was crying because she would have to give up even more than she had supposed, and be kept in poverty for a longer period of time. She sat up, however, when her father said, “Jane, dry your tears. Since you are to go to Newport, I see nothing for you to cry about, and I do not wish mother and Julie to know how I feel about this whole matter.”
Hastily Jane left the table to again remove the traces of tears, and when she returned, her grandmother and Julie were in their places. Her father had remained standing until she also was seated. Then, bowing his head, he said the simple grace of gratitude which had never been omitted at that table.
Jane marveled at the courage of her father, for he was actually smiling at the little old lady who sat at his side. “Mother mine,” he said, “if this isn’t the same kind of a meat pudding that you used to make for me as a special treat, long ago, when I had been good. Have I been good today?”
There were sudden tears in the fading blue eyes and a quiver in the corners of the sweet old mouth as the grandmother replied, “Yes, Dan, you have been very good. And all the while I was making it I was thinking how proud and pleased your father would be if he only knew, and maybe he does know, how good you’ve been. When you weren’t more than knee high to your Dad, he began to teach you that it was better to have folks know that your word could be depended on than to be praised for smartness, and that’s how ’tis, Danny, and I’m happy and proud.”
The dear little old lady wiped her eyes with a corner of her apron; then she smiled up brightly, and pretended to eat the meat pie, which was in danger of being neglected by all except Julie, who prattled, “We’ve set away two big pieces, one for brother Dan, when he comes home from the city, and one for Gerry. Umm, won’t they be glad when they see them? They’ll be hungry as anything! I like to be awful hungry when there’s something extra special to eat, don’t you, Janey?” Almost timorously this query was ventured. Julie did not like to have the big sister look so sad. The answer was not encouraging. “Oh, Julie, I don’t want to talk,” the other girl said fretfully.
“Nor eat, neither, it looks like,” the old lady had just said when the front door bell pealed. Julie leaped up, looking eagerly at her father. “Oh, Dad, may I go?” But, being nearest the door, he had risen. “I’ll answer it, Julie,” he replied. “It is probably some one to see me.” But Mr. Abbott was mistaken. A messenger boy stood on the porch. After the yellow envelope had been signed for, it was taken to Jane, to whom it was addressed.
Eagerly the girl tore it open, the others watching her with varied emotions, although Julie’s was just eager curiosity. “Ohee,” she squealed, “telegrams are such fun and so exciting. What’s in it, Janey, do tell us!”
Mr. Abbott noted that a red spot was burning in each cheek of the daughter who had been so pale. She glanced up at him, her eyes shining. “Dad,” she cried, “you won’t have to give me $300. Listen to this. Oh, Merry is certainly wonderful!” Then she read:
“Dearest Jane: Aunt Belle has changed her plans. She has rented a cottage just beyond the hotel grounds and is going to take her own cook and I want you to come as our guest, because, darling girl, I owe you a visit, since you gave me such a wonderful time in the country with you last year, and, what is more, we are going Friday, so pack up your trunk today, and be at the Central Station tomorrow at 4:00. Lovingly, your intimate friend – Marion Starr.
“P. S. – Who, more than ever, is living up to her nickname, Merry. – M. S.”
During the reading of the “night letter” Mr. Abbott had quickly made up his mind just what his attitude would be. “That’s splendid, Jane, isn’t it?” he said, and not even his watchful mother noted a trace of disappointment in his voice. “If I were you I would pack at once. You would better go over to the city in the morning and that will give you time to buy a new summer dress, for I am sure that you must need one.”
Jane started to reply, but something in her throat seemed to make it hard for her to speak, and so she left the room hurriedly without having more than touched her plate. Julie followed, as she adored packing. When they were gone, the man sighed deeply. “Mother,” he said, “I have decided to send Julie with Dan. She can cook the simple things he will need and some one must go with the boy. I would go myself, but I would be of little use. In a few days, as soon as I can pull myself together, I am going back to the city to start in some occupation far from Wall Street.”
The old lady reached out a comforting hand and placed it on that of her son nearest her. “Dan,” she said in a low voice, “Jane doesn’t know a thing about your long illness, does she? Nobody’s told her, has there?”
The man shook his head. “Jane has been so interested in her own problems, and in finding a way to do as she wished, that she has not even wondered why I am working about in the garden instead of going to the city daily, as I always have done. But don’t tell her, mother. She does not seem to care, and, moreover, I am now much stronger. My only real worry is Dan, and I do feel confident that if he can be well cared for, the mountain air will restore his health.”
Rising, he stooped to kiss his mother’s forehead, then left the room, going through the kitchen to the garden. As he worked he glanced often at the open windows of the room above the tree tops. He saw the two girls hurrying about, for Jane had gladly accepted Julie’s offer of service, and the trunk packing was evidently progressing merrily. This assurance was brought to him when he heard Jane singing a snatch of a school song.
It sounded like a requiem to the man in the garden below. He leaned on his hoe as he thought, self-rebukingly, “It is all my fault. I have spoiled Jane. My love has been misdirected. It is I who have made her selfish. I wanted to give her everything, for she had lost so much when she lost her mother. I have done as much for the other three children, but somehow they didn’t spoil.”
The comfort of that realization was so great that the father soon returned to his self-imposed task, and, an hour later, when Dan appeared, he told the boy Jane’s decision, saying: “Son of mine, it would be no comfort to you to have her companionship if her heart were elsewhere.” The shadow of keen disappointment in the lad’s eyes was quickly dispelled. Placing a hand on his father’s shoulder he said cheerfully, “It’s all right, Dad. Julie is a great little pal.”
But even yet the matter was not decided.
That Thursday night, after the younger members of the household were asleep, Mr. Abbott and his mother talked together in his den.
“Julie was the happiest child in this world when I told her she was to go with Dan.” The old lady smiled as she recalled the hoppings and squealings with which the small girl had expressed her joy. “Luckily I’d washed and ironed her summer clothes on Monday and Tuesday, and this being only Thursday, she hadn’t soiled any of them.”
Then her tone changed to one of tenderness. “Dan,” she said, “Julie and Jane aren’t much alike, are they? That little girl didn’t hop and squeal long before she thought of something that sobered her. Then she told me, ‘I don’t like to go, Grandma, and leave Gerald at home. He’s been wishing and wishing and wishing he could go, but he wouldn’t tell Dad ’cause he wants to stay home and earn money to help.’”
To the little old lady’s surprise, her companion sprang up as he exclaimed: “Mother, I won’t be gone long. Wait up for me!” Seizing his hat from the hall “tree,” he left the house. “Well, now, that’s certainly a curious caper,” the old lady thought. “He couldn’t have been listening to a word I was saying. He must have thought of something he’d forgotten, probably it’s something for Jane. Well, there’s nothing for me to do but wait.” She glanced at the clock on the mantle. Even then it was late. She was usually asleep at ten. There had been time for many a little cat-nap before she heard her son returning. His expression
