Mostly Mary Part 2

"Whose turn is it, Tom?"

"I doan' 'membah which one, Miss May-ree. Dey wuz bofe out yeste'day and de day befoah--"

"I think we ought to take both of them to-day, Tom. This is such an important day, you know, and I would not like to hurt the feelings of either of them. Do you think horses have feelings, Tom? I do."

"Wal, now, Miss May-ree, I doan' know persackly what to think 'bout dat.

I reckon dey has, same's eberybody else. Ef'n yo' gib f.a.n.n.y sugah lumps, an' doan' gib Billy none, I 'lows his feelin's ud be hurt a right smaht, I sahtinly does! But yo' pa done told me to tek de runabout and one hoss; so you see, one ob dem hab jes' natch.e.l.ly _got_ to stay home."

"W--ell, if you can't remember, Tom,--oh, I know how we can fix it!

Drive f.a.n.n.y when you take us _to_ the ferry, and Billy when you come after us this evening."

"Dat's de ticket, Miss May-ree! Dah's Liza on de back porch. Wondah what she wants now."

"I know! I know!" and Mary flew up the walk.

"Aunt Mandy done told me to fotch yo' in, honey, kase yo' ma's awake now an'----"

But Mary waited to hear no more. Through the hall and up the stairs to her mother's room, she flew on tiptoe. Such a happy quarter of an hour as followed while she told her mother just a few of the plans she had made to show the dear babies how glad she was to have them.

"Are you going to dedicate them to Blessed Mother, too?" she asked; for she herself had, as a tiny baby, been placed under the special protection of the Mother of G.o.d, with the promise that she should wear our Lady's colors, blue and white, until her seventh birthday. She had been born in May, the month of our Lady, and had been named "for Blessed Mother first and Aunt Mary second," as she told those who asked about it. Though Mrs. Selwyn knew that her little girl never tired of hearing stories of the Blessed Virgin, she was somewhat surprised when, on Mary's last birthday, the child had asked, "Will you take me to church, please, Mother? It is about the promise, you know. Will you make it again for me? I can't bear to stop wearing Blessed Mother's colors just because I am seven years old. My new white dress with the pink ribbons on it is lovely; but I like blue better."

"I thought you must be tired of blue, dear," her mother had replied, "so I put pink ribbon on the new dress for a little change. But it makes me very happy to know that you love our Blessed Mother so much, and we shall go at once to renew the promise for another seven years."

"I think we had better make it for always and always, Mother, for I know I shall never wish to wear any other colors."

And now, in answer to her question about Berta and Beth, her Mother said, "We shall dedicate Beth to our Blessed Mother, and Berta to the Sacred Heart."

"O Mother, that will be lovely! Then Beth will wear blue and white as I do; and Berta, red and white. But I s'pose they will have everything all white while they are such teeny, weeny babies. We won't have to tie red and blue ribbons on them to know them apart, will we, because they don't look one bit alike. Do you know which is which, Aunt Mandy?"

"Does I know which am which, honey! Kotch ole mammy mekin' a 'stake 'bout dese yeah li'l bressed lambs! Does yo' want to see de li'l toes dey has, honey?"

CHAPTER III.

A VISIT TO MARYVALE.

When the gong sounded for luncheon, Mary, ready for her visit to her aunt, ran down to the dining-room. Her father and uncle were already there. Standing before them, she turned slowly around.

"Do you think I will do? Liza says she has never had any practice in dressing little girls to go visiting. Mother always tells Aunt Mandy what I am to wear; but we had so many other things to talk about this morning that neither of us thought of it. So Liza and I had to decide."

"I think you have both shown very good taste," said Mr. Selwyn, smiling.

He wondered whether either of the babies would ever make a prettier picture than this sweet little daughter, who looked like some dainty flower in her simple white dress of dotted mull with pale blue ribbons run through the neck, sleeves, and around the waist.

"We couldn't quite decide about my hat. Liza thinks I ought to wear my straw one to keep the sun off, because my parasol is not very big, you know; but I like my new linen one best, because Mother made it. Anything she makes is _so_ much nicer than what she buys in the stores.

