The Project Gutenberg eBook, Mary's Rainbow, by Mary Edward Feehan This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Mary's Rainbow Author: Mary Edward Feehan Release Date: December 26, 2006 [eBook #20193] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 ***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MARY'S RAINBOW*** E-text prepared by Al Haines FOREWORD This little volume and its predecessor, "Mostly Mary," the first two of the "Berta and Beth Books," have been written to comply with the wishes of the young readers of Clementia's other books, "Uncle Frank's Mary," "The Quest of Mary Selwyn," and "Bird-a-Lea." In them the author narrates the events leading up to "Uncle Frank's Mary," and endeavors to satisfy the demand for "more about Berta and Beth," those mischievous, lovable "twinnies," who furnish much of the amusement and not a little of the excitement in the "Mary Selwyn Books." Mary's Rainbow by "CLEMENTIA" [Transcriber's note: Real name—Sister Mary Edward Feehan] Author of Mostly Mary Uncle Frank's Mary The Quest of Mary Selwyn Bird-a-Lea, etc. MATRE & COMPANY CHICAGO 1922 Copyright 1922 by MATRE & COMPANY All Rights Reserved Printed in U. S. A. Two little girls on a swing. Two little girls on a swing. To another very dear little Mary CONTENTS CHAPTER I. Gene II. Busy Days III. Mary's Secret IV. Maryvale V. Christmas VI. The Land of Sunshine VII. Through Storm to the Rainbow VIII. That Moving Week—Monday IX. Monday—Continued X. Tuesday XI. Wednesday XII. Thursday XIII. New Friends XIV. Naming the Pets XV. Only the Beginning MARY'S RAINBOW CHAPTER I. GENE. "You have grown very fond of your good nurse, haven't you, Mary?" "Indeed I have, Uncle. I wish she could go South with us after Christmas." "But don't you think it would be selfish of us to take her away from little folks who really need her? That brings us to a matter of importance which I must discuss with you this evening." Mary, in her usual place on her uncle's knee, fixed her eyes on the fire, folded her hands, and tried to look very grave and grown-up; for to talk over a matter of importance with Doctor Carlton was, in her opinion, a very serious thing indeed. "I have a patient, a little boy four years old, who has injured his spine. He can be cured, I think, if he has proper care. He is an only child and is somewhat spoiled, and the pain he is suffering makes him very peevish and cross. His poor mother is quite worn out, for he insists on having her beside him day and night. We had a fine nurse for him, but he took a dislike to her and would not let her come near him. Now, the only one I know who can handle this case is Sister Julia. She has a way of her own with children, as you well know. You are improving so fast that you really no longer need her; so I think we had better let her go to that poor little fellow who does; don't you?" The Doctor watched Mary's face over which a look of dismay had spread, and he saw the struggle that was going on in her heart, which sank very low at the thought of the long, long days all alone, except for the servants, in the big house. She locked her frail little fingers tightly together and winked very hard before she answered in a voice scarcely above a whisper; "Ye——es, Uncle,——and——and maybe you can come home a little earlier, just a little earlier every evening, and——and stay longer at luncheon, and——and will you ask Mrs. Burns and Mrs. Lee to let Hazel and Rosemary come in to play with me for a while every day on their way home from school and take turns spending the day with me on Saturdays——" Her voice broke, and she hid her face against his coat. "Why, little one, you don't think for an instant that you will be here alone all day, do you? Of course, you may have as many of your little friends as you please come to visit you. I could not allow that while you were so weak; but there is no reason now why they may not come very often. I have made plans, however, so that you need not be alone for a single moment of the day. Sister Julia has a young friend, Miss Donnelly, who often takes her place in cases like this. I know her quite well and feel very sure that you will like her. She is about sixteen—not a bit too old to enjoy your games—and she is an expert dolls' dress-maker." "Is she a little young lady or a big young lady, Uncle? I do hope she is small. I like little people best." "Thank you, ma'am." "Oh, I mean small ladies. Mother is not very big, you know, and all of her friends that I love best are small. But I like men to be big like you and Father. You are both just exactly right. I have often seen a great big lady pass here, and I am sure that I would not like her at all. She wears a long black coat like an overcoat, and a hat almost exactly like a man's. Her hair is always brushed back as smooth as smooth can be. She hasn't any pretty, soft, little curls like Mother's." "I know that lady very well. She is a doctor, and her patients, especially children, think everything of her. So you see how unwise it is to judge from a person's appearance." The Doctor tweaked the little girl's ear, and his eyes twinkled as he went on, "At any rate, I have engaged Miss Donnelly without regard to her size or style of dress; so we shall have to give her a fair trial, at least." "Ye——es, Uncle, of course. It wouldn't be very p'lite to tell her we don't want her after you have asked her to come. And I shall try as hard as I can to love her even if she is as big as the doctor lady and wears a man's hat and coat." Mary smiled bravely up at him as she lifted her face for his good-night kiss. "When——when is she coming, Uncle?" "To-morrow morning, dear. By the way, you must not try to come down to breakfast for a few days. Luncheon and dinner will be enough for you, so take a long sleep in the morning." Mary's heart was very heavy as she went up the stairs with Sister Julia. Even with this good friend to comfort and cheer her, the little girl had spent many lonely hours since her parents and baby sisters had sailed for Europe, where her father's business required that he should live for a year. Mary had not been able to go with them, because