"The bridge is broke and I have to mend it."
The clock ticked:—
"The bridge is broke and I have to mend it, mend it,mend it, mend it."
Even the horses' hoofs on the asphalt street rang out the same refrain.
Mrs. Marvin rose from her couch in some respects a changed woman. It seemed to her she had lived years in that illness of two weeks. In her soul a battle had been waged, and the struggle had left her passive and unresisting; she was waiting. The outward result was a strange, new gentleness of manner.
At the time of the Loan Exhibit shehad been commissioned by a friend to purchase a wedding gift, which was to be, if possible, something antique. The silver candlesticks belonging to Mr. Clark rather pleased her; and thinking he might have other interesting things, she had written his address in her note-book, intending to go and see for herself, but her illness had interfered. When she was once more able to be out this was her first thought.
In the meantime the MarchJournalwas being read by a good many persons who ordinarily never looked at it. The household at the Spectacle Man's naturally took a deep interest in it; and Miss Sherwin said she felt she ought to divide the profits, for if it had not been for the song and Mrs. Morrison's suggestion, the story would never have been written.
Frances laid emphatic commands upon her father to buy a copy the minute he landed in San Francisco; and Mr. Clarkwas also charged to remind Mark of the story, when he wrote.
In the hurry of sending telegrams, attending to his baggage, and making arrangements for an early start eastward, Mr. Morrison forgot this important matter, and it did not occur to him till, halfway on his homeward journey, he one morning saw the paper among others the train boy was carrying through the cars. He promptly purchased it, for it would never do to meet his little daughter without having read the story which was, she said, almost as good as one of his own.
Soon after leaving San Francisco, Mr. Morrison had made the acquaintance of a young civil engineer who was on his way to his home in Tennessee for a visit. He had frank, gentlemanly manners, and the cheerful, self-reliant air of a trained worker who loves his work, and the travellers were at once attracted to each other. Asso often happens, they discovered mutual friends, and also that they had the same affection for Southern life and ways. Alexander Carter, as he gave his name, had recently accepted a position with a Western mining company,—a place of trust and responsibility of which he was justly proud in a modest way.
"You seem to have found something amusing," he remarked, seeing Mr. Morrison smiling over the magazine.
"Well, no, it happens to be a rather serious story, but something reminded me of my little daughter," was the reply. "By the way, Carter," he added, "it is odd, but the hero of this tale bears a remarkable resemblance to you—I mean in the illustration. See here!" Mr. Morrison held before him the picture of the young farmer as he knelt to release the white rabbit. "This is your profile exactly. Don't you see it yourself?"
Mr. Carter laughed. "I believe there is a faint likeness, which only goes to show that I have a very ordinary countenance."
"That is just what you have not, which is the curious part of it," said Mr. Morrison.
"Who wrote the story?" his companion asked.
"It is unsigned, and I have forgotten the name. She is a young lady of whom my wife and daughter are very fond."
At St. Louis the travellers separated with cordial good-byes, feeling like old friends, and Mr. Morrison rushed off to catch the train that would take him to his destination some hours earlier than he had expected to arrive.
Mr. Carter, gathering up his things in a more leisurely way, noticedThe Young People's Journallying on the seat, and put it in his bag.
"Expect me Wednesday evening; will wire from St. Louis," so read the telegram from San Francisco; and on Wednesday morning Frances had just exclaimed over her oatmeal, "O dear, what a long day this will be!" when the door opened and there stood a familiar figure, looking, oh, so bright and well!
After some moments of rapturous hugs and incoherent remarks, the traveller was allowed to have some breakfast, while Mrs. Morrison and Frances looked on, too happy to eat.
"I had to surprise you, for a despatch sent after I left St. Louis would have aroused you in the night, or else not have reached you till about this time," Mr. Morrison explained as he helped himself to a muffin.
"Jack, how brown you are, and how well you look! It is a delight to see you," said his wife.
"I never was better in my life; but I can't tell you how I have wished for you and Frances."
"Next time you'll take me, won't you, father?" Frances asked.
"Yes, indeed. Wink, I believe you have grown a foot! You'll soon be a young lady, and I don't like it; people will begin to think your mother and I are elderly, when we are really in the heyday of youth."
In this irrelevant fashion conversation went on through the day. There were all the winter experiences to be related, and Frances could not rest till each person in the house had been brought in to see her father. First of all Mr. Clark ran up to say how glad he was to see the traveller back again; and on her way to school Miss Moore looked in with a merry greeting; then Emma and theGeneral were waylaid in the hall and introduced, the former in a dreadful fit of shyness; and last, Miss Sherwin was pounced upon and dragged reluctantly into the sitting room.
