“I’d like to!” The radiant girl glanced at Dan, then added, “If my big brother will give his consent.” “Indeed you have it, Jane,” that lad said heartily. “I know that I am voicing our father’s sentiments-to-be, when I say that I am proud to welcome Jean Willoughby into our family.”
Of their own secret Meg and Dan had decided to say nothing.
Then remembering the commonplaces, Jane said: “We’re waiting supper for the boys. Where did they go and why?” She looked at both Julie and Dan. “You two surely know, since you were with them. It is nearly seven and getting dark rapidly. Aren’t you anxious about them, Dan?”
“I shall be if they do not soon return,” the lad replied. “Perhaps we had better have the good supper you have prepared. There is no need to spoil it for all.”
“I’m not a bit hungry,” Jane said and Merry teased: “Why, Janey, you must be in love.”
The table had been placed in the middle of the cabin living-room. Over it hung a drop lamp with a crimson shade and, as there was a log burning on the hearth, the room presented a most festive appearance. It was with sincere regret that the six young people seated themselves, leaving two chairs vacant. All during the meal, at intervals, they paused to listen, hoping that they would hear the halloos of the returning boys.
Dan was becoming thoroughly alarmed and, at last, after a consultation with Meg, he turned to the others and said: “We have decided to tell you the mission on which the boys started out so hurriedly.”
Of course Jane and Merry had surmised that they had gone in quest of the hidden box, but they knew nothing of the finding of the pick, shovel and carved name, and they were much interested.
At eight o’clock Jean Willoughby rose. “I had better be going,” he said. “I have a long hike ahead of me.” But Dan protested. “Indeed you shall not go tonight. Mr. Packard will not be worried if you remain with us, will he? I may need your help to locate the boys if they do not soon return.”
That settled the matter, for Jean had not wished to leave. Another hour passed, and Dan, who had really become very anxious, arose, but before he could get his coat and cap, the halloos for which they had long listened were heard.
Leaping to the door, Dan threw it open and a welcoming light streamed out into the darkness.
Bob and Gerry, looking almost exhausted, staggered into the room (although Dan well knew that it was for effect) and sank down on the vacant chairs. “Say, talk about a climb! We certainly had a steep one!” Bob gasped.
The young people at once noted that neither boy was carrying a box and so they decided that it had not been found. “It isn’t such a terrible steep climb to Crazy Creek Camp,” Dan commented. “Half of the way is down grade.”
The two younger boys exchanged glances that were hard for the watchers to interpret. Then Bob sprang up, exclaiming: “Come on, kid. Let’s wash and have some of the good grub.”
“You must be nearly starved,” Jane said, also rising and going toward the kitchen. “We are keeping your share of the party warm.”
When they were gone, Dan said softly: “I’m inclined to believe that the boys have something of a surprising nature to tell us, but after Gerry’s usual fashion he wants to keep us guessing for a time.”
The two mountain climbers were indeed hungry and they ate heartily, talking aggravatingly of everything but the matter which they knew was uppermost in the minds of their companions. When they declared that another bite could not be taken, the table was cleared, magazines and books again spread upon it, and then Dan, feeling it unfair to Meg to keep her longer in suspense, exclaimed, “Now, boys, tell us your adventures.”
“It didn’t take us long to get to Crazy Creek Camp, I can tell you.” Bob, glancing from one to another of the group about the fireplace, saw in each face an eager interest in the tale he had to tell. But in Meg’s face there was more than interest, and suddenly Bob realized that the finding of the lost box was of vital importance to the mountain girl, while, to him, it had been merely an exciting adventure, the mystery of which had lured him on.
