CHAPTER VII.--DREAMS AND REALITIES.

The holidays were all too soon over. Much feasting went on, what with Molly's big turkey and her fruit cake and Rosemary pickles; and the invitations to Mrs. McLean's and Miss Walker's; and Otoyo's Japanese spread, where she and Melissa charmed the company with the beautifully arranged rooms and the dainty, delicious refreshments. Mr. Seshu, throughout, was very attentive to his little countrywoman, and the girls decided that he was in love with her just like any ordinary American might be.

"I am so glad it is coming about this way," said Molly. "Just think how hard it might have been for our little Otoyo, now that she has been in this country long enough to see how we do such things, had she been compelled, by filial feeling, to marry some one whom she did not love and who did not love her. I think she is all over the sentimental attachment she used to have for the unconscious Andy, don't you, Nance?"

"I fancy she is," said the far from unconscious Nance, who always had a heightened color when young Andy's name got into the conversation. "I don't think she ever really cared for Andy. He was just the first and only young man who was ever nice to her, and it went to her head. Andy is so kind and good natured."

"You forget Professor Green. He was always careful and attentive, and Otoyo would chatter like a magpie with him."

"Oh, but he is so much older!" And then Nance wished she had bitten out her tongue, as Molly looked hurt and sad.

"Professor Green is not so terribly old! I think he is much more agreeable than callow youths who have no conversation beyond their own affairs."

"Now, Molly Brown, I didn't mean to say a thing to hurt your feelings or to imply that Professor Green was anything but perfection. He is not too old for y--us, I mean; but Otoyo is like a child."

"I am ashamed of myself, Nance, but I do get kind of tired of everybody's taking the stand that Professor Green is so old. He is the best man friend I ever had, and--and----" But Nance kissed her fondly, and she did not have to go on with her sentence, which was lucky, as she did not know how she was going to finish it without committing herself.

Kent had to fly back to Louisville to work at his chosen profession and try to learn how to do water color renderings of the architectural elevations; Judy back to New York to dig at her charcoal drawings and dream of swimming in color, with Kent striking out beside her; Dodo again at Johns Hopkins, learning much about medicine and how to "turkey trot" with a broken sofa; young Andy and Mr. Seshu at Harvard, studying the laws of their country, for was not Mr. Seshu fast becoming an American? They had their dreams, too, these two young men. Andy was looking forward to the day when he would not have to stop talking to Nance just at the most interesting turn of the argument, but could stay right along with her forever and ever,--and sure he was that they would never talk out! Mr. Seshu's dreams--but, after all, what do we know of his dreams? Certain we are that he looked favorably on the little Miss Sen, and that honorable Father Sen and honorable Father Seshu had a long and satisfactory talk in the shop in Boston with the beautiful Japanese prints hanging all around them, representing in themselves money enough to make the prospective young couple very wealthy.

Mr. Oldham went back to Vermont, also dreaming that the day might come when his little Nance would keep house for him, and he could leave the hated boarding house, and have a real home. Richard Blount returned to New York, dreaming, too, and his dream was of the beautiful mountain girl with the dignity and poise of a queen, eyes like the clear brown pools of autumn and a purposeful look on her young face that showed even a casual observer that she had a mission in life.

Mid-year examinations came and went. Melissa and Otoyo came through without a scratch, which made Molly rejoice as though it had been her own ordeal.

Domestic Science grew more thrilling; so interesting, indeed, that Molly could not decide for a whole day whether she would rather be a scientific cook or a great literary success. But a note from a magazine editor accepting her "Basket Funeral" and asking for more similar stories decided her in favor of literature. And on the same day, too, Professor Edwin Green said to her, "Please, Miss Molly, don't learn how to cook so well that you forget how to make popovers. I am afraid all of these scientific rules you are learning will upset the natural-born knowledge that you already possess, and your spontaneous genius will be choked by an academic style of cooking that would be truly deplorable."

Molly laughingly confided in the professor that she would not give one of Aunt Mary's hot turnovers for all of Miss Morse's scientifically made bread.

"I know her bread is perfect, but it lacks a certain taste and life, and is to the real thing what a marble statue is to flesh and blood. Judy described it, in speaking of the food at a lunchroom for self-supporting women that she occasionally goes to in New York, as being 'too chaste.'"

"That is exactly it, too chaste," agreed Professor Green.

"Of course, cooking is a small part of what we learn in Domestic Science,--food values, economic housekeeping, etc. It really is a very broad and far-reaching science."

They were in the professor's study, where Molly had come to tell him the good news about her story, and to ask his advice concerning what other of her character sketches she should send to the magazine. She was wearing her cap and gown, as she was just returning from a formal college function. When the young man greeted her, he had quickly rolled up something, looking a little shamefaced. But as they talked, he rolled and unrolled and finally determined to show the papers to her.