To her Mr. Morrison's return meant the breaking up of the pleasant companionship of the winter, and she was not in the least glad to see him. Mrs. Morrison's exclamation as she entered was somewhat disconcerting.
"Jack, I want you to know Lillian, she has been so good to me!"
"Good! I?" Miss Sherwin cried in a tone that made them all laugh, and then her hand was given a cordial grasp by a tall man with a boyish face, who said, "We shall have to take each other on sufferance, Miss Sherwin, till we can find out for ourselves how much truth there is in what our friends say of us."
"I am very glad we came here; it hasreally been a delightful winter,—all but those two dreadful days when Frances was so ill,—but I don't think I can ever let you go again," Mrs. Morrison said. It was after lunch, and Frances had gone to get ready for a walk with her father.
"Then, will you go to New York with me next week?" asked her husband.
"I may have to stand that. It will depend on how soon we must leave here permanently. Jack, there is one rather strange thing I must tell you—" but just here Frances danced in, and her mother did not finish her sentence.
When they returned from their walk late in the afternoon they stopped in the shop for a moment to speak to Mr. Clark. Peterkin was the only person to be seen, but the door into the study stood open, and, supposing the Spectacle Man was there, Frances and her father entered. Some one was standing before the mantel looking upat the portrait of Washington, and Frances gave an exclamation of surprise, for it was not the optician, but, of all persons, Mrs. Marvin!
It was not very light, and for a second she thought she must be mistaken, then something very strange happened. Mrs. Marvin turned, and with a little cry stepped forward, holding out her hands appealingly. "Jack, O Jack!" she said.
The astonished child saw the light in her father's eyes as he exclaimed, "Auntie!" and then his arms were around her, her cheek pressed to his.
"Jack, I have wanted you so;" the words came with a sob.
"Dear auntie, I am so glad!"
Mrs. Marvin was not one to lose her self-control for long; she presently lifted her head, with one hand on his shoulder she looked at him. "You have not changed," she said, "but I have grown old."
In truth, she was very white now the first flush of excitement was fading, and with gentle hands Jack put her into the shabby leather chair, and drew another to her side.
"I wonder if I shall wake and find it a dream," she said, smiling up at him.
"It is better than any dream," he answered, bending over her.
"I have been so lonely,—it has been so long. I thought perhaps you had forgotten, and— I am sorry— Jack." It was the proud woman's surrender, and John Morrison was touched to the heart. Tears rose to his eyes.
"It was more my fault than yours, dear,—the years have taught me that, and I have often wished I could tell you so," he said.
Frances had stood an amazed spectator of this scene. What did it mean? Ought she to stay? It was plain she was forgotten. After a little she touched her father's arm,saying softly, "Daddy, I'm here, you know."
The plaintive tone recalled both her companions; her father drew her to his side, but before he could speak Mrs. Marvin took her hand.
"Frances darling, you will love me, won't you? You are my own little niece. The day when I first saw you in my library you reminded me of my dear Jack."
It was Mr. Morrison's turn to be surprised as his daughter impulsively threw her arms round the lady's neck, exclaiming, "I do love you, but I didn't know you knew father."
"And I didn't know you knew each other," he said.
"And I don't understand how you happened to come here," added his aunt.
"Why, we live here, Mrs. Marvin," Frances replied.
"Mrs. Marvin!" echoed Mr. Morrison.
"That is a mistake which I encouragedbecause I wanted to see more of her," his aunt said; adding, "Is this really the house of the Spectacle Man?"
There was so much to be explained it seemed almost hopeless; Mr. Clark came in and went out again unobserved. It was not an opportune time for selling candlesticks, evidently.
"We will not try to unravel the tangle all at once," Mr. Morrison said, rising. "Auntie, will you come upstairs? I want you to meet Katherine."
This was hardest of all. It brought back one of her old disappointments; and without doubt Katherine Morrison was aware how Jack's aunt felt about his marriage, but she did not hesitate. It was not her custom to do things by halves.
Mrs. Morrison, sitting in the twilight lost in happy thoughts, was aroused by Frances' excited voice: "Mother, what do you think has happened?"
Surprised at sight of the stranger, she rose; her husband met her and drew her forward: "Auntie, this is my wife, to whom I owe my greatest happiness."
His aunt understood. This fair, girlish looking little person filled the first place in his heart; whatever else was changed, this was not.
"You must try to love me for Jack's sake," she said, taking Katherine's hand with that new gentleness her nephew found so touching.
It won his wife. "I shall not have to try," she answered.
