They all enjoyed their trip to the city the next day, Grace perhaps
more than any of the others. She was allowed to buy everything on her
list, and some others she thought of while on the way or in the stores,
selecting them herself.
But the first business attended to was the purchase of the canaries.
They succeeded in getting a beautiful pair, fine singers, and a very
handsome cage. Grace was full of delight, and her father pleased
himself with the hope that the new pets would save her from the
loneliness Lulu’s absence would otherwise have caused her.
They left her all drowned in tears when they set out upon their long
journey, but, as Violet reported to the captain in a letter written on
the evening of that same day, the canaries set up a song so melodious
and full of joy that she presently dried her eyes and hushed her sobs
to listen.
Violet herself indulged in a few tears over the parting, but for the
sake of Grace and the little ones soon forced herself to assume an air
of cheerfulness.
Max and Lulu were sorry for those left behind, yet so delighted with
their own good fortune in being permitted to accompany their father,
that they speedily recovered from the sadness of leave-taking and were
never in better spirits.
It was on Saturday morning they began their journey; the Lord’s day was
spent in a strange city, very much as they would have spent it at home,
and on Monday they started on again, taking a through train that would
carry them to their destination, and on which they spent several days
and nights, finding excellent accommodations for eating and sleeping.
The captain watched over his children with tenderest care—Lulu
especially, as being the younger and of the weaker sex—and Max was
constantly on the alert to wait upon both her and his father.
The journey, the longest the children had ever taken, was without
accident; there was no detention, and the luxurious appointments of the
cars prevented it from being very fatiguing.
They made some pleasant acquaintances, among them an English gentleman
and his son,—a lad about Max’s age.
Mr. Austin, a man of wealth and refinement, was travelling for his
health and to see the country, and had brought his son with him as a
companion; thinking, too, as he explained to Capt. Raymond, after they
had arrived at terms of comparative intimacy, that travel in a foreign
land would be improving to the boy in an educational way.
The acquaintance began with the children. Albert had been watching Lulu
admiringly for a day or so, from the opposite side of the car.
“That’s a pretty little girl over there, papa,” he at length remarked
in an undertone. “I fancy she’s English too.”
“I think you are mistaken,” returned his father. “The gentleman is
assuredly an American, and from his manner toward the children I fancy
they are his own. There is a strong resemblance, also, between the
three.”
“But she has quite an English complexion, sir; so rosy.”
“Yes, but such complexions are not so very unusual among the American
women and girls.”
“No, sir, perhaps not. The boy’s a nice-looking fellow and has very
gentlemanly manners. Don’t you think so, sir?”
“Yes; they are evidently people of education and refinement. But what
is the train stopping for?” glancing from the window. “Ah, I see; they
are taking on a fresh supply of fuel for the engine.”
The same question had been just asked by Lulu and answered by her
father in the same way, as he rose and took his hat from the rack
overhead.
“You are going out, papa?” Lulu said inquiringly. “Oh, don’t get left,
please!”
“I certainly do not intend to,” he answered with a look of amusement.
“I only want to stretch my limbs for a moment, and shall not go any
distance from the train.”
“Oh, can’t we go too?” she asked.
“Max may, but you, I think, would better content yourself with moving
about the car.”
“May I go out on the platform?”
“No, decidedly not,” he answered, in a firm though kind tone, then
hurried out, Max following.
Lulu rose and stood at the window, watching for their appearance
outside. They were there in a moment, right below it.
“Papa,” she called softly.
He looked up with a smile. “Dear child,” he said, “move about the car,
it will rest you. I know you are tired sitting so long.”
He walked on, and she stepped out into the aisle and promenaded it
up and down several times, stopping occasionally, now at one window,
now at another, to gaze out over the landscape; a seemingly boundless
prairie on one side, with a great herd of cattle feeding in the
distance; on the other, woods and low-lying hills; no sign of human
habitation or of human occupancy anywhere to be seen, except the little
coaling station before which the train was standing.
