If my Alma smiles on all the children, they'll all smile on her."
Alma shook her head. It was too great an undertaking to explain all those daily experiences of longing and disappointment to her mother. The child's throat grew so full of the sob that she could not swallow the nice egg.
"This is Valentine's Day," she said, with an effort. "They had a box in school. Everybody got pretty ones but me. They sent me a 'comic.'"
She swallowed bravely between the sentences, but big tears rolled down her cheeks and splashed on the gingham apron.
"Well, wasn't it meant to make you laugh, dearie?"
"N-no. It was—was a hateful one. I—I can't tell you."
A line came in Mrs. Driscoll's forehead. Her swift thought pictured the scene only too vividly. She swallowed, too.
"Silly pictures can't hurt us, Alma," she said.
"But please don't make me go back," returned the child earnestly. "I cried and ran away, and I know all the other children laughed, and, oh, mother, I can't go back!" She was sobbing again, now, and trying to dry her tears with her apron.
Mrs. Driscoll's lips pressed firmly together to keep from quivering.
"Mother," said Alma brokenly, as soon as she could speak again, "when do you think father will come home?"
For a minute the mother could not reply. The last letter she had received from her husband had sounded discouraged, and for six weeks now she had heard nothing. Her anxiety was very great; but it made her position at the factory more than ever important, while it increased the difficulty of performing her work.
"I can't tell, dearie," she answered low. "We must pray and wait."
As she finished speaking there came a loud knock at the door. A very unusual sound this, for no one had yet called on them, except Mr. Knapp, once on business.
"I'll go," said Mrs. Driscoll. "Wipe your eyes, Alma."
To her surprise, when she opened the door no one was there. Something white on the step caught her eye in the gloom. It was a box, and when she brought it to the light, she saw that it was addressed to Miss Alma Driscoll.
Her heart was too sore to hand it to the child until she had made certain that its contents were not designed to hurt. One glimpse of the gold and red interior, however, made her clap on the cover again. She brought the box to the table and seated herself.
"What's all this?" she asked, passing it to the child. "It seems to be for you. There was nobody there, but I found that on the step."
Alma's swollen eyes looked wonderingly at the box as she took off the cover and discovered the elaborate valentine.
"My! What a beauty!" exclaimed her mother.
The little girl lifted the red roses and looked at the verses. The catches kept coming in her throat and she smiled faintly.
"Who is this that hasn't any friend?" asked Mrs. Driscoll cheeringly.
"Somebody was sorry," returned Alma. "I wish they didn't have to be sorry for me."
"Oh, you can't be sure. When I was a little girl all the best part of Valentine's Day was running around to the houses with them after dark. How do you know that this wasn't meant for you all day?"
"Because I remember it. Miss Joslyn handed it to Lucy Berry out of the school box. Lucy is the prettiest"—
Another loud knocking at the door interrupted.
Mrs. Driscoll answered the call. A big white envelope lay on the step, and it was addressed to Alma. This time the latter's smile was a little brighter as she took out a handsome card covered with garlands and swinging cupids and inscribed "To my Valentine."
"Well, I never saw any prettier ones," said Mrs. Driscoll.
"But they weren't bought for me," returned Alma.
When soon again a knocking sounded on the door and a third valentine appeared, blossoming with violets, above which butterflies hovered, Mrs. Driscoll leaned lovingly toward her little girl.
"Alma," she said. "I think you were mistaken in saying that all the children laughed when you received that 'comic.' Now," in a different tone, "let's have some fun! Some child or children are giving you the very best they have. Let's catch the next one who comes, and find out who your friends are!"
"Oh, no," returned Alma, smiling, but shrinking shyly from the idea.
"Yes, indeed. We all used to try when I was little. I'm going to stand by the door and hold it open a bit and you see if I don't catch somebody."
Alma lifted her shoulders. She wasn't sure that she liked to have her mother try this; but Mrs. Driscoll went to the door, set it ajar in the dark, and stood beside it.
She did not expect there would be any further greetings, and did this rather to amuse Alma, who sat examining her three valentines with a tearful little smile; but it was a very short time before another knock sounded on the usually neglected door, and quick as a wink it opened and Mrs. Driscoll's hand flying out caught another hand. A little scream followed, and in a second she had drawn a young lady into the tiny hall.
They couldn't see one another's faces very well in the gloom.
"Oh, I beg your pardon!" exclaimed Mrs. Driscoll, very much embarrassed. "I was trying to catch a valentine."
"Well, you did," laughed the stranger. "There's one on the step now, unless my skirt switched it off when I jumped. I didn't intend to come in this time, though I meant to return after I had done an errand; but now I'm here I'll stay a minute if it isn't too early."
"If you'll excuse the table," returned Mrs. Driscoll "Alma and I have a late tea." She stooped at the door and picked up a valentine from the edge of the step, and both women were smiling as they entered the room where Alma was standing, flushed and wide-eyed, scarcely able to believe that she recognized the voice.
Sure enough, as the visitor came into the lamplight, the little girl saw that the valentine her mother had caught and brought in out of the dark was really Miss Joslyn. She could hardly believe her eyes as she looked at the merry, blushing face which she was wont to see so serious and watchful. All the pretty teacher's scholars admired her, but she had a dignity and strictness which gave them some awe of her, too, and it seemed wonderful to Alma that this important person should be standing here and laughing with her mother, right in their own sitting-room.
Miss Joslyn's bright eyes saw signs of tears in her pupil's face, and she also saw the handsome valentines strewn upon the table. "Well, well, Alma!" she exclaimed softly, "you have quite a show there!"
"And here is another," said Mrs. Driscoll, handing the latest arrival to the little girl. Alma smiled gratefully at her teacher as she opened the envelope and took out a dove in full flight, carrying a leaf in its beak. On the leaf was printed in gold letters the word Love.
"I was caught in the act, Alma," laughed Miss Joslyn, "but I guess I am too old and slow to be running about at night with valentines."
"I like it the best of all," replied the little girl. "It was bought for me," she added in her own thought, and she was right. Twenty minutes ago the white dove had been reposing at a stationer's, with every prospect of remaining there until another Valentine's Day came around.
"Please sit down, Miss Joslyn," said Mrs. Driscoll.
"Well, just for a minute," replied the young lady, taking the offered chair, "but I wish you would finish your supper."
