"We hear the Christmas AngelsThe great glad tidings tell;Oh, come to us, abide with us,Our Lord Emmanuel."
But at the Amen something drew her eyes to the other side of the aisle where, stately and handsome, stood Mrs. Marvin, watching her. She longed to call her mother's attention to this lady of whom she had thought and talked so much, but as Gladys sat between it was not possible.
All through the short service she kept stealing glances across the aisle, but Mrs. Marvin did not turn again. The sight of the bright child face had stirred the memory of an earnest little chorister who used sometimes to smile at her over his book as he passed, and she did not want to remember those old days; she wished she had not come.
Gladys, who did not often go to church, was interested and touched by the simpleservice. She slipped her hand into Mrs. Morrison's when it was over and whispered, "I am glad I came, and I mean to be good."
Perhaps her ideas of goodness were somewhat vague, and certainly there was much in her surroundings to cloud the vision, but who can tell what fruit an earnest wish may bear.
Frances hoped Mrs. Marvin would speak to her, but the crowd separated them, and though she kept a careful watch she did not see her again.
As they walked home in the twilight Mark, who was still beside Mrs. Morrison, said, "I'm afraid I don't care enough for church and that sort of thing, and though I know of course there must be a great deal in it for some people, I never thought of trying to find out what it was, as you said. It seemed to me it was something that came of itself, if itcame at all." He spoke with real earnestness.
"Yet it doesn't seem quite logical to take care of our minds and bodies and never think of our souls, does it?" his companion asked. "I remember my own schooldays well enough to know how difficult it is not to be entirely absorbed in what are called secular things. But after all, it is the motive of a life that makes it fine; and if, in all you do, you follow the best you know, are faithful and true and kind, that is religion. The caring for church and things called sacred will come in time; you can't be grown up spiritually all at once, any more than you can physically."
"You make it seem reasonable and almost easy," Mark said; "but I thought one had to understand a lot of things. You see my mother died when I was a little chap, and there was only Aunt Emily.Uncle George is very kind, but you can't believe he knows how a boy feels; people forget."
"Perhaps they remember more than impatient young persons give them credit for," answered Mrs. Morrison, smiling. "There is one thing, Mark: whatever you do, be in earnest."
In the city streets the electric lights had come out one by one, and overhead the stars were shining. They walked the last block in silence, and when they separated at the door, Mark said, "Thank you, Mrs. Morrison."
"What was he thanking you for?" Frances asked.
"I don't know, Wink, unless it was for some advice."
"I think Mark is a nice boy; I am glad he came home," Frances remarked as she took off her hat.
At the same moment, down in the study,Mark was saying: "How did you ever happen to find them, Uncle George?— Mrs. Morrison and Frances, I mean. They are not like—everybody; they are the real thing. That Frances is a regular little princess! How did they happen to come here?"
"I, too, have wondered at it, my boy, but I have learned to take the good things that come my way without asking many questions," was the old man's reply.
Frances stood thoughtfully looking out of the window. To-morrow would be New Year's Day and also her mother's birthday, and she had not remembered it till this morning. She wondered if she could not in some way get some flowers for her. She had her Christmas money from Uncle Allan in California, and there was nothing her mother enjoyed more than flowers, but who would go with her to get them? Zenobia was busy, and Emma was taking care of the General, who had had an attack of croup.
As she stood there Mark came up the walk and lifted his hat to her. "Perhaps he will take me," she said, and runninginto the hall she called from the head of the stairs: "Mark, are you very busy? Could you do something for me?"
"I am at your ladyship's command," was the reply.
"Then I'll come down and tell you, for it is a secret."
"Is it? Well, I'm splendid at keeping secrets."
Descending, Frances stated the case, and Mark not only said he would be glad to go with her, but he knew a place where she could get flowers much cheaper than down town.
"I'm so much obliged to you, and now I must ask mother if I can go," Frances said. "I can say youwantme to go, can't I? It will be true, won't it?" she stopped halfway up the steps to inquire.
"Nothing could be truer," said Mark, laughing.
It did not take long to get her mother's permission,and in a very few minutes she came flying down to join her escort at the door.