"Are you willing to forget and begin again?—that is what we are going to do, is it not, Jack?" his aunt looked from his wife to him. "It will make a great difference in my life," she continued; "I have been very lonely, and I want this little girl;" she put her arm around Frances.
"Then she will certainly have to take us,too; won't she, Katherine?" and Mr. Morrison laughed happily.
Frances still seemed puzzled. "If this is my Aunt Frances—" she said slowly, "who is the little girl? Is she the Girl in the Golden Doorway, truly?—the portrait, I mean.
"I think she must be, and she is also your great-grandmother," her aunt replied.
"Then who is a Certain Person. You said he was abroad, father." Frances evidently thought it time all mysteries were solved.
"Why, yes, auntie, how does it happen you are not abroad? I heard last summer on the best authority that you would spend the winter in Egypt," said her nephew.
"I fully expected to be gone eighteen months when I left, but the death of the mother of my friend, Mrs. Roberts, changed our plans. I did not wish to go alone."
Frances was listening intently. "Father!you don't mean Aunt Frances is a Certain Person?" she cried. "I thought it was a man."
"It is a character we are going to forget. I am your father's aunt and yours, dear, and I am not Mrs. Marvin, but Mrs. Richards. Mrs. Marvin is my cousin. You understand it all now, don't you?"
Frances was not quite certain of this, but there was no doubt about her pleasure in her new relative; and when her father went home with his aunt she was rather impatient at not being allowed to go too.
"Come sit beside me, Wink, and have a little talk," Mrs. Morrison suggested when they were alone.
Frances came and nestled down beside her mother; the day had been so full of excitement she found it hard work to keep still.
"You know, dear, that Aunt Frances and father have not seen each other foryears,—not since before you were born,—and of course they have a great deal to say to each other. There was some trouble—a misunderstanding—but now it is over—"
"They have found the bridge like Gladys and me," Frances put in.
"Yes; but what I was going to say is this: we mustn't be selfish. We must let Aunt Frances have father to herself sometimes. Don't you think so?"
As they sat quietly there in the twilight Mrs. Morrison saw opening before her a path she would not have chosen. She was a person of simple tastes and wide sympathies, and the world of wealth and convention to which her husband would return so naturally had few attractions for her. She would have need of love and courage, she told herself.
"What do you think, Kate; auntie wants me to take you to New York with me and leave Frances with her!" said Mr. Morrison, coming in.
"She has never been away from me in her life. What do you say, Wink?" and her mother lifted the face that rested against her shoulder and kissed it.
"I don't know; I believe I'd like it, for then I could see the little girl every day," was the reply.
"I think her great-grandmother has cut out all the rest of her relations," her father remarked, laughing.
"I don't see how shecouldbe my great-grandmother," Frances said meditatively.
Mrs. Richards remembered the candlesticks next day, and they gave her an excuse for an early visit to Mr. Clark. She felt in love and charity with all men, and, finding the optician at leisure, she entered into conversation with him in her most gracious manner. His old-fashioned courtliness pleased her, and she recalled him as one of the proprietors of the large jewellery store of Mason and Clark, years ago.
Mr. Clark remembered her father, Judge Morrison, and all together she spent an exceedingly pleasant hour looking over his valuables and talking of old times. She purchased the candlesticks, and also the two pieces of Wedgwood which exactly matched some her grandfather had brought from England.
"You have shown me all you care to sell?" she asked, rising.
"I believe there is nothing else, madam, except the house. I should like very much to sell it," was Mr. Clark's reply.
When Zenobia ushered her into the sitting room upstairs some minutes later, Mrs. Richards was struck with its cosey beauty. Truly, there were ways of living—pleasant ways—of which she had not dreamed.
Frances was washing the sword fern while she recited her history lesson to her mother, who was sewing.
"I have come to take you home withme to lunch; I can't do without you," Mrs. Richards announced.
"Why don't you stay with us—auntie?" Frances spoke the new title hesitatingly.
"That will be much the better plan, and it will please Jack," added Mrs. Morrison, cordially, and Mrs. Richards stayed.
The next time she and her nephew were alone together she said to him: "Jack, there is something I want you to explain to Katherine. I do not think I could make any difference in my manner of living at my age, even if I wished to, and I do not; but I am beginning to see that there may be a charm about—other ways."
"Yes, auntie," as she paused, "the years I have spent knocking about without any money, having to work hard for Kate and the baby, have been the happiest and best of my life. There was only one drawback to it all—" he laid his hand on hers.
