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A DEAR LITTLE GIRL
AMY E. BLANCHARD
WHITMAN PUBLISHING CO.
RACINE, WIS.
Printed in the United States of America by Western Printing &
Lithographing Co. Racine, Wisconsin
Contents
CHAPTER I.
AN ACCIDENT 9
CHAPTER II.
GETTING SETTLED 21
CHAPTER III.
WHAT HAPPENED 35
CHAPTER IV.
MAGGIE'S CASE 49
CHAPTER V.
A GUILTY CONSCIENCE 63
CHAPTER VI.
THE FAIR 74
CHAPTER VII.
WHERE THE DOLL WENT 88
CHAPTER VIII.
A PECK OF TROUBLE 103
CHAPTER IX.
ABOUT SEVERAL THINGS 116
CHAPTER X.
MORE SURPRISES 128
CHAPTER XI.
ADOPTED 141
CHAPTER XII.
THE RUNAWAY 155
CHAPTER XIII.
PLEASANT CHANGES 168
Chapter I
AN ACCIDENT.
"It will be a fine opportunity for Edna," said Mrs. Conway.
Edna did not like that word opportunity; it always seemed to her that
it meant something unpleasant. She had noticed that when pleasant
things came along they were rarely spoken of as "opportunities," but
were just _happenings_. So she sat with her little sturdy legs
dangling down from the sofa, and a very sober look upon her round
face, while her busy, dimpled hands were folded quietly.
Her mother leaned over, and took the plump little fingers in hers,
giving them a squeeze. "It will be an opportunity," she repeated, as
her eyes rested fondly on the child by her side; "but she is only
eight, and it seems like pushing her out of the nest before her wings
are ready, poor birdie!"
"O, no it doesn't," replied Mr. Conway. "It will only be changing
nests. Aunt Elizabeth will be just like a mother to her; it is not
like a boarding-school, my dear."
"I know," replied Mrs. Conway, resting her cheek against Edna's little
dark head. "Should you like to go to Aunt Elizabeth's, dear?"
"Cousin Louis will be there, you know," put in Edna's father, "and
you'll have fine times together. Suppose I read to you what Aunt
Elizabeth says. 'You write, my dear nephew, that it seems prudent, on
account of your wife's health, that you should go to Florida. I have
received some such news from William who is about to take a trip to
California in search of health. He has asked me to take charge of his
son, Louis, during his absence. Should you not like to place Edna,
also, with us during the time you are gone? She could then attend
school and would find a pleasing companion in her cousin Louis, who, I
fear, will be somewhat lonely with only myself and your Uncle Justus.
The advantages of a city are great, and I need not say we will
endeavor'--h'm--h'm--never mind the rest," said Mr. Conway, laying
down the letter. "You know, daughter, Aunt Elizabeth lives in a big
city, where there are fine shops and beautiful parks; moreover, you
would meet a lot of nice little girls in the school. It would be much
nicer than for you to stay here with sister and the boys while we are
gone. Don't you think so?"
"Yes," said Edna, her little fat hand enfolded in her mother's,
feeling very moist from the excitement of the prospect.
"Of course, I know it is best," said Mrs. Conway, "and I know Aunt
Elizabeth means to be as kind as possible." Here a wistful look came
into the mother's eyes, but Edna only saw visions of gay shops, while
she pictured romps with her cousin Louis.
She remembered very little of this great aunt, except that she had
once sent her a most beautiful doll, with a cunning trunk filled with
such neat, old-fashioned frocks and aprons, together with a real
little slate and books. Aunt Elizabeth had written a tiny letter which
the doll had brought pinned to her muff. In the letter the doll's name
was said to be Ada, and many instructions were given as to her
behavior and studies. So Ada and Aunt Elizabeth were inseparably
connected in Edna's mind.
"I must go get Ada ready," she said, jumping down from the sofa on
which she had been sitting. "When shall I go to the city, papa?"
"Next week," he answered; and the little girl, on business intent, ran
to the playroom.
There was a great deal to do before she should go away. She reflected.
