Ronald Macdonald
"Just then an old woman with a green parrot in a big cage fell off the car while she was gettin' off backwards as usual, and Margaret didn't have no more chance to fight with the conductor. She saw, however, that he was terrible good lookin'—like the dummy in the tailor's window. It says in the story that 'Ronald Macdonald'—that was his name—was as handsome as a young Greek god and, though lowly in station, he would have adorned a title had it been his.'
"Margaret got to doin' some thinkin' about herself, and wonderin' why it was she didn't seem to age none. And whenever she happened to get onto Ronald Macdonald's car, she noticed that he was awful polite and chivalrous to women. He waited patiently when any two of 'em was decidin' who was to pay the fare and findin' their purses, and sayin', 'You must let me pay next time,' and he wouldtickle a cryin' baby under the chin and make it bill and coo like a bird.
"Did you ever see a baby bill? I never did neither, but that's what it said in the paper. I suppose it has some reference to the expense of their comin' and their keep through the whoopin' cough stage and the measles, and so on. There don't neither of you know nothin' about it 'cause you ain't married, but when Roger come, his pa was obliged to mortgage the house, and the mortgage didn't get took off until Roger was out of dresses and goin' to school and beginnin' to write with ink.
Fine Manners
"Let me see—what was I talkin' about? Oh, yes—Ronald Macdonald's fine manners. When a woman give him five pennies instead of a nickel, he was always just as polite to her as he was to anybody, and would help her off the car and carry her bundles to the corner for her, and everything like that. Of course Margaret couldn't help noticin' this and likin' him for it though she was still mad at him for what he said about her age.
"One morning Margaret give him a quarter so's he'd have to make change, and while he was doin' it, she says to him, 'How nice it must be to ride all day without payin' for it.'
"'I'm under age,' says Ronald Macdonald, with a smile that showed all his beautiful teeth and his ruby lips under his black waxed mustache.
"'Get out,' says Margaret, surprised.
"'I am, though,' says Ronald, confidentially. 'I'm just nineteen. How old are you?'
"'Thirteen,' says Margaret, softly.
"'Don't renig,' says Ronald. 'I think we're pretty near of an age.'
"When Margaret got home, she looked up 'renig' in the dictionary, but it wasn't there. She was too smart to ask Magdalene, but she kept on thinkin'.
Chance Acquaintances
"One day, while she was goin' down in the car, two men came in and sat by her. They was chance acquaintances, it seemed, havin' just met at the hotel. 'Your face is terrible familiar to me,' one of the men said. 'I've seen you before, or your picture, or something, somewhere. Upon my soul, I believe your picture is hung up in my last wife's boudoir.'
"'Good God,' says the other man, turnin' as pale as death, 'did you marry Magdalene Mather, too?'
"'I did,' says the first man.
"'Then, brother,' says the second man, 'let us get off at the next corner and go and drown our mutual sorrow in drink.'
"After they got off, Margaret went out to Ronald, and she says to him: 'There goes two of my aunt's husbands. She's had three, and there's two of 'em, right there.'
"'Well,' says Ronald, 'if Aunty ain't got a death certificate and two or three divorcesput away somewhere, she stands right in line to get canned for a few years for bigamy. You don't look like you had an aunt that was a trigamist,' says he.
"Margaret didn't understand much of this, but she still kept thinkin'. One day while Magdalene was at an afternoon reception, wearin' all of Margaret's jewels, Margaret looked all through her private belongings to see if she could find any divorces, and she come on a family Bible with the date of her birth in it, and her father's will.
Facts of the Case
"Soon, she understands the whole game, and by doin' a small sum in subtraction, she sees that she is goin' on nineteen now. She's afraid to leave the proofs in the house over night, so she wraps 'em up in a newspaper, and flies with 'em to her only friend Ronald Macdonald, and asks him to keep 'em for her until she comes after 'em. He says he will guard them with his life.
"When Margaret goes back after them, havin' decided to face her aunt and demand her inheritance, Ronald has already read 'em, but of course he don't let on that he has. He convinces her that she ought to get married before she faces her aunt, so that a husband's strong arm will be at hand to defend her through the terrible ordeal.
