[Frontispiece: "Both wanted to toast, and they took turns. "]

Everybody's Lonesome

A True Fairy Story

By

CLARA E. LAUGHLIN

Author of "Evolution of a Girl's Ideal, " "The Lady in Gray, " etc. 

Illustrated by

A. I. KELLER. 

New York Chicago Toronto

Fleming H. Revell Company

London and Edinburgh

Copyright, 1910, by

FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY

To

Mabel Tallaferro, The Faery Child

CONTENTS

 I. DISAPPOINTED IN LIFE II. YOUR OWN IS WAITING III. FINDING THE FIRST FAIRY IV. BEING KIND TO A TIRED MAN V. GOING TO THE PARTY VI. THE "LION" OF THE EVENING VII. AT CANDLE-LIGHTIN' TIME VIII. LEARNING TO BE BRAVE AND SWEET IX. TELLING THE SECRET TO MOTHER X. THE OLD WORLD AND THE KING XI. A MEETING AND A PARTING XII. AT OCEAN'S EDGE

ILLUSTRATIONS

 "BOTH WANTED TO TOAST, AND THEY TOOK TURNS" . . . . . . _Title_

 ". . . . FOUND HERSELF LOOKING INTO EYES THAT SMILED AS WITH AN OLD FRIENDLINESS"

Everybody's Lonesome

I

DISAPPOINTED IN LIFE

Mary Alice came home quietly from the party. Most of the doors in thehouse were closed, because it was cold, and the halls were hard toheat. Mary Alice knew exactly what she should see and hear if sheopened that door at her right as she entered the house, and went intothe sitting-room. There was a soft-coal fire in the small, old-fashioned grate under the old, old-fashioned white marble mantel. Dozing--always dozing--on the hearth-rug, at a comfortable distancefrom the fire, was Herod, the big yellow cat. In the centre of theroom, under the chandelier, was a table, with a cover of her mother'sfancy working, and a drop-light with a green shade. By the unbecominglight of this, her mother was sewing. What day was this? Tuesday!She was mending stockings. Mary Alice could see it all. She had beenseeing it for twenty years during which nothing--it seemed to her--hadchanged, except herself. If she went in there now, her mother wouldask her the same questions she always asked: "Did you have a nicetime?" "Who was there?" "Anybody have on anything new?" "Whatrefreshments did they serve?"

Mary Alice was tired of it all--heartsick with weariness of it--and shestole softly past that closed sitting-room door and up, through thechilly halls where she could see her own breath, to her room. 

She did not light the gas, but took off in the dark her "good" hat andher "best" gloves and her long black cloth coat of an ugly"store-bought" cut, which was her best and worst. Then, in an abandonof grief which bespoke real desperation in a careful girl like MaryAlice, she threw herself on her bed--without taking off her "good"dress--and buried her head in a pillow, and _hated everything_. 

It is hard to be disappointed in love, but after all it is a rathersplendid misery in which one may have a sense of kinship with earth'sgreatest and best; and it has its hopes, its consolations. There isoften the hope that this love may return; and, though we never admitit, there is always--deep down--the consolation of believing thatanother and a better may come. 

But to be disappointed in the love of life is not a splendid misery. And Mary Alice was disappointed in her love of life. To be twenty, andnot to believe in the fairies of Romance; to be twenty and, instead ofthe rosy dreams you've had, to see life stretching on and on beforeyou, an endless, uninspired humdrum like mother's, darning stockings bythe sitting-room fire--that is bitterness indeed. 

Hardship isn't anything--while you believe in life. Stiff toil andscant fare are nothing--while you expect to meet at any turning theEnchanter with your fortune in his hands. But to be twenty and not tobelieve----!

Mary Alice had never had much, except the wonderful heart of youth, tofeed her faith with. She wasn't pretty and she wasn't clever and shehad no accomplishments. Her people were "plain" and perpetually"pinched" in circumstance. And her life, in this small town where shelived, was very narrow. 

In the mornings, Mary Alice helped her mother with the housework. Inthe afternoons, after the midday dinner was cleared away, Mary Alicehad a good deal of time on her hands. Sometimes she sewed--made newclothes or remade old ones; sometimes she read. Once in a while shetook some fancy work and went to see a girl friend, or a girl friendbrought some fancy work and came to see her. Occasionally she andanother girl went for a walk. Semi-occasionally there was a churchsocial or a sewing circle luncheon, or somebody gave a party. 

Somebody had given a party to-day, and Mary Alice had gone to it withhigh hope of finding it "interesting" and had come away from it with adeep despair of ever finding in life that which would make the monotonyof it worth while. 

Many another girl, feeling as Mary Alice did, would have gone away fromhome seeking "life" in a big city. But Mary Alice, besides having noqualifications for earning her way in a big city, had a most unhappyshyness. She was literally afraid of strangers, and never got verywell acquainted even with persons she had associated with for a longtime. 

At the party to-day--it was an afternoon tea--Mary Alice had been morebitterly conscious than ever before of her lack of charms and the bleakprospect that lack entailed upon her. For the tea was given for a girlwho was visiting in town, a girl of a sort Mary Alice had never seenbefore. She was pretty, that visiting girl, and she was sweet; she hada charm that was irresistible; she seemed to like everybody, and therewas no mistake about everybody liking her. Even the town girls likedher and were not jealous. Even Mary Alice liked her, and was notafraid of her. But there she was--that girl!--vital, radiant, anexample of what life might be, at twenty. And Mary Alice came awayhating as she had never done before, life as it was for her and as itpromised to continue. 

Presently she withdrew her head from the pillow and lay looking intothe dark where, as we all know, the things that might be, that shouldhave been, shape themselves so much more readily than in any light. And, lying there, Mary Alice wondered if there were any fairy power onearth that could make of her a being half so sweet as that girl she hadseen this afternoon. 

Then she heard her mother open the sitting-room door and call her. Itwas time to get their simple supper ready. 

"In a minute!" she called back. "I'm changing my dress. " And shejerked at the hooks of her blue taffeta "jumper dress" with uncarefulhaste; bathed her face in cold water; put on her dark red serge whichhad been "good" last year; and went down-stairs to help her mother. 

She could see it all as she went--all she was to do. There was thethreadbare blanket they used for a silence cloth, and the table-clothwith the red stain by Johnny's place where he had spilled cranberryjelly the night before last, when the cloth was "span clean. " Therewere the places to set, as always, with the same old dishes and thesame old knives and forks; and with the mechanical precision born oflong practice she would rightly place, without half looking at them, the various napkins each in its slightly different wooden ring. Theutmost variety that she could hope for would be hot gingerbread insteadof the last of Sunday's layer-cake, and maybe frizzled beef, since theyhad finished Sunday's roast in a meat pie this noon. 

"I didn't hear you come in, " said her mother as Mary Alice opened thesitting-room door, "and I was listening for you. "

"I went right up-stairs to change my things, " said Mary Alice, hopingthat would end the matter. 

"That's what I knew you must have done when it got to be six o'clockand I didn't hear you. I could hardly wait for you to come. I've sucha surprise for you. "

Mary Alice could hardly believe her ears. "A surprise?" she echoed, incredulously. 

"Yes. I got a letter this afternoon from your dear godmother. "

"Oh!" Mary Alice's tone said plainly: Is that all? She had her ownopinion of her godmother, whom she had not seen since she was a smallchild, and it was not an enthusiastic one. Her name--which shehated--was her godmother's name. And aside from that, all she had evergot from her godmother was an occasional letter and, on Christmas andbirthdays, a handkerchief or turnover collar or some other such trifleas could come in an envelope from Europe where her godmother lived. 

Even in the matter of a godmother, it seemed, it was Mary Alice's luckto have one without any of the fairy powers. For although Mary Alice'smother had dearly loved, in her girlhood, that friend for whom she hadcalled her first baby, she had always to admit, to Mary Alice's eagerquestioning, that the friend was neither beautiful nor rich nor gifted. She was a "spinster person" and years ago some well-to-do friend hadtaken her abroad for company. And there she had stayed; while thefriend of her girlhood, whose baby was called for her, heard from herbut desultorily. 

"Your godmother has come back, " said Mary Alice's mother, her voicetrembling with excitement; "she's in New York. And she wants you tocome and see her. "

For a moment, visions swam before Mary Alice's eyes. Then, "How kindof her!" she said, bitterly; and turned away. 

Her mother understood. "She's sent a check!" she cried, waving it. 

After that, until Mary Alice went, it was nothing but talk of clothesand other ways and means. Just what the present circumstances ofGodmother were, they could not even conjecture; but they were probablynot very different than before, or she would have said something aboutthem. And the check she sent covered travelling expenses only. Nordid she write: Never mind about clothes; we will take care of thosewhen she gets here. 

