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diff --git a/old/60418-h/60418-h.htm b/old/60418-h/60418-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index f3e153b..0000000 --- a/old/60418-h/60418-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,7039 +0,0 @@ -<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" - "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> - <head> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> - <title> - The Project Gutenberg eBook of New Bed-Time Stories, by Louise Chandler Moulton. - </title> - <link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> - <style type="text/css"> - -body { - margin-left: 10%; - margin-right: 10%; -} - - h1,h2 { - text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ - clear: both; -} - -div.chapter { page-break-before: always; } -h2.nobreak { page-break-before: avoid; } - -p { - margin-top: .5em; - text-align: justify; - margin-bottom: .5em; -} - -.p1 {margin-top: 1em;} - -hr { - width: 20%; - margin-top: 2em; - margin-bottom: 2em; - margin-left: 40%; - margin-right: 40%; - clear: both; -} -hr.pb { page-break-after: always; } -hr.tight { margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em; } - -.pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ - /* visibility: hidden; */ - position: absolute; - left: 92%; - font-size: smaller; - text-align: right; -} /* page numbers */ - -.blockquot { font-size: smaller; } -.smcap { font-variant: small-caps; } -.u { text-decoration: underline; } -.caption { font-weight: bold; } - -/* Images */ -img { - max-width: 100%; /* no image to be wider than screen or containing div */ - height:auto; /* keep height in proportion to width */ -} - -.figcenter { - margin: auto; - text-align: center; - max-width: 100%; /* no image to be wider than screen */ -} - -.figright { - float: right; - clear: right; - margin-left: 1em; - margin-bottom: 1em; - margin-top: 0; - margin-right: 0; - padding: 0; - text-align: center; - max-width: 100%; /* no image to be wider than screen */ -} - -.ph1, .ph2, .ph3, .ph4 { text-align: center; text-indent: 0em; } -.ph1 { font-size: xx-large; margin: .67em auto; font-weight: bold; } -.ph2 { font-size: x-large; margin: .75em auto; } -.ph3 { font-size: large; margin: .83em auto; } -.ph4 { font-size: medium; margin: 1.12em auto; } -.bd { font-weight: bold; } -.hang { padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em; } - -/* Poetry */ -.poem { - margin-left:10%; - margin-right:10%; - text-align: left; -} -.ital {font-style: italic;} -.poem br {display: none;} -.poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} -.poem span.i0 {display: block; margin-left: 0em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} -.poem span.i2 {display: block; margin-left: 1em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} -.poem .poet {margin-left: 10em;} - -table {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;} -.conpag {text-align: right; vertical-align: bottom;} -.conpgh {text-align: right; vertical-align: bottom; padding-left: 2em; font-weight: normal; font-size: 80%;} - -/* Transcriber's notes */ -.transnote {background-color: #E6E6FA; - color: black; - font-size:smaller; - padding:0.5em; - margin-bottom:5em; - font-family:sans-serif, serif; } - </style> - </head> -<body> - - -<pre> - -Project Gutenberg's New Bed-Time Stories, by Louise Chandler Moulton - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: New Bed-Time Stories - -Author: Louise Chandler Moulton - -Release Date: October 3, 2019 [EBook #60418] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NEW BED-TIME STORIES *** - - - - -Produced by Sonya Schermann, Nigel Blower and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - - - - - -</pre> - - -<hr class="pb" /> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/i_frontis.jpg" width="600" alt="" /> -<div class="caption">Day after day Johnny watched.—<span class="smcap">Page <a href="#Page_15">15</a>.</span></div> -</div> - -<hr class="pb" /> - -<h1><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1"></a><span class="smcap">New<br /> -Bed-Time Stories.</span></h1> - - -<p class="ph3"><small>BY</small><br /> -LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON,</p> - -<p class="ph4"><small>AUTHOR OF “BED-TIME STORIES,” “MORE BED-TIME STORIES,”<br /> -“SOME WOMEN’S HEARTS,” AND “POEMS.”</small></p> - - -<p class="ph4"><i>WITH ILLUSTRATIONS.</i></p> - - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/i_colophon.jpg" width="200" alt="" /> -</div> - - -<p class="ph3">BOSTON:<br /> -LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY,<br /> -1907</p> - -<hr class="pb" /> - -<p class="ph3"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2"></a> -<i>Copyright</i>, 1880,<br /> -<span class="smcap">By Louise Chandler Moulton</span>.</p> - - -<p class="ph4"><span class="smcap">Alfred Mudge & Son, Inc., Printers,<br /> -Boston, Mass., U. S. A.</span> -</p> - -<hr class="pb" /> - -<p class="ph2 poem"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3"></a><i>TO MISTRESS BROWN-EYES.</i></p> - -<div class="poem ital"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">At Christmas-tide, by Christmas fire,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">You’ll read these tales of mine;—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I see, above my story-book,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Your happy brown eyes shine.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Dear eyes, that front the future time<br /></span> -<span class="i2">So fearlessly to-day,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Oh, may from them some kindly Fate<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Keep future tears away,<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And give you all your heart desires,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">My little English maid,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For whom, in this far-distant land,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">My loving prayers are said!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I pray for Peace, since Peace is good,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">For Love, since Love is best:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">If prayers bring blessings, Brown-eyed Girl,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">How much you will be blest!<br /></span> -</div> -<p class="poet"> -L. C. M. -</p> -</div> - -<p><i>August, 1880.</i></p> - -<hr /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<a name="Page_4" id="Page_4"></a> -<h2 class="nobreak">CONTENTS.</h2> -<hr /> -</div> - -<table summary="Contents"> -<tr> -<th class="conpgh"> </th> -<th class="conpgh">PAGE</th> -</tr><tr> -<td class="smcap">“All a-Growin’ and a-Blowin’”</td> -<td class="conpag"><a href="#Page_5">5</a></td> -</tr><tr> -<td class="smcap">My Vagrant</td> -<td class="conpag"><a href="#Page_20">20</a></td> -</tr><tr> -<td class="smcap">Helen’s Temptation</td> -<td class="conpag"><a href="#Page_35">35</a></td> -</tr><tr> -<td class="smcap">The Surgeon of the Dolls’ Hospital</td> -<td class="conpag"><a href="#Page_56">56</a></td> -</tr><tr> -<td class="smcap">Pretty Miss Kate</td> -<td class="conpag"><a href="#Page_79">79</a></td> -</tr><tr> -<td class="smcap">A Borrowed Rosebud</td> -<td class="conpag"><a href="#Page_94">94</a></td> -</tr><tr> -<td class="smcap">Tom’s Thanksgiving</td> -<td class="conpag"><a href="#Page_106">106</a></td> -</tr><tr> -<td class="smcap">Finding Jack</td> -<td class="conpag"><a href="#Page_124">124</a></td> -</tr><tr> -<td class="smcap">Her Mother’s Daughter</td> -<td class="conpag"><a href="#Page_139">139</a></td> -</tr><tr> -<td class="smcap">My Quarrel with Ruth</td> -<td class="conpag"><a href="#Page_158">158</a></td> -</tr><tr> -<td class="smcap">Was it Her Mother?</td> -<td class="conpag"><a href="#Page_172">172</a></td> -</tr><tr> -<td class="smcap">The Lady from Over the Way</td> -<td class="conpag"><a href="#Page_186">186</a></td> -</tr><tr> -<td class="smcap">His Mother’s Boy</td> -<td class="conpag"><a href="#Page_200">200</a></td> -</tr><tr> -<td class="smcap">Dr. Joe’s Valentine</td> -<td class="conpag"><a href="#Page_217">217</a></td> -</tr> -</table> - -<hr class="pb" /> - -<p class="ph1"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5"></a>NEW BED-TIME STORIES.</p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="ALL_A-GROWIN_AND_A-BLOWIN">“ALL A-GROWIN’ AND A-BLOWIN’.”</h2> -<hr /> - -<p>It had been such a weary hunt for lodgings. -Not that lodgings are scarce in London. There -are scores of streets, whole districts, indeed, where -the house that did not say “Apartments” in its -window would be the exception.</p> - -<p>But Miss Endell wanted to combine a great deal. -She must be economical, for her funds were running -low; she must be near the British Museum, for she -wanted to consult many authorities for the book -about “Noted Irishwomen,” by which she hoped to -retrieve her fortunes; she wanted quiet, too, and -reasonably pretty things about her.</p> - -<p>For a week she had spent most of her time in -quest of the place where she could settle herself<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span> -comfortably for a few months. It was the gray -March weather. The mornings were dark, and the -gloom of coming dusk settled down early; and, during -all the hours between, Miss Endell had been -busy in that weary work of which Dante speaks, -“climbing the stairs of others.”</p> - -<p>At last, after much consideration, she had decided -to make a certain flight of stairs her own. -She had taken the drawing-room floor of No. 30 -Guilford Street; and with a comfortable feeling of -success she had paid her bill at the Charing Cross -Hotel, and driven to her new home.</p> - -<p>The drawing-room floor—that is to say, the -suite of rooms up one flight of stairs from the street—is -the most important part of a London lodging-house. -Whoever is kept waiting, when “the drawing-room”—as -it is the fashion to designate the -lodger who occupies that apartment—rings, the -ring must at once be “answered to.” That floor -rents for as much as all the rest of the house put -together, and is the chief dependence of anxious -landladies.</p> - -<p>Miss Endell, accordingly, was received as a per<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span>son -of importance. Her boxes were brought upstairs, -and her landlady, Mrs. Stone, bustled about -cheerfully, helping her to arrange things.</p> - -<p>At last every thing was comfortably placed, -and the tired new-comer settled herself in a low -chair in front of the glowing coal-fire, and glanced -around her.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Stone was still busy, wiping away imperceptible -dust. The door was open, and in the doorway -was framed a singular face, that of a pale, -slender child, with a figure that looked too tall for -the face, and great eager eyes, with such a wistful, -silent longing in them as Miss Endell had never -seen before.</p> - -<p>At the same moment Mrs. Stone also caught -sight of the child, and cried out a little crossly,—</p> - -<p>“Go away, you plague! Didn’t I tell you as -you wasn’t to ’ang round the new lady, a-worritin’ -her?”</p> - -<p>The child’s wistful face colored, and the tears -sprang to the great, sad eyes; but he was silently -turning away, when Miss Endell herself spoke. She -was not specially fond of children; but she had a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span> -kind heart, and something in the wan, pitiful face -of the child touched it.</p> - -<p>“Don’t send him away, Mrs. Stone,” she said -kindly. “Come in, my little man, and tell me -what your name is.”</p> - -<p>The child sidled in, timidly, but did not speak.</p> - -<p>“Don’t be afraid,” Miss Endell said. “What is -your name?”</p> - -<p>“Bless you, ma’am, he <em>can’t</em> speak!” said Mrs. -Stone.</p> - -<p>“Can’t speak?”</p> - -<p>“No; he was born with something wrong. Laws, -he can hear as well as anybody, and he knows all -you say to him; but there’s something the matter. -The last ‘drawing-room’ said that there was doctors, -she was sure, as could help him, but I haint -any money to try experiments.</p> - -<p>“Johnny was my brother’s child. His father -died before he was born, and his mother lived just -long enough to ’and over Johnny to me, and ask me -to take care of him.</p> - -<p>“I’ve done my best; but a lodging-house is a -worrit. What with empty rooms, and lodgers as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span> -didn’t pay, and hard times, I never got money -enough ahead to spend on doctors.</p> - -<p>“But you mustn’t have Johnny a-worritin’ -round. You’d get sick o’ that. The last ‘drawing-room’ -said it made her that nervous to see -him; and I halways thought she went off partly for -that.”</p> - -<p>“I will not let him trouble me, don’t be afraid; -but let him sit down here by the fire, and when I -find he disturbs me I’ll send him away.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Stone vanished, and Johnny took up his -station on a stool in a corner of the hearth-rug.</p> - -<p>Miss Endell busied herself with a book, but from -time to time she looked at the boy. His face was -pale and wistful still, but a half-smile, as sad as -tears, was round his poor silent mouth, and he was -gazing at his new friend as if he would fix every -line of her face in his memory for ever.</p> - -<p>For a long hour he sat there; and then Mrs. -Stone came to lay the cloth for dinner, and sent -him away to bed.</p> - -<p>The next morning he appeared again; and soon -it grew to be his habit to sit, almost all the day<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span> -through, and watch Miss Endell at her tasks. In -spite of her absorption, he occupied a good many of -her thoughts.</p> - -<p>Like him, she was an orphan; and she had few -close and vital interests in her life. She got to feel -as if it belonged to her, in a certain way, to look -after this silent waif of humanity more lonely still -than herself.</p> - -<p>Often she took an hour from her work to read -little tales to him, and it was reward enough to see -how his eyes brightened, and the color came into -his pale little face. She used to think that if her -work succeeded, Johnny should also be the better -for it. As soon as the first edition of “Noted Irishwomen” -was sold, she would have the best medical -advice for him; and if there were such a thing -as giving those lips language, it should be done.</p> - -<p>“Should you <em>like</em> to speak to me, Johnny?” she -asked one day suddenly.</p> - -<p>The boy looked at her, for one moment, with -eyes that seemed to grow larger and larger. Then -came a great rush of sobs and tears that shook him -so that Miss Endell was half-frightened at the effect<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span> -of her own words. She bent over and put her -hand on his head.