Part 9 (2/2)

”What are you pretending?” he asked.

”I'm pretending I'm going on a journey,” she answered cheerfully.

”Don't you think I look like going on a journey, Grandy?”

”I think you look very charming, my dear,” he murmured automatically, his thin hand on the top of his cane. He s.h.i.+vered slightly. ”But I forbid you to go to Paris--bad business--it's a bad business, Louisa!”

At the gateway, just as the doctor was clucking briskly to his horse, Felicia put out her hand and stopped him. Zeb and Margot and Bele stood respectfully beside the gatehouse, respectfully but very troubled.

”It's silly,” faltered Felicia, ”but I think--I--can't go alone--Zeb, you bring me my new Bab.i.+.c.he, I can carry her under my arm.”

Zeb handed the dog up proudly, patting her professionally. He scratched his head perplexedly as he stepped back from the wheel.

”Hey, wait!” he addressed the doctor as he started a second time. He fumbled in an inner pocket of his rough coat. ”I was forgetting, Miss Felicia, a matter of a letter for you I found in Marthy's things--she sent it off at you this long time ago but it came back at her--”

He handed it up, thin, much creased and much bestamped and postmarked.

Miss F. Day New York.

Or return to

M. Z. Smather 2 Montrose Lane, Brooklyn, N. Y.

Pretend you were the doctor if you like, the tired country doctor, mildly sorry for the little old maid granddaughter of your apoplectic patient--that queer patient who lives in that stone mansion some of those French refugees built over there across the Pine Plains. That's an easy enough thing to pretend, but a tiresome enough thing, too, for then you'll have to make believe you're urging your tired horse over those heavy roads to the railway station so you can get the old maid there in time for her train. She's quiet enough, in her seedy bonnet and shabby coat, a nice sensible body usually, only very self-willed.

You know perfectly well she's going off on a wild goose chase and that she shouldn't be taking that fool puppy with her.

_But oh, I hope you're good at pretending!_ For then you can pretend you're Felicia Day! Felicia Day sitting in a lumbering local train, quite unmindful of the atrocious rocking roadbed or the blurred spring forests that whirl past your smoke-glazed window; quite oblivious of all the terrors and discomforts of journeys past or journeys still to come!

For then you can pretend that you've just slowly pulled away the envelope that was so useless because of poor old Marthy's undecipherable handwriting and that you've kissed the inner wrapping that reads ”Please send this to Miss Trenton (if that's her name). At once.” And then--oh then, you can pretend you are reading the first letter you ever had in all this world and that it says,

Dear Felice:

You see I've found out your first name even if I'm not sure of the rest. Anyhow I know Major Trenton is your grandfather. He wouldn't let me see you this morning when I went to your house and this afternoon you'd gone away. The old woman says you've gone to a house in the woods. Please, please tell me you'll let me come to see you. Please tell me where it is. She doesn't seem to know exactly. The doctor says your foot will be all right but, oh, I can't forgive myself that I let you fall. I wish I had never, never let go of you at all--

Oh, girl, please write in a hurry where you are. I want to tell you so many things. I want to ask you a lot of things. You can send a letter to my house, it's 18 Columbia Heights, Brooklyn. I know you know my name because you called it when you were falling. It was so wonderful to have you know my name--

Oh, Felice, please write me very soon. I can't wait until I get your letter.

_Your_ DUDLEY HAMILT.

CHAPTER III

LOST DREAMS

Perhaps you remember the fat boy who teased little Felice through the gate of the rectory yard. He didn't grow up like the rest of the choir boys, he merely expanded until he was a droll larger edition of his small tubby self; perhaps you've heard him singing at St. Patrick's and smiled at the bland and childlike face from which his beautiful big round baritone pours forth--he surely can sing! And eat! It's really rather fun to go to the Brevoort with him and watch his pleasingly plump wife remonstrate while he orders luncheon.

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