As they walked up the street, talking merrily, more than one passer-by smiled at the pleasant sight, and turned to look again at the tall boy and the bright-eyed little girl.
In these two weeks they had come to be great friends. Frances rather enjoyed his teasing ways, which so alarmed Emma, and had always a saucy reply of some sort ready. She liked to be called your ladyship, and accepted his mock homage with a most regal air.
"What kind of flowers are you going to buy?" Mark asked.
"Violets, I think, because mother is specially fond of them."
"Aren't they rather expensive?"
"I don't know. I have two dollars; won't that be enough?" she asked anxiously.
"Dear me, I had no idea you were so rich! Are you going to spend all that?"
"I don't think that is too much to spend on your mother," she replied with emphasis.
"Certainly not, I wasn't objecting in the least."
"No, it wouldn't do any good," she asserted with dignity.
Mark laughed, and inquired what flowers she liked best herself.
"Great big red roses," was the prompt answer.
"Commend me to a princess for extravagant tastes!" Mark exclaimed, laughing.
The greenhouse was an enchanting place, and after the violets were ordered Frances wandered up and down the fragrant aisles, quite unwilling to leave. Mark at length grew impatient. "I am afraid it is going to storm; we must go," he said.
Sure enough, before they had gone two blocks it began to rain. Mark glanced uneasilyat the clouds and then at his companion. Neither of them had thought of bringing an umbrella.
"We can take the car at the next corner unless it begins to pour; in that case we shall have to go in somewhere," he said, taking her hand.
They were hurrying down the avenue when they heard some one call, "Frances! Frances!" and there was Mrs. Marvin just leaving her carriage at the gate. "You must come in and wait till the storm is over," she said, and almost before they knew what had happened they found themselves standing on the porch with her, while the rain swept down in torrents.
"I am grateful to the wind for blowing you in my direction," Mrs. Marvin said, looking at Frances with her intent gaze.
The little girl smiled, and then remembering that Mrs. Marvin did not know Mark, she introduced him.
The lady was very gracious and asked him in to wait till the storm was over, but Mark said he had an engagement at home to meet a friend, and did not mind the rain for himself; so, being provided with an umbrella, he went off, promising to return for Frances when it cleared. This Mrs. Marvin assured him would not be necessary, as she would send her home.
"I am always getting caught in the rain," said Frances, as she went upstairs, her hand clasped in Mrs. Marvin's. "That was the way I happened to get acquainted with the Spectacle Man."
"I am glad something brought you to me; I have been wondering if I should ever see you again."
When her own room was reached the lady sat down and drew the child to her. "Have you forgotten me in all these weeks?" she asked.
"Oh, no, I couldn't do that," was the reply.
"You couldn't? Why not?" and she was drawn closer.
Frances thought this was not the sort of person to be easily forgotten, but she only smiled.
"I'd better not take it off," she said, as Mrs. Marvin began to unfasten her coat. "Mark will be back."
"But you couldn't go out in such a storm, dear; you are going to take lunch with me."
Clearly there was nothing to do but submit, and Frances was not unwilling. Mrs. Marvin looked at her fondly; the slender little figure in the blue sailor suit quite satisfied her fastidious taste. It puzzled her, too, for such daintiness and grace seemed to her altogether incompatible with what she had heard of the child's surroundings. Her sympathies were narrowed by her sensitiveness to anything that fell below her own standard of taste. She had yet to learn thatthere was a broader culture than hers. No wonder she was bewildered as she listened to Frances' frank chatter.
That this young person was very much of a chatterbox could not be denied. Her father often said it would not take a Philadelphia lawyer to find out all she knew, and on this occasion she had an interested hearer.
"Emma and I think this is a lovely house," she remarked, as they went down to lunch. "I like our flat," she added loyally, "only of course there isn't so much room in it."
This, to her, made the chief difference,—more room, more things. Her own home life had always been harmonious, had expressed grace and refinement in a simpler way, indeed, but as truly as Mrs. Marvin's; and so having always had the emphasis laid upon the best things, she felt no embarrassment, but only a frank enjoyment in this beautiful house.
