Mary's Rainbow

"You have grown very fond of your good nurse, haven't you, Mary?"

"Indeed I have, Uncle. I wish she could go South with us after Christmas."

"But don't you think it would be selfish of us to take her away from little folks who really need her? That brings us to a matter of importance which I must discuss with you this evening."

Mary, in her usual place on her uncle's knee, fixed her eyes on the fire, folded her hands, and tried to look very grave and grown-up; for to talk over a matter of importance with Doctor Carlton was, in her opinion, a very serious thing indeed.

"I have a patient, a little boy four years old, who has injured his spine. He can be cured, I think, if he has proper care. He is an only child and is somewhat spoiled, and the pain he is suffering makes him very peevish and cross. His poor mother is quite worn out, for he insists on having her beside him day and night. We had a fine nurse for him, but he took a dislike to her and would not let her come near him. Now, the only one I know who can handle this case is Sister Julia. She has a way of her own with children, as you well know. You are improving so fast that you really no longer need her; so I think we had better let her go to that poor little fellow who does; don't you?"

The Doctor watched Mary's face over which a look of dismay had spread, and he saw the struggle that was going on in her heart, which sank very low at the thought of the long, long days all alone, except for the servants, in the big house. She locked her frail little fingers tightly together and winked very hard before she answered in a voice scarcely above a whisper; "Ye--es, Uncle,--and--and maybe you can come home a little earlier, just a little earlier every evening, and--and stay longer at luncheon, and--and will you ask Mrs. Burns and Mrs. Lee to let Hazel and Rosemary come in to play with me for a while every day on their way home from school and take turns spending the day with me on Saturdays--" Her voice broke, and she hid her face against his coat.

"Why, little one, you don't think for an instant that you will be here alone all day, do you? Of course, you may have as many of your little friends as you please come to visit you. I could not allow that while you were so weak; but there is no reason now why they may not come very often. I have made plans, however, so that you need not be alone for a single moment of the day. Sister Julia has a young friend, Miss Donnelly, who often takes her place in cases like this. I know her quite well and feel very sure that you will like her. She is about sixteen-not a bit too old to enjoy your games-and she is an expert dolls' dress-maker."

"Is she a little young lady or a big young lady, Uncle? I do hope she is small. I like little people best."

"Thank you, ma'am."

"Oh, I mean small ladies. Mother is not very big, you know, and all of her friends that I love best are small. But I like men to be big like you and Father. You are both just exactly right. I have often seen a great big lady pass here, and I am sure that I would not like her at all. She wears a long black coat like an overcoat, and a hat almost exactly like a man's. Her hair is always brushed back as smooth as smooth can be. She hasn't any pretty, soft, little curls like Mother's."

"I know that lady very well. She is a doctor, and her patients, especially children, think everything of her. So you see how unwise it is to judge from a person's appearance." The Doctor tweaked the little girl's ear, and his eyes twinkled as he went on, "At any rate, I have engaged Miss Donnelly without regard to her size or style of dress; so we shall have to give her a fair trial, at least."

"Ye--es, Uncle, of course. It wouldn't be very p'lite to tell her we don't want her after you have asked her to come. And I shall try as hard as I can to love her even if she is as big as the doctor lady and wears a man's hat and coat."

Mary smiled bravely up at him as she lifted her face for his good-night kiss. "When--when is she coming, Uncle?"

"To-morrow morning, dear. By the way, you must not try to come down to breakfast for a few days. Luncheon and dinner will be enough for you, so take a long sleep in the morning."

Mary's heart was very heavy as she went up the stairs with Sister Julia. Even with this good friend to comfort and cheer her, the little girl had spent many lonely hours since her parents and baby sisters had sailed for Europe, where her father's business required that he should live for a year. Mary had not been able to go with them, because she had been very ill and was not strong enough for the long voyage. So she had been left with her mother's brother, who had always made his home with the Selwyns. During her long illness, Mary had grown to love Sister Julia very, very much. What would she ever do now with a stranger? And the letters from her father and mother, which her uncle had felt so sure would arrive that day, had not come. Yes, it was a sad-hearted little Mary who laid her head on her pillow that night and tried to picture the new companion her uncle had found for her.

Two hours later, the Doctor himself was sorry that he had not told her more of Miss Donnelly; for when he tiptoed to her bedside, he found her pillow wet with tears; and as he lightly kissed her forehead, she murmured in her sleep, "O Uncle! I wish she wasn't so big-not quite so big."

