"Randolph Place,"December 26th."Darling Aunt Jessie:"Christmas is over, and it really wasn't half as bad as I thought it was going to be. But before I begin writing about anything else, I must tell you how happy I was to get all your dear home letters. Uncle Henry was so kind about forwarding them as soon as they reached New York, and I had them all on Christmas Eve. Aunt Julia wrote me the box has come, too, but she will have to keep that until I get back the end of next week. How I shall adore every single thing in it!"I sent mother a few lines the morning I got here, but that was before I had found out how beautiful it all is. It is just like the Southern plantations one reads about in stories, and everything is very interesting. There is even a dear old black mammy, who lives in a cabin, and hasasked Beverly and me to come and have waffles some afternoon. All the servants are black, and the butler has lived in the family nearly forty years. Then the neighbors are just the kind one reads of, so kind and hospitable, and always having good times. I think I like Southerners better than New Yorkers; they make me feel much more at home. I have met a good many of them, for we went to a Christmas dance at the Pattersons', on Christmas Eve, and I had a perfectly gorgeous time. The Pattersons are cousins of the Randolphs', and Grace, the girl, is just my age, and awfully nice; but then everybody here is nice, and I am having the very best time that it is possible for a girl to have."The riding is the greatest pleasure of all. Beverly and I have been out for a ride every day, and he enjoys it almost as much as I do. They have given me the dearest little chestnut to ride, and it is a great honor, because she belonged to Beverly's sister, who was killed in the San Francisco earthquake, and scarcely any one has ridden her since. She is very gentle, and so friendly that she will take sugar out of my pocket. Beverly says his sister taught her to do that."But if I go on chattering like this, I shallnever get to Christmas, which was the most interesting of all. The Virginians seem to think a great deal of Christmas, and nearly all the day before we were busy dressing a tree for the little negroes on the plantation. Mrs. Randolph had brought presents from New York for all of them, and for the fathers and mothers as well. Beverly says she has done the same thing every Christmas since her little girl died; it is a sort of memorial, I suppose. We all hung up our stockings, even Mrs. Randolph and the doctor, who is just as nice and jolly as he can be, though Grace Patterson says some people are afraid of him. It was late when we got back from the Pattersons' party on Christmas Eve, but after I was in bed I heard Mrs. Randolph going about softly, filling the stockings, which were all hung outside our doors."I was so tired after the party, that I didn't wake till after seven, and then the very first thing I did was to run and look at my stocking. It was stuffed full of good things; oranges, candy, figs and dates, and just as I thought I had reached the bottom, I felt something hard away down in the toe. What do you think it was? You will never guess, so I may as well tell you right away; it was a little velvet box, and insidewas a ring, a beautiful gold ring, with two adorable little pearls in it! That was Mrs. Randolph's Christmas present, and the loveliest thing I have ever had in my life. I was so happy when I saw it that I cried; I know it was dreadfully silly, but I couldn't help it. Oh, how I wish I could show it to you this minute, but you will see it when I come home next June, and all my other presents, too, for the ring wasn't the only one. When I came down to breakfast there were more parcels beside my plate; two nice books from Beverly, and a gold bracelet from the doctor. Just think of it, two pieces of jewelry in one day! I am sure I didn't deserve such beautiful things, but when I told them so, and tried to thank them, they only laughed."In the morning we went to church, and the Christmas music was lovely. We met the Pattersons at church, and they all came home with us to dinner. Oh, such a dinner! I don't see how any one could possibly ever eat so many things. There were more dishes than I have ever imagined possible for one meal, and every single one was delicious."After dinner came the tree for the children, and that was the best fun of all. I quite lost my heart to some of the piccaninnies, and one littlechap, as black as coal, was so adorable that I wanted to hug him. The children all had a beautiful time, and screamed with delight over their presents. How I wished you and Mother could have seen Mrs. Randolph going about among them, speaking so pleasantly to every one, and making them all feel at home. After the tree had been stripped they all had ice cream, and I got hold of my little black boy, and made him sit on my lap while I fed him until I don't believe he could have swallowed another mouthful. Then the old butler, who is just like a negro servant in a book, proposed three cheers for Mrs. Randolph, and you should have heard those darkies yell!"The Pattersons left as soon as the fun was over, and we all went upstairs to our rooms to rest. But I wasn't a bit tired, and was afraid that if I sat down to think I might be homesick, so I thought I would go for a walk. I was just starting when I saw Mrs. Randolph come out from the greenhouse, with her hat on, and her hands full of beautiful roses, and I stopped to ask if she were going for a walk, too, and if I might go with her. She hesitated for a minute, and then said I might come if I liked, but she was afraid I would find it sad; she was going to thecemetery to put flowers on her little girl's grave. She said it quite calmly, but there was such a sad look in her eyes, and I was horribly embarrassed, for I was afraid I ought not to have suggested going with her. But she assured me she would really like to have me, if I didn't mind, so of course I went, and, oh, Aunt Jessie, I am so glad I did. It was all beautiful and sacred—almost too sacred to write about, even to you and Mother. The cemetery was such a lovely, peaceful place, and as it was quite warm and pleasant, we sat down by Barbara Randolph's grave, and her mother talked to me about her. It was the first time she has ever told me much about Barbara, and I was so interested in all she said. I don't think I shall ever be afraid of dying again; Mrs. Randolph spoke so beautifully about it. She says she can never feel that her little girl is far away, and she is quite sure they will be together again some day. I think Barbara must have been an awfully nice girl; every one seems so fond of her. Grace Patterson was her chum, and she can hardly speak of her without crying. As for Beverly, he just can't bear to talk about her at all, and I don't dare ask him a single question. Grace says he was devoted to her, and she adored him. I wish I could see a picture ofBarbara, but there are no photographs of her about. Mrs. Randolph wears a little gold locket, and I am sure there is a miniature of Barbara inside, but I have never had the courage to ask her to show it to me. I was just making up my mind to do it yesterday, when we heard footsteps, and there was Beverly himself, bringing more flowers. He didn't know we were there, and looked horribly embarrassed when he saw us. Boys always hate to show their feelings, and I think he would have gone away again without speaking to us, if his mother hadn't called him. She was so pleased to see him, and after the first minute I don't think he really minded. I thought they might like to be alone, so I slipped away as quietly as I could, and on the way home I met the doctor, and he asked me to go for a walk with him. I know you would like Dr. Randolph; he is so clever, and has traveled almost all over the world. He told me such an interesting story about a Christmas he once spent in Jerusalem. It is so pleasant that he met Father at Harvard, and remembers all about him. He says Father was a very handsome boy, and a great favorite with the girls. Doesn't it seem queer to think of Father's going to dances and flirting with girls! He looks somuch older than Dr. Randolph, and yet I suppose they must be about the same age."Mrs. Randolph and Beverly were quite cheerful when they came home, and I noticed that Beverly was very gentle with his mother all the evening. He is always nice to her, and that is one of the reasons why I like him so much. One of the things that has surprised me most of all in New York, is the way some of the girls and boys speak to their fathers and mothers. I really don't know what Mother would do to me if I were ever to answer her back the way Elsie sometimes answers Aunt Julia, but her mother doesn't seem to mind."We had a quiet evening at home, but it was pleasant, for we were all a little tired. Mrs. Randolph and the doctor played cribbage, and Beverly sang; he has a lovely voice, but he won't often sing. Altogether my Christmas was a very happy one, and if I did 'weep a little weep' after I was in bed, it was only natural, considering it was my first Christmas away from you all. Oh, Aunt Jessie, darling, I am having a beautiful visit, but I never forget you, or Father or Mother, a single minute! I love your letters better than anything else, and I am just longing to get my hands on that precious Christmas box.I hope you will all like the presents I sent. Uncle Henry was so kind; he gave me twenty-five dollars to spend for Christmas presents. I never had so much money in my life, but Aunt Julia helped me select the presents, which was a great relief, for I should never have known what to buy without her. Things seem to cost so much more than one expects them to."I felt sure you and Mother would want something I had made myself, and I hope you will like the color of the shawl; Mrs. Randolph thought it very pretty. I chose the little daisy pin for Undine, because I liked it so much myself. I am so glad you have all grown so fond of her, and that she is happy, and doesn't worry so much about not remembering."Beverly is calling me to go for a ride, so I must stop writing. Heaps of hugs and kisses for everybody from"Your own"Marjorie."
