THREE GIRLS AND ESPECIALLY ONE.

IN THE SAME SERIES.

The Blissylvania Post Office. By Marion Ames Taggart. 16mo, cloth, 50 cents.

An Heir of Dreams. By Sallie Margaret O’Malley. 16mo, cloth, 50 cents.

A Summer at Woodville. By Anna T. Sadlier. 16mo, cloth, 50 cents.

Three Girls and Especially One.

BY MARION AMES TAGGART, Author of “The Blissylvania Post Office,” etc.

NEW YORK, CINCINNATI, CHICAGO: Benziger Brothers, Printers to the Holy Apostolic See. 1897.

Copyright, 1897, by Benziger Brothers.

CONTENTS.

THREE GIRLS, AND ESPECIALLY ONE.

CHAPTER I. A GIFTED GIRL.

The Merricks as a family were very much like a great many other people in the world—not remarkable in any way. The five younger children were every-day girls and boys, but the eldest girl was gifted.

Mr. Merrick was too busied with making money for his flock—in which he was wonderfully successful—to realize what it meant to be the father of a genius; but Mrs. Merrick felt with pride that Marcella was not like other girls, and her sisters and brothers realized it too, but with more annoyance than pleasure.

Marcella—or Marcy as she was called—was 6only twelve, but she had made up her mind to do something to amaze the world. She was not sure whether she should be the greatest singer, or the greatest painter, or the greatest poet of her day; but she should be one of these things, and that which she finally decided upon she was to be in the superlative degree.

In the mean time she wrote pretty bad verses, and made sketches in which nothing ever seemed to have the appearance it had in nature; and these bulls of the promise of her future greatness were carefully treasured by her mother, to whom alone—and the genius herself—they were beautiful. Marcy was a pretty child, and would have been much prettier had not her delicate face been written over with thoughts of self, and there were in it possibilities of great beauty if the nobler side of her childish character should be ever aroused.

Mr. Merrick was occupied with business; his children did not feel very well acquainted with him. Poor Mrs. Merrick had social ambition, and was eagerly pursuing an upward course in life, trying, as she said, “to 7make a place in the world for her children,” which left her less time than was needed to make them fit to occupy a place in the world as fine men and women. Happily she sent the children to Catholic schools, and, being healthy and sweet-natured little souls, they were growing up better than one might have feared they would in a home where the highest standards were lacking.

There were Marcy, and Inez—whose name was Agnes, but whose mother preferred the Spanish form as less common—and Bob, and Hugh, and Grace, and little Lucy, the baby, who resented the title, being arrived at the dignity of three years.

Bob and Hugh managed to get a good deal of pleasure out of each other, but the rest were not especially congenial; and though Inez was but a year younger than Marcy, they had scarcely any interest in common. Marcy took refuge in a land of dreams, and spent most of her time in the house curled up in a favorite window that gave her a glimpse of the grass of Central Park and full view of the tree-tops, in dreamy idleness, which Bob scornfully called “mooning,” and from 8which, if any one disturbed her, she was likely to emerge very cross.

Poor little Marcy “dreamed noble deeds all day long,” but did not do them; nor had it ever occurred to her that there was no poem, or song, or picture so beautiful as an unselfish life.

Marcy sat in her own particular nook one bright October afternoon. For fully twenty minutes she had not taken her eyes from the floating clouds over the swaying tree-tops, nor had she touched the pencil, poised in mid-air, to the sheet of paper laid ready on her lap. The sheet was long, but so far there was but one line on it, written very fine near the top, to leave plenty of room for the long poem of which it was intended to be the beginning.

Clump! clump! clump! came a rapid and sturdy tread up the stairs. The door burst open, and Hugh appeared. “Say,” he began before he was in sight, “fix my marble bag? It’s got a big hole in it, and I’ve lost my new agate. Oh, I thought Norah was here! Where’s Norah?”

“My goodness! how should I know?” cried Marcy impatiently.

9 “Well, I want her to sew up my marble bag. I’ve lost my agate and some alleys, only I can’t tell how many, ’cause I’ve forgotten how many Will Easton won off me. Where’s Norah?”

“I tell you, I don’t know!” cried Marcy. “Go find her if you want your bag sewed up. And, Hugh, never say he won them ‘off me’; you don’t have marbles on you. Say ‘he won them from me.’”

“What d’you s’pose I care?” retorted Hugh, and departed to find Norah, leaving the door open behind him. Marcy shut it with unnecessary emphasis, and reseated herself with a sigh.

