“Oh, Nan, do wear your red and gold gypsy dress. You look just beautiful in that. Say that you will to please me,” Phyllis pleaded.
“Very well; to please you and also to please myself. I would just love to have an excuse to wear that wonderful shawl that once long ago belonged to my beautiful mother.” There was always a wistful expression in the dark eyes when Nan spoke of the mother whom she had never known.
“Was your mother—” Phyllis hesitated.
Nan turned clear eyes toward her friend. “Was she a gypsy, do you mean? Dearie, I don’t in the least mind talking about it. Ask me anything that you wish. The only part that I regret is that I cannot answer anything with real knowledge. I have always supposed that my mother was the one of my parents who was a gypsy. That is what I told Queen Luella, but afterwards, in thinking it over, I wondered if it might not have been my father, or perhaps they both belonged to the band of Queen Mizella, I was not to be told until I was eighteen.”
After a thoughtful moment Phyllis ventured: “Nan, would you feel very badly if you were to discover that you are not a real gypsy at all; that perhaps your mother for some reason had given you into the keeping of Manna Lou and had died before she returned to claim you? You might have been a Rumanian princess and the throne might have been threatened and it was necessary to hide you.”
Nan’s merry laughter pealed out. “Phyllis, you are trying to steal my thunder, making up exciting tales as you go along. Now you know, dearie, that I have won fame, if not fortune, by improvising impossible fiction, and I do not want to relinquish, even to you, the laurels I have won.”
Phyllis watching the glowing dark face asked another question. “What do the real Rumanians look like. I mean the ones that are not gypsies. Aren’t they very dark and beautiful just as you are?”
Nan sprang to her feet and made a sweeping curtsy as she exclaimed dramatically:—“Would that everyone had eyes like yours. But truly, dear,” the gypsy girl dropped back into her deep easy chair, “I know no more of the Rumanians than you do. Just what we have learned in our illustrated book on ‘Men and Manners of Many Lands.’”
“But you haven’t answered my question,” the fair girl persisted. “Would you be dissappointed if some day it should be discovered that you are white and—.” Again Nan laughingly interrupted, making an effort to look in the mirror without rising. “Goodness, am I black?” Then, before Phyllis could remonstrate, Nan continued; “I thought I was just a nice brown or—“ Her friend sprang up and kissed her lovingly, then perched on the arm of the chair, she exclaimed warmly: “You have the most velvety smooth olive complexion. Many American girls have one similar, but not nearly as nice, and now, since you do not want to answer my question, we will change the subject.”
Nan, nestled lovingly against her friend. “Indeed I shall answer your question. I would be very, very sorry if I were to suddenly learn that I am not at all a gypsy. I would feel—well as though I were a stranger to myself or as though my past was a dream from which I had been rudely awakened. I wouldn’t know how to begin to live as somebody quite different.” Then, as a bell rang and Phyllis arose, Nan concluded: “But we need have no fear of such a sudden transforming, for I know I am a gypsy. Manna Lou never told a lie and she said time and again that the only part of my story that she would or could tell me was that I am one of their own band.”
Impulsively Phyllis kissed her friend. “If being a gypsy is what makes you so adorable, I wish we had more of your band in our midst.”
Then after hastily tidying and washing in their very own wee lavatory, arm in arm the two girls went down to the dining hall again, chatting happily about the week-end treat that was in store for them.
The home of the Dorchesters was brilliantly lighted and the little hostess Peggy, who represented a rose fairy, was exquisitely gowned in filmy pink. Her small black mask hung over her shoulder and she was arranging a huge basket of apple blossom sprays in the library when Phyllis, looking like a very lovely May Queen, entered the room.
Peggy whirled around and holding out both hands, she kissed her cousin impulsively as she exclaimed: “Oh, I’m so glad that you could come. It’s just ages since I saw you last, and ever so many things have happened. Tomorrow morning we’ll have a talkfast and gossip for hours, but do tell me who is the room-mate that you asked if you might bring. I just saw her a minute as you came in, but I thought that she was very beautiful, dark like a Spanish of French girl, isn’t she?” Then, without waiting for an answer, impetuous Peggy hurried on as a new thought presented itself.
