“Please don’t misunderstand me, I am not very lonely–only a little bit. If something interesting–something exciting and wildly adventurous–would happen, Hennie, it would be fine.”
Mrs. Henderson smiled. “I am afraid that I can’t help you in such ways, dear, but I have something here which I am very sure that you will dearly love.” She drew forth a small parcel from her bag.
Virginia waited in pleased expectation. “I am going to adore it,” she cried joyously, as, accepting the package, she prolonged anticipation by inspecting it curiously, “because you gave it to me.”
“You will care for it for other reasons,” replied the older woman soberly.
Within the wrappings, the girl found a little volume, the cover of which was much worn.
“Don’t be misled by appearances,” Mrs. Henderson suggested as Virginia opened the book.
Upon the fly leaf, written in ink faded with age, was the name, Elinor Clark. The girl’s eyes opened wide in wonder and suppressed delight. “It was my mother’s book, Hennie?” she asked gently.
“Yes, dear, it was a girlhood possession of your mother. During her last illness she gave it to me and asked me to see that you got it on your eighteenth birthday. She explained that she didn’t want to trouble your father, yet she wanted you to have it. It was the last request Elinor ever made of me.” Mrs. Henderson’s eyes winked suspiciously and leaning forward she peered at the worn cover. When she spoke her voice was husky with emotion. “It’s a gift that you will always cherish, dear.”
A great tenderness swept over Virginia’s face. “It’s my mother’s birthday present to me, isn’t it, Hennie?”–she almost whispered–“the only one that I can remember.”
As the older woman bowed her agreement, she moved over upon the couch by the girl and for a time they were silent.