Mostly Mary

"Dickie-Bird, have you seen our Goldilocks?" asked a deep voice at the door of the playroom.

"Here I am, Father!" and a dear little girl, half hidden by the window curtains, dropped the doll which she had been hugging and ran into Mr. Selwyn's arms. "I'm so glad you are here! Everything has been so-so different this morning. Liza came, instead of Aunt Mandy, to call me and help me to dress and then she told me to wait here for you, and--and--"

"And you thought Father had forgotten his little lass, eh?"

"I didn't quite think that, Father; but I was beginning to feel lonely, because I had to stay here instead of running right down to have breakfast with you and Mother and Uncle Frank."

"I see. Are you often lonely, pet?" asked her father, stroking the bright hair which fell in a mass of ringlets on her shoulders.

"Not very often, Father,-just sometimes, when you and Mother and Uncle Frank all go out to dinner or to a concert or something like that. Then-then I can't help wishing that God hadn't taken my little brothers to heaven. Of course, it's lovely for them to be there; but it would be so nice to have someone to play with all the time-not just sometimes, the way it is when Evelyn and Hazel and Rosemary come to see me. Mother says that Robert would be five years old, and Francis, three; and oh! we would have the best times! I wouldn't mind if they broke my dolls once in a while. Hazel won't let her little brother touch one of hers. But I think a really, truly, live brother is better to play with than all the dolls in the world. I would never be lonely if I had one."

"Well, pet, I think I can truly say that you will never be lonely again," and taking Mary's frail little hand, Mr. Selwyn led her out into the hall.

She thought they were going to breakfast, and looked up in surprise when they passed the head of the stairs. Her father smiled in a knowing fashion, and paused before the closed door of a sitting-room next to her mother's bedroom.

"Oh, have you a s'prise for me, Father?" whispered the little girl, clasping his hand with both of hers.

"A most beautiful surprise, dear. Perhaps you would like to guess what it is."

Mary looked very thoughtful for some moments; then, "It can't be a new doll, because Uncle Frank brought me one yesterday; and it can't be a letter from Aunt Mary, because that would be under my plate at the table. Besides, those things wouldn't make this morning so different from every other morning, and I can't think of a single thing that would."

"Then we had better waste no more time."

Her father opened the door, and Mary looked eagerly about the room, but could see nothing that had not been there the night before. Mr. Selwyn whispered quickly, "Sit in that big chair, and I shall bring the surprise to you."

He tiptoed into her mother's room, and a moment later, Aunt Mandy, her colored nurse, came out, carefully carrying a white bundle. Mr. Selwyn followed with one just like it.

"Dah yo' is, honey! But yo' ole mammy is 'fraid it am too hebby fo' yo'," chuckled Aunt Mandy, placing her bundle on Mary's lap.

"Oh! oh! oh! See, Father, it's a baby!" whispered the little girl. "A dear, sweet, darling, really, truly, live baby! Oh!"

"And see what I have," laughed her father, seating himself in a chair beside her.

"Another baby! Oh! oh! oh!"

"Twins, ma bressed lamb! Dat's what dey is!" declared old Auntie.

"Whose are they, Father?"

"Why, ours, pet,-our very own-your little twin sisters."

"My-little-twin-sisters! Both of them mine! Oh, isn't God good! I have been asking Him for a little sister ever since He sent Rosemary one; but I never dreamed that He would give me two-never! Isn't He good!" and Mary lightly kissed the lips, cheeks, forehead, eyes, and even the nose of the mite she hugged. "Please take this one, Aunt Mandy, and let me love that one a few minutes."

"You will find this little lady somewhat heavier," warned her father. "Better let me help you hold her."

"There!" said Mary with a happy sigh, "I gave her just as many as this one," holding up her arms for the baby which Aunt Mandy held; "for, of course, I love them both exactly the same. And, Aunt Mandy, you must not bother about me any more. You won't have time, you know. I can dress my own self, all except the buttons 'way up between my shoulders; and I can wash my neck and ears clean, too."

"Bress yo' li'l heart, honey! Does yo' think fo' one instinct dat yo' ole mammy is gwine to let yo' git yo' curls all wet, an' kotch yo' def ob cold dat-a-way? An' who's gwine to bresh de tangles out'n dem curls, I lak to know?"

