The news of the finding of the lost money in the haunted house came out in the evening paper, and set the whole town of Oakdale agog with excitement.
The sensational robbery at the close of the Thanksgiving bazaar was too bold to have been forgotten, and the news of the recovery of the hard-earned money was a matter of delight to the public-spirited citizens of the little northern city.
The haunted house soon lost its ghost reputation, and was ransacked by small boys on the hunt for sliding panels and hidden treasure until the owner of the place, who had been absent from Oakdale, took a hand in things and threatened severe penalties for trespassing, which greatly cooled the ardor of the youthful treasure-seekers.
As for Grace Harlowe and Eleanor Savelli, they were the bright and shining lights of the town and the darlings of the senior class.
The two girls had become firm friends. After the excitement of the finding of the money had worn off, they had had a long talk and had cleared up all misunderstandings. Eleanor had confessed to Grace that long before they had been brought together she had secretly tired of the old grudge and had longed for peace.
"After Edna Wright and I quarreled, I began to see things in a different light," Eleanor had confided to Grace, "and the longing for the companionship of your kind of girls took hold of me so strongly it made me miserable at times.
"How I did envy you when you all went to the house party at Christmas, and I was wild to go to New York and see Anne, although I suppose I am the last person she would care to see.
"It wasn't just the good times, either, that I coveted, it was that sense of comradeship that existed among you girls that I didn't at all understand last year."
"But, Eleanor," Grace had said, "if you felt that way, why were you so determined to expose poor Marian Barber!"
"When Marian told me what she had done I felt the utmost contempt for her," Eleanor had replied. "My old idea of vengeance came to the front, and I thought of how completely I could humiliate you all through her. The day I quarreled with her in school I fully intended to expose her, but the more I thought about it, the less I liked the idea of it. I don't really believe that I could ever have stood up before those girls and betrayed her."
While Grace had listened to Eleanor, she had realized that the old whimsical, temperamental Eleanor was passing, and an entirely different girl was endeavoring to take her place. Grace exulted in her heart and dreamed great things for the Phi Sigma Tau when it should be restored to its original number of members.
Eleanor had announced herself ready and eager to take her old place in the sorority, while Marian Barber had, with tears in her eyes, humbly petitioned Grace for her old place in the Phi Sigma Tau.
"Silly girl," was Grace's answer. "You can't go back to what you never left, can you?"
No one save Grace, Eleanor and Mr. Harlowe knew of how near Marian had come to being discredited in the eyes of her class and friends, and they could be trusted with the secret.
Henry Hammond had left Oakdale the morning after he had been interviewed by Grace and Eleanor, and it was afterwards discovered that the land in which he had persuaded certain guileless citizens to invest money had proved worthless. The swindled ones joined forces and put the matter in the hands of a detective, but to no purpose, for no clue was found to his whereabouts.
The strong box was turned over to the girls and the money, which amounted to five hundred and ten dollars, was deposited in Upton Bank with the five hundred that had caused Marian Barber such anxiety and sorrow.
The thief whom Grace had assisted in capturing was found to be a noted crook, known to the police as "Larry the Locksmith," on account of his ability to pick locks. He was tried and sentenced to a number of years in the penitentiary, and departed from Oakdale stolidly refusing to furnish the police with the identity of his "pal."
Easter was drawing near, and Grace was radiantly happy. Anne, whose engagement had stretched into the eighth week, would be home the following day. Mrs. Gray was looked for hourly and the boys were coming from college on Monday.
"We certainly will have a reunion," Nora O'Malley exclaimed joyously, as she banged her books on the window sill of the senior locker-room to emphasize her remark.
"It seems good to have Grace with us once in a while," declared Jessica. "Her police court duties have kept her so busy that she has deserted her little playmates. Have you been asked to join the force yet, Grace!" she asked, trying to look innocent.
"That isn't fair, Jessica," retorted Grace, laughing. "I appeal to you girls," turning to the other members of the Phi Sigma Tau, who had one by one dropped into the locker-room. "Can you imagine me in the garb of an Oakdale policeman?"
"Not in our wildest nightmares," Miriam Nesbit gravely assured her.