"Margaret thinks she sees a way out, for she has been studyin' up on law in the meantime, and she remembers how Ronald has told her he is under age, and she knows the marriage won't be legal, but will serve to deceive her aunt.
The Climax
"So she flies with him and they are married, and then when they confront Magdalene with the will, and the family Bible and their marriage certificate, and tell her she is a trigamist, and they will make trouble for her if she don't do right by 'em, Magdalene sobs out, 'Oh, Heaven, I am lost!' and falls in a dead faint from which she don't come out for six weeks.
"In the meantime, Margaret has thanked Ronald Macdonald for his great kindness, and says he can go now, as the marriage ain't legal, he bein' under age and not havin' his parents' consent. Ronald gives a long, loud laugh and then he digs up his family Bible and shows Margaret how he is almost twenty-five and old enough to be married, and that women have no patent on lyin' about their ages, and that he is not going away.
"Margaret swoons, and when she comes to, she finds that Ronald has resigned his job as a street-car conductor, and has bought some fine clothes on her credit, and is prepared to live happy ever afterward. He bids eternal farewell to work in a long and impassioned speech that's so full of fine language that it would do credit to a minister, and there Margaret is, in a trap of her own makin', with a husband to take care of her money instead of an aunt. Next week, I'll know more about how it turns out, but that's as far as I've got now. Ain't it a perfectly beautiful story?"
Miriam muttered some sort of answer, but Barbara smiled. "It is very interesting," she said, kindly. "I've never read anything like it."
Going the Rounds
"It's a lot better'n the books you and Roger waste your time over," returned the guest, much gratified; "but I can't lend you the papers, cause there's five waitin' after the postmaster's wife, and goodness knows how many of them has promised others. I don't mind runnin' over once in a while, though, and tellin' you about 'em while I sew.
"It keeps 'em fresh in my memory," she added, happily, "and Roger is so busy with his law books he don't have time to listen to 'em except at supper. He reads law every evening now, and he didn't used to. Guess he ain't wasting so much time as he was. Been down to the hotel yet?" she asked, inclining her head toward Miriam.
"Once," answered Miriam, reluctantly.
Gossip
"There ain't many come yet," the postmaster's wife tells me. "There's a young lady at the hotel named Miss Eloise Wynne, and every day but Saturday she gets a letter from the city, addressed in a man's writin'.And every afternoon, when the boy brings the hotel mail down to go out on the night train, there's a big white square envelope in a woman's writin' addressed to Doctor Allan Conrad, some place in the city. The envelope smells sweet, but the writin' is dreadful big and sploshy-lookin'. Know anything about her?" Miss Mattie gazed sharply at Miriam over her spectacles.
"No," returned Miriam, decisively.
"Thought maybe you would. Anyhow, you don't need to be so sharp about it, cause there's no harm in askin' a civil question. My mother always taught me that a civil question called for a civil answer. I should think, from the letters and all, that he was her steady company, shouldn't you?"
"It's possible," assented Barbara, seeing that Miriam did not intend to reply.
"There's some talk at the sewin' circle of gettin' you one of them hand sewin' machines," continued Miss Mattie, "so's you could sew more and better."
Barbara flushed painfully. "Thank you," she answered, "but I couldn't use it. I much prefer to do all my work by hand."
"All right," assented Miss Mattie, good-humouredly. "It ain't our idea to force a sewin' machine onto anybody that don't want it. We can use some of the money in gettin' a door-mat for the front door of the church.And, if I was you, I wouldn't let my pa run around so much by himself. If he wants to borrow a dog to go with him, Roger would be willin' to lend him Judge Bascom's Fido. If the Judge wasn't willin', Roger would try to persuade him. Lendin' Fido would make law easier for Roger and be a great help to your pa.
"I must go, now, and get supper. Good-bye. I've enjoyed my visit ever so much. Come over sometime, Miriam—you ain't very sociable. Good-bye."
The two women watched Miss Mattie scudding blithely over the trail which, as she said, Roger had worn in the grass. Miriam looked after her gloomily, but Barbara was laughing.
