried Liddy, "has the child lost her senses?"
But the sight of the doll reassured her.
"Oh, that's Delia, is it?" she asked, still wondering; "well, where in the world did it come from?"
Dorry told her all about the discovery of the little trunk that had been hidden in the garret so many years.
"Oh, those miserable house-cleaners!" was Liddy's wrathful comment. "Only to think of it! We had 'em workin' up there when you twins were too little to spare me, and I've never felt easy about it since, nor trusted any one but myself to clean that garret. To think of their pushin' things in, 'way out of sight and sound like that!"
This practical digression had a good effect on Dorry. Rousing herself to make the effort, she bathed her face, smoothed her hair, and seizing her hat and shawl, started with a sigh to fulfil her promise to Donald.
And all this time, Liddy sat stroking and folding the little pink dress and black apron.
WhenDorry reached the "gymnasium," as Ed and Don called it, she could not help smiling at the grand title they had given prematurely to a very unpromising-looking place.
The building had been a fine carriage-house in its day, but of late it had been used mainly by Jack, as a sort of store-house for old barrels, boxes, wheels, worn-out implements, and odds and ends of various kinds. Its respectable exterior had saved it from being pulled down when the new carriage-house was built. Besides Jack's appropriation of a portion of the building, Donald had planked off one end for his own special purposes,—first as a printing-office, later as a carpenter's shop,—and Dorothy had planted vines, which in summer surrounded its big window with graceful foliage; and so it had come to be looked upon as the special property of Jack and the D's.
Consequently, when Donald asked Mr. Reed to allow him to sell or send away the rubbish, and, with the proceeds of the sale of the old iron, added to his own saved-up pocket money, to turn the place into a gymnasium, his uncle not only gave free consent, but offered to let him have help and material, in case the young man should fall short of funds—as he most undoubtedly would.
The project was but a few days old at the time of the house-picnic, but being a vigorous little project, with life in its veins, it grew and prospered finely. Sailor Jack entered heartily into the work—the more so as his gallant fancy conceived the idea of some day setting up near by a sort of ship's-rigging with shrouds and "ratlines," in which to give the boys lessons, and occasionally disport himself, by way of relief, when his sea-longing should become too much for him. Plans and consultations soon were the order of the day, and Dorry, becoming interested, learned more about pulleys, ropes, ladders, beams, strength of timber, and such things, than any other girl in the village.
The building was kept moderately warm by an old stove, which Jack had set up two years before, when Don and Dorry had the printing-press fever (which, by the way, had broken out in the form of a tiny, short-lived newspaper, calledThe Nestletown Boom), and day after day the boys spent every odd moment of daylight there, assisted in many ways by Dorothy. But perhaps more efficient help was rendered by Jack, when he could spare the time from his horses, and by the village carpenter, when that worthy would deign to keep his engagements.
Besides, Uncle George had agreed that the new tutor should not begin with his pupils until after the Christmas holidays, now close at hand.
Under this hearty co-operation, the work prospered wonderfully.