ADOPTED.
As the carriage turned into the driveway which led up to Mrs.
MacDonald's house, Edna exclaimed, "O, I know the s'prise! We are
going to see Mrs. MacDonald."
Dorothy clapped her two hands over her mouth as if to keep in the
secret that trembled upon her lips. Then she looked up at her mother,
repressing a little chuckle.
"Yes, we are going to Mrs. MacDonald's," said Mrs. Evans, smiling.
They were ushered into the cosy library, where an open wood fire was
blazing. Some one was curled up in a big chair before the fire--a
little girl with curly auburn locks falling about her face; she wore a
soft cashmere frock, and was a very dainty-looking little maid. She
glanced up quickly as the visitors entered the room. Then a bright
smile broke over her face, and she ran forward to meet them.
"Why," exclaimed Edna, "it's Maggie! Maggie Horn!"
"No," and the auburn locks shook a decided negative; "no, it isn't
Maggie Horn; it's Margaret MacDonald! O, Edna, I'm 'dopted!"
Edna danced up and down in sheer delight, and Dorothy followed suit.
Then Edna gave Maggie a great hugging. "Tell me all about it," she
said. "How did it happen? O, Dorothy, this is the most delicious
secret that ever was. How did you keep it?"
Mrs. Evans left the children in order to find Mrs. MacDonald, who was
in the conservatory, and Maggie began:
"Well," she said, smoothing down her frock, and taking a long breath,
"I was in the schoolroom, you know, when Miss Barnes was called out to
see a lady, and after a while she came back and said some one wanted
to see me. I thought it was my beautiful Mrs. Ramsey, so I was very
glad; but it wasn't Mrs. Ramsey at all, it was a lady I had never seen
before. She looked at me very hard, and asked me a lot of questions,
all about my mother and lots of things; and Miss Barnes told me to
bring my Bible that belonged to my mother and show it to the lady, and
when she saw my mother's name, 'Agnes Wallace, from her loving mother,
Margaret Wallace, Glasgow, Scotland,' she said, 'Why, she has my name,
Margaret, and she has Scotch blood in her, the same as I and my
husband. She shall be my own little lassie!' That was what my mother
called me, Mrs. Ryan used to say, and it sounded so natural. So she
told me her name was Mrs. MacDonald, and asked me if I would like to
be her own little girl, and--O, Edna! I was so glad. And that was
three days ago. And O, it was like a dream, for when I got here who
should run and meet me but dear old Mrs. Ryan. She told me my father
died just after my mother did, and that nobody had a claim on me, so I
could be Margaret MacDonald forever and ever."
"Well, chatterboxes," here a voice interrupted, "have you had your
talk out? We must be going," and Mrs. Evans, with Mrs. MacDonald,
entered the room.
Edna ran toward the latter. "O, Mrs. MacDonald," she cried, "I do want
to kiss you. You won't be lonely any more, will you?"
"No, I think not," replied Mrs. MacDonald, "and I don't want my little
daughter to be. So Mrs. Evans has promised that you and Dorothy shall
spend day after to-morrow with us."
This was a delightful prospect, and Edna declared that the drive and
the pleasure of seeing Maggie had made her feel entirely well.
"I can't get over it," she said. "To think of Maggie's living in that
dear old house, and having that great big garden to play in and being
just like any nice little girl. O, it is just too lovely for
anything."
That was a happy day which the three little girls spent together.
Margaret--as the two others delighted to call her--brought out the
doll which had been awarded her at the fair, to be displayed to
Dorothy's interested eyes.
"I must tell Miss Martin. She will be so glad," said Edna. "And O,
Margaret, you must have Moggins. I shall have to send him out to you;"
but there was a tinge of regret in her tone.
"Will Mrs. MacDonald let you keep him?" asked Dorothy, turning to
Margaret.
[Illustration]
"I'll go and ask her," decided Edna, and straightway took herself to
Mrs. MacDonald, and was not long in winning her consent. But Margaret
was not willing to rob her friend at once of such an amusing companion
as Moggins. "Wait till you go home," she said, "and then you will not
miss him." And Edna, although she protested, was secretly glad when
this was decided upon.
A pretty little room had been prepared for Margaret to use as her very
own. Mrs. MacDonald believed in substantials, and did not indulge in
much ornament. She was extremely fond of flowers, and her greenhouse
was her greatest luxury. The house in which she lived was large,
old-fashioned, and exceedingly comfortable, but was not as tasteful in
its appointments as that of Mrs. Evans, "I am a plain woman," said
Mrs. MacDonald to Mrs. Evans, "and I'm not given to fal-lals, I like
my flowers and my book; and now my little daughter suits me much
better than if she were a beauty."
"She has a nice, sensible, interesting face," returned Mrs. Evans.
"And, please God, she shall be a nice, sensible, interesting woman,"
replied Mrs. MacDonald, "and I hope a contented one. It's just
wonderful what one little child can do. I'm thinking, Mrs. Evans, of
that little child Edna. She has brought gladness to more hearts than
one by the loving little spirit in her."
"She's a dear little body," replied Mrs. Evans, "She always makes the
best of things; her little cheery ways are good to see, and are a
lesson to us older growlers."
"I think my Margaret is going to be much the same," said Mrs.
MacDonald. "It's no wonder they took to each other. When poor little
Margaret has forgotten how ill a world she lived in, I think she'll
brighten many a life by her own content."
