THE whole connection seemed filled with a desire to entertain their
returned travellers, especially Max, whose present stay among them
would be but short. And that the baby might accompany its parents,
the gathering together of the relatives and friends was always in the
afternoon.
On Monday they took dinner and spent the afternoon at the Laurels, on
Tuesday at the Oaks, Wednesday at Roselands, Thursday at Beechwood, and
there the younger ones had great sport, Cousin Ronald and Max helping
them.
They were all on the veranda after dinner, chatting pleasantly among
themselves, when Ned exclaimed:
“Oh, let’s have some fun on the lawn! We may play there, mayn’t we,
Cousin Ronald?”
“You may, Cousin Ned,” answered the old gentleman with a pleased smile,
“and mayhap I’ll tak’ a turn wi’ ye, if I’m not deemed sae auld as to
spoil the sport.”
“Oh, I think it would be fun for us to have you with us, sir!” cried
Ned. “Now, how many of you boys and girls would like to join in a game
of ‘I spy’?”
In reply to that query all the children present immediately expressed
a desire to take part in the game, and they promptly adjourned to the
grounds. All were familiar with the game.
“Now who shall be the one to hide his eyes?” asked Ned, his look and
tone of voice showing a desire to fill the position himself.
That was evident to the others, and two or three of the cousins said at
once:
“You, Ned; you’ll do as well as any other.”
So, the base being chosen, Ned covered his eyes and the others
scattered and hid behind bushes, trees and summer houses. Then from
every direction came the cry “All Ready!” and Ned’s eyes were instantly
uncovered and away he ran, looking about him searchingly from side to
side.
Presently catching a glimpse of a familiar coat worn by his cousin Eric
Leland, “I spy Eric Leland!” he shouted. “I’ll beat you in to base,”
then turned and ran back to the chosen base—the lower step of the front
veranda.
Both boys ran as fast as their young legs could carry them, but Ned
reached the base and Eric became “It.”
Directly after these two came all the others engaged in the game, and
just as the last one had reached the goal there came an angry growl,
apparently from under the veranda.
“How dare you rude youngsters come tramping and stamping here in this
rude way? It’s enough to kill a man with a headache like mine, and I
wont stand it. Clear out, every one of you.”
For a moment the children seemed thunderstruck, then they began asking
each other in awed, frightened tones:
“Who is it? and where is he? Is there a room for him under there? and
will he come out and fight us?”
Then all at once Ned, Elsie and the cousins from the Oaks and Fairview
began to laugh.
“Oh, it’s Cousin Ronald or Max, and we needn’t be a bit afraid,” they
said.
But at that the voice spoke again:
“I a relation of yours? Think I’d own any o’ you for relations o’ mine?”
“Yes, I do think so,” replied Ned stoutly. “I know you’re either Cousin
Ronald or Brother Max, and whichever you are I’m not a bit afraid of
you, because you’re both as good and kind as ever you can be.”
“That’s the way to talk,” replied the voice. “You are a pretty good
boy, I perceive. So go on with your play, and if you don’t make a
racket here and hurt my head I’ll not interfere with you.”
“Where is your head, cousin or brother, whichever you are?” asked Ned.
“On my shoulders, saucebox,” was the reply.
At that all the children laughed.
“That’s funny,” said Ned. “Mine is at the top of my neck.”
“Well, keep it there,” said the voice. “Now run off to your play, all
o’ ye, and leave me in peace to nurse my head and get rid of the ache.”
“Yes,” said Ned, “but first I’m going to look for Cousin Ronald and
Brother Max, because I’d like to know which has been trying to cheat us
and pretending to scold.”
He straightened himself and looked earnestly along the veranda as he
spoke. Evidently the company there had been listening to what was going
on and enjoying the sport, Cousin Ronald and Max among them. Captain
Raymond was there, too, standing at the top of the steps and looking as
if he had been having a share of the fun.
“You are having a good deal of fun, aren’t you, my young friends?” he
asked. “To hear and see it all makes me rather hungry for a share of
it. Would you object to my joining you?”
“Oh, no! No, indeed!” cried several young voices. “Please come; we’ll
be glad to have you.”
So the captain stepped down and joined them.
That started the older people. Not only Mr. Lilburn and Max hastened to
join the players, but Chester and Lucilla, Dr. Harold and Grace, Dr.
Herbert and Dr. Arthur Conly.
They all seemed to renew their youth, entering heartily into the sport,
to the great delight of the children, the two ventriloquists increasing
it by the use of their peculiar talent. Sometimes the players were
surprised and puzzled by voices, unlike any of theirs, calling from
different quarters, but presently the more knowing ones would give a
merry shout that would open the eyes of the others to the fact that it
was only a ventriloquial trick for their amusement.
When they grew tired of “I spy” other games were tried with success,
and it was only as the time for going home drew near that they ceased
their sport and rejoined the older members of the party upon the
veranda.
Evelyn was sitting there with her baby on her knee, and many of the
children gathered about her, saying they wanted a bit of fun with
her—the baby—before going home; wanted to hear her talk.
“But she is too young to talk,” said Evelyn; “she will hardly be able
to say anything for months to come.”
“Oh, her father can make her talk,” laughed Eric; “if he tells her to,
she’ll mind him. Won’t you, baby dear?”