she had been very ill and was not strong enough for the long voyage. So she had been left with her mother's brother, who had always made his home with the Selwyns. During her long illness, Mary had grown to love Sister Julia very, very much. What would she ever do now with a stranger? And the letters from her father and mother, which her uncle had felt so sure would arrive that day, had not come. Yes, it was a sad-hearted little Mary who laid her head on her pillow that night and tried to picture the new companion her uncle had found for her. Two hours later, the Doctor himself was sorry that he had not told her more of Miss Donnelly; for when he tiptoed to her bedside, he found her pillow wet with tears; and as he lightly kissed her forehead, she murmured in her sleep, "O Uncle! I wish she wasn't so big—not quite so big." After dreaming for the greater part of the night of a very large, strong young girl with fair hair drawn back so tightly that she could scarcely wink, Mary slept quite late in the morning. She had just finished her breakfast when Liza, the house-maid, came in with a card for Sister Julia. Mary felt that the dreaded hour had come, and remembering her promise to her uncle, braced herself to meet the Miss Donnelly of her dreams. Yes, they were coming up the stairs. She could hear Sister Julia's merry laugh. The next moment the nurse entered the room followed by a young girl dressed in brown from top to toe. Laughing, dark eyes in a small, oval face framed in soft, little, brown curls won Mary at once. She stretched out her arms with a cry of delight. "Oh, you are just too dear!" "And you are just too darling!" The little brown lady ran to the bedside and hugged the child. "I wish, oh, I wish that you were going to stay with me instead——instead of——" "Instead of that cross old Sister Julia," laughed the nurse. "No, no, no, Sister! You have never, never been cross—not once. I mean instead of——well, it isn't very nice to say, but I just can't help it——instead of Miss Donnelly." "But this is Miss Donnelly, dear." "Why——why——but Uncle said——no, he didn't exactly say it, but I thought Miss Donnelly was——different." "And I thought you were different. Just wait until I see your uncle! As you say, he did not exactly tell me so, but I thought I was to take care of a little old lady who would not give me a chance to sit still one minute. What sort of a Miss Donnelly did you think I would be?" "The one I dreamed of all night was big and strong and had a very loud voice and wore her hair plastered back and—— and oh! I am so glad she isn't real! Isn't Uncle a tease! But I am not going to scold him one bit since he sent me the right kind of a Miss Donnelly." "And now, dear, I must say good-bye. Your Uncle sent the carriage for Miss Donnelly, and Liza says that Jim is waiting to drive me to the home of my new patient." "But you will come to see us often and often, Sister, and when the little boy is well, you will come back to us, won't you?" "I hope you will be so well and strong by that time, Mary, that you will not need me. My work is to take care of the sick, you know. But I shall stop in to see you on the days when I return to our convent; and when you are able to go out, you and Gene must come to see me. I am sure that my new patient will be glad to have you visit him." Mary threw her arms about Sister Julia and clung to her until Gene declared that she was growing jealous. On her return to the little girl's room after seeing the Sister into the carriage, she caught Mary hastily wiping her eyes, but pretended not to see and asked cheerfully, "Now, what shall we do first?" "The very first thing, Miss Donnelly, will be for me to get dressed." "Very well, Miss Selwyn," was the prim reply. "Why——why I am just Mary, Miss Donnelly. I am only seven and a half. No one ever calls me Miss Selwyn." "And I am just Eugenia, Miss Selwyn. I am only sixteen, and no one ever calls me anything but Gene. So if you wish me to call you Mary, you must call me Gene." "But——but I think I ought to call you Miss Gene. Mother told me always to say Miss before the names of the big sisters of the little girls I know." "This is a very different case. I should so like to play that I am your big sister; for, you see, I am the youngest in our family, so I have never had a little sister. Don't you think that we could pretend we are sisters?" "Yes, yes, of course we can! I have never had a big sister; but if I had one, I should wish her to be exactly like you." Gene promptly hugged the little girl. "And you would not call her Miss Gene, would you? Oh, I shall be very lonely if you call me that." "I know what we can do. I shall call you Gene until Uncle comes home to luncheon; and then, if he thinks it will be all right, I can tell Mother about it when I write to her. I wish you knew Father and Mother and my darling little twin sisters and dear old Aunt Mandy, their nurse. But I shall show you their pictures the very first thing. They are in that kodak book on the table. You will have to know everything about them if you are going to be my big sister, you know; and some day when Uncle thinks I am well enough, we shall go out to Maryvale to see Aunt Mary. She is a Sister, and Maryvale is the name of the convent. Her name is Sister Madeline." And while Gene helped Mary to dress, the little girl told her so much about her dear ones that she soon felt she knew them very well indeed. Later on, when Gene had seen her dolls and games and books, Mary said, "There is something very important that I must ask you about, Gene. It is Christmas presents. Do you know any things that I can make? Of course, they will have to be easy things. Mother and I always went shopping early in December and bought some of the presents—things for Aunt Mandy and Liza and Susie and Tom and for some of the little girls I know; but ever since I was a little bit of a thing, she helped me make something for Father and Uncle Frank and Aunt Mary. And Father helped me with a present for Mother. She says people 'preciate gifts more when they know we have made them specially for them. The trouble is, I can't sew very well, and