A Modern Madonna

by Caroline Abbot Stanley

Margaret was wild with fear after this, and kept the old farmhouse locked night and day. Philip was never out of her sight. But as months and finally years went by and she heard nothing more, it seemed that Richard De Jarnette must have given up the search.

When Philip was nearly three her vigilance relaxed enough to permit her to go to California for the winter with Mrs. Pennybacker, Bess being still at "Synodical." For this trip Margaret had insisted upon dressing Philip in girl's attire. It was done half in jest, but it succeeded admirably, for a child of three is too young to object to such a metamorphosis, and it gave Margaret great comfort. She felt sure that Mrs. De Jarnette and son would never be recognized under the hotel alias of "Mrs. Osborne and daughter."

So successful had this trip been that Mrs. Pennybacker urged her going to the World's Fair the next summer. But there was too much risk there, Margaret decided, where all the world might be found. And now, this summer, some four years since her midnight flight from home, Judge Kirtley had written her that Mr. De Jarnette's counsel had told him privately he was sure that Mr. De Jarnette had abandoned all hope of ever finding his ward, and had given up the search. She grew so jubilant and buoyant in spirits after this that the natural instincts of a young woman asserted themselves, and when Mrs. Pennybacker proposed a summer at Mackinac, she made no opposition. It is hardly natural for a city-bred girl to enjoy for its own sake isolation on a quiet farm. She and Bess took up the work of planning for Mackinac with great zest. But there was one thing—if they went, Philip must go as a girl. That had given her such a sense of security on the California trip.

Mrs. Pennybacker disapproved strongly. "I tell you it isn't safe. It may get you into no end of trouble."

"I shall not go unless we can go that way," Margaret finally announced, and that settled it. Philip was told that his going depended upon his keeping the secret, and, of course, promised implicit obedience. But Philip did not then know the obloquy which attached to being a girl, nor the depth of humiliation into which it would plunge him. His long curls which had never been cut off, and his nickname, "Trottie,"—fortunately a sexless one,—aided greatly in the success of the scheme. Margaret generally called him "dearest" anyway, and Mrs. Pennybacker "baby," which he resented.

On the lake steamer they had fallen in with a Mr. Harcourt, a young man from the East whose home had once been in Michigan, and who after an illness had been remanded by his physician to that invigorating, health-giving region of balsams and cedars for a two-months' rest. He had made himself useful to Mrs. Pennybacker in the matter of baggage just as they were starting, and he came around after they were well out on the lake courteously solicitous of her comfort. He was introduced to the girls, and took some pains to interest the child, who showed an instant liking to him. He did not intrude himself upon them, but came back up from time to time to point out a boat in sight, or to show Philip the gulls which at dinner time followed fast and furious in their wake. Finally, with Mrs. De Jarnette's permission, he took the child off to investigate the boat, saying enthusiastically when he returned after an hour, "I never saw a girl show so much interest in everything. Why, she was as intent upon finding out what made the engine go as a boy would have been.... Yes, I understand children—I have nephews and nieces."

Margaret had taken Philip aside after this and held an earnest conversation with him, at the end of which the child nodded several times, not very joyously,—which all goes to show the benumbing influence upon the human mind of feminine attire—and exactly how it works.

A friendship begun on shipboard culminates rapidly, especially when it is under the fostering influence of a child and a sensible elderly lady who is sure she cannot be deceived in men. By the time these travelers reached their desired haven they seemed like old friends. It was undeniable that Mr. Harcourt had contributed more than his share to the pleasure of the trip. Mrs. Pennybacker, for one, began to think with regret of the time when he would leave them—a thing that Mr. Harcourt had by this time no intention of doing.

"Well, we are almost there now," he said, coming upon them as they stood in the bow watching the Island grow in distinctness of detail.

"Did you ever see anything finer than that?"