Friday morning, Mary was half dressed when Gene came to wake her.
"There are so many things that I must do before it is time to start, you know, Gene."
"Why, Mary, you have nothing to do but to eat your breakfast and put your comb and brush in your suitcase. Neither have I," laughed the young girl.
"Indeed, I have some very important things to do, Gene, and I wish you would try to go around with your eyes closed and not fasten your suitcase until I tell you."
"Now, Mary, what did I say about gifts? You promised, you know."
"Yes, I know I promised not to let Uncle Frank buy you anything, and not to make anything myself; but his gift was already bought, and mine was already made; so we can't do anything but give them to you, can we?"
"You little mischief! I told you that I would like to have that picture of you and that was all. I thought we would surely find it before this."
"And I looked everywhere for the large ones like it that Mother has put away somewhere, but I couldn't find them. Never mind, Gene, you shall have that picture some day."
After breakfast when the Doctor had said good-bye to Gene, Mary clung to him, making him promise to leave early that evening for Maryvale.
"And I have telephoned to Aunt Mary to expect you on the ten-thirty train. She will send the sleigh with two or three of the large girls to meet you. Be sure to catch that train, for it will take you out there in good time for luncheon. Good-bye until evening."
"Now we must fly around and get ready, Gene. You know we have to stop at little Paul's home to give him and Sister Julia their presents. He may wish us to stay a few minutes, too. Oh, oh! don't fasten your suitcase yet, please!" Mary hurried to her uncle's room for Gene's gift, and returning, peeped in at the door. "Please look out the window a minute, Gene." Carefully laying the package on top of the things in the suitcase, she slammed down the cover and sat on it. "Now, you may fasten it, but I won't let you have even one, teeny, weeny peep. And you must promise not to open the suitcase until Christmas morning."
"But, darling, I can't promise that. There are things in it that I shall need as soon as I get home." Mary's face fell. "But I shall promise not to open your gift until Christmas. Will that do? is it wrapped?"
"Yes, Gene, it is wrapped, so you really can't see the pic——the——thething, anyway."
"Jim jes' done tol' me dat he's gwine to dribe around to de front now, so yo' bettah lemme holp yo' git yo' t'ings on, Miss May-ree, so's Miss Gene kin git her's on at de same time."
Liza smiled in a knowing fashion at Mary and took up the little girl's pretty, white coat and hat.
"Just a minute, Liza. I must wrap up Amelia Anabelle first. Will you please get the shawl out of the middle drawer?" Mary crossed the room to the door of the playroom, and Gene pretended to be busy with her suitcase.
"Why—oh! oh! oh!" Back ran the little girl to throw her arms about Gene and dance with her around the room. "You dear, darling, dumpling Gene!NowI know who the little friend is that you were knitting the pretty white mittens and leggings and embroidering the beautiful baby cloak and cap for.Youare the mischief!" And Mary was off again to the playroom, returning with Amelia Anabelle dressed for the trip. "See how nicely the ruching on her inside cap sticks out—just exactly enough. O Gene, you are too good to me!"
"I could never be that, dearie."
Then came Gene's turn for a surprise. She went into her own room, Mary and Liza following her as far as the door. She took up her hat and turned to the dresser, then gave a glad little cry; for on it lay a handsome, brown leather bag mounted in silver. Opening it, she found an envelope containing a twenty dollar gold piece and the Doctor's card on which was written, "May this bag never contain less."
Nearly two hours later, the train stopped at the village near Maryvale, and Mary at once spied the sleigh filled with the children from the convent. Two of the older ones were waiting on the station platform. One of them took Mary's suitcase, the other her doll, and the little girl threw her arms around Gene.
"Happy, happy Christmas and good-bye, Gene, until Monday. Uncle is going to take me with him when he goes to see your father, you know."
The young girl stood on the platform of the car, waving to the little, white-clad figure until a curve in the track cut off the view.
"Here's a place for you, Mary!" "Oh, sit by me,please!" "You'll be warmer right here, between Frances and me!" "Oh, what a darling doll!" "Let me hold her, please, Mary!" were some of the cries from the sleigh.
At last all were comfortably settled, and a jolly ride they had. Before they had gone very far, Amelia Anabelle had a tantrum which added greatly to the fun. Sister Madeline was at the door to welcome the little girl.
"Mother Johanna told me to give you one of the big girls' rooms, so we shall go there at once to take off your wraps. Let me carry that lovely baby. She looks too heavy for you."