"But I can wear my rubber cap when I am washing my neck and ears, just as I did when I went in bathing at the seashore. I suppose, though, that someone will have to help me with my hair. Oh, I know just the thing! I can have it cut off, and then I can fix it my own self."

"What's dat! what's dat yo's sayin', Miss May-ree! Cut off dem curls? No, sah! Dey ain't gwine to be no hair-cuttin' round heah! Aunt Mandy's gwine to tek de bes' ob care ob all her li'l bressed lambs; she sho' am!"

"Well, well! what does big sister think about all this?" whispered Doctor Carlton, Mrs. Selwyn's brother, coming into the room as Aunt Mandy left it. "Is her nose out of joint, Rob?"

"My nose, Uncle Frank?" echoed Mary, lifting a happy little face for his good-morning kiss. "It doesn't pain at all, so I'm sure it can't be out of joint. When I put my thumb out of joint, it pained dreadfully until you fixed it for me."

"No, Frank, there is no room for anything here but pure joy. She has been asking God to give her one little sister, and He has sent her two; so her cup of happiness is full to the brim."

"Do you think they will wake soon, Father? I want to see what color their eyes are. What are their names?"

"We think of calling the one you have Elizabeth after Mother. She has blue eyes and will probably resemble Mother just as you do."

"And the little heavy-weight in your father's arms has very dark eyes like his, so she must be named for him-Roberta. Elizabeth and Roberta-can you improve on those names?"

"They are just the loveliest ones I know; but-but--"

"Out with it," insisted the Doctor.

"Don't you-don't you think they are--well, just a little bit too big for such teeny, weeny babies?"

"They are rather imposing names for such mites," agreed Mr. Selwyn, "but the babies will grow up to fit them, you know."

"Perhaps we might shorten them to Betty and Bobbie for the present," proposed the Doctor, with a twinkle in his eye.

"But Bobbie is a boy's name; and Mother told me a story about a naughty little girl named Betty, so I wouldn't like to call my little sister by such a name. Let-me-see. E-liz-a-beth.... Oh, I know! We can call this one Beth until she is big; and that one-," Mary knit her brows in deep thought, "how would Berta do?"

"Berta and Beth-capital!" declared the Doctor; and Mr. Selwyn agreed with him.

"When will they be baptized, Father?"

"Next Sunday, probably."

"To-day is Tuesday.

'Monday's child is fair of face, 'Tuesday's child is full of grace,'"

sang the little girl, softly.

"Have you decided on the godparents, Rob?"

"We think of asking Phil and Etta Marvin-Wilhelmina's father and mother, Mary. You remember the little girl whose photograph Uncle brought you from Georgia last spring."

"The one with seven brothers?"

"Yes, dear, that is Wilhelmina Marvin. Uncle and I went to college with her father, and Aunt Mary and her mother were little girls together."

"You must meet Wilhelmina one of these days. She is a great girl-climbs trees, rides horseback like a little Indian, and is as much a boy as any one of her brothers. The next time I go to Sunnymead, I shall take you with me."

"Father and Mother and Berta and Beth must come, too, Uncle."

"That is understood, pet."

"Will you please take this baby-I mean Beth, for a few minutes?"

"Certainly, dear. Your poor little arms must be quite tired."

"Oh, no, Uncle! Why, I am sure that I could hold both babies all day long without being tired. I shall be back in just a little minute," and Mary slipped away, leaving the two men to wonder where she had gone.

Back to the playroom she flew, caught up her two prettiest dolls, and was hurrying from the room when she paused.

"I'm afraid they might hurt themselves with these. I had better take soft things."

She walked about among her toys, choosing first one, then another, until her father began to think that she was not coming back. When at last she entered the sitting-room, he and the Doctor had quite a time to keep from laughing aloud at sight of her with her pet white kitten, a rubber doll in a gay worsted suit, a big, brightly-colored rubber ball, and a Teddy bear almost as large as herself clasped in her arms.

"I was afraid they might think we don't want them if there is nothing for them to play with when they wake," she explained.

"So you are going to share your toys with them, are you?" and Mr. Selwyn put his arm about her, drawing her to his knee.

"Of course, Father. They can have everything of mine that they want; but most of my dolls are hard ones that might hurt them. I shall save those until they are older. Snowball and Teddy and these other things are nice and soft, you see."