"Don't look so cross, Aunty," chided Barbara. "No one ever came here who was so easy to entertain."
"Humph," grunted Miriam, and went out.
Relief
But even Barbara sighed in relief when she was left alone. She understood some of Roger's difficulties of which he never spoke, and realised that the much-maligned "Bascom liver" could not be held responsible for all his discontent.
She wondered what Roger's father had been like, and did not wonder that he was unhappy, if his nature was in any way akin to his son's. But her mother? How could she have failed to appreciate the beautiful old father whomBarbara loved with all the passion and strength of her young heart!
The Secret
"He mustn't know," said Barbara to herself, for the hundredth time. "Father must never know."
The Postponed Visit
As cool and fresh as the June morning of which she seemed a veritable part, Miss Eloise Wynne, immaculately clad in white linen, opened the little grey gate. It was a week later than she had promised to come, but she had not been idle, and considered herself justified for the delay.
Miriam opened the door for her and introduced Barbara. Eloise smiled radiantly as she offered a smooth, well-kept hand. "I know I'm late," she said, "but I think you'll forgive me for it a little later on. I want to see all the lingerie—every piece you have to sell."
"Would you mind coming upstairs?" asked Barbara.
"No, indeed."
The two went up, Barbara slowly leading the way. Miriam remained downstairs to make sure that the blind man did not come in unexpectedly and overhear things which he would be much happier not to know.
"What a lot of it," Eloise was saying. "And what a wonderful old chest."
Dainty Wares
Trembling with excitement, Barbara spread forth her dainty wares. Eloise was watching her narrowly, and, with womanly intuition, saw the dire need and the courageous spirit struggling against it.
"Just a minute, please," said Barbara; "I'd better tell you now. My father is blind and he does not know we are poor, nor that I make these things to sell. He thinks that they are for myself and that I am very vain. So, if he should come home while you are here, please do not spoil our little deceit."
Barbara lifted her luminous blue eyes to Eloise and smiled. It was a brave little smile without a hint of self-pity, and it went straight to the older woman's heart.
"I'll be careful," said Eloise. "I think it's dear of you."
"Now," said Barbara, stooping to peer into the corners of the deep chest, "I think that's all." She began, hurriedly, to price everything as she passed it to Eloise, giving the highest price each time. When she had finished, she was amazed at Miss Wynne's face—it was so full of resentment.
"Do you mean to tell me," asked Eloise, in a queer voice, "that you are askingthatforthese?"
The blue eyes threatened to overflow, butBarbara straightened herself proudly. "It is all hand work," she said, with quiet dignity, "and the material is the very best. I could not possibly afford to sell it for less."
"You goose," laughed Eloise, "you have misunderstood me. There is not a thing here that is not worth at least a third more than you are asking for it. Give me a pencil and paper and some pins."
Higher Prices
Barbara obeyed, wondering what this beautiful visitor would do next. Eloise took up every garment and examined it critically. Then she made a new price tag and pinned it over the old one. She advanced even the plainest garments at least a third, the more elaborate ones were doubled, and some of the embroidered things were even tripled in price. When she came to the shirtwaist patterns, exquisitely embroidered upon sheerest handkerchief linen, she shamelessly multiplied the price by four and pinned the new tag on.
"Oh," gasped Barbara; "nobody will ever pay that much for things to wear."
"Somebody is going to right now," announced Eloise, with decision. "I'll take this, and this, and this," she went on, rapidly choosing, "and these, and these, and this. I'll take those four for a friend of mine who is going to be married next week—this solves the eternal problem of wedding-presents—and all of these for next Santa Claus time.
"I can use all the handkerchiefs, and every pin-cushion cover and corsage-pad you've made. Please don't sell anything else until I've heard from some more of my friends to whom I have already written. And you're not to offer one of these exquisite things to those unappreciative people at the hotel, for I have a letter from a friend who is on the Board of Directors of the Woman's Exchange, and got a chance for you to sell there. How long have you been doing this?"