“Phyllis you never could guess who is coming tonight. One of our boy cousins whom we haven’t seen in just ever so long, but there, I ought not to be calling him a boy, he’s so big and good-looking? His mother is staying with us and she talks about her wonderful son all of the time. She plans to have him make a most eligible marriage, but he doesn’t seem to care for girls at all. Oh, here comes your friend! Isn’t that gypsy costume fascinating?”
Nan Barrington was presented to the little hostess and to her mother, who appeared at that moment to assist in receiving, and then the guests began to arrive.
Phyllis and Nan retreated to a seat beneath a bank of palms and not far from the hidden musicians. They had on their masks and Nan, who had never before attended a real party of any kind, was interested in all that she saw. Suddenly she caught her friend’s hand as she said softly, “Phyllis, will you look at the young man who is just entering! Who do you suppose he is?”
“Why, he has on a gypsy costume! That’s rather strange, isn’t it? Wouldn’t it be amusing, Nan, if he should ask you to dance? There are to be no personal introductions, you know. Only close friends of Aunt Lucy’s and Peg’s are invited, and so, of course, that in itself is sufficient introduction.”
While Phyllis had been talking a youth dressed as a knight had approached and asked her to join the promenade with him, and so, for a moment Nan was left alone. She did not mind and she sat smiling as she thought how like a play it all was when suddenly she heard someone saying, “Lady Gypsy, will you promenade with me?”
Nan sprang to her feet and held out both hands impulsively:
“Robert!” she said. “I thought of you the moment that I saw that costume but it isn’t the one that you wore so long ago and I never dreamed that it could be you, but your voice—I’m not mistaken in it, am I?”
For answer the lad tore off his mask and looked down at the girl with an expression of radiant joy.
“Lady Red Bird,” the lad exclaimed as he led her back of the sheltering palms, “for three years I have tried and tried to find you. Did you think that I had broken the promise that I made to you high on the mountain? Indeed I have not, and I never will break it. Please remove your mask. I want to know what my sister-comrade looks like after all these years.”
“Robert, I wish to speak with you.” It was the voice of his mother calling softly from an open door near. The lad although deploring the interruption, was too courteous to not heed his mother’s request. Hurriedly he said: “I will be back directly. I have so much to tell you and so very, very much that I want to learn about you.” He was leading the gypsy girl back to her seat beneath the palm.
When he was gone Nan suddenly remembered that in her surprise and joy at finding her old-time comrade she had completely forgotten the promise that she had made his mother three years before on Thanksgiving day.
Mrs. Widdemere had then forbidden Robert to ever again speak to the gypsy girl, but before the indignant lad had time to reply, it was Nan who had said: “You need not be troubled, Mrs. Widdemere, for I shall never again speak to one of your kind.”
Unconsciously she had broken that promise many times, for was not her dearly loved room-mate this woman’s niece? Too, even now she had been speaking to her son. Rising, she decided that she must go away somewhere and think what would be the honorable thing for her to do, Just then she saw Phyllis approaching with her partner and, hurrying toward them, she said, “Phyllis, may I speak with you alone for a moment?”
Her friend, excusing herself, led the way into a small reception room and closed the door. “What is it, Nan? You look as though something very unusual had happened.”
The gypsy girl’s cheeks were burning and it was plainly evident that she was much excited. “Phyllis,” she said hurriedly, “don’t ask me to explain now. Please help me to get away at once. Can’t I call a taxi and go to Aunt Dahlia? Something has happened and I will tell you all about it to-morrow. Don’t worry dear, but I must go.”
Phyllis believing that her dearest friend was about to be seriously ill, hastened to comply with her wishes. First she explained this fear to Peggy’s mother, who at once called their chauffeur and directed him to take Nan to the Barrington residence.
It was not late and Miss Barrington and her younger sister. Miss Dahlia, were seated in the library reading when the girl entered. They were indeed surprised, for Nan had called on them not two hours before when she had first arrived in town.
“Dearie,” Miss Dahlia exclaimed, rising and going toward the girl with outstretched hands “what is it? Are you ill?”
“No, not ill, but troubled in spirit,” Nan said with a forlorn little laugh. Then she sat on a stool near the two old ladies and told all that had happened.
Miss Ursula drew herself up proudly as she said, “Sister Dahlia, why did you not tell me this before? I did not know that Anne had been so humiliated. I shall certainly inform Mrs. Widdemere that a girl whom the Barringtons are proud to adopt as their own is quite worthy to be her son’s companion. Anne, if you wish I will return with you to the party. Mrs. Dorchester and I were school-mates long ago.”
