[Illustration: 9176]
N the summer weather all Moorlow, and indeed all the dwellers along the
whole length of the shore, would gather in little groups on the beach to
see the moon rise; but to-night the moon and the waves have the beach
to themselves, for the ice is several inches thick on the fresh water
ponds, and the wind is keen and biting.
Straight out of the ocean, with no summer fog to veil her coming, rises
the great golden moon, and soon she is high enough to send a broad path
of light shimmering across the water. And now she lights the way for
Captain Murray's man Joe, trudging home from the village with the mail;
and now she peers in through the dimity curtains of Nan's pretty room,
making it bright as the day.
And what does she find there but something that never was there before;
a bran new little trunk, with N.M. in black letters on the end toward
the window, and no doubt she wonders if it can be possible that Nan is
going away; little Nan, who never remembers having slept a night of her
life out of sound of the sea. Travel on, old Moon, over the roof, until
you can shine in at Sister Julia's window, and there you will discover
two other trunks, which are ready for a start on the morrow, for _you_
should know what every one else already knows--that Rex is going home,
and Harry and Nan go with him to make a visit. Did you not discover
as you sailed over the ocean the good ship _Alaska_ drawing nearer and
nearer, with Regie's papa and mamma on board? And do you not think, with
your clear light to aid her, she will surely reach port by day after
to-morrow?
But while we are so foolish as to stand out here in the cold, talking at
the moon, Joe has reached the house and gone in with the mail, and among
the other letters is a neat little package for Regie.
[Illustration: 0177]
“Oh, here are the photographs!” he exclaimed; and right away there is
such a solid little group, bending closely about him, that if it were
not for the difference in the colour of hair you could hardly have told
where one head commenced and the other ended. The children had been
looking anxiously for these photographs for a week.
When Regie found from the proofs that the pictures that he had taken
were satisfactory, he sent the plates up to New York, by express, to a
photographer, who was accustomed to print his pictures for him, but he
had heard nothing from them, and began to think they had gone astray.
It would have done your heart good to have heard Captain Murray's laugh
as he looked at them. The one where the steamer was supposed to be
coming to the relief of the shipwrecked mariners was, if possible, the
funnier of the two. Nan was the only one who had fully entered into the
spirit of the thing, and really looked as though something joyful
was about to appear.. The others had smiled, as they were bid, but a
heartless conventional smile is at the best a sorry affair, and doubly
so on such pinched little faces as the Croxsons'.
But the pictures, as pictures, were good, and Rex had no need to be
ashamed of his work. He imagined he could see Papa Fairfax now, and how
much amused he would be by them.
As this was to be the last of the many happy evenings they had spent
together in the little cottage, it occurred to Sister Julia that it
ought to be celebrated in some special way, so she crossed the room and
whispered to Mrs. Murray. As the result of the whispering Mrs. Murray
asked the children “what they would say to a candy-pull.” Much scurrying
about on the part of the children, and the delicious odour of boiling
New Orleans molasses, which presently pervaded the house, showed they
had said “yes” to the suggestion, and in the heartiest fashion possible.
At eleven o'clock, after enjoying to the full all the fun and
satisfaction attending a thoroughly successful candy-pull, his little
Royal Highness and the body-guard retired to rest, or, in less kingly
English, Rex, Harry, and Nan tumbled into bed; and indeed it was high
time, if they were to be ready for an early start in the morning.
To Nan and Harry Mr. Fairfax's house in town was a revelation. They
were fortunate enough to be blessed with a comfortable and pretty
little home of their own; but here was a home that was vastly more than
comfortable and pretty. Nan gave vent to her admiration in a succession
of audible “ohs!” the moment they entered the house, much to the
amusement of Mrs. Mallory, the old housekeeper, who was glad enough to
welcome them into the house that had been “such a lonely place without
Rex and Mr. and Mrs.”
[Illustration: 8179]
“You like it, don't you, Nan?” said Regie, beaming proudly.
“It is perfectly beautiful,” Nan answered, sinking down into a great
easy chair, and trying to look everywhere at once. She was not in the
least overpowered by the new surroundings, only supremely delighted.
“And to think we are to stay a week!” she exclaimed, with a happy sigh.
Harry, of a more enquiring turn of mind, was walking about the parlour,
gazing up at the pictures, and making so bold as to touch certain little
ornaments and articles of bric-a-brac to see how they felt.
When Mrs. Mallory had helped the children to lay off their wraps, she
showed Harry and Nan all through the house, taking as much pleasure in
their exclamations of wonder and delight as though she herself owned
everything in it.
Two members of the party from Moorlow did not seem in the least
overjoyed at their arrival at the house in town. Secured by one leash,
Hereward and Ned followed Regie obediently enough, for they were too
well trained to offer any resistance; but if you could have had a word
with either of the poor fellows they would have told you that life
at Moorlow was glorious freedom, and life in New York a sadly limited
affair, with whole days together when they did not have so much as a run
in the park. So it was not strange that they suffered themselves to be
led down the kitchen stairs, and out to their kennels in the little city
yard, without one sign of jubilance over their return. If Mr. Fairfax
had been on hand to welcome them, no doubt there would have been no end
of boisterous demonstration, for the joy of seeing their master would
have eclipsed the thought of how changed their life was to be. Early the
next morning a telegram from their friend at the Highland Light came,
addressed to Regie, and announced that the _Alaska_ had been sighted
from Sandy Hook, and would reach her pier about half-past eight.