In a Whirl of Confusion
"Seven or eight years," murmured Barbara. Her senses were so confused that the room seemed to be whirling and her face was almost as white as the lingerie.
"And those women at the hotel would really buy these things at such ridiculous prices?"
"Not often," answered Barbara, trying to smile. "They would not pay so much. Sometimes we had to sell for very little more than the cost of the material. One woman said we ought not to expect so much for things that were not made with a sewing-machine, but of course, Aunt Miriam had been to the city and she knew that hand work was worth more."
"I wish I'd been there," remarked Eloise. There was a look around her mouth which would have boded no good to anybody if she had. "When I see what brutes women can be, sometimes I am ashamed because I am a woman."
"And," returned Barbara, softly, "when I see what good angels women can be, it makes me proud to be a woman."
"Where do you get your material?" asked Eloise, quickly.
Barbara named the large department store where Aunt Miriam bought linen, lawn, batiste, lace, patterns, and incidentally managed to absorb ideas.
"I see I'm needed in Riverdale-by-the-Sea," observed Miss Wynne. "I can arrange for you to buy all you want at the lowest wholesale price."
"Would it save anything?" asked Barbara, doubtfully.
Practical Help
"Would it?" repeated Eloise, smiling. "Just wait and see. After I've written about that and had some samples sent to you, we'll talk over half a dozen or more complete sets of lingerie for me, and some more shirtwaists. Is there a pen downstairs? I want to write a check for you."
When they went into the living-room, Barbara's cheeks were burning with excitement and her eyes shone like stars. When she took the check, which Eloise wrote with an accustomed air, she could scarcely speak, but managed to stammer out, "Thank you."
"You needn't," said Eloise, coolly, "for I'm only buying what I want at a price I consider very reasonable and fair. If you'll getsome samples of your work ready, I'll send up for them, and hurry them on to my friend who is to put them into the Woman's Exchange. And please don't sell anything more just now. I've just thought of a friend whose daughter is going to be married soon, and she may want me to select some things for her."
"You're a fairy godmother," said Barbara. "This morning we were poor and discouraged. You came in and waved your wand, and now we are rich. I have heart for anything now."
Always Rich
"You are always rich while you have courage, and without it Crœsus himself would be poor. It's not the circumstance, remember—it's the way you meet it."
"I know," said Barbara, but her eyes filled with tears of gratitude, nevertheless.
Ambrose North came in from the street, and immediately felt the presence of a stranger in the room. "Who is here?" he asked.
"This is Miss Wynne, Father. She is stopping at the hotel and came up to call."
The old man bowed in courtly fashion over the young woman's hand. "We are glad to see you," he said, gently. "I am blind, but I can see with my soul."
"That is the true sight," returned Eloise. Her big brown eyes were soft with pity.
"Have many of the guests come?" he inquired.
"I have a friend," laughed Eloise, "whosays it is wrong to call people 'guests' when they are stopping at a hotel. He insists that 'inmates' is a much better word."
"He is not far from right," said the old man, smiling. "Is he there now?"
"No, he comes down Saturday mornings and stays until Monday morning. That is all the vacation he allows himself. You are fortunate to live here," she added, kindly. "I do not know of a more beautiful place."
Invited to Luncheon
"Nor I. To us—to me, especially—it is hallowed by memories. We—you will stay to luncheon, will you not, Miss Wynne?"
Eloise glanced quickly at Barbara. "If you only would," she said.
"If you really want me," said Eloise, "I'd love to." She took off her hat—a white one trimmed with lilacs—and smoothed the waves in her copper-coloured hair. Barbara took her crutches and went out, very quietly, to help Aunt Miriam prepare for the guest.
When the kitchen door was safely closed, Barbara's joy bubbled into speech. "Oh, Aunt Miriam," she cried; "she's bought nearly every thing I had and paid almost double price for it. She's already arranged for me to sell at the Woman's Exchange in the city, and she is going to write to some of her friends about the things I have left. She's going to arrange for me to get all my material at the lowest wholesale price, and she's ordered six completesets of lingerie for herself. She wants some more shirtwaists, too. Oh, Aunt Miriam, do you think the world is coming to an end?"
