Blanchard Amy Ella
Three Little Cousins

CHAPTER VI
Discoveries

But the end was not yet for Mary. To be sure her strawberries were much appreciated, and every one was good enough to say she had been missed, and that it was too bad she had decided to stay at home. "Though after all you weren't lonely," said Molly, "and I'm glad you went over to the Whartons'; they are such nice, friendly people."

"I think they are, too," said Polly. "Luella told us they took you to Green Island on their launch."

"I am delighted that you had that pleasure," said Aunt Ada.

"And I am pleased that you were so industrious as to pick all those berries," Uncle Dick put in his word.

Poor Mary felt very uncomfortable. "I am a wretchedly deceitful girl," she told herself. "Why can't I tell them the truth? But, oh, dear, it is harder to now than it was at first." So she summoned voice to say only, "Yes, I did have a real nice time. Green Island is almost as pretty as the Point, isn't it?"

"We don't think it is near so pretty," said Molly, loyally.

"But it is lovely," admitted Miss Ada. "I wish you could have seen Rocky Point, Mary; that is the wildest spot imaginable. Perhaps after a while you will get over your fear of being seasick and can go with us on another trip there."

"Oh, it is such a fine place to have supper," put in Polly. "We had a dear little fireplace, and it was so still you could imagine you were hundreds of miles away from a house, and there was nothing to disturb us – "

"Except ants and grasshoppers and mosquitoes," interrupted Uncle Dick.

"I'm sure there were very few of them," protested Molly. "Anyhow it was just fine, Mary, and you must be sure to go next time. We had the loveliest sail home through the sunset."

"Through the sunset," said Uncle Dick scornfully. "One would suppose we were in a balloon."

"Well, but it was sunset on the water, too," persisted Molly. "The sea was just as colorful as the sky."

"When anybody coins words like that I'm ready for bed," said Uncle Dick. And Mary, feeling that the subject of the afternoon's doings was exhausted, drew a breath of relief.

The three cousins played together most amicably all the next morning. In Mary's breast hope was high, for might not Ellis appear at any time with the pin? She counted much on that notice in the Green Island post-office. She was brighter than she had been for days so that Molly confided to Polly: "She seems more like us."

"I'm beginning to like her real well," admitted Polly. "She isn't so stiff as she was at first."

"I suppose her Englishism is wearing off," returned Molly.

But that afternoon when she returned from the post-office, whither she had gone for her Aunt Ada, she beckoned to Polly who was playing jacks with Mary. They had a set of jackstones which they had collected themselves from the pebbles on the beach, and the place was much more interesting because of them.

"What do you want?" asked Polly following Molly into the house. "Are there any letters for me?"

"No," said Molly, "but just wait a minute and I'll tell you. I must take Aunt Ada her mail first." Her manner was mysterious and Polly wondered what mighty secret she had to disclose.

"Let's go down to the rocks, to the lion's den," proposed Molly when she came back into the room. "We'd better go around by the back way."

Polly looked surprised. "Why? What for?"

"I've something to tell you and I don't want any one to bear. You will scarcely believe it, Polly, and I'm sure I don't know what to do about it."

"Oh, dear, what can it be?" said Polly. "Is it anything about Luella? Is she going to leave?"

"Oh, dear, no. It is about some one much nearer than Luella."

They avoided being seen from the front of the house till they were well away, and then they ran down to the rocks and settled themselves out of sight below one of the great ledges.

"Now tell," said Polly, all curiosity.

"You must promise not to breathe a word."

"I promise on my sacred word and honor."

"Well then; it is about Mary."

"Mary! Oh, Molly!"

"Yes, what do you think? She wasn't at the Whartons' at all yesterday afternoon."

Polly looked as astonished as Molly expected, though she said, after a pause: "Well she never said she was."

"She let us think so. She didn't deny it."

"But did she go to Green Island? Now I think of it, all she said was that she thought it was a pretty place. She knew that because she saw it when she went over there to the party."

"Yes, I know that, but it wasn't at Green Island that she got the strawberries, Polly, and she didn't go anywhere with the Whartons."

"How do you know?"

"I saw Grace at the post-office. I said to her: 'It was real nice of you all to take Mary out in the launch yesterday,' and she looked so surprised when she said: 'Why, we didn't take Mary. We didn't go out at all yesterday, for Uncle Will had some of his friends up from town and they were using the launch all day.'"

