Part 9 (1/2)

”Very well!” she said, after a pause. ”I see Clarice is right. You have a mean, jealous spirit, Mary. I thought I could tell the--the great thing of my life, to my most intimate friend,--for you _have_ been my most intimate friend,--and you would understand; but you don't. You never have understood me; Clarice has said so from the beginning, and now I know she is right. At least, I have _one_ friend who can feel for me. Good-by, Mary--forever!”

”Oh, Sue!” cried Mary, wanting to laugh and cry together. But Sue was gone, das.h.i.+ng through the garden at tempest speed, and flinging the gate to behind her with a crash.

Mary went into the house, and cried till she could not see. But there were no tears for Sue. She ran up to her room, and locked the door.

Then, after looking carefully around, she drew out from under the bed an old brown leather writing-desk, produced a key that hung by a ribbon round her neck, unlocked the desk, and took out a faded red morocco blank-book. It had once been an account-book, and had belonged to her grandfather; the great thing about it was that it had a lock and key! Opening it, Sue found a blank page, and flinging herself over the table, began to write furiously:

”Mary and I have parted--parted forever. She was my dearest upon earth, but I know her no more. Her name is Hart, but she has none, or at least it is of marble. I am very unhappy, a poor foundling, with but one friend in the world. I sit alone in my gloomy garet.” (The sun was pouring in at the window, but Sue did not see it.) ”My tears blot the page as I write.” (She tried to squeeze out a tear, failed, and hurried on.) ”My aff.e.c.ktions are blited, but I am proud, and they shall see that I don't care one bit how mean they are. I am of n.o.ble blood, I feel it corsing in my viens, and I shouldn't wonder a bit if I were a princess. And if I die young, Mary Hart can come and shed tears on my moniment and be sorry she acted so.”

Meantime, in the room below, little Lily was saying: ”Mamma, I wish I had some one to play with. Couldn't you get me another sister, about my age? Sue says she is too old to play with me!” And Mrs. Penrose was sighing, and wondering again why her elder child was not the comfort to her that Mary Hart was to her mother.

[Ill.u.s.tration: ”'MARY AND I HAVE PARTED--PARTED FOREVER.'”]

The days that followed were sad ones for Mary. The intimacy between her and Sue had been so close that they had never felt the need of other friends; and, indeed, in their small neighborhood it happened that there were no pleasant girls of their own age. It had not seemed possible that anything could ever come between her and Sue. They loved to say that they were two halves, and only together made a whole. Now it was bitter to see Sue pa.s.s by on the other side of the home street with averted eyes and head held high. Mary tried to greet her as usual; for had they not said a hundred times how silly it was for girls to quarrel, and what spectacles they made of themselves behaving like babies?

But it was of no use. The breach was complete; and Sue refused to speak to Mary, or even to recognize her, and had only the most frigid little nod for her brothers. Many a time did Mary curl up for comfort in her mother's lap, and rest her head on her shoulder, and tell her how it hurt, and ask what she should do, and how she should live without her friend. She never failed to find comfort; and always, after a good little talk, there was something that Mrs. Hart particularly wanted done, and that Mary could help her so much with; and Mary found that there is no balm like work for a sore heart.

One day Mrs. Hart said: ”Mary, how would you like to ask little Lily to come and spend the afternoon with you? Mrs. Penrose is really very far from well, and Sue seems to be entirely absorbed. It would be a kind thing to do, daughter.”

So Lily came; and in making her happy Mary forgot the sore spot in her own heart. From that day the two were a good deal together. Beside Sue's glancing brightness Lily had seemed rather a dull child; or perhaps it was merely that Mary had no thought to give her, and felt with Sue that children were in the way when one wanted to talk seriously. But in Mary's companions.h.i.+p the child expanded like a flower. She was so happy, so easily pleased. It was delightful to see her face light up at sight of Mary. And Mary determined that, come what might, she and Lily would always be friends. ”And, Lily,” she would whisper, ”if--no! _when_ we get our Sue back again, won't she be surprised to see how much you have learned, and how many of our plays you know? And there will be three of us then, Lily.”

And Lily would smile and dimple, and look almost a little like Sue--almost!

The boys, too, were a great comfort in those days. Never had Tom been so considerate, so thoughtful. Hardly a day pa.s.sed but he would want Mary to play or walk or fish with him. She had never, it seemed, seen so much of Tom before, though he had always been the dearest boy in the world--except Teddy.

”Oh!” she cried one day, when Tom, after an hour's patient search, found the silver thimble that she had carelessly dropped in the orchard--”oh, it _is_ good to have a brother Tom. I don't see what girls do who have none.”

”It's pretty nice to have a sister Mary,” said Tom, shyly; he was always shy when there was any question of feeling. ”Do you know, Ballast--do you know, I've never had so much sister Mary as I've been having lately. Of course it's a great shame about Sue, and I miss her no end, and all that--but it's nice to have such a lot of you, dear.”

Sister and brother exchanged a silent hug that meant a good deal, and Mary inwardly resolved that, come what might, Tom should always hereafter have all the sister Mary he wanted.

”And it's simply no end for Lily,” Tom added. ”Lily has never had a fair chance, you know, Mary.”

”Lily is a very nice little girl,” said Teddy, with kind condescension. ”There's a great deal more in Lily than people think.

Mary, if you are going over there, you might take her these horse-chestnuts. She likes the milky ones, before they turn brown.”

”Take them yourself, Master Teddy!” said Mary, laughing. ”You know it's what you want to do. Bring her over, and we'll go and play in the orchard, all four of us. We'll play 'Wolf,' if you like.”

”Oh, no!” cried Teddy. ”Let's play 'Indian'; let's play 'The Last of the Mo's.' We haven't played that for ever and ever so long.”

”Lily doesn't know 'The Last of the Mohicans,'” said Mary. ”She has never read it. I'll read it to her, I think. We might begin the next rainy day, boys, and all read together.”

”Hooray!” said both boys.

”I can be making my new net,” said Tom.

”And I can work on my boat,” said Teddy.

”And I have about six dozen things to make for Christmas!” said Mary, laughing. ”Who is to do the reading, I should like to know?”

”Oh, Mammy will read it to us.”