It was days before March himself was aware of that fact.
Budd and Cherry were at the Fords'. May was with Aunt Tryphosa and Miss
Alton at Lemuel Wood's. Maria-Ann had come over to help Mrs. Blossom
with the work, and Chi had taken care of the stock. Rose and her mother
watched and waited in the sick room, relieved on alternate nights by Mr.
Blossom and Chi.
The great storm was a thing of the past. The sun shone in a deep blue
heaven, and the white world of the Mountain showed daily life and
movement. The teamsters were at work loading the sledges with logs, and
the ponderous drags squeaked and grated as they slid down the crisping
highway.
A crow cawed loudly on the first of March, and the hens came out to find
a warm nook in the south-east corner of the barn-yard, where a heap of
sodden straw was thawing.
All in the farmhouse were rejoicing, for March had spoken in his
weakness--a few words, but clear, coherent, for the frost and fever,
both, had left his brain. When he spoke the second time it was to ask
for Chi; and Chi had tiptoed into the room in his stocking-feet and laid
his hand on March's thin, white one, gulped down the tears and the
rising sob that was choking him, and--spoke of the weather!
The next day March turned to his mother, who was sitting by the bed,
brooding him with her great love, and asked suddenly, but in a clear and
much stronger voice:
"Where 's Hazel?"
Mrs. Blossom hesitated for a moment, then spoke quietly:--"Hazel is at
home with her father for a few weeks."
March turned his face to the wall and was silent for several hours.
When he was stronger Mrs. Blossom gave him the little note Hazel had
left for him, and, with mother-tact, knowing March's reserve of nature,
went out of the room while he read it. She saw no signs of it when she
returned and asked no questions, but March's gray eyes spoke a language
for which there was but one interpretation. With his rare smile, he
held out his hand for his mother's, and clasped it closely.
Soon he was able to be up and about, and the children were again at
home. Life in the farmhouse resumed its old course--but with a
difference. Just what it was no one attempted to define. But each felt
it in his own way. March was more gentle with Budd and Cherry, more
often with his mother and Chi, more companionable for his father. Rose
was quieter, but, if possible, more loving towards all. Budd was at
times wholly disconsolate, and wasted sheets of his best Christmas
note-paper in writing letters to Hazel which were never sent.
Chi went oftener to the small house "over eastwards," where he was sure
of willing ears and sympathetic hearts when he unburdened himself in
regard to his "Lady-bird."
"Fact is," he said to Maria-Ann, as she stood with her apron over her
head watching him plough their garden plot (that was his annual
neighborly offering), "she 's left a great hole in that house, 'n' there
is n't one of us that don't know it 'n' feel it;--kind of empty like in
your heart, you know, just as your stomach feels when you 've ploughed
an acre of sidlin' ground, before breakfast--Get up, Bess,
whoa--back!--you don't hear that laugh of hers in the barn, nor out in
the field, nor up in the pasture; 'n' you don't see those great eyes
lookin' up at you when you 're harnessin', nor peekin' round the corner
of the stall to see if you 're most through milkin'. 'N' you don't hear
a fiddle makin' it lively after supper, 'n' the children ain't danced
once in the barn this spring." Chi sighed heavily.
"Don't Mr. Ford go over there pretty often?" queried Maria-Ann. "I see
him gallopin' by two or three times a week."
"Well, what if you do?" Chi answered grumpily, much to Maria-Ann's
surprise. "He can't fiddle the way Ladybird does, 'n' they all sit 'n'
jabber some kind of lingo--French, they call it, but I call it, good,
straight Canuck--'n' act as if they were at a party,--Rose, 'n' Miss
Alton, 'n' the whole of 'em. 'T ain't much company for me. I get off
to bed about dark. 'N' the worst of it is, when he isn't to our house,
they're all to his--Come around!" Chi jerked the reins, to Bess's
resentful surprise.
"They say he's payin' attention to Rose," ventured Maria-Ann, her eyes
following the furrow, which was running not quite true.
"They 're a parcel of fools," growled Chi, eyeing the furrow with a
dissatisfied air, "Rose need n't look Alan Ford's way for attention.