"We had, really," replied Mrs. Driscoll, smiling, "or I shouldn't have been playing such a game by the door. You haven't been the giver of all these valentines, I suppose?"
"Oh, no, indeed. Those are from some of the school children, no doubt. I've been trying to find an evening to come here for some time, but my work isn't done when school is out."
"I'm sure it isn't," replied Mrs. Driscoll, while Alma sat with her dove in her hands, watching the bright face that looked happy and at home in these unusual surroundings. It seemed so very strange to be close to Miss Joslyn, like this, where the teacher had no bell to touch and no directions to give.
She looked at Alma and spoke: "The public school is a little hard for new scholars at first," she said, "where they enter in the middle of a term. You are going to like it better after a while, Alma."
"I think she will, too," put in Mrs. Driscoll. "My hours are long at the factory and I have liked to think of Alma as safe in school. Does she do pretty well in her studies, Miss Joslyn?"
"Yes, I have no fault to find." The visitor smiled at Alma. "You haven't become much acquainted yet," went on Miss Joslyn. "I have noticed that you eat your lunch alone. So do I. Supposing you and I have it together for a while until you are more at home with the other scholars. I have another chair in my corner, and we'll have a cosy time."
Alma's heart beat fast. She had never heard that an invitation from royalty is equivalent to a command, but instantly all possibility of staying at home from school disappeared. The picture rose before her thought of Miss Joslyn as she always appeared at the long recess: her chair swung about until her profile only was visible, the white napkin on her desk, the book in her hand as she read and ate at one and the same time. Little did Alma suspect what it meant to the kind teacher to give up that precious half-hour of solitude; but Miss Joslyn saw the child's eyes grow bright at the dazzling prospect, and noted the color that covered even her forehead as she murmured thanks and looked over at her mother for sympathy.
The young lady talked on for a few minutes and then said good-night, leaving an atmosphere of brightness behind her.
"Oh, mother, I don't know what all the children will say," said Alma, clasping her hands together. "I'm going to eat lunch with Miss Joslyn!"
"It's fine," responded Mrs. Driscoll, glad of the change in her little girl's expression, and wishing the ache at her own heart could be as easily comforted. "Do you suppose Valentine's Day is over, dearie, or had I better stand by the door again?"
"Oh, they wouldn't send me any more!" replied Alma, looking fondly at her dove. "I think Lucy Berry was so kind to give me her lovely things; but I'd like to give them back."
"No, indeed, that wouldn't do," replied Mrs. Driscoll. "I'm going to stand there once more. Perhaps I'll catch somebody else to prove to you that Lucy isn't the only one thinking about you."
Mrs. Driscoll returned quietly to her post, and Alma could see her smiling face through the open door.
Alma had very much wanted to send valentines to a few children, herself; but five cents was all the spending money she could have, and she had bought with it one valentine which had been addressed to Lucy Berry in the school box. She was glad it had not come back to her to-night. That would have been hardest of all to bear.
Just as she was thinking this there did come another knock at the door. The child looked up eagerly, and swiftly again Mrs. Driscoll's hand flew out, and grasping a garment, pulled gently and firmly.
"Well, well, ma'am!" exclaimed a bass voice, and this time it was the hostess's turn to give a little cry, followed by a laugh, as a stout, elderly man with chin whiskers came deliberately in.
She retreated. "Oh, Mr. Knapp, please excuse me! I thought you were a valentine!"
"Nobody'd have me, ma'am. Nobody'd have me. Not a mite o' use to try to stick a pair o' Cupid's wings on these shoulders. It would take an awful pair to fly me. Well, come now," he added, with a broad, approving smile at the laughing mother and child, "I'm right down glad to see you playin' a game. I've thought, the last few days, you was lookin' kind o' peaked and down in the mouth; so, seein' as we found a letter for you that was somehow overlooked this afternoon, I decided I'd bring it along. Might be fetchin' you a fortune, for all I knew."
Mrs. Driscoll's smile vanished, and her eyes looked eagerly into the good-humored red face, as Mr. Knapp sought deliberately in his coat pocket and brought forth an envelope, at sight of which Alma's mother flushed and paled.
"You have a valentine, too!" cried the little girl.
"Yes, it is from father. Won't you sit down, Mr. Knapp?"
"No, no, I'll just run along and let you read your letter in peace. I know you want to, and I hope it brings good news. If it don't, you just remember it's always darkest before day. Frank Driscoll's bound to come out right side up. He's a good feller."
So saying, the kind friend to this couple took his departure, and Mrs. Driscoll's eager fingers tore open the envelope.
At the first four words, "It's all right, Nettie," she crushed the paper against her happy eyes and then hugged Alma.
It was all right. Mr. Driscoll had a position at last, and by the time summer should come he was sure they could be together again.
After the letter had been read and re-read, the two washed and put away the supper dishes with light hearts, and the next morning Mrs. Driscoll went off smiling to the factory, leaving a rather excited little girl to finish the morning work and arrange the lunch in the tin pail which was to be opened beside Miss Joslyn's desk.
There were two other excited children getting ready for school that morning. They had both slept on their troubles, but were very differently prepared to meet the day. Ada Singer's mental attitude was, "I'll never give in, and Lucy Berry will find it out."
Lucy felt comforted, but there remained now the great step of eating lunch with Alma and being punished by Ada in consequence. Her heart fluttered at the thought; but she was going to try not to think of herself at all, but to do right and let the consequences take care of themselves.
"There isn't any other way," her mother said to her at parting. "Anything which you do in any other spirit has simply to be done over again some time."
"Not one error-fairy shall cheat me to-day," thought Lucy stoutly, and then a disconcerting idea came to her: supposing Alma shouldn't come to school at all!
But Alma was there. Ada Singer, too, wearing a charming new dress and with a head held up so stiffly that it couldn't turn to look at anybody. Frank Morse, from his seat at the back of the room, looked curiously from one to another of the three girls and shook his head at his book.
At the first recess Ada Singer spoke to him as he was going out. "Wait a minute, Frank. It is so mild to-day, mother is coming for me after school with the auto. We're going to take a long spin. Wouldn't you like to go?"
"Yes, indeed," replied Frank; "but don't you want to take Lucy in my place?" He was a little uncomfortable.