I don't know how to crochet anything but chain stitch; and there is nothing a person can make out of a long string of chain stitch." "Oh, yes, there is, Mary. If you crochet very heavy silk thread in chain stitch, it makes the loveliest cord for calendars and things like that." "I made calendars last year, but we used ribbon for hanging them up. Mother bought me some cards with holes in them, and I sewed them with colored silks and pasted a little calendar on each one. Father's card had a rose on it; and Uncle's a Christmas tree; and Aunt Mary's had Santa Claus going down a chimney. Then Father went to the very same store where Mother had bought the cards and got one for her with a bluebird on it, because Mother calls me her little bluebird. I always wear blue and white, because I am dedicated to Blessed Mother. Beth is, too; and Berta, to the Sacred Heart. And one day when Mother was out, I made her calendar, and she was so s'prised. I just love to s'prise people, don't you? And the bluebird is for happiness; so it was just right for Mother, because I want her to be happy every minute of the whole year. I s'pose it won't do to make calendars again." "They are very useful things, Mary, and everyone likes a pretty one. You could make a different kind this year. Do you ever use these paints? I see you have crayolas, too." "Yes, Gene, I often try to draw and paint; but I am better at pasting than anything else." "The calendars I have in mind will have to be pasted, too. This afternoon while you are taking your nap, I shall go to a store not far from here where I can get everything we need; and to-morrow we shall begin work." "Oh, goody! Uncle said last evening that the things we are going to send to Italy must be ready early next week. But what can I make for the babies? They can't use calendars, you know. Aunt Mandy was going to teach me to knit something for them, and then I got sick. I even had some nice, soft, white worsted to begin with." "Have you any colored worsted?" "There is a big box of all colors on the shelf of the closet in Mother's room. I know that it will be all right for us to use it, because Mother always gave me some of it when I needed it for my dolls." After a little search, they found the box. "This is just the thing, Mary, and it is so heavy that it will work up quickly." "But please tell me what I am going to make, Gene." "It is something that the babies cannot use until they are a little older, but they will have ever so much fun with it then. It is a pair of horse reins; and we shall sew tiny brass sleigh bells across the front and over the shoulders. Now, the first thing we need is a large spool." "I know where to find one—in the machine drawer." Into the top of the spool, Gene drove four strong pins, and fastening the red worsted around them, began the reins. "We shall make about five inches of each color, and your little sisters——" "Our little sisters, Gene." "Yes, of course—our little sisters will have the gayest horse reins you ever did see." For the rest of the morning, Mary worked busily while Gene unpacked her trunk; and when the Doctor came home to luncheon, the little girl had added five inches of blue and five of yellow to the reins. She took her work down stairs to show it to him. "And, Uncle, I have something very important to ask you. Miss Donnelly says it will make her lonely to be called Miss anybody, and she has asked me to call her Gene. Of course, Mother told me always to say Miss. But Miss Donnelly thinks it would be nice to pretend we are sisters, and I wouldn't call my big sister, Miss." "I am very sure, dear, that if it will make Miss Donnelly feel more at home with us, Mother would approve of your calling her Gene." "Then you will have to call her that, too, Uncle; because if she is my sister, she is your niece; and you wouldn't call your own niece Miss somebody." "Very well, if Miss Donnelly wishes me to call her Gene, I shall do so." "Thank you, Doctor. I feel very much at home already." "But——but Gene, if you are my big sister, you ought to say Uncle Frank, not Doctor." "We must let Gene please herself about that, Mary," laughed the Doctor. "I can easily see how she might wish to have you for her little sister without adopting the whole family." "W——ell,——but I think she will be sorry if she doesn't adopt you, Uncle. Oh, that reminds me! We need some ribbon and Christmas tags and seals and ever so many things for the presents we are going to make; and Gene says that she will buy them for me this afternoon while I am taking my nap. I am afraid I haven't money enough in my bank to pay for them, Uncle." The Doctor took a bill from his pocket book. "This will probably cover the cost of your purchases. When you need more, Gene, let me know." CHAPTER II. BUSY DAYS. Mary was watching at the library window when Gene returned from her shopping trip with her arms filled with packages —long ones, square ones, round ones, flat ones. The little girl's eyes shone with an eager light as she helped to carry them upstairs. She clapped her hands and danced about the room as Gene opened one after another. There were rolls of crepe paper; bolts of narrow ribbon, green, red, and white with tiny sprays of holly; a big sheet of dark green cardboard; another of blotting paper; spools of coarse silk; a package of calendar pads; and a box of outline pictures ready to be colored with paints or crayolas. "I think these will be just the thing for the calendars, Mary. You can color them, and we shall mount them on this dark green cardboard and paste one of these tiny calendars under each. You may either use ribbon to hang them by or crochet a cord of this silk. I knew that you would not wish to send your father and mother each a calendar, so I thought we could make a blotter for your mother and use one of these long, narrow pictures for the cover." "Gene, you are just wonderful for thinking up things! I didn't know what in the world to make for Mother. Do you know of anything for Aunt Mandy?" "I can show you an easy way to make a whisk broom holder." "That will be just the thing, Gene! Dear, me! These pictures are all so pretty that