Presently some one came down-stairs from the floor above at such a rate as could only be done by casting the body over the banisters, and letting the feet follow as they could. This time it was Bob.

“Say, where are my bicycle stockings?” he cried. “Oh! I thought Norah was here. I want my bicycle stockings, and I can’t find them. Where’s Norah?”

“Bob, I don’t know,” said Marcy.

“Well, don’t take my head off. I want my 10stockings; the boys are waiting. Couldn’t you come help me find them?”

“No, I could not. Go away; you’ve spoiled my rhyme, and I’ve just thought of a good one,” said Marcy despairingly.

“And you don’t care a cent if my ride’s spoiled; glad I’m not such a mean thing as you are,” retorted Bob, going off in high dudgeon.

Marcy settled herself once more, feeling very much abused, and had only succeeded in forgetting Bob when down-stairs, one step at a time, came the tread of little feet.

“Nonie, where’s Nonie?” cried Lucy, coming in. “I want Nonie to fitz my dolly. Marcy, you fitz her; her dwess is all cwooked.”

“Lucy, I can’t fix your doll. Go find Norah,” cried Marcy. “Go away this moment, and don’t bother me.”

“Naughty Marcy!” said Lucy severely. “I’ll wite Santa Closet not to bwing you any pwesents Cwistmus.”

Bob met her in the doorway; he looked dangerous; the boys had gone without him. He had not found Norah nor the stockings; 11his ride was spoiled, and he was ready for mischief. “Hold on, Lu; where’re you going?” he cried, seizing a curl in each hand and holding Lucy fast. “Stay here; I want you. ‘Linger longer, Lucy, linger longer, Lu,’” he sang tantalizingly.

Lucy raised her voice in vigorous protest. “Let me ’lone, Bob Mehwick!” she screamed. “Let me go! I want Nonie. Marcy, make Bob let go me.”

“Bob,” cried Marcy, springing up, “let go of Lulie’s hair, and stop bothering me. I’d box your ears for a cent.”

“I won’t offer one,” cried Bob, sticking his head around the door from the hall whither he had fled, while Lucy went up-stairs one step at a time, talking to her doll indignantly all the way.

Marcy shut the door in profound disgust. “I wonder if Madeleine Greene knows how lucky she is to be an only child?” she said aloud as she picked up the paper and pencil she had dropped in her rush on Bob. “There’s no peace in this house for one single minute.”

Ten minutes later the door opened, and a 12pretty but angry face peeped in, followed by the odor of violets, and a slender girl entered, saying:

“Oh, here you are, Marcy! I was looking for you.”

“Now, Inez, what do you want? I do wish you’d let me alone!” cried Marcy.

But Inez was too vexed to quarrel with her sister, to whom she wished to pour out her grievance. “I’ve got something to tell you,” she said, laying off her hat with a tragic gesture. “What do you think May Vanderberg’s done?”

“I don’t know,” said Marcy in a tone that meant, “and, what is more, I don’t care.”

“She hasn’t invited me to her party!” said Inez, as if she defied the world to produce another such wrong.

“Well, what of it? She didn’t ask me either, did she? I wish you’d go away and let me write, Inez,” said Marcy.

“Of course she didn’t ask you,” said Inez, ignoring the latter part of her sister’s remark. “But you don’t care. I heard she said she didn’t want us.”

13 Marcy almost laughed. “Well, since she didn’t ask us, I suppose that’s so,” she said.

“Yes, and if you had one bit of pride you’d care,” cried Inez.

“H’m! I don’t see that,” retorted Marcy. “That’s a funny pride to want May Vanderberg’s invitation. I don’t care about going to her house one bit more than she cares to have me. I don’t think she’s a very nice girl. She stayed overnight with Mary Whiting once, and you know she made fun and told about everything they had and did just because they’re poor. And a girl that will do that isn’t a lady, and I don’t care about knowing her.”

Inez gasped. “Not a lady! Why, Marcy Merrick! the Vanderbergs are one of the old New York families; mamma said so.”

“I don’t care; she’s not a lady,” Marcy maintained stoutly. “It was a mean, sneaky thing to do. What do you care if she didn’t ask you to her party?”

“Well, I do care,” replied Inez. “And I hate to be slighted; and what would you do if you were me?”

“If I were you I’d speak good English, 14and I’d rather never be invited to anybody’s party than say: ‘If you were me,’” said Marcy severely.

