He, too, was indeed glad to hear the good news, and a few moments later, when Alfred had dropped a list out to them, they drove away with lighter hearts than they had had in many a day.
Great was the rejoicing in the town of Sunnyside as the news was telephoned from one home to another, and a week later, when Geraldine was strong enough to sit up for a few hours in her sunny bow window, the six girls, wrapped in furs, stood beneath it waving to her and smiling and nodding to assure her of their friendship. When they were gone, there were tears in the eyes of the invalid as she turned toward the ever watchful old lady who sat sewing nearby.
“Mrs. Gray,” she said, “am I different or is everyone else different? When I first came I did not want to know these country girls, but now I love them all dearly.” Then, before the little old lady could reply, Geraldine asked, “Is my Dad coming today?”
The housekeeper looked troubled. The Colonel could not account for the fact that Mr. Morrison had not been heard from since he first cabled that he would return as soon as possible.
“Surely he will be here tomorrow by the latest,” was the evasive answer.
The girl’s gaze then rested on the soft, silvery hair of the bent head.
“Mrs. Gray, why have you been so good to me? An own relation couldn’t have been kinder. You have tired yourself all out, I know, caring for me day and night. I don’t deserve it.”
There was a twinkle in the eyes that looked at the girl. “I’ve been playing a game, Geraldine,” she said. “I’ve been pretending that you were my make-believe granddaughter.” Then wistfully she added: “You don’t know how all these last ten, long years I have yearned for someone who really belonged to me, someone to care for.”
Before Geraldine could reply, the door bell pealed.
CHAPTER XXVI
A HAPPY REUNION
The tall, fine-looking man who stood on the front porch lifted his hat as Mrs. Gray opened the door.
“I’m Mr. Morrison,” he said, and then he hastened to inquire: “How is my little girl today?”
The housekeeper’s face brightened. “Oh, I’m so glad that you have come,” she said. “Geraldine was asking for you but a moment ago. She is much better, but I am not sure that she is strong enough to see you unless I first tell her that you are here. Sudden joy may be as great a shock as sudden sorrow.”
But, as they ascended the stairs and went quietly down the corridor, they heard the girl calling, “Daddy! Oh, I know it’s you, Daddy. I’ve been expecting you all day long.”
When the tender greeting was over, with shining eyes the girl looked at him as she said, “I’m going to get well right away now, I know. I’ve been so lonesome for you, Dad.” Turning toward the little old lady, she added lovingly: “Mrs. Gray is my make-believe grandmother, and you can’t guess how good she has been to me.” Then suddenly thinking of something, she smilingly declared: “Why, that makes Mrs. Gray your make-believe mother, doesn’t it, Dad?”
The man, because of his great anxiety about his daughter, had scarcely noticed the old lady. He now turned and looked at her, intending to thank her for her kindness to his little girl. To his surprise tears were rolling unheeded down the wrinkled cheeks, although, in the sweet face, there was an expression of radiant joy. Then Mrs. Gray held out her arms to the amazed man and said in a voice that trembled with emotion, “Alfred, my boy, don’t you know me?”
A few moments later when the Colonel entered the room he smiled around at the happy group.
“Well, Mrs. Gray,” he said after he had exchanged greetings with the newcomer, “we don’t have to keep our secret any longer, do we?”
“Oh, Colonel Wainwright,” Geraldine exclaimed, “have you known all the time that Mrs. Gray was my real grandmother?”
“Yes, lassie, but she did not want me to tell you. She wished first of all to win your love.”
A door banged below and Alfred leaped up the stairs two steps at a time, Susan having told him that his father had arrived.
He, too, was amazed to learn that Mrs. Gray was their grandmother. “I’m bully glad,” the lad exclaimed, as he kissed the beaming old lady. Then he added: “Of course I knew that Dad ran away from home when he was sixteen and that he had never since seen his parents, but you thought they were dead, didn’t you, Dad?” His father nodded.
“I’ve been alone for ten years,” Mrs. Gray told them, “and during that time I’ve been hunting for my boy.”
