"Yes, Reda loves colors herself," agreed Mary, "but I think one reason why she thought I ought always wear white was for Loved One. But I am sure she would dress me in flower colors if she were here," said Mary, gently, smoothing the soft pink voile she now wore so becomingly.
"All aboard!" cried Cleo, climbing into her place on the seat beside Tom. Since she was too young to drive a car, she did the next best thing—took a seat beside the driver. No wonder Mary was a changed child, to see her as she sat between Grace and Madaline, her cheeks as pretty and pink as the new dress; her heavy braids, though braided still, unbound half way with the ends floating around in curls, the delight, if not the envy, of her companions. Surely Mary was already a much changed girl. As Grace had threatened, she had been initiated into the Girl Scout secrets to the extent of taking the "good cheer and helpful" pledge, and that this had furnished the stray child with a practical motto, was very evident in the almost complete effacement of her former wistful, dejected and often gloomy moods. Altogether it was a delightful achievement, due principally to the subtle and gentle influence of the sincere little Girl Scouts.
Over the hill now to Second Mountain seemed almost too short a run, save that to-day when "Orchidia," the house of orchids, had been looked after, there was to be the visit to Professor Benson, the long wished-for meeting of Maid Mary and her "Grandie."
Everything seemed as usual at the studio. The flowers were blossoming riotously, and the place was heavy with the glory of the tropics confined in a mere glassy room of this temperate zone.
"It must be wonderful in the land where these come from, Mary-love," said Cleo, as she bent over a magnificent gray lavender bloom, melting into liquid purple, and shading again into misty pinks, like tints from a spring sunrise over the ocean—a sunrise that steals the gray mists and snatches up the pearly foam, to paint its unnamed colors on an expectant sky. "Oh, it must be too wonderful to describe," said Cleo, enthused to rapture.
"It is, indeed," said Mary, "but I often thought the wealth of flowers there was too much for earth. You see, it is very near the equator, very hot and so unbearably oppressive. That is what gave us all the deadly fever." She was trimming off a few withered leaves from a plant in its hanging basket, and standing on the high rustic stool, her face above the blossoms, brought sighs of admiration even to Grace, who ordinarily disclaimed so small a thing as mere vanity.
"But, Mary, how did you become so well educated away out there?" asked
Cleo.
"Oh, I had an English nurse, and a governess always," replied Mary, surprise at the question toning her answer.
"And your daddy?" Grace had asked the question before she had a chance to "feel her way to it."
"Daddy!" answered Mary, a tear falling into the heart of an orchid.
"Daddy—was lost!"