Not a word was said of the beautiful plants which were now completely ruined, and Mrs. Dainty's kindness made Patricia feel ashamed.
“I'm sorry,” she whispered, and no one had ever before heard her say that.
Arabella was fairly hysterical, laughing and crying at the same time, but Aunt Charlotte at last succeeded in calming her, and when the little banquet was announced, they joined the other children, and were as happy as any of the merry party that marched out to the great dining-room.
In the centre of the table was a huge round cake encrusted with gorgeous frosting in the forms of beautiful flowers. Around its sides were festoons of buds and blossoms, while here and there a sugar butterfly was poised as if ready for flight.
There were flowers beside every plate, there were ices in wonderful shapes, there were bonbons and nuts in abundance, while great silver baskets were heaped with luscious fruits.
What a treat it was! How they laughed and talked as they enjoyed the feast! How bright the lights, how sweet the scent of the lovely flowers with which every room was decorated!
From the drawing-room the tender music floated in. Oh, it was like a dream of fairyland!
Nina Earl watched Patricia closely.
“I guess you never saw a finer party thanthis,” she said.
Patricia stared for a moment, then she said just what one might have expected.
“Thisisa lovely party, and I never saw a grander one except one I went to when I was in N' York, where they had a cake as big as this whole table, and—”
“Then the table to hold such a cake as that must have been pretty big to get inside of any room!” laughed Reginald.
“Well, you didn't see it, so you can't know how grand it looked,” Patricia replied, and as that was quite true, Reginald had nothing to say.
Lola Blessington sat beside Nancy, and many of the older guests watched the two as they talked together, and thought how charming they were, and how very unlike.
Lola's blue eyes were merry, and her sea-nymph's costume was very becoming, while Nancy's fine dark eyes and graceful figure never looked prettier than in her lovely shepherdess frock.
At Nancy's right sat Dorothy, and her beautiful little face showed the joy that was in her heart. She was always happiest when giving pleasure to others.
And when at last the feast had been enjoyed, more merry games had been played, and tripping feet had danced to lively measures, then the great hall clock hands pointed to the hour, and the guests remembered that it was quite time to be thinking of home.
A surprise awaited the merrymakers, for when good-nights had been said, and they stepped out into the crisp air, they shouted with delight, for lo, while they had been in the warm, flower-scented rooms, a snowstorm had been covering the steps, the gardens, the avenue with a white velvet carpet!
“Hurrah!” shouted Reginald, “this is the first snowstorm, and there'll be fun every day as long as it lasts.”
Long icicles hung like diamond pendants from roof and balcony, and still the snow-flakes like downy feathers were falling lazily, as if they knew not whether to pause, or to continue to descend.
And when the last carriage had rolled down the driveway Dorothy turned, and clasping Nancy's hands, she said:
“Oh, there never was such a perfect party! We'll always remember it.”
“Always,” said Nancy.
There were two thoughts, two pictures in her mind. She was thinking of Dorothy's first party, when, as a little outcast, she had climbed up into the branches of a tree which overhung the great garden, that thus she might peep at the lovely children in their beautiful frocks; now, as Dorothy's friend and playmate, she had enjoyed this fancy dress party, in a costume as charming as that of any guest.
She was happy now, and how dearly she loved Dorothy, how grateful she was for her home and friends!
For days they talked of nothing but the party, and Aunt Charlotte found it a little difficult to keep them from whispering about it during school hours.
Three little guests who had intended to come, had, at the last moment, been obliged to remain at home. They were Mr. Dainty's nephews, and they had been much disappointed in losing a charming visit in which a fine party was to have been included.
Patricia, with her usual lack of sweetness, told Arabella that she did not believe that those three boys had everthoughtof coming.
“Well, anyway,wewere there, and we had a fine time, but say,—thereweren'ttwo fountains after all!” said Arabella.
“Why, what a thing to say, when I showed you the second one, only it didn't work right,” Patricia replied. “The way I turned it made steam, so if I'd only just turned it theotherway it would have been water.”
“How do you know it would?” Arabella asked in a teasing voice.
“How do you know itwouldn't?” Patricia replied, and Arabella chose to make no reply.
After the little happening in the conservatory on the evening of the party, Aunt Matilda spoke plainly to Arabella about her choice of playmates.
“I don't approve of that Lavine girl,” she had said.
“You don't know her,” ventured Arabella.
“I don't need to,” was the curt reply. “A girl that can't go to a party without meddling with things, and getting into mischief, is not the girl that I care to have you with, and there's no reason why you should go to the other end of the town to find a playmate; there are enough pleasant girls in your own school.”
Aunt Matilda's words were true, but with Arabella's contrary nature, the fact that her aunt did not approve of Patricia, made her the most desirable of all her playmates.
She at once decided to spend the next Saturday with Patricia. She did not dare to ask Patricia to call for her, because Aunt Matilda, if exasperated, might send her home, and Patricia would never overlook that. She had just decided to invite herself to visit Patricia when something happened which delighted her.
It was after school, and they were talking of the coming Saturday, and how it should be spent.
“We've not seen you driving your pony for a long time,” said Katie Dean.
“We are going out with Romeo on Saturday,” Dorothy said.
“There's a lovely road where the great icicles hang from the trees like fringe, and the groom says it's the finest road for sleighing in Merrivale.”
Patricia had not been to school, and had walked over to meet the pupils of the little private class.
“I suppose Nancy's going with you,” Patricia said.
“Of course she will,” said Katie, “don't you just know that Dorothy wouldn't care for the ride if Nancy weren't with her?”
Katie laughed as she said it, the others joining in the merriment, for it was well known that while Dorothy cared very truly for all her friends, Nancy was the dearest. Patricia knew how handsome Romeo looked in his fine harness, and the trim little sleigh with its soft fur robes made a nice setting for Dorothy and Nancy as they spun over the glistening road. She determined to say something which would impress all who listened.
“I'll invite you to a sleighride withme, Arabella,” she said, “will you go?”
