Killykinick by Mary T. Waggaman (ebook reader 8 inch .txt) 📕

feeling a little bad, because--because--" and he had to stop to clear the lump from his throat. "It seems to sort of end things for me."

"O Danny, Danny, no it doesn't!" And now Miss Stella's eyes were stars indeed. "It's the beginning of things bright and beautiful for you."

And then, in sweet, trembling, joyful tones, she told him all,--told him of Captain Carleton and the medal; of the pension that was to be his and Aunt Winnie's; of the kind, strong hand that had been stretched out to help him, that he might keep on without hindrance,--keep on his upward way.

"To the stars, Danny," concluded the gentle speaker softly. "We must take the highest aim, even if we fail to reach it,--to the stars."

"O Miss Stella,--dear, dear Miss Stella!" and the sob came surely now, in Dan's bewildered joy, his gratitude, his relief. "How good you are,--how good you are! Oh, I will try to deserve it all, Miss Stella! A home for Aunt Winnie, and St. Andrew's,--_St. Andrew's_ again!" And Dan sprang to his feet, and the college cry went ringing over the moonlit rocks. "It's St. Andrew's for Dan Dolan, now forever!"

The rest of that evening seemed a bewildering dream to Dan,--more bewildering even than Miss Polly's party. The story of his medal and his luck went flying around Killykinick, with most dazzling additions. Before the guests departed, Dan was a hero indeed, adopted by a millionaire whose life his father or uncle or somebody had saved from sharks and whales fifty or seventy-five years ago.

"Oh, I'm so glad!" said Polly, as she shook hands for good-bye. "I always did say you were the nicest boy in the world. And now you needn't ever be a newsboy or bootblack again, Dan."

"I'll see you again before very long," said Miss Stella, as he helped her on the boat, and she slipped a gold piece in his hand. "Here is the price of Jack Farley's medal. You must take Aunt Winnie home right away."

"Oh, I will,--I will, indeed!" said Dan joyfully. "She will be back in Mulligan's as soon as I can get her there, you bet, Miss Stella!"

"I'm durn sorry to see you go, matey!" said Captain Jeb next morning, as they pulled out the new sails of the "Sary Ann" for a start. "But whenever you want a whiff of salt air and a plunge in salt water, why, Killykinick is here and your job of second mate open to you."

"Shake on that!" said Dan, gripping his old friend's hand. "If I know myself, I'll be down every summer."

"Looks as if I owed you something for all that fishing," remarked old Neb, pulling out his leather wallet.

"Not a cent!" said Dan, briskly. "I'm a monied man now, Neb,--a regular up-and-down plute. Keep the cash for some new nets next summer when we go fishing again."

And so, with friendly words and wishes from all, even from Dud, whom recent events had quite knocked out of his usual grandeur, the whole party bade adieu to Killykinick. Freddy and his father were to remain a while at Beach Cliff with Father Tom, who was taking his holiday there.

At Brother Bart's request, the home journey was to be made as much as possible by rail, so after the "Sary Ann," still a little stiff and creaky in the joints, had borne them to the steamboat, which in a few hours touched the mainland and made connections with the train, the travellers' route lay along scenes very different from the rugged rocks and sands they had left. As they swept by golden harvest fields and ripening orchards and vineyards whose rich yield was purpling in the autumn sun, good Brother Bart heaved a sigh of deepest content.

"Sure you may say what you please about water, Danny lad, but God's blessing is on the good green land. If it be the Lord's will, I'll never leave it again; though we might have found worse places than Killykinick and those good old men there,--may God lead them to the Light!"

And as the Limited Express made its schedule time, Pete Patterson was just closing up as usual at sundown, when a sturdy, brown-cheeked boy burst into his store,--a boy that it took Pete's keen eyes full half a minute to recognize.

"Dan Dolan!" he cried at last,--"Dan Dolan, grown and fattened and slicked up like--like a yearling heifer! Danny boy, I'm glad to see you,--I'm glad to see you, sure! You've come to take the job?"

"No, I haven't,--thank you all the same, Pete!" was the quick answer. "I've struck luck for sure,--luck with a fine old plute, who is ready to stake me for all I could earn here, and keep me at St. Andrew's."

"Stake you for all you could earn here?" echoed Pete, in amazement.

"I'll tell you all about it later," said Dan, breathlessly. "Just now I'm dumb struck, Pete. I came flying back to take up my old quarters at the Mulligans' and find the house shut up and everybody gone. Land! It did give me a turn, sure! I was counting on that little room upstairs, and all Aunt Winnie's things she left there, and Tabby and the stove and the blue teapot. But they're all gone." And Dan sank down on a big packer's box feeling that he was facing a dissolving world in which he had no place.

"Oh, they're not far!" said Pete, a little gruffly; for Dan's tidings had been somewhat of a blow. "The old woman's father died and left a little bit of money, and they bought a tidy little place out on Cedar Place, not far from St. Mary's Church. You'll find them there. You've made up your mind for good and all to stick to the highbrows? I'd make it worth your while to come here."