When lunch was over, Mrs. Marvin led the way to the library, where the wood fire burned, and the little girl smiled down from above the mantle, and a great bunch of American Beauties bent their stately heads over a tall vase. What a combination of delights! Frances hung over the flowers with such pleasure in her eyes that her hostess said: "Do you like roses? You must take those with you when you go."
Mrs. Marvin took out a portfolio of photographs she thought might be interesting, and they went over them together. She knew perfectly how to be entertaining, and Frances enjoyed it very much, but when they came to the last one she said: "Mrs. Marvin, won't you tell me now about that portrait? I like it better than any picture I ever saw."
"Why, certainly, dear; that is my mother when she was a child. It is one of my greatest treasures."
Frances felt disappointed. "Then she is not a little girl now," she said.
"No; the picture was painted many years ago, in London, when my grandfather was Minister to England. My mother was an only child."
"I am an only child, too," Frances remarked, her eyes fixed on the portrait.
"Perhaps you will be interested to know that her name was the same as your own."
"Was it? And your name, too, is Frances, isn't it?"
"Yes, we are three of a name," was Mrs. Marvin's answer.
"I suppose—" Frances hesitated.
"What, dear?"
"I was going to ask if the little girl was alive now."
"No; she lived to grow up and marry, and died while she was still very young and beautiful, leaving three little children."
It was hard to realize that so much hadhappened to this bright-eyed girl; Frances wrinkled her brow in the effort, and sat very still. After a while she said, "I am glad her name was Frances; she always makes me think of the Girl in the Golden Doorway."
"What is that?" Mrs. Marvin inquired.
"It is one of father's stories," was the answer, and without much urging she told it, and told it well, because she was so fond of it. "It makes me want to see him so," she added with a sigh, at the end.
Mrs. Marvin listened, her face almost hidden by the screen she held. "Did your father ever tell you anything more of his childhood?" she asked.
"Not very much. He went to live somewhere else, I think, and I don't know what became of the picture. There is something about it I don't understand, but some time I know he will tell me. I think a certain person has something to do with it."
"Whom do you mean by a certain person?"
"It is some one who was once a friend of father's, but is not now. That is all I know, except that I heard him tell mother he did not mind our staying here, because a certain person was abroad; but I guess maybe I oughtn't to say anything about it," Frances concluded uneasily.
The conversation was interrupted by a servant who announced a young man to take the little girl home.
"It is Mark," Frances exclaimed, jumping up.
While they had been talking the wind had grown quiet, and the rain had turned to a wet snow. Mark had brought her waterproof and overshoes, but Mrs. Marvin insisted upon ordering the carriage. She held Frances in her arms and kissed her as if she could not bear to let her go.
"I have had a beautiful time, and I amso much obliged for the roses," the child said, when at last she was released.
They drove home in state through the wet streets. "I tell you this is fine!" said Mark; "I mean to be rich some day."
"So do I," replied Frances from behind her roses, and neither of them dreamed what a lonely heart they had left behind them in that beautiful house.
This second encounter with Mrs. Marvin both annoyed and puzzled Mrs. Morrison. It had come about naturally enough, yet she could not help feeling that this lady's interest in a child she had not seen or heard of six weeks ago was extraordinary; and though she did not wish to spoil Frances' pleasure in her roses, she shook her head at the thought of what they must have cost.
The violets which arrived early on New Year's morning gave great satisfaction, although they were, after all, the cause of her disquietude. Half an hour later came an express package from Honolulu, containing some trifles of native manufacture in sandalwood and ivory, a number of photographs, and a long birthday letter.
"I almost wish," Mr. Morrison wrote, "that our new home was to be on this enchanting island. The box is for Frances' jewels when she gets them, the other things to be divided as you see fit. If it were not for the thought of two small persons in the house of the Spectacle Man away off in the United States, I should be strongly tempted to run over to China, it seems so near. But never mind! when Frances is grown we'll make a journey around the world."
"I think father is so nice," Frances remarked, as if she had but recently made his acquaintance, locking and unlocking her box with as much pleasure as if it had been full of jewels.
Mrs. Morrison laughed happily; she knew what her daughter meant but could not express the charm of sympathetic companionship. "Oh, Frances!" she exclaimed quite gravely the next moment, "it hasbeen good for us to do without him for a while. We are so happy together I am afraid it makes us selfish."