"She is heavy, Aunt Mary; but I wouldn't mind that so much if she wasn't so cross. On the train there was a baby crying; but when Amelia Anabelle began, it just stopped to stare at her. And in the sleigh—well, I was 'shamed of her!" As her aunt laid the doll on the bed, Mary slyly pushed the button. "Did you ever see such a child! I s'pose I shall have to walk the floor with her." And then Mary laughed gaily at the look on Sister Madeline's face. "There now, she will be good until the next time."
But her aunt caught up the doll and soon found the cause of her antics. "You must take her with you when you go to see Mother Johanna after dinner, Mary. The dear old soul won't know what to make of her. Then I shall borrow her to amuse the Sisters at recreation. It is just dinner time, so we shall go down stairs. We close the large refectory when so few of the children are here, and they have their meals in the lunch room."
"'M, 'm, it smells Christmassy down here."
"Yes, Dora and Frances have decorated the lunch room with holly and evergreens. Have you brought an apron with you? They expect you to work, you know."
"I think it is going to be make-b'lieve work, Aunt Mary. Yes, Liza put an apron in my suitcase, because this dress doesn't wash, and I am going to wear it to travel in."
The afternoon passed quickly for the nine little girls gathered around the table in the recreation room, where the roaring flames were dancing up the big chimney. They strung popcorn to help Santa Claus deck the tree, and it is safe to say that quite as much went into their mouths as on the long threads.
"The tree will be right there in the bay window, Mary."
"Yes, and we hang our stockings around the fireplace."
"But we don't get a peep at our presents until after the Masses on Christmas morning."
"We have Midnight Mass you know, Mary, and then we have a lunch and go back to bed. At six o'clock Father Hartley begins and says two more Masses."
"Midnight Mass! Oh, I have never been to Midnight Mass. It must be lovely. Four o'clock Mass was the earliest at our church, and Mother and Father and Uncle Frank and I went. It was pitch dark, and the stars were shining, and the snow was so nice and crunchy. That reminds me. We must do all we can this afternoon, Sister, because Uncle is going to take us for a long sleigh ride to-morrow."
A chorus of "Goody!" greeted this statement.
"Let's tell stories while we work, Sister," proposed Dora. "Christmas stories. You begin, please."
"Oh, no, save Sister Austin's for the last. Begin with the youngest. That's you, Effie." And the little five-year-old began, "Oncey-ponny-time."
When at last Sister Austin's turn came, she told them the beautiful story which never grows old—the story which gives the true meaning to Christmas. The sun had set when she finished, and Mary leaned toward her, asking in a low voice, "Do you know what time it is, Sister? Aunt Mary said she would come for me when it is time to watch for Uncle; but I am afraid she might forget."
"No danger of that, dear. It is only a quarter to five. At this time of year, the days are very short, you know."
Before another hour had passed, Sister Madeline came for the little girl.
"I have sent Peter with the sleigh to meet Uncle Frank, for it is a long, cold walk from the station. The small room at the right of the front door will be the very best place to watch for him. There is no light there, and we can see straight down the drive to the gate."
"And the sleighbells will tell us when he is coming, Aunt Mary."
Together they peered out into the darkness. After a long silence, Mary asked, "Aunt Mary, did you know that Father Lacey was going to let me make my First Communion when I was so sick, but I was unsenseless all the time? Oh, if I had not been that way, I could go to Holy Communion on Christmas! [1] Why do you think I never woke even for one little minute?"
"God alone can answer that question, darling. Clearly it was not His will that you should make your First Communion at that time; for Mother told me that everything possible was done to rouse you. But even though you cannot actually receive our dear Lord on His birthday, you can form the desire to do so, not only on that day but many times every day. Tell Him that you believe in Him, hope in Him, love Him, and are sorry for having offended Him, and that you wish you could receive Him. You will then be making a Spiritual Communion which so pleases our Divine Lord that He once said to a Saint, who was in the habit of making Spiritual Communions: 'My daughter, thy desire has penetrated so deeply into My heart that if I had not instituted this Sacrament of Love, I would do it now for thee alone, to become thy food, to have the pleasure of dwelling in thy breast, to take my loving repose in thy heart. I find such pleasure in being desired, that so often as a heart forms this desire, so often do I lovingly behold it to draw it unto Myself.'"
"I am so glad you told me that, Aunt Mary. I won't forget. Listen! I thought I heard the bells——Yes, there they are again." Mary flattened her nose against the window pane so as to catch the first glimpse of the sleigh. "There it is! there it is!"
The meeting between the two showed Sister Madeline how much Mary had missed her uncle that day.
"And now for supper! I think the children are hoping that you and Mary will join them, Frank; but no doubt you would prefer to have it together in the priest's dining-room."