"Anne will be home to-morrow," cried Eva Allen. "I'm so glad it's Saturday. We can celebrate. Will you come to my house?"
"We will," was the united answer.
"We'll all go to the train to meet Anne," planned Grace. "Then we'll give her about one hour to get acquainted with her family. After that we'll rush her off to Eva's, back to my house for supper (mother expects all of you), and then up to Mrs. Gray's."
"Poor Anne," said Marian Barber, "I can see her being carried home on a stretcher."
"We will meet at the station," directed Grace, as she left them. "Be there at 8.15. Don't one of you fail to be there."
As Anne Pierson stepped off the 8.15 train the next morning after an all-night ride, she was surrounded by seven laughing girls and marched in triumph to David Nesbit's big car, which Miriam used at her own pleasure during her brother's absence.
The eight girls managed to squeeze into it, and drove to the Pierson cottage with all speed. Here Anne was set down, told to make the most of her hour with her family and to be prepared upon their return to say good-bye to home for the rest of the day.
The programme outlined by Grace was carried out to the letter. The joy of Mrs. Gray at again seeing her adopted children was well worth witnessing.
"I don't know how I ever managed to stay away from you so long!" she exclaimed, as she looked fondly about her at the smiling, girlish faces. "How I wish you might all have been with me. I should have returned sooner, but dreaded the winter here. I do not thrive here—during these long, cold Oakdale winters. It is because I—"
Grace placed a soft hand upon Mrs. Gray's lips. "I can't allow you to finish that sentence," she laughed. "You are sixty-two years young, and you must always remember it."
The old lady laughed happily at Grace's remark, then under cover of general conversation said to her, "I am greatly surprised to see Eleanor here. How did it all come about? You never mentioned it in your letters."
"I know it," replied Grace, "I wanted to save it until you came home. I have been out to 'Heartsease' several times, too, and am quite in love with Miss Nevin. May Anne and I come to-morrow and have a good long gossip? You must hear all about Anne's triumphs in New York."
"Come and have dinner with me," replied Mrs. Gray.
"That will be fine," returned Grace. "We two are the only ones in the crowd who don't happen to have previous engagements, so the girls won't feel hurt at not being included."
"We are so glad that you came home in time for the concert," said Miriam Nesbit. "It is the last entertainment the senior class will have a chance to give. We hope to make a nice sum of money to add to the thousand we already have."
"I have not added my mite to your fund yet," said Mrs. Gray. "But now that I'm home I shall busy myself immediately with my High School girls. When and where is the concert to be held?"
"A week from next Monday, in Assembly Hall," replied Miriam. "We wish to give it before the boys go back to school. They have only ten days at home, you know."
"How anxious I am to see the boys," cried Mrs. Gray. "I found a letter from Tom waiting for me. He expects to arrive on Monday or Tuesday, and will bring Arnold with him."
"I received a letter from Tom, too," said Grace. "We have also heard from the boys. David is bringing home a friend of his, Donald Earle, who, he writes, is the most popular man in the freshman class."
The evening seemed all too short to Mrs. Gray and the Phi Sigma Tau.
"Why, we've only begun to talk," said Jessica, "and here it is after eleven o'clock."
"To be continued in our next," said Nora with a grin. "Introducing new features and startling revelations."
Sunday afternoon found Anne and Grace strolling up Chapel Hill toward Mrs. Gray's. Rather to their surprise they found Miss Nevin with Mrs. Gray in the library. The two women were in earnest conversation, and as Grace and Anne were ushered in, Grace's quick intuition told her that Miss Nevin was strongly agitated over something.
"How are my own children to-day," asked Mrs. Gray, coming forward and kissing both of them warmly. Anne was then presented to Miss Nevin, who took occasion to congratulate her upon her recent success. "Your fame has preceded you," she said with a sweet smile.
"You must tell us all about your stay in New York, Anne," said Mrs. Gray. "You are very young to have been chosen for so responsible an engagement, and I feel great pride in your success."
"Anne had two offers of engagements while in New York," interposed Grace. "One from Farman, the big manager, and one from Rupert Manton, the Shakespearian actor."
