MARYVALE.
Friday morning, Mary was half dressed when Gene came to wake her.
"There are so many things that I must do before it is time to start,
you know, Gene."
"Why, Mary, you have nothing to do but to eat your breakfast and put
your comb and brush in your suitcase. Neither have I," laughed the
young girl.
"Indeed, I have some very important things to do, Gene, and I wish you
would try to go around with your eyes closed and not fasten your
suitcase until I tell you."
"Now, Mary, what did I say about gifts? You promised, you know."
"Yes, I know I promised not to let Uncle Frank buy you anything, and
not to make anything myself; but his gift was already bought, and mine
was already made; so we can't do anything but give them to you, can we?"
"You little mischief! I told you that I would like to have that
picture of you and that was all. I thought we would surely find it
before this."
"And I looked everywhere for the large ones like it that Mother has put
away somewhere, but I couldn't find them. Never mind, Gene, you shall
have that picture some day."
After breakfast when the Doctor had said good-bye to Gene, Mary clung
to him, making him promise to leave early that evening for Maryvale.
"And I have telephoned to Aunt Mary to expect you on the ten-thirty
train. She will send the sleigh with two or three of the large girls
to meet you. Be sure to catch that train, for it will take you out
there in good time for luncheon. Good-bye until evening."
"Now we must fly around and get ready, Gene. You know we have to stop
at little Paul's home to give him and Sister Julia their presents. He
may wish us to stay a few minutes, too. Oh, oh! don't fasten your
suitcase yet, please!" Mary hurried to her uncle's room for Gene's
gift, and returning, peeped in at the door. "Please look out the
window a minute, Gene." Carefully laying the package on top of the
things in the suitcase, she slammed down the cover and sat on it.
"Now, you may fasten it, but I won't let you have even one, teeny,
weeny peep. And you must promise not to open the suitcase until
Christmas morning."
"But, darling, I can't promise that. There are things in it that I
shall need as soon as I get home." Mary's face fell. "But I shall
promise not to open your gift until Christmas. Will that do? is it
wrapped?"
"Yes, Gene, it is wrapped, so you really can't see the
pic----the----the _thing_, anyway."
"Jim jes' done tol' me dat he's gwine to dribe around to de front now,
so yo' bettah lemme holp yo' git yo' t'ings on, Miss May-ree, so's Miss
Gene kin git her's on at de same time."
Liza smiled in a knowing fashion at Mary and took up the little girl's
pretty, white coat and hat.
"Just a minute, Liza. I must wrap up Amelia Anabelle first. Will you
please get the shawl out of the middle drawer?" Mary crossed the room
to the door of the playroom, and Gene pretended to be busy with her
suitcase.
"Why--oh! oh! oh!" Back ran the little girl to throw her arms about
Gene and dance with her around the room. "You dear, darling, dumpling
Gene! _Now_ I know who the little friend is that you were knitting the
pretty white mittens and leggings and embroidering the beautiful baby
cloak and cap for. _You_ are the mischief!" And Mary was off again to
the playroom, returning with Amelia Anabelle dressed for the trip.
"See how nicely the ruching on her inside cap sticks out--just exactly
enough. O Gene, you are too good to me!"
"I could never be that, dearie."
Then came Gene's turn for a surprise. She went into her own room, Mary
and Liza following her as far as the door. She took up her hat and
turned to the dresser, then gave a glad little cry; for on it lay a
handsome, brown leather bag mounted in silver. Opening it, she found
an envelope containing a twenty dollar gold piece and the Doctor's card
on which was written, "May this bag never contain less."
Nearly two hours later, the train stopped at the village near Maryvale,
and Mary at once spied the sleigh filled with the children from the
convent. Two of the older ones were waiting on the station platform.
One of them took Mary's suitcase, the other her doll, and the little
girl threw her arms around Gene.
"Happy, happy Christmas and good-bye, Gene, until Monday. Uncle is
going to take me with him when he goes to see your father, you know."
The young girl stood on the platform of the car, waving to the little,
white-clad figure until a curve in the track cut off the view.
"Here's a place for you, Mary!" "Oh, sit by me, _please_!" "You'll be
warmer right here, between Frances and me!" "Oh, what a darling doll!"
"Let me hold her, please, Mary!" were some of the cries from the sleigh.
At last all were comfortably settled, and a jolly ride they had.
Before they had gone very far, Amelia Anabelle had a tantrum which
added greatly to the fun. Sister Madeline was at the door to welcome
the little girl.
"Mother Johanna told me to give you one of the big girls' rooms, so we
shall go there at once to take off your wraps. Let me carry that
lovely baby. She looks too heavy for you."
"She is heavy, Aunt Mary; but I wouldn't mind that so much if she
wasn't so cross. On the train there was a baby crying; but when Amelia
Anabelle began, it just stopped to stare at her. And in the
sleigh--well, I was 'shamed of her!" As her aunt laid the doll on the
bed, Mary slyly pushed the button. "Did you ever see such a child! I
s'pose I shall have to walk the floor with her." And then Mary laughed
gaily at the look on Sister Madeline's face. "There now, she will be
good until the next time."
But her aunt caught up the doll and soon found the cause of her antics.
"You must take her with you when you go to see Mother Johanna after
dinner, Mary. The dear old soul won't know what to make of her. Then
I shall borrow her to amuse the Sisters at recreation. It is just
dinner time, so we shall go down stairs. We close the large refectory
when so few of the children are here, and they have their meals in the
lunch room."
"'M, 'm, it smells Christmassy down here."
"Yes, Dora and Frances have decorated the lunch room with holly and
evergreens. Have you brought an apron with you? They expect you to
work, you know."
