Pirate Gold | Page 8

burst out weeping angrily in
Jamie's arms. That is, he sought to comfort her; but she pressed him
aside rudely. "Oh, Jamie," she sobbed (she was suffered to call him
Jamie), "why didn't you give me gloves?"

Poor Jamie scratched his head. He had not thought of them; and that
was all. He tried to caress the child, with a clumsy tenderness, but she
stamped her little foot. Outside, they heard the voices of the other
children. Miss Dowse was talking to Master Bowdoin of sights in the
harbor; but--how early is a boy sensible to a child's prettiness!--he was
asking after Mercedes. It was now Miss Dolly's turn to bite her lip.
"She's in the cabin, crying because she has no gloves."
Jamie felt Mercedes quiver; her sobs stopped, panting; in a moment she
put her hand to her hair and went to the deck unconcernedly.
But no one ever made Mercedes cry again.
Poor Jamie went to a window where he could hear them talking. He
took off his white straw hat, and rubbed his eyes with a red silk
handkerchief; the tears were almost in them, too. He had wild thoughts
of trying to buy gloves at Nahant. He listened to hear if his child was
merry again. She was laughing loudly, and pointing out the white
column of Boston Light. "That is the way to sea!" she cried. "I came in
that way from sea."
The other children had crept about her, interested. Even Miss Dowse
had come over, and was standing with them.
"Did your father take you to sea?"
"I was at sea in my father's ship," said Mercedes proudly.
"Ah, I didn't know Jamie McMurtagh owned a ship," said Miss Dolly.
Jamie leaned closer to the window.
"Jamie McMurtagh is not my father," said Mercedes. She said it almost
scornfully, and McMurtagh slunk back into the cabin.
Perhaps it was the first time he had ever cried himself.... He felt so
sorry that he had not thought of gloves!

VIII.
When they came to the wharf, several carriages were waiting. Some
were handsome equipages with silver-mounted harnesses (for nabobs
then were in Nahant); others were the familiar New England carryalls.
Mercedes looked for Mr. Bowdoin, hoping he had come to meet her in
one of the former, but was disappointed, for that gentleman was seen
running down the hill as if too late, his blue dress-coat tails streaming
in the wind, his Panama hat in one hand, and a large brown-paper bag,
bursting with oranges, in the other. By accident or design, as he neared
the wharf, the bag did burst, and all the oranges went rolling down the
road.
"Pick 'em up, children, pick 'em up!" gasped Mr. Bowdoin. "Findings
keepings, you know." And he broke into a chuckle as the two smaller
girls precipitated themselves upon the rolling orange-spheres as if they
were footballs, and Master Harley, in his anxiety to stop one that was
rolling over the wharf, tripped upon the hawser, and was grabbed by a
friendly sailor just as he himself was rolling after it into the sea.
"You don't seem to care for oranges, Miss Dolly," said Mr. Bowdoin,
as Miss Dowse stood haughtily aloof; and he looked then at Mercedes,
who was left quite alone, yet followed Miss Dowse's example of
dignity; Jamie standing behind, not beside her, hat in hand.
"Ah, Ja-- Mr. McMurtagh," said Mr. Bowdoin, doffing his own. "And
so this is our Miss Mercy again? Why don't you chase the oranges, my
dear?"
Mercedes looked at the old gentleman a moment, then ran after the
oranges.
Dolly still made excuses. "It is so hot, and I have clean gloves on."
Mr. Bowdoin cast a quick glance at the envied gloves, and then at
Mercedes' brown hands. "Here, Dolly, chuck those gloves in the
carriage there: they're not allowed down here. McMurtagh, I'm glad to
see your Mercy has more sense. Can't stay to luncheon? Well,

remember me to Mr. James!"
Ah, the marvelous power of kindliness that will give even an old
merchant the perception of a woman, the tact of a diplomat!
McMurtagh went back with a light heart, and Mercedes jumped with
delight into the very finest of the carriages, and was given a seat ("as
the greatest stranger") behind with Mr. Bowdoin, while the other three
girls filled the seat in front, and Harley held the reins upon the box, a
process Mr. Bowdoin affected not to see.
They drove through the little village in the train of other carriages; and
Mercedes sat erect and answered artlessly to Mr. Bowdoin's questions.
He asked her whether she was happy in her home, and she said she was.
(In his kindness the simple-hearted old gentleman still knew no other
way to make a woman