</p> - -<p>“Don’t, Johnny! Don’t, dear!” she said tenderly.</p> - -<p>I doubt if any one had ever called the poor little -dumb boy “dear” before, in all his eleven years of -life. He looked up through his tears, with a glad, -strange smile, as if some wonderful, sweet thing -had befallen him; and then, in a sort of timid rapture, -he kissed the hem of Miss Endell’s gown, and -the slippered foot that peeped out beneath it.</p> - -<p>I think there is an instinct of motherhood in good -women that comes out toward all helpless creatures; -and it awoke then in Miss Endell’s heart. -After that she and Johnny were almost inseparable. -Often she took him with her on her walks, -and always when she worked he kept his silent -vigil on the hearth-rug.</p> - -<p>Miss Endell had one extravagance. She could -not bear to be without flowers. She did not care -much for the cut and wired bouquets of the florist, -but she seldom came home from her walks without -some handful of wall-flowers, or a knot of violets<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span> -or forget-me-nots. Now and then she bought a -tea-rose bud; and then Johnny always noticed -how lovingly she tended it—how she watched it -bursting from bud to flower.</p> - -<p>He got to know that this strange, bright creature -whom he idolized loved flowers, and loved tea-roses -best of all. A wild desire grew in him to -buy her tea-roses—not one, only, but a whole -bunch. He spent his days in thinking how it was -to be done, and his nights in dreaming about it. -A penny was the largest sum he had ever possessed -in his life, and a penny will not buy one tea-rose, -much less a bunch of them.</p> - -<p>One day Miss Endell took him with her when -she went to see a friend. It was a prosperous, good-natured, -rich woman in whose house they found -themselves. “Go and see the pictures, Johnny,” -Miss Endell said; and Johnny wandered down the -long room, quite out of ear-shot.</p> - -<p>Then she told his pathetic little story, and her -friend’s careless yet kind heart was touched. When -it was time for Miss Endell to go, she summoned -Johnny; and then the lady they were visiting gave<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span> -the boy a half-crown, a whole shining, silver half-crown.</p> - -<p>Johnny clasped it to his heart in expressive pantomime, -and lifted his wistful, inquiring eyes.</p> - -<p>“Yes, it is all yours,” the lady said, in answer; -“and don’t let any one take it away from -you.”</p> - -<p>Small danger, indeed, of that! The piece of silver -meant but one thing to Johnny,—tea-roses, unlimited -tea-roses.</p> - -<p>The next day he was taken ill. He had a fever,—a -low, slow fever. His aunt was kind enough to -him, but she had plenty to do, and Johnny would -have been lonely indeed but for Miss Endell.</p> - -<p>She had him brought each morning into her -room, and kept him all day lying on her sofa, giving -him now a kind word, now a draught of cold water, -and then a few grapes, with the sun’s secret in -them.</p> - -<p>One day Johnny drew something from his bosom, -and put it into Miss Endell’s hand. It was -the silver half-crown. He made her understand, -by his expressive gestures, that she was to keep it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span> -for him; and she dropped it into a drawer of her -writing-desk.</p> - -<p>At last Johnny began to get well. June came, -with all its summer sights and sounds, and strength -came with its softer winds to the poor little waif. -One day he stood before Miss Endell, and put out -his hand. She understood, and dropped the half-crown -into it. He hid it, with a sort of passion, in -his bosom, and Miss Endell smiled. Did even this -little waif, then, care so much for money?</p> - -<p>As soon as he could stand, he took up his station -on the balcony outside the windows, and watched -and watched.</p> - -<p>His friend thought only that the sights and -sounds of the street amused him. She was working -on at the “Noted Irishwomen,” which was -nearing its conclusion, and it quite suited her that -Johnny found the street so interesting.</p> - -<p>As for the child, he was possessed by only one -idea,—tea-roses. He watched to see the hand-barrows -come along, flower-laden and tempting.</p> - -<p>These same hand-barrows are a feature of London -street life. They are full of plants growing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span> -in pots, and also there are plenty of cut flowers. -The venders cry, as they pass along, “All a-growin’ -and a-blowin’!” and there is something exciting in -the cry. It seems part of the summer itself.</p> - -<p>Day after day, day after day, Johnny watched -and watched. Flowers enough went by,—geraniums -glowing scarlet in the sun, azaleas, white -heath, violets,—only never any tea-roses.</p> - -<p>But at last, one morning, he heard the familiar -cry, “<em>All a-growin’ and a-blowin’!</em>” and lo! as if -they had bloomed for his need, there were tea-roses—whole -loads of tea-roses!</p> - -<p>Miss Endell was busy, just then, with Lady -Morgan. She never noticed when the little silent -figure left the window, and hurried downstairs. -Out into the street that little figure went, and -on and on, in hot pursuit of the flower-barrow, -which by this time had quite the start of him.</p> - -<p>Down one street, up another, he ran, and always -with the silver half-crown tightly clasped in the -palm of his little hand.</p> - -<p>At last a customer detained the barrow; and -Johnny hurried up to it, panting and breathless.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span> -He put his hand out towards the tea-roses, and -then he held out his silver half-crown.</p> - -<p>The flower-seller looked at him curiously, -“Why don’t you speak, young ’un?” he said. -“Are you dumb? You want this ’alf-crown’s wuth -o’ them tea-roses?”</p> - -<p>Johnny nodded vehemently.</p> - -<p>The man took up a great handful of the pale -sweet flowers, and thrust them into the boy’s -hands, taking in exchange the half-crown, and putting -it away in a sort of pouch, along with many -silver mates.</p> - -<p>As for Johnny, there are in every life supreme -moments, and his came then. He held in his hand -the flowers that Miss Endell loved, and he was -going to give them to her.</p> - -<p>All his life he had felt himself in every one’s -way. She, only, had made him welcome to her -side. She had called him “dear,”—and now -there was something he could do for her. She -had loved one tea-rose: how much, then, would -she love a whole handful of tea-roses! His heart -swelled with a great wave of pride and joy.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span></p> - -<p>He thought of nothing but his flowers,—how -should he?—and he never even heard or saw the -butcher’s cart, tearing along at such a pace as John -Gilpin never dreamed of. And in a moment, -something had pushed him down,—something -rolled and crunched over him,—and he knew nothing; -but he held the flowers tight through it all.</p> - -<p>“Why, it’s Mrs. Stone’s dumb Johnny!” said -the butcher-boy, who had got down from his cart -by this time, and was addressing the quickly -assembled London crowd. “Gi ’e a hand, and -lift un up into my cart, and I’ll carry un home.”</p> - -<p>An awful inarticulate groan came from the poor -child’s dumb lips as they lifted him; but his hold -on the tea-roses never loosened.</p> - -<p>They carried him home, and into the house. -Mrs. Stone was shocked and grieved; and she -took her troubles noisily, as is the fashion of her -class. Miss Endell, still fagging away at Lady -Morgan, heard cries and shrieks, and dropped her -pen and hastened downstairs.</p> - -<p>“He’s dead! Johnny’s dead!” cried Mrs. Stone -and Miss Endell, white and silent, drew near.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span></p> - -<p>But Johnny was not dead, though he was dying -fast. The butcher-boy had hurried off for a doctor -and the three women, Mrs. Stone, her maid, -and her lodger, stood by helplessly.</p> - -<p>Suddenly Johnny’s wandering look rested on -Miss Endell. A great sweet smile of triumph -curved his mouth, lighted his eyes, kindled all his -face. With one grand last effort, he put out the -bunch of tea-roses, and pressed them into her hand.</p> - -<p>And then, as if death had somehow been more -merciful to him than life, and had in some way -loosed his poor bound tongue, he stammered out -the only words he had ever spoken—was ever to -speak,—</p> - -<p>“<em>For you!</em>”</p> - -<p>At length the doctor came and stood there, helpless -like the rest, for death was stronger than all -his skill. The shock and the hurt together had -quenched the poor frail life that was ebbing so -swiftly.</p> - -<p>Miss Endell bent and kissed the white quivering -lips. As she did so, the tea-roses she held touched -the little face.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span></p> - -<p>Was it their subtile fragrance, or this kiss, or -both together, which seemed for one moment to -recall the departing soul?</p> - -<p>He looked up; it was his last look, and it took -in the sweet woman who had been so gentle and -so loving to him, and the flowers in her hand.</p> - -<p>His face kindled with a great joy. A hero -might have looked like that who had died for his -country, or a man who had given his life joyfully -for child or wife.</p> - -<p>Johnny Stone had loved one creature well, and -that creature had loved tea-roses. What <em>could</em> -life have held so sweet as the death that found -him when he was striving to give her her heart’s -desire?</p> - -<hr /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="MY_VAGRANT">MY VAGRANT.</h2> -<hr /> -</div> - - -<p>We were in pursuit of Laura’s dressmaker, -and had just rung the bell at her door, -when a little boy presented himself, and, standing -on the lower step, uplifted a pathetic pair of blue -eyes, and a small tin cup held in a little grimy -hand. A large basket was on one arm; and -round his neck was one of those great printed -placards, such as the blind men wear who sit at -the street corners. Laura’s purse was always -fuller than mine; and she was extracting a bit of -scrip from it, while I bent my near-sighted eyes -on the boy’s label. Could it be that I read -aright? I looked again. No, I was not mistaken. -It read, in great, staring letters—</p> - -<p> -I HAVE LOST MY HUSBAND IN THE WAR.<br /> -</p> - -<p>In the war! And those blue eyes had not -opened, surely, till some time after the war was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span> -ended! His husband! I was bewildered. I -bent my gaze on him sternly, and asked, as -severely as I could,—</p> - -<p>“Young man, can you read?”</p> - -<p>Laura was fumbling away at the unanswered -door-bell. The boy looked as if he wanted to -run; but I put my hand on his arm.</p> - -<p>“Can you read?” I repeated gravely. I think -he shook in his shabby boots, for his voice was -not quite steady as he answered,—</p> - -<p>“Not much.”</p> - -<p>“Not much, I should think. Do you know -what this thing says that you’ve got round your -neck?”</p> - -<p>“Does it say I’m blind?” he asked, with a -little frightened quaver.</p> - -<p>“No, it says—but do you know what a husband -is?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, he comes home drunk, and beats Mag -and me awful.”</p> - -<p>“Did you ever know a boy of your age to have -a husband?”</p> - -<p>The blue eyes grew so wide open that I won<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span>dered -if they could ever shut themselves up -again; and Laura, who had turned round at my -question, looked as if she thought I had suddenly -gone mad. The little dressmaker had opened the -door, and stood there waiting meekly, with the -handle in her hand. But my spirit was up, and I -did not care for either of them. I asked again, -very impressively, as I thought, with a pause after -each word,—</p> - -<p>“Did—you—ever—know—a—boy—of—your—age—to—have—a—husband?”</p> - -<p>“No, marm,” he gasped, “husbands belongs to -women.”</p> - -<p>“Then what do you wear this thing for? It -says that you have lost your husband in the war.”</p> - -<p>The imp actually turned pale, and I almost pitied -him.</p> - -<p>“Will they put me in prison?” he asked, an -abject little whine coming into his voice. “<em>Will</em> -they?”</p> - -<p>“Did you steal it?”</p> - -<p>“I didn’t to say steal it—I just <em>took</em> it. I’d -seen the rest put them on when they went out<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span> -begging, and this was old Meg’s. She wasn’t -going out to-day, and I thought no harm to -borrow.”</p> - -<p>“Then you can’t read?”</p> - -<p>“Well, not to say read, marm. I think I could -make out a word now and then.”</p> - -<p>“Do you want to?”</p> - -<p>The face brightened a moment, and, with the -curving lips and eager eyes, was really that of a -pretty boy.</p> - -<p>“Oh, if I could!” half sighed the quivering -lips; and then the smile went out, and left blank -despair behind it. “It’s no use, marm; she -won’t let me.”</p> - -<p>“Who won’t? Your mother?”</p> - -<p>“No, Mag’s mother—old Meg. My mother’s -dead, and I never had any father that ever I heard -of; and since mother died old Meg does for me; -and every day she sends me out to beg; and if I -don’t get much she whips Mag.”</p> - -<p>I was growing strangely interested.</p> - -<p>“Whips <em>Mag</em>, because <em>you</em> don’t get much?” -I said doubtfully. “What for?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span></p> - -<p>“I guess there’s a hard place on <em>me</em>, marm. -She found that it didn’t seem to hurt much, when -she whipped <em>me</em>; and so one night Mag was teasing -her to stop, and she turned to and whipped -Mag, and that made me cry awful; and ever -since, if I don’t get enough money, she whips -Mag.”</p> - -<p>“Are you sure you are telling me the truth?”</p> - -<p>I don’t know why I asked the question, for I -saw honesty in those clear eyes of his. He looked -hurt. Yes, you may laugh if you want to, I’m -telling you just as it was—the boy looked as -hurt as any of you would if I doubted you. -There came a sort of proud shame into his manner. -He clutched at the placard round his -neck, as if he would tear it off, and answered, -sadly,—</p> - -<p>“I s’pose I can’t expect anybody to believe me -with this round my neck; but, if you would go -home with me, Mag could tell you, and you would -believe <em>her</em>.”</p> - -<p>By this time Laura had gone in, leaving me to -finish my interview alone. I reflected a moment.