"What did you say?"

"I didn't know what to say. 'Did Mary tell you she was with us?' Grace asked, and I had to crawl out by saying: 'No, Luella thought so.' Then Grace said – now what do you think of this, Polly – she said: 'Why, I saw Mary going out with Ellis Dixon in his brother's boat. I watched them rowing off. I am sure it was Mary. I couldn't be mistaken for no one around here has a hat like hers.'"

Polly was silent with amazement and Molly went on: "I had to say, 'Oh, very likely Aunt Ada knows all about it,' and then I came away as fast as I could."

"Why Molly Shelton!" exclaimed Polly finding her voice, "do you suppose she sneaked off that way with a strange little boy when she says her mother is so particular that she doesn't even let her go on the street alone? I can't believe it. I think Grace must have been mistaken."

"No, she wasn't. I know that."

"How do you know?"

"I saw Parker Dixon and he said, 'Did the little girl get home all right? She was pretty safe with El, but I didn't know as your aunt mightn't hev been oneasy, seeing they was just two children. You tell her she needn't hev no fear of El; he can handle a boat as good as I kin.'" Molly unconsciously imitated Parker's manner of speaking.

"Then it is true; of course it is," decided Polly. "Are you going to tell Aunt Ada?"

"I don't know what to do. I feel as if I ought, and yet I feel sort of sorry for Mary. She is 'way off from all her people and we've been picking at her for being so particular and not doing this and not doing that, so maybe she thought she was doing no more than we would have done if we had been in her place."

"I know, and maybe we would have done the same, but she needn't have been deceitful," returned Polly. "She could have asked if she might go."

"She didn't have a chance, for we had gone sailing, you know."

"Then she ought to have told the first thing, as soon as she saw Aunt Ada. No, she is a sneaky, horrid girl and I am not going to have anything more to do with her, if she is my cousin. I was beginning to like her, too." Polly spoke regretfully.

"So was I," agreed Molly. "But now the main thing is, shall we tell or shall we not? I hate to be a tattle-tale."

"Then don't let's tell, but don't let's be more than polite to her and she'll see that something is wrong and maybe she will tell of her own accord. I wish she'd go. I don't like sneaky girls; I'd rather they'd be out and out naughty."

"Why do you suppose she didn't tell?" said Molly thoughtfully. "She might have known that Aunt Ada wouldn't punish her or even scold. She would only have said: 'I'd rather you'd always tell me, Mary, before you undertake such trips again.'" Again Molly imitated the person she quoted. "It doesn't seem to me she could be scared of Aunt Ada when she's always so gentle and kind."

"Well, I don't care whether she was scared or not, she wasn't honest, and I think anyhow it was very queer for her to sneak off with a boy she didn't know."

"But I know him; I used to play with him when I was only four years old," said Molly. "He is a very nice boy. Aunt Ada says that he has been very well raised and that any mother could be proud of him. He is real bright, too: why, he can manage a sail boat as well as a man, and he's always so ready and willing to do anything he can for any of us. He is very different from some of the others who just can't bear the summer people."

"Never mind about him; I suppose he is all right; it is Mary I am bothered over."

"Well, the only thing we can do is to wait and see if she will tell of her own accord; maybe she hasn't had a good chance yet to see Aunt Ada alone; we are giving her the chance now, so we will wait and see what happens."

This Polly agreed was best, but they returned to the house to turn a cold shoulder to Mary, and to ignore her in every way they could without being directly rude. So directly opposite was this course of conduct from that of the morning, when her cousins had been all smiles and sweetness, that Mary's fears again arose and she was so miserable that at bedtime when Molly went in to her English cousin's room to get a bottle of cold cream with which to anoint her sunburned face, she heard a soft little sob from Mary's bed.

Immediately her sympathies were aroused. Mary was far from home and mother. What if she had done wrong? She was alone among comparative strangers and who knew the exact truth of yesterday's proceedings? She crept softly to Mary's bedside. Her cousin's face was buried in the pillow, and she was shaking with sobs. Molly leaned over her. "Are you sick, Mary?" she whispered, "Do you want me to call Aunt Ada?"

"No," came feebly from Mary.

"Is anything the matter? Please tell me. I'll get into bed with you." And suiting the action to the word she slipped in beside Mary, putting a sympathetic arm around her. "What is it?" she repeated.

