The girls had hardly got their lanterns lit when there was a burst of music, and the procession began to wind its sinuous way about the lake.
“The fireworks will begin in a moment, girls,” said Mr. Warren, “and then you will be a part of a wonderful spectacle to those on shore.”
Certainly the Stuart boat was one of the most picturesque of all the craft that floated in the parade. The glow of the lanterns made a soft illumination about the four young girls, each of whom wore a long broadcloth cape, a final gift from Mr. Stuart before leaving Chicago. Barbara’s was her favorite dark red, Ruth’s was pink, Mollie’s her own particular blue and Grace’s a delicate lavender.
“Daughter,” continued Mr. Warren, turning to Maud who in an elaborate white silk evening wrap, was leaning languidly back in her seat, “aren’t you feeling well to-night?”
“Oh, perfectly well, Papa,” replied Maud, resting her chin on her hand and looking out across the fleet of boats moving slowly along the shore. “But spectacles of this sort are so childish and tiresome, I think. They do bore me—oh, there’s the count,” she cried, interrupting herself.
Her father looked so grieved and annoyed that Mr. Stuart’s heart was filled with compassion for his old friend.
“See what a good time the other girls are having,” went on Mr. Warren, in a pleading tone. “Look how jolly they are in their bright capes. I wish you would get one, daughter. These grown-up things make you look so much older than you really are.”
He pressed the girl’s hand but she drew away with a petulant expression.
“Please don’t, Papa. You know how I detest public demonstrations.”
“Oh-h-h!” cried the others.