There was a moment's pause. Dan was really too bewildered to speak. He
felt he was reeling down from the rainbow heights to which Miss Polly had
led him, and the shock took away his breath.
"It's all--all a horrid story; I'm sure it is,--isn't it, Dan?" pleaded
his little friend, tremulously.
"Why, no!" said Dan, rallying to his simple, honest self again. "It isn't
a story at all. I _was_ a newsboy, I _did_ shine boots at the street
corner, and Aunt Winnie _is_ with the Little Sisters of the Poor now."
"Bravo!--bravo!" came a low silvery voice from the shadows, and Miss
Stella clapped her slender hands.
"O Dan, Dan!" cried poor little Miss Polly, sobbing outright. "A newsboy
and bootblack! Oh, how could you fool me so, Dan?"
"With your infernal lies about your home and family!" burst forth dad, in
sudden wrath at Polly's tears.
"I didn't fool,--I didn't lie, sir!" blurted out Dan, fiercely. "I did
nothing of the kind!"
"If you will kindly do the boy justice to remember, he did _not_, Cousin
Pem!" and Miss Stella's clear, sweet voice rose in witness. "You gave his
family history yourself. He did not know what you were talking about, with
your Crusading ancestors and the D'Olanes. I could see it in his face. You
are all blood-blind up here, Cousin Pem. I was laughing to myself all the
time, for I guessed who Dan Dolan was. I knew he was at St. Andrew's. His
dear old Aunt Winnie is one of my truest friends."
"O Marraine, Marraine!" murmured Polly, eagerly. "And--and you don't mind
it if--"
"If she is with the Little Sisters of the Poor, Pollykins? Not a bit! Some
day I may be there myself. Now that this tempest in a teapot is over, you
can all go off and finish your games. I am going to sit under this nice
old tree and talk to Miss Winnie's boy."
And while dad, still a little hot at the trouble that had marred Polly's
party, started the fun in another direction, Miss Stella gathered her
silvery gown around her and sat down on the rustic bench beneath the old
cedar, and talked to Dan. He learned how Aunt Winnie had sewed patiently
and skilfully for this lovely lady a dozen years ago, when she was
spending a gay season in his own town; and how the gentle old seamstress,
with her simple faith and tender sympathy, her wise warnings to the gay,
motherless girl, had won a place in her heart.
"I tried to coax her home with me," said Miss Stella, "to make it 'home,'
as I felt she could; but Baby Danny was in the way,--the little Danny that
she could not leave."
Then Dan, in his turn, told about Killykinick, and how he had been sent
there for the summer and had met little Polly.
"I should have told," he said, lifting Aunt Winnie's own blue Irish eyes
to Miss Stella's face,--"I should have said right out straight and square
that I wasn't Polly's kind, and had no right to push in here with grand
folks like hers. But it was all so fine it sort of turned my head."
"It will do that," replied Miss Stella, softly. "It has turned mine often,
Danny. But now we both see straight and clear again, and I am going to
make things straight and clear with all the others."
"You can't," said Dan,--"not with those grand ladies in gold spectacles;
not with Polly's dad; maybe not with Polly herself. I'm all mixed up, and
out of line with them. And--and--" (Dan took the silken guard from his
neck) "I want you to give them back this gold watch, and tell them so."
(He slipped the Jack Horner prize into Miss Stella's hand.) "I'm not
asking anything and I'm not taking anything that comes to me like this.
And--and--" (he rose and stood under the crooked tree in all his straight,
sturdy strength) "Neb is down at the wharf with a load of clams. We passed
him as we came up. I'm not pushing in among the silk cushions any more.
I'm going home with him."
Which, with Miss Stella's sympathetic approval, he did at once.
When a little later the guests had all gone, and "The Polly" was taking
her white-winged way back to Killykinick with Dud, Jim, and Freddy; when
the jewelled lights had gone out, and the party was over, and all was
quiet on the starlit porch, Miss Stella returned Dan's watch and gave his
message. Even the two grandmammas, being really grandmammas at heart,
softened to it, and dad declared gruffly it had been a fool business
altogether, while Polly flung herself sobbing into her godmother's arms.
"O Dan,--poor Dan! He is the nicest boy I ever saw,--the nicest and the
kindest, Marraine! And now--now he will never come back here any more!"
"I don't think he will, Pollykins," was the low answer. "You see"
(Marraine dropped a light kiss on the nestling curls), "he was a newsboy
and a bootblack, and he does not deny it; while you--you, Pollykins--"
"Oh, I don't care, what he was!" interrupted Miss Polly,
tempestuously,--"I don't care what he was. I took him for my real true
friend, and I am not going to give up Dan as I gave up Meg Murray,
Marraine." Polly tightened her clasp around Miss Stella's neck so she
could whisper softly in her ear: "If he won't come back, you and I will
go after him; won't we, Marraine?"
Meanwhile, with his head pillowed on a pile of fish nets--very different,
we must confess, from the silken cushions of dad's pretty yacht,--and with
old Neb drowsily watching her ragged sail, Dan was back again in his own
line, beneath the guiding stars. It was a calm, beautiful night, and those
stars were at their brightest. Even Neb's dull wits seemed to kindle under
their radiance.
"You can steer 'most anywhere when they shine like that. Don't want none
of these 'ere winking, blinking lights to show you the way," he said.
"But the trouble is they don't always shine," answered Dan.