I don't know which to choose for Father's calendar. Let us make his present first. Here is a snow scene. I shall paint that. It is so warm in Italy that Father will be glad to have something cool-looking hanging over his desk. If we have time to make them, I think I shall send Father and Mother each a calendar and a blotter. Father can take his to his office, you know." Together they worked and chatted until dusk, when Mary had two pictures colored, and Gene had everything ready for the next day's work. "Letters! Letters!" called the Doctor from the foot of the stairs. "Why, Gene! I never thought of the postman this afternoon. I was so busy." And Mary ran down to hear the first real news of her dear ones. "Oh, what lovely fat letters, Uncle!" "Yes, indeed. This one from your father is in the form of a diary. He wrote a little every day and mailed it on the steamer before it reached Queenstown, as I told you he would do." The little girl listened breathlessly to every word of those two letters, and her eyes filled with tears when she heard all the loving messages which they contained. "By this time they have that fine, long letter we wrote them ten days ago. That was a nice little surprise for them, because they wouldn't expect us to write until we had heard from them. So we are one ahead on surprises." "But Father s'prised us with the cablegram from Liverpool, Uncle." "So he did. Well, we are quits at any rate." After dinner, Mary proposed that they spend the evening before the fire in the sitting-room. The Doctor saw that Gene hesitated and asked kindly, "Won't you join us?" "You see so little of each other, Doctor, that I think you should have this time together every evening." "But we would like to have you with us, too, Gene," urged Mary. "Perhaps I shall join you later, dearie. I really ought to write to my mother this evening. It will make her very happy to know that I have at last found a little sister." During the week that followed, a busier little girl than Mary could scarcely have been found in New York City. So well did she work that she was able to finish not only two blotters, two calendars, the horse reins and the whisk broom holder, but also a little card for Tom, Aunt Mandy's grandson, whom Mr. Selwyn had taken with him to Italy. A whole evening was spent in carefully wrapping each gift in white tissue paper, tying it with bright ribbon, and sealing it in every possible place with heads of jolly old Santa Claus. Among the many gifts which the Doctor had brought home during the week were the following: For Mr. Selwyn, a large, framed photograph of Mary, an enlarged copy of a kodak picture which he had taken of her after her parents had gone away; for his sister, a beautiful black lace mantilla which, as he explained to the little girl, her mother would wear on her head when she had an audience with the Pope; for the babies, tiny gold chains and miraculous medals. Nor had he forgotten Aunt Mandy and Tom. The table in the playroom was scarcely large enough to hold all the gay-looking packages; and they were just about to carry them down stairs to pack them in the strong, wooden box in the lower hall when who should appear in the doorway but the two servants—Liza with a big plum pudding decked with sprays of holly, and old Susie with an immense fruit cake. "We 'lowed dey wouldn't see nuffin lak dis yeah obah yondah in dat savage land whah dey's done gone to, nohow, Massa Frank," chuckled the old cook. "What yo' spects dem Eyetalians knows 'bout fruit cake an' plum puddin', huh?" "They certainly know nothing about the kind you make, Susie, or we would have them all inviting themselves to our Christmas dinner." "I'se got a few t'ings what I made ma own self, Massa Frank, ef'n yo' reckons dey'll be room fo' dem in dat box." "We shall find room for them, Liza, or get a larger box. Bring them along." At last the box was packed; and as the Doctor reached for the hammer to nail down the cover, Mary caught his hand in both of hers and held it to her cheek while she murmured wistfully, "Wouldn't it be lovely if we could pack ourselves in the box and go, too, Uncle?" "I, for one, strongly object to traveling in a packing box, little one; and I think you would be begging to be taken out after the express man had bumped you down the front steps. Never mind. A box will arrive from Italy one of these fine days, and we shall have a great time opening it. If it should come while I am not here, no fair peeping!" "As if I would, Uncle!" The next morning, Mary began a calendar for her uncle. "I don't have to hurry with anything now, Gene, even with Aunt Mary's gift. We always take her presents to her Christmas afternoon." But the little girl was puzzled about a gift for Gene herself. The Doctor would not allow her to use her eyes at night, because they had been weakened by her long illness; and she could think of no excuse for locking herself in her room while she made the present she had in mind. At last one evening at dinner, her uncle solved the question for her by asking: "Gene, will you kindly look over Mary's wardrobe and see what she will need in the way of new frocks, shoes, and so on? I fear that I shall have to ask you to do some shopping for her before she will be ready for the trip South. I have never tried to buy so much as a pair of shoes for a young lady." "Indeed, Doctor, I shall be only too glad to select anything she needs." For Gene, like all girls, loved to shop, especially when every penny did not have to be counted twice before it was spent. Mary clapped her hands and laughed so gleefully that the Doctor looked at her in surprise. "Hm! There is mischief in your eye, young lady. We may look out for something, Gene, on the day you go shopping." A little later when alone with Mary, he drew a letter from his pocket. "I had a few lines from Aunt Mary to-day, and this little note for you came in the same envelope. Shall I read it to you?" "Please, Uncle. Writing is so hard for me to read. Big people write such a funny way. They make points instead of curves at the top and bottom of m's, n's, and u's, so that I can hardly tell which is