Only sobs from Mary.

"Please tell," persisted Molly.

"Oh, I can't, I can't," said Mary, her tears flowing fast.

"I won't tell a soul. I cross my heart I won't."

Mary checked her sobs a little as she gave heed to the earnest promise. It was a relief to have Molly's comforting presence near by there in the dark. But in a moment her tears gushed forth again. "I want my mother, oh, I want my mother," she wailed.

"Are you so homesick? Is that it?" asked Molly with concern. "Never mind, Mary, you'll see your father soon, and – and – I'm sorry," she whispered, "I'm sorry we were horrid to you. Is that why you are homesick, because Polly and I weren't nice to you?"

"Oh, n-no, it isn't that," replied Mary. "I deserved it, Molly, but oh, you won't tell, you won't tell, will you?"

"Tell what?"

"Oh, Molly, I've lost Aunt Ada's diamond pin, and I can't find it. I've looked and looked and Ellis Dixon helped me, too. I thought if it had been found we would know by this time. That is why we went over to Green Island."

"Then you did go with Ellis."

"Yes, he came along while I was looking for the brooch, after you had all gone sailing, and he offered to take me to Green Island in his brother's boat, and when we got there the postmaster put up a notice in the post-office and we looked all over the hall everywhere, and all along the road and asked every one we met, but it was no use, and now I am afraid to tell Aunt Ada, and diamonds cost so much I could never buy another like it." It was a relief to Mary to thus unburden herself.

"I don't seem to remember exactly about the pin," said Molly. "Aunt Ada is always getting some pretty new thing, but I don't believe she showed me any diamond pin; it must be quite new. I was so excited about my own costume that night, I forget about any ornaments you wore. Perhaps you could buy another one some time. I have some money, five dollars, and I'll give it to you; I'll take it out of my bank when we go home; that would help."

"Oh, Molly, how good you are!" Mary turned over to put her arm around her cousin. "I have a pound, too, and that might be half enough, or nearly half, but I am afraid it would be a long time before we could get the rest."

"Well, I wouldn't be scared of Aunt Ada, Mary," Molly said. "She is a dear, and she'll be very sorry, but she will know it was not your fault that you lost it."

"Miss Sharp would say it was my carelessness, and she would be so very vexed."

"Then she's a mean old thing, and not a bit like dear Aunt Ada. Do tell her, Mary."

"Oh, I can't, I can't," persisted Mary, terror again seizing her, "I am so afraid she will be vexed."

"Then let me tell."

"Oh, no, please. Wait a little longer. Perhaps the broach can be found. Oh, I am so miserable; Aunt Ada will think I am so careless and deceitful, and everything bad."

Molly now felt only a deep pity for the poor little sinner, and she began to kiss away the tears on Mary's cheeks. "Please don't be miserable," she begged. "I think maybe you ought to have told at first, but I see how you felt, and I'll not be horrid to you any more, Mary. I'll stand up for you straight along, and when you want Aunt Ada to know I will go with you to tell her."

Mary really began to feel comforted. "I think you are a perfect duck, Molly," she said. "Fancy after all I have been doing, for you to be so kind. But please don't tell Polly; I know she doesn't like me."

"She did like you," said Molly truthfully, "until – until we heard that you had not been where Aunt Ada thought you were."

"And she thinks I am deceitful; so I have been, and I hate myself for it."

"But Polly doesn't know why you did it."

"Then don't tell her; I'd rather anything than that."

"Don't you want Polly to like you?"

"Yes, but I don't want her to know I lost the brooch."

It was useless to try to rid poor Mary's mind of the one idea, and at last Molly gave up trying, but she did not leave her forlorn little cousin, and Polly, in the next room while she wondered what could be keeping Molly, fell asleep in the midst of her wondering.

CHAPTER VII
In Elton Woods

Polly was all curiosity the next morning. "Why in the world didn't you sleep with me?" she asked, sitting up in bed as Molly came in from the next room.

"Because Mary needed me. She was in awful trouble," replied Molly soberly.

"What was it?" asked Polly eagerly.

"I can't tell you."

"I think that's real mean," returned Polly indignantly. "You're just a turncoat, Molly Shelton; first you're friends with me, and then you're thick as can be with Mary."

