IT was a tired and homesick little girl that Mr. Merrithew helped out of
the coach and led up the steps of his house, about a fortnight after our
story opens. The journey from Montreal had been long and lonely, the
parting from her parents hard, and the thought of meeting the unknown
relatives had weighed upon her mind and helped to make her unusually
subdued. But when the door of the Big Brick House (which had been named
by the neighbours when it was the only brick house on the street, and
the largest one in town) opened, and her aunt's motherly arms closed
around her, while Marjorie's rosy, laughing face and Jackie's fair,
cherubic one beamed on her in greeting, her spirits began to revive.
The greeting was so warm and kind, and the joy at her coming so genuine,
that her fatigue seemed turned, as by magic, to a pleasant restfulness,
and her homesickness was lost in this bright home atmosphere.
Mrs. Merrithew took the little newcomer to her room, had her trunks
settled conveniently, and then left her to prepare for the late tea
which was waiting for them all. When Dora was ready, she sat down in the
little armchair that stood near a table piled with books, and looked
about her contentedly.
There was an air of solid comfort and cosiness about this house that
rested her. This room--which her aunt had told her was just opposite
Marjorie's--was all furnished in the softest shades of brown and blue,
her favourite colours. The carpet was brown, with a very small spray of
blue here and there; the wallpaper was lighter, almost creamy, brown,
with a dainty harebell pattern, and the curtains had a rich brown
background with various Persian stripes, in which blue and cream and
gold predominated. The bed, to her great delight, had a top-piece, and a
canopy of blue-flowered chintz, and the little dressing-table was draped
to match it. Just over the side of the bed was a book-shelf, quite
empty, waiting for her favourite books. While she sat and looked about
in admiration, the door was pushed gently open, and a plump maltese
kitten came in, gazed at her doubtfully a moment, and then climbed on
her lap. Then Marjorie's bright face appeared at the door, and, "May I
come in?" she asked.
"Oh, please do," Dora cried. "Kitty has made friends with me already,
and I think that must be a good omen."
Marjorie laughed, as she patted the little bunch of blue-gray fur in
Dora's lap.
"_Jackie_ has made friends with you already," she said, "and I think
that is a better omen still. He told mother he thought you were 'the
beautifulest girl he ever saw.'"
Dora's eyes opened wide with astonishment. "It is the first time I ever
was called beautiful," she said, "let alone 'beautifulest.' What a dear
boy Jack must be."
Then they both laughed, and Marjorie, obeying one of her sudden
impulses, threw her arms around Dora's neck and gave her a cousinly hug.
"You and I will be friends, too," she said. "I knew it as soon as I
looked at you."
Dora's dark brown eyes looked gravely into Marjorie's blue ones. She
seemed to be taking the proposition very seriously.
"I have always wished for a real friend, or a twin sister," she said,
thoughtfully. "The twin sister is an impossibility, and I have never
before seen a girl that I wanted for a great, _great_ friend. But
you,--ah, yes! You are like my father, and besides, we are cousins, and
that makes us understand each other. Let us be friends."
She held out her hand with a little gesture which reminded Marjorie that
this pale, dark-haired cousin was the descendant of many French _grandes
dames_. She clasped the slender hand with her own plump fingers, and
shook it heartily. So, in girlish romance and sudden resolution, the
little maids sealed a compact which was never broken, and began a
friendship which lasted and grew in beauty and strength all through
their lives.
At the breakfast-table the next morning there was a merry discussion as
to what should be done first to amuse Dora. Jackie, who had invited her
to sit beside him and beamed at her approvingly over his porridge and
cream, suggested a walk to his favourite candy-store and the purchase of
some sticks of "pure chocolate." Marjorie proposed a picnic at Old
Government House. This was approved of, but postponed for a day or two
to allow for preparations and invitations. Mr. Merrithew said "Let us go
shooting bears," but even Jackie did not second this astounding
proposition. As usual, it was "mother" who offered the most feasible
plan.
