"But you--"

"I'm ready except my coat and hat." She was carrying Elizabeth's clothes from the wardrobe, and placing them in the trunk. Elizabeth did as she was told without questioning further. She was only too glad to be taken possession of, for the thought of Exeter Hall without the girls had not been pleasant.

The trunk was packed and her dressing about completed when Nora O'Day entered. She was dressed in a handsome traveling suit, the product of a city importer. As usual, she carried her lithe, slender body proudly, as though no one was quite her equal. Elizabeth understood the girl now and knew that her defiant att.i.tude was a.s.sumed.

"I've come in to say goodbye. I haven't a minute. The cab is waiting for me." She shook hands with Mary. Then turned to embrace Elizabeth. There was a great deal of affection in her manner toward this new friend. "We were talking last night of mother's theses. I put some together for you to take with you to read. I really think you will enjoy them. I know you will be careful of them. I mean to keep them all and some day read them over."

She kissed Elizabeth again, and with a hurried goodbye was gone.

Elizabeth appreciated this remembrance more than a gift of greater money value. Nora cherished these papers the most of all her possessions, and she gave her best when she confided them to Elizabeth. Slipping them into the tray of the trunk, she turned to the mirror to arrange her collar. At last turning to Mary, she said, "There, I'm clothed and in my right mind, and we yet have half an hour. Now we must report to Dr. Morgan."

"You are evidently clothed," was the response, "but I'm not sure about the right mind. Don't you remember that Dr. Morgan does not return until to-night? By that time we will be home. I'll speak to Miss Brosius as we go down to lunch. She's the high-monkey-monk here when our Ph. D. is roaming. We have no time to waste. Jordan will see to the trunks and tickets. He always does. Put on your wraps. We'll eat our lunch with them on. It is no use coming back up-stairs. There are but few of the girls left. We'll bid them goodbye down-stairs."

It was not until then that Elizabeth had time to think about going to Mary's home. Then she stopped and suddenly put the question: "Perhaps your mother will not want me, Mary. She--"

"Come on! Of course, she'll want you. She is always glad to have company.

She would not be pleased if I came home and left you here alone."

"But it might inconvenience her," she began again.

"Nothing ever inconveniences my mother. She won't allow it to. The only trouble we have is that our girls take sudden notions to go off and marry, and sometimes we do not have anyone to do the work. I think f.a.n.n.y intended being married during the holidays. If she does, you and I will have a position as dishwasher. Can you wash dishes?"

"Yes; I always do at home."

"Well, we may have to do it. But we will have a good time. When the servants take to themselves wings we all help, and such fun as we do have!

A little matter like that never inconveniences mother. Once during court week, our only hotel burned. There was a big case on before father, and he brought all the witnesses and lawyers home. They were there three days.

Mother seemed to think it was a joke." Then with a look at Elizabeth, she added with conviction, "A little bit of a girl like _you_ could not inconvenience _her_."

The Wilson home was at Windburne, a two hours' ride from Exeter with a change of cars at Ridgway.

It was extremely cold when the girls left the Hall, but before they reached Ridgway the mercury had gone several degrees lower.

The road to Windburne from the Ridgway junction is a local affair, narrow gauge, with little rocking cars in which a tall person could scarcely stand upright. Windburne is the county-seat and consequently a place of importance, but Ridgway has little traffic and the roads intersecting there take no pains to make close connections.

It was three o'clock in the afternoon when the girls reached the junction, a bleak little place with a low-roofed station, black and dirty. A hotel stood at the corner--a rough saloon. An engine with a coach usually waited on this narrow gauge track, but this afternoon there was none. Before she entered the waiting-room Miss Wilson looked about, expressing her surprise at the condition of affairs.

"The worst is yet to come," cried a voice back of them. The girls turned to discover the ticket agent, just about to leave for home.

"The narrow gauge is storm-stayed. You will not be able to go through to-night."

"Then we'll turn about and go to Exeter."

"Not to-night. The last train pulled out just before No. 10 came in.

There's a hotel over there--"

"Yes, we _smelled_ it," said Elizabeth seriously.

He laughed, and inquired where they were going. Then he suggested a plan.

The hotel was not a suitable place in which to spend the night, and they could not return to Exeter; but he would find for them a trustworthy driver who would take them safely to Windburne.

There was no choice. Mary accepted his offer. The girls stayed in the dingy waiting-room until he returned with a sleigh, horses and driver.

"This man will take you there safely," he said, with a nod toward the driver. "He knows the road and knows, too, how to handle horses to get the most out of them." He a.s.sisted the girls into the sleigh, tucking the robes well about them. A moment later, they were speeding along the country road. The sleighing was fine but the wind had a clear sweep over the bare fields, and it had grown much colder. They began to shiver in spite of their heavy wraps.

"We are over half-way there," encouraged Mary. "The farmhouse we have just pa.s.sed is six miles from Ridgway. I know the roads about here. This is beautiful in summer time. Landis Stoner lives in the last farmhouse along this road. After we pa.s.s there, we won't see another for five miles, and when we do it will be Windburne. There, you can catch a glimpse of the place now."

