the morning dawned, rosy and clear and frosty. everybody was up early, for the travellers must leave in time to catch the nine o’clock train. the horse was harnessed and uncle alec was waiting by the door. aunt janet was crying, but everybody else was making a valiant effort not to. the awkward man and mrs. dale came to see the last of their favourite. mrs. dale had brought her a glorious sheaf of chrysanthemums, and the awkward man gave her, quite gracefully, another little, old, limp book from his library.
“read it when you are sad or happy or lonely or discouraged or hopeful,” he said gravely.
“he has really improved very much since he got married,” whispered felicity to me.
sara stanley wore a smart new travelling suit and a blue felt hat with a white feather. she looked so horribly grown up in it that we felt as if she were lost to us already.
sara ray had vowed tearfully the night before that she would be up in the morning to say farewell. but at this juncture judy pineau appeared to say that sara, with her usual luck, had a sore throat, and that her mother consequently would not permit her to come. so sara had written her parting words in a three-cornered pink note.
“my own darling friend:—words cannot express my feelings over not
being able to go up this morning to say good-bye to one i so
fondly adore. when i think that i cannot see you again my heart
is almost too full for utterance. but mother says i cannot and i
must obey. but i will be present in spirit. it just breaks my
heart that you are going so far away. you have always been so
kind to me and never hurt my feelings as some do and i shall miss
you so much. but i earnestly hope and pray that you will be happy
and prosperous wherever your lot is cast and not be seasick on the
great ocean. i hope you will find time among your many duties to
write me a letter once in a while. i shall always remember you
and please remember me. i hope we will meet again sometime, but
if not may we meet in a far better world where there are no sad
partings.
“your true and loving friend,
“sara ray”
“poor little sara,” said the story girl, with a queer catch in her voice, as she slipped the tear-blotted note into her pocket. “she isn’t a bad little soul, and i’m sorry i couldn’t see her once more, though maybe it’s just as well for she’d have to cry and set us all off. i won’t cry. felicity, don’t you dare. oh, you dear, darling people, i love you all so much and i’ll go on loving you always.”
“mind you write us every week at the very least,” said felicity, winking furiously.
“blair, blair, watch over the child well,” said aunt janet. “remember, she has no mother.”
the story girl ran over to the buggy and climbed in. uncle blair followed her. her arms were full of mrs. dale’s chrysanthemums, held close up to her face, and her beautiful eyes shone softly at us over them. no good-byes were said, as she wished. we all smiled bravely and waved our hands as they drove out of the lane and down the moist red road into the shadows of the fir wood in the valley. but we still stood there, for we knew we should see the story girl once more. beyond the fir wood was an open curve in the road and she had promised to wave a last farewell as they passed around it.
we watched the curve in silence, standing in a sorrowful little group in the sunshine of the autumn morning. the delight of the world had been ours on the golden road. it had enticed us with daisies and rewarded us with roses. blossom and lyric had waited on our wishes. thoughts, careless and sweet, had visited us. laughter had been our comrade and fearless hope our guide. but now the shadow of change was over it.
“there she is,” cried felicity.
the story girl stood up and waved her chrysanthemums at us. we waved wildly back until the buggy had driven around the curve. then we went slowly and silently back to the house. the story girl was gone.
