Marjorie Dean, High School Junior Part 3

"See that you do," nodded Jerry gruffly. She loved to give, but she did not relish being thanked.

"Next," smilingly ordered Marjorie. "If you don't hurry and open them, we shall all starve."

The next package disclosed a dainty little leather combination purse and vanity case from Muriel Harding with the succinct advice:

"Don't lose your ticket or your money, To be stone broke is far from funny.

When wicked cinders seek your eye, Consult your mirror on the sly."

After Muriel had been thanked and her practical, poetic advice lauded, Mary went on with her delightful investigation. An oblong bundle turned out to be a box of nut chocolates from Susan, who offered:

"In time of homesick tribulation, Turn to this toothsome consolation.

To eat it up will be amusin'-- Here's sweet farewell from giggling Susan."

"Giggling Susan's" effort brought forth a ripple of giggles from all sides.

"That's my present," squealed Charlie, as Mary fingered a tiny package ornamented with a huge red bow. "It's a--"

"Shh!" warned Constance, placing prompt fingers on the too-willing lips.

Mary cast the child a tender glance as she glimpsed a tiny leather violin case, partially obscured by a card. In this instance it was Uncle John Roland who had played poet, after receiving Charlie's somewhat garbled instructions regarding the sentiment.

"Say it s'loud as you can," commanded the excited youngster.

Mary complied, reading in a purposely loud tone that must have been intensely gratifying to the diminutive giver:

"Once when away from home I ranned To play my fiddle in the band, You comed and finded me, 'n then I never ranned away again.

So now I'm always nice and good An' do as Connie says I should, And 'cause you're going to run away You'd better write to me some day!

Inside the little fiddle box There is a fountain pen that talks On paper-it's for you from me, The great musishun; your friend, C."

As Mary read the last line she slipped from her place to Charlie and kissed the gleeful, upturned face. "You darling boy," she quavered.

"Mary won't forget to write."

"Mine's the best of all," observed Charlie with modest frankness, as he enthusiastically returned the kiss.

Back in her place again, Mary finished the affectionate inspection of the tokens her friends had taken so much pleasure in giving. There was a book from Harriet, a folded metal drinking cup in a leather case from Esther Lind, a hand-embroidered pin and needle case from Irma, a pair of soft, dark-blue leather slippers from Constance, and a wonderful j.a.panese silk kimono from Mrs. Dean. The remembrances had all been selected as first aids to Mary during her long journey across the country. With each one went a humorous verse, composed with more or less effort on the part of the givers.

But one package now remained to be opened. Its diminutive size and shape hinted that it might have come from the jeweler's. Mary knew it to be Marjorie's farewell token to her. She would have liked to examine it in private. She was almost sure that she was going to cry. She thrust back the inclination, however, flashing a tender, wavering smile at her chum as she untied the silver cord that bound the box. It bore the name of a Sanford jeweler and when the lid was off revealed a round, gold monogrammed locket, gleaming dully against its pale blue silk bed. In a tiny circular groove of the box was a fine-grained gold chain.

Mary's changeful face registered many emotions as she took the locket in her hands and stared at it in silence. Acting on a swift, overwhelming impulse she sprang mutely from her chair and rushed out of the room.

Marjorie half rose from her place, then sat down again. "Lieutenant will come back soon," she said fondly. "She hasn't really deserted from the army, she's only taken a tiny leave of absence. I remember just how I felt when some of the boys and girls of Franklin High gave me a surprise party. That was the night this came to me." She patted the b.u.t.terfly pin that had figured so prominently in her freshman year at Sanford. "I almost cried like a baby. I remember that the whole table blurred while Mary was making a speech to me about my beautiful pin." Marjorie talked on with the kindly object of centering the guests' attention on herself until Mary should return.

Meanwhile, in the living room Mary Raymond was engaged in the double task of trying to suppress her tears and open the locket at the same time. Her eyes br.i.m.m.i.n.g, she worked at the refractory gold catch with insistent fingers. Opened at last, she beheld Marjorie's lovely face smiling out at her. On the inside of the upper half of the locket was engraved, "Mary from Marjorie." Below was the beautiful Spanish phrase, "_Para siempre_," literally translated, "for always," but meaning "forever."

Within a brief s.p.a.ce of time, following her flight, the runaway reappeared, her eyelids slightly pink. "I hope you will all pardon me,"

she apologized prettily. "I-I-couldn't help it. You've been so sweet to me. I can't ever thank you as you deserve to be thanked for giving me so many lovely things; the very ones I shall need most when I'm traveling.

I am sure you must know how dear you all are to me; dearer even than my Franklin High friends. I hope each one of you will write to me. I'll truly try hard not only to be a good correspondent, but always to be worthy of your friendship."

Mary's earnest words met ready responses of good fellowship from those whom she had once scorned. Everything was so different now. The new Mary Raymond was an entire opposite to the sullen-faced young person who had once flouted all overtures of friendship on the part of Marjorie's particular cronies. Beyond an eloquent hand clasp and, "My picture locket is wonderful, Lieutenant. Thank you over and over," Mary had reserved further expression of her appreciation until the two chums should be entirely by themselves.

The delightful dinner ended with a general distribution of fancy cracker bon-bons, which the guests snapped open with a will, to find cunning caps representing the flags of various nations. They donned these with alacrity and trooped into the living room for an evening of stunts in which music played an important part. Constance lifted up her exquisite voice untiringly, weaving her magic spell about her eager listeners.

