"With me you come, Anton. Close to me you keep and lead me to the last spot where you left my child. If we find her not—"

He did not need to finish his sentence with a threat, nor did he wait for the horse which Merimee made haste to catch and saddle. On foot he started, Anton held by an iron grasp, and they two were out of sight before the others had quite realized that they were even moving.

Old Merimee took charge without question; organizing his little company into bands of two and directing each pair to take a separate route through the woods, but all verging toward the east and the distant farmhouse. He arranged that all, carrying guns, should agree upon certain signals; one shot meant distress, two reports called for reinforcement by the nearest searchers; and three—or a succession of more—good news, that the work had happily ended and the word was: "Back to the camp!"

The old college president took Montmorency as his aide, with the clannish instinct of two New Englanders for one another's company. Indeed, this odd pair had been almost constant companions since they entered the woods, and the lad had found the alert old man the "jolliest 'boy' he had ever chummed with."

The surgeon called Melvin to share his own search and the merchant strode sturdily forward in the wake of Merimee, the guide; who delayed but long enough to cover the fire and to sling over his shoulder a hunting-horn. He had often used this for four-footed game, and might now as a call to the Judge's lost daughter. Seeing Merimee do this sent Melvin also back to his tent, yet only for a moment. Then he ran after his partner and disappeared in the gloom of the forest.

* * * * *

Back at Farmer Grimm's, when Molly rode out of the grounds, there had been none to see her go except one of the maids, drooping with sick-headache against the back porch. Even she had scarcely realized the fact, so absorbed was she by her own physical misery. There her mistress found her and promptly despatched her to her room and bed, until she should recover, and it was not till some hours later that she descended to find the house in a turmoil of search and anxiety. At dinner-time, Mrs. Hungerford had bidden Dorothy to call Molly; adding a warning word:

"Tell her, Dolly dear, that she must come at once. Too often she lingers and keeps Mrs. Grimm waiting. That isn't right because this household is managed as systematically as your own Academy in school time. Be sure and tell her."

"Yes, Auntie Lu, when I find her," answered Dorothy, speeding out of doors, while the lady looked after her with more than ordinary interest; thinking: "What a dear, bonny creature that child is! And I am so glad, I hope so much for her now. I'm sure Schuyler will bid me go ahead and write, or will send a note to be forwarded. I can hardly wait for the outcome of the matter, but Dorothy must know nothing—nothing—until just the right moment. Then for the climax, and God grant it be a happy one!"

She sat down on the broad sill by the open window to wait for the girls, lost in her own happy thoughts, until Miss Greatorex came and asked:

"Did you know that dinner had been served some moments and is fast getting cold? It's mutton to-day, and Mrs. Grimm is fretting that 'mutton must be eaten hot to be good.'"

"So late? I was musing over something—didn't notice. Have the girls come in without my seeing them?"

"Neither of them."

"That's odd. By the way, when did you see Molly?"

"A few moments after breakfast, I think. I've been writing all morning at that further window and have scarcely looked out. Why?"

"She hasn't been in and dearly as she loves riding I never knew her to keep on with it so long, unless she was off with the farmer. I sent Dolly to call her and now she delays, too."

"Very well, I will find Dorothy!" said Miss Isobel, with an air of authority. She considered Mrs. Hungerford quite too indulgent to her niece and was all the more strict with her own especial charge for that reason. She now left the room with a firm step and was still wearing an air of discipline when she came upon Dorothy emerging from the stables. The child looked perplexed and a trifle frightened. She didn't wait for her governess to upbraid her but began at once:

"Oh, dear Miss Isobel! I can't find her anywhere! Nobody has seen her and Queenie isn't in her stall. I've been to my corncrib, the garden, the long orchard all through, and yet she isn't. Ah! There's Mr. Grimm! He's finished his dinner already and is going back to the hay-fields. Please excuse me, I'll run ask him if he's seen her."

"Best not delay longer yourself, Dorothy—" called Miss Greatorex, but for once her charge did not pause at this tone of reproof; and a first, faint feeling of alarm rose in her own breast.

"Molly, lassie? No, indeed! I haven't seen her to-day. I was off to work before she came down stairs, but I've been wishing for her and you, too, the livelong day. The wild-roses that you love are blooming wonderful. All my far-away meadows are hedged with them as perfect as if they'd been set out a-purpose. Miles of them, I fancy, are on this old farm; but little golden-haired Molly's the sweetest wild-rose I've seen this summer. For you're no wild rose, lassie. You're one of those 'cinnamons,' home-keepers, close by the old house and that the Missus claims are the prettiest in all the world. So there's a compliment for the pair of you! Wait till I whistle! Mistress Molly knows that it means: 'Come! I'm waiting for your company!' 'Twill fetch her, sure, if she's within the sound of it."

So he put his hands to his lips and whistled as only he could do, a long, musical note of call that reached far and wide and that the missing girl had often likened to the sound of Melvin's bugle.



But there came no answer of Queenie's footfalls over the gravel nor their soft thud-thud upon the grass, and the farmer felt he could delay no longer. Yet, could he go? While his little "comrade" was missing? Silly, to feel a moment's alarm at such a trivial thing. A thoughtless lassie, sure she was, this little maid of the far-away southland; but oh! so "winsie." No. Let the hay wait. He'd tarry a bit longer and be on hand to scold Fair-Hair when she came galloping back with a string of merry excuses tumbling off her nimble tongue, her ready "I forgots" or "I didn't thinks"—the teasing, adorable witch that she was!

