Randy and Her Friends by Amy Brooks

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"Randy says that she misses the folks at home, and her friends here at
school, but aside from that her letters are cheerful, and she feels that
she is getting on so rapidly that it makes her contented," said Molly
Wilson, "and she must enjoy the pleasant things which Miss Dayton plans
for her Saturdays."

"We miss Randy," said Belinda Babson, "but of course we're glad that she
is having such a lovely winter."

"She writes just as she talks, and when we get one of her letters it seems
as if she were with us," said Jemima.

"I didn't know what to make of Phoebe Small's last letter," said Dot
Marvin. "She commenced by saying that she could never do as she wished,
that she didn't like her roommate and that the two ladies who kept the
school watched them so closely that the girls could hardly breathe without
asking permission. Then she wrote, 'I don't want to say that I'm homesick
but,--' and then she signed her name. She didn't finish the sentence, but
there were two blistered places just above the name, as if the paper had
been wet, and I am sure that she was crying while she wrote."

Miss Gilman touched the bell, and the pupils took their places. Recess was
ended, and for the remainder of the forenoon, recitations occupied their
minds in place of the much discussed letters.

* * * * *

By the great fireplace heaped with blazing logs sat old Sandy McLeod
energetically tugging at the straps of his great "arctics."

"It's a cauld day, lass," he was saying to little Janie.

"Will it be too cauld to venture out an' meet the music maester?"

His eyes twinkled, for he well knew that Janie was wild to sing for this
man who would say if her voice were indeed worth training.

The teacher of whom Sandy spoke was a man well known in musical circles,
whose instruction was eagerly sought, and upon whose judgment one could
safely rely. He had been chosen director of a flourishing musical society
in a large town some miles distant from Sandy's home, and on those days
when he was present to direct rehearsals, he also tried the voices of
those who asked permission to join the vocal club. Sandy had one day asked
if he might bring little Janie to him, saying quietly,

"It's worth yer while, mon, ye ne'er heard sae blithe a voice as Janie's."

Half doubting, yet amused at the old Scotchman's manner, he had made an
appointment for hearing Janie, and afterward wondered why he had done so,
as he felt sure that he was to listen to the vocal efforts of a child
whose singing chanced to please an old man whose knowledge of music was
probably meagre.

Janie submitted to all the wrappings with which Margaret McLeod saw fit to
envelop her, and when in his great fur coat, Sandy stood in the doorway
and called to Janie that the sleigh was ready, she hurried toward him, an
animated bundle of dry goods.

It was a long, cold ride, but Janie and her enthusiasm were both warm, and
when they reached the building and mounted the long flight of stairs to
the hall, her cheeks were glowing, and her eyes brilliant with excitement.
She was granted a few moments for a hearing before the hour for the club
rehearsal.

The teacher was seated at the piano when they entered, and as he arose to
greet them he found it a task to refrain from laughing at the odd little
figure wound so snugly in shawls and scarfs. When, however, her wraps
removed, Janie stood before him, a typical little Scotch lass, with bright
blue eyes and flaxen braids, he was aware of a charm about the pretty
child which compelled him to believe that it was barely possible that she
could sing.

"What are some of your songs, child?" he asked kindly.

"I'll sing, 'Comin' thro' the rye,' if it please you," answered Janie,
simply.

"Very well," was the reply, and he played a brilliant little prelude. The
music inspired Janie, and never had she sung as she sang that day. At the
end of the first verse, the man paused, with his hands resting upon the
keys, and surveyed the tiny figure as it stood before him, the little chin
lifted, and the sweet eyes looking into his so eagerly, as if asking for a
word of approval.

"Come nearer," he said, "and sing another verse."

"Willingly," said Janie, and again the fresh voice rang out,

"If a body meet a body
Comin' frae the town
If a body kiss a body
Need a body frown."

At the last sweet note the man at the piano turned, and lifting her in his
strong arms he exclaimed,

"Child, you have the voice of an angel! Mr. McLeod, I ask your pardon for
doubting your statement that this little girl could sing."

"Oh, it's of no account whatever," answered Sandy, stoutly, "since ye're
weel convinced."

The members of the club were beginning to arrive, and standing Janie upon
a chair, the director stooped, and looking into the little face he asked.

"Would you be willing to sing once for these ladies and gentlemen, Janie?"

"Oh, I could na refuse if it was to gie them pleasure," she replied.

