SPRUCE BOUGHS AND LAUREL WREATHS
Mrs. Brownlie's immense parlors were stripped of all movable furniture in
preparation for the charity entertainment.
Strong linen crash covered the handsome carpets, and the camp stools to be
used on the evening of the performance had already arrived.
That afternoon the Fire Bird brought the evergreens from The Cedars--those
which had been gathered some few days before and had since been stored
carefully in the garage--and an additional supply came from Ferndale, the
result of an enterprising expedition to the woods, under the management of
Miss Agnes Sinclair.
Besides a necessary rehearsal, the evening was to be spent in decorating
for the play. Mrs. White had requested every one to be on hand early, and
now the young folks were arriving.
Little Mary Mahon was the first to come--in accordance with Dorothy's
arrangements, for Mary was to rehearse her part before the others would
get there, and just what her number would be was to be kept secret.
The Brownlie girls, Eva and Edith, understood the remark Dorothy made as
she entered, and so left the parlors entirely at her disposal, even
locking the door from the hall and throwing open the library to
accommodate any one who might come before Mary's "practice" was over.
A recitation had been selected for Mary--one that afforded ample
opportunity for the child's natural talent to act--for she had talent, and
both Mrs. White and Dorothy were delighted with the prospect of what the
queer child would add to the program.
There was something so weird about Mary--if that word might be fitly used
to denote her peculiar characteristics.
She was not deformed, but she surely was deficient physically. She was
thin to emaciation, she had fiery red hair, and Roger always declared "her
eyes and eyebrows were just as red as her hair."
The recitation chosen for her was "Guilty or Not Guilty?" and it seemed to
suit her strangely. Of course, when a child is almost constantly in the
company of aged persons, and takes no pleasure in play, besides being
over-studious, she is bound to be "queer."
And such was Mary Mahon.
When Dorothy threw open the parlor door after the rehearsal her face was
radiant. She was pleased--delighted with Mary, and the girls waiting to be
admitted to the "hall" exchanged knowing glances when Dorothy told them
the room was ready.
Tom and Roland were there, Agnes Sinclair, Mabel Hastings, Ned, and Nat,
of course; Tavia was with Eva Brownlie, chatting as if there was nothing
else to be done that evening; Betty Bindley managed to get her dainty
little self secure with Harold Osborne (Handsome Harold, they called him),
and other members of the auxiliary and their friends were there ready to
begin the work of rehearsing and decorating.
Besides the pictures there was to be music--the Brownlie girls played the
violin beautifully, and Dorothy was an acknowledged pianist; then Agnes
Sinclair was to entertain with monologues, and the boys were to have a
vocal double quartette.
The arranging of this program involved considerable work, so to-night
there was no time to be wasted.
"Let's get the wreaths first," proposed Dorothy. "We shall need such long
strings to go all around the room. While some of us are at these, others
can be going through their parts."
Tom grabbed a huge mass of broken laurel branches, made his way to a
corner, placed two chairs before the pile of greens and deliberately
sought out Dorothy.
"Come," he said very kindly, "I've got a quiet job for you. You usually
get too much of the all-around business. Let us run a race making the
wreath, or strings, I suppose you want. Here, Ned," he called across the
room, "get your stuff and your girl, and I'll race you for a mile of green
string."
Could anything be more inopportune? To select Dorothy to be his partner
against Ned in a race!
But the idea of a contest was quickly taken up by the others, so that soon
the party had paired off, and racing with the strings of laurel became a
matter of enjoyment, and not a question of work.
Dorothy took her place with Tom; Agnes Sinclair was with Ned; Nat went to
work with Eva Brownlie, and Tavia sat beside Roland.
How quickly the fingers flew! And how soon the small sprigs of green were
twined into long, soft garlands!
"I'll keep tally," proffered Edith Brownlie, glad to escape the more
certain duty of tying the cords about the boughs.
For an hour all worked and chatted gaily, the boys continually "betting
against bets," while the girls would complain that too much conversation
interfered with the progress of the race.
When the full hour had passed Edith called "Time!" Then the measuring
began.
"No stretching!" warned Ned as he held his rope of green against that
which Tom and Dorothy had woven.
"Ours!" called Tom, as the one string pulled out two yards longer than the
other.
Then every other strand was measured against that. Not one came up to the
garland made by Dorothy and Tom.
