The following morning, the fever had left her; but Mary was tired and listless, refusing milk, broth, everything. When her uncle was with her, she clung to him, great tears running down her pale little face. Nothing that he or Sister Julia could say comforted her. She was lonely, lonely, lonely! That day passed, as did the next, without any change. The Doctor felt helpless; and when at noon, Thursday, the usual scene took place, he strode from the room, muttering, "I will send a wireless! They must try to be transferred to the first homeward bound steamer that they meet. To Halifax with the business!"
Then Sister Julia made up her mind to take matters into her own hands. Drawing a low chair to the bedside, she began, "I think I shall tell you a story, Mary."
"I—don't seem to care very much about stories any more, Sister."
"I have noticed that, dear; but this is one that I think you really should hear."
"Is it a long one, Sister? Please don't make it very long, because I don't want to think of anything but my darling father and mother and little sisters."
"Very well, I shall make it as short as possible—this true story which I am going to tell you.
"I once had a little patient suffering from the same illness which you have just had. Like you, too, she was blessed with a very loving father and mother and a good, kind uncle. The doctor who attended her had told me how much this uncle thought of the little girl; but it was not until I was sent to take care of her that I saw just how matters stood. There were other children in the family; but before I was in the house one hour, I knew that the sick little girl had first place in her uncle's heart as well as in the hearts of everyone in that home. And she well deserved it; for in all my years of nursing, I have never met a more lovable child. Gentle, patient, obedient, always thinking of others—why, before the first day had passed, I think I loved her almost as dearly as those who had known her all her life. I was quite ready to agree with the doctor in his opinion of her.
"Well, not to make too long a story of it, the child grew steadily worse. My heart ached more for the uncle than for her parents; because they had their other children, while he seemed too wrapped up in his little pet to think of anyone else. Then came a night when we thought the little girl's soul was about to return to God. I shall never forget the face of that poor uncle as he knelt at the bedside. It was gray, Mary, positivelygray, and the pain in his kind eyes made me long to go away and cry. Great drops stood on his forehead though the room was really chilly, for the doctor had ordered me to keep it very cool.
"Oh, how I prayed to the loving Heart of our Divine Lord that, if it was His holy will, He would spare the child to that good man who had done so much for Him in the persons of His poor, suffering, little ones——"
"Sister, you are telling about Uncle! I know you are! It is all coming back to me about that night—I had forgotten it. I remember that I didn't know anything for a long time. Even the man with the knives was gone—and the silly little birds. Then, I woke; but I didn't open my eyes right away. The pain was all gone, and everything was so quiet that I thought I was alone; so I opened my eyes and saw Father at the foot of the bed looking straight at me. Then I saw Uncle, and he looked so strange that I thought he must be sick, too. But his eyes smiled at me and I tried to smile back, but I was too tired; and before I knew it, I went to sleep again."
"Yes, dear, it all happened just as you say, only that you did smile. But even then, we thought you were slipping away from us, and fully fifteen minutes passed before we knew that God had answered our prayers."
There was a long pause.
"But—but, Sister,—not all of your story is true. I was cross and cranky and screamed when the pain was bad; and I couldn't think of anyone but that dreadful man with the long knives, or of those silly little birds with yellow ribbons around their necks. No wonder Uncle teases me about yellow."
"But, Mary, you were not yourself for many, many days. Do you remember the morning I told you that you must fight to get well? I had good reason to regret that advice; for instead of fighting the illness, you used those little fists on everyone who came near you. When your uncle tried to listen to your lungs, you struck out so well that your mother and I had to hold your hands——"
"Why,Sister, you don't meanthat!"
"Indeed I do! I shall not soon forget the time you caught the Doctor's head between your hands. My! what a boxing you gave his poor ears!"
"Sister!—I—boxed—Uncle's—ears!—O Sister!" and Mary buried her burning face in the pillow.
"But, darling, that is nothing to be ashamed of. You did not know what you were doing. We expected worse things than that."
"Worse than boxing poor, dear Uncle's ears? Could anything be worse than that?" came the muffled question.
"Indeed, yes, Mary."
"But, Sister," Mary sat up, "surely not when you think of how awful he looked that night. Poor Father looked oh, so tired! But Uncle—I didn't know him until he smiled in his eyes."
