THE TURN OF THE WHEEL.
Sallie Marks had, indeed, received a royal welcome from her friends.
They were as glad to see her as if she had just returned from a long
voyage. Now they poked the fire and made fresh tea and petted and
caressed her until her pale, near-sighted eyes were quite watery and she
was obliged to wipe the moisture from her glasses.
"We'll make out the winter here, girls," she assured them. "It may take
a week to get the house in order, but we can put up with a little
discomfort to have O'Reilly's to ourselves. If they would only strip off
this bilious paper and lay a few mattings! The plumbing is better than
it was at Queen's, and the heating arrangements, too."
The room was really very comfortable what with the fire in the grate
and the heat pouring up the register.
"It was a defective flue that made old Queen's go under," observed
Katherine sadly, as if she were speaking of a dear friend who had lately
passed into another life. "I am afraid her heating apparatus was a
little second class."
"Speak no evil of the dead," admonished her sister Edith.
"_Requiescat in pace_," said Sallie in a solemn voice.
"_La reine est morte; vive la reine_," said Margaret.
"After all, we are really 'Queen's'" said Judy, "so let's be as happy as
we can. Where are those letters, Sallie?"
Sallie unbuttoned the last layer of sweater and drew out a pile of mail
which she distributed, calling the name of each girl.
"Molly Brown," she called, handing Molly a letter from Kentucky.
"Miss Sen, a letter from the Land of the Rising Sun. I hope it will rise
warmer there than it set here this evening. Miss Jessie Lynch, a letter
addressed in the handwriting of a male. Ahem! Miss Lynch, another letter
in the same handwriting of presumably the same male."
Much laughter among those not already absorbed in letters.
"Miss Margaret Wakefield, an official document from the capital of these
United States of America. Miss Julia S. Kean, a parental epistle which
no doubt contains other things. Miss Molly Brown, who appears to be
secretly purchasing a farm."
Sallie handed Molly a long envelope, while the others snatched their
letters and turned away. Only Nance had received no mail that day; yet,
more than any girl there, she enjoyed corresponding and sent off weekly
voluminous letters to her father, her only correspondent except Andy
McLean, who was not yet considered strong enough to write letters.
It was with something very near to envy that she watched the faces of
her friends as they waded through long family letters with an
occasional laugh or comment:
"It's been ten below at home."
"Father forgot to put in my check. He's getting very thoughtless."
"My wandering parents are going to Florida. They can't stand the cold in
New York."
"Here's a state of things," exclaimed Edith, "another book bill for
books that were burned. Isn't that the limit?"
"Yes, and you'll borrow from me again," said Katherine. "And I shall
refuse to lend you another cent. You are getting entirely too crazy
about buying books."
Nobody took any notice of this sisterly dialogue which went on
continuously and never had any real meaning, because in the end
Katherine always paid her sister's debts.
Nance's gaze shifted to Molly, who might have been turned into a graven
image, so still was she sitting. She had not opened the letter from
home, but the long envelope from the real estate company lay at her
feet. In one hand she held a typewritten letter and in the other a long
blue slip of paper which, beyond a doubt, was a check. Picking up the
envelope, Molly gave a covert glance around the absorbed circle and
slipped the check inside. Then she noticed Nance gazing at her
curiously. She smiled, and then began to laugh so joyously that
everybody stopped reading and regarded her almost anxiously. There was a
peculiar ring of excitement in her voice.
"Molly, hasn't something awfully nice happened to you?" asked Nance.
"Why, yes," she answered, "to tell the truth, there has."
"What is it? What is it?" cried the chorus of voices.
Molly hesitated and blushed, and laughed again.
"I don't think you would believe it if I were to tell you," she said.
"It's too absurd. I can hardly believe it myself, even after reading the
letter and seeing the--the----"
"The what, Molly?" demanded Judy, beside herself with curiosity.
Molly laughed again.
"I'm so happy," she cried. "It's made me warm all over. The temperature
has risen ten degrees."
"Molly Brown, will you explain yourself? Can't you see we are
palpitating to know what it is?" cried Judy.
"I've won a prize," exclaimed Molly. "I've won a prize. Can't you see
what it means to me? I needed the money and it came. A perfect windfall.
Oh, isn't this world a delightful place? I don't mind the cold weather
and O'Reilly's. I'm so happy. I prayed for rain and carried my umbrella.
Oh, I'm so happy, happy, happy!"
