A chorus of ohs and ahs ascended as the guests filed into a dining room,
the decoration of which spelled Patriotism in large capitals. In honor
of the pretty soldier play to which she and Mary had so long clung,
Marjorie had decreed that the dinner should be a patriotic affair so far
as decorations went. The walls of the large, attractive room were
plentifully festooned with red, white and blue bunting. Flags were in
evidence everywhere. From the center of the large oak table a large doll
dressed as Uncle Sam held gallantly aloft the tri-colored ribbons that
extended to each place. On one side of him stood a smaller doll dressed
in the khaki uniform of the United States soldier. On the other, a
valiant Jackie stood guard. At each cover was a small soldier doll and
the place cards were tiny, folded, silk flags, each guest's name written
in one of the stripes of white uppermost.
Mary occupied the seat of honor at the head of the table, with Marjorie
at her right and Constance at her left. But at the departing
Lieutenant's place rose an amazing pile of tissue-paper wrapped,
beribboned bundles that smacked of Christmas.
"Company, attention," called Mrs. Dean from the foot of the table, the
instant the party had seated themselves. "Lieutenant Raymond, you are
ordered to inspect your wealth before mess."
"I--oh----" stammered the abashed Lieutenant, regarding said "wealth" in
stupefaction. "All those things are not really for _me_!"
"Open them and see," directed Marjorie, her face radiant with unselfish
happiness. "Every one of them holds an original poetic message. None of
us knows what the other wrote. You are to read them in a loud voice and
satisfy our curiosity. Now hurry up and begin."
Under a battery of smiling faces, Mary slowly undid a good-sized square
bundle. With slightly shaking fingers she drew forth a white box. When
opened it displayed several sizes of note paper and envelopes bearing
her monogram in silver. Picking up a card she steadied her voice and
read:
"You say, of course, 'I'll surely write,'
But when you've traveled out of sight,
This nice white box may then remind you
Of Jerry Macy, far behind you."
"I truly will write you, Jerry. Thank you." Mary beamed affectionately
on the stout girl. "It's a lovely present, and my own monogram, too."
"See that you do," nodded Jerry gruffly. She loved to give, but she did
not relish being thanked.
"Next," smilingly ordered Marjorie. "If you don't hurry and open them,
we shall all starve."
The next package disclosed a dainty little leather combination purse and
vanity case from Muriel Harding with the succinct advice:
"Don't lose your ticket or your money,
To be stone broke is far from funny.
When wicked cinders seek your eye,
Consult your mirror on the sly."
After Muriel had been thanked and her practical, poetic advice lauded,
Mary went on with her delightful investigation. An oblong bundle turned
out to be a box of nut chocolates from Susan, who offered:
"In time of homesick tribulation,
Turn to this toothsome consolation.
To eat it up will be amusin'----
Here's sweet farewell from giggling Susan."
"Giggling Susan's" effort brought forth a ripple of giggles from all
sides.
"That's my present," squealed Charlie, as Mary fingered a tiny package
ornamented with a huge red bow. "It's a----"
"Shh!" warned Constance, placing prompt fingers on the too-willing lips.
Mary cast the child a tender glance as she glimpsed a tiny leather
violin case, partially obscured by a card. In this instance it was Uncle
John Roland who had played poet, after receiving Charlie's somewhat
garbled instructions regarding the sentiment.
"Say it s'loud as you can," commanded the excited youngster.
Mary complied, reading in a purposely loud tone that must have been
intensely gratifying to the diminutive giver:
"Once when away from home I ranned
To play my fiddle in the band,
You comed and finded me, 'n then
I never ranned away again.
So now I'm always nice and good
An' do as Connie says I should,
And 'cause you're going to run away
You'd better write to me some day!
Inside the little fiddle box
There is a fountain pen that talks
On paper--it's for you from me,
The great musishun; your friend, C."
As Mary read the last line she slipped from her place to Charlie and
kissed the gleeful, upturned face. "You darling boy," she quavered.
"Mary won't forget to write."
"Mine's the best of all," observed Charlie with modest frankness, as he
enthusiastically returned the kiss.
Back in her place again, Mary finished the affectionate inspection of
the tokens her friends had taken so much pleasure in giving. There was a
book from Harriet, a folded metal drinking cup in a leather case from
Esther Lind, a hand-embroidered pin and needle case from Irma, a pair of
soft, dark-blue leather slippers from Constance, and a wonderful
Japanese silk kimono from Mrs. Dean. The remembrances had all been
selected as first aids to Mary during her long journey across the
country. With each one went a humorous verse, composed with more or less
effort on the part of the givers.
