A MUCH LOVED GIRL
“Geraldine, dearie, why don’t you get up? Aren’t you feeling well this
morning?”
It was the day after the sleigh-ride party. Mrs. Gray had purposely
permitted the girl to sleep late, but now it was nearing the hour of
noon.
Geraldine tossed restlessly and her face was feverish. “Oh, Mrs. Gray,”
she said, “I have such a headache. I tried to get up, but I couldn’t.
Then I tried to call, but you did not hear.”
The little old lady was truly worried. She placed her cool hand on the
hot forehead, and then she hurried from the room, promising to be back in
a few moments. She went at once to the Colonel’s study, hoping that he
had returned from his morning constitutional, but he was not there. Going
to the telephone, Mrs. Gray was soon talking to Doctor Carson.
“I’m so afraid our little girl has been exposed to some contagious
disease,” she said. “Won’t you please come over at once?”
The kindly doctor was at the house fifteen minutes later and with him was
the Colonel, whom he had met on the highway.
The doctor examined the girl, who was too listless to heed what was going
on. “Geraldine is very ill,” he said seriously.
“Come to think of it, Myra Comely told me that three of the girls,
Geraldine among them, had brought her the wonderful news that she had to
tell me about her mother’s brother. Mrs. Comely had been ill for nearly a
week with a form of influenza which is often fatal.” Then, noting the
startled expressions on the faces of his listeners, the doctor added: “Do
not be alarmed, however, for we have taken _this_ case in time. I am sure
of that.”
But, as days passed, the Colonel and Mrs. Gray were not so sure, for, in
spite of their constant and loving care, Geraldine grew weaker. The
little old lady would permit no one else to nurse the girl, but day and
night she was near the bedside, ministering with an unceasing tenderness
and devotion.
The Colonel procured two capable young women to assist in the household.
They were Matilda and Susan Rankin, who for years had worked for the
Morrisons in Dorchester. Merry Lee and Doris Drexel, having been equally
exposed, were kept home from school for a week, but they had evidently
been able to resist the contagion and were not ill.
Jack Lee called often to inquire about Geraldine, and his heart was heavy
when the news was so discouraging. Then, at last, came a day when, with
hope almost gone, the Colonel, with an aching heart, cabled to
Geraldine’s father. He was in England still and he could not reach
Sunnyside for two weeks, but Geraldine often called faintly for her
“Dad,” and the Colonel knew that he must send for him.
“I expect the crisis tonight,” the doctor said late one afternoon. Jack
Lee, hearing of this, sat up with Danny O’Neil in his room over the
garage. Alfred had promised to place a lighted candle in a rear window as
soon as the doctor believed Geraldine to be out of danger.
The long dark hours passed and it was nearing dawn. Danny had fallen
asleep, but Jack, alone in the dark, sat watching for the candle which
did not appear.
At sunrise, as his friend had not awakened, Jack, unable to stand the
suspense longer, went out in the garden hoping that he might see someone
from whom he might make inquiries. As he passed beneath a window, it was
softly opened and Alfred leaned out. His face was drawn and white.
“Jack,” he called, “please telephone Merry and the other girls and tell
them that Geraldine seems to be asleep. We thought for hours that she
would never awaken, but now the doctor reports that her breathing is more
normal. He is confident that the worst is over.”
The listener’s face brightened. “Good!” he ejaculated. “Is there anything
you want from town? I am going to take Danny home with me to breakfast
and he can bring back anything you may need.”
Alfred disappeared to consult the housekeeper as to what supplies might
be required, and Jack, leaping up the garage stairs two steps at a time,
found Danny awake and wondering what had become of his friend.
He, too, was indeed glad to hear the good news, and a few moments later,
when Alfred had dropped a list out to them, they drove away with lighter
hearts than they had had in many a day.
Great was the rejoicing in the town of Sunnyside as the news was
telephoned from one home to another, and a week later, when Geraldine was
strong enough to sit up for a few hours in her sunny bow window, the six
girls, wrapped in furs, stood beneath it waving to her and smiling and
nodding to assure her of their friendship. When they were gone, there
were tears in the eyes of the invalid as she turned toward the ever
watchful old lady who sat sewing nearby.
“Mrs. Gray,” she said, “am I different or is everyone else different?
When I first came I did not want to know these country girls, but now I
love them all dearly.” Then, before the little old lady could reply,
Geraldine asked, “Is my Dad coming today?”
The housekeeper looked troubled. The Colonel could not account for the
fact that Mr. Morrison had not been heard from since he first cabled that
he would return as soon as possible.
“Surely he will be here tomorrow by the latest,” was the evasive answer.
The girl’s gaze then rested on the soft, silvery hair of the bent head.
“Mrs. Gray, why have you been so good to me? An own relation couldn’t
have been kinder. You have tired yourself all out, I know, caring for me
day and night. I don’t deserve it.”
There was a twinkle in the eyes that looked at the girl. “I’ve been
playing a game, Geraldine,” she said. “I’ve been pretending that you were
my make-believe granddaughter.” Then wistfully she added: “You don’t know
how all these last ten, long years I have yearned for someone who really
belonged to me, someone to care for.”
Before Geraldine could reply, the door bell pealed.