After a thoughtful moment, he continued: “We found most of the cabins unnumbered, or, if they had once been so marked, time and storms had done away with the numerals. But we did find a tunnel above which the figures 10 had been chipped out of solid stone. The opening of the small tunnel was closed, however, by red rocks that had fallen evidently in a landslide. I suggested that we lift them away one by one, but Gerry thought it a waste of time as the carving on the handle had been ‘Cabin 10’ and not Tunnel 10. But I was not so sure, and so we went to work and in half an hour we had an opening large enough to enter one at a time. I had my flashlight with me, and stooping, I looked in. Strangely enough, I saw a faint gleam of daylight at the other end.”
Bob paused and glanced about the group to make sure that they were all properly curious before he continued: “The tunnel was not high enough for even Gerry to stand in erect and so on all fours we crept through it. Since the opening had been stopped up I did not fear meeting wild creatures, but as we neared the other end, the daylight grew brighter and then to our great surprise we came out upon a wide ledge which hung there in the most dizzying manner. On it was a rustic cabin, and back of that a fenced-in dooryard. Surely, we decided, this was Cabin 10. There was no way of reaching it except through the tunnel, as the mountain wall was almost perpendicular above and below the ledge.
“We were greatly elated and at once tried the door and found it unlocked. There was only one room and it looked like the den of a student. Books and papers were everywhere in evidence; dust-covered and yellowed with the years. On the desk a bottle of dried ink was uncorked and a rusted pen lying there seemed to indicate that someone had suddenly stopped writing, and, for some reason, had never again taken up the pen. As further proof of this we found a letter which was lying near, with even the last sentence unfinished. It is addressed to ‘My dear petite daughter—Eulalie.’ We didn’t stop to read it because it was getting late and so we started for home.”
Meg, no longer able to keep silent, leaned forward, asking eagerly, “Bob, may I see the letter that my father left for me?”
“Your father?” Jane and Merry exclaimed almost simultaneously. Even then Meg’s calm was not outwardly disturbed.
“Yes,” she said, turning her wonderful eyes toward her friends. In them the girls saw an expression of radiant happiness which told them more than words could how great was Meg’s joy that she had at last learned who her father really was. Jane and Merry were perplexed. How did Meg know? Their question was answered before it was asked. “I should have told you girls this afternoon. When Dan spoke the name that he had found carved on the handle of the old shovel, instantly memory recalled to me that, as a very small child, I had been taught to lisp that my name was Lalie Giguette.”
“O Meg, what a beautiful name. May we begin at once to call you Eulalie?” The mountain girl smiled at Jane. “If you wish, dear friend.” She then held out her hand for the letter which Bob had gone to his sweater coat to procure.
“We found several books with your father’s name on them as author,” the boy informed her, and the girl looked up brightly to say, “O, I am so glad! Did you bring them?”
“No,” Bob replied, “we thought perhaps you would like to visit the cabin and find everything there just as he left it.”
“I would indeed!” Meg rose, and going to the center table, she spread the letter under the hanging lamp. After a moment’s scrutiny, she turned toward the silently waiting group. “It is clearly written,” she said. “I will read it aloud:
“‘To my dear petite daughter Eulalie,’” Meg read,
“‘Poor little wee lassie! Not yet three and no one to care for you. I shall try to get back to New York before the end comes, but there is no one, not even in France, where I lived as a boy. All—all are dead.
“‘But you will want to know much and I will be gone when you are old enough to question. When I was twenty-one I came to New York and married a girl who was as all alone as I. We were very happy, but my loved one, your mother, died when you were born. For a long year I grieved until my health was broken. For your sake, Lalie, I followed my doctor’s advice and came to the Rocky Mountains. I was about to put you in a convent school, but you clung to me and would not loosen your hold. I feared I had not long to live and I did so want you with me, hence I brought you here. But if I do not get stronger soon, I will take you back to the kind sisters, who will make you a home.
“‘We reached this deserted mining camp after weeks of wandering and I built for us a cabin where we could be alone and unmolested. At last my lost ambition had returned. I wrote the book of my dreams and sent it to my publisher in New York. I hope, dear little daughter, that it will be a success for your sake, but as yet I do not know.’”
