MORE SURPRISES.
"To-morrow," said Dorothy, "we will have a good time. We can play the
whole day long."
"That will be so nice," returned Edna, with a little sigh of content;
"I just love to play with dolls--don't you? I believe if I had a
hundred dolls I should love every one."
"I don't know about a hundred dolls," replied Dorothy; "but I know I
could love twenty-five. I am going to hunt up all I have--broken ones
and all. We'll get Agnes to help us mend them; then to-morrow we can
divide them, and you can have half while you are here," said the
little girl, generously.
So a delightful morning it was--choosing dolls, dressing them, playing
party, and all done in such a merry humor that Mrs. Evans and Agnes,
sitting in the room opposite the nursery, often smiled to hear peals
of laughter.
"Those children are having a good time," remarked Mrs. Evans; "there
has been nothing but peace between them."
"I thought they would suit one another," returned Agnes.
"I think I shall send them over to Mrs. MacDonald's this afternoon,"
Mrs. Evans went on. "Edna will like the walk, and I promised to let
Mrs. MacDonald know about some flower bulbs."
Therefore, after an early dinner, the two little girls set out to take
a walk over the country road to this neighbor's.
Mrs. MacDonald was a widow, who lived all alone in a big house,
substantially built of gray stone. She had once been a dressmaker, had
married when no longer young a man of wealth, who died a few years
after their marriage, leaving her very well off. She had no children,
was a little peculiar, but a thoroughly good woman, and a neighbor
whom Mrs. Evans much esteemed. She was very fond of Dorothy, and met
the little girls very cordially.
"Bless my little Goldilocks," she said, in greeting; "and who is
this?"
"This is Edna Conway," Dorothy informed her. "She is making me a
visit. O, Mrs. MacDonald, may I show her the greenhouse?"
"To be sure you may; but you must be hungry after your long walk. Go
ask Lizzie to get you some doughnuts. You know where to find her."
Edna did not know whether or not to follow her friend, but thought it
would be more polite to sit with her hostess. Mrs. MacDonald had
nothing to say for a while, and Edna was puzzling her brain as to what
suitable remark she could make, when Mrs. MacDonald surprised her by
saying:
"How should you like to come here and be my little girl?"
This was a difficult question to answer, but Edna got through bravely
by saying, "If I didn't have any mamma and papa of my own I should
like it very much, 'cause it is very pretty here, and I'd like to be
near Dorothy, and--" she added, timidly, "you look like a very good
lady." She would like to have said, "You are a very pretty lady," but
Mrs. MacDonald was not handsome.
A hearty laugh was the little girl's reply.
"Well, dear," was then made answer, "I'll not rob your father and
mother of such a bonny little lass, if it is too big a place for one
lonely old woman to have to herself."
"Are you lonely?" asked Edna, with much sympathy in her tones. She
jumped down from her chair and came closer. A bright idea had occurred
to her. "I know a little girl that wants very much to be 'dopted," she
said, earnestly.
"You do? Tell me about her."
So Edna began a story which Dorothy's reappearance did not interrupt,
so interested were both herself and her listener.
"You see," said Edna, in conclusion, folding her little, warm hands
very closely, as was her fashion when much interested. "You see,
Maggie doesn't have a chance to be 'dopted like the littler girls,
'cause people like the baby ones best, though if I were a grown-up
lady like you I'd 'dopt Maggie," she concluded.
At this moment Lizzie made her appearance with the plate of doughnuts.
She was a middle-aged woman, with rather a sad face, though a kindly
one.
"What is Maggie's last name?" asked Mrs. MacDonald.
"Her name is Maggie Horn."
Lizzie, putting down the plate, turned with a look of surprise to
Edna. "What Maggie Horn?" she asked. "What about her?"
"Why, do you know my Maggie?" asked Edna.
"I know a Maggie Horn," and she turned to Mrs. MacDonald. "Excuse me,
ma'am, but my breath was quite taken away by hearing the young lady
speak of a Maggie Horn."
"That is all right, Lizzie. Perhaps you can tell us something of the
little girl who has been treated unkindly," said Mrs. MacDonald. "I am
interested in Edna's story of her."
"Well, ma'am, the little child that I used to know was left quite
alone by a poor lady who died in the house where I lodged. She had
been quite well to-do in her day--a milliner, ma'am, and a good one, I
take it--but she married a bad man, who went through with her bit of a
fortune and then went on, leaving her with this one child. The
trouble, and all, ma'am, wore on her, and with weak lungs, she grew
worse and worse, poorer and poorer, though always proud, ma'am, and
most a respectable lady, with a good education. She died when the
little one was three years old, and left the child with me. But, as
you know, ma'am, I had my own troubles; and when a family by the name
of Hawkins moved into the street, as wanted a bit of a girl to give an
eye to the baby, I thought it was a chance for Maggie to begin to make
her living. Indeed, ma'am, I didn't mean to turn her off to be
ill-treated, but I thought it was none too soon for her to begin to
look out for herself. She was eight years old."
"Why, you must be Mrs. Ryan," exclaimed Edna, putting this and that
together, "and you were good to Maggie. She was, Maggie told me so,"
she continued, turning to Mrs. MacDonald.
"It was a sorry day I parted from her," said Lizzie: "but, ma'am, I
had my own flesh and blood to look after, and my husband's funeral and
doctor's bills to stand, and so--I did my best."
"You meant to do right, I have no doubt," said Mrs. MacDonald. "It was
an error of judgment. Now, when the children have finished their
doughnuts, I want you to tell John to show them the greenhouses."
Lizzie led the way, asking many questions about Maggie, and expressing
her thankfulness that she was freed from an unhappy life.
