Mary Louise Solves a Mystery by L. Frank Baum. CHAPTER I A little girl sat shivering in a corner of a reception room in the fashionable Hotel Voltaire. It was one of a suite of rooms occupied by Mrs. Antoinette Seaver-Jones, widely known for her wealth and beauty, and this girl, a little thing of eleven, was the only child of Mrs. Antoinette Seaver-Jones, and was named Ellora. It was not cold that made her shiver, for across the handsomely furnished room and open window gratefully admitted the summer sunshine and the summer breeze. Near the window, where the draught came coolest, a middle-aged woman in a sober dress sat reading. Ellora did not look at this person, but kept her gaze fixed anxiously upon the doorway that led to the corridor, and the spasmodic shutters that at times shook her little body seemed due to nervous fear. The room was so still that every tick of the Dresden clock could be distinctly heard. When Miss Gorham, Ellora's governess, turned a page of her book, the Russell was appallingly audible. And the clock ticked on, and Miss Gorham turned, page after page, and still the child sat bowed upon her chair and eagerly eyed the passage. It seemed ages before the outer door of the suite finally opened, and a man moved softly down the passage and paused at the entrance of the reception room. The man was white-haired, dignified and distinguished in appearance. Hat in hand, he stood as if undecided while Ellora bounded from her seat and came to him, her eyes big and pleading, reading his face with dramatic intentness. Well, well, my dear, what is it? he said in a kindly voice. May I see my mamma now, doctor? she asked. He shook his head, turning to the table to place his hat and gloves upon it.  Why do you keep me from her, Dr. Anstrother?  The old physician looked down upon the child pittingly. Mamma is ill, very ill, you know, and to disturb her might—it might—well, it might make her worse, he exclaimed, lamely. I won't disturb her. There is a nurse in there all the time. Why should I disturb my mamma more than a nurse? asked Ellora pleadingly. He evaded the question. The big eyes disconcerted him. When I have seen your mother, he said, I may let you go to her for a few minutes, but you must be very quiet, so as not to excite her. We must avoid anything of an exciting nature. You understand that, don't you, Laurie? She studied his face gravely. When he held out a hand to her, she clung to it desperately, and a shudder again shook her from head to foot. Tell me, Dr. Anne's drother, in low, passionate tones, is my mother dying? He gave an involuntary start. Who put that notion into your head, Laurie? Miss Gorham. He frowned and glanced reprovingly at the governess, who had lowered her book to her lap, and was regarding the scene with stolid unconcern. You mustn't mind such idle gossip, my dear.  Don't worry till I tell you to, Laurie, and now let me go to see my patient. He withdrew his hand from her clasp, and turned into the passage again. The little girl listened to his footsteps as he approached her mother's bed-chamber, paused a moment, and then softly opened the door and entered. Silence again pervaded the reception room. The clock resumed its loud ticking. Miss Gorham raised her book. Elora went back to her chair, trembling. The front bed-chamber was bright and cheery, a big room fitted with every modern luxury. The doctor blinked his eyes as he entered from the dim passage, for here was sunlight and fresh air and plenty. Beside the bed stood a huge vase of roses, their delicate fragrance senting the atmosphere.  Welcome, Dr. Anne Strether, she said. Do you realize you have kept me waiting? I am sorry, Mrs. Jones, he replied, approaching her. There are so many demands upon my time that—I know, a little impatiently, but now that you are here please tell me how I am this morning. How do you feel? I do not suffer, but it takes more morphine to quiet the pain. Janet has used the hypodermic four times since midnight, with a glance at the gray-robed nurse who stood silently by the table. The doctor nodded, thoughtfully looking down her. There was small evidence of illness in her appearance, but he knew that her hours were numbered and that the dread disease that had fastened upon her was creeping on with ever-increasing activity. She knew it, too, and smiled a grim little smile as she added, How long can I last at this rate? Do not anticipate, my dear, he answered gravely. Let us do all that may be done, and I must know, she retorted, I have certain important arrangements to make that must not be needlessly delayed. I can understand that, Mrs. Jones. Then tell me, frankly, how long have I to live? Perhaps a month, possibly less, but you are not honest with me, Dr. Anstrother. What I wish to know, what I must know, is how soon this disease will be able to kill me. If we manage to defer the end somewhat, I'll do better, but the fiend must not take me unaware before I am ready to resign my life. He seated himself beside the bed and reflected. This was his most interesting patient. He had attended her constantly for more than a year, and in this time had learned to admire not only her beauty of person, but her gameness and wholesome mentality. He knew something of her past life and history, too, as well from her own lips as from common gossip, for this was no ordinary woman and her achievements were familiar to many. She was the daughter of Captain Bob Siever, whose remarkable career was known to every man in the West. Captain Bob was one forty-niner, and had won fortunes and lost them with marvellous regularity. He had a faculty for finding gold, but his speculations were invariably unwise, so his constant transitions from affluence to poverty and vice versa were the subject of many amusing tales, many no doubt grossly exaggerated. And the last venture of Captain Bob Siever before he died was to buy the discredited ten-spot mine and to start to develop it. At that time he was a widower with one motherless child, Antoinette, a girl of eighteen who had been reared partly in mining camps and partly at exclusive girls' schools in the East, according to her father's varying fortunes. Tony Siever, as she was generally called in those days, combined culture and refinement with a thorough knowledge of mining, and when her father passed away and left her absolute mistress of the tantalizing ten-spot, she set to work to make the mine a success, directing her men in person and displaying such shrewd judgment and intelligence, coupled with kindly consideration for her assistance, that she became the idol of the miners, all of whom were proud to be known as employees of Tony Siever's ten-spot, and would have died for their beautiful employer if need be. And the ten-spot made good. In five years Tony had garnered a million or two of well-earned dollars, and then she sold out and retired from business. Also, to the chagrin of an army of suitors, she married an artist named Jason Jones, whose talent, it was said, was not so great as his luck. So far his fame rested on being Tony Siever's husband. But Tony's hobby was art, and she had recognized real worth, she claimed, in Jason Jones's creations. On her honeymoon she carried her artist husband to Europe, and with him studied the works of the masters in all the art centers of the continent. Then, enthusiastic and eager for Jason's advancement, she returned with him to New York, and set him up in a splendid studio where he had every convenience and incentive to work. So much the world at large knew. It also knew that within three years Mrs. Antoinette Siever Jones separated from her husband, and with her baby girl returned west to live. The elaborate Jones studio was abandoned and broken up, and the promising young artist disappeared from the public eye. Mrs. Jones, a thorough businesswoman, had retained her fortune in her own control and personally attended to her investments. She became noted as a liberal patron of the arts, and a generous donor to worthy charities. In spite of her youth, wealth, and beauty, she had no desire to shine in society and lived a somewhat secluded life in luxurious family hotels, attending with much solicitude to the training and education of her daughter, Elora. At first she had made Denver her home, but afterwards migrated from one Middle West city to another until she came to Chicago, where she had now lived for nearly three years, occupying the most expensive suite of rooms at the very exclusive Hotel Voltaire. Elora fairly worshipped her beautiful mother, and although Mrs. Antoinette Siever Jones was considered essentially cold and unemotional by those who knew her casually, there was no doubt she prized her child as her dearest possession, and lavished all the tenderness and love of which she was capable upon her. Retrospectively, Dr. Anstrother considered this historical review of his fair patient as he sat facing her. It seemed a most unhappy fate that she should be cut off in the flower of her womanhood, but her case was positively hopeless, and she knew it and had accepted the harsh verdict without a murmur. Bravery had always been Tony Siever's prime characteristic. To Dr. Anstrother it seemed she might as well know the truth which she had demanded from his lips. "'This disease is one that accelerates toward the end,' he said. "'Within the past few days we have noted its more virulent tendency. All we can do now is to keep you from suffering until the end.'" And that will be when, she demanded. "'I think I can safely give you a week, but—' "'Then I must act at once,' she said, as he hesitated. "'I must first of all make provision for Alora's future, and in this I require your help.' "'You know you may depend upon me,' he said simply. "'Please telegraph at once to my husband, Jason Jones, in New York.' The request startled him, for never before had she mentioned her husband's name in his presence. But he asked calmly enough, what is his address? Hand me that small memorandum book, pointing to the stand beside him. He obeyed, and as she turned the leaves slowly, she said, "'Dr. Anstrother, you have been my good and faithful friend, and you ought to know and to understand why I am now sending for my husband, from whom I have been estranged for many years. When I first met Jason Jones he was a true artist, and I fell in love with his art, rather than with the man. I was ambitious that he should become a great painter, world famous. He was very poor until he married me, and he had worked industriously to succeed, but as soon as I introduced him to a life of comfort, I might even add, of luxury, his ambition to work gradually deserted him. With his future provided for, as he thought, he failed to understand the necessity of devoting himself to his brush and palette, but preferred a life of ease, of laziness, if you will. So we quarreled. I tried to force him back to his work, but it was no use. My money had ruined his career. I therefore lost patience and decided to abandon him, hoping that when he was again thrown upon his own resources he would earnestly resume his profession and become a master, as I believed him competent to be. We were not divorced. We merely separated. Finding I had withdrawn his allowance he was glad to see me go, for my unmerciful scoldings had killed any love he may have had for me. But he loved Lori, and her loss was his hardest trial. I may have been as much to blame as he for our lack of harmony, but I have always acted on my impulses. I'll give Jason Jones the credit for not whimpering, she resumed thoughtfully. After a brief pause. Nor has he ever since appealed to me for money. I don't know how well he has succeeded, for we do not correspond, but I have never heard his name mentioned in the art circles I have frequented. He remained in New York, I believe, and so I chose to keep away from New York. A year or two ago, however, I met a man who had known Jason Jones and who gave me his address. Here it is. 1744 E. 67th Street. Will you make a copy of it, doctor? He nodded. What shall I say in the telegram? he asked, writing the address in his notebook. Tell him I am dying, and seek a reconciliation before I pass away. Beg him to come to me at once. Here Anstrother jotted down the instructions underneath the address. You must understand, she continued, that Jason Jones is an honourable man, and in many ways a high-minded gentleman. I have lived with him as his wife, and I know that he is well fitted to care for our child and to rear her properly. I have left my entire fortune to Elora, but I have made Jason my sole executor, and he is to have control, under certain restrictions, of all the income until Elora is eighteen. I think he will be glad to accept the responsibility, both on Elora's account and for the money. Doubtless, if he has not been a success as an artist since your separation, remarked the doctor, dryly. The man I spoke of said Jason was living in quite modest circumstances. He said that, although he had succeeded in selling a few paintings, they had brought rather insignificant sums, which surprised me, as I know they must have been possessed of a degree of merit. However, I may be mistaken in thinking his talent exceptional. Anyhow, my experiment in leaving him to his own devices seems not to have resulted as I had hoped, and I am now willing he should handle Elora's income and live comfortably while he is educating her. She will probably provide for her father when she comes of age, but I have not included such a request in my will, and I have endeavored, in case he proves inclined to neglect her, to acquire