"No," said Neb, slowly, "they don't; that's a fact. But they ain't ever
really out, like menfolk's lights. The stars is always thar."
"Always there,"--yes, Dan realized, as, with his head on the dank, fishy
pillow, he looked up in the glory above him, the stars were always there.
Blurred sometimes by earthly mists and vapors, lost in the dazzling gleam
of jewelled lights, darkened by the shadows of crooked trees, they shone
with pure, steadfast, guiding rays,--the stars that were always there. A
witching little Will-o'-the-wisp had bewildered Dan into strange ways this
evening; but he was back again in his own straight honest line beneath the
stars.
On "The Polly," making her way over the starlit water to Killykinick,
things were not so pleasant.
"It was a mean, dirty trick to give Dan away. I don't care who did it!"
said big-hearted Jim, roused into spirit and speech.
"It wasn't I,--oh, indeed it wasn't I!" declared Freddy. "I told Tad Dan
was the biggest, strongest, finest fellow in the whole bunch. I never said
a word about his being a newsboy or a bootblack, though I don't think it
hurts him a bit."
"And it doesn't," said Jim, whose blood had been a "true blue" stream
before the Stars and Stripes began to wave. "But there are some folks that
think so."
"Calling me fool, are you?" said Dud, fiercely.
"No, I didn't," retorted Jim. "But if the name fits you, take it. I don't
object." And he turned away, with a flash in his eyes most unusual for
Sunny Jim,--a flash that Dud did not venture to kindle into angry fire.
But, though the storm blew over, as such springtime storms will, Dan had
learned a lesson, and felt that he never again wished to venture on the
dizzy heights where wise heads turn and strong feet falter. Though Dud and
Jim, who both had pocket money in plenty, made arrangements at the Boat
Club for the use of a little motor boat several times a week, Dan held his
own line as second mate at Killykinick, and was contented to share old
Neb's voyaging. They went out often now; for, under the old sailor's
guidance, Dan was becoming an expert fisherman. And soon the dingy boat,
loaded with its silvery spoil, became known to camps and cottages along
the other shores. Poor old Neb was too dull-witted for business; but
customers far from markets watched eagerly for the merry blue-eyed boy who
brought fish, "still kicking," for their early breakfast,--clams, chaps,
and lobsters, whose freshness was beyond dispute. Neb's old leather wallet
began to fill up as it had never been filled before. And the dinners that
were served on the "Lady Jane," the broiled, the baked, the fried fish
dished up in rich plenty every day, shook Brother Bart's allegiance to
Irish stews, and, as he declared, "would make it aisy for a heretic to
keep the Friday fast forever."
Then, Dan had the garden to dig and weed, the cow to milk, the chickens to
feed,--altogether, the days were most busy and pleasant; and it was a
happy, if tired, boy that tumbled at night into his hammock swung beneath
the stars, while old Jeb and Neb smoked their pipes on the deck beside
him.
Three letters had come from Aunt Winnie,--a Government boat brought weekly
mail to the lighthouse on Numskull Nob. They were prim little letters,
carefully margined and written, and spelled as the good Sisters had taught
her in early youth. She took her pen in hand--so letters had always begun
in Aunt Winnie's schooldays--to write him a few lines. She was in good
health and hoped he was the same, though many were sick at the Home, and
Mrs. McGraw (whom Dan recalled as the dozing lady of his visit) had died
very sudden on Tuesday; but she had a priest at the last, and a Requiem
Mass in the chapel, with the altar in black, and everything most
beautiful. Poor Miss Flannery's cough was bad, and she wouldn't be long
here, either; but, as the good Mother says, we are blessed in having a
holy place where we can die in peace and quiet. And Aunt Winnie's own leg
was bad still, but she thanked God she could get around a bit and help the
others. And, though she might never see him again--for she would be turned
on seventy next Thursday,--she prayed for her dear boy nights, and dreamed
of him constant. And, begging God to bless him and keep him from harm, she
was his affectionate aunt, Winnie Curley.'
The other letters were very much in the same tone: some other old lady was
dying or failing fast; for, with all its twilight peace, Aunt Winnie was
in a valley of the shadow, where the light of youth and hope and cheer
that whistling, laughing Dan brought into Mulligans' attic could not
shine.
"I've got to get her home," resolved Dan, who was keen enough to read this
loss and longing between the old-fashioned neatly-written lines. "It's
Pete Patterson and the meat shop for me in the fall and good-bye to St.
Andrew's and 'pipe dreams' forever! Aunt Winnie has to come back, with her
blue teapot on her own stove and Tabby purring at her feet again or--or"
(Dan choked at the thought) "they'll be having a funeral Mass at the
Little Sisters for her."
And Dan lay awake a long time that night looking at the stars, and
stifling a dull pang in his young heart that the heights of which he had
dreamed were not for him. But he was up betimes next morning, his own
sturdy self again. Old Neb had a bad attack of rheumatism that made his
usual early trip impossible.
"They will be looking for us," said Dan. "I promised those college girls
camping at Shelter Cove to bring them fresh fish for breakfast."
"Let them catch for themselves!" growled old Neb, who was rubbing his
stiffened arm with whale oil.
"Girls," said Dan in boyish scorn. "What do girls know about fishing? They
squeal every time they get a bite. I'll take Freddy to watch the lines
(Brother Bart isn't so scary about him now), and go myself."