She smiled fondly at him. "I want youto say to Katherine that I know I must seem narrow to her; I realize that she may perhaps fear my influence upon Frances—" her nephew began a protest, but she silenced him. "No, let me finish. I have come to see things differently; I want you to live your own lives in your own way; I want Frances to go on as she has begun—sweet, generous, unconscious, and I only ask to be near you."
When Mr. Morrison repeated this to his wife, tears rose to her eyes. "I haven't been fair to her," she said. "I have been afraid, but I shall not be any more. I shall love her dearly."
"Well, I suppose you have heard the news?"
Caroline's pleasant face was more beaming than usual as Emma ushered her into the room where Mrs. Bond sat with her sewing, the General being safe in dreamland.
"No, I haven't heard any so far as I remember," was her reply.
Emma gave the visitor a chair, and retreated with her books to a corner behind her mother, in the hope that she might not be sent away. She knew something had happened.
"Then you don't know that Mr. Morrison has turned out to be our Mr. Jack, Miss Frances' nephew?"
"Who is her nephew, did you say?" asked Mrs. Bond, going on with her work.
"Mr. Morrison, to be sure, the father of little Frances, bless her!"
"He is Mrs. Marvin's nephew?"
"Yes," said Caroline, laughing; "only she isn't Mrs. Marvin at all, but Mrs. Richards. It is as good as a play."
Mrs. Bond actually dropped her hands in her lap, as she asked, "Do you mean there isn't any such person as Mrs. Marvin?"
"Of course there is a Mrs. Marvin. She was staying at our house while Miss Frances was abroad,—she is her cousin,—and the first sewing you did was for her. I did not think of explaining, so you went on supposing it was all for Mrs. Marvin. Then when Miss Frances found out that Frances thought she was Mrs. Marvin, she asked me not to tell you any different. I couldn't understand why, then."
"Why should she care who I thought she was?" Mrs. Bond asked, taking up her sewing.
"It is plain enough now. You see, she and Mr. Jack had had a quarrel years ago, and she had not seen or heard of him since; then one day, you know, Frances came to our house with Emma, and Mrs. Richards saw her and knew right away who she was, and was mightily taken with her, but she didn't want Frances or her mother to know that she was Mr. Morrison's aunt; don't you see?
"You may say it happened," Caroline continued, "but I say the Lord brought it about. Why should that child walk into the library and stand before her great-grandmother's portrait, and Miss Frances come in and find her there, looking as much like Mr. Jack when he was little as two peas! Isn't he a splendid man! and just his old self. Why, when he came outyesterday, he ran upstairs to my room calling out just as he used to do,—'Where's Caroline?' It made me too happy to sleep."
"Did Mr. Morrison live at your house once?" Emma ventured to ask.
"Of course he did. When his mother died Miss Frances adopted him. He was six years old, and it was the same year I went to live with her,—thirty years this spring. You see, Mr. Jack's father, who was Mrs. Richards' favorite brother, was thrown from his horse and killed when his little boy was only three. It was a dreadful blow to the whole family; his wife did not outlive him long, and his father, Judge Morrison, never recovered from the shock, for his only other son was an invalid.
"I used to think nobody had as much trouble as Miss Frances. She married very young and was left a widow before she was twenty-two, and it seemed as if Mr. Jackwas her only comfort, for her father's mind began to fail, and the old home was so changed she couldn't bear to go there; but she was wrapped up in the child.
"In those days he wasn't hard to manage, though he had a quick temper; you couldn't help loving him on account of his sweet ways. He was devoted to Miss Frances, and gave up to her wonderfully, so I suppose she got to thinking she would always have things her own way with him, as she had with every one else.
"There were gay times, I can tell you, when he came home for his holidays, after he began to go away to school. He might bring home as many friends as he pleased, and there wasn't anything he couldn't have for the asking. Yet he wasn't half as spoiled as you'd think.
"The trouble began about the time he left college, but I didn't know much about it then. Miss Frances had set her hearton his being a lawyer like his grandfather; but though he studied it to please her, he did not take any interest in law. Then I think she wanted him to marry a niece of her husband's who used to be at the house a great deal. That is— I don't think she really wanted him to marry at all, but was just afraid he'd take to some one she did not like. He had always been fond of Miss Elsie, and it did look contrary in him to turn around and be so indifferent when he found how his aunt felt.
"Mr. Jack went abroad for a year, and it was soon after he came back that they had the trouble. I happened to pass the library door one evening when I heard Miss Frances say, 'If you have no regard for my wishes perhaps you had better provide for yourself in the future—' and he answered back as cool as you please, 'Thank you for suggesting it, Aunt Frances; I have been an idler on your bounty quite toolong.' I never forgot those words. They didn't either of them mean what they said, but were too proud to take it back. Miss Frances had never denied him anything, and had more than enough for both, yet it was natural for her to think he ought to go her way.
