The exact idea of their position was finally grasped by all, and everyone breathed a little prayer for having been saved so miraculously. They all quieted down and prepared to sit there and wait, and hope for the arrival of a train bringing aid. An hour and a half, so they had been told, and that hour and a half seemed the longest hour and a half that most of them had ever experienced.

Finally they heard a shout from one of the brakemen, a glad shout, a joyous sign, they thought, and then the conductor came through and announced, “Sir, a small repair train has just come up to us. They sent it out very promptly, as they thought that we might be in even more serious need than we are.”

“Can it take us back, then?” asked Mr. Ludlow, and the rest of the company sighed in relief, because they now knew that they were safe and would eventually be pulled out of their present position.

“It can take back two cars, sir,” answered the conductor, “and would you object, sir, if I put some other passengers in here with you?”

“Not at all,” answered Mr. Ludlow. “Bring in as many as you wish. We will be only too glad to have them.”

The conductor departed, returning in a little time, accompanied by about a dozen women and half as many small children, saying, “I brought the women and young ones, as I thought that they would be more comfortable in here.”

Dorothy and Ruth, alert and interested, forgot their own discomfort in rendering aid to others, anxious and in distress.

“They have connected the little repair train engine to the two cars,” the conductor announced, “and we will be off in a short time now. We are going back up the road a little way and branch off, and so recover the main line. We think we will get you to your destination in time for your concert.”

This was done, but with little time to spare, and if all the artists were not quite up to their usual standard of excellence that night, the experience of the afternoon was quite sufficient excuse.

The remainder of the trip to St. Louis was without event of note. The accident on the train was not without its advantages in the way of publicity, and their concerts drew large audiences. In St. Louis two concerts were given, both being very successful.

CHAPTER XVIII.
CONCLUSION

In the sequence of events the tour came to an end. A twenty-weeks’ season had been successfully carried through. There had been, of course, hampering and untoward conditions to surmount. An occasional discordant note was struck. Mr. Carleton, who acted as accompanist when no orchestra was employed, turned out to be rather an arbitrary individual, and had caused Ruth, particularly, many a heart-ache. Dorothy, with her winning responsiveness to an artistic temperament, felt that she had less cause to complain.

Her affair with Jim had not of late been plain sailing. She had not written to him very often or a bit regularly, and he had entered a rather arbitrary protest, so she thought, and one letter at least, that she had addressed to him had gone astray. Then Jim reached the conclusion that his letters were not appreciated, and that absence had caused an estrangement. He nursed his resentment into a cauldron of bitterness, and with the perverseness of lovers built mountains of molehills. Not but that such ephemeral erections may, and oftimes do, cast a shadow that will blot out true regard.

Without a tried and certain knowledge of her heart as concerned Jim, Dorothy had found the ever gentlemanly attentions of Mr. Dauntrey very agreeable. Ruth, on such occasions, was inclined to resentful looks and acts, of which, however, Dorothy was sublimely ignorant.

One day, journeying from Sacramento to San Francisco, it had been observed that Mr. Dauntrey and Alfy were in close consultation, an unusual event for those two to find a subject of mutual interest. Later, in a spirit of fun, Dorothy chided her companion.

“So you have won over Mr. Dauntrey,” cried Dorothy, laughing.

“Nonsense,” said Alfy, but blushing rosily.

“But for two hours on the train you monopolized him entirely. What did you find to talk about?”

“Well, for one thing, we were talking about you,” was the defensive response.

“About me, Alfy, what could you have been saying about me?”

“I was telling him,” said Alfy, hesitatingly, “about your English inheritance.”

“Oh, but I wonder you did that. I asked that nothing be said about it. For, as you know, nothing has ever come of the matter, and nothing may. The locket has never been found, and the lawyer says that there are other ‘seemingly insurmountable requirements.’ My, what big words. I wonder I could string them all together.”

“Well,” went on Alfy, in her further defense, “he asked about you, and I couldn’t see that there was any harm.”

“No real harm, Alfy. And I hoped for Aunt Betty’s sake that there was an inheritance assured. She is so worried about Bellevieu. The mortgages and taxes seem to eat up everything. I have given her, of course, all of my earnings, but she says things are still going badly.”

“What are we to do now?” asked Alfy, seeking another subject. “Go home?”

“Mr. Ludlow has made some arrangements for Ruth to sing and for me to play here in San Francisco, at private houses of the rich. As you know, all of the others except Mr. Dauntrey, have gone east, their contracts expired.”

Their conversation was interrupted, now, by Aunt Betty, who came into the room.

“Here is a much belated letter,” she exclaimed, “the envelope all marked up with forwarding addresses. It must have been traveling about for quite some time.”

“It’s from Jim,” cried Dorothy, and quickly broke the seal. The postmark the letter bore was a date fully two months back, and the first few lines were, to the recipient very pleasing ones, till she remembered that they were written before their late disagreement. But the major part of the letter bore upon a subject that concerned them all, and this she read aloud.

