THE WONDER-WINTER MELTS IN SPRING
How changed the house looked to Beth, now that it was settled that
she was to leave it! Only a short half year ago it looked unfamiliar,
its grandeurs frightened her. Now it seemed to her like home and the
more than simple house of her former life came before her memory like
something utterly strange and barren.
She went up the broad stairway between Natalie and Alys silently,
slowly; all three girls were trying not to cry.
“I suppose her mortal life seemed queer to a changeling, too, when she
first went back from fairy-land,” Beth said aloud, speaking out of her
thoughts.
“We’ll see you after a while,” said Alys, as the three paused at Beth’s
door. Her voice drooped downward through the short sentence and ended
in melancholy.
“You wouldn’t have thought that Alys would have minded much,” said Beth
to herself, as she closed the door of her room behind her.
The fire burned low on the hearth, just a stick or two, charred in
the middle, but still in form on the ends, left of Frieda’s early fire
which had brightened the room in the early morning. Even when her first
glimpse of this perfect chamber had struck her mute with admiration on
her arrival, it had never looked to Beth so utterly delightful as it
did that moment when she saw it with farewell to it in her heart.
She crossed over and dropped down in her favorite low white willow
rocker beside the hearth. She twisted around, laid her arms over its
back, her face down on them and cried as hard, yet as relievingly as
she could. A good thorough cry had to be gone through with, so it was
well to get it over and done on the spot.
Frieda came in and found Beth thus. She stood terror-stricken, waiting
an explanation when Beth could give it.
“Miss Beth, Miss Beth dear? Miss Beth, darling little Miss Beth?” she
said questioningly.
“I’m going home, Frieda,” sobbed Beth, straightening herself and
futilely rolling a perfectly wet ball of handkerchief around in first
one, then the other eye. “I’ve had a letter from--from a neighbor at
home, and she tells me my Aunt Rebecca is pining. She never would tell
me herself, so I’m sure it’s true. Besides, Miss Tappan knows. Of
course it would be dreadful to stay here--I mean at Cortmeer--having
the loveliest time in the world, while poor Aunt Rebecca pined. Aunt
Alida says so, too. So I’ve got to go--soon. I might have known a
wonder-summer couldn’t come right after a wonder-winter.”
Frieda fetched a dry handkerchief from Beth’s drawer, practically
expressing the sympathy no words could convey, nor was it an accident
that she offered Beth now her favorite handkerchief.
“Miss Beth, dearest, it’s awful; that’s what it is. It’s awful for me,
and Liebchen will be wild when she hears it. You’ve just crept right
into everybody’s heart here, Miss Beth, and there won’t be a dry eye,
from Tim in the stable to the smallest maid below stairs, when you
start. But you’ll be back in the fall. They’ll never let you stay away.
So try not to feel too bad. If you please, let me tell you that it’s
fine and just like you to go because you think some one needs you.”
Frieda smiled affectionately at Beth, with tears in her own eyes.
Beth arose slowly, feeling better. “That isn’t one bit finer than it is
not to take some one’s silver spoons, Frieda,” she said. “It would be
taking what didn’t belong to me if I took Cortmeer this summer and left
Aunt Rebecca to pine--at her age, after bringing me up!”
Anna Mary, in the doorway, exchanged smiles with Frieda at this speech.
“So it would, Miss Beth; it’s right you are, but it’s something to be
right!” she said. “I just stopped in one minyute, hearin’ the news and
bein’ downright sorry to hear it. But I’m thinkin’ it may be better for
you than you think, spendin’ this summer back where I fetched you from;
a mixture won’t hurt you, little dear though you are! Your cousins are
cryin’ in their room. Sure, you must all cheer up; summer does be swift
passin’. Mrs. Cortlandt bade me say to you she would like you to be
ready to go shoppin’ in half an hour. She is goin’ to get your summer
wardrobe, Miss Beth, and there’s no better thing to dry female tears,
be they from young or old eyes, than a pretty frock or two. It beats
all the wisdom of the ancients and the consolation of friends.”