"I never knew any more about it, except that Mr. Jack came to my room to tell me he was going, with a face as white as a sheet. He had some property of his own, though not much, for his grandfather made way with almost everything before he died—no one knew how. He had softening of the brain, brought on by grief.
"The next I knew Mr. Jack sent me a paper with a notice of his marriage. Mrs. Morrison was the daughter of one of the professors in the college where he went. But—" Caroline concluded, with a sigh of content, "it is all right now, and maybe it has all been for the best."
"I suppose they'll be going away soon?" said Mrs. Bond.
"Yes, Mr. Morrison and his wife are going to New York, and Frances is coming to stay with us."
Emma listened to this story with breathless interest. It seemed to her quite the most natural and suitable thing that such good fortune should come to Frances, but it made her feel sorrowful to think she was going away.
After their visitor had gone Mrs. Bond said, as she folded her work: "Now, Emma, I do not want you to be foolish. Make up your mind not to see anything of Frances after this, and you'll not be disappointed."
"Why, mother?"
"Because they are rich and we are poor, and it is not to be expected that they will care for your society. I never go where I am not wanted, and I do not choose to haveyou. Understand, I am not saying anything against the Morrisons. Frances is a nice child, and her mother is very pleasant and kind, but you can't change the world; birds of a feather will flock together."
Peterkin was taking a nap in one corner of the big sofa in the hall. It was a delightful spring afternoon and everybody was out; he knew this, for he had seen them go. First Miss Moore hurried away with some books under her arm; next Frances danced downstairs, followed by her father and mother; a little later Emma and the General started out for a walk; and last of all came Miss Sherwin, and sat beside him while she put on her gloves.
She stroked him gently for a minute before she left, and, bending over him till her face touched his soft fur, said, "Oh, pussy, pussy! so many things are happening, and it's going to be so lonely. It must be nice to be a cat."
Peterkin rubbed his head sympathetically against her hand, for her tone was sad. He had had confidences made to him before and knew how to receive them. He understood it all as well as if she had spent hours in the telling, an advantage a cat possesses over a human confidant.
He had been dozing undisturbed for a long time when he heard the door open again, and a man's voice he did not recognize say: "How fortunate that I met you! I seem to have had the wrong number."
It was Miss Sherwin who replied, "I am very much surprised; I did not know you were in this part of the country."
Then they came and sat on the sofa, and the stranger, who, Peterkin saw, was a pleasant looking young fellow, said he had been back only a short time. "I stopped in Maryville a day, and then at home for two more," he added.
"You have been to Maryville?" MissSherwin's voice showed surprise. Then she began to ask questions about the people there, and to talk of the delightful weather, in all of which her companion seemed to feel little interest. Presently there came a silence.
The young man leaned forward, one elbow on his crossed knee that he might the better look into Miss Sherwin's face, the light in the hall being a little dim. "Lillian," he began, "in this past year I have had a good deal of time for thinking, and naturally our—disagreement has been often in my mind. When I last saw you I thought it was all over forever, and though I had come to look at it differently in these months—feeling that perhaps there had been a mistake—still I don't know that I ever—that is— I mean the possibility of undoing it never occurred to me till I was on my way home. I hope you don't mind listening to this; I'll try to be brief.
"Perhaps you know I got my position in March,—the one I had been hoping and working for,—and with it the opportunity to come East for a month or two. I can't say I wanted very much to come. The thought of our old plans made it rather bitter, but I owed it to the people at home.
"Not to make the story too long, I picked up on the train a magazine belonging to one of my fellow travellers, and read a little story. It was called 'The Missing Bridge,' and was a sort of fairy story. It seems rather absurd, but there was something in it that impressed me strangely. It was the thought that even when people seem hopelessly separated from each other, if they are brave enough and true enough to try, they will find a way across all barriers.
"I may not be making this clear, for you have not read the story; but you will understand me when I say it made me feel unwilling to have anything I may have said ordone in the past, stand between us now; I was to blame for much of the quarrel, and I am sorry for it all. I know how clever you are,—they were all talking about it in Maryville,—and it may seem only a foolish dream to you now, but I want to tell you—" he paused with his eyes on the floor, as if afraid to read his answer in the face beside him.
It was very still in the hall, and, when he looked up after a moment, Lillian had bowed her head in her hands.
"I don't want to pain you," he began.
"O Aleck!" she cried, putting out one hand, "it wasmystory!"