"I'm not a turncoat," retorted Molly, angry at being called names. "She's as much my cousin as you are, and I reckon if you were way off from your mother and had a dreadful thing happen that you couldn't talk to her about, you'd want some one to be a little sorry for you."

"I think a dreadful thing is happening to me when you talk that way to me," said Polly, melting into tears. "I just wish I had never come here, I do so, and I reckon I want my mother as much as Mary does hers. I am going to tell Uncle Dick how you act, so I am."

"Oh, please don't tell him!" exclaimed Molly, alarmed. "We don't want any one to know."

This but whetted Polly's curiosity. "I think you might tell me," she pouted.

"I can't. I promised I wouldn't. You shall know as soon as Mary says I may tell."

"Oh, I don't care then. Keep your old secrets if you want to," and Polly flounced out of bed and began vigorously to prepare for her bath. For the rest of the time before breakfast she did not speak a word to Molly who felt that she was indeed between two fires. She had promised not to tell Aunt Ada and if Polly were to tell Uncle Dick that morning that something was wrong, it might add to Mary's troubles. She pondered the matter well while she was dressing, and by the time she had tied on her hair ribbon she had concluded to forestall Polly by telling her Uncle Dick something of what was the matter. She decided that she could do so without betraying Mary's confidence. So she stepped down-stairs ahead of Polly and joined her Uncle Dick who was energetically walking up and down the porch.

"Hello, Mollykins!" he cried. "I'm getting up an appetite for breakfast. Come and join me."

"As if you ever had to do anything to get up an appetite," retorted Molly, slipping her hand under his arm. "Oh, you take such long steps I have to take two to keep up with you."

"So much the better, then you work twice as hard and can have twice as much. I peeped into the kitchen, but Luella looked as fierce as a sitting hen, and I didn't dare to stay; however, I know we are to have hot rolls for breakfast; I saw them."

"The pocketbook kind, with the lovely brown crust all around? Good! I certainly want a double appetite for those. Uncle Dick, you oughtn't to tell other people's secrets, ought you?"

"No-o, not usually. Whose secret is burning in your breast?"

"Why – promise not to tell a soul."

"Is it a murder?"

"No, of course not."

"Is it grand larceny?"

"I don't know what that is."

"It is stealing something worth while, not like a loaf of bread nor a pin, nor anything of that kind. You know the copy-book says: 'It is a sin to steal a pin.'"

"Is it a sin to lose a pin?"

"Why, no, not unless it is a breastpin or a scarf-pin and you wilfully throw it to the fishes."

Molly drew a sigh of relief. "Suppose you lose something that belongs to some one else; is that a sin?"

"Why no, it is a misfortune, not a crime. You don't do it on purpose, you see, and in fact I think the loser generally feels worse than the one the thing belongs to. What have you lost? Not my favorite scarf-pin, I hope. Have you been using it to pin rags around your doll?"

"Oh, Uncle Dick, of course I haven't. I was only asking, just because I wanted to know."

"As a seeker after ethical truths. It does you credit, Miss Shelton. You will probably join a college settlement when you are older, or at least write a paper on moral responsibilities."

"Oh, Uncle Dick, you do use such silly long words."

"I forget, when you tackle these abstruse subjects. I will come down from my lofty perch, Molly. What more can your wise uncle tell you?"

"If a person loses something very costly, something that has been lent to her, ought she to pay it back?"

"It is generally supposed to be the proper thing to replace it, but half the world doesn't do it; sometimes because they can't and sometimes because they don't want to. Then, sometimes the one to whom the thing belonged, insists upon not having it replaced, and would feel very uncomfortable if it were, though, from the standpoint of strict honesty, one should always make good any borrowed article whether lost, strayed or stolen."

"Would you insist upon its not being made good?"

"I shouldn't wonder if I were that kind of gander."

"Would Aunt Ada?"

"I think she's probably that kind of goose."

"Oh, I am so glad she is a goose."

"Glad who is a goose?" said Aunt Ada from the doorway.

"We were talking about you," said her brother laughing. "Molly was calling you a goose."

"Oh, Uncle Dick, you began it."

"Did I? Well, never mind. I smell those rolls, Molly, and I feel that I can demolish at least six. Come on, let's get at them."

