by Carol Norton
CHAPTER II. BANISHING GHOSTS
There was a cheerful bustle in the kitchen when Dories opened the sidedoor. Her mother was preparing the noon meal with her customary wordlesssong, although now and then a merry message to the frail boy, who sooften sat in a low chair near the stove, was sung to the melody. Justthen the newcomer heard the lilted announcement: "Footsteps I hear, andnow will appear my very dear little daughter."
Dories was repentant. "Oh, Mother, if I haven't stayed out too lateagain, and you've had to stop your sewing to get lunch."
Little Peter paused in his whittling long enough to remark, "Dori, you'vebeen crying. What for?"
But a tactful mother shook her head quickly at the small boy, sayingbrightly, "O, I was glad to stop sewing and stretch a bit. That brocadedress is hard to work on. I don't know how many machine needles it hasbroken. But since it belongs to a rich person she won't mind paying forthem."
After putting the golden aster in a vase, Dories snatched her apron fromits hook in the closet and put it on with darkening looks. "MotherMoore," she threatened, "if you don't go and lie down on the lounge untillunch is ready, I'm not going to let you sew a single bit more today.It's just terribly wicked, and all wrong somehow, that you have to makedresses for other women to keep us alive when my very own father's veryown Aunt Jane is simply rolling in wealth, and----"
"Tut! Tut! Little firefly!" Her mother laughingly shook a stirring spoonin her direction. "If you had ever seen your stately old Aunt Jane, youjust couldn't conceive of her rolling in anything. That would be much tooundignified."
"But, Mother, you know I meant that figuratively, not literally. She isrich and we are poor. Now I ask you what right has one member of a familyto have all that his heart desires and another to have to sew for aliving."
Little Peter tittered: "It's _her_ heart, if it's Great-Aunt Jane you'retalking about." A sharp retort was on the girl's lips when her mothersaid cheerily, "Now, kiddies, let's talk about something else. Mrs. Doransent us over a whole pint of cream. Shall we have it whipped on thoselast blackberries that Peter found this morning out in Briary Meadow, orshall I make a little biscuit shortcake?"
"Shortcake! Shortcake! I want shortcake!" Peter sang out.
"But, Mother, you're too tired to make one," Dories protested.
"Then you make it, Dori," Peter pleaded.
"You know I couldn't make a biscuit shortcake, Peter Moore, not if mylife depended on it." The girl was in a self-accusing mood. "I neverlearned how to do anything useful." Dories was putting the pretty lunchdishes on a small table in the kitchen corner breakfast-nook as shetalked.
The understanding mother, realizing the conflicting emotions that weremaking her young daughter so unhappy, brought out the flour and otheringredients as she said, "Never too late to learn, dear. Come and takeyour first lesson in biscuit-making."
Half an hour later, as they sat around the lunch table, Dories told asmuch of her recent conversation with her best friend as she wished toshare. Then they had the blackberry shortcake and real cream, and evenPeter acknowledged that it was "most as good as Mother's."
When the kitchen had been tidied and Peter had gone to his little upperroom for the nap that was so necessary for the regaining of his health,Dories went into the small sewing room which formerly had been herfather's den and stood looking discontentedly out of the window. Hermother had resumed sewing on the rich brocaded dress. When the hum of themachine was stilled, she glanced at the pensive girl and said: "Doridear, this is the first afternoon that I can remember, almost, that youhave been at home with me. You and Nann always went somewhere or didsomething. You are going to miss your best friend ever so much, I know,but--" there was a break in the voice which caused the girl to turn andlook inquiringly at her mother, who was intently pressing a seam, and whofinished her sentence a bit pathetically, "it's going to mean a good dealto me, daughter, to have your companionship once in a while."
With a little cry the girl sprang across the room and knelt at hermother's side, her arms about her. "O, Mumsie, was there ever a moreselfish girl? I don't see how you have kept on loving me all theseyears." Then her pretty face flushed and she hesitated before confessing:"I hate to say it, for it only shows how truly horrid I am, but I likedto be over at Nann's, where the furniture was so beautiful, notthreadbare like ours." She was looking through the open door into theliving-room, where she could see the old couch with its worn covering. "Iought to have stayed at home and helped you with your sewing, but I willfrom now on."
The mother, knowing that tears were near, put a finger beneath the girl'schin and looked deep into the repentant violet blue eyes. Kissing hertenderly, she said merrily, "Very well, young lady, if you wish to punishyourself for past neglects, sit over there in my low rocker and take thebastings out of this skirt."
