Quigley squeezed himself into a closet, and Mrs. Quigley and Miss
Grackle went into the bedroom.
Bob and Jack helped Granny Dorset into the pleasant living-room, and she
looked about her in speechless amazement as she sank into the
comfortable rocker in a sunny window. “Well, Della,” she exclaimed,
“whatever is the meaning of all this?”
“Ahem,” said the laughing girl, and out from their hiding-places sprang
the four old people, each calling gayly, “Happy birthday, Sarie Dorset!”
The eight girls, watching from the kitchen-door, were certainly
satisfied with the way in which Granny Dorset was surprised.
“Oh! Oh!” she said, with tears of joy running down her wrinkled cheeks.
“It’s a party, isn’t it? I never thought I’d live to go to another one.”
Then, when her bonnet and shawl had been removed, Adele reappeared from
the bedroom, carrying a long box.
“It’s a birthday present for you, Granny Dorset,” the girl announced.
“And if you can guess what’s in it, you may have it.”
With shining eyes the old lady guessed one thing and then another, and
then at last hesitatingly said, “It couldn’t be a dress, could it,
Della?”
“You’ve guessed it!” Adele cried gayly. “And now open it up and see what
you will see!”
Granny Dorset gave a little cry of joy when she beheld the purple silk
dress. “It’s just what I’ve always wanted,” she said; “and there’s lace
in the neck and sleeves.” Then she added, “Della, being as it’s my
birthday, I wish I could put it on.”
“And so you shall,” Adele declared. Then she and Eva assisted the little
old lady into the bedroom, whence a little later she emerged, dressed in
the purple gown, and the happiness glowing in that dear old face made
the girls glad indeed that Adele had thought of that particular birthday
present.
Then, when the old people were comfortably seated in the easy-chairs,
some having been brought from the big house, and the girls, tailor-wise,
on the floor, Granny Dorset said, “’Lijah Dally, being as the girls have
turned that sheep-herder’s cabin into a play-house, why don’t you tell
them something that happened round there when you was a boy?”
Grandpa Dally looked pleased to be called upon to entertain the company.
“I would, Sarie,” he replied, “but just this minute I don’t seem to
think of nothing.”
“Suppose you tell ’em how you met the wolves,” Mr. Quigley suggested.
“Oh, Grandpa Dally,” Rosamond cried with a shudder. “Did you really meet
some wolves once, and didn’t they eat you?”
Every one laughed at Rosie’s question. “If they had,” Grandpa Dally
replied, “I wouldn’t be here to tell you the story. Well,” he began,
“when I was about eight years old, my father and me lived in that
sheep-herder’s cabin out in the meadows. I hadn’t a mother and I sort of
grew up any way. There was wolves hereabouts in them days, and when they
got real hungry, especially in winter, they came prowling around and
howling at night. Often father and the other herder who lived with us
would go out with their guns and drive them away from the fold.
“When I was twelve year old, my father gave me a gun and taught me how
to shoot it, and after that I felt very brave and bold.
“That winter was bitterly cold, and the snow was deep, but it was
crusted over so that we could walk on it. The sheep were all in the
fold, and at night we often heard the wolves howling in the hills.
“‘’Lijah,’ my father said to me, ‘whenever you go to the store at the
crossings be sure that you carry your gun.’
“Once a week I went to the store, which was two miles away, to get
supplies and the mail. I wore a fur cap and mittens, and I did not mind
the cold much. With my gun over my shoulder and my snowshoes on my feet
I started out one day. I only passed one house on the way, and in it
lived a wood-cutter and his wife and two children. As I was a-passin’
by, the woman called and asked me if I’d do an errand for her at the
store. She said her man was up to the woods, but she was expectin’ him
back about nightfall. I said I’d do her errand and glad to oblige, and
then I went on my way.
“At the store there was some trappers just come in from the hills, and
they said wolves was thick up that ways, and extra hungry on account of
the deep snow. ‘Hello, sonny,’ one of them called after me, when, with
my packages strapped to my back, I started to leave the store. ‘You
ain’t goin’ home all alone, be you? Don’t see what yer pa’s thinkin’ of
to let ye, with wolves around as thick as they be.’
“I told him I wasn’t a bit afeared, and I hurried out. The first
half-mile I skated over the hard, crusted snow without a trip, but then
a strap bust on one of my snowshoes and I had to stop quite a while to
fix it before I could go on. When I got it mended it was growing dark,
and I was almost afeared to go on, thinking of what the trapper had
said, but I knew dad would be out huntin’ for me if I didn’t turn up, so
I skated off at a stiff pace. I tried to whistle, to sort of cheer me
up, but somehow I couldn’t, for fear that the wolves would hear.
