Part 34 (1/2)

”Now for home, my little one,” said the lady, turning; and away they flew over hill and hollow till they reached the broad, wide open gates of the place known to everybody as Fernbrake, and skimming gaily down the long flower-bordered avenue, they stopped at the door of the beautiful house. The verandas looked inviting with their easy chairs and rockers, but no one was sitting there, so Cynthia followed her hostess shyly up the wide stairway, into a cool, airy room with white drapery at the windows, an upright piano standing open, and books everywhere, showing the taste of its occupants. Oh, those books! Cynthia's few story-books had been read until she knew them by heart. Though in these days it was seldom she was allowed to sit with a book in her hand, a book-loving child always manages somehow to secure a little s.p.a.ce for the coveted pleasure. And here were shelves just overflowing with dainty, gaily covered volumes, and low cases crowded, and books lying about on window-seats and lounges.

Mrs. Dean observed the hungry, eager gaze, and taking off the wide-brimmed hat with its white ribbon bow and ends, she seated the little girl comfortably, and put a story into her hands, telling her to amuse herself until Effie and Florence should come.

A half-hour sped by, and then, answering the summons of a bell in the distance, the two daughters of the house appeared, and Cynthia was asked to go with them to luncheon.

Mrs. Dean was a little worried about Cynthia's dress, and was revolving in her mind whether she might not make her look more like the other children by lending her for the occasion a white dress of Florrie's, when, to her regret, she observed that Florrie's eyes were resting very scornfully on the faded green delaine and the stout coa.r.s.e shoes.

Now if there is anything vulgar and unpardonable, it is this, children--that, being a hostess, you are ashamed of anything belonging to a guest. From the moment a guest enters your door he or she is sacred, and no true lady or gentlemen ever criticises, much less apologizes for, the dress of a visitor. Mrs. Dean was sorry to observe the sneer on Florrie's usually sweet face, and glancing from it to Cynthia's, she was struck with the contrast.

Never had Cynthia in her life been seated at a table so beautiful. The tumblers of ruby and amber gla.s.s, the plates with their delicate fruit and flower decoration, every plate a picture, the bouquet in the centre reflected in a beautiful little round mirror, the pretty silver tubs filled with broken ice, the s.h.i.+ning knives and forks, and the dainty tea equipage, were so charming that she felt like a princess in an enchanted castle. But she expressed no surprise. She behaved quietly, made no mistakes, used her knife and fork like a little lady, and was as unconscious of herself and her looks as the carnation pink is of its color and shape.

Mrs. Dean meditated. She did not quite like to ask this child to wear a borrowed dress, and she felt that Florrie needed to take a lesson in politeness. Drawing the latter aside, she said, ”My darling, I am sorry you should treat my little friend rudely; you have hardly spoken to her.”

”I can't help it, mamma. She isn't one of the set we go with. A little common thing like that! See what shoes she has on. And her hands are so red and coa.r.s.e! They look as if she washed dishes for a living.”

”Something very like it is the case, I'm afraid, Florrie dear. I fear she has a very dull time at home. But the child is a little lady. I shall feel very much ashamed if she is more a lady than my own daughters. See, Effie has made friends with her.”

”And so will I,” said Florrie. ”Forgive me, mamma, for being so silly.”

And the three girls had a pleasant chat before the visitors came, and grew so confidential that Cynthia told Effie and Florrie about the one great shadow of her life--the mortgage which made her papa so unhappy, and was such a worry to poor Aunt Kate. She didn't know what it was; it seemed to her like some dreadful ogre always in the background ready to pounce on the little home. Neither Effie nor Florrie knew, but they agreed with her that it must be something horrid, and Effie promised to ask her own papa, who knew everything, all about it.

”Depend upon it, Cynthia,” said Effie, ”if papa can do anything to help you, he will. There's n.o.body like papa in the whole world.”

By and by the company began to arrive, and the wide grounds were gay with children in dainty summer costumes and bright silken sashes.

Musicians were stationed in an arbor, and their instruments sent forth tripping waltzes and polkas, and the children danced, looking like fairies as they floated over the velvet gra.s.s. When the beautiful old Virginia reel was announced, even Cynthia was led out, Mr. Dean himself, a grand gentleman with stately manners and a long brown beard, showing her the steps. Cynthia felt as if she had been dancing with the President. Cinderella at the ball was not less delighted, and this little Cinderella, too, had a misgiving now and then about to-morrow, when she must go home to the housework and the boarders and the gathering of beans for dinner. Yet that should not spoil the present pleasure. Cynthia had never studied philosophy, but she knew enough not to fret foolishly about a trouble in the future when something agreeable was going on now.

In her mother's little well-worn Bible--one of her few treasures--Cynthia had seen this verse heavily underscored: ”Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself.” She did not know what it meant. She would know some day.

I cannot tell you about the supper, so delicious with its flavor of all that was sweet and fine, and the open-air appet.i.te the children brought to it.

After supper came the fireworks. They were simply bewildering. Lulu, the staunch little friend who had gone to Cynthia's in the morning, speedily found her out, and was in a whirl of joy that she was there.

”How did you get away?” she whispered.

”Oh, Mrs. Dean came after me herself,” returned Cynthia, ”And Aunt Kate couldn't say no to _her_.”

Lulu gave Cynthia's hand a squeeze of sympathy.

”What made you bring your mamma's shawl?” asked Cynthia, as she noticed that Lulu was enc.u.mbered with a plaid shawl of the heaviest woolen, which she kept on her arm.

”Malaria,” returned the child. ”Mamma's _so_ afraid of it and she said if I felt the teentiest bit of a chill I must wrap myself up. Horrid old thing! I hate to lug it around with me. S'pose we sit on it, Cynthy.”

They arranged it on the settee, and complacently seated themselves to enjoy the rockets, which soared in red and violet and silvery stars to the sky, then fell suddenly down and went out like lamps in a puff of wind.

Suddenly there was a stir, a shriek, a chorus of screams following it, from the group just around the fireworks. A pinwheel had exploded, sending a shower of sparks in every direction.

All in a second, Florrie Dean flew past the girls, her white fluffy dress on fire. And quick as the fire itself, Cynthia tore after her.

Well was it that the shabby green delaine was a woolen dress, that the stout shoes did not enc.u.mber the nimble feet, that the child's faculties were so alert. In a second she had seized the great shawl, and almost before any of the grown people had realized the child's peril, had smothered the flames by winding the thick folds over and over, round and round, the fleecy dress and the frightened child.