THREE MORE GIRLS.
Upon reaching Windy Island that cold, grey, late afternoon, Muriel went
at once to her Treasure Cave to procure the primer which her Uncle Lem
had given her, and by the aid of which she could read other books and
letters containing the simplest words. This she carried to her room above
the kitchen adjoining the lighthouse. But it was not until the following
morning, when her tasks were finished, that she was able to slip away to
decipher the message from Gene. A drizzling rain was keeping them both
indoors. The old captain, never content when he was idle, had brought to
the warm kitchen a net that he was mending.
"I'm getting strong by the day," the little letter told the girl, "and
the hope of seeing you very soon again, Muriel, good friend, helps me
more than anything else."
What would the girls in his home set have thought could they have seen
that letter which had been written in the greatest sincerity, for with
none of them did Gene have a serious friendship. They knew him merely as
the good-looking, always good-natured brother of their favorite, Helen
Beavers, with whom they bantered merrily. Gene liked them all well
enough, but they wearied him with their constant chatter of tennis
tournaments and teas, and their ceaseless laughter. No wonder that his
pal, David Davison, had often said that most girls seemed to be afflicted
with "giggleitis," but not so Muriel.
As Gene sat alone hour after hour in a hospital, the windows of which
looked out across the Hudson, he thought often of the sweet seriousness
of the truly beautiful face of his "storm maiden." Those hazel eyes had
looked into his very soul, and how thankful he was that he had nothing in
that soul that he wished to conceal.
She had laughed, now and then, spontaneously, joyfully, but she was very
different from the modern girl who laughed continually because she
thought it becoming. He couldn't conceive of Muriel doing anything merely
to gain admiration.
"She's a bully good pal, that's what; so is sis; but there aren't many
girls like those two," was his conclusion.
Gene had still another month of enforced vacation, as the doctor had
declared that he would not permit him to return to college until after
the holidays. Under other circumstances the lad would have fretted about
this, but as it was he knew that he was actually eager to spend at least
the larger part of that month in Tunkett.
But Gene was not left long alone, for on the very first Saturday after
his arrival in the New York hospital, his sister Helen and two of her
best friends from the boarding school farther up the Hudson appeared
unexpectedly to visit him.
Gladys Goodsell and Faith Morley were attractive maidens, clad in
fashionably tailored suits, with muffs to keep their gloved hands warm,
for, in spite of the dazzling brightness of the day, the air was
stingingly cold.
"Oh, brother," Helen protested when she was told that as soon as he was
stronger he was going back to Tunkett, "what _can_ you see in that
outlandish village?" Then to her friends she added: "I went down there
one week-end with Doctor Winslow, who is an old friend of father's, but I
can assure you that I shall never go again, that is, not out of season.
Such queer people as I saw! Honestly, I had to pinch myself to be sure
that I hadn't stepped into one of Joseph Lincoln's stories, and, as for
understanding what the natives said, well, I just couldn't."
"Maybe you didn't try very hard, Sis." This from the lad who was keeping
his new friend a secret in his heart.
"Maybe I didn't," was the merry reply, "but if I were going to write a
comic story that's where I'd go for my characters and illustrations.
Girls, I do wish you might see the clothes worn by the wives of the
fishermen. I am sure the dressmaker who made them must have come over in
the ark."
As Gene listened, lying back among the pillows of his
half-reclining-chair, he glanced at the costumes of his fair visitors,
then, turning, he looked out toward the Hudson, but it was not the steely
blue river that he saw but a girl in a nondescript calico dress with hair
wind-blown who was ordering him to leave her island. Looking back at his
sister, he said: "You are right, Helen, about the clothes. They are
different."
When at last the girls arose, Helen leaned affectionately over her
brother's reclining-chair. "I don't know what possesses you to want to go
to Tunkett of all places during this coming month." Then, wheedlingly:
"We're going to have a series of parties at the school just before the
holidays, and then there's to be that annual affair over at West Point.
Please reconsider, brother dear. Go down for a week or two if you really
think that it will do you good, but I beg of you, do come back for the
holiday fun. Now, promise me!"
Gene took the gloved hand of his sister, whom he did indeed love dearly.
"I'll promise to consider, sister mine," he said; then added: "But I'm
hardly in trim for night frolics just now."
Helen noticed how pale and suddenly weary her brother looked and,
stooping, she kissed him tenderly on the forehead as she said softly:
"Gene, dear, if you are still in Tunkett, I'll come down there and spend
Christmas with you. Since mother and father are in Europe, you and I will
want to be together."
There was a grateful expression in the lad's eyes and then he closed
them, for he found that he was indeed very tired.
Helen motioned the girls to leave quietly, which they did. What would
these three city maidens have thought had they known Gene's real reason
for wishing to return to Tunkett, for surely the village itself held
little to attract one in the severe months of early winter?