Part 9 (1/2)

It was her grand-niece whom she greeted first.

”My dear!” she cried, holding the tall, gray-eyed girl at arms' length.

”How you grow! John, she's grown an inch since she rode over a month ago.

I believe upon my soul she has. And looks more like you every day! Kiss your old aunt, dear! She's plum proud of you!”

Then she turned to the others, whom Virginia proudly introduced one by one.

”It's a blessed sight--all these young folks together,” she said, shaking hands with them all. ”Except for Pioneer Reunions, I haven't seen so many all to once for fifty years. And so you all come from away back East--the place we used to call home? It ain't that any longer to us old folks--but the memories are dear all the same!”

She stepped briskly upon the porch and toward the chair Virginia had placed for her. The Vigilantes and Aunt Nan watched her, fascinated.

Virginia had told them of her wedding journey across the plains in '64; of the hards.h.i.+ps and dangers she had withstood; of lonely winter days in a sod hut, and of frightful perils from Indians. She seemed so little someway sitting there, so frail and wrinkled in the big chair. It was almost incredible that she had lived through such terrible things. They longed to hear the story of it all from her own lips. Virginia's recital was thrilling enough! What then must Aunt Deborah's be?

But Aunt Deborah was in no haste to talk about herself! She was far more interested in Virginia's friends--their respective homes and families--their school life and their plans and dreams for the future.

Somehow the Vigilantes found it the easiest thing in the world to tell Aunt Deborah their ambitions. Aunt Nan found it easy, too, to speak of Virginia's mother to this dear old lady who had known and loved her.

Virginia held Aunt Nan's hand close in her own as they heard Aunt Deborah tell of Mary Webster's coming to Wyoming; then a far rougher land than now; of her brave fight against homesickness; of her transformation of the Buffalo Horn School; and, finally, of the fierce struggle within herself over whether she should return to Vermont or stay to marry a Wyoming ranchman.

”My nephew John,” finished Aunt Deborah proudly. ”A good man. None other than a good man could have won Mary Webster.”

”Oh, I'm so glad she stayed!” cried Aunt Nan, a big lump in her throat and her eyes br.i.m.m.i.n.g with tears. ”I'm so glad--Aunt Deborah!” She took one of the little old lady's hands in hers. ”We're all together now,” she said, ”New England and the West. There's no difference any longer, is there, Virginia?”

”No, Aunt Nan,” said Virginia, choking down the lump in her own throat.

”There's not a bit of difference. And somehow I'm sure Mother knows.

Aren't you, Aunt Deborah?”

”Something inside of me says that she does,” said Aunt Deborah softly.

”You see, dears, even Heaven can't blot out the lovely things of earth! At least, that's how it seems to me!”

A moment later, and Mr. Hunter came around the corner of the porch.

”John,” cried Aunt Deborah gayly, ”don't let's worry one bit about this old world! With these young folks to write the books, and teach the schools, and take care of the homeless babies, we're safe for years to come! Come and tell me all about the wheat.”

So the morning pa.s.sed, and at noon Malcolm and Donald, Jack and Carver rode over for dinner, and for Aunt Deborah's stories, which Virginia had promised them. Aunt Deborah's talent for listening won them also, and they told her their ambitions quite as eagerly as the Vigilantes had done. All but Malcolm--he was strangely silent! Dinner was served on the lawn beneath the cottonwoods. Joe and d.i.c.k brought out the large table, which was soon set by Hannah and her four eager a.s.sistants. It was a jolly meal, quite the merriest person being Aunt Deborah.

”It wouldn't be so bad to grow old if you could be sure of being like that, would it?” whispered Carver Standish III to Malcolm.

”No,” said Malcolm absent-mindedly, looking at Aunt Nan. ”No, it wouldn't!”

”Now, Aunt Deborah,” began Virginia, when the things were cleared away, ”you know you promised you'd tell stories. You will, won't you?”

Aunt Deborah's gray eyes swept the circle of interested faces raised to her own.

”Why, of course I will, Virginia,” she said. ”Where shall I begin?”

”At the very beginning,” suggested Carver and Jack together. ”We want it all, please.”

”I'm glad William put marigolds on the table,” Aunt Deborah began. ”They make it easy for me to get started. They take me back fifty years ago to the day before I was married back in Iowa. Robert came up that evening, and saw me with a brown dress on and marigolds at my waist. 'Wear them to-morrow, Deborah,' says he. 'They're so bright and sunny and a good omen. You see, _we're_ going to need suns.h.i.+ne on our wedding journey.' So the next day, when I was married, I wore some marigolds against my white dress. Some folks thought 'twas an awful queer thing to do. They said roses would have been much more _weddingy_, but Robert and I knew--and it didn't matter about other folks.

”The very next day we started for our new home across the plains. That was to be our wedding journey. 'Twas in July, 1864. We went to Council Bluffs to meet the others of our train. That was just a small town then. In about three days they'd all collected together, ready to start. We didn't have so large a party as some. There were about seventy-five wagons in all, and two hundred persons, counting the children.