"I haven't the least idea what kind of a time you'll have, " MaryAlice's mother said, "but you mustn't expect many parties or much youngsociety. Your godmother has been abroad so long, she can't have manyacquaintances in this country now. But you'll see New York--the crowdsand the shops and the great hotels and the places of historic interest. And even if you don't meet many people, you'll probably have a veryinteresting time. "

"I don't care about people, anyway, " returned Mary Alice. 

Her mother looked distressed. "I wouldn't say that, if I were you, "she advised. "Because you _want_ to care about people--you _must_!Sights are beguiling, but they're never satisfying. We all have todepend on people for our happiness--for love. "

"Then I'll never be happy, I guess, " said Mary Alice. 

"I'm afraid, sometimes, that you've started out not to be, " her motheranswered, gravely, "but we'll hope for the best. "

II

YOUR OWN IS WAITING

Mary Alice dreaded to meet her godmother. The excitement of gettingaway was all very well. But once she was alone in the Pullman, and thefriendly faces on the station platform were left behind, she began tothink apprehensively of what she was going to. She was sure to feel"strange" with her godmother, and there was at least a pretty goodchance that she might actually dislike her. Also, there was everyreason to doubt if her godmother would like Mary Alice. Mary Alice hadseveral times met persons who had "been to Europe, " and she had neverliked them; their conversation was all about things she did not know, and larded with phrases she could not understand. Those years inEurope made her doubly dread her godmother. 

But the minute she saw her godmother at the Grand Central Station, sheliked her; and before they had got home, in the Fourth Avenue car, sheliked her very much; and when she lay dozing off to sleep, that firstnight in New York, she was blissfully conscious that she loved hergodmother. 

Godmother lived in an apartment in Gramercy Park. It was anold-fashioned apartment, occupying one floor of what had once been ahandsome dwelling of the tall "chimney" type common in New York. Allaround the Square were the homes of notable persons, and clubsfrequented by famous men. Godmother was to point these out in themorning; but this evening, before dinner was served, while she and MaryAlice were standing in the window of her charming drawing-room, sheshowed which was The Players, and indicated the windows of the roomwhere Edwin Booth died. It seemed that she had known Edwin Booth quitewell when she was a girl, and had some beautiful stories of hiskindness and his shyness to tell. 

Mary Alice was surprised and delighted, and she looked over at thewindows with eager, shining eyes. "He must have been wonderful toknow, " she said. "Do you suppose there are many other great peoplelike that?"

"A good many, I should say, " her godmother replied. And as they sat atdinner, served by Godmother's neat maid-of-all-work, it "kind o' cameout, " as Mary Alice would have said, how many delightful peopleGodmother had counted among her friends. 

"You've had a beautiful time, all your life, haven't you?" Mary Alicecommented admiringly, when they were back in the cozy drawing-room andGodmother was serving coffee from the copper percolator. 

"Not all my life, but most of it--yes, " said Godmother. "It took mesome time to find the talisman, the charm, the secret--or whatever youwant to call it--of having a happy time. "

"But you found it?"

Godmother flushed as if she were a little bit embarrassed. "Well, " shesaid, "I found one--at last--that worked, for me. "

"I wish I could find one, " sighed Mary Alice, wistfully. 

"I'm going to try to give you mine, " said Godmother, "or at least toshare it with you. And all I ask of you is, that if it 'works' foryou, you'll pass it on to some one else. "

"Oh, I will!" cried Mary Alice. "What is it?"

"Wait a minute! I have to tell you about me, first--so you'llunderstand. "

"Please do!" urged Mary Alice. "I'd love to hear. "

"Well, you see, when the invitations to my christening were sent out, my folks forgot the fairies, I guess. And as I grew up, I found that Ihadn't been gifted with wealth or beauty or talents or charm----"

"I know, " Mary Alice broke in. 

Godmother looked surprised. 

"I mean, I know how that feels, " Mary Alice explained. 

"Then you know I was pretty unhappy until--something happened. I met acharming woman, once, who was so sweet and sympathetic that my heartjust opened to her as flowers to sunshine; and I told her how I felt. 'Well, that _was_ an oversight!' she said, 'but you know what to doabout it, don't you?' I said I didn't. 'Why!' she said, 'the fairieshad their gifts all ready to bring, and when they were not invited tothe party, what would they naturally do?' 'Give them to some oneelse!' I cried. I shall never forget how reproachfully she looked atme. 'That is a purely human trick!' she said; 'fairies are neverguilty of it. When they have something for you, they keep it for youtill you get it. If they were not asked to your party, it's yourbusiness to hunt them out and get your gifts. Somewhere in the worldyour own is waiting for you. ' That was a magic thought: Somewhere inthe world your own is waiting for you. I couldn't get away from it; itfilled my mind, waking and asleep. And I set out to find if it wastrue. "

"And _was_ it?"

"Well, it must have been. For I've found some of my own, surely, and Ibelieve I shall find more. And oh! the joy it is to look and look, believing that you will surely find. I haven't found wealth, norbeauty, nor accomplishments--perhaps I didn't look in the right placesfor any of those--but I've found something I wouldn't trade for all theothers. It is all I have to bequeath you, dear. But the beautifulpart of this bequest is, I don't have to die to enrich you with it, nordo I have to impoverish myself to give it away. I just whispersomething in your ear--and then you go and see if it isn't so. "

"Whisper it now, please, " begged Mary Alice, going over to hergodmother and putting her ear close. 

"Oh, no, " said Godmother, kissing Mary Alice's ear, "this isn't thetime at all. And it's _fatal_ to tell till the right time comes. "

And no teasing would avail to make her change her mind. 

III

FINDING THE FIRST FAIRY

The next few days were spent in sightseeing; and Mary Alice would neverhave believed there could be any one so enchanting to see sights withas Godmother. They looked in all the wonderful shop-windows and"chose" what they would take from each if a fairy suddenly invited themto take their choice. No fairy did; but they hardly noticed that. 

Then they'd go and "poke" in remnant boxes on the ends of counters inthe big department stores, and unearth bits of trimming and of lacewith which Godmother, who was clever with her needle and "full ofideas, " showed Mary Alice how to put quite transforming touches on herclothes. 

They visited art galleries, and Godmother knew things about thepictures that made them all fascinating. Instead of saying, "Interesting composition, that!" or "This man was celebrated for hischiaroscuro, " Godmother was full of human stories of the struggles ofthe painters and their faithfulness to ideals; and she could stand infront of a canvas by almost any master, and talk to Mary Alice aboutthe painter and the conditions of his life and love and longing when hepainted this picture, in a way that made Mary Alice feel as if she'dlike to _shake_ the people who walked by with only an uninterestedglance; as if she'd like to bring them back and prod them into life, and cry, "Don't you see? How _can_ you pass so carelessly what cost somuch in toil and tears?"

Godmother had that kind of a viewpoint about everything, it seemed. When they went to the theatre, she could tell Mary Alice--before thecurtain went up, and between the acts--such things about the actors andthe playwright and the manager, as made the play trebly interesting. 

On the East Side they visited some of the Settlements and "prowled" (asGodmother loved to call it) around the teeming slums; and Godmotherknew such touching stories of the Old World conditions from which thesemyriads of foreign folk had escaped, and of the pathos of their trustin the New World, as kept Mary Alice's eyes bright and wet almost everyminute. 

One beautiful sunny afternoon they rode up on top of a Fifth Avenuemotor 'bus to 90th Street, and Godmother pointed out the houses of manymulti-millionaires. She knew things about many of them, too--sweet, human, heart-touching things about their disappointments andunsatisfied yearnings--which made one feel rather sorry for them thanenvious of their splendours. 

Thus the days passed, and Mary Alice was so happy that--learning fromGodmother some of her pretty ways--she would go closer to that dearlady, every once in a while, and say: "Pinch me, please--and see if I'mawake; if it's really true. " And Godmother always pinched her, gravely, and appeared to be much relieved when Mary Alice cried "Ouch!I _am_!"

They didn't see anybody, except "from a distance" as they said, forfully a week; they were so busy seeing sights and getting acquainted. Every night when Godmother came to tuck Mary Alice in, they had thedearest talks of all. And every night Mary Alice begged to be told theSecret. But, "Oh, dear no! not yet!" Godmother would always say. 

One night, however, she said: "Well, if I'm not almost forgetting totell you!"

Mary Alice jumped; that sounded like the Secret. But itwasn't--although it was "leading up to it. "

"Tell me what?" she cried, excitedly. 

"Why, to-day I saw one of your fairies. "

"My what?"

"Your fairies that you said were left out of your christening party. "

"You did! Where?"