Mark left for school the first of the next week. His parting words to Mrs. Morrison were: "You have been awfully good to me, and I'll not forget some of the things you have said. The house has been a different place with you and the Princess here, and I hope I shall find you when I come back."
"I don't know about that," was the reply. "Just at present we are wanderers, but we must look out for a home before long; and wherever it is we'll be glad to see you."
After this, things quieted down into the old routine, only now Frances began to count the weeks that must pass before her father's return. By the first of April, if not sooner, he had promised.
She came down from her drawing lessonin great glee one morning. "Miss Sherwin's story has been taken, mother, and they are going to print it in March; aren't you glad? And they like the illustrations, too, and say they will be glad to hear from her again; I saw the letter."
"It shows their good taste; I must go up and congratulate her," said Mrs. Morrison.
"She did not seem to care much about it, mother. I don't think she is quite happy," Frances remarked with an air of great penetration.
Mrs. Morrison had become very fond of Lillian. Over their Christmas work they had found each other out, and a real friendship had begun. Beneath the girl's somewhat cold and reserved manner there was a genuine sweetness and charm which had at once responded to the unaffected friendliness of the older woman.
Miss Moore professed to be extremelyjealous, saying that already Lillian cared more for Mrs. Morrison than she did for her; and on the other hand, although she herself had been sociable to the last degree with her neighbors, they openly preferred her taciturn companion. "It is well that virtue is its own reward, for it certainly does not get any other, in my experience," she remarked whimsically.
"Don't be such a goose, Mary; you know everybody likes you," replied Miss Sherwin.
"Oh, yes, they like me, and say I am good-natured, because there is nothing else to be said. It is my fate to be commonplace, and I must make up my mind to it," and Miss Moore hurried away to her afternoon class with her usual cheery face. Her moody friend was a puzzle to her, and she by no means begrudged her any companionship that would make her happier.
Miss Sherwin sat at her desk. Beforeher lay the envelope containing the check in payment for "The Story of the Missing Bridge," but she did not look like one whose efforts had been crowned with success. After a few ineffectual attempts to go to work, her head went down among the papers, and it was thus Mrs. Morrison found her.
"I knocked and thought I heard you answer," she said, "but even if I did not, I can't go away now without trying to comfort you."
The pressure of the arm around her, the touch of the soft hand, was too grateful to be resisted; Lillian leaned her head against her friend as she sobbed, "It is only that I am such a goose!"
"I know all about that, dear, we so frequently are," Mrs. Morrison replied, smiling a little all to herself. "But," she added, "you ought to be happy to-day. I came up to congratulate you on your story."
"I have had three taken this week, and instead of being happy I hate it all!" Lillian's head went down on the papers again.
By dint of much patient encouragement and real sympathetic interest the story came out by degrees; all the hidden sorrow of months found an outlet in the broken little confession. Not very clearly told, it was yet plain enough in a general way.
A boy and girl friendship had grown into something stronger. Only a year ago they had made happy plans for the future they meant to spend together. Then came the misunderstanding—a trifling thing in the beginning, but which grew until she was convinced she had made a mistake, that she had never really cared. She felt she needed freedom to go her own way and do her own work. She would be independent and try life for herself.
He had laughed at first, and this hurther pride. She would show him she was not a weak dependent creature, and with some bitter words they had parted.
"I thought I did not care—that I could be happy in my work. I meant to be famous and I did not mind being lonely," said Lillian; "but now that I am having a little success it means nothing because—" she hesitated, and Mrs. Morrison said softly—
"Success doesn't mean much unless there is some one to share it and be glad with us.
"Yes, that is it. Perhaps if I were a genius it would be different, but I have only a poor little talent, after all. And I see how I was most to blame. I was hateful and proud—and now there is no help for it. I don't know why I should tell it, except that you are so kind, for it cannot be undone, and I must learn to bear it."
"It is so much better for you to speakof it, dear. And do you know what I am thinking? That it is not easy to destroy the bridge between two hearts that really love; isn't that it? All you can do is to wait and be patient, going on with your work and making yourself worthy of the best that can happen to you."
"But when one makes a mistake one has to bear the consequences," said Lillian, sadly.
