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Updated: June 11, 2025
Lemarc and Sefton, speaking together, had dropped far behind; Hasbrook was close to Madden's elbow. So they passed down the street. Ygerne Bellaire, standing now in front of Marquette's, watched them wonderingly. Sothern came first to the dugout. The door being open, he passed in without stopping. He laid the inert form down gently and came back to the door.
It was, in truth, a remarkable summer home; and while we leave the girls here to explore its glories, we may take a moment to recall the other two volumes of this series: "The Girl Scout Pioneers; or Winning the First B. C." and the second "The Girl Scouts at Bellaire; or Maid Mary's Awakening."
"You said this was the younger set but that awful Thompson- Bellaire widow is here, and that blonde girl I met with her." "Alice Wyeth?" "Yes. I thought she was going to kiss you." Bob grinned. "So did I. She will, too, if she feels like it." "Won't you have anything to say about it?" "What could I say? Alice does just as she likes. So does everybody else, for that matter.
Marshall Sothern had been right; the time had come when a woman's responsibilities were to be greater than those of the head of a monster corporation. Banked and covered as it was in the ashes of the after years, there was the old living spark of humanity in David Drennen. Ygerne Bellaire came in time to fan it into a warming glow. The fire which should come from it should be her affair.
Drennen passed about the house and came to the door of the living room. There was no light shining under the door, but he knocked. In a little Mère Jeanne, a wrap thrown about her, came in answer. "May I see Miss Bellaire?" he said simply. "Will you tell her that it is important?"
He saw only Ygerne Bellaire, and the picture which she made would never grow dim in the man's mind though he lived a hundred years. She stood upon a monster bear skin. Upon the rug, strewn about her carelessly, their bright discs adance with reflected light, a thousand minted gold pieces caught the glint of the low sun. Her head was thrown back, her arms lifted.
He dropped suddenly to his knees, caught up the hem of her short skirt and pressed it to his lips. "You are the Queen of the Worl'!" "At last," she cried, her voice ringing triumphantly, "I have come into my own! For it is mine, mine, I tell you! You shall have your share, and Sefton and Marc! But it is mine, the heritage of Paul Bellaire!"
He was a little boy, gone black-berrying, and Ygerne Bellaire went with him. His dugout was a cabin in the Yukon where he had lived a year, or it was a speeding train carrying him away from an old home and into the wilderness. There were times when Marshall Sothern, bending over him, was an enemy, torturing him.
In a short time he saw the dark head nodding, and he drew Jinnie down against his arm, whispering: "Sleep a while, child; I'll wake you up at Bellaire." Jinnie Singleton watched Theodore King leave the train at the little private station situated on his own estate.
His brain caught the words; his mind refused to grasp their meaning. And yet Ygerne had written clearly: "Dear Mr. Drennen: The greetings of Ygerne, Countess of Bellaire, to the Son of a Thief! Thank you for a new kind of summer flirtation. May your next one be as pleasant. A man of such wonderful generosity deserves great happiness. Good-bye. Simple enough. And yet the words meant nothing to him.
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