"I'll tell you that presently. But it seems, from what this fairysaid, that there are a great number of your fairies with gifts for you, all waiting quite impatiently to be found. She says that it isconsidered quite 'ordinary' now, to send all of a great gift by onefairy--yes, and not at all safe. For if that one fairy should miss youand you should not find her, you'd be left terribly unprovided for, yousee. So the gift is usually divided into many parts, and a differentfairy has each part. Now, the gift of beauty, for instance; she is oneof the fairies who has that gift for you. "

Mary Alice's eyes opened wide. Her belief in this wonderful Godmotherwas such that she was almost prepared to see Godmother wave a wand andcommand her to become beautiful--and then, on looking into a mirror, tofind that she was so. "What did she say?" she managed at last to gasp. 

"She said: 'Has she pretty hair?' And I answered, 'Yes. ' 'Then, ' thefairy went on, 'the one who had that gift must have got to thechristening, somehow. Maybe the mother wished for her--and that is asgood as an invitation. '"

"She did!" cried Mary Alice. "She's always said she watched me soanxiously when I was a wee baby, hoping I'd have pretty hair. "

"Well, that's evidently how that fairy got to you. But it seems therewere two. This one I saw to-day says there are two beauties in 'mosteverything--but especially in hair--one is in the thing itself and theother is in knowing what to do with it. It seems she is the 'what todo' fairy. "

And so she proved to be. For, when she came to luncheon next day, shetold Mary Alice how she had always been "a bit daft about hair. " "WhenI played with my dolls, " she said, "I always cared much more forcombing their hair and doing it up with mother's 'invisible' pins, thanfor dressing them. And it used to be the supreme reward for goodnesswhen I could take down my mother's beautiful hair and play with it forhalf an hour. I'm always wanting to play with lovely hair. And when Isaw yours at the theatre the other evening, I couldn't rest until I'dasked your godmother if she thought you'd let me play with it. "

So after luncheon they went into Mary Alice's room and wouldn't letGodmother go with them. "Not at all!" said the "what to do fairy, ""you are the select audience. You go into the drawing-room and'compose yourself. ' When we're ready for you, we'll come out. "

Then, behind locked doors, with much delightful nonsense andexcitement, she divested Mary Alice's head of sundry awful rats andpuffs, combed out the bunches which Mary Alice wore in her reallylovely hair, brushed smooth the traces of the curling iron, and thenmade Mary Alice shut her eyes and "hope to die" if she "peeked once. "

When permission to "peek" was given, Mary Alice didn't know herself. 

"There!" said the fairy, when the excitement of Godmother's delight hadsubsided, "I've always said that the three most important beautyfairies for a girl to find are the how-to-stand fairy, the how-to-dressfairy, and the what-to-do-with-your-hair fairy. Anybody can find themall; and nobody who has found them all needs to feel very bad if shecan't find some of the others who have her christening gifts. "

Mary Alice began looking for the others, right away. But even onefairy had transformed her, outside, from an ordinary-looking girl intoa young woman with a look of remarkable distinction; just as Godmotherhad transformed her, within, from a girl with a dreary outlook on life, to one who found that

 "The world is so full of a number of things, I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings. "

"Is this the Secret?" she asked Godmother, that night. 

"Oh, dear, no!" laughed Godmother, "only the first little step towardsrealizing it. "

IV

BEING KIND TO A TIRED MAN

One day when Mary Alice had been in New York nearly two weeks--and hadfound several fairies--Godmother was obliged to go out, in theafternoon, to some sort of a committee meeting which would have beenquite uninteresting to an outsider. But Mary Alice had some sewing todo--something like taking the ugly, ruffly sleeves of cheap white laceout of her blue taffeta dress and substituting plain dark ones of netdyed to match the silk; and she was glad to stay at home. 

"If an elderly gentleman comes in to call on me, late in the afternoonbut before I get back home, " said Godmother, in departing, "ask him inand be nice to him. He's a lonely body, and he'll probably be tired. He works very hard. "

Mary Alice promised, and went happily to work on the new sleeves whichwere to give her arms and shoulders something of an exquisite outline, in keeping with the fairy way of doing her hair, which Godmother hadtaught her to admire in a beautiful marble in the Metropolitan Museum. 

About five o'clock, when Godmother's neat little maid had just lightedthe lamps in the pretty drawing-room and replenished the open firewhich was one of the great compensations for the many drawbacks ofliving in an old-fashioned house, the gentleman Godmother had expectedcalled. 

Mary Alice went in to see him, and explained who she was. He said hehad heard about her and was glad to make her acquaintance. 

He seemed quite tired, and Mary Alice asked him if he had been workinghard that day. 

"Yes, " he said, "very hard. "

"Wouldn't you like a cup of tea?" she asked. And he said he would. 

When the tea came, he seemed to enjoy it so much that Mary Alice reallybelieved he was hungry. Indeed, he admitted that he was. "I haven'thad any luncheon, " he said. 

Mary Alice's heart was touched; she forgot that the man was strange, and remembered only that he was tired and hungry. 

The little maid brought thin slices of bread and butter with the tea. Mary Alice felt they must seem absurd to a hungry man. "I know what'slots nicer with tea, " she said. 

"What?" he asked, interestedly. 

"Toast and marmalade, " she answered. "I'm going to get some. " And shewent to the kitchen, cut a plateful of toasting slices and brought themback with a long toasting fork and a jar of orange marmalade. 

"At home, " she said, "we often make the toast for supper at thesitting-room fire, and it's _much_ nicer than 'gas range toast. '"

"I know it is, " he said; "let's do it. "

So they squatted on the rug in front of the open fire. Both wanted totoast, and they took turns. 

"I don't get to do anything like this very often--only when I comehere, " he said, apologizing for accepting his turn when it came. 

"Don't you live at home?" asked Mary Alice. 

"Well, no, " he answered, "I'd hardly call what I do 'living at home. '"

There was something about the way he said it that made Mary Alice feelsorry for him; but she didn't like to ask any more questions. 

They had a delightful time. Mary Alice had never met a man she enjoyedso much. He liked to "play" as much as Godmother did, and they talkedmost confidentially about their likes and dislikes, many of whichseemed to be mutual. Mary Alice admitted to him how she disliked tomeet strangers, and he admitted to her that he felt the very same way. 

Godmother tarried and tarried, and at six o'clock the gentleman said hemust go. 

"Oh, dear!" sighed Mary Alice. "I'm sorry! I'm having such a nicetime. "

"So am I, " he echoed gallantly, "but I'm hoping you will ask me again. "

"Indeed I will!" she cried. "We seem to--to get on togetherbeautifully. "

"We do, " he agreed, "and if it's a rare experience for you, I don'tmind telling you it is for me too. "

He couldn't have been gone more than ten minutes when Godmother came in. 

"That gentleman called, " Mary Alice told her. "He's just gone. We hada lovely time. "

"I know, " said Godmother, "I met him down-stairs and we've beenchatting. He says he doesn't know when he's spent a pleasanter hour. "

"Poor man!" murmured Mary Alice, "he seems to be a lonely body. "

"He is, " said Godmother. "He likes to come in here, once in a while, for a cup of tea and an hour's chat. And I'm always glad to have him. "

"I should think so!" agreed Mary Alice. "He ate nearly a whole plateof toast. "

Godmother laughed so heartily that Mary Alice was a little mystified. She didn't see the joke in being hungry. She didn't even see it whenGodmother told her who the man was. 

"Not really?" gasped Mary Alice. Godmother nodded. "Why, he told mehim_self_----!" Mary Alice began; and then stopped to put two and twotogether. It was all very astounding, but there was no reason why whathe had told her and what Godmother said might not both be true. 

"If I had _known_!" she said, sinking down, weak in the knees, into thenearest chair. 

"That was what gave him his happy hour, " said Godmother. "You didn'tknow! It is so hard for him to get away from people who know--to findpeople who are able to forget. That's why he likes to come here; I tryto help him forget, for an hour, once in a while, at 'candle-lightin'time. '"

"I see, " murmured Mary Alice. 

The man was one of those great world-powers of finance whosetransactions filled columns of the newspapers and were familiar toalmost every school child. 

That night when Godmother was tucking Mary Alice in, they had a long, long talk about the caller of the afternoon and about some other peopleGodmother knew, and about how sad a thing it is to take for grantedabout any person certain qualities we think must go with his estate. 

"And now, " said Godmother, "I'm going to tell you the Secret. "

And she did. Then turned out the light, kissed Mary Alice one moretime, and left her to think about it. 

V

GOING TO THE PARTY

"Now, " said Godmother, the very next morning after she had told MaryAlice the Secret, "to see how it _works_! This evening I am going totake you to a most delightful place. "

"What kind of a place?" Mary Alice begged to know. Already, despitethe Secret, she was feeling fearful. 

