"Danny!" cried Aunt Winnie, clutching her teacup with trembling hand. "God
save us, it's Danny himself!"
"Nobody else," said Dan, as he caught her in a bearish hug and kissed the
withered cheek again and again. It looked paler than when he had left
her,--paler and thinner; and there were hollows under the patient eyes.
"But what are you doing here, Aunt Win?" he asked in amazement.
"Just spending the day, Danny. Mrs. Mulligan sent Molly for me this
morning. She wanted me to see her new place, and to tell her what was to
be done with my bit of things. She is thinking of renting her rooms, and
my things are in the way. They are fine rooms, with rosebud paper on the
walls, and a porch looking out at the church beyant; and she could be
getting seven dollars a month for them. But she's got the table and stove
and beds, and all our old furniture that nobody would want; so I've told
her to send them off to-morrow to sell for what they will bring. Sure"
(and the old voice trembled) "we'll never have any call for them again,
Danny lad,--never again."
"Oh, we won't?" said Danny, with another hug that came near doing for
teacup completely. "Just take back your orders quick as you can, Aunt
Winnie, I'm renting those rooms right now."
"Sure, Danny,--Danny boy, have ye come back with a fever on ye?"
"Yes," grinned Dan,--"regular gold fever, Aunt Winnie! Look at that!" He
clapped the twenty dollar gold piece into Aunt Winnie's trembling hand.
"That's for you, Aunt Winnie,--that's to rent those pink-flowered rooms."
"Sure it's mad the poor boy is entirely!" cried Aunt Winnie, as Mrs.
Mulligan and Molly came hurrying out on the porch.
"Do I look it?" asked Dan, laughing into their startled faces.
"Ye don't," said Mrs. Mulligan. "But spake out plain, and don't be
bewildering the poor woman, Danny Dolan."
And then Danny spoke out as plain as his breathless eagerness would
permit, and told the story of the "pension."
"It will be thirty-five dollars a month, Captain Carleton says; he'd have
to throw in the five to poor old Nutty for grog and tobacco."
"Ah, God save us,--God save us!" was all Aunt Winnie could murmur,
tearfully.
"And I guess thirty-five dollars will run those rosebud rooms of yours
pretty safe and slick; won't they, Mrs. Mulligan? So put Aunt Winnie and
me down as tenants right off."
"I will,--I will!" answered Mrs. Mulligan, joyfully. "Sure my heart was
like lead in my breast at the thought of giving up yer bit of things, Miss
Winnie. But now,--now come along, Molly girl, and we'll be fixing the
rooms, this minute. What's the good of yer going back to the Sisters at
all?" And Mrs. Mulligan put a motherly arm around Aunt Winnie's trembling
form. "Give her another cup of tea, Molly; for she's all done up with joy
at having her own home and her own boy again, thank God for that same!"
And then, leaving dear Aunt Winnie to this good friend's tender
ministrations, Dan kept on his way to St. Andrew's, taking a flying leap
over the college wall to the sunset walk, where perhaps he would find
Father Mack saying his Office. He was not mistaken: his old friend was
there, walking slowly under the arching trees. His face kindled into light
as he stretched out a trembling hand.
"I thought perhaps you would come here, my boy," he said. "I was just
thanking God, Danny. Brother Bart has told us the good news. It is all
right, as I hoped and prayed,--all right, as I _knew_ it would be, Danny.
Now tell me, yourself, all about this wonderful blessing."
And again this father and son sat down upon the broken grave slab, and
Danny told Father Mack all.
"Ah, it is the good God's hand!" the old priest said softly. "But this is
only the start, my son. The climb is still before you,--a climb that may
lead over steeps sharp and rough as the rocks of Killykinick."
But the fading light seemed to aureole Father Mack's silvery head as he
spoke.
"You will keep on and up,--on and up; for God is calling you, my
son,--calling you to heights where He leads His own--heights which as yet
you can not see."
