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T was a bracing morning. Of course it was a November morning, for
to-morrow would be Thanksgiving, and Mr. Vale stood looking out of his
study window. It was a beautiful window in the spring and summer time,
when the afternoon sun came streaming in through the Virginia creeper
trained across it. Mr. Vale, who had the happiest way of looking at
things, thought it a beautiful window, even in November. It might have
opened on a blank wall, or a dull row of houses, as so many city windows
do. Instead of that, it overlooked an old-fashioned garden, with little
box-bordered flower-beds of every conceivable shape, and narrow gravel
paths running between them. In some of the sunniest beds a few hardy
chrysanthemums were still blooming, in brilliant reds and yellows. A
fine western breeze was whistling through the leafless branches of the
vine, and Mr. Vale drew in a long breath of the invigorating air. No
doubt he would have drawn a still longer breath of the salt air he
revelled in if he had been where his thoughts were, for they were down
by the sea, where at this very moment a little party was crowding into
a village cart, about to start out on a long-talked-of expedition. If
he could have looked into their earnest, rosy faces, and into their eyes
brimming over with delight and expectation, I think he would have felt
assured of the success of their undertaking. How could anyone resist
such a winning troop of little beggars?
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At last he closed the windows went back to his study table, and wrote
out his Thanksgiving sermon, which he had been turning over in his mind
for many a day,--a glorious, invigorating sermon, as any member of the
large congregation who heard it next day would have told you; but they
could not have told you that it had won much of its inspiration from a
little maiden who a few days before had looked up to him and said, with
loving admiration, “I like your preaching; I like it very much indeed.”
Well, the children were off at last, and they bowled along the hard
boulevard road in the highest spirits. They crossed the Sea Bright
Bridge, and Pet, who had not been over it since that September morning
when they went for the peaches, started to take the road that led to
Burchard's orchard.
“No, sir-reel” cried Regie, jerking him back, “we won't go there any
more,” and then the children laughed heartily over that eventful day's
adventures, when the little red skirt had done such good service. Before
long they found themselves in front of Mr. Allan's place, and his name
came first on the list. It had been agreed between them that Regie
should be spokesman for the party.
“You see, Harry,” Nan had said, when they were discussing the matter
in Regie's absence, “Regie has a kind of city way with him that is more
taking, you know.”
“I don't know anything of the kind,” Harry had answered. “You're just
gone over Regie. It's a pity you could not have had him for a brother
instead of me.”
“Now, Harry Murray,” Nan replied, earnestly, “you know I would not
exchange you for any brother in the world,” which was pretty good of
Nan, considering how large a share of teasing she had to undergo from
this same Harry. The discussion had occurred several days previous to
the expedition, and now that they had actually set out Harry was only
too thankful that he did not have to play the principal part on the
programme.
They drove up to the big house and tied Pet to a tree. No one was to be
seen, and for a moment their hearts misgave them but it was too late to
retrace their steps, and, with the air of a major domo, Harry marched
proudly on to the piazza and pulled the bell, which was the special duty
allotted to him. A coloured man in unpretentious livery opened the door.
“Does Mr. Allan live here?” asked Rex.
He hoped that the man did not notice that his voice trembled a little.
“Yes; would you like to see him?”
Before Rex could answer, “Yes, if you please,” someone called from the
back part of the house, “Is it three little children, Jackson?”
“Yes, sah, it is.”
“Show them right in here, then,” called the voice, and closing the door
after them Jackson ushered them into a spacious diningroom, where an old
gentleman sat toasting his feet and reading his morning paper before a
crackling wood fire.
“Well, my little friends, I'm right glad to see you,” he said,
cordially. “You'll excuse my not getting up to meet you, I am such an
old fellow, you know. Here, Jackson, put that little rocking-chair here
near the fire for the young lady.”
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Nan looked about the room to see who the young lady might be.
“Oh! if you mean me,” she said, laughing, taking her seat on a sofa,
“I'm too warm to go near the fire, thank you.”
“Pray be seated, gentlemen, and tell me what I can do for you,” said
Mr. Allan, turning to the boys.
“I guess you knew we were coming,” Regie answered, sitting down in the
nearest chair.
“What makes you think that?”
“Because you called to your man there as we came in to ask if it was not
three little children, as though you were sort of expecting us.”
“Oh, to be sure! but couldn't I have seen you as you drove up!”
“Not if you were sitting where you are now, sir,” said honest Harry.
“Well, I guess I shall have to own up, then, that I did know you were
coming. This is how I received my information,” and Mr. Allan drew a
little case from his pocket and began looking through the papers it
contained. Nan gazed at the case in silent admiration. It was made
of alligator skin, and had Mr. Allan's initials, R. T. A., in silver
letters on the back.
“I wonder,” she thought, “if two dollars would buy one like that for
Regie when he goes home at Christmas time?”