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span> -The other day I had heard Tom say he wanted an -errand boy. Why should he not have this one? -Tom was my brother. I knew just the difficulties -he would make,—want of reference, a street beggar, -a regular rat of the gutter. I could fancy -just how he would talk. I knew, too, that I could -overrule his objections. That’s a power women -have when a man loves them; whether he be husband -or brother or friend. I hated the thought -of vice and ignorance and poverty. What if I -could save just one small boy from their clutches? -I said resolutely,—</p> - -<p>“Will you go home with me, and have a comfortable -home and good food and honest work, -and no one ever to beat you, and learn to read?”</p> - -<p>I had seen no assent in his eyes till I came to -this last clause of my sentence. Then he asked -shrewdly,—</p> - -<p>“Who’ll teach me? I can’t go to school and -do my work, too.”</p> - -<p>“I will teach you. Will you go and work -faithfully for my brother, and learn to read?”</p> - -<p>“Won’t I, just?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Well, then, let me speak to the lady who went -in, and I’ll take you home at once.”</p> - -<p>He shuffled uneasily.</p> - -<p>“If you please, marm, I can’t go till I’ve been -back to Meg’s, and carried her this board.”</p> - -<p>“But I’ll get a policeman to send a messenger -with that. If you go, perhaps she won’t let you -come to me.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, marm, I shall come. But you wouldn’t -believe me, sure, if I could steal away, like, and -never say good-by to Mag, and let her cry both -her eyes out thinking I’d been shut up, or somebody -had killed me.” And his own great blue -eyes grew pathetic again over this picture of sorrowful -possibilities.</p> - -<p>“Well, you may go,” I said, half reluctantly, -for the little vagabond had inspired in me a singular -interest. “You may go, and be sure you -come to-night or in the morning, to 70 Deerham -Street, and ask for Miss May.”</p> - -<p>He looked at me with a grave, resolved look.</p> - -<p>“I shall come,” he said; and in an instant he -was gone.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span></p> - -<p>That night, after dinner, I told Tom. He was -mocking, incredulous, reluctant—just as I knew -he would be. But it all ended in his promising to -try “My Vagrant,” if he ever came.</p> - -<p>Just as I had brought him to this pass, the bell -rang, and I sprang to the dining-room door. The -dining-room was the front basement, and the outside -door was so near that I opened it myself. It -was, indeed, my vagrant.</p> - -<p>“I want Miss May,” he said, with the air which -such a <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">gamin</i> puts on when he speaks to a servant,—an -air which instantly subdued itself into propriety -when he heard my voice.</p> - -<p>I took him in to Tom; and I saw the blue eyes -softened even the prejudiced mind and worldly -heart of Mr. Thomas May. He spoke very kindly -to the boy, and then sent him into the kitchen for -his supper.</p> - -<p>“Where do you propose to keep this new acquisition?” -he asked me, after the blue-eyed was out -of sight.</p> - -<p>“In this house, if you please. There is a little -single bed all ready for him in the attic, and I’ve<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span> -arranged with cook to give him a bath and then -put him into some of the clothes her own boy left -behind him when he went away to sea. I mean -to rescue this one soul from a starved and miserable -and wicked life, and I’m willing to take -some pains; and if you aren’t willing to do your -part I’m ashamed of you.”</p> - -<p>Tom laughed, and called me his “fierce little -woman,” his “angry turtle-dove,” and half-a-dozen -other names which he never gave me except when -he was in good humor, so I knew it was all right.</p> - -<p>Before three days were over Tom owned that my -vagrant, as he persisted in calling the boy (though -we knew now that his name was Johnny True), -was the best errand boy he had ever employed. I -myself taught him to read, as I had promised, and -brighter scholar never teacher had. In four -months he had progressed so fast that he could -read almost any thing. There had been a sort of -feverish eagerness in his desire to learn for which I -was at a loss to account. Sometimes, coming home -from some party or opera, I would find him studying -in the kitchen at midnight.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span></p> - -<p>We grew fond of him, all of us. Cook said he -was no trouble, and he made it seem as if she had -her own boy back again. He waited on Tom with -a sort of dog-like faithfulness; and, as for me, -I believe that he would have cut his hand off for -me at any time.</p> - -<p>Yet one morning he got up and deliberately -walked out of the house. When his breakfast was -ready cook called for him in vain, and in vain she -searched for him from attic to cellar. But before -it was time for Tom to go to business another boy -came, a little older than my vagrant,—a nice, -respectable-looking boy,—and asked for Mr. May. -He came into the dining-room and stood there, cap -in hand.</p> - -<p>“If you please, sir,” he said bashfully, “Johnny -True wants to know if you’ll be so good as to take -me on in his place, considering that he isn’t coming -back any more, and I have done errands before, -and got good reference.”</p> - -<p>He had made his little speech in breathless haste, -running all his sentences together into one.</p> - -<p>Tom looked at him deliberately, and lit a cigar.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Johnny isn’t coming back, hey?”</p> - -<p>“No, sir.”</p> - -<p>“Where is Johnny gone?”</p> - -<p>“He didn’t tell me, if you please, but he said he -should be hurt to death if it troubled you to lose -him, and he knew I could do as well as he could.”</p> - -<p>I saw a refusal in Tom’s eyes, so I made haste to -forestall it.</p> - -<p>“Do take him,” I said in a low tone to Tom, and -then I said to the boy that just now he had better -go to the store, and Mr. May would see him presently, -when he came to business.</p> - -<p>Tom laughed, a half-amused, half-provoked -laugh, when he went out, and said,—</p> - -<p>“Well, my dear, I don’t think your vagrant -has proved to be such a success that you need -expect me to let him choose my next errand boy.”</p> - -<p>“I think, at least, that if he has sent you one as -good as himself you will have no fault to find,” I -said hotly. But all the time there was a sore -place in my own heart, for I had thought that my -vagrant would have loved me too well to run away -from me in this way.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span></p> - -<p>That night Tom said that the new errand boy -was doing well, and he had concluded to keep him -on. I think Tom missed my vagrant; but not, of -course, so much as I missed my bright scholar—my -grateful little follower.</p> - -<p>Of course, the new boy lived in his own home, -wherever that might be. I did not concern myself -about him, or feel any disposition to put him in -the little bed in the front attic.</p> - -<p>Two or three weeks passed and we heard no -word from Johnny True. But at last a rainy -day came, and with it Johnny, asking for Miss -May.</p> - -<p>“I guess he’s repented,” cook said, coming upstairs -to tell me. I went down to Johnny, resolved -to be equal to the occasion—to meet him with all -the severity his ungrateful behavior deserved. -But, somehow, the wistful look in his blue eyes -disarmed me. He was a little thin and pale, too; -and my heart began to soften even before he -spoke.</p> - -<p>“I couldn’t stay away, ma’am,” he said, with the -clear accent he had caught so quickly from my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span> -brief teaching, “and not let you know why I -went.”</p> - -<p>“To let me know <em>when</em> you went would have -been more to the purpose,” I answered, with what -sternness I could command. “I had thought better -of you, Johnny, than that you were capable of -running away.”</p> - -<p>“But you see, ma’am, I was afraid you would -not let me go if I told you.”</p> - -<p>“And why did you want to go? Were you -not comfortable?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, ma’am—that was the worst of it.”</p> - -<p>“Why the worst of it? Have you any especial -objection to be comfortable?”</p> - -<p>Suddenly the blue eyes filled with tears, like a -girl’s; and there was a pitiful sob in the voice -which answered me.</p> - -<p>“Oh, it hurt me so, when I was warm, and had -a good supper, and everybody’s kind word, to -think of poor Mag there at home, cold and hungry, -and with old Meg beating her. I never should -have come and left her but for the learning to read. -<em>She</em> wanted me to come for that.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span></p> - -<p>“So you could read to her?”</p> - -<p>“So I could <em>teach</em> her, ma’am. You never in all -your life saw anybody so hungry to learn to read -as Mag; and when I went home that first day and -told her all you said, and told her that after all I -couldn’t go and leave her there to take all the -hard fare and hard words, she just began to cry, -and to tease me to go and learn to read, so I could -teach her, until I couldn’t stand it any longer, and -I came.”</p> - -<p>“And how did she know she would ever see you -again?” I asked. “It would have been most natural, -having learned what comfort was, to stay on -here and enjoy it.”</p> - -<p>“Mag <em>knew me</em>, ma’am,” said my vagrant, as -proudly as a prince could speak if his honor were -called in question. “Mag knew what I was, and I -learned as fast as I could to get back to her—don’t -you think so, ma’am?”</p> - -<p>“You learned faster than any one else could; I -know that,” I answered. “But, Johnny, how -could you bear to go back to begging again?”</p> - -<p>“I couldn’t bear it, ma’am, and I didn’t. I had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span> -money enough, that Mr. Tom had given me, to buy -myself a stock of papers. I’m a newsboy now, and -I teach Mag to read out of the papers I have left. -And old Meg knows better now than to beat Mag, -and we are so much happier. It’s all owing to you; -and I came back to thank you,—but I never could -forsake Mag for long. I must stay with my own.”</p> - -<p>“But they are not your own.”</p> - -<p>“Mag is, ma’am.”</p> - -<p>He was as resolute to ally himself, for that girl’s -sake, with poverty, and, if need were, shame, as -ever was a hero to live or die for the land of his -birth; and out in the rain, down the desolate -street, I watched my vagrant go away from me for -ever. But I did not pity him. No soul is to be -pitied which has reached life’s crowning good,—the -power to love another better than itself. Nor -do I know any curled darling of fortune who seems -to me happier than was my vagrant.</p> - -<hr /> - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="HELENS_TEMPTATION">HELEN’S TEMPTATION.</h2> -<hr /> -</div> - - -<p>The sun was almost setting, but its low light -came in at the western windows, and lit up a -pale face lying upon the pillows, till it seemed to -the watchers beside the bed as if some glory from -heaven had already touched the brow of the dying. -These watchers were only two,—a girl of fourteen, -rather tall of her age, with gray eyes that -were almost green sometimes, and dark hair, short -like a boy’s, and curling all over her head; and -a middle-aged woman, who had tended this girl -when a baby, and was half friend, half servant, to -the dying mother.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Ash had been lying all the day, almost in -silence. Her husband had brought her, a year -before, to California, because she was stricken -with consumption, and he hoped the change -from the harsh east winds of New England to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span> -the balmy airs of the Pacific coast might restore -her to health.</p> - -<p>For a time the result had seemed to fulfil his -hope; but, very suddenly, he himself had been -taken ill and died; and then the half-baffled disease -seized again on the mourning wife, who had -now no strength to repel its onset.</p> - -<p>I think she would fain have lived—even then, -when all the joy seemed gone from her life—for -her daughter Helen’s sake; but she was too weak -to struggle, and so she lay there dying, quite -aware of what was before her.</p> - -<p>All day she had seemed to be thinking, thinking, -and waiting till she had settled something in -her own mind before she spoke. At last, with the -sunset light upon her face, she beckoned to the -woman, who bent nearer.</p> - -<p>“As soon as all is over, Woods,” she said, as -tranquilly as if she were speaking of the most ordinary -household arrangement, “you will take Helen -to my sister’s in Boston. You must make the -journey by easy stages, so as not to tire her too -much. Fortunately she will not be dependent.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span> -She has money enough, and she needs only care -and love, which my sister will give her, I know -well.</p> - -<p>“I shall be glad if you can stay with her; but -that must of course be as Mrs. Mason will arrange. -You will find when my affairs are settled that you -have been remembered. You will lay me by my -husband’s side, and then take Helen away.</p> - -<p>“All is arranged so that there can be no trouble, -and now, if you please, leave me a little while with -my daughter.”</p> - -<p>The woman went out of the room, and then Mrs. -Ash opened her arms, and Helen crept into them -and lay there silently, as if she were a baby again -whom her mother comforted.</p> - -<p>She was a strange compound, this Helen Ash, of -impulsiveness and self-control. She had an intense -nature, and her temptations would grow chiefly -out of her tendency to concentrate all her heart on -a single object,—to seek whatever thing she wished -for with an insistence which would not be denied.</p> - -<p>This quality has its great advantages certainly, -but it has its extreme dangers.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span></p> - -<p>Helen had no brothers or sisters or special -friends. She had loved only her father and -mother, but she had loved them with an almost -excessive devotion.</p> - -<p>When her father died she had borne up bravely, -that she might comfort and help her mother, and -now she was bearing up still, that she might not -sadden that parting soul with the anguish of her -own.</p> - -<p>As she lay there in her mother’s arms, her eyes -were wide open and tearless, but they were full of -a desperate gloom sadder than tears. She was -almost as pale herself as was her mother.</p> - -<p>“Darling,” the mother said tenderly, “how can -I bear to leave you all alone? Promise me one -thing only, to open your heart to new love. It -would be so like you to shut yourself up in your -grief, and to fancy you were loving me less if you -let yourself care for your Aunt Helen.</p> - -<p>“She will love you for my sake, and she must -be your second mother now. We were dearer -than most sisters to each other, and she is a wise -and good woman.