Meanwhile, in the living room Mary Raymond was engaged in the double task of trying to suppress her tears and open the locket at the same time. Her eyes brimming, she worked at the refractory gold catch with insistent fingers. Opened at last, she beheld Marjorie’s lovely face smiling out at her. On the inside of the upper half of the locket was engraved, “Mary from Marjorie.” Below was the beautiful Spanish phrase, “_Para siempre_,” literally translated, “for always,” but meaning “forever.”
Within a brief space of time, following her flight, the runaway reappeared, her eyelids slightly pink. “I hope you will all pardon me,” she apologized prettily. “I—I—couldn’t help it. You’ve been so sweet to me. I can’t ever thank you as you deserve to be thanked for giving me so many lovely things; the very ones I shall need most when I’m traveling. I am sure you must know how dear you all are to me; dearer even than my Franklin High friends. I hope each one of you will write to me. I’ll truly try hard not only to be a good correspondent, but always to be worthy of your friendship.”
Mary’s earnest words met ready responses of good fellowship from those whom she had once scorned. Everything was so different now. The new Mary Raymond was an entire opposite to the sullen-faced young person who had once flouted all overtures of friendship on the part of Marjorie’s particular cronies. Beyond an eloquent hand clasp and, “My picture locket is wonderful, Lieutenant. Thank you over and over,” Mary had reserved further expression of her appreciation until the two chums should be entirely by themselves.
The delightful dinner ended with a general distribution of fancy cracker bon-bons, which the guests snapped open with a will, to find cunning caps representing the flags of various nations. They donned these with alacrity and trooped into the living room for an evening of stunts in which music played an important part. Constance lifted up her exquisite voice untiringly, weaving her magic spell about her eager listeners. Jerry sang a comic song, mostly off the key, merely to prove the impossibility of her vocal powers. Charlie Stevens, who had trustfully tugged his faithful fiddle along, insisted on rendering a solo of anguishing shrieks and squawks, assuming the majestic mien of a virtuoso. He took himself so seriously that no one dared laugh, although the desire to do so was throttled with difficulty. Susan was prevailed upon to perform a scarf dance, her one accomplishment, using a strip of red, white and blue bunting with graceful effect. Harriet Delaney also sang a ballad, and Esther Lind offered a beautiful Swedish folk song she had learned from her father, who had sung it as a boy in far-off Scandinavia. When the small repertoire of soloists had been exhausted, everyone turned to with Constance at the piano, and made the living room ring with school songs.