Three Little Cousins

Miss Ada picked up her knitting bag and Polly followed her to a sheltered corner where Molly and Mary were playing with a store of pebbles they had picked up on the shore.

"Polly has had such a nice letter from her mother," said Miss Ada. "Don't you all want to hear it? She gives such interesting accounts of things out there, and Mary will get quite an idea of ranch life from it." She sat down and read the pages which were full of a pleasant recital of every-day doings, interesting to those unaccustomed to the great west, and more interesting to Polly. At the last came these words:

"There is one thing I want my little girl to remember: the essence of good breeding comes from a good heart. It is both unkind and ill-bred to give offense in a house where hospitality is shown you, to find fault or criticise what is set before you, to draw comparisons between the locality where you live and that which you are visiting so that the latter will appear in a bad light. Persons who have not been accustomed to the society of well-bred people think it is very smart to find fault with things which are different from those with which they have been familiar. Now, I don't want my Polly to be that way, and I must ask her not to be so rude as to abuse hospitality by belittling the customs of a house or the town, state or locality in which it is. I want my Polly to be considered a true lady, even if she is from the wild and woolly west."

Mary looked a little startled while this reading was going on and when Polly stole a glance at her she became very red in the face and turned away her head, but to Polly's great satisfaction, from that time she was less ready to criticise things American. In consequence warm-hearted little Polly tried to be magnanimous and because Aunt Ada asked her to help her to show a generous hospitality, she overlooked Mary's praise of England, and would answer her remarks by saying: "Well, we have some nice things, too." Her clear loud voice, moreover, she tried to tone down when Aunt Ada told her to notice the difference between her way of speaking and Mary's. As to Mary the benefits of her visit were only beginning to tell. Later they showed more plainly, but it was not till there was much heart-burning and many tears were shed.

It all began in this way: Molly rushed in one morning, her face all aglow with the importance of the news she had to tell. "Oh, Aunt Ada," she cried, "they are going to have a dress-up party at Green Island hall, fancy costumes, you know, and we are all invited, you and Uncle Dick and we children. The Ludlows have come and it is Miss Kitty's birthday. Will you go? and what can we wear?"

"Oh, mayn't I be a grown-up lady and wear a long skirt?" asked Mary. "I have always longed to do that."

"Why, I am sure I don't object," replied Miss Ada. "Tell me more about it, Molly. Where did you find out all this?"

"I met Edgar Ludlow just now, and he gave me this note," and Molly thrust an envelope into her aunt's hand. "He told me all about the party."

Miss Ada opened the note and read:

"DEAR ADA:

"Come over to the hall to-morrow night, you and your brother, and bring the youngsters. We are going to celebrate my birthday by dressing up in any old thing we can find around the house. Come in any character you choose, from the Queen of Sheba to a beggar maid, only don't fail to come and bring the girlies.

"Lovingly,

"KITTY."

The three cousins watched their aunt's face anxiously. "You will go, won't you, Aunt Ada?" asked Polly.

"I most certainly will. The first thing to do is to see what odds and ends I have in the attic."

From this time on for the next two days there was great excitement everywhere in the house, for with five costumes to devise out of scraps, Miss Ada had her hands full. But when the moment came for them all to start forth, each one had been provided with something suitable. Miss Ada herself wore a Puritan cap and kerchief which distinguished her as Priscilla, the Puritan maiden; Uncle Dick looked stunning, his nieces agreed, as a Venetian gondolier; Mary was perfectly happy with a long trained skirt, short waist and powdered hair, her crowning glory being a pin which her aunt had lent her; it was set with rhinestones, which in her innocence she mistook for real diamonds, but she was so delighted with the shining brilliants that Miss Ada did not have the heart to undeceive her. Polly insisted upon going as the wild Indian her uncle had suggested to Molly that she looked like, and though her costume did not accord very well with her fair hair, she was painted up skilfully and with blanket, beads and moccasins was quite content. Molly made a pretty butterfly with yellow paper wings, and as they all set out across the hummocks to the little landing every one was entirely satisfied. Green Island was not far away, and, as it was bright moonlight these nights, no one minded the trip across the narrow channel between the point and the island. The little hall was gay with decorations of Japanese lanterns and wild flowers, and looked so festive that even Mary declared it was perfectly lovely.

