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fell into the habit of walking towards the sea whenever they went
out-of-doors, and spent many afternoon hours on the dunes. During these
hours Dorothy had many confidential and lively conversations with her
new-found friend. Indeed, confidence and gaiety were so bewilderingly
mingled that Dorothy did not always understand her companion.
One afternoon, three days after the departure of Percy Roden, when Von
Holzen was buried, and the authorities had expressed themselves content
with the verdict that he had come accidentally by his death, Marguerite
took occasion to congratulate herself, and all concerned, in the fact
that what she vaguely called “things” were beginning to straighten
themselves out.
“We are round the corner,” she said decisively. “And now papa and I
shall go home again, and Miss Williams will come back. Miss
Williams--oh, lord! She is one of those women who have a stick inside
them instead of a heart. And papa will trot out his young men--likely
young men from the city. Papa married the bank, you know. And he wants
me to marry another bank and live gorgeously ever afterwards. Poor old
dear!”
“I think he would rather you were happy than gorgeous,” said Dorothy,
with a laugh, who had seen some of the honest banker's perplexity with
regard to this most delicate financial affair.
“Perhaps he would. At all events, he does his best--his very best. He
has tried at least fifty of these gentle swains since I came back from
Dresden--red hair and a temper, black hair and an excellent opinion of
one's self, fair hair and stupidity. But they wouldn't do--they
wouldn't do, Dorothy!”
Marguerite paused, and made a series of holes in the sand with her
walking-stick.
“There was only one,” she said quietly, at length. “I suppose there is
always--only one--eh, Dorothy?”
“I suppose so,” answered Dorothy, looking straight in front of her.
Marguerite was silent for a while, looking out to sea with a queer
little twist of the lips that made her look older--almost a woman. One
could imagine what she would be like when she was middle-aged, or quite
old, perhaps.
“He would have done,” she said. “Quite easily. He was a million times
cleverer than the rest--a million times--well, he was quite different,
I don't know how. But he was paternal. He thought he was much too old,
so he didn't try----”
She broke off with a light laugh, and her confidential manner was gone
in a flash. She stuck her stick firmly into the ground, and threw
herself back on the soft sand.
“So,” she cried gaily. _“Vogue la galère_. It's all for the best. That
is the right thing to say when it cannot be helped, and it obviously
isn't for the best. But everybody says it, and it is always wise to
pass in with the crowd, and be conventional--if you swing for it.”
She broke off suddenly, looking at her companion's face. A few boats
had been leisurely making for the shore all the afternoon before a
light wind, and Dorothy had been watching them. They were coming closer
now.
“Dorothy, do you see the _Three Brothers_?”
“That is the _Three Brothers_,” answered Dorothy, pointing with her
walking-stick.
For a time they were silent, until, indeed, the boat with the patched
sail had taken the ground gently, a few yards from the shore. A number
of men landed from her, some of them carrying baskets of fish. One,
walking apart, made for the dunes, in the direction of the New
Scheveningen Road.
“And that is Tony,” said Marguerite. “I should know his walk--if I saw
him coming out of the Ark, which, by the way, must have been rather
like the _Three Brothers_ to look at. He has taken your brother safely
away, and now he is coming--to take you.”
“He may remember that I am Percy's sister,” suggested Dorothy.
“It doesn't matter whose sister you are,” was the decisive reply.
“Nothing matters”--Marguerite rose slowly, and shook the sand from her
dress--“nothing matters, except one thing, and that appears to be a
matter of absolute chance.”
She climbed slowly to the summit of the dune under which they had been
sitting, and there, pausing, she looked back. She nodded gaily down at
Dorothy. Then suddenly, she held out her hands before her, and Cornish,
looking up, saw her slim young form poised against the sky in a mock
attitude of benediction.
“Bless you, my dears,” she cried, and with a short laugh turned and
walked towards the Villa des Dunes.
THE END
The Widow O'Callaghan's Boys
BY GULIELMA ZOLLINGER
(1904, 10th edition)
[Illustration: "CAN'T I DIPIND ON YE B'YS?"]
ILLUSTRATIONS
Can't I depind on ye, b'ys?
It's your father's ways you have
For every one carried something
"Cheer up, Andy!" he said
Mrs. Brady looked at the tall, slender boy
Pat donned his apron
"I've good news for you, Fannie," said the General
The General makes the gravy
Pat doing the marketing
Pat and Mike building the kitchen
Up on the roof sat Mike with his knife
Barney and Tommie a-takin' care of the geese
The merchant turned to the girl clerk

fell into the habit of walking towards the sea whenever they went

out-of-doors, and spent many afternoon hours on the dunes. During these

hours Dorothy had many confidential and lively conversations with her

new-found friend. Indeed, confidence and gaiety were so bewilderingly

mingled that Dorothy did not always understand her companion.