Beth laughed. Her sense of humor could not be dampened down long by
crying.
“I don’t need a summer wardrobe at home, Anna Mary,” she said. “Some
chambrays and a dimity for afternoons, and a real simple, fine white
frock for best--that’s all you need there.”
“Well, Miss Beth,” said Anna Mary, “Mrs. Cortlandt is that sorry about
losin’ you, and the disappointment and all, that I’m thinkin’ she’ll
have to buy a good deal more than that for you to console herself.”
In the car, on the way to the shops, which were even more bewildering
in their spring glories than when Beth had first seen them, Beth
repeated to Aunt Alida her statement of the simplicity of her
requirements in clothing for a summer in her old home.
Aunt Alida smiled at her. “I won’t be extravagant, Bethie; I’ll
promise it! You must let me get you a third of what you would have had
at Cortmeer and that third is longer than your list,” she said. “What
about your little friend, Janie? Is she the sort of child--rather are
her people the sort of people who would be displeased if you brought
her a few pretty summer concoctions to wear, so that you and she would
be dressed in the same way this summer?”
“Do you mean my little friend Janie, or my friend, Janie Little, Aunt
Alida?” asked Beth with her merry twinkle returning. “The Littles
are nice, Aunt Alida; they are not rich, but they are nice people,
looked-up to, you know--about like us. Nobody is rich at home, but the
Littles are among the nice people. They---- I don’t know. Nobody ever
tried to give us dresses. Maybe Janie could have one--or two. I suppose
jewelry is safer, but I’m sure I don’t know why.”
When this shopping expedition was over Aunt Alida had chosen two
delicate white frocks of the finest material and designs for Beth to
give Janie. For Beth herself there were half a dozen white frocks, ten
chambrays, some delicate mulls and organdies in colors, a hat for best,
a shade hat that Beth thought still prettier, low shoes in russets,
browns and black; stockings, gloves, a parasol that awoke in Beth
enthusiasm only just short of adoration, seeing which Aunt Alida added
one like it, in another color, for Janie.
“Aunt Alida, you don’t know, you really don’t begin to know what Aunt
Rebecca will say when she sees all these things for no one but just me!
It won’t be what she says in words; it will be what she’ll say with her
eyes and especially with her back; turning it, you know!” cried Beth.
“And only think what there is in the house already that you’ve bought
for me! Why, I’ll never dare take back all the trunks these things will
need!”
“I do not intend you to, Bethie,” said Aunt Alida. “Your winter
clothing will be put away in your wardrobes till you get back. That
will be six months from now; in October, surely.”
Beth began to feel cheered. Anna Mary’s wisdom was profound; shopping,
pretty clothes do work wonders in drying feminine tears!
It was impossible not to look forward to the long drive in the big
touring car which Beth had never seen; it was resting for the winter.
It was also impossible not to feel some interest in the yellow kitten
which she had so long wanted and which Miss Tappan said was waiting
for her. And, though she regretted Natalie, Alys and Dirk, still more
the dear uncle who had given her her first actual knowledge of what a
father would have been like, and the beautiful and adorable Aunt Alida,
who was a combination of mother and goddess to the little girl, still
Janie was dear, and of course she loved Aunt Rebecca, and it would be
nice to see the dull little shops, the quiet streets of home once more.
So, like a healthy, natural little girl, Beth began to see streaks of
sunshine through her clouds; to enjoy amid her regret.
“I’m having the car made ready, Beth,” said Uncle Jim one night at
dinner, ten days later. “I’ve been inquiring and I learn that the roads
are pretty well settled on the route we shall travel, returning you.
I have a directors’ meeting, which I can’t cut, on April twentieth. I
must be back for that. What about the date for the trip, Alida? When
shall we start for Massachusetts?”
“That’s for you to decide, Jim,” replied Aunt Alida. “I’ve not made
any positive engagements, thinking you might go soon. The first of the
week?”
“I had Tuesday in mind,” said Uncle Jim.
