The Spectacle Man Part 19

"I don't believe I like her, after all," Lillian thought; and yet there was a marvellous sweetness in the smile that greeted the child, and brought her with instant response to Mrs. Marvin's side.

As they were making their way to the door after taking leave of Mrs.

Marvin, Miss Sherwin saw a lady step out from a group of people, and exclaim: "Why, Mrs. Richards! how do you do? It was only the other day I heard of your unexpected return." And the person to whom this greeting was addressed was no other than Mrs. Marvin herself. It puzzled her, but she said nothing about it to Mrs. Morrison when they related their morning's adventures.

CHAPTER EIGHTEENTH.

THE MARCH NUMBER OF THE YOUNG PEOPLE'S JOURNAL.

Mrs. Marvin was in a sadly restless state of mind. She wished again and again that chance had not brought this child in her way. Having seen her, she could not forget her, and each meeting cost her fresh pain.

And what was to be the outcome of it? Nothing? Frances had said they would soon be going away. Perhaps then she might be able to settle down again into the old life of resolutely putting aside the past.

She was not so strong as she used to be, yet she must endure it as she had done for so many years. There was nothing she could do. Her pride told her this with added emphasis each time the half-formed question rose in her mind.

She actually fretted herself into a fever which the doctor p.r.o.nounced malarial, advising change of air,--a prescription Mrs. Marvin had no thought of trying at present.

After several days in bed, she was lying on her couch weak and languid one morning, when she suddenly remembered the March number of _The Young People's Journal_. She would send for it and read the story.

When it was brought there came with it the swift recollection that Jack used to take it. She could see him now poring over the puzzle column, looking up with such a triumphant light in his brown eyes when he discovered an answer.

She held the paper for a long time without opening it, lying quite still with a desolate look on her face that was more than Caroline, her faithful nurse, could stand.

"I declare, if Miss Frances doesn't cheer up, I don't know what I shall do," she said to the seamstress.

After a while Mrs. Marvin began to turn the pages, till she found the story of "The Missing Bridge," with the gay little tune for a heading.

It is doubtful if under ordinary circ.u.mstances she would have had patience to read the simple story through, but to-day she found something soothing in its very simplicity.

"No power can destroy the bridge between true and loving hearts." She lay thinking of what Frances had said about her quarrel with Gladys. Ah!

many another bridge had been made invisible by clouds of anger and pride. The paper slipped from her grasp. "I _did_ love him so dearly,"

she cried, clasping her hands; "and I thought he cared for me, but now he has probably forgotten."

"Faith and courage can find the way--" so said the story.

"But I have neither," sighed Mrs. Marvin.

Her unquiet mind seized upon the words of the little song, and all through the day she said them over and over:--

"The bridge is broke and I have to mend it."

The clock ticked:--

"The bridge is broke and I have to mend it, mend it, mend it, mend it."

Even the horses' hoofs on the asphalt street rang out the same refrain.

Mrs. Marvin rose from her couch in some respects a changed woman. It seemed to her she had lived years in that illness of two weeks. In her soul a battle had been waged, and the struggle had left her pa.s.sive and unresisting; she was waiting. The outward result was a strange, new gentleness of manner.

At the time of the Loan Exhibit she had been commissioned by a friend to purchase a wedding gift, which was to be, if possible, something antique. The silver candlesticks belonging to Mr. Clark rather pleased her; and thinking he might have other interesting things, she had written his address in her note-book, intending to go and see for herself, but her illness had interfered. When she was once more able to be out this was her first thought.

In the meantime the March _Journal_ was being read by a good many persons who ordinarily never looked at it. The household at the Spectacle Man's naturally took a deep interest in it; and Miss Sherwin said she felt she ought to divide the profits, for if it had not been for the song and Mrs. Morrison's suggestion, the story would never have been written.

Frances laid emphatic commands upon her father to buy a copy the minute he landed in San Francisco; and Mr. Clark was also charged to remind Mark of the story, when he wrote.

In the hurry of sending telegrams, attending to his baggage, and making arrangements for an early start eastward, Mr. Morrison forgot this important matter, and it did not occur to him till, halfway on his homeward journey, he one morning saw the paper among others the train boy was carrying through the cars. He promptly purchased it, for it would never do to meet his little daughter without having read the story which was, she said, almost as good as one of his own.

Soon after leaving San Francisco, Mr. Morrison had made the acquaintance of a young civil engineer who was on his way to his home in Tennessee for a visit. He had frank, gentlemanly manners, and the cheerful, self-reliant air of a trained worker who loves his work, and the travellers were at once attracted to each other. As so often happens, they discovered mutual friends, and also that they had the same affection for Southern life and ways. Alexander Carter, as he gave his name, had recently accepted a position with a Western mining company,--a place of trust and responsibility of which he was justly proud in a modest way.

"You seem to have found something amusing," he remarked, seeing Mr.

Morrison smiling over the magazine.

"Well, no, it happens to be a rather serious story, but something reminded me of my little daughter," was the reply. "By the way, Carter,"

he added, "it is odd, but the hero of this tale bears a remarkable resemblance to you--I mean in the ill.u.s.tration. See here!" Mr. Morrison held before him the picture of the young farmer as he knelt to release the white rabbit. "This is your profile exactly. Don't you see it yourself?"

Mr. Carter laughed. "I believe there is a faint likeness, which only goes to show that I have a very ordinary countenance."

"That is just what you have not, which is the curious part of it," said Mr. Morrison.

"Who wrote the story?" his companion asked.

"It is unsigned, and I have forgotten the name. She is a young lady of whom my wife and daughter are very fond."

At St. Louis the travellers separated with cordial good-byes, feeling like old friends, and Mr. Morrison rushed off to catch the train that would take him to his destination some hours earlier than he had expected to arrive.

Mr. Carter, gathering up his things in a more leisurely way, noticed _The Young People's Journal_ lying on the seat, and put it in his bag.

CHAPTER NINETEENTH.

SURPRISES.

"Expect me Wednesday evening; will wire from St. Louis," so read the telegram from San Francisco; and on Wednesday morning Frances had just exclaimed over her oatmeal, "O dear, what a long day this will be!" when the door opened and there stood a familiar figure, looking, oh, so bright and well!

After some moments of rapturous hugs and incoherent remarks, the traveller was allowed to have some breakfast, while Mrs. Morrison and Frances looked on, too happy to eat.

"I had to surprise you, for a despatch sent after I left St. Louis would have aroused you in the night, or else not have reached you till about this time," Mr. Morrison explained as he helped himself to a m.u.f.fin.

"Jack, how brown you are, and how well you look! It is a delight to see you," said his wife.

"I never was better in my life; but I can't tell you how I have wished for you and Frances."