Godmother squeezed Mary Alice's hand sympathetically; and then, becausethat was not enough, she dropped a brief kiss on Mary Alice's anxiousyoung forehead. "I know how you feel, dear, " she whispered. "All ofus, I guess, have fairy charms that we're afraid to use. Others haveused them, we know, and found them miraculous. But somehow, we'reafraid. I'm all undecided in my mind whether to tell you about thisplace we're going to, or not to tell you about it. I want to do whatis easiest for you. Now, you think! It probably won't be a very largeassembly. These dear people, who have many friends, are at home onFriday evenings. Sometimes a large number call, sometimes only a few. And in New York, you know, people are not 'introduced round'; you justmeet such of your fellow guests as happen to 'come your way, ' so tospeak. That is, if there are many. We'll go down and call thisevening--take our chance of few or many, and try out our Secret. AndI'll do just as you think you'd like best; I'll tell you about thepeople we're going to see and try to guess as well as I can who elsemay be there. Or I won't tell you anything at all--just leave you toremember that 'folks is folks, ' and to find out the rest for yourself. You needn't decide now. Take all day to think about it, if you like. "

"Oh, dear!" cried Mary Alice, "I'm all in a flutter. I don't believeI'll ever be able to decide, but I'll think hard all day. And now tellme what I am to wear. "

She went to her room and got her dark blue taffeta and showed theprogress of yesterday with the new dark net sleeves to replace the uglyruffly white lace ones. 

"That's going to be fine!" approved Godmother. "Now, this morning I amgoing to help you make the new yoke and collar; and then"--she squintedup her eyes and began looking as if she were studying a picture the wayso many picture-lovers like to do, through only a narrow slit of visionwhich sharpens perspective and intensifies detail--"I think we'll goshopping. Yesterday, when I was hurrying past and hadn't time to stopfor longer than a peek, I saw in a Broadway shop-window some shortstrings of pink imitation coral of the most adorable colour, for--whatdo you think? Twenty-five cents a string! I've a picture of you in mymind, with your dark blue dress and one of those coral strings aboutyour throat. "

Godmother's picture looked very sweet indeed when she came out todinner that evening. It was astonishing how many of her fairies MaryAlice had found in two short weeks! The lovely lines of her shoulders, which she had never known were the chief of all the "lines of beauty, "were no longer disfigured by stiff, outstanding bretelles andruffled-lace sleeves, but revealed in all their delicate charm by theclose-fitting plain dark net. And above them rose the head of suchunsuspected loveliness of contour, which rats and puffs and pompadourhad once deformed grotesquely, but which the wonderful newhair-dressing accentuated in a transfiguring degree. The poise of MaryAlice's head, the carriage of her shoulders, were fine. But she hadnever known, before, that those were big points of beauty. So she_did_ took lovely, with the tiny touch of coral at her throat, the pinkflush in her cheeks, and the sparkle of excitement in her eyes. It washer first "party" in New York, and she and Godmother had had the mostdelicious day getting ready for it. Mary Alice couldn't really believethat all they did was to fix over her blue "jumper dress" and investtwenty-five cents in pink beads. But it seemed that when you were witha person like Godmother, what you actually did was magnified athousandfold by the enchanting way you did it. Mary Alice wasbeginning to see that a fairy wand which can turn a pumpkin into a goldcoach is not exceeded in possibilities by a fairy mind which can turnany ordinary, commonplace, matter-of-fact thing into a delightful"experience. "

But something had happened during the afternoon which decided what todo about the party. They were walking west in Thirty-Third Street, past the Waldorf, when a lady came out to get into her auto. Godmothergreeted her delightedly and introduced Mary Alice. But the lady's nameoverpowered Mary Alice and completely tied her tongue during themoment's chat. 

"I used to see her a great deal, in Dresden, " said Godmother when theyhad gone on their way, "and she's a dear. We must go and see her asshe asked us to, and have her down to see us. " Godmother spoke as if avery celebrated prima donna at the Metropolitan Opera were no differentfrom any one else one might happen to know. Mary Alice couldn't getused to it. 

"I--I guess I manage better when I don't know so much, " she said, smiling rather wofully and remembering the man of many millions to whomshe had been "nice" because she thought he was homeless and hungry. 

So to the "party" they went and never an inkling had Mary Alice whereit was to be or whether she was to see more captains of finance or morenightingales of song, "or what. "

VI

THE "LION" OF THE EVENING

The house they entered was not at all pretentious. It was anold-fashioned house in that older part of New York in which Godmotherherself lived--only further south. But it was a remodelled house; theold, high "stoop" had been taken away, and one entered, from the streetlevel, what had once been a basement dining-room but was now a kind ofreception hall. Here they left their wraps in charge of a well-bredmaid whom Godmother called by name and seemed to know. And then theywent up-stairs. Mary Alice was "all panicky inside, " but she kepttrying to remember the Secret. 

Their hostess was a middle-aged lady, very plain but motherly-looking. She wore her hair combed in a way that would have been considered"terribly old-fashioned" in Mary Alice's home town, and she had onseveral large cameos very like some Mary Alice's mother had and scornedto wear. 

Mary Alice was reasonably sure this lady was not "a millionairess oranything like that, " and she didn't think she was another prima donna. The lady's name meant nothing to her. 

"Well, " their hostess said as Godmother greeted her, "now the party_can_ begin--here's Mary Alice! _Two_ Mary Alices!" she added as shecaught sight of the second one. "Who says this isn't going to be areal party?"

Evidently they liked Godmother in this house; and evidently they wereprepared to like Mary Alice. Then, before she had time to think anymore about it, three or four persons came up to greet Godmother, whodidn't try to introduce Mary Alice at all--just let her "tag along"without any responsibility. 

Mary Alice found that she liked to hear these people talk. They had akind of eagerness about many things that made them all seem to havemuch more to say than could possibly be said then and there. MaryAlice felt just as she thought the lady must have felt who, after theman standing beside Mary Alice had made one or two remarks, in a briefturn the conversation took towards the Children's Theatre, cried: "Oh!I want to talk to you about that. " And they moved away somewhere andsat down together. Then, somehow, from that the general talk glancedoff on to some actors and actresses who had come out of the foreignquarter where the Children's Theatre was, and were astonishing up-townfolk with the fire and fervour of their art. Some one who seemed toknow a good deal about the speaking voice, commented on the curiouschange of tone, from resonant throat sounds to nasal head sounds, whichgenerally marked the Slav's transition from his native tongue toEnglish; and gave several examples in such excellent imitation thatevery one was amused, even Mary Alice, who knew nothing about thepersons imitated. 

Then, some one who had been recently to California and seen MadameModjeska and been privileged to hear some chapters of the memoirs shewas writing, told an incident or two from them about the experiences ofthat great Polish artiste in learning English. A man asked this ladyif she knew what Modjeska was going to do with her Memoirs when theywere ready for publication; and they two moved away to talk more aboutthat. And so it went. Mary Alice didn't often know what the talk wasabout; but she was so interested in it that she found herself wishingthey would talk more about each thing and wouldn't break up and driftoff the way they did. They had such a wide, wide world--thesepeople--and they seemed to see everything that went on around them, tofeel everything that can go on within. And they made no effort aboutanything. They talked about the Red Cross campaign againsttuberculosis, or big game hunting in Africa, or the unerring accuracyof steel-workers on the skeletons of skyscrapers, throwing red-hotrivets across yawning spaces and striking the bucket, held to receivethem, every time. And their talk was as simple, as eager, asunaffected, as hers had been as she talked with Godmother about herblue silk dress. All those things were a part of their world, as theblue dress was a part of hers. 

She was so interested that she forgot to be afraid. And by and by whenGodmother had drifted off with some one and Mary Alice found herselfalone with one man, she was feeling so "folksy" that she looked up athim and laughed. 

"Seems as if every one had found a 'burning theme'--all but us!" shesaid. 

The young man--he _was_ young, and very good-looking, in an unusualsort of way--flushed. "I don't know any of them, " he said; "I'm astranger. "

"So am I, " said Mary Alice, "and I don't know any one either. But I'dlike to know some of these people better; wouldn't you?"

"I don't know, " returned the young man. "I haven't seen much ofpeople, and I don't feel at home with them. "

"Oh!" cried Mary Alice, quite excitedly, "you need a fairy godmother totell you a Secret. "

The young man looked unpleasantly mystified. "What secret?" he asked. 

She started to explain. He seemed amused, at first, in a superciliouskind of way. But Mary Alice was so interested in her "burning theme"that she did not notice how he looked. Gradually his superciliousnessfaded. 

"Let us find a place where you can tell me the Secret, " he said, looking about the drawing-room. Every place seemed taken. 

"There's a settle in the hall, " suggested Mary Alice. And they wentout and sat on that. "But I can't tell you the Secret, " she said. "Not yet, anyway. "

"Please!" he begged. "I may never see you again. "

She looked distressed. "Oh, do you think so?" she said. "But anyhow Ican't tell you. I can only tell you up to where the Secret comes in, and then--if I never see you again, you can think about it; and anytime you write to me for the Secret, I'll send it to you to help youwhen you need it most. "

"I need it now, " he urged. 