“Yes,indeed,” said Arabella, “what time shall I be ready?”
“You be over at my house 'bout two, and we'll go as soon as we want to,” she said.
Nina looked at Jeanette, and when Patricia had left them she spoke the thought that was in her mind.
“I didn't know Patricia Lavine had a horse and sleigh. Has any one ever seen her driving?” she asked.
“Don't b'lieve she has,” said Reginald.
Patricia had offended him that afternoon by calling him alittleboy.
“You mustn't say that,” said Katie, who, being a year older than her cousin Reginald, felt obliged to reprove him when things that he said were just a little too naughty.
“You just tell me, Katie Dean, doyoub'lieve she has?” he asked, but Katie was talking to Mollie, and she chose to let him think that she had not heard his question.
The day set for the two sleighrides was clear and crisp.
Mrs. Dainty and Aunt Charlotte were entertaining each other with exchanging memories of Mrs. Dainty's school-days when with her classmates she had been as popular as Dorothy now was, and Aunt Charlotte had found it a task to keep them under good discipline without quelling their high spirits.
The fire in the grate flamed higher and crackled merrily, and in the glow the two ladies were enjoying tea, small cakes, and bonbons.
“You may go for a short sleighride, if you wish,” Mrs. Dainty said, “if you and Nancy will dress very warmly for the trip. Aunt Charlotte and I have decided to remain here cosily by the fire.”
“But Romeo hasn't been out for days, and I don't mind the cold. It'll be just gay out in the crisp air,” Dorothy said.
“Then surely you may go if it is to be so very gay,” said Mrs. Dainty, laughing, “but remember what I said about wearing warm wraps and furs.”
Dorothy promised, and soon, with the groom riding behind them, they were off over the road.
Romeo was as delighted as they, and sped along as if shod with wings, his mane and tail floating gracefully as he almost flew along.
Dorothy and Nancy, nestled in a white fur robe, felt only the frosty touch of the sharp wind upon their cheeks, and they laughed and talked as if it had been a summer day.
On the dry bushes by the roadside great flocks of tiny sparrows hopped from twig to twig, chattering and twittering as they pecked at the little dried berries. A great crow flew out from a bit of woodland, making a noisy protest that any one should drive over the quiet road, and thus disturb his musings.
The icicles were glittering in the sunlight, and the crust sparkled as if powdered with diamond dust, while the rough bark of the trees still held a coating of frost which the sunlight had not been warm enough to melt.
“We'll tell them how beautiful it looked when we get home,” said Dorothy, her eyes bright with delight.
“It will take two of us to evenhalftell it,” laughed Nancy.
And while Dorothy and Nancy were gliding rapidly over the frosty highway, Arabella was standing at Patricia's door, ringing the bell, and wondering why no one replied. Then some one came around the corner.
“Hello!” she cried. “Ma's gone to spend the afternoon with a friend, and I've just been out to see about our sleigh, so nobody heard you ring. The sleigh'll be here in just a minute; you come up with me and help me bring down some shawls.”
Without stopping to question, Arabella followed her up the three flights of stairs, and such an array of shawls as Patricia brought out!
“These sofa cushions I'll throw downstairs, and we can pick them up afterwards,” she said.
Over the baluster she flung cushion after cushion, until Arabella's curiosity forced her to question.
“What everareyou going to do with all those cushions?” she asked.
Patricia looked very wise.
“Oh, you'll see,” she said, and when she had reached the lower hall she peeped out.
“Here it is!” she said.
Arabella looked.
“Why, that's an oldpung!” she said.
“Well, who said it wasn't?” Patricia replied sharply; “but it isn't anoldonenow, because it has just been painted yellow. It's our grocer's, and the boy that drives it is going to let us ride in it this afternoon.”
Arabella hesitated. She knew that Aunt Matilda did not wish her to be with Patricia at all, and she also felt that to ride in a yellow pung, lettered, “Fine Groceries, Butter, Cheese, and Eggs,” was surely not aristocratic, and yet, whatfunit would be!
The grocer's boy had delivered all of his parcels except two large paper bags which he had pushed over near the dasher. Patricia began to bring out the cushions, and the boy tossed them in upon the straw which lay upon the floor of the pung. Then Patricia and Arabella climbed in, the boy cracked his whip, the horse sprang forward with a surprising jolt, then settled down to a comical amble.
How cold it was! Arabella had wondered at the number of shawls which Patricia had taken. Now she was very glad to wrap two around her, while Patricia wore the other two.
“G'lang!” shouted the boy, and again the horse gave an amazing hop which sent the pung forward with a lurch, and rolled the two girls over upon the straw. Patricia thought it a joke, but Arabella, never very good-tempered, was actually angry.
“O dear!” she cried, “I think it's just horrid to be shaken up so. Well, I don't think you're very nice to laugh about it, Patricia. I wouldn't like to take any one out to a sleighride, and have 'em banged around,—oh, o-o!”
It was a “thank-you-ma'am” in the middle of the road that caused Arabella's angry speech to end in a little shriek.
It was useless for Patricia to try to hide her merriment. She could not help laughing. She rarely felt sorry for any one's discomfort, and really Arabella did look funny.
In the shake-up, her hat had been pushed over to one side of her head, but she did not know that, and her old-fashioned little face looked smaller than usual, because of the two heavy shawls which were crowded so high that she appeared to have no neck at all. Small as her face was, it could show a great deal of rage, and as she drew her shawls tighter around her, and glared at Patricia, she looked odd enough to make any one laugh.
“You look as if you'd like to spit like a cat,” laughed Patricia, and just at that moment the boy who was driving turned to ask which way he should go.
“I got ter take them bags over ter the big old house what's painted the color er this pung, an' stands between a old barn an' a carriage shed. Know where 'tis?” he asked.
“Indeed, I don't,” declared Patricia.
“Wal, I was goin' ter say that I kin git there by two different roads, an' I'd go the way ye'd like best ter go ef ye knew which that was,” he said.