"Not a bit of it! I am in for all the fun going. 'Make me a child again just for to-night,' and to-morrow and the day after. If we can make the little folks happy by joining them at their meals, we shall certainly do so. I suppose I must be proper and call you Sister Madeline before them."
No child at that supper table could remember a jollier meal; and when it was over, the Doctor went with them to the recreation room, where he played the piano and sang and told stories until bedtime. On the way to the front door with him, Mary was very quiet.
"Don't forget that you are to prove to-night whether I have been paying you a visit at ten P. M."
"Uncle," whispered the little girl, "don'tyou think I could go down to Father Hartley's with you? Oh, I would sleep on a lounge or anything."
"But hasn't Aunt Mary told you of her little plan? Then I shall have to spoil her surprise. She is going to sleep in the very next room to yours and leave the door open between. Try it for just one night, dear."
The Doctor's first question the next morning was, "Did I call on you in your dreams, last night, Goldilocks?"
"Oh, you rogue, you rogue! You know very well who came and kissed me good-night; and you put her up to it!"
The Doctor tried to look surprised. "I put whom up to it?"
"Oho! don't try to pretend you don't know, sir! Your eyes are twinkling, and so are Aunt Mary's. But I caught her right around the neck when she leaned over; for I wasn't sound asleep, and I heard her beads rattle."
"But what was Aunt Mary doing up at the very late hour of ten o'clock? Don't you know that in convents the rule is, 'Early to bed, early to rise'?"
"But p'r'aps it wasn't quite ten o'clock, Uncle. No, no, I have caught you both this time!"
[1] The decree of Pope Pius X., concerning the First Communion of little children, had not at this time been issued.
Mary never forgot that Midnight Mass. The beautiful altar decked with countless lights and masses of crimson roses; the kind, old, white-haired priest; the incense, the music, the wonderful Crib, which she could see from where she knelt beside her uncle in one of the front pews—all made her wish that her father and mother were there, too. After the two morning Masses, the children rushed to the recreation room for a peep at their gifts before breakfast. The great tree at the far end of the room first caught their eyes. It was bright with colored lights, and was turning slowly around in the metal box in which it stood, and from which came forth the sweet tones of theAdeste, Holy Night, and other Christmas hymns. The branches of the tree bent low with the weight of gifts and goodies.
"Oh! oh! see the big bunches of white grapes and the raisins and the oranges and—and everything!"
"Yes, and all those boxes tied up in white paper with holly ribbon, and our names on them. Last year the tree wasn't half so splendid."
"You must thank Doctor Carlton for all the extra things," Sister Austin explained. "He is one of Santa Claus' helpers, you know; and besides many of the presents and good things, he brought with him the lights and the musical stand which have been used every year for Mary's tree."
The covers of their boxes from home had been loosened so that the children could remove them easily; and such ohs! and ahs! and cries of delight as filled the big room! There were two boxes for Mary, who could scarcely wait until her uncle had opened them. He first pried off the cover of the one bearing a foreign label; and with eager hands, the little girl unwrapped a beautiful, white marble statue of Our Lady of Lourdes, her mother's gift. Then came a small mosaic picture of her favorite Madonna and a blackeyed, dark-haired doll dressed in Italian costume, from her father; an album of Kodak pictures of the babies with a tiny card saying, "To our big sister from Berta and Beth;" a dear, little, white, knitted sack for Amelia Anabelle from Aunt Mandy; and a gay card from Tom. Two flat boxes for her uncle and aunt contained some fine large photographs of famous paintings and other gifts suitable for them.
The second box was filled with books and games which the Doctor had told Santa Claus to bring her. Nor had the little suitcase been forgotten; and opening it, Mary found a travelling case containing brush, comb, tooth and nail-brush holders, and all that she would need on the journey. A dear little prayer book from her aunt and holy pictures and medals from a number of the Sisters made her feel that she had fared very well indeed; and in spite of her great longing for the dear ones so far away, Christmas was a very happy day for her.
The greatest fun came just after supper when the sound of sleighbells outside the windows surprised the children. Presently, Mother Johanna herself ushered Santa Claus into the room—a dear, roly-poly, little old man, his hair and beard shining with frost. Effie and the younger children took refuge in the folds of Sister Austin's habit; but Mary, fearing that he might think he was not welcome, overcame her shyness, and running to him, caught his hand in both of hers and led him to the tree. The Doctor mounted a ladder, and beginning at the very top of the tree, handed Santa Claus the presents and good things which he, with funny little speeches, then presented to the children. But the tree was not stripped by any means. All the lights and tinsel and gay balls and other ornaments were left on it to delight the little folks during the holidays.
The happy day closed with Benediction, and Mary went to bed looking forward to her visit to Gene's home.