The director in a few words told those present that he had been listening
to the child's singing, and that she had consented to sing for them. Some
of the faces wore a look of curiosity, some of skepticism, others of
genuine interest, but when turning toward them Janie commenced to sing,
she held them spellbound, and when she stepped down from the chair they
crowded around her and petted and praised her until Sandy was afraid that
she would be completely spoiled.

Janie was delighted to have so pleased her audience, but her greatest joy
lay in the fact that Sandy had arranged that once a week she should sing
with the teacher, and had promised that there should be a piano for her to
practice with.

With greatest care Sandy replaced Janie's numerous wraps, much as if she
had been a valuable painting, or a choice bit of sculpture, and taking her
hand, led her gently down the long stairway to the street. Then, lifting
her into the sleigh, and tucking the bear skin about her, he drove briskly
over the road toward home, not allowing the horse to slacken pace until he
reached his own door.

Margaret McLeod was watching for them, and quickly left her seat at the
window to welcome them.

"Weel, Janie, lass, and did the music maester think ye could sing?"

"Oh, yes, yes!" cried Janie. "I'm to study with him, and Sandy, our Sandy
has promised to buy me a piano, so I shall know if I sing the right key,
and I'm to sing the lang exercises wi' ne'er a song 'til,--weel I dinna
when.

"There's' in a' the world nae ane like our Sandy."

"I've often thought the same mysel," said Margaret, with a droll smile at
her husband.

"And between ye, ye mean tae spoil me completely, wi' yer flattery that I
own is sweet tae hear."

"Ye canna be spoiled," said Margaret McLeod; "ye weel know ye're on a
pinnacle sae high o'e'r ither men, there's nae chance o' spoiling ye."

"Oh, the prejudice o' a lovin' woman," Sandy replied, "is past the
understanding o' an ordinary mon, but 'tis sunshine tae live in the light
o' it."

Later, when Mrs. McLeod was making preparation for tea, little Janie
followed her about, helping to set the table, at the same time telling
over and over the fine things which the director had said of her singing,
and yet again repeating the delightful fact that there was to be a fine
piano "in that verra house."

"I wondered if the mon was a bit daft," said Sandy, "when he said tae
Janie, 'Mind ye sing the lessons I gie ye, an naething else.'

"She's been singing the blithe Scotch ballads since she was a' most a
bairnie, an' her voice has grown sweeter a' the time. I say again, I hope
he's na daft."

"Sandy, Sandy!" cried Margaret, "ye must na question the great music
maester. I doot not he knows a deal mair aboot music than we do."

"He says that he will make me sing just wonderful," said Janie.

"An' na doot he will," said Sandy, laying his hand lovingly upon Janie's
head.

* * * * *

It seemed as if the gale increased in force as it blew the dust and twigs
against the window, and hurried on with a shrill whistle around the
corner.

After the table had been cleared, they took their places before the great
fireplace, Sandy, Margaret and Janie making a group in the centre, while
at one side sat the great brindle cat, Tam o' Shanter, and at a respectful
distance, on the opposite side of the hearth stone, stood the Scotch
Collie, Sir Walter Scott.

Tam, with his forepaws snugly tucked in, and his great yellow eyes
blinking at the bright flames, was a picture of contentment.

Sir Walter looked eagerly at Sandy, and longed to go and sit beside him,
but that would necessitate rather close proximity to Tam, and Tam usually
resented such familiarity, so the dog kept his place, and as he listened
to the conversation, seemed to understand what was being said.

"I'll put fresh logs on the fire," said Sandy, "tae keep the cauld oot,
and I'm hopin' that there's nae ane abroad this night."

At the little depot at the Centre, the station master stood upon the
platform looking anxiously up the track, hoping to see the light of an
approaching train.

"'Most three hours late," muttered the man. "I'd like ter know if it ain't
er comin' ter-night."

As he turned to re-enter the depot, a faint whistle made itself heard
above the clamor of the wind and turning he saw the headlight of the
engine coming around the bend.

"There she is naow," he remarked, and as the train stopped, the mail bag
was quickly thrown out upon the platform and instantly picked up and
carried into the depot.

The station agent did not dream that anyone would arrive so late in the
village on such a night, so having secured the mail bag, he allowed the
train to depart without even a glance at its receding form.

One passenger, however, stepped from the car who evidently was not
expecting friends to meet her, as she immediately left the platform and
walked briskly up the road as if familiar with the place, and sure of the
direction which she must take to reach her destination.