“I only know I want the ride, and this road is stupid and poky. Go the way that has the most houses on it,” Patricia answered, and the boy turned into another avenue, and soon they were passing houses enough, such as they were!
Small houses that were dingy, and held one family, and larger ones that must have held three tribes at least, judging by the number of washings which hung upon the dilapidated piazzas.
“G'lang!” shouted the boy, but the nag had heard that too often to be impressed, and he only wagged one ear in response, but took not a step quicker.
Arabella was cold and provoked that she had come. Patricia was excited, and felt that she was having a frolic, and even Arabella's glum face could not quiet her; indeed, the more she looked at her, the more inclined was she to laugh.
Arabella felt aggrieved.
“The idea of laughing atme,” she thought, “when I should think I might laugh at her for inviting me to ride in a sleigh that is only apung!”
Then something happened which made Arabella forget that she was provoked with Patricia, because she suddenly became so vexed with some one else.
A short, stubby boy with a mass of hay-colored hair, ran out from a yard that they were passing.
“Ho! Look at the girlth a-havin' a ride out! Look at the horthe! My, thee hith bonthe thtick out! Gueth they feed him on thawdutht an' shavingth, don't they, Mandy?”
“Oh, look at 'em! Look at 'em! Them's some er theprivateschool; don't they lookgrandridin' in Bill Tillson's grocery wagin?” shouted Mandy.
“I wonder if that horthe would jump if I fired a thnowball?”
“Don't ye do it!” shouted the driver.
“Better not, Chub!” cried Mandy, thinking that perhaps the fun had gone far enough.
The fact that he had been told not to made Chub long to do it.
“Here's the place,” said the driver, and, grasping one of the bags, he jumped from the team and ran into the house with the parcel. The reins lay loosely upon the horse's back.
Chub, who had kept pace with the team, now paused to choose the most interesting bit of mischief. Should he make a grab at the loose-lying reins, and by jerking them surprise the horse, or would he be more frisky if the half-dozen snowballs which he had been making were all hurled at him at once?
Before he could decide, the boy came out of the house, and jumping into the pung, gathered up the reins, and attempted to turn the team towards home. Chub thought if he were to have any fun, he must get it quickly.
“Heighoh! You Jumpin' Ginger!” he shouted, at the same time letting fly the six snowballs. The frightened nag reared, and turning sharply about, tipped the pung, completely emptying it of passengers and freight.
“That'th athpill!Girlth an'onionth!Girlth an'onionth!” shouted Chub, but Mandy, who was older, knew quite enough to be frightened, that is, frightened for her own safety. If the little girls were hurt, would some one blame her or Chub?
The driver had stopped the thoroughly terrified horse, the pung was not injured, so he thought he might see if the children were harmed.
Mandy had helped Arabella to her feet, and picked up her shawls, which had fallen off. She was more frightened than hurt, but her feelings were injured. Patricia, brushing the snow from her cloak, spoke her thoughts very plainly.
“Chub's a perfectly horrid boy,” she said, “and wemighthave broken our necks.”
“Yedidn't, though,” said Mandy.
“And I shouldn't wonder if Ma had him put in the big lock-up,” she said, “for scaring our horse, and tipping us out on the road. We may getreumoniafor being thrown into the snow.”
“Ye can't 'rest Chub; he ain't nothin' but a big baby,” said Mandy, “an' what'sreumonia, anyway?”
Patricia would not reply. The driver helped them to pick up the cushions, but the bag of onions, which he had forgotten to take to the big house, he left where they lay in the road. They were too widely scattered to be gathered up.
Chub found a huge one, and commenced to eat it as eagerly as if it had been a luscious bit of fruit.
“Thith ithfine,” he said as he took a big bite from the onion.
“That Chub's a regular little pig,” Patricia said, as they rode off, but her words were not heard by Mandy or Chub, for the youthful driver was shouting a loud warning to Chub to throw no more snowballs for fear of a sound thrashing followed by arrest, while Chub, afraid to throw the snowballs, hurled after the pung the worst names that he could think of.
“That horthe ith thlow ath a old moolly cow! It'th an old thlow-poke! What a thkinny nag! That horthe eath nothin' but newthpaper and thtring!” he yelled.
“That Chub is just a horrid-looking child,” said Patricia, “an' he's the Jimmy boy's brother, but nobody'd ever think it.”
“Who's the Jimmy boy?” Arabella asked.
“Why, don't you know the boy that we see sometimes at Dorothy Dainty's house?”
Arabella shook her head.
“I mean the one that wears a cap with a gold band on it, and a coat with brass buttons, and tries to walk like a man when Mr. Dainty sends him out with parcels,” explained Patricia.
“Oh, I know,” said Arabella, “buthe'srealnicelooking, and Dorothy says her father thinks he's smart. I shouldn't think he could be brother to that little pig or that Mandy girl.”
“Well, he is, and one thing Dorothy said one day I couldn't understand. She said that one reason why her father was so kind to Jimmy is because Jimmy helped to get Nancy Ferris home one time when she was stolen from them. Did you ever hear 'bout that? I don't see how just a boy could do that, do you?”
No, Arabella did not see, nor had she heard the story, but she had seen Jimmy, and she wondered that he belonged to such a family as that which produced Mandy and Chub.
“Ye're 'most home,” declared the driver, “an' soon's I've landed ye I'll hev ter scoot.”
“But you'll have to take Arabella home; she lives 'way over the other side of the town,” insisted Patricia.
“Oh, no, no, hewon't!” said Arabella. “I'd rather walk all the way than have Aunt Matilda know that I've been sleighing.”
“Why, how funny!” and Patricia stared in surprise.
“It's funnier now than it would be when Aunt Matilda found it out.”
“Why?” Patricia asked.
“Because,” said Arabella, “whenever I've been out, and she thinks I've taken cold, she boils some old herb tea, and makes me drink it hot, and I have to be bundled in blankets, and she makes such a fuss that I wish I hadn't gone anywhere at all.”
“I guess you'd better not tell her,” Patricia advised, to which Arabella replied:
“I just don't intend to.”
