ANOTHER OPPORTUNITY
In the Dale home, dinner was served in the middle of the day on Sunday,
and Serena caused the meal to partake of the nature of a banquet.
Abstemious in week day luncheons, Obadiah succumbed to the flesh pots
on the seventh day and thereafter relapsed into slumber during digestion
even as a boa-constrictor.
He was sleeping off his Sunday engorgement in a porch chair. His head
drooped awkwardly and he had slumped into his best clothes, while from
time to time he choked and coughed and made weird noises. All about him
lay the peace of a summer Sabbath broken only by the low hum of the bees
gathering sweetness from the blooming honeysuckle vine near by. Only
the energetic resisted the combined attacks of plenteousness and the
somnolent afternoon.
Virginia had not surrendered to the soporific tendencies of the hour.
She had conversed with her father until made aware that, mentally
speaking, he was no longer with her. Such knowledge is discouraging even
to the most enthusiastic of female dialogists, and so, as the minutes
passed, her words lost force and her sentences fire. Compelled to seek
other fields of interest, the girl strolled aimlessly about the lawn
until she came to the gate. The street looked cool and inviting beneath
its arching elms and she moved down it slowly. She had almost reached
the corner when a woman's voice sounded from an awning shaded porch,
"Virginia, come here. Don't you pass my house without stopping." It
was Mrs. Henderson.
"Yes, Hennie, I'm coming. I was sure that you were taking a nap."
The girl turned up a walk, bordered with blooming rose bushes, towards
an old-fashioned house. "You are as busy as usual, I suppose?" she
continued, after she had been affectionately greeted by her hostess.
Mrs. Henderson nodded. No other woman in South Ridgefield gave as much
of her time and, proportionately, of her wealth to help others as did
this strangely constituted widow. Hers was a frank nature, given to the
expression of its views without regard to time or place. She had the
faculty of so phrasing her remarks that they cut their victim cruelly
and convulsed her hearers. So, respected for her innate goodness, and
feared for her sharp tongue, Mrs. Henderson had many acquaintances
but few friends. She was judged in the light of a magazine of high
explosives, dangerous to those near, but likely to blow up if left
without attention. Many were her friends because they were afraid not
to be, but there were those who appreciated her character. Strangely,
these were they who had waged mighty battles with her, to emerge from
strife her devoted adherents. Having felt her sting, they dubbed her
harmless as a dove, delighting in her intimate companionship. Such a one
had been Virginia's mother.
But Obadiah had no place in this category. Soon after the death of his
wife, Mrs. Henderson had discovered that a girl who worked in his mill
was sick and in dire want. She asked him to assist the sufferer, but,
to her surprise, the mill owner refused. Thereupon, Mrs. Henderson,
without mincing words, expressed her opinion of him. Also, she repeated
her remarks to a friend.
Obadiah's legs were thin, and under stress of excitement he pitched
his voice high. When it became known that Mrs. Henderson had likened the
mill owner, to his face, to a mosquito sucking blood from his employees,
the whole town laughed. The tale spread to his mill, during a time of
labor unrest, and a cartoon portraying the manufacturer as a mosquito
hovering about emaciated workers was circulated.
A strike followed in which the employees were successful and Obadiah
never forgave Mrs. Henderson for giving a weapon to his opponents.
Yet, strangely enough, he had never attempted to interfere with her
friendship for his daughter. Possibly, knowing the widow, he feared that
she would openly defy him, and, abetted by Serena, carry the war into his
own house, to the greater enjoyment of his fellow townsmen.
As Mrs. Henderson welcomed Virginia, she was thinking of other things
than Obadiah. She was filled with amusement and gave vent to laughter.
"Dearie, how on earth did you get mixed up with that minstrel parade? I
never dreamed that my little girl would startle this town." Again the
widow gave way to merriment. She was thinking of a group of women she
had caught discussing with great unkindness the outcome of the girl's
efforts to make the pickaninnies happy. Hennie's championship of her
favorite had been unusually vigorous, and the endeavors of the critics
to reverse themselves had resembled a stampede.