"If I did I shouldn't ask you," returned Ada coolly.
"All right. Thank you," said Frank, but as he joined the boys on the playground he felt still more uncomfortable.
Lucy Berry, as soon as the recess bell had sounded, had gone straight to Alma. Her cheeks were very red, and the brown eyes were full of kindness.
Alma looked up in shy pleasure at her, a little embarrassed because she didn't know whether to thank Lucy for the valentines or not.
The latter did not give her time to speak. She said: "I came to see if you won't eat your lunch with me to-day."
Alma colored. How full the world was of kind people! "I'd love to," she answered, "but I think Ada wants to have you all alone and"—
"But I'd like it if you would," said Lucy firmly, "because I want to get more acquainted. My mother is coming to see yours on Sunday afternoon, too."
"I'm real glad she is," replied Alma, fairly basking in the light from Lucy's eyes. "I'd love to eat lunch with you, but Miss Joslyn invited me to have it with her to-day."
"Oh!" Lucy's gaze grew larger. "Why, that's lovely!" she said, in an awed tone.
They had very little more time for talk before the short recess was over. As the children took their way to their seats, Alma was amazed to see Ada Singer pass Lucy without a word, and even turn her head to avoid looking at her. The child had watched this close friendship so wistfully that she instantly saw there was trouble, and naturally thought of her invitation from Lucy as connected with it.
At the long recess, thoughts of this possible quarrel mingled with her pleasure in the visit with Miss Joslyn, who was a charming hostess. Many a girl or boy came to peep into the forbidden schoolroom, when the report was circulated that Alma Driscoll was up on the platform laughing and talking with the teacher and eating lunch with her in the cosy corner.
Miss Joslyn insisted on exchanging a part of her lunch for Alma's, spreading the things together on the white napkin, and chatting so eagerly and gayly that the little girl's face beamed. She soon told the teacher about the good news that came after she left the night before, and Miss Joslyn was very sympathetic. "It's a pretty nice world, isn't it?" she asked, smiling.
"Yes'm, it's just a lovely world to-day, only—only there's one thing, Miss Joslyn."
"What is it?"
"I think Lucy Berry and Ada Singer have had a quarrel."
"Oh, the inseparables? I guess not," the teacher smiled.
"Yes'm. The worst is, I think it's about me. Could I go out in the dressing-room to get my handkerchief, and see if they're on their usual window-sill?"
"Yes, indeed, if it will make you feel easier."
So Alma went out and soon returned. Lucy and Ada were not on their window-sill. Each was sitting with a different group of girls.
Miss Joslyn saw the serious discomfort this gave her little companion, and persuaded her away from the subject, returning to the congenial theme of Mr. Driscoll's new prospects.
But as soon as recess was over, Alma's thoughts went back to Ada Singer, for she felt certain that whatever had happened, Ada was the one to be appeased. The child could not bear to think of being the cause of trouble coming to dear, kind Lucy.
When school was dismissed, Ada Singer, her head carried high, put on her things in the dressing-room within a few feet of Lucy, but ignoring her presence. "I love her," thought Lucy, "and she does love me. Nothing can cheat either of us."
Ada went out without a look, and waited at the head of the stairs for Frank Morse. Alma Driscoll hastened up to her.
Ada drew away. Alma needn't think that because she had shared Miss Joslyn's luncheon she would now be as good as anybody.
"Can I speak to you just one minute?" asked the little girl so eagerly, yet meekly, that Ada turned to her; but now that she had gained attention, Alma did not know how to proceed. She hesitated and clasped and unclasped her hands over the gingham apron. "Please—please"—she stammered, "don't be cross with Lucy. She felt sorry for me, but I'll never eat lunch with her,—truly."
"You don't know what you're talking about," rejoined Ada coldly.
"Yes, she does." It was Frank Morse's voice, and Ada, turning quickly, saw him and Lucy standing a few feet behind her. The four children were alone in the deserted hall.
"Here," went on Frank bluntly, "I want you two girls to kiss and make up."
Ada blushed violently as she met Lucy's questioning, wistful look.
"Are you coming down to the auto, Frank?" she asked coolly. "Mother will be waiting."
"Oh, come now, Ada, be a good fellow. If you and Lucy want to put on the gloves, I'll see fair play; but for pity's sake drop this icy look business. Great Scott, I'm glad I'm not a girl!"
The genuine disgust in the boy's tone as he closed did disturb Ada a little, and then Lucy added at once, beseechingly:
"Oh, it's like a bad dream, Ada, to have anything the matter between us!"
"Whose fault is it?" asked Ada sharply. "Why did you fly at me so yesterday?"
Both girls had forgotten Alma who, like a soberly dressed, big-eyed little bird, was watching the proceedings in much distress.
"You just the same as accused me of sending Alma the 'comic,'" continued Ada.
"Oh, didn't you send it?" cried Lucy, fairly springing at her friend in her relief. "I don't care what you do to me then! I deserve anything, for I really thought you did."
Her eloquent face and the love in her eyes broke down some determination in Ada's proud little heart, and raised another, perhaps quite as proud, but at least with an element of nobility. She foresaw that the dishonesty was going to be more than she could bear.
"I did send it," she said suddenly, with her chin up. Then, ignoring Frank and Lucy's open-mouthed stares, she turned toward Alma. "I sent you the 'comic,'" she went on. "I thought it would be fun, but it wasn't, and I'm sorry. I should like to have you forgive me."
Her tone was far from humble, but it was music to Alma's ears. The little girl clasped her hands together. "Oh, I do," she replied earnestly, "and it made everybody so kind! Please don't feel bad about it. I got the loveliest valentines in the evening, and Miss Joslyn came to see us, and we had a letter from my father and he has a splendid place to work and—and everything!"
Ada breathed a little faster at the close of this breathless speech. Alma's eagerness to ascribe even her father's good fortune to the sending of the 'comic' touched her. In her embarrassment she took another determination.
"If you'll excuse me, Frank," she said turning to him, "I think I'll take Alma home in the auto, instead of you."
"All right," returned the boy, his face flushed. "You're a brick, Ada!"
This praise from one who seldom praised gave Ada secret elation, and made her resolve to deserve it. "Good-by, Lucy," was all she said, but the girls' eyes met, and Lucy knew the trouble was over.
