Honey-Sweet Part 26

Christmas was now at hand and Miss Drayton, always ready for deeds of charity, resolved to send holiday gifts and dinners to several poor families.

Telephoning to the district agent of the a.s.sociated Charities, she obtained the names of some 'deserving poor,' and a crisp, clear December morning found her driving from one home to another, talking with mothers and receiving children's messages to Santa Claus. On the ragged edge of the city, her coachman halted before a little brown house from the porch of which hung a leafless rose-bush. Miss Drayton consulted the card in her hand: "John Edward Callahan, wife, and seven children." Two or three smiling children, not yet of school age, were peeping out of the window and a woman left her sewing-machine to open the door.

Miss Drayton explained the purpose of her visit. "I understand you have several children," she said.

"Only seven, lady," said Mrs. Callahan. "Peggy and John Edward and Elmore and Susie and Lois and Bud and the baby."

"Ah! Only seven! And their ages?"

"Peggy she's near on 'leven and the baby's a year old this last gone November and the others are scattered 'long between," explained Mrs.

Callahan.

"And what--" Miss Drayton smiled back at Lois and Bud and the baby--"must I tell Santa Claus to bring you for Christmas, if I happen to see him?"

"A doll, lady, please," answered Mrs. Callahan, eagerly, "a gre't big doll--big as that baby--pretty as a picture--open-and-shut eyes--real hair and curly. Lady, they'd rather have a real elegant doll than anything in the world."

"Oh, but not the boys," protested Miss Drayton.

"Yessum--boys and girls and pa and me--all of us," insisted Mrs.

Callahan. "Lump us so as to make it splendiferous. Oh, bless you, 'tain't for us. It's for the little girl that lent us the loan of her doll to get Lois to take her medicine. And the doll got ruint. Miss Margery--that's the Charity lady--she's awful cross sometimes--said we shouldn't buy a doll with the wages. But she couldn't fault a present. I never see a child love a doll like she did that Honey-Sweet."

"Honey-Sweet!" exclaimed Miss Drayton.

"Yessum, lady. Wasn't that a funny name for a doll? It was the purtiest rag baby I ever see."

"A rag baby, named Honey-Sweet!" repeated Miss Drayton. "Was the little girl--what was her name?"

"Anne. Anne Hartman. She's niece to Miss Hartman, the head lady of the Charity."

"Oh!" Could this be her little Anne? Or was there another child named Anne with another rag doll named Honey-Sweet? Anne Hartman? And her Anne had no aunt Miss Hartman. It was queer, very queer, and puzzling.

"What kind of looking child is Anne Hartman?" Miss Drayton asked.

"She's a little girl," answered Mrs. Callahan. "Tall as my Peggy, but slimmer. Not pretty.--Well, I dunno. She's beautiful, times when she's happy-looking. She's got a perky little nose and long, twinkly eyes.

Mola.s.ses-candy-colored hair. And her mouth--Peggy says it's like one of our red rosebuds when they begin to open."

Ah! Whatever name and kinswoman she had now, that was Anne.

"Where does she live?" inquired Miss Drayton, eagerly.

"At the corner of Fairview Avenue, in the big old house that's turned into flats. Was the doll too much to ask, lady?" asked Mrs. Callahan, as Miss Drayton rose to go.

"No, oh, no, indeed! You shall have the doll, and things for all the children besides," said Miss Drayton. "Good-morning, Mrs. Callahan.

George, drive down Fairview Avenue. Drive fast. I'll tell you where to stop."

There was no one named Anne Hartman in that building, the janitor informed her. A little girl named Anne? Perhaps she meant Anne Lewis, that lived here with her cousin, Miss Dorcas Read. The top apartment.

She was not at home now, he knew. She came from school about two o'clock. No, her cousin was not at home either. She was a government clerk and never came in before five.

Miss Drayton would wait. She wished to see the little girl the very minute that she came in. The janitor invited the lady into his dingy office but she shook her head. She would wait, if he pleased, in the pleasant old garden, of which she caught a glimpse through the open door.

Up and down, down and up, the gravelled walks she paced, restless and impatient. Suppose there was some mistake. Suppose this Anne Lewis was not her little Anne. Surely it was time for the child to come from school. Only one o'clock? Her watch must be wrong. No, it had not stopped. And the old dial, catching the sunlight through leafless trees, told the same hour. Drawing her furs about her, Miss Drayton sat down on a stone bench.

From below, came the street noises,--jangle of cars, rumble of wagons, clatter and clamor of pa.s.sers-by. In the old garden, withered leaves drifted down on the still air or rustled underfoot, bare branches wavered against the clear blue sky, and purple shadows flickered on the leaf-strewn walk. How quiet it was! how peaceful! By degrees, the quiet and the peace crept into Miss Drayton's heart. She was content to wait.

In this good world of ours, everything is sure to come out right in the end.

And then, in the mellow sunlight, down the box-bordered walk, past the sun-dial, toward the stone bench, came a little figure.

"Mr. Brown said that a lady--oh! oh! it's you!"

"Dear little Anne! dear little Anne!" She was clasped in the arms--dear, cuddly arms!--of her friend.

What laughter, tears, and chatter there were!

"But we must go home," said Miss Drayton, presently. "Pat will be there now. We'll come back to see your cousin."

As they entered the hall, they heard from above the click-click of dumb-bells. Miss Drayton put her finger on Anne's lips, and they tiptoed into the cozy sitting-room.

Then Miss Drayton called in an offhand way: "Pat, oh, Pat! There's a child in the sitting-room that wants to see you."

"Who is he?"

His aunt did not seem to hear. Anyway, she did not answer. Pat, whistling ragtime, sauntered into the sitting-room.

Anne flew into his arms.

"Why, what--" and then he realized that it was Anne. Anne! He gave her a bear's hug and danced about the room, holding her high in his arms. Miss Drayton laughed till tears came.

"Where did you come from? How did you get here? Did Aunt Sarah find you?

Does dad know you've come? When--"

"There, there, Pat! Not more than three questions at a time, please,"

interrupted his aunt. "And you're not leaving Anne breath to answer one."

How much there was to ask and to tell! Anne gave an account of her wanderings. Pat told how they had searched for her, how grieved the asylum people and the Marshall family were at not being able to find her. "Why, there's that little chap Dunlop. He asked if you had any jam for your supper--and I told him 'No'--and he wouldn't touch it--said he didn't want it, if Anne didn't have any."

"Dunlop! Dunlop did that!"

"He and his small brother weep a little weep every time your name is mentioned."

"Oh, Pat! Why, I never thought they'd care so much," said Anne. "I miss them. But I was afraid to write to them. I didn't want to go back there.

Can they make me go back, if I write and tell them where I am?"

"No, indeed," answered Miss Drayton.

"Bet your life they can't," said Pat. "You're coming to live with us.

Isn't she, Aunt Sarah?"

"I'm so glad! I'm so glad!" Anne was radiant. "I love Cousin Dorcas,"

she hastened to explain. "She's just as kind to me as can be and she's awful good. But--she's one of the good people you don't want to live with. She has nerves, you know, and so many troubles. And her arms aren't cuddly. Not like yours, Miss Drayton. I think she likes me--a cousin-like, you know,--but I'm sure she'll be glad not to have me live with her. She hasn't much money and I cost so much. Shoes are the worst.

I wear them out so fast."