The delightful dinner ended with a general distribution of fancy cracker bon-bons, which the guests snapped open with a will, to find cunning caps representing the flags of various nations. They donned these with alacrity and trooped into the living room for an evening of stunts in which music played an important part. Constance lifted up her exquisite voice untiringly, weaving her magic spell about her eager listeners. Jerry sang a comic song, mostly off the key, merely to prove the impossibility of her vocal powers. Charlie Stevens, who had trustfully tugged his faithful fiddle along, insisted on rendering a solo of anguishing shrieks and squawks, assuming the majestic mien of a virtuoso. He took himself so seriously that no one dared laugh, although the desire to do so was throttled with difficulty. Susan was prevailed upon to perform a scarf dance, her one accomplishment, using a strip of red, white and blue bunting with graceful effect. Harriet Delaney also sang a ballad, and Esther Lind offered a beautiful Swedish folk song she had learned from her father, who had sung it as a boy in far-off Scandinavia. When the small repertoire of soloists had been exhausted, everyone turned to with Constance at the piano, and made the living room ring with school songs.
Just before the farewell party broke up the door bell rang. Its loud, insistent peal brought a significant exchange of glances, in which Mary alone did not share. Mrs. Dean hurried into the hall. A moment and she returned to the living room, escorting Delia, whose broad, homely face was wreathed in smiles. She advanced toward Mary, holding out a goodly sheaf of letters. “Special delivery, Miss Mary,” she announced. “May yez have many of the same.” She made a little bobbing bow as Mary took them, bestowed a friendly grin on the company and waddled out.
“I don’t understand.” Mary seemed overcome by this fresh surprise. “Are they all for me?”
“They’re your railway comforts, Lieutenant,” laughed Marjorie. “There’s a letter from each of us. You can read one a day. There are enough to reach to Denver and a few thrown in to cure the blues after you get there. So you see we won’t let you forget us.”
“It’s the nicest reminder I could possibly have. I don’t need a single thing to make me remember you, though. You’re all here in my heart to stay as long as I live.” Mary had never appeared more sweetly appealing than she now looked, as her clear tones voiced her inner sentiments.
“You’re a nice girl,” approved Charlie Stevens. “If I ever grow to be’s tall’s you, Mary Raymond, I’ll be married to you and you can play in the band, too. Uncle John’ll buy you a fiddle.”
This calm disposal of Mary’s future drove sentiment to the winds. Unconsciously, little Charlie had sounded a merry note just in time to lift the pall which is always bound to hang over a company devoted to the saying of farewells.
At eleven o’clock Mary and Marjorie accompanied their guests to the gate, the latter avowing their intention to be at the station the following morning to see Mary off on her journey. The two girls strolled back to the house, under the stars, their arms entwined about each other’s waists.
“We had a beautiful evening, Lieutenant. How I wish General could have been here. I hate to go away without saying good-bye to him,” sighed Mary.
“I’m sorry, too. I wish he could always be at home. He has to be away from Sanford and home so much.” Marjorie echoed Mary’s sigh. Brightening, she said: “I’ve another dear surprise for you, though. Come up to my house and I’ll give it to you. It’s his farewell message. He wanted you to have it the very last thing to-night.”