"We had nothing to do with the parade," Virginia told her. "We
followed it so that the orphans might enjoy the music. As we had nearly
frightened them out of their wits, I took them for a ride to make up."
"I heard how you came to take the orphans for a ride. I could understand
that, but the minstrel part puzzled me," Mrs. Henderson's amusement
faded into seriousness. "That ride idea is a splendid one. It would
add so much to the happiness of those children." She continued, "I
have been on the Board of that Home for years. There are so many
things to be done over there and so little to do with. No one is
particularly interested in the place. We must find some way, though,
to arrange rides for those orphans now that you have started things
going."
Virginia was instantly fired with great enthusiasm. "I'll take them
out each week, myself," she promised.
Mrs. Henderson smiled. "We can't allow you to continue to excite too
much interest in this town."
The girl disregarded the objection. "But I started it, Hennie."
"That is very true, but you can't expect your father to let you use
his fine car for those children. Anyway, it is not necessary to bother
about that, because it is entirely too small. We need a truck. Something
in which movable seats can be placed."
"Like those at the mill? Why not ask Daddy for one of them?" suggested
Virginia.
"They would be the very thing," Mrs. Henderson admitted, but she shook
her head hopelessly. "Your father would never let you have one of them.
We must look elsewhere."
"Oh, yes, he will, Hennie," Virginia assured her with great confidence.
The widow's doubting eye moved the girl to remonstrate, "You don't
know him at all. I think that it is the strangest thing, that you have
been my father's neighbor all of these years and don't understand him
better."
Mrs. Henderson displayed sudden stern-eyed interest in a flower bed upon
her lawn, and the toe of her shoe softly tapped the floor of the porch.
The girl leaned towards the older woman, her face aglow with pride
and admiration, as she searched for some acknowledgment of her words.
"Daddy is so noble and so good," she explained in a voice modulated by
tenderness. "He spends all of his time thinking about other people."
The lines of Mrs. Henderson's mouth relaxed, and the tempo of the
tapping toe slowed. Her eyes twinkled merrily.
"Isn't it wonderful, Hennie?" and Virginia looked up to a face for a
moment puzzled.
"Very wonderful, child," responded the widow, and Virginia never
dreamed that there was a delicate note of sarcasm in the voice. Leaning
forward, Mrs. Henderson clasped the girl's hand. "Your father is a
lucky man to have such love and affection," she said, and then as
though thinking aloud, she murmured, "I hope that he appreciates it."
After a pause she returned to the subject of the orphans with great
vigor. "Some one in this town must loan us a truck. That is all there is
about it."
"Let Daddy do it. He will love to."
The hopeful enthusiasm of the girl was lost upon the older woman. "Well,
it will do no harm to give him the opportunity," she conceded dryly;
"but I wouldn't count on it too much if I were you." Suddenly, she
remembered something. "Dear me, I almost forgot it. I must run over to
the Lucinda Home a minute. You come along, dear," she urged.
"Hennie, I can't. I haven't a hat. I am not dressed to go out."
Mrs. Henderson smiled. "It doesn't make any difference what you wear
over there. Most of the old ladies are so nearly blind that they can't
tell what you have on."
So Virginia agreed to go, and, as the distance to the institution was
short, in a few minutes they entered the grounds.
The Lucinda Home for Aged Women occupied a large brick building. A
triple-decked porch, supported by posts and brackets of ornamental iron
work covered the entire front of the edifice and afforded delightful
resting places from which to view the beautiful grounds.
The two women ascended the steps to the lower porch. On either side of
the entrance stretched a line of chairs occupied by old ladies. They
rocked and fanned and stared across the grounds with dulled, unseeing
eyes, as if watching and waiting for something.