But one package now remained to be opened. Its diminutive size and shape
hinted that it might have come from the jeweler's. Mary knew it to be
Marjorie's farewell token to her. She would have liked to examine it in
private. She was almost sure that she was going to cry. She thrust back
the inclination, however, flashing a tender, wavering smile at her chum
as she untied the silver cord that bound the box. It bore the name of a
Sanford jeweler and when the lid was off revealed a round, gold
monogrammed locket, gleaming dully against its pale blue silk bed. In a
tiny circular groove of the box was a fine-grained gold chain.
Mary's changeful face registered many emotions as she took the locket in
her hands and stared at it in silence. Acting on a swift, overwhelming
impulse she sprang mutely from her chair and rushed out of the room.
Marjorie half rose from her place, then sat down again. "Lieutenant will
come back soon," she said fondly. "She hasn't really deserted from the
army, she's only taken a tiny leave of absence. I remember just how I
felt when some of the boys and girls of Franklin High gave me a surprise
party. That was the night this came to me." She patted the butterfly pin
that had figured so prominently in her freshman year at Sanford. "I
almost cried like a baby. I remember that the whole table blurred while
Mary was making a speech to me about my beautiful pin." Marjorie talked
on with the kindly object of centering the guests' attention on herself
until Mary should return.
Meanwhile, in the living room Mary Raymond was engaged in the double
task of trying to suppress her tears and open the locket at the same
time. Her eyes brimming, she worked at the refractory gold catch with
insistent fingers. Opened at last, she beheld Marjorie's lovely face
smiling out at her. On the inside of the upper half of the locket was
engraved, "Mary from Marjorie." Below was the beautiful Spanish phrase,
"_Para siempre_," literally translated, "for always," but meaning
"forever."
Within a brief space of time, following her flight, the runaway
reappeared, her eyelids slightly pink. "I hope you will all pardon me,"
she apologized prettily. "I--I--couldn't help it. You've been so sweet to
me. I can't ever thank you as you deserve to be thanked for giving me so
many lovely things; the very ones I shall need most when I'm traveling.
I am sure you must know how dear you all are to me; dearer even than my
Franklin High friends. I hope each one of you will write to me. I'll
truly try hard not only to be a good correspondent, but always to be
worthy of your friendship."
Mary's earnest words met ready responses of good fellowship from those
whom she had once scorned. Everything was so different now. The new Mary
Raymond was an entire opposite to the sullen-faced young person who had
once flouted all overtures of friendship on the part of Marjorie's
particular cronies. Beyond an eloquent hand clasp and, "My picture
locket is wonderful, Lieutenant. Thank you over and over," Mary had
reserved further expression of her appreciation until the two chums
should be entirely by themselves.
The delightful dinner ended with a general distribution of fancy cracker
bon-bons, which the guests snapped open with a will, to find cunning
caps representing the flags of various nations. They donned these with
alacrity and trooped into the living room for an evening of stunts in
which music played an important part. Constance lifted up her exquisite
voice untiringly, weaving her magic spell about her eager listeners.
Jerry sang a comic song, mostly off the key, merely to prove the
impossibility of her vocal powers. Charlie Stevens, who had trustfully
tugged his faithful fiddle along, insisted on rendering a solo of
anguishing shrieks and squawks, assuming the majestic mien of a
virtuoso. He took himself so seriously that no one dared laugh, although
the desire to do so was throttled with difficulty. Susan was prevailed
upon to perform a scarf dance, her one accomplishment, using a strip of
red, white and blue bunting with graceful effect. Harriet Delaney also
sang a ballad, and Esther Lind offered a beautiful Swedish folk song she
had learned from her father, who had sung it as a boy in far-off
Scandinavia. When the small repertoire of soloists had been exhausted,
everyone turned to with Constance at the piano, and made the living room
ring with school songs.
Just before the farewell party broke up the door bell rang. Its loud,
insistent peal brought a significant exchange of glances, in which Mary
alone did not share. Mrs. Dean hurried into the hall. A moment and she
returned to the living room, escorting Delia, whose broad, homely face
was wreathed in smiles. She advanced toward Mary, holding out a goodly
sheaf of letters. "Special delivery, Miss Mary," she announced. "May yez
have many of the same." She made a little bobbing bow as Mary took them,
bestowed a friendly grin on the company and waddled out.
"I don't understand." Mary seemed overcome by this fresh surprise. "Are
they all for me?"
"They're your railway comforts, Lieutenant," laughed Marjorie. "There's
a letter from each of us. You can read one a day. There are enough to
reach to Denver and a few thrown in to cure the blues after you get
there. So you see we won't let you forget us."