“I was nearing the woods, when I suddenly saw something which made my
blood run cold. There was wolf-tracks all around in the snow, and they
was fresh. I stood still, not a-darin’ to go on. I knew I was near the
woman’s house, but I couldn’t see it for the trees. Just as I was
wonderin’ what to do, I heerd a frightened cry for help. It was that
woman, I felt sure, and with all speed I rounded the edge of the wood.
The cabin door stood open and I saw two wolves a-goin’ in. Without
thinkin’ what I was to do, I darted to the door and fired. One wolf fell
at my feet with an ugly snarl, but the other turned and leaped at me. I
struck it with my gun, but I felt its sharp teeth cuttin’ into my arm.
Just as I thought it was all over with me, a shot rang out from behind,
and that wolf dropped dead, hit in the heart.
“It was the wood-cutter. He had been a-returnin’, but when he heard my
gun he came on a run. Then, for the first time, I saw the woman and two
small children crouched in a corner. The woman came forward, white from
fright, and she took my hand as she said in a tremblin’ voice, ‘’Lijah
Dally, if I live to be a thousand, I can’t do enough to thank you for
savin’ my babies. The wolves was just about to leap on them when you
came in and fired, and the critters turned on you instead. A minute more
and nothin’ could ’a’ saved them.’
“‘You are a brave boy,’ the woodsman said, but I didn’t feel brave at
all. I was shakin’ so I ’most couldn’t stand. Just then there came a rap
on the door. It was my dad and one of the sheep-herders, out to look for
me. Wasn’t I glad to see them, though! But I didn’t feel real safe till
we three was in our log cabin, with the door bolted and barred.”
“Oh-h!” said Rosamond Wright with a shudder. “How glad I am there are no
wolves around the log cabin now!”
While Grandpa Dally had been telling this story there had been a quiet
bustling in the cottage kitchen, and suddenly the door opened and in
came Kate and Mrs. Doring, bearing the good things to eat.
Granny Dorset’s chair was drawn up to the table and soon the merry feast
began.
“A good old-fashioned chicken dinner,” Mrs. Quigley said with
appreciation. “And pumpkin pie!” Grandpa Dally added with a chuckle.
“It’s a good while since I ate any home cookin’,” Mr. Quigley remarked.
“I tell you, folks, there’s nothin’ like a home, whether it’s for
cookin’ or just livin’ in,” he added wistfully, and every one knew that
he was thinking of the poorhouse.
Then Miss Grackle impulsively exclaimed, “Dan Quigley, you seem about as
strong as ever. I should think that you could get gardening to do.”
“I’ve tried, Sally, but all the farmers say I’m too old,” Mr. Quigley
replied.
“You are too old for hard farming, I agree,” Miss Grackle said, “but
maybe there is some one who has a garden and grounds to be cared for,
where you could work when you felt like it and rest when you were
tired.”
“I wish there was such a place,” the old man said sadly, “but there
ain’t.”
“Yes, there is, too,” Miss Grackle exclaimed. “I want this place of mine
fixed up the way it was when father was alive, and I want you and Mrs.
Quigley to come and live in this cottage and take care of it for me.”
Mrs. Quigley’s eyes were shining. “Pa Quigley,” she said, “I always told
you the dear Lord would send one of His angels to deliver us from the
poorhouse, if it was right that we should be delivered.”
“And so He has!” Mr. Quigley said in a shaking voice. “And Sally Grackle
is that angel!”
How Miss Grackle longed to tell them that Adele Doring and her six
friends were really the angels, but she had promised Adele that she
would not. When at last the guests took their departure they left the
happy old couple in a really, truly home.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THE NEW PUPIL
The Sunny Seven met under the elm tree in the school-yard the following
Monday, when a strange girl appeared with her books under her arm. She
was elaborately dressed, and each black curl hung in its prim and proper
place.
“That new girl knows that we’re watching her,” Betty Burd exclaimed,
“and she’s trying to put on airs. Who is she, anyway?”
“I’m sure I don’t know, and I don’t want to,” Rosamond Wright declared.
“I know who she is,” Doris Drexel said. “Her father was an inn-keeper
out west until a few months ago. He owned a mine that never had amounted
to much, so he told dad. Then one morning he woke up and found himself
rich. After that his wife wanted to come east and live like folks, so
they came. They have mints of money, dad says, and they have bought that
beautiful Restwell estate out on the Lake Road. Father was asked there
to dinner last night. Mother was, also, of course, but she declined, but
dad is their banker and so he had to go. He said that the house is
luxuriously furnished, but in very poor taste. Dad likes Mr. Green, but
the wife boasts all the time of their great wealth, and tells what
everything cost.”