The afternoon light flashed against the spectacles. It brought out the
snow of the moving heads. It showed the deep carved lines of age and it
disclosed the hands, knotted and toil worn.
Once these faces were soft and full; these eyes snapped with health and
joy. Love showered its kisses. The world showed wondrously beautiful
in the tender light of romance and the voice of hope rang clear and
strong. Came babies for these hands to fondle and caress, and tiny
forms to be upheld as little feet struggled in first steps upon the
rough and hilly path. Noble deeds of unselfishness gleamed in the
shadowed lives of these women as they battled with the adversities
which all who live must face. Slowly their beauty faded; their eyes
no longer sparkled; their hands were red and hard. Little ones grew
into men and women and went away, filled with hope and proud in their
strength, leaving loneliness behind. Through the years, a shadow,
almost indiscernible to youthful eyes, drew ever closer. One by one,
they had seen friends and loved ones pass behind the black veil, until
they were alone in a world, cold, loveless, without hope, waiting----
Waiting. Yes, waiting--slowly rocking and fanning--living anew the past,
and peering out into the sunshine as if they sought with their poor eyes
to glimpse the approach of that enfolding shadow of mystery.
The visitors paused for a moment at the entrance, sobered by the tragedy
of age. Near them, an old woman became suddenly active. The sweep of her
chair increased as she glanced at Virginia. She stopped and whispered to
her neighbor.
This aged one started, as if awakened from slumber, and she, too,
inspected the girl. Then, she placed her lips by the ear of her deaf
companion and in a shrill voice of great carrying power, cried, "Powder
makes her look pale. They all use it nowadays." She stopped for breath
and screamed, "Her dress is too short. Her mother ought to have better
sense than to let her run around that way."
Luckily for the embarrassed girl, at this moment Mrs. Henderson led her
into the reception room and left her to regain her composure while she
transacted her business with the matron in an adjoining room.
The remarkable quiet which reigned in this home of age oppressed
Virginia, so that when Mrs. Henderson returned with the matron, she
cried, impulsively, "Oh, Hennie, I am glad that you are back. This
place is so still that it is lonesome."
Mrs. Henderson turned to Mrs. Smith, the matron. "That is what I have
always said," she argued. "The old ladies like it quiet, but we overdo
it here. The place is a grave. We should have more entertainment." She
looked questioningly at the girl. "What do you think should be done,
child?"
Virginia's blue eyes were very serious as she answered, "I hardly
know--almost anything which would make it happier. It needs something
to stir it up," she ended impulsively.
The older woman laughed and Mrs. Henderson put her arm about the girl's
waist, and suggested, "You have nothing on your hands, child. Why can't
you arrange some sort of an entertainment for these elderly women?"
"Oh, I couldn't," she demurred shyly.
"Certainly you can, you are quite old enough to undertake the task of
making these old people happier for an afternoon."
Into the girl's mind came a remembrance of her birthday gift. "I will
be glad to do it, Hennie," she agreed with great seriousness.
They paused at Mrs. Henderson's gate as they returned from the Lucinda
Home. "Won't you come in, dear?" urged the older woman.
The girl, dreamily engaged in planning marvelous but impossible
entertainments for the stirring up of the old ladies, did not hear.
"Come and have tea with a solitary somebody?" the widow begged the
girl wistfully. "You think that the Lucinda Home is lonesome, but
don't forget that an old lady who loved your mother and who loves
you is lonesome, too."
"Dearest Hennie, you haven't the slightest idea of what loneliness
is." Virginia smiled sweetly at the older woman and kissed her. "I
would enjoy taking tea with you but I must not forget my father. Probably
all afternoon he has been making plans to help the people who work in his
mill. I think he is so like my mother--always trying to make other people
happier. You loved her, Hennie, and you know him. I want you to help me
to be unselfish like them."
During this recital, Mrs. Henderson underwent a severe test in
self-repression, the high praise of Obadiah's disinterestedness
nearly causing severe internal injury. There was yet an ominous flash
in her eye as she bade the girl farewell.
