Part 15 (1/2)

”I locked myself in,” Mary Rose explained with a shamed face. ”I was careless and left the key on the outside. Mr. Bracken should have scolded me but he didn't. We've been the best friends and had the nicest time together and now it's going to be nicer because you're here.”

She beamed on first one and then the other as she bustled about finding a plate and a knife and fork, making the toast that Mrs. Bracken thought she would prefer to bread and all the time talking in a friendly fas.h.i.+on. She never doubted that what interested her would interest others.

At first Mrs. Bracken regarded her helplessly, as Mr. Bracken had done, but gradually the look of irritation disappeared and at last a smile took its place. It was strange to share a lunch of boiled eggs and tea on the kitchen table with Joseph Bracken. She had not done that since they were first married and were moving into their first home. She hadn't thought of it for years but now it was oddly pleasant to remember the little details of a time before she had been absorbed by clubs and he by business. Neither she nor Mr. Bracken had much to say but Mary Rose talked enough for three. She waited on them with a solicitude that forced them to eat and when they had finished she sent them into the other room.

”I'll wash up. It won't take me a minute.”

So, because she told them to, Mr. and Mrs. Bracken drifted into the other room and left her alone with Jenny Lind. Mr. Bracken did not take his hat and mutter that he would be back for dinner. He walked over to the window and stood looking down the street. At last he turned around and looked at his wife who was sitting on the davenport as if she were tired.

”Elsie,” he said abruptly, ”what ever became of your niece?”

She looked up in surprise. ”You mean Harriet White? She's living with the Norrises in Prairieville.”

”Wouldn't you like to have her here?” he asked suddenly. ”It doesn't seem just right--decent--to let strangers look after your own relations.”

Her eyes opened wider. He had never seemed to think whether it was decent or not until now. ”But we can't have her here. That was the trouble after her mother died. Children aren't allowed in the house and we didn't want to move.”

”How old is she?”

”Thirteen or fourteen. I'm not just sure which.”

”A girl of thirteen isn't a child. Send for her, Elsie, and if anyone objects, we can move. But I guess a tenant means something to a landlord and there won't be any objections. We need her, Elsie, as much as she needs us. We need someone young with us. That kid,” he nodded toward the kitchen where Mary Rose was l.u.s.tily singing the many verses of ”Where Have You Been, Billy Boy?” ”has made me realize what we are missing. Why she fussed around me as if--as if,” he colored slightly, ”as if I were her father. No, it isn't anything new. I've been thinking for some time that we aren't getting all we should out of life. You give your time and strength to clubs and I give mine to business and what does it amount to? What are we working for?

Abstract people aren't the same as your own flesh and blood. What we need is something to bring us together and if Hattie White is anything like that kid she'll keep us good and busy.”

Mrs. Bracken slipped across the room and put her hand on his arm.

”I'll be glad to send for her, Joe. I haven't felt just right to leave her with the Whites but I thought you didn't want her and I told myself that my first duty was to you. I'll write today. No, I'll go for her, if you don't mind.”

”That's a good girl.” His arm slipped around her waist.

Out in the kitchen Mary Rose brought her song to an abrupt close. She thrust her head in the doorway. ”I'm all through. Didn't I say it wouldn't take a jiffy? It's been very pleasant but Aunt Kate'll be wondering where I am and so will Grandma Johnson. Good-by.”

”Good-by,” they chorused. ”Come again,” they added, as if they couldn't help but speak the hospitable words.

”I shall,” Mary Rose called back. ”Sure, I'll come again.”

CHAPTER XIII

”And Mr. Jerry said that if you weren't so much of an angel you'd be a splendid artist or if you weren't so much of an artist you'd be a splendid angel. It sounds queer the way I say it but I know he meant it for a compliment.” Mary Rose and Jenny Lind were posing for the jam poster. It was almost finished and Mary Rose was sinfully proud of it.

Miss Thorley frowned and refused to say what she thought of Mr. Jerry's compliment. Mary Rose frowned, also.

”You don't like Mr. Jerry very much, do you?” she ventured to ask.

”I'm too busy to know whether I do or not.” Miss Thorley half closed her eyes and looked at Mary Rose in the funny way she did when she was painting. ”My work takes all of my time. Chin up, Mary Rose.”

”Yes'm.” Mary Rose tilted her chin a little higher. ”You aren't under any obligation to think of him, of course, but if your cat was boarding with him and he had borrowed your dog you'd just have to keep him in your mind and heart. And he's worth thinking of. He's a very fine young man. Everyone says so. Jimmie adores him and he hasn't known him a week. You've known him lots longer than that, haven't you?” She spoke as if she could not understand how Jimmie could be so much more clever. It must be on account of the spell that old Independence had put upon Miss Thorley. There couldn't be any other reason for not liking Mr. Jerry. He was so altogether likeable. Mary Rose sighed at life's complications. ”I just love Mr. Jerry myself. I can't help it,” she went on more slowly. ”I wish you did, too,” wistfully. ”It's much more pleasant when the people you love will love each other. It gives you such a comfortable feeling as if you didn't care if Heaven was so far away. I do think this world would be almost as wonderful as Heaven if everyone would love everyone else.”

”There is no doubt of that,” Miss Thorley absently agreed with her.

”Then will you try and love my friends?” eagerly. She almost lost her pose in her eagerness. ”I'll love yours. Every one! I will! I can because I have a big heart. Did you know that the more you put into a heart the more it will hold? It's the hearts that haven't anyone in them that are so little and hard. I think hearts must be like balloons. You can blow and blow and blow into balloons and there's always room for some more breath.”