The greenhouses were a delight to Edna. She was specially pleased to
see ripe strawberries this early in the year, and gave the gardener a
beaming smile when he told her to pick one for herself.
"I am going to carry it home to Miss Agnes," she declared.
"And I'll take mine to mamma," determined Dorothy, who had been
allowed the same privilege.
Mrs. MacDonald had ordered the gardener to give them each a little
bunch of violets, so they said their good-byes, much pleased with the
visit.
"Wasn't it queer that I should have seen Mrs. Ryan?" said Edna. "I
shall have so much to tell Maggie."
"I think it is funny for you to be friends with a little orphan asylum
girl," returned Dorothy.
"Well, you see, she isn't zactly a orphan, 'cause they don't know
whether she has a father or not, and then, you know, I feel so sorry
for her."
"So do I," replied Dorothy. "I don't mean I wouldn't help her if I
could, but I never knew anyone before who had a friend like that."
"O!" said Edna, suddenly, "my strawberry is getting so soft I shall
have to eat it. I wish I had held it by the stem, instead of in my
hand. Yours isn't a bit soft."
"Perhaps yours was the ripest. I'll eat mine, too, if you eat yours,
and we can give mamma and sister the violets."
This was agreed upon, and the children disposed of the strawberries
lingeringly.
Miss Agnes was lying on the lounge when they found her in the
sitting-room.
"I have a bad headache," she told Edna. "Did you enjoy your walk?"
[Illustration: MISS AGNES.]
"Yes," replied she; "but I'm awfully tired."
"Come cuddle up here by me," said Miss Agnes. "You have had such an
exciting time I don't wonder you are tired. You must go to bed early."
Edna was quite ready to share with Dorothy the pretty little brass
bedstead, but she did not lie awake long, and in the morning was very
loath to move when Dorothy called her.
"How red your face is," said Dorothy, as Edna sat up. "You look sort
of queer."
"I feel sort of queer," replied she, putting her head down on the
pillow again.
Dorothy slipped out of bed, and ran into the next room, where her
sister slept. At her gentle little shake Agnes turned over with a
sigh.
"What is it?" she asked, sleepily.
"Why--" began Dorothy. "O, sister, your face is red, too."
"Is it? I feel headachy."
"You and Edna look just the same way," declared Dorothy. And sure
enough, both showed well-developed cases of measles.
Edna was not very ill, but it was not considered safe for her to go
back to the city for some time, much to Dorothy's delight.
Hearing of the two sick girls, Mrs. MacDonald came over and took Edna
under her especial care. She was an excellent nurse, and made the
little child as comfortable as a tender mother could. Then when Edna
was able to be up, and Mrs. MacDonald was no longer needed, every day
came fruit or flowers from the kind woman.
One day Edna was much surprised by a visit from Uncle Justus. Two
whole weeks since she had seen him; and he brought her--who would have
thought it!--he brought Edna's doll, Ada, with him.
"Why, Uncle Justus," said Edna, looking at her doll with pleased eyes.
"How did you happen to know that I wanted to see Ada so much?"
"I did not know; I only thought that a little girl who was so fond of
her doll would be very likely to be glad to see it. When are we going
to have you back again?"
"Next week," replied Mrs. Evans. "We cannot let her go till then. I am
afraid that Dorothy will be very disconsolate at the loss of her
little friend. They have had such good times together."
"I am afraid Edna will be very far behind her classes," said Uncle
Justus, "and will have to study hard to make up for lost time."
Having seen Uncle Justus, and heard all the news, Edna felt that she
should like to stay on indefinitely. It was very nice to be just sick
enough to be considered, and to have good things to eat; to have such
cosy little meals with Miss Agnes, before either of them were well
enough to go down stairs; to receive from Mrs. MacDonald every day
some dainty, and to have Mrs. Evans appear every evening with a
delightful story book from which she would read aloud. Then it was
pleasant to be thrown with such a bright companion as Dorothy, who was
always ready to devise some new play or to shake out a bag of pretty
pieces for doll clothes. Altogether, Edna thought herself very
fortunate to have fallen into such good hands.
"It is almost like being at home," she said. "I wish you knew my
mamma, Mrs. Evans."
"It will not be very long before you see her, will it?" asked Mrs.
Evans, stooping to tuck in a shawl around the child.
"Not till May," replied Edna; "I s'pose mamma will stay till then."
"Well, perhaps you will come back next year, and then we shall see
more of you."
Edna looked thoughtful. She knew there had been some talk of her
returning another year. She loved all these friends, but she was still
quite sure that home was best. Mrs. Evans' speech made her a little
homesick. She wanted her mamma. To be sick without any mother at hand
seemed a very unnatural thing. She was a little tired, perhaps. She
would try to go to sleep.
She dozed off just as Dorothy came tiptoeing into the room. There was
a look of pleased excitement upon her face, and she fidgeted about
till Edna awoke from her little nap.
"Did I wake you?" she asked, contritely. "O, Edna, I know such a
splendid something."
"What?" asked Edna, raising herself on her elbow.
"I can't tell you just now. You'll know pretty soon. O, you'll be so
glad."
"I think you might tell me," returned Edna, a little peevishly.
"Don't be cross," said Dorothy, winningly. "I had to promise not to
tell; but I did want you to expect something awfully nice."
"When shall I know?"
"To-morrow."
"O, I know what it is. I'm going to take a drive. Your mamma told me."
"That's not all," replied Dorothy, gleefully.
"I can hardly keep from telling, so please don't ask me. Here comes
your supper--Mrs. MacDonald has sent you some lovely jelly."
Several times before bedtime Dorothy almost let out the secret, but
Edna never suspected, so when the next day the carriage stood waiting
to take her to drive she did not in the least know where they were
going, nor why.