Virginia found her father awaiting her. His digestive organs were
protesting by certain unpleasant twinges, against the extra work he had
forced upon them.
"Where have you been?" he demanded of her sharply.
She dropped into the chair by his side. "At Mrs. Henderson's, Daddy."
"You left me alone," he complained.
"You went to sleep and I was so lonesome, Daddy dear."
"That makes no difference. You should not have left me. You have the
week days to yourself. I ought to have your Sundays."
"Oh, I am sorry that I was so thoughtless," Virginia reproached
herself, with a suspicion of tears in her eyes.
"Yes, you were thoughtless," Obadiah grumbled. "You must learn to
think of others. Don't get teary. That always disturbs me."
Virginia was engaged in a battle to keep back her tears when the notes of
a ragtime melody resounded through the calm of the Sabbath evening. Ike
approached. The gorgeousness of his apparel eliminated every variety of
lily, except the tiger, from consideration. His suit was of electric
blue. His shirt was white, broadly striped with royal purple, and it
peeped modestly from beneath a tie of crimson. His hat was straw,
decorated with a sash of more tints than the bow of promise.
Ike was happy. He had loitered through the afternoon before the meeting
house of his faith, impressing the brethren and the sisters with the
magnificence of his attire. He deemed it, socially speaking, to have
been a perfect day.
It was now his intention to partake of refreshment before returning
again into the shadow of the sacred edifice, not then, however, to give
pleasure to the faithful in general, but rather for the special and
particular delight of an amber hued maiden who at the moment held his
flitting fancy.
Filled with pleasant anticipations and in cadence with his melody, Ike
approached the house.
Obadiah arose hastily as the sweet tones struck his ear and awaited the
arrival of the musical one at the edge of the porch.
At the sight of the gaunt form of the manufacturer, a dulcet timbre
departed from Ike's performance and as he approached, the volume of
sound diminished in proportion to the square of the distance. Opposite
the mill owner it ceased.
"Good evening Misto Dale." The voice was humbly courteous.
Disdaining the kindly salutation of his hireling, Obadiah made outcry.
"I want the car. Get the car," he commanded.
Ike halted.
These were portentous words. The Dale car was not often used on the
seventh day. Ike himself was opposed to the Sunday riding habit.
Assuming a confidential attitude towards his employer as if imparting
a secret of moment, he intimated, "Ah ain' got no confidence in dat
lef' han' hin' tiah, Misto Dale, a tall."
Obadiah glared at the tasty garb of his minion with disgust, and flew
into a rage. "I pay you to put confidence in that tire," he bleated.
"Yas'r, yas'r," Ike surrendered hurriedly. "Ah gwine pump er li'l
aiah in dat tiah. Dat fix 'im."
When Ike, shorn of his finery, returned with the car, Virginia, in
obedience to an abrupt invitation from her father, was prepared to
join him for the ride.
Obadiah's conscience did not usually trouble him; but today, as the
machine started and he settled himself by his daughter, it struck him
that she seemed unusually pale. He could not well overlook, either,
the note of sadness which had played about the girl's mouth and eyes
since his remarks to her. These things made Obadiah uncomfortable. His
explosion at Ike had acted as a counter-irritant to his indigestion,
and he felt relieved.
They passed a woman driving a pretty runabout. In times of great good
feeling Obadiah had avowed his intention of purchasing Virginia a light
car which she could drive herself. However, it took direct affirmative
action to persuade the mill owner to open his check book even for his
own family; and, as Virginia had been contented with the big car and Ike
to drive it, nothing had ever come of the intention.
"Did you notice that runabout?" Obadiah inquired. "How would one of
that type suit you?" If he could get Virginia to chatter along as usual,
he could enjoy his evening.
"Oh, I'd like it," she exclaimed. The girl was thinking rapidly. Not
for nothing was she Obadiah's daughter when it was necessary to take
advantage of a situation. "I thought that you had given up the idea of
getting me a car, Daddy."