There were not very many children present, and the cousins felt quite like grown-ups when they danced with Uncle Dick and other young men of his age, the music being furnished by whoever would volunteer to play two-steps and waltzes. Mary felt the necessity of crossing the room a great many times that she might have the pleasant consciousness of the train sweeping behind her. Polly as a dancer did not excel except in funny whirls and figures and in a Spanish dance which she had learned from her father's Mexican servants, and which won her great applause. Molly had danced often enough in this very hall to which she had gone every summer since she could dance at all.

It was Mary's first experience of such an affair where young and old shared the entertainment. Never before had she been to any such assemblage which was not intended for children alone, and while for some time her friends had been slowly converting her to a more flattering view of American ways, this completely won her heart, and at once all her childish home festivities paled before it. In her enthusiasm she turned to Polly and said: "Oh, I do love America!" and Polly, unmindful of her painted face, threw her arms about her and kissed her.

At ten o'clock the guests departed, and after their water trip in a small motor boat, they went stumbling home by the light of the moon.

Luella was there to welcome them, eager to hear all the account of the evening's doings. "You summer folks beat me out!" she exclaimed. "Land! to see you rig up in all this trash and dance them funny dances is as good as a circus. I was watching you through the windows, me and some of the other girls."

"Was Granville there?" asked Polly.

"You go 'long," returned Luella, coyly. "I won't tell you whether he was or not." The girls were much interested in the young fisherman who saw Luella home every night, and thought his high-sounding name beautiful. Luella had confided to Polly that they were going to get married some day and that she had already begun to piece her quilts.

It was something of a task to get off their toggery and to rid themselves of paint and powder, but finally the butterfly wings were unfastened, the powder shaken from Mary's locks and the red paint washed from Polly's face and hands. It was during the process of undressing, however, that Mary made a discovery which took away all the joy of her evening. The beautiful shining pin was gone! She clutched the front of her frock where it had been pinned; she examined the fall of lace; she shook out the folds of the skirt. In her distress and fear she commenced to search eagerly around on the floor with her candle.

"What are you looking for?" called Polly from the next room.

"I have dropped a pin," said Mary, in agitation.

"Well, I wouldn't fuss about it; the mice won't eat it up," said Polly, sleepily, "and nothing will carry it off in the night. Wait till morning and it will be just where you dropped it, just the same."

This Mary felt to be the truth, and she finally crept into bed, still miserable, but hopeful and determined to waken early to make a search for the precious pin.

As soon as the sun showed its golden disc over the edge of the ocean she was up, creeping softly around the room on her hands and knees, and trying not to waken her sleeping cousins in the next room. At last, after she had searched in every possible nook and cranny, she concluded that she must have lost it on the stairs or on her way home, so, after dressing herself, she stole downstairs, looking upon each step as she went, then through the living-room and out on the porch.

The air was soft and sweet. The song-sparrows were singing from the house-tops; across the ocean the sun shone gloriously, and pouring its beams upon the dew-sprinkled grass, turned their blades into sparkling sheaths which mocked poor Mary, searching for false diamonds. No one was in sight but a lobsterman out in his dory. From one or two chimneys the smoke was beginning to curl, showing that there were other early risers. Mary stepped along anxiously, looking this side and that, and with her hands pushing the grass aside in places. Little by little she made her way toward the landing. She would search so far and if it were not to be found this side the separating channel of water she would trust to luck to take her to the island later.

But no pin was to be found that morning, hunt faithfully though she did, and the child returned to the cottage in great distress of mind. She was afraid to confess the loss to her aunt, and she could not make up her mind to tell one of her cousins. "I must find it! I must!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands as she left the last turnstile behind her. "I hope, I do hope Aunt Ada will not ask for it first thing this morning."

This Aunt Ada did not do, thinking, indeed, no more of the little trinket after having pinned it into Mary's frock. No one noticed that the little girl was very quiet at the breakfast table, for all were talking merrily over the fun of the evening before, and no one observed Mary's troubled little face nor the fact that she scarcely tasted her breakfast. Her Uncle Dick, however, at last did remark that Mary had not much to say. "I am afraid grown-up parties are too much for Mary," he said, after breakfast, drawing her to his side in the hammock and cuddling her to him. "Are you sleepy, Mary, or don't you feel well?"

Mary leaned her head against his shoulder. "I don't feel sleepy," she told him, "and I am only a bit tired. Uncle Dick, are diamonds the preciousest things in the world?"

"Those glittering out there on the grass, do you mean? They are fairy diamonds, you know, and they disappear as soon as the sun gets high up."