“Tuesday be it,” said Aunt Alida promptly. “We are all ready--at least
we are all ready to get ready!”
“Now I know you’re really going!” cried Dirk, his reddened cheeks
betraying how ill he liked the knowledge. “As long as there wasn’t a
date, it didn’t seem true, but now--it does!”
“What shall we do to give you a good time before you go?” asked
Natalie. “This is Friday--do you want the Tanagers and Bluebirds and a
little spread on Monday, or a dance that night, or--what would you like
to do, Beth?”
“I wouldn’t like to do one single thing with any one outside this
house, except Miss Deland and Mr. Leonard,” said Beth. “I’d like to
keep right close together, all of us, no one else, my last day.” Beth
choked over these two final melancholy words.
“Let’s have a house party!” cried Alys inspired. “That means a party of
the house, or it does this time. Let’s have ice-cream and cake in the
music room, or the gym or somewhere and have a nice little send off of
our own to-morrow afternoon. Shall we?”
“Have Beth’s Liebchen and Annunciata here, though; they’re so
especially Beth’s, and let Tim come and have all the servants in, make
it like the English story-books, when all the retainers drink the young
heir’s health!” cried Natalie.
“Is that a go, mumsy?” asked Dirk.
“Isn’t it a sort of introduction to a go? To Beth’s going?” suggested
Mrs. Cortlandt. “Surely I agree to the house party, if Beth likes it.”
“It will be very nice, if I don’t cry at it,” said Beth.
“Nobody cries when they’re going somewhere just for the summer, Beth,
and that’s all the leave of absence from here we’ll give you,” said
Uncle Jim.
It was a queer party which gathered in the music room to bid Beth a
formal farewell. Tim, Liebchen, Annunciata were the only guests from
outside the house, unless Miss Deland and Mr. Leonard were counted
outsiders, but, as Dirk said, “they were inside so much it was about
the same thing.”
For the rest, all Aunt Alida’s servants were asked to “drink Beth’s
health in ice-cream juice, if it melts,” Alys said.
Tim arose and made a speech. “Miss Beth, you dear child,” he began,
and the audience shouted: “Hear, hear!” endorsing this estimate of
Beth before he could get farther. “It’s sorry we are to be seein’ the
last of you, as the man said to the thrain he’d run himself purple to
catch whin he saw it turnin’ the corner, beyant the station. Trump is
startin’ this day week to go afther you an’ it’s envyin’ Trump we’ll
all be whin he gets there, more by token that you’ll likely throw your
two arrums around him an’ kiss him plenty, which is what no Shetland
pony can appreciate fully. Take it all in all, Miss Beth, high an’ low
in your uncle’s house, an’ more, maybe, in your uncle’s stable, have
come to love the sweet face of you this winter, an’ it’s just walkin’
rolls of crêpe we’d be didn’t we know you’d be here again next season.
So we wish you good luck, Miss Beth, darlin’, an’ I’m thinkin’ there’s
no better way to end a farewell speech than to say Godspeed, which is
all wan with God bless you!”
This speech, which Tim ended with a bow that would have done credit to
a dancing master, was applauded to the echo.
“You have to reply, Bethie,” whispered Uncle Jim, pulling Beth to her
feet with a whirl. She laughed, but looked frightened, although all
the faces before her were familiar ones, which smiled at her with
affectionate looks.
They saw a round-faced little girl, crimson with embarrassment, dark
blue eyes dilated and excited, smiling, tremulous lips, fair hair
flowing around her shoulders, snowy white floating frock making her
look especially innocent and childish. It came to one or two present,
notably to Aunt Alida and Anna Mary, that this child had come into
her uncle’s household for more than her own sake and to spend a
“wonder-winter” in the enjoyment of all that great wealth can give.
She was a simple little girl, wholly unconscious and modest, but there
was in her a quality, a nobility of mind and heart, which made those
who loved Beth feel that it held the promise, the assurance of a future
of important achievement.
