Andrew the Glad

"I haven't a doubt of those tears," answered the major in a suspiciously

gruff voice. "But where's the girl? Why didn't you bring her right back

with you? She is ours, Matilda, that purple-eyed girl. When is she

coming? Call Tempie and tell her to have Jane get those two south-wing

rooms ready right away. I want Jeff to fill up the decanters with the

fifty-six claret, too, and to put--"

"But wait, Major, I couldn't get her to come home with me! We went out

into the sunshine and for a long drive into the country. We talked and

talked. It is the saddest thing in the world, but she is convinced that

her mother's people are not going to like her. She has been taught that

we are so prejudiced. I think she has found out about the carpetbagging.

She is so sensitive! She came because she couldn't help it; she wanted

just to see her mother's country. She's only been here two days. She

intends to steal away back now, over to Europe, I think. I tried to

make her see--"

"Matilda," said the major sternly, "go right back and tell that

child to pack her dimity and come straight here to me. Carpetbagging,

indeed!--Mary Caroline's girl with purple eyes! Did old Brown have any

purple eyes, I'd like to know?"

"I made her promise not to go until tomorrow. I think she would feel

differently if we could get her to stay a little while. I want her to

stay. She is so lonely. My little boy loved Mary Caroline and grieved for

her when she went away. I feel I must have this child to comfort for

a time at least."

"Of course she must stay. Did she promise she wouldn't slip away from

you?"

"Yes, but I'm uneasy. I think I will go down to her hotel right now. Do

you mind about being alone for lunch? Does Tempie get your coffee right?"

"She does pretty well considering that she hasn't been tasting it for

thirty years. But you go get that child, Matilda. Bring her right back

with you. Don't stop to argue with her, I'll attend to all that later;

just bring her home!"

And as Mrs. Buchanan departed the major rose and stood at the window

until he saw her get into her carriage and be driven out of sight.

Looking down the vista of the long street, his eyes had a faraway tender

light, and as he turned and took up his pipe from the table his

thoughts slipped back into the province of memory. He settled himself

in his chair before his fire to muse a bit between the whiffs of his

heart-leaf.

And Mary Caroline Darrah's girl had come home--home to her own, he mused.

There was mystery in it, the mystery that sometimes brands the unborn.

Brown had never let Mary Caroline come back and the few letters she had

written had told them little of the life she led. The constraint had

wrung his wife's yearning heart. Only a letter had come when somehow

the news had reached her of the death of Matilda's boy, and it had been

wild and sweet and athrob with her love of them. And in its pages her own

hopes for the spring were confessed in a passion of desire to give and

claim sympathy. Her baby had been born and she was dead and buried before

they had heard of it; twenty-three years ago! And Matilda's grief for her

own child had been always mingled with love and longing for the

motherless, unattainable young thing across the distance. Brown had kept

the girl to himself and had never brought her back--because he _dared_

not.