“All’s well that ends well!” Alfred said, and his father added: “Just as soon as Geraldine is able to travel, we must return to our home in Dorchester.”
“Oh, Dad!” the girl protested, “I do wish we might stay in the country forever.”
* * * *
The next day, at Mrs. Gray’s suggestion, her son took her for a drive in the light buggy. Although the Colonel had two automobiles, the little old lady preferred the old-fashioned way of traveling. They drove along Willowbend Road, where the last bits of snow were rapidly disappearing and where reddish green buds were to be seen on the drooping trees that gave the country road its name.
Mrs. Gray lifted a beaming face and smiled up at her long lost son from under her quaint Quaker-like bonnet. “You haven’t asked me, Alfred, why my name is Gray?”
“No,” he acknowledged, “I supposed that you would tell me in time if you had married again.”
She shook her head. “No, I never did. Because I always dressed in grey, friends began to call me that, and when I came here once more searching for some trace of you, I thought I would use that name; and I am glad that I did, for by so doing I won the love of my granddaughter. She might otherwise have cared merely from a sense of duty.” Then, as they turned in between two stone gate posts, the man said: “How strange it seems to be, coming back to our old home. I thought it had been sold for taxes long ago.”
“It was nearly sold,” Mrs. Gray replied, “but I heard of it in time to pay the back taxes and keep it. At first I thought, when I couldn’t find you, that I did not care to own it, for every corner and tree reminded me of you when you were a boy, but now I am so glad that I have kept our old home. It is rather dilapidated,” she added brightly, “but in a week or so we can have it all in readiness before we tell the children a word about it. Then, when Geraldine is strong enough to be moved, we will bring her over here.”
“How pleased she will be,” Mr. Morrison declared. “I will go to Dorchester tomorrow and see about selling our other place and have the furniture sent down here.”
“I thought we’d let Alfred have the room that was yours when you were a boy,” Mrs. Gray continued, “and that sunny bay window room which overlooks the garden is the one I have planned for Geraldine.”
“Mother,” the smiling man protested, “you know how completely I have been spoiling our girl. You aren’t going to do the same thing, are you?”
The little old lady shook her head. “Geraldine is a changed lassie. She won’t spoil now.”
“And it’s all due to your loving influence, I am sure,” Mr. Morrison declared.
There were twinkles in the eyes that looked up at him. “I can’t take all of the credit,” Mrs. Gray replied. “I think someone else had even more to do with the change in Geraldine than I have had.”
She was thinking of Jack Lee, but at that time she did not care to tell her son about him.
The old house was one of those charming places, pillared in front, with wide halls and large, many windowed rooms that could easily be transformed into just the kind of a home that Geraldine liked best.
Busy days followed for Mrs. Gray and her son. Then, three weeks later, Doctor Carson announced that Geraldine was strong enough to be moved.
So well had the secret been kept that the lassie supposed that they were going to Dorchester.
CHAPTER XXVII
HOME, SWEET HOME
Geraldine, supposing that they were about to leave for the city, could not understand why her friends had not called to say good-bye.
“Perhaps they will be waiting at the station,” she said to Alfred when they were all in the big car, with Danny O’Neil at the wheel.
“Like as not,” the unsuspecting lad replied.
The Colonel glanced at his watch. “Morrison,” he said, “it’s a whole hour before train time. Would you mind if we went farther out on the Willowbend Road? I have a little business there that I would like to attend to.”
“It’s all right with me,” the other man replied, and Alfred, happening to look at his father, was sure that he had turned away to hide a smile.
Ten minutes later the car turned into the circling drive and stopped in front of the pillared porch of an old colonial home.
“What a pleasant place this is,” Geraldine said. “Who lives here, Colonel Wainwright?”
“Some good friends of mine,” that gentleman replied as he prepared to leave the car. Then, as though it were a sudden afterthought, he added: “I wish you would all come in for one moment. We’ll have plenty of time to get the train.”