"No, you don't, " she answered. "I thought I needed it right away, butI wouldn't have understood it or believed it if I'd heard it then. "And she told him how it was whispered to her, after she had been kindto the man of many millions. 

"And does it work?" he asked, laughing at her story of the toast andtea. 

"I don't know, yet, " she admitted, "I'm just trying it. That's anotherreason I can't tell you now. I have to wait until I've tried itthoroughly. "

"You're a nice, modest young person from the backwoods, " laughedGodmother when they were going home, "selecting the largest, livestlion of the evening and running off with him to the safe shelter of thehall. "

"Lion?" said Mary Alice, wonderingly. "What lion?"

"The young man you kept so shamelessly to yourself nearly all evening. "

"I didn't know he was any kind of a lion, " apologized Mary Alice, humbly. "He just seemed to be----" She stopped, and her eyes danceddelightedly. "I was trying the Secret on him, " she went on, "and Ibelieve it worked. "

"I think it must have, " said Godmother, "for he came up to me, before Ileft, and exhibited all the signs of a gentleman who wants to be askedto call. So I invited him to come in to-morrow for a cup of tea. "

"Is he--is he coming?" asked Mary Alice, "and won't you please tell mewhat kind of a lion he is, and what's his name?"

"He is coming, " said Godmother, smiling mischievously, "and I don'tknow whether to tell you his name or not. Maybe he'd rather do thathimself. "

"I don't care if he doesn't, " laughed Mary Alice; "he's a nice man, andhe seemed to be real----" And then she stopped again and lookedmysteriously knowing. And Godmother nodded approvingly. 

"I loved the party, " murmured Mary Alice, happily, as Godmother bentover to give her her last good-night kiss. "I never supposed a partywhere one didn't know a soul could be so nice. "

"Knowing or not knowing people makes much less difference--when youremember the Secret. Don't you find it so?" said Godmother. 

And Mary Alice assented. "Yes, oh, yes! It's a wonderful magic--thedear Secret is, " she said. 

VII

AT CANDLE-LIGHTIN' TIME

The next morning, Mary Alice wanted to know who everybody was; andGodmother told her--every one but "the young man lion" as she calledhim. The home they had been to was that of a celebrated editor and manof letters who numbered among his friends the most delightful people ofmany nations. The guests represented a variety of talents. The large, dark, distinctly-foreign looking man was the great baritone of one ofthe opera houses. The younger man, with the long, dark hair, was aviolinist about whom all New York was talking. The gray-haired manwith the goatee was an admiral. The gentle-spoken, shy man with thesilver hair was a famous Indian fighter of the old frontier days. Theman who spoke informedly of the Children's Theatre was one of thebest-known of American men of letters. The lady who was anxious tointerrogate him about it was one whose fame as an uplifter of humanityhas travelled 'round the globe. This one was a painter, and that one asculptor, and another was a poetic dramatist. 

"My!" sighed Mary Alice, "I'm glad you _didn't_ tell me before we went. As nearly as I can remember, I talked to the Admiral about the FifthAvenue shopwindows, and to the General about the Jumel Mansion--whichhe said he had never seen but had always meant to see--and to thepainter--what _did_ I talk to the painter about? Oh! my pink beads. He admired the colour. "

"Yes, " said Godmother, "and if you had known who they were you wouldprobably have tried to talk to the Admiral about ships and sea-fights, and to the painter about the Metropolitan Museum, and would have boredthem terribly. Most real people, I think, like to be taken for whatthey are rather than for what they may have done. That is one of thethings I learned in my long years in Europe where I was constantlyfinding myself in conversation with some one I did not know. We alwaysbegan on a basis of common humanity, and we soon found our mutualinterests, and enjoyed talking about them. It taught me a great dealabout people and the folly of taking any of them on other people'sestimates. "

But all this was only mildly interesting, now, compared with "the youngman lion. "

Of course they had to tell him, first thing when he came, that MaryAlice did not know who he was. He looked a little surprised at first;then he seemed to relish the joke hugely. When Godmother added certainexplanations, he grew grave again. 

"I like that, " he said. "I think it's a fine game, and I wish I mightplay it. I can't, most of the time. But I can play it with you, ifyou'll let me, " he went on, turning to Mary Alice. She nodded assent. "That's splendid!" he cried. "I haven't played a jolly game like thissince I was a boy. Now, you're not to think I'm a king in disguise oranything like that. There's really nothing about me that's at allinteresting; only, on account of something that has happened to me, people are talking about me--for nine days or so. I'll be going on, ina day or two, and every one will forget. Now let's play the game. MayI make toast?"

"You may, " she said. 

In a little while, some one came to call on Godmother who took thecaller into the library; and the toast-making went on undisturbed. 

Whoever he was, he seemed to know something about camp-fires; andsquatting on the rug before the glowing grate, toasting bread, remindedhim of things he had heard strange men tell, as the intimacy of thenight fire in the wilderness brought their stories out. It wasfascinating talk, and Mary Alice listened enthralled. 

"I didn't know I had that much talk in me, " he laughed, a littleconfusedly, as he rose to go. "It must be the surroundings that areresponsible--and the game. "

Godmother, whose caller was gone, asked him to stay to dinner. 

"I wish I could!" he said wistfully, noting in the distance the cozydinner table set for two. "If you could only know where I must dineinstead!"

"You seem to dread it, " said Mary Alice. 

"I do, " he answered. 

She looked at Godmother. "I wish we could tell him the Secret, " shesuggested shyly, "it might help. "

Godmother looked very thoughtful, as if gravely considering. "Notyet, " she decided, shaking her head; "it's too soon. "

"I think so too, " he said. "I'm afraid you might lose interest in meafter you had told me. I'd rather wait. "

The next day was Sunday. He had engagements for lunch and dinner, buthe asked if he might slip in again for tea; he was leaving town Monday. 

So they had another beautiful hour, at what Godmother loved to speak ofas "candle-lightin' time, " and while Mary Alice was in the kitchencutting bread to toast, Godmother and her guest made notes in tinynote-books. 

"There!" she said, when she had written the Gramercy Park address inhis book. "Anything you send here will always reach her, wherever sheis. "

"And any answer she may care to make to me, if you'll address it to methere, " handing back her book to her, "will always reach me, wherever Imay be. "

"It is a splendid game, " he said when he was going, "and I'm glad youlet me play. If more people played this game, I'd find the world a lotpleasanter place to live in. "

"When you know the Secret you can show other people how to play, " MaryAlice suggested. 

"That's so, " he said. "Well, I shan't let you forget you are to tellit to me. "

VIII

LEARNING TO BE BRAVE AND SWEET

Godmother's charming drawing-room seemed intolerably empty when he hadgone and they two stood by the fire and looked into it trying to seeagain the jungle scene he had pointed out to them in the bed of coals. But the jungle was gone; the vision had faded with the seer. AndGodmother and Mary Alice began picking up the teacups and the toastplate, almost as if there had been a funeral. 

Then Godmother laughed. "How solemn we are!" she said, pretending tothink it all very funny. 

But Mary Alice couldn't pretend. She set down his teacup which she hadjust lifted with gentle reverence off the mantel, where he left it, andwent closer to Godmother. Her lips were trembling, but she did nothave to speak. 

"I know, Precious--I know, " whispered Godmother. She sat down in a bigchair close to the fire--the chair he had just left--and Mary Alice saton the hearth-rug and nestled her head against Godmother's knees. Neither of them said anything for what seemed a long time. They justlooked into the glowing bed of coals and saw--different things!

Then, "I think, " Mary Alice began, in a voice that was full of tears, "I think I wish we hadn't played any game. I think I wish I hadn'tseen him at all. "

"Lovey _dear_!"

"Yes, I do!" wept Mary Alice, refusing to be comforted. "Everythingwas beautiful, before he came. And now he's gone, and I'mso--lonesome!"

Godmother was silent for a moment. "There's the Secret, " shesuggested, at last. "It was--it was when I felt just as you do now, that I began to learn the Secret. "

Mary Alice made no reply; there seemed to be nothing that she could sayBut after they had sat silent for a long while, she got up and kissedher godmother with a new passion which had in it tenderness as well asadoration. 

"I don't believe I can be brave and lovely about it, as you must havebeen to make people love you so. But I'm going to _try_, " she said. 

The success with which Mary Alice's trying met was really beautiful tosee. At first, it was pretty hard for her to care much about theSecret, or about people. Every assemblage just seemed to her an emptycrowd where he was not. But when she began to wonder to how many ofthose selfsame people the others seemed the same as to her, she wasinterested once more; the Secret began to work. 

It worked so well, in fact, that Mary Alice came to be quite famous ina small way. People in Godmother's distinguished and delightful "set"talked enthusiastically of Mary Alice's quiet charm, and she was askedhere and asked there, and had a quite wonderful time. 