"Did you know him when he was in here a few minutes ago, dear?"
"Why—why of course I knew him. I don't remember whether I looked right at his face——"
"I am quite sure that you did not, Mary, or you would never have let him go away without trying to make him feel better. You are not a selfish little girl; and I am very sure that when you understand the harm you are doing to your good, kind uncle, you will try to put an end to it."
"Theharm—I—am—doing—to—Uncle! You surely don't know me very well, Sister, if you think I would harm Uncle for anything in the whole world!"
"I am very, very sure, Mary, that you would not intend to harm him."
"But whatisit, Sister? Won't you please tell me? Am I bad?" the child asked piteously. "Is it bad to be so tired, and not to be hungry, and to like just to think of my darling father and mother and little sisters, and to want Uncle to stay with me every minute he can? Am I a bad girl to do that?"
"I did not mean for an instant that you have been a bad girl, dear. It is weakness that makes you so tired; but unless you try to take food even though you are not hungry, you cannot expect to grow stronger. Surely, since the good God did not take you from those who love you so much, He must wish you to do everything you can to grow well and strong. As for your father and mother and the babies, you would be a strange little girl if you didnotthink of them very, very often; but in the way you have been doing it, dear child, you have, without knowing it, been harming yourself and others. Let me tell you just how it has all seemed to me. First, our dear Lord sent you the measles——"
"Oh, did He, Sister? I thought I caught them at school."
"But if it had not been His will that you should have them, you would not have caught them. That illness meant that you must be away from your mother and little sisters; but you were so good and brave and patient about it all that others would not have guessed how much that separation cost you until they saw how happy you were at the thought of being with them soon again. I am sure that our dear Lord was very much pleased with you, and you must have won many graces.
"Then, for His own wise reasons, He sent you greater suffering. There are some people who think that all pain and sorrow is a punishment from God; but this is not true. Our Lord often sends such trials so that we may grow more like Him and merit a greater reward in heaven. We are told that suffering is a mark of God's love. Even when He sends it as a punishment, He does so in love; for it is far better to be punished for our sins in this world than in the next.
"In your second illness, I really think that those who love you suffered more from the fear of losing you than you did even from the great pain. However that may be, our dear Lord wished you to do something more for Him—something that you found much harder than your first or second trial. In those you had no choice. The illness came, and you could not escape it. But you might have refused our Lord when He asked you to give up your mother——"
"But—but, Sister, our Lord didn't ask me to do that—nobody reallyaskedme. I just couldn't think of letting poor Father go away by himself, you know."
"But has not our Lord said that whatever we do to even the least of His little ones, we do it unto Him? And do you not make your Morning Offering every day?"
"Oh, yes, Sister, the very minute I wake in the morning, even though it isn't time to get up. I make it again when I say my morning prayers; but I havethoughtseven though I may notdoanything before I say them; and they ought to be offered up, I think."
"Surely, dear. So last Saturday you had made your Morning Offering of all your thoughts, words, and actions to God; and when the time came to decide whether you wished your mother to go with your father or to stay with you, you had already offered Him the thought and action and suffering, even though you did not think of it that way at the time."
"N—no, Sister, I didn't. I was so—I don't like to say s'prised, because I think a s'prise ought to be something to make someone happy."
"Perhapsshockedis the better word."
"That's just exactly it, Sister. I was so shocked that I said dreadful things, and—and—oh, I was horrid! And while Mother was talking to me, I didn't know what to do. Then I remembered that Sister Florian said that when we had to decide something we must ask our Lord to help us, and she told us to say to our Blessed Mother, 'Mother, tell me what am I to do,' We were learning a hymn to her at school and that is the last line of every verse. I remember the first verse:
"'O Virgin Mother, Lady of Good Counsel,Sweetest picture artist ever drew,In all doubts I fly to thee for guidance,Mother! tell me, what am I to do?'"
"'O Virgin Mother, Lady of Good Counsel,Sweetest picture artist ever drew,In all doubts I fly to thee for guidance,Mother! tell me, what am I to do?'"
