Dr. Angus had friends in Colorado. Now she remembered he had a relative who had helped to found Hilox, and had endowed a chair of languages or literature; she was not certain which. So it must be to _him_ she was indebted, and, oddly, she was more indignant than grateful. The natural intervention of a friendly hand in the matter took all the satisfaction out of her surprise.

Not that she loved Dr. Angus! But she did not choose to be under an obligation to him. What girl would in the circ.u.mstances?

II.

All this time the letter from home lay overlooked on the pillow. If it could have spoken it would have reproached the daughter for her absorption in its companion, but it bided its time. Presently Margaret turned with a start, saw it, felt a remorseful stab, and tore it open, without the aid of a hair-pin.

This is what the home letter had to say. It was from Margaret's father, and as he seldom wrote to her, leaving, as many men do, the bulk of correspondence with absent members of the family to be the care of his wife and children, she felt a premonitory thrill.

The Lees were a very affectionate and devoted household, clannish to a degree, and undemonstrative, as mountaineers often are. The deep well of their love did not foam and ripple like a brook, but the water was always there, to draw upon at will. "The shallows murmur, but the deeps are dumb." It was so in the house of Duncan Lee.

"MY DEAR DAUGHTER MARGARET" (the letter began),--"I hope these lines will find you well, and your examination crowned with success. We have thought and talked of you much lately, and wished we could be with you to see you when you are graduated. Mother would have been so glad to go, but it is my sad duty to inform you that she is not well. Do not be anxious, Margaret. There is no immediate danger, but your dear mother has been more or less ailing ever since last March, and she does not get better. We fear there will have to be a surgical operation--perhaps more than one. She may have to live, as people sometimes do, for years with a knife always over her head. We want you to come home, Margaret, as soon as you can. I enclose a check for all expenses, and I will see that you are met at the railway terminus, so you need not take the long stage-ride all by yourself. But I am afraid I have not broken it to you gently, my dear, as mother said I must. Forgive me; I am just breaking my heart in these days, and I need you as much almost as your mother does.

"Your loving father, "DUNCAN LEE."

A vision rose before Margaret, as with tear-blurred eyes she folded her father's letter and replaced it in its cover. She brushed the tears away and looked at the date. Four days ago the letter had been posted. Her home, an old homestead in a valley that nestled deep and sweet in the heart of the grand mountain range, guarding it on every side, rose before her. She saw her father, grizzled, stooping-shouldered, care-worn, old-fashioned in dress, precise in manner, a gentleman of the old school, a man who had never had much money, but who had sent his five sons and his one daughter to college, giving them, what the Lees prized most in life, a liberal education. She saw her mother, thin, fair, tall, with the golden hair that would fade but would never turn gray, the blue child-like eyes, the wistful mouth.

"Mother!" she gasped, "mother!"

The horror of the malady that had seized on the beautiful, dainty, lovely woman, so like a princess in her bearing, so notable in her housewifery, so neighborly, so maternal, swept over her in a hot tide, retreated, leaving her shivering.

"I must go home," she said, "and at once!" With feet that seemed to her weighted with lead she went straight to the room of the Dean, knowing that in that gracious woman's spirit there would be instant comprehension, and that she would receive wise advice.

"My dear!" said the Dean, "you have heard from Hilox, haven't you? We are so proud of you; we want you to represent our college and our culture there. It is a magnificent opportunity, Margaret."

The Dean was very short-sighted, and she did not catch at first the look on Margaret's face.

"Yes," she answered, in a voice that sounded m.u.f.fled and lifeless, "I have heard from Hilox; I had almost forgotten, but I must answer the letter. Dear Mrs. Wade, I have heard from home, too. My mother is very ill, and she needs me. I must go at once--to-morrow morning. I cannot wait for Commencement."

The Dean asked for further information. Then she urged that Margaret should wait over the annual great occasion; so much was due the college, she thought, and she pointed out the fact that Mr. Lee had not asked her to leave until the exercises were over.

But Margaret had only one reply: "My mother needs me; I must go!"

A week later, at sunset, the old lumbering stage, rolling over the steep hills and the smooth dales drew up at Margaret's home. Tired, but with a steadfast light in her eyes, the girl stepped down, received her father's kiss, and went straight to her mother, waiting in the doorway.

"I am glad--glad you have come, my darling!" said the mother. "While you are here I can give everything up. But, my love, this is not what we planned!"

"No, my dearest," said the girl, "but that is of no consequence. I wish I had known sooner how much, how very much, I was wanted at home!"

"But you will not be a Professor of Greek!" said the mother that night.