"Fetch me my pipe and my paper, Dorothy, girl. I'll wait under this apple tree till she comes. But do you all get your dinners and not so many go hungry because one wild child loiters. A whisper! The missus is getting a trifle crisp, in the kitchen yon. She's missing the nap that is due her as soon as her people are fed. Best make haste. It's pleasanter for all on the Farm when Missus is left to go her gait regular, without hindrance from any. Go, little maid, and a blessing on you."

So she ran and brought him his pipe and his paper, received a kiss for her pains, and left him on the bench under the apple-tree, idle because little Molly was idle—no better reason than that—though this was his busiest time and he a most busy man.

But Mrs. Hungerford could not eat, even though courtesy compelled her to table and to taste the good fare provided. Her want of appetite banished Miss Isobel's, and though Dorothy was healthily hungry, as why shouldn't she be? even she sent away her plate untouched, and was the first of the trio to put into words the dreadful fear that was in all their hearts:

"I can't, I can't eat! Something has happened to Molly! Something terrible has come to our Molly!"

That ended waiting. After that the farmer promptly summoned his men, the mistress her maids, and a thorough search of all the premises began. Over the old-fashioned well with its long sweep poor Aunt Lu hovered like a creature distraught.

That well had held a fascination for the novelty-loving Molly, in this case its age being the to her new thing. She had tried her own strength in lifting the great beam and lowering the bucket from its pole; and, perhaps, she had done so now and had fallen over the curb into the depths below!

In vain did the others tell her how almost impossible this would have been; she could not be dissuaded, and most earnestly begged the farmer to have someone search the well.

"No, no, dear madam. Not till we've tried other more likely spots first. The last time Molly was seen was on Queenie's back. Well, then we have only to find the sorrel and we'll find the child. Take comfort. That up-and-a-coming little lass isn't down anybody's well. Not she."

There were many barns and outbuildings on that big farm; some new and modern, some old and disused. Not one was left unsearched. All work stopped. Haymakers and ploughmen left their fields to add their willing feet and keen eyes to the business, and up-garret, down cellar, through dairies, pantries, unused chambers, everywhere within doors the troubled housemistress led her own corps of searchers, and always without result. This had been a foregone conclusion yet she left nothing undone that might lead to the discovery of the missing girl; while the longer they sought the deeper the conviction grew in all those anxious hearts: "Molly is lost."

It was the maid with the headache who furnished the first clue. Coming below after her hours of rest, she found the kitchen deserted, and all labor at a standstill. Hearing voices without she questioned the first she met and was told in faltering tones:

"The bonny little maid is—lost!"

"Lost? Where, then, is Anton?"

"Gone with a parcel to the far-away camp. The mistress sent him for Mrs. Hungerford."

"Well, but, the maid was with him. That is she sought to be. I heard her call after him as he rode away and I thought her cries would split my aching head. He was galloping out of the far gate and she a-chase. They need not seek her hereabouts."

Said the mistress, in vast relief:

"I might have known. I might have guessed. He a mischievous tease, she a wild, impulsive child." Then she hurried to poor Auntie Lu, sitting disconsolate beside the well with Dorothy clasping her hand in her own small ones, trying to comfort as best she could, and exclaimed: "Fear no more! We should have thought at once the prank that madcap would be at! She saw Anton ride away to the camp and she has followed him. The maid who was ill remembers. She is safe with her father long before this. Come in by, now, come in and have a cup of tea. A cup of tea will set you up again like anything."

Aunt Lu was greatly cheered but it took more than the other's panacea of a "cup of tea" to banish all anxiety; yet in the hope that had been raised she passed the remainder of that dreadful day as calmly as she could and without burdening others with the fear which still lingered in her heart.

Upon his wife's report the farmer left off prying into all the home places and saddled his fleetest horse. He sent all the men back to the fields to house the abandoned hay machines and rusting ploughs, and to attend the many duties of so great a farm. But he took one man with him and a "snack" of supper in their pockets. It would be a long ride there and back and a detour might be necessary. Wherever he found sign of the child's wandering, should she by chance have lost the trail of Anton, whom she followed, he would keep to the signs and not the shortest route. Many a place there was, of course, where even the surest-footed horse could not travel, and only a foot passage be made with difficulty.

But he rode round to Auntie Lu, now coaxed within doors to an open window, and cheerily bade her:

"Keep stout heart, my woman dear. When you see my grizzled face again you shall see your Molly's bonny one beside it. I'm a Grimm. I mean it."

Then he bared his gray head, settled himself firmly in his saddle, called to his man: "Come on!" and rode as gallantly to the rescue as if his seventy winters had been no more than seventeen.

All this time where was Molly?

When she found that Anton had disappeared from that open spot in the forest she was at first terrified then comforted.

"Why, I reckon this must be mighty near that camp, after all. It's 'most clear of the little trees and bushes, like some of the farm-groves that anybody can play in and not be scared or—or get their dresses torn. Queenie, you and I can rest a few minutes. Somehow I'm dreadful tired. I rode such a lot all morning and now away out here after that Anton. He's mean. He surely is dreadful ornery. When I see him again I'll just hold my head mighty high and take no notice. Indians aren't much better than negroes, I reckon. Anyhow he isn't half so nice. Catch one of our black 'boys' treating 'little missy' so! You hungry, too, Queenie? Well, you're luckier than I for you can get your dinner off the ground. Go ahead and nibble it. I'll wait for you;" she said, talking to the sorrel as if she were human and could understand, and slipping from her saddle to the ground.