Seven-year-old things are too large, and sixes are too small; but she always makes things just exactly right; and she doesn't say, 'You don't mean to tell me _that_ child is seven years old!' Mother put a big blue bow on my white parasol to match the one on the hat, and I would so like to show both of them to Aunt Mary. Sometimes, I am almost certain that she is laughing to herself when I tell her that Mother made this or that; and I am sure I can't see why."

"You could, pet, if your memory would carry you back to the days of Mother's first attempts at sewing," laughed the Doctor. "She married young--just after she had finished school. Our parents died when she and I were quite small. Aunt Mary was our big sister, and looked after us and things in general. She thought that Mother had enough to do with her studies and music, so did not try to teach her sewing and other very useful things. Mother should have saved the first little frocks she made for you; and you would see that Aunt Mary has good reason to laugh, not at the pretty things Mother makes now, but at those which they remind her of. So by all means, wear the linen hat. It will be cooler and lighter on your head; and as Aunt Mary will send the wagonette to the station, you will not be exposed to the sun. Liza will take a large parasol to shade both of you while you are driving to the ferry."

Mary was glad when the warm, dusty ride on the train came to an end.

"There is the wagonette, Liza, and Aunt Mary has let all the girls who are staying at the convent for vacation come to meet us. Oh, I don't see how they can stay away from their fathers and mothers like that!"

"I reckon dey has to, honey. 'Tain't ebery li'l gal has a home lak yo'

has. Dey cud be in a lots wuss place dan May-reevale, whar dey has de Sistahs tekin' keer ob dem an' plenty ob room fo' to play outdoahs an'

all sech lak."

The little girl was warmly greeted by her friends.

"Guess the grand s'prise I had this morning," she said as she and Liza took their places in the wagonette.

"Why, your beautiful new doll, of course," cried the children, gazing with longing eyes at Annette, whom Mary had brought with her.

"Oh, no, not Annette. Uncle brought her to me yesterday. Would you like to hold her, Effie? The s'prise I mean is a million times grander."

"A--a pony!" ventured one little girl, thinking wistfully of her own pet in distant Texas.

"A big box of candy!" cried five-year-old Effie.

"Give us a little hint, Mary. Every time you come out here you have just had some grand surprise, so I should think there could not be much left to surprise you with," declared Dora, one of the older children, who sat beside our little girl.

"Yes, Dora, I think we are a very s'prising family. Father and Uncle are always doing something to s'prise Mother and me, and then we think up something for them. But this one--well, I know you can never, never guess it, so I shall tell you. I have the two dearest, darlingest, baby sisters in the whole world!"

"Twins! Oh, what are their names?" was the eager chorus.

"Roberta after Father, and Elizabeth after Mother; but we shall call them Berta and Beth until they grow up. Oh, I'm _so_ happy!"

"You _are_!" said a pouty-looking little girl. "Dear, me! I should think you would _ever_ so much rather be an only child."

Mary looked puzzled.

"Rather be an only child!" she echoed. "Why, Lucille, are you an only child?"

"Indeed I am not! I have three brothers and two sisters."

"How lovely! I have two little brothers in heaven, and I have been so lonely without them. But now, I shall never be lonely again. Anyone who knows how it feels to be an only child, would never like to be one."

"I would be willing to take the risk. I'm sick and tired of having to share everything I get with the whole family. Oh, you needn't look like that, Mary! You always have everything you wish for--whole carloads of it,--and I must say you are generous with your things. Before I would let a baby like Effie hold such a beautiful doll! But you can afford to be generous when you know that your father or mother or that grand uncle of yours will give you something better."

"But--but, Lucille," the look of wonder on Mary's face deepened, "you don't really mean that you would rather have all the toys and candy and everything all by yourself than have brothers and sisters to share them with? Oh, I am sure you can't mean _that_!"

"You will know what I mean well enough three or four years from now when those little sisters of yours cry for everything nice you have. But, no, you won't know! As I say, for everything you give away, you will get something better."

"As if Mary thinks of such a thing!" said Dora, hotly, putting her arm about the little girl. "You wouldn't be happy unless you were dividing up with someone; would you, Mary?"

Mary flashed her a grateful smile.