the court to appoint another guardian. That is, of course, merely a precaution, for I know his nature is gentle and kind, and he adores her, for at least he used to adore children. The doctor sat, notebook in hand, musing. The matter of fact business-like way in which she referred to her marital relations, and her assumed unconcern over her own dreadful fate impressed the good man as extraordinary. But he was relieved to know that little Elora, of whom he had grown quite fond, was to have the guardianship of a parent, and glad that the character of Jason Jones was above reproach. The man's failure to succeed as an artist, while it might have been a source of chagrin to his art-loving wife, did not lower him, to any extent, in Dr. Anne's brother's opinion. I suppose Elora does not remember her father, he presently remarked. She was about two years old when we separated. Do you say your will is already drawn? Judge Bernstead, my lawyer, has attended to it. It is now in his possession, properly signed and witnessed. If Bernstead drew the will, it is doubtless legal and in accordance with your wishes. But who witnessed it? My nurse, Janet. He glanced at the motionless figure of the attendant, who had remained so inert at her post by the window that he had quite forgotten her presence. She was a young woman, perhaps thirty years of age, not unprepossessing in appearance in spite of her modest uniform. Janet's one peculiarity was her downcast eyes. They were good eyes, bright and intelligent, but she kept them veiled by their long lashes and drooping lids. Dr. Anne's brother attached no significance to this trait, doubtless a habit of modest reserve acquired in her profession. He had himself recommended the woman to Mrs. Jones, having frequently employed her on other cases and found her deft, skillful and thoroughly reliable. Janet orms signature to the will he regarded as satisfactory, since Judge Bernstead had accepted it. Amon from his patient suddenly aroused the doctor. Her face was beginning to twitch spasmodically with pain. In an instant Janet was at her side, hypodermic needle in hand, and the opiate was soon administered. Send the telegram, muttered Mrs. Jones, still breathing hard. And as you go out, doctor, send allura to me. I shall have relief in a few moments. To be sure, he said, rising, Lorie has been begging to see you, and I'll attend to the telegram at once. CHAPTER II of Mary Louise solves a mystery by L. Frank Baum. Read for LibriVox.org into the public domain. The child crept softly to her mother's bedside. But once she was there she impulsively threw her arms about Mama Tone's neck, and embraced her so tightly that the sick woman was obliged to tear the little arms away. She did this tenderly, though, and holding the trembling hands in her own, kissed both of Lorie's cheeks before she said, I've news for you, dear. Are you better, Mama? asked Lorie. Of course not, was the calm reply. You mustn't expect Mama ever to get well, my darling. But that shouldn't worry you, not too much, you know. One of the queer things about life is that it has an end sooner or later, and in Mama's case it comes to an end a little sooner than you and I might wish it to. Oh, Mama Tone! An agonised cry, with the small hands clasped tightly over her throbbing heart. But Tony Siever did not flinch. The news I have will surprise you, Lorie, dear.  Allora's eyes grew big with wonder, but other thoughts drove even this strange news from her mind. I can't let you go, Mama Tone! She wailed, sobbing.  The woman's breast heaved. She was silent a moment, and then said quietly, Even kings and queens, sweetheart, have no command over life and death. When it is too late to help it, we realize we have been born. When it is too late to help it, we realize we must die. But why complain, when it is the fate of all humanity? To be true to our Creator, who directs all things, we must bow to His will without protest. You will love your father, Lorie, because He will love you, and He is a good man and kindly, so I believe He will make your life as happy as I could have done. I don't want Him! I want you, Mama! I want you! The mother sighed wearily, and the alert nurse advanced and said to the child in grave, cold tones, You must control yourself, Miss Elora, if you wish to remain. The threat quieted the little girl at once. I'll be good, Mama Tone, she whispered softly, Talk to me, and tell me what I must do. So the dying woman talked to her, not of herself, but of Elora's father, and of how she would like her child to conduct herself while she grew in womanhood. She spoke of her will, and told Lorie what it meant to her, and how she had safeguarded her interest as well as she was able. To this, Lorie listened intently, although she still trembled at times, she had Tony Siever's blood in her veins, and could be brave in spite of the terrors that faced her. Dimly she realized that her mother was suffering through the knowledge of their inevitable parting, even as Elora was suffering, and felt she could comfort that beloved mother more by controlling her grief bravely than by giving way to it in her mother's presence. Meantime Dr. Anstridder had returned to his office, and had written and dispatched the following telegram. Jason Jones, 1744, East 67th Street, New York City. Your wife is dying at the Hotel Voltaire, and wishes reconciliation before she passes away. Come quickly, as any delay may prove dangerous. Notify me by wire when to expect you. Dr. Anstridder, M.D. He left orders that the answer be delivered to him at his office or residence as soon as received, but the day and the night passed without a word from Jason Jones. Dr. Anstridder telephoned the telegraph office, and was assured that his message had been delivered to the party in New York, as otherwise they would be notified to that effect. Knowing Mrs. Jones's dangerous condition, the good doctor was worried, but the following morning brought the delayed answer. If necessary for me to come, you must send money for expenses. It was signed Jason Jones, and its tone and its demand annoyed Dr. Anstridder exceedingly. Confound the fellow, he exclaimed, any decent man would have borrowed the money or even pawned his watch and jewelry to get to a dying wife who calls for him. Either Mrs. Jones is mistaken in her husband's kindly character or—well, he may have changed since last she knew him. He did not hesitate, however, to go to the office and send money by telegraph to Jason Jones, furnishing the required sum from his own pocket rather than allow Antoinette to see her husband's telegram. He even sent more than was necessary, muttering to himself. The poor devil may have some bills to settle before he can get away, and in any event she must not be disappointed because her impecunious husband lacks a few dollars. I fancy the poor artist will be amazed to find himself suddenly raised from poverty to affluence, for little Lori's income will be enormous, and he will have seven years at least to enjoy it unrestrained. I hope, he added thoughtfully, as he drove back to his office, that Mrs. Jones has made no error in her judgment of this man, for it is considerable power to place in any one's hands, and a Lori is such a dear that I want her properly taken care of. When he made his next visit to his patient he said an answer to her questioning look. Mr. Jones will be here to-morrow, I think. He will notify me of his arrival and I will be here to meet him. I believe it will be advisable for me to see him first, you know, in order to, uh, uh, to post him a bit, he added, meaningly. Yes, she replied, I fear it will be something of a shock to Jason. Even though we have practically been strangers for years, he is sure to be grieved and sympathetic. But do not bore him with particulars, doctor. Send him to me as soon as you have prepared him for the interview. CHAPTER III. A man slouched into the lofty foyer of the Hotel Bautère, and paused, uncertainly, as if awed by the splendor of the place. A boy in uniform hastened to relieve him of his hand-baggage, which consisted of a roll-me-up, or carry-all, of brown canvas, strapped around the middle, such as one often sees in travelling on the continent. It seemed a much used and abused affair, and painted upon the ends were the dimmed initials, J.J. This man was plainly dressed. His clothing was of the cheap, ready- made variety, worn nearly to shabbiness and matched by a gray flannel shirt with a flowing black tie, knotted at the throat, and a soft gray hat that was a bit weather-stained. His shoes were shabby and unshined. His whole appearance was out of keeping with the palatial hotel he had entered. Without relinquishing his baggage to the boy, he asked sharply, Is Dr. Anstrother here? But now Dr. Anstrother, who had been impatiently waiting, aspired the arrival, and after a glance at the initials on the travelling-roll said in hesitating tones, Mr. Jason Jones? Yes, you must be the doctor who telegraphed me. I am Dr. Anstrother. All right, where is my wife? There was no a special anxiety in his tones, which were slow and distinct in a trifle sharp. He seemed ill at ease and looked around the foyer again, as if fearing he had entered the wrong place. I will lead you to her presently, replied the physician gravely. But first, sir, I must acquaint you with her condition, which is serious. I have engaged a room for you here, and if you will please register, we will go there together and talk undisturbed. All right, said Jason Jones. He registered at the desk, and then turned and announced, I am ready, go ahead. Those present in the foyer cast curious glances at the stranger as he passed them and followed Dr. Anstrother to the elevator. The boy accompanied them, now carrying the roll of baggage. The grandeur of the room they entered, which was convenient to the suite of Mrs. Jones, seemed to astonish the artist, although it was as simply furnished as any the great hotel contained. However, he made no remark, but removed his hat, seated himself, and looked inquiringly at the physician. Mrs. Jones, began Dr. Anstrother, is really dying. I cannot say how long she may survive, but it is a matter of days, perhaps hours. Her greatest anxiety at present is to be reconciled with you, whom she has not seen or even communicated with for years. Did she say that? Yes. And she wants to be reconciled. She does. Rather a queer notion that, remarked Mr. Jones musingly. Very natural, I think, under the circumstances, stiffly replied the doctor. She has every confidence in you and admires your character exceedingly, although it was her desire that you live apart. The man's stolid countenance relaxed in a grin, a somewhat scornful and unbelieving expression, but he did not speak. He was not a very tall man. He was thin a figure and hardened of muscle. His head was bald in front, giving him the appearance of a high forehead, and the hair at the back and around the ears was beginning to gray. His eyes were light blue. His nose was shapely, and his jaws prominent and tightly set in repose. His age was about forty. Mrs. Jones, continued the doctor, knows that you are due to arrive at this time, and is eagerly counting the minutes. Not that you are so dear to her, he asserted in retaliation for the sneer upon his hearer's lips, but because she has important business matters to arrange with you before she passes away. Business matters? So she has told me. I believe, he said, after a brief period of hesitation, during which he considered how best to handle this peculiar artist, that I will allow you to see your wife at once, that you may learn her plans from her own lips. Indeed he had already decided that Jason Jones must have changed materially and for the worst, since Antoinette Siever had known him. Perhaps when she had talked with the man, she would revise her opinion of him, and make another disposition of her finances and the guardianship of her child. In that case it would not be well for him to give her husband any inkling of her present plans. Having reached this conclusion, Dr. Anstrother rose abruptly and said, Come with me, please. Jason Jones made no demure. Without remark he followed his conductor into the hallway and to the entrance to the suite occupied by his wife. The governess had been instructed to take Elora out for a ride. There was no one in the little reception room. Here, however, the doctor halted, and pointing to the door at the farther end of the passage he said, That is your wife's sick chamber. Please enter quietly and remember the danger of exciting Mrs. Jones unduly. Be gentle and considerate. Jason Jones nodded. A moment he regarded the door with curious intentness, savoring of reluctance. Then he slowly advanced, opened it, and went in, closing the door softly behind him. Dr. Anstrother seated himself in the reception room. The artist puzzled him greatly, although he prided himself, through long professional experience, on being able to read human nature with some accuracy. This summons to his dying wife ought to seem the most natural thing in the world to Jason Jones. Yet the man appeared dazed and even bewildered by the event. And while he had once lived in luxurious surroundings, his later experiences must have been so wholly different from the splendor of his wife's mode of living, quite embarrassed him. Yes, the contrast was sharp, it must be admitted. The man had formerly shared Tony Severs' immense wealth. He had enjoyed the handsomest studio in New York, and then, back to poverty, to drudgery, to a struggle for mere food and clothing. Years of hardship