“No, thank you,” Nan replied rather wistfully, “I would rather not go back.”
Meanwhile Robert, having left his mother, who merely wished to introduce him to an heiress, returned to find the seat beneath the palms unoccupied. Nan was gone and though he stood with folded arms and watched the passing dancers, he did not see her. At last he sought the little hostess and inquired what had become of the guest disguised as a gypsy.
Miss Barrington, who had learned to love Nan as dearly as had her sister, Miss Dahlia, looked admiringly at the beautiful girl, who, having removed her gypsy costume, was clad in a clinging simple white voile.
“Anne,” she said, “will you play for us? The piano has not been touched in many a day.”
And so Nan, always glad to please these two, played and sang the selections chosen by the elderly ladies.
Suddenly the telephone rang and a maid appeared. “Miss Barrington,” she said. Nan ceased playing, and, to her surprise, she heard Miss Ursula replying to someone over the wire, “Yes indeed, you may come. We shall be glad to have you.”
For some unaccountable reason Nan’s heart began to beat rapidly. Could it be Robert who was coming? She wondered as she resumed her playing, but her fingers went at random and then, before it seemed possible, the door bell rang and a moment later Robert in his military uniform, entered the room.
He was gladly welcomed by the two old ladies who had known him since he wore knickerbockers and then when Nan went forward and held out her hand as she said in her frank friendly way, “Robert, forgive me for disappearing, but I suddenly remembered that I had promised your mother that I would never again speak to one of her kind, and I do sincerely wish to keep my promises.”
“But, Miss Barrington,” the lad appealed to the elderly woman, “should one keep a hastily made promise when there is no justice in it? I am sure that my father would approve of my friendship with Nan, and though I regret my mother’s attitude, I do not think that I should be influenced by it. If you and Miss Dahlia will grant me permission to be Nan’s comrade once more, I will promise to care for her as I would wish another to care for a sister of mine.”
They were seated about the wide hearth for the evenings were cool.
“Robert Widdemere,” Miss Ursula said, “if Anne wishes your friendship, we will welcome you into our home whenever you desire to come. We wish Anne to remain at the Pine Crest seminary until June. We are then going to our cottage on the coast of Maine until October, when we will return to San Seritos for the winter.”
The lad’s eyes were glowing. “How I would like to go back there,” he said, then, turning to the girl, he added, laughingly, “I suppose Lady Red Bird is too grown now to climb the pepper tree.”
“I suppose so,” Nan replied merrily. “That is one of the penalties of being civilized.”
Soon the lad rose reluctantly. “I promised Cousin Peggy that I would return for the supper dance at ten o’clock,” he said, “and to keep that promise I must leave at once. But, Nan, you have not yet told me that you care to have my friendship.”
The girl looked thoughtfully into the fire a moment and then replied slowly, “Robert Widdemere, I do want your friendship, but I would be happier if I might have it with your mother’s consent.”
“Then you shall,” the boy replied.
In the meanwhile Peggy had sought Phyllis. “I don’t in the least understand what is happening,” she said. “First your friend, disguised as a gypsy, leaves in a panic, then Cousin Robert insists on knowing where she has gone and follows her, and when his mother heard about it, she became so angry that she went at once to her room and bade us tell Robert to come to her the moment he returns. What can it all mean?”
“It’s just as much a mystery to me, Peg,” Phyllis said. “But there comes Robert now. Perhaps he will explain.”
* * * * * * * *
The interview that Robert Widdemere had with his mother on his return from the Barrington home was not a pleasant one for either of them but in the end Robert had said firmly but gently, “I feel sure that my father would approve of my friendship with Nan and, moreover, next summer I will be 21 and I shall consider myself old enough then to choose my own companions. My dad must have expected me to possess good judgment in some degree or his request would not have been that I assume the reins of his business on my 21st birthday.” Then, going to the indignant woman, he put his arm about her as he said lovingly, “Mother, dear, I want you to tell me that you are willing that I may be Nan Barrington’s friend.”
“It is a great disappointment,” Mrs. Widdemere said, “but, since you are soon to be financially independent of me, I suppose that I might as well give my consent. However, do not expect me to receive that gypsy girl into my home as an equal, for I shall not.”