At this point Peterkin, seeing matters were likely to be settled satisfactorily, and feeling no interest in details, dozed off again. The next thing he knew the gas was lit, and Mr. Morrison was saying, "Why, how are you, Carter? Delighted to see you. Where did you come from? Let me present youto Mrs. Morrison," and Miss Sherwin, with a becoming color in her face, was explaining that Mr. Carter was an old friend, and they were all talking and laughing at once in the absurd way people have sometimes, so that it was next to impossible to understand anything.
When Mr. Carter left, after declining the Morrisons' invitation to spend the evening, Peterkin followed him out on the porch to get a little air. The Spectacle Man, coming in from a walk, found him sitting there, looking like some dignified old Quaker in his gray coat and white necktie.
Mrs. Morrison slipped her hand into Miss Sherwin's as they went upstairs. "Am I right in what I guess?" she whispered.
"How could you know it?" Lillian asked, with an answering clasp.
"My dear, if you could see your face!—but I felt certain he would come!"
"O Miss Sherwin!" called Mr. Morrison, who, with Frances, had lingered at the door, "your acquaintance with Mr. Carter partly explains something that puzzled me. I was struck with the resemblance between him and the young farmer in the first illustration in your story. Did he sit for the portrait?"
"Jack, you must be dreaming!" his wife exclaimed.
"I don't understand at all," Lillian said, in great confusion.
"Could it possibly have been accidental?" A mischievous light shone in Mr. Morrison's eyes.
His wife shook her head at him, but Frances ran off to find the magazine. Miss Sherwin recovered herself, and explained with a great deal of dignity that, if it were so, it was quite accidental. That she had known Mr. Carter since they were children, and was, of course, very familiar with his face;then she said good evening, and left them.
"Very well done," Mr. Morrison exclaimed.
"Why, where is Miss Lillian," asked Frances, coming back; "I want to show her the picture. It is like Mr. Carter."
"Not now, dear,—another time," said her mother; adding, "You were aching to tease her, Jack, and I am glad she did not give you an opportunity."
Mr. Morrison laughed. "I suppose congratulations are next in order. It is at least a natural inference when you find a young man's image so deeply graven upon the heart of a young woman that she unconsciously reproduces it in her drawing."
"I am sure he is to be congratulated," remarked Mrs. Morrison.
"Unless I am very much mistaken, so is she," her husband added.
Frances was listening with wide-open eyes."Is Miss Sherwin going to be married to Mr. Carter?"
"I shouldn't be a bit surprised, Wink, if she were," replied her father, "but you and I are supposed to know nothing about it."
It was evident, Mr. Morrison said, that he and his wife could not get away too soon to please his aunt, and this was true for two reasons. Mrs. Richards wished her nephew to meet his old friends under her roof—there would be less talk; and before their return the six months' lease on the flat would have expired and they would naturally come to her for a while at least. She also wanted Frances all to herself. The great house would be another place with the sound of a child's voice to charm away its loneliness.
She spent much time and thought in plans for her little niece's entertainment, which were quite unnecessary, for Frances was ashappy as a lark, and found the hours brimful of amusement. To hear Caroline tell of her father when he was little Jack; to go shopping or driving with Aunt Frances; to romp with the fox terrier in the garden which the crocuses and hyacinths were making beautiful; and then, when the day was almost over, to rest in the depths of some great chair and look up at the girl in the golden doorway,—this was unalloyed happiness.
One Friday they drove to the house of the Spectacle Man and carried Emma away to stay till Monday. How she ever came to let her go Mrs. Bond couldn't understand; she believed she was bewitched. Emma, however, had a blissful holiday, and before it was over she found courage to ask Frances a question.
"Do you like me as much as you used to, Frances?" she said.
"What makes you ask such a funny question? Of course I do."
"I thought maybe you wouldn't care so much now."
"Why not?" insisted Frances, greatly puzzled.
Emma thought of quoting her mother's proverb about birds of a feather, the application of which she did not exactly understand; but she only said, "Oh, because you are rich, I suppose."
"But I'm not rich,—any richer than I ever was."
"Your aunt is."
"But why should that make me not like you? I don't like you to think such a thing about me," and Frances looked aggrieved.
"I didn't really think it, only—sometimes it does make a difference, you know," Emma said.
"Well, it won't to me, for I shall always like you, Emma," was Frances' reassuring reply, and Emma was satisfied.
Among other pleasant things, Frances and her aunt were arranging a little surprise for Mr. Morrison's birthday, which was to be celebrated by a dinner to which a number of cousins and old family friends were asked.