"Has she paid you?" queried Miriam, gravely.
"Indeed she has."
"Then it probably is."
Miriam was not a woman easily to be affected by joy, but the hard lines of her face softened perceptibly. "Show her the quilts," she suggested.
"Oh, Aunt Miriam, I'd be ashamed to, to-day, when she's bought so much. She'll be coming up again before long—she said so. And father's asked her to luncheon."
"Just like him," commented Miriam, with a sigh. "He always suffered from hospitality. I'll have to go to the store."
The Best We Have
"No, you won't, Aunty—she's not that sort. We'll give her the best we have, with a welcome thrown in."
If Eloise thought it strange for one end of the table to be set with solid silver, heavy damask, and fine china, while the other end, where she and the two women of the house sat, was painfully different, she gave no sign of it in look or speech. The humble fare might have been the finest banquet so far as she was concerned. She fitted herself to their ways without apparent effort; there was no awkwardness nor feeling of strangeness. She might have beena life-long friend of the family, instead of a passing acquaintance who had come to buy lingerie.
Friendly Conversation
As she ate, she talked. It was not aimless chatter, but the rare gift of conversation. She drew them all out and made them talk, too. Even Miriam relaxed and said something more than "yes" and "no."
"What delicious preserves," said Eloise. "May I have some more, please? Where do you get them?"
"I make them," answered Miriam, the dull red rising in her cheeks. She had not been entirely disinterested when she climbed up on a chair and took down some of her choicest fruit from the highest shelf of the store-room.
"Do you—" A look from Barbara stopped the unlucky speech. "Do you find it difficult?" asked Eloise, instantly mistress of the situation. "I should so love to make some for myself."
"Miriam will be glad to teach you," put in Ambrose North. "She likes to do it because she can do it so well."
The red grew deeper in Miriam's lined face, for every word of praise from him was food to her hungry soul. She would gladly have laid down her life for him, even though she hated herself for feeling as she did.
An Hour of Song
Afterward, while Miriam was clearing off the table, Eloise went to the piano withoutbeing asked, and sang to them for more than an hour. She chose folk-songs and tender melodies—little songs made of tears and laughter, and the simple ballads that never grow old. She had a deep, vibrant contralto voice of splendid range and volume; she sang with rare sympathy, and every word could be clearly understood.
"Don't stop," pleaded Barbara, when she paused and ran her fingers lightly over the keys.
"I don't want to impose upon your good-nature," she returned, "but I love to sing."
"And we love to have you," said North. "I think, Barbara, we must get a new piano."
"I wouldn't," answered Eloise, before Barbara could speak. "The years improve wine and violins and friendship, so why not a piano?" Without waiting for his reply, she began to sing, with exquisite tenderness:
"Sometimes between long shadows on the grassThe little truant waves of sunlight pass;Mine eyes grow dim with tenderness the while,Thinking I see thee, thinking I see thee smile."And sometimes in the twilight gloom apartThe tall trees whisper, whisper heart to heart;From my fond lips the eager answers fall,Thinking I hear thee, thinking I hear thee call."
"Yes," said Ambrose North, unsteadily, as the last chord died away, "I know. You cancall and call, but nothing ever comes back to you." The tears streamed over his blind face as he rose and went out of the room.
"What have I done?" asked Eloise. "Oh, what have I done?"
"Nothing," sighed Barbara. "My mother has been dead for twenty-one years, but my father never forgets. She was only a girl when she died—like me."
"I'm so sorry. Why didn't you tell me before, so I could have chosen jolly, happy things?"
"That wouldn't keep him from grieving—nothing can, so don't be troubled about it."
Eloise turned back to the piano and sang two or three rollicking, laughing melodies that set Barbara's one foot to tapping on the floor, but the old man did not come back.
"I never meant to stay so long," said Eloise, rising and putting on her hat.
"It isn't long," returned Barbara, with evident sincerity. "I wish you wouldn't go."
"But I must, my dear. If I don't go, I can never come again. I have lots of letters to write, and mail will be waiting for me, and I have some studying to do, so I must go."