"Randolph Place,"December 26th.
"Christmas is over, and it really wasn't half as bad as I thought it was going to be. But before I begin writing about anything else, I must tell you how happy I was to get all your dear home letters. Uncle Henry was so kind about forwarding them as soon as they reached New York, and I had them all on Christmas Eve. Aunt Julia wrote me the box has come, too, but she will have to keep that until I get back the end of next week. How I shall adore every single thing in it!
"I sent mother a few lines the morning I got here, but that was before I had found out how beautiful it all is. It is just like the Southern plantations one reads about in stories, and everything is very interesting. There is even a dear old black mammy, who lives in a cabin, and hasasked Beverly and me to come and have waffles some afternoon. All the servants are black, and the butler has lived in the family nearly forty years. Then the neighbors are just the kind one reads of, so kind and hospitable, and always having good times. I think I like Southerners better than New Yorkers; they make me feel much more at home. I have met a good many of them, for we went to a Christmas dance at the Pattersons', on Christmas Eve, and I had a perfectly gorgeous time. The Pattersons are cousins of the Randolphs', and Grace, the girl, is just my age, and awfully nice; but then everybody here is nice, and I am having the very best time that it is possible for a girl to have.
"The riding is the greatest pleasure of all. Beverly and I have been out for a ride every day, and he enjoys it almost as much as I do. They have given me the dearest little chestnut to ride, and it is a great honor, because she belonged to Beverly's sister, who was killed in the San Francisco earthquake, and scarcely any one has ridden her since. She is very gentle, and so friendly that she will take sugar out of my pocket. Beverly says his sister taught her to do that.
"But if I go on chattering like this, I shallnever get to Christmas, which was the most interesting of all. The Virginians seem to think a great deal of Christmas, and nearly all the day before we were busy dressing a tree for the little negroes on the plantation. Mrs. Randolph had brought presents from New York for all of them, and for the fathers and mothers as well. Beverly says she has done the same thing every Christmas since her little girl died; it is a sort of memorial, I suppose. We all hung up our stockings, even Mrs. Randolph and the doctor, who is just as nice and jolly as he can be, though Grace Patterson says some people are afraid of him. It was late when we got back from the Pattersons' party on Christmas Eve, but after I was in bed I heard Mrs. Randolph going about softly, filling the stockings, which were all hung outside our doors.
"I was so tired after the party, that I didn't wake till after seven, and then the very first thing I did was to run and look at my stocking. It was stuffed full of good things; oranges, candy, figs and dates, and just as I thought I had reached the bottom, I felt something hard away down in the toe. What do you think it was? You will never guess, so I may as well tell you right away; it was a little velvet box, and insidewas a ring, a beautiful gold ring, with two adorable little pearls in it! That was Mrs. Randolph's Christmas present, and the loveliest thing I have ever had in my life. I was so happy when I saw it that I cried; I know it was dreadfully silly, but I couldn't help it. Oh, how I wish I could show it to you this minute, but you will see it when I come home next June, and all my other presents, too, for the ring wasn't the only one. When I came down to breakfast there were more parcels beside my plate; two nice books from Beverly, and a gold bracelet from the doctor. Just think of it, two pieces of jewelry in one day! I am sure I didn't deserve such beautiful things, but when I told them so, and tried to thank them, they only laughed.
"In the morning we went to church, and the Christmas music was lovely. We met the Pattersons at church, and they all came home with us to dinner. Oh, such a dinner! I don't see how any one could possibly ever eat so many things. There were more dishes than I have ever imagined possible for one meal, and every single one was delicious.
"After dinner came the tree for the children, and that was the best fun of all. I quite lost my heart to some of the piccaninnies, and one littlechap, as black as coal, was so adorable that I wanted to hug him. The children all had a beautiful time, and screamed with delight over their presents. How I wished you and Mother could have seen Mrs. Randolph going about among them, speaking so pleasantly to every one, and making them all feel at home. After the tree had been stripped they all had ice cream, and I got hold of my little black boy, and made him sit on my lap while I fed him until I don't believe he could have swallowed another mouthful. Then the old butler, who is just like a negro servant in a book, proposed three cheers for Mrs. Randolph, and you should have heard those darkies yell!
"The Pattersons left as soon as the fun was over, and we all went upstairs to our rooms to rest. But I wasn't a bit tired, and was afraid that if I sat down to think I might be homesick, so I thought I would go for a walk. I was just starting when I saw Mrs. Randolph come out from the greenhouse, with her hat on, and her hands full of beautiful roses, and I stopped to ask if she were going for a walk, too, and if I might go with her. She hesitated for a minute, and then said I might come if I liked, but she was afraid I would find it sad; she was going to thecemetery to put flowers on her little girl's grave. She said it quite calmly, but there was such a sad look in her eyes, and I was horribly embarrassed, for I was afraid I ought not to have suggested going with her. But she assured me she would really like to have me, if I didn't mind, so of course I went, and, oh, Aunt Jessie, I am so glad I did. It was all beautiful and sacred—almost too sacred to write about, even to you and Mother. The cemetery was such a lovely, peaceful place, and as it was quite warm and pleasant, we sat down by Barbara Randolph's grave, and her mother talked to me about her. It was the first time she has ever told me much about Barbara, and I was so interested in all she said. I don't think I shall ever be afraid of dying again; Mrs. Randolph spoke so beautifully about it. She says she can never feel that her little girl is far away, and she is quite sure they will be together again some day. I think Barbara must have been an awfully nice girl; every one seems so fond of her. Grace Patterson was her chum, and she can hardly speak of her without crying. As for Beverly, he just can't bear to talk about her at all, and I don't dare ask him a single question. Grace says he was devoted to her, and she adored him. I wish I could see a picture ofBarbara, but there are no photographs of her about. Mrs. Randolph wears a little gold locket, and I am sure there is a miniature of Barbara inside, but I have never had the courage to ask her to show it to me. I was just making up my mind to do it yesterday, when we heard footsteps, and there was Beverly himself, bringing more flowers. He didn't know we were there, and looked horribly embarrassed when he saw us. Boys always hate to show their feelings, and I think he would have gone away again without speaking to us, if his mother hadn't called him. She was so pleased to see him, and after the first minute I don't think he really minded. I thought they might like to be alone, so I slipped away as quietly as I could, and on the way home I met the doctor, and he asked me to go for a walk with him. I know you would like Dr. Randolph; he is so clever, and has traveled almost all over the world. He told me such an interesting story about a Christmas he once spent in Jerusalem. It is so pleasant that he met Father at Harvard, and remembers all about him. He says Father was a very handsome boy, and a great favorite with the girls. Doesn't it seem queer to think of Father's going to dances and flirting with girls! He looks somuch older than Dr. Randolph, and yet I suppose they must be about the same age.
"Mrs. Randolph and Beverly were quite cheerful when they came home, and I noticed that Beverly was very gentle with his mother all the evening. He is always nice to her, and that is one of the reasons why I like him so much. One of the things that has surprised me most of all in New York, is the way some of the girls and boys speak to their fathers and mothers. I really don't know what Mother would do to me if I were ever to answer her back the way Elsie sometimes answers Aunt Julia, but her mother doesn't seem to mind.