She can have all she wants most anywheres.--Get up, Bess! what you
backin' that way for!--'n' folks tongues can be measured by the furlong
'twixt here and Barton's."
"Well, there ain't any harm in Rose's havin' attention, Chi," said
Maria-Ann with some spirit, and ready to stand up for her sex.
"Did n't say there was," retorted Chi, in mollified tones. "There ain't
no more harm in Rose's havin' attention than in your havin' it."
"Me!" exclaimed Maria-Ann, pleasantly surprised out of her momentary
resentment. "I ain't had any chance to have any."
"Ain't you?" said Chi, busying himself with the plough preparatory to
leaving. "Well, that ain't any sign you won't have--Get along, Bess!--I
'll leave this plough here till to-morrow; I ain't drawn those last two
furrers straight, 'n' I 've got too much pride to have any man see
that--Malachi Graham, his mark.--No, sir-ee," said Chi, emphatically,
"straight or starve is my motto every time, just you remember that,
Marier-Ann Simmons."
"I will, Chi," laughed Maria-Ann, and went back to her washing, singing
joyfully to her rubbing accompaniment:--
"Come, sinners all, repent in time,
The Judgment Day is dawning;
Sun, moon, and stars to earth incline,
The trumpet sounds a warning."
Meanwhile letters were coming to every member of the family from Hazel.
As March regained his strength there came as special gifts to him, books
and magazines, and from time to time a beautiful photograph of an
old-world cathedral--Canterbury, or York; a stately castle like Warwick,
or Heidelberg; a peasant's chalet, or an English cottage to gladden his
artist soul and eye, and transform the walls of his room into
dwelling-places for his ideals.
"Mother," he said rather wistfully to Mrs. Blossom, on the first May day
as they sat together under the old Wishing-Tree, talking over the plans
for his future, "how can I go to work to make it all come true?"
He held in his hand a large photograph of the interior of Cologne
Cathedral, which Hazel had given him.
"There are many ways, dear, which are most unexpectedly opened at times.
No boy with health and perseverance has much to fear."
"But, mother, father had both, and he was n't able to go through
college. He told me all about it the other day, and how he had missed
it all through his life."
"I know, March, father failed in attaining to that which was his great
desire, but he succeeded so immeasurably in another direction, that I
think, sometimes, it must have been all for the best."
"Why, mother, father is poor now--how do you mean he has succeeded?"
"My dear boy, you are only in your seventeenth year, and I don't know
that I can make it plain to you because you _are_ young; but when your
father conquered every selfish tendency in him, put aside what he had
striven so hard for and what was just within his reach, and turned about
and did the duty that the time demanded of him;--when he took his dead
father's place as provider for the family, and, by his own exertions,
placed his mother and sisters beyond want, before he even allowed
himself to tell me he loved me, he proved himself a successful man; for
he developed, in such hard circumstances, such nobility of character,
that he is rich in love and esteem,--and that, March, and only _that_,
is true wealth."
"I see what you mean, mother, but it does n't help me to see how I 'm to
get through college, and get the training I need in my profession."
March uttered the last word with pride. "There is so much a man has to
have for that. Look at that now," he continued, holding up the
photograph; "I need all that, and that means Europe, and Europe means
money and time, and where is it all to come from?"
His mother smiled at the despairing tone. "As for time, March, you are
only in your seventeenth year. That means ten years before you can
begin to work in your profession; and as for the means--" she
hesitated--"I think it is time to tell you something I 've been keeping
and rejoicing over these last two weeks." She drew a letter from her
dress-waist and handed it to him. "Read this, dear, and tell me what
you think of it." Wondering, March took it and read:--
HAWKING VALLEY, NORTH CAROLINA,
April 15, 1897.
MY DEAR MRS. BLOSSOM,--Just a year ago to-day I sent my one child to
you, trusting the judgment of my dear friend, Doctor Heath, in a matter
which he felt concerned the future welfare of my daughter. My home has
been very lonely without her. You, as a parent, can know something of
what this separation has entailed.
