CHAPTER XV.

WHITE LILIES.

"Home again, from a foreign shore!" sang the Percival Glee Club, as the mountain wagon rattled down a long hill, across a dusty plain, and whirled up to the front door of a great hotel. It wasn't home, really, but only the Mammoth Hot Springs, which they had left nearly a week before.

Half of the Excursion had taken the circuit through the Park in the opposite direction, and now that all were united once more, many were the handshakings, and loud and eager the exchange of experiences.

"Did you take dinner at Larry's?"

"I almost tumbled into the 'Morning Glory'"--

"Oh! what a funny hotel that was at the Upper Basin--walls of pasteboard between the rooms, and all peeling off, you know"--

"Weren't you awfully cold?"

"How many trout did you catch, Doctor?"

"My! wasn't Mary's Hill steep? We got out and walked. The horses just went up hand over hand, as if 'twas a ladder"--

"Did you see a bear?" This last from Tom, who became the center of a knot of eager questioners, and assumed airs of importance accordingly.

The attractions of the Mammoth Springs, marvelous though they were, were rather slighted by the tourists, who were sated with "formations" and boiling pools. That afternoon the train bore them over the branch road to Livingston, where fine furs were purchased by several parties, this little frontier town being a regular emporium for such articles.

At nightfall they had a jolly supper in the car, and afterward made their Pullman ring with "The Soldier's Farewell" and--well--"A. R.!"

All the next day they rode at thirty-five miles an hour through the "Bad Lands" and across North Dakota, reaching Minneapolis the following morning.

"I tell you, it's good to see green grass again, after those scorched-up prairies!" exclaimed Tom; and the rest echoed his words. For weeks not a drop of rain had fallen in the Northwest, and our New Englanders had longed for a sight of the fresh verdure of their own homeland.

There was plenty of sightseeing in Minneapolis to crowd the few hours allowed there. The younger Percivals, in particular, rushed furiously about the city, visited the Falls of Minnehaha, "which were extremely interesting," Fred Seacomb remarked, "except that there were no falls there"--only a narrow rivulet trickling over some mossy rocks in a park; and climbed (by elevator) to the top of a twelve-story building on the roof of which was a flourishing garden, as well as an elegant restaurant. Later in the day they hurriedly inspected one of the great "Pillsbury" mills, which turn out seven thousand barrels of flour a day.

"I like this better than even the Falls in the Grand Cañon," whispered Bess to Kittie, as they watched the flour pouring down through the boxes in a beautiful white flood. "There it was a great Power, you know; as if you were somehow seeing the world made; but here is where He makes answers for prayers for daily bread--just think, seven thousand people a day getting a whole barrel apiece, somewhere!"

I am glad Mr. Selborne happened to hear that last sentence. He was learning to know the little Captain better and better every day; and he understood what she meant, perhaps even better than bright, saucy Pet did.

"It is pleasant to remember, Miss Bessie," he said, taking up the conversation very simply, "that the power and the giving are not separate, but each a part of the great, lovely Plan that guides the world's living. 'He watereth the hills,' you know, 'from His chambers,' and the flood that roared over the brink of that precipice is sure to fall somewhere on the earth, at some time, in gentle rain."

"I know," said Bess, catching her breath a little, as she has a pretty way of doing when she is deeply moved; "and there was the blade of grass!"

She might have said "is," for don't I know that that self-same blade was safely pressed in her little Testament, in the steamer trunk that she had shared with Kittie throughout the journey?

They "finished" Minneapolis and its sturdy rival St. Paul, and hurried on to Chicago. Several in the original hundred of the Excursion had left them, and strangers had taken their places. It began to seem like breaking up in earnest.

There was one thing that disturbed Randolph; namely, that he had been unable to fulfill a laughing request made by Pet at almost the outset of the journey. He had competed with Tom in securing wild flowers for the girls, and, it must be confessed, the finest specimens had somehow found their way into Miss Pet's lap. One variety had followed another during the passage by rail, across New England and Canada, until Pet had cried out, "You've given me everything!"

"Not every kind," he replied, breathing hard after a run he had just made for some great golden daisies. "Isn't there some special flower you want, that you haven't had?"

"Well, let me see--a water lily!" said the girl merrily, choosing the most unlikely flower she could think of at the moment.

Randolph had laughed, too, but had resolved in his inmost heart to procure just that particular white blossom, if it could be had for love, muscle or money. But no lilies could be found. All through Manitoba, Assiniboia and Alberta he had looked in vain. Alaska yielded fir and spruce in abundance, but no water lilies. Nor was he more successful during the homeward-bound trip, across the States. Pet said nothing more about it--indeed, I think she forgot her careless suggestion almost the moment it was made; but Randolph felt himself put on his mettle, and failure stared him in the face.

No, I am not writing a "love story," unless you grant that all true stories are that, in which pure, sweet young lives are thrown together, and drawn to one another by finest and frankest sympathy, looking ahead no farther than the sunset of that day or the sunrise of the next.