What had been a high wind during the day, now became a gale, and the
solitary figure wrapped her cloak closer about her and pushed resolutely
on, never pausing, yet at times looking hastily over her shoulder as if
fearful of a possible pursuer. As she passed a deserted farm house, a
sudden gust of wind blew one of its dilapidated blinds against the window,
shattering the glass with a resounding crash. With a scream the girl
sprang forward, then, half wild with fright she ran with a headlong pace
up the road.

The promise of the leaden sky was now fulfilled, the falling sleet cutting
the girl's white cheeks, and serving to make the night more cheerless.

Again she tried to draw the folds of her cloak about her, but the wind
snatched it from her fingers and blew it back and she was obliged to stop
and, for a moment, turn her back to the gale until she could securely
fasten the clasps which held it. Her hands shook with cold and fear, and
when she turned about and tried once more to run she found that her limbs
were weak with terror and that her progress must be slow. The great
branches of the trees groaned in the wind, as if crying out against such
rough handling, and the snow fell faster as the girl dragged herself along
the lonely road.

* * * * *

"The cauld increases," said Sandy. "I'll stir the fire an' throw on
anither log."

"It's snawin'," announced Janie, as she emerged from behind the window
shade and ran to the fireplace, where she seated herself beside Sir
Walter, her arm about his neck.

"Ain't ye glad ye're na scurryin' after the sheep at hame, ye big auld
dear?" asked Janie.

The collie laid his head lovingly against her shoulder, as if agreeing,
and Tam, seeing the caress, looked as if he thought Janie's taste in her
choice of pets deteriorating.

"Ah, Tam, Tam," she cried with a laugh, "are ye sae selfish ye want a' my
love? I love ye baith, an' I wad ye loved each ither."

"Hark, Sandy! Did some one knock?" asked Mrs. McLeod, as she looked toward
the door.

"Nae ane's aboot this night--Ay, Margaret, ye're right as usual, there's a
faint sound, an' I'll be seein',--"

"Oh, Mr. McLeod, let me come in," said a girl's voice.

"That I will, ye puir waif,--by all the saints, it's Phoebe Small! Here
Margaret! Janie! the lass is faintin'."

"Oh, no I'm not," Phoebe answered, but her white face was not reassuring
and Sandy and Margaret were obliged to lead her to the great chair by the
fire.

Janie loosened her boots which were covered with snow, and removing them,
set them to dry in a corner of the fireplace. Then she brought a cricket
and, handy little maid, lifted Phoebe's feet upon it, that the heat from
the fire might warm them.

Soon Margaret McLeod had made a cup of tea, and it seemed to Phoebe that
nothing had ever tasted so delicious. Sandy stood beside her, offering the
lunch which Margaret had prepared, insisting gently that she must eat
heartily before going out into the night.

"For I shall take ye hame, lass, I know that's where ye wad be, and warm
in the bear skin I'll wrap ye, an' in the sleigh 'twill be nae time before
we'll be at ye're door."

"I could not stay away another day. The road from the depot was so lonely,
and I was so afraid,--"

Phoebe was crying now, and Sandy laid his rough hand gently upon her
shoulder.

"Never mind, lass, how ye got here, don't ye try tae tell it noo. If ye're
warm enough we'll be startin', an' ye can tell the folks at hame all aboot
it on the morrow."

Little Janie examined Phoebe's boots, and finding them to be dry, insisted
upon putting them on and lacing them, and by the time that she had
finished the task the sleigh stood at the door.

The ride was a short one, and soon Sandy was at the door of the Small
homestead, one arm about Phoebe who seemed too weary to stand, and the
other hand executing a rousing knock upon the panel of the door.

Mrs. Small answered the summons and without ceremony Sandy entered, gently
pushing Phoebe before him.

"This package was delayed in arrivin'," he commenced, but there seemed to
be no need of finishing the sentence.

As Phoebe stood held close in her mother's embrace, she cried,

"Oh, I never, never will go away to school again."

"You never shall," said Mrs. Small, "but Phoebe, child, how is it that you
are here, and with Mr. McLeod at this time of night?"

"Oh, I told them yesterday that I must come home, but they said at the
school, that you had paid for the term in advance, and that I could not
leave until the end of that term.

"I said nothing, but this morning I ran away to the depot and when I had
bought my ticket and was in the cars riding toward home I was happier than
I had been for weeks. But the train was late and it was very dark when I
left the cars at the Centre and started to walk home."

"The lass reached our door," said Sandy, "an' she was aboot faintin' when
I lifted her in, and set her doon before the fire. An' noo, as I'm not
necessary to ye're happiness," said Sandy with twinkling eyes, "I think
I'll bid ye 'good night,' and be drivin' hame tae Margaret."