As Ada and Alma went downstairs, Lucy ran to the hall window, and Frank followed. "Don't let them see us," she said joyfully.
So, very cautiously, the two peeped and saw the handsome automobile waiting. Mrs. Singer was sitting within and they saw Ada say something to her; then Alma, her thick coat over the gingham apron, and the large dinner-pail in her hand, climbed in, Ada after her, and away they all went.
Lucy turned to Frank with her face glowing.
"It's all right now," she said. "When Ada takes hold she never lets go; and now she's taken hold right!"
Mrs. Evringham's listeners thanked her, then discussed the story a few minutes.
"I'd like to get acquainted with Alma," said Jewel, "and help be kind to her."
"Oh, she's going to have a very good time now," replied Mr. Evringham. "One can see that with half an eye. Were there any Almas where you went to school, Jewel?"
"No, there weren't. We didn't bring lunches and we went home in a 'bus."
"Jewel went to a very nice private school," said Mrs. Evringham. "Her teachers were Christian Scientists and I made their dresses for them in payment."
The logs were red in the fireplace now, and the roar of the wind-driven sea came from the beach.
"Well, we've a good school for her," replied Mr. Evringham, "and there'll be no dresses to make either."
His daughter looked at him wistfully. "I'm very happy when I think of it," she answered, "for there is other work I would rather do."
"I should think so, indeed. Catering to the whims of a lot of silly women who don't know their own minds! It must be the very—yes, very unpleasant. Yes, we have a fine school in Bel-Air. Jewel, we're going to work you hard next winter. How shall you like that?"
"My music lessons will be the most fun," returned Jewel.
"And dancing school beside."
"Oh, grandpa, I'll love that! I used to know girls who went, in Chicago."
"Yes, I'm sure you will. You shall learn all the latest jigs and flings, too, that any of the children know. I think you ought to learn them quickly. You've been hopping up and down ever since I knew you."
Jewel exchanged a happy glance with her mother and clapped her hands at the joyful prospect.
Mrs. Evringham looked wistfully at her father-in-law. "I hope you'll be willing I should do the work I want to, father."
"What's that? Writing books? Perfectly willing, I assure you. I think you've made a very good start."
Mrs. Evringham smiled. "No, not writing books. Practicing Christian Science."
"Well, you do that all the time, don't you?"
"I mean taking patients."
"What!" Mr. Evringham straightened up in his chair and frowned at her incredulously. "Anybody? Tom, Dick, and Harry? You can't mean it!"
His tone was so severe that Jewel rose from her place on the rug and, climbing into his lap, rested her head on his breast. His hand closed on the soft little one unconsciously. "I suppose I don't understand you," he added, a shade more mildly.
"Not in your house, father," returned Julia. She had been preparing in thought for this moment for days. "Of course it wouldn't do to have strangers coming and going there."
"Nonsense, nonsense, my dear girl," brusquely, "put it out of your head at once. There is no need for you to do anything after this but bring up your child and keep your husband's shirt buttons in place."
"I won't neglect either," replied Julia quietly; "but Mr. Reeves says there is great need of practitioners in Bel-Air. You know where the reading-room is? There is a little room leading out of it that I could have."
"For an office, do you mean? Nonsense," exclaimed Mr. Evringham again. "Harry wouldn't think of allowing it."
Julia smiled. "Will you if he does?"
"What shall I say to her, Jewel?" The broker looked down into the serious face.
"I suppose mother ought to do it," replied the child. "Of course every one who knows how and has time wants to. You can see that, grandpa, because isn't your rheumatism better?"
"Yes. I like our resident physician very much; but we need her ourselves. I don't think I shall ever give my consent to such a thing."
"Oh, yes, you will, grandpa, if it's right." The flaxen head on his breast wagged wisely. "Some morning you'll come downstairs and say: 'Julia, I think you can go and get that office whenever you like.'"
Mrs. Evringham pressed her handkerchief to her lips. The couple in the armchair were so absorbed in one another that they did not observe her, and the broker's face showed such surprise.
"Upon my word!" he exclaimed, after a minute. "Upon my word!"
"Are you all through talking about that?" asked Jewel, after a pause.
"I am, certainly," replied Mr. Evringham.
"And I," added his daughter. She was content that the seed was planted, and preferred not to press the subject.
"Well, then," continued Jewel, "I was wondering, grandpa, if the cracks in that boat couldn't be stuffed up a little more so I wouldn't have to bail, and then I could learn how to row."
"Ho, these little hands row!" returned Mr. Evringham scoffingly.
"Why, I could, grandpa. I just know I could. It was fun to bail at first, but I'm getting a little tired of it now, and I love to be on the pond—oh, almost as much as on Star!"
Mr. Evringham's eyes shone with an unusually pleased expression. "Is it possible!" he returned. "It's a water-baby we have here, a regular water-baby!"
"Yes, grandpa, when I know how to swim and row and sail—yes," chuckling at the expression of exaggerated surprise which her listener assumed, "and sail, too, I'll be so happy!"
"Oh, come now, an eight-year-old baby!"
"I'll be nine in five weeks, nine years old."
"Well," Mr. Evringham sighed, "that's better than nineteen."
"Why, grandpa," earnestly, "you forget; perhaps you'll like me when I'm grown up."
"It's possible," returned the broker.
How the sun shone the next morning! The foam on the great rollers that still stormed the beach showed from the farmhouse windows in ever-changing, spreading masses of white. Essex Maid and Star, after a day of ennui, were more than ready for a scamper between the rolling fields where already the goldenrod hinted that summer was passing.
Star had to stretch his pretty legs at a great rate, to keep up with the Maid this morning, though her master moderated her transports. The more like birds they flew, the more Jewel enjoyed it. She knew now how to get Star's best speed, and the pony scarcely felt her weight, so lightly did she adapt herself to his every motion.
With cheeks tingling in the fine salt air, the riders finally came to a walk in the quiet country road.
"I've been looking up that boat business, Jewel," said Mr. Evringham. "The thing is hardly worth fixing. It would take a good while, just at the time we want the boat, too."
"Well, then," returned the child, "we'll have to make it do. There are so many happinesses here, it isn't any matter if the boat isn't just right; but I was thinking, grandpa, if you wouldn't wear such nice shoes, I'd go barefooted, and then we could both sit on the same seat and let the water come in, while I use one oar and you the other; or"—her face suddenly glowing with a brilliant idea—"we could both wear our bathing-suits!"