"We had a quiet evening at home, but it was pleasant, for we were all a little tired. Mrs. Randolph and the doctor played cribbage, and Beverly sang; he has a lovely voice, but he won't often sing. Altogether my Christmas was a very happy one, and if I did 'weep a little weep' after I was in bed, it was only natural, considering it was my first Christmas away from you all. Oh, Aunt Jessie, darling, I am having a beautiful visit, but I never forget you, or Father or Mother, a single minute! I love your letters better than anything else, and I am just longing to get my hands on that precious Christmas box.I hope you will all like the presents I sent. Uncle Henry was so kind; he gave me twenty-five dollars to spend for Christmas presents. I never had so much money in my life, but Aunt Julia helped me select the presents, which was a great relief, for I should never have known what to buy without her. Things seem to cost so much more than one expects them to.
"I felt sure you and Mother would want something I had made myself, and I hope you will like the color of the shawl; Mrs. Randolph thought it very pretty. I chose the little daisy pin for Undine, because I liked it so much myself. I am so glad you have all grown so fond of her, and that she is happy, and doesn't worry so much about not remembering.
"Beverly is calling me to go for a ride, so I must stop writing. Heaps of hugs and kisses for everybody from
"Your own"Marjorie."
"Don'tyou think there is always something very sad about last days in places?"
Beverly laughed, and cast an amused glance at his companion's sober face. He and Marjorie were trotting leisurely along a road where the trees met overhead in summer, although now the boughs were leafless, and there was a light covering of snow on the ground. It was their last afternoon in Virginia, and they were making the most of it, despite a lowering sky, and a frostiness in the air, which threatened more snow before night.
"Just think," Marjorie went on mournfully, "I sha'n't have another ride for five whole months. School doesn't close till the first of June."
"Why don't you ride in the park? Lots of girls do, you know. Ask your uncle to hire a horse for you from the riding academy."
Marjorie blushed.
"I don't like to," she said, frankly. "Uncle Henry and Aunt Julia are doing so much for me already, I don't think I ought to ask for anything more. Elsie doesn't ride in New York."
"Well, I have no doubt she could if she wanted to. I imagine Miss Elsie generally gets what she wants."
"You don't like Elsie, do you?" The words were out before Marjorie realized she had uttered them. The next moment she wished she had not asked the question.
"No, I don't," said Beverly, honestly.
"I'm sorry; I wish you did; she's so clever, and—and there are lots of nice things about her. You see, she is an only child, and her father and mother worship her. I suppose she can't help being a little spoiled."
"Well, you are an only child, too, and I have no doubt your family are as fond of you as Elsie's are of her, but you are not spoiled."
Marjorie was silent. She felt that loyalty to her cousin required her to say something in Elsie's defence, and yet what could she say? After a moment's silence Beverly went on.
"I should like your cousin a lot better if she resigned from being president of that Club."
"She—she tore up the poem," faltered Marjorie."She said it was trash. I don't think she meant to do anything mean, but she is so clever, she couldn't bear to have any other poem better than hers."
"You're a loyal little soul, Marjorie," said Beverly, approvingly, "but all you can say won't alter the fact that your cousin did a mean, contemptible thing. She knows I found her out, and she hasn't looked me straight in the face since. I don't like sneaks in girls any better than in boys."
Marjorie felt the conversation had gone far enough. She did not wish to discuss Elsie even with Beverly Randolph, although the two had become great friends during the past ten days, so after a little pause, she changed the subject by asking her companion if he did not think they had better be turning towards home.
Beverly glanced at his watch.
"I suppose we'd better," he said, reluctantly. "I hate to cut our last ride short, but Mammy will be heart-broken if we keep her waffles waiting."
"I'm so glad we are going to Mammy's cabin," Marjorie said, as they turned the horses' heads in a homeward direction. "It makes me think of so many things I have read. Don't you rememberin 'Uncle Tom's Cabin,' how George Selby used to slip away from the big house, and go down to Uncle Tom's for waffles and fried chicken? Mammy is such an old dear; I do want to hear her talk again."
"She certainly is a character," said Beverly, laughing. "We'll get her to tell some anecdotes about Barbara and me. According to Mammy I must have been a pickle."
Marjorie was conscious of a feeling of relief at having successfully turned the conversation away from Elsie and her affairs, and she and Beverly chatted on pleasantly until they reached Mammy's cabin, where they dismounted and Beverly tied the horses to the hitching post. Mammy was on the watch for them, and gave them a hearty welcome.
"Now you jes lay off yo' tings, and set down by de fiah," she commanded, placing chairs for the visitors, "an' I'll have dem waffles done in a jiffy. Lor', Mas'r Bev'ly, it jes' does my heart good to see you settin' heah in my kitchen, like you used to do when you an' Miss Babs—now Mas'r Bev'ly, don't you tease my Josephus; he mighty 'telligent cat, he is. He won't stan' no foolin'."
"He's a beauty," said Marjorie, stooping tostroke the big maltese, who responded to the caress by springing on the arm of her chair.
Mammy beamed with satisfaction.
"Josephus likes you fust rate, Missy," she said, approvingly. "He don't make friends with mos' folks; he's too 'ristocratic. He knows what's what, Josephus does."
"Mammy is the most delicious snob," laughed Beverly; "she only allows Josephus to associate with aristocratic cats. All the unfortunate plebeian cats in the neighborhood are driven away with a stick."
"Cose dey is," declared Mammy, indignantly. "What yo s'pose I want common, no-'count cats botherin' round heah for? Ain't I always lived in de most 'ristocratic Virginia fam'lies, and wasn't my paw own body-servant to ole General Putnam, an' my maw bought by Mas'r Randolph's father when she weren't more'n ten years old, an' brought up in de house, to be maid to de young ladies? I'se lived in de fust fam'lies, I has, and I'm proud of it, too."
"What a perfectly heavenly place!" whispered Marjorie to Beverly, with a glance round the neat little kitchen, as the old negress bustled away intent on household duties.
"You must get Mammy to show you the familyphotographs before we go," said Beverly; "she has quite a gallery, and can give you the separate history of each picture. Ah, here come the waffles. Nobody can beat you on waffles, Mammy."
The old woman grinned.
"Cose dey cyan't," she said, placidly. "Dere cyan't nobody in dese parts beat me on waffles and corn-bread. Folks comes askin' for my recipes, but it ain't de recipe dat does it, it's de light hand. Now Mas'r Bev'ly, don't you take de whole dishful; dere's plenty more comin'. Lor' sakes, Missy, you jes' oughter seen de way dat boy would go in for waffles an' maple syrup when he was little. Do you 'member de day, Mas'r Bev'ly, when yo maw was havin' lot of comp'ny for tea, an' yo' an' Miss Babs sneaked into de pantry, and eat up all de lobster salad 'fo' de comp'ny got a chance to have it? What a swattin' I did give de two of you' for dat!"
"Yes, indeed I remember it," said Beverly, laughing. "I deserved the 'swatting' more than Babs did, for she was only four and I was eight."
"Dat's true; but yo' bofe deserved it bad enough. Lordie! How dat chile Babs could stuff! Notin' ever hurted her, and de wust of itwas, she didn't mind castor oil no more'n if it was molasses. Have some more syrup, Missy; waffles ain't no good without plenty of syrup. You was forever gettin' Miss Babs into mischief, Mas'r Bev'ly. I'll never forget de day I dressed de two of you in yo' best white suits, cause yo' grandmother Randolph was comin' on a visit, an' de minute my back was turned you was bofe off to de swamp. My, what sights you was when I found you! Miss Babs had tumbled in, an' yo' two faces was as black as mine, and you was all over black mud. You bofe got a good whippin', an' was put to bed in de middle of de day, but Lordie! What good did it do? Miss Babs was sound asleep in ten minutes, and never woke up till nex' mornin'. Nottin' ever upset her fo' long; God bless her."