"I'm so glad to be at home again," said Phoebe, when Sandy had gone.

"I cannot tell you, Phoebe, how we've missed you," her mother answered.
"Your father had to visit Boston yesterday and will be back to-morrow.
When Sandy arrived with you, I was sitting here alone and wondering how
long you would be willing to stay at boarding school."

"I never wish to see or hear about one again," said Phoebe. I shall never
be discontented again.

"It was a hard lesson," said Mrs. Small, as she kissed Phoebe, "but
perhaps it was a good one after all."

CHAPTER X

THE PARTY

Randy had become a favorite among the girls at the school, and one and all
declared that her frankness had been the trait which had first won their
admiration.

"She always means what she says," said Nina Irwin. "I value a compliment
which Randy gives, for she never flatters. If she says a pleasant word, it
comes straight from her heart, and her heart is warm and loving."

Randy had made rapid progress in her studies, and it seemed as if her zeal
increased as the months sped by. She had attended many concerts since the
memorable one when she had given her single rose to Madame Valena, "and
now the finest thing is yet to happen," she said in a letter to her
mother.

Miss Dayton had sent out invitations for a little party to be given in
honor of Miss Randy Weston, and in consequence there was much excitement
at the private school.

To receive an invitation from Miss Dayton meant much, and Randy's friends
talked of little else.

"What shall you wear, Nina," asked Polly Lawrence.

"Whatever mama suggests," replied Nina, with a laugh.

"Because," continued Polly, "I think we ought to dress, well--in a very
showy manner, for Miss Dayton."

"Why, I do not see that," remarked another girl. "Miss Dayton dresses
richly, but I should not say that 'showy' was a fitting word to apply to
her refined taste."

"Indeed!" said Polly, sharply. "Well, I shall wear my red gauze over
satin, and I fancy Peggy will not choose a very simple frock for the
occasion."

"Just my blue silk, dear," Peggy remarked lazily, "and since you've all
seen it you will not have to enthuse over it."

"What do you suppose Randy will wear?" asked Peggy.

"Something becoming, without a doubt," said Nina Irwin, "since everything
becomes her."

At this point Randy entered, and the subject of conversation changed from
dress to the lessons for the day.

"You always come with lessons prepared, Randy Weston," said Polly, "and
you look decidedly cheerful, too."

"Why shouldn't I look cheerful, if I am ready for the recitations?" asked
Randy, in surprise.

"Because," Polly answered, "it makes me cross to have to study, and you
must work persistently to keep up such a record as you have this year."

"Miss Dayton helps me," Randy answered.

"But she cannot _learn_ for you," said Nina Irwin, "and you seem to get on
as well in those studies which are new to you, as in those which you had
commenced in the district school."

"But I like all my studies," said Randy, "and anyone would be interested
in new ones. There is another reason why I am working so diligently.

"Father and mother sent me here, believing that I would study faithfully.
I should not be true to them if I wasted my opportunity. And little Prue
is trying to be patient, although her funny little letters show how she
misses me. I'll show you the last one which she sent me, only don't laugh
at her original spelling, Nina. Remember, she is a little girl. Here it
is:"

"DEAR RANDY:--

"How long wil it bee fore you cum hom I luv you an I wanto see
you Me n Jonny slided on my sled an we ran intu a fense an got
hurted I lern my lesons, but I cant spel big words yet When I say
I want my Randy ma dont cry but her ize is wet and ant Prudence
wipes her glassis Hi put sum gum in Jonys cap an it got stuk to
his hare. When you cum hom I wil be so glad for I luv you

"Yor litle
PRUE."

"The cunning little thing," said Nina, "her funny letter shows just how
they miss you at home, and how dearly she loves you, Randy."

"That is what I meant when I said one day to you, Nina that it was hard,
and at the same time delightful to be here. I love father, mother and dear
little Prue more than it is possible to say; I love the dear home, too. Of
course it is not like the homes which I have seen here, but nothing can
make it less dear to me," said Randy.

"I enjoy all the pleasures which Miss Dayton plans for me, and I have
become attached to the school and to the pleasant friends which I have
made here in the city; but sometimes in the midst of my study, sometimes
when listening to rare music, the thought of home brings the tears, and
for the moment, I am homesick, so homesick that I think I cannot stay.

"Then I remember that father and mother wish me to excel in my studies,
and I crowd back the tears, and by reminding myself that with the spring I
shall return, I try to be cheerful."