It seemed wise to me, and I know you concurred in my opinion, to take
her away from the conditions, in which she has thriven so wonderfully,
while you were burdened, both in heart and hands, by such a critical
illness as your son's. The result confirms the wisdom of my action, for
March's convalescence has been slow and long; I am thankful to be
assured it is sure. The burden of an extra member in your family at
this time would, in the long run, prove too heavy for you.
I cannot tell you how I appreciate what you have done for Hazel. I have
no words to express it. She returns to me full of life and joy, with no
apparent unwillingness to take up her life again with me, which must
seem dull to her in contrast to that which she had with you. Yet I know
in her loyal little heart she belongs to you, is a part of your family
henceforth--and I am glad to know it is so, for she needs, and will
need, as a young girl, your motherly influence at all times.
I 'm not taking her away from you for good. Oh, no! That would be her
loss as well as mine; but I am testing her a little. I have said I had
no words with which adequately to express my gratitude. I am your
debtor for my child's physical well-being--for much else which I do not
find it easy to define. Will you allow me to make some compensation for
your year of devotion? I do not care what form it take, providing you
will permit me to try to discharge something of the debt--the whole can
never be repaid. Will you not let me send that splendid son of yours
through college? and give him two years of Europe afterwards? That
future profession of his has always been of great interest to me. If
the boy is too proud, as I suspect is the case, to accept the necessary
amount other than as a loan, make it plain to him that I will even yield
a point there--a pretty bad state of affairs for me as a debtor to find
myself in. If he won't do this for me--won't Rose help me out by
permitting me to aid her in cultivating that voice of hers? I know your
magnanimity, and depend upon you to help me in this.
Hazel does not know I am writing to you, or she would send loving
messages.
My kindest regards to Mr. Blossom, with hearty congratulations for
March, and all sorts of neighborly remembrances for all others of the
Lost Nation.
Sincerely your friend,
JOHN CURTIS CLYDE.
_To Mrs. Benjamin Blossom._
"Oh, mother!"
A wave of crimson surged into March's pale face, and the sensitive
nostrils quivered; then two big drops plashed down upon the letter which
he handed to his mother.
"Oh, mother! if only I could--but I can't!"
He rolled over on the soft pasture turf, face downwards, his head
resting on his arms.
"Why, March dear," said his mother, tenderly, "why can't you? I think
it 's beautiful, so does father."
A sob shook the long, thin frame. His mother laid her hand on the back
of the yellow head. "What is it, my dear boy? Can't you tell me?"
The head shook energetically beneath her hand, and muffled words issued
from the grass.
"But, March, we thought it would please you to have such an opportunity.
You have read what Mr. Clyde says--you can look upon it as a loan. I
hope you won't have any false pride in this matter--"
"'Tis n't false, mother," came forth from the grass, "and I would like
to accept his offer, if only it were n't just his."
"Why not his, March? Surely, Hazel has been like one of us--a real
little sister--" Another vigorous wagging of the yellow head arrested
his mother in the midst of her sentence.
"Hazel is n't my sister."
"Why, of course, you can't feel as near to her as to Rose, but then, you
must see how dear she has become to us all--and Mr. Clyde has put it in
such a way, that the most sensitive person could accept it without
injury to any feeling of true pride. Take time and think it over,
March. It has come upon you rather suddenly, and I have been thinking
about it for two weeks."
"It's no use to think it over." Deep tragedy now made itself audible,
as March rolled over and sat up, displaying eyes bright with excitement,
flushed cheeks, and a generally determined air of having it out with
himself.
"Well, I can't understand you, March."
"I wish you could."
His mother smiled in spite of the gravity of the situation. "Can't you
tell me? or give me some clue to this mysterious determination of
yours?"
March cast a despairing glance at his mother. "Mother, will you promise
never to tell?"
"Not even your father, March?"
"No, father, nor any one--ever, mother."
"Very well; I promise, March, for I trust you."
"Oh, mother, have n't you seen?--don't you know, that I--that I love
Hazel! And how can I take the money from her father, when I 'm going to
try to make her love me and marry me sometime, when I get through
studying, and--and--Oh, don't you see?"