After a moment's contemplation of the lovely place, where a little stream ran trickling and babbling over stones, and where the ferns were high as her head, looking to her like miniature trees themselves, she began to feel almost contented. Open places between the pines let the sunlight through and, where it fell, the wild roses which creep everywhere over that fair land had forced themselves into a home and bloomed away most bravely. Then she espied a scarlet patch of color underneath and found that they were the wild strawberries she loved so well. She cried, scrambling after these:

"Ah! Queenie! You're not the only one can get something to eat away out here in the woods. I suppose that's the kind of stream Papa fishes for trout. If I had a line and a hook and—and whatever I needed I could fish, too. But I wouldn't. I never would like to kill anything, though a trout that somebody else had killed would make a mighty nice dinner right now."

The berries were plenty, and "enough" of anything is "as good as a feast." At least they satisfied her immediate hunger as the water from the brook, caught in a little cup made of a big leaf, satisfied her thirst. Queenie slaked her own thirst at the same pool and was so quiet and content that she greatly helped to cheer her small companion.

Finally Molly remembered a maxim she had once taught Dorothy:

"When you're lost, stay right still in that spot till somebody comes and finds you." Not always the safest judgment, it may be, but consoling then to this small girl.

Then she continued to converse with the sorrel mare; assuring that calm creature:

"That boy went away out of here, some place, and to go home again he'll have to come away back. That's plain enough. Now, you and I are real safe, Queenie, really perfectly safe; if some them mooses or caribous, or deers, or—or things—Let's not think about them, Queenie. Let's just wait. Let's—let's take a nap if we can, to make the time pass till—till Anton comes."

She wished she hadn't happened to think of any "wild beasts" just then and she was astonished to see Queenie take her advice so literally; for down upon that mossy ground dropped the sorrel, did its utmost to work the saddle off its back, and, failing in this, stretched itself on its side and did go to sleep.

Then for a time Molly busied herself in gathering flowers, wherever she caught sight of one, and, thrusting them into her blouse, told Queenie that "these are for that terrible flowery girl, Dorothy C. Oh! I wonder what she is doing now! If she isn't scraping away on that old fiddle I'll bet she's missing me. 'Tisn't polite for girls to 'bet,' Auntie Lu says. Oh! I wish I could see her now. Funny I should be so lonesome, right in the daylight with Queenie here. If I don't look out I'll be crying; for I'm getting that awful scared way I was when Anton first went. I'll lie down too on that pile of ferns and go to sleep—if I can. I hope there aren't any wigglers of any sort to get into my ears. I'll put my handkerchief over them and my face on that. Let's play pretend it's bedtime, Queenie. Good night."

There was no response from the weary old horse who had jogged about nearly all that day and Molly waited for none. A merciful drowsiness stole upon her and when she woke again the night was really there. Through the scattered tree-tops she could see the stars shining; close at her feet was the same gentle purring of the little stream, and overhead the soft rustle of pine needles moving lightly in the breeze. But what had wakened her? Something had, she knew. Some sound other than that of the brook or the pines. Queenie too, had heard. She had got to her feet and was listening, was whinnying, as in no fear of whatever thing it was. Molly could dimly see the old horse against the background of gloom but her presence was vast comfort.

Hark! HARK!!

Molly was on her feet now, wider awake than in all her life before, hands clasped to her breast, head bent forward, listening—listening—listening.

"Toot! Toot! Tooty-ti-tooty-ti-toot!"

"A bugle! A bugle! The 'Assembly!' First call to meals! Melvin's coming! Melvin—MELVIN!"

Nearer and nearer it came. It was at hand. On the other side the murmuring stream. On this side. In her very ears; and screaming "Melvin!" with all the agony of fear that she had pent within her brave heart, Molly fell sobbing in the "Bashful Bugler's" arms.

A few minutes later she was in her father's; and not long thereafter sat upon his knee before the camp-fire with her head upon his breast and he clasping her close, close in an embrace that held within it almost an agony of joy, so fierce it was.



CHAPTER XV

MRS. CALVERT PLANS AN INFAIR

Instead of being scolded for her escapade Molly found herself a sort of heroine. Nothing could exceed the tenderness of her thankful father, nor the interest of all the campers. The signal shots had brought them all back to the camp, and there the two lads went immediately to work to cook for the girl the most wonderful of suppers. Monty had caught some of Melvin's deftness at the task and was most ambitious to show Molly his newly acquired skill. Also, at the first opportunity, when the Judge had for a moment released his darling's hand to rise and greet Farmer Grimm coming through the woods, the boy proudly pulled from his pocket a few small coins and displayed them upon his palm.

"See them, Miss Molly? Hmm. Those are mine. My own. I—earned—them—myself!"

He paused so long to let this amazing statement sink into her mind that Melvin called:

"Come on, Mont! No loafing! Fetch another bit of wood and get on your hurry-up step! Merimee covered this fire so snug he nigh put it out, but wise enough, too. A fire in the forest isn't a laughing matter. Look out! Don't poke it, you clumsy, else you'll tip over that coffee-pot. First time we've had a lady to visit us don't want to act the blunder-head, do you?"

"Oh! hush, Bugle! No call to bulldoze a fellow just because you happened to be first on the spot! What made you think of carrying that thing, anyway?"

