The Girls at Mount Morris by Amanda Minnie Douglas (ebook reader for manga .TXT) 📕

that is like her, and it won't hurt you if I say she was an extremely handsome girl. Even Reginald admitted that."

"And I am not handsome," Lilian said bravely, though with a little pang. It had never mattered to her before. Then she turned scarlet and added with an embarrassed laugh: "That sounds like what the girls call fishing for compliments. Zaidee will be the family beauty."

"And you have a voice, that with the proper training, may be very fine, indeed. I noticed it this morning in the hymn."

"Oh, do you think so? I love to sing," and her face was a-light with pleasure. "But it seems to me that it isn't, well--neither alto nor soprano; I can't keep it to a true sound."

"It is a contralto and has some most expressive notes in it. Of course, you will be trained in music."

"Mrs. Barrington spoke of it in the next term. Some of the girls sing beautifully. I was to take up several new studies. Oh, there are so many splendid things to learn."

Her face was aglow with enthusiasm and gave promise of something finer than mere beauty. There had been a good deal of repression in her life since she had come to understand, in a measure, her own desires. She had held them back because she did not want to make Mrs. Boyd unhappy with the difference between them, when she saw that the elder woman was making any effort to indulge her fancies, and during these months at school had settled to a grave deportment, that she might better sustain her authority. The lack of spontaneity had puzzled Mrs. Barrington, when in some moments she caught the ardor and glow of an inward possibility.

"I think you will be in the right place now," remarked Edith with a smile. "One with a strong individuality at times surmounts adverse circumstances, but when there are so many events to hamper, one does lose courage and begins to question whether the effort and sacrifice will pay for the late reward."

"Oh, let me have Miss Lilian awhile," besought Claire. "I want her to inspect my playhouse, while you and mother put away the dishes and things."

The playhouse was an old time cabinet with the doors taken off. One shelf, the highest, was full of curiosities, the next of books, the third left out and the dolls had it to themselves. There was a parlor in one end, a sleeping room in the other and three pretty dolls were in their chairs, ranged round a table, inspecting their Christmas gifts.

"I wouldn't have any new dolls this time," she began, with a touch of weariness in her voice. "For after all you can't make them real. I play school with them. I read them stories. I dress them and take them out riding, but I have to do the talking for them and sometimes it gets so dull. There's too much make-believe. I shall be glad when summer comes and there won't be any bad boys next door. What do you suppose God did with them? They couldn't like heaven, you know, for there they have to be good all the time. And there are so many beautiful things in summer. The birds and the flowers and the trees waving about and the sky so full of mysterious things. Great islands go sailing about and I wish I was on one of them. I get so tired, sometimes. I don't suppose I'll ever have any strong back and legs until I do get to heaven. But I'd like to go about in this world. I want a fairy godmother; that is it."

She gave a little laugh but there were tears in her eyes.

"And you've found a fairy godmother, haven't you? She is real, too, and lives in a beautiful big house and has a fairy child with golden curls. Oh, I wonder if she would have been glad to have you if you had been all bruised and broken and could never walk----"

"Oh, don't," cried Lilian. Would they have been glad to have her?

"Now, tell me about when you were a little girl and went to the stores to buy things for your mother and played 'Ring around a rosy,' and 'Open the gate as high as the sky.'"

The child's voice and manner had changed like a flash. She liked Lilian's make-believe stories in some moods; then she wanted real children and their doings, children who wiped dishes and swept floors while their mothers sewed or cared for a little baby in the cradle. And the petty disputes, the spending of a penny in candy and dividing it round.

"They couldn't all have pennies I suppose," the child commented.

"Their mothers were too poor," laughed Lilian, thinking how seldom she had the pleasure of being a spendthrift. And if she were ever so rich what could she do for Claire?

So they talked on and on until Edith came and said a young gentleman had called for Lilian--her brother.

She went through to the parlor. Yes, it was Willard, bright and smiling as if glad to see her.

"But how did you know I was here?" she asked.

"Oh, I was at Mrs. Barrington's, and we had a long talk about you. Then she directed me. It is getting towards night and our beautiful day shows symptoms of coming rain."

Yes, it did. She had been so interested in Claire she had not noted the change.

"So I think you had better allow me to escort you home, at least--oh, I wish it were to your real home. Think, what an evening we would have together, and I've only three days more. I have to start Wednesday evening and report on Thursday. Well, will you give me the pleasure?"