"Miss Molly, Kent has sent me the plans for my bungalow that I commissioned him at Christmas to get busy on. I wonder if you would care to see them."

"Of course I'd be charmed to, Professor Green. There is nothing in the world that is more interesting to me than plans of a house. Kent and I have been drawing them ever since we could hold pencils. Kent was the master hand at outside effects, and I was the housekeeper, who must have the proper pantry arrangements and conveniences."

"Well, please pass on these. The outside effects seem lovely to me, but I cannot tell about the interior."

Molly seated herself and pored over the prints, soon mastering the details with a practiced eye, noting dimensions and windows and doors.

"I think it is splendid, but do you really want my criticism?"

"I certainly do, more than any one's."

"Well, there is waste space here that should be put in the store room. This little passage from dining-room to kitchen is entirely unnecessary and should be incorporated in the butler's pantry. These twin doors in the hall, one leading to the attic and one to the cellar, are no doubt very pretty, but they are not wide enough. An attic is for trunks, and how could one larger than a steamer trunk get through such a narrow door? A cellar is certainly for barrels and the like, and I am sure it would be a tug to pull a barrel through this little crack of a door. I'd allow at least nine inches more on each door, and that means a foot and a half off something. Let me see. It seems a pity to take it off of the living-room, and rather inhospitable to rob the guest chamber.

"Aunt Clay always puts the new towels in the guest chamber for the company to break in. She says company can't kick about the slick stiffness of them, and somehow it would seem rather Aunt Clayish to take that eighteen inches off of the poor unsuspecting guests, whoever they may be."

Molly sat a long time studying the plans, and she looked so sweet and so earnest that Edwin Green thought with regret of the tacit promise he had made Mrs. Brown: to let Molly stay a child for another year. How he longed to know his fate! How simple it would be while she was showing her interest in his little bungalow to ask her to tell him if she thought she could ever make it her little home, too! Was she the child her mother thought her? Did she think he was a "laggard in love," and despise him for a "faint heart"? Or could it be that she thought of him only as an old and trusted friend, too ancient to contemplate as anything but a professor of literature, and, at that, one who was building a home in which to spend his rapidly declining years?

"Time will tell," sighed the poor, conscientious young man, "but if I am letting my happiness slip through my fingers from a mistaken sense of duty, then I don't deserve anything but 'single blessedness'."

"I have it!" exclaimed Molly. "Have the cellar entrance outside by the kitchen door with a gourd pergola over both, and take this inside space where the cellar door and steps were to be for a large closet in the poor guests' room, to make up to them for coming so near to losing a foot and a half off of their room."

"That suits me, if it suits you. Is there anything else?"

"If you won't tell Kent it is my suggestion, I do think the bathroom door ought to open in and not out. He and I have disagreed about doors ever since we were children.

"Do you know what plan Kent is making for mother and me? He wants us to go abroad next winter. Sue is to be married to her Cyrus in June, muddy lane and all; Paul and John are in Louisville most of the time, now that Paul is on a morning paper and has to work at night, and John is building up his practice and has to be on the spot; Kent hopes to be able to take a course at the Beaux Arts next winter if he can save enough money, and that would leave no one at Chatsworth but mother and me. There is no reason why we should not go, and you know I am excited about it; and, as for mother, she says she is like our country cousin who came to the exposition in Louisville and said in a grandiloquent tone, 'I am desirous to go elsewhere and view likewise.' Mother and I have never traveled anywhere, and it would be splendid for us. Don't you think so?"

"I certainly do, especially as next year is my sabbatical year of teaching, and I expect to have a holiday myself and do some traveling. I have something to dream of now, and that is to meet you and your mother in Europe and 'go elsewhere and view likewise' in your company!"

"Oh, Mother and I will be so glad to see you," exclaimed Molly. "I have brought a letter from Mildred to read to you, Professor Green. It is so like Mildred and tells so much of her life in Iowa that I thought it might interest you."

"Indeed it will. I have thought so often of that delightful young couple and the wonderful wedding in the garden."

So Molly began:

"'Dearest Sister:--You complain of having only second-hand letters from me and you are quite right. There is nothing more irritating than letters written to other people and handed down. Your letters should belong to you, and you only, just as much as your tooth-brush. You remember how mad it used to make Ernest to have his letters sent to Aunt Clay, and how he would put in bad words just to keep Mother from handing them on.