which." "Yes, we grown-ups should be more careful when writing to little folks. Now, let us see what Aunt Mary has to say: 'My dear Mary, Mother Johanna is so very busy these days that she has asked me to write this little note for her and invite you to spend Christmas with us at Maryvale. Your little friends are all around me telling me what to say to you. They wish you to come out Friday morning, for they have many, many things to do to aid Santa Claus, and they know what a great help you will be to them. Eight of them will spend the holidays here, so you will have plenty of company. Do not disappoint us. Your loving Aunt Mary.' Well, what do you think of that?" "It is just lovely for Mother Johanna to invite me, Uncle; but, of course, I won't go." "And why not, pray tell me?" "Go to Maryvale and leave you alone for Christmas!" "But I do not intend to be left alone. I, too, am invited. Aunt Mary tells me that Father Hartley, the chaplain, will be happy to have me spend a few nights at his cottage, and I am looking forward to a very good time indeed." "But——but, Uncle,——oh, it will be bad enough not to have Father and Mother and the babies home for Christmas, but if I have to be away from you, too——" "You do not understand, dear. I shall be with you during the day—at meals and all—and in the evening until bedtime. Indeed, you will see far more of me than if we remain at home." "But——but we won't be in the same house at night. Father Hartley's cottage is as far from the convent as——as——" "Why, pet, it is right on the convent grounds, not more than two hundred yards away." "But you can't come when I am asleep and kiss me good-night." "Whatever put such an idea into your head? So you think I go prowling about the house at night at the risk of waking you and having you think I am a burglar?" "If you don't come, Uncle, I must dream that you do; but it seems very strange that I should have the same dream every night at the same time." "If you are asleep, how do you know the time?" "W——ell, I must wake up a little, for I hear the big clock at the foot of the stairs strike ten just after you have gone." "Just after I have gone! So you take it for granted that I do go into your room every night, eh? then why not prove it? At Maryvale, I can not possibly go to you at ten o'clock at night." The Doctor was more than anxious that the little girl should accept the invitation, for he well knew how very lonely this Christmas would be for her at home. "I was so sure that you would like to go, that I have made plans for a jolly time. One of them is that we shall send that big, old-fashioned sleigh, which has stood in the barn for years, out to Maryvale, and I shall take you and your little friends for a sleigh ride every day. Perhaps Aunt Mary and some of the Sisters could go with you. And then we could help Santa Claus in regard to the tree and some gifts for those little girls who do not go home for Christmas. If we do go, Gene will be able to spend Christmas at her own home. Don't you think you had better sleep over it, Goldilocks, before sending your regrets to Mother Johanna? You might change your mind when it is too late." But the thought of making the holidays happier for the little girls who could not go home and, more than all, for Gene, was quite enough to win Mary over to her uncle's view of the matter. "I have already changed my mind, Uncle. We won't send our regrets." CHAPTER III. MARY'S SECRET. The following day, just after luncheon, Gene handed the Doctor a list of the things she thought Mary would need, and told him that she had decided to go down town that afternoon. "Mary will not have so much time to get into mischief after her nap as she would have if I were to go in the morning," she explained, her eyes twinkling. "A very good idea indeed, Gene; but if you had given me a little hint, I could have put a sleeping powder into her glass of milk, and that would have kept her in bed until dinner time. Well, I think we can trust her not to eat matches or burn the house down. I shall tell Liza to keep an eye on her." "But Liza is going to help me." "Oho! a plot, is it? Well, do your worst, for you may never have the house to yourselves again," laughed the Doctor, putting on his overcoat. "Gene, please excuse me, but I must whisper something to Uncle." And Mary drew him into the library. "The reason I am so glad, Uncle, is because I want to make Gene's Christmas present while she is out; and don't you think I could do without a nap for just this once? I can take two to-morrow, one in the morning and one in the afternoon, to make up, you know." "Better go to bed an hour earlier to-night. By all means use every moment while Gene is out to make her gift." "And will you help me tie it up to-night, Uncle? I make such funny bows." "I shall do my best, but I am no hand at tying ribbons. Shoe strings are more in my line, you know." "That's so, Uncle. I don't see how we would have managed to tie up the things for the box without Gene. But I can't ask her to tie the ribbon on her own present. Oh, maybe Liza can help me." "I am sure she can. And now you must excuse me while I speak to Gene a moment. Ask Liza to tell Jim to have the carriage ready to take her down town. It is a very cold day." Leaving Mary in the library, the Doctor returned to the hall, where Gene was waiting at the foot of the stairs for the little girl. "You may see something to-day, Gene, that will take your fancy as a Christmas gift for the home folks; so I am going to pay my debts a little ahead of time." "Really, Doctor, I do not feel that you owe me anything. I have been treated as a guest—no, as a member of the family; and you have no idea what it has meant to me." "And you have no idea how much all that you have done for my little niece has meant to me. If any one had told me that she could be so happy and contented without her parents and little sisters, I would not have believed it. Of course, I know that she has her lonely hours. Such things are to be expected." "Yes, Doctor, there have been times when I was tempted to telephone for you. It seemed to me that she needed someone of her very own to