  On Saturday afternoon, when Geraldine was leaving Colonel Wainright’s home at about one-thirty, she saw Danny O’Neil working at the summer house, where he was replacing some of the lattice work which had broken under the heavy weight of snow. Suddenly she remembered something Doris had said when they had been planning the Valentine dinner: “I wish Danny O’Neil could be invited, but he probably wouldn’t come. He thinks that some of us consider him merely a servant.” The city girl could not understand why Doris wanted the boy, and she realized that it was her own attitude that was keeping him away. Then she remembered what Mrs. Gray had told her about his great loneliness for the mother who had so recently died. Geraldine also knew what it was to be motherless. Then, once again, she felt the sweet influence of real sympathy, and, turning back, she called: “Danny O’Neil, we girls are giving a surprise Valentine party at Merry Lee’s home tonight at six, and Doris particularly wants you to come with Alfred.” Then, before the amazed lad could reply, the girl turned and hurried down the walk to where her brother waited in a cutter to drive her into town. On the way she told Alfred what she had said to Danny, and she asked him to persuade him to accept since Doris so wanted him. “Sure thing, I will!” the boy replied heartily. “He’s a mighty nice chap. Lots of talent, too, I should say. I was up in his room last night for a while. He was carving book ends. I thought it mighty clever work.” Geraldine, upon reaching the Lee home, found the other girls there before her. The big, cheerful kitchen swarmed with them. They had agreed to wear white dresses with red sashes, and red ribbon butterfly bows in their hair, but their aprons were of all colors. Merry was giving orders. “Here, Doris, you crack these walnuts, will you? Bertha is going to make one of her famous nut cakes.” Then she interrupted herself to say, “Oh, Gerry, hello! You’ve arrived just in time to—to—” She looked around to see what the newcomer could do. “Send her over here to help me pare potatoes,” Peg sang out. But Merry saw, by the almost startled expression in the city girl’s face, that she would be more apt to cut her fingers than the humble vegetable, and so she replied: “No, Peg, that’s your work. Gerry shall help me set the table.” Then she apologized: “I’m sorry to do the pleasantest thing myself, but no one else knows where the dishes and things are.” “Oh, it’s all pleasant,” Bertha commented, “when we’re all together.” “What’s our Rosebud doing?” Gerry sauntered across the kitchen to the stove where their prettiest member stood stirring something in a pot. The “our” proved how completely the city girl felt that she was one of them. “Making Valentine candy,” that maiden replied. “This is a sort of a white fudge. It’s ever so creamy when it’s whipped. Just delicious with chopped nuts in it. We’re going to make heart shapes, then dip them in red frosting.” For an hour they all worked busily at their appointed tasks; then Merry and Gerry called the others into the dining-room to see the table. “Oh-oo, how pretty!” “Girls, will you look at the red ribbons running from that heart-shaped box in the middle to each place! What’s the idea, Merry?” “You’ll know later,” their president laughingly informed them. “That’s a surprise for everybody which Jack and I planned last night.” Then Geraldine exclaimed: “Why, Merry, you have made a mistake, haven’t you? There are sixteen places instead of fifteen.” “Nary a mistake,” Doris replied. “We have invited that pretty Myra Comely and she has accepted.” Then before the astonished Geraldine could say, “What? Invited a washwoman’s daughter,” Doris was hurrying on to explain how it had happened. “Myra brought our laundry home this morning, and we had quite a long visit. Merry was over at my house, and we both liked her ever so much, and when she said that she had never been to a party, why we just invited her to ours. I hope you don’t mind.” There was a shade of anxiety in the voice of Doris as she glanced at the taller girl, whose expression was hard to read. There was indeed a struggle going on in Geraldine’s heart, but good sense won out. She slipped an arm affectionately about her friend as she said: “Anyone who is good enough for you to associate with is good enough for me!” The other girls had drifted back to the kitchen to resume their tasks, and these two were alone. “Doris, dear,” Gerry said, “I told your friend, Danny O’Neil, I hoped he would come, and I made Alfred promise to bring him.” How the pretty face of Doris brightened. “That was mighty nice of you!” she exclaimed. “Now I know he will come. I telephoned him early this morning, but he seemed to think you wouldn’t care to associate with him; that is, not socially.” Then an imperative voice called from the kitchen: “Say, you two ornaments in there, come on out and help with this chicken.” At six o’clock all was in readiness, and the seven girls, divested of aprons, waited the ringing of the door bell with cheeks as rosy as their ribbons. They had the house quite to themselves, as Mrs. Angel had obligingly invited Merry’s parents to dinner and Katie had been only too glad to spend the afternoon and evening with her friends below the tracks. “Here comes somebody. Who do you suppose will arrive