A PINK-RIBBON TRAIL
Mrs. Stetson wore an air of unmistakable relief as she stepped into
William's sitting-room. Even her knock at the half-open door had sounded
almost triumphant.
“William, it does seem as if Fate itself had intervened to help us
out,” she began delightedly. “Billy, of her own accord, came to me this
morning, and said that she wanted to go away with me for a little trip.
So you see that will make it easier for us.”
“Good! That is fortunate, indeed,” cried William; but his voice did not
carry quite the joy that his words expressed. “I have been disturbed
ever since your remarks the other day,” he continued wearily; “and of
course her extraordinary escapade the next evening did not help matters
any. It is better, I know, that she shouldn't be here--for a time.
Though I shall miss her terribly. But, tell me, what is it--what does
she want to do?”
“She says she guesses she is homesick for Hampden Falls; that she'd
like to go back there for a few weeks this summer if I'll go with her.
The--the dear child seems suddenly to have taken a great fancy to me,”
explained Aunt Hannah, unsteadily. “I never saw her so affectionate.”
“She is a dear girl--a very dear girl; and she has a warm heart.”
William cleared his throat sonorously, but even that did not clear
his voice. “It was her heart that led her wrong the other night,” he
declared. “Hers was a brave and fearless act--but a very unwise one.
Much as I deplore Bertram's intimacy with Seaver, I should hesitate to
take the course marked out by Billy. Bertram is not a child. But tell me
more of this trip of yours. How did Billy happen to suggest it?”
“I don't know. I noticed yesterday that she seemed strangely
silent--unhappy, in fact. She sat alone in her room the greater part of
the day, and I could not get her out of it. But this morning she came to
my door as bright as the sun itself and made me the proposition I told
you of. She says her aunt's house is closed, awaiting its sale; but that
she would like to open it for awhile this summer, if I'd like to go.
Naturally, you can understand that I'd very quickly fall in with a plan
like that--one which promised so easily to settle our difficulties.”
“Yes, of course, of course,” muttered William. “It is very fine, very
fine indeed,” he concluded. And again his voice failed quite to match
his words in enthusiasm.
“Then I'll go and begin to see to my things,” murmured Mrs. Stetson,
rising to her feet. “Billy seems anxious to get away.”
Billy did, indeed, seem anxious to get away. She announced her intended
departure at once to the family. She called it a visit to her old home,
and she seemed very glad in her preparations. If there was anything
forced in this gayety, no one noticed it, or at least, no one spoke of
it. The family saw very little of Billy, indeed, these days. She said
that she was busy; that she had packing to do. She stopped taking
lessons of Cyril, and visited Bertram's studio only once during the
whole three days before she went away, and then merely to get some
things that belonged to her. On the fourth day, almost before the family
realized what was happening, she was gone; and with her had gone Mrs.
Stetson and Spunk.
The family said they liked it--the quiet, the freedom. They said they
liked to be alone--all but William. He said nothing.
And yet--
When Bertram went to his studio that morning he did not pick up his
brushes until he had sat for long minutes before the sketch of a
red-cheeked, curly-headed young girl whose eyes held a peculiarly
wistful appeal; and Cyril, at his piano up-stairs, sat with idle fingers
until they finally drifted into a simple little melody--the last thing
Billy had been learning.
It was Pete who brought in the kitten; and Billy had been gone a whole
week then.
“The poor little beast was cryin' at the alleyway door, sir,” he
explained. “I--I made so bold as to bring him in.”
“Of course,” said William. “Did you feed it?”
“Yes, sir; Ling did.”
There was a pause, then Pete spoke, diffidently.
“I thought, sir, if ye didn't mind, I'd keep it. I'll try to see that it
stays down-stairs, sir, out of yer way.”
“That's all right, Pete; keep it, by all means, by all means,” approved
William.
“Thank ye, sir. Ye see, it's a stray. It hasn't got any home. And, did
ye notice, sir? it looks like Spunk.”
“Yes, I noticed,” said William, stirring with sudden restlessness. “I
noticed.”
“Yes, sir,” said Pete. And he turned and carried the small gray cat
away.
The new kitten did not stay down-stairs. Pete tried, it is true, to keep
his promise to watch it; but after he had seen the little animal
carried surreptitiously up-stairs in Mr. William's arms, he relaxed
his vigilance. Some days later the kitten appeared with a huge pink bow
behind its ears, somewhat awkwardly tied, if it must be confessed.
Where it came from, or who put it there was not known--until one day the
kitten was found in the hall delightedly chewing at the end of what had
been a roll of pink ribbon. Up the stairs led a trail of pink ribbon and
curling white paper--and the end of the trail was in William's room.