“What is the girl’s name?” Adele asked.
Doris smiled. “Her name used to be plain Susie Green, but since they
became rich, the mother thought Susie too common, and so they call her
Susetta.”
“How ridiculous!” Bertha exclaimed. “I suppose if my father gets rich, I
will have to be called Berthetta.”
“Well, then, let us hope that he never will,” Doris replied. “Dad said
that poor Mr. Green acted like a fish out of water all the time. He
hardly ate a mouthful at dinner, and afterward, when the two men were
alone, Mr. Green said that he did wish they were out west again, where
he could breathe. He said he felt smothered, with so much velvet around.
Father was real sorry for him.”
“Poor little Susie!” Adele said, as the last school-bell began to ring.
“So much money will probably spoil her, but we must be kind to her and
make her feel that she is welcome to our school.”
“Oh, Adele, if that isn’t just like you!” exclaimed Rosamond Wright.
“For my part, I shall leave the snippy little thing quite alone.”
At the recreation hour the girls trooped again into the school-yard,
some romping about, and others sauntering in chattering groups. Susie
Green, with a book in her hand, sat alone on the bench under the
elm-tree.
Adele, leaving the six, walked over to the girl and said pleasantly,
“Good morning, Susie. I know that you are a stranger, so, if you wish, I
will introduce you to my friends.”
Susie tossed her head as she replied rather ungraciously, “My ma—I mean
my mother—doesn’t wish me to make up with any children at this public
school until I know what families they come from. She says I may meet
Doris Drexel, because she is our banker’s daughter. My ma—I mean my
mother—wanted to send me to a private school, but there ain’t,—I mean
there isn’t,—any around here.”
Adele arose. “I am sorry that you feel that way, Susie,” she said
kindly. “Our schoolmates are all nice, and I am afraid that you will be
lonely alone.”
“Poor girl!” Adele said, as she rejoined her friends.
“Such airs!” Rosamond Wright declared with a toss of her pretty head.
“An inn-keeper’s daughter, and she doesn’t want to meet us, whose
ancestors have been gentry for hundreds of years.”
“Well,” exclaimed Bertha Angel, “let’s proceed to forget her.” But they
were not allowed to forget the new pupil, as you shall hear.
About a week later the Sunny Seven met under the elm-tree early one
morning, and Betty Burd held up a pink envelope, as she exclaimed, “Who
else had the honor to receive one of these?”
“Honor, do you call it?” Rosamond asked languidly, as she displayed a
pink envelope. “I have one, but I shall not accept.”
Adele and Gertrude and Doris also had them, but Bertha and Peggy had
none. The pink envelopes contained invitations to a very _select_ party
to be given by Susetta Green on the following Saturday.
“I wasn’t select enough, because my father owns a grocery store, I
suppose,” Bertha Angel declared.
“And my dad is also a tradesman, and so I am left out,” Peggy Pierce
added with twinkling eyes. “But you other girls go, and then you can
tell us all about the party.”
“Go!” Doris Drexel exclaimed. “Indeed we will not go! I told Susie Green
myself that we seven always went to places together, or we didn’t go at
all. Do you suppose for one second, Peggy Pierce, that I would go to a
party if you and Bertha were left out?”
And so it happened that Susetta Green received five notes of refusal to
her party. She took them to her mother with tears in her eyes, as she
said, “I told you, ma, that they wouldn’t none of them come unless you
asked them all.”
Mrs. Green bristled indignantly. “Ask the daughters of tradespeople to a
select party? Well, I should say not! With all our money, we ought to
associate with earls and dukes.”
“But ma,” Susie dolefully replied, “there ain’t any earls and dukes, and
I’m so lonely I’d just as soon play with the gardener’s children.”
Her mother looked at her scornfully. “Well,” she said, “it’s mighty
queer those girls refused to come to your party. I looked up all their
families and they’re the best around, but your pa—that is, your
father—has more money than all of them put together. Just you remember
_that_ when you go back to school, and hold your head high. What’s more,
I intend hiring a girl to be a maid for you, and then, when you’re
older, you shall have a French maid.”
That very afternoon Mrs. Melissa Green, with Susetta at her side, drove
in their handsome carriage down the country road. There was a coachman
and a footman dressed in green livery, with brass buttons, sitting
stiffly on the high front seat, and Mrs. Melissa Green, elaborately
dressed in purple satin, felt that they must be making a very grand
appearance.