The car was nearly empty now, almost all the passengers, excepting
a few children and those in charge of them, having, like her father
and Max, taken advantage of the halting of the train to get a little
outdoor exercise, Mr. Austin and Albert among the rest.
The latter, however, returned almost immediately. As he stepped in at
the car door his eyes fell upon a dainty white pocket-handkerchief
lying on the floor. He stooped and picked it up, glancing around the
car in search of the owner.
Lulu, standing at the window near by, with her back toward him, seemed
most likely to be the one, and he approached her at once, asking in a
polite tone, “Is not this your property, Miss? Excuse the liberty, but
I found it lying on the floor, and it seemed likely to belong to you,”
holding out the article as he spoke.
Lulu had turned round at the first sound of his voice. “Thank you,” she
said; “yes, it is mine, for there is my name in the corner; in papa’s
own handwriting.”
“I’m glad to have had the happiness of restoring it to you,” he said.
“How extremely warm it is to-day. Do you not think so?”
“Yes; especially now that the train is standing still, but when it is
in motion there’s a nice breeze.”
“There are some things I like vastly about America,” he went on, “but
the climate does not suit me so well as that of old England; it’s so
hot and dry, you know; at least, don’t you think so?”
She gave him a slightly puzzled look. “I—I believe I’ve heard that the
weather in England is rather cooler in summer, and that it rains very
often; but I never was there.”
“Why, aren’t you a little English girl?”
“English?” she exclaimed, opening her eyes wide in surprise, “no,
indeed, I’m American, every inch of me!” with a flash of joy in her
dark eyes and a little exultant laugh, as though to be able to call him
or herself an American were the proudest boast any one could make.
“I meant it as a compliment, most assuredly,” he said, coloring with a
sense of mingled annoyance and mortification. “I’m very proud of being
English.”
“And that’s quite right,” she said; “papa says each one should love his
own native land above all others.”
“Certainly. But you are of English descent surely.”
“I really don’t know,” laughed Lulu. “I know that my parents, and
grandparents, and great-grandparents were all born in America, and I
never thought of asking about my ancestors any farther back than that.”
“We think a great deal of family in England; it’s a grand thing—a
thing to be proud of—if one can boast of a long line of noble
ancestors.”
“Yes; papa says the knowledge that we’re descended from honest,
upright, pious people is something to be very thankful for. He says
it’s easier for such folks to be good—I mean honest and truthful and
all that—than it is for the descendants of wicked people.”
“Perhaps so; though I never thought of it before,” and with a slight
bow he withdrew to his own seat, for the passengers were flocking in
again as the call, “All aboard!” warned them that the train was about
to start.
Captain Raymond was among the first, and just in time to perceive that
the English lad had been making acquaintance with his little girl. He
was not altogether pleased. His countenance was unusually grave as he
took Lulu’s hand and led her back to her seat. But there was too much
noise and confusion at the moment for anything like conversation, and
he made no remark.
Lulu felt that he was displeased, and several times her eyes were
lifted to his face for an instant with a timid, half-imploring,
half-deprecating glance.
At length as the train began to move more quietly, he bent down and
spoke close to her ear. “I do not want a daughter of mine to be too
forward in making acquaintance with strangers, especially men and
boys. I would have her always modest and retiring. But I will not blame
you unheard, dear child. Tell me about it.”
“I didn’t make the first advances, papa,” she said, putting her arm
around his neck, her lips close to his ear. “Please don’t think I could
be so bold. I had dropped my handkerchief and didn’t know it till the
boy picked it up and handed it to me. He behaved in a very gentlemanly
way, and when I had thanked him he began to talk about the weather,
and presently asked me if I wasn’t an English girl. Just think of it,
papa!” she added, with a gleeful laugh.
“And what did you say to that?” he asked, with an amused look; “that
you were not, but wished you were?”
“Oh, papa, no, indeed! wish I was English? or anything else but
American? I’m sure you know I don’t.”
“Yes,” he returned, putting his arm about her waist and giving her an
affectionate hug. “I am happy in the knowledge that all my darlings are
intensely patriotic.”