“I can’t make a speech; Tim’s speech was lovely,” said Beth in a
little voice and they all applauded, choosing to consider this the
opening of a speech. So Beth found herself launched, which was Uncle
Jim’s intention when he led the applause.
“I’ve had the nicest winter ever was,” Beth went on. “It’s been just
like a fairy story. It’s gone right on from glory to glory. I’ve had a
wonder-winter, in Wonderland. I’m fearfully, fearfully sorry I’ve got
to go, but Aunt Alida and Uncle Jim are going to ask me again, they
say, so maybe I’ll come back--if my great-aunt Rebecca can get along.
Everybody has been so good to me, everybody! I’m--I’m just as obliged
as I can be. I hope everybody will keep well this summer and be here,
if I do come back. And--and--I’m really ever so much obliged.”
Beth broke down a little at the end of this first attempt at public
speaking. The applause, as newspapers say, reporting political
meetings, “was tremendous.”
Then every one in the room came up to Beth and made her a little gift;
every one, even to the cook, a forbidding man whom Beth did not know
and the woman who helped him, whom she had never seen before. Stories
of Beth’s sweetness, her friendliness, her desire to make every one
around her happy had stolen to the unknown parts of the house and to
those who presided there, and all were sorry that the dear little girl
was going away.
Riggs was the greatest surprise of all. His solemnity seemed like a
case, through which nothing could penetrate. It was a pleasant shock to
discover that Beth had broken through this armor of respectability and
won affection from the butler. Riggs came with his farewell offering to
Beth and presented it with a smile and real feeling.
“Hit’s a bit of ’awthorn from Stratford-on-Avon, miss,” Riggs said.
“Hi thought you’d like something from Shakespeare’s ’ome. Hi’ve ’eard
you talkin’ hinterested hand hinterestingly hon readin’. Hi made bold
to send hover to a member hof my hown family, ’oo keeps an hinn near
Stratford-on-Avon, for this bit of ’awthorn. Haccept hit, Miss Beth,
hif you please, hin token hof my hadmiration hand respect.”
Mr. Leonard gave Beth a tiny packet. “We’re like minded, Riggs and I;
thought you’d like something with venerable associations, Beth! That’s
a piece of the British man-of-war, _Somerset_. The ship Paul Revere
rowed under ‘with muffled oar’ when he was making for the Charlestown
shore to arouse the Lexington men. The _Somerset_ went to pieces on the
Cape Cod shore a few years later and was uncovered long afterward. This
little piece of black English oak was part of her. I thought you’d like
it.”
Beth lightly touched the dried hawthorn leaves, the square of oak,
blackened by time. Her imagination was fired by the contact of her
pink-tipped, twentieth century fingers with these objects which had
been near such great deeds, such reverend associations. She could
hardly bring herself back to thank Mr. Leonard and Riggs.
“We’ll meet again, little Beth,” said Mr. Leonard. “If I did not know
that I should not know how to say good-bye.”
“You saved Dirk’s life,” said Beth. “But I was fond of you before.”
Which was a satisfactory good-bye, as Mr. Leonard’s eyes betrayed.
Annunciata’s offering to Beth, made with tempestuous sobs, for
Annunciata never felt anything by halves, was a pretty and gay striped
apron, such as Italian peasants wear.
“It’s for curiousa-tee,” explained Annunciata, between gasps. “And for
to remember your poor Nunciata, who will died, die, dead without to see
you, loveliest!”
“Now, Beth, this is the most serious case of all!” whispered Natalie.
“It’s dreadful to kill the child in so many ways.”
Liebchen was quiet; she did not even cry, but she looked tragic as she
bade Beth good-bye and presented her with wristlets of her own knitting.
“I’ll walk where you go, if you don’t come back,” she said. “You got me
cured to walk, and I’ll walk there, but I’ll see you again.”
Beth found this touching. She promised Liebchen faithfully that she
would return. She then made “her international relations peaceful,”
as Uncle Jim said, by putting on the gay contadina’s apron and the
wristlets, in spite of the delicacy of her white frock. Beth served her
guests with cream and cake, Natalie played and so did Aunt Alida, and
everybody sang.
