  Miss Barrington, who had learned to love Nan as dearly as had her sister, Miss Dahlia, looked admiringly at the beautiful girl, who, having removed her gypsy costume, was clad in a clinging simple white voile. “Anne,” she said, “will you play for us? The piano has not been touched in many a day.” And so Nan, always glad to please these two, played and sang the selections chosen by the elderly ladies. Suddenly the telephone rang and a maid appeared. “Miss Barrington,” she said. Nan ceased playing, and, to her surprise, she heard Miss Ursula replying to someone over the wire, “Yes indeed, you may come. We shall be glad to have you.” For some unaccountable reason Nan’s heart began to beat rapidly. Could it be Robert who was coming? She wondered as she resumed her playing, but her fingers went at random and then, before it seemed possible, the door bell rang and a moment later Robert in his military uniform, entered the room. He was gladly welcomed by the two old ladies who had known him since he wore knickerbockers and then when Nan went forward and held out her hand as she said in her frank friendly way, “Robert, forgive me for disappearing, but I suddenly remembered that I had promised your mother that I would never again speak to one of her kind, and I do sincerely wish to keep my promises.” “But, Miss Barrington,” the lad appealed to the elderly woman, “should one keep a hastily made promise when there is no justice in it? I am sure that my father would approve of my friendship with Nan, and though I regret my mother’s attitude, I do not think that I should be influenced by it. If you and Miss Dahlia will grant me permission to be Nan’s comrade once more, I will promise to care for her as I would wish another to care for a sister of mine.” They were seated about the wide hearth for the evenings were cool. “Robert Widdemere,” Miss Ursula said, “if Anne wishes your friendship, we will welcome you into our home whenever you desire to come. We wish Anne to remain at the Pine Crest seminary until June. We are then going to our cottage on the coast of Maine until October, when we will return to San Seritos for the winter.” The lad’s eyes were glowing. “How I would like to go back there,” he said, then, turning to the girl, he added, laughingly, “I suppose Lady Red Bird is too grown now to climb the pepper tree.” “I suppose so,” Nan replied merrily. “That is one of the penalties of being civilized.” Soon the lad rose reluctantly. “I promised Cousin Peggy that I would return for the supper dance at ten o’clock,” he said, “and to keep that promise I must leave at once. But, Nan, you have not yet told me that you care to have my friendship.” The girl looked thoughtfully into the fire a moment and then replied slowly, “Robert Widdemere, I do want your friendship, but I would be happier if I might have it with your mother’s consent.” “Then you shall,” the boy replied. In the meanwhile Peggy had sought Phyllis. “I don’t in the least understand what is happening,” she said. “First your friend, disguised as a gypsy, leaves in a panic, then Cousin Robert insists on knowing where she has gone and follows her, and when his mother heard about it, she became so angry that she went at once to her room and bade us tell Robert to come to her the moment he returns. What can it all mean?” “It’s just as much a mystery to me, Peg,” Phyllis said. “But there comes Robert now. Perhaps he will explain.” * * * * * * * * The interview that Robert Widdemere had with his mother on his return from the Barrington home was not a pleasant one for either of them but in the end Robert had said firmly but gently, “I feel sure that my father would approve of my friendship with Nan and, moreover, next summer I will be 21 and I shall consider myself old enough then to choose my own companions. My dad must have expected me to possess good judgment in some degree or his request would not have been that I assume the reins of his business on my 21st birthday.” Then, going to the indignant woman, he put his arm about her as he said lovingly, “Mother, dear, I want you to tell me that you are willing that I may be Nan Barrington’s friend.” “It is a great disappointment,” Mrs. Widdemere said, “but, since you are soon to be financially independent of me, I suppose that I might as well give my consent. However, do not expect me to receive that gypsy girl into my home as an equal, for I shall not.” * * * * * * * * The next morning Phyllis and her cousin Robert visited the Barrington home and an hour later the lad accompanied the girls to the station where they were to take the train for Pine Crest. Robert had told Nan that he had won his mother’s consent to their friendship but he did not tell how reluctantly that consent had been given. The next day the lad returned to the Military Academy where in another month he would complete his training, but each week he and Nan exchanged letters telling of the simple though pleasant experiences of their school life. Nan and Phyllis were to graduate in June and they were happily busy from dawn till dark. It had been the custom for many years at the Pine Crest Seminary for the pupils to make their own graduating dresses by hand. These were to be of dainty white organdie and the two girls, with their classmates, spent many pleasant hours sewing in one room and another. Tongues flew as fast as the needles while each young seamstress told what she hoped the summer and even the future would hold for her. Nan was often thoughtfully silent these last days of school. One twilight Phyllis found her standing alone at their open window watching the early stars come out. “What are you thinking, dear?” she asked. “I was wondering about my own mother,” Nan replied. “Next week I will be eighteen and then it was that Manna Lou planned telling me who I am, I never could understand why she did not tell me before, but she said that she had promised, and now, that I might know, I am too far away.” “Perhaps your mother was a sister of Manna Lou,” her friend suggested. “Perhaps, but come dear,” Nan added in a brighter tone, “we are due even now at French Conversation.” Nan did not speak again of the mystery of her birth, but she often wondered about it as her eighteenth birthday neared and she longed to know more of her own mother, who must have loved her so dearly. |
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