And while Dorothy and Nancy were standing before a blazing fire in the sitting-room at the stone house, recounting the beauties of the sky, the branches fringed with glittering icicles, the squirrels that raced across the hard crust of snow, and indeed, every lovely bit of road or forest which they had seen, Arabella, shivering as she hurried along, saw the bright lights, and rushed past the great gate, across the avenue and in at her own driveway. She hoped that every one would be talking when she entered. She intended to join in the conversation, and she thought if she could manage to talk very,veryfast, Aunt Matilda might not ask where she had been. But she did.
Arabella had removed her hat and cloak, and trying very hard to stop shivering, she pushed aside the portière, and stood in the glow of the shaded lamp.
“Warmer weather to-morrow, the paper says, and I guess we shall all be glad to have it,” Aunt Matilda was saying.
“It w-would be f-fine to h-h-have it w-w-warmer,” said Arabella, her teeth chattering so that she thought every one must hear them rattle.
Over her paper Aunt Matilda's bright eyes peered at the little girl who shivered in spite of her effort to stand very still.
“Where have you been, Arabella? You're chilled through. I say, where have you been?”
“I've just taken quite a long walk,” Arabella replied.
“If you've taken a long walk as late as this in the afternoon, you've come some distance. Have you been spending this whole afternoon at that Lavine girl's house?”
“No'm,” said Arabella, “I haven't been in her houseanyof the afternoon; I've been out-of-doors.”
Aunt Matilda threw up her hands in amazement, as if a number of hours in the open air ought to have actually killed Arabella, whereas, she really was alive, but exceedingly chilly.
Then the very thing happened which Arabella had told Patricia would happen.
Aunt Matilda had her old-fashioned notions regarding the care of children, and Arabella was sent to bed, packed in blankets, after having drank a pint bowl full of the worst-tasting herb tea which Aunt Matilda had ever brewed.
She had thought that she might drink half of it, and then throw the rest away, but as if guessing her intention, Aunt Matilda stood close beside her to be sure that not a drop was wasted.
“It's no use to make such an outrageous face, Arabella,” she remarked, “for the worse it tastes the more good it'ssureto do.”
“But I'd 'most rather have a cold than take that stuff,” wailed Arabella.
“That's the time you don't have your choice,” was the dry reply.
And indeed she did not, for besides taking the despised herb tea, she awoke the next morning with a heavy cold that kept her away from school for the whole of the next week.
The next Saturday proved to be warm and sunny, and Mrs. Dainty had taken an early train for the city, intending to spend the day in shopping.
It had been necessary that Dorothy should go with her, because there was a new cloak to be “tried on.” Mrs. Dainty had wished to have Mrs. Grayson with her, but both had thought that Nancy would be lonely.
“If I were to spend the day in the stores, Nancy, I would take you with me, because you always enjoy shopping,” Aunt Charlotte said, “but I am to visit a friend who is ill, and that would be very dull for you, and if you go with Dorothy, you will think that the hours drag if you sit waiting while her cloak is being fitted.”
“Oh, but I shall not mind being at homethistime,” Nancy said, cheerfully; “I shall play with Flossie and Mollie all the forenoon,—”
“And the maid will serve your lunch atmyhouse at one,” Dorothy said.
“And I'll ask them both to come over to the cottage to play with me this afternoon,” Nancy continued, “and before we're done playing you'll return.”
And the forenoon was quite as pleasant as she had thought it would be. She had gone over to Mollie's, and found Flossie already there, and they had played tag and hide-and-seek just as if it had been a summer day. The sunlight was warm, the breeze soft and sweet, and every bit of snow had vanished. It was like springtime, and they played without ceasing until the hour for lunch.
“Well come over to the cottage together this afternoon,” called Mollie, as Nancy hurried away towards the stone house.
She knew that lunch was always served promptly as the hands upon the dining-room clock pointed to the hour of one.
She was rather afraid of the burly butler, because he stood so very erect, and never,neversmiled even when the jokes told at the table were very funny. But the maid's eyes often twinkled, and Nancy hoped that it would be the maid who would serve her.
She was surprised to find that lunching alone in the great dining-room was not very cheerful after all, and after a hasty meal, she slipped from her chair, refusing to taste any more of the dainties which the maid offered her.
“You've not had much lunch, Miss Nancy,” the girl said, “you might take an orange, and eat it away from the table if you like.”
Nancy took the big orange, and after much coaxing, pushed it into her pocket, and soon forgot that she had it. It was only quarter-past one. She looked again at the clock. Yes, that was just what it said; quarter-past one, and Mollie and Flossie were still at lunch. She remembered that they rarely came out to play in the afternoon before half-past two. She wondered where she would rather spend the time. At the cottage she could play with the kitten, get out the new game that Mrs. Dainty had given her, or read her newest book, but Dorothy's books were up in the playroom of the stone house, and she was always free to read them. No, she would not stay indoors. She would go out and be ready to greet her playmates as soon as she saw them running down the avenue.
She put on her cloak and hat, and walked slowly through the hall, thus using up as much time as possible. The house stood high, and from the doorway she could see the avenue. There was no one yet in sight.
She strolled down the driveway, intending to wait at the great gate for her playmates to appear.
The gates were wide open, and as Nancy looked out, some one rushed past her. The plainly dressed young woman turned to look at the little girl.
“Oh, Nancy!” she cried, and “Why, Sue!” cried Nancy.
“D'ye live in that el'gant place Nancy? Why, it looks like er palace!”
“Mrs. Dainty lives there, and I'm there 'most all the time playing with Dorothy. I live in that dear little stone cottage with Aunt Charlotte,” Nancy said, “but Sue, how happened you to be here? Aren't you working for the doctor?”
“Nancy, I comepurposeter see yer,” said the girl, bending to look into Nancy's face; “I wondered if you'd remember me.”
“Oh, howcouldI forget you, Sue? It was you who used to be kind to me when Uncle Steve was cross, and when I was sick you sent my little note to Aunt Charlotte so that she and Mrs. Dainty came for me.”
