"And I _was_ the caretaker's daughter at Mrs. Barrington's. Oh, I have seen some sn.o.bbishness among what you call well-born girls. I am not a whit better or finer than I was a month ago, when I expected to work my way up to a good salary and strive earnestly for everything I had; and Mrs. Barrington would have helped me and been really proud of my success."

"What a spirit you have!"

"I shall never be a sn.o.b," she flung out, proudly.

"I do not intend to be one myself. Oh, don't let us dispute these points. We all learn a good deal as we go along life. And, my dear, love us all as truly as you loved your foster mother. Oh, I wonder if you can ever understand your own mother's joy at having you back--"

"Which she owes largely to Mrs. Boyd. Suppose she had died without this--this explanation?"

"Even she understood that you did not belong in her walk of life. She saw the difference and that made her feel she might have deprived you of something better, that she could not give you."

That was true enough. But just now she was Lilian Boyd and angry, though she could not satisfy herself that she had a perfect right to this unreasonableness. So she made no reply.

"Oh, Marguerite, don't be vexed with me. We shall not see each other for a long while, and I want to carry away with me the knowledge that you are very happy in your new home. You will have so many pleasures, interests; you will be loved; oh, you must be loving, as well. Let the past go as a strange dream."

"It can never be a dream to me," she returned, decisively. "A thing you have lived through is stamped on your brain. I would not, if I could, dismiss it."

"Then I think that other love and care will make as deep an impression on your mind. Good-night, my dear sister, and best wishes for a happy tomorrow."

He kissed her fondly and turned away. She looked after him with a swelling heart.

When the door was opened, she flew up to her room and girl fashion, went straight to the mirror. Generally she had very little color, now her cheeks bloomed like roses and her eyes were brilliant, something more, a light she had never seen in them; and, yes, her scarlet lips were shut, with dimples in the corners. Then she laughed, half in anger, half in a mood she had never known before, it was compounded of so many varieties.

At Laconia, she had known several pretty school girls but they had golden hair and lovely blue eyes. It was odd, but she had always liked the word cerulean so much. And her eyes were almost black when anything moved her deeply. She had not thought much of beauty applied to herself.

"I am glad we don't look alike," she mused. "I am willing to be plainer, and if I had some great gift--perhaps my voice might be cultivated. But I mean never to be ashamed of that past life. Oh, what would Willard say if he knew I had carried bundles back and forth and done errands for the dressmaker! Well I must keep that part locked in my own heart. Poor mamma Boyd, I'm glad you never understood the difference. I wish I had loved you better."

She bathed her face and took off her cloth dress, putting on one of some light material Mrs. Barrington had given her awhile before. Then she went down stairs just as the summons for dinner sounded. Mrs. Barrington met her in the hall with a smile.

"Did you have a nice day? And did your brother find you?"

"Yes, I enjoyed it very much. And--we walked back together. He leaves on Wednesday night."

"And is very sorry to go. He is so interested in you. I wish he could remain longer, but he has the true sailor heart."

Lilian felt suddenly ashamed of her anger. Of course the whole family must look at it from that point of view, which was not hers. And having a brother was such a new thing to her. She had not been thrown much with boys. Her books had been her dearest companions.

They all went to the drawing room afterward and had a pleasant talk about the day and its duties. It softened Lilian's heart strangely.

After that some almost divine music, it seemed to her, and her thoughts were lifted above distracting reflections.

The girls sang also. Several of them had very good voices but the best singers were away. Lilian was not afraid tonight, but let her voice swell out as she had in church this morning, and it surprised even herself.

When they said good-night to each other Mr. Barrington led her to her own pretty sitting room.

"I have hardly seen you today," she began, "and though your change will not separate us altogether and is so immeasurably to your advantage, I want you to know that I had some plans for your future revolving in my mind. I meant to have matters on a different basis when we began the new term. I did not think Mrs. Boyd would live through the winter, and as you know, I promised to care for you. You will make a fine linguist, and that is quite a gift for a woman. Then I have been interested in your voice. You sang with much power and beauty tonight. It is not the ordinary girlish voice."

