Sister Sue/Chapter 17

the south came warm breezes and gentle rains. Higher and higher in the heavens rolled the sun. The huge drifts disappeared and were not. Here and there a bit of green flashed back smile for smile. Little brown, brave-hearted buds swelled to bursting with the promise of good things to come.

And it was spring.

Gilmoreville said never had they known such a winter. Never did they want to see its like again, and never had spring looked so good to them. All of which Sister Sue in the old Gilmore homestead echoed quite fervently.

And spring did, indeed, bring to Sister Sue a most welcome respite from many things. There were no more frozen water-pipes; no more shivering mornings with the fire almost out; no more blizzards that threatened to cut them off from all mankind. There was now, instead, the never-failing interest for John Gilmore in the garden which gave the shears (and Sister Sue) a rest. There were sunshine, soft air, singing birds, and the wonderful marvel that spring always is—after winter.

Sister Sue drew a long breath, shook off the lethargy that seemed to have benumbed her senses for months past, gloried in summer frocks and low shoes (even though they were a bit old and shabby), and said she was glad she was living, anyway. Such is the magic of spring—after winter.

May wrote that she was coming home in June. She was n't a bit well, she said, and she presumed very likely the country air would be good for her. Martin thought so. The baby was coming in October, she said. She should n't come back to town, of course, until after that. Martin would come with her to Gilmoreville, but he was n't planning to stay at all. He had a wonderful chance to go on a three months' camping trip down in Maine. And he was going. He ought to get some good copy, he said. Anyhow, he needed the trip to freshen up. He'd had a hard winter. But he would not be in Gilmoreville. Sister Sue need n't plan for him, therefore, but she might plan for herself to be there in June and to remain until after October, anyway. And she was her affectionate sister May.

Sister Sue read this letter and bit her lips and sat thinking for some time. She had just reached the decision that, yes, she would write her sister May that she might come, when, upon a second reading of the letter, she discovered that this would be an unnecessary formality. May had already written that she was coming.

From Gordon that week came a letter saying that some friends had asked him to go with them on a motor trip through Canada, and if she did n't mind he guessed he'd go. He'd come home, of course, first. He'd have to do that, anyway, for some new clothes. His old clothes were in an awful shape. Could he have some new ones, somehow? Of course, being on a motor trip, he would n't need so many as he would for—for a trip to Palm Beach, say—but he'd simply got to have something.

And Sister Sue wrote back promptly that he could, of course he could. He would have to have what was necessary, certainly. Then she went upstairs to the attic and took out the despised old challis that had been discarded as quite impossible when May's trousseau had been planned.

"I could dye it, I think," mused Sister Sue, eyeing it critically. Then she gathered it into her arms and carried it downstairs.

It was one evening early in June, before either Gordon or May had arrived, that Sister Sue, sitting alone on the veranda, heard a quick foot coming up the walk. She turned to see Donald Kendall coming up the steps.

"Why, Mr. Kendall, I did not know you were in town!" she exclaimed, getting at once to her feet.

"I was n't till four o'clock to-day. Thank you, I will sit down," he said, accepting a chair at the invitation of her hand.

He sat down. Sister Sue waited for him to speak, but as he still remained silent, she hazarded:

"Is your mother well?"

"Eh? What? Oh, I beg pardon. Yes, quite well. Thank you," he added, plainly as an afterthought.

There was another silence. In her corner Sister Sue smiled—quietly. She opened her lips once as if to speak, but she closed them again with no word said.

After a time the man stirred restlessly.

"You don't mind if I smoke?" he questioned.

"Not at all."

"Thanks."

Another silence—a longer one. The man had something to do now.

He stayed, perhaps, half an hour. He talked a little—a very little. Sister Sue, still smiling in her corner, met him halfway, cordially, but inasmuch as the most of the subjects introduced were discussed by him with a short "yes" or "no," or, "I don't know," she did not attempt any lengthy discussion.

It was not until he rose abruptly to go that she learned the real intent of his visit.

"Miss Gilmore, I suppose I was—well—er—perhaps a bit rude to you on that last morning before I went away after Old Home Day. I'm sorry." His lips snapped tight shut with the irritability of a man performing an annoying duty. Then, still irritably, he said: "Miss Gilmore, I expect to be around here about a week. If quite convenient to you I'll be over here to-morrow morning at nine o'clock—with my violin. That is, I mean, may I?" he amended, with the impatience of one not accustomed to asking favors.

Sister Sue laughed merrily.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Kendall, but you may n't, not at nine o'clock," she smiled. "I have pupils all the morning and most of the afternoon, but I'll be glad to have you come in the evening, as early as seven, if you like."

"Thanks. I'll be here."

The next moment Sister Sue was alone, laughing all by herself in the dark, in the vine-shaded corner of the veranda.

Promptly at seven the next evening Donald Kendall appeared with his violin and his music. And promptly at seven every evening for the next week he did likewise, to say nothing of several other times during the day when her pupils were not expected.

And when the week was over and he was gone. Sister Sue declared to herself that it was the happiest seven days she had known since she had come to Gilmoreville. To have lived again, even if for only one short week, in the atmosphere of music that was music, was something to hold dear to one's heart; something that would help to tide one over many a dreary day when music was only Johnny Smith's scales or Ruth Reynolds's five-finger exercises; something to think of and to live over and over again—in memory. And it would help through so many things.

Sister Sue was so glad afterwards that she had had that blessed week of joy, for it did help through so many, many things—and she had so sorely needed it, for if the winter had been a hard one, the summer that followed was even harder, though in quite a different way.