And Mrs. Blossom did see--at last.
She spoke very gently, after a minute's silence, in which March's ears
burned red to their tips, and his fingers were busy digging up a tiny
strawberry-plant by the roots. "My son, I see, and I honor you for
feeling as you do; but, March, have you thought of the difference
between you and Hazel?"
"What difference, mother?"
Now Mary Blossom was not a worldly woman, neither was she a woman of the
world--and she found it difficult to answer.
"You know how Hazel is placed in life, although you do not know with
what luxury she is surrounded in her home. She has beauty, a large
circle of friends, immense wealth. There will be many who will seek her
hand in four years' time, for she has a wonderful charm of her own, for
all who come close to her.--Is it worth while to attempt, even, to win
this little daughter of the rich? You, a poor boy, with his way to
make?"
"But, mother,"--there was strong protest in the voice--"she did n't have
any beauty till she came up here to us--and if she _was_ a rich girl,
she was n't a healthy one till she lived up here, and I don't see the
good of money and a lot of things, if you 're sick, and homely, too."
March waxed eloquent in his desire to convince his mother of the justice
of his cause. "And if she hadn't come up here she would n't have got
well, and then she would n't have grown so beautiful--and she _is_
beautiful, mother." (Mrs. Blossom nodded assent.) "And I don't see why
I have n't just as much right to try to make her love me as any other
fellow. You 've told us children, dozens of times, it's just character
that counts, and not money, and if I try as hard as I can to keep
straight and be a good man like father, I don't see why things would n't
be all right in the end."
Mrs. Blossom was silenced,--"hoist with her own petard." "How can I
destroy this lovely, young ideal? I dare not," was her thought. But
aloud, she said:--"You 're right, March. Nothing but character counts.
Make yourself worthy of this little love of yours. We 'll keep this in
our own hearts, and when you are tempted to wrong-doing--and there are
fearful temptations for every young man to meet, March,--temptations of
which you can form no conception here in the shelter of your home--just
remember this little talk of ours, and keep yourself unspotted by the
world just by the thought of this dear girl whom you hope some day to
win. There is nothing, March, that will keep a young man in the right
way like his love for just 'the one girl in the world'--if only she be
worthy of his love. And I think Hazel will be--even of you."
March flung his arms about her neck and kissed her heartily:
"Dear, little Mother Blossom, I 'll try, and even if I fail, just the
thought of such a glorious-filorious mother that does n't laugh at a
fellow--I was afraid you would, though,--will keep me straight enough.
Why, Mother Blossom! I 'd be ashamed to look you in the eyes, if I did a
down-right mean thing."
His mother laughed through her tears. "I wonder if many mothers get
such a compliment? Come, dear, the dew is beginning to fall--it's been
such a heavenly day, I had forgotten it is early spring. Do you feel
chilly?"
"Not I," laughed March, and proceeded to relieve his feelings after his
favorite method--by turning a double-back somersault down the pasture
slope.
As Mrs. Blossom leaned over to kiss tired, sleepy Budd that night, she
thought complacently to herself:--
"Well, thank fortune, here 's one who is heart-free," and laughed softly
to herself. Chi had not told her of Budd's proposal.
"Wilkins, tell Miss Hazel to come down into the library when she is
dressed for dinner."
"Yes, Marse Clyde." Wilkins sprang upstairs two steps at a time, and,
knocking at Hazel's door, delivered his message.
"Tell papa I 'm going to dress early, for I 've some things to attend to
about the table, Wilkins."
"Fo' sho', Miss Hazel," said Wilkins, with a broad smile of delighted
surprise.
"And tell Mrs. Scott I 'll choose the service, if she will take out the
linen, and I have ordered the flowers. Papa said I might."
Wilkins skipped downstairs, delivered his message to the amazed
housekeeper, and then flew into the kitchen to impart his news to the
cook, his confidante and co-worker for years in the Clyde household.
Minna-Lu was preparing a confection, and giving her whole soul to the
making, when Wilkins made his appearance. She looked up grimly, the
ebony of her countenance shining beneath the immaculate white of her
turban:--
"Wa' fo' yo' hyar?"