When Mr. Cortlandt insisted upon it, Tim danced his Irish breakdown
with the greatest humor and flexibility, ending with a toss in the air
of an imaginary cap and a shout of “Erin go bragh” that sent Dirk into
ecstasy.
That night Aunt Alida and Uncle Jim had no engagement, for the
household was to rise at the unusual hour of half-past six, for the
travelers to be off before nine.
Frieda dressed Beth for the last time, at least for a good while. It
was a sober and dewy face that looked back at Beth from the glass, as
she sat before it, having her hair braided tight for the drive, and
behind her chair Frieda bent over her, braiding and dropping tears on
the fair hair.
Beth did not speak, neither did Frieda. Both understood that the little
lady and her maid were too saddened by parting to speak of it.
When her toilet was made, hair tucked away under the dearest little
automobile bonnet that could be devised for such a face as Beth’s, a
close little affair of white straw with a flat blue bow on its top and
small pink rosebuds all around the inside of the edge, Frieda put on
Beth a long coat of blue, gauntlet gloves, a white veil that was sure
to flow out gracefully into everybody else’s face.
Then Beth stood in the middle of her beloved room and let her eyes
travel from one object to another in it, taking detailed farewell of
its perfections. Such a beautiful room, so homelike, yet so elegant!
And she was giving it up! Beth choked, but remembered that Aunt
Rebecca was pining. She turned to Frieda and threw her arms around her
vehemently.
“Good-bye, good-bye, you dear, nice Frieda! I’m sorry if I ever
bothered you. You’ve been so nice I’ve even liked having a maid, though
I’d never have believed I could have borne it. Good-bye!”
“Good-bye, my darling little Miss Beth,” sobbed Frieda. “You’ve never
been anything like a bother to me; just a pleasure to wait on you, it
is. Come back, and don’t let any one else be your maid when you come.”
“Oh, mercy me, no!” cried Beth, hurrying away before she should feel
that she could not go from her room and Frieda.
At the door stood the great touring car which Beth had never seen
before. It was painted a dark mulberry color, to correspond with the
Cortlandt livery. Léon Charette was in his place, ready to start.
Beside him sat the footman who accompanied the coachmen when the horses
were used, both in their mulberry coats, looking exceedingly correct.
Anna Mary was still stowing away luggage and luncheon hampers in their
places in the car. Alys made Beth get into it with her to be shown the
thermos bottles, the mirror, the toilet case, all the appointments of
this truly magnificent car.
“I thought all the stunning me was done,” said Beth. “But this car is
just as wonderful as the house.”
She jumped out and ran back, for there was Miss Deland, smiling,
with a book in her hand. “I ordered this for you, but it had not come
yesterday, little Beth,” she said.
Beth looked at it; it was a beautiful copy of old Mallory’s “Morte
d’Arthur.”
“Because you are such a little bundle of olden time romance,” smiled
Miss Deland. “Good-bye, little pupil, and don’t forget to love the
teacher that never had a chance to teach you much; you’ve been such a
butterfly in New York this winter!”
Aunt Alida wore brown; her long coat, close bonnet and veil and gloves
were almost one in color with her dark eyes and hair.
Natalie wore invisible green, Alys a lighter shade, Dirk looked almost
professional in Norfolk tweeds and goggles, a small but close imitation
of his handsome father. Anna Mary was to be taken; she looked just as
she had when she had come for Beth, a long, severe shiny figure in
black.
Mrs. Cortlandt and the three girls were to sit in the back; Mr.
Cortlandt, Dirk and Anna Mary were occupants of the middle seats.
Léon started the car; it obeyed readily, and slowly rolled away.
Beth looked back. There were dear Mrs. Hodgman, who had cried when
she kissed Beth good-bye and said: “Good-bye, little sunshine!” And
there were Frieda, Miss Deland--and the house. Beth waved to them all,
equally, and was gone!