“I done what I could for yer, Nancy, an' now I've come ter ax yer ter do somethin' that I'm 'fraid ye won't want ter do.”
Eagerly Nancy looked up into Sue's honest face.
“I'd doanythingfor you, Sue, because you were good to me when no one else was kind. You were working for Uncle Steve, and you were as afraid of him as I was, but you helped me, and you knew he'd be angry if he found it out.”
“Ye're a kind little thing; ye'd do it quick fer me, but it ain't fer me I'm askin',” Sue replied.
“Is it for the doctor who helped me to get well? I'd do something just as quick for him. Uncle Steve was going tomakeme dance when I was sick, but the big doctor said I shouldn't, and Uncle Steve didn't dare.”
As she spoke Nancy's clear brown eyes looked up into Sue's blue ones, and Sue's cheek flushed. She looked down at the sidewalk.
“It ain't fer the doctor,” she said; “he's gone ter Europe, but he's payin' my wages whilst he's gone, an' I'm stayin' with a woman what I worked fer before. Nancy, it's yer aunt I'm with, an' it's her that made me come!”
Nancy started back in terror. With frightened eyes she stared a moment at the girl, then turned to run.
“Oh, Nancy, Nancy! Come here!” cried Sue. “Ye don't understand.”
Nancy paused, but she did not take a step nearer.
Sue hastened towards her, and Nancy seemed about to run again.
“Don't run away, Nancy,” pleaded the girl, “I know what ye think; ye think yer Uncle Steve's after yer, but ye can be sure he ain't. Yer Uncle Steve's dead, an' I do'no's ye need try ter be very sorry.”
Nancy came back to where Sue was standing.
“Is ittrue?” she asked.
“Honest an' true,” said Sue, “an' all yer aunt wants me ter git yer fer is because she's sick, an' she wants ter see yer. Oh, if yer could see her, Nancy, ye'd hate ter say ‘no.’ She keeps askin' fer yer all day, an' when I told her I'd find yer, an' ask yer ter come an' jest let her look at yer, she looked brighter'n she had fer days.”
“But I'm afraid to go to the city to see her,” said Nancy.
“She ain't in the city. She's in a town only a little ways from here. Ye could go with me in just no time, an' ye'd do her so much good.”
“Why?”
Nancy asked the question in wonder. It seemed strange that her aunt, who had never loved her, should now long to see her.
“She's got something she wants ter give yer, an' she's got something she wants ter say, an' she says she can't rest till she sees ye. It's her worryin' that won't let her git well. Ef she could see ye fer a little talk, an' tell ye what she wants ter tell, I guess she'd git well right off. Seems ef ye'doughtter come with me, ef it'll do so much good.”
Nancy's eyes were full of tears, and her sensitive lips quivered.
“Oh, IwishI knew what to do!” she cried, clasping her hands together very tightly.
“Why, ask 'em ter let ye go,” said Sue; “they'd let ye ef they knew yer Uncle Steve wasn't there, an' yer aunt was jest pinin' ter see yer.”
“I'm 'mostsure they would if theyknew, but everybody's away. If only Aunt Charlotte or Mrs. Dainty were here, I'd ask them.”
“Can't ye write a note, an' leave it at the cottage where yer Aunt Charlotte'll find it as soon's she gits home? Ye kin tell her I took yer ter yer aunt what's sick, an' ef ye tell her 'bout yer Uncle Steve, she won't worry.”
Nancy hesitated.
“An' I hate ter hurry yer,” Sue urged, “but I'llhevter be gittin' back ter yer aunt, so I must go with yer, er else leave ye here, an' tell her I couldn't coax ye ter come.”
“Oh, don't tell herthat. If she's wanting so much to see me, I guess Ioughtto go,” Nancy said, but her voice trembled. Even although Sue had assured her that Uncle Steve was not living, the old fear ofanymember of his family made her hesitate.
“I'm so glad ter see ye agin, Nancy,” coaxed Sue, “an' ye'd ought ter feel reel safe withme.”
“I'll go,” Nancy said, “if you'llpromisetobringmeback!”
'I'll go if you'll promise to bring me back.'“I'll go if you'll promise to bring me back.”
“Why, of course I will,” said Sue, and after a moment's hesitating, Nancy ran over to the cottage, wrote a hasty note, which she left upon the table, and then, with her heart beating fast, and her lashes still wet with tears, she walked swiftly down the avenue with Sue.
Sue was delighted to be with Nancy again, and she had no idea that she was doing anything which could possibly cause Nancy's friends any uneasiness.
She had intended to call at the house, and ask permission to take Nancy to her aunt.
Having met Nancy at the gate, she had learned that there was no one at home, but she had urged Nancy to leave a note at the cottage telling where she had gone, and with whom, and she felt that that made the whole affair open and honest. Nancy's loving little heart was less light. She thought that it must be right to go with Sue, and if her aunt was soverysick, why surely she ought not to delay going to her, but if only dear Aunt Charlotte had been at home she could haveaskedher; could have just asked her.
Sue talked all the way, but Nancy said little, and when they had nearly reached the depot she looked back, and as she looked, wondered if, even then, she ought to run back to the cottage. Then the thought of her aunt calling constantly for her caused her once more to think that it must be right for her to go.
There were not many minutes in which to think about it, for when Sue had bought their tickets, the whistle of a locomotive was heard coming around a bend of the road, and almost before Nancy knew it they were seated in the car, and spinning over the rails towards the little town where her aunt was now living.
It was all like a dream. She saw the tall trees, the broad fields now brown, yet bare of snow, because the warm sun had melted it, the church spires of other villages standing out clearly against the blue sky, but they blurred and became indistinct, because she could not keep back the tears. She was not really crying, but as fast as the tears were forced back, others would come, and she turned from the window to hear what Sue was saying.
“I say it's only three stations more, an' then we'll be there, an' when ye see how much good it'll do yer aunt, ye'll be glad ye come,” she said.