But when the Doctor came up from the chaplain's cottage the following morning, he told her that it had grown so much colder during the night that he really feared to take her with him. "It is ten below zero, and your poor little nose would be frozen during the long drive from the station to Mr. Donnelly's. I shall be back early."
At noon, however, Sister Madeline came to tell Mary that her uncle had just telephoned to say that Mr. Donnelly was far worse than he had expected to find him, and that they were preparing to take him to a hospital in the city.
"And——and won't Uncle come back here this evening, Aunt Mary?"
"He wishes you to meet the four o'clock train and return home with him. Several things make it impossible for him to stop off here again. So we must lose our dear little guest."
"I am truly sorry to go, Aunt Mary, for I have had such a good time in spite of——of——oh, it will be so lonely at home now without Gene. Uncle can be there only in the morning for a little while and at noon and in the evening."
"Don't borrow trouble, dear. Uncle has a beautiful plan; but as it is a surprise for you, I think it would be unfair to tell it now. Come, we shall pack your suitcase, and then you will still have some time to play with the children."
Great was their disappointment when Mary told her little friends that she was about to leave them. In spite of the intense cold, all insisted on going to the station with her. The Doctor was on the platform of the car when the train stopped, and springing off, he lifted Mary aboard. Entering the car, the little girl spied Gene coming down the aisle to meet her. Mr. Donnelly and his wife were in the drawing-room, where the poor sufferer had been made as comfortable as possible. Gene took Mary to meet her father and mother, and then brought her back to the doctor, who at once began to explain matters to her.
"I thought it best to bring Mr. Donnelly in to the city this evening as it would make it easier for Gene and her mother to have me with them to manage things. We drove him to the station in an ambulance, and one will be waiting to meet this train. You will be glad to know that Gene will be with us until we leave for Texas. She and her mother will stay at our home while Mr. Donnelly is at the hospital, where he will probably be for some months. I shall feel better knowing that someone is looking after things during our absence. Liza and Susie are always to be trusted, of course; but they have never been left alone for any length of time."
This was merely the Doctor's way of making things easy for Gene and her mother. Mary was delighted with the plan, as much for Gene's sake as for her own.
"All aboard for San Antonio! and remember, young lady, you are to make yourself as small as possible and look out the window when the conductor comes around so that he will not insist on my paying full fare for such a big, overgrown child as you are."
"Now, Uncle! Every dress Gene bought for me is seven-year-old size, and not one of them had to be shortened."
"Hm! I thought you told me that you are 'going on' eight. Well, never mind, let us hope that you will grow longer and broader in the wonderful Texas climate."
Mary looked with some curiosity about the sleeper, for this was her first trip of more than two or three hours. She leaned toward her uncle and whispered, "I mean to try ever so hard, Uncle, to keep awake, but I really don't see how I can do it for three nights and two days." And she was almost ashamed of the way the Doctor laughed.
"I do not see how I can do so, either, pet; but perhaps you will let me put my head on your shoulder and take a little nap now and then, and you can do the same with me." And he went off in another peal of merriment.
A few hours later she exclaimed, "Why—why, Uncle! Look at that porter! He is pulling down the roof of the car!"
"Watch him a few minutes, and your fears will be set at rest."
Mary's eyes grew rounder and rounder as she saw the porter jerk down a mattress, blankets, pillows, and everything necessary to make up the lower berth; but her wonder became greater when he began on the upper one.
"Uncle! he is making a two-story bed! Did youeversee anything like it!"
"Very often indeed. To save time, I travel at night whenever possible, you know."
"Hm! I think I ought to get off this train and go straight home to Gene."
"A nice way to talk when I am taking you away for your health, miss! What fault have you to find with this train? Isn't it far more comfortable than you expected it to be, eh?"
"Of course it is, Uncle; but oh! you aresucha tease!"
"So I am; but I do not often find anyone who forgives a teasing as readily as you do. Come, let us move into the opposite section and give the porter a chance to make up our berths. Do you think you can climb into the upper one?"
"I am afraid you will have to boost me up there, Uncle, and ask the porter to put a little railing across the front so I won't fall out."
"No, no, pet, I am only joking. I shall do the climbing."
Through the snow-clad mountains of Pennsylvania, across frozen rivers and great white plains sped the train until at last the Doctor said, "We shall soon see the 'Father of Waters.'"
"Is Mr. Waters an old friend of yours, Uncle?"
Many a laugh had the Doctor enjoyed since leaving New York, and often the passengers had been forced to join him, though they had not always heard what Mary had said. "I forgot that you have not studied geography, dearie. I am speaking of the Mississippi River, which is called by that name. We change cars at St. Louis, a fine old city on its banks."