were likely to have had a decided effect upon the character of a man who was doubtless weak in the beginning. It would make him hard and bitter, and a shrill scream startled him. It came from the sick chamber and was echoed by another cry, hoarse and terrified, in a man's voice. Dr. Anstrother sprang to his feet and hurried into the patient's bed-chamber. The woman's dead, doctor, cried Jason Jones, standing in the middle of the room. She's dead. The physician hastened to the bedside, where Janet Orm, the nurse, was bending over the still form. Taking her away, Dr. Anstrother made a hurried examination. It was true, the woman was dead. At the very moment of reunion with the husband, from whom she had so long been parted, she had passed on to another life, leaving reconciliation in abeyance. Mrs. Antoinette Sever Jones lay beneath her lace covering with features contorted, mouth-hap open and eyes staring wildly. A paroxysm of pain had carried her off, the good doctor well knew, the pain and the excitement of the moment. Very tenderly he bent down and closed the eyes and pressed the lips together. He smoothed the lines from the cheeks, so that the face became more natural in appearance. Then with a sigh, for he had become fond of this brave, beautiful patient, he turned away to find Jason Jones and the nurse Janet, comforting one another in tense attitudes. The man stared wonderingly into the nurse's face. Janet, her eyes now unveiled, returned the stare with an expression that Dr. Anstrother could not fathom. They seemed to feel the doctor's observation, for Janet turned her back abruptly, while the man swung around and tiptoed hastily from the room. Dr. Anstrother looked at the nurse reflectively. Who was it that screamed? Was it you or Mrs. Jones? he asked. She hesitated a moment. It was I, she replied. I saw her face and knew that the end had come. It was a lie, and the nurse knew that the shrewd doctor recognized it as a lie. But he made no comment, and with the last regretful look toward the bed, he followed Jason Jones out. CHAPTER IV of Mary Louise solves a mystery by L. Frank Baum. Read for LibriVox.org into the public domain. Alora's New Life. Time seers all heart wounds. The scars remain, perhaps, but as the clock ticks on, the ache is stilled and the soreness finally passes away. At first Alora was heartbroken over her mother's loss. She lived in a sort of stupor for weeks after the funeral. Her father's presence she accepted without comment or emotion, for it had been arranged by Mamatone. She did not consider in those first weeks whether she cared for her newly found father or not. Her mother's statement that he was a good man and would love Alora dearly was taken by the child as a matter of fact, while her mother's injunction to love him and confide in him in her stead was for the present ignored. Indeed, during those first weeks, Lory had no fault to find with her new protector, for she saw little of him. Jason Jones retained his room at the hotel and allowed Alora and her governess to inhabit the handsome suite her mother had occupied, although they were much too small for the big apartments. However, Lory would have felt uncomfortable just then in any other place. Her mother's chamber was closed and the curtains drawn, but every night before she retired to her own little room the child would steal in in the dark and feel her way to the empty bed and kiss the pillow on which her dear mother's head had rested. Miss Gorham, the governess, was aware of these evening excursions, but she offered no objection. Indeed, the woman objected to nothing that did not interfere with her own personal comfort and convenience. Under the eyes of Mrs. Jones she had been prim and dutiful, but there was no one to child her now, however neglectful she chose to be, and it was true that during these days the little girl required no particular care. Alora resumed her morning studies with meekness a week after her mother had been laid away, and in the afternoon she rode or walked with Miss Gorham or received the callers who came to console poor Antoinette Siever Jones's child. Despite her haughty reserve, Mrs. Antoinette Siever Jones had accumulated a wide circle of acquaintance, if not friends, who sincerely mourned her untimely death and would have been glad to befriend her little girl were such services needed. But it was known that Alora's father had now appeared to guard her welfare, and there was so much money in the Jones family that no financial aid was required. Therefore these acquaintances could only call to see Alora and profess their friendship. The child listened gravely to their stilted praises of her mother and accepted their platitudes in good faith. It was indeed comforting to hear so many nice things said of her loved one. Her father was never present on these occasions. He was by no means a sociable man. Sometimes he came in for a few minutes in the morning, and sat down and stared at the girl in a way half curious and half speculative, and said little, and presently went away as quietly as he had come. The nurse, Janet Orm, left on the day that Mrs. Jones died, and Alora had almost forgotten the young woman when one afternoon she came to see her. Janet no longer wore her nurse's uniform but was dressed in ultra-fashionable apparel, and to the child's amusement affected the manners of a lady. She talked more with Miss Gorham than with the little girl, and was keen to know what arrangements had been made for their future. Miss Gorham admitted that she had no idea of Mr. Jones's intentions. Of course they could not remain long in this elaborate suite. A smaller one would be more satisfactory in every way, but Mr. Jones had not as yet mentioned the subject. A few days afterward, during one of their walks, Alora was surprised to see her father and nurse Janet riding past in a hired automobile. The two seemed engaged in earnest conversation, and neither noticed Alora or her governess. Miss Gorham snorted rather disdainfully but without remark, and Lori was not especially interested in the manner. Meantime, letters of administration had been issued to Jason Jones and the control of his wife's, now Alora's, property legally placed in his hands. Judge Bernstead attended to all the necessary details, and while he did not admire the artist and secretly believed he was unfitted for the task of handling so much money, he loyally insisted that the dead woman's wishes be obeyed to the letter. Dr. Anstrother had called on the attorney and had ventured to state his misgivings concerning Jason Jones, pleading that Alora was likely to suffer through the man's indifference and lack of culture. But Judge Bernstead declared it was not his duty to criticise character but to see that the wishes of his clients were obeyed. In this case, doubtless the man's wife knew him more intimately than anyone else, and if she trusted him, aware as she must be of his faults and virtues, it would be presumptuous for anyone to try to break her will or otherwise interfere with her carefully planned arrangements. But Jason Jones was improving in a way. He had bought new clothes and a supply of linen, and although he did not wear them with the ease of one accustomed to modest stress, they certainly improved his appearance. He was quiet and unassuming. He made no friends and few acquaintances. He never mentioned himself or his personal history, and never referred to his wife except when forced to do by some of her meddling friends, well-meaning people who sought his acquaintance to condole with him, or perhaps to attempt to cultivate him for Antoinette Seabro Jones's sake. But these found him so unresponsive that they soon left him alone. The legal business, even though it progressed smoothly, required time for consummation, so it was somewhat more than three months before all the details were complete. Alora, a sad phased child with no special interest in life, kept no track of time, and plotted along in her morning studies and took her afternoon drives or walks in a perfunctory manner that rendered Miss Gorham's duties light indeed. But all this ended suddenly, and Jason Jones ended it. He came to the rooms one morning and said to the governess in his abrupt way, pack up. What do you mean, sir? was the startled query. Just what I say. Get the child's things on your own ready to move out of this place by Saturday. Also pack the personal belongings of Mrs. Jones. Put them in separate trunks and boxes so I can have them stored. Do you understand me? I—I shall need assistance," gasped the bewildered Miss Gorham. Then get a maid or a porter or both to help you. Alora was present and listened with awakening interest. A change of any sort would be pleasant, she reflected. Where are we going? she asked, as her father turned away. It was the one question Miss Gorham wanted to ask too, but Mr. Jones left the room without reply. Three days was little enough time to gather up and pack the accumulation of years. The governess knew there were many big trunks in the storm of the hotel belonging to Mrs. Jones, and these she ordered brought up to the rooms. Then she procured two maids, told them what and how to pack, and composedly resumed her reading. I am no menial, she told Alora, with a lofty air of superiority. These persons will do their work properly, I'm sure. On Saturday morning Mr. Jones appeared again. Is everything ready? he demanded. Asked Susan and Jane, replied Miss Gorham. Susan and Jane declared everything was packed, even to the suitcases and travelling satchels. But where are we going? inquired the governess.  I do not require your services longer. You're going to discharge me, she said, startled. You are already discharged. But who will look after poor Lori? Who will attend her education and to her comforts? I will. Here is your money. I have paid you a week in advance in lieu of notice. A week? Poo! I'm hired by the year, asserted the woman defiantly. Have you a written contract? No, a verbal contract is just as good. It won't hold in law. Take your traps and go at once. The governess looked at him. He was absolutely calm and determined. Instinctively she knew that any protest would be unavailing. Laura regarded the dismissal of her governess with as much unconcern as her father displayed. Miss Gorham had been her companion for years, but had never won the smallest corner of the girl's heart. Although she was not aware of the fact, the woman's constant presence and lack of interest in her had become oppressive. The child's first sensation, on realizing their future separation, was one of distinct relief. When Miss Gorham had gone, seeming to begrudge the terse goodbye she gave her pupil, the girl's father quietly said, Come, Elora, and walked away. She followed him to a waiting taxicab, in which had been heaped her hand luggage and his own, and they drove away from the grand hotel where she had lived in luxury for so long, and where so many indelible memories had been impressed upon her childish mind, with as little ado as if they had been transient guests. When the cab drew up at a railway station, Elora asked, Are we leaving town then, father? Yes, he replied, I am returning to New York. She felt a slight sinking of the heart just then, but it was followed by a sense of elation. The old life, in which her adored mother had played so prominent a part, was being abandoned forever, and this troubled her, she knew not why.  Laurie was not sure she could be happier elsewhere, but her crushed and dispirited nature responded to the suggestion of change. It was interesting to have something different to look forward to. The man beside her was no more congenial than Gorm had been, but he was her father. He was the guardian selected by her dead mother, and in obeying his wishes she might find her future life more grateful than had been the dreadful dreary months since Mamatone had left her. Somehow Jason Jones seemed uneasy in the presence of his daughter. During the journey to New York he rode most of the time in the smoking compartment, only appearing to take Elora to the diner for her meals. The child was equally uncomfortable in her father's society, and was well pleased to be left so much alone. So with very little questioning or conversation on either side, father and daughter came to their destination, and Elora found herself deposited in a small suite of rooms on the third floor of a grimy and dingy house in East Sixty Seventh Street, one of a long row of similar houses that were neither residences nor business establishments, but hovered between the two. There were several little tin signs nailed beside the entrance, and Laurie noticed that one of these read, Jason Jones, Studio Third Floor. It was an old sign, scarcely legible, while others beside it seemed bright and new, and when the girl had climbed laboriously up the three flights, and the artist had unlocked the door at the head of the stairs, with a key which he took from his pocket, she found everything about the rooms she entered as old and faded as the sign on the door. End of Chapter 4. Red by Savella Denton. For more free audiobooks or to volunteer please visit redforlibrivox.org. Chapter 5 of Mary Louise Solves a Mystery by L. Frank Baum. Red for Librivox.org into the public domain. In the studio. The fact that it was beginning to grow dark prevented Elora from observing all the tawdryness of her new home and what she saw inspired her more with curiosity than dismay. The little girl had been reared from babyhood in an atmosphere of luxury. Through environment she had become an aristocrat from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. This introduction to shabbiness was unique, nor could she yet understand that such surroundings were familiar to many who battle for existence in a big city. The very fact that her father's humble flat was different made it far more interesting to the child than new apartments such as she had been accustomed to. Therefore she had no thought at this time of protest. Her own little room contained a small iron bed, one straight chair with a wooden bottom, and a broken leg dresser over which hung a cracked mirror. The small rag rug was worn thread-bear. While she stood in the doorway of this room, solemnly regarding it, her father said over her shoulder, You won't need both those big trunks here, I'm sure. I'll store them somewhere in the studio. Covered with drapes they won't be noticed. I can't imagine what the woman packed them with. My dresses, replied Elora. Even then I left a lot at the volt hair for the maids to sell or give away. Mama used to send them to the Salvation Army. Two trunks of dresses ought to last for a good many years, he remarked in a reflective tone. Oh, no indeed, said Laurie.  