Her "poor" friend came in, whenever he could, for tea and toast; andsometimes he made what he called "a miserable return" for thishospitality, by asking Godmother and Mary Alice to dine with him at hispalace on upper Fifth Avenue and afterwards to sit in his box at theopera. He was a widower, and his two sons were married and lived inpalaces of their own. His only daughter was abroad finishing hereducation; and his great, lonely house was to serve a brief purpose forher when she "came out" and until she married. Then, he thought, hewould either give it up or turn it over to her; certainly he would notkeep it for himself. 

At first, Mary Alice found it hard to remember the Secret "with so manyfootmen around. " But by and by she got used to them and, other thingsbeing equal, could have nearly as good a time in a palace as in a flat. For this, she had a wonderful example in Godmother of whom some one hadonce said, admiringly, that she was "never mean to anybody just becausehe's rich. " It was true. Godmother was just as "nice" to the rich asto the poor, to the "cowering celebrity" (as she was wont to say) as tothe most important nobody. It was the Secret that helped her to do it. It was the Secret that helped Mary Alice. 

And so the winter went flying by. Twice, letters came--from him; andMary Alice answered them, giving the answers to Godmother to send. Once he wrote from London, and once from somewhere on the Bosphorus. They were lonesome letters, both; but he didn't ask for the Secret, though he mentioned it each time. 

IX

TELLING THE SECRET TO MOTHER

In March, Godmother said: "I am going abroad for the summer, dear, andI've just had a conference with my man of affairs. He reports someunexpectedly good dividends from my small handful of stock in a companythat is enjoying a boom, and so if we're careful--you and I--there willbe enough so I can take you with me. " Mary Alice was too surprised, too happy to speak. "Now, you'll want to go home, of course, "Godmother went on, "and so we'll agree on a sailing date and then youmay fly back to mother as soon as you wish, and stay till it's time togo abroad. "

They decided to sail the first of May; so Mary Alice went home almostimmediately, and on an evening late in March got off the train on tothat familiar platform whence she had so fearfully set forth only fourshort months ago. 

Father was at the station to meet her; and at home, by the soft-coalfire burning beneath the white marble mantel in the sitting-room, Mother was sewing and waiting for her. 

Mary Alice was thinking, as she and Father neared the house, of thatmiserable evening in the fall when she had stolen past her mother andgone up to her room and wept passionately, in the dark, because lifehad no enchantment for her. There would be no stealing past dearMother now! For the Secret was for Mother, too--yes, very much indeedfor Mother, as Mary Alice and Godmother had agreed in their wonderful"tucking in" talk the night before Mary Alice came away. All the wayhome, on the train, she had hardly been able to wait till she got toMother with this beautiful new thing in her heart. 

Perhaps Mother had dreaded her girl's home-coming, in a way, almost asmuch as she yearned for it. But if she had, Mary Alice never knew it;and if she had, Mother herself soon forgot it. For in all the twentyyears of Mary Alice's life, her mother had never, it seemed, had somuch of her girl as in the month that followed her home-coming. Hourafter hour they worked about the house or sat before that grate fire inthe unchanged sitting-room, and talked and talked and talked. MaryAlice told every little detail of those four months until her motherlived them over with her and the light and life of them animated her asthey had animated Mary Alice. 

Little by little, in that month, Mary Alice came at least to thebeginning of a wonderful new understanding: came to see howparents--and _god_parents!--cease to have any particular future oftheir own and live in the futures of the young things they love. MaryAlice's bleak years had been bitter for her mother, too; perhapsbitterer than for her. And her new enchantment with life was like newblood in her mother's veins. 

Mother cried when Mary Alice told her the Secret. "Oh, it's true! it'strue!" she said. "If only everybody could know it, what a differentworld this would be!"

And as for the--Other! When Mary Alice told her mother about him andwhat his coming into her life and his going out of it had meant, Motherjust held her girl close and could not speak. 

The precious month flew by on wings as of the wind. Mary Alice was"the town wonder, " as her brother Johnny said, and she enjoyed that asonly a girl who has been the town wall-flower can; but after all, everything was as nothing compared with Mother and the exultation thathad so evidently come into her life because out of her love and painand sacrifice a soul had come into the world to draw so richly from thetreasures of other hearts and to give so richly back again. There isno triumph like it, as Mary Alice would perhaps know, some day. Amother's purest happiness is very like God's own. 

But at last the sailing date was close at hand. Mary Alice's heart washeavy and glad together. "If I could only take you!" she whispered toher mother. 

Mother shook her head. "I wouldn't go and leave your father and thechildren, " she said. "You go and enjoy it all for me. I like itbetter that way. "

And so, once more Mary Alice smiled through tear-filled eyes at thedear faces on the station platform, and was gone again into the bigworld beyond her home. But this time what a different girl it was whowent!

X

THE OLD WORLD AND THE KING

They had an unusually delightful voyage. The weather was perfectionand their fellow-voyagers included many persons interesting to talkwith and many others interesting to observe and speculate about. 

One particularly charming experience came to Mary Alice through theCaptain's appreciation of her eagerness. Godmother had taught her tolove the stars. As well as they could, in New York where, to mostpeople, only scraps of sky are visible at a time, they had been wont towatch with keen interest for the nightly appearance of stars they couldsee from their windows or from the streets as they went to and fro. And when they got aboard ship and had the whole sky to look at, theyrevelled in their night hours on the deck, and in picking out theconstellations and their "bright, particular stars. " This led theCaptain to tell Mary Alice something of the stars as the sailors'friends; and she had one of the most memorable evenings of her lifewhen he explained to her something of the science of navigation andmade her see how their great greyhound of the ocean, just like thefirst frail barks of the Tyrians, picked its way across tracklesswastes of sea by the infallible guidance of "the friendly stars. " Allthis particularly interested Mary Alice because of Some One who livedmuch in the open and spent many and many a night on the broad deserts, looking up at the stars. 

They landed at Naples, and lingered a fortnight in that lovelyvicinity; then, up to Rome, to Florence and Venice, to Milan and theItalian Lakes, through Switzerland into France, and so to Paris. Godmother had once spent a winter at Capri; she had spent severalwinters in Florence. She knew Venice well. She had hosts of dear, familiar things to show Mary Alice in each place. 

At last they came to Paris. Godmother lamented that it was in Julythey came; but Mary Alice, who had no recollections of Paris in Apriland May, found nothing to lament. They stayed more than a month--andmade a number of the enchanting little journeys which can be made outof Paris forever and ever without repeating, it seems. 

Then, with a trunk in which were two "really, truly" Parisdresses--very, very modest ones, to be sure, but unmistakably touchedwith Parisian chic--and a mind in which were hundreds of wonderfulParis memories, Mary Alice crossed to England. They went at once toLondon where, it seemed to Mary Alice, she must stay forever, to besatisfied. Godmother had hosts of charming friends in London, evenbeyond what she had in Italy and France; but for the first fortnightshe gave up her time entirely to Mary Alice's sightseeing. By and byher friends began to find out she was there and to clamour insistentlyfor her. And as the exodus from town was as complete as it ever gets, most of the invitations were from the country. So that Mary Alicebegan to see something of that English country-house life she had readso much about, and to meet personages whose names filled her withawe--until she remembered the Secret. And thus she came to the GreatEvent of her life. 

Godmother had what Mary Alice called "a duchess friend" of whom she wasvery, very fond. The Duchess was a woman about Godmother's age, andquite as lovely to look at as a duchess should be. She was mistress ofmany and vast estates, and wore--on occasions--a coronet of diamondsand strings of pearls "worth a king's ransom, " just like a duchess in astory. But she seemed to Mary Alice to have hardly the mildestinterest in the jewels she wore and the palaces she lived in; MaryAlice found it hard to bear in mind that to the Duchess these were justas matter-of-fact, as usual, as unvariable, as the home sitting-roomand the "good" hat had once been to Mary Alice. And like Mary Alice, the Duchess found her happiness in reaching out for something new anddifferent. The Duchess liked the world that Godmother lived in--theworld of Godmother's lovely mind; and she loved Godmother'scompanionship. 

That was how it came about that Mary Alice found herself very often inexalted society. The exalted personages did not notice her much; butevery once in a while, by remembering the Secret, she got on happyterms with some of them. 

And at last a very unusual thing happened. The King was coming tohonour the Duke and Duchess with a visit; coming to see one of thoseancient and glorious estates the like of which no king owns, and whichare the pride of all the kingdom. Many sovereigns had stayed at thissplendid old place on England's south coast--a place as famous for itsbeauty as for its six hundred years of history; so it was no unusualthing for it to house a king. The unusual part of it all was MaryAlice being there. By the King's permission a wonderful house partywas asked to meet him. Godmother couldn't be asked; she had never beenpresented, and the King was unaware of her existence. The Duchesswould not have dared to present Godmother's name on the list submittedto the King. Much less, therefore, would she have dared to presentMary Alice's. "But----!" said the Duchess, and went on to unfold aplan. 