* * * * * * * *
The next morning Phyllis and her cousin Robert visited the Barrington home and an hour later the lad accompanied the girls to the station where they were to take the train for Pine Crest.
Robert had told Nan that he had won his mother’s consent to their friendship but he did not tell how reluctantly that consent had been given.
The next day the lad returned to the Military Academy where in another month he would complete his training, but each week he and Nan exchanged letters telling of the simple though pleasant experiences of their school life.
Nan and Phyllis were to graduate in June and they were happily busy from dawn till dark. It had been the custom for many years at the Pine Crest Seminary for the pupils to make their own graduating dresses by hand. These were to be of dainty white organdie and the two girls, with their classmates, spent many pleasant hours sewing in one room and another. Tongues flew as fast as the needles while each young seamstress told what she hoped the summer and even the future would hold for her.
Nan was often thoughtfully silent these last days of school.
One twilight Phyllis found her standing alone at their open window watching the early stars come out.
“What are you thinking, dear?” she asked.
“I was wondering about my own mother,” Nan replied. “Next week I will be eighteen and then it was that Manna Lou planned telling me who I am, I never could understand why she did not tell me before, but she said that she had promised, and now, that I might know, I am too far away.”
“Perhaps your mother was a sister of Manna Lou,” her friend suggested.
“Perhaps, but come dear,” Nan added in a brighter tone, “we are due even now at French Conversation.”
Nan did not speak again of the mystery of her birth, but she often wondered about it as her eighteenth birthday neared and she longed to know more of her own mother, who must have loved her so dearly.
Nan Barrington’s eighteenth birthday dawned gloriously and as soon as they were dressed Phyllis disappeared to return a moment later with an armful of wonderful red roses.
“It’s a happy birthday greeting from a cousin of mine,” she laughingly told the surprised girl.
“Oh, are they from Peggy Dorchester?” Nan exclaimed as she took them.
Her friend’s eyes twinkled. “No,” she said “this cousin’s name is not Peg. Guess again.”
Nan’s dark eyes were glowing above the beautiful bouquet. “Oh, then they are from Robert. How kind of him to remember my birthday.”
Lovingly she arranged the fragrant roses in a large green jar and, selecting a bud, she placed it in her friend’s belt and fastened another at her own. Then slipping her arm about Phyllis and chatting happily, they went down the broad front stairway to the refectory.
When they were returning, half an hour later, Mrs. Dorsey was in the corridor and she smiled lovingly in response to the girls’ morning greeting.
“Anne,” she said, “this is your eighteenth birthday, is it not? Can you spare a few moments for a visit with me?”
Nan’s face brightened. “Oh yes, indeed, Mrs. Dorsey,” she replied. Phyllis went on to the library and the gypsy girl entered the office with the kindly principal.
“Be seated, dear,” Mrs. Dorsey said. “I have long planned having this visit with you and now that you are soon to leave us, I must no longer delay. Miss Dahlia Barrington, who, as you know, was a schoolmate of mine, told me how you chanced to come into their lives. Miss Dahlia is very proud of you and Miss Ursula is also. I, too, am proud of your splendid accomplishments, Anne. I feel that you have made much progress in the three years that you have been with us and I deeply regret that you are about to graduate. I know nothing of your plans for the future but, if the time ever comes when you wish to be self-supporting, I will be glad to give you a position as a teacher of languages and music for the younger pupils.”
“Oh, Mrs. Dorsey!” Nan exclaimed gratefully, “how very kind of you to make me such an offer. If Miss Dahlia will permit me to do so, I will gladly start teaching the little ones at the beginning of the fall term. I have hoped that I might find some way to repay my benefactors, for, of course, I have been a great expense to them.”
Mrs. Dorsey smiled and, as she stood, Nan also arose. “I shall indeed be glad to have you with us, Anne,” the kind woman said as she kissed the girl on each cheek, then she added brightly. “Happy birthday, dear, and may each coming year find you as unspoiled and lovable as you are today.”
Nan flushed happily at this praise and then she sought Phyllis to tell her the wonderful news.
“You, a teacher!” her friend cried in dismay. “Oh Nan, I did so want you to go to college with me next year. Your aunts are very rich, I am sure, and I just know that they will not think of permitting you to earn your own living.”