The next afternoon when Mary awoke from her nap, the Doctor called her to see some Indians. Instead of looking out the window, she caught up Amelia Anabelle's white coat and wound it around her head, insisting, "Tie your muffler or something white around your head, Uncle! Oh, be quick! Do you think they will come on the train?"
The Doctor looked at the child in surprise.
"O Uncle! Please,pleasehurry! If they do come, they may try to scalp everyone; and if they see our heads tied up, they will think we have already been scalped."
"Is that the way you would try to deceive the poor Indians? I am surprised at you! Come here and take a look at them."
Mary timidly peeped out the window; but instead of a band of braves in war paint and feathers, she saw only two men standing on the platform, quietly talking.
"You don't mean to say those areIndians, Uncle! Why, they look just like men."
"And what are Indians, eh? birds?"
"Now, Uncle! But I s'pose those are tame Indians, not wild ones."
"Yes, those men are civilized. We are now in Oklahoma, and by bedtime we shall be in Texas with one more night's ride before us."
The little girl was delighted that the journey was nearing its end. Though the Doctor had taken her out to walk and run about on the station platform whenever the train had stopped for any length of time, she was tired of sitting still so long and would have been quite happy if she could have left the train and enjoyed a good romp over the vast plains which stretched as far as the eye could see.
The next morning, Mary was perfectly sure that she knew just how Rip van Winkle felt when he came down from the mountain after his long sleep. She and her uncle had boarded the train in New York in the midst of a whirling snowstorm; and they stepped off it at San Antonio into the very mildest of spring weather. She looked with delight at the grass and trees and beautiful palms, some of them as high as the second story windows; and if it had not been for Amelia Anabelle's wraps and the new books and games in her trunk, she could not have believed that scarcely two weeks had passed since Christmas.
Instead of staying at a hotel, the Doctor had arranged to board at a big, old-fashioned house, standing far back from the street in the midst of fine old trees. Mary liked this plan very much, and soon became a great favorite with everyone there. She spent most of the time outdoors; and in the fresh air and warm, bright sunshine, she grew stronger day by day. The Doctor, true to the promise he had made when she found she could not go to Rome with her parents, lost no time in getting a pony for her and a horse for himself; and every morning they went for a ride through the parks of the city. The one Mary liked best was Brackenridge Park, where long, gray streamers of Spanish moss hang from the trees, and bright redbirds flit among the branches. She liked the plazas, too,—big open squares in the heart of the city, laid out like little parks with fountains, trees, and beautiful flowers. And she liked the San Antonio River, the "Old Santone," as the natives lovingly call it, with its banks bordered with myrtle and cresses and shaded by old trees. And as they rode through the beautiful city, the Doctor told the little girl of the saintly Franciscan Fathers, who, more than a century before La Salle sailed down the Mississippi, and almost a century before the Mayflower brought the Pilgrims to Plymouth Rock, came to the great, wild, lonely, Texas plains to bring the light of Faith to the savage Indians roaming there. It was the Monks of the same order who founded the city of San Antonio in 1689, and who built the Cathedral of San Fernando and the Mission Chapel of the Alamo; also, the four other Mission Churches which lie from two to eight miles outside the city.
One of the first buildings they visited was San Fernando Cathedral. Its old gray walls, built in 1734, are still in good condition; and inside, the soft light from its stained-glass windows falls on beautiful statues and pictures of our Blessed Mother and the saints. When they left the church, the Doctor pointed out the time-blackened roof at the rear of the building, where the Mexican general, Santa Ana, planted his cannon so as to fire on the Alamo, the fort and Mission Chapel, "The Cradle of Texas' Liberty," as it is fittingly called. As they walked over to it, Mary listened eagerly to her uncle's story of Texas' brave fight for freedom from Mexico, to which country it belonged until 1836. He told her of the terrible siege of the Alamo, which took place in the early spring of that year, when less than two hundred Texans held the fort against six or seven thousand Mexicans until not one of the brave little band remained alive; and of the battle of San Jacinto a month later, in which the Mexicans suffered defeat, and Santa Ana was taken prisoner. Soon after this, Texas became a republic; and some time later, asked to be admitted to the United States.
A feeling of awe came over the little girl as they entered the Alamo and walked along its dim hallways and stood in the rooms where the fearfully unequal hand-to-hand fight was carried on. She saw the Chapel where Mass had so often been said, and the burial place of the Monks. But this sacred old building is no longer used as a chapel. It is now the property of the State, and is visited by travelers from all over the country.