It seemed odd to the girl that they should call upon strangers just before leaving town, but she was too fond of the Colonel not to willingly do whatever he suggested, and so, leaning upon his proffered arm, she slowly climbed the wide steps.
To Geraldine’s surprise, the door was opened by Susan, and when they entered the wide hall she saw Matilda, who was beaming upon them. What could it mean? Glancing into the attractive room on either side, the girl was amazed to see the furniture which had been in their city home. Then suddenly she understood and, turning a radiant face toward her father, she exclaimed: “Oh, Dad, we aren’t going to Dorchester, are we? I’m so glad! But do tell me, how did you happen to find this wonderful place? I just adore old-fashioned colonial houses.”
“It’s where I was born,” her father replied. “Your grandmother and I have been planning it all to surprise you and Alfred.”
“Well, it sure is a surprise to me,” the lad declared, “and I’m bully glad that we’re going to stay in the country.”
“Do the girls know about it?” Geraldine asked, but before anyone could reply there sounded in the driveway the ringing of a cowbell, the tooting of horns and the gay laughter of young people.
Doris was the first to enter the hall of the Morrison home when the door opened, but a troop of laughing boys and girls followed closely.
“Oh, Geraldine,” Doris exclaimed, “isn’t this a grand and glorious surprise. We didn’t know a thing about it until this morning. We had supposed that you were going to Dorchester, and we planned being at the station to say good-bye when someone phoned Jack for us to come here instead.”
“We are all so glad that you are to stay in Sunnyside,” Merry declared. Tears gathered in the lovely eyes of the girl, who was still not strong, and Jack, noticing this, held out his arm.
“Princess Geraldine,” he said, “permit me to lead you to your throne, where you may receive the homage of your rejoicing subjects.”
A moment later, when the happy girl was seated near the fireplace, with Jack standing at her side, Doris, looking about the group, exclaimed: “Where is Danny O’Neil? Why isn’t he here with us?”
“I think he went to the garage,” Alfred said. “I’ll bring him in.” The two lads soon entered the house together and Alfred’s arm was thrown over the other boy’s shoulder to assure him that he considered him a friend and an equal. Doris walked up to them and, holding a long envelope before the Irish boy, she exclaimed: “Mister Danny O’Neil, if you can guess what this envelope contains, you may have it.”
“Why, Doris, how should I know?” the mystified lad replied. “I never had a letter written to me by anyone.”
“Well, you certainly have one now,” Doris declared, “but I’m going to read it out to the entire company, so please lend me your ears.” Then, opening the important looking envelope, she read:
“Dorchester Art Institute, March the first.
“Mr. Danny O’Neil: We are glad to inform you that the carving which you submitted in our recent contest has been awarded first place, and as a result you will receive a scholarship in our institution for one year from this date, all of your expenses to be paid. We advise you to come at once as new classes will be formed on Monday, March the fifth.”
The expression on the face of the Irish lad was first puzzled and then radiant. “Doris,” he said, “you entered that carving in the contest and I didn’t know a thing about it.”
“Oh, Danny,” Merry exclaimed as she held out her hand, “I congratulate you for all of us.”
A little later Doris found the lad standing alone by a window gazing out at the trees that were showing a haze of silvery green.
He looked up with a welcoming smile. “Doris,” he said, “I’m thinking how pleased my mother would be.” Then he added: “I’m going to try hard to succeed, Good Angel. I want you to be proud of me.”
When the others were gone, Jack remained to spend the evening with Alfred, so he said, but during the long twilight he and Geraldine sat before the fireplace and the girl listened to the lad’s dreams of his future on a cattle ranch, and her heart was made happy when Jack said earnestly, “You’d love it, Geraldine. From now on I am going to hope that you will be there with me.”
THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS SOLVE A MYSTERY, by Hildegard G. Frey
CHAPTER I
THE EMPTY HOUSE
Katherine Adams stepped from the train at Oakwood, glanced expectantly up and down the station platform, hesitated a moment, and then, picking out a conspicuous spot under a glaring arc light, deposited her suitcase on the ground with a thump, mounted guard beside it and patiently waited for Nyoda to find her in the surging crowd.