"No, indeed. It seemed to me that you were not particularly interested
in one." He shrewdly placed the responsibility for delay upon her.
"I am _now_. More so than ever," Virginia declared. "I wasn't sure
before what kind of a car I wanted. Now I know."
"Well?" Obadiah's enthusiasm in the proposed purchase had cooled as
hers increased.
She squeezed his arm up against her and announced breathlessly, "I want
a truck, Daddy."
"A truck!" Obadiah viewed his daughter as if he deemed the immediate
attentions of an alienist essential in her case. "What on earth would
you do with a truck?"
"I need it to take those colored orphans out for a ride each week," she
explained, full of the plan. "I am going to have benches made to fit on
each side of the truck so that it will take them all comfortably. Isn't
it a fine idea?"
Obadiah, dumfounded for the moment, regained speech and sought
information as one who had not heard aright. "Do you mean to say that
you want me to buy a truck to haul those negro children around town?"
"Yah--yah--yah." Upon the front seat, Ike so far forgot the proprieties
of his station that he gave vent to noisy merriment at the domestic
perplexities of gentlefolk.
"Keep your mind on your business," Obadiah commanded, glaring at his
chauffeur's neck.
Virginia, disregarding the _faux pas_ of the chauffeur and its condign
reproof, proceeded to explain her plans. "We have decided, Daddy, that
those orphans must be taken for a ride every week."
"Who has decided that?"
"Hennie and I have worked it all out."
"What has that woman got to do with it?" he snapped. "Does she expect
me to buy trucks to haul all the negro children in town on pleasure
trips?"
Violent paroxysms beset Ike and bent him as a sapling in a gale.
Obadiah's eyes glared at the black neck as if, discharging X-rays, they
might expose the chauffeur's malady.
Heedless of disturbing influences, Virginia went on, "Hennie thought
that this car was too small. She felt that it would be better to get a
truck which would carry all the orphans than to use this."
"Indeed!" interjected Obadiah.
"I suggested to her that I would get you to loan us a truck from the
mill; but Hennie said that she was sure that you wouldn't let us have
it."
"Ahem--ahem," choked the mill owner, getting red in the face.
"I told her that I knew you would be glad to let us have it because you
did so love to help people," explained Virginia with great pride.
Obadiah shifted uneasily in his seat. "What did she say?"
"Hennie said that she wished me success."
Obadiah relaxed as one relieved from strain.
Sensing the change in him, Virginia cuddled up to her father full of
happiness and contentment as if the purchase of the truck was settled.
"Isn't it sweet, Daddy dear," she murmured gently, "within an hour
after I talked to Hennie you offer to buy me a car? Of course, you
don't care, so long as I am satisfied, whether I choose a runabout or a
truck." She took his hand and held it in her own, pressing it.
Obadiah appeared greatly interested in something upon the skyline.
"A truck," Virginia continued thoughtfully, "especially a fine large
one such as we would need--" Obadiah flinched--"would be in the way.
Our garage wouldn't hold it and Serena would object to it being left
in the yard." She arrived at a sudden determination. "Choose, Daddy,
whether you will buy me a truck or loan me one from the mill."
Obadiah's response was not delayed. "You had better use a mill truck,"
he agreed with a sigh which might have been of relief.
"Thank you, Daddy. I can hardly wait to tell Hennie," she exclaimed,
highly delighted at the outcome of her efforts.
Obadiah leaned towards his chauffeur. "Ike," he ordered, "you get the
new truck down at the mill, the first thing in the morning. Run it out
to Mrs. Henderson's house. Make all the row around her place you wish.
Tell her," Obadiah continued, "that it is there by my instructions, to
take those negro orphans riding." He paused. "Ike," he resumed more
forcibly, "don't you forget the noise."
"Yas'r," promised Ike with happy smiles of anticipation.