"But I am still in Oakdale," replied Anne smiling, "and have come to-day to beg for my secretaryship again."
"You delightful child," cried Mrs. Gray. "I knew you would never desert me."
"Margaret," she said, turning to Miss Nevin, "would you care to tell my girls what you were telling me when they came in? I have already told them something of Eleanor's parentage. They know that Guido Savelli is her father. Perhaps they might be of assistance in helping you decide what is to be done. Grace is a famous suggester."
Miss Nevin flushed and looked hesitatingly at Anne and Grace, as though a trifle reluctant to speak.
"We shall consider anything you may choose to tell us strictly confidential, Miss Nevin," said Anne quietly.
"I am sure that you will," replied Miss Nevin. "What I have told Mrs. Gray is that I have received through my lawyers a letter from Eleanor's father. They inclosed his letter in one from them asking whether I were desirous of acquainting him with my whereabouts.
"He has written rather a sad letter. He seems to have awakened to a late remorse for having neglected my sister as he did. He asks for his child, and if he may see her. He has just finished a concert tour of America, and is at present in New York.
"Personally, I shall never forgive him, but have I the right to keep Eleanor from her father? He is both rich and famous, and she would adore him, for his music, if for nothing else. I have always said that when she became twenty-one years of age I should tell her of him, leaving to her the choice of claiming or ignoring him.
"But I never supposed for one instant that he would ever come forward and interest himself in her. A year ago I should not have considered her fit to choose, but she is greatly changed. The two years in which she has associated with girls of her own age have benefited her greatly. I feel as though I could not bear to give her up now. Moreover, this idea of claiming his child may be merely a whim on the part of her father. He is liable to forget her inside of six weeks."
Grace listened to Miss Nevin in breathless silence. It was all like a story-book romance.
Anne sat gazing off into space, thinking dreamily of the great virtuoso who had found after years of selfish pleasure and devotion to himself that blood was thicker than water. She fancied she could picture his pride when he beheld Eleanor and realized that she was his own child, and Eleanor's rapture when she knew that her father was master of the violin she worshipped.
Suddenly an idea popped into Anne's head that was a positive inspiration.
"Why not ask him to come down for our concert?" she said, amazed at her own audacity in suggesting such a thing. "Eleanor need not know about him at all. She is to play at the concert, you know. If he hears her play he will realize more fully that she is really his own flesh and blood, and if he has any real fatherly feeling for her it will come to the surface. That will be the psychological moment in which to bring them together."
"Anne, you're a genius!" cried Grace. "You ought to be appointed Chief Arbiter of Destiny."
"Margaret," exclaimed Mrs. Gray, "I believe that Anne's idea is logical. Shall you try it!"
"I shall write to Guido at once," said Miss Nevin, rising. "Knowing his disposition as I do, it seems that I could find no better way of rousing his interest in Eleanor. Her love of the violin is a direct inheritance from him, and she may reach his heart through her music. At any rate, it is worth trying."
After Miss Nevin's departure Anne and Grace entertained Mrs. Gray with the promised gossip, and it was well toward ten o'clock before they turned their steps toward home.
The following week was a busy one. Every spare moment outside school the senior class zealously devoted to the concert. The High School Glee Club was to sing, and the mandolin and guitar club was to give two numbers. Nora O'Malley was to sing two songs from a late musical success, and Jessica and Miriam were to play a duet. James Gardiner, who was extremely proficient on the violincello, was down for a solo, while Eleanor was to play twice. The crowning feature of the concert, however, was to be contributed by Anne and Eleanor. Anne was to recite Tennyson's "Enoch Arden," and Eleanor was to accompany her on the piano with the music that she had arranged for it.
The two girls had worked incessantly upon it, rehearsing almost every day. Grace was the only one who had been permitted to hear a rehearsal of it, and she was enraptured with what she heard.
The boys had all arrived, and the Phi Sigma Tau divided their time equally between concert rehearsals and social gatherings. David's friend, Donald Earle, was ably living up to his college reputation, and proved himself a source of unmitigated pleasure to the young people among whom he was thrown. It was soon discovered, however, that he was oftenest found in Eleanor's wake, and his eyes showed honest admiration for the beautiful girl every time he looked at her.