Wilkins slapped both knees with the palms of his hands, and bent nearly
double with noiseless laughter; then, straightening himself, approached
Minna-Lu with boldness, despite the repelling wave of the cream-whip
that she held suspended over the bowl, and confided to her the change of
regime, to her edification and delight.
She put down the bowl and whip, stemmed her fists on her broad hips, and
gurgled long and low. "'F little missus done take rale hol' er de
reins, dere ain't no kin' er show fo' sech po' trash." She indicated
with an upward movement of her thumb the upper regions where the
housekeeper was supposed to be.
"When I wan's a missus, I wan's quality folks, an' little missus do take
de cake. Nebber see sech er chile. Dem great, shinin' eyes, lookin' at
yo' out o' all de do's, an' dat laff soun'in' jes' like de ol' mocker
dat nebber knowed nuffin' 'bout bedtime--yo' recollecks?" Wilkins
nodded emphatically, but was unprepared for Minna-Lu's next move:--
"Git out o' hyar, yo' good-fo'-nuffin' niggah. Huccome yo' stan'in'
roun' wif yo' legs stiffer 'n de whites er dese yer eggs, an' yo' jaw
goin' like de egg-beatah, an' de comp'ny comin' at rale sharp eight."
Minna-Lu took up her bowl, and Wilkins beat a hasty retreat.
It was a warm first of May, and just about the hour when March and his
mother were leaving the Wishing-Tree, that Hazel appeared in the
dining-room. Wilkins gazed at her in a species of adoration. Her
orders appeared to him revolutionary, but he obeyed them implicitly and
unhesitatingly.
"Take off the candelabra, Wilkins, it is too warm to-night to have them
on; besides, people don't have a nice time talking when they have to
peek around them to get a glimpse of the people they 're talking to."
Wilkins whisked off the candelabra as if they had been made of
thistledown.
"Dat's so, fo' sho', Miss Hazel. I see de folks doan' talk when dey
ain' comf'ble; but I nebber tink ob de can'les."
"When it's dark you can light all the sconces. I want you to use the
pale green, Bohemian dinner set to-night; and I want just as little
silver as possible."
Wilkins looked blank, and Hazel laughed. "Oh, we 'll make it up with
some cut glass, I 'll manage it. I want the table to look cool and
simple, just to-night."
Cool and simple. Wilkins failed to comprehend it, but such was his
faith in "little Missy," that he carried out her orders to the letter,
and the result was, according to Mrs. Fenlick, "a dream of beauty."
When she had made her preparations to her entire satisfaction, as well
as Wilkins's, and the latter had called Minna-Lu from her culinary
tug-of-war to witness "little Missy's" triumph, Hazel ran into the
library.
Her father looked at her in amazement. Could this radiant, young girl
be the same Hazel of a year ago? They had gone directly to North
Carolina when Hazel had left Mount Hunger, and had been at home but two
days. This little dinner was given to Mr. Clyde's intimate friends as an
informal celebration and recognition of his daughter's return to the New
York house.
Now, as she ran into the room and linked her arm in his, her father
looked down upon her with such evident pride and love, that Hazel
laughed joyfully, kid her cheek against his coat-sleeve and patted his
hand.
"Do I look nice, Papa Clyde?"
"Nice! that's no word for it, Birdie." And thereupon he took her in his
arms and gave her such a hug and a kiss, that the pretty dress must have
suffered if it had not been made of the softest of white China-silk.
"Oh, my flowers! you 'll crush them!" she cried, shielding with both
hands a bunch of flowers at her belt.
"Where did you get all this--this style, daughter mine? It's--why, you
're nothing but a little girl, but it's 'chic.'"
Hazel enjoyed her father's admiration to the full. She drew herself up,
straight and tall, graceful and slender--her head was already above his
shoulder--exclaiming:--
"Little girl! Well, your little girl designed this gown herself. I
would n't have any fuss or frills about it; it's just plain and full and
soft and clingy, and this sash of soft silk--is n't it a pretty, pale
green?--feel--" She caught up a handful of the delicate fabric and
crushed it in her hand, then smoothed it again, and it showed no
wrinkles. "I 've put it on to match the dinner. I 've had it all my
own way--Wilkins did just as I said--and it's all cool and green and
springy. You 'll see."
