Many a time during the latter part of October did the two men regret that they had not granted the little girl's wish—not that their ideas on the subject had changed in the least, but because of an event which plunged every member of the household into intense suffering and grief.
CHAPTER V.
THE FIRST FRIDAY.
All went well during the pleasant, sunny days of September. The people on the avenue learned to watch every morning for the tall, dark, handsome man, carrying the tiny suit-case for the fair little companion tripping along beside him in her simple white dress with its pale blue ribbons; her deep blue eyes looking out from under her big shade hat; her hair like a golden cloud, shining and glistening in the sunlight. At the convent gate they parted—Mary waiting for a last wave from her father after he had boarded the car at the next corner. Then she entered the yard for a romp with her little friends before the school-bell rang.
October came; and the noon hour of the First Friday found the little girl breathlessly mounting the front steps of her home.
"I do wish Father was home. Perhaps I can telephone and catch him at the bank before he goes to luncheon. But no—I shall tell Mother and Uncle Frank the secret now, and then tell Father this evening, and make two good times of it."
Entering the hall, she called to her mother, who was coming down the stairs, "S'prise, Mother! S'prise! Guess!"
"Judging from the way you are holding your chain, I think Sister must have given you a little medal for being a good girl in school."
"You're warm, Mother, but not hot. Two more guesses. Remember, this is the First Friday, and I told you what would happen to-day——"