"God bless her!" murmured the Doctor, a mist gathering in his eyes. "No jealousy here; that is certain."

"You have made a very wise choice, pet; but see these tiny fingers. Don't you think that they will have to grow stronger before they can hold even such lovely, soft things? These little folks will be so busy taking naps, you know, that they will not have time to play with toys for some months."

"Why, I forgot all about that," laughed Mary. "You see, Father, I was such a little bit of a thing when Robert was a baby; and Francis stayed with us only a few days, so that I don't know very much about babies. I hope Berta and Beth will stay a long, long time," she added wistfully.

"God grant that they may, darling," said her father, earnestly; for he had felt keenly the loss of his two infant sons.

"There is just one thing that would make everything nicer," said Mary after a long pause.

"And that is--?" inquired the Doctor.

"One more baby."

"But I thought you were more than satisfied with two," laughed her father.

"But if there were three, Father, we could name one Francis after Uncle Frank. That is a boy's name and a girl's name, too; so it wouldn't make a bit of difference whether the baby was a boy or a girl."

The Doctor, greatly touched by the child's love for him, drew her to him, saying, "But one baby was named for me, little one, and I surely cannot expect more than that."

"Oh, I know the very thing! We can buy a Chinese baby for five dollars and name it Francis! Sister told us about it in school last spring; and we gave her all our pennies, and she sent them away to buy a poor little baby so it would be baptized; and we named it Mary for our Blessed Mother. Of course, we could never see the baby that we buy, but-but-well, when it dies, it will go to heaven-that is, if it keeps on being good when it grows up. But I know something else. When Evelyn's big sister was confirmed, she took another name. So when I am confirmed, I shall take Frances; and then I shall be your little girl more than ever."

"All my names could not make you any more my little girl than you are now, pet. But come; it is time you had some breakfast. These little folks intend to take a long sleep this morning."

"Father! Let us call up Aunt Mary after breakfast and tell her the s'prise. Do you think we could take the babies out to see her this afternoon?"

"They are very young for so long a trip, dear. Liza shall take you out to Maryvale, and you may tell Aunt Mary everything that you forget to say over the telephone."

"Will Mother be awake after breakfast?" asked the little girl, with a longing look toward the door of the next room.

"I shall tell Aunt Mandy to send for you the moment she opens her eyes."

* * *

The morning was a very short one for Mary. After breakfast, her father went to the telephone to call Sister Madeline, Mrs. Selwyn's sister. Mary breathlessly told her aunt of the great surprise and promised to go out to Maryvale on the early afternoon train. Then she went to look after her pets. Snowball must have a saucer of milk. Dick needed seed, fresh water, and a bit of apple.

There was a trip to the garden for some crisp lettuce leaves for her pretty white rabbits, Snowdrop and Snowflake, which she had found, Easter morning, guarding a big nestful of gaily-colored eggs under the lilac bush. She had learned, too, that they were very fond of clover, and it took some time to gather enough for two hungry bunnies. But Mary had found the spots in the big, old-fashioned yard, where the clover grew thickest; and when she returned to Snowflake and Snowdrop, she had a handful for each. After watching them nibble at it for some minutes, she ran down to the barn where Tom, Aunt Mandy's grandson, was busy with the horses.

"Good mawnin', Miss May-ree! Good mawnin'!" he cried, smiling all over his jolly black face. "It 'pears to me yo' is a li'l late dis mawnin'."

"Oh, don't you know why, Tom? Haven't you heard about my new little sisters? You can't begin to think how happy I am."

"Dat's what we all is, Miss May-ree; we sho'ly is dat! I reckon yo' won't be comin' down to de barn ebery mawnin' aftah dis wif sugah lumps fo' ma pets, he! he! he!"

"Indeed I shall, Tom. I didn't forget them this morning, in spite of the s'prise, so why should I on other mornings," and Mary drew a handful of loaf sugar from her pocket.

"Dem hosses would be powahful hurt ef'n yo' did, Miss May-ree. See ole Fanny watchin' yo'? She knows persackly what yo' has fo' her, she sho'ly does. Dey's in de bestest humor dis mawnin' same's de res' ob us, I reckon."

Tom stood near to see that no harm should come to the little girl while she placed lump after lump of sugar on the palm of her hand and let the horses take them.