“Where are we going, ma?” Susie asked.
“I do wish you wouldn’t say ‘ma’ any more, nor ‘pa,’ neither,” Mrs.
Green said irritably. “’Tain’t stylish! Say ‘father’ and ‘mother.’ We’re
going to visit the orphan asylum. Folks with money, like us, ought to be
doing something for charity. That’s the way to get a start in society,
so I’ve heard tell.”
Susetta Green thought that was a queer reason for doing good, but,
wisely, she said nothing about it. What she did say, after a few moments
of thoughtful silence, was: “Ma—I mean mother—I almost wish that we had
never made any money. I’d heaps rather be riding bareback on my cow-pony
out west than be sitting here so stiff in this grand carriage.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Green scornfully, “if I had any such common wishes,
I’d keep them to myself. Land sakes, don’t let the servants hear you
talk that way.”
Soon the elegant equipage stopped in front of the orphanage. The footman
sprang to open the carriage-door, and Mrs. Green stepped down, with what
she believed to be a queenly air. Susie, looking anything but happy,
followed her up the gravelly walk.
Eva and Amanda, standing at the sewing-room window, saw them, and Amanda
said, “Some rich woman, I guess, who is coming to offer a home to one of
the orphans.”
“Maybe so,” Eva replied, giving the matter little thought, but she was
to give it very serious thought before another hour had passed.
When Mrs. Melissa Green, with Susetta at her side, entered the
orphanage, the kindly matron, Mrs. Friend, welcomed them pleasantly and
led them to her office. The visitor at once began to state her errand,
while Susetta watched her and listened with wide, wondering eyes.
“I am Mrs. Cyrus Green of the Restwell estate,” the newcomer began in a
condescending manner, which she deemed proper for the very rich to use
toward persons who were working for pay. Mrs. Green tried to forget that
a very few months before she herself had been serving guests in her
husband’s tavern, and she sincerely hoped that no one else knew about
it. Unfortunately for her, every one in town did know about it, because
simple Mr. Green often mentioned the tavern which he used to keep, and
the men liked him all the better for it.
“I am glad to meet you, Mrs. Green,” the matron said pleasantly, not at
all impressed by the grand airs. “I had heard that a Western family had
purchased the Restwell estate. That fine old house has been closed for
so long that we are indeed glad to have it opened again. The former
owner, the elderly Mr. Restwell, was greatly loved in the village and
gave generously to all of the charities.”
Mrs. Cyrus Green cared nothing about the former owners, the present
owner occupying all of her thoughts. “Well,” she said pompously, “I do
feel that we people who have great wealth ought to do something for the
folks who ’ain’t got it, and that is why I came here this morning. I
want to hire one of your older orphans to be a sort of companion for
Susetta here. I understand that you hire them out after they’re twelve.”
“No, Mrs. Green,” the matron replied. “We do not permit our girls to
work for wages until they are fourteen, but we are glad to find pleasant
homes for them at any age,—homes in which they will be kindly treated,
and where they will receive greater advantages than we can afford to
give them.”
Mrs. Green did not look pleased. “Well,” she replied stiffly, “I wasn’t
planning to adopt a common orphan to share equal with my Susetta, but I
will take one for a time, if I find one that’s suitable.”
Mrs. Friend arose as she said, “I will call together our older girls,
and you may make their acquaintance.”
Stepping into the hall, she rang three times on the gong. In the
sewing-room Eva looked up from the hem which she was stitching, and
aloud she counted, “One! Two! Three!” Then, rising and folding her work,
she said, “Come, Mandy; three bells means that we older girls are to go
to the study-hall. I wonder why.”
“It’s just what I told you,” Amanda declared. “That rich woman has come
to adopt an orphan. I’m so ugly-looking that I’m sure she won’t choose
me, and if she takes you, Eva, I’ll just die of lonesomeness.”
Twelve orphan girls gathered in the study, and together they curtsied to
the strangers when the matron introduced them. Then Mrs. Green lifted a
lorgnette to her eyes, though she could see perfectly well without
glasses, and, walking down the line, she examined each girl as a man
might a horse or a dog which he was about to purchase.
Eva blushed as crimson as a poppy while she was being scrutinized, and
unconsciously drew herself up proudly and held her head high.
As soon as possible Mrs. Friend dismissed the girls, and the trio
returned to the office.
“Well,” said Mrs. Green, “there’s no use settin’ down again. I’ve made
my choice. I pick the slender one with yellow hair. She looks rather
uncommon. Eva, I think you called her. I don’t want no orphan who had
common parents to live with my Susetta.”
