Apron-Strings Part 48

"Miss Susan!" Someone had come from the drawing-room.

"Dora!" But she kept her face turned away, lest she betray her tears.

"It is your humble servant," acknowledged Dora.

"Well, my humble servant, listen to me: I want you to pack my things into that old trunk of father's. And put my typewriter into its case, and screw the cover down. And when I send you word, you'll bring both to me. But--no one is to know where you come."

Dora's eyes bulged with the very mystery of it--the excitement. "Miss Susan," she vowed gravely, "I shall follow your instructions if my life is spared!"

"And now--bring the little one."

"In all my orphanage experience," confided Dora, delaying a moment to impart this important news, "I've never heard so much mother-talk.

Since last night, she's not stopped for one _second_! I gave her a hot lemonade to get her to sleep. And she was awake this morning when it was still dark. I think"--with feeling--"that if she doesn't get her mother pretty soon, she'll--she'll----" But words failed her. She wagged her head and went out.

Sue stood for a moment, looking straight before her, her eyes wide and grave. Presently, a smile lighted them, and softened all her face.

She turned. Her hat and the long coat were on the bench with the toys.

She went to put them on, b.u.t.toning the coat carefully over the silver gown. Next, she took from a pocket the ring that her brother had given her. She held it up for the sun; to shine upon it. Then, very deliberately, she slipped it upon the third finger of her left hand.

A movement within the house, a patter of small feet at the drawing-room door, and Sue turned. There stood a little girl in a dress of faded gingham. Down her back by a string hung a shabby hat. But her shoes were new and shining.

In one hand she carried a doll.

She glanced up and around--at the ivy-grown wall of the Church, at the stained-gla.s.s windows glowing in the light, at the darting birds, the wedding-bell, the ma.s.sed flowers and palms; and down at the gra.s.s, so neat and vividly green, and cool. Last of all, she looked at Sue.

Sue knelt, and held out both hands, smilingly, invitingly; then waited, dropping her arms to her sides again.

Barbara came nearer, but paused once more, and the brown eyes studied the gray. This for a long moment, when the child smiled back at Sue, as if rea.s.sured, and nodded confidingly.

"Oh, this is a beautiful garden," she said. "And after today, I'm going to live where there's flowers all the time! My mother, she's come back from Africa. My father hasn't, because he's got to hunt lions. But my mother and me, we're going to live in a little cottage in--in, well, some place. And there's a garden a-a-all around the cottage,"--she made a sweeping gesture with one short arm--"a garden of roses! And I'm going to have my mother every day. And she loves me!

And she's good, and brave, and sweet, and pretty."

At that moment, Sue Milo was beautiful. All the tenderness of a heart starved of its rightful love looked from her eyes. And her face shone as if lighted by a flame. "I--love you!" she said tremulously.

"Do you?"--there was an answering look of love in the eyes of the child.

"Oh, _so_ tenderly!"

The little face sobered. The small figure moved forward a step.

"I'm--I'm glad"--almost under her breath. "Because--because I love _you_, too." Then coming still closer, and looking earnestly into those eyes so full of gentle sweetness, "Who--are--you?"

"Barbara,"--Sue's arms went out again, yearningly--"Barbara, I--am your mother."

"Mother!"--the cry rang through the Close. The child flung herself into those waiting arms, clasping Sue with her own. "Oh, mother!

Mother! _Mother_!"

"My baby! My baby!"

Now past the open door of the Church, walking two and two in their white cottas, came the choir. And their voices, high and clear, sang that verse of Ikey's song which Sue loved best--

"_O happy harbor of G.o.d's Saints!

O sweet and pleasant soil!

In Thee no sorrow can be found, Nor grief, nor care, nor toil!_"

Before the song was done, Barbara's hat was on, and with "Lolly-Poppins" and the woolly lamb under an arm; with Sue similarly burdened with the Kewpie, the new doll, and the duck that could quack, the two went, hand in hand, across the lawn to that little white door through which forsaken babies had often come, but through which one lovingly claimed was now to go. And the little white door opened to the touch of Sue's hand--and through it, to a new life and a new happiness; to service sweet beyond words, went a new mother--and with her, a new-found daughter.