"The pain and self-accusation—yes, but how often we are given the opportunity of undoing our mistakes. It is a hard, hard lesson you have to learn, but isn't there a star of hope somewhere that you can fix your eyes upon. Forgive me for pressing your own moral upon you, but it has helped me and I want you to take comfort."
As Mrs. Morrison went slowly down stairs again, she said to herself, "Poor little girl! I wish I could help her; but if her lover is what he ought to be, he will come back, I am sure."
Bad weather was predicted by the almanac for the first week in February, and bad weather prevailed both indoors and out.
Frances had an attack of grip which came near being pneumonia, and caused her mother some anxious days. Miss Sherwin, going in one evening to ask Zenobia about the patient, found Mrs. Morrison herself in the kitchen, crying as if her heart would break, her face buried in one of her little daughter's white aprons that lay on the ironing-board.
"Is she worse?" Lillian exclaimed, much alarmed, for surely it must be something serious to unnerve this bright, hopeful person.
"I don't know—the doctor didn't say so—but she is ill, and one can never tell. Oh, my darling baby!—if she should get worse, and Jack away—why did I let him go!" she began a trembling search for her handkerchief. "I left her with Zenobia— I couldn't stand it any longer, but I must go back now," she said, wiping her eyes. "I know I am foolish, but I can't help it."
"You are not foolish at all, but tired and anxious, poor child," said Lillian, with her arms around her. "Now listen to me; Frances is going to pull through, I am certain of it. The doctor would have said so, if he thought her very ill; but I am going to stay with you. I am a good nurse,— I took care of my little cousin only a year ago, in just such an attack, and you may lie on the sofa and watch me."
"Oh, thank you, but—"
"Please don't say a word, dear, for I know I can help. I am going to take Zenobia'splace now, and you may come when you have bathed your face."
There was strength in Lillian's quiet, confident tone; Mrs. Morrison smiled through her tears: "You will think me a great fraud, after all my good advice to you. Like the physician who gave up his profession to enter the ministry, I find it easier to preach than to practise."
"I am glad you are human," Lillian answered, and dropping a kiss on her forehead, she went to relieve Zenobia.
She was quite right in thinking she could help, and during the few days while Frances lingered on the brink of a serious illness she was a tower of comfort and strength. The experience drew them closer together; and when the worst was over, and the patient convalescing, Mrs. Morrison said she believed it was worth all the anxiety to have found out this side of Lillian.
"I do want you and Jack to know eachother," she said, and this meant that her new friend had been taken into the inner circle.
About this time the Spectacle Man sat at his desk in the room below with an anxious look on his usually cheery face. The storm cloud had settled upon him, too, and his trouble was a question of money.
The directors of a certain institution in which he owned a good deal of stock had thought it wise to pass their semi-yearly dividend, and with hard times affecting everything more or less, he could not see how Mark was to be kept at school. Sitting there, he tortured himself with the thought of what he might have done if he had only foreseen. He called himself an old fogy, and wished he might be twenty years younger.
"The bridge is broke and I have to mend it."
The song rose to his lips unconsciously, and he hummed it in a dreary fashion that caused Peterkin to open his eyes. At least he didopen them, and there was something in the serenity of those yellow orbs that recalled the Spectacle Man to himself.
"You are right, Peterkin, I am foolish, and I thank you for telling me so," he said, stooping to caress the smooth head. "There is always a way, and you'll find it if you'll keep your eyes open, and don't let the clouds of despair and distrust gather and hide it," he continued to himself, and he began to sing again, this time in a cheery tone.
That same evening he went to see Mrs. Gray. It was a business call, for the old lady needed some stronger glasses, and could not get out in bad weather to attend to it herself; but after he had tried her eyes, they fell to talking about other matters.
Mrs. Gray was lonely and unhappy. Her only son was going to be married, and she knew she was a burden to him, and she wished she was dead. She had not meant totell it, but the benevolent face of the Spectacle Man invited confidence.
He confessed to being blue himself, and then he told her briefly the story of the bridge.
"You may say it is all made up, but some way I know it is true," he added earnestly. "There is always a way, if only we are patient and don't give up. You haven't begun to be a burden yet, and I haven't had to bring Mark home. We can'tseethe way, but if we go on a step at a time, we'll find it."