"Suppose, this morning," she said, "you just help Dora unpack, and make
her thoroughly at home in the house and garden; then this afternoon
perhaps your father will take you for a walk, and show Dora the house
where Mrs. Ewing lived, and any other interesting places. That would do
for to-day, wouldn't it? Then, day after to-morrow we could have the
picnic; and for the next week I have a magnificent idea, but I want to
talk it over with your father," and she nodded and smiled at that
gentleman in a way which made him almost as curious as the children.
"That's the way with mother," Marjorie said to Dora after breakfast.
"She never ends things up. There is always another lovely plan just
ahead, no matter how many you know about already."
And Mr. Merrithew, who overheard the remark, thought that perhaps this
was part of the secret of his wife's unfailing youthfulness both in
looks and spirits.
The walk that afternoon was one which Dora always remembered. Mr.
Merrithew had, as Jackie said, "the splendidest way of splaining
things," and found something of interest to relate about almost every
street of the little city. They went through the beautiful cathedral,
and he told them how it had been built through the earnest efforts of
the well-known and venerated Bishop Medley, who was afterward
Metropolitan of Canada. Then they wandered down the street along the
river, and saw the double house where Mrs. Ewing (whose stories are
loved as much in the United States and in Canada as they are in
England) lived for a time, and where she wrote.
[Illustration: FREDERICTON]
She had called this house "Rika Dom," which means "River House," and had
written in many of her letters of the beautiful river on which it
looked, and the gnarled old willows on the bank just in front of her
windows. These willows she had often sketched, and Dora carried away a
spray of the pale gray-green leaves, in memory of her favourite
story-writer. It was one of Dora's ambitions, kept secret hitherto, but
now confided to Marjorie, to write stories "something like Mrs.
Ewing's."
They saw, too, the picturesque cottage in which a certain quaint old
lady had attained to the ripe age of a hundred and six years,--a record
of which Fredericton was justly proud. This venerable dame had been
addicted to the unlimited eating of apples, and her motto--she was not a
grammatical old lady!--had been (according to tradition), "Apples
never hurts nobody."
They spent some time in the Legislative Library, where was enshrined a
treasure in the shape of a magnificent copy of Audubon's Books of Birds.
Then in the Departmental Buildings, near by, there was a small but
well-arranged museum of stuffed birds and beasts, all Canadian, and most
of them from New Brunswick. There were other things, too, to see, and
many anecdotes to hear, so that it was a somewhat tired, though happy
and hungry party which trudged home just in time for tea.
And such a tea, suited to hearty outdoor appetites born of the good
Canadian air! There were fresh eggs, made into a white and golden
omelette by Mrs. Merrithew's own hands; for even Debby, who had cooked
for the family all their lives, owned that an omelette like Mrs.
Merrithew's she could not manage,--"No, _sir_, not if I was to cook day
and night." There was golden honey in the comb; there was johnny-cake,
hot and yellow and melting in your mouth; strawberry jam that tasted
almost as good as the fresh fruit itself; ginger-cake, dark and rich and
spicy; milk that was almost cream for the children, and steaming
fragrant coffee for their elders.
"It is rather nice to get _good and hungry_," Jackie gravely
observed,--"that is, if you have plenty in the house to eat. I think
life would be very dull without meals."
These philosophical remarks rather astonished Dora, who was not yet
accustomed to the contrast between Jack's sage reflections and his
tender years. Just now they seemed especially funny, because he was
almost falling asleep while he talked. When Mrs. Merrithew saw him
nodding, she rang, and the nurse--who, like Debby, was a family
institution--came in and carried him off in her stalwart arms, to his
little white bed. When his mother stole up a little later to give him a
final good-night kiss, she heard Susan singing and paused at the door to
listen. "Now the day is over" was ended, and then a drowsy voice
murmured:
"Now, Susan, my very favourite song!"
And then Susan sang, in her soft, crooning voice "The maple-leaf, the
maple-leaf, the maple-leaf for ever!"