Part 21 (2/2)
”Nothing, you sweetest of dears,” said mother, tenderly. Mildred was her great favorite, and n.o.body was jealous, for we all adored our tall, fair sister.
So we scattered to our different occupations and did not meet again till luncheon was announced.
Does somebody ask which of the minister's eight children is telling this story? If you must know, I am Frances, and what I did not myself see was all told to me at the time it happened and put down in my journal.
CHAPTER II.
AT WIs.h.i.+NG-BRAE.
Grace Wainwright, a slender girl, in a trim tailor-made gown, stepped off the train at Highland Station. She was pretty and distinguished looking. n.o.body would have pa.s.sed her without observing that. Her four trunks and a hat-box had been swung down to the platform by the baggage-master, and the few pa.s.sengers who, so late in the fall, stopped at this little out-of-the-way station in the hills had all tramped homeward through the rain, or been picked up by waiting conveyances.
There was no one to meet Grace, and it made her feel homesick and lonely. As she stood alone on the rough unpainted boardwalk in front of the pa.s.senger-room a sense of desolation crept into the very marrow of her bones. She couldn't understand it, this indifference on the part of her family. The ticket agent came out and was about to lock the door. He was going home to his mid-day dinner.
”I am Grace Wainwright,” she said, appealing to him. ”Do you not suppose some one is coming to meet me?”
”Oh, you be Dr. Wainwright's darter that's been to foreign parts, be you? Waal, miss, the doctor he can't come because he's been sent for to set Mr. Stone's brother's child's arm that he broke jumping over a fence, running away from a snake. But I guess somebody'll be along soon.
Like enough your folks depended on Mr. Burden; he drives a stage, and reckons to meet pa.s.sengers, and take up trunks, but he's sort o'
half-baked, and he's afraid to bring his old horse out when it rains--'fraid it'll catch the rheumatiz. You better step over to my house 'long o' me; somebody'll be here in the course of an hour.”
Grace's face flushed. It took all her pride to keep back a rush of angry, hurt tears. To give up Paris, and Uncle Ralph and Aunt Hattie, and her winter of music and art, and come to the woods and be treated in this way! She was amazed and indignant. But her native good sense showed her there was, there must be, some reason for what looked like neglect.
Then came a tender thought of mamma. She wouldn't treat her thus.
”Did a telegram from me reach Dr. Wainwright last evening?” Grace inquired, presently.
The agent fidgeted and looked confused. Then he said coolly: ”That explains the whole situation now. A dispatch did come, and I calc'lated to send it up to Wis.h.i.+n'-Brae by somebody pa.s.sing, but n.o.body came along goin' in that direction, and I clean forgot it. Its too bad; but you step right over to my house and take a bite. There'll be a chance to get you home some time to-day.”
At this instant, ”Is this Grace Wainwright?” exclaimed a sweet, clear voice, and two arms were thrown lovingly around the tired girl. ”I am Mildred Raeburn, and this is Lawrence, my brother. We were going over to your house, and may we take you? I was on an errand there for mamma.
Your people didn't know just when to look for you, dear, not hearing definitely, but we all supposed you would come on the five o'clock train. Mr. Sloc.u.m, please see that Miss Wainwright's trunks are put under cover till Burden's express can be sent for them.” Mildred stepped into the carryall after Grace, giving her another loving hug.
”Mildred, how dear of you to happen here at just the right moment, like an angel of light! You always did that. I remember when we were little things at school. It is ages since I was here, but nothing has changed.”
”Nothing ever changes in Highland, Grace. I am sorry you see it again for the first on this wet and dismal day. But to-morrow will be beautiful, I am sure.”
”Lawrence, you have grown out of my recollection,” said Grace. ”But we'll soon renew our acquaintance. I met your chum at Harvard, Edward Gerald at Geneva, and he drove with our party to Paris.” Then, turning to Mildred, ”My mother is no better, is she? Dear, patient mother! I've been away too long.”
”She is no better,” replied Mildred, gently, ”but then she is no worse.
Mrs. Wainwright will be so happy when she has her middle girl by her side again. She's never gloomy, though. It's wonderful.”
They drove on silently. Mildred took keen notice of every detail of Grace's dress--the blue cloth gown and jacket, simple but modish, with an air no Highland dressmaker could achieve, for who on earth out of Paris can make anything so perfect as a Paris gown, in which a pretty girl is sure to look like a dream? The little toque on the small head was perched over braids of smooth brown hair, the gloves and boots were well-fitting, and Grace Wainwright carried herself finely. This was a girl who could walk ten miles on a stretch, ride a wheel or a horse at pleasure, drive, play tennis or golf, or do whatever else a girl of the period can. She was both strong and lovely, one saw that.
What could she do besides? Mildred, with the reins lying loosely over old Whitefoot's back, thought and wondered. There was opportunity for much at the Brae.
Lawrence and Grace chatted eagerly as the old pony climbed hills and descended valleys, till at last he paused at a rise in the path, then went on, and there, the ground dipping down like the sides of a cup, in the hollow at the bottom lay the straggling village.
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