The speaker laid his hand upon Dan's head in benediction that thrilled the
boy's heart to its deepest depths,--a benediction that he never forgot;
for it was Father Mack's last. Only a few days later the college bell's
solemn note, sounding over the merry greetings of the gathering students,
told that for the good old priest all the lessons of life were over.
And Dan, climbing sturdily up the heights at his saintly guide's bidding,
has found the way, so far, smoothed and softened beyond his hopes by his
summer at Killykinick. Even his stumbling-stone Dud was removed to another
college, his father having been ordered to a Western post. With Jim and
Freddy as his friends, all the "high-steppers," old and young, of St.
Andrew's were ready to welcome him into rank and line. And, with Aunt
Winnie as administratrix of Captain Carleton's pension "there isn't a
dacinter-looking boy in the college," as Mrs. Mulligan stoutly declares.
How Aunt Winnie stretched out that pension only the Irish fairies, or
perhaps the Irish angels, know. The little pink-flowered rooms have
blossomed out into a very bower of comfort and cheer. There are frilly
curtains at the windows, a rosy-hued lamp, and a stand of growing plants
always in bloom. There are always bread and cheese and apple sauce, or
something equally "filling," for hungry boys to eat.
And when Aunt Winnie was fairly settled, who should appear but Miss
Stella, who had come to nurse a dear old friend near by,--Miss Stella, who
dropped in most naturally in her off hours to chat with dear old Aunt
Winnie and take a cup of tea! And Freddy's daddy, who had plunged into
life and law business with zest, often brought his big automobile round to
take Freddy for a spin after study hours, and called on the way very
frequently to take Miss Stella home.
It was on one of those bright afternoons that they all went to look at the
new house that was going up on a wooded hillside not very far from the
college--the house that was to be Freddy's long-wished-for home. It had
been a lot of fun watching it grow. Now it was nearly done,--the big
pillared porch ready for its climbing roses; the pretty rooms waiting
their rugs and curtains; the great stone chimney, that was to be the heart
and life of things, rising in the center of all.
"My! but this in fine!" said Freddy, who had not seen this crowning touch
before. "Let's light it up, daddy,--let's light it up and see how it
burns."
And, dashing out for an armful of wood left by the builders, Freddy soon
had a glorious blaze on the new hearthstone,--a blaze that, blending with
the sunset streaming through the west windows, made things bright indeed.
"This is great!" said Freddy. "And when we have the chairs and tables and
cushions and curtains--who is going to pick out the cushions and curtains,
dad?"
"Oh, I suppose we can have them sent up from the store!" answered dad,
anticipating such matters by pushing up a big packing box to the fire, to
serve as a seat for their smiling guest.
"Oh, can't you do it, daddy?"
"George! no! I wouldn't know a curtain from a rug, my boy!"
"And you don't know about dishes or cups, or pans to make gingerbread,"
continued Freddy, the glow fading from his face as he realized all these
masculine disabilities.
"Not a thing," was dad's reply.
"Gee!" said Freddy, in a much troubled voice. "We'll be right bad off for
a real home, after all, daddy."
"Perhaps we can find a nice old black mammy who will take care of us all,"
observed daddy, his eyes twinkling almost as they used to twinkle in the
days of little Boy Blue.
"Yes, I suppose we can," said Freddy, with a wistful little sigh, "I
suppose that is what we will _have_ to do, daddy. But I wish--it's going
to be such a pretty house every other way,--I wish we could have a pretty
lady to sit at the head of the table and pour our tea."
"Would _I_ do, Freddy?" asked Miss Stella, stealing a soft little hand
into his.
"You, Miss Stella,--_you_,--_you_?" gasped Freddy. "Oh, that would be
rip-roaring, sure enough! But you couldn't,--you wouldn't!"
"I might," was the low answer; and Miss Stella arose and drew little Boy
Blue to her loving heart. "I might come if you want me very much,
Freddy,--so I promised daddy last night."
"For there is no real right home without a mother, son," said daddy; and
his arm went around to meet Miss Stella's until Freddy was locked in their
double clasp. And, looking from one glad face to the other, a thousand
rainbows seemed to burst upon his troubled sky, and little Boy Blue
understood.