Mrs. Friend was about to protest that she could not possibly spare Eva,
but just in time she remembered that the orphanage was greatly in need
of funds, and she knew that it would not do to offend this rich woman
who might contribute largely in the future, and so, with a sad heart,
Mrs. Friend said, “Eva Dearman is a very lovely girl and comes of a fine
old family. I am sorry indeed to part with her, but I am sure that you
will do much to make her happy.”
Making the orphan happy had not been a part of Mrs. Green’s scheme. She
merely wanted a maid and companion for Susetta, and so she replied
rather coldly, “I guess any girl would consider it an honor to live in
an elegant house like ours after this here orphanage. I will send for
her to-morrow.” Then the woman was gone, Susetta meekly following her.
Mrs. Friend watched them go with a heavy heart. How she dreaded telling
poor Eva! Then suddenly her face brightened. That very afternoon there
was to be a meeting of the directors of the orphanage. Perhaps they
would decide that Eva need not go after all. At least, she would not
tell the little girl whom she so dearly loved, until the matter was
definitely settled.
Meanwhile, Eva and Amanda, hand in hand, had wandered over to the woods.
“It’s such a lovely day,” Eva declared, “I feel as though I wanted to
dance and sing, don’t you, Amanda?”
The other girl shook her head. “No, I don’t!” she said. “I feel just as
though some terrible thing was going to happen. It’s that dreadful woman
makes me feel that way, I guess.”
Eva laughed gayly. “Well, Mandy,” she replied merrily, “if a dreadful
calamity does come, you and I must try to look on the sunny side of it.”
Whether or not the calamity came, you shall soon know.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
EVA BEGINS A NEW LIFE
The board of directors met at the appointed hour, and as soon as the
regular business was disposed of, Mrs. Friend told the story of Mrs.
Green’s visit, and ended by asking permission to refuse to permit Eva to
leave the orphanage.
The matter was discussed, but it was finally decided that it would be
very unwise to offend so wealthy a possible patron as Mrs. Cyrus Green.
“Let the child go for a while,” said one, “and perhaps later a way will
be found to recall her.”
And with that decision Mrs. Friend had to be content. Late that
afternoon, as Eva and Amanda were walking arm in arm about the garden, a
little girl ran out to them and called, “Eva Dearman, Mrs. Friend wants
to see you in the office right away quick. I guess something awful has
happened, she looks so sad.”
Amanda clung to her friend. “I knew it,” she almost sobbed. “That
dreadful woman chose you. I knew she was going to by the way she looked
at you. Oh, Eva, you’ll be so unhappy there. Why couldn’t she have
chosen me?”
Eva released herself from her friend’s embrace and said tenderly, “Why
should you suffer for me? You would be just as unhappy at Mrs. Green’s
as I should. But don’t cry, Mandy. It may not be so very dreadful after
all.” Then she turned and went into the house.
Eva’s face was very pale when Mrs. Friend looked up and saw her standing
in the doorway. The matron put her arms about her and held her close, as
a mother would, and then she said, “Eva, dear, you don’t know how I
dread telling you.”
But the girl smiled bravely as she replied: “I know what it is! Mrs.
Friend, you have been so kind to me. No one but my own mother was ever
so kind, and I know that if you could have prevented this, you would
have done so.”
“I have not given up hope yet, Eva,” the matron replied. “If you will go
for a time, I will try in every way to have you recalled as soon as
possible. Dear,” she added, looking tenderly at the girl, “are you
_sure_ that you have no living relative?”
Eva shook her head sadly. “There is no one,” she said. “Father had only
one brother, and mother was the last of her family.”
“What became of your father’s brother, Eva? Did he die, also?” the
matron asked.
“Yes, he is dead,” Eva replied. “Uncle Dick went west when he was a mere
lad, because he was so eager for adventure, and for several years he
wrote to my father from different places. At last he seemed to settle
down to one, and he wrote that he was having an interesting life and
making money. Then, for a long time, father did not hear, and at last a
letter which he had written was returned to him unopened, and on the
outside was scrawled, ‘Dick Dearman was killed in an Indian raid,
leastwise it is supposed so.’ After that father wrote time and again,
but his letters always came back. All this happened before father
married my mother.”
“Did you ever hear how your father addressed those letters, Eva?” the
matron inquired.
“To Dry Creek, Arizona,” the girl replied. And then she asked, “When am
I to go to Mrs. Green’s?”
“To-morrow,” the matron replied sadly.