As the bell called the girls to their seats, Nina whispered as she passed,

"O Randy! The longer I know you, the more truly I love you;" and the
whispered words made Randy very happy.

* * * * *

On the day of the little party the decorators converted the drawing-room
into a veritable rose garden, glowing and sweet, the lovely pink blossoms
sending out their fragrance as if doing their utmost to honor Randy, who,
until that season, had known only the garden roses which blossomed near
the farm-house door.

The lights were softened by delicate pink shades, and upon a pedestal
beneath Aunt Marcia's portrait, stood a huge jardiniere filled with roses
the glowing petals of which seemed to repeat the color of the brocaded
court gown in the picture.

In her little room, Randy, with sparkling eyes, and quick beating heart,
stood before her mirror, mechanically drawing a comb through her soft
brown hair. Her mind was far away and she did not seem to see the girl
reflected there.

"If they were all here to-night,--" she murmured, and as the words escaped
her lips, two bright tears lay upon her cheek.

"Oh, this will never do," said Randy, quickly drying the tears, and
endeavoring to summon a smile.

"Mother and father would surely say,

"'Be cheerful to-night, Miss Dayton will wish it. Remember she is giving
the party for you.'"

So, smiling bravely, she arranged her hair in the pretty, simple manner in
which she usually dressed it, and proceeded to array herself in the white
muslin which Janie Clifton had declared to be just the thing for a city
party, and just the thing for Randy.

And Janie had spoken wisely. Nothing could have been more becoming, or
served more surely to show Randy's fine coloring than the sheer muslin
with its white satin ribbons.

As she stood looking at the transparent folds of the skirt, the tip of her
shoe peeped from below the hem, and Randy laughed merrily. She had quite
forgotten to change her street shoes for the silken hose and white
slippers which Miss Dayton had given her.

"How _could_ I forget them, the first pretty slippers which I ever owned?"
She hastened to put them on, afterward surveying them with much
satisfaction. They were such pretty slippers, decorated with white satin
bows and crystal beading.

"Like Cinderella's," thought Randy, as she held back her skirts, the
better to see them, and when later she paused on the stairway to look down
upon the many rose hued lights in the hall below, she turned a radiant
face toward Helen Dayton as she said:--

"Oh, how kind you are to give this lovely party for me, just me. I feel
like Cinderella, only," she added laughing, "I am sure that I shall not
lose my crystal slipper when to-night the clock strikes twelve."

"Nor shall you part with them at any time," Helen replied, "but keep them
in remembrance of this night when you enjoyed your first party."

A fine trio they formed as they stood waiting to receive their guests;
Aunt Marcia looking like an old countess in her stately gown of black
velvet and diamonds, Helen, resplendent in turquoise satin and pink roses,
and Randy in her white muslin and ribbons, a single rose in her hair.

Soon the young guests began to arrive, and very cordially were they
greeted, Randy's bright face plainly showing how heartfelt was the
pleasure which her words expressed as each new friend was presented.

One guest had been bidden to the party who had not yet arrived, and Helen
Dayton could not refrain from occasionally glancing toward the door, with
the hope of seeing the delinquent. The buzz of conversation and light
laughter seemed at its height, when a late arrival was announced.

Miss Dayton heard the name, but Randy who was at the moment chatting with
Nina Irwin, did not.

The young man in faultless evening dress made his way across the room to
Aunt Marcia, then to Miss Dayton, then, with a merry twinkle in his eyes
he turned to Randy who, still, talking with Nina, was unaware of his
approach.

"Miss Randy," said a familiar voice, and Randy started, turned, then with
eyes expressing her surprise and delight she said,

"O Jotham, truly you cannot guess how glad I am to see you."

"And do you think I can tell you with what pleasure I have looked forward
to this evening?" Jotham answered.

"I have been longing to call upon you, but my days and evenings have been
so completely occupied with study, that this is my first bit of recreation
since I came to Boston in the fall, and until I received Miss Dayton's
invitation, I did not know where I might find you."

Then Jotham was presented to Nina who in turn led him to a group of her
friends where, surrounded by a bevy of bright faced girls, he seemed as
much at ease as if his life had consisted of naught but social pleasures.

Randy turned, and meeting Helen's gaze she said,

"It seems to me that Jotham looks like a prince to-night."

"He has a charming manner," said Miss Dayton, "and I have always thought
that he possessed a noble mind, that priceless gift which only One can
give. Coronets can be purchased, but who can barter for true worth?"

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