"That will be a dandy joke on Hennie," giggled Virginia. "Go very
early, Ike."
They were following a boulevard which now brought them to the Soldiers'
Home. Its fine buildings and large acreage were matters of great pride
to South Ridgefield. As they approached the central group of edifices,
they heard music.
"Let's stop for the band concert," suggested Virginia.
Obadiah, much relieved physically and mentally from recent disquietude,
was unusually complaisant. "Drive in, Ike," he directed.
They turned into a broad, paved road which followed the sides of a square
about which were located the principal buildings of the institution.
It bounded a tree shaded park with a band-stand in the center. Walks
radiating to the sides and corners of the square were lined with benches
occupied by veterans in campaign hats and blue uniforms, smoking,
chatting, and enjoying the music.
The inner edge of the roadway was lined with automobiles full of
visitors. Ike stopped upon the opposite side, in front of the quarters
of the Commanding Officer.
Hardly had they paused when a tall, fine looking man of a distinctly
military bearing, despite his white hair, hurried out to meet them.
"Mr. Dale," he greeted the manufacturer in a big booming voice, "I
am glad to welcome you to the Home."
Obadiah genially returned the salutation of Colonel Ryan. That officer,
being a man of rank, in charge of the Soldiers' Home, with power of
recommendation in government purchases, was one whose acquaintance it was
wise for even wealthy mill owners to cultivate.
When presented to Virginia, the Colonel bowed deeply. "I want you to
come up to the house and meet Mrs. Ryan," he urged. "You can hear
the music more comfortably there. I am proud of my band. They are old
fellows like you and me, Dale, but give them a horn and they have lots
of musical 'pep' left."
Mrs. Ryan met them at the head of the porch steps. "You have often heard
me speak of Mr. Dale," the Colonel, discreetly noncommittal as to his
manner of speaking, reminded her.
"Oh, yes, and I have heard of you, too." She smiled at Virginia and
explained to Obadiah, "I happen to have a good friend in that splendid
Mrs. Henderson, your neighbor."
The mill owner received this information with little enthusiasm, but,
learning that Mrs. Ryan was a victim of rheumatism, he advocated the
use of a liniment prepared by his father and applied with remarkable
results to both man and beast. Obadiah was hazy upon the mixture's
ingredients but was clear upon its curative qualities. Mrs. Ryan evincing
marked interest, the manufacturer entertained her with the intimate
details of miraculous recoveries.
Neither Virginia nor the Colonel being rheumatic, they failed to give
Obadiah's discourse the rapt interest of a true brother in pain. Their
attention wavered, wandered and failed, and the band played a crashing
air; but the rheumatic heeded not.
All hope of a general conversation having departed, the Colonel praised
his band to Virginia. "Every man in that organization is over sixty
years old," he bragged. "They get as much pleasure out of playing as
their audience does from their concert. It's a great band."
"They _do_ play well," the girl agreed. "I don't wonder that you are
proud of them. I love a brass band, myself. You do, too, Colonel Ryan.
I can tell by your face, when they play."
The Colonel grinned boyishly. "Yes," he admitted, "I think a band is
one of humanity's boons. I can't get close enough to one, when they
are playing, to satisfy me. I have to have some sort of an excuse to do
that, now-a-days--you'll do fine--let's go nearer."
The medical lecture was disturbed, that the audience might nod
understandingly to its husband, as they departed.
The Colonel chatted gaily. In the presence of a pretty woman he was a
typical soldier. About them were the benches filled with the white headed
veterans, as they entered the square. But a few years and these had
been the fighting men of the country--its defence--playing parts modest
or heroic on a hundred half forgotten battle fields. Now, they, too,
bowed with age, rested in their years, and waited--waited calmly, as
true soldiers should, with the taste of good tobacco upon their lips
and the blare of martial music in their ears, the coming of the ever
nearing shadow.