Although she had not really carried the subject as far as she wanted, Molly felt that matters were not so bad for Mary as they had at first appeared, therefore, she took the first opportunity to reassure her on that point. Polly walked off to the Whartons' immediately after breakfast, announcing with quite an air of wishing it generally known that she would probably spend the day with Grace in the woods, and that Luella had given her a lunch to take.

Miss Ada smiled when this announcement was made. She realized that there had been some childish squabble and she never paid much attention to such. Mary saw at once that Polly was jealous of Molly's attentions to her small self, and Molly felt so grieved at Polly's desertion that she could hardly keep back the tears. It was very hard to do right in this world, she thought. If she were loyal to Mary she must lose Polly's companionship, and she did love to be with Polly more than any one she had ever known. If she clung to Polly, she must give up Mary at a time when Mary most needed her.

She looked after Polly skipping over the hummocks to Grace Wharton's and wished she were going, too. It was so lovely in the woods. As if reading her thought, her Aunt Ada came up and put a hand on her shoulder. "Suppose we all take our luncheon in the woods to-day," she said. "It is too lovely to stay indoors a minute. Should you kitties like to go? Dick is to be off sailing with Will Wharton and we three could have a nice quiet time. I'll take some books; you can have your dolls, and we'll go to Willow Cove."

"That's where Polly is going," said Molly quickly.

Aunt Ada smiled. "Suppose we go to Elton woods instead, then."

"I like it better anyhow," said Molly truthfully. "I'd like nothing better than to spend the day there, you dearest auntie."

"Then there we will go. Luella wants the day off, anyhow. She says she must go to town to have a tooth out, for 'the tooth aches something awful.' That is the third since we came. If she keeps on at this rate, she will not have a tooth left in her head by fall. It will be much easier to have a nice little lunch in the woods than to cook a dinner at home, don't you think? Suppose you and Mary run over to Mrs. Fowler's and see if she can let us have a boiled lobster; she generally is ready to put them on about this time of day, and you might stop at Skelton's on your way back and get some of those good little ginger-snaps."

"Aunt Ada is such a dear," said Molly, as the two started off. "I don't believe she would ever, ever want you to get another pin, Mary, and if I were you I would tell her all about it to-day; it will be such a good chance."

"I'll see about it," said Mary evasively.

There was no lovelier spot on the Point than Elton woods. Here the great trees grew to the very edge of the cliffs, and the way to them was through paths bordered by ferns, wild roses, and woodland flowers. In some places the trees wore long gray beards of swaying moss and stood so close together that only scant rays of daylight crept under them; in others they shot up high and straight above their carpet of pine-needles, which made a soft dry bed for those who lingered beneath them to gaze at the white-capped waves chasing each other in shore, or who, lying down, watched the fleecy clouds drifting across the sky. Near by was a pebbly beach where one could gather driftwood for a fire, or could pick up smooth water-washed stones to build walks and walls for tiny imaginary people. There was no end of the material the place afforded for amusement, and when they reached there, Molly eagerly fell to devising plays.

Yet, alas! She missed Polly's fertile brain and imaginative suggestions. Polly was always able to discover fairy dells and gnome-frequented caves. It was she who invented the plays which were the most delightful. Mary was rather tiresome when it came to anything more than sober facts. She would play very nicely with the dolls, but, when it came to make-believe creatures, she was sadly wanting, and the best response Molly could expect to get when she built a fairy dwelling was: "Oh, I say, that is a proper little house, isn't it?" or "What a duck of a tree that is you are planting; it is quite tiny, isn't it?"

"We always take some of these little bits of trees home with us," Molly told her, "and they live ever so long."

"I wonder could I take one to England," said Mary.

"Why, yes, I should think you could easily. We will get some the very last thing, and I am sure they'll live quite a while."

"It would be jolly nice to have one, wouldn't it?" said Mary as she watched Molly patting the ground smooth around the one she had just planted in the fairy garden. "I'd like to take some pebbles and some starfish, too. Reggie would be so pleased with them; he would be quite vexed if I brought him none after telling him about them."

"How often you say vexed, don't you?" remarked Molly. "We hardly ever say vexed."

"What do you say?"

"Oh, I don't know; we say mad and angry and provoked."

"But then I really mean vexed," returned Mary after a moment's thought. "I don't mean anything else," and Molly had nothing more to say.

It was after they had finished the lobster, the egg sandwiches, the buttered rolls and gingersnaps and were delicately eating some wild strawberries the children had gathered, that Molly made a sudden resolution to plunge Mary into a confession.