"Yes," returned the broker, "I think if you were to row we might need them."
The child laughed.
"No, Jewel, no; we'd better bathe when we bathe, and row when we row, and not mix them. You couldn't do anything with even one of those clumsy oars in that tub of a boat."
As Mr. Evringham said this, he saw the disappointment in the little girl's face as she looked straight ahead, and noted, too, her effort to conquer it.
"Well, I do have so many happinesses," she replied.
"It will be a grand sight at the beach this morning, with the sunlight on the stormy waves," said Mr. Evringham. "The water-baby will have to keep out of them, though."
Jewel lifted her shoulders and looked at him. "Then we ought to row over, don't you think so?"
"You're not willing to be a thorough-going land lubber, are you?" returned the broker.
"No," Jewel sighed. "I'd rather bail than keep off the pond. Oh, but I forgot," with a sudden thought, "mother'd get wet if she rowed over and it would be too bad to make her walk through the fields alone."
There was a little silence and then Mr. Evringham turned the horses into the homeward way.
"I begin to feel as if breakfast would be acceptable, Jewel. How is it with you?"
"Why, I could eat"—began the child hungrily, "I could eat"—
"Eggs?" suggested the broker, as she paused to think of something sufficiently inedible.
"Almost," returned the child seriously. Another pause, and then she continued. "Grandpa, wouldn't it be nice if mother had somebody to play with, too, so we could go out in the boat whenever we wanted to?"
"Yes. Why doesn't your father hurry up his affairs?"
Jewel looked at the broker. "He has. He thought it was error for him not to let the people there know that he was going to leave them after a while; so they began right off to try to find somebody else, and they have already."
"Eh?" asked the broker. "Your father is through in Chicago, then? When did you hear that?"
"Mother had the letter yesterday and she told me when I went to bed last night."
"Why, then he'll be coming right on."
"We'd like to have him," returned Jewel; "but mother wasn't sure how you would feel about it, to have father here so long before business commences."
"Why didn't she tell me last evening?" asked Mr. Evringham.
"I think," returned Jewel, "that she wanted father so much—and—and that she thought perhaps you wouldn't think it was best, and—well, I think she felt a little bashful. You know mother isn't your real relation, grandpa," the child's head fell to one side apologetically.
Mr. Evringham stroked his mustache; but instantly he turned grave again. His eyes met Jewel's.
"I think, as you say, it would be rather a convenience to us if your mother had some one to play with, too. Suppose we send for him, eh?"
"Oh, let's," cried the child joyfully.
"Done with you!" returned the broker, and he gave the rein to Essex Maid. Star had suddenly so much ado to gallop along beside her, that Jewel's laugh rang out merrily.
When, a little later, the family met in the dining-room for breakfast, Mr. Evringham accosted his daughter cheerfully:
"Well, this is good news I hear about Harry."
Julia flushed and met his eyes wistfully. The broker had never seen any resemblance in Jewel to her until this moment; but it was precisely the child's expression that now returned his look.
"It's my boy she wants, too," he thought. "By George, she shall have him."
"I wasn't sure that you would think it was good news for Harry to give up his position so soon, but there wasn't any other honest way," she replied.
"The sooner the break is made, the better," returned Mr. Evringham. "I shall wire him to close up everything at once and join us as soon as he can."
Mother and child exchanged a happy look and Jewel clapped her hands. "Father's coming, father's coming!" she cried joyfully.
The broker bent his brows upon her.
"Jewel, are you strictly honorable?" he asked.
"I don't know," returned the little girl.
"You said a few minutes ago that it was a playfellow for your mother that you wanted. Your enthusiasm is unseemly."
"Oh, father's just splendid," said Jewel.
After breakfast the three repaired to a certain covered piazza where they always read the lesson for the day; then Mr. Evringham suggested that they go promptly to the beach to see the splendid show before the rollers regained their usual monotonous dignity.
"Jewel and I thought we would go over in the boat instead of through the fields, but that old tub is rather uninviting for a lady's clothes."
"I think I will take the solitary saunter in preference," returned Mrs. Evringham. "You and Jewel row over if you like."
"No, we'd rather walk with you," said the child heroically.
Julia smiled. "I don't want you. There are birds and flowers."
"Well, come down and see us off, anyway," said Mr. Evringham; so the three moved over the grass toward the pond; two walking sedately and one skipping from sheer high spirits.
As they drew near the little wharf the child's quick eyes perceived that there were two boats floating there, one each side of it.
"See that, grandpa! There's some visitor around here," she said, running ahead of the others. A light, graceful boat rose and fell on the waves. It was golden brown within and without, and highly varnished. Its four seats were furnished with wine-colored cushions. Four slim oars lay along its bottom, and its rowlocks gleamed. Best of all, a slender mast with snowy sail furled about it lay along the edge.
"Grandpa, p-lease ask somebody whose it is and if we could get in just a minute!" begged Jewel, in hushed excitement.
"Oh, they're all good neighbors about here. They won't mind, whoever it is," returned Mr. Evringham carelessly, and to the child's wonder and doubt he jumped aboard.
"Pretty neat outfit, isn't it?" he continued, as he stood a moment looking over the lines of the craft, and then lifted the mast.
"Oh, it'll sail, too, it'll sail, too!" cried Jewel, hopping up and down. "Oh, mother, did you ever hear of such a pretty boat?"
"Never," replied Mrs. Evringham. "It must be that some one has come over from one of those fine homes across the pond."
Privately, she was a little surprised by the manner in which Mr. Evringham was making himself at home. He set the mast in its place and then, his arms akimbo, stood regarding Jewel's tense, sun-browned countenance and sparkling eyes.
"How would it be for me to go up to the house and see if we could get permission to take a little sail?" he asked.
"Oh, it would be splendid, grandpa," responded Jewel, "but—but he might say no, and could I get in just a minute first?"
"Yes, come on." The child waited for no second invitation, but sprang into the boat and examined its dry, shining floor and felt its buttoned cushions with admiring awe.
"Hello, see here," said Mr. Evringham, bending over the further side. "Easy, now," for Jewel had scrambled to see. He trimmed the boat while her flaxen head leaned eagerly over.
