  It was June, one year since Muriel Storm had arrived in England, and again she was returning to the home of her ancestors, after a long trip to Switzerland, where Gene had visited her and her father. During this year, Muriel had acquired from her father an ease of manner which well fitted her for the position she was to fill. Invitations to the debut of Lady Muriel were crossing the Atlantic. They were addressed to the four girls at High Cliffs who had befriended her when she was supposed to be only the grand-daughter of a lighthouse-keeper. Others bearing the Wainwater crest were addressed to dwellers in Tunkett—to Doctor Winslow and his lovely wife; to Brazilla Mullet and her brother, Jabez Mullet; to Uncle Barney and his Molly. In London Mrs. Beavers and Helen received their invitation. There was a flush of pleasure on the elder lady’s face as she read the message on the crested card. “Helen,” she said, “will wonders never cease? The Viscount of Wainwater has a daughter. Probably she has been away at school all these years and that is why we have not heard of her.” Then, as her gaze wandered to a handsome pictured face on a table near, she added: “I am glad now that Gene did not care for Marianne Carnot.” Helen laughed. “Mother, dear,” she said, “what a matchmaker you are! It is unfortunate that brother seems to care for Muriel Storm.” “Daughter,” replied Mrs. Beavers haughtily, “I wish you never again to mention the name of that seafaring girl in my presence. I am so glad that your brother will be home from college in time to attend the debut.” * * * * * * * * The day of the great event had arrived. Helen and her mother were dressed and waiting for the carriage to convey them to Wainwater Castle. But the elder woman was troubled, for though the boat from America had docked and the train from Liverpool had arrived two hours before, yet Gene had not come. Then she heard his voice in the lower hall, asking, “Where is my mother?” Catching her outstretched hands, he exclaimed admiringly: “Did ever a chap have so beautiful a mother?” Not waiting for a reply, he added wheedlingly, “Mother, darling, are you as hard-hearted as ever?” “I am never hard-hearted, son, where you are concerned. What do you mean?” “Mother mine, I have come to ask your permission to marry the most wonderful girl in this world, whose name is Muriel Storm. Am I right in believing that you really care for my happiness?” “Yes, my son, I care for nothing else; it will be a great disappointment to me to have you marry the daughter of a lighthouse-keeper, but if you are convinced she is the girl you love, I will welcome her for your sake.” “Mother, mother,” he cried, “you will never regret those words!” Soon after the last guest had arrived at the castle, the orchestra was stilled, and the viscount spoke. “Friends and neighbors, I have invited you here tonight to rejoice with us. I wish to announce the engagement of my daughter to one of the finest lads I have ever known, Gene Beavers. And now it gives me great pleasure to present to you my daughter, the Lady Muriel of Wainwater.” Mrs. Beavers was scarcely able to believe what she had heard and seen. As one in a trance, she advanced, and Gene leaped to meet her and placed Muriel’s hand in that of his mother. “My boy—I don’t understand—I thought—is this—” Impulsively the girl held out her other hand as she said in her most winning way: “I want you to love me. I am Rilla of the Lighthouse.” |
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