"Yo' pa jes' done told me dat Liza am gwine to fotch yo' out to see yo' Aunt May-ree dis aftahnoon, and fo' me to be ready to dribe yo' all to de ferry torreckly aftah lunch. Which one ob dem hosses does yo' want me to dribe, Miss May-ree?"

"Whose turn is it, Tom?"

"I doan' 'membah which one, Miss May-ree. Dey wuz bofe out yeste'day and de day befoah-"

"I think we ought to take both of them to-day, Tom. This is such an important day, you know, and I would not like to hurt the feelings of either of them. Do you think horses have feelings, Tom? I do."

"Wal, now, Miss May-ree, I doan' know persackly what to think 'bout dat. I reckon dey has, same's eberybody else. Ef'n yo' gib Fanny sugah lumps, an' doan' gib Billy none, I 'lows his feelin's ud be hurt a right smaht, I sahtinly does! But yo' pa done told me to tek de runabout and one hoss; so you see, one ob dem hab jes' natchelly got to stay home."

"W-ell, if you can't remember, Tom,-oh, I know how we can fix it! Drive Fanny when you take us to the ferry, and Billy when you come after us this evening."

"Dat's de ticket, Miss May-ree! Dah's Liza on de back porch. Wondah what she wants now."

"I know! I know!" and Mary flew up the walk.

"Aunt Mandy done told me to fotch yo' in, honey, kase yo' ma's awake now an'--"

But Mary waited to hear no more. Through the hall and up the stairs to her mother's room, she flew on tiptoe. Such a happy quarter of an hour as followed while she told her mother just a few of the plans she had made to show the dear babies how glad she was to have them.

"Are you going to dedicate them to Blessed Mother, too?" she asked; for she herself had, as a tiny baby, been placed under the special protection of the Mother of God, with the promise that she should wear our Lady's colors, blue and white, until her seventh birthday. She had been born in May, the month of our Lady, and had been named "for Blessed Mother first and Aunt Mary second," as she told those who asked about it. Though Mrs. Selwyn knew that her little girl never tired of hearing stories of the Blessed Virgin, she was somewhat surprised when, on Mary's last birthday, the child had asked, "Will you take me to church, please, Mother? It is about the promise, you know. Will you make it again for me? I can't bear to stop wearing Blessed Mother's colors just because I am seven years old. My new white dress with the pink ribbons on it is lovely; but I like blue better."

"I thought you must be tired of blue, dear," her mother had replied, "so I put pink ribbon on the new dress for a little change. But it makes me very happy to know that you love our Blessed Mother so much, and we shall go at once to renew the promise for another seven years."

"I think we had better make it for always and always, Mother, for I know I shall never wish to wear any other colors."

And now, in answer to her question about Berta and Beth, her Mother said, "We shall dedicate Beth to our Blessed Mother, and Berta to the Sacred Heart."

"O Mother, that will be lovely! Then Beth will wear blue and white as I do; and Berta, red and white. But I s'pose they will have everything all white while they are such teeny, weeny babies. We won't have to tie red and blue ribbons on them to know them apart, will we, because they don't look one bit alike. Do you know which is which, Aunt Mandy?"

"Does I know which am which, honey! Kotch ole mammy mekin' a 'stake 'bout dese yeah li'l bressed lambs! Does yo' want to see de li'l toes dey has, honey?"

* * *

When the gong sounded for luncheon, Mary, ready for her visit to her aunt, ran down to the dining-room. Her father and uncle were already there. Standing before them, she turned slowly around.

"Do you think I will do? Liza says she has never had any practice in dressing little girls to go visiting. Mother always tells Aunt Mandy what I am to wear; but we had so many other things to talk about this morning that neither of us thought of it. So Liza and I had to decide."

"I think you have both shown very good taste," said Mr. Selwyn, smiling. He wondered whether either of the babies would ever make a prettier picture than this sweet little daughter, who looked like some dainty flower in her simple white dress of dotted mull with pale blue ribbons run through the neck, sleeves, and around the waist.

"We couldn't quite decide about my hat. Liza thinks I ought to wear my straw one to keep the sun off, because my parasol is not very big, you know; but I like my new linen one best, because Mother made it. Anything she makes is so much nicer than what she buys in the stores. Seven-year-old things are too large, and sixes are too small; but she always makes things just exactly right; and she doesn't say, 'You don't mean to tell me that child is seven years old!' Mother put a big blue bow on my white parasol to match the one on the hat, and I would so like to show both of them to Aunt Mary. Sometimes, I am almost certain that she is laughing to herself when I tell her that Mother made this or that; and I am sure I can't see why."