"I think it is going to be make-b'lieve work, Aunt Mary. Yes, Liza put
an apron in my suitcase, because this dress doesn't wash, and I am
going to wear it to travel in."
The afternoon passed quickly for the nine little girls gathered around
the table in the recreation room, where the roaring flames were dancing
up the big chimney. They strung popcorn to help Santa Claus deck the
tree, and it is safe to say that quite as much went into their mouths
as on the long threads.
"The tree will be right there in the bay window, Mary."
"Yes, and we hang our stockings around the fireplace."
"But we don't get a peep at our presents until after the Masses on
Christmas morning."
"We have Midnight Mass you know, Mary, and then we have a lunch and go
back to bed. At six o'clock Father Hartley begins and says two more
Masses."
"Midnight Mass! Oh, I have never been to Midnight Mass. It must be
lovely. Four o'clock Mass was the earliest at our church, and Mother
and Father and Uncle Frank and I went. It was pitch dark, and the
stars were shining, and the snow was so nice and crunchy. That reminds
me. We must do all we can this afternoon, Sister, because Uncle is
going to take us for a long sleigh ride to-morrow."
A chorus of "Goody!" greeted this statement.
"Let's tell stories while we work, Sister," proposed Dora. "Christmas
stories. You begin, please."
"Oh, no, save Sister Austin's for the last. Begin with the youngest.
That's you, Effie." And the little five-year-old began,
"Oncey-ponny-time."
When at last Sister Austin's turn came, she told them the beautiful
story which never grows old--the story which gives the true meaning to
Christmas. The sun had set when she finished, and Mary leaned toward
her, asking in a low voice, "Do you know what time it is, Sister? Aunt
Mary said she would come for me when it is time to watch for Uncle; but
I am afraid she might forget."
"No danger of that, dear. It is only a quarter to five. At this time
of year, the days are very short, you know."
Before another hour had passed, Sister Madeline came for the little
girl.
"I have sent Peter with the sleigh to meet Uncle Frank, for it is a
long, cold walk from the station. The small room at the right of the
front door will be the very best place to watch for him. There is no
light there, and we can see straight down the drive to the gate."
"And the sleighbells will tell us when he is coming, Aunt Mary."
Together they peered out into the darkness. After a long silence, Mary
asked, "Aunt Mary, did you know that Father Lacey was going to let me
make my First Communion when I was so sick, but I was unsenseless all
the time? Oh, if I had not been that way, I could go to Holy Communion
on Christmas! [1] Why do you think I never woke even for one little
minute?"
"God alone can answer that question, darling. Clearly it was not His
will that you should make your First Communion at that time; for Mother
told me that everything possible was done to rouse you. But even
though you cannot actually receive our dear Lord on His birthday, you
can form the desire to do so, not only on that day but many times every
day. Tell Him that you believe in Him, hope in Him, love Him, and are
sorry for having offended Him, and that you wish you could receive Him.
You will then be making a Spiritual Communion which so pleases our
Divine Lord that He once said to a Saint, who was in the habit of
making Spiritual Communions: 'My daughter, thy desire has penetrated so
deeply into My heart that if I had not instituted this Sacrament of
Love, I would do it now for thee alone, to become thy food, to have the
pleasure of dwelling in thy breast, to take my loving repose in thy
heart. I find such pleasure in being desired, that so often as a heart
forms this desire, so often do I lovingly behold it to draw it unto
Myself.'"
"I am so glad you told me that, Aunt Mary. I won't forget. Listen! I
thought I heard the bells----Yes, there they are again." Mary
flattened her nose against the window pane so as to catch the first
glimpse of the sleigh. "There it is! there it is!"
The meeting between the two showed Sister Madeline how much Mary had
missed her uncle that day.
"And now for supper! I think the children are hoping that you and Mary
will join them, Frank; but no doubt you would prefer to have it
together in the priest's dining-room."
"Not a bit of it! I am in for all the fun going. 'Make me a child
again just for to-night,' and to-morrow and the day after. If we can
make the little folks happy by joining them at their meals, we shall
certainly do so. I suppose I must be proper and call you Sister
Madeline before them."
No child at that supper table could remember a jollier meal; and when
it was over, the Doctor went with them to the recreation room, where he
played the piano and sang and told stories until bedtime. On the way
to the front door with him, Mary was very quiet.
"Don't forget that you are to prove to-night whether I have been paying
you a visit at ten P. M."
"Uncle," whispered the little girl, "_don't_ you think I could go down
to Father Hartley's with you? Oh, I would sleep on a lounge or
anything."
"But hasn't Aunt Mary told you of her little plan? Then I shall have
to spoil her surprise. She is going to sleep in the very next room to
yours and leave the door open between. Try it for just one night,
dear."
The Doctor's first question the next morning was, "Did I call on you in
your dreams, last night, Goldilocks?"
"Oh, you rogue, you rogue! You know very well who came and kissed me
good-night; and you put her up to it!"
The Doctor tried to look surprised. "I put whom up to it?"
"Oho! don't try to pretend you don't know, sir! Your eyes are
twinkling, and so are Aunt Mary's. But I caught her right around the
neck when she leaned over; for I wasn't sound asleep, and I heard her
beads rattle."
"But what was Aunt Mary doing up at the very late hour of ten o'clock?
Don't you know that in convents the rule is, 'Early to bed, early to
rise'?"
"But p'r'aps it wasn't quite ten o'clock, Uncle. No, no, I have caught
you both this time!"
[1] The decree of Pope Pius X., concerning the First Communion of
little children, had not at this time been issued.