Meg looked up and her dusky eyes were filled with tears. “That is all on the first sheet,” she said. “The next was written at a later date.” Then again she read:
“‘A tribe of Ute Indians has taken possession of the deserted cabins in the camp, but, as there is little game hereabouts, I doubt if they will long remain.’
“Two weeks later: ‘I have not been as well as I had hoped to be. I did very wrong to spend so many hours writing my dream book, but now that it is completed I will write no more until I am stronger. Every day with a pick and shovel I dig in different places for recreation and exercise, endeavoring to find the fabled gold mine, the vein of which was lost, or so I have been told by an occasional miner who has passed this way. Before starting out I take you each afternoon to the cabin of a most kindly squaw who understands some English and since I pay her well, she is willing to care for you during my absence.’”
For a long moment Meg ceased reading and Dan, noting that her hands trembled, went to her side, saying with tender solicitude: “Dear girl, what is it? I fear that reading aloud this letter from your father is very hard for you. Wouldn’t you rather read it to yourself?” The girl lifted tear-filled eyes. “It isn’t that, Dan,” she said. “I want to share it with my friends who are so loving and loyal, but I cannot decipher the rest.”
There was a faded blur on the paper as though the pen had fallen. Then it had evidently been picked up again, but the scrawled letters that followed were very hard to read. Slowly the girl deciphered: “Lalie, when you are eighteen, get box ——” Then there was another blot and the pen had evidently rolled across the paper.
The girl held the letter up to Dan. “I fear we will never know where the box is,” she said, “for that is all.”
But the lad, after scrutinizing the sheet, held it up to the light.
“There is more written, but evidently a drop of ink spread over it. Gerry, bring the magnifying glass.” The small boy, glad to be of assistance, leaped to get it. Dan gazed through it for a long five minutes. Then he began to name the letters, and Bob, who had seized a pencil and paper, wrote them down. “B-a-n-k.” Dan glanced questioningly at Meg. “What kind of a bank do you suppose it means?” Then to Bob: “Were there any banks of dirt near the cabin?” That lad shook his head.
Jane suggested: “Would it not be more natural to suppose it to be a New York bank, since that had been Mr. Giguette’s home for years?”
They all decided this to be true. Then Merry asked: “Meg, or may I say Eulalie, are you willing that I should wire my father all that we know? He is a lawyer in New York and be will gladly find out what he can.”
How the dusky face brightened. “Oh, thank you, Merry. Please do!” Then, rising, the mountain girl held out both hands to Jane and Merry. “I must go now,” she said, “to the dear old couple who have been all the father and mother I have ever known.”
Dan accompanied Meg up the winding mountain road.
“What a glorious moonlit night it is!” Merry exclaimed when, Meg and Dan having gone, the others turned back toward the cabin.
“I say, sis,” Bob exclaimed, “why not get that telegram written and let me take it down to the village. You can put heaps more into a night letter.”
“Why, Bobby, it must be after nine. The innkeeper’s family will be asleep by the time you could get there.”
Jean Willoughby explained: “They have two sons, and one of them is always on duty as night clerk. Strangers motoring through put up there at all hours.” Then the young overseer added: “I wish now that I had ridden over and you could have used my horse.”
“We sent the two we had back to the Heger cabin,” Bob said, but added, as he took a handspring to prove to his sister that he was not at all tired, “I’d just as soon walk.” Then, as another thought occurred to him, he turned to the younger lad, asking, “If you’re game, Gerry, come along with me. We’ll put up at the inn for the night and bring back the answer from father as soon as it comes.”
Since there was no particular reason why they should not do this, Merry and Jane made no further remonstrances. Going indoors, a carefully planned night letter was prepared and in great glee the two boys started out, each carrying a gun, as Jean told them that theymightmeet a wildcat.
“Huh! I hoped you were going to say a grizzly bear.”
Gerry’s tone seemed to imply that they were quite fearless.