“Because you’ve taught us to be so—to love our dear native land and the
beautiful old flag, the emblem of our nation’s glory!” she responded,
her cheeks flushing and her eyes sparkling.
Max sitting directly in front of them, had caught the last two
sentences of their colloquy.
“Yes, papa,” he said, “every one of us is that; even Baby Ned laughs
and crows and claps his hands when he looks up at the flag waving in
the breeze. I noticed it at Ion, on Grandma Elsie’s semi-centennial,
where they had so many floating from the veranda and tree-tops.”
“Ah!” laughed the captain, “that was doubtless an evidence of good
taste, but hardly of patriotism in so young a child.”
Mr. Austin was beginning to share his son’s interest in the Raymonds,
and the two had been furtively watching the little scene, attracted by
the animated expression of the faces of the captain, Max, and Lulu, as
they talked.
“They seem a happy and affectionate trio,” Mr. Austin remarked to
Albert.
“Yes, sir; and you were right about their being Americans. I asked the
little girl if she wasn’t English, and to my astonishment she seemed
almost indignant at the bare idea.”
“Ah, indeed! then I fancy she has never seen England.”
“No, sir, she said she never had; but if you had seen the look in her
eyes when she told me she was every inch an American, you would hardly
expect even a sight of old England to make her change her mind.”
“It’s a great country, certainly; immensely larger than our favored
isle; and had it been our birthplace, it is quite possible we might
have shared her feeling; but as it is, we assuredly looked upon Great
Britain as the most favored land the sun shines on.”
“And he shines always upon some part of the empire,” responded Albert,
with proudly beaming eyes.
It was not until in the afternoon of the next day the Raymonds reached
their destination,—Minersville, a town not yet three years old, that
had sprung up within that period of time, upon a tract of land owned by
the captain, and grown with a rapidity that might well remind one of
Jonah’s gourd, “which came up in a night.” It was all the result of the
discovery of gold in the immediate vicinity. The mine—a very productive
one—was still largely owned by Captain Raymond, also the greater part
of the town, and a coal mine at no great distance from the place.
The two yielded him a large income—augmented by the fortunate
investment of very considerable sums realized on the sales of stock and
town lots; so that he was indeed a wealthy man.
He and Mr. Austin had made acquaintance by this time, and were
mutually pleased. The same thing had happened with their sons, and the
Englishman, after learning from the captain what was his destination,
the history of Minersville, and something of the opportunities and
facilities for hunting bears, deer, and other game in that region, had
decided to make a halt there for a few days or weeks, Captain Raymond
having given him a cordial invitation to inspect the mines and join him
in hunting expeditions.
The town already boasted several thousand inhabitants, two churches, a
bank, post-office, a fine public school building, dry goods and grocery
stores, mills, factories, and two hotels.
To one of these last went Mr. Austin and Albert, but Captain
Raymond—particularly on account of having his children with
him—preferred a private boarding-house, and, through his business agent
and mine-superintendent, Mr. John Short, had already engaged rooms with
a Scotch lady, Mrs. McAlpine by name, whom Short recommended as a good
housekeeper and one who kept an excellent table.
Our party had scarcely left the train when a gentlemanly looking man
approached, and lifting his hat, said, “My name is Short. Do I address
Captain Raymond?”
“That is my name, sir,” rejoined the captain, offering his hand, which
the other took and shook heartily.
“Glad to meet you, sir; very glad; have often wished you would come out
and see your property here for yourself. It’s well worth looking after,
I assure you.”
“I am quite convinced of that,” the captain said, with a smile. “Also
I do not doubt that it has been well looked after by my agent, Mr.
Short.”
“Thanks, sir,” returned Short, bowing and smiling in acknowledgment.
“And these are the son and daughter you wrote me you would bring with
you?” he remarked, with an inquiring glance at the children.
“Yes,” replied the captain, looking down at the two with fatherly pride
and affection. “Max and Lulu are their names. I am so domestic a man
that I could not persuade myself to leave all my family behind when
expecting to be absent so long from home.”