"Why have I never heard this band down town, Colonel Ryan? It is a
shame when they play so beautifully. Do they charge for concerts?"
asked Virginia, as an idea developed behind the blue eyes.
"People want young and handsome men to play for them if they pay for
it," laughed Colonel Ryan. "So my old codgers don't get many chances
of that sort."
"Who has charge of the band?" Virginia's manner meant business.
The Colonel loved a pretty face. He was enjoying himself. "Do you want
to object to the leader about his interpretation of a favorite air?"
"Don't tease, Colonel Ryan," she protested. "I want to know who has
authority to make engagements for the band. Please be serious."
"You frighten me into submission, Miss Dale. Do you wish to engage the
band?"
"I do, Colonel Ryan." The girl's voice was almost imploring.
He looked down into the depths of the pleading eyes. Never in his long
life had he refused a pretty woman anything, and it is doubtful if he
could have done so. Yet, he desired to prolong the pleasure of the
moment. "May I ask, without undue curiosity, for what purpose you desire
the organization?"
"I want them to give a concert for the old ladies at the Lucinda Home,"
she explained.
Colonel Ryan choked. He recovered himself quickly. Military training is
of value in difficult moments.
"I was over there this afternoon, Colonel Ryan. The place was so
lonesome that I thought it needed some excitement. They asked me to
give an entertainment. Your band would be the very thing. It plays so
loud that even the deaf ladies could hear."
He who had borne the burden of a regiment of men bowed sympathetically,
but his face and neck displayed symptoms of apoplexy.
"The Lucinda Home is a graveyard, Colonel Ryan. When I see all of these
old men sitting around and talking and smoking while the band plays
lively airs to them, it makes me sorry for those women. I should love to
live here. But I should die over there. It is dreadful to be lonesome."
Colonel Ryan agreed with great gravity.
Virginia waxed forceful. "Those old ladies should be made as happy as
these soldiers," she argued. "Isn't a woman as good as a man, Colonel
Ryan?"
The Commandant by his silence refused this challenge to a discussion upon
woman's rights.
"Those old ladies should have everything that these men have,"
maintained the girl, with great emphasis.
"Including tobacco?" suggested the Colonel solicitously.
"Of course not." Blue eyes snapped indignantly.
The boyish look was back in the Colonel's face. "I only wanted to be
sure," he explained soberly. "It has a very important place here."
"Oh, Colonel Ryan, you will joke, and I am so in earnest." Her eyes
were dark and tender and a soft pink flushed her cheeks. "A concert at
the Lucinda Home would be a wonderful thing if I could get your band."
"You can," the Colonel promised, laconically, "and it won't cost
you a cent." He became enthusiastic, "It will be a fine treat for
the old ladies and my boys will enjoy it, too. I'll have to warn the
old rascals about flirting," he chuckled. "They think that they are
regular devils among the ladies. I think that I will have to come along
myself to keep the old boys from breaking any ancient hearts."
"Will you come, Colonel Ryan?"
"Surely. You may count on me. Are there to be refreshments?"
"Why--yes!" She had never given a thought to them before, and when she
considered the food that it would take it almost frightened her.
"My old boys can eat as well as ever, particularly if it is soft stuff.
That band has less teeth than any similar organization in the world. It
is the toothless wonder," chuckled the Colonel. "Be sure that you have
plenty to eat."
As they ascended the steps of the Colonel's porch, Virginia warned him,
"Don't mention the concert to my father. I want to surprise him."
They found that Obadiah had exhausted his praises of the marvelous
liniment. Mrs. Ryan was now talking, and, though the subject-matter
was the same, the mill owner was not a reciprocal listener. He felt that
an immediate departure for home was necessary.
The Dale car rolled away from the Soldiers' Home, leaving the Commanding
Officer standing, hat in hand, upon the curb. A broad smile broke over
his face. "A band concert at the Lucinda Home," he chuckled. "You
might as well give one out in the cemetery." His face softened. "Bless
her heart," he whispered, as he turned back towards his house.