Everybodys Lonesome | Page 3

from Europe where her godmother lived.
Even in the matter of a godmother, it seemed, it was Mary Alice's luck
to have one without any of the fairy powers. For although Mary Alice's
mother had dearly loved, in her girlhood, that friend for whom she had
called her first baby, she had always to admit, to Mary Alice's eager
questioning, that the friend was neither beautiful nor rich nor gifted.
She was a "spinster person" and years ago some well-to-do friend had
taken her abroad for company. And there she had stayed; while the
friend of her girlhood, whose baby was called for her, heard from her
but desultorily.
"Your godmother has come back," said Mary Alice's mother, her voice
trembling with excitement; "she's in New York. And she wants you to
come and see her."
For a moment, visions swam before Mary Alice's eyes. Then, "How
kind of 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 clothes and
other ways and means. Just what the present circumstances of
Godmother were, they could not even conjecture; but they were
probably not very different than before, or she would have said
something about them. And the check she sent covered travelling
expenses only. Nor did she write: Never mind about clothes; we will
take care of those when she gets here.
"I haven't the least idea what kind of a time you'll have," Mary Alice's
mother said, "but you mustn't expect many parties or much young
society. Your godmother has been abroad so long, she can't have many
acquaintances in this country now. But you'll see New York--the
crowds and 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 very interesting 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 to depend 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 mother
answered, gravely, "but we'll hope for the best."

II
YOUR OWN IS WAITING
Mary Alice dreaded to meet her godmother. The excitement of getting
away was all very well. But once she was alone in the Pullman, and the
friendly faces on the station platform were left behind, she began to
think apprehensively of what she was going to. She was sure to feel
"strange" with her godmother, and there was at least a pretty good
chance that she might actually dislike her. Also, there was every reason
to doubt if her godmother would like Mary Alice. Mary Alice had
several times met persons who had "been to Europe," and she had never
liked them; their conversation was all about things she did not know,
and larded with phrases she could not understand. Those years in
Europe made her doubly dread her godmother.
But the minute she saw her godmother at the Grand Central Station, she
liked her; and before they had got home, in the Fourth Avenue car, she
liked her very much; and when she lay dozing off to sleep, that first
night in New York, she was blissfully conscious that she loved her
godmother.
Godmother lived in an apartment in Gramercy Park. It was an

old-fashioned apartment, occupying one floor of what had once been a
handsome dwelling of the tall "chimney" type common in New York.
All around the Square were the homes of notable persons, and clubs
frequented by famous men. Godmother was to point these out in the
morning; but this evening, before dinner was served, while she and
Mary Alice were standing in the window of her charming
drawing-room, she showed which was The Players, and indicated the
windows of the room where Edwin Booth died. It seemed that she had
known Edwin Booth quite well when she was a girl, and had some
beautiful stories of his kindness and his shyness to tell.
Mary Alice was surprised and delighted, and she looked over at the
windows with eager, shining eyes. "He must have been wonderful to
know," she said. "Do you suppose there are many other great people
like that?"
"A good many, I should say," her godmother replied. And as they sat at
dinner, served by Godmother's neat maid-of-all-work, it "kind o' came
out," as Mary Alice would have said, how many delightful people
Godmother had counted among her friends.
"You've had a beautiful time, all your life, haven't you?" Mary Alice
commented