Beautifully painted in shining black letters she read the name JEWEL.
The child lifted her head quickly and gazed at him, "Grandpa, that almost couldn't—happen" she said, in amazement, catching her breath.
He nodded. "There's one thing pretty certain, Nature won't draw off the pond now that this has come to you."
"Me, me!" cried the child. Her lips trembled and she turned a little pale under the tan as she remembered how the pony came. Then her eyes, dark with excitement, suffused, and recklessly she flung herself upon the broker's neck while the boat rocked wildly.
Mr. Evringham waved one hand toward his daughter while he seized the mast. "Tell Harry we left our love," he cried.
"Dear me, Jewel, what are you doing!" called Mrs. Evringham.
"It's mine, mother, it's mine," cried the child, lifting her head to shout it, and then ducking back into the broker's silk shirt front.
"What do you mean?" asked Mrs. Evringham, coming gingerly out upon the wharf, which was such an unsteady old affair that she had remained on terra firma.
"Why, you see," responded Mr. Evringham, "the farmhouse boat wasn't so impossible for two old sea-dogs like Jewel and me, but when it came to inviting her lady mother to go out with us, I saw that we must have something else. Well, it seems as if Jewel approved of this."
He winked at his daughter over the flaxen head on his breast.
"What a fortunate, fortunate girl!" exclaimed Julia. "I can hardly wait to sit on one of those beautiful red cushions."
"Jewel will invite you pretty soon, I think," said Mr. Evringham. "I hope so, for one of my feet is turned in and she is standing on it, but I wouldn't have her get off until she is entirely ready."
He could feel the child swallowing hard, and though she moved her little feet, she could not lift her face.
"Grandpa," she began, in an unsteady, muffled tone, "I didn't tease you too much about the old boat, did I?"
"No,—no, child!"
"Shall you—shall you like this one, too?"
"Well, I should rather think so. I have to give all my shoes to the poor as it is. I've nothing left fit to put on but my riding-boots. How shall we go over to the beach this time, Jewel, row or sail? Your mother is waiting for you to ask her to get in."
Slowly the big bows behind the child's ears came down into their normal position. She kissed her grandfather fervently and then turned her flushed face and eyes toward her mother.
"Come in, so you can see the boat's name," she said, and her smile shone out like sunshine from an April sky.
"Give me your hand, then, dearie. You know I'm a poor city girl and haven't a very good balance."
The name was duly examined, and Mrs. Evringham's "oh's" of wonder and admiration were long-drawn.
"See the darling cushions, mother. You can wear your best clothes here. It's just like a parlor!"
"A very narrow parlor, Jewel. Move carefully." Mrs. Evringham had seated herself in the stern. "Perhaps I can help with the rudder," she added, taking hold of the lines.
"Just as the admiral says," returned the broker.
"Oh, grandpa, you'll have to be the admiral," said Jewel excitedly. "I'll be the crew and"—
"And the owner," suggested Mr. Evringham.
"Yes! Oh, mother, what will father say!"
"He'll say that you are a very happy, fortunate little girl, and that Divine Love is always showing your grandpa how to do kind things for you."
The child's expression as she looked up at the admiral made him apprehend another rush.
"Steady, Jewel, steady. Remember we aren't wearing our bathing-suits. Which are we going to do, row or sail?"
"Oh, sail," cried the child, "and it'll never be the first time again! Could you wait while I get Anna Belle?"
"Certainly."
Like a flash Jewel sprang from the boat and fled up the wharf and lawn.
Mr. Evringham smiled and shook his head at his daughter. "A creature of fire and dew," he said.
"I don't know how to thank you for all your goodness to her," said Julia simply.
"It would offend me to be thanked for anything I did for Jewel," he returned.
"I understand. She is your own flesh and blood. But what I feel chiefly grateful for is the wisdom of your kindness. I believe you will never spoil her. I should rather we had remained poor and struggling than to have that."
Mr. Evringham gave the speaker a direct look in which appeared a trace of humor.
"I think I am slightly inclined," he returned, "to overlook the fact that you and Harry have any rights in Jewel which should be respected; but theoretically I do acknowledge them, and it is going to be my study not to spoil her. I have an idea that we couldn't," he added.
"Oh, yes, we could," returned Julia, "very easily."
"Well, there aren't quite enough of us to try," said the broker. "I believe while we're waiting for Jewel, I'll just step up to the house and get some one to send that telegram to Harry."
"Oh, yes!" exclaimed Julia eagerly; and in a minute she was left alone, swaying up and down on the lapping water, in the salt, sunny breeze, while the JEWEL pulled at the mooring as if eager to try its snowy wings; and happy were the grateful, prayerful thoughts that swelled her heart.
One stormy evening Harry Evringham blew into the farmhouse, wet from his drive from the station, and was severally hugged, kissed, and shaken by the three who waited eagerly to receive him. The month that ensued was perhaps the happiest that had ever come into the lives of either of the quartette; certainly it was the happiest period to the married pair who had waited ten years for their wedding trip.
The days were filled with rowing, sailing, swimming, riding, driving, picnics, walks, talks, and dolce far niente evenings, when the wind was still and the moon silvered field and sea.
The happy hours were winged, the goldenrod strewed the land with sunshine, and August slipped away.
One morning when Jewel awoke it was with a sensation that the day was important. She looked over at Anna Belle and shook her gently. "Wake up, dearie," she said. "'Green pastures are before me,' it's my birthday."
But Anna Belle, who certainly looked very pretty in her sleep, and perhaps suspected it, seemed unable to overcome her drowsiness until Jewel set her up against the pillow, when her eyes at once flew open and she appeared ready for sociability.
"Do you remember Gladys on her birthday morning, dearie? She couldn't think of anything she wanted, and I'm almost like her. Grandpa's given me my boat, that's his birthday present; and mother says she should think it was enough for ten birthdays, and so should I. Poor grandpa! In ten birthdays I'll be nineteen, and then he says I'll have to cry on his shoulder instead of into his vest. But grandpa's such a joker! Of course grown-up ladies hardly ever cry. If father and mother have anything for me, I'll be just delighted; but I can't think what I want. I have the darlingest pony in the world, and the dearest Little Faithful watch, and the best boat that was ever built, and I rowed father quite a long way yesterday all alone, and I didn't splash much, but he caught hold of the side of the boat and pretended he was afraid"—Jewel's laughter gurgled forth at the remembrance—"he's such a joker; and I do understand the sail, too, but they won't let me do it alone yet. Father says he can see in my eye that I should love to jibe. I don't even know what jibe is, so how could I do it?"