"You could, pet, if your memory would carry you back to the days of Mother's first attempts at sewing," laughed the Doctor. "She married young-just after she had finished school. Our parents died when she and I were quite small. Aunt Mary was our big sister, and looked after us and things in general. She thought that Mother had enough to do with her studies and music, so did not try to teach her sewing and other very useful things. Mother should have saved the first little frocks she made for you; and you would see that Aunt Mary has good reason to laugh, not at the pretty things Mother makes now, but at those which they remind her of. So by all means, wear the linen hat. It will be cooler and lighter on your head; and as Aunt Mary will send the wagonette to the station, you will not be exposed to the sun. Liza will take a large parasol to shade both of you while you are driving to the ferry."

Mary was glad when the warm, dusty ride on the train came to an end.

"There is the wagonette, Liza, and Aunt Mary has let all the girls who are staying at the convent for vacation come to meet us. Oh, I don't see how they can stay away from their fathers and mothers like that!"

"I reckon dey has to, honey. 'Tain't ebery li'l gal has a home lak yo' has. Dey cud be in a lots wuss place dan May-reevale, whar dey has de Sistahs tekin' keer ob dem an' plenty ob room fo' to play outdoahs an' all sech lak."

The little girl was warmly greeted by her friends.

"Guess the grand s'prise I had this morning," she said as she and Liza took their places in the wagonette.

"Why, your beautiful new doll, of course," cried the children, gazing with longing eyes at Annette, whom Mary had brought with her.

"Oh, no, not Annette. Uncle brought her to me yesterday. Would you like to hold her, Effie? The s'prise I mean is a million times grander."

"A-a pony!" ventured one little girl, thinking wistfully of her own pet in distant Texas.

"A big box of candy!" cried five-year-old Effie.

"Give us a little hint, Mary. Every time you come out here you have just had some grand surprise, so I should think there could not be much left to surprise you with," declared Dora, one of the older children, who sat beside our little girl.

"Yes, Dora, I think we are a very s'prising family. Father and Uncle are always doing something to s'prise Mother and me, and then we think up something for them. But this one-well, I know you can never, never guess it, so I shall tell you. I have the two dearest, darlingest, baby sisters in the whole world!"

"Twins! Oh, what are their names?" was the eager chorus.

"Roberta after Father, and Elizabeth after Mother; but we shall call them Berta and Beth until they grow up. Oh, I'm so happy!"

"You are!" said a pouty-looking little girl. "Dear, me! I should think you would ever so much rather be an only child."

Mary looked puzzled.

"Rather be an only child!" she echoed. "Why, Lucille, are you an only child?"

"Indeed I am not! I have three brothers and two sisters."

"How lovely! I have two little brothers in heaven, and I have been so lonely without them. But now, I shall never be lonely again. Anyone who knows how it feels to be an only child, would never like to be one."

"I would be willing to take the risk. I'm sick and tired of having to share everything I get with the whole family. Oh, you needn't look like that, Mary! You always have everything you wish for-whole carloads of it,-and I must say you are generous with your things. Before I would let a baby like Effie hold such a beautiful doll! But you can afford to be generous when you know that your father or mother or that grand uncle of yours will give you something better."

"But-but, Lucille," the look of wonder on Mary's face deepened, "you don't really mean that you would rather have all the toys and candy and everything all by yourself than have brothers and sisters to share them with? Oh, I am sure you can't mean that!"

"You will know what I mean well enough three or four years from now when those little sisters of yours cry for everything nice you have. But, no, you won't know! As I say, for everything you give away, you will get something better."

"As if Mary thinks of such a thing!" said Dora, hotly, putting her arm about the little girl. "You wouldn't be happy unless you were dividing up with someone; would you, Mary?"

Mary flashed her a grateful smile.

"I think that is why I have been so lonely sometimes, Dora. There is not much fun playing with dolls all by myself; for no matter how hard I pretend that they hear what I say, I know all the time that they don't. But my little sisters will hear me, and pretty soon they will be able to talk and play with me."

