BACK HOME
They put on their raincoats, and with umbrellas started out into the
soggy, showery morning, for the drizzle had kept up nearly all the
night before. “Even if we still had your old rattle-trap automobile
which we exchanged for mine,” observed Mary Louise, “we’d have had hard
work to make it go this morning.”
“It’s a shame,” said the old Colonel, as they started along the path,
“to bring our soldiers home on such a rainy day. It ought to be a
bright and sunny day of welcome.” “Still it’s their home, and they’ll
be glad to get here under any circumstances,” asserted Mary Louise. “I
think it’s raining harder than ever, Grandpa Jim.”
They were now where they could see the station, which seemed dull and
deserted and the few people that were there seemed to be coming toward
them. “I don’t believe the boys are coming to-day,” said the Colonel,
“don’t you remember the paper said to-day or to-morrow?” “True,” added
one of a group which had paused before them and knew the Colonel well,
as all the earlier settlers did; “we’ll do better to get home where it
is warm than hanging around here this miserable day. The weather would
discourage any railroad train.” “That suits me,” said Mary Louise, and
they started for home, chatting about the Dorfield men and discussing
their usefulness.
There were no boys in “Grandpa Jim’s” family. He had had only one
daughter who grew to delightful womanhood, married Judge Burrows,
a prosperous lawyer, who died a few years later, leaving his baby
girl--Mary Louise--to the care of his invalid wife and the staunch old
grandfather.
Combining the two estates (the handsome old home belonged to the
Hathaways), made a very pretty property for the young girl to inherit,
and Mary Louise Burrows was known as the heiress of it all.
Colonel Hathaway naturally idolized this granddaughter, and it was from
her baby lips that he first acquired the title of “Grandpa Jim,” which
was cordially and affectionately followed by his many friends in the
pretty but modest little city, where he was regarded as one of the two
or three “leading citizens.”
Grandpa Jim’s wealth was sufficient for him to retire from any active
business, so he passed his time in cheerful gossip with the other
inhabitants and made many “travel trips” with Mary Louise, both in
order to educate the young girl and relieve his own ennui.
The Great War had kept him at home during recent years, but he had read
daily reports of its progress and talked them over with those of his
acquaintances who were most interested in the fray.
He was also tremendously interested in the early education and career
of his fascinating granddaughter, the more so after the child’s mother
contracted a serious disease which carried her away from them forever.
So here were these two, a big old gentleman and a small young girl,
located in one of the most prominent and attractive houses in Dorfield.
Here they were, beloved by many but envied by none so far as they knew.
Mary Louise had many girl friends. Indeed, you might say every girl
in the town claimed her friendship, for she was generous, bright,
initiative and had a glad and loving word for every girl she met.
Therefore it is no wonder that a lack of boys in the Hathaway family
should create an added interest in the one girl of the establishment
among the soldiers now returning from their victorious campaign. But
the young girl did not know that.
On her side, Mary Louise had no cousins or other relatives, with whom
she might intimately hobnob; Grandpa Jim’s male relatives were so
remotely connected to him by blood that he could not name you one of
them. But there were none in Dorfield--nor out of it--whose hearts
were more overflowing with patriotic enthusiasm than this fine old war
veteran and his charming granddaughter as they went down the hill the
next morning toward the depot. As they passed along, the electric lamps
in front of the station were still striving to penetrate the gray gloom
of foggy moisture.
Grandpa Jim said in his cheery voice: “It’s another one of those wholly
tantalizing mornings, Mary Louise, but that won’t dampen the joy of our
soldiers at getting home again.”
“To be sure,” she replied, “so let us hope the trains will make up for
lost time. Good gracious, Grandpa Jim,” pausing abruptly to peer ahead,
“they’re in now!” for her eyes were sharper than those of the Colonel.
She ran on a few steps in excitement, but then, remembering that in the
semi-darkness she was her “Grandpa Jim’s cane,” she abated her pace and
went back to take his arm.
“It won’t matter, child,” he said, laughing lightly; “we’re not
specially interested in those aboard, and they’ve all got to march over
to their old cantonment before they are disbanded. But we have the
right to shake hands with them.”
“We can say: ‘Hello, Bill!’ anyhow, if we see anyone we used to know,”
said Mary Louise, and even the old Colonel was interested enough to
hurry forward to join the throng of soldiers who had traveled all the
way to France to prove that they were real warriors.