I'm growing fast, you know, and I was to have a dozen or fifteen summer frocks made, and a lot of lingerie. Then we moved just in time to save that expense, he declared, setting his stern jaws together. There's been a terrible waste of money through that woman, Gorham. We're well rid of her. He turned away to the studio, and the child followed him there. He turned on the electric lights, which were not very bright, and Elora took a look at the workroom, and thought it seemed more comfortable than the other rooms of the flat. Her father began dusting and arranging half a dozen paintings of various sizes mounted on stretchers. None was finished, some were scarcely begun. Laurie tried to see what they represented. Perhaps she had inherited from her mother a bit of artistic instinct. If so, it was that which prompted her to shrug her small shoulder slightly, and then turn away to the window. In the dimly-lighted street outside, a man drove up with the baggage. Mr. Jones had purchased for himself in Chicago a new trunk, a small and inexpensive one, and there were two big trunks and a suitcase belonging to Elora. After these had been carried up and placed in the studio, the only room that would hold them, her father said, We will go out now and get some dinner. You won't need your coat, for the restaurant is just around the corner. Elora marveled at the restaurant even more than at the studio furnishings. It looked a hundred years old, and the atmosphere still retained the fumes of much ancient cookery. The linen was coarse, the plating mourned from the forks and spoons through constant use, the dishes thick and clumsy and well-nicked. Elora was hungry, and she ate what her father ordered for her, though she decided it did not taste very nice. When they sat down, a man from behind the counter approached them and, bending low, said in a quiet tone, You know, Jones, it's to be a cash deal from now on. Of course, replied Elora's father with a slight frown, Also, I'll pay you the old account if you'll make out the bill. The man smiled, patted Elora's head, a liberty she indignantly resented, and went back to his desk. During the meal, and indeed, ever since their arrival in New York, Jason Jones cast frequent puzzle glances into the face of his little daughter, who until now had accepted her changed conditions with evident indifference. But as they ate together in silence, her small features grew grave and thoughtful, and her father shrank for meeting the inquiring glances of her big eyes. Yet even now she made no complaint. Neither did she ask questions. Her look was expectant, however, and that was what embarrassed him. After dinner they went back to the dingy studio, where the man lighted a pipe and sat opposite his small daughter, puffing uneasily. They were both reserved. There was an indefinable barrier between them, which each was beginning to recognize. Presently Elora asked to go to bed, and he sent her to her room with a knot of relief. Next morning they had breakfast at the same stuffy little restaurant, and afterward Elora unpacked some things from her trunks and put them in the drawers of the broken-leg dresser. It seemed odd to have no maid to wait upon her, but she was glad to have something to do. As she passed to and from the studio she noticed that her father had resumed work on a picture that represented two cows eating a broken pumpkin that lay in a cornfield. He worked slowly and never seemed satisfied with what he did, as if lacking confidence in his ability. Lori decided he couldn't be blamed for that. The child plotted drearily along in her new life for a full week. Then she began to grow restless, for the place was hateful and repulsive to her. But now an incident occurred that gave her new cause for wonder. One day the door opened and a woman walked into the studio. It was Janet Orm, her mother's former nurse. But what a new and astonishing Janet it was. Her silken gown was very fashionable, somewhat too modest for good taste, for it was elaborately trimmed and embroidered. She wore considerable jewelry, including diamonds. Her shoes were elegant and her hose daintily clogged. Her hat must have been a French milliner's choicest creation. If good clothes could make Janet Orm a lady, there was no question of her social standing. Yet even Elora felt that Janet was out of her element, that she fell short in some vague way of being what she was ambitious to appear. So, said the nurse, glancing around the room with Frank Dessane, this is where you hang out, Jason, is it? Elora's father confronted the woman with a menacing frown. What do you mean by coming here? he demanded. I had two reasons, she answered carelessly, seating herself in the only easy chair the room contained. In the first place I wanted to see how a rich man lives. Well, you see, don't you? A muttering growl. I certainly do, and I realize you are quite comfortable and not to be happy here, Jason. You and the millionaire heiress, your daughter Elora. As she spoke she turned to glance sharply at the child, who met her look with disconcerting gravity. Elora's eyes expressed wonder, tinged with a haughty tolerance of an inferior that struck home to Janet, and made her flush angrily. Your sneers, said Jason Jones, still frowning but now speaking with composure, must indicate that you have graduated from servitude. I cannot admit that my mode of living is any of your business, Janet. In these retired but respectable rooms I have worked and been contented for years until—until you came into your money and found you didn't have to worry over your next meal, she interjected. Well, that ought to make you still more content. And that reminds me of the second object of my visit. I want some money. So soon. Don't try to crawfish. It was agreed you should give me a check whenever I asked for it. I want it now, and for the full amount, every single penny of it. He stared at her fixedly, seeming fearful and uncertain how to answer. I cannot spare it all to-day. Humbug! she snapped. You can and will spare it. I must have the money, or—her significant pause caused him to wiggle in his seat.  I'm not robbing you. You will have an abundance for your needs. Why do you quarrel with dame fortune?  You can smoke a good cigar after your dinner instead of that eternal pipe, and go to a picture show whenever the mood strikes you. Why, man, you're independent for the first time in your life, and the finances are as sure as shooting for a good seven years to come. He glanced uneasily at Elora. Owing to my dead wife's generosity, he muttered. Janet laughed. Of course, said she, and if you play your card skillfully when Elora comes of age she will provide for you an income for the rest of your life. You're in luck. And why? Just because you are Jason Jones and long ago married Antoinette Siever and her millions, and are now reaping your reward. So, for decency's sake, don't grumble about writing me that check. All this was frankly said in the presence of Elora Jones, the heiress, of whose person and fortune, her father, Jason Jones, was now sole guardian. It was not strange that the man seemed annoyed and ill at ease.  You seem to have forgotten Elora's requirements and my duty to her. Poo! a child! But we have allowed liberally for her keep, I'm sure. She can't keep servants and three dressmakers, it's true, but a simple life is best for her. She'll grow up a more sensible and competent woman by waiting on herself and living as most girls do. At her age I didn't have shoes or stockings. Elora has been spoiled, and a bit of worldly experience will do her good. She's going to be very rich when she comes into her fortune, said Elora's father, and then—and then she can do as she likes with her money. Just now her income is too big for her needs, and the best thing you can do for her is to teach your economy, a virtue you seem to possess, whether by nature or training in a high degree. But I didn't come here to argue, give me that check. He walked over to his little desk, sat down, and drew a checkbook from his pocket. Elora, although she had listened intently to the astonishing conversation, did not quite comprehend what it meant. Janet's harsh statement bewildered her as much as did her father's subject subservience to the woman. All she realized was that Janet Orm, her dead mother's nurse, wanted money, Elora's money, and her father was reluctant to give it to her but dared not refuse. Money was an abstract quantity to the eleven-year-old child. She had never handled it personally and knew nothing of its value. If her father owed Janet some of her money, perhaps it was for wages, or services rendered her mother, and Elora was annoyed that he haggled about it, even though the woman evidently demanded more than was just. There was plenty of money, she believed, and it was undignified to argue with a servant. Jason Jones wrote the check, and Rising handed it to Janet. There, said he, that squares our account. It is what I agreed to give you, but I did not think you would demand it so soon. To pay it just now leaves me in an embarrassing position. I don't believe it, she rejoined. You're cutting coupons every month or so, and you may thank your stars I don't demand a statement of your income. But I know you, Jason Jones, and you can't hoodwink me, try as you may. You hid yourself in this hole, and thought I wouldn't know where to find you, but you'll soon learn that you can't escape my equal eye. So take your medicine like a man and thank your lucky stars that you're no longer a struggling, starving, unrecognized artist. Goodbye until I call again. You're not to call again, he objected. Well, we'll see. Just for the present I'm in no mood to quarrel with you, and you'd better not quarrel with me, Jason Jones. Goodbye. She tucked the check into her purse and ambled out of the room after a supercilious nod to Elora, who failed to return the salutation. Jason Jones stood in his place, still frowning, until Janet's high-heeled shoes had clattered down the two flights of stairs. Elora went to the window and looked down and saw that a handsome automobile stood before the house, with a chauffeur and footman in livery. Janet entered this automobile and was driven away. Elora turned to look at her father. He was filling his pipe and scowling more darkly than ever. CHAPTER VI. OF MARIE LOUISE SOLVES A MYSTERY by L. FRANK BAUM. Read for LibriVox.org into the public domain. FLITTING. Once more they moved suddenly, and the second flitting came about in this way. Elora stood beside the easel one morning, watching her father work on his picture. Not that she was especially interested in him or the picture, but there was nothing else for her to do. She stood with her slim legs apart, her hands clasped behind her, staring rather vacantly, when he looked up and noted her presence. "'Well, what do you think of it?' he asked rather sharply. "'Of the picture?' said Laurie. "'Of course.' "'I don't like it,' she asserted with childish frankness. "'Aye, you don't like it. Why not, girl?' "'Well,' she replied, her eyes narrowing critically, "'that cow's horn is an on-strait, the red cow's left horn, and it's the same size all the way up.' He laid down his palette and brush and gazed at his picture for a long time. The scowl came on his face again. Usually his face was stolid and expressionless, but Elora had begun to observe that whenever anything irritated or disturbed him he scowled, and the measure of the scowl indicated to what extent he was annoyed. When he scowled at his own unfinished picture Laurie decided he was honest enough to agree with her criticism of it. Finally the artist took a clasped knife from his pocket, opened the blade and deliberately slashed the picture from top to bottom, this way and that, until it was a mere mass of shreds. Then he kicked the stretcher into a corner and brought out another picture, which he placed on the easel. "'Well, how about that?' he asked, looking hearted at himself. Elora was somewhat frightened at having caused the destruction of the cow-picture. She hesitated, before replying, "'I—I'd rather not say.' "'How funny,' he said musingly, but until now I never realized how stiff and unreal the dog is. Shall I finish it, Elora?' "'I think so, sir,' she answered. Again the knife slashed through the canvas and the remains joined the scrap-heap in the corner. Jason Jones was not scowling any more. Instead there was a hint of