"And our Blessed Lady did tell you what to do, and her Divine Son gave you the grace to do it, and you gave Him the gift He was asking of you. Indeed, dear, what you have done is no small thing, but don't you think that it would be too bad to take back part of your gift, or to spoil it in any way? Would not that be a selfish thing to do? In sickness, we must be very careful. It acts in two ways, making the patient either more selfish or more thoughtful of others. Until the last few days, I thought it was having the good effect upon you; but now, I am just a little afraid that you are forgetting others, especially that good, kind uncle, who is trying to make you well and happy."
There was a moment's silence; then, "Sister, please ring for Liza——Oh, whydoesn'tshe hurry!"
"Please tell Uncle to come up again just for a minute, Liza. Don't let him go back to the office until——"
"Why, Miss May-ree, I done t'ought Massa Frank wah up heah wif yo' all dis time. His lunch am gittin' cold, sottin' dah on de table, an' ole Susie am on de rampage, sho' nuff. She jes' done tol' dis yeah chile dat she am plumb tiahed out cookin' fo' a gemplum what doan' eat nuffin but coffee, coffee, coffee, ebery single meal. It's 'bout time yo' put a stop to dat, Miss May-ree. Yo' is de only one dat kin. Yo' ma nebah 'lowed Massa Frank to drink coffee dat-a-way, no-how."
"But—but, Liza,—Uncle was here for just a little minute, and—and you don't mean that he hasn't eaten his luncheon yet? He will never have time to do it now. Please see if he is in his room."
"No, Mary, your uncle went down stairs when he left you. I heard the front door close a few moments later, so I fear that he has gone."
"Laws a massy! Dis yeah chile bettah keep out'n dat kitchen fo' de res' obdisaftahnoon, sho's yo' born!"
"O Liza, Liza! look everywhere downstairs to see if Uncle isn't there,please! What shall I do if he has gone—gone without a bite to eat!"
"But dat's persackly what he's done did, Miss May-ree, kase I'se looked fo' him ebery place; an' dat's what he's been adoin' ebery day, honey; and dat's what fo' ole Susie am so mad; an' dat's what fo' I done said yo's de only one what kin put a stop to it. But dah, honey, doan' yo' fret yo' poah li'l haid 'bout it no-how. Dis crazy niggah ain't got no right to tell yo' nuffin 'bout it."
"Yes, you have, you have, Liza! Oh, I wish you had told me the very first day! Please go right down to Susie, and ask her to cook everything Uncle likes best for dinner this evening; and tell her that he will eat them—every bite."
"Yas'm, Miss May-ree, I sho'ly will do dat. But ef'n ole Susie am gwine to cookeberyt'ingwhat Massa Frank laks bes', honey, I reckon dat gemplum's got to wait mighty late fo' his dinnah; kase yo' know dey's a powahful lot ob t'ings what Massa Frank laks bes'; dey sahtinly is!"
"Then pick out the ones he likes thevery best, Liza,—the very,verybest. Come back after while, and I shall help you to remember them."
"Yas'm, Miss May-ree, yas'm," and Liza hurried down to restore peace in the kitchen.
"O Sister, Sister,Sister! What shall Ido! WhatshallI do! Oh, I am bad—bad!"
"Come, dear, come! Crying will not mend matters. You did not know that you were doing any harm, and you have already begun to repair it; so let us plan the next step."
"But I must tell Uncle—oh, I don't knowwhat, but I must tell himsomething! Do you think he is at his office yet? Will you telephone to him for me, Sister?"
"He has scarcely had time to reach the office, dear; but in ten or fifteen minutes, I shall call him and give him any message you wish to send. In the meantime, you had better take the second step, which is to drink this broth. Cold broth is not very tempting."
Eagerly, the little girl emptied the bowl.
"I shall take the egg and milk after while if you think I ought to, Sister. I amsotired of eggs and milk, but——"
"If you take them faithfully for another day or two, I am sure the Doctor will order something new for you."
"If—if I took them about three times this afternoon, do you think I could have some meat soon? Meat makes people strong, doesn't it, Sister?"
"So do eggs and milk," laughed the nurse. "But three times in one afternoon would be too much for you. Now, I am going to darken the room; and while you are taking your nap, I shall telephone to your uncle. For one thing, I shall tell him that he will find our patient better this evening."
"Oh, yes, Sister! And ask himpleaseto go to the hotel across the street to get his dinner right now—not luncheon,—dinner. And—and—tell him I didn't know——"
"I shall explain that part, darling; and I have just thought of a plan which I am sure you will like. Go to sleep, now; for the sooner you do that, the earlier you will wake to hear about it."
