Mostly Mary Part 14

"I shall take the egg and milk after while if you think I ought to, Sister. I am _so_ tired of eggs and milk, but----"

"If you take them faithfully for another day or two, I am sure the Doctor will order something new for you."

"If--if I took them about three times this afternoon, do you think I could have some meat soon? Meat makes people strong, doesn't it, Sister?"

"So do eggs and milk," laughed the nurse. "But three times in one afternoon would be too much for you. Now, I am going to darken the room; and while you are taking your nap, I shall telephone to your uncle. For one thing, I shall tell him that he will find our patient better this evening."

"Oh, yes, Sister! And ask him _please_ to go to the hotel across the street to get his dinner right now--not luncheon,--_dinner_.

And--and--tell him I didn't know----"

"I shall explain that part, darling; and I have just thought of a plan which I am sure you will like. Go to sleep, now; for the sooner you do that, the earlier you will wake to hear about it."

When Mary opened her eyes, she was surprised to find the room filled with the rosy glow of the shaded lamp.

"Is it night, Sister? Has Uncle come?"

"No, dear, it is only half past four; but the afternoon has been so dark that Liza and I needed the light to begin to carry out my plan."

"Oh, please tell me what it is, Sister. The very idea for me to sleep all afternoon!"

"I am glad you did so, because you will be fresh for the evening. How would you like to invite your uncle to have dinner up here?"

Mary clapped her hands, and Sister Julia continued, "I took it for granted that you would approve of my plan, and called Liza to help me carry in this table from your playroom. We shall place it close to your bed. She has gone for the tablecloth and dishes."

"Sister, please ask her to use my great-grandmother's set--the ones with the plain gold band and the beautiful C on them. Uncle likes those best.

And flowers--we must have flowers."

"The roses your uncle brought at noon will be just the thing."

"Roses? Oh, now I remember--and I hardly looked at them. Poor Uncle! Is there a pretty bud among them, Sister?--Please cut off part of the stem, and Liza will put it on his dresser for him to wear. _Sister!_ wouldn't it be fun to write him an invitation exactly like the kind Mother sends when she has a dinner party? I have a lovely box of paper with M. S. in blue and gold up in the corner. We shall seal it and paste an old stamp on it and make a postmark just as the girls at Maryvale did with the letters they sent me by Aunt Mary. Liza will lay it on the hall table where Uncle will see it the minute he comes in."

Sister Julia seated herself at Mary's little desk and soon had the following invitation written:

Miss Mary Selwyn requests the pleasure of Doctor Francis P. Carlton's company at dinner on Thursday, November eighteenth, at six o'clock.

"That is exactly what Mother says in her invitations. Did--did Uncle say he would go to dinner when you telephoned, Sister?"

"Yes, dear, your message made him so happy that he said he would order a Thanksgiving dinner a week ahead of time."

"That _is_ so, isn't it, Sister? A week from to-day will be Thanksgiving. And Father and Mother and the babies won't be here; and they will be away for Christmas and New Year's Day and Mother's birthday and Valentine's Day and Father's birthday and for Easter and my birthday and Fourth of July and Uncle's birthday and the twinnies'----"

Mary's voice broke in a sob.

"But think of all the happy days that you will spend with them next year and for many, many years to come, dear. You think the babies very sweet and cunning now, and so they are; but in another year, you will find them far more so. They will be learning to talk and will keep you very busy running after them to see that they do not get into mischief or fall down the stairs. You will be a great help to Aunt Mandy then, for she is scarcely spry enough to run after one baby,--to say nothing of two. So just think of the happy times ahead, dear, and you will be surprised to find how quickly this year will slip by. Come, dry your eyes. It will never do to have your uncle find you crying. Can you think of anything else that will help to make our surprise for him a greater success?"

"Don't you think I ought to dress up for this dinner party, Sister?"

"Beyond washing your face and brushing your hair, I cannot very well see how a little girl sick in bed can dress up."

"You could do up my hair the way mother wears hers, and--and--oh, I have a beautiful new ribbon, pale blue with tiny white rosebuds sprinkled over it. We can twist it and put it around my head like a wreath, with the bow sticking up at one side. Let me see what else we can do--I know!

In the middle drawer of the dresser, there is a cute little dressing sack with rosebuds made of white satin ribbon down the front instead of b.u.t.tons. I just have to loop cords over them."

When Mary was "dressed up" to her taste, the nurse insisted that she must lean back against the pillows to rest.

"You must not overdo, or you will be worn out by the time your uncle comes home."

The little girl gave a sigh of content.

"Sister, you have made me so happy. I thought I could never be happy again, _never_!"

"I think you have done a great deal toward making yourself happy, Mary.

You must expect to have many lonely hours; but at such times, you should try to remember how very, very much worse things could be. Suppose you were in the place of a little girl I heard of not long ago, whose father, mother, brothers, and sister all died of black diphtheria within two weeks. She had no good, kind uncle or other relatives to look after her, so there was nothing to do but to place her in an orphan asylum."

Mary was very quiet for some time. Then Liza came in to set the table.

"Wal, Miss May-ree, what yo' reckon Ma.s.sa Frank gwine t' eat fo' his dinnah, no-how? Dem red roses, or meat an' 'tatahs an' veg'tubbles? Dem flowahs am _mighty_ putty, honey; but ef dey's gwine to sot lak dat in de middle ob de table, dey won't be no room fo' de t'ings to eat; and' I reckon dis yeah chile 'll hab to sot dem on chairs, he! he! he!"

"We can place this small table just behind that one, Liza, and stand the flowers on it."

"Dat's de ticket, Sistah! 'Peahs to me yo' alwuz knows jes' de right t'ing."

"What is it, dear?" asked the nurse, for Mary was looking about the room as if in search of something.

"My new doll, Sister, please. Do you know where she is? Uncle hasn't seen her. I couldn't bear to look at her after the babies had gone."

"I put her in the high chair in your playroom, Mary."

"I'se gwine to fotch her fo' yo', honey. She am de lubliest doll-baby yo' has, she sahtinly am! She's done fooled dis yeah chile 'bout fawty times, sottin' dah smilin' wif her li'l hands reachin' out fo' me to tek her."

"Please bring the chair, too, Liza. She can sit right by the bed."

The maid soon returned.

"Dah she am! _Ain't_ she jes' too lubly! What's her name, Miss May-ree?"

"Amelia Anabelle."

"Laws a ma.s.sy, but dat do sound scrumptious!" and Liza turned to the setting of the table.

Mary rested her hand for a moment on the back of the high chair, and the maid whirled about to gaze at the crying, kicking Amelia Anabelle.

"Why--why--what--pull yo' li'l hand away, Miss May-ree! Pull it away!

Doan' yo' tech dat t'ing! Somebudy done put de conjure on dat doll!" and Liza, her eyes bulging, backed quickly toward the door.

"No, no, Liza, don't be afraid. She will be good. See?"

Amelia Anabelle was again smiling; but Liza stood in the hall, well out of harm's way, crying hoa.r.s.ely, "Doan' yo' tech it, Miss May-ree, honey.

It am a ha'nt!"