comfort her. But even at her worst, she has always been so sweet and gentle—so different from the children that I have usually dealt with." "She is a winsome little lassie, and for that very reason I appreciate anything that is done to make her happy. Sister Julia gave me no idea of your powers in that line, so I do not feel bound by the bargain I made with you and have taken it upon myself to do what I think common justice requires. Even then, I shall be in your debt; for there are things which mere money can never repay." He placed an envelope in her hand and was gone before she could do more than thank him. On the sidewalk he turned to wave at Mary, who always stood at the window until he had passed out of sight; but a cry from Gene had called the little girl into the hall, and the Doctor chuckled as he pictured the two examining the contents of the envelope. "Oh, it is a mistake—a mistake! Look at this, Mary!" And Gene sank on the lowest step of the stairs and burst into tears. "But, Gene,—oh, don't, don't cry, Gene!" Mary threw her arms about the sobbing girl. "Isn't it good money? O Gene! Uncle didn't mean to give you bad money, you know. Here, I shall throw it right into the fire, and he will give you the good kind the very minute he comes home." The child seized the two crisp bills lying in Gene's lap and ran toward the library. "Mary, Mary, don't! No, no!" Gene hurried after her. "It is good money! Too good to be true! Look at it! Two one hundred dollar bills! And it isn't a mistake, either. Your Uncle meant to give them to me. He said so himself; but I was too much surprised to remember. Think of it, Mary! Two hundred dollars for the very loveliest time I have ever had in my life." "Is that very much money, Gene? I don't know much about money." "It is ever so much more than I have ever handled at one time. Oh, you little darling! You have no idea what this means to me. My father is an invalid. He injured his back two years ago and has not been able to walk since. But wait until he gets the comfortable wheel chair that this money will buy for him. I shall not buy it to-day, though, for I should like to ask your uncle about the best place to get such a thing. So you see, dearie, why I am so, so happy over my two hundred dollars. But come! The minutes are flying, and I must dress to go out." When Mary had seen the carriage drive down the street with Gene safe inside it, she flew out to the kitchen to ask Susie to make her some paste. "Gwine to papah yo' doll house agin, honey?" "No, Susie, I have to make Gene's Christmas present while she is down town, and I have used every speck of paste in the bottle she bought for me. I really think the kind you make sticks better." "Co'se it do, Miss May-ree. Homemade t'ings am alwuz de bestest dey is. Yo' run 'long an' git de res' ob yo' fixin's ready, an' Liza'll fotch dis up to yo' when it gits cool. 'Tain't no good hot, nohow." "And will you come up to see the gift when it is finished, Susie? I would like your 'pinion about it. You see, this is the only one I have tried to make all by myself." "I sho'ly will, honey; but I reckon ma 'pinion ain't wuf much, nohow." "Indeed it is, Susie. I shall call you the very minute the gift is finished." Mary knew exactly what she intended to make for Gene, so lost no time in planning it. She began at once to cut a circular piece of cardboard, but found it hard work for her little hands. In the center of it, she pasted a photograph of herself, which she knew Gene liked very much; and then she cut strips of crepe paper, pink and dark green, and carefully pulled out the edges to make ruffles. Beginning at the edge of the cardboard, she pasted the green paper, circle within circle, singing all the while; and her sweet little voice reached the ears of Liza and Susie, who stole up the back stairs and peeped in at her as she cut and clipped and snipped and pasted and patted. "Now, I am ready for the pink paper. There's the clock striking—one—two—three. I wonder when Gene will be home. Liza! Li—za—a—a! Li—i—i—za!" The two women in the hall fled on tiptoe; and after a few moments, Liza entered from the next room. "Wuz yo' callin', honey?" "Yes, Liza. What time do you think Gene will be home?" "Don't know'm, Miss May-ree. 'Bout five, I reckon." "That's exactly what I think. Then I have only two hours. But I shall have this finished unless she comes earlier. It won't take so long to paste the pink ruffles on, because the nearer I come to the center, the smaller the circles are. How do you think it's going to look, Liza?" "Scrumptious, honey, scrumptious! An' when yo's ready fo' to tie dem ribbings, jes' yo' call me agin." Mary thought over every word Gene had said that afternoon. "I am going to tell Uncle all about her poor, sick father. If anyone can make him well, he can. And about the chair—that one has been up in the attic for years and years. There, my frame is finished all but the ribbons to hang it up by. I shall have to ask Liza to punch the holes for me. Liza! Li—za! Li—za—a!" "Yas'm, Miss May-ree, yas'm! Wal, ain't dat de mos' bu'ful present I ebah did see! Wait, honey, twell I calls ole Susie." The cook was as loud as Liza in her praise of the little girl's work. "And now I am going to put it in Uncle's room so Gene won't see it." What matter that the crepe paper was not cut very evenly, or that the paste showed through in several places? The love that was worked into every inch of that picture frame and the dear little face peeping out of the very heart of the flower brightened many a sad day in Gene's after life. "Oh, oh! Liza! there's the door bell!" Mary stopped short at the door of her uncle's room. "Dat's all right, honey. I'se gwine turn out de light in heah, an' ef'n it's Miss Gene, yo' come 'long down right aftah me an' tek her in de liberry an' keep her dah talkin' while I comes back up heah an' cleahs away de scraps." Mary was half way down the stairs when Liza opened the door to admit Gene, who was followed by Jim with his arms piled high with boxes. "There is so much delay about sending things these days that I thought I had better bring them since I had the