Nancy's eyes brightened. If it was to do so much good, then she had done right. It must be that she really ought to be on her way towards the little house, and Sue had promised to return with her.
And now the train, which had been flying along, slackened its speed, and a frowzy-haired brakeman thrust his head into the car doorway, shouting something, Nancy could not tell what.
“Here we are,” said Sue, as she rose to her feet.
Nancy slipped from the seat, and together they left the car and stepped out upon the platform.
“I didn't ask ye ef ye wanted ter bring anything with yer?” said Sue. “Ye could hev packed a little bag with anything ye'd want while ye was here.”
“Why, what should I want to bring in a bag?” Nancy asked in surprise.
“I didn't know but you'd want a apron, a night-gown, or something,” Sue replied.
Nancy stood still in the middle of the road, and stared at Sue.
“Anight-dress!Why, aren't you coming back with me to-night?”
“Why, Nancy, don't stop there. I thought I told ye that yer aunt wanted yer ter visit her.”
“You said she wanted to look at me, and that she had something to give me, and something to tell me, but that wouldn't take long, and I ought to go home to-night.”
“But there's no train home ter-night, Nancy. This is a little town, an' there's only two er three trains a day. Yemusthev told in yer letter that ye was goin' tervisityer aunt, didn't yer?”
“I don't know whether Isaidvisit or not, but truly I didn't think you meant to stay over night,” Nancy replied.
“Wal, I guess ye said so, an' here's the street. It's only a lane, an' that little bit of a house where the cat sits on the step is the one where yer aunt lives. It's kind er cosy, ain't it?”
Nancy did not notice Sue's question. She was looking at the little house, the tiny fruit-trees in the yard, and the white cat that sat upon the upper step, washing its face in the sun.
The place looked very poor and small after the Dainty mansion and the trim stone cottage. But small though it was, it looked far better than the old house in the city where Steve Ferris had taken her, when he had stolen her from her home and friends.
Nancy could not help making friends with the white cat, and it purred with delight at being noticed. Sue slipped a key into the lock, and opened the door. They entered the tiny hall, and the white cat followed them, as they walked towards a little room at the rear.
“Is that you, Sue? Did ye see her? Did she come?” called a thin, tired voice.
Sue opened the door of the sitting-room and Nancy ran in, all sympathy now for the aunt who was really ill.
Mrs. Ferris lay upon an old carpet-covered lounge, and she raised herself upon her elbow to look at Nancy as she stood before her.
“Set down on that little stool, Nancy,” she said, “so I kin look at ye better. My! But ye look well an' strong 'side er what ye did when I last seen ye, whilst I've grown sick an' tired. But seein' ye'll do me good, an' ter-morrer I'll talk with ye. They's some things Imustsay, but I'll rest ter-night, an' tell ye ter-morrer.”
Nancy looked the fear that she felt, and Mrs. Ferris hastened to reassure her.
“Ye're safe here, Nancy,” she said. “There ain't nobody here ter harm ye. Like 'nough Sue remembered ter tell ye 'bout yer Uncle Steve.”
Nancy nodded, and was about to speak when Mrs. Ferris continued:
“I don't want ter speak hard 'bout him now, an' I don't hev ter. Ye was with us long 'nough ter know what yer Uncle Steve was like, but I will tell ye one thing: we didn't hev no luck after ye left us. Steve kept ye dancin' at the theatre, an' they paid well fer dancin', too. Then ye was sick, an' them two ladies come an' took yer home. After that we went from one place ter another, Steve workin' when he felt like it, an' not workin' when hedidn'tfeel like it, which was most er the time. Since he's went, I've worked hard at sewin', an' with a few boarders I've managed ter save 'nough ter buy this little house. It didn't cost much. It's in a out-er-the-way place, an' they's only four rooms in it, but ef I kin git well agin I'll earn 'nough ter git along.”
She lay back against the pillow as if telling the story had tired her.
The clock upon the little mantel ticked loudly, and the white cat blinked at it a moment, then sprang up into Nancy's lap. She clasped her arms around it, and bending, laid her cheek against its head.
Mrs. Ferris opened her eyes, and lay watching Nancy, as she caressed the cat.
“I like ter see ye here,” she said, “an' ter-morrer I'll tell ye why I sent fer ye.”
The kitchen door opened, and the scent of brewing tea came in with Sue as she entered with a little tray which she placed upon a chair near Mrs. Ferris.
“There's yer tea an' toast,” she said, “an' ye kin help yerself while me an' Nancy has some in the kitchen.”
And while Nancy sat beside Sue, and tried very hard to like the coarse food offered her, her friends at the great stone house found it impossible to taste the tempting dishes which graced their table.
Mr. Dainty was away from home on important business, and Mrs. Dainty had asked Aunt Charlotte to come to the house with Nancy, and stay with her until he should return.
So when Mrs. Dainty's shopping was finished, and Aunt Charlotte had left the house of her friend, they had met at the station, and had found seats in the first car of the train. Their carriage was waiting for them when they arrived at Merrivale, and all the way up the avenue Dorothy talked of the gift which she had bought for Nancy, and of Nancy's delight when she should see it.
But no Nancy ran out to greet them, nor was she in sight when they entered the hall.
In sudden terror Dorothy had thrown herself down into a cushioned chair, and no words of comfort could stop her sobbing or stay her hot tears. That Nancy was stolen, never to return, she earnestly believed, and although Mrs. Dainty tried to quiet her, and to assure her that her playmate would doubtless soon be found, she only shook her head, and cried at the thought that her Nancy was not with her.
The maid was sent to the cottage to see if any accident had befallen her which kept her there, while the butler, in the interest which he felt, forgot his dignity and begged permission to call at the homes of her little friends to learn if she were there.
He soon returned with the news that Mollie and Flossie had played with her all the forenoon, and had promised to go over to the cottage after lunch; that they did so, but they found no one to play with, and after waiting for some time, they ran unable to understand why Nancy had not been waiting to greet them.