“Yes, sir; I’m not surprised at that. Well, sir, I think Mrs. McAlpine
will make you comfortable. She has two sets of boarders, mill
operatives and miners, who eat in the kitchen, and a few gentlemen and
a lady or two who take their meals in the dining-room. But she has
agreed to give up her own private sitting-room at meal times to you and
your family (as you stated in your letter of instruction you wished
a private table for yourself and children); for a consideration, of
course,” he added with a laugh. “But knowing you could well afford it,
and were not disposed to be close, I did not hesitate to accept her
terms.”
“Quite right,” replied the captain. “And as to sleeping accommodations?”
“She can let you have a room of pretty good size for yourself and son,
with a small one opening into it for the little girl—or perhaps I
should rather say the young lady—your daughter.”
“She is only a little girl,—her father’s little girl, as she likes
to call herself,” returned the captain, smiling down at Lulu and
affectionately pressing the hand she had slipped into his while they
stood talking.
“Yes,” she said, laughing and blushing, “I do like it; I’m not in a bit
of a hurry to be a young lady.”
“No, Miss, I wouldn’t if I were you,” laughed Mr. Short. “Those
changes come to us all only too fast. Shall I show you the way to your
quarters, captain? I did not order a carriage, as it is hardly more
than a step; and judging by my own past experience, I thought you’d be
glad of a chance to use your limbs after being cramped up in the cars
for so long.”
“You were not mistaken in that. I think we all feel it rather a
relief,” the captain made answer, as they moved on together.
A very short walk brought them to the door of the boarding-house. They
were admitted by a rather comely girl, apparently about fifteen years
of age, whom their conductor addressed as “Miss Marian,” and introduced
as the daughter of Mrs. McAlpine. She invited them into the parlor, and
went in search of her mother, returning with her almost immediately.
She was a middle-aged woman, with a gentle, ladylike manner, that was
very pleasing, and the remains of considerable beauty, but had, Captain
Raymond thought, one of the saddest faces he had ever seen; there were
depths of woe in the large gray eyes that touched him to the heart;
yet the prevailing expression of her countenance was that of patient
resignation.
“She is evidently a great sufferer from some cause,” he said to
himself; “probably an inconsolable widow, as I have heard no mention of
a Mr. McAlpine.”
She bade them welcome, and inquired what they would have for their
evening meal, and how soon they would like it served.
The captain answered these questions, then requested to be shown to the
sleeping-rooms set apart for their use during their stay.
“I fear, sir, they will seem but poor and mean after such as you and
the young folks have no doubt been accustomed to,” she said, leading
the way: “but they are the best I can provide, and I trust you will
find them clean and comfortable.
“Our nights are cool, even when the days are very warm, and you will
get the mountain breeze here; which is a thing to be thankful for, to
my way of thinking,” she added, drawing back the curtain from an open
window of the room into which she had conducted them.
The captain stepped to it and looked out. “Yes,” he said, “and a
fine view of the mountains themselves, with a pretty flower-garden
and orchard in the foreground, a river and wooded hills between; a
beautiful prospect; another cause for thankfulness, I think. The room,
too, is of fair size,” turning from the window and glancing about him.
“That open door I presume leads into the one my little girl is to
occupy?”
“Yes, sir. It is not large, but I have no other communicating bedrooms,
and Mr. Short said you wrote particularly that they must be such, or
yours large enough for a corner of it to be curtained off for the young
miss.”
“Yes; so I did: and she, I know, would prefer a small room with an
open door into mine, to a large and better one with a separating wall
between,” smiling down into Lulu’s eager, interested face, at that
instant upturned to his.
“Indeed, I should, papa,” she responded, slipping a hand confidingly
into his and returning his smile with one of ardent, filial affection.
Tears sprang to the sad eyes of Mrs. McAlpine at the sight, and it was
a moment before she could command her voice to speak. When able to do
so, excusing herself upon the plea that domestic duties required her
attention, she left them.