"Has the child gone daffy?" said Sallie Marks, while Judy seized the
envelope and drew out a check for two hundred dollars made out in the
name of "Mary C. W. Brown." Then she opened the letter and read aloud:
"'Dear Madam:
It gives us much pleasure to inform you that among several
hundred contestants you have won the prize of $200, offered by
this company for the best advertisement in prose or verse for
one of our mountain chalets. Your poem will occupy the first
page in an elaborate booklet now under way and we hope will
attract many customers. We offer you our congratulations and
good wishes for other literary successes and enclose the check
herewith.
Very cordially yours, etc., etc.'"
"Am I sleeping or waking?" cried Molly. "This, at the end of this awful
day! Isn't it wonderful?"
The reunited friends made so much noise over this triumph of their
favorite that Mrs. Markham, superintending the setting up of beds and
arranging of rooms with Mrs. O'Reilly, smilingly observed:
"Dear me, they don't seem to take their misfortune much to heart, do
they?"
"They're that glad to get in out of the cold, ma'am, and warm themselves
with some tea. It's thawed them out, I expect, the poor young things.
They was half froze when they come an hour ago."
"But where's the poem, Molly," cried Judy, when the racket had
subsided. "We must see the poem."
"It's locked in my trunk."
"Get it out, get it out," they ordered, and she had no peace until she
unlocked the trunk and, rummaging in her portfolio, found the original
manuscript of "The Chalet of the West Wind."
"I can't see why it won the prize," she said. "I hadn't even the shadow
of a hope when I sent it. It's not a bit like an ad."
"It was certainly what they wanted," said Sallie. "They didn't have to
give you the prize, seeing that they had several hundred to choose from.
But read it, because I'm in a fever of curiosity to hear it."
In the meantime, Judy had lit the gas, and taking Molly by the
shoulders, pushed her into a chair under the light.
"I'm most awfully embarrassed," announced Molly, "but here goes," and
she read the following verses:
The Chalet of the West Wind.
"Wind of the West, Wind of the West,
Breathe on my little chalet.
Blow over summer fields,
Bring all their perfume yields,
Lily and clover and hay.
"Bring all the joys of spring,
Soft-kissing zephyrs bring,
Peace of the mountains and hills,
Waken the columbine,
Stir the sweet breath of pine,
Hasten the late daffodils.
"Gentle Wind from the Isles of the Blest,
Breathe on my little chalet,
Fill it with music and laughter and rest;
Fill it with love and with dreams that are best;
Breathe on it softly, sweet Wind of the West,
Breathe on my little chalet."
There was certainly nothing very remarkable about the little song, and
yet it had caught the eye of the real estate men as having a certain
quality which would attract people to that sunny mountainside whereon
were perched the quaint Swiss chalets they desired to sell. There was a
subtle suggestion to the buyer that he might find rest and happiness in
this peaceful home. The piney air, the flowers and the sunshine had all
been poetically but quite truthfully described. With a picture of the
"Chalet of the West Wind" on the opposite page, people of discerning
tastes, looking for summer homes, would surely be attracted.
"How ever did you happen to write it, Molly?" they asked her after
re-reading the poem and admiring it with friendly loyalty. "Have you
ever been to the mountains?"
"No," she answered, "I actually never have. But something in me that
wasn't me wrote the verses. They just seemed to come, first the meter
and then, gradually, the lines. I can't explain it. I had some bad news
and was afraid I would have to leave college and then the poem came.
That was all. Two hundred dollars," she added, looking at the check.
"It seems too good to be true. What must I do with it?"
"Put it in the Wellington Bank to-morrow morning," answered Margaret
promptly.
Between them, Mrs. Markham and Mrs. O'Reilly prepared a very good dinner
for the girls that night, and instead of being a funeral feast it was
changed into a jolly banquet. The old Queen's dinner table was restored
and there was as much gay, humorous conversation as there ever had been
in the brown shingled house now reduced to a heap of ashes.
Paperhangers and painters did go into the new college house on the
following Monday morning and in less than ten days the dingy rooms were
transformed by white woodwork and light paper. If the Queen's girls felt
a little out of it at first, not being on the campus, they were too
proud to admit it, and nobody ever heard a complaint from them. They had
a great many visitors at O'Reilly's. Crowds of their friends came down
to drink tea or spend the evening. The President herself called one
morning and had a look at the place.
In the meantime Molly had called at Miss Walker's office and informed
her that she had come into a little money unexpectedly and, with the
money she was earning, she would be able to pay her own board at
O'Reilly's for the rest of the winter. It was only by chance that Miss
Walker learned how Molly had earned this sum of money.
"Think of the child's modesty in keeping the secret from me," she said
to Miss Pomeroy. "Have you seen the poem that won the prize, by the
way?"
"Why, yes," answered that critical individual. "It's a sweet little
thing and I suppose struck the exact note they wanted, but I assure you
it's nothing wonderful."