She must clean house, and see that all Ada's clothes were clean and
whole, for it would never do to let Aunt Elizabeth find that they had
not been kept carefully. "They are not all here," said the child,
sitting down on the floor. "Lilypaws tore up the muff, and Gyp ate up
one of the books; then the wind blew away an apron and a skirt that
day I washed them and put them out on the grass to dry. I'll have to
tell Aunt Elizabeth about that. She'll know it was an accident. Maybe
sister will make me some more. I'll go ask her now."
Leaving Ada with her wardrobe scattered over the nursery floor, Edna
sought sister, who was studying her lessons, curled up on the window
seat of her room. "I'm going to the city to live, next week,"
announced Edna, importantly, "and I'll have to get Ada's clothes in
order. Sister, won't you help me?"
"Going to the city!" cried Celia, lowering her book in surprise. "What
do you mean? O! you're only playing make-believe."
"No, I'm not. I am really and truly going. Papa and mamma said so. I'm
going to live with Aunt Elizabeth while they are away in Florida, and,
of course, Ada will have to go."
"And, of course, I'll help you," replied Celia, "you poor little
midget."
"I'm not poor at all," replied Edna, "for Cousin Louis is going to be
there, and I'm going to play with him in the park, and I'm going to
buy things in the beautiful shops. What shall I buy for you, sister?"
"O, I don't know. Don't buy me anything--or if you should see a belt
buckle exactly like Grace Neal's, I should like to have one, but only
if it is _exactly_."
"All right; I'll buy that and send it to you," decided Edna, very
positively, while she made up her mind to notice Grace Neal's buckle
very particularly the next time she saw her.
There was much hurry and excitement for the next week. Edna did not go
to school at all during that time, for the dressmaker was likely at
any time to want her to stand up to be fitted, something Edna did not
like at all. "I believe I'd just as soon go to school," she fretted
while Miss Marsh, with her mouth full of pins, pinched up here, and
trimmed off there, bidding the little girl to "stand still."
"I am standing as still as a mouse," she protested.
"About as still as that canary bird," returned Miss Marsh. "Don't
shrug your shoulders while I cut out this armhole. I might snip you
with the scissors."
That was something really to be dreaded, so Edna did stand very still
while the cold steel points circled her plump shoulder. "O, dear!" she
sighed, when the operation was finished, "I hope I sha'n't need any
more clothes for a year."
But even the discomfort of dress-fitting did not do away with the
pleasure the little girl felt in her pretty new frocks, and it seemed
no time before her trunk stood ready packed and she had said good-bye
to Gyp and Lilypaws, to Bobby in his cage, and to the chickens, each
and every one; her own special pet hen, Snowflake, being entreated not
to hatch out any new chickens till Edna should return.
It was rather a solemn moment, after all, when mamma hugged her and
kissed her, with the tears running down her cheeks; when the cook,
Jane, hoped they'd see her again; and when the boys thrust parting
gifts into her hands--Frank a small mouth organ, and Charlie a wad of
something which was afterward discovered to be taffy, wrapped in brown
paper; when Celia winked away the tear-drops from her lashes and
called her "precious little sister." It was therefore with the very
opposite of a smile upon her face that she climbed up the steps into
the car. But the dimples soon came back again as the car moved off,
and the boys, standing on a woodpile, cheered and waved their hats as
the little head at the window nodded good-bye.
It was quite a long journey to the city to which Edna was going, a
whole day and night to be on the cars, and after the first few hours
the little girl began to get very restless. Even the picture papers
her father bought her, and the little excitement of stopping once in a
while at a station, where could be seen queer-looking people, did not
serve to keep Edna from getting very tired; but it grew dark early,
and when the porter came in to make up the berths she felt that she
would be quite ready to clamber up into that funny little bed above
her papa's.
"It's just like being put away on a shelf," she laughed. "Suppose I
should tumble out, papa?"
"Then I think it would be better for you to take the lower berth," he
replied.
"O, no. I like it best up here. I can peep out better. Are you going
to bed, too, papa?"
"Not just yet. I am going to the smoking-car for a while. You go to
sleep, daughter, and I'll be back pretty soon."