It was a long drive to the small town where Aunt Rebecca lived, but
Mr. Cortlandt was to take it easily. Beth found it thrilling to say:
“Now we are in New York State.” “Now we have crossed the Connecticut
line.” It seemed a great thing to her to be an interstate traveler!
The party stopped for the night at a good hotel and Beth keenly enjoyed
the novelty. Never before had she been a guest in a hotel; she had a
sense of rapidly becoming a citizen of the great world.
In the morning they took their places in the car again and rolled on,
through country so beautiful that Beth could not contain herself.
“New England is lovely, isn’t it, Uncle Jim?” she said proudly. “‘Land
of the Pilgrims’ pride,’ you know. I’m proud of it, too. I can’t help
being glad I was born here.”
“I’m truly thankful that you were born somewhere, Bethikins,” returned
Uncle Jim. “It’s a fine old state, your Bay State. But ‘breathes there
a man with soul so dead,’ you know, Bethie! You don’t?” he added, as
Beth shook her head. “‘Who never to himself hath said: This is my own,
my native land,’ is the rest of the quotation--Scott. And that applies
to a little girl. There’s a flavor in the air we first breathed that we
‘may search through the wide world is ne’er met with elsewhere.’ I seem
to be dropping into poetry like Silas Wegg! I’d better stop talking.”
Beth chattered all the way, until they drew near to their destination.
Then she became quiet and, as the approach to her town began to take
on familiar aspects, to grow pale and tremulous. Her hand sought Aunt
Alida’s, who held it fast. It surprised herself to find how much she
wished to hold it fast, permanently: never to let little Beth slip away
from her.
It was a perfect April afternoon, warm, with openings in the warmth of
spring coolness; curious little draughts of cool air, followed by warm
ones as they skirted woodlands. The sun lay on the earth with a warmth
that was a summons to all the flowers. Beth knew that in a day or two
she and Janie would gather violets in the south field, back of Janie’s
house.
The car rolled into the town, more properly a village, with its easy
motion that had been so steady and restful all through the journey. It
attracted attention; it was a more magnificent car than usually came
that way and it was one of the first to come that season. Beth sat
up straight, leaning forward; by this time her left hand had sought
Natalie’s, as her right had sought her aunt’s, and she was holding fast
to them both, with a nervous clutch that betrayed her excitement.
They passed people whom Beth knew, but they did not recognize her.
Miss Tappan had kept the secret of her coming, so no one looked to
see little Beth Bristead in the great tonneau, behind the impressive
mulberry backs of the chauffeur and footman. Beth felt unreasonably
disappointed. It seemed dreadful to have Mrs. Damon, who sold them
butter, and Mr. Ranney, who might be called Aunt Rebecca’s lifelong
grocer, go by without a smile for the child who had so often been sent
to them on errands.
At last, guided by Beth, the car turned into a shady street, with
houses on either side somewhat withdrawn from it. It stopped at a brown
house with a low gateway. The footman jumped down and opened the door
of the tonneau.
“I think you’d better go in alone, dear,” said Aunt Alida. “Your
great-aunt will be so surprised it is better for her to see you before
we meet her.”
But precaution was too late. Aunt Rebecca came out on the piazza,
seeing the car at her gate. Beth sprang out of the tonneau at the sight
of her, forgetting everything but that this was coming home again and
that was Aunt Rebecca, Aunt Rebecca, looking pale and considerably
older, just as Miss Tappan had said.
“Aunt Rebecca, I’m here!” cried Beth, running up the walk.
Aunt Rebecca’s hand went to her side. Then she descended a step and
caught Beth to her in an embrace such as Beth had never before in all
her life received from her.
“Beth, Beth, little Beth,” she said; nothing more. But instantly Beth’s
regrets at returning vanished completely. Aunt Rebecca surely loved her
and wanted her; she must have been “pining” to speak, to clutch Beth
like this.
Miss Bristead was not the sort of person to allow emotion to master
her. In an instant she had regained her self-control and went down to
her gate to meet Mrs. Cortlandt and her husband and to urge them to
come in.
