It was a delighted Dan that bounded down the broad staircase and took a
flying leap from the stone portico of the great hall door.
"Hello!" said Jim Norris, who was lazily stretched on the grass, reading.
"Is that a jump or a kick out?"
"A jump," answered Dan, grinning: "though I was primed for the other,
sure. How is Dudey's nose?"
"Coming down," said Jim, who was an easy-going mixer, whom everybody
liked. "About the size and shape of a spring radish to-day. My, but he's
hot against you, Dan! Look out for him! Snake in the grass is nothing to
Dud Fielding on the boil. Won't even rattle fairly before he strikes."
"Wouldn't take the glad hand if I stretched it out to him and said I was
sorry?" asked Dan. "Just now I feel like being at peace with everybody."
"Not much!" said Jim, impressively. "Or if he did there would be a snake
sting ready for you, all the same. I know Dud Fielding. He'll get even
with you if he dies for it."
"All right!" was the cheerful reply. "Let him get even then. Have you
heard about Killykinick, Jim?"
"Yes: Father Regan told me. I don't know what or where it is, but I'm
ready for a start if it's a cannibal isle. Anything is better than dying
of dullness here. Where are you off so fast, Dan?"
"To see my aunt. She--she--" There was a moment's hesitation, for Dan knew
all the admission meant to boys like Jim. But he added boldly: "She is at
the Little Sisters', you know, and I want to bid her good-bye before I
leave."
"Of course you do. These old aunts are great," said Jim, with a friendly
nod. "I've got one myself up in the country. Wears bonnets and gowns that
look as if they came out of the Ark. But, golly, she can make doughnuts
and apple pies that beat the band! I'd rather spend a week at Aunt
Selina's than any place I know. Going to walk or ride, Dan?"
"Walk," was the answer. "I generally do. It's good for my health."
"Not on a day like this. I've got a pocketful of car tickets," said Jim,
shaking a dozen or so out on the grass. "We'll have no use for them at
Killykinick. Help yourself."
"No," said Dan, sturdily. "Thank you all the same, Jim! But I don't mind
walking a bit. I'll match you at a game of tennis when I get back, and do
you up."
"All right!" answered Jim, who, though slow and lazy and a bit dull at his
books, was a gentleman through and through. Three generations of Norrises
had cut their names on Old Top.
And, lighter hearted for this friendliness, Dan kept on his way by short
cuts and cross streets until he reached the quiet suburb where the modest
buildings of the "Little Sisters" stretched long and wide behind their
grey stone walls. He was admitted by a brisk, kind little old woman, who
was serving as portress; and after some parley, was shown up into Aunt
Winnie's room. It was spotless in its cleanliness and bare save for the
most necessary articles of furniture. There were three other old ladies
about in various stages of decrepitude, who seemed only dully conscious of
Dan's appearance; but Aunt Winnie, seated in her armchair by the window,
started up in tremulous rapture at sight of her boy. Despite her age and
infirmity, she was still a trig little body, with snow-white hair waved
about a kind old wrinkled face and dim soft eyes, that filled with tears
at "Danny's" boyish hug and kiss.
"It's a long time ye've been coming," she said reproachfully. "I thought
ye were forgetting me entirely, Danny lad."
"Forgetting you!" echoed Dan. "Now, you know better than to talk like
that, Aunt Win. I'm thinking of you day and night. I've got no one else to
think of but you, Aunt Win."
"Whisht now,--whisht!" Aunt Winnie sank her voice to a whisper, and nodded
cautiously towards the nearest old lady. "She do be listening, lad. I've
told them all of the grand, great college ye're at, and the fine, bright
lad ye are, but I've told them nothing more. Ye're not to play the poor
scholar here."
"Oh, I see!" said Dan, grinning. "Go on with your game then, Aunt Win."
"I'm not looking to be remembered," Aunt Winnie continued dolefully. "What
with all the French and Latin ye have to study, and the ball playing that
you're doing. I can't look for you to think of a poor lone lame woman like
me."
"Aunt Win!" burst forth Dan, impetuously.
"Whisht!" murmured Aunt Win again, with a glance at the old lady who was
blinking sleepily. "Don't ye be giving yerself away. And I suppose it's
the fine holiday that ye're having now wid the rest of yer mates," she
went on.
"Yes," said Dan, feeling he could truthfully humor the old lady's harmless
pride here. "We're off to-morrow for the jolliest sort of a time at the
seashore. Freddy Neville, the nicest little chap in college, has a place
up somewhere on the New England coast, and four of us are going there for
the summer."
And Danny launched into eager details that made Aunt Winnie's eyes open
indeed. But there was a little quiver in her voice when she spoke.
"Ah, that's fine for you,--that's fine for you indeed, Danny! We can talk
plain now; for" (as a reassuring snore came from her dozing neighbor)
"thank God, she's off asleep! It's the grand thing for you to be going
with mates like that. It's what I'm praying for as I sit here sad and
lonely, Dan, that God will give ye His blessing, and help ye up, up, up,
high as mortal man can go."
"And you with me, Aunt Win," said Dan, who, seated on the footstool of the
chair, was smoothing her wrinkled hand.
"Ah, no, my lad, I don't ask that! I'm not asking that at all, Danny. I'll
not be houlding to ye, and dragging ye down while ye're climbing. And
whisper, lad, while there's no one listening: it's naither wise nor best
for ye to be coming here."
"Why not?" asked Dan, for he knew that he was the light of poor Aunt Win's
eyes and the joy of her old heart.