If Mary Alice would not mind staying on with the Duchess whileGodmother paid another visit; and if she would not mind having a roomsomewhere in a remote wing; and would not mind not being asked tomingle with the party in any way, she might see something of suchsights as perhaps she would never be able to see otherwise. Mary Alicewas delighted partly because she wanted to see the sights and partlybecause the thought of going away from this wonderful place made herheart ache. So she was moved out of the fine guest suite she andGodmother had been lodged in, and over to a room in a far wing of thevast house. From this wing one could look down on to the terraces forwhich the love and genius of none other than quaint JohnEvelyn--greatest of England's Garden Philosophers--were responsible. To these terraces the guests would certainly come, and to theworld-famous rose garden into which also Mary Alice could look from herwindow in the far wing. But even if she were to see no royalty, shewas grateful for the privilege of staying on a few days longer in thisParadise by the sea. And not the least delight of her new quarters wasthat they were high enough up so that from them she could overlook thesheltering Ilex-trees which made these marvellous gardens possible soclose to the shore, and see the Channel ships a-sailing--three-mastedschooners laden with wood; fishing-smacks; London barges with theirpicturesque red sails bellying in the wind; and an occasional oceanliner trailing its black smoke across the horizon. What with the seaand the gardens and the rich history of the place, Mary Alice felt thatshe could never tire of it, even if she did not see the King. But itwould be delightful to see him, too. Some day the history of thissplendid old place would include this royal visit; and Mary Alice, whohad read of other such occasions and wished she might have been a mousein a corner to witness them--as, for instance, when Queen Elizabeth washere--now felt the thrill of having that wish come true, in a way; andso far from feeling "set aside" or slighted, liked her window in thewing and her participation in the party above any other she might havehad. 

Mary Alice dined, the first night of the house party, with theDuchess's older children, and then went back to her room to sit at thewindow and look down on the terraces where, after a while, some of themen guests came to smoke. 

It was late, but the twilight still lingered. Mary Alice could nottell who many of the men were, but she could see the King and shewatched him interestedly as he paced up and down. She had been toldhow no one must speak to a king until the king has first spoken to him;and she felt that at best it must be a dreary business--being a king. 

Presently, though, in the thickening shadows she saw a form that madeher heart stand still. _Could it be_? She was probablymistaken--madly mistaken--but something in the way a man down therecarried himself made her think of Godmother's little drawing-room infar-off New York and a man who was "playing the game. " But the Kingwas talking to this man--talking most interestedly, it seemed. She_must_ be mistaken!

Nevertheless, when the men had all gone in, she put on a white shawland slipped down on to the terrace. She felt as if she must know; andof course she couldn't ask, for she did not know his name. 

The terraces were deserted, and she paced up and down undisturbed, trying to assure herself that Godmother would probably have known if hewere in England--his last letter had been from the Far East--andespecially if he were coming here. There were times, as she remindedherself, when she was continually seeing him; out of every crowd, suddenly his tall form would seem to emerge; in the loneliness of quietplaces, as by miracle he would seem to be where a moment ago she knewthere was no one. Then a sense of separation would intervene, and fordays she would be given over to the belief that she was never to seehim again. To-night was doubtless just one of the times when, for noreason that she could understand, he seemed physically near to her. 

She was standing very still in the shadow of an ivy-grown pillar, looking up at the Pole star and wondering if he in his wanderings mightnot be looking at it too, when a man's voice close beside her made herjump. It was an unfamiliar voice. "Star-gazing?" it said, pleasantly. She turned, and recognized the King. 

"Yes, Your Majesty, " she answered. At first she thought she was goingto be frightened. Then she remembered the Secret, and before she knewit she was deep in conversation with the King. 

As she talked, a puzzled expression she could not see came into theKing's face. He had a wonderful memory for names, a memory whichseldom failed him; but he couldn't place this girl. And it was dark, too, so he couldn't see her. But he liked to hear her talk. She hadthat rare thing, in his experience, a fresh, sweet view-point. Thebloom of enchantment was still on life for her, and as he drew her out, he found that she was refreshing him as nothing had done for a wearywhile. 

Then, kingly obligation called him indoors to join the throng whoseeverlasting sameness palled on him almost unendurably. Something hesaid made Mary Alice feel this--made her see, as in a flash, a girl whohad gone home, once, from a party and wept because life was so dull. She was sorry for the King!

"I seldom forget a name, " he said, "but I--before we go in, won't youplease remind me of yours?"

Mary Alice laughed. "Your Majesty has never heard my name, " she said, "and I can't go in; I'm not of the party. " And she explained. 

"I see, " he said. "I shall have to thank the Duchess. I have had amost refreshing quarter of an hour. "

"I'm glad, " said Mary Alice, simply. "I felt afraid, at first--asnearly everybody does, I suppose. And then I thought how dreadful thatmust be--to have every one afraid of you, when you're really a verynice, gentle person--I mean----! Well, I guess Your Majesty knows whatI mean. And then I remembered my Secret----"

"Secret?"

And so, of course, she had to tell. It was rather a long story, hurryas she would, because the King interrupted with so many questions. But she wouldn't tell what the Secret was until "the very last thing. "

"Um, " said the King, when she had finally divulged it. That was all hesaid; but the way he said it made Mary Alice know that the Secret wasright. 

XI

A MEETING AND A PARTING

The next day was full of activities which kept the house guests farafield. But Mary Alice had an exciting day at home; for the King hadspoken to the Duchess about her and asked to have her presented to himthat evening. 

The Duke and Duchess had spent a fortune on the entertainment of theirKing; had provided for his beguiling every costly diversion that couldbe thought of. But they had not been able to give him anything new, and they felt that he was enduring the visit amiably rather thanactually enjoying it. It remained, apparently, for the Girl fromNowhere to give him real pleasure. 

So the Duchess--secretly sympathetic--left orders with her French maidthat Mary Alice was to be made ready to see the King. 

Mary Alice chose the simplest thing that rigorous French maid wouldallow and kept as close as possible to her own individual andunpretending style. But even then, she was a pretty resplendent youngperson as she stole timidly down to find the Duchess and be presentedto the King. 

The guests were assembled in the great drawing-room, and Mary Alice wasfrightened almost to death when she saw the splendour of the scene andrealized what part she had to play in it. 

Then, in a daze, she was swept forward and presented, and found herselflooking into eyes that smiled as with an old friendliness. So shesmiled back again, and soon forgot the onlookers, answering HisMajesty's kindly questions. 

[Illustration: ". . . Found herself looking into eyes that smiled aswith an old friendliness. "]

He turned from her, presently, to speak to some one else, and MaryAlice caught sight then of a face she knew. For an instant, she stoodstaring. For an instant, he stood staring back, as unbelieving as she. 

Then, "You seem to be on friendly terms with His Majesty, " he said. "Have you showed him how to play the game, too?"

"No, " Mary Alice answered, "but I've told him the Secret. "

As soon as they could, they escaped--those two--out on to the terracewhere the stars were shining thickly overhead. 

"On one of those--those times in New York when we talked together, " hesaid, "you told me that when something very marvellous had happened toyou and you couldn't believe you were awake, that it was really true, you asked your Godmother to pinch you. It--er, wouldn't be at allproper for me to ask you to please pinch me. But if you know anyperfectly proper equivalent, I wish you'd do it. "

"I've pinched myself, " she returned, "and it seems I am awake. So Ijudge you must be, too. "

"Then how, please----?"

And she told him. 

"And you don't know yet who I am?"

"No. "

So he told her. "I warned you it was nothing interesting, " he said;"it is just my work that people are interested in. I don't belong inthere, " indicating the great house, "any more than you do. They likeme for a novelty, because I've dared and suffered; and because, asthings turned out, I was in a position to do what they are pleased tocall a great service to the Empire. I wish I liked them better--theywant to be very kind to me, and I was born of them, so they like me thebetter for that. But I've been in the wilderness too much--I can't getused to these strange folk at home. "

"I used to think I couldn't get used to strange folk, " Mary Alicemurmured, "but I seem to have got on fairly well for a girl fromNowhere. "

"Was it the Secret?"

She nodded. 

"When may I know?"

"I--I can't tell. "

"You told the King. "

"He seemed to need it so. "

"Don't I need it?"

"I--I can't tell. "

He seemed discouraged, and as if he did not know what next to say. They strolled in silence over to where she had been standing the nightbefore when the King spoke to her. From within the great house camethe entrancingly sweet song of a world-famous soprano engaged to pourher liquid notes before the King. 