"Miss Trenham said it was a contralto. I don't know the difference between that and an alto. Of course, I sang in school at Laconia, and took quite a part in the closing exercises. But no one seemed to think--and I couldn't manage it always--" pausing lest she might say too much.

"It wants cultivation, and I believe has some fine probabilities. I have spoken to Mr. Reinhart about giving you private lessons in the new term."

"Oh, how good you are! I could almost wish----" and she clasped the hand nearest her.

"No, don't wish anything beyond what has happened. In spite of all the love and tenderness lavished upon Mrs. Crawford, it was a continual regret that she should have taken you on that ill-fated journey.

Charming as Zaidee is, she was always wondering what you would have been like. I think you will not disappoint her. You have been in a trying position for a girl of your ambition and temperament. I think you might have accepted some proffers without much hurt to your pride, but you know now you are on an equality with the best, and though many of these distinctions are much to be regretted, we cannot change the world.

The change must be in ourselves, the grace and kindliness that shapes the character to finer and higher issues. But if you had been Mrs.

Boyd's daughter, I think there would have been a very promising future before you. I know you would have tried your utmost to succeed in the two lines I have indicated; and now they will be accomplishments. Mrs.

Crawford was a fine linguist and has brightened many an hour with intellectual pursuits. I am more than glad that you will be so companionable, but I cannot give up my interest in you, and I want you to feel that you will be, in part, a daughter to me."

Lilian bent her head down on Mrs. Barrington's shoulder and cried softly, touched to the inmost heart by the affection she had hardly dreamed she had won.

"There are no quite perfect lives even if there is a great deal of love," the lady continued. "We learn to limit our wants and expectations by what others have to give us, and it is by loving that we learn to live truly, though many shrines get despoiled of ideals as we go along in youth; but as we retrace our steps with years and experience we find G.o.d has put something better in them. I want you to come to me with any difficulty that can be confided outside of the family circle. But your mother must be your best friend; and now, dear, good-night."

Lilian returned the kiss, but her heart was too full for words. Tomorrow she would belong somewhere else, have new duties. Oh, could she take them up in the right spirit?

CHAPTER XV

YOUR TRUE HOME

Marguerite Crawford felt that she had been truly changed to some other personality when the carriage stopped under the broad _porte cochere_, and the driver opened the door with a bow for his master. There had been a slight fall of snow in the night that had wrapped every post and every tree in a mantle of jewels, and now the sun came out gorgeously, sending golden rays over the dappled sky of blue and white.

Her father handed her out. Willard ran down the wide steps taking both her hands in his and kissing her fondly. A pa.s.sion of regret flooded her.

"Oh," in a broken tone. "I was rude and ungenerous to you yesterday. I am sorry--"

"We will let that go, I knew you would regret it. I tried to look at it from your point of view, and I think you couldn't resemble mother so much in looks and not in character."

Her father took her other arm. "Welcome home, my dear daughter," he exclaimed. "All our years together will prove how glad we are to have you."

The hall was like a beautiful larger room, with pictures and statuary and some elegant vases that would have dwarfed a smaller s.p.a.ce.

"This is my sister, Miss Crawford--Aunt Kate, to you always; who has been like a mother to my children--"

Aunt Kate bent over from her tallness and gave her a perfunctory kiss.

Zay clasped both arms around her.

"Oh, isn't it queer," with a musical ripple. "You certainly were a princess in disguise at school, and some of the girls said you were my double to tease me; but I don't think we look very much alike; do you, papa?"

She raised her radiant face with the pearly complexion, bewitching mouth and shining eyes. Marguerite looked rather pale and cold with the strangeness.

Then they went up to the mother's room, but Aunt Kate paused at the door and turned in another direction. Zay and Willard followed her.

Marguerite went to her mother's arms and for many seconds neither spoke.

"What a strange, long waiting without any hope," said the father at length. "I have often thought what Marguerite would be like if she had lived, and it always was impressed upon me that she would be like her mother. If I could have wished it--"

The child raised her head. The dark lashes were beaded with tears.