When Mary opened her eyes, she was surprised to find the room filled with the rosy glow of the shaded lamp.
"Is it night, Sister? Has Uncle come?"
"No, dear, it is only half past four; but the afternoon has been so dark that Liza and I needed the light to begin to carry out my plan."
"Oh, please tell me what it is, Sister. The very idea for me to sleep all afternoon!"
"I am glad you did so, because you will be fresh for the evening. How would you like to invite your uncle to have dinner up here?"
Mary clapped her hands, and Sister Julia continued, "I took it for granted that you would approve of my plan, and called Liza to help me carry in this table from your playroom. We shall place it close to your bed. She has gone for the tablecloth and dishes."
"Sister, please ask her to use my great-grandmother's set—the ones with the plain gold band and the beautiful C on them. Uncle likes those best. And flowers—we must have flowers."
"The roses your uncle brought at noon will be just the thing."
"Roses? Oh, now I remember—and I hardly looked at them. Poor Uncle! Is there a pretty bud among them, Sister?—Please cut off part of the stem, and Liza will put it on his dresser for him to wear.Sister!wouldn't it be fun to write him an invitation exactly like the kind Mother sends when she has a dinner party? I have a lovely box of paper with M. S. in blue and gold up in the corner. We shall seal it and paste an old stamp on it and make a postmark just as the girls at Maryvale did with the letters they sent me by Aunt Mary. Liza will lay it on the hall table where Uncle will see it the minute he comes in."
Sister Julia seated herself at Mary's little desk and soon had the following invitation written:
Miss Mary Selwyn requests the pleasure of Doctor Francis P. Carlton's company at dinner on Thursday, November eighteenth, at six o'clock.
"That is exactly what Mother says in her invitations. Did—did Uncle say he would go to dinner when you telephoned, Sister?"
"Yes, dear, your message made him so happy that he said he would order a Thanksgiving dinner a week ahead of time."
"Thatisso, isn't it, Sister? A week from to-day will be Thanksgiving. And Father and Mother and the babies won't be here; and they will be away for Christmas and New Year's Day and Mother's birthday and Valentine's Day and Father's birthday and for Easter and my birthday and Fourth of July and Uncle's birthday and the twinnies'——" Mary's voice broke in a sob.
"But think of all the happy days that you will spend with them next year and for many, many years to come, dear. You think the babies very sweet and cunning now, and so they are; but in another year, you will find them far more so. They will be learning to talk and will keep you very busy running after them to see that they do not get into mischief or fall down the stairs. You will be a great help to Aunt Mandy then, for she is scarcely spry enough to run after one baby,—to say nothing of two. So just think of the happy times ahead, dear, and you will be surprised to find how quickly this year will slip by. Come, dry your eyes. It will never do to have your uncle find you crying. Can you think of anything else that will help to make our surprise for him a greater success?"
"Don't you think I ought to dress up for this dinner party, Sister?"
"Beyond washing your face and brushing your hair, I cannot very well see how a little girl sick in bed can dress up."
"You could do up my hair the way mother wears hers, and—and—oh, I have a beautiful new ribbon, pale blue with tiny white rosebuds sprinkled over it. We can twist it and put it around my head like a wreath, with the bow sticking up at one side. Let me see what else we can do—I know! In the middle drawer of the dresser, there is a cute little dressing sack with rosebuds made of white satin ribbon down the front instead of buttons. I just have to loop cords over them."
When Mary was "dressed up" to her taste, the nurse insisted that she must lean back against the pillows to rest.
"You must not overdo, or you will be worn out by the time your uncle comes home."
The little girl gave a sigh of content.
"Sister, you have made me so happy. I thought I could never be happy again,never!"
"I think you have done a great deal toward making yourself happy, Mary. You must expect to have many lonely hours; but at such times, you should try to remember how very, very much worse things could be. Suppose you were in the place of a little girl I heard of not long ago, whose father, mother, brothers, and sister all died of black diphtheria within two weeks. She had no good, kind uncle or other relatives to look after her, so there was nothing to do but to place her in an orphan asylum."
Mary was very quiet for some time. Then Liza came in to set the table.
