“I haven’t the least idea what kind of a time you’ll have,” Mary Alice’s mother said, “but you mustn’t expect many parties or much young society.  Your godmother has been abroad so long, she can’t have many acquaintances in this country now.  But you’ll see New York—­the crowds and the shops and the great hotels and the places of historic interest.  And even if you don’t meet many people, you’ll probably have a very interesting time.”

“I don’t care about people, anyway,” returned Mary Alice.

Her mother looked distressed.  “I wouldn’t say that, if I were you,” she advised.  “Because you want to care about people—­you must!  Sights are beguiling, but they’re never satisfying.  We all have to depend on people for our happiness—­for love.”

“Then I’ll never be happy, I guess,” said Mary Alice.

“I’m afraid, sometimes, that you’ve started out not to be,” her mother answered, gravely, “but we’ll hope for the best.”

II

YOUR OWN IS WAITING

Mary Alice dreaded to meet her godmother.  The excitement of getting away was all very well.  But once she was alone in the Pullman, and the friendly faces on the station platform were left behind, she began to think apprehensively of what she was going to.  She was sure to feel “strange” with her godmother, and there was at least a pretty good chance that she might actually dislike her.  Also, there was every reason to doubt if her godmother would like Mary Alice.  Mary Alice had several times met persons who had “been to Europe,” and she had never liked them; their conversation was all about things she did not know, and larded with phrases she could not understand.  Those years in Europe made her doubly dread her godmother.

But the minute she saw her godmother at the Grand Central Station, she liked her; and before they had got home, in the Fourth Avenue car, she liked her very much; and when she lay dozing off to sleep, that first night in New York, she was blissfully conscious that she loved her godmother.

Godmother lived in an apartment in Gramercy Park.  It was an old-fashioned apartment, occupying one floor of what had once been a handsome dwelling of the tall “chimney” type common in New York.  All around the Square were the homes of notable persons, and clubs frequented by famous men.  Godmother was to point these out in the morning; but this evening, before dinner was served, while she and Mary Alice were standing in the window of her charming drawing-room, she showed which was The Players, and indicated the windows of the room where Edwin Booth died.  It seemed that she had known Edwin Booth quite well when she was a girl, and had some beautiful stories of his kindness and his shyness to tell.

Mary Alice was surprised and delighted, and she looked over at the windows with eager, shining eyes.  “He must have been wonderful to know,” she said.  “Do you suppose there are many other great people like that?”