  Grandmother Abbott had indeed been right when she prophecied that Gerald’s joy, upon hearing that he could accompany Dan and his sister Julie, would be unbounded. She told him before breakfast while they were waiting for the others to come down. They had planned telling him later, but when his father saw how hard the small boy was trying to be brave; how the tune he was endeavoring to whistle wavered and broke, he could stand it no longer, and, putting a hand on each of the boy’s shoulders, he looked down at him as he asked: “Son, if you could have your dearest wish fulfilled, what would it be?” The lad hesitated, then he said earnestly: “There’s two things to wish for, Dad, and they’re both awful big. I want everything to be all right for you, but, oh, how I do want brother Dan to get well.” Tears sprang to the eyes of the little old lady, and placing a hand affectionately on the boy’s head she asked: “Isn’t there something else, dearie, something you’d be wishing just for yourself?” It was quite evident to the two who were watching that a struggle was going on in the boy’s heart. He had assured himself, time and again, that his dad must not know how he wished that he could go with Dan. He even felt guilty, because he wanted to go, believing that his dad needed his help at home, and so he said nothing. His father, surmising that this might be the case, asked, with one of his rare smiles: “If you knew, son, that I thought it best for you to go with Julie, to help her take care of Dan, would you be pleased?” Such a light as there was in the freckled face, but, even then, the boy did not let himself rejoice. “Dad,” he said, “don’t you need me here?” “No, son, your grandmother has decided to stay all summer. She has found a nice family to take care of her farm. Indeed I shall feel better, knowing that you are with Julie, if Dan should be really ill.” For a moment the good news seemed to stun the little fellow. But when the full realization of what it meant surged over him, he leaped into his father’s arms and hugged him hard, then turning, he bolted for the stairway, and went up two steps at a time. “Hurray!” he fairly shouted. “Dan, Jane, Julie, I’m going to Mystery Mountain!” This unexpected news was received joyfully by Julie and Dan, but Jane, who was putting the last touches to her traveling costume, merely gave a shrug, which was reflected back to her in the long mirror. “Well, thanks be, I’m not going,” she confided to that reflection. “I’d be worn to rags by the end of the summer if I had to listen to such shrieking. I’m thankful Merry’s Aunt Belle has no children. They may be all very well for people who like them, but I think they are superlative nuisances.” The entire family had gathered in the dining room when Jane descended, and, after the grace had been said, the two youngest members began to chatter their excitement like little magpies. Dan, who sat next to Jane, smiled at her lovingly. “I suppose you are going to have a wonderful time, little girl,” he said. “I have heard that Newport is a merry whirl for society people in the summer time, with dances, tallyho rides, and picnic suppers.” Jane’s eyes glowed, and she voiced her agreement. “I’ve heard so, too, and I’ve always been just wild to have a wee taste of that gay life, and now I can hardly believe that I am to be right in the midst of it for three glorious months.” Then, as she saw a sudden wearied expression in her brother’s face, she added: “You’re very tired, Dan, aren’t you? If only you were rested, I should try to plan some way to have you go with me. I’m wild to have you meet Merry. I do believe she is just the kind of a girl whom you would like. You never have cared for any girl yet, have you? I mean not particularly well?” There was a tender light in the gray eyes that were so like their father’s. Resting a hand on Jane’s arm, he said in a low voice, “I care right now very particularly for a girl, and she is my dear sister-pal.” Somehow the expression in her brother’s eyes made Jane unhappy. She did wish he would not look at her—was it wistfully, yearningly or what? Rising, their father said, “The taxi is outside, children. Are you all ready?” There was much confusion for the next few moments. The expressman had come for the trunks, and there were many last things that the father wished to say to the three who were going to his cabin on Mystery Mountain. “Dan, my boy,” Mr. Abbott held the hand of his eldest in a firm clasp and looked deep into his eyes, “let your first thought be how best you can regain your strength. If you need me, wire and I will come at once.” Then putting his hand in his pocket, he drew out an envelope. “The passes are in here. Put them away carefully.” Then he turned to Jane. “Goodbye, daughter. You will be nearer. Come home when you want to. May heaven protect you all.” The two younger children gave “bear hugs,” over and over again, to their dad and grandmother, and when at last all were seated in the taxi, they waved to the two who stood on the porch until they had turned a corner. Dan smiled at Jane as he said: “This is indeed an exodus. That little old home of ours never lost so many of us all at once.” “Gee, I bet ye the apple orchard’ll wonder where me and Julie are,” the boy began, but Jane interrupted fretfully. “Oh, I do wish you would be more careful of the way you speak, Gerald. You know as well as any of us that you should say where Julie and I are.” The boy’s exuberance for a moment was dampened, but not for long. He soon burst out with, “Say, Dan, you know that story Dad tells about a brown bear that came right up to the cabin door once. Do you suppose there’s bears in those mountains now?” “I’m sure of it, Gerry. Dozens of them, but they won’t hurt us, unless we get them cornered.” “Well, you can bet I’m not going to corner any of them,” Gerry confided. “But I’d like to have a little cub, wouldn’t you, Julie, to fetch up for a pet?” The little girl was doubtful. “Maybe, when it grew up, it would forget it was a pet bear, and maybe you’d get it cornered, and then what would you do?” Dan laughed. “The bear would do the doing,” he said. He glanced at Jane, who sat looking out of the small window at her side. He did not believe that she really saw the objects without. How he wished he knew what the girl, who had been his pal all through their childhood, was thinking. As he watched her, there was again in his eyes that yearning, wistful expression, but Jane did not know it as she did not turn. The little station at Edgemere was soon reached, the trunks checked for the big city beyond the river, and, after a short ride on the train and ferry, they found themselves in the whirling, seething mass of humanity with which the Grand Central Station seemed always to be filled. The train for the West was to leave at 10, and after it was gone, Jane planned going uptown to buy a summer dress. Dad had told her to charge it to him. His credit was still good. As they stood waiting for the gates to open, Dan took from his pocket the envelope containing the passes. For the first time he glanced them over, then exclaimed: “Why, how curious! There are four passes! I thought there were but three. Oh, well, they are only slips of paper, and do not represent money.” He replaced them and smiled at Jane. The children raced to a stand to buy a bag of popcorn and Dan seized that opportunity to take his sister’s hand, and say most seriously: “Dear girl, if I never come back, try to be to our Dad all that I have so wanted to be.” There was a startled expression in the girl’s dark eyes. “Dan, what do you mean?” Her voice sounded frightened, terrorized. “If you never come back? Brother, why shouldn’t you come back!” She clung to his arm. “Tell me, what do you mean?” But he could not reply for a time, because of a sudden attack of coughing. Then he said: “I don’t know, little girl. I’m afraid I’m worse off than Dad knows. I——” “All aboard!” The gates were swung open. Frantically, Jane cried: “Dan, quick, have my trunk checked on that other pass. I’m going with you.” * * * * * * * * Mr. Abbott smiled through tears as he handed his mother the telegram he received that afternoon. “I felt sure our Jane had a soul,” he said. “Her mother’s daughter couldn’t be entirely without one.” “And now that it’s awakened maybe it’ll start to blossoming,” the old lady replied. |
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