"We're to be off to-morrow," said Brother Bart, a little sadly. "And,
though it will be a blessed thing to get back in the holy peace of St.
Andrew's, with the boys all safe and sound--which is a mercy I couldn't
expect,--to say nothing of laddie's father being drawn out of his
wanderings into the grace of God, I'm sore-hearted at leaving Killykinick.
You've been very good to us, Jeroboam,--both you and your brother, who is
a deal wiser than at first sight you'd think. You've been true friends
both in light and darkness; and may God reward you and bring you to the
true faith! That will be my prayer for you night and day.--And now you're
to pack up, boys, and get all your things together; for it's Father
Regan's orders that we are to come back home."
"Where is _our_ home, daddy?" asked Freddy, with lively interest. "For we
can have a real true home now, can't we?"
"I hope so, my boy." They were out on the smooth stretch of beach, where
daddy, growing strong and well fast, spent most of his time, stretched out
in one of Great-uncle Joe's cushiony chairs; while Roy and Rex crouched
contentedly at his feet, or broke into wild frolic with Freddy on the
rocks or in the sea. "I hope so; though I'm afraid I don't know much about
making a home, my little Boy Blue!"
"Oh, don't you, daddy?" said Freddy, ruefully. "I have always wanted a
home so much,--a real true home, with curtains and carpets, and pictures
on the walls, and a real fire that snaps and blazes."
"Yes, I heard you say that before," answered his father, softly. "I think
it was that little talk on the boat that brought me down, where I could
take a peep at my homeless little boy again; though I was afraid Captain
Jeb would find me out if I ventured to Killykinick. I was just making up
my mind to risk it and go over, when this fever caught me."
"But why--were you hiding, daddy? Why did you stay away so long?"
"Life had grown very black for me; and I didn't want to make it black for
you, Freddy. I lost faith and hope and love when I lost your mother. I
couldn't settle down to a bare, lonely life without her. I felt I must be
free,--free to wander where I willed. It was all wrong,--all wrong,
Freddy. But daddy was in darkness, without any guiding star. So I left you
to Uncle Tom, gave up my name, my home, and broke loose like a ship
without rudder or sail. And where it led me, where you found me, you
know."
"Ah, yes!" Freddy laid his soft young cheek against his father's. "It was
all wrong. But now you have come back; and everything is right again,
Uncle Tom says; and we'll have a real home together. He said that, too,
before he went away,--you and I would have a home, daddy."
"We'll try," replied daddy, cheerfully. "With you and the dogs together,
Freddy, we'll try. We'll get the house and the cushions and the carpets,
and do our best."
Going home! Dan was thinking of it, too, a little sadly, as somewhat later
he stood on the stretch of rocks, looking out at the fading west. He was
going home to "give up." Only yesterday morning a brief scrawl from Pete
Patterson had informed him he would be ready for business next week, and
Dan must come back with an answer--"Yes" or "No." So it was good-bye to
St. Andrew's for Dan to-night; good-bye to all his hopes and dreams
to-morrow. Something seemed to rise in Dan's throat at the thought.
To-morrow he must go back, a college boy no longer, but to Pete
Patterson's wagon and Pete Patterson's shop.
And while he stood there alone, watching the deepening shadows gather over
rock and reef and shoal where he had spent such happy days, there came a
sudden burst of glad music over the waters, and around the bending shore
of Killykinick came a fairy vision: "The Polly," fluttering with gay
pennants, jewelled in colored light from stem to stern; "The Polly," laden
with a crowd of merrymakers in most hilarious mood, coming on a farewell
feast in charge of three white-capped and white-coated waiters; "The
Polly," that swept triumphantly to the mended wharf (where the "Sary Ann"
was slowly recuperating from her damages, in a fresh coat of paint and
brand-new mainsail), and took undisputed possession of Killykinick.
"I just had to come and say good-bye," declared Miss Polly; "and dad said
I could make a party of it, if Marraine would take us in charge. And so
we're to have a real, _real_ last good time."
Then all sat down on the moonlit sands; and the victrola played its gayest
tunes, and the white-capped waiters served good things that quite equalled
Polly's last party. And when that was nearly over, and the guests were
still snapping the French "kisses" and cracking sugar-shelled nuts, Dan
found Miss Stella, who had been chatting with her late patient most of the
evening, standing at his side. Perhaps it was the moonlight, but he
thought he had never seen her look so lovely. Her eyes were like stars,
and there was a soft rose-flush on her cheek, and the smile on her sweet
lips seemed to kindle her whole face into radiance.
"Come sit down on the rocks beside me, Danny,--Miss Winnie's Danny. I've
got some news for you."
"News for me?" Danny lifted his eyes; and Miss Stella saw that, in spite
of all the fun and frolic around him, they looked strangely sad and dull.
"You're not having a good time to-night, are you?" she asked softly.
"Yes, I am--or at least I'm trying," said Dan, stoutly. "It was surely
nice of you all to give us this send off. But--but, you see, I can't help
feeling a little bad, because--because--" and he had to stop to clear the
lump from his throat. "It seems to sort of end things for me."
"O Danny, Danny, no it doesn't!" And now Miss Stella's eyes were stars
indeed. "It's the beginning of things bright and beautiful for you."
And then, in sweet, trembling, joyful tones, she told him all,--told him
of Captain Carleton and the medal; of the pension that was to be his and
Aunt Winnie's; of the kind, strong hand that had been stretched out to
help him, that he might keep on without hindrance,--keep on his upward
way.