"Wal, Miss May-ree, what yo' reckon Massa Frank gwine t' eat fo' his dinnah, no-how? Dem red roses, or meat an' 'tatahs an' veg'tubbles? Dem flowahs ammightyputty, honey; but ef dey's gwine to sot lak dat in de middle ob de table, dey won't be no room fo' de t'ings to eat; and' I reckon dis yeah chile 'll hab to sot dem on chairs, he! he! he!"
"We can place this small table just behind that one, Liza, and stand the flowers on it."
"Dat's de ticket, Sistah! 'Peahs to me yo' alwuz knows jes' de right t'ing."
"What is it, dear?" asked the nurse, for Mary was looking about the room as if in search of something.
"My new doll, Sister, please. Do you know where she is? Uncle hasn't seen her. I couldn't bear to look at her after the babies had gone."
"I put her in the high chair in your playroom, Mary."
"I'se gwine to fotch her fo' yo', honey. She am de lubliest doll-baby yo' has, she sahtinly am! She's done fooled dis yeah chile 'bout fawty times, sottin' dah smilin' wif her li'l hands reachin' out fo' me to tek her."
"Please bring the chair, too, Liza. She can sit right by the bed."
The maid soon returned.
"Dah she am!Ain'tshe jes' too lubly! What's her name, Miss May-ree?"
"Amelia Anabelle."
"Laws a massy, but dat do sound scrumptious!" and Liza turned to the setting of the table.
Mary rested her hand for a moment on the back of the high chair, and the maid whirled about to gaze at the crying, kicking Amelia Anabelle.
"Why—why—what—pull yo' li'l hand away, Miss May-ree! Pull it away! Doan' yo' tech dat t'ing! Somebudy done put de conjure on dat doll!" and Liza, her eyes bulging, backed quickly toward the door.
"No, no, Liza, don't be afraid. She will be good. See?"
Amelia Anabelle was again smiling; but Liza stood in the hall, well out of harm's way, crying hoarsely, "Doan' yo' tech it, Miss May-ree, honey. It am a ha'nt!"
"Oh, dear, no!" laughed the little girl. "Father wouldn't give me a haunted doll. Who ever heard of a haunted doll, anyway? Please don't go away, Liza. Come and finish setting the table."
"Not while dat doll am sottin' dah, Miss May-ree!"
"But the doll can't do anything unless I push a button in the back of her neck. You are not afraid of the electric lights, are you?"
"Co'se I isn't, Miss May-ree."
"Well, you push a button to turn them on and off, and I push a button to turn my doll's head around and show her other face. She has two faces, you see. That's all."
"I nebah done laked two-face folkses. Miss May-ree, an' I'se not gwine to begin to lak dem now," and Liza could not be coaxed back until Sister Julia had carried the doll into the next room.
Presently, a cheery whistle broke the stillness of the house.
"There's Uncle, Sister! Please peep over the banisters to see what he does when he finds the invitation. Oh, he sees it!" for the merry time had suddenly ceased.
"I wish you could have seen his face while he read it, Mary," said the nurse a few moments later. "He had a great laugh over the stamp and postmark. Then he started upstairs at such a rate that I was almost caught in the act. I heard him say, 'Well, she won't get ahead of me there!' So what he is up to is hard to tell."
"He is whistling, 'There's a Good Time Coming, Boys!' and thereis, Sister! Why—why, he has gone to his room!"
"You surely would not expect him to pay you a call when he is coming to dine with you. Perhaps he, too, thinks that he should dress up."
The little girl's patience was pretty well tried; but at last she heard the Doctor's step in the hall, and the next moment he stood in the doorway in his tuxedo, the red rosebud in his buttonhole. Mary almost clapped her hands; but remembering that she was the hostess, she tried to behave in a most grown-up manner and welcomed her uncle as she had seen her mother greet guests. It was a little hard not to forget that she wasMissSelwyn, especially when the Doctor started toward the left side of the bed, which was the dining-room, and almost saw behind the screen which hid the table from view.
Liza appeared very promptly with the dinner, the screen was removed, and the Doctor took his place at the table, saying, "I am very sorry, Miss Selwyn, that you cannot partake of anything more than the first course."
"I am quite sure that I am even more sorry than you are, Doctor Carlton," was the very truthful response.