a humorous expression on his usually dull features. Only pausing to light his pipe he brought out one after another of his canvases and after a critical look destroyed each and every one. Lori was perplexed at the mad act, for although her judgment told her they were not worth keeping, she realized that her father must have passed many laborious hours on them. But now that it had dawned on him how utterly unartistic his work was, in humiliation and disgust he had wiped it out of existence. With this thought in mind the girl was honestly sorry for him. But Jason Jones did not seem sorry. When the last ruined canvas had been contemptuously flung into the corner he turned to the child and said to her in a voice so cheerful that it positively startled her, "'Get your hat and let's take a walk. An artist's studio is no place for us, Lori. Doesn't it seem deadly dull in here? And outside the sun is shining.' The rest of the day he behaved much like a human being. He took the girl to the park to see the zoo and bought her popcorn and peanuts, a wild extravagance for him. Later in the day they went to a picture show and finally entered a downtown restaurant, quite different from and altogether better than the one where they had always before eaten, and enjoyed a really good dinner. When they left the restaurant he was still in the restless and reckless mood that had dominated him and said, "'Suppose we go to a theatre. Won't you like that better than you would returning to our pokey rooms?' "'Yes, indeed,' responded Ellora. They had seats in the gallery, but could see very well. Just before the curtain rose Ellora noticed a party being seated in one of the boxes. The lady nearest the rail, dressed in an elaborate evening gown, was Janet Orm. There was another lady with her, conspicuous for blonde hair and much jewelry, and the two gentlemen who accompanied them kept in the background, as if not too proud of their company. Ellora glanced at her father's face and saw the scowl there, for he too had noted the box party. But neither of the two made any remark, and soon the child was fully absorbed in the play. As they left the theatre, Janet's party was entering an automobile, laughing and chatting gaily. Both father and daughter silently watched them depart, and then they took a street car and went home. "'Go to bed, girl,' said Jason Jones, when they had mounted the stairs. "'I'll smoke another pipe, I guess.' When she came out of her room next morning she heard her father stirring in the studio. She went to him, and was surprised to find him packing his trunk, which he had drawn into the middle of the room. "'Now that you're up,' he said, in quite a cheerful tone, "'we'll go to breakfast, and then I'll help you pack your own duds. Only one trunk, though, girl, for the other must go into storage, and you may see it again some time, and you may not.' "'Are we going away?' she inquired, hoping it might be true. "'We are. We're going a long way, my girl. Do you care?' "'Of course,' said she, amazed at the question, for he had never considered her in the least. "'I'm glad. I don't like your studio.' He laughed, and the laughed shocked her. She could not remember ever to have heard Jason Jones laugh before. "'I don't like the place, either, girl, and that's why I'm leaving it. For good this time. I was a fool to return here. In trying to economize, I proved extravagant.' Elora did not reply to that. She was eager to begin packing and hurried through her breakfast. All the things she might need on a journey she put into one trunk.  But finally both trunks were packed and locked, and then Mr. Jones called a wagon and carted away the extra trunk of Elora's and several boxes of his own to be deposited in a storage warehouse. She sat in the bare studio and waited for his return. The monotony of the past weeks, which had grown oppressive, was about to end, and for this she was very grateful. From a life of luxury the child had been dumped into a gloomy studio in the heart of a big bustling city that was all unknown to her and where she had not a single friend or acquaintance. Her only companion had been a strange man, who happened to be her father, but displayed no affection for her, no spark of interest in her happiness or even comforts. For the first time in her life she lacked made to dress her and keep her clothes in order. There was no one to attend to her education, no one to amuse her, no one with whom to counsel in any difficulty. She had been somewhat afraid of her peculiar father in her natural reserve, derived from her mother, had deepened in his society. Yesterday in this morning he had seemed more human, more companionable, yet Elora felt that it was due to a selfish elation and recognized a gulf between them that might never be bridged. Her father differed utterly from her mother in breeding, in intelligence, in sympathy. He was not of the same world, even the child could realize that. And yet he was her father, all she had left to depend upon, to cling to. She wondered if he really possessed the good qualities her mother had attributed to him. If so, when she knew him better she might learn to like him. He was gone a long time it seemed, but as soon as he returned the remaining baggage was loaded on the wagon and sent away, and then they left the flat and boarded a street-car for downtown. On lower Broadway Mr. Jones entered a bank and seemed to transact considerable business. Lori saw him receive several papers and a lot of money. Then they went to a steamship office nearby where her father purchased tickets. Afterward they had lunch, and Jason Jones was still in high spirits, and seemed more eager and excited than Elora had ever before known him. We're going across the big water to Europe, he told her at luncheon. So if there is anything you positively need for the trip, tell me what it is and I'll buy it. No frivolities, though, qualifying as generosity, but just stern necessities. And you must think quick for our boat leaves at four o'clock and we've no time to waste. But Elora shook her head. Once she had been taken by her mother to London, Paris and Rome, but all her wants had been attended to, and it was so long ago, four or five years, that the voyage was now but a dim remembrance. No one noticed them when they went to board. There was no one to see them off or to wish them bon voyage. It saddened the child to hear the fervent goodbyes of others, for it emphasized her own loneliness. Yes, quite friendless was little Elora. She was going to a foreign land with no companion but a strange and uncongenial man whom fate had imposed upon her in the guise of a parent. As they steamed out to sea, and Elora sat on deck and watched the receding shores of America, she turned to her father with the first question she had ventured to ask. Where are we going? To London? Not now, he replied, this ship is bound for the port of Naples. I didn't pick Naples, you know, but took the first ship sailing to-day. Having made up my mind to travel, I couldn't wait, he added, with a chuckle of glee. You're not particular as to where we go, are you? No, said Elora. That's lucky, he rejoined, for it wouldn't have made any difference anyhow. CHAPTER VII. It was four years later, when, on a sunny afternoon in April, a carriage broke down on the Amalfi Road, between Positano and Sorrento in Italy. A wheel crumpled up, and the driver stopped his horses and explained to his passengers, in a jumble of mixed Italian and English, that he could go no farther. The passengers, an old gentleman of distinguished appearance, and a young girl as fresh and lovely as a breath of spring, clamored out of the rickety vehicle, and after examining the wheel admitted that their driver spoke truly. On one side the road was a steep descent to the sea, opposite the hillside was masked by a trellis thick with grapevines. The road curved around the mountain, so there was no other vista. Here's a nice fix, Grandpa Jim, exclaimed the girl with an amused laugh. Where are we, and what's going to become of us? That is somewhat of a complicated problem, Mary Louise, and I can't guess it offhand without due reflection, replied Grandpa Jim, whom others called Colonel Hathaway. I imagine, however, that we are about three miles from Positano and five or six from Sorrento, and it's a stiff walk for old legs or young in either direction. Besides, there's our luggage which I am loathed to abandon and disinclined to carry. The driver interposed. Give me the moment, Signore, perhaps the hour, and I return to Positano for more carriage-wheel. Some other. My cousin Luigi, he leave in Positano, and Luigi have a many carriage-wheel in his shed. I assure, Signore, I get to the wheel. That is a sensible idea, said the old gentleman. Make haste, my man, and we will wait here. The driver unhitched his horses from the vehicle, and after strapping a blanket on one of them for a saddle, mounted it and departed. I take of the two horses, he explained, for one to arrive to me and one for to ride the wheel. They watched him amble away down the road, and Mary Louise shook her head and remarked, He will never make it in an hour at that rate, Grandpa Jim, and in two hours the sun will have set, and it will be dinner time. Already I feel the pangs of hunger. Those who travel in Italy, said her grandfather, should be prepared to accept any happening in a spirit of resignation. A moment or two we were jogging merrily along toward a good hotel in a savory dinner, but now this entire carriage seems ready to fall apart, declared the girl, standing in the road and viewing the ancient vehicle critically, so it's a wonder something didn't break sooner. Now if we could get to the other side of that trellis, Grandpa Jim, we might find a shady spot to rest while our charioteer is searching for a new wheel. There must be a gate somewhere about, he answered, eyeing the vine-clad barrier. Come, Mary Louise, let us investigate.  The old gentleman lifted the wooden latch and found the gate unlocked. Followed by Mary Louise, he entered the vineyard and discovered a narrow, well-beaten path leading up the hillside. Perhaps there is a house nearby, said the girl. Shall we go on, Grandpa Jim? Why not, my dear? These Italians are hospitable folk and we may get a cake and a cup of goat's milk to stay our appetite. So they climbed the hill, following the little path, and presently came upon a laborer who was very deliberately but methodically cultivating the vines with a V-shaped hoe. Seeing the strangers, the man straightened up, and leaning upon his hoe, eyed them with evident suspicion. Good afternoon, said the old gentleman in Italian, one of the few phrases in the language he had mastered. Oh, I speak the English, Signore! replied the man, doffing his hat. I am Silvio Allegari, you must know, and I live in America some time. Why, this is like meeting an old friend, exclaimed Mary Louise, winning the fellow instantly with her smile. But why did you leave America, Silvio? Because I have made my fortune there, was the solemn reply. It is easy to make the fortune in America, Signorina. I am chef in the restaurant in Sandusky. You know Sandusky? Most excellent. In a few years I save much money, then I return here and purchase an estate. My estate is three miles across the hill yonder, and there is a road to it which is not much used. However, it is a fine estate, and I am rented to my cousin for five hundred lira a year. Such good business have it I learn in America.  It is not yet the time, answered the man with the shake of his head. I am but fifty-two years alive, and while I am still so young I shall work for others, and save the money my estate brings me. When I get old and can no longer work for the others, then I will go to my estate and be happy. Very sensible, commended the old gentleman. And whom do you work for now? The student Americano, Signora, the one who was rented this valuable estate. I am the Signora's student's valet, his gardener, and at times his chef.  