“Well, ‘if you were I,’ then,” said Inez. “You don’t care for anything but trying to write poetry and mooning.”

“That’s all right,” said Marcy with sublime confidence. “When I’m famous I’ll have more invitations than I want, for I never shall care for such trash as parties; and you’ll be asked everywhere because you are my sister.”

“It’s no more trash to go to parties and like nice dresses than it is to be so vain and proud about being famous,” said Inez, stung by Marcy’s tone of superiority, and not very grateful for the vague prospect of future glory to be reflected on her by her sister’s fame.

“Oh, my, yes; it’s very different,” said Marcy. “These are great, big, noble things; and when you’re dead people will see what you did; but parties and all that kind of stuff is just—just stuff—that’s all.”

“There’s the bell to get ready for dinner,” cried Inez, rising hastily. “Mamma’ll be 15sorry we’re not asked to May’s party. She likes to have us know people like that.”

“Yes, there’s the bell; and between you, and Bob, and Hugh, and Lulie, I’ve lost this afternoon,” sighed Marcy, gathering up her papers. “Yes, I suppose mamma will be sorry. I don’t see why she cares, I declare,” Marcy added with vigor. “Papa says he’ll send me to Europe when I’m fifteen to finish my education. I wish he’d take the money now and build a room for me way off somewhere, where none of you could come, and pad the walls so I wouldn’t hear any noise.”

“Yes, you’re a nice sister,” said Inez. “All you want is never to see any of us, and yet nothing you do is anything. You think you’re gifted, but I don’t.”

Marcy’s eyes filled with sudden tears. Nothing touched her like throwing cold water on her hopes. “Inez,” she said solemnly, “if I thought I’d never be anything but just an every-day woman I’d die. I want to have a splendid life. You don’t understand, Inez, how I feel.”

Her earnestness impressed Inez for a moment, 16and she was sorry she had spoken so strongly. The two children were utterly unlike; and though a year younger, the worldly little Inez was older in many ways than Marcy, with her unguided longing for nobler things and mistaken notions of how to reach them.

“Well, never mind, Marcy,” Inez said kindly. “Very likely you won’t have a common life; you’re queer enough now, dear knows. Perhaps you are gifted; I’m sure I can’t tell. Sometimes I think you’re silly, but maybe that’s because you’re clever. I heard papa say once some man was either a fool or a genius, and it was pretty hard telling them apart. I forgot to tell you, the other day I heard one of the nuns saying Marcella Merrick was a gifted girl, and they ought to know.”

And Marcy was comforted.

CHAPTER II. AN ARRIVAL.

Dinner was nearly over when Mr. Merrick suddenly laid down his knife and fork and began searching vainly in the pockets of his coat for something. “Hugh,” he said, “run up-stairs and go to my dressing-room and bring down a letter you will find in the outside pocket of my overcoat. I had a letter from Tom, my dear,” he continued, addressing his wife. “His little girl is coming here to spend the winter with us.”

Mrs. Merrick dropped her fork in her turn. “Coming here? Tom’s little girl?” she gasped.

“Yes,” Mr. Merrick said. “Coming here. Tom wrote me last summer saying he wanted to send her to school somewhere in New York; but the girl did not like the idea of leaving home; besides, he was afraid 18it would cost a good deal, so he asked my advice.”

“Did you ask her here then?” inquired Mrs. Merrick with unmistakable disapproval.

“Yes, Clara, I asked her here,” Mr. Merrick answered. “I told him that she could go to school with our children, and it would be pleasanter than going to a boarding-school, be more like home to her, and to send her on. This was last summer; and I had forgotten all about it when this letter came, accepting the offer.”

“It is most annoying!” exclaimed Mrs. Merrick.

“Why, in a big house like this, with so many children in it, one more or less can make no difference,” said Mr. Merrick. “Tom says Minnie—no, Bessie—no, that’s not her name either. Oh, here’s the letter. Thank you, Hugh. Oh, yes, Nellie. Tom says Nellie is a pretty girl and a wonderfully good one, with such a sweet temper that no one can help loving her. I’ve no doubt the children will enjoy her tremendously.”

19 The children had been listening to this conversation in such amazement that they forgot to eat, and at this point a chorus of questions burst forth.

“Who’s Tom, papa?”

“How old is she?”

“Is a little girl coming here to live?”

“When is she coming?”

