The Tracy diamonds

by Mary Jane Holmes

“Are the horses perfectly safe? I am sometimes a little timid,” she asked.

Craig laughed as he recalled the habits of the bloods and wished so much for his fleet Dido, standing idle in her stall in Auburndale, his mother’s country residence. He had not taken a sip of his lemonade since Helen joined them, but he did so now, and that diverted Uncle Zach’s thoughts into another channel.

“George of Uxbridge!” he said, “what are we thinkin’ about, not offerin’ Miss Tracy some lemonade. Mark, go this minit and make her a glass.”

It grated on Helen to have her Apollo ordered as a servant, and she made a faint protest, begging Mark not to trouble himself for her.

“Yes, he will, too; he’s made hundreds on ’em,—tiptop ones, too. No sticks in ’em, though. We are teetotalers here, we be,” Uncle Zach said.

There was nothing Helen enjoyed more than champagne and sherry, and she thought a fashionable dinner very tame without them, and that lemonade was improved with claret, but she was a Roman with the Romans and smiled on Uncle Zach as she said, “And you are quite right, too.”

Then she settled herself to wait for her lemonade which was longer in making than Craig’s had been. For her the ice was chopped fine, every seed and bit of pulp was removed and the mixture beaten until it had a creamy look on the top. Lemonade spoons had not been invented, but Mark put a fresh straw and teaspoon and napkin on the tray, which he took to the young lady, who declared she had never drank anything more delicious. As she talked some leaves from the rose in her ribbons fell into her lap.

“My poor rose, it’s fading, and it was so sweet, and I am so fond of roses. Sarah said you put it on the table for us. Are there more where this came from?”

She turned to Mark with a look which, had he been Jeff, would have sent him on to his head at once. As it was he merely lost it and stammered out that he didn’t know,—he’d inquire, and get her more, if possible.

By the time she finished the lemonade so many leaves had fallen that she removed the rose and laid it on the tray which Mark took from her, carefully gathering every leaf which had dropped upon her dress, and then, foolish man that he was, putting them away in his pocketbook. Mark was in love. Hopelessly, of course, and though nothing could ever come of it he made no effort to smother it. He could, at least, enjoy the crumbs and leave the full table to Craig, who was not so far gone as himself, but whose prejudices were rapidly giving way. It was scarcely possible that so much naturalness and graciousness of manner were consummate acting. Public opinion had been mistaken and had vilified the beautiful girl who sat there, so unconscious of herself, and the admiring glances he gave her from time to time. Mr. Taylor had been called away by Dotty, who had returned with her eggs, and as Mark did not come back Craig was alone with Helen.