  Upon reaching Windy Island that cold, grey, late afternoon, Muriel went at once to her Treasure Cave to procure the primer which her Uncle Lem had given her, and by the aid of which she could read other books and letters containing the simplest words. This she carried to her room above the kitchen adjoining the lighthouse. But it was not until the following morning, when her tasks were finished, that she was able to slip away to decipher the message from Gene. A drizzling rain was keeping them both indoors. The old captain, never content when he was idle, had brought to the warm kitchen a net that he was mending. “I’m getting strong by the day,” the little letter told the girl, “and the hope of seeing you very soon again, Muriel, good friend, helps me more than anything else.” What would the girls in his home set have thought could they have seen that letter which had been written in the greatest sincerity, for with none of them did Gene have a serious friendship. They knew him merely as the good-looking, always good-natured brother of their favorite, Helen Beavers, with whom they bantered merrily. Gene liked them all well enough, but they wearied him with their constant chatter of tennis tournaments and teas, and their ceaseless laughter. No wonder that his pal, David Davison, had often said that most girls seemed to be afflicted with “giggleitis,” but not so Muriel. As Gene sat alone hour after hour in a hospital, the windows of which looked out across the Hudson, he thought often of the sweet seriousness of the truly beautiful face of his “storm maiden.” Those hazel eyes had looked into his very soul, and how thankful he was that he had nothing in that soul that he wished to conceal. She had laughed, now and then, spontaneously, joyfully, but she was very different from the modern girl who laughed continually because she thought it becoming. He couldn’t conceive of Muriel doing anything merely to gain admiration. “She’s a bully good pal, that’s what; so is sis; but there aren’t many girls like those two,” was his conclusion. Gene had still another month of enforced vacation, as the doctor had declared that he would not permit him to return to college until after the holidays. Under other circumstances the lad would have fretted about this, but as it was he knew that he was actually eager to spend at least the larger part of that month in Tunkett. But Gene was not left long alone, for on the very first Saturday after his arrival in the New York hospital, his sister Helen and two of her best friends from the boarding school farther up the Hudson appeared unexpectedly to visit him. Gladys Goodsell and Faith Morley were attractive maidens, clad in fashionably tailored suits, with muffs to keep their gloved hands warm, for, in spite of the dazzling brightness of the day, the air was stingingly cold. “Oh, brother,” Helen protested when she was told that as soon as he was stronger he was going back to Tunkett, “what can you see in that outlandish village?” Then to her friends she added: “I went down there one week-end with Doctor Winslow, who is an old friend of father’s, but I can assure you that I shall never go again, that is, not out of season. Such queer people as I saw! Honestly, I had to pinch myself to be sure that I hadn’t stepped into one of Joseph Lincoln’s stories, and, as for understanding what the natives said, well, I just couldn’t.” “Maybe you didn’t try very hard, Sis.” This from the lad who was keeping his new friend a secret in his heart. “Maybe I didn’t,” was the merry reply, “but if I were going to write a comic story that’s where I’d go for my characters and illustrations. Girls, I do wish you might see the clothes worn by the wives of the fishermen. I am sure the dressmaker who made them must have come over in the ark.” As Gene listened, lying back among the pillows of his half-reclining-chair, he glanced at the costumes of his fair visitors, then, turning, he looked out toward the Hudson, but it was not the steely blue river that he saw but a girl in a nondescript calico dress with hair wind-blown who was ordering him to leave her island. Looking back at his sister, he said: “You are right, Helen, about the clothes. They are different.” When at last the girls arose, Helen leaned affectionately over her brother’s reclining-chair. “I don’t know what possesses you to want to go to Tunkett of all places during this coming month.” Then, wheedlingly: “We’re going to have a series of parties at the school just before the holidays, and then there’s to be that annual affair over at West Point. Please reconsider, brother dear. Go down for a week or two if you really think that it will do you good, but I beg of you, do come back for the holiday fun. Now, promise me!” Gene took the gloved hand of his sister, whom he did indeed love dearly. “I’ll promise to consider, sister mine,” he said; then added: “But I’m hardly in trim for night frolics just now.” Helen noticed how pale and suddenly weary her brother looked and, stooping, she kissed him tenderly on the forehead as she said softly: “Gene, dear, if you are still in Tunkett, I’ll come down there and spend Christmas with you. Since mother and father are in Europe, you and I will want to be together.” There was a grateful expression in the lad’s eyes and then he closed them, for he found that he was indeed very tired. Helen motioned the girls to leave quietly, which they did. What would these three city maidens have thought had they known Gene’s real reason for wishing to return to Tunkett, for surely the village itself held little to attract one in the severe months of early winter? |
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