Then the maid entered.
“If ye please, Mrs. Grayson, I found this paper on yer table. I do'no' what it is, fer I'd not be readin' what wa'n't writ ter me, but wonderin' if it was writ by Miss Nancy, I've brought it ter ye.”
Dorothy sat with wide eyes and pale cheeks, her slender fingers tightly clasping the arms of the chair. Could the note be from Nancy? Would it tell where she was?
Mrs. Dainty leaned over Aunt Charlotte's chair, and together they read the hastily pencilled note.
“Dear Aunt Charlotte:—I guess you remember Sue, I've forgotten what her other name is, but she's the girl that worked for Uncle Steve, and was so good to me when I was sick. She called to-day, and says my aunt is sick and thinks shemustsee me, and you needn't think I'm stolen, because Uncle Steve is dead, so he couldn't steal me again.
“My aunt doesn't live in the city. Sue meant to ask you if I could go, but you were away, and she said I ought to go so I did. I'll be right home as soon as my aunt has told me what Sue says she'sgotto tell.
“Lovingly,
“Nancy.”
“The dear child has not told uswhereher aunt lives, only that she isnotin the city. What are we to do?”
Aunt Charlotte's face was pale as she asked the question, and the hand which held the note shook so that the bit of paper rustled like a leaf as it lay against her silk gown.
“We can do nothing to-night,” Mrs. Dainty replied, “but to-morrow at daybreak the search must commence. I try to find comfort in the fact that the girl, Sue, seemed to be honest, and certainly she was straightforward if she intended to ask us if she might take Nancy to her aunt, and to insist that she write a note explaining her absence.”
“I am sure that the girl's intentions are honest, but I amnotso sure of the woman who sent her to get Nancy. Steve Ferris is dead, but while it was he who once stole Nancy, it was his wife who helped him to keep her. I am frightened, and I can not believe that she has sent for her only for the pleasure of seeing her.”
Mrs. Dainty turned quickly to see if Dorothy had heard what Aunt Charlotte had said, but Dorothy was questioning the maid to learn when she had last seen Nancy. Aunt Charlotte's words, which surely would have frightened her, had passed unnoticed.
It was late before any member of the household could think of sleeping, and when at last Dorothy lay dreaming of Nancy, her long lashes were wet with tears.
Mrs. Dainty had tried to comfort and cheer her by telling her thatthistime they knew with whom Nancy was staying, and that Sue, who had once before helped them to find her, would, doubtless, bring her back.
Dorothy had listened patiently, but when Mrs. Dainty kissed her and said “good night,” Dorothy threw her arms about her neck.
“Oh, mamma, I know we have Nancy's note,” she said, “and Suewasgood to her once, but how do we know what her aunt will do? What if she means to make her dance at a theatre, just as her Uncle Steve did?”
And Mrs. Dainty could find no words with which to comfort her, because her own heart was filled with that very thought which made Dorothy so unhappy.
And when the bright sunlight streamed in through the windows of the stone house it found every one wide awake and full of excitement, eager to be doing something towards finding Nancy, but in doubt as to what to do first.
It was Mrs. Dainty's calmness that stilled their excitement, her cool head that directed their efforts, her firm will which chose to guide, rather than command.
And while every effort was being made to find Nancy, and to learn if she were safe, Nancy lay upon an old bed in the little house in the country lane, and slept soundly, after having cried herself to sleep the night before.
She awoke with a start when a stray sunbeam came in through the tiny window and touched her cheek.
For a moment she stared at the glint of light which danced upon the wall, then a puzzled look came into her brown eyes, and she rubbed them as if in that way she might better see, and understand her strange surroundings.
Then suddenly she remembered all about it. Why she was in so shabby a room, and why she was there at all. Ah, yes, Sue had brought her, and she had thought that she should return that night.
Now the morning had come, and with it the hope that before night she would be again in her own home, and with those who were dear to her.
She listened. There was not a sound of any one stirring, nor was there any slight noises out-of-doors which told of busy people up and about at early morning. She had forgotten that they were not on a public highway. In the little lane there was continual quiet whether at dawn or at high noon, so that one might have thought the whole town asleep, or at least napping.
And shabby as the bed was upon which Nancy lay, it was far more comfortable than the old lounge which Sue had chosen to occupy.
She had tried to honor Nancy as her guest, and so had given her the best resting-place which the cottage afforded.
Nancy wondered if Sue were yet awake.
“Sue!” she whispered.
“Yes,” whispered Sue in reply.
“Isn't it time to get up now?”
“Not yet,” said Sue, “fer Mis' Ferris don't hev her breakfast till 'bout ten, an' it ain't pleasant ter wander 'round a cold house when there ain't no reason fer it, an' she don't want wood burned fer a fire until I use it ter git breakfast with. Ye might try ter git ter sleep agin; they's nothin' else ter do.”
One glance around the dingy chamber would have told any one that much could be done before a ten-o'clock breakfast, but Mrs. Ferris wished the house to be quiet during the early hours of the morning.
And in spite of the fact that she was very wide awake, Nancy did go to sleep.
At first she amused herself by staring at the odd-shaped scrolls and blossoms upon the paper. There were blue and yellow flowers with bright green leaves, supported upon latticework of a queer shade of brown.
Nancy thought the vines looked as if they were crawling, and that the yellow blossoms were shaped like huge bugs. The longer she looked at it the more it seemed as if those vines did really move upon the wall. While she watched them she dropped to sleep and dreamed that she was trying to dance, but could not do the graceful steps which she so well knew, because those vines had come down from the wall, and were tangled about her feet.
When she again awoke the sun was shining brightly, and she could hear the rattling of dishes down in the little kitchen.
She sprang up, and hurriedly dressed, wondering why Sue had not called her. There was frost upon the window-pane, and she shivered. Each garment which she put on seemed colder than the one before.
She searched the room for a button-hook, and finding none, ran down to the kitchen.
“Thought I wouldn't call ye till we got a bit warmed up,” said Sue.