"If you lent some one a diamond pin and she were to lose it would you be very – very vexed, Aunt Ada?" she asked, after a hasty glance at Mary.

"If I possessed a diamond pin I might be, but as I haven't such a thing I couldn't be vexed," her aunt said.

Mary jumped to her feet, startled out of her usual reserve.

"But, Aunt Ada, you did have one!"

"When, please? You must nave dreamed it, Mary, dear."

"But you did have. Oh, do you mean you know it is lost?"

It was Miss Ada's turn to look surprised. "What do you mean, child?" she said knitting her brows. "I never had a diamond pin to my knowledge. I always liked diamond rings, and I have two or three of those, but a pin I never possessed. What are you talking about?"

Mary laced and unlaced her fingers nervously. "I mean the one you lent me to wear the night we dressed up for the party at Green Island. Was it some other person's, then? Oh, Aunt Ada, had some one lent it to you, for if they did" – she faltered, "I lost it coming home." She sank down at Miss Ada's feet on the mossy ground and buried her face in her aunt's lap.

Miss Ada put a kind hand on her head. "And all this time you have been distressing yourself about it, you poor little kitten? I ought to have told you, but you were so pleased in thinking it was real I thought I would let it go, and I have not thought of it since. Why, dear, it was of no value at all, a mere trumpery little rhinestone that cost only a couple of dollars."

Mary lifted her tearful eyes. "Oh, I am so relieved," she said. "I've searched and searched for it ever since."

"Yes, Aunt Ada, and she has been nearly sick over it," put in Molly. "She cried herself to sleep last night, and the reason she wouldn't go sailing with us the other day was because she wanted to hunt for the pin."

"You poor little darling, how can I make up to you for all this trouble?" said Miss Ada compassionately. "I am so sorry; it is all my fault for not telling you in the first place."

On the strength of this there seemed no better time to confess her doings of the afternoon when she had gone to Green Island in the Leona, and so Mary faltered out her tale, Molly once in a while coming in with excuses and comments so that in the end Miss Ada was not "vexed" at all but only said, "If it had been any one but Ellis, I might feel inclined to warn you against going out in a row-boat, but he is a good, careful little lad, and if you will call it quits, Mary, I will, for I am conscience-stricken my own self; but next time, dearie, ask me when you want to go on the water."

"Oh, I will, I will," said Mary fervently. "It was because I felt so dreadful at losing the brooch that I didn't tell this time."

"It is a perfect shame," said her Aunt Ada, cuddling her close. "I hope now you will never find the old pin. I never want to see it again, for it would remind me of how my dear little niece suffered."

"But I was bad. I deceived you." Mary's head went down again in her aunt's lap. "I was afraid to tell you," she murmured.

"Afraid of what, dear child? Not of your Aunt Ada?"

"I don't know, oh, I don't know why I was so scared. Miss Sharp is always so terribly severe when we are careless or try to get out of any thing we have done wrong."

"But I'm not Miss Sharp, honey. Just forget all about this, if you love me. Of course you weren't quite frank, but you were scared and it is as much my fault as yours; mine and Miss Sharp's," she added half to herself.

Yet they were destined to see the pin again, for that very afternoon, as they were coming home, whom should they meet but Polly and Grace. "Guess what we've found!" cried Grace.

"See, Miss Ada, we were looking for birds' nests between your cottage and ours, and we found this caught in the grass just near where a sparrow had built. Polly says she thinks it is yours, that it looks like one you lent to Mary to wear to the party." And she held out the little shining star in the palm of her hand.

Miss Ada took it and gave a whimsical look at Mary. "Yes, I believe it is mine," she said. She tossed it back and forth from one hand to the other as she stood thinking.

"Ellis Dixon came along just after we found it, and he seemed awfully pleased," Grace went on.

Miss Ada laughed softly. "Thank you very much, Grace, dear," she said. "It was good of you to bring it right to me." Then changing the subject she asked, "How is your grandmother to-day?"

"Not so very well," Grace replied. Then with sudden remembrance, "I must go right back, for she worries if I am not in time for supper." And she sped away.

Miss Ada stood still smiling and looking from one of her nieces to the other. She continued to toss the little star from one hand to the other. "I know what I am going to do with it," she said looking at Mary. "I'm going to give it to Luella for a wedding present."