Nan stood looking thoughtfully out of the open library window. “I would rather be independent,” she declared. Then, noting her friend’s dismal expression, she laughingly caught her hands as she said, “Well, we won’t decide the matter, now. I’ll talk it over with Aunt Dahlia when she comes.”
The two girls spent a happy morning together and in the afternoon Nan said, “I wonder why Aunt Dahlia and Aunt Ursula do not come. They wrote that they would be here early and take us both for a long drive.”
Another half hour passed and then there was a knock at the door.
Nan sprang up joyously. “It’s Marie to tell me that my dear aunts have arrived.”
It was indeed Marie, who held out a yellow envelope as she said, “This telegram just came, Miss Anne. Mrs. Dorsey isn’t in, so I thought I’d better bring it right up to you.”
When the door had again closed, Nan turned toward her friend with startled eyes.
“Oh Phyllis,” she said fearfully, “do you suppose that Aunt Dahlia is ill?” Then, tearing open the yellow envelope, the two girls read the few words that the message contained. “Miss Ursula Barrington died last night. Miss Dahlia wishes you to come at once.” The signature was that of a stranger.
“Aunt Ursula dead!” Nan repeated in dazed uncomprehension. “It can’t be. It must be a mistake, for only day before yesterday I received a long letter from her and she wrote that she was feeling unusually well.”
“I fear that it cannot be a mistake,” her friend said tenderly, “but you must be brave and strong, Nan, for your Aunt Dahlia will need you to comfort her.”
“You are right, Phyllis, I will go to her at once. Have I time to get the three o’clock train?”
“I think so, dear. You pack what we will need in your satchel and I will go and ask Patrick to bring around the school bus.”
“Why, Phyllis, are you going with me? Mrs. Dorsey is not here to ask.”
“I know Mrs. Dorsey would wish me to go with you. I would not think of permitting you to go alone.”
A few hours later these two girls entered the city home of the Barringtons. The lower hall seemed strangely silent, and at once they ascended the stairway to Miss Dahlia’s room. They found her sitting there alone and when they entered she hurried toward the girl whom she so loved. “Oh Nan darling,” she said with tears rolling down her wrinkled cheeks. “I can’t understand it. I can’t believe that it has really happened. It was all so sudden.”
The young girl held the feebled old lady in a close embrace, then leading her to a wide lounge, she sat beside her, taking the frail hands in her strong ones. “Dear Aunt Dahlia,” she said, “tell me what has happened. Has Aunt Ursula been ill?”
“No, not at all. Yesterday morning a business-like looking envelope was in the mail for her. She took it at once to her study and remained there until noon, continually writing, and when at last she came to lunch, she looked worn and haggard, but when I asked her if she felt ill, she said no, and then she did something very unusual for her. She kissed me, saying in an almost pitying tone, ‘Poor little sister Dahlia.’
“Directly after lunch she returned to her study and continued writing. In the afternoon she sent Dorcas to the postbox with several letters. Last night we sat by the fireplace reading when suddenly her book slipped to the floor. I looked up and saw that she seemed to be asleep. This was so very unusual that I tried to waken her, but could not.
“The doctor whom I had Dorcas summon, said that my sister must have had some great and sudden shock. What it could have been, I do not know. I searched in her desk for that business-like envelope, but it was gone.”
Then leaning against the girl, she added, “Oh, Nan darling, how thankful I am that you came to us so long ago. If I did not have you, I would now be all alone in the world.”
The girl kissed the little old lady tenderly as she said, “Dear Aunt Dahlia, I, too, am thankful.”
Half an hour later Nan went to her own room and on her desk she saw a large envelope addressed, “To my beloved niece, Anne Barrington.” The writing was Miss Ursula’s.
With a rapidly-beating heart Nan sat at her desk and opened the large envelope in which there was a letter and another envelope that was evidently the one to which Miss Dahlia had referred as businesslike.
“My dear Anne,” the girl read, “I am prostrated with grief today and you will not wonder when I tell you that I was wrongly advised by one whom I considered a trustworthy friend, and I invested, not only my own fortune but also Sister Dahlia’s in securities that I am now informed are absolutely worthless.