I am valuable to him, and for three years he has paid me fair wages. Is this a big estate? asked Mary Louise. Enormous, Signorina! It comprises three acres. And where is the house? Just over the hill yonder, Signora. Does the student Americano live there all alone? With his daughter, who is the Signorina Allora? Oh, there is a daughter, then. And you say they are Americans? Surely, Signorina! Who else would pay the great price for this estate for three years? The land pays nothing back, a few oranges, some grapes, when they are cared for, a handful of almonds and olives, and there is a servant beside myself, my niece Leona, who is handmade and assists the young lady. This sounds promising, said Mary Louise, turning to her grandfather. Suppose we go up to the house. Are the people at home Silvio? The Signora's student and his daughter? The man reflected, leaning on his hoe. I think they are both at the mansion, Signorina, although the student Americano may not yet have returned from Sorrento. The road to the mansion is beyond the hill, on the other side of the estate, so I am not sure the Signora's student has returned. But you will find the Signorina Allora there if you decide to venture on. But perhaps you are the friends of my employer and his daughter? What is his name? asked Colonel Hathaway. It is Jones. The American saying is Mr. Jason Jones, but here he is only called the Signora's student Americano. Why? asked Mary Louise. Because his occupation is reading. He does nothing else. Always there is a book in his hand, and always he is thinking of the things he reads. He does not often speak even to his daughter. He does not have friends who visit him. If you should call at the mansion then you will be the first people who have done so for three years. There was something in this report, in the manner of the man as well as his words, that caused the strangers to hesitate. The description of the student led them to suspect he was a recluse, who might not welcome them cordially. But Mary Louise reflected that there was a daughter, and decided that any American girl shut up on this three-acre estate for three years would be glad to meet another American girl. So she said abruptly, Come on, Grandpa Jim, let's call. It is possible that Americans will have something better in the larder than cakes and goat's milk. The hilltop was reached sooner than they expected, and in a little veil was the old mansion, a really attractive vine-clad villa that might have stood a century or more. It was not very big, but there were numerous outbuildings which rendered the size of the house proper unimportant. As Mary Louise and her grandfather drew nearer they discovered a charming flower garden, carefully tended, and were not surprised to find a young girl bending over a rose-bush. End of Chapter 7. Read by Cibella Denton. For more free audiobooks or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Chapter 8 of Mary Louise solves a mystery by L. Frank Baum. Read for LibriVox.org into the public domain. Mary Louise meets Laura. The two stood motionless a moment, looking at the girl, and Mary Louise marked the graceful figure and attractive features with real delight. The seniorina Allora, as the man had called her, was nearly her own age, fifteen, Mary Louise judged her to be, and her golden hair and fair complexion proclaimed her an American. But now the girl's quick years had detected a presence, and she looked up with a startled expression, half fearful and half shy, and turned as if to fly. But in the next moment she had collected herself and advanced with hesitating steps to meet them. Part in our intrusions, said Colonel Hathaway, raising his hat. Our carriage broke down on the Amalfi Road a little while ago, and our driver has gone to Pasatano for a new wheel. Meantime we were exploring our surroundings and stumbled upon the path leading to this spot. Forgive the trespass, if you will, and allow me to present my granddaughter, Mary Louise Burroughs. I am Colonel James Hathaway of New York, although we usually reside at a little town called Dorfield. The girl's bow was stiff and awkward. She blushed in an embarrassed way as she replied, I am Elora Jones, sir, and I am living here for a time now with my father, Jason Jones. We also are Americans, at least we used to be. Then doubtless you are yet, responded the Colonel with a smile. May we pay our respects to your father? He is not home yet, she answered, more embarrassed than before. He went to Sorrento for some books this morning and has not yet returned. But perhaps he will be back soon, she added, seeming to ponder the matter. Will you not come in and have some refreshment? In my father's absence I am glad to welcome you. She glanced shyly at Mary Louise, as if to implore her to forgive any seeming lack of hospitality, and accept her coldly worded invitation. No one could look at Mary Louise without gaining confidence, and the friendly smile and warm hand-clasp made Elora feel, instantly, that here was a girl who could prove congenial under any circumstances. Really it would not take them long to become friends, and poor Elora had no girl friends whatever. She led them into a cool and comfortable living-room and called to Leona to fetch tea and biscuits. We are entirely shut in here, she explained. It seems to me worse than a convent, for there I would see other girls while here I see no one but the servants, and my father, as an afterthought, year in and year out. It's a pretty place, declared Mary Louise cheerfully. But it's an awfully dreary place, too, and sometimes I feel that I'd like to run away, if I knew where to go, said Elora frankly. You have lived here three years, asked Colonel Hathaway. Yes, we left New York more than four years ago and traveled a year in different places, always stopping at the little towns where there is not much to interest one. Then my father found this place and rented it, and here we've stayed, I can't say lived, ever since. I get along pretty well in the daytime, with my flowers and the chickens to tend, but the evenings are horribly lonely. Sometimes I feel that I shall go mad. Mary Louise marked her wild look and excited manner, and her heart went out in sympathy to the lonely girl. Colonel Hathaway, too, intuitively recognized Elora's plaint as a human cry for help, and did not need to guess the explanation. The man in the vineyard had called her father the student, and said he was a reserved man, and never was seen without a book in his hand. This would mean that he was not companionable, and Elora's protest plainly indicated that her father devoted small time, if any, to the cultivation of his daughter's society. I suppose, remarked the old gentleman, that Mr. Jones is so immersed in his studies that he forgets his daughter lacks society and amusement. Mary Louise caught the slight, scornful smile that for a moment curled Elora's lips. But the girl replied very seriously. My father disliked society. I believe he would be quite content to live in this little cooped-up place forever, and see no one but the servants to whom he seldom speaks. Also he ignores me, and I am glad he does. But before my mother died, her voice breaking a little, I was greatly loved and petted, and I can't get used to the change. I ought not to say this to strangers, I know, but I am very lonely and unhappy, because my father is so different from what my mother was. Mary Louise was holding her trembling hand now and stroking it sympathetically. Tell us about your mother, she said softly. Is it long since you lost her?  I was her constant companion, and she taught me to love art and music and such things, for art was her hobby. I did not know my father in those days, you see, for they did not live together. But in her last illness, my moscow sent for him and made him my guardian. My mother said that my father would love me, but she must have misjudged him. Colonel Hathaway had listened with interest. Tell me your mother's name, said he. She was Mrs. Antoinette Seaver Jones, and, indeed, exclaimed the Colonel, why I knew Antoinette Seaver before she married, and a more beautiful and cultured woman I never met. Her father, Captain Seaver, was my friend, and I met his daughter several times, both at his mining-camp and in the city. So you see, my dear, you must be friends. Elora's eyes fairly glistened with delight, and Mary Louise was as pleased as she was surprised. Of course we're friends, she cried, pressing the girl's hand, and isn't it queer we have come together in this singular manner, in a foreign country, and just because our carriage-wheel happened to break? I thought your mother married an artist, said Mary Louise's grandfather, reflectively. She did. At least she thought Jason Jones was an artist, answered Elora with bitter emphasis. But he was, in fact, a mere dauber. He became discouraged in his attempts to paint, and soon after he took me to New York he destroyed all his work. Really, it was dreadful, and since then he has never touched a brush. That is strange, mused the Colonel. I once saw a landscape by Jason Jones that was considered a fine conception, skillfully executed. That was the opinion of so good a judge as Captain Seaver himself. Therefore, for some reason, the man's genius must have forsaken him. I think that is true, agreed Elora, for my mother's estimate of art was undoubtedly correct. I have read somewhere that discouragement sometimes destroys one's talent, though in after years with proper impulse it may return with added strength. In my father's case, she explained, he was not able to sell his work and no wonder. So now he does nothing at all but read, and even that doesn't seem to amuse him much. The Colonel had now remembered that Antoinette Seaver Jones was a woman of great wealth, and therefore her daughter must be an heiress. What a shame to keep the girl hidden in this out-of-the-way place, when she should be preparing to assume an important position in the world. May I ask your age, my dear? he said. I am fifteen, sir, replied Elora.  Yes, by my mother's wish. I suppose you are receiving proper instruction? None at all, sir. Since I have been in my father's care I have had no instruction whatever. That isn't right, is it? That isn't right, demanded a gruff voice, and all three turned to find Jason Jones standing in the doorway. CHAPTER IX of Mary Louise solves a mystery by L. Frank Baum. Read for LibriVox.org into the public domain. Mary Louise sends a mystery. Colonel Hathaway instantly rose. I beg your pardon, said he. I am Colonel James Hathaway, an American, and this is my granddaughter, Mary Louise Burroughs. Our carriage met with an accident on the main road below, and we wandered in here while waiting for repairs and chance to meet your daughter. You are Mr. Jones, I believe. He nodded, still standing in his place and regarding his visitors with unconcealed suspicion. Under his arm he held several books. Who informed you that I was living here? he demanded. I was wholly unaware of the fact, said the Colonel, stiffly. I did not know you were in Italy. I did not know such an important person existed, strange to say, although I can remember that an artist named Jason Jones once married Antoinette Sieber, the daughter of my old friend, Captain Robert Sieber. Oh, you remember that, do you? This is the first time I have had the distinguished honour of meeting you, sir, and I trust it will be the last time. That's all right, said Jason Jones more cordially. I can't see that it's any of my affair, either way. We have been making the quaintance of Tony Sieber's daughter, Miss Elora Jones, in your absence, but we will not intrude any further, Mr. Jones. Come, Mary Louise. Oh, don't go, pleaded Elora, catching Mary Louise's arm, and just then Leona entered with the tea and biscuits. Sit down, man, said Jason Jones, in a less aggressive tone. I've no objection to your coming here under the circumstances, and you are our first visitors in three years. That's often enough, but now that you are here, make yourself at home. What's happening over in America? Have you been there lately? He laid his books on a table and sat down. But after that one speech, which he perhaps considered conciliatory, he remained glum and allowed the others to do the talking. Colonel Hathaway had stayed because he noted the longing look in Mary Louise's eyes. He was himself interested in Elora and indignant over her evident neglect. For her sake, he would bear the insolence of his host, and insolence he recognized as characteristic of the man. Elora, in her father's presence, lost her fluent speech and no longer dared mention personal matters to her guests. Both Mary Louise and her grandfather tried to lead Elora and Jason Jones to speak of themselves, of their life and future plans, but the man evaded direct answers, and the girl had suddenly become silent and reserved. Finally, however, Mary Louise had an idea. We are bound for Sorrento, said she, where we intend to stay a week at the Hotel Vittoria. Will you let Elora come to us for over Sunday, as our guest? We will drive here and get her the day after to-morrow. That's Saturday, you know, and fetch her home on Monday." No, said Jason Jones. Oh, why not, father? pleaded the girl. You've no fit clothes.  