Molly herself drew near to hear the answer. She was wondering at the fact of their jolly comradeship, which was now so evident; and at Monty's pride over a little money—he who had cared so little for it once. She was wondering at many things, and when Melvin did not at once reply she repeated Monty's question.

"Melvin, how did you happen to take the bugle?"

"Why—why—I don't know, but I fancy my mother would say that Providence put it into my mind. My mother believes that Providence has a Hand in everything, don't you know? Anyhow, I'm glad I did take it. Without it and you hearing it we might have wandered right past that very place—one spot looks so much like another in the woods at night."

"Melvin, would you sell me that bugle? It was that saved my life, maybe, if the animals I thought about had come or if—Would you?" asked Molly, softly, and with a pathetic clasping of her hands, which trembled again now, as she recalled past perils.

"No, Molly, I won't sell it to you. I'll give it to you, if you'll take it that way, and only wish it were a better one. It's the cheapest made. It had to be, don't you know?"

For a moment the girl hesitated. She did not like to rob the lad of his only musical enjoyment and she felt that he could not afford the gift. Then she remembered that there were other bugles in the world and that she had but to suggest to her father a sort of exchange for the better, and so satisfy both herself and Melvin. So she said simply:

"I shall prize it as the greatest treasure in the world, and I thank you, I—I can't say much—I can't talk when I feel most—but don't you know how I feel? About my teasing you whenever I had the chance and—and lots of things? I'll take the bugle if—if 'you'll call the slate washed clean,' as Dolly says, and we can begin all over again?" She held out her hand, entreatingly, and the shy lad took it for a moment, then dropped it as if its touch had burned. A sudden wave of his old bashfulness had swept over him, for though he had gained much self-confidence during those weeks in camp it would be a long time before he conquered the timidity of his nature, if he ever did.

Then she asked Monty how he had earned money in such a place as that and he answered proudly:

"Made myself generally useful. The Prex hired me to wait on him and keep his traps in order sometimes—when the other old 'Boys' would let him be 'coddled.' Every man for himself, you know, out here. But the Prex is odd. He wants his boots blacked, or shoes, that he puts on after he takes off his hunting ones and I've 'shined' 'em for him like any street bootblack that ever did my own. Fact! Fancy what my mother would say! Master Montmorency Vavasour-Stark blacking shoes in order to get a bit of pocket-money! But I tell you what, Molly Breckenridge, I like it. I'm going to have one of these dimes made into a watch-charm and wear it always, just to remind me how fine I felt over the first, the very first, cent I ever honestly earned. And it's taught me one thing. I'll quit idling. I shall never be a scholar like long-legged Jim, but I'll do things, I mean it. I'll find out what I can do best, and I think I can guess that, and then I'm going ahead to do it. I'm going to ask Papa to stop giving me money. I'm going to shock my mother by going to work. But—that Prex is a wise old chap. He's taught hundreds, likely thousands, of boys to make decent men and he's trying to teach me. He says—"

"O, Monty! Quit! I've broiled that salmon steak to the Queen's taste and the coffee's settled as clear as that spring water and—Supper's ready, Miss Molly Breckenridge. Will your ladyship partake?" demanded Melvin, interrupting.

Such a supper that was! Odd, that all the campers who had fared so heartily just a little while before should suddenly be "taken hungry" again and beg an invitation too. Even Farmer Grimm and his man waited to feast with the others before riding home to carry the good news; then departed, with the forgiven but shame-faced Anton riding between them and with the precious packet of letters transferred from his pocket to his master's for safe-keeping.

Molly stayed the night to rest; lying snug in her father's tent while he sat long awake thinking of many things; but mostly thankful for the safety of the little maid whose love and life meant all the world to him. The dear, repentant child; who had not gone to sleep till, all alone with him in the seclusion of his tent, she had clasped her arms about his neck and begged his pardon for all her thoughtlessness.

"It was terrible there in the dark woods when I woke and found I was lost, alone; but that wasn't half so terrible, it didn't make me feel half so bad in here," laying her hand upon her heart, "as it does knowing how unhappy I've made everybody and how much trouble given. Seems if I never would be heedless and forget again, Papa dearest, seems if! But I'm just only Molly—and I haven't much faith in your Molly, Judge Breckenridge!"

What could he do but kiss her quivering lips and smile at the whimsical way in which she expressed her contriteness? And, after all, would he have had her greatly different from what she was by nature, just his great-hearted, impulsive, precious Molly?

Next morning she rode home in great state. With Guide Merimee heading the little cavalcade and with masters Melvin and Monty on either side when that was practical for the crowding of the trees, and as van or rear guard it was not. Because the road was straight enough to one who knew it, as did the half-breed hunter, and that happy company followed him with no thought of care. Monty was laden with wild-flowers of every sort for Dorothy; Melvin had store of forsaken birds' nests, lichens, and curious bits of stone or bark for Miss Greatorex to add to her "collection," which Mrs. Hungerford assured her would cost more than it was worth to pass the revenue officers. "No matter if it does!" cried the happy teacher, "since it will be such an addition to Miss Rhinelander's museum."