carriage," explained the young girl. "Liza will show Jim where to put the boxes, Gene. Come in here and warm yourself by the fire. Do tell me what you bought—every single thing. Did you see about that nice chair for your father?" Though Mary tried to ask the question in her usual tone, there was an anxious note in her voice, which did not escape Gene; neither did the child's little sigh of relief when she answered, "No, Mary, I wish to ask your uncle's advice about that." After dinner, the Doctor went upstairs with them to see Gene's purchases. The young girl spread the pretty little dresses on Mary's bed. There was a soft, white, cloth one braided with pale blue; a dark blue cashmere trimmed with tiny, white pearl buttons; several dainty white frocks of summer material, besides ginghams, lawns, and dimities in blue and white plaids, checks, and stripes. "They are just lovely, Gene, lovely!" cried Mary. "Yes, indeed, Gene, you have shown very good taste in making your choice." "Thank you, Doctor. I was not sure whether you and Mary would care for the little dark blue dress, as she seems to have nothing but white and pale blue ones. It may be worn with a white guimpe as a change from the blue silk one that goes with it." Gene began to return the things to their boxes, and the Doctor, in response to a sign from Mary, followed the child into the hall and to his own room. "You don't mean to tell me you made that, Goldilocks!" "I did! I did! All except tying the ribbons. The edges of the ruffles are not very even, so will you please trim them a little?" "Leave them just as they are. The whole frame looks like a big hollyhock, and the uneven places make it more natural. The petals of a flower are not all exactly even, you know." "Then let us wrap it up and put it away. Where can we hide it so Gene won't see it?" "How about the bottom drawer of my dresser? There is a large flat box in there that we shall lay it in." A few minutes later when the two were enjoying their usual evening chat before the sitting-room fire, Mary told her uncle Gene's story. "And I just know you can cure Mr. Donnelly, Uncle." "I am not so sure about that, pet; but there will be no harm in going to see him if Gene would like me to do so. As for the wheel chair in the storeroom upstairs, I shall have to think of a way to get around that. Perhaps I can offer to lend it to her for as long a time as her father may need it. Run off to bed now. You have had a busy afternoon cutting and pasting and planning for the happiness of others. After Gene has tucked you in for the night, ask her to come in here for a few minutes." Before leaving for his office the next morning, the Doctor told Mary that he had promised Gene to go to see her father the day after Christmas, and that he had advised her not to buy a chair until after his visit. "From what she has told me of the case, I think he will have to be brought to a hospital in the city. So say nothing of the wheel chair in the storeroom." It took quite a while that morning to try on all the new dresses. "I am glad they do not need altering, Mary, for I ought to pack your trunk this afternoon. Do you wish to take any dolls and games and books away with you?" "Santa Claus always brings me books and games, so they will be enough to take to San Antonio. About my dolls—I think I shall just take Amelia Anabelle." This was a large baby doll which Mr. Selwyn had given his little girl just before he went away. There was a button at the back of its neck, and when it was pressed, the head turned around in the baby cap, showing a crying face instead of hair. At the same time, the doll cried and kicked and waved its arms about just as a very cross baby would do. Then, Mary said, Amelia Anabelle was in a tantrum. "My other children are old enough to stay with their aunt in the country. (That's my toy box, Gene.) I shall carry Amelia Anabelle; but goodness, me! the poor child has no cloak. Those belonging to my other children won't fit her." "Babies as young as she is are often wrapped in a warm shawl." "Then I know the very thing—the pretty white shawl Mother made for me to wear when I began to sit up after I was so sick. I shall wrap that around her, and the robe from my doll carriage, too. Now, Gene, you are laughing at me. Your eyes are all twinkly. Yes, they are. Do you think Amelia Anabelle will look funny bundled up that way?" "Not at all, Mary. I was not smiling at what you said, but at a thought of my own." "I hope Santa Claus will bring me the nice little suitcase I asked him for. I showed Uncle my letter before I sent it up the chimney, because he is one of Santa Claus' helpers, you know, and if the letter should be lost, Uncle will remember exactly what I asked for. I should like a suitcase that I can carry myself—one just large enough for the things I need on the train. I am so glad we can go as far as Maryvale together, but I do wish you could stop off to see Aunt Mary. How far is your home from Maryvale, Gene?" "I shall travel sixty miles on the train after you leave me, dearie, and then drive two miles out into the country." "After we have packed my trunk, Gene, we must help Susie with the baskets for the poor people that Mother always remembered at Christmas time." CHAPTER IV. MARYVALE. Friday morning, Mary was half dressed when Gene came to wake her. "There are so many things that I must do before it is time to start, you know, Gene." "Why, Mary, you have nothing to do but to eat your breakfast and put your comb and brush in your suitcase. Neither have I," laughed the young girl. "Indeed, I have some very important things to do, Gene, and I wish you would try to go around with your eyes closed and not fasten your suitcase until I tell you." "Now, Mary, what did I say about gifts? You promised, you know." "Yes, I know I promised not to let Uncle Frank buy you anything, and not to make anything myself; but his gift was already bought, and mine was already made; so we can't do anything but give them to you, can we?" "You little mischief! I told you that I would like to have that picture of you and that was all. I thought we would surely find it before