Other spots which were of great interest to Mary were the old Missions outside the city. Several times the Doctor drove her out along the beautiful country roads to visit them; and as they had all the time they needed, he stopped by the roadside as often as Mary wished to get out to examine the cactus blossoms or to pick the other wild flowers, especially the bluebonnet, the State flower of Texas.
Built during the eleven years between 1720 and 1731, the Missions are now in ruins, but they stand as silent witnesses to the courage and zeal of the saintly Monks who gave their lives to the work of converting the Indians. The Mission San Jose, or Saint Joseph, is still very beautiful. It is said that the front of this church with its carvings and statues of saints above the door, was brought all the way from Spain to Mexico City, then overland, through forests, across rivers, over mountains to where it now stands. The Doctor showed Mary the part of the building which had been used as a school for the Indians, and explained that, besides being a church, school, and home for the Monks, each Mission served as a place of refuge from unfriendly Indian tribes.
Another place Mary liked to visit was Fort Sam Houston, one of the largest military posts in the country. It was here that Roosevelt trained his famous "Rough Riders." Some little distance from it is a beautiful convent school; and one day as they rode past it, Mary reined in her pony and sat watching the children at play. The Doctor proposed a visit to the Sisters, and Mary promptly agreed, hoping that the little girls would invite her to join in their games. This they did, and she spent a happy hour with them.
And so the winter passed, bringing the days when every shanty was almost hidden by the beautiful roses which climbed over it, and violets peeped out from places where one would least expect to find them. Only one thing marred the pleasure of these sunny months. This was the death of Gene's father. The Doctor had placed him in the care of a famous specialist; but though everything possible was done for him, he failed very quickly. Mary felt better about Gene's loss after her uncle had explained to her that, even had Mr. Donnelly lived, he would always have been a great sufferer.
The little girl never tired of seeing the Mexicans, who live in and around San Antonio, in their native costume. Often on the roads to the Missions, she and her uncle met one of the men dressed in light-colored breeches, white shirt, a gay sash around his waist, and a very broad-brimmed sombrero trimmed with silver braid and ornaments on his head. Usually, he had a tiny donkey, or burro, with him, almost hidden by a great load of hay or mesquite wood. They saw the women in their miserable huts, or jacales, built of a few sticks driven into the ground and covered with old blankets and thatches of straw. These women were always kneeling at the open door, pounding out tortillos, the Mexican johnny-cake, in the matat, or very old-fashioned corn mill; or they were down at the little ditch, washing their coarse linen, using a great flat rock for a washboard. The men make beautiful things of clay, feathers, grasses, leather and wool; and the Doctor bought small jugs, baskets, little pocket books, and many other trinkets for Mary to take to her friends at home. As for the Mexican candy, the little girl was sure she had never tasted any better.
On the twenty-first of April, she saw a sight which she never forgot. This was the Flower Parade, followed by the "Battle of the Flowers," in memory of the battle of San Jacinto. Foremost in the parade marched the soldiers from the Fort. They were followed by automobiles and carriages decked with beautiful flowers. One small auto in particular made Mary clap her hands in delight. It was entirely covered with pure white flowers so arranged as to represent a swan. The flowers were built up in front for the long neck and head, and bright yellow blossoms formed the bill. As it glided gracefully along, it was greeted with cheers on all sides. In the evening, a fierce battle was waged in Alamo Plaza, ladies and gentlemen on horseback pelting one another with flowers. But Mary enjoyed the parade better. She loved flowers too much to wish to see them fall and be trampled under the horses' hoofs.
A few days later, she and her uncle said good-bye to San Antonio and set out on the long journey to New York.
"And you will come out to see me every Sunday and Tuesday and Thursday, Uncle?"
"Yes, pet, unless something very important happens to prevent my doing so. In that case, we shall have a long chat over the telephone. I know that you will be very happy here, little one, with Aunt Mary to look after you, and so many, many friends among the Sisters and little girls."
But in spite of his words, the Doctor felt the hand within his own tighten its hold and saw a very wistful light in the blue eyes raised to his.
It was the first week of May. The beautiful spring day had tempted the Doctor and Mary to walk from the station, and they had just entered the big gates at the entrance to the convent grounds.
"See that orchard! Isn't it a picture? And those shrubs in blossom! Really, I would not mind being a little girl myself if I could go to school in such a beautiful place."
"Oh, I know that I shall like to go to school here, Uncle; but I do wish I could see you every evening. Couldn't you live with Father Hartley and go into the city on the train every day?"
"That would not be possible, Goldilocks; but I shall invite myself to stay over night with the chaplain now and then since you wish it so much."