The guide brought fish, freshly caught that morning before daybreak, and enough of game to feast even that farm crowd of "hands;" and having tarried long enough to deliver the packet to Mrs. Hungerford, to assure her that her brother was well and more than happy now; that he and the other "Boys" intended to lengthen their vacation by a few weeks, in fact to "stay just as long as they could;" to add that by no means must Molly ride "off grounds" again, alone, and that Anton was not to be punished for his "prank;" and to partake of Mrs. Grimm's most excellent food and drink. Then he called the lads, now almost reluctant to leave the pleasant place of peace and plenty, and rode away again, they following and looking back again and again, to wave farewell.

"I never saw so great an improvement in two boys as in those!" said Auntie Lu, standing to watch them disappear toward the forest, with Molly fast in her arms and Dorothy beside her; then laughed at the rather awkward manner in which she had expressed herself, as she saw Miss Greatorex regarding her. But for once that estimable person was not critical of others' speech or grammar; and murmured with an air of great content:

"So many more weeks of rest and time to write up my travels."

Mrs. Hungerford sighed, but conquered the slight loneliness that now oppressed her and set to work herself upon a vigorous correspondence and the carrying forward of a matter her brother had outlined for her. Sometimes in writing these letters she asked Dorothy to sit beside her and would frequently look at the girl as if she were studying her features or her manner. At such time Dolly felt a little awkward and perplexed, yet always, in some indefinable manner, as if this scrutiny were for her own good. Then Auntie Lu would laugh and call the girl her "Inspiration," and write the faster.

Those last weeks on the old Farm were very quiet, uneventful, yet most happy ones; and the two girls passed much of the time in the cool, shadowy library, among the fine literature therein collected. For Molly had no further desire at present for "larks" and began, instead, to find out how much happiness one may find between the covers of a book. Dorothy introduced her to Dickens, and thereafter the merry maid needed no urging to: "Do sit down and read and let me do so!"

* * * * *

One morning in that late summer time, Mrs. Betty Calvert was sitting on a hotel veranda at the Springs. She was looking very handsome and queenly, in her white gown, her piled-up, snow-white hair, and her "air of one who belonged" to an old "aristocracy." A little table was beside her, heaped with her morning's mail; for here, even as in her old home at Bellvieu, she surrounded herself with more such reading matter than she could use. But the letters were duly read and re-read, some of them; and at last she dropped one to her lap, and remarked to a gentleman near her:

"Cousin Seth, Lucretia Breckenridge always was a fool!"

"Hard judgment, Cousin Betty. I should have given quite the contrary. I always thought her a very sweet, sensible, lovable woman."

"Hmm. You see a deal of 'sweetness' in this silly old world. But look here. What sensible woman would write a letter of twenty pages when one would do? All to convince me of something I already knew."

"Don't expect me to answer that. Go on and tell me what's 'meat' in so much 'cocoanut.'"

"She believes—and she takes pages to justify her belief—that she has traced the parentage of one Dorothy, a foundling! Indeed! Why, Seth, those people up in that unhappy Nova Scotia—unhappy to be afflicted with two such foolish visitors—they think themselves detectives fit to rank with the world's greatest. I thought Schuyler had some sense if Lucretia hadn't. If they weren't already there I'd bid them both 'go to Halifax' as I used to be bidden when I was a naughty little girl and plagued my nurse. She makes a great ado about Dorothy's 'unhappiness.' I can't believe that. I never, never saw a happier child in all my life. The idea! Lucretia is just as simple as she was always. She's set out to find who Dorothy's parents are or were and she thinks she's found. The idea! The impertinent minx!"

The "Learned Blacksmith" did not reply, but calmly perused his own paper. He was a blacksmith transformed, and he seemed to fit into this environment as readily and completely as he had fitted the simple life of the old smithy under the Great Balm tree. He had recovered his health but was sojourning for a little time in this old resort of his youth, meeting those who were lads and maidens then but now as venerable as himself. Few among them were as alert, as vigorous and as young of heart as Cousin Betty and himself; and they two had, as a younger guest remarked: "Been having the time of their lives. Why, that black-eyed old lady has more attention this day than any of us girls; and as for wit and repartee, there isn't her equal this year at our Springs."

After a few moments of this silence, during which Mrs. Calvert tapped her white slipper impatiently, she interrupted her companion's reading by an exclamation:

"Seth Winters, do put up that tiresome paper and listen. I don't believe you've comprehended a single sentence you've looked at. I know. Your eyes had that hungry-for-Dorothy look in them. Leastwise, if they hadn't, the feel of it is in my own old heart. A pretty how'd-ye-do, when that little Lu Breckenridge-Hungerford sets out to hint to me of my duty! a slip of a girl like her—the saucy chit!"

Old Seth laughed, so merrily that others drew near to learn the sport; seeing which, Mistress Elizabeth Cecil Somerset-Calvert, rather haughtily arose and remarked:

"Come, Cousin Seth, I'd like to take a walk."

Pacing the green grove, up and down its smooth paths, they were undisturbed; but now all desire for conversation had left Mrs. Betty. She was, indeed, in deep reflection; wondering if a certain course she had followed were all for the best as she had hitherto esteemed it; and the only hint she gave to the blacksmith was the sentence:

"I wanted to wait till she came of her own accord. I've never quite forgiven her for preferring that woman Martha to me."