It was two days before Christmas, and travel was heavy. It seemed as though the entire population of Oakland was either coming home, departing, or rushing madly up and down before the panting train in search of friends and relatives. Katherine was engulfed in a tidal wave of rapturous greetings that rolled over her from every side, as a coachful of soldiers, home for Christmas, were met and surrounded by the waiting lines of townspeople.
Katherine stood still, absorbed in watching the various reunions taking place around her, while the tidal wave gradually subsided, receding in the direction of Main Street. The principal stream had already flowed past her and the crowd was rapidly thinning out when Katherine woke to the realization that she was still unclaimed. There was no sign of Nyoda. The expectant smile faded from Katherine’s face and in its place there came a look of puzzled wonder. What had happened? Why wasn’t Nyoda there to meet her? Was there some mistake? Wasn’t this Oakwood? Had she gotten off at the wrong station, she thought in sudden panic. No, there was the sign beside the door of the green boarded station; its gilded letters gleamed down reassuringly at her. Katherine stood on one foot and pondered. Was this the day she was supposed to come? What day was it, anyway? The thick pad calendar beside the ticket seller’s window inside the station proclaimed it to be the twenty-third. All right so far; she hadn’t mixed up the date, then. She had written Nyoda that she would come on the twenty-third, on the five-forty-five train. The train had been on time. Where was Nyoda?
Katherine was assailed by a sudden doubt. Had she mailed that letter? Yes, she was certain of that. She had run out to the mail box at ten o’clock at night especially to mail it. What had gone wrong? Why wasn’t there someone to meet her?
She looked around at the walls as if expecting them to answer, and her roving eye caught sight of the lettering on a glass door opposite. The telephone! Goose! Why hadn’t she thought of that before? Of course there was some mistake responsible for Nyoda’s not meeting her, but in a moment that would be all straightened out.
She sprang across to the booth and picked up the directory hanging beside the telephone. Then a queer, bewildered look came into her eyes and she stood still with the book hanging uncertainly from her fingers. She had forgotten Nyoda’s name! She twisted her brows into a pucker and made a fran
tic effort to recall it. No use; it was a fruitless endeavor. Where that name used to be in her mind there was now a blank space, empty and echoless as the original void. It was too ridiculous! Katherine gave a little stamp of vexation. It was not the first time a name had popped out of her mind at a critical moment. And sometimes—O horror! it didn’t come back again for days. Was there ever anything so utterly absurd as the plight in which she now found herself? She knew Nyoda’s name as well as her own. M. M. It certainly began with an M.
After nearly an hour’s exasperated wracking of her brains she gave it up in disgust and stalked out of the station. Not for worlds would she have confided to anyone her plight.
“People will think you’re an escaped lunatic,” she told herself in terrified wrath. “They might put you in an asylum, and it would serve you right if they did. You aren’t fit to be out without a guardian. After this you’ll have to have your destination written out on a label tied to your ankle, like a trunk.”
She had one recollection to guide her. The house Nyoda lived in stood on top of a hill. The name of Carver House and the address on Oak Street had faded along with Nyoda’s name. “I’ll walk until I come to a house on the top of a hill,” she decided, “and find it that way. There can’t be many houses on hills in this town, it seems to be all in a valley. Come along, Katherine, what you haven’t got in your head you’ll have to have in your heels.”
No one, seeing the tall, clever looking girl stepping briskly out of the station and turning up Main Street with a businesslike tread, would have guessed that she was a stranger in a strange town and hadn’t any idea where she was going. There was such an air of confidence and capability about Katherine that people would have been more likely to ask her to help them out of their difficulties than to suspect that she needed help herself.
Certainly, Nyoda’s house wouldn’t be hard to find. Oakwood lay in a valley, curled up among its sheltering hills like a kitten in a heap of leaves. To be on a hill Nyoda must be on the outskirts of the town. She inquired of a passing youngster what part of Oakwood was on a hill and got the information that Main Street ran up hill at the end.
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