The travellers, who returned the night before, found a very happy little girl waiting for them in the carriage at the station.
"I have the loveliest secret, father, but you are not to know it till your birthday!" She couldn't help telling this much, but all his teasing could not extract any more; and, as it was not mentioned again, Mr. Morrison forgot it.
The next evening he dressed early, and went to the library to write a letter, and when it was finished he fell into a pleasant revery. He thought of his struggles and disappointments, and of the bright future that seemed to be opening before him. The little girl smiled down upon him inthe twilight, and he recalled his old dream.
It was surely a most living portrait. This little maiden, painted nearly seventy years ago, looked as if about to speak. Was she laughing at him still? would she presently come down? Surely he was dreaming, for there she stood on the rug beside him! He could see the pattern of the rich lace that fell from the neck of her quaint brocaded gown.
She came nearer, and he watched her, almost afraid to breathe; it was, he thought, a most interesting illusion. He put out his hand, expecting the vision to vanish, when, instead of thin air, his fingers closed upon a round arm of real flesh and blood, and a laughing voice exclaimed, "Why, father, I thought you were asleep!"
"Wink! is it really you?" he said, pulling her down on his knee. "I thought the girl in the golden doorway had comedown once more. Where did you get this dress?"
"This is the secret, father. Aunt Frances found it among my great-grandmother's things. It was made for the picture, and was copied from another portrait that the little girl's father liked. It almost fitted me. Do you really think I look like her?"
"Indeed you do, Wink; it is wonderful."
Frances leaned her head on his shoulder, and looked up at her great-grandmother in great content.
"Do you know, Wink," said her father, presently, "I believe my old dream has come true, and at last I have caught the girl in the golden doorway."
"How nice!" cried Frances, "for that puts me into the story. You will have to write a sequel to it, father. Jack never guessed the girl would turn out to be his own daughter, did he?"
"He certainly did not," answered Mr. Morrison, laughing.
They were pleasing themselves with these fancies when lights and Mrs. Morrison, in her pretty evening gown, appearing together, put an end to them. Some minutes later Mrs. Richards walked in upon a charming family group. Life was becoming very full and sweet to her, and she looked very handsome and happy. She felt proud of her children, most of all of that graceful little person in the old brocade who ran to meet her.
"Auntie, what do you think? We have found the sequel to 'The Girl in the Golden Doorway.' The dream has come true: Jack has caught her, and she turns out to be me." Frances made a courtesy, laughing merrily.
"There is some more to it," she added. "Father, can't you tell it?"
"Tell it yourself, Wink," was the smilingreply, and three pairs of eyes watched her fondly as she stood, a finger on her lips, an intent expression on her face.
"Oh, yes! I remember. And together they are going to explore the House of the Golden Doorway, and find out all its secrets."
Mrs. Richards took the rosy face between her hands. "You have opened the golden door to me, too, my darling," she said.
"Out of a song the story grew,Just how it happened nobody knew,But, song and story, it all came true."Out of sight till time of needThe story lay hid like a little seed;And then it grew that all might read—"Might read and learn—however grayThe clouds may hang, or how dark the day,That love and courage can find the way."
No one suspected the Spectacle Man of poetical aspirations until Miss Moore one day picked up these verses from the hall floor. "Dear me, what are we all coming to!" she exclaimed. "Here is Lillian the strong-minded going to be married, the Morrisons have found a fairygodmother, and now Mr. Clark has taken to verse! If I were not so commonplace I'd expect something to happen to me."
Things were happening; there was no doubt about that.
Soon after her nephew's return, Mrs. Richards made Mr. Clark an offer for his house which he thought it wise to accept, and by the time summer was fairly begun it was rapidly disappearing in a cloud of dust and mortar to make room for a five-story office building.
Frances could not be reconciled to this, nor was she the only one who felt sad at sight of yawning vacancy where the dignified old mansion had stood. The feelings of the optician were mixed; he was fond of the place, but its sale solved some of the difficulties that had weighed upon him, and when Mrs. Bond took a small house farther out, where there were trees and a garden for the General to play in, he furnishedtwo rooms for himself, and, after the first wrench of leaving, he and Peterkin found it very comfortable. His show-cases and other fixtures were moved to a shop not far from the old one.
Before this, however, something even more interesting had occurred.
As Mr. Carter had only six weeks' leave, he and Lillian decided to have a quiet wedding the last of April, making a short visit at his home on their way West.
"I am very much alone in the world, and there are no people I care more to have at my wedding than you and Mary," Lillian said to Mrs. Morrison; "and it is easier and simpler to have it here."