“I did this, I assure you, with my sister’s permission, for, as you know, she had great faith in my business ability and good judgment. The result is that we are suddenly reduced to straitened circumstances which will necessitate an entire change in our mode of living.
“I am indeed glad that our Anne has been able to complete the course of studies at Pine Crest Seminary before this calamity befell us. There is one other thing which in this hour of humiliation and grief is a consolation to me, and that is that our home in San Seritos is in no way effected. It is in my sister’s name and cannot be taken from her.”
A blot followed and then with an evidently shaking hand had been written: “Anne, a sharp pain in my heart warns me that I must cease writing for awhile and rest. I had intended mailing this letter to you, but, remembering that it would reach you on your eighteenth birthday and shadow the happiness which is rightfully yours at that time, I have decided to place it on your desk and when you come on Sunday, you and I will retire to your room and discuss the matter.
“As you know, my dear Anne, it is difficult for me to express in words the emotions that I may feel, but I want you to know how proud I am of the little girl who came to us three years ago. You have brought a new happiness into my life and I must confess, that, though my original thought was merely to Christianize one whom I called a heathen, I myself have become more sympathetic and loving, more truly a Christian.
“Good night, Anne. If I should be taken away before my dear sister Dahlia, I will go with far greater willingness knowing that you will care for her and comfort her as long as she shall live.
“Your loving, Aunt Ursula.”
The postscript had evidently been written much later. The writing was easily legible. “Anne, another of those sharp heart attacks warns me that I would better place in your care the money that we have on hand. I sent Dorcas to the bank this afternoon to draw it out and I have locked it in my desk; the key I am enclosing. There will be sufficient to care for you and sister Dahlia for at least a year; after that I am sure that my brave Anne will find a way.”
* * * * * * * *
Phyllis quietly entered the room a few moments later and saw Nan seated at her desk, her head on her arms.
“Oh, Phyllis,” she sobbed, as her friend sat beside her and tried to comfort her, “how Aunt Ursula must have suffered. If only I had been here. Perhaps if we had talked it over together, it might have been a help to her.”
Nan then gave the letter to Phyllis to read, and after a thoughtful moment, added, “I must be worthy of the trust that splendid woman has placed in me. How glad I am that I will be able to teach. I shall not tell Aunt Dahlia of the financial loss until it is necessary. She is very frail and it might be more than she could stand. Come dear, let us go to her. I do not want to leave her alone.”
A week later Nan returned to Pine Crest Seminary and Miss Dahlia was with her. Mrs. Dorsey had at once visited the Barrington home and had insisted that her old friend share her pleasant apartment at the school until Nan had successfully passed the final examinations and had received her diploma.
A few days before the closing exercises at Pine Crest Seminary, Phyllis entered their room and exclaimed jubilantly to the girl who was seated at the writing desk. “Nan Barrington, you never can guess who passed with the highest marks and is to be chosen class valedictorian.”
The other girl looked up brightly. “It was Phyllis Dorchester, I do believe,” she declared.
“No, indeed. That guess is far afield. The successful maiden is Anne Barrington. There, now, what do you think of that? Mrs. Dorsey just told me and I simply couldn’t walk upstairs demurely, I was so eager to tell you. How proud I will be at the closing exercises to see my room-mate standing before a crowded assembly room reading her graduating essay on ‘Comrading With Nature.’ It’s poetry in prose, Nan, and I am glad that you are to read it.”
“But I will not be here for the closing exercises, and so if that essay is read, you will have to do it for me.”
“Nan Barrington! Not be here, and the closing exercises less than a week away! Why, where are you going?”
“Sit down and I will tell you. I would love to stay, as you well know, if I had only my own wishes to consider, but each day Aunt Dahlia seems to grow more frail. Naturally Mrs. Dorsey and I have been much occupied and Aunt Dahlia has often been left alone with her sorrow in a strange apartment. Each time that I go to her, she clings to me as a frightened child would, and over and over again she tells me that she knows she will be strong again as soon as we are back in the gardens at San Seritos, then she always ends by asking in a pathetic tone, ‘Nan, do you think that we will be able to go tomorrow?’ and today my answer was ‘yes, Aunt Dahlia, we will go tomorrow.’”
Phyllis reached for her friend’s hand and held it in a sympathetic clasp and tears sprang to her eyes. She knew what a sacrifice Nan was making, for they had often talked of the happy time they would have at their graduation.