"Oh, of course," pouted Eva, "Dorothy and Tom could not possibly have been
beaten. They're such a strong team!"
The others laughed, although Dorothy did not like the remark.
Ned lifted his eyebrows thoughtfully, but never once smiled at Dorothy's
triumph.
"Tavia has the 'Booby,'" announced Tom, who had done all the measuring,
"Now distribute the prizes, please."
Tavia protested, of course, and soon the room was in an uproar. Finally
the ladies insisted the wreaths should be put up, and when the chairs and
stepladders had been brought the boys began festooning the long strings of
green about the room, over windows and doors, and about the finely-fluted
posts that marked the arches.
Dorothy purposely took Ned's rope to hold for him.
"Won't it look pretty?" she asked, trying to show her interest in his
work.
"Guess so," he answered indifferently, without looking at his cousin.
"Here, Dorothy," called Tom. "You are not to work. This sofa is especially
provided for our comfort. Here, sit down," and taking her arm, he
attempted to lead her away from the ladder upon which Ned stood.
"Let me have it," said Ned, jerking the rope from Dorothy's grasp.
Instinctively she held to it, and looked up in some astonishment at her
cousin.
A moment later Ned swayed toward her. She had released her hold of the
rope, and the sudden easing of the strain which the youth put upon it
caused him to lose his balance. He swayed still farther away from the
ladder, and thrust out his hands to grasp the rungs. He dropped the rope,
and as Dorothy gave a frightened scream he crashed to the floor, right at
her feet, narrowly missing striking her.
She had barely time to jump aside when the ladder crashed down beside the
prostrate form of Ned.
Instantly the room was in an uproar. Ned was hurt--he did not attempt to
move, but lay there almost unconscious.
"Oh, my boy!" cried Mrs. White, bending over him.
"Ned! Ned!" implored the frightened Dorothy, with her white face very
close to his. "It was all my fault!"
"No," spoke up Tom, "I should not have distracted him while he was up so
high. Come, boy," to Ned, "let me lift you."
The strong arms of Tom Scott encircled the helpless one, and very tenderly
Ned was lifted, then carried to a lounge in the library.
"Oh, I'm all right," he managed to say, when Tom had placed him on the
couch. "I just hurt my--knee, I guess."
The expression of pain that crossed his face showed plainly some member
was injured, and Mrs. Brownlie, in spite of his protests, insisted on
calling a doctor.
[Illustration: "HE CRASHED TO THE FLOOR, RIGHT AT HER FEET."--_Page_
158.]
Dorothy wanted to cry. She felt it was somehow her fault. If only Tom had
not interfered! But of course he meant no harm. Yet she knew how Ned felt.
"Oh, dear," she sighed aloud, "I did feel that something would happen!"
"I'm sorry," said Ned feebly. "I was a--goose to snap it so, Doro."
Tom had gone out to the telephone in the hall. Mrs. White and Mrs.
Brownlie advised the others to leave off the decorating until the next
day, as it would be best to get the house quiet.
"Every shock has a nervous reaction," explained Mrs. Brownlie in
dismissing her guests thus suddenly, "and it will be best to keep him
quiet until the doctor comes."
Tavia wanted to stay, but not even Dorothy was accorded that privilege.
Tom remained with Mrs. White, and Nat went for the Fire Bird, in which to
take his brother and mother home, there being no room for the others in it
now.
"How ever did it happen?" Tavia asked of Dorothy as they walked the short
distance home in Roland's company.
"I had hold of his rope," replied Dorothy, still showing her distress,
"and he attempted to take it--"
"He acted so queerly all evening," commented Tavia. "I never saw him so
cross."
"I did not notice it," said Roland, touching the bell at the door of The
Cedars. "I thought him in the best of spirits."
"Of course, it was simply an accident," added Dorothy. "How he felt could
have had nothing to do with it."
"Well, everything seems queer," declared Tavia. "I just wonder how it will
all turn out."
"That must depend entirely upon ourselves," insisted the practical
Dorothy. "But we will have trouble in getting some one to take Ned's
place-- Oh, dear, if I had only--but there's no use lamenting." And when
Roland said good-night at the door Dorothy went directly to her own
room--she was too much depressed to join the family's expression of
anxieties.
The queer holidays were surely nearing a climax.