The old woman's voice grew very gentle and Beverly, who had been smiling over the childish reminiscences, grew suddenly grave. But Mammy was a cheerful soul, and she did not intend to sadden the young people's visit.
"Well, de Lord has his reasons, I s'pose," she said, with a sigh, "but dey does seem hard to make out sometimes. Jes' 'scuse me one minute; I got some hot ones on de fiah."
When Marjorie and Beverly had eaten so manywaffles that they felt as though they should not require anything more in the way of food for days, Mammy reluctantly desisted from her hospitable efforts to force another plateful upon her visitors, and the hospitably entertained young people rose to go.
"I've had a lovely time," declared Marjorie, heartily. "It was dear of you to let me come, Mammy; I shall never forget it."
"Any frien' of de Randolph fam'ly is always welcome to my cabin," said Mammy, with the air of a queen dispensing hospitality to her subjects. "Would you like to see de fam'ly pictures 'fo' you go?"
Marjorie said she would like nothing better, and while Beverly went out to untie the horses, she followed Mammy into her tiny bedroom, the walls of which were literally covered with photographs.
"Dis," announced Mammy, pausing in the doorway, and pointing to a gentleman in uniform, "is Mas'r Will Randolph, Mas'r Bev'ly's gran'father, took in de clothes he wore when he went to de wah. Dis lady is his wife, de mis' Randolph dat brought up my maw; a gran' lady she was too. Dis is Mas'r Bev'ly's father when he went away to school, jes after de wah wasover. Dis one is Mas'r Bev'ly's maw in her first ball dress. Dat's Mas'r Bev'ly when he was a baby, and here's Miss Babs in her fust short clothes. Over on dis side is Mas'r Bev'ly when he was seven, and dis is—oh, good Lordie, Missy, whatever is de matter?"
Marjorie—who had been following Mammy from one photograph to another, with amused interest—had suddenly uttered a sharp cry of astonishment, and was staring blankly at the photograph of a girl of twelve, which was occupying the place of honor over Mammy's bed.
"Who—who is that?" she gasped, seizing the old woman's arm, and beginning to tremble with excitement.
"Dat Miss Babs, took jes' 'fo' she went away to Californy," said Mammy, sadly. "Land sakes, Missy! What is it? You jes' sit right down heah, an' I'll go call Mas'r Bev'ly."
When Beverly appeared in answer to Mammy's hasty summons, he found Marjorie ghastly white, and shaking from head to foot.
"Good gracious, Marjorie!" exclaimed the boy, springing to her side, "what's the matter? Don't you feel well—is it the waffles?"
"It's—it's Undine!" faltered Marjorie, with shaking lips, and she pointed to the photographon which her eyes still rested, in a wild, incredulous stare.
"Land Sakes, Missy! What is it?"—Page 283."Land Sakes, Missy! What is it?"—Page 283.
"'Undine,'" repeated Beverly, stupidly, "who is Undine? That is the picture of my sister Barbara."
"It's Undine," repeated Marjorie, with obstinate persistence; "it's exactly like her; I would know her anywhere."
"But who is Undine? I never even heard of her?"
"Yes, you did; I told you about her once, and you said I mustn't mention her to your mother, because she was hurt in the earthquake. We called her Undine, because she couldn't remember her real name, or anything that happened to her before the earthquake. That's her photograph, Beverly, I tell you it is—it is!"
Beverly had grown very pale, but he made a great effort at self-control.
"Don't talk nonsense, Marjorie," he said, almost angrily; "I tell you that is my sister's photograph. I can show you another just like it at home."
"Beverly," cried Marjorie, clasping her hands, and speaking in a tone of sudden conviction, "I am not talking nonsense. That is the picture of the girl who has been at the ranch since lastAugust. She was found in the street just after the earthquake, half buried under some ruins. She was unconscious, and they took her to a hospital. She has never been able to remember anything about herself since. Your sister was in the earthquake, too; you think she was killed, but perhaps—oh, Beverly dear, let us go home quick, and tell your uncle all about it."
Mrs. Randolph was in the library reading. Twice she had put down her book, and gone to the window to look out. It was growing dark, and had begun to snow.
"How late they are," she said to herself, with an anxious glance at the clock. "They ought to be back by this time, but I suppose they have stayed listening to Mammy's stories, and forgotten the time."
She sat down again by the fire, and took up her book. But she was feeling restless and nervous that afternoon, though she could not have told why, and after reading a page, she closed the book again.
"I wish they would come," she said, impatiently. "No one knows what may have happened; they may never have reached Mammy's cabin. I think I will go and speak to George. He will laugh at me for worrying, but that willbe better than sitting here by myself. There's the clock striking six; they should have been in an hour ago."
She rose, and was moving towards the door when she heard an approaching footstep, and in another moment her brother-in-law himself came into the room.
"I was just coming to look for you, George," she said; "I am getting a little anxious about the children."
"The children are all right," said the doctor, quietly, sinking into the arm-chair by the fire; "they came in half an hour ago, and have gone to their rooms. Marjorie was feeling a little upset, and I advised her to go and lie down till dinner-time."
Mrs. Randolph turned towards the door again.
"I think I will go and see if there is anything I can do for her," she said. "It isn't like Marjorie to give up; I'm afraid she isn't well."
But Dr. Randolph held out a detaining hand.
"Sit down, Barbara," he said, "I want to talk to you. There is nothing the matter with Marjorie or Beverly either. They have had a long ride, and stopped at Mammy's for waffles. I want to ask you a favor. I have just received some important news, which will necessitate mygoing West at once, and I want you to let Beverly go with me."
Mrs. Randolph was very much surprised.
"But, George dear," she remonstrated gently, "college begins again on Monday—do you think it wise to take the boy away just now?"
"I shall not be gone more than a week, and I want Beverly for company. He has never seen much of his own country, and this trip to Arizona will do him an immense amount of good. As for college, a few days more or less won't make any material difference, and he can make up for lost time when he gets back."
Mrs. Randolph still looked doubtful, but the doctor was Beverly's guardian, and since her husband's death she had been accustomed to depend upon his judgment and advice. So instead of arguing the point, she only said:
"Of course he may go if you think best, George, only it does seem foolish to take him away so soon again after his holidays."
"I do think it best, Barbara," said the doctor, decidedly. "I want the boy with me very much. I must start as soon as possible. Do you think you could persuade Emma Patterson to go home with you and Marjorie to-morrow, and stay till Beverly and I come back?"
"I can try," said Mrs. Randolph, who was still unconvinced of the wisdom of this sudden whim of her brother-in-law's, and a little uneasy as well. "Emma has promised to visit us later; perhaps she would be willing to come now instead. You know, George dear, I never ask you about your cases, but this seems so very sudden—are you going to see a patient?"
"Yes," said the doctor, quietly. "I may be able to tell you more about the case when I come back, but I cannot now."
Mrs. Randolph regarded him anxiously.
"I am afraid you are not well, George," she said, "you are dreadfully pale. Is that why you don't want to take this long journey alone?"
"Not exactly. I am perfectly well, but—well, the fact is, this may prove a very trying business, and I want the boy with me."
"Then you shall certainly have him," said Mrs. Randolph, with decision. "Have you spoken to Beverly on the subject?"
"Yes, and he is most anxious to go. Now I must make arrangements about accommodations on the train, for I want to be off early in the morning, if possible. Wouldn't it be a good idea to telephone Emma Patterson at once, and seeif she can be ready to go with you and Marjorie?"
Mrs. Randolph stood for a moment, looking after her brother-in-law as he left the room.
"There is something wrong," she said: "I never saw George so agitated before. I wish I knew what it was, but doctors don't like to be questioned. I hate to have Beverly lose a whole week of college, but if his uncle needs him, I have nothing more to say." And, with a resigned sigh, she went away to telephone to her cousin, Mrs. Patterson.