One afternoon, three days after the departure of Percy Roden, when Von

Holzen was buried, and the authorities had expressed themselves content

with the verdict that he had come accidentally by his death, Marguerite

took occasion to congratulate herself, and all concerned, in the fact

that what she vaguely called “things” were beginning to straighten

themselves out.

“We are round the corner,” she said decisively. “And now papa and I

shall go home again, and Miss Williams will come back. Miss

Williams--oh, lord! She is one of those women who have a stick inside

them instead of a heart. And papa will trot out his young men--likely

young men from the city. Papa married the bank, you know. And he wants

me to marry another bank and live gorgeously ever afterwards. Poor old

dear!”

“I think he would rather you were happy than gorgeous,” said Dorothy,

with a laugh, who had seen some of the honest banker's perplexity with

regard to this most delicate financial affair.

“Perhaps he would. At all events, he does his best--his very best. He

has tried at least fifty of these gentle swains since I came back from

Dresden--red hair and a temper, black hair and an excellent opinion of

one's self, fair hair and stupidity. But they wouldn't do--they

wouldn't do, Dorothy!”

Marguerite paused, and made a series of holes in the sand with her

walking-stick.

“There was only one,” she said quietly, at length. “I suppose there is

always--only one--eh, Dorothy?”

“I suppose so,” answered Dorothy, looking straight in front of her.

Marguerite was silent for a while, looking out to sea with a queer

little twist of the lips that made her look older--almost a woman. One

could imagine what she would be like when she was middle-aged, or quite

old, perhaps.

“He would have done,” she said. “Quite easily. He was a million times

cleverer than the rest--a million times--well, he was quite different,

I don't know how. But he was paternal. He thought he was much too old,

so he didn't try----”

She broke off with a light laugh, and her confidential manner was gone

in a flash. She stuck her stick firmly into the ground, and threw

herself back on the soft sand.

“So,” she cried gaily. _“Vogue la galère_. It's all for the best. That

is the right thing to say when it cannot be helped, and it obviously

isn't for the best. But everybody says it, and it is always wise to

pass in with the crowd, and be conventional--if you swing for it.”

She broke off suddenly, looking at her companion's face. A few boats

had been leisurely making for the shore all the afternoon before a

light wind, and Dorothy had been watching them. They were coming closer

now.

“Dorothy, do you see the _Three Brothers_?”

“That is the _Three Brothers_,” answered Dorothy, pointing with her

walking-stick.

For a time they were silent, until, indeed, the boat with the patched

sail had taken the ground gently, a few yards from the shore. A number

of men landed from her, some of them carrying baskets of fish. One,

walking apart, made for the dunes, in the direction of the New

Scheveningen Road.

“And that is Tony,” said Marguerite. “I should know his walk--if I saw

him coming out of the Ark, which, by the way, must have been rather

like the _Three Brothers_ to look at. He has taken your brother safely

away, and now he is coming--to take you.”

“He may remember that I am Percy's sister,” suggested Dorothy.

“It doesn't matter whose sister you are,” was the decisive reply.

“Nothing matters”--Marguerite rose slowly, and shook the sand from her

dress--“nothing matters, except one thing, and that appears to be a

matter of absolute chance.”

She climbed slowly to the summit of the dune under which they had been

sitting, and there, pausing, she looked back. She nodded gaily down at

Dorothy. Then suddenly, she held out her hands before her, and Cornish,

looking up, saw her slim young form poised against the sky in a mock

attitude of benediction.

“Bless you, my dears,” she cried, and with a short laugh turned and

walked towards the Villa des Dunes.

THE END

The Widow O'Callaghan's Boys

BY GULIELMA ZOLLINGER

(1904, 10th edition)

[Illustration: "CAN'T I DIPIND ON YE B'YS?"]

ILLUSTRATIONS

Can't I depind on ye, b'ys?

It's your father's ways you have

For every one carried something

"Cheer up, Andy!" he said

Mrs. Brady looked at the tall, slender boy

Pat donned his apron

"I've good news for you, Fannie," said the General

The General makes the gravy

Pat doing the marketing

Pat and Mike building the kitchen

Up on the roof sat Mike with his knife

Barney and Tommie a-takin' care of the geese

The merchant turned to the girl clerk