Then the Doctor forgot that he was a guest at a fashionable dinner party, and declared that Mary should have a few bites of meat if she would swallow no more than the juice of it.
Several times, Liza was obliged to hurry from the room so as not to be seen laughing at Mary's quaint remarks. After she had served the dessert, Mary said, "Doctor Carlton, one of my guests is in the playroom waiting to be brought in to dinner. I could not have her here while Liza was in the room."
"I shall be delighted to act as her escort, Miss Selwyn."
The Doctor soon returned with Amelia Anabelle, whom he placed in the high chair, saying, "A fine, little girl, Miss Selwyn, a fine, healthy child, indeed! Is she a relative of yours?"
"Yes, Doctor, she is my niece. On the whole, she is a very good child; but, of course, she has her tantrums sometimes just as other children have."
"Oh, I think you must be mistaken about that, Miss Selwyn. Such a good-natured-looking child could not possibly give way to tantrums," and the Doctor began to eat his pie.
Mary pressed the button; and dropping his fork, he stared at the screaming, kicking Amelia Anabelle.
"You see, Doctor, she can be a very naughty child. I think she is crying for some of your pie."
"No, no, madam, pumpkin pie is very bad for so young a child. Some of the cream on your gelatine will be just the thing for her." Then, when peace was restored, he once more forgot that he was a guest and asked, "How did you manage that? is the face made of rubber?"
"No, Uncle, it is the same as my other dolls' faces. Liza says that Amelia Anabelle is a haunt."
"Nonsense! That doll's antics can be explained as easily as most of the ghosts that we hear about. A string and a spring will work wonders; but I don't quite see how they can make so great a change in a bisque face. Never mind. I shall find out for myself before I go to bed to-night. No wonder that poor Liza is afraid of that doll."
"Uncle, has Liza much book learning?"
"'Education' is a better word, dear. No, Liza has not had much education. If she had had a little more, she would not be so ready to believe in haunts, as she calls them. Why do you ask that question?"
"Aunt Mandy told me that she didn't have any herself, and that she expects to live to be ever so old. She seems to think that book—I meaneducationmakes people die young. Does it, Uncle?"
"Not at all. Of course, if one devotes too much time to study and not enough to proper exercise and rest, there is reason to fear that the health will suffer. But there is not much danger that many young people nowadays will die of overstudy. There, I can't begin to tell you how much I have enjoyed this dinner."
"O Uncle, will you let Liza bring your dinner up here every evening until I am well enough to go down stairs?"
"Unless she objects, I shall be only too glad to do so—that is, if you will not expect me to dress up in this fashion."
"Why, Uncle, I didn't expect you to do that eventhisevening."
"But your invitation called for it."
"Then I shall not send you any more invitations. We shall be just our own selves and not pretend anything. Don't you think it would be nice if you took off those stiff things now and put on your smoking jacket and slippers? And—and couldn't we sit by the fire in the sitting-room and talk until oh, ever so late? I took a long, long nap this afternoon."
"I quite agree to part of your plan; but as for sitting up until a very late hour—well, we shall see."
Ten minutes later found him in a big leather chair before the blazing fire with Mary, snugly wrapped in a blanket, on his knee. For some time, he forgot the little girl, and sat watching the dancing flames and thinking of the great steamer plowing its way through the dark waters of the Atlantic. Mary's eyes never left his face; and feeling her gaze upon him, he smiled down at her. She slipped her arm around his neck, drawing his head down; and his kind blue eyes grew misty as, gazing once more into the fire, he listened while she whispered many things into his ear—things which let him see deep down into her loving little heart and bound it more closely to his own with bands which the sad after days only strengthened.
When she had finished, he said nothing—just held her close and pressed his lips to the bright little head resting so trustingly against his arm; and Mary knew that he understood.
After a long, long silence, he began to tell her of the beautiful, old, southern city to which he was planning to take her.
"Is it near Wilhelmina's home, Uncle?"
"No, dear, it is much farther from New York. Wilhelmina's home is in Georgia, too near the sea for you at present. We shall go to Texas, a long, long journey; but we shall be well repaid when we reach San Antonio. That is the Spanish way of saying Saint Anthony. It is a very old city, founded by the Franciscan Fathers more than two hundred years ago, and has an interesting and exciting history."