Sister Madeline had a warm welcome for the travelers. The Doctor remained for dinner and left on the early afternoon train; and Mary began her life as a boarder at Maryvale. It was the custom for children of her age to sleep in a dormitory; but Mrs. Selwyn had written to Mother Johanna, asking that Mary might have her own room fitted up with her furniture from home. And a very dainty little room it was, with pale blue-tinted walls and light woodwork, soft mull curtains looped back with pale blue ribbons, the brass bed, satin-wood dresser, writing desk, and chairs, and the little bookcase from her playroom. On the top of this stood her marble statue of our Blessed Mother and a pair of vases which Mary always kept filled with fresh flowers. Her toy box with a few sofa cushions on it made a very good window seat; and all the girls agreed that Mary Selwyn's room was the very prettiest one in the house.
As a surprise to her father and mother, she was allowed to begin to study music and soon showed so much talent for it that Sister Dominic was delighted with her. She never begged to be excused from practice; for was she not "making a s'prise" for those whom she loved better than all the fun and frolics in the world? And every time she was called to the parlor to see her uncle, the same question was on her lips: "How many days is it now, Uncle, before they will be home?" until he at last brought her a large calendar and a blue pencil with which she could mark off each day before she went to bed at night. Toward the end of May, she sighed when she found that there were five whole pages of days to be marked off before the first of November.
But, somehow, the summer passed more quickly than she had believed possible. She was glad to find that September has only thirty days; and when October came, she could scarcely wait for the letter that would tell the exact date when her dear ones would sail for home. Toward the end of the month, the Doctor came with a letter, yes,—but the little girl was sorely disappointed; for baby Beth had been very ill, and the doctor who had attended her would not hear of her being brought back to New York just at the beginning of the long, cold winter. So the return home must be put off until the next May.
Poor little Mary! For her Uncle's sake she tried to be brave and agreed with him when he reminded her of how much better able she would be to play the piano in another six months; but the longing for her father and mother and the babies grew stronger than ever, and she studied the calendar to see whether there were more months of thirty than of thirty-one days between November and May. Looking over the pages which she had turned back when she had first hung the calendar in her room, she danced about at sight of only twenty-eight days in February, and ran to Sister Austin to ask whether the new year would bring any change in the number. But she learned that it would not be a leap year and went away somewhat consoled that there would be no extra day to put off her happiness.
Again the month of May came; but into it and the months which followed were crowded sorrows and trials which seldom fall to the lot of so young a child. The sad, sad news of her father's death in distant India was swiftly followed by word of her mother's illness which again delayed the homecoming. And when, shortly after her tenth birthday, the Doctor, pale and haggard, came to Maryvale and as gently as possible told her of the wreck of the great ocean steamer and the loss of those so dear to them, she felt that she was indeed his little Mary, and that she now belonged to our Blessed Mother in a very special way. For some weeks her aunt and uncle were much worried about her, for she became so thin and pale and played no more with the little ones who were spending the summer vacation at the convent; but after a month with the Doctor in the mountains and another in Georgia at the home of Wilhelmina Marvin, the little daughter of old, old friends of her father, mother, and uncle, she returned to Maryvale looking more like herself.
Many long, lonely hours did she spend. She could not talk much about her sorrows to her uncle and aunt, for she knew that they felt the terrible loss almost as deeply as she did; but she had learned where to find the comfort she so sorely needed; and when she could no longer bear the merry laughter and noisy pranks of her playmates, she would steal away to the chapel and whisper all that she wished to say to the loving Heart in the Tabernacle.
Wilhelmina and she had become fast friends; for the little Southern girl had come as a boarder to Maryvale the year before. Mary had found her the same lively, fun-loving, little romp whom the Doctor had described to her, with just one difference—she had grown more lively, more fun-loving, more full of mischief; and poor Sister Austin's nerves were sorely tried, for Wilhelmina was never happier than when swinging from the highest limbs of the very tallest trees she could find. Sister Madeline had been made Mother Superior at Maryvale; and Wilhelmina was a frequent visitor to her office, where she was called to answer for her pranks. But she was such a truthful, generous, whole-hearted child that no one could be very hard on her. In a short time, she had Mary playing base-ball and many games which she had never heard of; and by degrees, our little girl lost some of her old-fashioned manner, while her gentle ways did much toward keeping Wilhelmina within bounds.
After Mary's visit to Sunnymead, as Wilhelmina's home was called, the two little girls returned to school, Wilhelmina full of good resolutions, most of which she broke the first day. She and Mary were in the same class; for, although eight months younger than Mary, she had not missed nearly a whole year of school on account of illness, and she had been taught at home by a governess—that is, when that young woman could find her and keep her in the schoolroom long enough to teach her anything. She, too, took music lessons; and poor Sister Dominic had her hands full with her. Wilhelmina's favorite tunes wereYankee Doodle, The Wearing of the Green, Oh, Dem Golden Slippers, and several others which she had picked out for herself on the piano at home, and which she faithfully practiced instead of the lesson which her teacher expected her to prepare.