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Her daughter, my namesake Laura, is just -about your own age, and being her mother’s daughter, -she must be worth loving. Try to care for -them, my darling. The life which has no love in -it is empty indeed. Will you try?”</p> - -<p>“O mamma,” the girl cried, with a sudden, desperate -sob, “I <em>will</em> try because you bid me! I <em>will</em> -try; but oh, how <em>can</em> I love them? How <em>can</em> I -bear to see another girl happy with her mother, -and to know that you will never be with me any -more—never in all the world? If I call all day -and all night, you will never hear nor answer! O -my own mother, <em>must</em> you leave me?”</p> - -<p>“My darling, yes. I would have lived for your -sake if I could. You have been my comfort always. -Comfort me a little longer. Let me feel that in all -the future you will try to live nobly for my sake.”</p> - -<p>The last words had been spoken with an evident -effort, and it seemed to Helen that the cheek -against which her own rested was already colder -than it was half an hour ago.</p> - -<p>She clung closer to the poor wasted form that -was her whole world of love, and closed her lips<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span> -over the bitter cry that was rising to them; and so -the two lay, very, very quietly in that last embrace -they were ever to know.</p> - -<p>And the twilight gathered round them, and at -last a young moon, hanging low in the western sky, -looked in and touched with its pale glory the pale -faces on the pillow.</p> - -<p>The mother stirred a little, and with a last effort -clasped her child closer, and said, in a voice like a -sigh, faint and sweet and strange, “Good-by, -darling!” and then she seemed to sleep.</p> - -<p>Perhaps Helen slept, also. She never quite -knew; but it was an hour afterwards when Woods -touched her shoulder, and said, with a kind firmness -in her tone,—</p> - -<p>“You <em>must</em> get up now, Miss Helen, and leave -her to me. She went off just as quiet as a lamb, -poor dear, and if ever a face was peaceful and -happy, hers is now.”</p> - -<p>No one knew what the few days that followed -were to Helen Ash. She shut her lips, as her -manner was, over her grief. She turned away, -with her great tearless eyes, from the two graves<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span> -where her father and mother lay side by side, and -she helped, with a strange unnatural calmness, in -all the preparations for the long journey she was -to take.</p> - -<p>When at last she reached her aunt’s home in -Boston, this strained, unnatural composure gave -way a little.</p> - -<p>Her Aunt Helen looked so much like her -mother that at first she thought she could <em>not</em> -bear it. Then, when her aunt’s arms closed round -her almost as tenderly as her mother’s would have -done, she shivered a little, and burst into one -wild passion of tears, which almost instantly she -checked.</p> - -<p>“I am to love you for <em>her</em> sake,” she said. -“Those were almost her last words; and indeed, -indeed, I will try, but I think I left my heart all -those miles away in her grave.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Mason was, as her sister had said, a wise -and good woman,—wise enough not to attempt to -force the love or the interest of her niece. She -contented herself with being exquisitely gentle and -considerate towards her, and with trying, in count<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span>less -little ways, to make her feel that she was at -home.</p> - -<p>Laura Mason had looked forward to Helen’s -coming with a feeling that at last she was to find -in her the sister she had longed for all her life, but -Helen’s cold and self-contained manner disappointed -her. She felt the atmosphere of Helen’s -reserve almost as tangibly as if her orphan cousin -had pushed her away.</p> - -<p>The summer months passed, and scarcely brought -them any nearer together. Try as Helen might, she -could not get over the sting of pain when she saw -this other girl happy in her mother’s love, or running -gayly to meet her father when he came home -at night. <em>They</em> had each other, she used to say to -herself, but <em>she</em> had only her dead. She had not -even Woods to speak to, for Mrs. Mason had decided -not to retain her; and since there was no one to -whom Helen ever spoke of the past, she pondered -it all the more in her heart.</p> - -<p>Things were a little better when school commenced -in the autumn. Helen and Laura were in -the same classes, and that brought them somewhat<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span> -more together; still there was no real intimacy -between them.</p> - -<p>In the spring there was to be a competitive -examination, and a medal was to be bestowed on -the leading scholar in the class. By midwinter it -was quite evident that Helen and Laura led all the -rest, and a real spirit of rivalry grew up between -the cousins which bade fair to become a passion.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Mason looked on regretfully, adhering to -her difficult policy of non-interference. One day -Helen heard Laura say to her mother,—</p> - -<p>“Mamsie, dear, you know you have the key -to that French method locked up in your desk, for -you taught us from it last summer. Won’t you be -a dear, and lend it to me for a little while?</p> - -<p>“If I only could have that to help me, I should -be sure of success. I would study just as hard. -It would only be the difference between knowing -when one was right, and floundering on in an awful -uncertainty.”</p> - -<p>Helen was behind the curtain of the library -window, and evidently they did not know of her -presence. She waited for her aunt’s answer. If<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span> -Laura had the key, then, indeed, she would be -sure of success.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Mason spoke in a sad voice, with a subtile -little thrill of reproach in it.</p> - -<p>“I did not think you would so much as wish, -my dear, to do any thing that was not quite open -and straightforward. You know Mademoiselle -does not expect you to see the key. The very -test of your power is that you should work without -its aid, and the examination will prove how -far you have succeeded.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose there’s no use in coaxing, when you -say that. I do wish you weren’t such an uncoaxable -mamma.”</p> - -<p>“No, you don’t,—you only fancy that you wish -it; but, in your inmost soul, you would rather -have me as I am,” Mrs. Mason answered; and -Helen heard the sound of a kiss, and felt, for the -thousandth time, how bitter it was that this other -girl should have home and mother, while she had -only a far-off grave.</p> - -<p>But, at least, she would triumph in this school -contest! If Laura came off best there, it would -be more than she <em>could</em> bear.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span></p> - -<p>The weeks passed on, and the spring came. -The deep old garden back of the house—the garden -Helen’s mother had played in when she was a -child—grew full of bird-songs and blossoms.</p> - -<p>There was a sweet laughter on the face of nature. -The springs bubbled with it; the flowers -opened to the light; the sunshine poured down its -tender warmth, and the soft coo and call of the -birds gave voice to the general joy.</p> - -<p>But both Laura and Helen were too eager and -too tired to be gay. They only studied. They -went to sleep with books under their pillows; -they woke with the first light, and began to study -again.</p> - -<p>It was the very week of the examination, at -last. Helen felt satisfied with herself in all but -her French. If <em>she</em> could only have that key for -one little half-hour, she knew she would have no -weak spot in her armor.</p> - -<p>She brooded over the idea until the temptation -possessed her like an evil fate. In her passionate -girl’s heart she said to herself that she wanted to -<em>die</em> if Laura triumphed over her at school. Laura<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span> -had every thing else; why <em>should</em> she have that, -also?</p> - -<p>She had said at first, “If only it were <em>right</em> to -have the key!” Then she said, “if only she -could <em>chance</em> on the key, somehow!” Then, “if -only she could get at her aunt’s desk and <em>find</em> the -key!” At last it was,—</p> - -<p>“I <em>will</em> get at the key, somehow!”</p> - -<p>This last was the very morning before the examination. -She rose from her bed in the dainty -blue-hung room her aunt had taken such pains to -make pretty for her, and went softly downstairs, -in the young spring morning.</p> - -<p>Her bare feet made no sound on the thick stair-carpet. -She looked like a little white-clad ghost -that had forgotten to flee away at the first cock-crowing, -as an orthodox ghost ought; but no -ghost ever had such glowing cheeks, crimson with -excitement, such great wide-opened gray eyes -with green depths in them.</p> - -<p>She held in her hand a large bunch of keys belonging -to her mother. It was just a chance -whether one of them would fit her aunt’s desk.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span></p> - -<p>She fairly trembled with excitement. She had -lost all thought of the wrong she was doing—of -the shame and meanness of this act, which must be -done in silence and mystery; she thought only of -the triumph which success would mean.</p> - -<p>She stood before the desk, and tried key after -key with her shaking fingers.</p> - -<p>At last one fitted. In a moment more the key -to the French method was in her hand.</p> - -<p>In desperate haste she compared her own work -with it, and made corrections here and there.</p> - -<p>She was so absorbed that she quite failed to see -another white-clad figure which had followed her -noiselessly down the stairs, and stood in the doorway -long enough to see what she was doing, and -then went away.</p> - -<p>Hurriedly Helen went through her evil task, -and then stole back to bed, with her glittering -eyes and burning cheeks.</p> - -<p>Meantime Laura had gone, full of excitement, -to her mother. Mr. Mason was away on business, -and Laura crept into the empty half of her mother’s -great bed.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Mamsie,” she said, “wake up quickly, and -listen.”</p> - -<p>Patient Mrs. Mason rubbed the sleep out of her -eyes, and turned over. Then followed Laura’s -breathless story.</p> - -<p>“Of course she’ll win, now,” Laura said, in -conclusion, “unless I tell Mademoiselle what she -has done; and I suppose you wouldn’t like that, -would you, mamsie?</p> - -<p>“But it was her French that was the shakiest -of any thing. Oh, <em>did</em> you ever see any thing quite -so mean? Think of getting into your desk with -her keys, and then slying off all those corrections!”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I <em>do</em> think,” Mrs. Mason answered, with -almost a groan.</p> - -<p>“And she is Laura’s child—my poor Laura, -who was honor and honesty itself!</p> - -<p>“You don’t know, dear, what a bitter thing -this is to me. Poor Laura! what if she -knows?”</p> - -<p>“But what shall we do, mamsie, dear? Are -we just to keep still, and let her win the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span> -medal, and let every one think she has beaten -fairly, or will you tell her what we know?”</p> - -<p>“Will you go away now,” Mrs. Mason said, -“and come back again before breakfast? I don’t -want to say any thing until I am quite sure what -it is best to do.”</p> - -<p>When Laura came again, Mrs. Mason had settled -upon her course of action, or rather of inaction.</p> - -<p>“Don’t be vexed, girlie,” she said to Laura; “I -know it will seem hard to you to be beaten unfairly; -but there are things of more consequence -even than that. The thing that seems to me most -important, just now, is to know what Helen’s -character really is. If she is not utterly unworthy -of her mother, she will repent before the thing -comes to an end. If she does not, it will be time -enough to think what to do next.”</p> - -<p>“And I must let her beat unfairly, and never -say one word?” Laura asked, with a little strain of -rebellion in her voice.</p> - -<p>“Yes, if you are the obedient and generous -Laura I like to believe you.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Mamsie, you have a flattering tongue, and you -always get your way.”</p> - -<p>“And who is pretty sure always to admit, in the -end, that it was the best way?” asked Mrs. Mason, -laughing.</p> - -<p>“Mamsie, you are getting spoiled. See if I say -yours was the best way this time!”</p> - -<p>French came on the first of the two examination-days. -Laura and Helen led their class. Laura -did very well, but Helen acquitted herself triumphantly, -and sat down amid a little buzz of -congratulations and praises.</p> - -<p>But somehow the triumph left a bitter taste in -her mouth. She did not look at Laura, and even -if she had she would not have understood the -scorn on Laura’s face, since she was quite unaware -that her raid on her aunt’s desk had been observed.</p> - -<p>Still she was not happy. She needed no scorn -from outside, she had already begun to feel such -bitterness of self-contempt scorching her soul. It -seemed to her that up to this moment she had been -as one under an evil spell.</p> - -<p>She had thought of no single thing except her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span> -triumph over her cousin—quite careless as to the -means to this hotly desired end. Now she began -to realize how base those means had been, and to -long to exchange her success for any direst possible -failure.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Mason was watching her, and when they -started to go home, she found an instant in which -to whisper to Laura,—</p> - -<p>“Be gentle to her, girlie; she will suffer enough -to-night.”</p> - -<p>At supper Helen’s place was vacant. She sent -word that her head ached too much to come.</p> - -<p>Her aunt despatched to her room tea and strawberries -and bread-and-butter enough for the hungriest -of girls, and then left her to herself.</p> - -<p>The poor, lonesome, miserable girl lay upon her -bed and thought. It was not quite a year since -she had lain in her mother’s arms and heard her -say,—</p> - -<p>“Try to live nobly for my sake.”</p> - -<p>Those had been almost her mother’s last words; -after them there was only the low sigh, faint as if -it came already from far-off worlds,—</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Good-by, darling.”</p> - -<p>The low sun-rays stole in softly, and touched her -sad, pale face, and then went away; and after a -while some cold, far-off stars looked down into the -window, and saw the girl lying there still, fighting -her battle with herself.