Then she went on in a silence which he knew her too well to disturb and finally she announced:

"I think I'll give a house party at Deerhurst. A regular old-fashioned 'infair,' though it'll be no bride for whom the festivity is given. After the assembly—what seems best! Those Breckenridges and their camping friends; including the old 'boys' and young ones. The foster parents, of course; and Johnnie must be written to about bringing that sealed letter of mine, that I entrusted to his care. I marked it not to be opened till after my death; but I think I'll postpone dying—if God wills!—for I'm not nearly so dumpish as I was the day I sealed that packet and set my directions upon it. I may open it and I may not. I may oblige Lu Breckenridge by letting her think she's a wonderful clever woman, and I may take the wind out of her sails by telling her—the truth. What do you say? Will you go along?"

"Will I not? I should go anyway, whether your house-warming-infair materializes or not. I hope, though, you won't change your mind, because I long for the mountain and my peaceful life upon it. I hope you'll stick to this notion longer than some others."

"Then come in and help me write the invitations and set things in trim for such a big entertaining. After they're written I can't change my mind, you know, though I rarely do. I scorn the imputation. Only, ought I to do it? Will it be for the best?"

"Oh! make haste, Betty Calvert! If I don't get those invitations off in the first mail I'll never be allowed to send them at all!"

He spoke jestingly, yet not without deep sympathy. The "change of mind" she intimated meant much, very much to little Dorothy; whose best interests nobody had so much in mind as these two old people with the young hearts. But his own desire was now for the clearing of all that "mystery" which had enveloped the child from her infancy and which only they two could solve.

The notes were written and most promptly posted. Then other matters were put in line to make the reopening of Deerhurst the most memorable event in its history. Servants were ordered thither, disused rooms were aired and fitted for occupancy, every scrap of fallen leaf or intrusive weed removed from its driveways and paths, and in all the glory of its early-autumn beauty the fine old place awaited the coming of its mistress and her guests.

First of all to arrive was one James Barlow, with two kindly happy dogs, leaping and barking and doing their canine best to express their happiness at seeing "home" once more. "Home" it was to the lad, also, as he felt it now; tugging stoutly upon the chains of the Great Danes, lest in their exuberant joy they should break away from him to gambol in the geranium beds that glorified the lawn.

Around from the vine-draped back porch came old Ephraim and Dinah; Hans and Griselda Roemer, who greeted Jim in their hearty German fashion, as if he were their own son come home. And bless me! If out of that great kitchen didn't issue Ma Babcock herself, and all her daughters a-trail behind!

"Why, Mrs. Babcock, you here? Surely, this is indeed a surprise!" cried Jim, releasing the Danes to Ephraim's care and clasping the hands she extended toward him.

"Well, then, it needn't be. Me and Mis' Calvert has been neighbors this long while, years indeed. So what more natural than, when all the company was comin' and help so hard to get—capable help, you know—up-mounting, but that old Seth, the farrier, should write me the invite to come and take a hold of things and see that they was the rightest kind of right for such grand doings? So I come; and I had to fetch the girls along, 'cause I never do leave them out of any the good times I have myself. Baretta stop holdin' onto my skirt! You'll pull it clean out the gathers and it's just fresh-washed and ironed. Claretta, will you never, never quit suckin' your thumb? Make your manners pretty, darlin', to this fine gentleman! Who, after all said, is nobody but Jim Barlow, makin' the most of his chance. Why, Alfy! You bashful? Come and shake hands with your old friend and don't act simple!"

So Alfaretta came forward, a new modesty upon her and a change for the better in her whole appearance, even after so short a time as this one summer. And both happening to recall how she had greeted him when first this "hero" was presented to her, they laughed and the "ice" which had formed over their friendship during separation speedily melted.

"Pa Babcock, you're askin' for? Oh, he's well, that kind don't never have nothing the matter with their health, though they're always thinking they have. He stopped with his sister till she got tired and shook him. Then he went to Chicago, where there's such a lot of silly Nanarchists like himself, and there he's stayed. I hope will stay, too, till the children get growed. He seems to be makin' his salt, some kind of livin', and he's happy as a clam in high water. He hasn't a thing to do but talk and talkin' suits him to a T. Best come in and get washed up. A letter come from Dorothy's parents and the pair of 'em will be to the Landing by the evening boat. Or one by train and one by boat. Anyhow they'll both be there and I 'low they'd admire, just admire that it should be you drove down to meet 'em. Me and Alfy and Dinah'll be right on hand here to see they get their supper and to show 'em where they're to sleep. You best hurry down to your own room to the gate-house and clean yourself. You're powerful dusty and your face needs washin'. Alfy! What you gigglin' at? Ain't I tellin' the truth? Ain't he a sight?"

"Yes, Ma, he is; one 'good for sore eyes,' as you sometimes say;" and with this inelegant remark Miss Alfaretta walked away while laughing, happy Jim sped downwards to the vine-wreathed lodge at the great entrance gate. He had been happy all that summer, never more so; yet happier than ever now as he stepped into the freshly furbished upper chamber which was his own, his very home. All the dear familiar books on the shelves, the snowy bed, the dainty neatness of the place that showed the motherly touch of old Griselda everywhere, even to the bunch of flowers upon the little table.

Dolly would have said that the bouquet looked "Dutchy," like the kind hands which had arranged it; with its conflicting colors and its tightly crowded bunches of bloom. But Dorothy wasn't there to comment, there was nobody who could see him, and the orphan lad who had not yet outgrown his boyish tenderness suddenly stooped and kissed it. Was this in memory of a mother he had never known, or because of his gratitude for his "home?"



CHAPTER XVI

WHEN JOURNEYS END IN WELCOME

"Welcome! Welcome! WELCOME!!"