It will be a nice change for your daughter, and it will give us much pleasure to entertain her, said Mary Louise. It's a capital idea, declared the Colonel positively, and looking the other man straight in the eye, he added, I am sure you will withdraw your objections, Mr. Jones. The man dropped his eyes, frowning, but presently he said to Elora, Go if you want to, but keep out of the town. Don't leave the hotel grounds. Why not? asked his daughter in a defiant tone. It's not safe. I know Sorrento, and these rascally Italians would be glad to steal you if they had the chance, and then blackmail me a ransom. Mary Louise laughed. What a fine adventure that would be, she exclaimed. But we will promise to guard Elora and keep her from the clutches of bandits. I didn't know there were any left in Italy. To get rid of them you'd have to depopulate the country, said Jason Jones. It's no laughing matter, young woman, and my daughter is somewhat valuable. CHAPTER X of Mary Louise solves a mystery by L. Frank Baum, read for LibriVox.org into the public domain. Mere speculation. The driver returned with the wheel. It fitted the axle but was some two or three inches larger in diameter than the other rear wheel, and moreover it was flat on one side, so that when they started to conclude their journey the motion of the carriage was something startling—a rock-a-bye baby-ride, Mary Louise called it. But the wheels turned and their carriage progressed, and when they were well on their way the girl said, What do you think of that man, Grandpa Jim? Do you mean Elora's father, Jason Jones? Yes, of course. I am surprised at two things, said the old colonel. First, it is curious that Tony Siever, a rarely cultured woman, should have married such a man, and again it is amazing that she should have confided her daughter and her fortune to his care. Do you know, observed Mary Louise, sliding closer to him and dropping her voice, although there was absolutely no chance of being overheard, I sent a mystery in that family, Grandpa Jim. That seems to be one of your regular diversions, to sent mysteries, he replied, and usually, my dear, the suspicion is unwarranted. The most commonplace people frequently impress you with the idea that they are other than what they seem, are leading double lives, or are endeavouring to conceal some irregularity of conduct. You have a faculty of reading the natures and characteristics of strangers by studying their eyes, their facial expressions, and their oddities of demeanor, which is interesting psychologically, but too often, You are unjust, Grandpa, declared Mary Louise indignantly. Didn't you yourself say there are two curious and surprising things about this man, Jones? Not exactly. I said it was curious and astonishing that Antoinette Siever should have trusted so fully a man who impresses me as a churl. His own child, little Elora, appears to dislike and even to despise him, and— There! cried Mary Louise, I'm vindicated. Your observations fully justify my remark that there is a mystery in that family. Did you notice the books he brought home and laid upon the table? No, said Colonel Hathaway, rather bewildered. They were novels by Marie Carelli, H. G. Wells and O. Henry. A student. Then a student of modern novels, a man who reads and reads to keep his mind from dwelling on past history. He is a disappointed artist to begin with. That is certainly odd, rejoined the old gentleman, reflectively. The one picture I ever saw by Jason Jones was certainly good. I remember that, once when I was lunching with Bob Siever—that was Antoinette's father, you know—he told me his daughter was interested in a young artist of exceptional talent, and he took me to a gallery to show me what this man could do. I am not an art critic, as you are aware, my dear, but this landscape of Jason Jones appealed to me as delightful. Captain Bob knew art, and so did Antoinette, so it is evident that Jones could paint, but for some reason became dissatisfied with his work and abandoned it. Perhaps his ambition was too lofty for human skill to realize, yet nothing less would content him. Mary Louise sat silent for a while. Then she asked, Did Jason Jones impress you as a man capable of a great ambition? Would you guess him an artist who had once accomplished admirable things? Mr. Always peculiar, stated her grandfather, they must be temperamental in order to be artists, and temperaments differ widely. Had I not known something of Jason Jones's history I might have felt, on making his acquaintance to-day, that he is not an ordinary man. For gruff and churlish, though he proved, it is undeniable that he has selected a charming and retired spot in which to live, or to hide, she interrupted, or that, with considerable wealth at his command, he lived simply and unauthenticiously, enjoying nature's choice gifts and content with the simple life he leads, with only the society of his young daughter. Whom he neglects and refuses to educate properly, declared the girl, what makes you think he is wealthy? I know that Antoinette made millions after her father died from the mines. By current reports she retired and invested her money wisely in sound securities, which accord her with excellent business reputation. Her daughter not being of age, let me see, she must have been but eleven when her mother passed away. There would be a guardian appointed for the heiress, and Elora told us that it was her mother's wish that her father act as her guardian. So the conclusion is evident, that Mr. Jones has a large income in his command. All the more reason he should be generous, but he isn't spending much of it, said Mary Louise. No, he is probably living simply in order that his daughter's fortune may increase during the years of her minority. That is a point in his favour, you must admit. Nevertheless, said the young girl, I think there is something wrong in the Jones family. It isn't due to Elora. She's a dear little thing, wild and untamed but very lovable, I'm sure. So the fault must lie with her boorish father. Allowing that once he was a big man, something has mysteriously soured him and rendered his life hateful, not only to himself but to all around him. Look, Mary Louise, we're getting into Sorrento, said the Colonel. Here the road leaves the sea and crosses the plateau to the town. You'll like Sorrento, I'm sure, for it is one of the quaintest places in old Italy, and the hotel is really comfortable. CHAPTER X On Saturday, four noon, the Colonel engaged a carriage, a substantial one this time, and with Mary Louise drove to Jason Jones's villa, so that Elora might return with them in time for lunch. They did not see the artist, who was somewhere about the grounds but kept out of view, but Elora was ready and waiting, her cheeks flushed and her eyes alight, and she slipped her little foreign straw satchel in the carriage, and then quickly followed it, as if eager to be off. Father is rather disagreeable this morning, she asserted in a sharp voice, when they were on the highway to Sorrento. He repented his decision to let me go with you and almost forbade me, but I rebelled and—she paused—I have found that when I assert myself I can usually win my way, for father is a coward at heart. It pained Mary Louise to hear so unfilial a speech from the lips of a young girl. Colonel Hathaway's face showed that he, too, considered it unmanorly to criticise a parent in the presence of strangers. But both reflected that Elora's life and environments were unenviable, and that she had lacked, in these later years at least, the careful training do one in her station and society. So they definitely changed the subject and led the girl to speak of Italy and its delightful scenery and romantic history. Elora knew little of the countryside outside of the Sorrento peninsula, but her appreciation of nature was artistic and innately true, and she talked well and interestingly of the surrounding country and the quaint and amusing customs of its inhabitants. How long do you expect to remain here? asked Mary Louise. I've no idea, was the reply. Father seems entirely satisfied with our quarters, for he has no ambition in life beyond eating three simple meals a day, sleeping from nine at night until nine in the morning, and reading all the romances he is able to procure. He corresponds with no one save his banker in America and sees no one but the servants and me. But to me the monotony of our existence is fast becoming unbearable, and I often wonder if I can stand it for three years longer, until I'm eighteen. Then I shall be my own mistress and entitled to handle my own money, and you may rest assured I shall make up for lost time. They let that remark pass, also, but later in the afternoon, when luncheon was over and the two girls were wandering in the lovely gardens of the Hotel Vittoria, while the Colonel indulged in an afternoon siesta, Mary Louise led Elora to speak freely of her past life. My grandfather says that your mother must have left you a good deal of money, she remarked. Yes, Mama told me it was a large fortune, and I must guard it wisely and use it generously to help others less favoured, replied Elora thoughtfully. And she left it all in your father's keeping? Not the principle. That is all invested in thank goodness my father cannot touch it in any way. But the income is paid to him regularly, and he may do as he pleases with it. I am sure Mama expected I would have every reasonable wish gratified and be taught every womanly accomplishment, but I'm treated as a mere dependent. I'm almost destitute of proper clothing. Really, Mary Louise, this is the best dress I possess, and I've been obliged to educate myself, making a rather poor job of it, I fear. I read the best of father's books when he is done with them, and note carefully the manner in which the characters express themselves, and how they conduct themselves in society as well as in worldly contact. I do not wish to be holy gauche when I come into my kingdom, you see, and the books are my only salvation. I don't care much for the stories, but some of the good writers are safe guides to follow in the matter of dialogue and deportment. Fortunately my father's books are all in English. He doesn't understand much Italian, although I have learned to speak the language like a native, like our native servants, you know. Mary Louise reflected on this confession. I'm afraid, Elora, dear, that modern novels are not prone to teach morality or to develop a girl's finer intuitions, she said gravely. I think you express yourself very well. Better than I do, indeed, but you need association with those who can convey you to the right principles of thought and thus encourage your mental development. Culture and refinements seem to come more from association than from books, although there is an innate tendency in all well-born people to acquire them spontaneously. But there, you'll accuse me of preaching, and, after all, I think you've done just splendidly under rather trying circumstances. You don't know how trying they are, declared Elora with a sigh. Father and I are wholly uncongenial, and we fight on the slightest provocation. This morning our trouble was over money. I wanted a little to take with me, for my purse hasn't had Elora in it. But, no, not a centissimo would he give me. He insisted that if I was to be your guest you would pay all my expenses. Of course, said Mary Louise, but what does he do with all that big income? Is he saving it for you? No, indeed, he's saving it for himself. Mama told me, the last time I saw her before she died, that if father was good to me in kind and loving I could provide for him in some way after I came into my money. She said she would leave the manner of it to my judgment. But he isn't kind, or loving, or good, and knows very well that when I'm of age he'll never see another cent of my money. So now he's hoarding all my income for future use.  Yes, it does seem strange. I remember her saying that he loved luxury and all the comfort that money will buy, and so she wanted him to have this income to spend, because he was my father, and because she felt she had ruined his career as an artist by surrounding him with luxuries during their early married life, and afterward had embittered him by depriving him of them. But the man doesn't know what luxury means, Mary Louise. His tastes are those of a peasant. Yet once your mother loved him and believed in him, I think she believed in him. I'm quite sure she did. Then his nature must have changed. I can imagine, Elora, that when your mother first knew him he was hardworking and ambitious. He was talented too, and that promised future fame. But when he married a wealthy woman he lost his ambition, success being no longer necessary. After a period of ease and comfort in the society of his lovely wife, for grandpa says your mother was very lovely, he lost both the wife and the luxuries he enjoyed. A big man, Elora, would have developed a new ambition, but it seems your father was not big. His return to poverty after your mother's desertion made him bitter and reckless. Perhaps it dulled his brain, and that is why he is no longer able to do good work. He was utterly crushed, I imagine, and hadn't the stamina to recover his former poise. He must have been ten years or so in this condition, despairing and disinterested, when the Wheel of Fortune turned and he was again in the possession of wealth. He had now the means to live as he pleased. But those years had so changed him that he couldn't respond to the new conditions. Doubtless he was glad, in a way, but he was now content merely to exist. Doesn't that seem logical, Elora? Indeed, Mary Louise was delighted with her solution of the problem. It was in keeping with her talent for deducing the truth from meager facts by logically putting them together and considering them as a whole. It was seldom she aired in these deductions. But Elora seemed unimpressed, and noting her glum look, Mary Louise said again, Doesn't all this seem logical, dear? No, said Elora. Father isn't the man to be crushed by anything. He shrewd enough in his bourgeois way. Once, long ago, back in New York, a woman made him give her money. It was money, you know, and I have often thought that he ran away from America to escape her further demands. Who was the woman? My mother's nurse. Oh! Was it her wages, she demanded? Perhaps so. I may have misjudged father in that case. But it seemed to me, I was a mere child then, that it must have been a larger sum than wages would have amounted to. Yet, perhaps not. Anyhow, he left America right afterward, and when we had wandered a year or so in various countries, we settled down here. Won't he have to account for all the money he has spent and given away when you come of age? inquired Mary Louise. No. Mother distinctly told me that I was to ask for no accounting whatever. Her will says he is to handle the income as he sees fit, just as if it were his own, so long as he provides properly for his daughter and treats her with fatherly consideration. That's the only reason he keeps me with him, guarding my person but neglecting the other injunctions. If he sent me adrift, as I'm sure he'd like to do, I could appeal to the court, and his income would cease and another guardian be appointed. I believe there is something of that sort in the will, and that is why he is so afraid of losing me. But he gives me no chance to appeal to anyone, although I sometimes think I shall