</p> - -<p>One thing her conscience told her,—that she -must undo this wrong, at whatever cost of shame.</p> - -<p>Once she started up, half-resolved to go to her -aunt and tell her the whole story, and seek her -help and counsel. But she lay down again, without -the courage to confess her shame.</p> - -<p>Through the long night she scarcely slept; but -before morning she had resolved what to do. In -public she had taken the wages of her sin; in -public she would make atonement, and eat the -bitter bread of humiliation.</p> - -<p>When she had once settled on her course of -action, sleep touched her weary eyes, and soothed -her into a forgetfulness from which only the breakfast-bell -awoke her.</p> - -<p>That day every one noticed a singular calmness -and resolve in her manner. She passed the remain<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span>ing -examinations with thorough success, yet with -an evident lack of interest in their result which all -save her aunt were at a loss to understand.</p> - -<p>At last the time came for the awarding of the -medal. There was a little consultation among the -examining committee, and then their chairman -rose, with the medal in his hand.</p> - -<p>“To Miss Helen Ash,” he began; but before he -could proceed farther, Miss Helen Ash herself -interrupted him.</p> - -<p>Her face was as white as the dress she wore, -and her eyes glittered with some strange fire of -resolve or courage; but her voice was absolutely -without a quiver of emotion in it, as steady and -even as if she were beyond hope or fear.</p> - -<p>“The medal does not belong to me,” she said. -“My success was a false success. I dishonestly -found the key to the French method, and corrected -my mistakes by it, or I should have failed. -The prize belongs, of right, to my cousin, Laura -Mason.”</p> - -<p>The chairman was a fussy little man, and was -thoroughly discomposed by this interruption. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span> -had had his little speech all ready, but it began -with the name of Helen Ash, and he found it -difficult to change it at a moment’s notice.</p> - -<p>“Bless my heart!” he said quite unconsciously, -and looking helplessly around him, he repeated, -“<em>Bless</em> my heart!”</p> - -<p>“Miss Laura Mason,” suggested one of his -brethren on the committee; and thus reinforced, -he began again,—</p> - -<p>“Miss Laura Mason, I am very sorry—I mean -I am very glad, to bestow on you this medal, which -you have fairly earned by your success.”</p> - -<p>And then he sat down, and his confusion was -covered by a gentle little clapping of hands.</p> - -<p>That night Mrs. Mason went to Helen in her -own room, when the twilight shadows were falling, -and as she entered the door she said, “My darling,” -in a voice so like Helen’s mother’s that the -girl’s very heart sprang to meet it.</p> - -<p>“My darling, I know now that you are true -enough and brave enough to be my sister’s -child.”</p> - -<p>But Helen shrank back into the darkness, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span> -this time the voice was broken with tears which -faltered,—</p> - -<p>“Is there any one who could know what I have -done, and yet not despise me?”</p> - -<p>“There is no one, dear, who dares to scorn the -soul that repents and atones.”</p> - -<p>And then loving arms held the poor lonesome -girl close, and she knew that she was no longer -alone. She had found a new home—the home -her mother bade her seek—in the heart of that -mother’s sister.</p> - -<hr /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_SURGEON_OF_THE_DOLLS">THE SURGEON OF THE DOLLS’ HOSPITAL.</h2> -<hr /> -</div> - -<p>It was nearly four years ago that I first noticed, -in one of the quiet side-streets in the West -Central district of London, a sign over a door on -which I read:—</p> - -<p>DOLLS’ HOSPITAL.</p> - -<p>Operations from 9 <span class="smcap">A.M.</span>, to 4 <span class="smcap">P.M.</span></p> - -<p>Whenever I passed through the street—and -that was often, for it was a short cut to Mudie’s,—the -largest circulating library in the world,—I used -to notice this quaint sign, and wonder, laughingly, -who was the superintending physician to this place -of healing for the numerous race of dolls.</p> - -<p>I often thought I would go in and see the establishment; -but one is always busy in London, so, -very likely, I should never have entered its door -but for a casualty at my own fireside.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span></p> - -<p>When I went downstairs one morning, I heard -a sound of weeping, as bitter as that of Rachel of -old mourning for her children. The mourner in -this case was Mistress Brown-Eyes, as I was wont -to call my friend’s little girl.</p> - -<p>She was a pretty child, this little Milicent; but -you forgot to think about the rest of her face when -you saw her wonderful eyes—soft and clear, yet -bright, and of the warmest, deepest, yet softest -brown. She had made her home in my heart, and -so her grief, whatever it was, appealed at once to -my sympathies.</p> - -<p>“My darling,” I said, as I tried to draw away -the little hands from before the sorrowful face, -“what can be the matter?”</p> - -<p>“Bella is dead!” and the sobs recommenced -with fresh violence.</p> - -<p>Bella was the best-beloved of a somewhat large -family of dolls,—a pretty Parian creature, with -blue eyes and fair hair. I had myself lately -assisted in making a trunk of clothes for Bella; -and I grudged sorely all my wasted labor, if she -had come to an untimely end.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span></p> - -<p>I looked at the dear remains, stretched out sadly -upon a chair. Bella was evidently very dead indeed. -Her pretty neck was broken, her fair, -foolish head lay quite severed from her silken-clad -body. Suddenly there flashed into my -mind the thought of the dolls’ hospital. I spoke -cheerfully.</p> - -<p>“Brown-Eyes,” I said, “I think that Bella may -recover. I am pretty sure that her collar-bone is -broken; but I have heard of people who got well -after breaking their collar-bones.”</p> - -<p>The child looked up, her eyes shining through -tears, and said, with that air of grave, old-fashioned -propriety which was one of the most amusing -things about her,—</p> - -<p>“It is a very serious accident. Do you think -Bella <em>could</em> recover?”</p> - -<p>“I hope she may; and I shall at once take her -to the hospital.”</p> - -<p>“The hospital!” cried Mistress Brown-Eyes; -“but that is where Mary Ann went when she had -a fever. She was gone six weeks. Will my Bella -be gone six weeks?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span></p> - -<p>“I think not so long as one week, if she can be -cured at all.”</p> - -<p>In five minutes more I was in the street, with -Bella in a basket on my arm. Her little mother -had covered her carefully from the cold, though it -was already May; and I felt as if I were in a -position of grave responsibility as I hurried to the -dolls’ hospital.</p> - -<p>A bell rang when I opened the door, and the -oddest little person stood before me. At first I -thought it was a child masquerading in long -clothes; for she was not more than half the height -of an ordinary woman.</p> - -<p>But, looking more closely, I saw the maturity of -her face, and realized that I stood in the presence -of a grown-up dwarf, who might really have been -taken for Dickens’s Miss Mowcher, herself.</p> - -<p>She was dressed in a long, straight gown of rusty-looking -black alpaca, and her rusty-looking black -hair was drawn straightly back from as plain a -face as one often sees. It was a kind, honest face, -however, and I liked the voice in which she asked -how she could serve me. I explained my errand.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Please to let me see the patient.”</p> - -<p>She spoke with as much gravity as if she had -been the superintending physician of the largest -hospital in London. I unveiled poor Bella, and -the dwarf lifted her from the basket with grave -tenderness.</p> - -<p>“Poor little beauty!” she said. “Yes’m, I -think I can cure her.”</p> - -<p>“Will the operation take long?” I asked, -humoring her fancy.</p> - -<p>“I should prefer that the patient should not be -moved, ma’am, before to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>“Very well; then I will leave her.”</p> - -<p>Just at that moment I heard a voice call, “Sally! -Sally!”</p> - -<p>It was a well-trained, ladylike voice, but somewhat -imperious.</p> - -<p>“Yes, Lady Jane, I’ll be there in a moment,” -answered the dwarf, whom I now knew to be -Sally. Then a door opened, and the most beautiful -creature I ever saw stood in it, looking in.</p> - -<p>The hospital was a bare enough place. There -was a great table covered with dolls,—dolls with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span> -broken legs, dolls with punched heads, dolls with -one arm gone, hairless dolls, broken-backed dolls, -dolls of every kind, awaiting the ministrations of -Sally; and dozens of other dolls were there, too, -whom those skilful fingers had already cured of -their wounds.</p> - -<p>There was a shelf, on which was ranged the -pharmacy of this hospital,—white cement, boxes -of saw-dust, collections of legs and arms, wigs, -every thing, in short, that an afflicted doll could -possibly require. Then there were two or three -wooden stools, and these completed the furniture -of the apartment.</p> - -<p>Standing in the doorway, Lady Jane looked as -if she were a larger doll than the rest,—a doll -with a soul. She seemed a lady’s child, every -pretty inch of her. I should think she was about -twelve years old. She wore a blue dress, and a -blue ribbon in the bright, fair hair that hung all -about her soft, pink-and-white face, out of which -looked two great, serious, inquiring blue eyes.</p> - -<p>“I will be through soon, Lady Jane,” Sally said -quietly; and the girl turned away, but not before<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span> -I had taken in a complete picture of her loveliness, -and had noticed also a somewhat singular -ornament she wore, attached to a slender golden -chain. It was so strange a vision to see in this -humble little shop that my curiosity got the better -of me, and, after the door had closed on Lady -Jane, I asked, “Does she live here?”</p> - -<p>“Yes’m,” answered Sally proudly. “In a -way, she is my child.”</p> - -<p>I hesitated to inquire further; but I think my -eyes must have asked some questions in spite of -myself; for Sally said, after a moment,—</p> - -<p>“You seem interested, ma’am, and I don’t mind -telling you about her. I saw Lady Jane first -some eight years ago. A man had her who used -to go round with a hand-organ. She was such a -pretty little creature that everybody gave her -money, and she was a great profit to Jacopo, for -that was his name.</p> - -<p>“It used to make my heart ache to see the little -beauty trudging round all day on her patient feet. -When Jacopo spoke to her, I’ve seen her turn -pale; and she never used to smile except when<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span> -she was holding out her bit of a hat to people for -money. She <em>had</em> to smile then; it was part of -the business.</p> - -<p>“I was sixteen, and I was all alone in the -world. I had a room to myself, and I worked -days in a toy-shop. I used to dress the dolls, and -I got very clever at mending them; but I hadn’t -thought of the hospital, then.</p> - -<p>“I lived in the same street with Jacopo, and I -grew very fond of the little lady, as the people -in the street used to call Jane. Sometimes I -coaxed Jacopo to let her stay with me at night; -but after three or four times, he would not let her -come again. I suppose he thought she would get -too fond of me.</p> - -<p>“Things went on that way for two years; then -one night, in the middle of the night, a boy came -for me, and said Jacopo was dying and wanted me -to come. I knew it was something about Jane, -and I hurried on my clothes and went.</p> - -<p>“The child was asleep in one corner. She had -been tramping all that day, as usual, and she was -too tired out for the noise in the room to wake<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span> -her. Jacopo looked very ill, and he could hardly -summon strength to speak to me.</p> - -<p>“‘The end has come sudden, Sally,’ he said, -‘the end to a bad life. But I ain’t bad enough to -want harm to happen to the little one when I am -gone. There will be plenty of folks after her, for -she’s a profitable little one to have; but if you -want her, I’ll give her to you. You may take her -away to-night, if you will.’</p> - -<p>“‘Indeed I will,’ I cried, ‘and thank you. -While I can work, she shall never want.’</p> - -<p>“Jacopo had been fumbling under his pillow as -he spoke; and when I said I would take the -child he handed me a curious locket. Maybe you -noticed it at her neck when she stood in the -door?</p> - -<p>“He said, as nearly as I could understand, for -it was getting hard work for him to speak, that he -had stolen the child, but he had always kept this -thing, which she had on her neck when he took -her, and perhaps it would help, some day, to find -her people.</p> - -<p>“So I took her home. The next morning I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span> -heard that Jacopo was dead, and the Lady Jane -has been mine ever since.”</p> - -<p>“Have you always called her Lady Jane?” I -asked.</p> - -<p>“Yes’m. There is a coronet on that locket she -wears; and I know she must be some great person’s -daughter, she is so beautiful, and seems so -much like a real lady.”</p> - -<p>“And so you’ve struggled on and worked for -her, and taken care of her for six years, now?”</p> - -<p>“Yes’m, and I’ve thanked God every day that -I’ve had her to take care of. You see, ma’am, -I’m not like other people; and it was a good fortune -I couldn’t look for to have a beautiful child -like that given into my arms, as you might say. -It was all the difference between being alone and -with no one to care for, and having a home and an -interest in life like other women.</p> - -<p>“I gave up working in the shop when I took -her, for I didn’t like to leave her alone. I was a -good workwoman, and they let me take work -home for awhile; then I opened the hospital, -and I’ve done very well. Lady Jane has been to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span> -school, and I don’t think if her true parents met -her, they would be ashamed of her.”</p> - -<p>“Do you ever think,” I said, “that they may -meet her some time, and then you would lose her -for ever?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, indeed, I think about that, ma’am; and I -make her keep the locket in sight all the time, in -hopes it might lead to something.”