Part 3 (1/2)

”Wasn't there a girl's name which means bitterness?” asked Miss Cordelia, suddenly stopping.

”Yes,” said Miss Patty. ”That's what 'Mary' means.”

The two sisters looked at each other earnestly--looked at each other and nodded.

”We'll call her 'Mary' then,” said Miss Cordelia.

And that is how my heroine got her name.

CHAPTER IV

I wish I had time to tell you in the fulness of detail how those two spinsters brought up Mary, but there is so much else to put before you that I dare not dally here. Still, I am going to find time to say that all the love and affection which Miss Cordelia and Miss Patty had ever woven into their fancies were now showered down upon Mary--falling softly and sweetly like petals from two full-blown roses when stirred by a breeze from the south.

When she was a baby, Mary's nose had an upward tilt.

One morning after Miss Cordelia had bathed her (which would have reminded you of a function at the court of the Grand Monarque, with its Towel Holder, Soap Holder, Temperature Taker and all and sundry) she suddenly sent the two maids and the nurse away and, casting dignity to the winds, she lifted Mary in a transport of love which wouldn't be denied any longer, and pretended to bite the end of the poor babe's nose off.

”Oh, I know it's candy,” she said, mumbling away and hugging the blessed child. ”It's even got powdered sugar on it--”

”That's talc.u.m powder,” said Miss Patty, watching with a jealous eye.

”Powdered sugar, yes,” persisted Miss Cordelia, mumbling on. ”I know. And I know why her nose turns up at the end, too. That naughty Miss Patty washed it with yellow soap one night when I wasn't looking--”

”I never, never did!” protested Miss Patty, all indignation in a moment.

”Washed it with yellow soap, yes,” still persisted Miss Cordelia, ”and made it s.h.i.+ne like a star. And that night, when Mary lay in her bed, the moon looked through the window and saw that little star twinkling there, and the moon said 'Little star! Little star! What are you doing there in Mary's bed? You come up here in the sky and twinkle where you belong!'

And all night long, Mary's little nose tried to get up to the moon, and that's why it turns up at the end--” And then in one grand finale of cannibalistic transport, Miss Cordelia concluded, ”Oh, I could eat her up!”

But it was Miss Patty's turn then, because although Cordelia bathed the child, it was the younger sister's part to dress her. So Miss Patty put her arms out with an authority which wouldn't take ”No” for an answer, and if you had been in the next room, you would then have heard--

”Oh, where have you been My pretty young thing--?”

Which is a rather active affair, especially where the singer shows how she danced her a dance for the Dauphin of France. By that time you won't be surprised when I tell you that Miss Patty's cheeks had a downright glow on them--and I think her heart had something of the same glow, too, because, seating herself at last to dress our crowing heroine, she beamed over to her sister and said (though somewhat out of breath) ”Isn't it nice!”

This, of course, was all strictly private.

In public, Mary was brought up with maidenly deportment. You would never dream, for instance, that she was ever tickled with a turkey feather (which Miss Cordelia kept for the purpose) or that she had ever been atomized all over with Lily of the Valley (which Miss Patty never did again because Ma'm Maynard, the old French nurse, smelled it and told the maids). But always deep down in the child was an indefinable quality which puzzled her two aunts.

As Mary grew older, this quality became clearer.

”I know what it is,” said Miss Cordelia one night. ”She has a mind of her own. Everything she sees or hears: she tries to reason it out.”

I can't tell you why, but Miss Patty looked uneasy.

”Only this morning,” continued Miss Cordelia, ”I heard Ma'm Maynard telling her that there wasn't a prettier syringa bush anywhere than the one under her bedroom window. Mary turned to her with those eyes of hers--you know the way she does--'Ma'm Maynard,' she said, 'have you seen all the other s'inga bushes in the world?' And only yesterday I said to her, 'Mary, you shouldn't try to whistle. It isn't nice.' She gave me that look--you know--and said, 'Then let us learn to whistle, Aunt T'delia, and help to make it nice.'”

”Imagine you and I saying things like that when we were girls,” said Miss Patty, still looking troubled.