"I know. I didn't mean those; I meant the kind human people wear."

"They are sold at rather a respectable price. Are you thinking of investing or are you considering the display Miss Millikin made last night? I think I counted thirteen on one hand. All are not diamonds that glitter, Marybud. Miss Millikin isn't a bit more precious because of her diamonds, so don't you go thinking I'll love you any better if you have six diamond rings on one hand."

"But they are most costly, aren't they?"

"They cost like fury. That's why I can't be engaged to a girl; I can't afford to buy a ring."

Mary took this perfectly seriously. "I suppose six little diamonds would cost as much as twenty pounds," she said.

"Yes, one might get six, not too big, for that price. The little ones cost much less than the big one in proportion. A large solitaire costs much more than a number of small ones taking up as much space. But why this sudden interest in diamonds? Have you twenty pounds to spend and are you thinking of spending it all in diamonds to take home as a gift to your mother?"

"Oh, no, I have only one pound to spend, and mamma wouldn't wish me to spend all that upon her."

"Then let's talk of something else; song-sparrows or sand-peeps or sea-gulls, or something not so sordid as gold and diamonds. Look at that yacht out there, isn't it a corker? Now, when I have money to spend I shall not buy diamonds, I shall buy a yacht. By the way, did you know we were all going out sailing this afternoon, to Rocky Point?"

"Are we?" said Mary listlessly.

"Why I thought you would enjoy it. We have been talking of this sail for two or three days, and you little kitties were wild about it, I thought."

"I am delighted; of course I am," returned Mary with more show of interest. "Shall we take supper there? I heard Aunt Ada and Luella talking about sandwiches."

"Yes, that is the intention. We shall not try sailing by the outside route but will go around by Middle Bay where it is not rough. Polly has not tried sailing yet, and we must be sure of smooth waters. If it gets too much for her we can set her ashore somewhere and she can come back by the next steamboat. She is calling you now."

Mary slipped away to join Polly and Molly. "We are going to look for wild strawberries," they said; "Aunt Ada said we might."

"I'm going barefoot," Polly informed her, "but Molly won't; she is afraid of taking cold; you aren't, are you, Mary?"

Mary was most decided in her refusal to take off her shoes and stockings, declaring that her mother would certainly disapprove, but her heart leaped within her when told that they were to look for strawberries. She would then have an excuse to continue her search for the lost pin, and therefore she set for herself the bounds which included the path to the landing. But it must be confessed that she found few strawberries and was crowed over by the others.

"You might have known you couldn't find near so many there along the path," Polly told her. "Why, they are as thick as can be over there where nobody walks."

Mary made no excuse for her choice, and indeed made no reply.

"You aren't mad, are you?" asked Polly after looking at her for a moment.

Mary shook her head.

"Tell me, are you homesick, Mary? I won't tell any one if that is what is the matter."

Again only a shake of the head in reply.

"Well, you needn't tell if you don't want to," said Polly, walking off. She was a quick-tempered little soul, easily offended, and when Mary decided that she would rather stay at home with Luella that afternoon, than run the risk of being seasick, Polly made up her mind that either Mary really was homesick, or that she did not care for the society of her American cousins.

"I'm not going to insist on playing with her. She needn't think I'm so crazy about it that I can't keep away from her," she confided to Molly after they had set sail.

"Oh, but maybe she really is homesick," said Molly, "and maybe we ought not to have gone away and left her."

"But Uncle Dick and Aunt Ada said we should."

"That was because Mary was so determined not to go. She was seasick nearly all the way coming from England, and Aunt Ada thinks that is why she was afraid to go to-day."

"Oh, nonsense! Nobody could be seasick on this smooth water," said Polly, looking over the side of the boat at the blue waves. "Isn't it jolly, Molly?"

"Jolly Molly sounds funny," laughed Molly.

"So does jolly Polly," returned Polly. Then, fumbling in her uncle's pocket, she found a bit of paper and a pencil; in a moment she handed to Molly the following brilliant production:

"Golly, Molly,

It's jolly,

Polly

This sent them both into shrieks of merriment, for it took very little to start the two laughing, and they soon forgot Mary.

"Look here," called Uncle Dick, "I shall have to make you two laugh the other side of the mouth, for you're tipping the boat all to one aide. Shift them a little bit further, Ada. We're going to run into the cove for supper."

The beautiful little cove made a quiet and safe harbor. Here they anchored and made ready to make coffee, roast potatoes and toast marshmallows.