"Couldn't we stop and get warm?" asked Elizabeth, her teeth chattering.

"My feet are numb!"

"Yes; perhaps it would be better. We'll get Mrs. Stoner to heat bricks for our feet. She's very hospitable, and will make us comfortable." She leaned over to speak to the driver, requesting him to stop at the Stoner place.

Elizabeth was too cold to look about her as they entered the house. She was conscious only that an immense beech was stretching its bare boughs before the doorway, then someone was leading her to an easy chair, removing her wraps and rubbing her hands to make them warm. In a few minutes she was herself. Mrs. Stoner had brought them hot coffee, and was now putting bricks into the fireplace.

Elizabeth looked upon her in surprise. This was not the style of woman she had pictured in her mind as Landis' mother. She was a faded, slender little body, mild and gentle in manner and voice. One felt that she was refined and had devoted the best of her life to serving others. She was dressed in a plain dark calico, which had seen better days, yet its absolute cleanliness and the band of white at her throat gave her an air of being well-dressed.

The room, evidently the best in the house, was homey and comfortable.

There was an open fireplace big enough to accommodate a four-foot log, a bright rag carpet, and some wooden rockers with easy cushions. The windows had white sash curtains. In one were pots of blooming geraniums.

"I have never been at Exeter," Mrs. Stoner said. "Of course, I have heard of it all my life. As a young girl, I used to dream what a fine thing it would be to go there to school. But it was not to be. Landis, however, is having that privilege, and I am very thankful. Miss Rice--you have met her; every one hereabouts has--thinks that every girl should have a little more than they get in public schools. She's made it possible for Landis to go."

Their hostess then brought out some pictures Landis had sent home--kodak views of the girls, their rooms, and the campus.

"You see," she added with a smile, "although I have never been at Exeter, I know it well. Landis writes of the teachers and her girl friends until I feel I know them thoroughly."

As the mother continued, her pale face lighting up, Elizabeth saw Landis in a different light. The girl was evidently devoted to her mother, if one could judge from the numerous letters and the many little souvenirs from school displayed.

"It was dull for Landis here," she continued. "There is no company for miles, and only her father and I at home. She did not want to leave us.

But I told her we were used to the quiet and were company for each other.

I miss her, of course, but it would have been selfish to have kept her here. She must live her own life and have her own experiences, and I can't expect her to be satisfied with what satisfies me."

The hot coffee had made them comfortable; the bricks in the grate were hot, and the time had come to start. Solicitous of their welfare, Mrs.

Stoner brought extra wraps, warming them at the open fire, then securely pinning them about the girls. She came to see them off and Elizabeth, with a sudden impulse, kissed her warmly.

When they were safely in the sleigh again and speeding over the frozen roads, she turned to Mary with the explanation: "Do you know, she's really homesick to see Landis? I couldn't help kissing her; she's so gentle and sweet that I could easily love her."

She turned her head to catch a last glimpse and to wave farewell to the little woman standing in the doorway of the humble home which Landis had called "The Beeches."

CHAPTER X.

CLOUDS AND GATHERING STORMS.

Dennis O'Day, as he stood at the door of his saloon this autumn afternoon, was an excellent advertis.e.m.e.nt for the line of goods he carried. He was big and flabby. The skin about his eyes had grown into loose sacks; his eyes were a steel-gray, cruel, keen, crafty, without a particle of humor or affection. He owned the largest breweries in the state, and controlled numerous retail houses where his products were sold.

His dealings were largely with the foreign element. He spoke ready German with its various dialects. His name indicated his nationality. Though an Irishman he lacked the great-heartedness of his countrymen. The humor which made their shanties br.i.m.m.i.n.g with life and fun was not for him. He drove the Poles and Slavs who lived about Bitumen like a herd of cattle.

The few who voted, voted as Dennis O'Day told them. The labor problem was discussed over his bar. He fixed for them the length of day, and the rate per ton. He was the bell-sheep for all the foreign herd. In return for their allegiance, he bailed them out of jail when necessary. When Gerani in a drunken quarrel, had stabbed the fighting, ugly-tempered little Italian, Marino De Angelo, it was Dennis who established an alibi, and swore all manner of oaths to prove that Gerani, a law-abiding citizen, a credit to the commonwealth, could not possibly have done it. As to the guilty party, O'Day had shaken his head in doubt. He was not quick to remember the faces of these foreigners. There were many about--some new to him. It was impossible to point out the guilty man. He appeared really grieved that the death of De Angelo should go unpunished, and left the court-room with the avowed intent of bringing the murderer to justice.

That had been some five years before, and De Angelo's murderer was yet unpunished. But from that time, Gerani was a slave to O'Day. There was no work about the hotel or town that he would not do at the saloonist's bidding. He made good wages in the mines and the proprietor of "The Miner's Rest" received the biggest portion of them.