  Once again it was spring. The trees about High Cliffs Seminary were pale green and pink with unfolding fresh young leaves and in the orchard back of the school the cherry, peach and apple trees were huge bouquets of fragrant bloom, spreading a feast for the bees that hummed cheerily among the flowers. Now and then a meadow lark sent its shaft of song rejoicing through the sunlit morning from somewhere beyond the tennis courts where three girls were playing, with but little animation, however, as the first real spring weather was too warm to be invigorating. “I wish we knew what has happened to sadden our Rilla,” Catherine Lambert said when, the set having been finished, the girls sat on a bench to rest. “She came back to school after the Christmas holidays so joyous that I thought some wonderful thing had happened like a romance or——” “A romance and Muriel not yet eighteen years of age!” This protestingly from Faith. But Catherine, heeding not the interruption, continued: “But that could not have been it, for now she seems very sad. I should think that you two girls who are so intimate with her might ask what has happened. Surely she is troubled about something.” “I wish I could truly say that I have noticed no change in Muriel,” Joy remarked, as she looked meditatively toward the orchard; “but I cannot, for she is changed. She studies harder than ever before, if that can possibly be. Miss Gordon told me that she had never known a pupil at High Cliffs to make such progress.” “I wonder if Miss Gordon knows what is troubling Muriel? I am sure that she would, if anyone did,” Faith said, but Joy shook her head. “No, Miss Gordon does not know, for last week she asked me to come to her apartment at an hour when Muriel was occupied in the music room and she asked me if I had noticed a change in Rilla, and if so, had I any idea what had occasioned it. I said that we all realized that Muriel seemed sad, but that we did not know the reason. Then Miss Gordon declared that she would write Doctor Winslow, who has been in the South for a month with a patient, and ask him what he thought might be troubling his ward. If this source of possible information fails, Miss Gordon will ask Rilla herself.” While these three friends were discussing Muriel as they sat out by the tennis court, that maiden was seated alone beneath the little pine tree that had been her comforter in those first lonely days before she had become acquainted at High Cliffs. In her hand she held a letter and there were unshed tears in her eyes. Although her Uncle Barney’s name was signed at the close of the missive, Muriel knew that Molly had penned it for him. “Dearie,” the girl read, “there’s no news yet, though it does seem like there ought to be. Here ’tis May and the letter we wrote was sent last December. Folks do say, ‘no news is good news,’ but I reckon this time, colleen, ’tisn’t so. If your father was living he’d have sent some sort of an answer. It would be going against nature not to. “If he hadn’t lost the letter with the address on it, or if we could remember it, we’d write again. ’Twas a name I’d never heard before, nor had Molly. I reckon that old letter got into the stove, somehow, and so there’s no way to write again. Seems like I can never forgive myself if the fault is mine. Your loving Uncle Barney.” So, after all, the dream ended. Muriel was never to know the father she had loved so long. With a sigh that was half a sob, she arose and walked slowly back toward the school, when she saw one of the younger pupils racing toward her. “Muriel Storm, you’re wanted in the parlor. There’s someone to see you. It’s a man and he’s elegant looking.” Muriel’s heart leaped. Could it be that her father had come, after all? When Muriel appeared in the doorway of the reception room, Miss Gordon rose, as did the man who was at her side. Advancing with outstretched hands, the principal said: “Dear girl, why didn’t you tell me about it? I wasn’t at all prepared for the message that this gentleman has brought to us.” Then turning to the man, who was gazing with unconcealed interest at the tall, beautiful girl, Miss Gordon added: “Muriel, this is Mr. Templeton of London. He has come at the request of your father, who is not strong enough just now to make the voyage, and, if you desire, you are to return with Mr. Templeton at once. Your passage has been engaged on a steamship leaving Hoboken tomorrow at daybreak.” The girl gazed from one to the other as though scarcely able to comprehend. Then, slowly, a light dawned in her clear hazel eyes and she said: “My father, my own father, he wants me?” Mr. Templeton was deeply moved and stepping forward he took both hands of the girl as he said sincerely: “Indeed, Miss Muriel, he does want you. I never saw a man more affected than he was when he learned that he had a daughter living. He wanted to come to you at once, but he has been ill and his physician advised against the voyage as the sea is none too quiet in the spring. And so I have been sent to accompany you to your father if you will trust me.” The girl’s questioning gaze turned toward Miss Gordon, who smilingly nodded. “It is right, dear, that you should go,” she said. “I have telephoned to Dr. Winslow and he will be here this afternoon. Now you had better go to your room. I will send a maid to help you pack.” Upon leaving the reception room Muriel had gone at once in search of her best friends and had found them all in Joy’s room. “We’ve been hunting for you everywhere,” Faith said. “We wanted you to make a fourth on the courts, but you were nowhere about, so we had to play alone.” Then the speaker paused and gazed intently at the morning glow in the face of her friend. “Why, Muriel,” she exclaimed, “of late you have seemed troubled, but now you are radiant. Tell us what has happened.” Although every moment was needed for preparing for departure, Muriel paused long enough to tell these, her dearest friends, that at last her own father had been found. “Rilla, it’s like a chapter in a story-book, isn’t it?” Joy exclaimed. “Don’t you feel strange and unreal?” Muriel laughed. “I suppose that I do, but girls, I haven’t time now to feel anything, for I must pack and be ready to leave for New York on the evening boat. Uncle Lem is going to keep me at the hospital tonight, and I am to meet my escort at Hoboken tomorrow morning before daybreak.” It had been a whirl of a day and when at last came the hour for parting with Miss Gordon and the girls who had been such loyal friends, Muriel suddenly realized that, though she was to gain much, she also was losing much. “I don’t believe anything in the world could take me from you all but just my father,” she said. “I’ll prophesy that you’ll see us soon,” Miss Gordon said briskly, for she knew the tears were near. Luckily the whistle of the boat at that moment warned the friends that they must go ashore, but they stood on the dock and waved until the small craft was out of sight. Then it was that Muriel recalled a letter that Miss Widdemere had given her at the last moment. Taking it from her coat pocket, she saw that it was from Gene, who was again in London. |
|