Hippy, who had established a reputation as a singer of humorous songs, was asked for his services.
"I have a number of new and choice ditties that I will render with pleasure, providing I am afterwards fed," he shrewdly declared, when interviewed on the subject.
"It will all depend upon how well you sing," stipulated Nora.
"Then I shan't warble at all," announced Hippy. "I am a man of few words, but when I say I must have food for my services as a soloist, I mean it. There must be no uncertainty. Do I feed or do I not?"
"You feed," laughed Nora.
The concert was to be held in Assembly Hall, and three days before every ticket issued had been sold. People who could not attend bought tickets and handed them back to be sold over again. The senior class, by reason of the popularity of the Phi Sigma Tau, was considered the class of classes.
"We'll have to put out a 'Standing Room Only' sign," declared Anne Pierson, as she viewed the packed house through a hole in the curtain.
The fateful night had arrived, and Anne, Eleanor and Grace stood in a group on the stage, while Anne industriously took note of the audience.
"Let me look for a minute, Anne," said Grace. "I don't believe there'll be standing room," she remarked, as she stepped aside to give Eleanor a chance to peer out.
"Come on, girls," called Nora O'Malley, as a burst of applause sounded from the other side of the curtain. "It's half past eight, and the curtain will go up in about two minutes."
The three girls scurried off the stage, the Glee Club filed on and arranged themselves, and the curtain rose.
Each number was applauded to the echo and in every instance the audience clamored for an encore.
As the time for Eleanor's first solo drew near, Anne and Grace felt their hearts beat a little faster. Nora was giving an encore to her first song. Eleanor was to follow her. As she stood in the wing her violin under her arm, Grace thought she had never appeared more beautiful.
Her gown was of some soft, white material and rather simply made. "I never like to wear fussy things when I play," she had confided to the girls.
Jessica stood directly behind her. She was to act as accompanist.
Nora O'Malley sang the concluding line of her song, favored the audience with a saucy little nod and made her exit.
"Come on, Eleanor," said Jessica. "It's our turn."
Well toward the back of the hall sat Miss Nevin, wearing a look of mingled anxiety and pain. Beside her sat a dark, distinguished man in the prime of life, who never took his eyes off the stage.
As one of the senior girls who had charge of the programme stepped forward and announced, "Solo, Miss Eleanor Savelli," he drew a deep breath, and such a look of longing crept into his eyes that Miss Nevin understood for the first time something of the loneliness of which he had written.
He covered his eyes with his hand as though reluctant to look. Then the full, soft notes of the violin were carried to his ears, and with a smothered cry of exultation he raised his eyes and saw for the first time his own child in her gown of white with the instrument he loved at her throat, while her slender hand drew the bow with the true skill of the artist.
Before Miss Nevin could stop him, he had risen in his seat, saying excitedly: "It is mia bella Edith. She has come again."
Then realizing what he had done, he sat down, and, burying his face in his hands, sobbed openly.
Persons around him, startled by his sudden cry, glared at him angrily for creating a commotion during Eleanor's exquisite number, then again turned their attention to the soloist.
"I must see her. I must see her," he muttered over and over again. "She is my child; mine."
"So you shall," whispered Miss Nevin soothingly, "but not until the concert is over. If we tell her now, Guido, it will upset her so that she can't appear again this evening, and she has two more numbers."
Unabashed by the emotion he had displayed, the virtuoso wiped his eyes, and sat waiting like one in a trance for his child to appear again.
Anne and Grace were alive with curiosity as to the outcome of Anne's suggestion. They had eagerly scanned the house before the concert began, but had failed to locate Miss Nevin and Eleanor's father.
"I'm going out in the audience and see if I can find them," Grace had whispered to Anne during Nora's song, as they stood in the wing on the opposite side from Jessica and Eleanor.
Anne had nodded silently, her attention focused upon Nora, whose singing always delighted her, and Grace, slipping quietly down to the door that led into the hall, made her way toward the back rows of seats just in time to witness Guido Savelli's emotion at first sight of his daughter.
Back to Anne she sped with her news, and the two friends held a quiet little jubilee of their own over the success of their plot.