And then she remembered with satisfaction that Regie had only two
initials, which would probably make it come a little cheaper. Mr. Allan
finally found a postal card, and handed it to Regie, who read aloud:--
“'New York, November 21st, 18----.
“'Dear Mr. Allan,--Three little friends of mine will call on you
to-morrow. I hope they will be none the less welcome when they have told
you their errand.
“'Yours in haste,
“'F. F. Vale.'”
“Then you do not know what we have come for,” and Regie produced his
collecting book with a most business like air. Mr. Allan put on his
spectacles and examined it carefully. “Oh, I see,” he said at last, “you
are collecting for the poor sailors who were saved from the wreck. I
hear you turned the church into a hospital. You could not have done a
better thing.”
“Yes, we did,” said Nan, proudly, “and the sailors are all very nice
men indeed, and if it had not been for Sister Julia's care, two of them
would have died.”
“And who is Sister Julia?”
“Don't you know who Sister Julia is?” she asked, incredulously; “why, I
thought everyone in New York knew about her. She's----”
“Let Regie tell,” Harry interrupted. “You see he has a kind of city way
with him that is more taking, you know,” he added, with a sly wink and
in tones too low for Mr. Allan's ear.
Nan immediately relapsed into silence, and Regie came to the front.
“Sister Julia is a nurse, but she's a lady too, and she came to Moorlow
to take care of me when I broke my leg last June. She lives in a great
hospital in New York, and takes care of sick people, mostly children.”
“But how does she happen to be here now?” asked Mr. Allan. “Those two
legs of yours seem to be as strong as anybody's.”
“Oh, yes, it's all right now,” and Regie regarded his right leg rather
affectionately; “but Sister Julia stayed on to look after me, because
Papa and Mamma Fairfax have gone to Europe.”
“Then you are Curtis Fairfax's adopted boy?'' Mr. Allan exclaimed with
some surprise; and readjusting his gold-rimmed spectacles he looked
Regie over rather critically.
“Yes, sir, I am,” Rex replied, for almost the first time in his life
hearing that word “adopted” without wincing.
“You'll do well then if you make as good a man as your father. He's one
of the whitest men in the trade.”
Regie did not quite know what he meant by that, but hesitated to ask.
“Just how are you going to use this money?” asked Mr. Allan.
“For the hospital, sir. It costs seventy dollars a week to run it. The
brig was wrecked last week, Wednesday you know, and Sister Julia says
they will not be able to go before the middle of next week, so we need
a hundred and forty dollars, and sixty dollars more for beds and other
things.”
Mr. Allan re-opened the little book.
“I see,” he said, “that you have forty dollars promised already. I
recognise Mr. Vale's hand in this first twenty. Are you free to tell who
contributes the other?”
“The other twenty!” exclaimed Harry, looking over Mr. Allan's shoulder;
“why, that is Regie's writing!”
Rex coloured up to the roots of his brown hair, as though he had been
the most guilty of little culprits.
“I have ten dollars now of my own,” he stammered, “and I know of a way
I can surely earn ten more when I get back to town, so I am going to ask
Mr. Vale to lend me the money.”
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“Good for you!” said Mr. Allan, “I call that downright generous, and as
I happen to know of a way I can earn sixty dollars when I get back to
town, I suppose I ought to put myself down for forty at any rate.
I guess I had better draw a check to your order, as you seem to be
chairman of the committee,” and crossing the room he sat down at a
little oak desk. Nan stared at Rex in mute amazement. She had never
dreamed he was such a wealthy personage. Harry's respect was wonderfully
increased too, by the way. To think that a boy no older than he actually
knew of a way by which he could earn ten dollars! He stowed that piece
of information away in his mind as a matter to be inquired into more
particularly at a later date, and was so ungracious as to have some
doubts as to the perfect truthfulness of the statement.
Just at this moment Jackson came again into the room, bearing a tray
laden with cider and doughnuts; clear, amber-coloured cider, in a
cut-glass pitcher, and doughnuts generously sprinkled with powdered
sugar, and fried that morning.
“I thought dese yere children might enjoy a little sumfin to eat arter
their long ride this breezy morning,” said Jackson, setting the tray on
the table.
“A happy thought, Jackson,” answered Mr. Allan, smiling; “and now
suppose we draw up to the table and be comfortable.”
The children needed no urging, and Jackson, placing a plate in front of
each of them, passed the doughnuts, and then filled four tempting little
tumblers to the brim.
“Let us drink to the health of Sister Julia,” said Mr. Allan, and he was
greatly amused at the easy grace with which the children complied.
Captain Murray had once taken Nan and Harry to a “Rip Van Winkle”
_matinee_, and so they chanced to know what was the proper thing to do
when a health was proposed. Afterward, Harry proposed the health of Mr.