Mary Louise had many humble acquaintances among the throng which moved
in well drilled ranks from the depot to the cantonment--a matter of
half a mile or so, and she nodded briskly here and there at “the boys,”
who flushed and threw out their chests proudly as they formed ranks.
A few of the young men were “calling acquaintances,” and these were
especially honored by the beautiful girl’s attention.
“Take it easy, my dear,” puffed Grandpa Jim, as he clung to the arm of
Mary Louise on the slippery pathway. “They’re marching faster than we
can walk, and they’re still covered with the dust and grime of travel.
Look down there at the cantonment! The places where they used to pitch
their tents are nothing but mud holes. I doubt if our soldiers under
present circumstances are as glad to see us as we are to see them.
Let’s go home.”
Mary Louise in her heart knew that he was right, but her tone was
somewhat peevish when she answered:
“If everyone felt as we do, it would be a nice reception for our
soldier boys, wouldn’t it--with just ‘poodle-ground’ to greet them? The
earnest shouts of those who are here must carry joy to the hearts of
those who have braved many a storm to drive back the Germans, and we
must prove we’re as loyal and brave as our men.” Thoroughly in earnest,
the beautiful girl continued: “For my part, I’m really enjoying it
all, Gran’pa Jim, and--Hello, Ned Clary!” waving her handkerchief and
nodding smilingly as they reached the beginning of the cantonment,
which was now a very busy place.
The girl gazed with interest upon the mud-stained uniforms. But the
soldiers themselves received the most of her attention. Their faces
were most attractive to her, and she scanned them as closely as if
really looking for some relative. Those who worked, worked quietly and
doggedly, having performed such duties many times. Others looked on,
smoking their cigarettes indifferently. Still others sat upon the stone
curbing and waited nonchalantly until something should happen that
might prove more interesting.
Mingled with these were all classes of citizens of Dorfield, and
suddenly Mary Louise cried out:
“Oh, Laura Hilton! Where on earth did you come from?” as if she had not
known that the other girl had followed or preceded her down the hill.
“Me?” answered Laura, as if in amazement; “why, I just came down to see
if Cousin Will was in this division. He said in his last letter that
he would be home next week; but they may have pushed him on ahead, you
know. Cousin Will is a big man--you’ll remember--wherever he happens
to be. At war he is a Sergeant--or a Corporal--or some such genius,
I’ve heard, yet somehow he doesn’t seem to have his own way quite as
much as when at home, clerking in the corner grocery store. He says he
had one boss in civilian life; in the army, he has a dozen.”
“Well,” said Mary Louise, taking her arm confidentially, “that was only
Cousin Will’s banter, you know. No one ever believed in him and I doubt
if he ever believed in himself. I am glad he is coming home with a
whole skin anyhow, and I wish all our poor boys were as safe to-day as
he is.”
“Well,” responded Laura, “neither you nor I can claim any of the
Dorfield boys, and yet it’s some satisfaction to see them coming home
from that long journey across the seas and know that they have fought
for us and died for us--whenever such foolish sacrifice was required.”
“Oh, Laura!” exclaimed Mary Louise, reprovingly. “Do you think it
was foolishness to save all our lives--to make the world safe for
democracy?”
“Don’t let us argue concerning politics,” said the other girl with
a shy shrug. “I am not much posted on such things, as you very well
know.”
“You belong to the Liberty Girls, though,” said Mary Louise.
“Oh, as for that,” said Laura, “I will do anything I can for my country
and its warriors, and the only reason I am not more interested in the
return home of the Dorfield Regiment is that none of my flesh and blood
is mixed up in it.”
“Then what are you down here for?” inquired Mary Louise.
“Just to watch these men greet their own friends, who must be supremely
proud of their work and anxious to see them safely home. They have
had some rather severe scrapping over there, I believe, and according
to all reports there has not been a shirker or a coward in the whole
lot of them. No wonder everybody has turned out to give them an
enthusiastic reception! Just look at the number of mothers and fathers
and whole families here to welcome their own back! It’s hard to tell
who is enjoying it most--the soldier boys who have come back, or their
families who have awaited them so long. But why are _you_ here, Mary
Louise?”
“Why, for almost the same reason. There has been a hint that some
soldiers from other parts of the country have been transferred to the
Dorfield Regiment, to take the places of those who have fallen in the
various battles. Grandpa Jim has an idea that some of these strangers
may need work or a home after they are mustered out.”
“How can we tell who are the strangers and who are not?” asked Laura.
“Why--why--by watching them, I suppose,” replied Mary Louise.