Part 27 (1/2)

”Dan Dolan!” he cried at last,--”Dan Dolan, grown and fattened and slicked up like--like a yearling heifer! Danny boy, I'm glad to see you,--I'm glad to see you, sure! You've come to take the job?”

”No, I haven't,--thank you all the same, Pete!” was the quick answer.

”I've struck luck for sure,--luck with a fine old plute, who is ready to stake me for all I could earn here, and keep me at St. Andrew's.”

”Stake you for all you could earn here?” echoed Pete, in amazement.

”I'll tell you all about it later,” said Dan, breathlessly. ”Just now I'm dumb struck, Pete. I came flying back to take up my old quarters at the Mulligans' and find the house shut up and everybody gone. Land! It did give me a turn, sure! I was counting on that little room upstairs, and all Aunt Winnie's things she left there, and Tabby and the stove and the blue teapot. But they're all gone.” And Dan sank down on a big packer's box feeling that he was facing a dissolving world in which he had no place.

”Oh, they're not far!” said Pete, a little gruffly; for Dan's tidings had been somewhat of a blow. ”The old woman's father died and left a little bit of money, and they bought a tidy little place out on Cedar Place, not far from St. Mary's Church. You'll find them there. You've made up your mind for good and all to stick to the highbrows? I'd make it worth your while to come here.”

Dan rose from the packer's box and looked around at the hams and shoulders and lard buckets and answered out of the fulness of his grateful heart:

”Yes, I've made up my mind, Pete. It's St. Andrew's for me,--St. Andrew's now and, I hope, forever. But--but if you want any help with writing or figuring, I'll come around Sat.u.r.day nights and give you a lift; for I won't be far. I'm sticking to old friends and the old camping ground still.”

And, with this cheery a.s.surance, Dan was off again to find the vanished roof tree that had been all he ever knew of home. He recalled the place.

It was only a short walk from the college gate. Indeed, the row of cedars that fronted the little whitewashed house had been once the boundary of the college grounds. There was a bit of a garden in front, and a porch with late roses climbing over it, and--and--

Dan stood stock-still for a moment,--then he flung open the little gate, and with a regular Sioux war-whoop dashed up the gravelled path; for there--there seated in Mrs. Mulligan's best rocker, with Tabby curled up at her feet--was Aunt Winnie herself, drinking a cup of tea!

XXVI.--RAINBOWS.

”Danny!” cried Aunt Winnie, clutching her teacup with trembling hand. ”G.o.d save us, it's Danny himself!”

”n.o.body else,” said Dan, as he caught her in a bearish hug and kissed the withered cheek again and again. It looked paler than when he had left her,--paler and thinner; and there were hollows under the patient eyes.

”But what are you doing here, Aunt Win?” he asked in amazement.

”Just spending the day, Danny. Mrs. Mulligan sent Molly for me this morning. She wanted me to see her new place, and to tell her what was to be done with my bit of things. She is thinking of renting her rooms, and my things are in the way. They are fine rooms, with rosebud paper on the walls, and a porch looking out at the church beyant; and she could be getting seven dollars a month for them. But she's got the table and stove and beds, and all our old furniture that n.o.body would want; so I've told her to send them off to-morrow to sell for what they will bring. Sure”

(and the old voice trembled) ”we'll never have any call for them again, Danny lad,--never again.”

”Oh, we won't?” said Danny, with another hug that came near doing for teacup completely. ”Just take back your orders quick as you can, Aunt Winnie, I'm renting those rooms right now.”

”Sure, Danny,--Danny boy, have ye come back with a fever on ye?”

”Yes,” grinned Dan,--”regular gold fever, Aunt Winnie! Look at that!” He clapped the twenty dollar gold piece into Aunt Winnie's trembling hand.

”That's for you, Aunt Winnie,--that's to rent those pink-flowered rooms.”

”Sure it's mad the poor boy is entirely!” cried Aunt Winnie, as Mrs.

Mulligan and Molly came hurrying out on the porch.

”Do I look it?” asked Dan, laughing into their startled faces.

”Ye don't,” said Mrs. Mulligan. ”But spake out plain, and don't be bewildering the poor woman, Danny Dolan.”

And then Danny spoke out as plain as his breathless eagerness would permit, and told the story of the ”pension.”

”It will be thirty-five dollars a month, Captain Carleton says; he'd have to throw in the five to poor old Nutty for grog and tobacco.”