Jewel had proceeded so far in her confidences when the door of her room opened, and her father and mother came in in their bath-wrappers.
"We thought we heard you improving Anna Belle's mind," said her father, taking her in his arms and kissing both her cheeks and chin, the tip of her nose and her forehead, and then carefully repeating the programme.
"But that was ten!" cried Jewel.
"Certainly. If you didn't have one to grow on, how would you get along?"
Then her pretty mother, her brown hair hanging in long braids, took her turn and kissed Jewel's cheeks till they were pinker than ever. "Many, many happy returns, my little darling," she said. "I didn't know you weren't going riding this morning."
"Yes, grandpa said he expected a man early on business, and he had to be here to see him. Father could have gone with me," said Jewel, looking at him reproachfully, where he sat on the side of the bed, "but when I asked him last night he said—I forget what he said."
"Merely that I didn't believe that horses liked such early dew."
"Oh, Jewel!" laughed Mrs. Evringham, "your father is a lazy, sleepy boy. It's later than you think, dearie. Hop up now and get ready for breakfast."
They left her, and the little girl arose with great alacrity, for ever since she was a baby her birthday present had always been on the breakfast table.
As soon as she was dressed, she put a blue cashmere wrapper on Anna Belle and carried her downstairs to the room where the Evringham family had their meals, separate from the other inmates of the farmhouse.
Mr. Evringham was standing by the window, reading the newspaper as he waited, and Jewel ran to him and looked up with bright expectation.
"H'm!" he said, not lifting his eyes from the print, "good-morning, Jewel. Essex Maid and Star would hardly speak to me when I was out there just now, they're so vexed at having to stay indoors this morning."
The child did not reply, but continued to look up, smiling.
"Well," said the broker at last, dropping the paper. "Well? What is it? I don't see anything very exciting. You haven't on your silk dress."
"Grandpa! It's my birthday."
The broker slapped his leg with very apparent annoyance. "Well, now, to think I should have to be told that!"
Jewel laughed and hopped a little as she looked toward the table. "Do you see that bunch under the cloth at my place? That's my present. Isn't it the most fun not to know what it is?"
Mr. Evringham took her up in his arms and weighed her up and down thoughtfully. "Yes," he said, "I believe you are a little heavier than you were yesterday."
The child laughed again.
"Now remember, Jewel, you're to go slow on this birthday business. Once in two or three years is all very well."
"Grandpa! people have to have birthdays every year," she replied as he set her down, "but after they're about twenty or something like that, it's wrong to remember how old they are."
"Indeed?" the broker stroked his mustache. "Ladies especially, I suppose."
"Oh, no," returned Jewel seriously. "Everybody. Mother's just twenty years older than I am and that's so easy to remember, it's going to be hard to forget; but I've most forgotten how much older father is," and Jewel looked up with an expression of determination that caused the broker to smile broadly.
"I can understand your mother's being too self-respecting to pass thirty," he returned, "but just why your father shouldn't, I fail to understand."
"Why, it's error to be weak and wear spectacles and have things, isn't it?" asked Jewel, with such swift earnestness that Mr. Evringham endeavored to compose his countenance.
"Have things?" he repeated.
Jewel's head fell to one side. "Why, even you, grandpa," she said lovingly, "even you thought you had the rheumatism."
"I was certainly under that impression."
"But you never would have expected to have it when you were as young as father, would you?"
"Hardly."
"Well, then you see why it's wrong to make laws about growing old and to remember people's ages."
"Ah, I see what you mean. Everybody thinking the wrong way and jumping on a fellow when he's down, as it were."
At this moment Jewel's father and mother entered the room, and she instantly forgot every other consideration in her interest as to what charming surprise might be bunched up under the tablecloth.
"Anna Belle can hardly wait to see my present," she said, lifting her shoulders and smiling at her mother.
"She ought to know one thing that's there, certainly," replied Mrs. Evringham mysteriously.
Jewel held the doll up in front of her. "Have you given me something, dearie?" she asked tenderly. "I do hope you haven't been extravagant."
Then with an abrupt change of manner, she hopped up into her chair eagerly, and the others took their places.
The very first package that Jewel took out was marked—"With Anna Belle's love." It proved to be a pair of handsome white hair-ribbons, and the donor looked modestly away as Jewel expressed her pleasure and kissed her blushing cheeks.
Next came a box marked with her father's name. Upon opening it there was discovered a set of ermine furs for Anna Belle,—at least they were very white furs with very black tiny tails: collar and muff of a regal splendor, and any one who declined to call them ermine would prove himself a cold skeptic. Jewel jounced up and down in her chair with delight.
"Winter's coming, you know, Jewel, and Bel-Air Park is a very swell place," said her father.
"And perhaps I'll have a sled at Christmas and draw Anna Belle on it," said the child joyously. "Here, dearie, let's see how they fit," and on went the furs over the blue cashmere wrapper, making Anna Belle such a thing of beauty that Jewel gazed at her entranced. The doll was left with her chubby hands in the ample muff and the sumptuous collar half eclipsing her golden curls, while the little girl dived under the cloth once more for the largest package of all.
This was marked with her mother's love and contained handsome plaid material for a dress, with the silk to trim it, and a pair of kid gloves.
Jewel hopped down from her chair and kissed first her father and then her mother. "That'll be the loveliest dress!" she said, and she carried it to her grandfather to let him look closer and put his hand upon it.
"Well, well, you are having a nice birthday, Jewel," he said.
"Yes," she replied, putting her arm around his neck and pressing her cheek to his. "We couldn't put the boat under the tablecloth, but I'm thinking about it, grandpa."
After breakfast they all went out to the covered piazza to read the lesson. It was a fine, still morning. The pond rippled dreamily. The roar of the surf was subdued. From Jewel's seat beside her grandfather she could see her namesake glinting in the sun and gracefully rising and falling on the waves in the gentle breeze.
They had all taken comfortable positions and Mrs. Evringham was finding the places in the books.
Mr. Evringham spoke quite loudly: "Well, this is a fine morning, surely, fine."