Mrs. Merrick answered the first question. “Tom, children, is your Uncle Tom, who lives in some dreadful little Western town, and is quite poor. This little girl is his daughter, whom your father has brought among us.”

“Tom is not very poor, Clara,” her husband corrected her. “He says he has a comfortable home.”

“How horrid!” Inez cried petulantly. “I shall be ashamed to be seen with her, I know, and I shall never introduce a girl like that to nice people as my cousin.”

“She is your cousin, Inez,” said her father sternly, “and you will treat her with all kindness. I will have no such nonsense as this in my house; so remember to behave yourself properly to your guest.”

20 When Mr. Merrick did arouse himself to lay down commands to his children they dared not disobey; but there was a look around Inez’s mouth that indicated anything but cheerful obedience, and boded ill for the comfort of the coming cousin.

“After all,” said Marcy, with a look of amused contempt at her sister, “she may not dress in feathers and buffalo skins, Inez. And, perhaps, after she has been here a while we can get her to eat roast beef instead of dog meat. How old is she, father? And when is she coming?”

Mr. Merrick smiled. It often occurred to him that when he could so arrange his business as to have more leisure for his family he might find his eldest daughter good company. “She is just your age, Marcy,” he said. “And she is coming—let me see. Your uncle writes she leaves Monday—that was yesterday. She will be here to-morrow.”

“I can only repeat that it is most annoying,” said Mrs. Merrick, rising.

“Well, all I say is it’s a pity she’s not a boy,” said Bob, taking a hasty drink of 21water before sliding sideways out of his chair. “We’ve got too many girls here now.”

“Of course it’s a pity,” said Inez sharply; “for you don’t have to introduce boys to your friends.”

“W-ell, I’m sorry she’s so big,” remarked six-year-old Grace, the quiet member of the family. “Marcy and Inez are big, and Lulie’s a baby, and Bob and Hugh are boys, and there’s no one for me at all. Papa, hasn’t Uncle Tom got a nice little girl about six?”

“I’ve no doubt he has, Gracie,” her father replied, smiling. “I believe your Uncle Tom has children of all ages, to suit all demands.”

“Well, please ask him to lend us a little one next time,” said Grace mournfully.

The next afternoon Marcy, and Inez, and Bob were watching eagerly behind the lace curtains of the sitting-room for the arrival of “the prairie chicken,” as Bob had christened her. Faithful nurse Norah had gone to the station to meet the little traveller. Mrs. Merrick had a club meeting to attend, and Mr. Merrick could not leave his business.

22 When the carriage drove up the children saw Norah’s portly form descend first, and after her came a little figure all in brown, which stood looking up and down the tall gray stone house, with every shade drawn on a level with the upper sash and every window veiled in lace, with no living thing to be seen that seemed to be looking for or thinking of a homesick, frightened little stranger.

“I guess she doesn’t know whether she ought to go in the front door or the basement,” laughed Bob.

“She really is pretty,” said Marcy. “Look, Inez, what big brown eyes she has, and how prettily her hair curls round her forehead.”

“Well, so it does,” admitted Inez grudgingly. “But for pity’s sake, where did she get that hat? What will the Hales say to her?”

“They wouldn’t be the Hales if they didn’t say something rude,” said Marcy.

And Bob added: “H’m! they needn’t talk, if they have got lots of money. I’ve seen some of their relations, and they were a queer lot.”

23 The sitting-room door opened at this point, and Norah looked in.

“Oh, here they are. Come in, Miss Nellie, dear. Miss Marcy, Miss Inez, Master Bob, here’s your cousin all safe, and glad to get here, I’ll be bound.”

The children turned to meet a wistful and very pretty childish face surmounting a slender figure taller than either of theirs.

“How do you do?” said Inez in her most grown-up and fashionable air. “Hope you’re not too tired.” She gave her cousin her hand, and pecked one cheek, which reddened fiercely at her greeting.

“How are you, Cousin Nellie? I am Marcy,” said Marcy with cordiality, much heightened by Inez’s foolish airs. “You must be half dead after such a journey.”

“No, I’m not,” said Nellie, kissing Marcy heartily. “I was dreadfully scared at first, for I’d never been more than an hour on the train before. But it’s grand in those sleepers, isn’t it? Only I didn’t dare sleep the first night. I had to say my beads all night, it joggled so. Last night I never waked up once. I suppose you get used to it.”

24 “They serve pretty good dinners on those trains,” remarked Inez with the air of one who had been around the globe.