The blacksmith, "himself once more" and not the summer idler on a hotel veranda, stood at Mrs. Betty's right hand on the broad steps of Deerhurst, to greet the carriages of happy folk who were whirled over the curving driveways and up to the hospitable door which stood wide open, as if eager to embrace them all in its own genial "welcome."

Somehow, there was a slight trembling in the hostess's slender frame and she put out her white hand against the porch-pillar to steady herself. Somehow, too, there seemed a little mist in her bright eyes, as she peered anxiously outward toward her arriving guests. Had they all come? Everyone whom she had bidden to her "infair?"

In the first carriage, the state barouche, sat the four grayheaded "Boys" whom she had known all their lives and for whom her best was prepared. In the next was "that slip of a girl," one Mrs. Lucretia Hungerford, a "girl" whose locks were already touched with the rime of years; a rather stern and dignified person who could be no other than Miss Isobel Greatorex of whom Dorothy had written; and a cadet in gray. A West Pointer! Off for the briefest of "furloughs" and a too-short reunion with his radiant mother. Cadet Tom Hungerford, and no other. Also, within that open trap a third gentlewoman, brought by Mrs. Hungerford's invitation for a short "tour of the States" to see what sort of home it was unto which she would consign her son, the lad Melvin come to try his fortunes so far from home. The little widow, Mrs. Cook, indeed; past mistress in the art of making gardens and good dinners, and happy in her unexpected outing as a child. To her bonny face under its white hair, with her lovely English color and her sorrow-chastened smile, the heart of Mrs. Betty immediately went out in interest and admiration. Stranger though she was her welcome, too, was ready.

But it was on that last open pony-cart, with its load of young folks, that the eye of the hostess rested first and last. Such a gay and laughing quartette that was! Molly and Dolly, the blonde and the brunette, Monty and Melvin, the rotund and the slender; but Dolly the gayest, the sweetest, the darlingest of all!

At least, that was what some of those welcoming people, grouped upon the steps, believed with all their hearts. Father John and Mother Martha, Mr. Seth and "Fairy Godmother," aye and honest Jim, first and faithfullest of comrades—to these there was visible, for one moment, no face save the face of smiling Dorothy.

When they were all housed and supper ended, they gathered in the great parlors, which Alfaretta's capable hands had adorned with masses of golden-rod, of scarlet woodbine and snowy wreaths of seeding clematis—feathery and quite "too graceful for words," as Dorothy declared, lovingly hugging Alfaretta who lingered by the door, a new shyness upon her, yet longing to be beside these other girls and lads no older than she, but who had seen so much more of the world in which they all lived.

Then when Mrs. Betty begged:

"Now if all are rested, let's compare our notes of the summer and tell what each found loveliest to remember. Come in, Alfaretta, and cuddle down with the rest upon the rugs before the fire. Old Deerhurst is at its best, to-night, filled with happiness. Now, Dr. Ryall, as once-master of these other 'Boys,' can you give your happiest thought of the summer?"

The venerable collegian leaned back and twirled his thumbs. He had left his boyishness but not his happiness back in the Markland woods, and it was quite gravely yet simply he answered:

"Why yes, Elizabeth, and easily. It was the awakening of Monty yonder to a sense of his own responsibility as a human being, made in his Creator's image. He's got down to bottom facts. He knows it isn't dollars but doings that make God's true man. Needn't blush, my lad; but be reverently thankful." Then he turned a merry glance upon the company and demanded: "Next?"

And as if he were still in the class-room questioned upon a text-book, his merchant-pupil answered:

"The happiest sight to me was the first salmon I landed!"

"A good and honest answer!" laughed Mrs. Betty, and like the president called: "Next!"

One after another the answers came; that of the surgeon being the memory of a wounded fawn whom he had cured and set at liberty again. The Judge's happiest moment had been when he caught sight of Molly's face on that dark night in the forest, when he dreaded lest he should see it no more alive and alight with love.

All had some answer to give, even Miss Greatorex, who wondered why they smiled when she recorded her blest experience in discovering a rare specimen of quartz. Surely, that was the very best gift she was bringing home to "the Rhinelander," and wasn't it a specimen worth the whole trip to a "foreign" land?

Even the youngsters were pressed to tell what they had found choicest and when Molly answered the question put to her, she spoke with a sweet solemnity: "The sound of Melvin's bugle in the wilderness."

There was a momentary silence. All were more moved than they could say, remembering how different a group this would have been had that bugle never blown "Assembly" in that far-away forest. Dorothy said nothing. Even when it came to her and the last "turn," she could only turn her happy eyes to one and another of the loved faces before her and shake her head. There had been times out there on the Nova Scotia farm when she had not been happy; when the moods of "wondering" had disturbed her peace and made her discontent. That was all past now that she was reunited to Father John and Mother Martha and somehow, best of all, to that beautiful, white-haired "Fairy Godmother," who had caught her to her breast in such a tender fashion and had even left tears of joy from the old, dark eyes upon her own upturned cheek. Why had she loved the lady so? Why did the clasp of her slender arms seem so much more than that of sturdy Mrs. Martha? Dorothy inwardly upbraided herself for the disloyal feeling, but she was too honest to deny even to herself that her dearest welcome home had come from one on whom she had no claim.

"Well, Dolly Doodles, it isn't fair for all the rest to tell their part and you just sit mum and stare and stare and stare! Honey Doll, I'm ashamed of you!" cried Molly.

