Mostly Mary Part 3

"I think that is why I have been so lonely sometimes, Dora. There is not much fun playing with dolls all by myself; for no matter how hard I pretend that they hear what I say, I know all the time that they don't.

But my little sisters will hear me, and pretty soon they will be able to talk and play with me."

Then the wagonette turned in at the convent gates and rolled up the wide driveway to the front steps.

"Now, Miss May-ree, yo' go 'long in an' see yo' Aunt May-ree an' de Sistahs, an' I'se gwine obah yondah undah dat big tree an' wait fo'

yo'."

"But won't you come in, too, Liza? Aunt Mary and the Sisters will be glad to see you, I know."

"I'll see dem byme-by, honey."

Mary ran up the broad, high steps and in at the open doorway, intending to surprise her aunt; but Sister Madeline had heard the wagonette approaching, and was waiting to greet the little girl.

"What a pretty hat! Has Uncle Frank been making you a present?"

"He brought me this lovely doll yesterday, Aunt Mary, but not the hat.

Mother made that," and though the child looked closely at her aunt, she could see no twinkle in the dark eyes.

Had that little bird of which Aunt Mandy had so often spoken, been hopping about on the window sill at luncheon time, and could it be possible that it had flown out to Maryvale to chirp a warning note close to Sister Madeline's ear?

"Let me take your hat and parasol. You have your hands full with that beautiful dollie. We shall go to the east parlor, for it is the coolest spot in the house on a warm day."

"I just brought Annette with me to show her to you before I pack her away. I don't care so much about dolls now that I have some really, truly, live babies to play with. O Aunt Mary! I do wish that we could have brought them, too. They are just too sweet for anything!" Mary looked around to be sure that no one was near, then whispered, "They are _not_ very pretty,--Annette, this doll, is _ever_ so much prettier,--but they are darling, anyway. Aunt Mandy thinks they are beautiful babies, but--but they squeeze their faces all up and cry. Uncle says that they will improve with age; but I don't want them to grow old--I want them to stay little even if they are ug--not very pretty."

"But don't you intend to play with your dollies any more? You spoke of putting them away."

"Dolls! Indeed, no, Aunt Mary! Not when I have two little sisters to play with. I am going to wash and iron all my doll clothes, and dress every doll in her best things, and put them all away in my toy box.

Then, I shall close the big doors of my doll house; and the very minute that Berta and Beth are big enough to play, everything will be ready for them. The only things that worry me are s...o...b..ll and Snowdrop and Snowflake."

"Dear, dear! What lovely cool names for warm weather! But why should you worry about your kitten and rabbits? Are you afraid that they may be jealous of the babies?"

"No, Aunt Mary; but they will grow bigger and bigger and be too large for the babies to hold; or maybe they might die just as my little black kitten did. Liza said I killed it with kindness; but I can't see how that could be."

"If anything happens to your pets, Uncle will find some new ones for you, never fear. I would not be at all surprised to hear that he had made you a present of a little white elephant. Now, I am sure that you will enjoy telling the Sisters whom you know best all about those dear little sisters----"

"Why, you don't mean to say that you haven't told them _yet_, Aunt Mary!"

"Not a word. I thought you would like to surprise them. But if you had not come out to see us this afternoon, I must confess that I could not have kept the secret over night."

Presently Sister Austin, Sister Dominic, and several others whom Mary knew very well came in to see her, and heard all about Berta and Beth.

Then, while Sister Madeline had a little visit with Liza, Sister Austin went with Mary to the garden. The little girl's love of flowers made her a great favorite with Mr. Daniel, as she insisted on calling the gardener; and the old man always stopped his work to give her a ride around the garden in his wheelbarrow, which he first lined with a clean newspaper. But to-day, Mary felt that she could not delay long enough for her ride, and carefully explained to Dan the reason why she must hurry home.

"Aunt Mandy promised to let me sing them to sleep to-night; and I must sing all the songs first to Mother, so she can tell me which one will be best. I like _Sleep Little Baby of Mine_ and _Sweet and Low_; but my little sisters may prefer something else, and Mother will surely know."

So she waited only long enough for Dan to cut the flowers which he insisted on sending to Mrs. Selwyn. As the beautiful roses fell beneath his shears, Mary caught up a tiny red rosebud.

"This will be for Berta; and do you think, Mr. Daniel, that you have a little blue flower for Beth? Oh, I know just the thing! A _white_ rosebud!"

On the way back to the playground for a promised romp with the girls, she spied some chickens, hatched only a few days before.

"Baby things are so dear--baby flowers, baby chickens, baby everything; but baby sisters are the dearest of all, Sister."

CHAPTER IV.

MARY'S PLAN.