"It is that," agreed Harry, stretching his long legs luxuriously. "If I felt any better I couldn't stand it."
As he was speaking, a strange man in a checked suit came around the corner of the house.
Jewel's eyes grew larger and she straightened up.
"Oh, grandpa, look!" she said softly, and then jumped off the seat to see better. All the little company gazed with interest, for, accompanying the man, was the most superb specimen of a collie dog that they had ever seen. "It's a golden dog, grandpa," added Jewel.
The collie had evidently just been washed and brushed. His coat was, indeed, of a gleaming yellow. His paws were white, the tip of his tail was white, and his breast was snowy as the thick, soft foam of the breakers. A narrow strip of white descended between his eyes,—golden, intelligent eyes, with generations of trustworthiness in them. A silver collar nestled in the long hair about his neck, and altogether he looked like a prince among dogs.
Jewel clasped her hands beneath her chin and gazed at him with all her eyes. He was too splendid to be flown at in her usual manner with animals.
"What a beauty!" ejaculated Harry.
"It is a golden dog," said Jewel's mother, looking almost as enthusiastic as the child.
"What have you there?" asked Mr. Evringham of the man. "Something pretty fine, it appears to me."
"Yes, sir, there's none finer," replied the man, glancing at the animal. "I called to see you on that little matter I wrote you of."
"Yes, yes; well, that will wait. We're interested in that fine collie of yours. We know something about golden dogs here, eh, Jewel?"
"But this dog couldn't dance, grandpa," said the child soberly, drawing nearer to the creature.
"I should think not," remarked the man, smiling. "What would he be doing dancing? I've seen lions jump the rope in shows; but it never looked fitting, to me."
"No," said Jewel, "this dog ought not to dance;" and as the collie's golden eyes met hers, she drew nearer still in fascination, and he touched her outstretched hand curiously, with his cold nose.
"Oh, well, but we like accomplished dogs," said Mr. Evringham coldly.
"Who says this dog ain't accomplished?" returned the man, in an injured tone. "Just stand back there a bit, young lady."
Jewel retreated and her grandfather put his hand over her shoulder. The man spoke to the dog, and at once the handsome creature sat up, tall and dignified, on his hind legs.
The man only kept him there a few seconds; and then he put him through a variety of other performances. The golden dog shook hands when he was told, rolled over, jumped over a stick, and at last sat up again, and when the man took a bit of sugar from his pocket and balanced it on the creature's nose, he tossed it in the air, and, catching it neatly, swallowed it in a trice.
Jewel was giving subdued squeals of delight, and everybody was laughing with pleasure; for the decorative creature appeared to enjoy his own tricks.
The man looked proudly around upon the company.
"Well," said Mr. Evringham to Jewel, "he is a dog of high degree, like Gabriel's, isn't he? But he's such a big fellow I think the organ-grinder wouldn't have such an easy time with him."
At the broker's voice, the dog walked up to him and wagged his feathery tail. Jewel's eager hands went out to touch him, but Mr. Evringham held her back.
"He's a friendly fellow," he went on; then continued to the man, "Would you like to sell him?"
The question set the little girl's heart to beating fast.
"I would, first rate," replied the man, grinning, "but the trouble is I've sold him once. I'm taking him to his owner now."
"That's a handsome collar you have on him."
"Oh, yes, it's a good one all right," returned the man. "The dog is for a surprise present. The lady I'm taking him to is going to know him by his name."
"Let's have a look at it, Jewel," said Mr. Evringham, and he took hold of the silver collar, a familiarity which seemed rather to please the golden dog, who began wagging his tail again, as he looked at Mr. Evringham trustingly.
Jewel bent over eagerly. A single name was engraved clearly on the smooth plate.
"Topaz!" she cried. "His name is Topaz! Grandpa, mother, the golden dog's name is Topaz!"
Mrs. Evringham held up both hands in amazement, while Harry frowned incredulously.
"Did you ever hear of anything so wonderful, grandpa? How can the lady know him by his name so well as we do?" The child was quite breathless.
"What? Do you know the name?" asked the man. "Supposing I'd hit on the right place already. Just take a look under his throat. The owner's name is there."
Jewel fell on her knees, and while Mr. Evringham kept his hand on the dog's muzzle, she pushed aside the silky white fur.
"Evringham. Bel-Air Park, New Jersey," was what she read, engraved on the silver.
She sat still for a minute, overcome, while a procession of ideas crowded after each other through the flaxen head. It was her birthday; grandpa couldn't get the boat under the tablecloth. This beautiful dog—this impossibly beautiful dog, was a surprise present. He was for her, to love and to play with; to see his tricks every day, to teach him to know her and to run to her when she called. If she was given the choice of the Whole world on this sweet birthday morning, it seemed to her nothing could be so desirable as this live creature, this playmate, this prince among dogs.
When she looked up the man in the checked suit had disappeared. She glanced at her father and mother. They were watching her smilingly and she understood that they had known.
She looked around a little further and saw Mr. Evringham seated, his hand on the collie's neck, while the wagging, feathery tail expressed great contentment in the touch of a good friend.
At the time the story of the golden dog had so captivated Jewel's imagination, the broker began his search for one in real life. He had already been thinking that a dog would be a good companion for the fearless child's solitary hours in the woods. As soon as the collie was found, he directed that all the ordinary tricks should be taught it, and every day until he left New York he visited the creature, who remembered him so well that on the collie's arrival late last evening, he had feared its joyous barking out at the barn would waken Jewel.
She rose to her knees now, and, putting her arms around the dog's neck, pressed her radiant face against him.
Topaz pulled back, but Mr. Evringham patted him, and in an instant he was freed; for his little mistress jumped up and, climbing into her grandfather's lap, rested her head against his breast.
"Grandpa," she said, slowly and fervently, "I wonder if you do know how much I love you!"
Mr. Evringham patted the collie's head, then took Jewel's hand and placed it with his own on the sleek forehead. The golden eyes met his attentively.
"You're to take care of her, Topaz. Do you understand?" he asked.
The feathery tail waved harder.
Jewel gazed at the dog. "If anything could be too good to be true, he'd be it," she said slowly.
Mr. Evringham's pleasure showed in his usually impassive face.
"Well, isn't it a good thing then that nothing is?" he replied, and he kissed her.