There was a round of applause when "Enoch Arden" was announced. Eleanor took her place at the piano while Anne stepped forward and began the pathetic tale to the subdued strains of the music that Eleanor had fitted to it.
Anne's beautiful voice rose and fell with wonderful expression, while the music served to accentuate every word that she uttered. Her audience sat practically spell bound, and when she uttered poor Enoch's death cry, "A sail! A sail! I am saved!" there were many wet eyes throughout the assemblage. She paused for a second before delivering the three concluding lines, and Eleanor ended on the piano with a throbbing minor chord.
There was absolute silence as the performers made their exit. Then a perfect storm of enthusiasm burst forth. Anne and Eleanor returned to bow again and again, but the audience refused to be satisfied, until Anne, in her clear, musical voice, made a little speech of appreciation, which was received with acclamation.
The concert drew to a triumphant close. After Eleanor's second solo, she repaired to the dressing room, where she was immediately surrounded by a group of admiring girls and kept so busy answering questions as to how long she had studied the violin and where, that she did not see Grace Harlowe enter the right wing with Miss Nevin and a tall, dark-haired stranger who glanced quickly about as though in search of some one. "Where is she?" he said. "Find her at once. But, no, wait a moment. She shall hear me play! I will win the heart of my child through the music she loves, I may add one little solo to your programme?" he turned questioningly to Grace.
"Well, I should rather think so," gasped Grace. "It is an honor of which we never dreamed. This concert will be recorded in Oakdale history."
"It is well," said the virtuoso. "Bring me the violin of my child. I will speak to her through it."
Grace flew to the dressing room, where Eleanor's violin lay in its open case upon a table near the door. Hastily securing both violin and bow, she flitted out of the room—without having been noticed by the girls at the further end.
"Here it is," she breathed, as she handed it to Eleanor's father. "I will arrange for you to play after the Glee Club, who are just going on now."
"I thank you," replied the great man. "I pray you do not announce me. I shall need no one to accompany me."
"It shall be as you wish," promised Grace.
There was a moment's wait after the Glee Club had filed off the stage, then Guido Savelli appeared, violin in hand.
A faint ripple of surprise stirred the audience. Who was this distinguished stranger! They could not identify him as belonging among Oakdale musicians.
The virtuoso made a comprehensive survey of the house, then placing the violin almost caressingly to his throat, began to play.
His hearers listened in growing astonishment to the exquisite sounds that he drew from the instrument. There was a plaintive, insistent appeal in his music that was like the pleading of a human voice. It was a pathetic cry wrung from a hungry heart.
The dressing-room door stood partly open, and as the full, sweet notes of the violin were carried to her ears, Eleanor gave a cry of rapture.
"Who is playing?" she cried. "I must see at once." She ran out of the room and into the wing, where she could command a full view of the stage, and looked upon her father for the first time.
She stood, statue like, until the last note died away. Her eyes were full of tears, which she made no attempt to hide. Then she turned to Anne, who had slipped quietly up and now stood beside her:
"Anne," she said almost reverently, "he is a master. His music overwhelms me. I felt when he played as though—he were trying to give me some message, as though he were speaking to me alone. I suppose every one in the audience felt the same. It is because he is a genius. Who is he, Anne, and where did he come from?"
"Eleanor," replied Anne, her voice trembling a little, "you must prepare yourself for the greatest surprise of your life. He was speaking to you when he played, and it was solely on your account that he played. He came here with your aunt to-night."
Eleanor paled a little.
"Anne, what does all this mean?" she said. "You and Grace have acted queerly all evening. What has this violinist to do with me!"
"That I cannot answer now," replied Anne, "but you will know within the next hour. Your aunt wishes you to get your wraps and meet her at once. She is outside in the carriage and he is with her."
"Are you and Grace coming with us?" questioned Eleanor.
"Not to-night," answered Anne, with a little smile. "You don't need either of us. Here's Grace," she added, as the latter hurried toward them.
"Eleanor," said Grace, "here is your cloak and your violin. Now, kiss both of us good night and trot along, for there's a big surprise waiting for you just around the corner, and it is the earnest wish of both Anne and I that it may prove a happy one."
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