What might come in the future, these honest, joyous young people did not try to fathom. Perhaps for some of them the sacredness of a life-long companionship was waiting--who could tell? but now they just took the sweetness and comradery of To-day, and were satisfied.

As for Randolph's failure to procure the lily, more of that by and by.

For there was one marvel, familiar to some, but new to most of the party, yet to come--the Falls of Niagara.

Chicago, with its never-ceasing stir of business activity, its broad streets, its huge "Auditorium" building, twenty stories high, its art galleries and its good-natured Western hurry and hospitality, was left behind, and one misty morning in early September the Excursion train deposited its passengers at the Niagara depot, from which they were whirled round to the Cataract House for breakfast.

"Tom hates to waste his time eating in the vicinity of Niagara Falls," said Fred at the table, "but I am glad to see that he is going through the form, at any rate."

A glance at the latter's heaped-up plate was convincing.

"Certainly a splendid imitation of a hungry boy," remarked Kittie. "Take another biscuit, won't you, Tommy?"

But when at last they did enter Prospect Park, and huddled together at the brink of the mighty American Falls, there were no more jests. All the world seemed sweeping onward and over, into that white uproar. The solid rock beneath them trembled in the thunderous fall of many waters.

Some of the party walked over the little rustic bridge to Goat Island, and out to the bit of rock where Terrapin Tower once stood. But it was all too terrible to invite a long stay. Glad they were to reach the quiet of the grove again, where moss and furrowed bark and waving fern told their simple story of peace, and the sparrow's twitter was heard against the deep undertone of the Fall.

In the afternoon half a dozen of the bolder spirits went down the Inclined Plane to the shore below the Falls, and embarked on the _Maid of the Mist_. They had to encase themselves in rubber coats and tarpaulin hats, while the little boat steamed up into the verge of the boiling caldron until its awe-struck passengers were deafened and drenched by the columns of rolling spray from the cataract.

Evening came, and for the last time the Percivals, with their special friends, gathered in the car for a final "concert." Nearly one half of the Excursion party had left them at Niagara, waving handkerchiefs and singing, "Should auld acquaintance be forgot?"

Mr. Rossiter and his sister were to reach their journey's end at a little town in Western Massachusetts, and would leave the train in the early morning, while their comrades were still asleep. Altogether, despite the anticipation of getting home once more, it was a sad evening, as "good-by" evenings must always be.

Next morning all was eagerness and bustle, for when breakfast was over the train was within twenty miles of Boston.

Alaskan paddles and totem poles were lashed together, and the sharp noses and bright eyes of stuffed foxes from Mandan peered from their paper wrappings as their owners prepared for the last disembarkation.

Near historic Concord the train stopped for a local freight to pull out of the way. Randolph carelessly strolled out to the car platform, and cast his eye along a little stream which was crossed by the track at that point. Something made him start suddenly and beckon to a group of boys who were idling near.

"A silver dollar for the boy that brings me a pond lily before the train starts!" he cried, pointing to the river.

How those boys did scatter, some up stream, some down! One bright little fellow, who had just divested himself for a bath, plunged in and swam lustily for the prize. Another waded in, waist-deep, regardless of clothes. Half a dozen more threw themselves on to a rude raft, capsized it, and scrambling on board again, poled it toward the white beauties, floating serenely on the dark waters of the Assabet.

Randolph stood waiting eagerly, with the dollar in his hand, expecting every moment to hear the signal-whistle for starting. A group of workmen engaged in repairing the bridge left off working and cheered the boys on, laughing, and shouting to the little fellows.

"Go it, Dick! Now, Billy, there's a big one in front of you--no, to your right, to your right! Hurry, Pat, you'll get it! Good for you!"

"Off brakes!" rang out the whistle sharply. The train started. Four boys scrambled, panting, up the steep, sandy bank. Randolph jumped on the lowest step of the car and stretched out his hand.

"Here they are, Mister!" and four snowy, perfumed blossoms were thrust by grimy little fingers into his own.

"Catch!" he shouted, throwing out four bright silver quarters for which he had hastily changed the dollar. "Thank you, boys. Good-by!" and the train rolled on.

Randolph entered the car, his eyes shining. Evidently no one within had witnessed this little episode.

"Almost home," he said, coming up behind Pet. "Too bad I couldn't"--

"Oh! that lily," laughed the girl. "Well, Randolph, perhaps it will do you good to fail just once. It's a sort of discipline, you know."

"I'm afraid I shall have to get my discipline some other way," said Randolph demurely; and he deposited the lilies in the lap of astonished Pet.

Just what she saw in those exquisite, fragrant things, all dripping from the cool depths from which they had come to greet her, I cannot say. She looked her delight at Randolph, and then buried the pretty pink of her own cheeks in the white petals. I believe she did not even thank the giver; but he was satisfied.

Twenty minutes later the train thundered into the Fitchburg depot in Boston, and the long, ten-thousand mile journey was at an end.