Soon after the boys had departed, Dan returned. Glancing at Jean, he questioned: “Ought we to follow them?” But the other lad replied:
“They’re safe enough! Moreover, I told Bob to swing a red lantern three times when they reach the inn. The night is so clear, we surely can see it.”
And so they waited, and an hour later the expected signal was plainly seen by all of them.
“Now to bed, everybody!” Dan sprang up and held both hands toward his sister Jane. Julie had been prevailed upon to retire soon after the lads started out and was sound asleep.
The girls had decided to be up at an early hour, but because they had gone to bed much later than usual they overslept.
It was after noon before Meg appeared.
“Ma Heger” had needed her help, was all that she said. Jane and Merry decided not to tell her about the night letter, for the suspense would be far harder for her to bear than it was for them.
But after a time Meg began to wonder why, at frequent intervals, one or another of the young people went to the top of the stone stairs, and through field glasses, gazed down the mountain road. It was two o’clock when the old stage was seen slowly ascending.
“I entirely forgot that the stage passes us on Saturday afternoon,” Dan exclaimed. “Of course, Bob and Gerry waited to ride up.”
But as the lumbering vehicle neared, the passengers were seen to be all adults—a west valley rancher, his wife and grown daughters. Then, just as the watchers had given up hope, the two laughing boys dropped from the back of the stage and ran up the stone stairs.
Paying no heed to the others, Bob leaped over to where Meg was standing, and making a deep bow, he handed her a yellow envelope.
“But this is for Merry,” the mountain girl told him.
“True enough!” and Bob gave the telegram to his sister. Opening it, she read:
“Franc Giguette, author of ‘The Star that Set.’ Book was great success! Publishers holding royalties, as they were uncalled for. Box in name of Eulalie Giguette at the First National Bank. Contains contracts and papers of value, also jewels. Await further advice.”
“Franc Giguette, author of ‘The Star that Set.’ Book was great success! Publishers holding royalties, as they were uncalled for. Box in name of Eulalie Giguette at the First National Bank. Contains contracts and papers of value, also jewels. Await further advice.”
While all of the others congratulated the beautiful girl, Dan stood aside with sorrow in his heart. He had asked Meg to marry him when he thought her poor. Even then they would have had a long wait, for he had wanted to help his father for a time before he considered his own happiness.
Meg looked over at the lad whom she so loved. “Aren’tyoualso glad for me, Dan?” she asked.
“Yes, very glad,” he said, but he was more than ever pleased that he and Meg had not told of their engagement, which might never be fulfilled.
When the excitement had somewhat subsided, Bob recalled that he had a letter for Jean Willoughby, and, bringing it forth, presented it to the young man, who looked inquiringly at the handwriting; then with a quick, questioning glance at Merry, he tore it open and read its message.
“Marion Starr,” he cried, “you wrote my father, did you not, telling him where you found me?”
It was evident that he wasnotdispleased.
The golden haired girl nodded, then waited eagerly to hear what manner of message the letter contained.
“Dan,” said Bob, “your father and mine are again partners, for Dad has restored the money that had been supposedly lost. Since your father had recompensed the investors, the firm of Abbott & Willoughby, as re-established, is much richer than it was, for while holding the money, Dad made investments that have tripled the capital of the firm. Nor is that all! Father has set aside money to start my brother and me in any business we may choose, and your father is to do the same for each of his boys as the need arises.”
Before Dan could speak, Jean hurried on with, “Mr. Packard has offered to divide his ranch in three parts, and Jane and I are to have one of them. Dan, you love the West. It agrees with you. Won’t you take the third?”
“That’s wonderful news!” Dan cried glowingly. “Indeed I would like to own a third of the Green Hills ranch.”
Then to the surprise of the others, he went to the mountain girl with hands outstretched, and said, his voice tense with feeling: “Meg—Eulalie—may I set the day for our wedding?”
The dusky eyes of the beautiful girl were more than ever starlike as she nodded up at him.
“Great!” he cried joyfully. “Then we willallbe married on the first of September.”