So there was a wedding in the little church at Beach Cliff when the
hydrangeas were in bloom the next summer,--a wedding that drew the
Forester clan from far and near. Even the two grandmothers, after they had
inspected the Neville family tree through their lorgnettes, declared their
satisfaction that Stella was going to do the proper thing at last.
Daddy was the daddy of old times, before the dark clouds of doubt and
despair had gathered around him and he had drifted about, the derelict Mr.
Wirt; while Miss Stella, veiled in soft mists of tulle, looked what she
had been, to him, what she would ever be to him--his guiding star. Polly,
who was the only bridesmaid (for so Marraine would have it), carried a
basket of flowers as big as herself; Father Tom said the Nuptial Mass; and
Freddy stood at daddy's side, the very happiest of "best men." And Dan who
was off on his summer vacation at Killykinick, came down in the "Sary
Ann," with Captain Jeb slicked up for the occasion in real "store
clothes." And there was a wonderful wedding feast at the Forester home,
with a cake three stories high, and three tables full of wedding presents;
Captain Carleton's diamond star, that he _would_ send, shining with
dazzling light among the rest.
And, then, such a house-warming followed as surpassed Freddy's wildest
dreams with a real fire leaping on the hearth, with the rugs and curtains
and cushions just right; for Miss Stella (or Marraine as she chose that
Freddy should call her,--for, as she said, "Your own dear mother is in
heaven, my boy"),--Miss Stella had picked them all out herself. And Father
Tom beamed happily on his reconstructed family; and the Fathers and
Brothers and boys from St. Andrew's dropped in without ceremony; for
Marraine had welcome for all, now that she was a fixed star in her real
home and her real place.
Though dear Aunt Winnie has dropped at least ten years of her life, and
old Neb's whale oil has done more for her rheumatism than all the store
medicines she ever tried; though more joy and comfort has come into these
sunset years than she ever dared hope, she still sits on her little porch
in the evening, with a look in her old eyes that tells she is dreaming.
"What do you see, Aunt Win?" asked Dan one evening as after a tough pull
up the Hill of Knowledge, he bounded up the Mulligan stairs to drop at her
feet and lay his head in her lap.
"Sure it's not for an old woman to spake, Danny dear!" she answered again
as of old. "It's too great, too high. What was it that holy saint, Father
Mack, said to you, alanna? Sometimes I forget the words."
"That it would be a hard climb for me against winds and storms," said Dan.
"And, golly, it will! I am finding that out myself, Aunt Win."
"Go on, lad! There was more,--there was more," said the old woman,
eagerly.
After a moment's pause, Dan added, in a voice that had grown low and
reverent:
"That God was calling me to His own. And, Aunt Win,--Aunt Win" (there was
a new light in the blue eyes uplifted to her face), "I am finding that
out, too."
But it is a long way to the starlit heights of Aunt Winnie's dream,--a
long, hard way, as Danny knows. We leave him climbing sturdily on over its
rocky steeps and sunlit stretches, but finding many a sunlit resting place
on the way. Brightest of all these to Danny is Killykinick, where he goes
every summer to spend a happy holiday,--to boat, to swim, to fish, to be
"matey" again with the two old men, who look for his coming as the joy of
the year.
"It's hurrah! hurrah, Aunt Win!" he wrote jubilantly one glad summer day.
"Your Danny is at work before time, doing a little missionary business
already. Two real true converts, Aunt Win,--baptized yesterday! It was the
'Padre's preaching' that set Jeb thinking first, and then he got hold of
some of Great-uncle Joe's books. I sort of took a hand, and altogether
we've got the dear old chaps into the fold. Peter and Andrew,--they chose
the names themselves, even good old Neb's dull wits seeming to wake at his
Master's call. Brother Bart's prayers for his old friends have been
answered. The Light is shining on Killykinick, Aunt Win,--the Light is
shining on Killykinick!"