“But her vacations—did she never come then?” questioned Ned.
“No. At first I did not ask her, of course. It was out of the question, as she was feeling. Some one of her teachers always looked out for her. They all pitied her, and naturally did everything they could for her, as did her mates at school. Later, when I did dare to ask her to come here, she always refused. She wrote me stiff little notes in which she informed me that she was to spend the holidays with some Blanche or Dorothy or Mabel of her acquaintance.
“She was nineteen when I saw her again. I found now a charming, graceful girl, with peculiarly haunting blue eyes, and heavy coils of bronze-gold hair that kinked and curled about her little pink ears in a most distracting fashion. Even now, though, she would not come to my home. She was going abroad with friends. The party included an irreproachable chaperon, so of course I had nothing to say; while as for money—she had all of her mother’s not inconsiderable fortune besides everything that had been her stepfather’s; so of course there was no question on that score.
“In the fall she entered college, and there she has been ever since, spending her vacations as usual with friends, generally traveling. When she came of age she specially requested me to make no change in her affairs, but to regard herself as my ward for the present, just as she had been. So I still call myself her guardian. This June was her graduation. I had forgotten the fact until I received the little engraved invitation a week or two ago. I thought of running down for it, but I couldn’t get away very well, and—well, I didn’t go, that’s all. But I did write and ask her to make this house her home, and here is her reply. She thanks me, and will come next Tuesday. There! now you have it. You know all that I do.” And Frank Spencer leaned back in his chair with a long sigh.
“But I don’t know yet what she’s like,” objected Ned.
“Neither do I.”
“Oh, but you’ve seen her.”
“Yes; and how? Do you suppose that those two or three meetings were very illuminating? No. I’ve been told this, however,” he added. “It seems that immediately after her return to her mother’s home she had the most absurd quixotic notions about sharing all she had with every ragamuffin in New York. She even carried her distress over their condition to such an extent that her mother really feared for her reason. All her teachers, therefore, were instructed to keep from her all further knowledge of poverty and trouble; and particularly to instil into her mind the fact that there was really in the world a great deal of pleasure and happiness.”
Over across the table Mrs. Merideth shivered a little.
“Dear me!” she sighed. “I do hope the child is well over those notions. I shouldn’t want her to mix up here with the mill people. I never did quite like those settlement women, anyway, and only think what might happen with one in one’s own family!”