“It’s about Lem,” cried Dorothy. “Mr. Van Zandt has made some quite wonderful discoveries. And just to think, it all comes about through that sampler you found, Alfy. But let me read:

“I have some interesting news concerning Lemuel Haley, the boy your camping party found in the thick woods crying that night. It was a lucky thing for the boy that Mrs. Babcock gave Alfaretta that sampler, for from just such a simple little thing as that, we have been able to trace all of Lem’s family history, bringing out a sufficient, although I will not say good, reason for his uncle’s mistreatment of him.

“Lemuel Haley’s mother was Hannah Woodrow. The very same girl that summered with Mrs. Babcock, and remained there attending the little village school for one whole year. She was a very delicate girl, not particularly pretty and very shy. She had large limpid brown eyes, and was of small build.

“She returned to Baltimore, after her year in the mountains, and lived the regulation life of a wealthy farmer’s daughter. There Mr. Haley, a traveling salesman, so he told her family, fell in love with her or – her money, and when both her father and mother died quite suddenly, the traveling salesman made it his business to woo the lonely girl. He wished to marry her immediately and protect her, so he told her, and was so persistent that the poor distracted, grief-stricken girl finally gave him her promise, and within a month of her parents’ death married him. At once he proceeded to dissipate her fortune, and, to make a long story short, the poor girl died when Lem was born. The father was later killed by an accident.

“Lem’s only relative, it was found, was an uncle who lived in the South. This man volunteered to take the little one, and was made legal guardian and controller of the remnant of the fortune. The child was a weak, delicate boy, and this uncle, a cruel, planning man, figured that if he worked Lem very hard all the time, he would eventually break down, and then he would come in for the child’s money. Thus, the poor boy was driven to desperation, and finally ran away. You know better than I do, the incidents connected with his rescue.

“I have prepared all necessary legal papers as to the facts, to prove that Mr. Haley was and is an unfit guardian for the child, and will present these to the court.”

This pleasing news was interestedly discussed, and a happy future argued for the boy.

The following morning, Mr. Dauntrey was early at the breakfast table, with a proposition that the party should visit Tamalpais. The day was beautifully clear, and on no other is a trip to the mountain’s summit interesting. Mr. Ludlow could not go, but the ladies accepted with alacrity, and a prompt start was made. Glorious sights indeed are revealed, as the railroad winds its way to the apex of this peak, the highest so near an American city.

Lunch was served at the summit house, but Dorothy was so interested in the views obtainable from the various vantage points that she wandered away from the others while they were still seated at the table.

When her absence was noted, Mr. Dauntrey sought her out, at first unsuccessfully, then seeking for her in a secluded view point seldom visited, he heard her voice, and found that, in her anxiety to attain a high rock, she had lost her footing, and catching for a support had sprained her ankle. She had as well badly torn her dress.

Her rescuer was all gallantry and courtesy, and assisted her to a seat near at hand. He would have carried her to the train platform, but this proffer Dorothy declined.

“I shall be able to walk, shortly,” she explained. “It is not a severe sprain and the pain is bearable, and only acute when I put my weight on my foot.”

“A few moments’ rest will help to set you right,” said Mr. Dauntrey, and then added, looking into her eyes, “Do you know, I wish you had been in some real serious danger, and that I had been privileged to render aid.”

“I thank you for what you have done, and now let’s go to the others,” quickly interposed the girl. But one effort to rest her weight upon her foot dissuaded her from any further immediate endeavor, and so she sought, unsuccessfully, to turn the conversation in other directions.

“Do you know,” he repeated, “that I would like to render such service that you would never wish for any other servitor?”

“Please,” said Dorothy, “let’s talk about the wonderful view of sea and forest and the heaven above.”

“I am intense in my admiration of all that is beautiful, and above all, permit me to say that I admire the beautiful Dorothy.” She raised her hand in protest, but he continued. “May I quote for you a little gem that is aptly expressive of my sentiments?”

“Well,” laughed Dorothy, quizzically looking at her foot, “I am at your mercy.”

The man by her side did not venture to touch her hand, which rested on the bench almost beside his own, but, with earnest intensity of his manner, he leaned forward and looked longingly, nay lovingly, into her eyes till they fell before his gaze. His face, handsome and animated, his voice musical and well modulated. Every word was spoken slowly as if to admit of certain assimilation.

“May my Heaven be
A rosary bower,
With one sweet angel,
And that one – Thee!”

There was a moment’s pause.

“Miss Calvert,” he went on, “I would that my heaven might begin on earth. It will, if you will be mine.”

Dorothy, like all other girls, under similar circumstances, had felt for a moment the compliment of a man’s love, then all at once she recalled the conversation between Alfy and her quondam lover, and with her quick intuition, she had recognized her possible inheritance as the probable cause of Mr. Dauntrey’s sudden declaration. Still she would not be unkind.