first?” Merry had just said when the front door burst open and Jack ushered in Myra Comely. Merry had asked her brother to bring her, but, almost before the door had closed, the bell was jingling, and all of the others arrived at once. In the whirl of excitement that followed, with everybody welcoming everybody else, no one noticed that Danny had drawn Doris to one side and was giving her a package. “It’s a valentine that I made for you. Book-ends that I carved,” he said in a low voice. “Don’t open it here.” Geraldine glanced in their direction just as Doris lifted sweet, brown eyes and smiled her appreciation at the boy. But before she could puzzle about the meaning of it, Jack had taken her hand and was leading her into the living-room, which was festooned with strings of red paper hearts. Jokingly he began: “Fair Queen o’ Hearts, I’m the Jack o’ Hearts, won’t you please tell me where you’ve hidden the tarts?” What a throng of them there was as they swarmed into the brightly lighted living-room. “Don’t sit down, anybody,” Merry warned. “The party-part is going to start right away. But first you have to draw for partners.” Then she explained that she would pass a basket to the boys that would contain halves of valentines, and that at the same time Gerry would pass one with the other halves to the girls. “You are each to take one, and the two who have the parts of one valentine are to be partners. The girls are to stand still and the boys to do the hunting.” For ten merry minutes boys darted about matching halves of valentines. The result was rather disappointing to several of them, for Rose was not for Bob, and Jack drew Myra Comely, while Gerry, of all the queer tricks of Fate, was Danny O’Neil’s partner; but they took it in good part, and when Merry put an appropriate song record on the victrola they all marched out to the dining-room. The girls felt quite repaid for their efforts when they heard the sincere exclamation of approval which the boys uttered. Then Merry, as hostess-in-chief, explained that each couple was to select seats and that they should do this thoughtfully, as the ribbons had at the other ends prophecies as to their future. There were tiny bows on the ribbons for girls. Amid much laughter from the fair ones and “wise cracks” from the boys, places were chosen, and then when they were all seated, one by one the ribbons were pulled and out of the box-heart on the middle of the table a small red paper heart was drawn, and on it, in jolly jingle, was a prophesy for the future. As each was drawn, it was read aloud and was followed by much laughter and teasing, especially when Bob read: “A dark brunette shall be your wife, And she will lead you such a life Of woe and worry and of strife.” “Oh, I say, Rose,” Bob grinned across the table at the girl who sat opposite him, “are you going to let that dark brunette get me?” “Read yours, Rosie,” Merry called gaily, and so Rose read: “A long, lank spinster you will be; A cat your only company; Your favorite pastime drinking tea.” “Oh, that’s a horrid one,” Their prettiest pushed it from her and pretended to frown. “I’m going to choose another place. I really wanted to sit where you are, Peg. Read yours, so I’ll know what I might have had.” Gleefully Peg complied: “You’ll marry a gay young millionaire, You’ll travel together just everywhere, And in all your life have never a care.” “Hurray for me!” Peg sang out, but Bob put in: “Well, I’m glad Rose didn’t choose that ribbon. A grocer doesn’t often get to be a millionaire.” And so around the table they read their futures, then the dinner was served, and so excellent was every dish that had been prepared by the fair hands that Jack was led to exclaim: “Lucky will be the swains who win these cooks for their valentines through life.” Then, to the actual embarrassment of one of them, he asked: “Gerry, which of these good things did you cook?” But, before the city girl, who knew nothing whatever about cooking, could acknowledge the fact, Merry said gaily: “Gerry and I did the decking of the table this time. Some other time we’ll show you what we can do as cooks.” Then, to her own amazement, Geraldine heard herself saying: “I’m going to give a party soon all by myself, and everyone who is here now is invited.” Her glance even included Myra Comely and Danny O’Neil. Then she concluded with, “I’ll let you know the date later.” Her brother was delighted to think that his sister had entered into the social life of the village with so much evident enjoyment, and that night when they reached home he took occasion to tell her how pleased he had been with the impromptu invitation. They were standing alone in the living-room in front of the fireplace where they had stood on that first day when the “milkmaids and butter-churners” had come to call. Alfred smiled as he thought of that other day which seemed so long ago, but wisely he did not remind his sister of her rudeness and snobbishness on that other occasion. Brightly she was saying, “Oh, Alfred, I’m going to write Dad tomorrow and tell him what a wonderful time I’m having and how glad I am that he wanted us to spend the winter in the town where he was born.” Indeed some influence, not clearly understood by Alfred, was working miraculous changes in his sister. |
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