Emma was also having a taste of bad weather. In the first place, the General had an illness much like Frances', and this meant that he must be kept in bed and amused from morning till night. Then Emma's teacher decided to have her pupils give an entertainment on Washington's Birthday, and Emma was selected among others to take part. It was an event of great importanceto the school children, and at recess nothing else was talked about.
As Emma expressed it, she had never beeninanything before in her life, and no prima donna was ever more excited over her début than she at the thought of this little recitation; but her pleasure met with a sudden check upon the discovery that a white dress would be necessary. She hadn't a white dress, and she knew it was hopeless to think of getting one in time, still she couldn't help mentioning it to her mother.
"A white dress! Will you tell me how on earth you could get one? Even if I had the money to buy it, where would I find time to make it? It is all nonsense anyway." Mrs. Bond was tired out and spoke with more emphasis than she would otherwise have used.
Her daughter turned away quite crushed by the pitiless logic. She should have to tell Miss Ellen and the girls that shecouldn't be in it because she hadn't any dress. She couldn't help shedding some bitter tears, and that was how the Spectacle Man found out about it.
Her mother sent her into the shop to get some change, and his supply being low Mr. Clark despatched Dick to get some; then noticing the red eyes, he asked what the trouble was, and something in his kind, sympathetic face drew forth the story.
As he listened an idea came to the Spectacle Man. "Now, Emma," he said, "don't worry any more about this till—well, till Monday morning. This is Friday, so you won't have to do anything about it till then, and in the meantime something may happen. Indeed, I'm almost sure something will."
All this may not have been very logical, but Emma carried away her change with a much lighter heart.
That evening when Mrs. Morrison went in to pay her rent, she stopped to chat withthe optician. Frances was eating oyster soup upstairs with Miss Sherwin and Zenobia in attendance, and her mother was feeling very happy.
"Mrs. Morrison," Mr. Clark began in a somewhat embarrassed manner as she was about to leave, "you know more of the value of such things than I do; do you think any of these old belongings of mine are worth anything? In money, I mean." By a wave of his hand he seemed to indicate all that was in the room.
"I should think so. The portrait, of course, is, and that cabinet looks very handsome to me. Are you thinking of selling?" she asked.
"I may have to, the times are so hard, and Mark must be kept at school. Some of my investments aren't paying anything now." He paused a moment, then added, "You wouldn't believe what a foolish old fellow I am, but I'd rather set my heart on giving that portrait to some collection. Ihave liked to think how it would look on the catalogue,—'Presented by George W. Clark'—all nonsense, of course. Some ladies were here to-day to ask if I would exhibit it. The Colonial Dames are to have a Loan Exhibit."
"I hope you will not have to sell it, but if you should, that will be an excellent way of advertising it. Oughtn't you to let Mark know the state of affairs? Don't spoil him; he is such a fine fellow," answered Mrs. Morrison.
"There's time enough for that," said Mr. Clark, and then added, "I want to speak to you about something else," and he told the story of Emma's trouble. "I thought perhaps you could—"
"Yes, indeed, I'm sure I can. Thank you for telling me," she held out her hand. "How kind you are, Mr. Clark! Good night."
This makes it quite plain how Mrs.Morrison happened to walk into Mrs. Bond's domain the next day with a white dress over her arm.
"I want you to look at this, Mrs. Bond," she said. "It is a dress I had made for Frances last spring, and by a mistake it was cut so short it had to be faced. Now she has outgrown it, and nothing can be done. Do you think Emma could wear it? Frances is a good deal taller. I have thought of offering it to you before, and now it has occurred to me that Emma may not have a dress ready to wear to the school entertainment,—Gladys was telling us about it yesterday,—and if you will accept it, it will be doing me a great favor. I dislike so to have it wasted."
"It is a very pretty dress; it is too bad Frances can't wear it," Mrs. Bond remarked, examining it critically.
"Then you will let me give it to Emma?"
Emma's mother was not hard hearted; she liked to see her children happy, but she had a stern feeling that hardship was likely to be their lot in this world, and the sooner they became used to it the better. However, when her pride was convinced that Mrs. Morrison could not use the dress, she accepted it gratefully.