"Where did you get these flowers?" Mr. Clyde touched the bunch of
arbutus, that showed so delicately pink and white against the white of
her dress and the green of her sash.
A wave of beautiful color shot up to the roots of the little crinkles of
chestnut hair on her temples; she touched the blossoms caressingly. "I
wrote March about this dinner-party, and how it was the first at which I
had been hostess, and he wrote back and wanted to know what I was going
to wear, and I told him--and this morning these lovely things came by
mail all done up in cotton wool in a tin cracker-box, the kind Chi uses
to put his worm-bait in, when he goes fishing. Are n't they lovely? And
was n't March lovely to think of them, papa?"
"They are n't half as lovely as you are," said Mr. Clyde, earnestly,
replying to half of her question only. "You are my unspoiled
Hazel-blossom--" Then a sudden, intrusive thought caught and arrested
his words. "Hazel Blossom," he repeated to himself, looking at her
unconscious face as he uttered the last word, "Good heavens! Could such
a thing be?"
"De Cun'le an' Mrs. Fenlick," announced Wilkins.
And when they were all seated at the table--the Colonel and Mrs.
Fenlick, Doctor and Mrs. Heath, Aunt Carrie and Uncle Jo, the Masons and
the Pearsells--with no candelabra to interfere with the merry speech and
glances, with the light from the candles in the sconces shining softly
on the exquisite napery, on the low bed of white tulips in the centre
and the grace of the pale, green porcelain, with the tall Bohemian
Romer-glasses before the plates--what wonder that Mrs. Fenlick
pronounced it a "dream of beauty"?
When their guests had gone, Mr. Clyde turned to Hazel:--"I shall be glad
to open the Newport cottage again, Birdie, with such a little hostess to
help me entertain."
"The Newport house, papa!" Hazel exclaimed, a distinct note of
disappointment sounding in her voice.
"Why not, dear? I thought of getting down there by the tenth; in fact,
gave my orders to Mrs. Scott to begin packing to-morrow."
Hazel was evidently struggling with herself. She fingered the arbutus
nervously; took them out of her belt; inhaled their fragrance. Then she
looked up with a smile, although the corners of her mouth drooped and
trembled a little:--
"Why, of course, why not, papa? It's so much pleasanter there in May,
than when everybody is down for the summer."
Her father sat down in an easy-chair, put an arm around his daughter,
and drew her down to a seat on the arm of the chair.
"Now, Hazel, I want you to tell me all about it. Don't you want to go?"
"Yes, if you 're there, papa, but--" she turned suddenly and her arm
stole around his neck--"don't leave me there alone, papa, please don't."
"Leave you--I? Why what do you mean, dear?"
"Oh, it is so lonesome when you are away, papa, when you go off yachting
with the Colonel--and the house is so big, and there 's nobody to talk
to and say good-night to--and--and, oh, dear!" The tears began to come,
but she struggled bravely for a few minutes.
"Why, little girl, you have never told me you were lonesome without me:
indeed, you have never shown any sign of it, or of wanting me around
much. I never thought--why, Hazel." Down went the curly head on his
shoulder, and the sobs grew loud and frequent.
"There, there, Birdie," he said soothingly, stroking her head, "you 're
all tired out; this party has been too much for you--"
An energetic, protesting head-shake was followed by broken
sentences--"It was n't that--I 'm not tired--you don't know, papa--I
didn't know--know I was lonesome, and that I was--I think I was
homesick--dreadfully--but Barbara Frietchie, you know--I had to be
brave--and, I have tried not to show it to make you feel unhappy--and I
love you so! but, oh, dear! I miss them so dreadfully, and I hoped--I
was a member of the N.B.--B.O.--O., Oh--dear me,--Society, and the
by-law says--I mean March read it--Oh, papa!"
"Well, well, there, there, dear," said the somewhat mystified father,
bending all his efforts to soothe this evidently perturbed spirit, "why
did n't you tell me before?"
