of laughter.
“Honestly, Jerry Macy, you haven’t the least idea of romance,” giggled Susan. “Here Irma tells us a real love story and you spoil it all about a minute afterward.”
“Can’t help it,” asserted Jerry stoutly. “I have to say what I think.”
“Oh, here come Captain and Charlie,” cried Marjorie, sighting a gracious figure in white descending the steps with Charlie in tow. “That means dinner is about to be served, children. Our farewell feast to Lieutenant Mary Raymond.”
CHAPTER III – THE SHIELD OF VALOR
A chorus of ohs and ahs ascended as the guests filed into a dining room, the decoration of which spelled Patriotism in large capitals. In honor of the pretty soldier play to which she and Mary had so long clung, Marjorie had decreed that the dinner should be a patriotic affair so far as decorations went. The walls of the large, attractive room were plentifully festooned with red, white and blue bunting. Flags were in evidence everywhere. From the center of the large oak table a large doll dressed as Uncle Sam held gallantly aloft the tri-colored ribbons that extended to each place. On one side of him stood a smaller doll dressed in the khaki uniform of the United States soldier. On the other, a valiant Jackie stood guard. At each cover was a small soldier doll and the place cards were tiny, folded, silk flags, each guest’s name written in one of the stripes of white uppermost.
Mary occupied the seat of honor at the head of the table, with Marjorie at her right and Constance at her left. But at the departing Lieutenant’s place rose an amazing pile of tissue-paper wrapped, beribboned bundles that smacked of Christmas.
“Company, attention,” called Mrs. Dean from the foot of the table, the instant the party had seated themselves. “Lieutenant Raymond, you are ordered to inspect your wealth before mess.”
“I – oh – ” stammered the abashed Lieutenant, regarding said “wealth” in stupefaction. “All those things are not really for me!”
“Open them and see,” directed Marjorie, her face radiant with unselfish happiness. “Every one of them holds an original poetic message. None of us knows what the other wrote. You are to read them in a loud voice and satisfy our curiosity. Now hurry up and begin.”
Under a battery of smiling faces, Mary slowly undid a good-sized square bundle. With slightly shaking fingers she drew forth a white box. When opened it displayed several sizes of note paper and envelopes bearing her monogram in silver. Picking up a card she steadied her voice and read:
“You say, of course, ‘I’ll surely write,’
But when you’ve traveled out of sight,
This nice white box may then remind you
Of Jerry Macy, far behind you.”
“I truly will write you, Jerry. Thank you.” Mary beamed affectionately on the stout girl. “It’s a lovely present, and my own monogram, too.”
“See that you do,” nodded Jerry gruffly. She loved to give, but she did not relish being thanked.
“Next,” smilingly ordered Marjorie. “If you don’t hurry and open them, we shall all starve.”
The next package disclosed a dainty little leather combination purse and vanity case from Muriel Harding with the succinct advice:
“Don’t lose your ticket or your money,
To be stone broke is far from funny.
When wicked cinders seek your eye,
Consult your mirror on the sly.”
After Muriel had been thanked and her practical, poetic advice lauded, Mary went on with her delightful investigation. An oblong bundle turned out to be a box of nut chocolates from Susan, who offered:
“In time of homesick tribulation,
Turn to this toothsome consolation.
To eat it up will be amusin’ —
Here’s sweet farewell from giggling Susan.”
“Giggling Susan’s” effort brought forth a ripple of giggles from all sides.
“That’s my present,” squealed Charlie, as Mary fingered a tiny package ornamented with a huge red bow. “It’s a – ”
“Shh!” warned Constance, placing prompt fingers on the too-willing lips.
Mary cast the child a tender glance as she glimpsed a tiny leather violin case, partially obscured by a card. In this instance it was Uncle John Roland who had played poet, after receiving Charlie’s somewhat garbled instructions regarding the sentiment.
“Say it s’loud as you can,” commanded the excited youngster.
Mary complied, reading in a purposely loud tone that must have been intensely gratifying to the diminutive giver:
“Once when away from home I ranned
To play my fiddle in the band,
You comed and finded me, ’n then
I never ranned away again.
So now I’m always nice and good
An’ do as Connie says I should,
And ’cause you’re going to run away
You’d better write to me some day!
Inside the little fiddle box
There is a fountain pen that talks
On paper – it’s for you from me,
The great musishun; your friend, C.”
As Mary read the last line she slipped from her place to Charlie and kissed the gleeful, upturned face. “You darling boy,” she quavered. “Mary won’t forget to write.”
“Mine’s the best of all,” observed Charlie with modest frankness, as he enthusiastically returned the kiss.
Back in her place again, Mary finished the affectionate inspection of the tokens her friends had taken so much pleasure in giving. There was a book from Harriet, a folded metal drinking cup in a leather case from Esther Lind, a hand-embroidered pin and needle case from Irma, a pair of soft, dark-blue leather slippers from Constance, and a wonderful Japanese silk kimono from Mrs. Dean. The remembrances had all been selected as first aids to Mary during her long journey across the country. With each one went a humorous verse, composed with more or less effort on the part of the givers.
But one package now remained to be opened. Its diminutive size and shape hinted that it might have come from the jeweler’s. Mary knew it to be Marjorie’s farewell token to her. She would have liked to examine it in private. She was almost sure that she was going to cry. She thrust back the inclination, however, flashing a tender, wavering smile at her chum as she untied the silver cord that bound the