Adieus
Barbara went to the door with her. "Good-bye, Fairy Godmother," she said, wistfully.
"Good-bye, Fairy Godchild," answered Eloise, carelessly. Then something in the girl's face impelled her to put a strong armaround Barbara, and kiss her, very tenderly. The blue eyes filled with tears.
"Thank you for that," breathed Barbara, "more than for anything else."
Eloise went away humming to herself, but she stopped as soon as she was out of sight of the house. "The little thing," she thought; "the dear, brave little thing! A face like an angel, and that cross old woman, and that beautiful old man who sees with his soul. And all that exquisite work and the prices those brutal women paid her for it. Blind and lame, and nothing to be done."
Then another thought made her brown eyes very bright. "But I'm not so sure of that—we'll see."
A Request
She wrote many letters that afternoon, and all were for Barbara. The last and longest was to Doctor Conrad, begging him to come at the first possible moment and go with her to see a poor broken child who might be made well and strong and beautiful.
"And," the letter went on, "perhaps you could give her father back his eyesight. She calls me her Fairy Godmother, and I rely upon you to keep my proud position for me. Any way, Allan, dear, please come, won't you?"
Awaiting Results
She closed it with a few words which wouldhave made him start for the Klondike that night, had there been a train, and she asked it of him; posted it, and hopefully awaited results.
Dr. Conrad Comes
"Well, I'm here," remarked Doctor Conrad, as he sat on the beach with Eloise. "I have left all my patients in the care of an inferior, though reputable physician, who has such winning ways that he may have annexed my entire practice by the time I get back.
"If you'll tell me just where these protégées of yours are, I'll go up there right away. I'll ring the bell, and when they open the door I'll say: 'I've come from Miss Wynne, and I'm to amputate this morning and remove a couple of cataracts this afternoon. Kindly have the patients get ready at once.'"
"Don't joke, Allan," pleaded Eloise. Her brown eyes were misty and her mood of exalted tenderness made her in love with all the world. "If you could see that brave little thing, with her beautiful face and her divine unselfishness, hobbling around on crutches and sewing for a living, meanwhile keeping her blind oldfather from knowing they are poor, you'd feel just as I do."
Discussing the Case
"It is very improbable," returned Allan, seriously, "that anything can be done. If they were well-to-do, they undoubtedly made every effort and saw everybody worth seeing."
"But in twenty years," suggested Eloise, hopefully. "Think of all the progress that has been made in twenty years."
"I know," said Allan, doubtfully. "All we can do is to see. And if anything can be done for them, why, of course we'll do it."
"Then we'll go for a little drive," she said, "and on our way back, we can stop there and get the things I bought the other day. They have no one to send with them, and it's too much for one person to carry, anyway."
"I suppose she has sold everything she had," mused Allan impersonally.
"Not quite," answered Eloise, flushing. "I left her some samples for the Woman's Exchange."
"Very kind," he observed, with the same air of detachment. "I can see my finish. My wife will have so much charity work for me to do that there will be no time for anything else, and, in a little while, she will have given away all the money we both have. Then when we're sitting together in the sun on the front steps of the poorhouse, we can fittingly lament the end of our usefulness."
Policy of Segregation
"They won't let us sit together," she retorted. "Don't you know that even in the old people's homes they keep the men and women apart—husbands and wives included?"
"For the love of Mike, what for?" he asked, in surprise.
"Because it makes the place too gay and frivolous. Old ladies of eighty were courted by awkward swains of ninety and more, and there was so much checker-playing in the evening and so many lights burning, and so many requests for new clothes, that the management couldn't stand it. There were heart-burnings and jealousies, too, so they had to adopt a policy of segregation."
"'Hope springs eternal in the human breast,'" quoted Allan.
"And love," she said. "I've thought sometimes I'd like to play fairy godmother to some of those poor, desolate old people who love each other, and give them a pretty wedding. Wouldn't it be dear to see two old people married and settled in a little home of their own?"
"Or, more likely, with us," he returned. "I've been thinking about a nice little house with a guest room or two, but I've changed my mind. My vote is for a very small apartment. You're not the sort to be trusted with a guest room."