Jerry sang a comic song, mostly off the key, merely to prove the impossibility of her vocal powers. Charlie Stevens, who had trustfully tugged his faithful fiddle along, insisted on rendering a solo of anguishing shrieks and squawks, a.s.suming the majestic mien of a virtuoso. He took himself so seriously that no one dared laugh, although the desire to do so was throttled with difficulty. Susan was prevailed upon to perform a scarf dance, her one accomplishment, using a strip of red, white and blue bunting with graceful effect. Harriet Delaney also sang a ballad, and Esther Lind offered a beautiful Swedish folk song she had learned from her father, who had sung it as a boy in far-off Scandinavia. When the small repertoire of soloists had been exhausted, everyone turned to with Constance at the piano, and made the living room ring with school songs.

Just before the farewell party broke up the door bell rang. Its loud, insistent peal brought a significant exchange of glances, in which Mary alone did not share. Mrs. Dean hurried into the hall. A moment and she returned to the living room, escorting Delia, whose broad, homely face was wreathed in smiles. She advanced toward Mary, holding out a goodly sheaf of letters. "Special delivery, Miss Mary," she announced. "May yez have many of the same." She made a little bobbing bow as Mary took them, bestowed a friendly grin on the company and waddled out.

"I don't understand." Mary seemed overcome by this fresh surprise. "Are they all for me?"

"They're your railway comforts, Lieutenant," laughed Marjorie. "There's a letter from each of us. You can read one a day. There are enough to reach to Denver and a few thrown in to cure the blues after you get there. So you see we won't let you forget us."

"It's the nicest reminder I could possibly have. I don't need a single thing to make me remember you, though. You're all here in my heart to stay as long as I live." Mary had never appeared more sweetly appealing than she now looked, as her clear tones voiced her inner sentiments.

"You're a nice girl," approved Charlie Stevens. "If I ever grow to be's tall's you, Mary Raymond, I'll be married to you and you can play in the band, too. Uncle John'll buy you a fiddle."

This calm disposal of Mary's future drove sentiment to the winds.

Unconsciously, little Charlie had sounded a merry note just in time to lift the pall which is always bound to hang over a company devoted to the saying of farewells.

At eleven o'clock Mary and Marjorie accompanied their guests to the gate, the latter avowing their intention to be at the station the following morning to see Mary off on her journey. The two girls strolled back to the house, under the stars, their arms entwined about each other's waists.

"We had a beautiful evening, Lieutenant. How I wish General could have been here. I hate to go away without saying good-bye to him," sighed Mary.

"I'm sorry, too. I wish he could always be at home. He has to be away from Sanford and home so much." Marjorie echoed Mary's sigh.

Brightening, she said: "I've another dear surprise for you, though. Come up to my house and I'll give it to you. It's his farewell message. He wanted you to have it the very last thing to-night."

"We are going upstairs, Captain," called Mary, as they pa.s.sed through the living room. "Want to come?"

"Later," returned Mrs. Dean. She was too good a commander to intrude upon the last precious moments of confidence her little army still had left to them.

Marjorie marched Mary to the pink and white window seat and playfully ordered, "Sit down and fold your hands like a nice, obedient lieutenant.

Shut your eyes and don't open them until I say so."

Tripping gleefully to the chiffonier she opened the top drawer, bringing forth a small package and a square white envelope. Tucking them into Mary's folded hands she said, "First you may open your eyes; then you must open your presents. I haven't the least idea what's in the package or what the letter says. General mailed them to me from Boston."

Two pairs of eyes, bright with affectionate curiosity, bent themselves eagerly on the little quaintly enameled box, which Mary hastily unwrapped. "Oh!" was the concerted exclamation. On a white satin pad lay an exquisitely dainty gold pin. It was in the form of a shield. Across the top winked three small jewels set in a row, a ruby, a diamond and a sapphire.

"'Three cheers for the red, white and blue,'" sang Marjorie, dropping down beside Mary and hugging her enthusiastically. "Do read the letter, Lieutenant. We'll rave about this cunning pin afterward. Oh, I forgot.

Perhaps General didn't mean me to know what he wrote."

"Of course he did," flung back Mary loyally. "We'll read it together."

Tearing open the envelope, she unfolded the letter and read aloud:

"Beloved Lieutenant:

"You are going away to a far country on a long hike, and, as it is the duty of every good general to look to the welfare of his soldiers, I am sending you the magic Shield of Valor to protect you in time of need. It is a token of honor for a brave lieutenant who fought a memorable battle and won the victory against heavy odds. It is a magic shield, in that it offers protection only to the soldier who has met and worsted the giant, Self. It was wrought from the priceless metal of Golden Deeds and set with the eyes of Endurance, Truth and Constancy. No enemy, however deadly, can prevail against it. It is a talisman, the wearing of which must bring Honor and Peace.

"Dear little comrade, may happiness visit you in your new barracks.

Let the bugle call 'On duty' find you marching head up, colors flying, until 'Taps' sounds at the close of each busy day. Though you have answered the call to a new post, your general hopes with all his heart that you will some day hurry back to your regiment in Sanford to receive the sword of captaincy and the enthusiastic welcome of your brother officers. May all good go with you.

"Loyally, "General Dean."