“I want to see my room,” said Lulu, hurrying toward the open door;
then, as she gained a view of the whole interior, “I should say it
was small! one window, one chair, a single bed, a little bit of a
wash-stand, and just barely room to move back and forth beside the bed.
How different from my lovely rooms at home!” she ended with a pout and
frown.
“I am sorry it is not more to your liking, my dear child,” the captain
remarked, in a kindly, sympathizing tone, “but it cannot be helped now.
Does my little girl begin to wish her father had left her at home?” he
asked, laying his hand tenderly on her head, for he had followed her
and now stood close at her side.
“Oh, no, no, dear papa! and I’m quite ashamed of my grumbling,”
she returned, taking his hand in both of hers and laying her cheek
affectionately against it.
“You wouldn’t do to go into the navy, Lu, if you can’t put up with
narrow quarters sometimes,” remarked Max sportively. “So it’s a good
thing you’re not a boy.”
“Of course it is,” she answered in a sprightly tone. “Who that might be
a girl would ever want to be a boy? Not I, I’m sure.”
“Not even for the sake of being able to grow up into such a man as
papa?”
“No, I couldn’t have any hope of that anyhow, for there’s nobody in
all the world like papa—so dear and good and kind and handsome and—”
“There, that will do,” laughed the captain, bending down and stopping
the next word with a kiss full upon her lips; “it is enough, and more
than enough, and we must be getting rid of the dust of travel and
making ourselves neat for the tea-table,” he added.
“Yes, sir; I’m glad to be out of the cars for a while, after being in
them so long; and these rooms are neat as wax, if the furniture is
scanty, and poor, and plain. I shan’t mind that a bit, as it’s only for
a short time, and I wouldn’t have been left behind for anything. I hope
I’ll not complain any more, papa; I don’t intend to. But,” in sudden
dismay, “oh, where am I to put my trunk?”
Her father and brother both laughed at her perplexed, woebegone
countenance.
“You’ll have to decide that question very soon, for here they come,”
said Max, glancing from the window.
“Don’t be troubled, dear child; we will find a place for it in this
outer room,” added her father cheerily, and glancing about in search
of one. “Ah, it can stand in this corner close by your door. Does that
suit your ideas and wishes, daughter?”
“Yes, sir; it will be the most convenient place for me,” she answered,
in a bright, cheery tone, quite restored to good-humor.
The trunks had already been brought in and deposited according to
directions.
“Will you have anything out of this, daughter?” the captain asked,
unstrapping Lulu’s.
“Another dress, papa, if you are willing to let me change; this
travelling one feels hot and dusty.”
“My dear child, can you suppose I would want you to be uncomfortable?”
he asked. “Give me your key, and we will have the dress out
immediately.”
“Thank you, papa,” she said, taking the key from her travelling bag
and handing it to him. “Please choose for me, the one you think most
suitable.”
“Do you feel inclined for a stroll about the town with your father and
Max after tea?” he asked.
“Oh, yes, sir, yes indeed!”
“You are not too tired?” he questioned, smiling at her eager, joyous
tone.
“Oh, no, sir, not at all. I think I shall feel as fresh as a lark after
I have washed and dressed and had my supper.”
“Then this will be quite suitable,” he said, lifting out a
cream-colored serge with collar and cuffs of red velvet and a bordering
of Indian embroidery in which the same shade was quite prominent.
“The very dress I’d have chosen myself, papa,” she remarked, with a
pleased laugh. “And when we take our walk I must wear the hat that
matches. I do like to wear things that match or contrast prettily and
suit my complexion.”
“Well, daughter, since our kind heavenly Father has made so many things
beautiful to our eyes, the sunset clouds with their gorgeous hues, the
myriads of lovely flowers and fruits, to mention only a few—I think it
cannot be wrong for us to enjoy pretty things. Still, my dear little
girl must be on her guard against vanity and pride, because of being
well and tastefully attired, and careful not to give too much of her
time and thoughts to dress.”