Mary Louise | Page 7

of my way!" he said, and seizing the
girl's arm, which she had withdrawn in affright, he marched straight
ahead. The man fell back, but stared after them with his former

expression of bewildered surprise. Mary Louise noted this in a glance
over her shoulder and something in the stranger's attitude--was it a half
veiled threat?--caused her to shudder involuntarily.
The Colonel strode on, looking neither to right nor left, saying never a
word. They reached their home grounds, passed up the path in silence
and entered the house. The Colonel went straight to the stairs and cried
in a loud voice:
"Beatrice!"
The tone thrilled Mary Louise with a premonition of evil. A door was
hastily opened and her mother appeared at the head of the stairs,
looking down on them with the customary anxiety on her worn features
doubly accentuated.
"Again, father?" she asked in a voice that slightly trembled.
"Yes. Come with me to the library, Beatrice."
CHAPTER IV
SHIFTING SANDS
Mary Louise hid herself in the drawing-room, where she could watch
the closed door of the library opposite. At times she trembled with an
unknown dread; again, she told herself that no harm could possibly
befall her dear, good Gran'pa Jim or her faithful, loving mother. Yet
why were they closeted in the library so long, and how could the
meeting with that insolent stranger affect Colonel Weatherby so
strongly?
After a long time her mother came out, looking more pallid and
harassed than ever but strangely composed. She kissed Mary Louise,
who came to meet her, and said:
"Get ready for dinner, dear. We are late."

The girl went to her room, dazed and uneasy. At dinner her mother
appeared at the table, eating little or nothing, but Gran'pa Jim was not
present. Afterward she learned that he had gone over to Miss Stearne's
School for Girls, where he completed important arrangements
concerning his granddaughter.
When dinner was over Mary Louise went into the library and, drawing
a chair to where the light of the student lamp flooded her book, tried to
read. But the words were blurred and her mind was in a sort of chaos.
Mamma Bee had summoned Aunt Polly and Uncle Eben to her room,
where she was now holding a conference with the faithful colored
servants. A strange and subtle atmosphere of unrest pervaded the house;
Mary Louise scented radical changes in their heretofore pleasant home
life, but what these changes were to be or what necessitated them she
could not imagine.
After a while she heard Gran'pa Jim enter the hall and hang up his hat
and coat and place his cane in the rack. Then he came to the door of the
library and stood a moment looking hard at Mary Louise. Her own eyes
regarded her grandfather earnestly, questioning him as positively as if
she had spoken.
He drew a chair before her and leaning over took both her hands in his
and held them fast.
"My dear," he said gently, "I regret to say that another change has
overtaken us. Have you ever heard of 'harlequin fate'? 'Tis a very
buffoon of mischief and irony that is often permitted to dog our earthly
footsteps and prevent us from becoming too content with our lot. For a
time you and I, little maid, good comrades though we have been, must
tread different paths. Your mother and I are going away, presently, and
we shall leave you here in Beverly, where you may continue your
studies under the supervision of Miss Stearne, as a boarder at her
school. This house, although the rental is paid for six weeks longer, we
shall at once vacate, leaving Uncle Eben and Aunt Sallie to put it in
shape and close it properly. Do you understand all this, Mary Louise?"
"I understand what you have told me, Gran'pa Jim. But why--"

"Miss Stearne will be supplied with ample funds to cover your tuition
and to purchase any supplies you may need. You will have nothing to
worry about and so may devote all your energies to your studies."
"But how long---"
"Trust me and your mother to watch over your welfare, for you are very
dear to us, believe me," he continued, disregarding her interruptions.
"Do you remember the address of the Conants, at Dorfield?"
"Of course."
"Well, you may write to me, or to your mother, once a week,
addressing the letter in care of Peter Conant. But if you are questioned
by anyone," he added, gravely, "do not mention the address of the
Conants or hint that I have gone to Dorfield. Write your letters
privately and unobserved, in your own room, and post them secretly, by
your own hand, so that no one will be aware of the correspondence.
Your caution in