“We are going on to-night, Miss Bristead, thank you,” said Aunt Alida.
“Mr. Cortlandt has an important engagement that will force us to hasten
back. We have returned Beth to you. It is with unspeakable reluctance.
We want her dreadfully this summer, Miss Bristead! I think it right to
tell you that we have begged Beth to stay with us, but all in vain.
She has been resolutely determined to go to you. We are sorry enough,
but--here she is!”
Miss Bristead smiled. “I think I need her more than you do, with these
three fine children,” she said.
Beth recognized in Aunt Rebecca a changed manner, a softening. Once she
would not have complimented the young Cortlandts.
“Aren’t you going to come in, Aunt Alida?” cried Beth aghast.
“No, dear. It is better that we go immediately,” said Aunt Alida. She
was wise enough to know that parting would thus be easier to Beth.
“Get in again, chicken, and kiss me as hard as you can, to make up
for all the days that must pass before you kiss me again,” her uncle
ordered her.
Beth got in. For a few moments she was hugged breathless by first
one then another of her Cortlandt relatives, and then they began all
over again. Even Anna Mary kissed her over and over, and blessed her
fervently.
Then Uncle Jim got out and lifted Beth bodily from the car. He looked
at Miss Bristead and smiled, then put Beth’s hands in hers, in token of
his renunciation of her for a while. Then the great car moved, turned,
slowly started away, amid shouts of farewell and a sob or two from
Natalie and Alys. It went down the quiet street, increasing its speed
and, turning the corner, was lost to sight.
Beth turned to the house, knowing that she must do something to keep
from crying. She did not wish to let Aunt Rebecca feel that she
regretted being at home again.
“You made a sacrifice for me, child; they are much more charming,
high-bred people than I expected to see. They are very nice indeed, for
New Yorkers. They could have given you a great deal we lack here, Beth.
I appreciate your coming, but--I needed you!”
“I’m truly glad I came, Aunt Rebecca,” said Beth with perfect truth.
Together they went into the house. It looked bare, queer. The china
ornaments on the mantelpiece, the clock with Time and his scythe,
once so familiar, had become not only strange to Beth, but grotesque.
Nothing seemed real; neither the life she had been living, nor this old
life she had lived before.
Ella Lowndes, who had been watching the arrival behind a drawn curtain,
came to meet and hug Beth. Tabby came, too, her tail erect, her whole
air revealing pride in the yellow kitten that gamboled behind her,
trying to reach her proud tail.
In a little while Janie came running, breathless, wild with joy. News
travels fast in places like Aunt Rebecca’s village. Janie had heard
that Beth Bristead was back. The little girls hugged each other in a
transport of joy in meeting. However dear and beautiful Natalie was,
Janie was Beth’s lifelong chum; there really could be but one Janie!
Beth was so glad to see her that it made her forget the red table-cloth
which had been distressing her in a vague way. Later Beth and Janie sat
on the upper step in the April sunset, their arms around each other,
their heads leaned lovingly close.
“Tell me all about everything,” Janie ordered Beth.
“Not to-night; I can’t. It seems so queer to be here, yet it doesn’t
seem as if New York was true, one bit. I feel as though I had been
dreaming,” Beth said.
“Beth, I don’t see how you ever, ever came back!” whispered Janie.
“Lydia Tappan told mama to-day that she had written you; that was after
we heard you had come, though.”
“I had to come. You see this ring? That shows I’m not dreaming. A
prince gave me that.” She nodded hard, in response to Janie’s amazed
stare.
“Truly; a real prince! It’s for an Order. Natalie, Alys, Dirk and I
belong. It’s the Order of the Strong Hearted. When we have to choose
something, we’re vowed to choose what’s right, not what we want--unless
we happen to want the right. I had to choose to come back. But, oh,
Janie, I’m awfully, dreadfully glad to see you!”
“Well, I guess I am!” echoed Janie. They hugged each other all over
again.
“Sitting here like Java sparrows?” said Aunt Rebecca coming out.