“How disappointed Robert will be,” Phyllis said at last, “but, dear, of course it is right that you should go. How I do wish that I might go with you, but Mother and Dad and I are leaving for England in another month. However, if you remain in California, do not be surprised next winter to see me appearing, bag and baggage.”
Nan smiled lovingly at her friend. “No one could be more welcome,” she said, then she added thoughtfully, “I have indeed a difficult problem to solve for I want to live as economically as we possibly can and yet not disclose to poor Aunt Dahlia the truth concerning the lost fortune.”
Phyllis sprang to her feet and kissed her friend on the forehead, as she exclaimed, “And you will be able to do it, Nan darling, I’m sure of that! Now I must depart, and you must finish that letter if it is to go on the next mail.”
When Nan was alone, she continued writing until several sheets of note paper had been covered. She was telling her comrade all that had happened and explaining why she would not be able to attend her own graduating party.
Two days later the letter reached Robert Widdemere, and, after reading it, he sat for a long time gazing thoughtfully into space. In another month he would be of age and master of his own actions and possessed of a goodly income. He sprang to his feet at the call of a bugle summoning him to drill, but in his heart there was a firm resolve.
A week had passed and it was nearing the end of June when Miss Dahlia and Nan arrived at the little station of San Seritos. They found Mr. Sperry, the gardener, waiting to take them home in the Barrington car, which had the family coat of arms emblazoned on the door.
Nan had written a long letter to this faithful servant and his kindly wife, telling of Miss Ursula’s death and also informing them that Miss Dahlia had but little money left, and, would be obliged to dispense with the services of so expert a gardener as Mr. Sperry. Nan had then added that since Miss Dahlia was very frail, she thought best not to tell her of the changed financial conditions, but if Mr. Sperry would accept a position elsewhere, Miss Dahlia would suppose that to be the reason he was leaving her service.
When Mr. Sperry read this letter to his wife, he removed his spectacles and wiped them as he said, “Nell, Miss Dahlia is one of God’s good women if there ever was one. Mind you the time little Bobsy had diphtheria and you couldn’t get a nurse? You’d have died yourself with the care of it all if it hadn’t been for that blessed woman coming right down here and staying quarantined in this lodge house where there weren’t any comforts such as she had been used to, and now, that she’s in trouble, it isn’t likely we’re going to desert her. No, sir, not us! The Baxters have been at me this month past to work on their place half time, and I’ll do it. Then we can raise our own vegetables and plenty for Miss Dahlia besides, in the kitchen garden here and she’ll never know but what Miss Nan is paying us a salary regular, just as we always had.”
“You are right, Samuel,” Mrs. Sperry said wiping her eyes with the corner of her blue apron. “We’re not the sort to be forgetting past kindness. I’ll go up to the big house this minute with Bertha and we’ll air it out and have Miss Dahlia’s room cheerful and waiting for her.”
And so when Mr. Sperry saw Nan assisting Miss Barrington to the platform, he hurried forward, and, snatching off his cap, he took the hand the little lady held out to him. It was hard for him to steady his voice as he said, “Miss Dahlia, it’s good to see your kind face again. It’s been lonesome having the big house closed for so long and it’s glad I am to have it opened.”
Tears rolled down the wrinkled cheeks of the little old lady. This home-coming was hard, for, during the last two years Miss Ursula had been much changed, more of a loving sister and a comrade.
When they reached the house, Mrs. Sperry was on the veranda and Bertha, now a tall girl of eleven, was standing shyly at her mother’s side.
The doors were wide open, and Nan, glancing in, saw that there were bowls of ferns and flowers in the hall and library. As she greeted Mrs. Sperry, she said softly, “It was very kind of you to do all this.”
Then the girl assisted Miss Dahlia up the wide front stairs. The gardener’s wife called after them “when you’ve laid off your wraps come down to the dining room. It’s nearly noon and I thought you might be hungry after traveling so far.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Sperry, we will,” Nan replied, and tears sprang to her eyes as she thought how loyal these kind people were and with no hope of remuneration.
Later, while they were eating the appetizing luncheon which the gardener’s wife was serving, Miss Dahlia asked, “Mrs. Sperry, will you see about hiring maids and a cook for us as soon as possible?”