"'A Highland laddie lives over the lea;A laddie both noble and gallant and free,Who loved a lassie as noble as he—A bonnie sweet lassie; the maid of Dundee.'"
Mrs. Grahamglanced up from her sewing, with a smile.
"What a sweet voice that child has," she said; "with training I believe she would sing remarkably well."
"I love to hear her singing about the house," said Miss Jessie, also pausing to listen to the clear young voice; "I wonder where she learned all those old songs. I remember that ballad, but I haven't heard it since I was a child."
"She probably picks them up from Jim," Mrs. Graham suggested; "he is always singing about the place."
"I don't think I ever heard Jim sing this one," said Miss Jessie, reflectively. "Susie, I do wish we could find out something about thechild's family. I feel sure she has been brought up among people of refinement."
"She is a very attractive girl," Mrs. Graham agreed, "but if she has relatives it seems incredible that they should never have made the slightest effort to find her. Donald and I were talking about her last night. He thinks that any relatives she had must have been killed in the earthquake. It seems the only explanation. There is nothing for us to do but wait patiently in the hope that Undine may some time be able to tell us everything herself. I confess I should be very sorry to part with her; she has been a great help and comfort since Marjorie went away."
"She has indeed," said Miss Jessie, heartily. "I have grown very fond of her, and I think she cares for us, too. We should have another letter from Marjorie by this time."
"Yes, Jim has gone for the mail; he may bring one this afternoon. It does my heart good to know the dear child is having such a happy holiday. I would like to write and thank Mrs. Randolph for all her kindness to Marjorie; she must be a lovely woman."
"I am sure she is, and the son must be a nice boy, too, judging from what Marjorie says. Ourlittle girl has made some good friends, as I felt sure she would."
Mrs. Graham rose, and began folding up her work.
"I must go to the kitchen to look after Juanita," she said. "It is a lovely afternoon. Why don't you get Undine to wheel you out in the sun for an hour?"
"I think I will," said Miss Jessie, with a glance out of the windows at the cloudless sky and brilliant winter sunshine. "Ah, here comes Undine. Undine dear, I think I will go out for a little while."
The bright-faced, rosy-cheeked girl who entered the room at this moment was a very different being from the pale, timid, little waif of four months earlier. She had grown at least two inches, and the clothes which had hung loosely about her in her first days at the ranch had now become a tight fit. At Miss Jessie's request she smiled, and came hurrying to the side of her kind friend.
"It's a glorious day," she said; "it makes one happy just to be alive. I've had such a wonderful ride. I went as far as the railroad, and saw the West Bound pass; it was two hours late. I'll get your warm coat and some wrapsand we'll sit behind the playhouse. You won't feel the wind there, and it will be heavenly."
"Undine," said Miss Graham suddenly, when the two were comfortably established in one of their favorite nooks; the invalid in her chair, and her companion on a rug spread on the ground; "where did you learn the song I heard you singing when you came in from your ride just now?"
"I forget which it was," said Undine, looking puzzled. "Oh, yes, I remember—'A Highland Laddie Lived over the Lea.' I don't know where I learned it—isn't it one of Jim's songs?"
"I don't think so, dear, but we can ask him. I never heard you sing it before."
Something of the old, troubled, far-away look crept into Undine's face.
"I don't know how I remember things," she said, slowly; "they just come into my head sometimes. Now that I think of it, I don't believe I have ever heard Jim sing that song. I must have heard it somewhere, though."
Miss Graham said nothing, and there was a short pause, which Undine broke.
"You and Mrs. Graham don't like to have me talk about the things I can't remember," she said, a little wistfully.
"Only because we don't want you to distressyourself and try to force your brain. I have always told you I was sure the memory would come back some day."
"I think it is coming soon," said Undine, softly. "I keep having dreams. I dreamt of my mother last night."
There was a quiver in the girl's voice, and Miss Jessie leaned forward and laid a kind hand on her shoulder.
"Tell me about it, dear," she said, gently.
Undine drew a deep breath that was almost a sob.
"It was a beautiful dream," she said. "My mother and I were in a dear little room, all furnished in pink and white. I don't know where it was, but it seemed quite familiar in the dream. I was unhappy about something, and my mother kissed me, and put her arms round me. She had such a dear, beautiful face. Oh, Miss Jessie, do you suppose my poor mother was killed in that dreadful earthquake?"
"My dear little girl, we cannot possibly know that; we must have patience. Have you had other dreams?"
"Yes. The other night I dreamt I was playing with a boy in a swamp. There was a black woman in the dream, too; she scolded us, but Iwasn't a bit afraid of her. Do you think perhaps they were people I used to know?"
"I don't know, dear; it may be possible, but you mustn't let these things worry you. You are happy here with us, are you not?"
"Happy!" cried the girl, with sparkling eyes, "I never expected to be so happy anywhere. As long as I live I shall never forget all you and Mr. and Mrs. Graham have done for me, but I can't help wanting to remember."
"Of course you can't; that is quite natural. We all want you to remember, too, but we must have patience. The more you strain your brain, the longer it may take for the memory to come back. You have been a great comfort to us since Marjorie went away; I told her so in my last letter."
"I am so glad," said Undine, smiling. "I promised Marjorie I would try, but of course I knew I could never take her place. Oh, Miss Jessie, you said I might read Marjorie's last letter. It came when I was out, you know, and I didn't hear you read it to Mrs. Graham."
"So I did, I am glad you reminded me, for I had forgotten all about it. It was written from the place in Virginia where she has been spending the holidays, and tells all about their Christmasfestivities. It is in the right-hand drawer of my desk—you may read it whenever you like."
Undine glanced at the book in Miss Graham's lap.
"If you don't want me for anything, and are going to stay here for a while, I think I will go and read it now," she said; "I love Marjorie's letters."
"Very well, dear; I want to finish this book before we begin the one we are going to read together. It won't take me more than fifteen minutes."
Undine scrambled to her feet.
"All right," she said; "I'll be back before that. Oh, Miss Jessie, isn't the air glorious to-day? It makes me feel so happy and excited; just as if something were going to happen."
Undine tripped away to the house, and Miss Graham, as she opened her book, heard the clear young voice singing:
"'A Highland laddie lives over the lea;A laddie both noble and gallant and free.'"
The song died away in the distance, and Miss Jessie became absorbed in her story. It was very still, and not a sound came to disturb heruntil she had turned the last page. Then she closed the book, and looked up in surprise.
"How long Undine takes to read that letter!" she said to herself, in some surprise.
Another ten minutes slipped away, but Miss Jessie was accustomed to waiting patiently—she had done little else for the past eight years.
"Susie must have kept the child for something," she decided, and settled comfortably back in her chair to await Undine's return.
But it was not like her sister-in-law to detain Undine without sending some explanation; neither was it like the girl to remain away so long. At the end of another ten minutes Miss Jessie began to be a little curious.
"What can be the matter?" she said uneasily, her thoughts reverting to a possible accident to her brother, who had gone to try some new horses that afternoon. "I think I'll wheel myself back to the house and find out."
But at that moment she caught sight of her sister-in-law coming towards her across the lawn. Mrs. Graham was looking cheerful and serene as usual, and carried some sewing in her hand.
"I thought I would come and join you," she said, as soon as she was within speaking distance."It's much too lovely to stay in doors. Where's Undine?"
"I don't know," said Miss Jessie, "I thought she was with you. She went in half an hour ago, to read Marjorie's last letter, which I had forgotten to show her, and hasn't come back since."
"I haven't seen her," said Mrs. Graham, looking a little annoyed, "but then I have been in the kitchen with Juanita. Undine ought not to go off like this, and leave you alone so long."
"She never did such a thing before," said Miss Jessie, anxiously. "I wish you would go and see where she is, Susie."
