“I make no rash promises,” was the answer. “Who knows where we all may be another summer?”
This somewhat subdued the exuberance and confidence of the young people, and they began to chatter and make plans for the day which they would spend in Portland before taking the night train. The two young men had arranged to go as far as New York with their friends, and Mabel had decided to spend a few days there with her aunt. She tried to dissuade Ellen from going on to Marshville with her cousin. “I don’t see why both of you can’t stop off for a little while,” she urged.
“And what would we do with Beulah?”
“Make a bale of her and send her by freight,” suggested Reed; “ship her as dry-goods, or, better still, as foodstuff, marked perishable.”
“Food-stuffed, you’d better say,” remarked Ellen, looking over toward the corner where Beulah, having partaken of an insufficient breakfast, was munching such left-overs as she had been able to stow away in a capacious pocket.
Even Miss Rindy laughed, but agreed with Ellen that the problem of how to dispose of Beulah in New York would be too intricate to be considered. “If she adds much more to her weight, they will be charging us double fare,” she remarked. “I think she must have gained twenty pounds.”
So on they went to Marshville, Ellen expecting to join Mabel in New York when the joint exhibition of pictures should take place. Reed was to look after this, and Ellen knew he could be depended upon.
Therefore the next day saw them back at home, and soon everything was going on as before, and the summer was remembered as a lovely dream.
Caro was the first to give them greeting. She came first thing in the morning to give and receive news. Sally Cooper was engaged to a man from Meadowville, but wasn’t going to be married for a year, as her family thought she was too young. Clyde Fawcett was going with a girl from the city; she was a niece of Mrs. Craig Hale, and had been visiting Marshville. Frank Ives was just getting over typhoid fever, had been ill all summer, as Ellen knew from Caro’s letters. Then Ellen told of her good times, but not a word did she say of her windfall; that could wait, or not be told at all. So they talked till Jeremy Todd came in and Caro left. To Jeremy Ellen unburdened her heart, and learned from him that he, too, had been remembered in the will of his old friend Peter Barstow, and that an annuity of five hundred dollars was to be his. After his death this was to be continued, under certain conditions, paid to the person or persons named in a private letter left with the testator’s lawyer.
“I can imagine that dear Don Pedro rather enjoyed creating a little mystery,” remarked Ellen. “I am so glad, dear Music Master, that this has come to you.”