“Yes, I will. Babies ought to do what their papas tell them to.”
The words seemed to come from the little lips, and the children turned
to see if Max was near. He was, and smiled in response to their
questioning glances.
“Doesn’t she do pretty well for so young a talker?” he asked.
“Yes, sir, with her father to help her,” laughed Eric. “But I’m afraid
she won’t be able to do so well when you are away on shipboard. Unless
Cousin Ronald is somewhere near,” he added, as an after thought.
“Yes, I like Cousin Ronald,” the baby voice seemed to say.
“And you love your aunties, don’t you?” asked Elsie Raymond, leaning
over her.
“Yes, I love you and all the other ones.”
“And don’t you love your cousin doctor, who takes care of you and mamma
when you need him?” asked Dr. Harold, joining the group.
“Yes, indeed! Will you be my uncle some day?”
“I hope so,” laughed Harold. “You will make a nice little niece, I
think.”
“And I think he will be a nice uncle,” laughed Grace, who was standing
by his side.
Captain Raymond, too, was near, the baby being as attractive to him as
to any one else—except, perhaps, the parents.
“I should like to be able to prove that very soon,” said Harold with a
significant glance at the captain.
At that Grace blushed and gave her father a loving, entreating look
that seemed to say:
“Don’t be angry with us, father dear. I love you, and we are not
rebellious.”
“‘Patient waiting no loss,’” he said with kindly look and smile. “I
love my daughter too well to be in a hurry to give her away.”
“What will you do when your papa goes away to his ship, baby?” asked
Eric.
“Stay at home with mamma,” was the reply, at which the children all
laughed.
But now the carriages were at the door, and they must hasten to prepare
for their homeward drive.
It was but a short one from Beechwood to Woodburn, and to that
hospitable home went not only the immediate family, but the Sunnyside
folk also, Grandma Elsie and her sons, Harold and Herbert.
An inviting tea was ready for them on their arrival, and after it they
had a delightful social evening together, music and conversation making
the time pass very swiftly.
But the guests were all disposed to retire to their homes at a
reasonably early hour; first, however, they sang a hymn together; then
the captain read a portion of Scripture, and led them in a prayer full
of love and gratitude for the numberless blessings that sweetened their
lives. Then the good-nights were said and the outsiders departed to
their homes. But there was no sadness in the partings, for all expected
to meet again in a few hours.
When Grace came to her father for the usual good-night caress he took
her in his arms and held her close.
“My own darling daughter,” he said low and tenderly, “you don’t know
how dear, how very dear you are to your father. Millions could not buy
you from me.”
“Dear, dear papa, it is very sweet to have you love me so,” she
responded in tones trembling with emotion, “and I think my love for you
is as great as yours for me.”
“Yet you want me to give you away?”
“No, sir; only to take another son as a partner in the concern when
you think the right time has come,” she answered, smiling up into his
face.
At that he gave her a smiling caress.
“So I will when I think that time has come,” he said, “but till then I
hope you can be happy in my home, under my care, and loved and petted
as one of my own God-given children.”
“I am sure I can, papa, and I shall never, never be willing to go too
far away to see and talk with you every day.”
“That is pleasant for me to hear,” he said, “and I hope to keep you
in this home with me even after you exchange my name for another; and
if you and Harold grow tired of that I think I can find room on this
estate for another dwelling, not inferior to Sunnyside, put it up and
furnish it for my second daughter, who is not to be treated with any
less favor than her elder sister and brother.”
“Oh, papa, how good, good you are to me!” she exclaimed low and
feelingly. “I am so glad and thankful that I was born your child. But
I should love to be that even if you were poor and couldn’t do anything
for me.”
“I believe you would, my darling,” he returned. “But now bid me
good-night and go; for it is time you were resting, after all the
excitement and fatigues of the day.”
“Yes, papa, dear, dear papa,” she said, putting her arms around his
neck and kissing him with ardent affection, “you are so kind to me,
and, oh, how I do love you! I wouldn’t marry even Harold, whom I dearly
love, if I knew that he would take me far away from you.”
“Nor could I be willing to give you to him if that was to be the
result. But there seems little or no danger of that, as his home and
near connections are in this neighborhood and he seems to have no
desire to leave it. My greatest objection to the match is the mixture
of relationships it will bring about. You, my own daughter, will be my
sister-in-law, and Harold son-in-law to his sister. Still, as there
is no blood relationship between you two, and you seem so devotedly
attached to each other, I have not felt that I had any right to forbid
the match.”
“Yes, papa, and you were very, very kind not to do so; for dearly as I
love Harold, I would never marry him without your consent.”
“No, I know you would not, my darling, for I have not a more obedient,
bidable child than you. But I must not keep you longer from your needed
night’s rest.”
Then laying his right hand gently upon her head, he gave her the
fatherly blessing Lucilla loved so well: “The Lord bless thee and keep
thee; the Lord make His face shine upon thee, and be gracious unto
thee; the Lord lift up His countenance upon thee and give thee peace.”
“Dear papa, thank you,” she said with emotion, glad tears in her eyes.
“I do love that blessing, and I hope you will have it as well as I.”
“I hope so, daughter,” he said; “nothing could be better for either of
us. And I am exceedingly glad that he who has won your young heart is a
Christian man.”