"It's the nicest reminder I could possibly have. I don't need a single
thing to make me remember you, though. You're all here in my heart to
stay as long as I live." Mary had never appeared more sweetly appealing
than she now looked, as her clear tones voiced her inner sentiments.
"You're a nice girl," approved Charlie Stevens. "If I ever grow to be's
tall's you, Mary Raymond, I'll be married to you and you can play in the
band, too. Uncle John'll buy you a fiddle."
This calm disposal of Mary's future drove sentiment to the winds.
Unconsciously, little Charlie had sounded a merry note just in time to
lift the pall which is always bound to hang over a company devoted to
the saying of farewells.
At eleven o'clock Mary and Marjorie accompanied their guests to the
gate, the latter avowing their intention to be at the station the
following morning to see Mary off on her journey. The two girls strolled
back to the house, under the stars, their arms entwined about each
other's waists.
"We had a beautiful evening, Lieutenant. How I wish General could have
been here. I hate to go away without saying good-bye to him," sighed
Mary.
"I'm sorry, too. I wish he could always be at home. He has to be away
from Sanford and home so much." Marjorie echoed Mary's sigh.
Brightening, she said: "I've another dear surprise for you, though. Come
up to my house and I'll give it to you. It's his farewell message. He
wanted you to have it the very last thing to-night."
"We are going upstairs, Captain," called Mary, as they passed through
the living room. "Want to come?"
"Later," returned Mrs. Dean. She was too good a commander to intrude
upon the last precious moments of confidence her little army still had
left to them.
Marjorie marched Mary to the pink and white window seat and playfully
ordered, "Sit down and fold your hands like a nice, obedient lieutenant.
Shut your eyes and don't open them until I say so."
Tripping gleefully to the chiffonier she opened the top drawer, bringing
forth a small package and a square white envelope. Tucking them into
Mary's folded hands she said, "First you may open your eyes; then you
must open your presents. I haven't the least idea what's in the package
or what the letter says. General mailed them to me from Boston."
Two pairs of eyes, bright with affectionate curiosity, bent themselves
eagerly on the little quaintly enameled box, which Mary hastily
unwrapped. "Oh!" was the concerted exclamation. On a white satin pad lay
an exquisitely dainty gold pin. It was in the form of a shield. Across
the top winked three small jewels set in a row, a ruby, a diamond and a
sapphire.
"'Three cheers for the red, white and blue,'" sang Marjorie, dropping
down beside Mary and hugging her enthusiastically. "Do read the letter,
Lieutenant. We'll rave about this cunning pin afterward. Oh, I forgot.
Perhaps General didn't mean me to know what he wrote."
"Of course he did," flung back Mary loyally. "We'll read it together."
Tearing open the envelope, she unfolded the letter and read aloud:
"Beloved Lieutenant:
"You are going away to a far country on a long hike, and, as it is
the duty of every good general to look to the welfare of his
soldiers, I am sending you the magic Shield of Valor to protect you
in time of need. It is a token of honor for a brave lieutenant who
fought a memorable battle and won the victory against heavy odds. It
is a magic shield, in that it offers protection only to the soldier
who has met and worsted the giant, Self. It was wrought from the
priceless metal of Golden Deeds and set with the eyes of Endurance,
Truth and Constancy. No enemy, however deadly, can prevail against
it. It is a talisman, the wearing of which must bring Honor and
Peace.
"Dear little comrade, may happiness visit you in your new barracks.
Let the bugle call 'On duty' find you marching head up, colors
flying, until 'Taps' sounds at the close of each busy day. Though
you have answered the call to a new post, your general hopes with
all his heart that you will some day hurry back to your regiment in
Sanford to receive the sword of captaincy and the enthusiastic
welcome of your brother officers. May all good go with you.
"Loyally,
"General Dean."
Mary's voice trailed away into a silence that outrivaled mere speech.
The two girls sat staring at the jeweled token before them as though
fearing to break the spell their general's message had evoked.
"Isn't it queer?" came from Mary, "I don't feel a bit like crying. When
all the nice things happened to me downstairs I wanted to cry. But this
letter and my wonderful Shield of Valor make me feel different; as
though I'd like to march out and conquer the world!"
Marjorie's red lips curved into a tender smile as she took the pin from
the box and fastened it in the folds of lace where Mary's gown fell away
at the throat. "That's because it is a true talisman," she reminded
softly. "We never knew when long ago we played being soldiers just for
fun that we were only getting ready to be soldiers in earnest."