Meanwhile the children thus discussed were making the most of their
opportunities, for the day was at hand when Edna must return to the
city. It must be confessed that all these good times had rather
spoiled the little girl for the taking up of her life at school. But
she was very brave about it, and, indeed, rather reproached herself
for having any regrets at all in leaving these pleasant friends. Then
she began to wonder about Louis, feeling quite selfish at having been
too much taken up in the affairs which had lately interested her to
think of how he might be faring, and she set out with a serious mind
for her journey home.
"We will stop at the post-office and see if there are any letters,"
said Mr. Evans, who had taken the little girl under his protection.
"The train will not be due for some minutes."
And Edna stood on the platform until he should return.
"I did find a letter for you," he said, as he joined her, and she was
handed an envelope addressed in Louis' schoolboy hand.
The train was now in sight, and, after establishing the little girl in
a seat by the window, Mr. Evans left her for a few minutes and Edna
opened her letter.
It was dated a day or two earlier. "Dear Edna," it read, "I am going
to run away. Don't tell anyone. I know you won't go back on me. I am
going to my father and mother in Pasadena.
Affectionately, LOUIS."
A distressed little child it was who turned the letter over and over,
helplessly. She had been having such a good time; all unhappy things
had been smoothed away from her, and it seemed as if this going back
became suddenly more dreadful than she could possibly have expected.
She was very quiet during the short trip, once in a while casting
furtive glances at Mr. Evans, who, absorbed in his newspaper, did no
more than address a word or two to her. He set her down at her uncle's
door, bidding her good-by pleasantly, and telling her that they should
hope to see her in the country often.
The latch of the door being up, Edna went in, feeling very
heavy-hearted.
It was early on Saturday afternoon, the house was very quiet; there
was no one in the sitting-room and Edna went through the dining-room
and on to where she heard voices.
Ellen in a freshly scoured kitchen was chatting with a friend while
she set things to rights. She turned with an exclamation at the sight
of Edna.
"Bless the choild!" she cried. "Comin' in like a bit of a ghost! It's
good to see ye, darlint. An' are ye well again? Let me see. Thim
cheeks bid to be a bit more rosy."
"Where is uncle?" asked Edna.
"Sure the two of thim is after foll'in' Masther Louis."
"And Louis?" Edna's lip quivered. She hoped against hope.
"Hear now; he's gone, av coorse."
"When did he go?" asked Edna, her voice shaking.
"Poor dear; don't mourn; to be sure ye'll be missin' him. He went
to-day. Let Ellen take off your wrap, and thin ye can go up and see
how nate an' nice yer room looks," and Ellen turned to continue an
exciting bit of gossip for her friend's benefit.
Edna slowly went up stairs. She felt, O, so lonely, and such a weight
as Louis' secret gave her. Ellen couldn't understand, and didn't seem
to care. What should she do? If Louis' father and mother only knew,
perhaps they could do something; grown people had so many ways of
preventing mishaps; time and space were often no obstacles to them.
Suppose Uncle Justus and Aunt Elizabeth should find him and bring him
back. Edna's sympathies were divided. She knew her cousin would be
punished, and yet she knew the others would be troubled sorely if he
did not return.
She sat on the top step of the stairs, thinking, thinking harder than
ever before in her life. Louis had run away because he was unhappy. He
had not let his parents know for fear they would tell his aunt and
uncle to take measures to prevent it. But if they knew he had actually
started, they would realize, maybe, how miserable he had been and
would take his part. If she could only let them know. Why, she could,
of course she could. She could send a telegram. She knew she could.
There was a telegraph office down at the depot from which she had just
come. Perhaps she could get there and back before her aunt and uncle
returned, and no one would miss her.
Fired by this idea, she started out intent upon the business in hand.
She had little difficulty in finding the place, and went timidly up to
the desk.
She stood still, not knowing just what to do until the clerk, looking
up, said, "Well, little girl, what is it?"
"I want to send a telegram;" she answered.
"Where?" asked the man, pulling a blank toward him.
Edna carefully unfolded the letter from Louis. "Pasadena, California,"
she said.
"Name?" continued the man.
"Mr. William Morrison."
"Well, what is the message?"
Edna looked doubtfully at him.
"Have you forgotten it?" he asked.
"No, but I--but I--"
"Well, then, out with it." The man was a trifle impatient.
"I think I had just better say Louis has runned away."
The man looked at her a moment, and a smile came over his face. "O,
you are sending it yourself, are you?" he said.
Edna nodded.
"Do you want to pay for it, or shall it paid at the other end?"
Here was another dilemma; but Edna concluded that since the contents
of her little purse might not cover the expense, it would best be paid
for at Pasadena. Then having asked her name, the man told her it was
all right, and she left with a sense of relief.
She was making her way home again as fast as possible, when suddenly
she stood still with terror, for coming up the street, directly toward
her, was a herd of Texas cattle on their way to the stock yards.
If there was anything that Edna feared, it was these creatures; their
wide-spreading horns seemed to menace her even a block away, and as
the foremost one was quite near, she turned in a perfect agony of fear
and went tumbling pell mell up the first high flight of steps which
she happened to see. It seemed to her that she would never be able to
get out of the way of those dreadful horns, and the rushing sound of
hoofs and the bellowings which were issuing from the creatures
appeared to surround her completely.
How she reached the top step she hardly knew, but, scrambling,
falling, in her haste she gained her place of safety, sprawling flat
on her face as she did so.