Vale, because, as he put it, “he was such a brick at the time of the
wreck;” and then Regie proposed Captain Murray's. Altogether it was a
very merry party, and the children finally bade Mr. Allan a reluctant
goodbye, when Rex decided that “they really ought to go on to the next
place, for if they kept on at this rate they wouldn't get home till
morning.”
They had still four names on their list, and already had half the money.
Feeling sure that Mr. Vale had in each place heralded their coming by a
postal, they entered the other houses with an air of childish confidence
which seemed to say, “We have called for that money, please.”
Everywhere they were received with more than cordial kindness, and when
Pet turned his head homeward the whole amount had been subscribed.
“Oh, dear me!” Nan suddenly exclaimed, quite overcome by a thought that
had occurred to her.
“What is it, goosie?” And it is not necessary to mention who asked that.
“Why, we have all the money we need, and we have not called on Miss Vale
yet.”
“That's so, by cracky!” said Harry.
“Well, we'll just have to go there and explain,” Rex volunteered.
“Perhaps you had better not give so much yourself,” suggested Harry; “I
don't see how you are ever going to earn ten dollars.”
“Well, I do then,” in a kingly way, resenting such interference.
“Oh yes, we ought to go,” said Nan; “I only hope she won't mind our
having collected it all.”
It did not occur to either of this committee (and would there were more
of these sort of people in the world!) that anyone might possibly prefer
not being called upon for a subscription. They themselves regarded the
opportunity for giving in the light of an actual privilege. Nan was
thankful the money was so easily raised, for she had not a penny in the
world to give save that two dollars, which she must reserve for
that little wallet for Regie; but she was planning to present a warm
comforter, which her own little hands had made, to the Spanish captain,
and she thought she might favour the first mate with the rubber
pencil-case which she had bought as a parting present for Regie.
When they reached Mr. Avery's they found Miss Vale ready to receive
them. She was very much of an invalid, seldom able to leave her room,
but in honour of their coming she had put on a pretty wrapper, and was
seated in a large rocking-chair. She was anxious to meet these little
friends of whom her brother had so often spoken, and looked forward
to their coming as quite an event in her quiet life. The nurse led the
children up the oaken stair, and Nan trod as noiselessly as possible
herself, but was sure she had never heard Harry and Regie make such a
noise before.
Miss Vale received them very cordially, and they felt at home with her
at once. They talked about the wreck for some time, and then Miss Vale
said, “Well, I believe you want some money from me for the hospital?”
“No,” Nan answered, with much seriousness, and as though she was
breaking the saddest piece of news imaginable; “we are very sorry,
but we don't need any more; we got enough money before we knew it. We
couldn't help it, really.”
Nan saw that the nurse was laughing in a quiet way, but never dreamt
that she was the cause of the merriment. Miss Vale herself looked
amused, but managed to keep her face straight as she said, feigning much
anxiety, “Dear me! what am I to do, then? I had made up my mind to give
you a hundred dollars.” The finance committee looked puzzled enough, and
as though they saw no way out of this difficulty.
“But look here,” Miss Vale continued, “I have an idea. The captain and
his crew did not save anything from the wreck, did they?''
“Not a thing, and some of them haven't a penny in the world,” Harry
answered.
“How many are there?'
“Seven,” answered the children, in one breath.
“Well then, wouldn't it be a good thing to divide the money among them,
so that they will have something to begin life with again?”
“Seven won't go into a hundred evenly,” said Harry, having a horror of
fractions.
“Well, I guess we can fix matters if it doesn't,” was Regie's scornful
response. “I think it is very kind of you,” turning to Miss Vale. “When
shall we give it to them?”
“It seems to me to-morrow would be a good day. Are the men to have a
Thanksgiving dinner?”
“Indeed they are,” Nan answered. “They are to have turkey, and mashed
potatoes, and cranberries that mother has made in beautiful moulds, and
mince-pie, and lots of things. They'll all be able to come to the table
too, except the captain.”
“It's just as well that he can't come,” Regie explained, with the air of
an experienced doctor. “He isn't strong enough to eat turkey dna hearty
things like that.”
“He's to have some very nice gruel, though,” Nan confided, and as though
she knew more about it all than both the toys put together; as indeed
she did, for she had been present at many a conference between Sister
Julia and her mother regarding the dinner.
The children made a long call, and no one knows how much longer they
would have lingered in Miss Vale's sunny room, looking at some fine
photographs of Mr. Avery's, which the maid had brought up from the
parlour, if the old clock in the hall had not struck two very clearly
and distinctly.
“Is it as late as that?” cried Nan; “we shall miss our dinner altogether
if we don't go home this minute.”
That was sufficient to start the boys, and the children took their
departure, Miss Vale promising to send the money down that night
in separate envelopes, so that Harry should not be bothered by the
difficult division of one hundred by seven.
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