Dan rose from the packer's box and looked around at the hams and shoulders and lard buckets and answered out of the fulness of his grateful heart:

"Yes, I've made up my mind, Pete. It's St. Andrew's for me,--St. Andrew's now and, I hope, forever. But--but if you want any help with writing or figuring, I'll come around Saturday nights and give you a lift; for I won't be far. I'm sticking to old friends and the old camping ground still."

And, with this cheery assurance, Dan was off again to find the vanished roof tree that had been all he ever knew of home. He recalled the place. It was only a short walk from the college gate. Indeed, the row of cedars that fronted the little whitewashed house had been once the boundary of the college grounds. There was a bit of a garden in front, and a porch with late roses climbing over it, and--and--

Dan stood stock-still for a moment,--then he flung open the little gate, and with a regular Sioux war-whoop dashed up the gravelled path; for there--there seated in Mrs. Mulligan's best rocker, with Tabby curled up at her feet--was Aunt Winnie herself, drinking a cup of tea!


XXVI.--RAINBOWS.


"Danny!" cried Aunt Winnie, clutching her teacup with trembling hand. "God save us, it's Danny himself!"

"Nobody else," said Dan, as he caught her in a bearish hug and kissed the withered cheek again and again. It looked paler than when he had left her,--paler and thinner; and there were hollows under the patient eyes.

"But what are you doing here, Aunt Win?" he asked in amazement.

"Just spending the day, Danny. Mrs. Mulligan sent Molly for me this morning. She wanted me to see her new place, and to tell her what was to be done with my bit of things. She is thinking of renting her rooms, and my things are in the way. They are fine rooms, with rosebud paper on the walls, and a porch looking out at the church beyant; and she could be getting seven dollars a month for them. But she's got the table and stove and beds, and all our old furniture that nobody would want; so I've told her to send them off to-morrow to sell for what they will bring. Sure" (and the old voice trembled) "we'll never have any call for them again, Danny lad,--never again."

"Oh, we won't?" said Danny, with another hug that came near doing for teacup completely. "Just take back your orders quick as you can, Aunt Winnie, I'm renting those rooms right now."

"Sure, Danny,--Danny boy, have ye come back with a fever on ye?"

"Yes," grinned Dan,--"regular gold fever, Aunt Winnie! Look at that!" He clapped the twenty dollar gold piece into Aunt Winnie's trembling hand. "That's for you, Aunt Winnie,--that's to rent those pink-flowered rooms."

"Sure it's mad the poor boy is entirely!" cried Aunt Winnie, as Mrs. Mulligan and Molly came hurrying out on the porch.

"Do I look it?" asked Dan, laughing into their startled faces.

"Ye don't," said Mrs. Mulligan. "But spake out plain, and don't be bewildering the poor woman, Danny Dolan."

And then Danny spoke out as plain as his breathless eagerness would permit, and told the story of the "pension."

"It will be thirty-five dollars a month, Captain Carleton says; he'd have to throw in the five to poor old Nutty for grog and tobacco."

"Ah, God save us,--God save us!" was all Aunt Winnie could murmur, tearfully.

"And I guess thirty-five dollars will run those rosebud rooms of yours pretty safe and slick; won't they, Mrs. Mulligan? So put Aunt Winnie and me down as tenants right off."

"I will,--I will!" answered Mrs. Mulligan, joyfully. "Sure my heart was like lead in my breast at the thought of giving up yer bit of things, Miss Winnie. But now,--now come along, Molly girl, and we'll be fixing the rooms, this minute. What's the good of yer going back to the Sisters at all?" And Mrs. Mulligan put a motherly arm around Aunt Winnie's trembling form. "Give her another cup of tea, Molly; for she's all done up with joy at having her own home and her own boy again, thank God for that same!"

And then, leaving dear Aunt Winnie to this good friend's tender ministrations, Dan kept on his way to St. Andrew's, taking a flying leap over the college wall to the sunset walk, where perhaps he would find Father Mack saying his Office. He was not mistaken: his old friend was there, walking slowly under the arching trees. His face kindled into light as he stretched out a trembling hand.

"I thought perhaps you would come here, my boy," he said. "I was just thanking God, Danny. Brother Bart has told us the good news. It is all right, as I hoped and prayed,--all right, as I _knew_ it would be, Danny. Now tell me, yourself, all about this wonderful blessing."

And again this father and son sat down upon the broken grave slab, and Danny told Father Mack all.

"Ah, it is the good God's hand!" the old priest said softly. "But this is only the start, my son. The climb is still before you,--a climb that may lead over steeps sharp and rough as the rocks of Killykinick."

But the fading light seemed to aureole Father Mack's silvery head as he spoke.

"You will keep on and up,--on and up; for God is calling you, my son,--calling you to heights where He leads His own--heights which as yet you can not see."

The speaker laid his hand upon Dan's head in benediction that thrilled the boy's heart to its deepest depths,--a benediction that he never forgot;