Then there was such a hurry and flurry, for the telegram had not been
delivered very promptly, and there was no time to spare. Mrs. Mallory
went flying bare-headed round the corner to order a carriage from
the livery stable, while Sister Julia and the children ate a hasty
breakfast.
“Drive as fast as possible, please,” said Sister Julia, bundling the
children into the carriage, and she reached up and dropped something
into the driver's hand; the only thing, in fact, that ever seems to
impart any real life to a livery team of horses.
They reached the pier just in time, for the Alaska was so near you could
almost recognise anyone on board. Realising that they must not lose
a moment, Sister Julia, with the children following close after her,
pushed her way as politely as she could through the crowd. Indeed,
people rather made way for them, for there was that in their eager,
childish faces which seemed to make everyone feel that they must not be
disappointed in the matter they had in hand.
As soon as they succeeded in reaching the edge of the wharf, Regie
discovered Papa and Mamma Fairfax, close to the rail, in the very bow of
the steamer, and his enthusiasm found vent in a lusty hurrah at the top
of his lungs, to the general amusement of everyone.
Somehow or other they all managed going home to crowd into the same
carriage, notwithstanding the wraps and portmanteaus, and then such a
laughing, chattering party as they were! People on the side walk, and
people in the street cars, could not keep from smiling as they glanced
in at the noisy, merry load.
There is no gladness surpassing that of a happy home-coming, after a
long and distant journey, and it is sad that we so soon settle back into
the old routine of life and forget how supremely happy we were.
Fortunately for the Fairfax household, just this sort of gladness lasted
for a whole week. Papa Fairfax went but once to the office, and Mamma
Fairfax unpacked little beside the Christmas presents. In whole-souled
fashion they simply gave themselves up to the amusement of the children.
Christmas came midway in the week, and such a Christmas! Nan may live
to be ninety, but she'll never forget it, and Harry may grow to be a man
with all sorts of cares and responsibilities, but he'll never forget it.
Indeed, these two little people had so many treasures thrust upon them,
that Mr. Fairfax thought best to make them a present of an extra trunk,
in which to carry home their booty.
“All hands” were constantly on the go--morning, noon, and night I was
going to say, for each day Mr. Fairfax planned some fine sight-seeing
scheme, and every afternoon they “topped off” with an invigorating
sleigh ride.
It was an ideal Christmas week, with a heavy fall of snow preceding it'
and clear, cold weather that kept the sleighing in perfect condition
until its close, and for many days after.
There was not a prettier turn out in the park than Mr. Fairfax's Russian
sleigh with its red plumes and black horses, and many a one turned and
gazed at the merry load as it passed.
“That's the foinest paarty what sleigh-roides in this park,” said a
burly Irishman to one of his brother policemen, as they jingled merrily
by on the day after Christmas; and, for one, I think he was quite right
in the matter.
Mrs. Fairfax and Harry and Regie were on the back seat enveloped in a
great white bearskin robe. It was Nan's turn to ride in front with
Mr. Fairfax, and there she sat, a charming embodiment of serene
satisfaction.
[Illustration: 9182]
I think even Mrs. Murray would hardly have recognised her own little Nan
in an otter-trimmed dark-red coat, with an otter cap and muff to match.
Mrs. Fairfax had bought the pretty outfit for her in Paris, and it was
wonderfully becoming. Indeed, I believe there was a touch of pride in
her bright little smile this morning, but I guess we can forgive it, if
the head of this little Moorlow maiden was a trifle turned by the joyous
experience of a happy week in New York at the gayest time of the year.
Remember, too, that she had been the owner of this beautiful coat
scarcely twenty-four hours, and I think you will admit her to be made of
different stuff from other little maidens did she not feel considerably
elated by it. But Nan is not vain by nature, and never you fear but that
she will go back to Moorlow the same dear child that she left it.
At the upper end of the park Mr. Fairfax met two old bachelor friends
driving in a low cutter, whereupon the whole sleigh-full favoured them
with the most smiling and cordial of bows. Harry and Regie were too fond
of the accomplishment of gallantly touching their hats to lose a single
opportunity, and Nan “was not going to sit stiff and straight as though
she did not know anybody.”
“Fairfax seems to get more out of life than any fellow I know,” remarked
one of the old bachelors; “and he's a good sight better-looking than he
used to be. I wonder how it is?”
“Well, I'll tell you how it is,” answered the other; “he's a deal
happier than he used to be. They say his wife's a real treasure. I
suppose that sort of thing goes a long way toward making a fellow get
a good deal out of life. Then Fairfax has told me himself how much they
enjoy that boy of theirs, and they ought to. It was a mighty kind thing
to do. You know they did not have any children of their own, so they
adopted that youngster of Will Reginald's.”
“Yes, I know,” replied Bachelor No. 1.; “but who are the other two
children?”
“Why, I heard at the club last night that they are a pair of French
orphans that they picked up in Paris. They have just returned from
abroad, you know. I wonder where they'll stop; they seem to have a
passion for adopting.”
Surely the merry party in the Russian sleigh would have laughed harder
than ever could they have heard all this.
A pair of French orphans indeed! Nan and Harry Murray; whose every look
and accent betrayed them such thoroughgoing little Americans, and for
whose home-coming a father and mother were waiting so impatiently. But
that's about as straight as the world often gets things.
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