He rose then, and bending over, kissed her.

"I'd like you to meet my friends----"

"Well--for a moment."

Mrs. Trenham and Edith came in.

"Just say a quiet good-bye to Claire," Edith whispered. "She is curiously upset about something."

The slim arms clung to Lilian.

"Oh, will they let you come again? Edith said it would all be different and your new mother would want you, and--and--" the child ended with a sob.

"Of course I shall come again, and again, little sweetheart," kissing her.

"Oh, what a pretty name! I love you."

"And you will soon see me again."

Willard stood with his hat in his hand in a waiting attitude, tall and manly, the fine face marked by a certain pride of birth, of culture, and the inherited grace of generations. The deep, outlooking eyes spoke of strength of character with a vein of tenderness, and the smiling mouth of affability. Yet it struck her that he did not seem to belong to the plain little parlor and it almost appeared as if he dwarfed the two women, a feeling she could not help resenting inwardly.

They made their adieus in a friendly manner. Yes, the bright day had settled to the threatening of storm. The air was heavy and murky and cut with the promise of coming sleet. Willard drew the girl's hand through his arm and they caught step.

"I am glad you are going to be tall," he said. "You have all the indications, the figure and the air. It runs in mother's line as well as that of the Crawfords."

"I am taller than--than your sister," rather hesitatingly.

"Than _your_ sister, as well. Oh, Marguerite, I hope you two will come to love each other dearly. Then there will be Vincent. We two boys have been such chums."

"It is strange to have a new name," she said slowly, yet it was more to her fancy.

"Do you like the old one better?" as if in a little doubt.

"I didn't like it very much, and I remember when I rebelled against Lily. It seemed such a sing-song king of a name. It's sweet and pretty, too, Lilian Boyd gave it more character."

"You were named for Mother, but father did not want them quite alike. Her name was Margaret, and father used to say to her--


'Oh, fair Margaret,
Oh, rare Margaret,
Where got you the name of strength and beauty?'"


Would she be dearer to her father on account of her name?

"And Zaidee?" she said, in a suggestive tone.

"Oh, I believe it was from a story that had been a great favorite with my mother, and it does just suit Zay. She is so light and airy and butterfly-like. Why, she seems about two years younger than you. I'm glad there isn't any puzzle about telling you apart. She's sweet and gay and loving and I suppose we've all spoiled her. Aunt Kate thinks she's the loveliest thing in the world, and she has just devoted her life to the child. Aunt Kate is as good as gold, a stickler for some things and she's always been splendid to mother. But she's great on family. She can't cry _you_ down, because you belong to us."

"But I've been on the other side all my life, and--" yes, she would say this--"Mrs. Boyd's health was so broken that if it had not been for Mrs. Barrington's kind offer I must have given up school and gone into a factory; and began to repay her for her kindly care of me."

She felt the curious sort of shrinking that passed over him.

"But you didn't," he said, decisively. "And if she had let you alone----"

"But she was sure my mother was dead. Oh, nothing can ever make me forget her tender, devoted love. I cannot bear to have her blamed."

"But you must not dispute the matter with father. Let it all go since it has turned out so fortunately. I love you for your courage in standing by her, but there are many things you will learn--beliefs and usages of society. I don't mean simply money. We Crawfords have no vulgarity with a gold veneer; and, my dear girl, you may tell all your life with Mrs. Boyd over to mother, indeed, I think she will want to know it all; but--be careful about Aunt Kate--"

"And I _was_ the caretaker's daughter at Mrs. Barrington's. Oh, I have seen some snobbishness among what you call well-born girls. I am not a whit better or finer than I was a month ago, when I expected to work my way up to a good salary and strive earnestly for everything I had; and Mrs. Barrington would have helped me and been really proud of my success."

"What a spirit you have!"

"I shall never be a snob," she flung out, proudly.

"I do not intend to be one myself. Oh, don't let us dispute these points. We all learn a good deal as we go along life. And, my dear, love us all as truly as you loved your foster mother. Oh, I wonder if you can ever understand your own mother's joy at having you back--"

"Which she owes largely to Mrs. Boyd. Suppose she had died without this--this explanation?"

"Even she understood that you did not belong in her walk of life. She saw the difference and that made her feel she might have deprived you of something better, that she could not give you."

That was true enough. But just now she was Lilian Boyd and angry, though she could not satisfy herself that she had a perfect right to this unreasonableness. So she