"Oh, she is all right, I am sure," Mrs. Graham maintained, but she turned back towards the house, nevertheless, for it had also occurred to her that it was unlike Undine to neglect her duty.
There was not a sound to be heard when Mrs. Graham reached the house and although she called Undine several times, she received no answer.
"Where can the child be?" she said, beginning to feel a little frightened, and she hurried to Undine's room. The door was open, and her first impression was that the room was empty. Shewas turning away again, more and more puzzled by the girl's mysterious disappearance, when her eye was caught by a heap of something white lying on the floor by the window, and in another moment she had hurried forward, with an exclamation of dismay, and was bending over Undine, who lay, white and unconscious on the floor, with Marjorie's letter clasped convulsively in her hand.
When Undine opened her eyes she was lying on her bed, and Mrs. Graham was bathing her forehead, while the faithful Juanita plied a palm-leaf fan and held a bottle of smelling-salts to her nose. For a moment the girl gazed about her in a kind of dull bewilderment; then a look of recollection came into her eyes, and she started up, with a sharp cry.
"I'm not dead, I'm not dead! Oh, tell them it isn't true! I'm not; I'm not!"
"Lie down, dear," said Mrs. Graham in a tone of gentle authority. "Of course you are not dead; you fainted, that is all. You are better now, and if you lie still for a few minutes you will be all right."
"But the letter said I was dead," persisted Undine, wildly, and she fixed her big, terrified eyes on Mrs. Graham's astonished face. "Itsaid Barbara Randolph was dead, and her mother put flowers on her grave."
Mrs. Graham was beginning to be seriously alarmed for the girl's reason, but she made an effort to appear calm.
"My dear child," she said, soothingly, "you don't know what you are saying. Barbara Randolph is the daughter of the lady with whom Marjorie has been staying; she died long ago; she had nothing to do with you."
"But she didn't die, I know she didn't!" cried Undine, sitting up, despite all Mrs. Graham's efforts to keep her quiet. "I knew it when I read the letter. For one minute I remembered something horrible. I don't remember it any more now, but I was so frightened, and—oh, Mrs. Graham, I was so terribly frightened!" And the poor child burst into a fit of wild, hysterical sobbing, and clung passionately to her kind friend's neck.
Miss Jessie pushed her wheeled-chair out onto the porch, and strained her eyes in the gathering dusk, in the vain hope of seeing some approaching figure. Fortunately the January evening was warm, but even if it had been cold she would scarcely have been aware of the fact. She wasvery anxious, and this long suspense of waiting was hard to bear. It was more than two hours since Undine had regained consciousness, and in all that time the girl had scarcely uttered an intelligible word. She had passed from one hysterical fit into another, and Mrs. Graham and Juanita were at their wits' end. For almost the first time in twelve years Miss Jessie realized the awful loneliness of their lives. "Donald must surely be back soon," she told herself, trying to be patient, "and Jim will be here with the mail before long. Oh, that poor child—what can it all mean?"
There was a slight sound behind her, and Mrs. Graham, too, stepped out on the porch. She was looking pale and distressed.
"How is she now?" Miss Jessie whispered, anxiously.
"I think she has fallen into a doze; she must be quite exhausted, poor child. She has had a terrible shock of some kind."
"Do you think it can have been caused by anything in Marjorie's letter? She must have been reading it when she fainted."
"I don't know what to think," said Mrs. Graham, clasping her hands nervously. "She spoke of that Randolph girl—the little girl whowas killed in the earthquake, you know. Oh, Jessie, you don't suppose—" Mrs. Graham did not finish her sentence, but the two women looked at each other in the dusk, and both their faces were pale and startled.
"I must go back," said Mrs. Graham in a hurried whisper; "I dare not leave her long. When she wakes she may remember; I think her memory is coming back. I am afraid you will take cold out here."
"I am not cold, but I will come in soon. I am waiting for Donald and Jim. I must warn them not to speak loud; it might startle her again."
Mrs. Graham made no further objection, but went back into the house and Miss Jessie folded her hands and waited.
Five, ten minutes passed, and then came the sound of distant hoofs. With a sigh of intense relief, Miss Jessie sent the wheeled-chair gliding smoothly off the porch, and across the lawn. The hoof-beats drew nearer, and now she heard voices. Was it her brother or Jim, and who were the others, for she distinctly heard more than one voice?
"Is it you, Donald?" she called, and in thestill, clear air, her voice was audible an eighth of a mile away.
"No, Miss, it ain't Mr. Graham, it's me," came the answer in Jim's well-known voice. "I've got some folks with me."
Miss Jessie waited in silence while the hoofs and voices drew nearer. It was no uncommon thing for strangers to stop at the ranch, where they were always sure of a hospitable reception and a night's lodging. She was glad Jim was not alone. Perhaps the visitors, whoever they were, might be able to help, but how she could not imagine. It was nearly dark, and the first few stars were beginning to glimmer in the evening sky.
The horses were very near now, and she could distinguish three figures, one was Jim Hathaway, the other two were strangers.
"I beg your pardon, Madame." It was the elder of the two strangers who spoke; he had sprung from his horse, and taken off his hat. Even in the dim light Miss Jessie could see that he was a gentleman. His companion she noticed was much younger, scarcely more than a boy indeed, and he, too, was regarding her with eager, questioning eyes.
"I must introduce myself," the gentleman went on, courteously. "I think you may have heard Marjorie speak of me. I am Dr. Randolph, and this is my nephew Beverly."
Miss Jessie gave a little joyful cry, and held out both hands.
"Is it about Undine?" she whispered breathlessly. "Have you come for her, and is it really true that the child is your niece?"
It was some time before Undine awoke from the heavy sleep of exhaustion into which she had fallen. She opened her eyes, gazed about her vaguely, and murmured, "Mother! I want Mother."
"Yes, dear, I know," said Mrs. Graham, softly kissing the girl's hot forehead. "Your mother isn't here, but she is safe and well, and you shall go to her very soon."
Undine smiled faintly, and then a troubled look came into her face.
"I forgot her," she said, dreamily, "I forgot my mother for a long time, but I remember now, and I want her—oh, I want her." And she stretched out her arms in helpless longing.
Then Mrs. Graham moved aside, and some one else bent over her.
"Babs," said a low, tremulous voice, "Babs darling, don't you know me? It's Beverly."
With a great cry of joy Undine started up, and in another second she was clinging convulsively round her brother's neck.
"Beverly," she sobbed, "oh, Beverly, I remember; I remember everything. It's all come back; poor Aunt Helen, that dreadful, dreadful time! You thought I was dead, and you and Mother put flowers on my grave; but I wasn't dead, I had only forgotten. Hold me, Beverly, hold me tight; I'm so afraid I'm going to forget again."
ButUndine did not forget again, although it was some time before she was able to give any coherent account of what she could remember. Indeed, she was in such a feverish, hysterical condition, that Dr. Randolph would not allow any attempt at questioning her that night.
"She has had a terrible shock, poor child," he said to Mrs. Graham. "The reading of that letter must have brought everything back with a rush and the knowledge that she had been mourned as dead for nearly three years was almost more than she could bear. But she is young and strong, and a good night's sleep will do wonders for her. When I think of what we owe to you and your—" The doctor's voice broke suddenly, and he impulsively held out his hand.
"I think our obligations are mutual," said Mrs. Graham, smiling, though there were tears in her eyes. "According to Marjorie's last letter,you and Mrs. Randolph have been making our little girl very happy, while your niece has been a great comfort to us. It is all so strange and wonderful that I can scarcely realize yet that it isn't a dream."
It was pitiful to see Undine cling to her brother; she could not bear to have him out of her sight for a moment, and Beverly himself, almost stunned by the great shock of the discovery that Undine and Barbara were really one and the same, coming at the end of four days of almost unendurable suspense, could do little beyond hovering over his sister, in joy and thankfulness too deep for words.