Dories obeyed and was soon busy at the simple task. To change thesubject, her mother spoke of the planned trip. "It will be your veryfirst journey away from Elmwood, dear. At your age I would have been everso excited."
The girl looked up from her work, a cloud of doubt in her eyes. "Oh,Mother, do you really think that you would have been, if you were goingto a summer resort where the cottages were all shut up tight as clams,boarded up, too, probably, and with such a queer, grumphy person asGreat-Aunt Jane for company?" The girl shuddered. "Every time I think ofit I feel the chills run down my back. I just know the place will be fullof ghosts. I won't sleep a wink all the time I'm there. I'm convinced ofthat."
Her mother's merry laugh was reassuring. "Ghosts, dearie?" she queried,glancing up. "Surely you aren't in earnest. You don't believe in ghosts,do you?"
"Well, maybe not, exactly, but there are the queerest stories told aboutthose lonely out-of-the-way places. You know that there are, Mother. Idon't mean made-up stories in books. I mean real newspaper accounts."
"But it doesn't matter what kind of paper they're printed on, Dori," hermother put in, more seriously, "nothing could make a ghost story true.The only ghosts that haunt us, really, are the memories of loving wordsleft unsaid and loving deeds that were not done, and sometimes," sheconcluded sadly, "it is too late to ever banish those ghosts." Then, notwishing to depress her already heart-broken daughter, she said in alighter tone, "After all, why worry about your visit to Siquaw Point,when, as yet, you haven't heard that your Great-Aunt Jane has reallydecided to go. I expected a letter every day last week, but none came, soshe may have given up the plan for this year." Then, after glancing up atthe clock, she added, "Three, and almost time for the postman. I believeI hear his whistle now."
At that moment Peter bounded in, his face rosy from his nap. "Postman'scoming," he sang out. "Come on, Dori, I'll beat you to the gate."
The girl rose, saying gloomily, "This is probably the fatal day. I'm justsure there'll be a letter from Great-Aunt Jane. I don't see why she choseme when she's never even seen me."
When Dories reached the front door, she saw that Peter was already out inthe road, frantically beckoning to her. "Hurry along, Dori. The postman'sjust leaving Mrs. Doran's," he called; then as the mail wagon, drawn by alean white horse, approached, the small boy ran out in the road and wavedhis arms.
Mr. Higgins, who had stopped at their door ever since Peter had been ababy, beamed at him over his glasses. "Law sakes!" he exclaimed, "Do Isee a bandit? Guess you've been reading stories about 'Dick Dead-shot'holding up mail coaches in the Rockies. Sorry, but there ain't nothin'for you." Then, smilingly, he addressed the girl. "Likely in a day or twoI'll be fetchin' you a letter, Dori, from your old friend Nann Sibbett.It'll be powerfully lonesome around here for you, I reckon, now she'sgone."
The girl nodded. "Just awfully lonesome, Mr. Higgins, and please do bringme a letter soon." Just then Johnnie Doran called for Peter to come overand play, and the girl went slowly back to the house.
Her mother looked up inquiringly. "No letter at all," Dories announced inso disappointed a tone that she laughingly c
onfessed, "Mother, I dobelieve that I'm made up of the contrariest emotions. I do hate thethought of spending that dismal month of October with Great-Aunt Jane atSiquaw Point, but I hate even worse going back to High without Nann."
"Dear girl," the mother's voice held a tenderly given rebuke, "you aren'tthinking in the least of the pleasure your companionship might give yourGreat-Aunt Jane. She was very fond of your father when he was a boy, andhe spent many a summer with her at Siquaw. That may be her reason forinviting you. Your father seemed to be the only person for whom shereally cared." Then, before the rather surprised girl could reply, themother continued, "I wish, dear, that you would hunt up your Aunt's lastletter and answer it more fully. I was so busy when it came that I merelysent a few lines, thanking her for the invitation."
Dories sighed as she rose to obey, but turned back to listen when hermother continued: "I know how hard it is going to be, dear girl, but Ihave a reason, which I cannot explain just now, for very much wishing youto go. Now write the letter and make it as interesting and newsy as youcan."
Dories, from the door, dropped a curtsy. "Very well, Mrs. Moore," shesaid, "to please you I'll write to the crabbedy old lady, but----" Hermother merrily shook her finger at her. "I want you to withhold judgment,daughter, until you have seen your Great-Aunt Jane."