Miss Moore professed to be highly indignant at the whole affair. "Here I have been upholding her in her independence, taking her side, and she in the basest manner deserts and goes over to the enemy," she exclaimed.
Lillian laughed shamelessly. "Never mind, dear, when you have finished your course you are coming out to me, and we'll start the most ideal of kindergartens in our wild Western town."
She went about her preparations with a light heart, growing prettier and brighter each day. As for Mr. Carter, he won golden opinions from everybody, even from the critical Wilson, who was one day moved to confide that he and Zenobia were contemplating the same step.
No one showed a more genuine interest in the wedding preparations than Mrs. Richards. She had taken a fancy to Lillian, and declared that her love affair was delightfully interesting and novel for these unromantic times. She lent her carriage to facilitate the shopping, and the evening before the wedding day entertained the bride and groom elect.
Just such a gathering had never beforebeen seen in Mrs. Richards's beautiful home, for it was Frances who had the naming of the guests, and she chose to have their friends of the winter. There was the Spectacle Man, of course, and Emma and Gladys and Miss Moore,—it was too bad Mark couldn't get home in time,—and Mrs. Gray, because she was the beginning of it all, and Frances was fond of her. This was the party, with their own family and the bride and groom.
Caroline said that if Mrs. Richards had been going to entertain the Queen and the President together, she couldn't have been more particular about everything, and indeed she spared no trouble or expense.
The table was exquisite in its bridal decorations of lilies of the valley, and the whole house was fragrant with flowers; the guests all looked their best, and it was throughout a most festive and happy occasion.
Frances fluttered about in her great-grandmother'sdress, evidently considering it her party; the Spectacle Man beamed on everybody; and old Mrs. Gray, in a new silk gown, looked on in quiet enjoyment. Miss Moore was, if possible, merrier than usual, but this may have been because she was trying not to think how far away Lillian was going.
When the supper was over and the healths of the bride and groom had been drank, "The Story of the Missing Bridge" was proposed, and the optician rose to respond.
"It has occurred to me as a somewhat strange thing," he began, "that seven or eight months ago we, who now feel like old friends, had not met. In this time we have learned to know one another, and a little story, which grew out of a foolish old song, has become a bond between us,—something we shall carry with us wherever we go. We have learned lessons of courageand cheer; some of us have found bridges over our difficulties and troubles where we had supposed there were none; and I can at least say for myself that hereafter, into whatever perplexities I may fall, I shall remember the lesson of the story, that there is always a way, and love and courage can find it."
He sat down amid applause, and Frances said, "I am going to remember it, too, for I did find a way when Gladys and I quarrelled."
"I can add my testimony that ways open in the most unpromising places," put in her father.
"Perhaps if I had heard the story sooner my broken bridge would have been mended long ago," said Mrs. Richards.
"It is wonderful," Mrs. Gray took courage to say, "how things turn out sometimes. I feel like telling everybody how sweet and kind my new daughter is. She really seemsfond of me already, and I was so dreadful afraid of her."
"When we look back we can't help seeing that we have been guided by a higher Power, who could see the path that was dark to us," Mrs. Morrison said softly; and the Spectacle Man added, "That's true."
"Every one knows how much I owe to the story," Mr. Carter began, but Lillian blushed and shook her head at him.
"I am too commonplace to have interesting experiences," Miss Moore announced, "so, as I haven't anything to relate, with Mr. Clark's permission I'll read a poem;" and thereupon she read the verses she had found in the hall.
The Spectacle Man was quite embarrassed, and insisted that he was not in the habit of dropping into verse, and that this had not been intended for the public.
"I want them, Mr. Clark, for the book I mean to write when I have time, aboutour winter at your house," Miss Sherwin said.
"Are you really going to do that, Miss Sherwin? How lovely!" cried Frances. "And you must begin with Mrs. Gray's glasses, and put Emma and Gladys and me in,—and Peterkin."
Lillian laughed, and promised that when the story was written they should all be in.
The next morning was as beautiful as if it had been ordered for the occasion, and the small number of persons gathered in the church saw a charming bride, who seemed with her golden hair and her shimmering gown of soft green tones, to be herself a part of the springtime.
She walked up the aisle with her maid of honor, Miss Moore, preceded by Frances and Emma in a state of unutterable bliss, while Gladys looked on from a front pew. Mr. Clark gave the bride away, and nothinghappened to mar the simple and beautiful ceremony.
When Mr. and Mrs. Carter had driven off in a shower of rice the Spectacle Man returned to his shop and began that very afternoon to pack up. As he worked he sang cheerily:—