Emma's joy was beyond words, and she very much wondered how the Spectacle Man could have known that something was going to happen.
When the eventful day came, Mrs. Morrison rolled her hair for her and tied her long braids with butterfly bows of red, white, and blue, and when she was dressed, Frances said, "Why, Emma, I believe you are as pretty as Gladys!"
Certainly no little girl waved her flag with more enthusiasm, or rejoiced more truly in the celebration of Washington's Birthday.
Before the end of February there began to be hints of spring in the air; now and then there came a day so mild and fair it seemed to belong to April, and as the winter passed it carried with it some at least of the cares that had for a while rested upon the inmates of the optician's house.
Frances and her mother rejoiced because every day brought nearer their traveller's return; Miss Moore, busy with the Easter work in her kindergarten, was finding a new meaning in the season; and even Lillian Sherwin felt now and then a thrill of joy that was like a prophecy of days to come, to her sore heart.
Mr. Clark was cheerful because he loved sunshine; and though he could not as yet see the way through his difficulties, he felt sure it was there, and that in good time he should find it.
The pleasure of Washington's Birthday lingered with Emma; the General, restored to health and amiability, was no longer such a care, and she found time once more to spend in that haven of delight upstairs with Frances.
George Washington was sent to the Loan Exhibit, together with the cabinet, some silver candlesticks, and the Wedgwood cream jug and sugar dish. With the blank space over the mantel the study looked deserted; and the owl, deprived of his resting-place on the cabinet, perched forlornly on a corner of the bookcase.
Frances took great interest in the Exhibit, and insisted upon going, chiefly it seemed for the purpose of seeing howWashington looked in his new surroundings. As Mrs. Morrison was housed with a cold, Miss Sherwin offered to take her.
They found a beautiful display of valuable and interesting things arranged in a large, handsomely decorated hall; but not until Frances had viewed the portrait and made a diligent search for Mr. Clark's other possessions would she give any attention to less familiar things.
She and Lillian were bending with delight over a case of miniatures when she heard her name spoken, and turning, saw Mrs. Marvin.
"Do you like the miniatures?" the lady asked. "Then come over to the other side; there is one there I want you to see."
"She pointed out a picture, set in diamonds""She pointed out a picture, set in diamonds"
She pointed out a picture, set in diamonds, of a lovely young woman.
"How pretty! Is it you?" Frances asked, seeing a resemblance to the handsome face beside her.
Mrs. Marvin smiled. "No, it is my mother,—the little girl you are so fond of, after she was grown. They wanted the portrait too," she added, "but I have decided not to trust it out of my hands again."
She pointed out several other miniatures in which she thought Frances would be interested, all the while keeping the child's hand clasped in her own. Miss Sherwin, seeing her charge had found an acquaintance, moved on down the aisle.
"Your friend seems to be interested in the manuscripts; suppose we rest a few minutes," and Mrs. Marvin drew Frances down beside her on a settee that stood near a tall case of lace and embroidery.
"Who is the young lady with you?" she asked.
Frances' explained, and Mrs. Marvin remarked that she was a handsome girl.
"And she is clever, too, for she writeslovely stories and illustrates them," said Frances, impressively.
"Does she, indeed?"
"Yes, she wrote one for us about a song the Spectacle Man—I mean Mr. Clark—sings. It is a fairy tale, andThe Young People's Journaltook it and are going to publish it next month. It has a beautiful moral to it."
"What do you know about morals?" laughed Mrs. Marvin.
"I found this one out when I had a quarrel with Gladys. Mr. Clark helped me to see it," was the reply; and then, as her companion looked interested, Frances continued:
"It is hard to explain it because you haven't read the story. It is called 'The Missing Bridge,' and is about a young man who couldn't get across the river that was between him and the girl he was going to marry, because there wasn't anybridge. That is hethoughtthere wasn't, though it really was there all the time, and had just been made invisible by a magician.