"Does Mother know, Beverly?" Undine whispered, late that evening, when the two were alone together.
"No, Babs, she doesn't know yet, but we are going to take you home just as soon as we can. We couldn't let Mother even suspect until we were sure ourselves. Marjorie was certain she recognized your photograph, but Uncle George and I couldn't believe it was true; it seemed so impossible."
"Poor, poor Mother," sighed Undine; "oh, Beverly, how unhappy she must have been!"
"Don't talk about it, Babs; you know UncleGeorge doesn't want you to talk. You must try to go to sleep, so as to be able to start for home as soon as possible."
"I'm afraid to go to sleep," protested Undine, feverishly. "Perhaps when I wake I shall have forgotten everything again. Oh, Beverly, don't let me forget again."
"Of course we won't let you," said Beverly, putting a strong arm around her, protectingly. "You are quite safe now, you know, Babs darling, Uncle George and I are here, and we're going to take you home to Mother."
Undine breathed a deep sigh of relief, as she nestled in her brother's arms, and when she fell asleep at last it was with Beverly's hand clasped fast in hers.
But after a long night's sleep, and a joyful waking, to find that she had not forgotten again, Undine was quite a different creature, and during the morning that followed she was able to give her uncle and brother a fairly clear account of her adventures.
"I remember it all quite well now," she said. "Aunt Helen was ill that night, and she said she would have the maid sleep in her room, in case she might need something. I slept in the maid's room, which was just across the hall. I wasvery tired, and I think I must have gone to sleep as soon as I was in bed, for I don't remember anything until I woke hearing a terrible noise. The whole hotel seemed to be rocking, and I saw some of the things on the bureau fall over, and a picture came down off the wall. I think I was too frightened to move, for I lay quite still, thinking every minute that Aunt Helen would come and tell me what had happened. In a few moments the shaking stopped and then I heard people screaming and running about in the halls.
"Aunt Helen didn't come, or the maid either, and at last I got up, and went to look for them. I was in my nightgown and bare feet, but I was too frightened to stop to put any clothes on. I ran out into the hall, intending to go to Aunt Helen's room, but something frightful had happened; there wasn't any room, only a great pile of bricks and mortar, and I heard people say one of the chimneys had fallen in. Oh, it was terrible—I can't talk about it!" And the poor child began to shiver convulsively.
"Never mind about that part of the story, dear," Dr. Randolph said, soothingly, while Beverly put his arm round her.
"I called and called to Aunt Helen," Undine went on in a voice scarcely above a whisper,"but nobody answered, and then the house began to shake again and people screamed that the walls were falling.
"The next thing I remember is being out in the street. I don't know how I got there, but I was running along in my bare feet, in the midst of a great crowd. I don't know how far I ran or where I went. I think I must have been crazed with fright. I tried to speak to people, but nobody took any notice of me. I heard them saying there had been a terrible earthquake, and that the whole city had been destroyed. At last I got very tired, and I think I must have been faint too, for everything grew black, and I was so cold. I remember going inside a doorway, and thinking I would rest there for a few minutes, and then the stone must have fallen on my head, for I don't remember anything more till I woke up in the hospital, and didn't even know my name."
"Of course it must have been the poor maid who was killed," said Beverly. "We never dreamed of that, because we felt so sure you and Aunt Helen had roomed together. But Babs dear, did you never remember anything at all—not even the least little thing?"
Undine shook her head.
"I used to have little gleams of memory sometimes," she said, "but they were gone again in a minute. I had one the first time I heard Jim sing 'Mandalay,' and for one second I think I almost remembered you, Beverly. Another time I almost remembered was when Mrs. Graham was reading a letter from Marjorie, in which she mentioned your name for the first time. I kept saying 'Randolph, Randolph' over and over to myself for a long time, but after the first minute the words didn't seem to mean anything to me. It wasn't till yesterday when I read that letter, and saw all your names together—Mother's and yours, and Uncle George's and then that part about going to Barbara's grave—that it all came back with a rush, and I was so frightened that I fainted."
Later in the day Undine—or Barbara, as I suppose we must call her now—had a long talk with her uncle. Dr. Randolph had insisted on Beverly's going out for a walk. The boy was utterly worn out from excitement and suspense, and his uncle feared he would be really ill if precautions were not taken. So he was sent off for a long tramp over the ranch with Mr. Graham, and the doctor sat down by his little niece's bedside, and tried to draw her thoughts awayfrom painful memories, by talking of Marjorie, and of her own life on the ranch.
"They have all been so good to me here, Uncle George," Barbara said, the grateful tears starting to her eyes. "If you could have seen me when I first came! I am sure I looked like a tramp, and I was so miserable I didn't care much what became of me. I don't think many people would have believed my crazy story, but they took me right in without a word, and have treated me just as if I belonged to them ever since. Aren't Mrs. Graham and Miss Jessie lovely?"
"They are indeed," said the doctor, heartily. "We owe them a debt of gratitude that can never be repaid. Miss Graham has one of the sweetest faces I have ever seen. Has she been a cripple all her life?"
Barbara caught her breath as a sudden recollection flashed into her mind.
"Uncle George," she cried excitedly, "aren't you a great surgeon?"
"I am a surgeon certainly," said her uncle, smiling, "but I don't know just what you would call a great one; why do you want to know?"
"Because," said Barbara, clasping her hands, and regarding the doctor with shining eyes,"now Marjorie can have her wish—the thing she wants more than anything else in the world, and that she and I have been praying for all winter."
And in a few rapid words she told the story of Miss Graham's accident, and of Marjorie's hopes.
Dr. Randolph said nothing, but he looked much interested, and when Beverly returned from his walk, he left the brother and sister together, and went in quest of Mrs. Graham, with whom he had a long talk. Then Miss Jessie was taken into their confidence, and all through the long afternoon Barbara and Beverly waited in eager anxiety for their uncle's return.
Mr. Graham was obliged to ride some distance to another ranch that afternoon, in order to see a man on business, and it was late in the evening when he returned, and found his old classmate waiting for him on the porch.
"Well, and how are things going?" he inquired cheerfully, when Jim had taken away his horse. "I trust our little friend is better."
"She is much better, thank you," Dr. Randolph answered. "She is fast recovering from the shock, and I hope we may be able to start for home by the day after to-morrow. Her mother must be told as soon as possible, and Barbara herselfcan scarcely wait to get home. I am going to make arrangements to leave on the first available train for the East and—Graham, I want to ask you a favor."
"I am sure I shall be glad to do anything in my power," Mr. Graham said, smiling; "what is it?"
"I want you to let me take your wife and sister back to New York with us."
"My wife and sister!" repeated Mr. Graham in amazement. "Why, my dear boy, my poor sister hasn't left her wheeled-chair for eight years. I am sure that she could not stand such a journey."
"I think she could," said the doctor, quietly. "I should take a compartment for her, of course, and she could lie down during the whole trip. As for the drive to the station, I think that could also be managed without much discomfort. She tells me she often takes fairly long drives with you and your wife. Barbara is still very much shaken, and will need a woman's care on the journey. Your wife can be of great assistance to us, and as to your sister—well, the fact is, Graham, I made an examination this afternoon, with her and Mrs. Graham's consent, and I see no reason why an operation cannot be performed.I can't promise an absolute cure, but I have strong hopes."
Mr. Graham did not speak, but he grasped his old friend's hand in gratitude too deep for words, and the doctor went away well satisfied, to carry the good news to his niece and nephew.
"Oh, how happy Marjorie will be!" cried Barbara, with sparkling eyes. "When she wrote me that she had met a great surgeon, but would never have the courage to speak to him about her aunt, how little either of us dreamed—oh, what a wonderful, beautiful thing it all is! To think that in five days I shall be with Mother. You don't think the shock will make her ill, do you, Uncle George?"