this." "And I looked everywhere for the large ones like it that Mother has put away somewhere, but I couldn't find them. Never mind, Gene, you shall have that picture some day." After breakfast when the Doctor had said good-bye to Gene, Mary clung to him, making him promise to leave early that evening for Maryvale. "And I have telephoned to Aunt Mary to expect you on the ten-thirty train. She will send the sleigh with two or three of the large girls to meet you. Be sure to catch that train, for it will take you out there in good time for luncheon. Good-bye until evening." "Now we must fly around and get ready, Gene. You know we have to stop at little Paul's home to give him and Sister Julia their presents. He may wish us to stay a few minutes, too. Oh, oh! don't fasten your suitcase yet, please!" Mary hurried to her uncle's room for Gene's gift, and returning, peeped in at the door. "Please look out the window a minute, Gene." Carefully laying the package on top of the things in the suitcase, she slammed down the cover and sat on it. "Now, you may fasten it, but I won't let you have even one, teeny, weeny peep. And you must promise not to open the suitcase until Christmas morning." "But, darling, I can't promise that. There are things in it that I shall need as soon as I get home." Mary's face fell. "But I shall promise not to open your gift until Christmas. Will that do? is it wrapped?" "Yes, Gene, it is wrapped, so you really can't see the pic——the——the thing, anyway." "Jim jes' done tol' me dat he's gwine to dribe around to de front now, so yo' bettah lemme holp yo' git yo' t'ings on, Miss May-ree, so's Miss Gene kin git her's on at de same time." Liza smiled in a knowing fashion at Mary and took up the little girl's pretty, white coat and hat. "Just a minute, Liza. I must wrap up Amelia Anabelle first. Will you please get the shawl out of the middle drawer?" Mary crossed the room to the door of the playroom, and Gene pretended to be busy with her suitcase. "Why—oh! oh! oh!" Back ran the little girl to throw her arms about Gene and dance with her around the room. "You dear, darling, dumpling Gene! Now I know who the little friend is that you were knitting the pretty white mittens and leggings and embroidering the beautiful baby cloak and cap for. You are the mischief!" And Mary was off again to the playroom, returning with Amelia Anabelle dressed for the trip. "See how nicely the ruching on her inside cap sticks out—just exactly enough. O Gene, you are too good to me!" "I could never be that, dearie." Then came Gene's turn for a surprise. She went into her own room, Mary and Liza following her as far as the door. She took up her hat and turned to the dresser, then gave a glad little cry; for on it lay a handsome, brown leather bag mounted in silver. Opening it, she found an envelope containing a twenty dollar gold piece and the Doctor's card on which was written, "May this bag never contain less." Nearly two hours later, the train stopped at the village near Maryvale, and Mary at once spied the sleigh filled with the children from the convent. Two of the older ones were waiting on the station platform. One of them took Mary's suitcase, the other her doll, and the little girl threw her arms around Gene. "Happy, happy Christmas and good-bye, Gene, until Monday. Uncle is going to take me with him when he goes to see your father, you know." The young girl stood on the platform of the car, waving to the little, white-clad figure until a curve in the track cut off the view. "Here's a place for you, Mary!" "Oh, sit by me, please!" "You'll be warmer right here, between Frances and me!" "Oh, what a darling doll!" "Let me hold her, please, Mary!" were some of the cries from the sleigh. At last all were comfortably settled, and a jolly ride they had. Before they had gone very far, Amelia Anabelle had a tantrum which added greatly to the fun. Sister Madeline was at the door to welcome the little girl. "Mother Johanna told me to give you one of the big girls' rooms, so we shall go there at once to take off your wraps. Let me carry that lovely baby. She looks too heavy for you." "She is heavy, Aunt Mary; but I wouldn't mind that so much if she wasn't so cross. On the train there was a baby crying; but when Amelia Anabelle began, it just stopped to stare at her. And in the sleigh—well, I was 'shamed of her!" As her aunt laid the doll on the bed, Mary slyly pushed the button. "Did you ever see such a child! I s'pose I shall have to walk the floor with her." And then Mary laughed gaily at the look on Sister Madeline's face. "There now, she will be good until the next time." But her aunt caught up the doll and soon found the cause of her antics. "You must take her with you when you go to see Mother Johanna after dinner, Mary. The dear old soul won't know what to make of her. Then I shall borrow her to amuse the Sisters at recreation. It is just dinner time, so we shall go down stairs. We close the large refectory when so few of the children are here, and they have their meals in the lunch room." "'M, 'm, it smells Christmassy down here." "Yes, Dora and Frances have decorated the lunch room with holly and evergreens. Have you brought an apron with you? They expect you to work, you know." "I think it is going to be make-b'lieve work, Aunt Mary. Yes, Liza put an apron in my suitcase, because this dress doesn't wash, and I am going to wear it to travel in." The afternoon passed quickly for the nine little girls gathered around the table in the recreation room, where the roaring flames were dancing up the big chimney. They strung popcorn to help Santa Claus deck the tree, and it is safe to say that quite as much went into their mouths as on the long threads. "The tree will be right there in the bay window, Mary." "Yes, and we hang our stockings around the fireplace." "But we don't get a peep at our presents until after the Masses on Christmas morning." "We have Midnight Mass you know, Mary, and then we have a lunch and go back to bed. At six o'clock Father Hartley begins and says two more Masses." "Midnight Mass! Oh, I have never been to Midnight Mass. It must be lovely....