“Stake you for all you could earn here?” echoed Pete, in amazement.
“I’ll tell you all about it later,” said Dan, breathlessly. “Just now I’m dumb struck, Pete. I came flying back to take up my old quarters at the Mulligans’ and find the house shut up and everybody gone. Land! It did give me a turn, sure! I was counting on that little room upstairs, and all Aunt Winnie’s things she left there, and Tabby and the stove and the blue teapot. But they’re all gone.” And Dan sank down on a big packer’s box feeling that he was facing a dissolving world in which he had no place.
“Oh, they’re not far!” said Pete, a little gruffly; for Dan’s tidings had been somewhat of a blow. “The old woman’s father died and left a little bit of money, and they bought a tidy little place out on Cedar Place, not far from St. Mary’s Church. You’ll find them there. You’ve made up your mind for good and all to stick to the highbrows? I’d make it worth your while to come here.”
Dan rose from the packer’s box and looked around at the hams and shoulders and lard buckets and answered out of the fulness of his grateful heart:
“Yes, I’ve made up my mind, Pete. It’s St. Andrew’s for me,—St. Andrew’s now and, I hope, forever. But—but if you want any help with writing or figuring, I’ll come around Saturday nights and give you a lift; for I won’t be far. I’m sticking to old friends and the old camping ground still.”
And, with this cheery assurance, Dan was off again to find the vanished roof tree that had been all he ever knew of home. He recalled the place. It was only a short walk from the college gate. Indeed, the row of cedars that fronted the little whitewashed house had been once the boundary of the college grounds. There was a bit of a garden in front, and a porch with late roses climbing over it, and—and—
Dan stood stock-still for a moment,—then he flung open the little gate, and with a regular Sioux war-whoop dashed up the gravelled path; for there—there seated in Mrs. Mulligan’s best rocker, with Tabby curled up at her feet—was Aunt Winnie herself, drinking a cup of tea!
XXVI.—Rainbows.
“Danny!” cried Aunt Winnie, clutching her teacup with trembling hand. “God save us, it’s Danny himself!”
“Nobody else,” said Dan, as he caught her in a bearish hug and kissed the withered cheek again and again. It looked paler than when he had left her,—paler and thinner; and there were hollows under the patient eyes.