"Because I was Barbara Frietchie."
"Now, Hazel, sit up and look me in the face and tell me what you mean.
I supposed I was holding Hazel Clyde in my arms and not old Barbara
Frietchie. Please explain."
"I thought I wrote you, papa," Hazel could not help smiling through her
tears, for it did strike her as rather funny about papa's holding the
patriotic, old lady in his arms.
"Well, you did n't tell me that." So Hazel explained.
Mr. Clyde nodded approval. "Very good, I approve of the N.B.B.O.O.
Society, and of the present Barbara Frietchie's heroism--but no more of
it is called for. You see, I fully intended you should pay your
friends--my friends--a visit this summer, but I thought it would be much
better later in the season when Mrs. Blossom would be rested from the
fatigue of March's illness--"
"Oh, papa!" A squeeze effectually impeded further utterance. "I don't
care how soon we go to Newport, or anywhere--of course, if _you_ are
with me--as long as I can go to Mount Hunger sometime this summer. And,
besides," she added eagerly, "we planned next winter's visit from Rose,
didn't we?"
"I should rather think we did. We shall be very proud of our beautiful
friend, Rose, and delighted to have our friends meet her, shan't we?"
Another squeeze precluded, for the moment, articulate speech.
"Yes," Hazel cried, enthusiastically, "we 'll take her to concerts and
operas--just think, papa, with that lovely voice she has never heard a
concert!--and we 'll take her to the theatre and--"
"And," her father went on, growing enthusiastic himself at the prospect,
for he was the soul of hospitality, "and we 'll give her a dainty dinner
or two, and possibly a little dance--few and early, you know--"
"Oh--ee!" cried Hazel, forgetting her woe, "and Mrs. Heath will give a
lunch-party for her, and, perhaps, Aunt Carrie a tea, and Mrs. Fenlick a
reception--"
"Heavens!" interrupted her father, "you 'll kill her with kindness--that
fresh, wild rose can't stand all that--"
"Oh, yes, she can, papa; she can stand that just as well as I stood
going up there where everything was so different."
"True," said Mr. Clyde, thoughtfully, "it was different."
"Oh, it was, papa! I never had to go to bed alone. Mrs. Blossom always
came to say good-night and to kiss me, and to--to--"
"To what?" asked her father.
"You won't mind if I tell you?" Hazel asked, half-shyly.
"Mind! I should say not; I should mind if you did n't tell me."
"--to say 'Our Father' with me, papa; you know no one ever said it with
me before, and it's--it's such a comfy time to feel sorry and talk over
what you 've done wrong; and it's _that_ I miss so."
"I don't blame you, Birdie," said her father, quietly. "But now see how
late it is!"--he pointed to the clock--"Eleven! This will never do for
a _debutante_. Good-night, darling. Sweet dreams of Rose and the
N.B.B.O.O. Society."
"Good-night, Papa Clyde; Doctor Heath says you are the most splendid
fellow in the world--but I know you are the dearest father in the world;
good-night, I 've had a lovely party."
She ran upstairs, but, in a moment, her father heard her tripping down
again. Her head parted the portieres. "I just came back to tell you,
that this kind of a talk we 've had is just as good as the Mount Hunger
bedtime-talks. I shan't be homesick any more." And away she ran.
Now John Curtis Clyde was a pew-owner--as had been his father and
grandfather before him--in one of the Fifth Avenue churches, and duly
made his appearance in that pew every Sunday morning. He entered, too,
into the service with hearty voice, and made his responses without, the
while, giving undue thought to the world. But when he had said "Our
Father" with his little daughter by his side, he had supposed his duty
performed to the extent of his needs--of another's, his child's, he gave
no thought.
To-night, however, as he sat in the easy-chair where Hazel had left him,
it began to dawn upon him slowly that his little daughter, during her
fourteen years, might have had other needs, for which he had not
provided, nor, perhaps, with all his riches was capable of providing.
The clock chimed twelve,--one,--two--; John Clyde, with a sigh, rose and
went up to bed--a wiser and a better man.