"Well, you know Gladys said she never would speak to me again, and that was like having the bridge broken between us; don't you think so? But Mr. Clark said he thought it was only hidden by the clouds of anger and unkindness. I think it is very uncomfortable to quarrel, don't you?" then, seeing an odd expression in her companion's face, Frances hastened to add: "Of course I know you wouldn't quarrel with any onenow, but I thought maybe you had when you were a little girl. But don't you think it is a nice moral? and—oh, yes—the last of it is that love and courage can always find a way."
"And how about you and Gladys?"
"We made up. If you would like toread the story, Mrs. Marvin, it will be out next week. The March number ofThe Young People's Journal, and it's only twenty-five cents."
Mrs. Marvin smiled. "I shall certainly get a copy," she said, adding, "I see your friend looking this way. Suppose we go to her; I should like to meet her."
Why she said this she couldn't have told, and she half repented it the next minute; but when Frances introduced Miss Sherwin she was all graciousness.
"Frances and I have an odd way of meeting every now and then, and have become great friends. I have been showing her a miniature of my mother, and she has been telling me about your story."
"Why, Frances!" said Miss Sherwin, a pretty color coming into her face.
This girl was extremely attractive, Mrs. Marvin decided, and found a good deal to say to her over the collection of ancientmissals. After a while Frances wandered off to look at the portraits.
Mrs. Marvin's eyes followed her as, with her hands clasped behind her, she stood gazing at an old pioneer.
"She is a very charming child," she remarked.
"She is, and she ought to be, for her mother is one of the sweetest women in the world," Miss Sherwin responded, in eager praise of her friend, but the next moment she had the feeling of having somehow said the wrong thing. Was it some change of expression in the handsome face, or simply the silence that followed her little outburst, which caused her discomfort? She could not tell. She had been wonderfully charmed by this stately person, but now the spell was broken; with one impulse they moved toward Frances.
"I don't believe I like her, after all," Lillian thought; and yet there was a marvelloussweetness in the smile that greeted the child, and brought her with instant response to Mrs. Marvin's side.
As they were making their way to the door after taking leave of Mrs. Marvin, Miss Sherwin saw a lady step out from a group of people, and exclaim: "Why, Mrs. Richards! how do you do? It was only the other day I heard of your unexpected return." And the person to whom this greeting was addressed was no other than Mrs. Marvin herself. It puzzled her, but she said nothing about it to Mrs. Morrison when they related their morning's adventures.
Mrs. Marvin was in a sadly restless state of mind. She wished again and again that chance had not brought this child in her way. Having seen her, she could not forget her, and each meeting cost her fresh pain.
And what was to be the outcome of it? Nothing? Frances had said they would soon be going away. Perhaps then she might be able to settle down again into the old life of resolutely putting aside the past.
She was not so strong as she used to be, yet she must endure it as she had done for so many years. There was nothing she could do. Her pride told her this with addedemphasis each time the half-formed question rose in her mind.
She actually fretted herself into a fever which the doctor pronounced malarial, advising change of air,—a prescription Mrs. Marvin had no thought of trying at present.
After several days in bed, she was lying on her couch weak and languid one morning, when she suddenly remembered the March number ofThe Young People's Journal. She would send for it and read the story.
When it was brought there came with it the swift recollection that Jack used to take it. She could see him now poring over the puzzle column, looking up with such a triumphant light in his brown eyes when he discovered an answer.
She held the paper for a long time without opening it, lying quite still with a desolate look on her face that was more than Caroline, her faithful nurse, could stand.
"I declare, if Miss Frances doesn't cheer up, I don't know what I shall do," she said to the seamstress.
After a while Mrs. Marvin began to turn the pages, till she found the story of "The Missing Bridge," with the gay little tune for a heading.
It is doubtful if under ordinary circumstances she would have had patience to read the simple story through, but to-day she found something soothing in its very simplicity.
"No power can destroy the bridge between true and loving hearts." She lay thinking of what Frances had said about her quarrel with Gladys. Ah! many another bridge had been made invisible by clouds of anger and pride. The paper slipped from her grasp. "Ididlove him so dearly," she cried, clasping her hands; "and I thought he cared for me, but now he has probably forgotten."
"Faith and courage can find the way—" so said the story.
"But I have neither," sighed Mrs. Marvin.
Her unquiet mind seized upon the words of the little song, and all through the day she said them over and over:—