"I hope not, dear, but we must be very careful how the news is broken to her. Now I want Beverly to go to bed, and you must try to sleep, too, Barbara, for you will need all your strength for the journey, and the meeting with your mother."
But it was a long time before Barbara fell asleep that night. Old memories were trooping back thick and fast, and there was so much that was happy as well as sad to remember. She breathed more than one little prayer of thankfulness to the dear Heavenly Father, who hadwatched over her through all her trials and dangers, and brought her back at last to home and friends. And when sleep came at last, it was a peaceful, refreshing sleep, untroubled by feverish dreams.
"Dosit down, Marjorie; you haven't been still for five minutes since luncheon." Elsie spoke in a tone of weary exasperation, as she laid down the book she had been trying to read, and regarded her cousin's flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, with a half amused, half annoyed expression.
Marjorie laughed nervously.
"I'm sorry I've been so restless," she said, "but how can I help it. Just think, they'll be here this very day, and Mrs. Randolph doesn't know a single thing yet."
"Of course I know it's the most exciting thing that ever happened," Elsie admitted, with resignation, "but one can't help getting tired even of exciting things when one has heard of nothing else for a whole week. It will be a week to-morrow since you got that telegram, and I don't believe you've thought of another thing since."
"I don't believe I have," agreed Marjorie, "but then how could I? Oh, Elsie, I'm so happy when I think it has all come about through my recognizing that photograph! Just suppose Beverly and I hadn't gone to Mammy's cabin that afternoon. I might never have seen a picture of Barbara, and the Randolphs might never have known."
"I wonder how they are going to break the news to Mrs. Randolph," remarked Elsie, without heeding her cousin's last observation. "I should think it would be dreadfully dangerous; the shock might kill her."
Marjorie's bright face clouded.
"I can't help worrying about it," she said, "but I am sure Dr. Randolph will find a way of doing it. It's wonderful to see her so calm, just doing every-day things, and talking as if nothing unusual were happening, when we are all so excited and nervous."
"I really don't see how you managed to keep her from suspecting when you were on the way home," said Elsie; "I'm afraid I should have let out something without intending to."
"I couldn't do that," said Marjorie, gravely. "Think how terrible it would have been if Mrs. Randolph had hoped and then been disappointed.I was sure myself, but neither Dr. Randolph nor Beverly believed it could be true. I shall never forget that last evening in Virginia. Beverly and I were both almost ill from excitement, and yet we had to act just as if nothing unusual had happened. Fortunately the doctor and Beverly were to start the first thing in the morning, so we all went to bed early. I don't believe any of us slept a wink; I know I didn't. The day on the train wasn't quite so bad, because Mrs. Patterson was with us, and she hadn't been told anything, and could be natural without trying. I pretended to be very much interested in a book, so as not to have to talk much, but I couldn't tell you what it was about. And all the time Mrs. Randolph was just as sweet and calm as possible, and worried about me because my hands were cold, and I couldn't eat."
"I think you were very plucky," said Elsie.
The bright color rushed into Marjorie's cheeks; this was the first compliment Elsie had ever paid her.
"I wasn't at all plucky," she said, modestly; "any one else would have done the same thing. I'm glad you think I was, though, for I do want you to like me."
"Of course I like you," said Elsie, reddeningin her turn. "There's the door-bell; I wonder if it's Mamma."
"Perhaps it's a letter," cried Marjorie, springing to her feet; "I ought to have a letter from home to-day. I haven't heard a word since that little note from Aunt Jessie the morning after Barbara was found."
But it was not a letter. Neither was it Mrs. Carleton, who had gone driving with a friend. In a moment the faithful Hortense appeared with a message.
"Madame Randolph has sent to inquire if Mademoiselle Marjorie will come to her apartment for a short time. Her friend has been obliged to go out, and she is alone."
Marjorie clasped her hands in dismay, and turned a little pale.
"Send word you're very busy, and can't possibly come," suggested Elsie. But Marjorie shook her head.
"I shall have to go," she said, with a little gasp. "Mrs. Randolph has been so good to me; she would think it so strange if I didn't come when she sent for me. Say I will be there in a few minutes, Hortense."
"You really are a wonder, Marjorie," remarked Elsie, with involuntary admiration, asHortense left the room with the message. "I'm sure I should never be able to do it."
"Yes, you would," said Marjorie, smiling and without another word she followed Hortense out of the room.
Marjorie's heart was beating very fast when she rang Mrs. Randolph's bell five minutes later, but when that lady herself opened the door, and greeted her guest with her usual serene cheerfulness, the girl pulled herself together with a mighty effort, and her friend noticed nothing unusual in her manner, except that her cheeks were flushed and her eyes shining.
"I am so glad you could come this afternoon," Mrs. Randolph said, leading the way to the sitting-room. "I haven't seen you for days, and was beginning to feel quite neglected." She spoke playfully, but Marjorie felt the gentle reproach in her tone, and her heart beat faster than ever.
"Indeed I didn't mean to neglect you," she said, eagerly, "but—but you see I have had a good deal to do since I came home; school began on Monday."
"I understand, dear," said Mrs. Randolph, smiling, "and I am not blaming you in the least, but I have missed you very much."
"You have had Mrs. Patterson," said Marjorie, as she took the seat her friend indicated beside her on the sofa.
"Oh, yes, and she has been a great comfort, for I have missed Beverly terribly. He and the doctor will be at home this afternoon, you know."
"Yes," said Marjorie; "Mrs. Patterson told us at luncheon. She said you had a headache; I hope it's better."
"Much better, thank you, dear. I didn't come down to luncheon because I wanted to be quite bright and well this evening when Beverly is here. This is always a rather sad day for me; it is my little Barbara's birthday."
Marjorie's heart gave one big jump, and began throbbing so fast she could scarcely breathe. She could not have spoken had her life depended on it, but fortunately Mrs. Randolph did not appear to expect an answer.
"My little girl would have been fifteen to-day," she said, sadly. "It seems hard to realize; she was such a child when she went away. I have missed Beverly so much to-day; he and I always talk of Barbara on her birthday."
"Would you like to talk to me about her, Mrs. Randolph?" said Marjorie, in a voice that was scarcely above a whisper.
"I should like it very much. Indeed, that is why I sent for you. Mrs. Patterson has gone out. I offered to go with her, but she said she had some important business to attend to, and would rather go alone. I am afraid something is troubling her, and she doesn't want to worry me about it."
Marjorie, who knew that Mrs. Patterson had gone to the station to meet the travelers, in answer to an urgent telegram from Dr. Randolph, said nothing. Mrs. Patterson, being a nervous, excitable little woman, had been purposely kept in ignorance of the real reason of her cousins' Western trip, and it was in order to break the news to her that the doctor had wired her to meet him at the station, and to say nothing on the subject of her errand to Mrs. Randolph. Consequently, the poor little lady had been filled by apprehensions of something dreadful having happened to one or both of the travelers, and had departed in a state of perturbation well calculated to arouse Mrs. Randolph's suspicions that something was troubling her.
There was a moment's pause, and then Mrs. Randolph went on.
"I never talk of my little girl to strangers—it is all too sacred for that—but you are not astranger any more. I have loved you dearly ever since we stood together at my Barbara's grave, and you showed me by your silent sympathy how well you understood."
Marjorie could not speak, but she took her friend's hand, and stroked it softly, while Mrs. Randolph went on, calmly, though with a quiver in her voice:
"I used to try to make the children's birthdays as happy as possible; I thought they would be pleasant memories for them when they were older. Even the year after my husband died, when my heart was very sad, I wanted them to have a merry time. Little children's lives should never be saddened. I think you would have loved my little girl, Marjorie; she was very sweet."