It was all arranged for the operation, which was to take place in a week's time, the surgeons to come from the nearest town. The mother was brave, gay, heroic. Margaret looked at her, wondering that one under the shadow of death could laugh and talk so brightly.

"No. I will be something better," she said, tenderly. "I will be your nurse, your comfort if I can. If I had only known, there are many things better than Greek that I might have learned!"

Hilox did not get its Greek professor, but the culture of Mount Seward was not wasted. Mrs. Lee lived years, often in anguish unspeakable, relieved by intervals of peace and freedom from pain. The daughter became almost the mother in their intercourse as time pa.s.sed, and the bloom on her cheek paled sooner than on her mother's in the depth of her sympathy. But the end came at last, and the suffering life went out with a soft sigh, as a child falls asleep.

On a little shelf in Margaret's room her old text-books, seldom opened, are souvenirs of her busy life at college. Her hand has learned the cunning which concocts dainty dishes and lucent jellies; her housekeeping and her hospitality are famous. She is a bright talker, witty, charming, with the soft inflections which make the vibrant tunefulness of the Virginian woman's voice so tender and sweet a thing in the ear. Mount Seward is to her the Mecca of memory. If ever she has a daughter she will send her there, and--who knows?--that girl may be professor at Hilox.

For though Margaret is not absent from her own household, she is not long to be Margaret Lee. The wedding-cake is made, and is growing rich and firm as it awaits the day when the bride will cut it. The wedding-gown is ordered. Dr. Angus has proposed at last; he had never thought of wooing or winning any one except the fair girl who caught his fancy and his heart ten years ago, and when Margaret next visits her New England relations it will be to present her husband.

The professor, who had been her most dearly beloved friend during those happy college days, her confidante and model, said to one who recalled Margaret Lee and spoke of her as "a great disappointment, my dear:"

"Yes, we expected her to make a reputation for herself and Mount Seward.

She has done better. She has been enabled to do her duty in the station to which it has pleased G.o.d to call her--a good thing for any girl graduate, it seems to me."

A Christmas Frolic.

BY MRS. M.E. SANGSTER.

We had gone to the forest for holly and pine, And gathered our arms full of cedar, And home we came skipping, our garlands to twine, With Marcus, the bold, for our leader.

The dear Mother said we might fix up the place, And ask all the friends to a party; So joy, you may fancy, illumined each face And our manners were cordial and hearty.

But whom should we have? There were Sally and Fred, And Martha and Luke and Leander; There was Jack, a small boy with a frowsy red head, And the look of an old salamander.

There was d.i.c.kie, who went to a college up town, And Archie, who worked for the neighbors; There were Timothy Parsons and Anthony Brown, Old fellows, of street-cleaning labors.

And then sister had friends like the lilies so fair, Sweet girls with white hands and soft glances; At a frolic of ours these girls must be there, Dear Mildred and Gladys and Frances.

At Christmas, my darlings, leave n.o.body out, 'Tis the feast of the dear Elder Brother, Who came to this world to bring freedom about, And whose motto is "Love one another."

When the angels proclaimed Him in Judea's sky They sang out His wonderful story, And peace and good will did they bring from on high, And the keystone of all laid with glory.

A frolic at Christmas must needs know not change Of fortune, or richer or poorer; If any one comes who is lonesome and strange, Why, just make his welcome the surer.

We invited our friends and we dressed up the room Till it looked like a wonderful bower, With starry bright tapers, and flowers in bloom, And a tree with white popcorn a-shower.

And presents and presents, for every one there, In stockings, and bags full of candy, And old Santa Claus (Uncle William) was fair, And--I tell you, our tree was a dandy.

Then, when nine o'clock struck, and the frolic and fun Had risen almost to their highest, And pleasure was beaming, and every one Was happy, from bravest to shyest.

Our dear Mother went to the organ and played A carol so sweet and so tender; We prayed while we sang, and we sang as we prayed, To Jesus, our Prince and Defender.

Oh! Jesus, who came as a Babe to the earth, Who slept 'mid the kine, in a manger; Oh! Jesus, our Lord, in whose heavenly birth Is pledge of our ransom from danger.

Strong Son of the Father, divine from of old, And Son of the race, child of woman; Increasing in might as the ages unfold, Redeemer, our G.o.d, and yet human.

We sang to His Name, and we stood in a band, Each pledged for the Master wholly, To work heart to heart, and to work hand to hand, In behalf of the outcast and lowly.

Then we said "Merry Christmas" once more and we went Away from the holly and cedar, And home we all scattered, quite glad and content, And henceforward our Lord is our Leader.