Mary Alice stood very still, drinking it in. When it ceased, she stolea look up at the bronzed face beside her; the light from a window inher far wing of the house fell full on that rugged face, and it lookedvery stern but also very sad. Mary Alice's heart, which had beenexultant only a short while ago, began suddenly--in one of thosestrange revulsions which all hearts know--to ache indefinably. Thishour would probably be like those other brief hours in which he hadshared her life. To-morrow, or next day, he would be gone; and foreverand forever the memory of these moments on the terrace, with the starsoverhead and that exquisite song in their ears, would be coming back totaunt her unbearably. 

She made up her mind that before he went out of her life again, shewould tell him the Secret; so that at least, wherever he went, howeverfar from him the rest of her way through life might lie, they wouldalways have that thought in common; and whenever it came to help him, as it must, he would think of her. 

Timidly she laid a hand upon his arm. He had been far away, followingthe trail of long, long thoughts, and her touch recalled him sharply. 

"What is it?" he asked. 

"I--I want to tell you the Secret. "

"I don't think I want to know, " he answered, rather shortly. 

"Why--why----" Mary Alice faltered. Her lips quivered and her eyesbegan to fill. "I--I must go in, " she said. 

He put out a hand to detain her, but either she did not see it in thedark, or else she eluded it; for in a moment she was gone, across theterrace towards the lighted French windows of the rooms of state. 

How she managed to get through those next few minutes until she couldfind the Duchess and ask to be excused, Mary Alice never knew. All ofher that was capable of feeling or caring about anything seemed to haveleft this part of her that wore the Duchess's lovely white gown andscarf of silver tissue, and to be out on the dark terrace under thepale star beams, with a tall young man who spoke bitterly. This girlin the sheen of white and silver to whom the King was speaking kindly, was some one unreal and ghostly who acted like a real live girl, butwas not. 

As she hurried along the great corridors towards her room in the farwing, Mary Alice felt that she could hardly wait to get off thesetrappings of state; to get back to her old simple self again and buryher head in her pillow and cry and cry. She wished with all her heartfor Godmother. But most of all she was sick for home, for Mother, andthe unchanging sitting-room. 

"He" had seemed disappointed to find her here. And she----? Well! shewas sorry she had seen him. In New York, where she had not even knownhis name, he had seemed to belong to her, in a way, by right of theircommon sympathy and understanding. Here, among all these people whowere his people, who delighted to honour him, he seemed completely lostto her. . . . 

After a weary while, Mary Alice got up and sat by the window, lookingacross to the main part of the great house and wondering which of thedarkened windows was his and if he had dismissed her easily from hismind and gone comfortably to sleep. The early dawn breeze was blowingfrom the sea when she dozed into a brief, dream-troubled sleep. 

XII

AT OCEAN'S EDGE

Only the gardeners and a few of the house servants were about when shewent down-stairs, through the still house and out on to the terraces, towards the sea. She had hung the white and silver finery carefullyaway, glad to feel so far divorced from it and all it represented asshe did in her gown of unbleached linen crash which she and Godmotherhad made. 

"I'm like Cinderella, " she reminded herself as she buttoned the crashgown, "Godmother and all. Only, her prince loved her when he saw herin her finery, and mine despised me. I suppose he thought I was asilly little 'climber' trying to get out of the chimney-corner where Ibelong. But I think he owed it to me to let me explain. "

There was a cove on the shore whose shelter she particularly loved; andshe was going thither now, as these bitter reflections filled her mind. The tide was ebbing, but the thin, slowly-widening line of beach waswet and she had to pick her way carefully. She was so mindful of hersteps and, under all her mindfulness, so conscious of the ache in herheart, that she was not noticing much else than the way to pick hersteps; and she had rounded the rocky corner of the cove and was farinto her favoured little nook, when she saw that it was occupied. Aman sat back in its deepest shelter, looking out to sea. He startedwhen he saw her, and she looked back as if calculating a flight. 

"Please don't go, " he begged, rising to greet her. "I was unpardonablyrude to you last night and it has made me very wretched. You have noright to pardon me, but I hope you won't go away without letting metell you how sorry I am. "

"I--it was nothing--I pardon you--I think I understand, " said MaryAlice, weakly. 

He shook his head. "How could you--who are so gentle--understand?"Mary Alice looked about to protest, but he silenced her with acommanding gesture. "I've been so much with savages that I've grownsavage in my own ways, it seems. But--it was like this: You taught mea game, once. It was a charming game and I was glad to learn. But wecould play it only twice, and then I had to go away. And after I wentI--I was always missing the game, always wanting to play again. Atwhat you called 'candle-lightin' time, ' wherever I was--in strangedrawing-rooms, on rushing express trains, on ships plowing the seas, sitting about camp-fires in the wilderness--I'd always seem to see thatlittle, dim-lit room in your New York, and you kneeling beside me onthe hearth-rug, with the firelight on your face and hair. I've alwaysbeen a lonely chap; but after that I was lonelier than ever; I used tothink I couldn't bear it. Then last night--how shall I tell you how Ifelt? I've comforted myself, before, with the dream that some day Imight get back to New York, to that little room at candle-lightin'time, and find you again, and forget everything in all the world butthat you were there and I was with you, kneeling on the hearth-rug andmaking toast for tea. And when I saw you, all white and silverglitter, talking to the King--the dream was gone. There wasn't anygirl on the hearth-rug in New York; there was only another girl of thekind that always makes me feel so strange, so ill at ease. It was onlynight before last that I learned I am to go away again directly, to theFar East, for the Government; and I was so happy, for I thought I'd gothe westward way and see you again in New York. Then, suddenly, Irealized that you were gone--not merely from New York, but from thedream. And I was surprised into rudeness. That's all. But _please_forgive me!"

"I told you I understood, " said Mary Alice, "and in a way I did--notthat the--the dream as you call it meant so much to you, but that youwere disappointed to find Cinderella come out of her chimney corner andtalking to the King. I know that when we have a person definitelyplaced in our minds, we don't like to have him bob up suddenly in quiteanother quarter and in what seems like quite another character. "

"Not if that person has been a kind of--of lode-star to you, and youhave been steering your course by--by her, " he said. 

Mary Alice flushed. "Now I think you ought to let _me_ tell, " shebegan, with downcast eyes. And so she told: how she had come there, and how she had stayed, like the little mouse under the Queen's chair, and how glad she was to have seen from a distance a little of thissplendour and great society, and how gladder still to hang her borrowedwhite and silver away and be done with it and all it stood for and goback to her gown of crash and her chimney-corner place in life, "whichI can now see, " she added "is the place for dreams and sweetcompanionship. "

"And when I get back, will you be there?" he cried, eagerly. 

"When you get back I will be there, " she promised. 

After that they sat and talked for long and long, while the blue seasparkled in the summer morning sun. When, at length, they rose to go, there was a light that never shone on land or sea in his face and inhers. There had been no further promises; only that one: "When you getback I will be there. " But each heart understood the other, and sherejoiced to wait further declaration of his love until he could, according to his tender fancy, make it to her as in his "dream cometrue. "

On the beach as they strolled back, it was her eyes--shining with asoft, new radiance--that first caught sight of something; her fancythat first grasped its significance. "Look!" she cried. In abowl-like hollow of a big brown rock, the receding tide had left alittle pool of sea-water. "It's left behind--this bit of the infinite, unresting sea!" she said. "Who knows what far, far shores it's comefrom? And now, here it is, and the great mother-sea's gone off andleft it. "

He smiled tenderly at her sweet whimsy. "The great mother-sea willcome back for it at sundown, " he reminded her. 

"Yes--yes"--perhaps it was the coming separation between the two thatmade her voice quaver so sympathetically--"the Infinite always comesback for us. But we don't always remember that it will! This is sucha little bit of the great sea. Maybe it never was left alone before;maybe it doesn't know how surely the waters that left it behind willcome back for it this evening. Maybe it's--it's lonesome. I--I thinkI know how it feels. "

"And I, " he said. 

"Next time you feel that way will you remember this brown rock and thetide that is so surely coming back tonight?" she asked. 

"Indeed I will, " he told her. 

"And so will I, " she went on. "And I'll try to remember, too, thatperhaps it was put here for us to see and think of when we needencouragement--just as, I dare say, we are left behind, sometimes, sothat other lonely folk may see us and be reminded that----" Shestopped. 

"That what?" he asked. 

"Why!" she cried, "it's the Secret! The more you live, the moreeverything helps you to believe the Secret and to feel the brotherhoodit brings. "

He looked guilty. "I don't deserve to know the Secret, " he said, "after last night. But----"

"But I am going to tell you, " she declared, "so when you're far awayfrom what you love most, or when you're with people you think aredifferent from you and do not understand, you can remember----"

"Yes?" eagerly. 

"Just remember--and you've no idea how it helps until you'vetried--that _everybody's lonesome_. That's the Secret. "