If I were to tell you all the strange new sights that Jan and Marie
saw, and all the things they did in England, it would make this book so
big you could not hold it up to read it, so I must skip all about the
great house in the southern part of England where they next found
themselves. This house was the great country place of a very rich man,
and when the war broke out he had given it to be used as a shelter for
homeless Belgians. There were the most wonderful woods and parks on the
estate, and miles of beautiful drives. There were great gardens and
stables and hothouses; and the house was much bigger and finer than any
Jan and Marie had ever seen in all their lives. It seemed to them as if
they had suddenly been changed into a prince and princess by some fairy
wand. They were not alone in all this splendor; other lost little
Belgian children were there, and there were lost parents, too, and it
seemed such a pity that the lost parents and the lost children should
not be the very ones that belonged together, so that every one could be
happy once more. However, bad as it was, it was so much better than
anything they had known since the dreadful first night of the alarm
that Jan and Marie became almost happy again.
At night they and the other homeless children slept in little white
cots set all in a row in a great picture gallery. They were given new
clothes, for by this time even their best ones were quite worn out, and
every day they had plenty of good plain food to eat. Every day more
Belgians came, and still more, until not only the big house, but the
stable and outbuildings were all running-over full of homeless people.
One day, after they had been in this place for two or three weeks, Jan
and Marie were called into the room where sat the sweet-faced lady
whose home they were in. It was like an office, and there were several
other persons there with her.
The sweet-faced lady spoke to them. "Jan and Marie," she said, "how
would you like to go to live with a dear lady in America who would love
you, and take care of you, so you need never be lonely and sad again?"
"But our mother!" gasped Marie, bursting into tears. "We have not found
her!"
"You will not lose her any more by going to America," said the lady,
"for, you see, we shall know all about you here, and if your mother
comes, we shall be able to tell her just where to find you. Meanwhile
you will be safe and well cared for, far away from all the dreadful
things that are happening here."
"It is so far away!" sobbed Marie.
Jan said nothing; he was busy swallowing lumps in his own throat.
"You see, dears," the lady said gently, "you can be together there, for
this woman has no children of her own, and is willing to take both of
you. That does not often happen, and, besides, she is a Belgian; I know
you will find a good home with her."
"You're sure we could be together?" asked Jan.
"Yes," said the lady.
"Because," said Jan, "Mother said I must take care of Marie."
"And she said she'd find us again if she had to swim the sea," said
Marie, feeling of her locket and smiling through her tears.
"She won't have to swim," said the lady. "We will see to that! If she
comes here, she shall go for you in a fine big ship, and so that's all
settled." She kissed their woebegone little faces. "You are going to
start to-morrow," she said. "The good captain of the ship has promised
to take care of you, so you will not be afraid, and I know you will be
good children."
It seemed like a month to Jan and Marie, but it was really only seven
days later that they stood on the deck of the good ship Caspian, as it
steamed proudly into the wonderful harbor of New York. It was dusk, and
already the lights of the city sparkled like a sky full of stars
dropped down to earth. High above the other stars shone the great torch
of "Liberty enlightening the World." "Oh," gasped Marie, as she gazed,
"New York must be as big as heaven. Do you suppose that is an angel
holding a candle to light us in?"
Just then the captain came to find them, and a few minutes later they
walked with him down the gangplank, right into a pair of outstretched
arms. The arms belonged to Madame Dujardin, their new mother. "I should
have known them the moment I looked at them, even if they hadn't been
with the captain," she cried to her husband, who stood smiling by her
side. "Poor darlings, your troubles are all over now! Just as soon as
Captain Nichols says you may, you shall come with us, and oh, I have so
many things to show you in your new home!"
She drew them with her to a quieter part of the dock, while her husband
talked with the captain, and then, when they had bidden him good-bye,
they were bundled into a waiting motor car and whirled away through
miles of brilliantly lighted streets and over a wonderful bridge, and
on and on, until they came to green lawns, and houses set among trees
and shrubs, and it seemed to the children as if they must have reached
the very end of the world. At last the car stopped before a house
standing some distance back from the street in a large yard, and the
children followed their new friends through the bright doorway of their
house.
Madame Dujardin helped them take off their things in the pleasant
hallway, where an open fire was burning, and later, when they were
washed and ready, she led the way to a cheerful dining room, where
there was a pretty table set for four. There were flowers on the table,
and they had chicken for supper, and, after that, ice cream! Jan and
Marie had never tasted ice cream before in their whole lives! They
thought they should like America very much.
After supper their new mother took them upstairs and showed them two
little rooms with a bathroom between. One room was all pink and white
with a dear little white bed in it, and she said to Marie, "This is
your room, my dear." The other room was all in blue and white with
another dear little white bed in it, and she said to Jan, "This is your
room, my dear." And there were clean white night-gowns on the beds, and
little wrappers with gay flowered slippers, just waiting for Jan and
Marie to put them on.
"Oh, I believe it is heaven!" cried Marie, as she looked about the
pretty room. Then she touched Madame Dujardin's sleeve timidly. "Is it
all true?" she said. "Shan't we wake up and have to go somewhere else
pretty soon?"
"No, dear," said Madame Dujardin gently. "You are going to stay right
here now and be happy."
"It will be a very nice place for Mother to find us in," said Jan. "She
will come pretty soon now, I should think."
"I hope she may," said Madame Dujardin, tears twinkling in her eyes.
"I'm sure she will," said Marie. "You see everybody is looking for her.
There's Granny, and Mother and Father De Smet, and Joseph, and the
people in Rotterdam, and the people in England, too; and then, besides,
Mother is looking for herself, of course!"
"She said she would surely find us even if she had to swim the sea,"
added Jan.