Starting Off
Eloise laughed and sprang to her feet. "Onto the errand of mercy," she said. "We're wasting valuable time. Get a horse and buggy and I'll see if I can borrow an extra suit-case or two for my purchases."
When she came down, Allan was waiting for her in the buggy. A bell-boy, in her wake, brought three suit-cases and piled them under the seat. Half a dozen rocking-chairs, on the veranda, held highly interested observers. The paraphernalia suggested an elopement.
"Tell those women on the veranda," said Eloise, to the boy, "that I'm not taking any trunks and will soon be back."
"What for?" queried Allan, as they drove away.
"Reasons of my own," she answered, crisply. "Men are as blind as bats."
"I'm wearing glasses," he returned, with due humility. "If you think I'm fit to hear why you left that cryptic message, I'd be pleased to."
"You're far from fit. Here, turn into this road."
Spread like a tawny ribbon upon the green of the hills, the road wound lazily through open sunny spaces and shaded aisles sweet with that cool fragrance found only in the woods. The horse did not hurry, but wandered comfortably from side to side of the road, browsing where he chose. He seemed to know that lovers were driving him.
Horses versus Autos
"He's a one-armed horse, isn't he?" laughed Eloise. "I like him lots better than an automobile, don't you?"
"Out here, I do. But an automobile has certain advantages."
"What are they?" she demanded. "I'd rather feed a horse than to buy a tire, any day."
"So would I—unless he tired of his feed. But if you want to get anywhere very quickly and the thing happens not to break, the machine is better."
"But it never happens. I believe the average automobile is possessed of an intuition little short of devilish. A horse seems more friendly. If you were thinking of getting me a little electric runabout for my birthday, please change it to a horse."
"All right," returned Allan, serenely. "We can keep him in the living-room of our six-room apartment and have his dinner sent in from the nearesttable d'oat. For breakfast, he can come out into thesalle à mangerand eat cereals with us."
"You're absolutely incorrigible," she sighed. "This is the river road. Follow it until I tell you where to turn."
Within half an hour, the horse came to a full stop of his own accord in front of the grey, weather-worn house where Barbara lived. He was cropping at a particularly enticing clump of grass when Eloise alighted.
"Going to push?" queried Allan, lazily.
"No, this is the place. Come on. You bring two of the suit-cases and I'll take the other."
Observations
The blind man was not there at the moment, but came in while Miriam was upstairs packing Miss Wynne's recent additions to her wardrobe. Doctor Conrad had been observing Barbara keenly as they talked of indifferent things. Outwardly, he was calm and professional, but within, a warmly human impulse answered her evident need.
He was young and had not yet been at his work long enough to determine his ultimate nature. Later on, his profession would do to him one of two things. It would transform him into a mere machine, brutalised and calloused, with only one or two emotions aside from selfishness left to thrive in his dwarfed soul, or it would humanise him to godlike unselfishness, attune him to a divine sympathy, and mellow his heart in tenderness beyond words. In one instance he would be feared; in the other, only loved, by those who came to him.
As Barbara went across the room to another chair, his eyes followed her with intense interest. Eloise shrank from him a little—she had never seen him like this before. Yet she knew, from the expression of his face, that he had found hope, and was glad.
"Barbara?" It was Miriam, calling from upstairs.
"In just a minute, Aunty. Excuse me, please—I'll come right back."
She was scarcely out of the room before Eloise leaned over to Allan, her face alight with eager questioning. "You think—?"
Willing to Try
"I don't know," he returned, in a low tone. "It depends on the hardness of the muscles and several other local conditions. Of course it's impossible to tell definitely without a thorough examination, but I've done it successfully in two adult cases, and have seen it done more than a dozen times. I'd be very willing to try."
"Oh, Allan," whispered Eloise. "I'm so glad."
Barbara's padded crutches sounded softly on the stairs as she came down. Eloise went to the window and studied the horse attentively, though he was not of the restless sort that needs to be tied.