It was some time before the child could compose herself. The voices of
the people in the car, the clatter of a passing train, the letting
down of the berths, or the opening of a door, all tended to keep her
awake, but after a little time she began to say over a rhyme she had
learned at school, keeping time to the motion of the car as she
repeated:
"To cuddle up the baby ferns, and smooth the lily's sheet,
And tuck a warm, white blanket down around the roses' feet;"
and before she knew it she was fast asleep.
How long she had slept she had not the slightest idea, when she was
awakened, very suddenly, by a jerk of the car which nearly threw her
from the berth. She sat up rubbing her eyes, wondering where she was,
and for a moment it seemed as if she must be dreaming that she was
packed away on a high shelf in such a queer place; but presently she
was quite wide-awake, and found that there was a great commotion going
on; men with lanterns hurried through the car; women began to scream,
babies to cry.
"It's all right!" some one shouted. "Don't be alarmed!"
This was enough to frighten Edna, and she began to scramble on her
clothes as quickly as possible, first peering down into the berth
below, but seeing no papa there. "O, where is my papa? Where is my
papa?" she whispered under her breath, as the little trembling fingers
tried to fasten the buttons hurriedly.
Presently some one parted the curtains and looked in; it was the negro
porter.
"'Scuse me, Miss," he said, "but de folks is all leavin' de cyar. You
better let me 'sist you off."
"I want my papa!" cried Edna, looking around distressedly. "O, please
tell me what is the matter."
"De engine an' de baggage cyar was derailed," explained the man, "an'
de smokin' cyar cotched fire."
"O! O! my papa is burned up!" cried Edna, helplessly.
"No, miss, I reckon he ain't, but yuh see dey is sorter 'stracted out
dere; de women a-faintin' an' de men a-hollerin', but nobody ain't
hurt so tur'ble. Yuh better come get off." And picking her up in his
arms the porter bore her from the car.
"Now I'll set you down on dis ole stump, an' yuh'll be safe," said he.
And Edna found herself, at midnight, by the side of the railroad in
what seemed to be a bit of woodland. She could hear the rushing of
water and see the blazing car ahead. The rest of the train had been
backed along the track, and some of the women and men, seeing the rear
cars were not hurt, were climbing back into them. There was a crowd of
people moving about farther up the railroad, and Edna made up her mind
that she would try to find out what had become of her father. So she
took her way toward the throng of people who were gathered about the
baggage car, which lay over on its side by an embankment.
"You'd better go back to the rear cars, little girl," said some one,
as she came up. "Where is your mother?"
"She is at home," replied Edna. "I want my papa. Is he burned up?"
"No, indeed; no one is burned up," was the reply. "You go back and
we'll find your father. What is his name?"
"His name," returned Edna, "is Henry Parker Conway."
"Anybody about here by the name of Conway?" shouted the man.
But there was no one answering to that name in the crowd, and Edna
picked her way back to the stump where the porter had placed her,
feeling very lonely and miserable. "O dear!" she said to herself.
"What shall I do? Suppose papa doesn't come for me? That man said they
had sent ahead for another engine, and that we should go on pretty
soon; but I can't go without my papa," and the tears began to run down
Edna's cheeks. She was beginning to feel cold, and it was very forlorn
to sit there alone on a stump all night. "I believe I'll go back to
the car," she said, "but I don't know where I belong." By great effort
she managed to climb up on the high step of the first car, then made
her way inside and stood there looking wistfully around.
"Why, you poor little child," said a lady, coming forward. "Where did
you come from?"
"I came from the stump," replied Edna, "and I want my papa," she
continued, her lip quivering and her eyes filling.
"Where is he?"
"I don't know," returned Edna, and putting her head against the arm
which was placed sympathetically around her, she sobbed outright.
"There! There! Tell me all about it," said her friend. "We'll make it
all right as soon as my husband comes in. Come, sit down here by me.
Your father can't be very far away, and you know no one has been very
badly hurt."
Edna gave the best account of herself that she could, and the lady
comforted her and promised that she should be safely cared for.
After what seemed a long time, just as the morning was breaking, the
train was again on its way. But no papa had appeared, although the
husband of Edna's new friend had gone through the cars to look for
him.