The Good News
"As cold waters to a thirsty soul, so is good news from a far
country."
--_Proverbs._
"Suppose there shouldn't be a letter," remarked Adele suggestively as
the cousins entered the postoffice. "What would you do?"
"But there will be," answered Bee confidently. "In all the years that he
has been away father has not failed to send me a letter once a month.
Even though it may not be an answer to my last, I'll get a letter."
She was not disappointed. There was a letter for her, and Adele received
one also.
"Let's hurry to the old elm tree so that we can read them," cried Adele.
"I wonder who mine's from? I didn't expect a letter."
Beatrice assented readily. The old elm tree stood by the side of the
road just outside the town and was a favorite resting place for
pedestrians. It did not take the girls long to reach the spot, so eager
were they to read their letters. Beatrice threw herself down on the
grass without ceremony, and tore open her epistle. Adele sank down with
a graceful and effective arrangement of her draperies. Before she had
quite completed the adjustment she was startled by an exclamation from
her cousin.
"What is it, Bee?" she asked, looking up curiously.
"He is coming home," cried Bee jumping up and dancing about wildly. "Oh,
my father is coming home!"
"Is he?" ejaculated Adele excitedly. "What does he say? Do be quiet,
Bee? Sit down and read me the letter, or let me read it."
"I'll read it to you," answered Bee, kissing the missive rapturously.
"I'll read it in a minute. Oh, oh, oh! I'm so happy I could fly."
She grew quiet presently, however, and seating herself again, began to
read:
"Cairo, Egypt,
May 16th, 19--.
"My dear Little Daughter:--
"When you receive this letter your father will be nearer to you
than he has been for many a day. Child, I am coming home. Yes;
after all these years I am returning to you. How long I shall
remain is problematical, as I have not yet completed my
investigation of the Lepidoptera of tropical countries.
However, that is a matter that may be left to the future.
"Another two years would have terminated my task, but such a
longing has come to me to behold my little daughter who must
now be almost a woman that I have dropped everything, and am
coming to her as swiftly as steam can carry me.
"No doubt you have often wondered that I should have left you,
and the subject has been too painful to me to discuss; but now,
you are old enough to understand my reasons. When your mother
died she left a void in my life that nothing but the most
engrossing occupation could make me forget. Change of scene was
an absolute necessity for me; and so, when Union University
wished to send an entomologist to study the habits of Moths and
Butterflies of other countries, I was glad indeed when it was
proposed that I should be the one to go. You were but five
years old, and needed a woman's care more than mine, so I left
you with your uncle's family. I still think it was the best
thing I could have done.
"I thought that it would be an easy matter to stay away for
twelve, or even more years, but lately there have come to me
sweet visions of a daughter's companionship, and Nature will no
longer be denied. It is partly your letters which have wrought
this change. They have been so bright, so clever, so amusing,
that you must have a mind of unusual intelligence. I said
'partly your letters'; for the receipt of your photograph
completed what the letters had begun.
"I can not resist the winsomeness of your picture, so I am
coming back to get acquainted with you, and perhaps we shall
discover a mutual companionship and affection.
"Are you like your mother, I wonder, or do you take after me? I
can not tell by your picture, but I think--No; I shall not tell
you what I think until I see you.
"So, little girl, get your aunt and uncle to go over to our
house to open it up, and to make it habitable for living. If
nothing happens I shall be with you on the evening of the
Fifteenth of June. I am writing Henry, also, by this mail.
"Hoping to see you soon, I am
"Your most loving father,
"William Raymond."
"He is coming," ended Bee with a little sob. "My own, own father."
"I am glad," spoke Adele, but her voice was weak as she said it. Into
her face had come a look of dismay as Bee read what her father had said
of the "winsomeness of the picture." An impulse came to her to confess
to her cousin what she had done, but she was fearful of what Bee might
say. She had not thought that it would have this effect. And so she sat
quieter than her wont while Bee gave vent to her delight.
"You don't know how I've felt at times, Adele," said Bee. "I've almost
envied you your father. When Uncle Henry has kissed you, and petted and
indulged you it hasn't seemed fair that I couldn't have my father. But I
never told you before, and I didn't tell any one. I knew father wouldn't
stay away unless he thought it was right, and I see now just why he did
it. I'll tell him that I don't blame him a bit. And we'll just love each
other all the more for being apart so long."
And so, with tears and laughter mingling together, Bee rejoiced. A
meadow lark flew, across the road, alighted on a twig and sang to them.
An oriole peeped at them saucily from his perch on a near-by tree, then
whistled playfully, "Sweet, do you hear? Sweet, sweet, do you hear?" And
Bee threw back her head caught his note, and answered joyfully, "I hear.
I hear. Sweet, sweet."
"How much Uncle William thinks of you, Bee," observed Adele presently.
"And he seems to be so pleased with your mind. Scientific people think
so much of intellect, don't they?"
"I wonder if they do?" mused Bee. "I don't believe that they are much
different from other people. And after all it is not my mind that is
bringing him home, but my picture. Oh, I wish that I had sent it long
ago."