After dreaming for the greater part of the night of a very large, strong young girl with fair hair drawn back so tightly that she could scarcely wink, Mary slept quite late in the morning. She had just finished her breakfast when Liza, the house-maid, came in with a card for Sister Julia. Mary felt that the dreaded hour had come, and remembering her promise to her uncle, braced herself to meet the Miss Donnelly of her dreams. Yes, they were coming up the stairs. She could hear Sister Julia's merry laugh. The next moment the nurse entered the room followed by a young girl dressed in brown from top to toe. Laughing, dark eyes in a small, oval face framed in soft, little, brown curls won Mary at once. She stretched out her arms with a cry of delight. "Oh, you are just too dear!"

"And you are just too darling!" The little brown lady ran to the bedside and hugged the child.

"I wish, oh, I wish that you were going to stay with me instead--instead of--"

"Instead of that cross old Sister Julia," laughed the nurse.

"No, no, no, Sister! You have never, never been cross-not once. I mean instead of--well, it isn't very nice to say, but I just can't help it--instead of Miss Donnelly."

"But this is Miss Donnelly, dear."

"Why--why--but Uncle said--no, he didn't exactly say it, but I thought Miss Donnelly was--different."

"And I thought you were different. Just wait until I see your uncle! As you say, he did not exactly tell me so, but I thought I was to take care of a little old lady who would not give me a chance to sit still one minute. What sort of a Miss Donnelly did you think I would be?"

"The one I dreamed of all night was big and strong and had a very loud voice and wore her hair plastered back and--and oh! I am so glad she isn't real! Isn't Uncle a tease! But I am not going to scold him one bit since he sent me the right kind of a Miss Donnelly."

"And now, dear, I must say good-bye. Your Uncle sent the carriage for Miss Donnelly, and Liza says that Jim is waiting to drive me to the home of my new patient."

"But you will come to see us often and often, Sister, and when the little boy is well, you will come back to us, won't you?"

"I hope you will be so well and strong by that time, Mary, that you will not need me. My work is to take care of the sick, you know. But I shall stop in to see you on the days when I return to our convent; and when you are able to go out, you and Gene must come to see me. I am sure that my new patient will be glad to have you visit him."

Mary threw her arms about Sister Julia and clung to her until Gene declared that she was growing jealous. On her return to the little girl's room after seeing the Sister into the carriage, she caught Mary hastily wiping her eyes, but pretended not to see and asked cheerfully, "Now, what shall we do first?"

"The very first thing, Miss Donnelly, will be for me to get dressed."

"Very well, Miss Selwyn," was the prim reply.

"Why--why I am just Mary, Miss Donnelly. I am only seven and a half. No one ever calls me Miss Selwyn."

"And I am just Eugenia, Miss Selwyn. I am only sixteen, and no one ever calls me anything but Gene. So if you wish me to call you Mary, you must call me Gene."

"But--but I think I ought to call you Miss Gene. Mother told me always to say Miss before the names of the big sisters of the little girls I know."

"This is a very different case. I should so like to play that I am your big sister; for, you see, I am the youngest in our family, so I have never had a little sister. Don't you think that we could pretend we are sisters?"

"Yes, yes, of course we can! I have never had a big sister; but if I had one, I should wish her to be exactly like you."

Gene promptly hugged the little girl. "And you would not call her Miss Gene, would you? Oh, I shall be very lonely if you call me that."

"I know what we can do. I shall call you Gene until Uncle comes home to luncheon; and then, if he thinks it will be all right, I can tell Mother about it when I write to her. I wish you knew Father and Mother and my darling little twin sisters and dear old Aunt Mandy, their nurse. But I shall show you their pictures the very first thing. They are in that kodak book on the table. You will have to know everything about them if you are going to be my big sister, you know; and some day when Uncle thinks I am well enough, we shall go out to Maryvale to see Aunt Mary. She is a Sister, and Maryvale is the name of the convent. Her name is Sister Madeline." And while Gene helped Mary to dress, the little girl told her so much about her dear ones that she soon felt she knew them very well indeed.