"And will it really be warm there?"
"So warm that by the first of February you will probably be able to play outdoors in a white dress without wraps. The poorest shanty will be almost hidden by roses."
"Then I won't need to take my winter clothes at all."
"I think it will be well for you to take your warm cloak; for sometimes a cold wind called a 'norther' swoops down on the city, and then the beautiful palm trees and the flowers suffer, and for a few days the children hurry to school bundled up in the warmest clothes they can find. We who see so much snow and ice for several months at a time would look upon such a cold snap as fine, bracing weather; but those southern people do not enjoy it at all."
"I wish Wilhelmina lived in San Antonio."
"So do I, little one. You would have great times together, though I really do not know what you would do in a house with seven boys. They are just about the liveliest little crowd I have ever met, and Wilhelmina is equal to any one of them."
"Is she seven years old, too, Uncle?"
"Not quite seven. Her birthday is in January, so you are nearly eight months older than she is; but she is large and strong for her age. No one but her mother ever thinks of calling her by her full name. Even her father calls her Willie, and I have heard the boys say 'Billy' or 'Bill' when their mother is not around."
"I hope I shall know them all some day. They must have the best times together. They need never invite anyone to spend the day with them."
"No, indeed; though they do sometimes have what they term, 'The Gathering of the Clan,' when their forty-five or fifty first cousins, with their fathers and mothers, pay a visit to Sunnymead, as Wilhelmina's home is called."
"Forty-five or fifty first cousins!Why, Uncle! And I haven'tone!"
"Perhaps you have some, dear, that we know nothing about. Your father has a brother and a sister of whom he has heard nothing for many years. He was not always a Catholic, you know; and when he became one, your Aunt Bertha would have no more to do with him. Your Uncle Alfred was in Europe at the time. He was not one to trouble himself much about religion and would not care what your father did about it; but he has doubtless been roaming from place to place over there, and any letters which your father has written him have probably gone astray. At all events, men, as a rule, are not great letter-writers, you know."
Then the Doctor told the little girl about her father's old home in Virginia, which was built when George Washington was a little boy. By degrees, her eyes grew heavy, and his voice died away into silence; and when, at the very late hour of half-past seven, Sister Julia came as far as the door to see whether her patient was ready to go to bed, she found the Doctor, a very tender light in his eyes, gazing into the glowing coals, and Mary fast asleep in his arms.
[1]The decree of our late Holy Father, Pope Pius X., concerning the First Communion of little children, had not at this time been issued.
[1]The decree of our late Holy Father, Pope Pius X., concerning the First Communion of little children, had not at this time been issued.
"Our girls have found a new and splendid champion."Father Finn in theQueen's Works.
"Our girls have found a new and splendid champion."
Father Finn in theQueen's Works.
Uncle Frank's Mary is Clementia's first book, and it is full of thoughtful interest; has a wonderful plot development, charming dialogue, and an abundance of action. It introduces a host of delightful personages besides the lovable little heroine.
It will appeal to girls particularly from ages 12 to 17.
This book is a sequel to Uncle Frank's Mary. The atmosphere of the story despite thrilling adventures by land and sea is thoroughly feminine.
It is a story that will be enjoyed by all.
Although this book deals with Mary Selwyn and the characters of Clementia's first two books, it is complete in itself. It sets forth the happy life at "Bird-a-Lea," the beautiful summer home of the Selwyn family. Every page is full of adventure. "Bird-a-Lea" is so well written that girls from ten to twenty years and even over will not put it aside before they have finished it.
The best girls' story written since "Little Women"
A splendid book by the eminent Jesuit Author
A book for everyone who works
It should be read by every employer and employee. It should be placed in the hands of labor leaders. It will be read with profit by the classes and the masses.
The purpose of the book is to offer, for the use of all, a brief but suggestive exposition of the Christian principles underlying the great social problems of our day.
Father Husslein's valuable book covers such questions as "A Living Wage," "The Right to Strike," "Women at the Wheel of Industry," "Present-day Capitalism," "Proletarian Dictatorship," "Copartnership and Profit-sharing," "Ozanam on Poverty and Wealth," "The Science of Charity," "Catholic Efficiency," "The Apostolic Rule," etc., etc.
WORK, WEALTH AND WAGES should be in millions of our Catholic homes.