</p> - -<p>“In hopes!” I said, surprised. “You don’t -want to part with her, do you?”</p> - -<p>I was sorry, instantly, that I had asked the -question, for her poor face flushed, and the tears -gathered in her eyes.</p> - -<p>“O ma’am,” she said, “if I stopped to think -about myself, I suppose I should rather die than -lose her; but I <em>don’t</em> think of any thing but her. -And how could I want her, a lady born, and beautiful -as any princess, to live always in a little room -back of a dolls’ hospital? Would it be right for -me to want it?</p> - -<p>“No; I think God gave her to make a few of -my years bright; and when the time comes, she -will go away to live her own life, and I shall live<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span> -out mine, remembering that she <em>was</em> here, once; -and harking back till I can hear the sound of her -voice again; or looking till I see her bright head -shine in the corner where she sits now.”</p> - -<p>Just then the bell rang, and other customers -came into the hospital, and I went away, promising -to return for Bella on the morrow.</p> - -<p>I walked through the streets with a sense that I -had been talking with some one nobler than the -rest of the world. Another than poor Sally might -have adopted Lady Jane, perhaps, tended her, -loved her; but who else would have been noble -enough to love her, and yet be ready to lose her -for ever and live on in darkness quite satisfied if -but the little queen might come to her own again?</p> - -<p>I comforted Mistress Brown-Eyes with a promise -of her “child’s” recovery, and I went to a kettle-drum -or two in the afternoon, and dined out at -night; but all the time, amidst whatever buzz of -talk, I was comparing the most generous persons I -had ever known with the poor dwarfed surgeon of -the dolls’ hospital, and finding them all wanting.</p> - -<p>I went for Bella about four the next afternoon.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span> -I wanted to get to the hospital late enough to see -something of the little surgeon and her beautiful -ward. I purchased a bunch of roses on the way, -for I meant to please Sally by giving them to Lady -Jane.</p> - -<p>I opened the door, and again, at the ringing of -the bell, the quaint little figure of the dwarf surgeon -started up like Jack-in-the-box.</p> - -<p>“Is the patient recovered?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“The patient is quite well;” and the surgeon -took down pretty Bella, and proudly exhibited -her. The white cement had done its work so perfectly -that the slender neck showed no signs of -ever having been broken.</p> - -<p>I paid the surgeon her modest fee, and then I said, -“Here are some roses I brought for Lady Jane.”</p> - -<p>Sally’s plain face beamed with pleasure. “It’s -time to stop receiving patients for to-day,” she -said. “Won’t you walk into the sitting-room and -give the roses to Lady Jane, yourself?”</p> - -<p>I was well pleased to accept the invitation. The -sitting-room was as cosy as the hospital itself was -barren of attraction. I really wondered at the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span> -taste with which it was arranged. The hangings -were blue, and two or three low chairs were covered -with the same color; and there were pretty -trifles here and there which made it seem like a -lady’s room.</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/i_68.jpg" width="600" alt="" /> -<div class="caption">My roses were received with a cry of delight.—<span class="smcap">Page <a href="#Page_69">69</a>.</span></div> -</div> - -<p>My roses were received with a cry of delight; -and, while Lady Jane put them in a delicate glass, -Sally made me sit down in the most comfortable -chair, and then she asked her ward to sing to me.</p> - -<p>The girl had a wonderful voice, soft and clear -and full.</p> - -<p>When she had done singing, Sally said, “I have -thought sometimes that, if no better fortune comes, -Lady Jane can sing herself into good luck.”</p> - -<p>“<em>I</em> count on something better than that,” the -little lady cried carelessly. “When I ‘come to -my own,’ like the princesses in all the fairy tales, -I’ll send you my picture, Sally, and it will make -you less trouble than I do. It won’t wear out its -gowns, nor want all the strawberries for supper.”</p> - -<p>Sally didn’t answer; but two great tears gathered -in her eyes, and rolled down her cheeks.</p> - -<p>Lady Jane laughed—not unkindly, only child<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span>ishly—and -said, “Never mind. Don’t cry yet. -You’ll have time enough for that when it all -comes to pass. And you know you want it to -happen; you always say so.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes, dear, I want it to happen,” Sally -said hastily; “I couldn’t want to shut you up -here for ever, like a flower growing in a dungeon.”</p> - -<p>“A pretty, blue-hung dungeon, with nice soft -chairs,” Lady Jane said pleasantly; and then I got -up to go.</p> - -<p>Had this beautiful girl any real heart behind -her beauty? I wondered. If the time ever came -when Sally must give her up to some brighter -fate, would it cost the little lady herself one pang? -Could she be wholly insensible to all the devotion -that had been lavished on her for all these years? -I could not tell; but she seemed to me too light a -thing for deep loving.</p> - -<p>I carried Bella home to Mistress Brown-Eyes, -who received her with great joy, and with a certain -tender respect, such as we give to those who have -passed through perils. I stayed in London till -“the season” was over,—that is to say, till the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span> -end of July; and then, with the last rose of summer -in my buttonhole, I went over to the fair sea -coast of France.</p> - -<p>It was not until the next May that I found myself -in London again; and going to renew my subscription -at Mudie’s, passed the dolls’ hospital. -I looked up at the quaint sign, and the fancy -seized me to go in.</p> - -<p>I opened the door, and promptly as ever, the -dwarf surgeon of the dolls stood before me. It -was nearly four o’clock, and the hospital was -empty of customers. Nothing in it was changed -except the face of the surgeon. Out of that -always plain face a certain cheerful light had -faded. It looked now like a face accustomed to -tears. I said,—</p> - -<p>“Do you remember me, Dr. Sally?”</p> - -<p>A sort of frozen smile came to the poor trembling -lips.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes’m. You’re the lady that brought the -rose-buds to Lady Jane.”</p> - -<p>“And is she well?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“I <em>think</em> so, ma’am. Heaven knows I <em>hope</em> so;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span> -but the old days when I <em>knew</em> are over. Won’t -you come into the sitting-room, please?”</p> - -<p>I wanted nothing better for myself, and I felt -that it might ease her sad heart to break its silence; -so I followed her into the familiar room. It, at -least, was unchanged. The blue hangings were -there, and the low easy-chairs, and the pretty -trifles; and yet, somehow, the room seemed cold, -for the beauty which had gladdened it last year -had gone for ever.</p> - -<p>“Will you tell me what happened?” I asked; -and I know the real sympathy I felt must have -sounded in my voice.</p> - -<p>“It wasn’t long after you were here,” she said, -“a lady was driving by, and she saw my sign. -She sent her footman to the door to see if the -place was really what that said; and the next day -she came in herself and brought a whole load of -broken toys. She said she wanted these things -put in order to take into the country, for they -were favorite playthings of her little girl’s.</p> - -<p>“I turned then and looked at the child who had -come in with her mother. I can never tell you<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span> -how I felt. It was as though Lady Jane had gone -back six years. Just what my darling was when -she came to me, this little girl was now,—the -very same blue eyes, and bright, fair hair, and the -pretty, pink-and-white face.</p> - -<p>“Just at that moment, Lady Jane came into the -hospital, and when the lady saw her, she stood -and gazed as if she had seen a ghost. I looked -at the lady herself, and then I looked at Lady -Jane, and then again at the little girl; and true -as you live, ma’am, I knew it was Lady Jane’s -mother and sister before ever a word was spoken. -I felt my knees shaking under me, and I held fast -to the counter to keep from falling. I couldn’t -have spoken first, if my life had depended on it.</p> - -<p>“The lady looked, for what seemed to me a long -time; and then she walked up to my darling and -touched the locket that she wore on her neck. -At last she turned to me and asked, with a little -sternness in her gentle voice, if I would tell her -who this girl was, and how I came by her.</p> - -<p>“So I told her the whole story, just as I had -told it to you, and before I had finished, she was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span> -crying as if her heart would break. Down she -went on her knees beside Lady Jane, and put her -arms around her, and cried,—</p> - -<p>“‘O my darling, my love, I thought you were -dead! I am your mother—oh, believe me, my -darling! Love me a little, a little,—after all -these years!’</p> - -<p>“And just as properly as if she had gone -through it all in her mind a hundred times beforehand, -Lady Jane answered,—</p> - -<p>“‘I always expected you, mamma.’</p> - -<p>“Somehow, the lady looked astonished. She -grew quieter, and stood up, holding Lady Jane’s -hand.</p> - -<p>“‘You expected me?’ she said, inquiringly.</p> - -<p>“‘Yes, you know I <em>knew</em> I had been stolen; -and I used to think and think, and fancy how my -true mother would look, and what my right home -would be; and I always felt sure in my heart that -you would come some day. I didn’t know when -or how it would be; but I expected you.’</p> - -<p>“‘And when will you be ready to go with me?’ -asked the mother.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span></p> - -<p>“‘When you please, mamma.’</p> - -<p>“The lady hesitated, and turned to me. ‘I owe -you so much,’ she said, ‘so much that I can never -hope to pay it; and I do not like to grieve you. -But her father and I have been without Jane so -long, <em>could</em> you spare her to me at once?’</p> - -<p>“‘That must be as you and she say, ma’am,’ I -answered, trying as hard as I could to speak quietly. -‘I never have wanted any thing but that -she should be well off and happy so far, and won’t -begin to stand in her light now.’</p> - -<p>“Then the lady turned to the little girl who -had come in with her. ‘Ethel,’ she said, ‘this is -your sister. She has been lost to us eight years, -but we will keep her always, now.’ And then, -with more thanks to me, she started to go away,—the -stately, beautiful lady, with her beautiful -girls, one on each side of her.</p> - -<p>“They got to the door, and suddenly my darling -turned,—O ma’am, it’s the best thing in my -whole life to remember that! Of her own accord -she turned and came back to me, and said she,—</p> - -<p>“‘Don’t think, Sally, that I’m not sorry to say<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span> -good-by. Of course I can’t be sorry to find my -own mamma and my right home, but I’m sorry to -leave <em>you</em>.’</p> - -<p>“And then she put her arms round my neck -and kissed me just as she had done when I took -her home that night from Jacopo’s, six years -before; and then she went away, and the sunshine, -it seemed to me, went out of the door -with her, and has never come back since.”</p> - -<p>The poor little surgeon of the dolls stopped -speaking, and cried very quietly, as those cry who -are not used to have their tears wiped away, or -their sorrows comforted.</p> - -<p>I wanted to say that Lady Jane seemed to me a -heartless little piece, who cared for nothing in the -world but herself, and wasn’t worth grieving for; -but I felt there would be no comfort for her in -thinking that there had never been any thing -worth having in her life. Far better let her go on -believing that for six years she had sheltered an -angel at her fireside.</p> - -<p>At last, when I saw her tears were ceasing to -flow, I said, “And when did you see her again?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Oh, I have never seen her since that day. I -think she pitied me too much to come back and -give me the sorrow of parting with her over again. -No, I have never seen her, but her mother sent me -five hundred pounds.”</p> - -<p>“And so she ought,” I said impulsively. “It -was little enough for all you had done.”</p> - -<p>Surgeon Sally looked at me with wonder, not -unmixed with reproach, in her eyes.</p> - -<p>“Do you think I wanted <em>that</em>?” she asked. “I -had had my pay for all I did, ten times over, in -just having her here to look at and to love. -No; I sent the money back, and I think it must -be that my darling understood; for, two months -afterwards, I received the only gift I would -have cared to have,—her portrait. Will you -please to look round, ma’am? It hangs behind -you.”</p> - -<p>I looked round, and there she was, even lovelier -than when I had seen her first,—a bright, smiling -creature, silken-clad, patrician to the finger-tips. -But it seemed to me that no heart of love looked -out of the fair, careless face. I thought I would<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span> -rather be Surgeon Sally, and know the sweetness -of loving another better than myself.</p> - -<p>“She is very beautiful,” I said, as I turned -away.</p> - -<p>“Yes; and sometimes I almost think I feel her -lips, her bonny bright lips, touch my face, as they -did that last day, and hear her say, ‘Don’t think, -Sally, that I’m not sorry.’ Oh, my lot isn’t hard, -ma’am. I might have lived my life through and -never have known what it was to have something -all my own to love. God was good.</p> - -<p>“And after all, ma’am,” she added cheerfully, -“there’s nothing happier in the world than to -give all the pleasure you can to somebody.”</p> - -<p>And I went away, feeling that the dwarf surgeon -of the dolls’ hospital had learned the true -secret of life.</p> - -<hr /> - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="PRETTY_MISS_KATE">PRETTY MISS KATE.</h2> -<hr /> -</div> - -<p>Everybody called her “pretty Miss Kate.” -It was an odd title, and she had come by it -in an odd way. A sort of half-witted nurse, -whose one supreme merit was her faithfulness, -had tended Squire Oswald’s baby daughter all -through her early years; and she it was who had -first called the girl “pretty Miss Kate.”