run away and leave him in the lurch. If I could get to Chicago and tell Judge Bernstead, my mother's lawyer, how I am treated, I believe he could make the court set aside my father's guardianship. But I can't get ten miles away from here for lack of money. How, your dear mother would grieve if she knew her plans for your happiness have failed! exclaimed Mary Louise. Elora frowned, and somehow that frown reminded Mary Louise of the girl's father. My mother ought to have known my father better, she declared sullenly. I must not criticize her judgment for her memory is my most precious possession, and I know she loved me devotedly. But there is one thing in her history I can never understand. And that, questioned Mary Louise curiously, as Elora paused, my mother was an educated woman, well bred and refined. Yes, Grandpa Jim told me that. Then how could she have married my father, who is not a gentleman, and never could have impressed a lady with the notion he was one? Mary Louise hesitated, for to admit this would send her deductions so carefully constructed, tumbling in ruins. But Elora ought to know the man. If that is true, dear, said she, it is the strangest part of your story, and of course we can only guess the reason, for the only one who could have explained it properly was your mother. Readers note. In this book there are two chapters numbered Chapter 11. This is the first chapter numbered Chapter 11. The next chapter numbered Chapter 11 will be renumbered, and all subsequent chapters will be renumbered as well. CHAPTER 12 of Mary Louise solves a mystery by L. Frank Baum. Read for LibriVox.org into the public domain. Jason Jones is frightened. When Elora had retired to her bedroom that night, Mary Louise told to her grandfather, who was her trusted confidant, all that the unhappy girl had related. Of course, she added, Elora's explanations dispel my half-formed suspicion that there is some mystery about Jason Jones. I now see that you were right, Grandpa Jim, to laugh at me when I suggested such a thing, for in truth the man is easily understood once you become acquainted with his history. However, I now dislike him more than ever.  He doesn't attempt to mask his nature, and a stranger is bound to see him at his worse. Doubtless Antoinette Siever understood the man better than we are able to, and sixteen years ago or so, when he had youth, talent, and ambition, his disagreeable characteristics were probably not so marked. As for Elora, she is strongly prejudiced against her father, and we must make due allowances for her bitterness. The feeling probably arose through her sudden transfer from the care of a generous and loving mother to that of an ungracious father, a parent she had never before known. A child of eleven is likely to form strong affections and passionate dislikes.  It seems so unnatural. I wish we could bring them to understand one another, Grandpa Jim. That might prove a difficult task, my dear, he replied with a smile, gently stroking her hair, the while, and I do not think we are justified in undertaking it. How many times during our travels, Mary Louise, has your impulsive and tender heart urged you to assume the burdens of other people? You seem to pick up a trail of sorrow or unhappiness with the eagerness of a bloodhound, and I have all I can do to call you off the scent. One small girl can't regulate the world, you know, and in this case we are likely to see very little of Elora Jones and her artist father. We will be nice to them during the few days we are here, but we must soon move on, or we'll never get home for your birthday as we have planned. Mary Louise sighed. You're almost always right, Grandpa Jim, she admitted, but in all our European travels I've not met so interesting a person as Elora, and she's an American girl which draws us still closer together. I'm going to make her promise that when she's of age and her own mistress she will let me know and come to us for a visit. Wouldn't that be all right, Grandpa? He assured her it would be quite proper and that he also admired Elora and was sorry for her. On Sunday afternoon they went to the cathedral, and in the afternoon took a boat to the Blue Grottoes. In the evening there was a concert in the hotel. All that day the two girls were arm in arm and chatting together, developing their mutual liking, while the old Colonel trudged along in their wake and was generally ignored in the conversation. On Monday they planned an excursion to Capri, for you won't mind if we don't get you home until after dinner, will you? Not at all, said Elora, I want to make the most of this vacation. Her father may mind, however, suggested the Colonel. I don't care whether he does or not, retorted the girl, tossing her head. He has no consideration for me, so why should I consider him? I don't like that attitude, dear, said Mary Louise, frankly. I—I don't wish to be snippy, you know, but you should not forget that he is your father.  On Monday morning they had scarcely finished breakfast when Jason Jones appeared at the hotel, having driven from over the villa in his little automobile, a tiny foreign contrivance that reminded one of a child's cart, but could cover the ground with considerable speed. They were sitting on the big piazzo when Elora's father came striding up to them with a white, fierce-druck face. In his trembling hands he held the morning Naples newspaper, and without a word of greeting he said abruptly, Have you heard the news? Colonel Hathaway rose and bowed. Good morning, Mr. Jones, said he. I do not read the local newspapers, for my knowledge of Italian is indifferent. So is mine, responded the artist, but I know enough of their lingo to make out that Italy has entered this full war. She's going to fight the Austrians, he continued, his voice shaking nervously. And do you know what that will mean, sir? I can't imagine, replied the Colonel calmly. It means that presently we'll have all that horde of Germans overrunning Italy. They'll conquer this helpless land as sure as fate, and will all be burned out and tortured and mutilated in the fiendish German way. My dear sir, you are frightened without warrant, declared Colonel Hathaway. It will take some time to conquer Italy, and I cannot imagine the Austrians acting as you suggest. Back of the Austrians are the Germans, and those pressions are worse than wild American Indians, insisted Jones. If they got their clutches on my daughter it would be a more horrible than death, and I don't propose to leave her in danger a single minute. I'm going to quit this country. I've come for Elora. We must pack up and catch the first ship from Naples for America. There was blank silence for a moment. I'm not afraid, said Elora, with a laugh, but if it means our getting out of this tiresome place and sailing for home, I'm glad that Italy's gone into the war. Colonel Hathaway was grave and thoughtful. The agitation of the artist seemed to increase with every moment. When does the next boat for America leave Naples? asked Mary Louise. Tuesday, said Elora's father, we've just time to pack our possessions and leave. Time, cried his daughter, why I can pack all my possessions in an hour. Go home, sir, and fuss around as much as you like. I'll join you some time this evening.  We are surely safe enough for the present, remarked the Colonel. The first act of war will be to send all the soldiers to the north border. The fighting will be done in the Trentino for some time to come. You don't know these people, said Jones, shifting uneasily from one foot to another. They're all brigands by nature and many of them by profession. As soon as the soldiers are all sent north, all law and order will cease, and brigandage will be the order of the day. This is absurd, exclaimed the Colonel, testily. You're not talking sense. It's a matter of opinion, sir, but I know my own business and I'm going to get out of here. Wait a week longer, suggested Mary Louise. We are to sail ourselves on the boat that leaves Naples a week from Tuesday, and it will be nice for Elora and me to travel home together. No, I won't wait. Get your things, Elora, and come with me at once. Have you made reservations on the boat? inquired Colonel Hathaway, refusing to be annoyed by the man's brusque words and rough demeanor. I'll do that at once by telephone. That's the one reason I came over. I'll telephone the steamship office while the girl is getting ready. I will go with you, said the Colonel, as the artist turned away. While Jones used the telephone booth of the hotel, Colonel Hathaway conversed with the proprietor and afterward with the Hall Porter, who was better posted and spoke better English. This is outrageous, roared the artist, furiously bursting from the booth. Tomorrow's boat is abandoned. The government requires it as a transport. Why, why, why? And he wrung his hands despairingly. I do not know, sir, returned the Colonel, smiling at his futile passion. The smiles seemed to strike Jones like a blow. He stopped abruptly and stared at the other man for a full minute, intently, suspiciously. Then he relaxed. You're right, he said coldly. It's folly to quarrel with fate. I've booked for a week from Tuesday, Hathaway, and we must stick it out till then. Do you take the same boat? That is my intention. While there's no object, now I'll go get Elora. But Elora, hearing of the postponed sailing, positively refused to return home with him, and Mary Louise, supporting her new friend, urged her to extend her stay with her at the hotel. Strangely enough, the more he was opposed, the more quiet and composed the artist became. He even ceased to tremble, and an odd apathy settled over him. The Hall Porter, said the Colonel, thinks this is the safest spot in Italy. The troops have been on the border for months, and their positions are strongly fortified. There is no brick-indige outside of Sicily, where the mafia is not yet wholly suppressed. Jones grinned rather sheepishly. All right, take his word for it, said he, and if you'll be responsible for the girl you may keep her till we're ready to sail. Perhaps that's the best way after all. Then, without a word of good-bye, he entered his little motor-car and started down the driveway. A strange man, said the Colonel, looking after him. I wonder if it really was the war that frightened him, or something else, or if he was actually frightened at all. Elora laughed. You can't guess, Father, try as you may, she said. Usually he is as cold as ice, but once in a while he gets these wild fits, which I find rather amusing. You can't understand that, of course, but if you were obliged to live under the same roof with Jason Jones, you would welcome his outburst as relief from the monotony of contemptuous silence. End of Chapter 12 Read by Cibella Denton For more free audiobooks or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Chapter 13 Of Mary Louise Solves a Mystery by L. Frank Baum Read for LibriVox.org into the public domain Silvio's Gold Jason Jones urged his little car to its best speed until he gained his villa. Entering the ground, he was confronted by his factotum, the Italian, Silvio. He sprang out and approached the man. Is the prisoner safe? he whispered. Certainly, Signore. Is she still in the grape-house? With the wine-presses, Signore. And she can't get out? Unless she becomes small like a rat, Signore. Jones glanced around suspiciously, then fixed his gaze on a little outbuilding of stone, with a tiled roof which stood quite removed from the others of the group. Has she screamed or cried out? he asked the man. Not since I put her in last night, Signore. Good. You fed her? The plenty. She ate very well. It's a nice lady, Signore. She's dangerous. Listen, Silvio. We must keep her there a week or longer. If I am jailor a week, I must double my price, he asserted, shrugging his shoulders. Nonsense! The lady will offer me more to let her out. She says so. What? You betray me? Not if I have the gold here in my hand. Now, Signore. Jones grew red and then white. He eyed the man wickedly. He scowled, and Silvio smiled pleasantly. Silvio was big for an Italian, big and brawny, as his smile faded his face assumed a look of stubborn determination. So you want the gold now, Silvio? At once, if it pleases the Signore. The gendarmes are ugly if the law is broken. Their jails are not as pleasant as the grape-house. So the gold must be twice the amount we had spoken of, Signore. And then you will promise, you shall not escape, that you'll keep her safe until—until I tell you to let her go? That is our bargain, Signore. Jones sighed regretfully. Very well then, Silvio, he said, you're a robber, the son of a brigand, the spawn of a bandit. But come with me to the house, and you shall have your gold. Elora stayed all that week with Mary Louise, hearing nothing of her father and almost forgetting her unhappiness in the society of her delightful new friend. It was Sunday evening when the Colonel and Mary Louise drove their guest over to the villa, and the two parties did not see one another again until they met on the deck of the steamer in Naples, on the following Tuesday morning. The Joneses came aboard very quietly, just at the last moment, and at the gang-plank, Elora's father was confronted by a grimy Italian boy who handed him a letter. Without pausing to read it, Jones hurried below, and he kept his stateroom until the ship was well out in the blue Mediterranean, on its way to Gibraltar in New York. But no one missed him. For Elora and Mary Louise were happy at being reunited, and Grandpa Jim was happy in seeing them happy.