“Oh, my foot pains me unbearably. Please, Mr. Dauntrey, get Alfy to come and help me.”

“Just one little word of hope and I fly.”

“No, Mr. Dauntrey, I can but say at once, and frankly and firmly, too, no,” and with that she made pretense to such suffering from the injured foot that the suppliant for her hand had but, with the best grace he could muster, to comply with her very reasonable request.

Dorothy, when the others came, was able, leaning lightly on Alfy’s arm, to accompany them to the train, and soon was happily interested in the wonderful panorama spread before their eyes on the return journey.

The base of the mountain reached, there was some delay, and Mr. Dauntrey walked about with Ruth, the two in earnest conversation. Aunt Betty and Dorothy sat quietly, while the former made as presentable as she could the torn garment worn by the girl.

“You will have to discard this gown, and substitute for traveling your light mohair. Fortunately, the weather is warm enough now. You have not had it on for a long time.” To Alfy was referred this decision, with results that will develop later.

Alfy was interested, albeit horrified, and held irresistibly spellbound, by the “sausage” man, selling, as the placard said, “Hot Dogs.” A half dozen wooley canines were exhibited on the counter and elsewhere about, and when an order for a frankfurter sandwich was given, one of the dogs was grabbed up and caused to disappear into a mechanical contrivance with a large wheel, which was then turned and there were barkings and such grumblings as might be expected from an animal suffering dire and distressing annihilation. Then from an opening, the much aproned proprietor handed forth the promised sandwich.

At the hotel that afternoon, the girl’s injured foot was cared for by her aunt. “We want no medicine-man,” she said, “for I know of the most effective home remedy, guaranteed to cure in twenty-four hours. I have secured the ingredients from the hotel kitchen.”

“What may they be?” inquired Dorothy.

“Lard and salt. The former spread on, and about the injured ankle, and liberally sprinkled with salt. Then securely bandaged.”

“It certainly is simple, and I will surely be able to play at the reception to-morrow afternoon?”

“I have no doubt of it.”

“Aunty, we are so seldom by ourselves, and Ruth and Alfy have gone out. I want to have a long talk with you.”

Dorothy lay resting, her injured foot supported, while her aunt sat beside her, caressingly stroking her hair and forehead.

First, the young girl spoke of Mr. Dauntrey and of her experience of that day. The humorous aspect of the circumstances appealed alike to both. Then the inheritance was discussed, and Aunt Betty deplored again the unfortunate loss of the locket and the lacking “insurmountable requirements,” in the way of some missing papers. Concerning the latter, Aunt Betty had some hopes that among her accumulated correspondence and documents at Bellevieu, there might be found helpful data bearing on the subject.

“Unless some good fortune is happily vouchsafed us,” deplored Aunt Betty sorrowfully, “I greatly fear that Bellevieu will be lost.”

“Mr. Van Zandt wrote, however,” encouraged Dorothy, “that it would be well worth while for us to go to England, and that personally presenting myself might ‘achieve results otherwise unattainable.’ You see, I have remembered his words.”

“I am determined upon that,” responded Aunt Betty, “and I am arranging that we shall go within a month after we get back east. I have a little surprise for you, too. Molly Breckenridge is going also. The judge has arranged for her expenses.”

The reader, who would wish to still further follow the fortunes of our heroine will find in “Dorothy in England,” a volume of startling interest and sweet sentiment.

Dorothy was most appreciative of her aunt’s thoughtfulness, and now she unburdened her mind of her secret. She told her of her strong regard for Jim, of his expressed love for her, and of her own inability to just exactly determine if her feelings were the equivalent of his. She wished for Jim every happiness, and she shared in his ambitions. They had had a difference, and she was most unhappy, and yet there was an intangible something that restrained her from seeking a reconciliation.

The good, motherly woman, who was her confessor, knew perhaps better than the girl herself, the strength of her regard for Jim, and knew that the heart’s promptings are seldom influenced. With this wisdom for a guide, she counselled wisely and satisfyingly. Time, and right doing, would remedy and set square all that was untoward.

Folded in each other’s arms in harmony of feeling, they were suddenly broken in upon by Alfy.

“What do you think,” she cried. “You told me to get out your light traveling dress. You had not worn it since that day of the fire in New York, and what do you think!” she excitedly repeated, “in the fold of the skirt I found this!” and she held forth the long missing locket.

So it unquestionably was. The gown had been put away, and in the folds of the skirt had been caught, and so long retained, the locket.

A word more and our story ends. The journey east was uneventful. At Baltimore, Aunt Betty and the girls said good-bye to Mr. Ludlow and Mr. Dauntrey. Ruth was to visit a day at Bellevieu and then go on with Alfy to New York.