  “Geraldine, dearie, why don’t you get up? Aren’t you feeling well this morning?” It was the day after the sleigh-ride party. Mrs. Gray had purposely permitted the girl to sleep late, but now it was nearing the hour of noon. Geraldine tossed restlessly and her face was feverish. “Oh, Mrs. Gray,” she said, “I have such a headache. I tried to get up, but I couldn’t. Then I tried to call, but you did not hear.” The little old lady was truly worried. She placed her cool hand on the hot forehead, and then she hurried from the room, promising to be back in a few moments. She went at once to the Colonel’s study, hoping that he had returned from his morning constitutional, but he was not there. Going to the telephone, Mrs. Gray was soon talking to Doctor Carson. “I’m so afraid our little girl has been exposed to some contagious disease,” she said. “Won’t you please come over at once?” The kindly doctor was at the house fifteen minutes later and with him was the Colonel, whom he had met on the highway. The doctor examined the girl, who was too listless to heed what was going on. “Geraldine is very ill,” he said seriously. “Come to think of it, Myra Comely told me that three of the girls, Geraldine among them, had brought her the wonderful news that she had to tell me about her mother’s brother. Mrs. Comely had been ill for nearly a week with a form of influenza which is often fatal.” Then, noting the startled expressions on the faces of his listeners, the doctor added: “Do not be alarmed, however, for we have taken this case in time. I am sure of that.” But, as days passed, the Colonel and Mrs. Gray were not so sure, for, in spite of their constant and loving care, Geraldine grew weaker. The little old lady would permit no one else to nurse the girl, but day and night she was near the bedside, ministering with an unceasing tenderness and devotion. The Colonel procured two capable young women to assist in the household. They were Matilda and Susan Rankin, who for years had worked for the Morrisons in Dorchester. Merry Lee and Doris Drexel, having been equally exposed, were kept home from school for a week, but they had evidently been able to resist the contagion and were not ill. Jack Lee called often to inquire about Geraldine, and his heart was heavy when the news was so discouraging. Then, at last, came a day when, with hope almost gone, the Colonel, with an aching heart, cabled to Geraldine’s father. He was in England still and he could not reach Sunnyside for two weeks, but Geraldine often called faintly for her “Dad,” and the Colonel knew that he must send for him. “I expect the crisis tonight,” the doctor said late one afternoon. Jack Lee, hearing of this, sat up with Danny O’Neil in his room over the garage. Alfred had promised to place a lighted candle in a rear window as soon as the doctor believed Geraldine to be out of danger. The long dark hours passed and it was nearing dawn. Danny had fallen asleep, but Jack, alone in the dark, sat watching for the candle which did not appear. At sunrise, as his friend had not awakened, Jack, unable to stand the suspense longer, went out in the garden hoping that he might see someone from whom he might make inquiries. As he passed beneath a window, it was softly opened and Alfred leaned out. His face was drawn and white. “Jack,” he called, “please telephone Merry and the other girls and tell them that Geraldine seems to be asleep. We thought for hours that she would never awaken, but now the doctor reports that her breathing is more normal. He is confident that the worst is over.” The listener’s face brightened. “Good!” he ejaculated. “Is there anything you want from town? I am going to take Danny home with me to breakfast and he can bring back anything you may need.” Alfred disappeared to consult the housekeeper as to what supplies might be required, and Jack, leaping up the garage stairs two steps at a time, found Danny awake and wondering what had become of his friend. He, too, was indeed glad to hear the good news, and a few moments later, when Alfred had dropped a list out to them, they drove away with lighter hearts than they had had in many a day. Great was the rejoicing in the town of Sunnyside as the news was telephoned from one home to another, and a week later, when Geraldine was strong enough to sit up for a few hours in her sunny bow window, the six girls, wrapped in furs, stood beneath it waving to her and smiling and nodding to assure her of their friendship. When they were gone, there were tears in the eyes of the invalid as she turned toward the ever watchful old lady who sat sewing nearby. “Mrs. Gray,” she said, “am I different or is everyone else different? When I first came I did not want to know these country girls, but now I love them all dearly.” Then, before the little old lady could reply, Geraldine asked, “Is my Dad coming today?” The housekeeper looked troubled. The Colonel could not account for the fact that Mr. Morrison had not been heard from since he first cabled that he would return as soon as possible. “Surely he will be here tomorrow by the latest,” was the evasive answer. The girl’s gaze then rested on the soft, silvery hair of the bent head. “Mrs. Gray, why have you been so good to me? An own relation couldn’t have been kinder. You have tired yourself all out, I know, caring for me day and night. I don’t deserve it.” There was a twinkle in the eyes that looked at the girl. “I’ve been playing a game, Geraldine,” she said. “I’ve been pretending that you were my make-believe granddaughter.” Then wistfully she added: “You don’t know how all these last ten, long years I have yearned for someone who really belonged to me, someone to care for.” Before Geraldine could reply, the door bell pealed. |
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