</p> - -<p>It was a small neighborhood where everybody -knew everybody else; and, by dint of much hearing -this title, all the neighbors grew to use it. -And, indeed, at fifteen Kate Oswald deserved it. -She was a tall, slight girl, with a figure very graceful, -and what people call stylish.</p> - -<p>She had blue eyes; not the meaningless blue of -a French doll, but deep and lustrous, like the tender -hue of the summer sky. She had hair like -some Northland princess. It had not a tint of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span> -yellow in it, but it was fine and fair, and so light -as to be noticeable anywhere. Her skin was -exquisite, too, as skin needs must be to match -such hair. When any color came to the cheeks -it was never crimson, but just the faintest tint -of the blush rose; her lips alone were of rich, -vivid bloom. A prettier creature, truly, seldom -crosses this planet; and the few such girls who -have lived among us, and grown to womanhood, -have made wild work generally, using hearts for -playthings; and, like other children, breaking -their toys now and then. But pretty Miss Kate -was not at the age yet for that sort of pastime, -and her most ardent worshipper was little Sally -Green.</p> - -<p>There was a curious friendship between these -two, if one may call that friendship which is made -up of blind worship on one side and gentle pity -and kindliness on the other.</p> - -<p>Squire Oswald owned the poor little house where -Widow Green lived, and whenever there was an -unusual press of work at the great house above, -the family washing used to be sent down to Mrs.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span> -Green at the foot of the hill. Many an hour the -widow worked busily, fluting the delicate ruffles -and smoothing the soft muslins, out of which pretty -Miss Kate used to bloom as a flower does out of its -calyx. And on these occasions Sally used to carry -the dainty washing home, and she nearly always -contrived to be permitted to take it up to Miss -Kate’s room, herself.</p> - -<p>Nobody thought much about little Sally Green -any way,—least of all did any one suspect her of -any romantic or heroic or poetical qualities. And -yet she had them all; and if you came to a question -of soul and mind, there was something in -Sally which entitled her to rank with the best. -She was a plain, dark little thing, with a stubbed, -solid, squarely-built figure; with great black eyes, -which nobody thought any thing about in <em>her</em>, but -which would have been enough for the whole -stock-in-trade of a fashionable belle; with masses -of black hair that she did not know what to do -with; and with a skin somewhat sallow, but -smooth. No one ever thought how she looked, -except, perhaps, pretty Miss Kate.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span></p> - -<p>One day, when the child brought home the -washing, Kate had been reading aloud to a friend, -and Sally had shown an evident inclination to linger. -At that time Kate was not more than fourteen, -and the interest or the admiration in Sally’s -face struck her, and, moved by a girl’s quick impulse, -she had said,—</p> - -<p>“Do you want to hear all of it, Sally? Wait, -then, and I will read it to you.”</p> - -<p>The poem was Mrs. Browning’s “Romance of -the Swan’s Nest,” and it was the first glimpse for -Sally Green into the enchanted land of poetry -and fiction. Before that she had admired pretty -Miss Kate, but now the feeling grew to worship.</p> - -<p>Kate was not slow to perceive it, with that feminine -instinct which somehow scents out and delights -in the honest admiration of high or low, rich -or poor. She grew very kind to little Sally. Many -a book and magazine she lent the child; and now -and then she gave her a flower, a bit of bright -ribbon, or some little picture. To poor Sally -Green these trifles were as the gifts of a goddess, -and no devotee ever treasured relics from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span> -the shrine of his patron saint more tenderly than -she cherished any, even the slightest, token which -was associated with the beautiful young lady whom -she adored with all her faithful, reverent, imaginative -heart.</p> - -<p>One June evening Sally had been working hard -all day. She had washed dishes, run her mother’s -errands, got supper, and now her reward was to -come.</p> - -<p>“You may make yourself tidy,” her mother said, -“and carry home that basket of Miss Kate’s things -to Squire Oswald’s.”</p> - -<p>Sally flew upstairs, and brushed back her black -locks, and tied them with a red ribbon Miss Kate -had given her. She put on a clean dress, and a -little straw hat that last year had been Miss Kate’s -own; and really for such a stubbed, dark little -thing, she looked very nicely. She was thirteen—two -years younger than her idol—and while Miss -Kate was tall, and looked older than her years, -Sally looked even younger than she was. Her -heart beat as she hurried up the hill. She thought -of the fable of the mouse and the lion, which she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span> -had read in one of the books Miss Kate had lent -her. It made her think of herself and her idol. -Not that Miss Kate was like a lion at all,—no, she -was like a beautiful princess,—but she herself was -such a poor, humble, helpless little mouse; and yet -there might be a time, if she only watched and -waited, when she, even she, could do pretty Miss -Kate some good. And if the time ever came, -wouldn’t she <em>do</em> it, just, at no matter <em>what</em> cost to -herself? Poor little Sally! The time was on its -way, and nearer than she thought.</p> - -<p>She found Miss Kate in her own pretty room,—a -room all blue and white and silver, as befitted -such a fair-haired beauty. The bedstead and wardrobe -were of polished chestnut, lightly and gracefully -carved. The carpet was pale gray, with -impossible blue roses. The blue chintz curtains -were looped back with silver cords; there were -silver frames, with narrow blue edges, to the few -graceful pictures; and on the mantel were a clock -and vases with silver ornaments.</p> - -<p>Pretty Miss Kate looked as if she had been -dressed on purpose to stay in that room. She wore<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span> -a blue dress, and round her neck was a silver necklace -which her father had brought her last year -from far-off Genoa. Silver ornaments were in her -little ears, and a silver clasp fastened the belt at -her waist. She welcomed Sally with a sweet graciousness, -a little conscious, perhaps, of the fact -that she was Miss Oswald, and Sally was Sally -Green; but to the child her manner, like every -thing else about her, seemed perfection.</p> - -<p>“Sit down and stay a little, Sally,” she said, -“I have something to tell you. Do you remember -what you heard me read that first time, when your -eyes got so big with listening, and I made you stay -and hear it all?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, indeed,” Sally cried eagerly. “I never -forgot any thing I ever heard you read. That first -time it was ‘The Romance of the Swan’s Nest.’”</p> - -<p>“Yes, you are right, and I know I was surprised -to find how much you cared about it. I -began to be interested in you then, for you know -I am interested in you, don’t you, Sally?”</p> - -<p>Sally blushed with pleasure till her face glowed -like the June roses in Miss Kate’s silver vases,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span> -but she did not know what to say, and so, very -wisely, she did not say any thing. Miss Kate -went on,—</p> - -<p>“Well, that very same poem I am going to read, -next Wednesday night, at the evening exercises in -the academy. The academy hall won’t hold everybody, -and so they are going to be admitted by -tickets. Each of us girls has a certain number to -give away, and I have one for you. I thought you -would like to go and see me there among the rest -in my white gown, and hear me read the old verses -again.”</p> - -<p>You would not have believed so small a thing -could so have moved anybody; but Sally’s face -turned from red to white, and from white to red -again, and her big black eyes were as full of tears -as an April cloud is of rain-drops.</p> - -<p>“Do you mean it, truly?” she asked.</p> - -<p>“Yes, truly, child. Here is your ticket. Why, -don’t cry, foolish girl. It’s nothing. I wanted to -be sure of one person there who would think I -read well, whether any one else did or not. And -I’ve a gown for you, too—that pink muslin,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span> -don’t you know, that I wore last year? I’ve shot -up right out of it, and it’s of no use to me, now, -and mamma said I might give it to you. This is -Saturday; you can get it ready by Wednesday, -can’t you?”</p> - -<p>What a happy girl went home that night, just as -the rosy June sunset was fading away, and ran, -bright and glad and full of joyful expectation, into -the Widow Green’s humble little house! Widow -Green wasn’t much of a woman, in the neighbors’ -estimation. She was honest and civil, and she -washed well; but that was all they saw in her. -Sally saw much more. She saw a mother who -always tried to make her happy; who shared her -enthusiasms, or at least sympathized with them; -who was never cross or jealous, or any thing -but motherly. She was as pleased, now, at the -prospect of Sally’s pleasure as Sally herself was; -and just as proud of this attention from pretty -Miss Kate. Together they made over the pink -muslin dress; and when Wednesday night came -the widow felt sure that her daughter was as well -worth having, and as much to be proud of, as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span> -any other mother’s daughter that would be at -the academy.</p> - -<p>“You must go very early,” she said, “to get a -good seat; and you need not be afraid to go right -up to the front. You’ve just as good right to -get close up there as anybody.”</p> - -<p>When Sally was going out, her mother called her -back.</p> - -<p>“Here, dear,” she said, “just take the shawl. -Do it to please me, for there’s no knowing how -cold it might be when you get out.”</p> - -<p>“The shawl” was an immense Rob Roy plaid,—a -ridiculous wrap, truly, for a June night; but -summer shawls they had none, and Sally was too -dutiful, as well as too happy, not to want to please -her mother even in such a trifle. How differently -two lives would have come out if she had -not taken it!</p> - -<p>She was the very first one to enter the academy. -Dare she go and sit in the front row so -as to be close to pretty Miss Kate? Ordinarily -she would have shrunk into some far corner, -for she was almost painfully shy; but now some<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span>thing -outside herself seemed to urge her on. She -would not take up much room,—this something -whispered,—and nobody, no, nobody at all, could -love Miss Kate better than she did. So she -went into the very front row, close up to the -little stage on which the young performers were -to appear,—a veritable stage, with real foot-lights.</p> - -<p>Soon the people began to come in, and after a -while the lights were turned up, and the exercises -commenced. There were dialogues and music, -and at last the master of ceremonies announced the -reading of “The Romance of the Swan’s Nest,” -by Miss Kate Oswald.</p> - -<p>Other people had been interested in what went -before, no doubt; but to Sally Green the whole -evening had been but a prelude to this one triumphant -moment for which she waited.</p> - -<p>Pretty Miss Kate came forward like a little -queen,—tall and slight, with her coronet of fair, -braided hair, in which a shy, sweet rosebud nestled. -She wore a dress of white muslin, as light and -fleecy as a summer cloud, with a sash that might,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span> -as far as its hue went, have been cut from the deep -blue sky over which that summer cloud floated. A -little bunch of flowers was on her bosom, and other -ornament she had none. She looked like one of -the pretty creatures, half angel and half woman of -fashion, which some of the modern French artists -paint.</p> - -<p>As she stepped forward she was greeted with a -burst of irrepressible applause, and then the house -was very still as she began to read. How her soft -eyes glowed, and the blushes burned on her dainty -cheeks, when she came to the lines:—</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">“Little Ellie in her smile<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Chooseth: ‘I will have a lover,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Riding on a steed of steeds!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">He shall love me without guile,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And to <em>him</em> I will discover<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That swan’s nest among the reeds.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">“‘And the steed shall be red-roan,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the lover shall be noble,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With an eye that takes the breath,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And the lute he plays upon<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Shall strike ladies into trouble,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">As his sword strikes men to death.’”<br /></span> -</div></div> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span></p> -<p>She had the whole audience for her lovers before -she was through with the poem, and the last -verse was followed with a perfect storm of applause. -Was she not young and beautiful, with a -voice as sweet as her smile? And then she was -Squire Oswald’s daughter, and he was the great -man of the village.</p> - -<p>She stepped off the stage; and then the applause -recalled her, and she came back, pink with -pleasure. A bow, a smile, and then a step too -near the poorly protected foot-lights, and the -fleecy white muslin dress was a sheet of flame.</p> - -<p>How Sally Green sprang over those foot-lights -she never knew; but there she was, on the stage, -and “the shawl” was wrapped round pretty Miss -Kate before any one else had done any thing but -scream. Close, close, close, Sally hugged its -heavy woollen folds. She burned her own fingers -to the bone; but what cared she? The time of -the poor little mouse had come at last.</p> - -<p>And so pretty Miss Kate was saved, and not so -much as a scar marred the pink and white of her -fair girl’s face. Her arms were burned rather<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span> -badly, but they would heal, and no permanent -harm had come to her.</p> - -<p>Sally was burned much more severely, but she -hardly felt the pain of it in her joy that she had -saved her idol, for whom she would have been so -willing even to die. They took her home very -tenderly, and the first words she said, as they led -her inside her mother’s door, were,—</p> - -<p>“Now, mother, I know what I took the shawl -for!”