Then the wagonette turned in at the convent gates and rolled up the wide driveway to the front steps.

"Now, Miss May-ree, yo' go 'long in an' see yo' Aunt May-ree an' de Sistahs, an' I'se gwine obah yondah undah dat big tree an' wait fo' yo'."

"But won't you come in, too, Liza? Aunt Mary and the Sisters will be glad to see you, I know."

"I'll see dem byme-by, honey."

Mary ran up the broad, high steps and in at the open doorway, intending to surprise her aunt; but Sister Madeline had heard the wagonette approaching, and was waiting to greet the little girl.

"What a pretty hat! Has Uncle Frank been making you a present?"

"He brought me this lovely doll yesterday, Aunt Mary, but not the hat. Mother made that," and though the child looked closely at her aunt, she could see no twinkle in the dark eyes.

Had that little bird of which Aunt Mandy had so often spoken, been hopping about on the window sill at luncheon time, and could it be possible that it had flown out to Maryvale to chirp a warning note close to Sister Madeline's ear?

"Let me take your hat and parasol. You have your hands full with that beautiful dollie. We shall go to the east parlor, for it is the coolest spot in the house on a warm day."

"I just brought Annette with me to show her to you before I pack her away. I don't care so much about dolls now that I have some really, truly, live babies to play with. O Aunt Mary! I do wish that we could have brought them, too. They are just too sweet for anything!" Mary looked around to be sure that no one was near, then whispered, "They are not very pretty,-Annette, this doll, is ever so much prettier,-but they are darling, anyway. Aunt Mandy thinks they are beautiful babies, but-but they squeeze their faces all up and cry. Uncle says that they will improve with age; but I don't want them to grow old-I want them to stay little even if they are ug-not very pretty."

"But don't you intend to play with your dollies any more? You spoke of putting them away."

"Dolls! Indeed, no, Aunt Mary! Not when I have two little sisters to play with. I am going to wash and iron all my doll clothes, and dress every doll in her best things, and put them all away in my toy box. Then, I shall close the big doors of my doll house; and the very minute that Berta and Beth are big enough to play, everything will be ready for them. The only things that worry me are Snowball and Snowdrop and Snowflake."

"Dear, dear! What lovely cool names for warm weather! But why should you worry about your kitten and rabbits? Are you afraid that they may be jealous of the babies?"

"No, Aunt Mary; but they will grow bigger and bigger and be too large for the babies to hold; or maybe they might die just as my little black kitten did. Liza said I killed it with kindness; but I can't see how that could be."

"If anything happens to your pets, Uncle will find some new ones for you, never fear. I would not be at all surprised to hear that he had made you a present of a little white elephant. Now, I am sure that you will enjoy telling the Sisters whom you know best all about those dear little sisters--"

"Why, you don't mean to say that you haven't told them yet, Aunt Mary!"

"Not a word. I thought you would like to surprise them. But if you had not come out to see us this afternoon, I must confess that I could not have kept the secret over night."

Presently Sister Austin, Sister Dominic, and several others whom Mary knew very well came in to see her, and heard all about Berta and Beth. Then, while Sister Madeline had a little visit with Liza, Sister Austin went with Mary to the garden. The little girl's love of flowers made her a great favorite with Mr. Daniel, as she insisted on calling the gardener; and the old man always stopped his work to give her a ride around the garden in his wheelbarrow, which he first lined with a clean newspaper. But to-day, Mary felt that she could not delay long enough for her ride, and carefully explained to Dan the reason why she must hurry home.

"Aunt Mandy promised to let me sing them to sleep to-night; and I must sing all the songs first to Mother, so she can tell me which one will be best. I like Sleep Little Baby of Mine and Sweet and Low; but my little sisters may prefer something else, and Mother will surely know."

So she waited only long enough for Dan to cut the flowers which he insisted on sending to Mrs. Selwyn. As the beautiful roses fell beneath his shears, Mary caught up a tiny red rosebud.

"This will be for Berta; and do you think, Mr. Daniel, that you have a little blue flower for Beth? Oh, I know just the thing! A white rosebud!"

On the way back to the playground for a promised romp with the girls, she spied some chickens, hatched only a few days before.

"Baby things are so dear-baby flowers, baby chickens, baby everything; but baby sisters are the dearest of all, Sister."

* * *