During the following weeks, Mary was a very, very busy little girl. She had a wash day on the back porch when the suds flew in every direction, and s...o...b..ll fled upstairs to escape a bath not meant for her. The ironing was not so easy; but with help from the laundress on tucks and lace-trimmed ruffles, it was at last finished. The dolls themselves had their smiling faces well scrubbed with the nail brush, and their curls combed and brushed, after which they were dressed in their Sunday best and carefully laid in the big oak box which had been made for this purpose.

Next, Mary put her games in order and piled the boxes on the lowest shelf of her own little bookcase in her playroom; and then she sorted her books, putting all those which had only pictures and no reading matter in them on the shelf above the games; the A, B, C books and nursery rhymes on the one above that; and the story books, which she thought the twins would not use for some time, on the top shelf.

She did not finish her task until the Sat.u.r.day before school opened, for there were many other things to be done every day. She could not neglect her pets nor her own little flower garden which she herself had dug and raked and hoed and planted with seeds, bulbs, and slips which Dan had given her. Every day, she chose the fairest blossoms to place before her mother's beautiful statue of our Blessed Lady.

But by far the greater part of her time was spent with her mother and little sisters. Each morning found her laying out the fresh clothing needed for the twins after their bath. Then she made ready their little beds, and Aunt Mandy always let her hold first one baby and then the other for a few minutes before tucking them in for their nap. It seemed to Mary a very strange hour to go to sleep. She thought every one ought to be quite wide awake by that time of the morning; but she had learned on the first day of her little sisters' lives that there is a great difference between babies and big girls of seven, just as there is between seven-year-olds and grown-ups.

The first of September came all too quickly. The thought of leaving the darling babies for five hours which she must spend at school every day made her wish that her mother would teach her at home as she had done the winter before. Not that Mary disliked school. The few months in the spring, which she had spent at a convent day school, had been such happy ones that she had been really sorry when school closed, and, until the babies came, had longed for September so that she might again sit at her little desk with Sister Florian smiling down at her and ever so many cla.s.smates with whom to romp at recess.

But now things were very different; and as she lay in her little bra.s.s bed the night before school opened, she wondered how her mother and Aunt Mandy could very well spare her during those long hours at the academy.

Only that day, her mother had made her very happy by saying that she did not know what they would do without her. Since that was the case, Mary felt quite sure that it would be much better to have lessons with her mother.

She had done so well the winter before that, when she began to attend school, she was put in a cla.s.s which had finished the First Reader before Easter and was just beginning the Second. During the summer, she had read all the lessons in that book, going to her mother for help with words that she could not quite make out. She had a habit of reading aloud even when alone, so that Mrs. Selwyn, pa.s.sing from room to room, was often able to correct words which the child did not p.r.o.nounce properly. The little girl laughed softly at the memory of one of her mistakes. She was reading a story of a little queen of England, and was calling one man in it the "Duck of Cuc.u.mbers." Her mother entered the room just in time to hear the dreadful mistake; and Mary soon saw that her duck was a duke--the Duke of c.u.mberland. From that time, she was more careful, for she knew that she would not like her father to be called a duck if he were a duke.

Yes, she was quite sure that she could do just as well, or even better, with her lessons at home if--and this was the important point--her mother had time to teach her. This thought had kept her from talking the matter over with her mother as she was in the habit of doing. She knew that the care of two babies takes a great deal of time and that her mother needed rest, too, when they were asleep. But what of her father and uncle? They could help her in the evenings. The Doctor often asked her to read to him after dinner, and why could she not read the lessons in the Third Reader?--for Mary had quite made up her mind that the Second Reader was much too easy for a school book. Sometimes, too, he teased her about the "tootums table." Yes, her uncle would surely help her with reading and number work, and her father with Catechism and spelling. She would slip down stairs to ask them before she went to sleep, and then surprise her mother with the plan in the morning.

Waiting only long enough to put on her pretty blue kimono and slippers, she crept from her room and down the stairs to the library, where the two men sat smoking.

"Why, pet, what is the matter? are you ill?" her father asked anxiously as he took her on his knee.

"Oh, no, Father! It would never do for me to get sick now when Mother and Aunt Mandy are so busy with the babies. Something popped into my head a little while ago, and I couldn't go to sleep until I had asked you about it."

"It would not keep until morning, I suppose," laughed the Doctor.

"Of course it would keep, Uncle; but you know there is never very much time to talk things over in the morning."

"Very true; and beginning with to-morrow, you will be almost too busy to speak to anyone in the morning."

"Oh, I shall find time to say a few things at breakfast; but Mother will be there, too, and this is something that she must not hear a word about until it is all settled."

"Out with it then! You should be sound asleep by this time."

"Yes, pet, Uncle is right; so let us hear your plan quickly."

"I have been thinking for ever so long that Mother and Aunt Mandy need me so much to help with the twins that I ought to stay home to do it.

Mother says she doesn't see how they are going to get along without me.

I can save them a great many steps, you know, and do ever so many little things while they are doing the big ones; and if I go to school, I shall be away at the very busiest time."