Later on, when Gene had seen her dolls and games and books, Mary said, "There is something very important that I must ask you about, Gene. It is Christmas presents. Do you know any things that I can make? Of course, they will have to be easy things. Mother and I always went shopping early in December and bought some of the presents-things for Aunt Mandy and Liza and Susie and Tom and for some of the little girls I know; but ever since I was a little bit of a thing, she helped me make something for Father and Uncle Frank and Aunt Mary. And Father helped me with a present for Mother. She says people 'preciate gifts more when they know we have made them specially for them. The trouble is, I can't sew very well, and I don't know how to crochet anything but chain stitch; and there is nothing a person can make out of a long string of chain stitch."

"Oh, yes, there is, Mary. If you crochet very heavy silk thread in chain stitch, it makes the loveliest cord for calendars and things like that."

"I made calendars last year, but we used ribbon for hanging them up. Mother bought me some cards with holes in them, and I sewed them with colored silks and pasted a little calendar on each one. Father's card had a rose on it; and Uncle's a Christmas tree; and Aunt Mary's had Santa Claus going down a chimney. Then Father went to the very same store where Mother had bought the cards and got one for her with a bluebird on it, because Mother calls me her little bluebird. I always wear blue and white, because I am dedicated to Blessed Mother. Beth is, too; and Berta, to the Sacred Heart. And one day when Mother was out, I made her calendar, and she was so s'prised. I just love to s'prise people, don't you? And the bluebird is for happiness; so it was just right for Mother, because I want her to be happy every minute of the whole year. I s'pose it won't do to make calendars again."

"They are very useful things, Mary, and everyone likes a pretty one. You could make a different kind this year. Do you ever use these paints? I see you have crayolas, too."

"Yes, Gene, I often try to draw and paint; but I am better at pasting than anything else."

"The calendars I have in mind will have to be pasted, too. This afternoon while you are taking your nap, I shall go to a store not far from here where I can get everything we need; and to-morrow we shall begin work."

"Oh, goody! Uncle said last evening that the things we are going to send to Italy must be ready early next week. But what can I make for the babies? They can't use calendars, you know. Aunt Mandy was going to teach me to knit something for them, and then I got sick. I even had some nice, soft, white worsted to begin with."

"Have you any colored worsted?"

"There is a big box of all colors on the shelf of the closet in Mother's room. I know that it will be all right for us to use it, because Mother always gave me some of it when I needed it for my dolls."

After a little search, they found the box.

"This is just the thing, Mary, and it is so heavy that it will work up quickly."

"But please tell me what I am going to make, Gene."

"It is something that the babies cannot use until they are a little older, but they will have ever so much fun with it then. It is a pair of horse reins; and we shall sew tiny brass sleigh bells across the front and over the shoulders. Now, the first thing we need is a large spool."

"I know where to find one-in the machine drawer."

Into the top of the spool, Gene drove four strong pins, and fastening the red worsted around them, began the reins. "We shall make about five inches of each color, and your little sisters--"

"Our little sisters, Gene."

"Yes, of course-our little sisters will have the gayest horse reins you ever did see."

For the rest of the morning, Mary worked busily while Gene unpacked her trunk; and when the Doctor came home to luncheon, the little girl had added five inches of blue and five of yellow to the reins. She took her work down stairs to show it to him. "And, Uncle, I have something very important to ask you. Miss Donnelly says it will make her lonely to be called Miss anybody, and she has asked me to call her Gene. Of course, Mother told me always to say Miss. But Miss Donnelly thinks it would be nice to pretend we are sisters, and I wouldn't call my big sister, Miss."

"I am very sure, dear, that if it will make Miss Donnelly feel more at home with us, Mother would approve of your calling her Gene."

"Then you will have to call her that, too, Uncle; because if she is my sister, she is your niece; and you wouldn't call your own niece Miss somebody."

"Very well, if Miss Donnelly wishes me to call her Gene, I shall do so."

"Thank you, Doctor. I feel very much at home already."

"But--but Gene, if you are my big sister, you ought to say Uncle Frank, not Doctor."

"We must let Gene please herself about that, Mary," laughed the Doctor. "I can easily see how she might wish to have you for her little sister without adopting the whole family."

"W--ell,--but I think she will be sorry if she doesn't adopt you, Uncle. Oh, that reminds me! We need some ribbon and Christmas tags and seals and ever so many things for the presents we are going to make; and Gene says that she will buy them for me this afternoon while I am taking my nap. I am afraid I haven't money enough in my bank to pay for them, Uncle."

The Doctor took a bill from his pocket book.

"This will probably cover the cost of your purchases. When you need more, Gene, let me know."