A FIRST LETTER.
Muriel had almost forgotten the banded box of foreign appearance which
she had in her Treasure Cave. So many things of unusual interest had
occurred of late that even so wonderful a box had taken a secondary place
in her thoughts.
That afternoon Captain Ezra devoted to polishing the lamp, a task he
would not permit Rilla to share, saying that peeling potatoes and the
like was her part of the drudgery, and, as he never helped her with that,
neither should she help with the lamp.
Muriel did not insist, for she believed that her grand-dad took a great
deal of pride in tending to the big light all by himself. "I reckon he'd
think he was gettin' old if he had to be helped," the girl soliloquized
as she walked along the top of the bluff, the dog at her side.
They descended the trail toward that part of the beach where she had
first seen the lad. For a time she stood silently gazing down at the spot
where he had been on that never to be forgotten day. Suddenly she laughed
aloud. Stooping, she patted the head of her long-haired companion.
"Shagsie, ol' dog," she chuckled gleefully, "yo' wouldn't be eatin' Gene
Beavers up even when I tol' yo' to, would yo' now?" Then merrily she
added: "I'll tell yo' a secret, ol' dog, if yo' won't be tellin' it."
Then she whispered into the long shaggy ear: "I reckon I'm _glad_ now
that yo' wouldn't." Then, springing up, she scrambled down the rocks and
ran along the narrow pebbly beach, the dog racing and barking at her
heels. When they were just below the lighthouse Rilla paused and looked
up at the small entrance to her cave.
"Shags," she suggested, "let's take another look at the treasure."
Together they slowly ascended the perilously steep cliff where one unused
to climbing could barely have found a foothold.
When the cave was reached Rilla uttered a little cry of eagerness, for
under one of the straps on the box was a folded bit of paper.
Opening it, she looked at it, her cheeks flushed, her eyes glowing.
Doctor Winslow had tried to teach the girl to read, but, since he was the
resident physician in a New York hospital most of the year, he had been
able to make but little headway. Each autumn he took from one to two
months' vacation, returning to the home of his boyhood for what he called
an absolute rest, but the fisherfolk, who loved him, flocked to him for
advice and help, and the kind, elderly man welcomed them gladly. Too, he
gave to every one who came a bit of optomistic philosophy which did much
toward keeping them well and happy during the months of his absence.
Muriel had seated herself upon the closed box and studied the note.
Luckily the words were simple and plainly printed. She picked out one
here and there that she knew, then suddenly rising she went to a crevice
in the rocks and brought forth a Second Reader which the doctor had given
her. She knew every word in it, but she could not always recognize the
same words if they were out of the book. After an hour's diligent search,
comparing the printed words with those in the note, she looked up, her
expression joyous, exultant.
"Shagsie, ol' dog, I can read it! I can read every word. It's the fust
letter as I ever had, an' Gene Beavers, 'twas, as left it for me." Then,
as the faithful dog seemed to be interested, the girl slowly read aloud:
"Dear Storm Maiden:--I am going to try to reach town tonight. I hope to
see you again, but if I do not I want you to know how much I like you.
I wish girls were all as brave and kind as you are. Thank you and
goodbye.
"Your friend,
"Gene Beavers."
When the reading was finished the girl sat for a long time looking out of
the small opening at the gleaming blue waters beyond the cliff and her
expression grew wistful and almost pensive. For the first time in her
fifteen years she was wishing she had "learnin'." Suddenly she sprang up,
her face brightening. "Shags," she said, "many's the time Uncle Lem has
said 'regrettin' doesn't get you anywhere. It's what you're doin' _now_
that counts.' We'll learn to read, Shags, ol' dog! I dunno how, but we're
goin' to!"
That evening as Rilla sat close to her grand-dad she wanted to ask him if
she might attend the Tunkett school, but he seemed hardly to know that
she was there so occupied was he with his own thoughts, and so she
decided to await a more opportune time.
The truth was that Captain Ezra could not forget the accusing expression
in the Irish blue eyes of his old mate, nor the question, "D'y reckon
yo're actin' honest, Ez? Hasn't it been the same as stealin' his little
gal?"
That night, long after Muriel was asleep in her loft room, Captain Ezra
sat at the kitchen table trying to compose a letter to the father of
Rilla, but each attempt was torn to shreds and many times the old man
stealthily crossed the kitchen floor and placed the bits in the stove.
At last he thought, "I reckon Barney's right, but thar's no tarnation
hurry. I've signed articles to tend to this light till I'm a long ways
older'n I am tonight."
So thinking, he went to his bed, meaning soon to send the letter to
Muriel's father, but one thing and another occupied his time and the
letter remained unwritten.