Part 3 (2/2)

”My!” she exclaimed as she regained her balance. ”You don't mean clear to Palestine!”

”No'm; our promised land is Kentucky,” Mary hastened to explain. ”Mamma used to live there, and she's told us so much about the beautiful times that she used to have in Lloydsboro Valley that it's been the dream of our life to go there. Since we've been wandering around in the desert, sort of camping out the way the old Israelites did, we've got into the way of calling that our promised land.”

”Well, I wouldn't count too much on it,” advised the woman, sourly.

”They say distance lends enchantment, and things hardly ever turn out as nice as you think they're going to.”

”They do at our house,” persisted Mary, with unfailing cheerfulness.

”They generally turn out nicer.”

Evidently her companion felt the worse for a night in a sleeper and had not yet been set to rights with the world by her morning cup of coffee, for she answered as if Mary's rose-colored view of life so early in the day irritated her.

”Well, maybe your folks are an exception to the rule,” she said, sharply, ”but I know how it is with the world in general. Even old Moses himself didn't have his journey turn out the way he expected to. He looked forward to _his_ promised land for forty years, and then didn't get to put foot on it.”

”But he got to go to heaven instead,” persisted Mary, triumphantly, ”and that's the best thing that could happen to anybody, especially if you're one hundred and twenty years old.”

There was no answer to this statement, and another pa.s.senger appearing at the dressing-room door just then, the woman remarked something about two being company and three a crowd, and squeezed past Mary to let the newcomer take her place.

”_She_ was more crowd than company,” remarked Mary confidentially to the last arrival. ”She took up most as much room as two people, and it's awful the way she looks on the dark side of things.”

There was an amused twinkle in the newcomer's eyes. She was a much younger woman than the one whose place she had taken, and evidently it was no trial for her to be sociable before breakfast. In a few minutes she knew all about the promised land to which the little pilgrim was journeying, and showed such friendly interest in the wedding and the other delights in store for her that Mary lingered over her toilet as long as possible, in order to prolong the pleasure of having such an attentive audience.

But she found others just as attentive before the day was over. The grateful mother whose baby she played with, welcomed her advances as she would have welcomed suns.h.i.+ne on a rainy day. The tired tourists who yawned over their time-tables, found her enthusiastic interest in everybody the most refres.h.i.+ng thing they had met in their travels. By night she was on speaking terms with nearly everybody in the car, and at last, when the long journey was done, a host of good wishes and good-byes followed her all down the aisle, as her new-made friends watched her departure, when the train slowed into the Union Depot in Louisville. She little dreamed what an apostle of good cheer she had been on her journey, or how long her eager little face and odd remarks would be remembered by her fellow pa.s.sengers.

All she thought of as the train stopped was that at last she had reached her promised land.

Those of the pa.s.sengers who had thrust their heads out of the windows, saw a tall, broad-shouldered young man come hurrying along toward the girls, and heard Joyce exclaim in surprise, ”Why, Rob Moore! Who ever dreamed of seeing _you_ here? I thought you were in college?”

”So I was till day before yesterday,” he answered, as they shook hands like the best of old friends. ”But grandfather was so ill they telegraphed for me, and I got leave of absence for the rest of the term.

We were desperately alarmed about him, but 'all's well that ends well,'

He is out of danger now, and it gave me this chance of coming to meet you.”

Mary, standing at one side, watched in admiring silence the easy grace of his greeting and the masterful way in which he took possession of Joyce's suit-case and trunk checks. When he turned to her to acknowledge his introduction as respectfully as if she had been forty instead of fourteen, her admiration shot up like mercury in a thermometer. She had felt all along that she knew Rob Moore intimately, having heard so much of his past escapades from Joyce and Lloyd. It was Rob who had given Joyce the little fox terrier, Bob, which had been such a joy to the whole family. It was Rob who had shared all the interesting life at The Locusts which she had heard pictured so vividly that she had long felt that she even knew exactly how he looked. It was somewhat of a shock to find him grown up into this dignified young fellow, broad of shoulders and over six feet tall.

As he led the way out to the street and hailed a pa.s.sing car, he explained why Lloyd had not come in to meet them, adding, ”Your train was two hours late, so I telephoned out to Mrs. Sherman that we would have lunch in town. I'll take you around to Benedict's.”

Mary had never eaten in a restaurant before, so it was with an inward dread that she might betray the fact that she followed Joyce and Rob to a side-table spread for three. In her anxiety to do the right thing she watched her sister like a hawk, copying every motion, till they were safely launched on the first course of their lunch. Then she relaxed her watchfulness long enough to take a full breath and look at some of the people to whom Rob had bowed as they entered.

She wanted to ask the name of the lady in black at the opposite table.

The little girl with her attracted her interest so that she could hardly eat. She was about her own age and she had such lovely long curls and such big dark eyes. To Mary, whose besetting sin was a love of pretty clothes, the picture hat the other girl wore was irresistible. She could not keep her admiring glances away from it, and she wished with all her heart she had one like it. Presently Joyce noticed it too, and asked the very question Mary had been longing to ask.

”That is Mrs. Walton, the General's wife, you know,” answered Rob, ”and her youngest daughter, Elise. You'll probably see all three of the girls while you're at The Locusts, for they're living in the Valley now and are great friends of Lloyd and Betty.”

”Oh, I know all about them,” answered Joyce, ”for Allison and Kitty go to Warwick Hall, and Lloyd and Betty fill their letters with their sayings and doings.” Mary stole another glance at the lady in black. So this was an aunt of the two little knights of Kentucky, and the mother of the ”Little Captain,” whose name had been in all the papers as the youngest commissioned officer in the entire army. She would have something to tell Holland in her next letter. He had always been so interested in everything pertaining to Ra.n.a.ld Walton, and had envied him his military career until he himself had an opportunity to go into the navy.

Presently Mrs. Walton finished her lunch, and on her way out stopped at their table to shake hands with Rob.

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