The woman glanced at Nan questioningly and that girl hurried to say:
“Oh, Aunt Dahlia dear, please don’t let’s have any just yet. I do want to learn to keep house and the best way to learn, you know, is really to do it. Don’t you think so, Mrs. Sperry?”
“Indeed I do, Miss Nan,” that little woman replied with enthusiasm, “and I’ll be right handy by, whenever you need help extra, for cleaning days and the like.”
Miss Dahlia smiled. “Well dearie,” she said, “you may try for a week or so, but at the end of that time, I’m pretty sure that you will be glad to hire a cook and at least one maid.”
The next morning, when Miss Dahlia awakened, it was to see a smiling lassie in a pretty ruffled white apron approaching her bedside with a tray on which was a cup of steaming coffee and a covered plate of delicately browned toast.
“Top o’ the morning to you, Aunt Dahlia,” the girl laughingly called as she brought a wash cloth and towel and then a dainty lavender dressing jacket and cap. A few minutes later when the pleased little old lady was sitting up among comfortably placed pillows, Nan with arms akimbo, inquired, “Is there anything more ye’ll be afther wantin’ this mornin’, Miss Barrington?”
“Oh, Nan darling,” the little woman replied brightly, “I truly did think that I wouldn’t be able to get on without Norah, but I believe that after all my new maid is going to prove a much handier young person. Have you breakfasted, my dear?”
“That I have, Aunt Dahlia, and my head is as full of delightful plans as a Christmas pudding is of plums, but first I wish to ask if I may have your permission to play the game just as I wish.”
“Indeed you have it without the asking. Get all the amusement that you can get of the experiment, but, Nan dearie, don’t you think that you would better reconsider and have at least one house maid?”
The girl shook her head and her dark eyes danced merrily as she again returned to Norah’s brogue. “And is it discharging me, ye are, on the very fust day of me service wid ye? Arrah, and oi’ll not be goin’ till ye’ve given me a fair two weeks’ triol.”
Miss Dahlia smiled happily. What a comfort this gypsy girl was to her. Then suddenly the little woman realized that she had not thought of Nan as a gypsy for a long time. It did not seem possible that this loving and lovable girl could be the same little wild waif who had climbed out of an upper window nearly four years ago because she did not want to be civilized.
When the tray was ready to be carried away, the audacious maid stooped and kissed the smiling face of the little old lady as she inquired, “Will ye dress now, or will ye be staying’ in bed for the mornin’, Miss Dahlia?”
“I’d like to remain in bed, dearie, if you are sure that you don’t need me to help you around the house. It was a long journey across the continent and now that we are really home it seems so nice to just rest and look out of the window at the garden and the sea.”
“Good! I’m glad!” Nan exclaimed as she drew the downy quilt over the frail shoulders. “Perhaps you’ll return to dreamland awhile. Now, don’t forget that you have granted me permission to carry out my plans in my own sweet way.”
When Nan was gone, the little old lady, resting luxuriously, wondered what her dear child might be planning, and then, truly weary, she again fell into a refreshing slumber.
Meanwhile Nan had donned her riding habit and, having visited the barn, she found her Binnie in fine trim. The small horse whinnied joyfully when he beheld his mistress, and Nan, putting her arms about him, caressed him lovingly. Two years before she had written Mrs. Sperry, telling her to permit the children to ride Binnie, and so the small horse had had many a merry canter and had not been lonely.
Saddling and mounting her mottled pony, Nan rode down the circling drive to the lodge house. She was about to carry out a plan, which was merely another way to economize and not let Miss Dahlia recognize it as such.
“Good morning, Mrs. Sperry,” Nan called as she drew rein at the door of the lodge. “Could Bertha go up to the house and stay until I have cantered into town and back? Miss Dahlia is still in bed and I have a few purchases to make.”
Then Nan told her new plan and the gardener’s wife replied, “Bertha and Bobsy are in school. They take their lunch and stay all day and my husband works over at Baxters’ now till mid-afternoon, so I’ll take my basket of darning and go right up to be near Miss Dahlia if she should call.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Sperry, I won’t be gone long and you’ll find my room just flooded with sunshine.”
An hour later Nan returned and soon thereafter a delivery wagon left a bundle at the kitchen door. Mrs. Sperry declared that she could stay all the morning just as well as not.