"But, Sister, I can't play scales and exercises for folks. The boys would chase me out of the house if I tried it. You don't know what it means to have eight brothers. They want tunes with lots of swing and go to them."
"The lively things will come later, Wilhelmina, after you have mastered these very important scales and exercises. How can you expect to play runs and trills and such things unless you learn to do it properly?"
"This is the easiest way to play a run, Sister." And the young lady drew her thumb quickly across the length of the keyboard.
Sister Dominic sighed. So did Wilhelmina.
And still, between this harum-scarum little girl and Mary there sprang up a warm friendship, which grew stronger and stronger as the years went on, each of the children gaining much from the good traits she found in the other.
During the fall and winter, many things which Mary had heard about the wreck passed and repassed through her busy little brain; and at last she made up her mind that the stories did not agree, and that there must be a mistake somewhere. She spoke of the matter to her uncle; but he insisted that everything possible had been done at the time of the wreck to make sure that there was no mistake. Mary was not convinced and began praying to our Blessed Mother to obtain for her light and guidance. Many a half hour she spent in the chapel, besides denying herself candy and other goodies; and her belief that her dear ones had not been lost in the wreck grew stronger and stronger as the bright spring days went by. Where they were, why they had sent no word of their rescue, she had no idea; but she felt sure that our Lady would in some way make it known to her. So she prayed and trusted and made hundreds of little acts of self-denial.
And then——thenthings began to happen so quickly as almost to take her breath away.
One night in the early part of June, she went to bed wondering how many more prayers she would have to say before her uncle would begin to feel as she did; and the very next morning, she noticed a marked change in him. She did not ask what had caused it. It was enough for her to know that her prayers had at last been partly answered. And beyond asking a few questions and showing unusual restlessness, the Doctor said nothing of the story he had heard from a boy who had been saved from the wreck, and who insisted that Mrs. Selwyn had been in the same lifeboat and had reached Bordeaux, France, very ill, but still alive. But the fact that she had sent no word of her rescue made the Doctor fear that she had died before she was able to do so; and he made up his mind not to arouse Mary's hopes until he was perfectly sure that there was no danger of her being again cruelly disappointed. He at once began to make use of every means in his power to follow up the slight clue the boy had given him; but it was not through notices in the newspapers, nor through his visits to all the hospitals and orphan asylums in Bordeaux, nor through the efforts of the many detectives employed on the case that Mary's trusting prayer was answered. An errand of pure charity brought the Doctor face to face with his loved sister. The sight of him and the sound of his voice restored her memory, which she had completely lost as a result of the shock of the wreck.
And six weeks later Mary's cup of happiness was filled to overflowing by the sudden return of her father, who had been captured, but not killed as was reported, by a savage tribe in India.
On the eighth of September, our Blessed Mother's birthday, there was a wonderful family gathering in the big east parlor at Maryvale, where Mother Madeline listened, her eyes filled with grateful tears, to the story which Mr. Selwyn told.
And the twins! the dear, mischief-loving, four-year-old twins were hugged and kissed and petted until, if their little curly heads had not been so filled with "s'prises" which they were planning for everyone present, they would have been badly spoiled that day.
Then, to Mary's delight, the whole family walked across the lawn and through the orchard to the little gate in the low stone wall which separated Maryvale from Bird-a-Lea, a beautiful place east of the convent. Here Mother Madeline left them to continue their way over the velvety lawn to the big, homey-looking, gray stone house with its roof of warm red tiles. On the wide porch, which ran all the way around the house, sat Mrs. Elliot, a dear old lady who owned this beautiful home. The Doctor had met her once before, and Mary knew her quite well, for she and Wilhelmina had often been sent to her with messages from Mother Madeline. She wished to sell Bird-a-Lea; and while Mr. and Mrs. Selwyn and the Doctor talked matters over with her, Mary took the little ones to see the big bird cage around near the barn. It was built so as to enclose two small trees in which rare birds sang and flitted about. Next to it stood a small house where these birds lived during the winter; for they had been brought from warm countries and would die if left out in the cold. Besides these beautiful birds, there were peacocks strutting about under the great old trees; while robins, bluebirds, orioles, and other birds which the children had often seen before came quite close to them, and frisky gray squirrels peeped around the trunks of the trees at them.
Returning to the front porch, the children learned that Bird-a-Lea was to be their new home; and the twins were much disappointed because they could not take off their hats and begin to live there at once.