“What's that? No. I ain't seen no button-hook in this place, but ye jest set on that chair an' I'll fasten yer boots fer ye.”
She took a huge, crooked hair-pin from her hair, and buttoned Nancy's boots with wonderful speed, when the tool which she worked with was considered.
And what a breakfast that was, which Nancy ate from a blue-edged pie-plate that was badly crackled.
A small piece of very tough ham, an egg fried for ten minutes, until it looked and tasted like leather, a boiled potato the color of lead, and a biscuit of about the same hue.
“I don't s'pose ye're used ter drinkin' tea, but I guess I'll give ye some ter wash yer bread down. That biscuit's kinder dry,” and she offered Nancy a cup of drink, which, from its flavor, might have been tea—or anything else.
The little kitchen was dingy, and the food not at all like the appetizing fare which she usually enjoyed, but she was hungry, and Sue felt flattered that Nancy ate the breakfast which she had served.
And after breakfast how the hours dragged!
Nancy was anxious to be starting for home, yet she could do nothing to hasten the time when she could go. Sue was busy with the ordinary work of the morning, and Mrs. Ferris had told her to tell Nancy that she would talk with her after dinner. That she felt too ill to see her until afternoon.
“'Tain't no use ter fret, Nancy,” said Sue, “she ain't good fer much till after dinner, but I guess shell talk with ye then fast 'nough.”
“But I'm wild to get back to the cottage,” wailed Nancy.
“Ye couldn't git there ter-day, fer this is Sunday, and we don't hev but two trains that stop here Sundays. One leaves here at half-past seven in the morning, an' the other stops here at half-past nine at night, but that one goes ter the city, an' that would be going right away from Merrivale.”
Nancy made no reply, but turned to look from the window.
“To-morrow will be Monday, and Imustget back to school,” she thought.
It was late in the afternoon when Mrs. Ferris called Nancy to listen to what she had to say.
“I kin talk ter ye now,” she said, “an' first I'll ask ye ef ye remember the old house in Merrivale where ye used ter live before Mis' Dainty give ye a home?”
“I guess Ido,” said Nancy.
“Wal, 'twa'n't much of er livin' ye had, an' the woman what took keer of ye was only yerstepmother. Did ye know that?”
“Some of the children told me,” Nancy replied.
“Wal, did any one ever tell ye 'bout yerownmother?”
Nancy stared in round-eyed surprise.
“Why, if she was mystepmother, of course I must have had an own mother once, but I never thought of it.”
“She was a beauty, an' ye'll look like her when ye're a young lady. Her hair was dark an' curly, an' her figger was graceful. Her big dark eyes was melting, an' she could dance, oh, how she could dance!”
“My mamma danced?” questioned Nancy.
“She danced like a fairy. She was a stage dancer; there's where ye got yer nimble toes, but she died when ye wasn't a year old, an' yer father married that other woman who wa'n't nobody at all. Yer own ma was called ‘Ma'm'selle Nannette’ on the play-bills, an' she was a good woman, a sweet woman as ever lived.”
“I wish I'd known her,” Nancy said, her eyes filled with tears at the thought of the beautiful young mother whom she had never known.
“An' one thing I sent fer yer fer was this,” and Mrs. Ferris took a small box from beneath her shawl. “What's in this box belonged ter yer own ma, an' how Steve got hold of it I don't know. I found it 'mong his things, an' when I see yer ma's name on to it, I knew he'd no right ter hev it. I took an' hid it, an' Steve tore 'round like mad a-tellin' that he'd been robbed, but he didn't say anything ter the perlice, 'cause he knew it didn't b'long ter him in the first place.”
She opened the box and held up a slender gold necklace set with tiny brilliants.
Nancy clasped her hands together, and gasped, 'Oh!--O--O!'Nancy clasped her hands together, and gasped, “Oh!–O–O!”
Nancy clasped her hands together, and gasped, “Oh-o-o,” in admiration.
“There's the name on the clasp,” said Mrs. Ferris.
“When I found it I wondered why he hadn't sold it when he was hard up, which was often 'nough, goodness knows, but after I hid it, he said he'd kept holdin' on to it fer the time when he'd need the money more, but I think he was'fraidter sell it. Knowin' 'twa'n't his'n, he thought hemightgit 'cused er hevin' stolen it.”
Nancy took the pretty necklace, and held it so that it sparkled like dewdrops.
It was truly a charming bit of jewelry, not costly, but tasteful, and just what one might think would have shone resplendent upon the white throat of the beautiful Nannette.
“It's yours by good rights,” Mrs. Ferris said, “an' I ain't like Steve was; I don't want nothin' that don't b'long ter me.
“Now I've given that ter ye, I feel some better. I've felt like a thief ever since I found it, an' knew who it b'longed ter. They's a note in the little box, an' when ye've puzzled over the flourishes done in fancy ink, ye kin read that that necklace was presented ter Ma'm'selle Nannette by, I forgot who, fer her beautiful dancin'.”
Nancy looked as if she listened in a dream.
“An' one thing more I want ter tell ye. I never approved er Steve's stealin' ye. I told him 'twa'n't right, but he wouldn't listen, an' I couldn't help ye. I was as 'fraid er him as ye was, an' he was so headstrong, I had ter let him do as he wanted ter. I'm tired now, and ye'd better run out ter the kitchen with Sue. I know I'll feel better now I've freed my mind.”
Nancy hurried to Sue to tell the wonderful story, and to show the necklace.
“And here's her name on the large flat side of the clasp,” she said.
Sue's eyes sparkled with delight.
“And I didn't like to ask her how soon I could go home, just when she'd given the pretty thing to me, but, Sue,” she continued, “don't you think she meanssurelyto let me go as early as to-morrow?”
“I do'no' what she means ter do, that is, notexactly, but p'raps ye won't hev ter ask her. Maybe she'll tell ye 'thout any teasin'.”
Those who would like to see Dorothy and her many friends again, and to learn what became of Nancy, may meet them all again in “Dorothy Dainty in the Country.”