'Crit and I are more and more pleased with our little home out here in this Western town (not that they call themselves Western, and on the map they are really more Eastern than Western). The people are lovely, and so neighborly and hospitable. It is a good thing for Southern people to get away from home occasionally and come to the realization that they have not got a corner on hospitality. Entertaining out here really means trouble to the hostess, as there are no servants and the ladies of the house have all the work to do; and still they entertain a great deal and do it very well, too.

'I have never seen anything like the system the women have evolved for their work. For instance: they wash on Monday morning and have a "biled dinner." When washing is over, they are too tired to do any more work, so they usually go calling or have club meetings or some form of amusement to rest up for Tuesday, ironing day. Wednesday, they bake. Thursday is the great day for teas and parties. Friday is thorough cleaning day, and I came very near making myself very unpopular because in my ignorance, when I first came here, I returned some calls on that fateful day. I was greeted by irate dames at every door, their heads tied up in towels and their faces very dirty. I could hardly believe they were the same elegant ladies I had met at the Thursday reception, beautifully gowned and showing no marks of toil. On Saturday they bake again and get ready for Sunday, and on Sunday no one ever thinks of staying away from church because of cooking or house work.

'I am so glad our mother taught us how to work some, at least not to be afraid of work, but I do wish I had been as fond of the kitchen as you always were and had learned how to cook from Aunt Mary. My sole culinary accomplishment was cloudbursts, and if Crit is an angel he has to have something to go on besides cloudbursts. The restaurants and hotels here are impossible and there are no boarding houses. There are only twenty servants in the whole town and they already have a waiting list of persons who want them when the present employers are through with them, which only death or removal from the town would make possible, so you see we have to keep house. I am learning to cook, and simply adore Friday when I can tie up my head and pull the house to pieces and make the dust fly. Crit calls me a Sunbonnet Baby because I am so afraid of not keeping to the schedule set down for me by my neighbors. Crit has bought me every patent convenience on the market to make the work easy: washing machine, electric iron and toaster, fancy mop wringer, and a dust pan that can stand up by itself and let you sweep the dirt in without stooping, vacuum carpet cleaner (but no carpets as yet), window washer and dustless dusters, fireless cooker and a steamer that can cook five things at once and blows a little whistle when the water gets low in the bottom vessel. I have no excuse for not being a good cook except that I lack the genius that you have. I thought I never should learn how to make bread but I have mastered it at last and can turn out a right good loaf and really lovely turnovers.

'Thank you so much for your hints from your Domestic Science class. I really got a lot from them. I had an awfully funny time with some bread last week. You see, having once learned how to make it, it was terribly mortifying to mix up a big batch and have it simply refuse to rise. I didn't want Crit to see it, so I took it out in the backyard and buried it in some sand the plasterers had left there. Crit came home to dinner and went out in the yard to see if his radishes were up and came in much excited: said he had found a new mushroom growth (you remember he was always interested in mushrooms and knew all kinds of edible varieties that we had never heard of). Sure enough there was a brand new variety. That hateful old dough had come up at last! The hot sand had been too much for it and it was rising to beat the band. I was strangely unsympathetic with Crit and his mushroom cult, so he came in to dinner. As soon as Crit went back to work, I went out and covered up the disgraceful failure with a lot more sand, hammered it down well and put a chicken coop on it, determined to get rid of it; but surely murder must be like yeast and it will out. When Crit came back to supper that old leaven had found its way through the cracks under the chicken coop and a little spot was appearing to the side of the sand pile. Crit was awfully excited and began to pull off pieces to send to Washington for the Government to look into the specimens, and I had to give in and tell him the truth. He almost died laughing and decided to send some anyhow, just to see what Uncle Sam would make out of it. The report has not come yet. I have lots more things to tell you about my housekeeping but I must stop now. I am so sorry I can not come home to Sue's wedding, but it is such an expensive trip out here that I do not see how Crit and I can manage it just now. Of course Crit could not come anyhow as the bridge would surely fall down if he were not here to hold it up, and even if we could afford it I should hate to leave him more than I can tell you. Oh, Molly, he is so precious! We have been married almost a year now and when I was cross about his mushrooms was the nearest we have ever come to a misunderstanding. That is doing pretty well for me who am a born pepper pot. It is all Crit, who is an angel, as I believe I remarked before. Please write to me all about your class reunion, and give my love to that adorable Julia Kean, and also remember me to that nice Professor Green.

'Your 'special sister, Mildred Brown Rutledge.'"

"What a delightful letter and how happy they are," said the professor, fingering his roll of blue prints with a sad smile. "It was good of her to remember me. Please give her my love when you write."

"I did not tell you quite all she said," confessed Molly, opening the letter again and reading. "She says, 'remember me to that nice Professor Green, who is almost as lovely as Crit,'" and Molly beat a hasty retreat.