"To the stars, Danny," concluded the gentle speaker softly. "We must take
the highest aim, even if we fail to reach it,--to the stars."
"O Miss Stella,--dear, dear Miss Stella!" and the sob came surely now, in
Dan's bewildered joy, his gratitude, his relief. "How good you are,--how
good you are! Oh, I will try to deserve it all, Miss Stella! A home for
Aunt Winnie, and St. Andrew's,--_St. Andrew's_ again!" And Dan sprang to
his feet, and the college cry went ringing over the moonlit rocks. "It's
St. Andrew's for Dan Dolan, now forever!"
The rest of that evening seemed a bewildering dream to Dan,--more
bewildering even than Miss Polly's party. The story of his medal and his
luck went flying around Killykinick, with most dazzling additions. Before
the guests departed, Dan was a hero indeed, adopted by a millionaire whose
life his father or uncle or somebody had saved from sharks and whales
fifty or seventy-five years ago.
"Oh, I'm so glad!" said Polly, as she shook hands for good-bye. "I always
did say you were the nicest boy in the world. And now you needn't ever be
a newsboy or bootblack again, Dan."
"I'll see you again before very long," said Miss Stella, as he helped her
on the boat, and she slipped a gold piece in his hand. "Here is the price
of Jack Farley's medal. You must take Aunt Winnie home right away."
"Oh, I will,--I will, indeed!" said Dan joyfully. "She will be back in
Mulligan's as soon as I can get her there, you bet, Miss Stella!"
"I'm durn sorry to see you go, matey!" said Captain Jeb next morning, as
they pulled out the new sails of the "Sary Ann" for a start. "But whenever
you want a whiff of salt air and a plunge in salt water, why, Killykinick
is here and your job of second mate open to you."
"Shake on that!" said Dan, gripping his old friend's hand. "If I know
myself, I'll be down every summer."
"Looks as if I owed you something for all that fishing," remarked old Neb,
pulling out his leather wallet.
"Not a cent!" said Dan, briskly. "I'm a monied man now, Neb,--a regular
up-and-down plute. Keep the cash for some new nets next summer when we go
fishing again."
And so, with friendly words and wishes from all, even from Dud, whom
recent events had quite knocked out of his usual grandeur, the whole party
bade adieu to Killykinick. Freddy and his father were to remain a while at
Beach Cliff with Father Tom, who was taking his holiday there.
At Brother Bart's request, the home journey was to be made as much as
possible by rail, so after the "Sary Ann," still a little stiff and creaky
in the joints, had borne them to the steamboat, which in a few hours
touched the mainland and made connections with the train, the travellers'
route lay along scenes very different from the rugged rocks and sands they
had left. As they swept by golden harvest fields and ripening orchards and
vineyards whose rich yield was purpling in the autumn sun, good Brother
Bart heaved a sigh of deepest content.
"Sure you may say what you please about water, Danny lad, but God's
blessing is on the good green land. If it be the Lord's will, I'll never
leave it again; though we might have found worse places than Killykinick
and those good old men there,--may God lead them to the Light!"
And as the Limited Express made its schedule time, Pete Patterson was just
closing up as usual at sundown, when a sturdy, brown-cheeked boy burst
into his store,--a boy that it took Pete's keen eyes full half a minute to
recognize.
"Dan Dolan!" he cried at last,--"Dan Dolan, grown and fattened and slicked
up like--like a yearling heifer! Danny boy, I'm glad to see you,--I'm glad
to see you, sure! You've come to take the job?"
"No, I haven't,--thank you all the same, Pete!" was the quick answer.
"I've struck luck for sure,--luck with a fine old plute, who is ready to
stake me for all I could earn here, and keep me at St. Andrew's."
"Stake you for all you could earn here?" echoed Pete, in amazement.
"I'll tell you all about it later," said Dan, breathlessly. "Just now I'm
dumb struck, Pete. I came flying back to take up my old quarters at the
Mulligans' and find the house shut up and everybody gone. Land! It did
give me a turn, sure! I was counting on that little room upstairs, and all
Aunt Winnie's things she left there, and Tabby and the stove and the blue
teapot. But they're all gone." And Dan sank down on a big packer's box
feeling that he was facing a dissolving world in which he had no place.
"Oh, they're not far!" said Pete, a little gruffly; for Dan's tidings had
been somewhat of a blow. "The old woman's father died and left a little
bit of money, and they bought a tidy little place out on Cedar Place, not
far from St. Mary's Church. You'll find them there. You've made up your
mind for good and all to stick to the highbrows? I'd make it worth your
while to come here."
Dan rose from the packer's box and looked around at the hams and shoulders
and lard buckets and answered out of the fulness of his grateful heart:
"Yes, I've made up my mind, Pete. It's St. Andrew's for me,--St. Andrew's
now and, I hope, forever. But--but if you want any help with writing or
figuring, I'll come around Saturday nights and give you a lift; for I
won't be far. I'm sticking to old friends and the old camping ground
still."
And, with this cheery assurance, Dan was off again to find the vanished
roof tree that had been all he ever knew of home. He recalled the place.
It was only a short walk from the college gate. Indeed, the row of cedars
that fronted the little whitewashed house had been once the boundary of
the college grounds. There was a bit of a garden in front, and a porch
with late roses climbing over it, and--and--
Dan stood stock-still for a moment,--then he flung open the little gate,
and with a regular Sioux war-whoop dashed up the gravelled path; for
there--there seated in Mrs. Mulligan's best rocker, with Tabby curled up
at her feet--was Aunt Winnie herself, drinking a cup of tea!