Thus goaded into speech, Dorothy answered: "The happiest thing I've known isn't past, in the summer-time, but just right now and here. It's coming home to Deerhurst and—YOU!"

She could not have helped it and she could not have explained why not; but there was a look in Mrs. Betty's eyes, an appealing tenderness that went straight to the heart of the girl, who sped like an arrow shot from the hearth to a place in her hostess's arms.

And again there was silence; while some of that goodly company exchanged most speaking glances. Then with a gesture prouder than the proudest she had ever given, Mrs. Calvert lifted her head and beckoned the Judge.

"Schuyler, you're a lawyer and that rare one, an honest man. I depute you to open this sealed document and read the contents to the company. Practically, it is my 'last will and testament'—I mean the last one I've made, though I'm likely to alter it a score of times yet! I inscribed it 'to be opened after my death,' but as I feel I've just secured a new lease of life you needn't wait for that but shall open it now."

She spoke with all her old whimsicality but with a tremor in her voice, and somehow Seth Winters managed to place himself a little nearer to her and Dorothy clung the tighter about her neck.

Not yet did the child dream that this sealed packet related to herself or that the irrepressible feeling which had sent her flying to the old gentlewoman's arms had been the call of the blood. She merely felt that her "Godmother" needed soothing and that it was her delightful duty to so soothe.

There is no need to here repeat the technical wording of what the Judge so distinctly read in his clear, strong voice, amid a silence which except for that voice would have echoed the falling of the proverbial "pin." He summed it up after one reading in a brief epitome:

"Dorothy, otherwise Dorothy Elizabeth Somerset Calvert, is the last and nearest living relative of Mrs. Elizabeth Cecil Somerset-Calvert. She is the only child of one Cecil Calvert, deceased, and of Miriam his wife. Cecil Calvert, herein named, was the only son of the only son of Mrs. Calvert's only brother. The descent is clear and unmistakable. Cecil Calvert, the father of Dorothy, was early left an orphan and was 'raised' by Mrs. Betty, presumably to be her heir. When he came of age to want a wife she provided one for him. He objected and made his own choice. She cut him off with a limited income, but sufficient for one differently reared, and taking his bride he went to the far West. There he died and his wife soon followed him; but her illness was a lingering one and during it she sought to provide for their baby Dorothy.

"This envelope contains her letters and those of her husband, written after his fatal seizure to Mrs. Calvert, describing everything connected with their young and, as it proved, improvident lives. Neither of them, the sad wife protests, had ever been trained to the wise handling of money or of anything useful. It had not been their fault so much as their misfortunes that they were dying in what was to them real poverty; and the pathetic letters ended with the declaration that, after its mother's death, the child Dorothy would be safely convoyed to its great-great-aunt's door and left to her to be 'fairly dealt with.' It was all quite simple and direct; the commonplace story of many other lives."

But here Mrs. Betty, stifling the emotion which the re-reading of the papers had roused in her, took up the tale herself.

"When the baby came I was indignant. That at first. I felt I was too old to have a squalling infant forced into my house. Then better thoughts prevailed. I saw in the little thing traces of my own family likeness and I would have kept her. It was old Dinah and Ephraim who advised me then and wisely I believe, though there have been times when I've wished I hadn't listened to them. They told me with the privilege of life-long service, that I'd made a brilliant failure of my raising of Cecil. They advised me to hunt up some worthy couple unburdened with children of their own and force the child upon them, to rear in simple, sensible ways, I to pay such a sum as would provide for the child's actual necessities. No more. I listened and the notion falling in somewhat with my own conviction—you behold the result.

"Dorothy is what she is; to me the loveliest little maid in God's good world. Save what nature implanted in her, all that makes her adorable to me and others is due to her foster-parents, the most unselfish and self-devoted pair of mortals it has ever been my lot to know in my long life. She belongs to them more than to me; but it shall be as she and they elect. Even yet I will try to say it justly.

"My homes are many and ample. There is room in every one of them for a little household of four. Johnnie, Martha, my own Dorothy, shall we not make at last, one unbroken, happy family?"

It was a long speech and it had sorely tried the speaker. One by one her guests withdrew, leaving only the "four" of whom she spoke with that faithful friend of all, the radiant Seth, remaining in that firelit room.

Then cried Dorothy, running to draw her foster-parents to her great-aunt's side:

"Yes, father, yes mother! Come and be—us! I have a name at last and it still must be yours with 'Calvert' at the end, a hyphen between! Say yes, dear ones, who've loved me all my life. We want you, 'Godmother' and I, and don't you dare—don't either of you dare to be proud and independent now, when your little girl's so happy—so happy!"

Who could withstand her? Or the sincere affection which beamed upon them from Mrs. Cecil's fine old eyes? Not "whistling Johnnie" of the big heart, himself; nor faithful Martha, radiant now in the doing away of "mysteries" and the happiness of the girl who had been found a "squalling baby" on her doorstep.

So the night fell on Dorothy Calvert's homecoming and home-finding. Once more she stood on the threshold of a new life. What befell her in it and what use she made of some of the great gifts which had come to her cannot be told here. That telling must be left for other pages and other hours; perhaps the reader will like to go with us to "Dorothy's House party," until then let us bid happy Dorothy a glad

Good night!

THE END



TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:

Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors and ensure consistent usage of punctuation in this e-text; otherwise, every effort has been made to be faithful to the author's words and intent.