“Put this shawl around you. I guess it’ll cover you both, sitting so
close! I declare, it doesn’t seem as though it could be you, Beth! Your
wonder-winter is over, as you called it. But I guess I could quote
Shakespeare if I had a mind to: ‘Now is the winter of our discontent
made glorious summer by the son of York.’ Only it’s a little daughter!
Are you really home again, Beth?”
“Yes, Aunt Rebecca, I’m home again! I’m so glad you’re glad I came! You
_are_ glad, aren’t you, Aunt Rebecca?” asked Beth.
“Yes, Beth, I’m glad,” said Aunt Rebecca. “I like to have you
around.”
FAMOUS STORIES FOR GIRLS
_By Charlotte M. Vaile_
_The Orcutt Girls_
OR, ONE TERM AT THE ACADEMY. 316 pp.
_Sue Orcutt_
A SEQUEL TO “THE ORCUTT GIRLS.” 335 pp.
These companion volumes are among the most popular books for girls
which have ever been written concerning school life. In these books
Mrs. Vaile depicts that old academic life which used to be so great
a feature in the life of New England. Mrs. Vaile shows her intimate
knowledge of the subject, and both books are full of incentive and
inspiration.
_Wheat and Huckleberries_
OR, DR. NORTHMORE’S DAUGHTERS. 336 pp.
Another story for girls with the true ring of genuineness, and as the
two girls around whom the story centers were born and brought up in the
rich farm regions of the Middle West, and then spent their summers in
the New England home of their grandfather, the author has been able to
weave into her narrative the various peculiarities of both sections.
Each volume is fully illustrated. Price, $1.50
* * * * *
_The M. M. C._
A STORY OF THE GREAT ROCKIES. 232 pp.
The experience of a New England girl in the Colorado mining camp. It
shows the pluck of the little school teacher in holding for her friend
a promising mining claim which he had secured after years of misfortune
in other ventures.
Fully illustrated. Price, $1.00
The Girls’ Dollar Book Shelf
_The object of this series is to give a high grade, attractive and
interesting series of books for girls on up-to-date subjects and at a
popular price_
_Each volume $1.00 net, postpaid $1.12_
_By Amy E. Blanchard_
_Elizabeth, Betsy and Bess_
Miss Blanchard needs no introduction to girls. Her stories have been
read for years and Elizabeth, Betsy and Bess are just such characters
as every girl enjoys reading about. 284 pages
_Elizabeth, Betsy and Bess--Schoolmates_
This is the story of the school days of the three girl chums and shows
the individual development of each one. Every chapter is full of the
interesting experiences dear to the hearts of girls of this age.
336 pages
_By Grace Blanchard_
_Phillida’s Glad Year_
As the librarian of one of our largest libraries, Miss Grace Blanchard
knows what girls like and in this new volume readers will find some of
the faces with which they were familiar in “Phil’s Happy Girlhood.”
It is full of interest from beginning to end and will appeal to every
girl. 340 pages
* * * * *
_By Jean M. Thompson_, Author of “Water Wonders”
_Three Bears of Porcupine Ridge. Wild Dwellers of Forest,
Marsh and Lake_
A splendid animal book, beautifully illustrated and interesting from
cover to cover. The reputation of the author as a writer of animal
stories alone is proof of the value of this volume. 320 pages
_Trapped on Eagle Ledge. Wild Kindred of Fur, Feather and Fin_
This is the continuation of the author’s interesting animal and nature
stories collected in THREE BEARS OF PORCUPINE RIDGE. 330 pages
_Price, Cloth, $1.25 net each_
Transcriber’s Note:
Punctuation has been standardised. Dialect in direct speech has been
retained. Changes to the original publication have been made as follows:
Page 132
lot of valuble strength _changed to_
lot of valuable strength
Page 268
patés also lace-trimmed _changed to_
pâtés also lace-trimmed
Page 319
Ponce de Leon named it that _changed to_
Ponce de Léon named it that
Page 323
Your true friend, _changed to_
“‘Your true friend,