"Because--because," faltered Aunt Winnie, "though it's fibs I've been
telling about yer grandeur and greatness--God forgive me that same!--the
old busybodies around will be wondering and prating about why ye lave me
here, Dan,--because I might be a shame to ye before all the fine
gentlemen's sons that have taken ye up,--because" (Aunt Win's voice broke
entirely) "a poor old woman like me will only hurt and hinder ye, Dan."
"Hurt and hinder me!" echoed Dan, who, with all his cleverness, could not
understand the depths and heights of good old Aunt Winnie's love.
"Aye, lad, hurt and hinder ye; for ye're on the way up, and I'll not be
the one to hould ye back. I do be dreaming grand dreams of ye, Danny
lad,--dreams that I don't dare to spake out."
"Whisper them, then, Aunt Win," urged Dan, softly. "Maybe I'll make them
come true."
"Ye couldn't," said the old woman, her dim eyes shining. "Only God in
heaven can do that. For I dream that I see you on His altar, the brightest
place that mortal man can reach. I'll ne'er live to see that dream come
true, Danny; but I believe it would make my old heart leap if I was under
the sod itself."
"O Aunt Win, Aunt Win!" Dan lifted the wrinkled hand to his lips. "That is
a great dream, sure enough. Sometimes, Aunt Win, I--I dream it myself.
But, then, a rough-and-tumble fellow like me, always getting into scrapes,
soon wakes up. But one thing is sure: you can't shake me, Aunt Win.
Dreaming or waking, I'll stick to you forever."
"Ah, no, lad,--no!" said the old woman, tremulously. "I'd not have ye
bother with me. Sure it's the fine place I have here, with my warm room
and nice bed, and the good Little Sisters to care for me, and the chapel
close to hand. But I miss our own little place, sure, sometimes, Danny
dear! I miss the pot of flowers on the window (it's against the rule to
grow flowers here), and me own little blue teapot on the stove, and Tabby
curled up on the mat before the fire."
Aunt Winnie broke down and sobbed outright, while Danny was conscious of a
lump in his throat that held him dumb.
"Poor Tabby!" continued Aunt Winnie. "I hope the Mulligans are good to
her, Dan. D'ye ever see her as ye pass their gate?"
"I do," answered Dan. "Molly Mulligan has tied a blue ribbon around her
neck, and she is the pride of the house."
"And she has forgotten me, of course!" sighed Aunt Winnie. "But what could
I expect of a cat!"
"Forgotten you? Not a bit! Molly says she steals into your room upstairs
and cries for you every night."
"Ah, it was the sore parting for us all, God help us!" said Aunt Winnie,
brokenly. "But as long as it brings you luck, lad, I'll never complain.
This is the holy place to die in, and what could a poor sick ould woman
ask more?"
"A lot--a lot more!" burst forth Danny, passionately. "You should have a
place to live and be happy in, Aunt Win. You should have your own fire and
your own teapot, and your own cat in your own home; and I mean to get it
back for you just as quick as I can."
"Whisht! whisht!" said Aunt Win, nervously, as the old lady nearby roused
up, startled from her nap.
"It's time ye were going, Danny; for ye're a long way from college, and I
wouldn't keep ye against rules. I hope ye'll have a fine time at the
seashore, with the fishing and boating and all the other sports. Good-bye
and God bless ye, lad, until we meet again! Good-bye, Danny dear!" And,
realizing from the wide-open eyes of the old lady near him that all
confidential communications were over, Dan kissed Aunt Win's withered
cheek, and, his heart swelling with feelings he could not speak, took his
way back to Saint Andrew's, all his dreams, hopes, ambitions for the
future strangely shaken.
Aunt Win,--gentle, loving, heartsick, homesick Aunt Win! Aunt Win, begging
him to give her up lest she should hurt and hinder him in his opening way!
Aunt Win sighing for the little place she had called home, even while she
was ready to give it up forever and die silent and lonely, that her boy
might climb to heights of which she could only dream and never see! Dear,
faithful, true-hearted, self-forgetting Aunt Win! Dan felt his own eyes
blurring as he thought of all she had done, of all she was ready to
sacrifice.
And--and--the other thought followed swiftly: he could give it all back to
her,--the little attic rooms over Mulligans', the flowerpot in the window,
the blue teapot on the stove, Tabby on the hearth-rug,--he could give it
all back to Aunt Win and bring her home. It would be long, long years
before the higher paths into which he had turned would yield even humble
living; but the old ways were open to him still: the "ditch-digging" with
which Dud Fielding had taunted him, the meat wagon, the sausage shop, that
he had been considering only a few hours ago. What right had he to leave
the good old woman, who had mothered him, lonely and heartsick that he
might climb beyond her reach? And yet--yet to give up Saint Andrew's, with
all that it meant to him; to give up all his hopes, his dreams; to turn
his back on those wide corridors and book-lined rooms for counter and
cleaver; to give up,--to give up! Quite dizzy with his contending
thoughts, Dan was striding on his way when a hearty voice hailed him:
"Hello! That you, Dan? Jump in and I'll give you a lift." And Pete
Patterson's ruddy face looked out from the white-topped wagon at the curb.
"I was just thinking of you," said Pete, as Dan willingly sprang up to the
seat at his side; for Pete had been a friendly creditor in the days of the
little attic home when credit was sometimes sorely needed. "Are you in
with the 'high brows' for good and all?"
"I--I don't know," hesitated Dan.
"Because if you're not," continued Pete--"and what tarnation use a sturdy
chap like you will find in all that Latin and Greek stuff, I can't
see,--if you're not in for it, I can give you a chance."