While she was watching, Ambrose North came around the base of the hill, crossed the road, and opened the gate. He had been to his old solitude at the top of the hill, where, as nowhere else, he found peace. While he was talking with the visitors, Miriam went out, taking the neatly-packed suit-cases, one at a time, and put them into the buggy.
"Mr. North," said Doctor Conrad, "whilethese girls are chattering, will you go for a little drive with me?"
The blind man's fine old face illumined with pleasure. "I should like it very much," he said. "It is a long time since I had have a drive."
"It's more like a walk," laughed Allan, as they went out, "with this horse."
"We sold our horses many years ago," the old man explained, as he climbed in. "Miriam is afraid of horses and Barbara said she did not care to go. I thought the open air and the slight exercise would be good for her, but she insisted upon my selling them."
About Barbara
"It is about Barbara that I wished to speak," said Allan. "With your consent, I should like to make a thorough examination and see whether an operation would not do away with her crutches entirely."
"It is no use," sighed North, wearily. "We went everywhere and did everything, long ago. There is nothing that can be done."
"But there may be," insisted Allan. "We have learned much, in my profession, in the last twenty years. May I try?"
"You're asking me if you can hurt my baby?"
"Not to hurt her more than is necessary to heal. Understand me, I do not know but what you are right, but I hope, and believe, that there may be a chance."
"I have dreamed sometimes," said the old man, very slowly, "that my baby could walk and I could see."
If Possible
"The dream shall come true, if it is possible. Let me see your eyes." He stopped the horse on the brow of the hill, where the sun shone clear and strong, stood up, and turned the blind face to the light. Then, sitting down once more, he asked innumerable questions. When he finally was silent, Ambrose North turned to him, indifferently.
"Well?" The tone was simply polite inquiry. The matter seemed to be one which concerned nobody.
"Again I do not know," returned Allan. "This is altogether out of my line, but, if you'll go to the city with me, I'll take you to a friend of mine who is a great specialist. If anything can be done, he is the man who can do it. Will you come?"
There was a long pause. "If Barbara is willing," he answered simply. "Ask her."
The Plunge
Meanwhile, Eloise was talking to Barbara. First, she told her of the letters she had written in her behalf and to which the answers might come any day now. Then she asked if she might order preserves from Aunt Miriam, and discussed patterns and material for the lingerie she had previously spoken of. Finding, at length, that the best way to approach a difficult subject was the straightest one, she took the plunge.
"Have you always been lame?" she asked. She did not look at Barbara, but tried to speak carelessly, as she gazed out of the window.
"Yes," came the answer, so low that she could scarcely hear it.
"Wouldn't you like to walk like the rest of us?" continued Eloise.
Barbara writhed under the torturing question. "My mind can walk," she said, with difficulty; "my soul isn't lame."
The tone made Eloise turn quickly—and hate herself bitterly for her awkwardness. She saw that an apology would only make a bad matter worse, so she went straight on.
"Doctor Conrad is very skilful," she continued. "In the city, he is one of the few really great surgeons. He told me that he would like to make an examination and see if an operation would not do away with the crutches. He thinks there may be a good chance. If there is, will you take it?"
"Thank you," said Barbara, almost inaudibly. Her voice had sunk to a whisper and she was very pale. "I do not mean to seem ungrateful, but it is impossible."
"Impossible!" repeated Eloise. "Why?"
"Because of father," explained Barbara. Her colour was coming back slowly now. "Iam all he has, my work supplies his needs, and I dare not take the risk."
"Is that the only reason?"
Barbara nodded.
"You're not afraid?"
Barbara's blue eyes opened wide with astonishment. "Why should I be afraid?" she asked. "Do you take me for a coward?"
Eloise knelt beside Barbara's low chair and put her strong arms around the slender, white-clad figure. "Listen, dear," she said. Her face was shining as though with some great inner light.
"My own dear father died when I was a child. My mother died when I was born. I have never had anything but money. I have never had anyone to take care of, no one to make sacrifices for, no one to make me strong because I was needed. If the worst should happen, would you trust your father to me? Could you trust me?"
"Yes," said Barbara slowly; "I could."