Adele winced. "He'll find you awfully clever, Bee."
"You dear!" exclaimed Bee leaning forward to kiss her. "You are just as
sweet as you are pretty."
"Sue Ford said the other day that I was sweet because I did not have
sense enough to be anything else," observed Adele.
"The mean thing!" cried Bee. "Sue says lots of things, although I am
glad that she said what she did about father's not knowing me. If she
had not said that I would have thought that my picture was not good
enough to send, and father wouldn't be coming home. Still, I don't like
her saying that you have no sense."
"Oh, I don't mind," said Adele, biting a blade of grass meditatively.
After all, it did not matter so much about the picture. When her Uncle
William came she would tell them that she did it for fun, and they would
have a good laugh. Bee wouldn't mind at all when her father was really
with her. So, quite restored to her usual complacency, she continued; "I
know that I am not clever like you, or Sue, or some of the other girls;
and when I see how worried you get over your examinations I am glad that
I'm not. Bee, does Uncle William know that you have studied up
butterflies?"
"No; I was going to tell him when I answered this letter. I expect that
he will laugh at my specimens. Dear father!"
She lingered over the word as though she liked to say it. All at once
she rose with a little cry. "We must go home, Adele. Aunt Annie ought to
know about father at once, so that she can make the necessary
arrangements about going to Walnut Grove. To think of being in my own
home with my own father so soon!"
"Bee," said Adele slipping her arm through her cousin's as they walked
homeward, "will you let me wear your new hat Sunday?"
"Yes;" assented Bee abstractedly. She was accustomed to having Adele
wear her new things, though Adele did not wish to lend her own.
"And your bracelet?" went on Adele, seeing that Bee was too absorbed to
care what she promised.
"Anything you wish, Adele," answered Beatrice impatiently. "Only let's
hurry. Aunt Annie won't like it if we loiter too long after knowing
about father."
Adele complied willingly, and the rest of the distance was accomplished
quickly. Bee paused at the orchard gate.
"Listen how the birds are singing," she cried. "Do you suppose that they
know that father is coming?"
"You goosey!" laughed her cousin. "They were singing when we went out."
"Not like this, Adele. Just listen!"
A riot of happiness in quivering bursts of song came from the leafy
boughs of the trees. Cardinal, oriole, tawny thrush and gold-finch
seemed to vie with each other in pouring forth the sweetest melody.
"How happy they are," cried Bee. "Almost as happy as I am. And it was
just here that the butterfly lighted on my head. I'll always believe
that omen after this because I did have good news. Why, there is
auntie!"
"What news, children?" called Mrs. Raymond as she came through the trees
toward them.
"The best in the world," answered Beatrice waving her letter excitedly.
"Father is coming home! He will be here by the Fifteenth of June, and we
are to go over to our house to get things ready for him. Will you go?
Will Uncle Henry be able to leave court, and come too?"
"William coming home?" Mrs. Raymond stopped in her surprise. "Is it
possible? What does he say? Let me read the letter."
"Here it is," cried Bee handing it to her. "He is really coming. Oh,
aren't you glad, glad?"
"Indeed I am. For all our sakes, but most of all for yours. I have
thought for some time that it was his duty, and I am glad that he sees
it at last."
"Bee is awfully keen to leave us," spoke Adele reproachfully. "You will
have to live with your father now, Bee, and you won't be with me at
all."
"You won't lose me quite, Adele." Bee was surprised and touched by the
speech. It was not often that her cousin showed so much affection for
her as she had done that day. "The only difference will be that we won't
be in the same house. Walnut Grove is near enough to see each other
often. Won't we have good times together? I am so happy!"
"Henry will be pleased too," smiled her aunt. "I presume he has his
letter already. Bee, you will tire yourself if you keep capering about
so. You don't remember your father at all, do you?"
"Yes;" answered Bee with passionate intentness. "Of course, I know him
from his letters, and then I remember how he used to carry me. His eyes
are dark, but he doesn't look a bit like me. I know that he is handsome,
and distinguished, and oh, I'd know him anywhere!"
"Well, he is all that, but you must have heard us speak of it. You were
but five when he left, and could not possibly remember all those things.
We must go over to the Grove tomorrow, I think, to see what is to be
done. Henry can come when court adjourns. There won't be any too much
time to get everything in readiness. The house has been closed for so
long that there will be a great deal to do. Servants must be hired for
both house and grounds."
"I don't want any servants, auntie," protested her niece. "I want to
keep house for father myself. You know that he wanted me to learn, and I
want him to see how well I can do it."
"That is all very well, Beatrice, but you must have a strong capable
woman to help you," said Mrs. Raymond decidedly. "William Raymond is a
fastidious man, and there must be an experienced cook in the kitchen."
"How much you know about him," murmured Bee half enviously. "Tell me
everything you can, auntie."
"Come into the house then. We will have lunch, and devote the whole
afternoon to William. We could have no more delightful subject,"
declared the lady, willing for once to indulge Bee's insatiable desire
to hear all she could about her father. "I am quite sure that it will be
but a repetition of what I have already told you many times, but you
will listen with new interest today."