“Mrs. Martin will indeed be anxious,” the mother said. “Otherwise I would suggest that you remain here and camp out with us.”
“Oh, how I wish you could,” Eleanor exclaimed. “We would spread blankets on the floor near the fire and pretend we were sleeping on the ground on a summer’s night, out under the stars.” At that moment the wind whistled dismally down the wide chimney and Virginia smiled. “We would have to have good imaginations to pretend that, I fear,” she commented.
“My little daughter has a very wonderful imagination,” the older woman said as she pointed toward the old mahogany desk. “Instead of moping because she is shut in with a weary invalid, as many girls would, she spends hours scribbling. What she is writing she will not tell, but I believe that it is a story.”
Virginia’s eyes brightened. “Oh, is it truly? Do you write stories?” Then when her question had been answered with a nod, she continued, “I have been made Editress of The Manuscript Magazine, much against my will, and I am searching for someone who can write an interesting story. If you love to write, then of course you write well. How I do wish you were a pupil at Vine Haven.”
“And I, too, wish that she were, Virginia,” the mother replied sadly, “but I have been obliged, through ill health, to give up my settlement work in Boston and come back to my great grandfather’s old home to recuperate. Our income at present is barely enough to provide our daily needs and the tuition at the seminary is high.”
A sudden memory brought a rush of gladness to the heart of Virginia. Only a few days before Mrs. Martin had asked if she knew of a really talented girl who would benefit by becoming the guest pupil and occupying the Tower Room left vacant by the departure of the former guest pupil. Surely nowhere could be found a girl more worthy of this privilege. But of her thoughts she said nothing just then. She must first consult Mrs. Martin. “Mrs. Burgess,” she said, “what would be your advice to us? Shall we start out in the storm, endeavor to walk into town and there hire a station wagon to take us up the hill, or—”
The query was interrupted by a jingling of sleigh-bells without. Micky had chanced to see the light from the kitchen candle glimmering through the storm and had driven toward it, finding a gate open on the side which the five girls had not visited, and so it happened, in another moment, he was pounding at the door, which, when opened, admitted a gust of sleety wind and revealed Dicky Taylor’s white, troubled face and that of the Irish boy.
“Do come in and get warm, both of you,” was Eleanor’s urgent invitation, but the boy shook his head. “We mustn’t stop. We’re afther wantin’ to get back before six.”
“I’m coming again tomorrow if possible,” Virginia said before she left.