</p> - -<p>I said how differently two lives would have -ended if she had not taken that shawl. Pretty -Miss Kate’s would have burned out then and -there, no doubt; for if any one else were there -with presence of mind enough to have saved her, -certainly there was no other wrap there like “the -shawl.” And then Sally might have grown up to -the humblest kind of toil, instead of being what -she is to-day; for Squire Oswald’s gratitude for -his daughter’s saved life did not exhaust itself in -words. From that moment he charged himself -with Sally Green’s education, and gave her every -advantage which his own daughter received.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span> -And, truth to tell, Sally, with her wonderful temperament, -the wealth of poetry and devotion and -hero-worship that was in her, soon outstripped -pretty Miss Kate in her progress.</p> - -<p>But no rivalry or jealousy ever came between -them. As Sally had adored Kate’s loveliness, so, -in time, Kate came to do homage to Sally’s -genius; and the two were friends in the most -complete sense of the word.</p> - -<hr /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="A_BORROWED_ROSEBUD">A BORROWED ROSEBUD.</h2> -<hr /> -</div> - -<p>There was a pattering footfall on the piazza, -and Miss Ellen Harding went to look out. -She saw a little figure standing there, among the -rosebuds,—not one of the neighbors’ children, but -a bonny little lassie, with curls of spun gold, and -great, fearless brown eyes, and cheeks and lips as -bright as the red roses on the climbing rosebush -beside her.</p> - -<p>A little morsel, not more than five years old, she -was; with a white dress, and a broad scarlet sash, -and a hat which she swung in her fingers by its -scarlet strings. She looked so bright and vivid, -and she was such an unexpected vision in that -place, that it almost seemed as if one of the poppies -in the yard beyond had turned into a little -girl, and come up the steps.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Did you want me?” Miss Harding asked, going -up to the tiny blossom of a creature.</p> - -<p>“No, if you please.”</p> - -<p>“My father, then, Dr. Harding,—were you -sent for him?”</p> - -<p>The child surveyed her, as if in gentle surprise -at so much curiosity.</p> - -<p>“No,” she answered, after a moment. “I am -Rosebud; and I don’t want anybody. Jane told -me to come here, and she would follow presently.”</p> - -<p>She said the words with a singular correctness -and propriety, as if they were a lesson which she -had been taught.</p> - -<p>“And who is Jane?” Miss Harding asked.</p> - -<p>Evidently the process of training had gone no -further. The child looked puzzled and uncomfortable.</p> - -<p>“Jane?” she answered hesitatingly. “Why, -she is Jane.”</p> - -<p>“Not your mamma?”</p> - -<p>“No,—just Jane.”</p> - -<p>“And what did Jane want here?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span></p> - -<p>“She told me to come, and she would follow -presently,” said the child, saying her little lesson -over again.</p> - -<p>Evidently there was nothing more to be got out -of her; but Miss Harding coaxed her to come -into the cool parlor, and wait for Jane; and gave -her some strawberries and cream in a gayly painted -china saucer, that all children liked. Rosebud -was no exception to the rest. When she had -finished her berries, she tapped on the saucer with -her spoon.</p> - -<p>“I will have it for mine, while I stay,—may -I?” she said. “Not to take away, but just to -call, you know.”</p> - -<p>“Surely,” said Miss Harding, more puzzled than -ever. Had the sprite, then, come to stay? Were -there, by chance, fairies after all,—and was this -some changeling from out their ranks? She tried -to entertain her small guest; and she found her -quite accessible to the charms of pictures, and contented -for an hour with a box of red and white -chessmen. Towards night her curiosity got the -better of her courtesy; and, looking from the -window, she inquired,—</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span></p> - -<p>“I wonder where your Jane can be?”</p> - -<p>“Presently; Jane said presently,” answered the -child, with quiet composure, and returned to the -chessmen.</p> - -<p>Miss Harding heard her father drive into the -yard, and slipped out to speak to him. She told -her story, and the doctor gave a low, soft whistle. -It was a way he had when any thing surprised him.</p> - -<p>“It looks to me,” said he, “as if Jane, whoever -she may be, intended to make us a present of Miss -Rosebud. Well, we must make the small person -comfortable to-night, and to-morrow we will see -what to do with her.”</p> - -<p>The small person was easily made comfortable. -She ate plenty of bread-and-milk for her supper, -and more strawberries; and when it was over, she -went round and stood beside the doctor.</p> - -<p>“I think you are a dood man,” she said, with the -quaint gravity which characterized all her utterances. -“I should like to sit with you.”</p> - -<p>The doctor lifted her to his knee, and she laid -her little golden head against his coat. There -was a soft place under that coat, as many a sick and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span> -poor person in the town knew very well. I think -the little golden head hit the soft place. He stroked -the shining curls very tenderly. Then he asked,—</p> - -<p>“What makes you think I’m a ‘dood’ man, -Pussy-cat?”</p> - -<p>“My name is not Pussy-cat,—I am Rosebud,” -she replied gravely; “and I think you are dood -because you look so, out of your eyes.”</p> - -<p>The little morsel spoke most of her words with -singular clearness and propriety. It was only -when a “g” came in that she substituted a “d” -for it, and went on her way rejoicing.</p> - -<p>As the doctor held her, the soft place under his -coat grew very soft indeed. A little girl had been -his last legacy from his dying wife; and she had -grown to be about as large as Rosebud, and then -had gone home to her mother. It almost seemed -to him as if she had come back again; and it was -her head beneath which his heart was beating. He -beckoned to his daughter.</p> - -<p>“Have you some of Aggie’s things?” he asked. -“This child must be made comfortable, and she -ought to go to bed soon.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span></p> - -<p>“No,” the child said; “I’m doing to sit here till -the moon comes. That means ‘do to bed.’”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I have them,” Miss Harding answered.</p> - -<p>She had loved Aggie so well, that it seemed half -sacrilege to put her dead sister’s garments on this -stranger child; and half it was a pleasure that -again she had a little girl to dress and cuddle. She -went out of the room. Soon she came running -back, and called her father.</p> - -<p>“O, come here! I found this in the hall. It is -a great basket full of all sorts of clothes, and it is -marked ‘For Rosebud.’ See,—here is every thing -a child needs.”</p> - -<p>The doctor had set the little girl down, but she -was still clinging to his hand.</p> - -<p>“I think,” he said, “that Jane has been here, -and that she does not mean to take away our Rosebud.”</p> - -<p>But the little one, still clinging to him, said,—</p> - -<p>“I think it is not ‘presently’ yet,—Jane -wouldn’t come till ‘presently.’”</p> - -<p>“Do you love Jane?” the doctor asked, looking -down at the flower-like face.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Jane is not mamma. She is only Jane,” was -the answer.</p> - -<p>When the moon rose, the little girl went willingly -to bed; and all night long Miss Ellen Harding -held her in her arms, as she used to hold her -little sister, before the angels took her. Since -Aggie’s death, people said Miss Ellen had grown -cold and stiff and silent. She felt, herself, as if -she had been frozen; but the ice was melting, as -she lay there, feeling the soft, round little lump of -breathing bliss in her arms; and a tender flower -of love was to spring up and bloom in that heart -that had grown hard and cold.</p> - -<p>There was no talk of sending Rosebud away, -though some people wondered much at the doctor, -and even almost blamed him for keeping this child, -of whom he knew nothing. But he wanted her, -and Miss Ellen wanted her; and, indeed, she -was the joy and life and blessing of the long-silent -household.</p> - -<p>She was by no means a perfect child. A well-mannered -little creature she was,—some lady had -brought her up evidently,—but she was self<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span>-willed -and obstinate. When she had said, “I’m -doing to do” such and such a thing, it was hard -to move her from her purpose; unless, indeed, -the doctor interposed, and to him she always -yielded instantly. But, just such as she was, they -found her altogether charming. The doctor never -came home without something in his pocket to reward -her search; Miss Ellen was her bond-slave; -and Mistress Mulloney in the kitchen was ready -to work her hands off for her.</p> - -<p>Often, when she had gone to bed, the doctor and -Miss Ellen used to talk over her strange coming.</p> - -<p>“We shall lose her some day,” the doctor would -say, with a sigh. “No one ever voluntarily abandoned -such a child as that. She is only trusted to -our protection for a little while, and presently we -shall have to give her up.”</p> - -<p>“Should you be sorry, father,” Miss Ellen would -inquire, “that we had had her at all?”</p> - -<p>And the doctor would answer thoughtfully -“No, for she has made me young again. I will -not grumble when the snows come because we -have had summer, and know how bright it is.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span></p> - -<p>But the child lived with them as if she were -going to live with them for ever. If she had any -memories of days before she came there, she never -alluded to them. After the first, she never mentioned -Jane,—she never spoke of a father or -mother. But she was happy as the summer days -were long,—a glad, bright, winsome creature as -ever was the delight of any household.</p> - -<p>And so the days and the weeks and the months -went on, and it was October. And one day the -bell rang, and Mistress Mulloney went to the door, -and in a moment came to the room where Miss -Ellen was sitting, with Rosebud playing beside her, -and beckoned to her mistress.</p> - -<p>“It’s some one asking for the child,” she said. -“Can’t we jist hide her away? It’ll be hard for -the doctor if she’s took.”</p> - -<p>“No; we must see who it is, and do what is -right,” Miss Ellen answered; but her lips trembled -a little. She went into the hall, and there, at -the door, stood a woman, looking like a nursery-maid -of the better sort.</p> - -<p>“I have come,” the stranger began; but Rose<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span>bud -had caught the sound of her voice, and came -on the scene like a flash of light.</p> - -<p>“It is ‘presently!’” she cried; “and there, oh, -<em>there</em> is mamma!” And down the path she flew, -and into the very arms of a lady who was waiting -at a little distance.</p> - -<p>Miss Harding went down the steps. “You have -come, I see, to claim our Rosebud, and she is only -too ready to be claimed. I thought we had made -her happy.”</p> - -<p>The child caught the slight accent of reproach -in Miss Ellen’s voice, and turned towards her.</p> - -<p>“You have been dood, oh, so very, very dood!” -she said, “but <em>this</em> is mamma.”</p> - -<p>“I trusted my darling to you in a very strange -way,” the lady began, “but not, believe me, without -knowing in whose hands I placed her. I was -in mortal terror, then, lest she should be taken -from me, and I dared not keep her until she had -been legally made mine, and mine only. But you -have made me your debtor for life, and I shall try -to show it some day.”</p> - -<p>“But, at least, you will come in and wait until<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span> -my father returns. He loves Rosebud so dearly, -that it would be a cruelty to take her away until -he has had time to bid her good-by.”</p> - -<p>“You are right,” the stranger answered courteously. -“Jane, go with the carriage to the hotel, -and I will come or send for you when I want -you.”</p> - -<p>In a few moments more the strange lady was -seated in the doctor’s parlor. Miss Harding saw -now where Rosebud had got her bright, wilful -beauty.</p> - -<p>“I must explain,” the mother said, as she lifted -her child upon her lap. “I am Mrs. Matthewson. -My husband is dead, and Rosebud has a very, very -large fortune of her own. Her uncles, who were -to have the management of her property, by her -father’s will, claimed her also; and I have had -such a fight for her! They were unscrupulous -men, and I feared to keep Rosebud with me, lest -by some means they should get some hold on her. -So I resolved to lend her to you for the summer; -and, indeed, I never can reward you for all your -care of her.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span>“You -can reward us only by not altogether taking -her away from us. We have learned to love -her very dearly.”</p> - -<p>And, after a while, the doctor came home and -heard all the story. And it was a week before -Mrs. Matthewson had the heart to take away the -child she had lent them. Then it was not long -before the doctor and Miss Ellen had to go to see -Rosebud. And then, very soon, Mrs. Matthewson -had to bring her back again; and, really, so much -going back and forth was very troublesome; and -they found it more convenient, after a while, to -join their households.</p> - -<p>Before Rosebud came, the doctor had thought -himself an old man, though he was only forty-five; -but, as he said, Rosebud had made him young -again; and Rosebud’s mamma found it possible to -love him very dearly. But Miss Ellen always -said it was Rosebud and nobody else whom her -father married, and that he had been in love with -the borrowed blossom from the first.</p> - -<hr /> - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="TOMS_THANKSGIVING">TOM’S THANKSGIVING.</h2> -<hr /> -</div> - -<p>“It was very provoking that seamstresses and -such people would get married, like the rest -of the world,” Mrs. Greenough said, half in fun -and half in earnest. Her fall sewing was just -coming on, and here was Lizzie Brown, who had -suited her so nicely, going off to be married; and -she had no resource but to advertise, and take -whomsoever she could get. No less than ten -women had been there that day, and not one -would answer.</p> - -<p>“There comes Number Eleven; you will see,” -she cried, as the bell rang.</p> - -<p>Kitty Greenough looked on with interest. Indeed, -it was her gowns, rather than her mother’s, -that were most pressing. She was just sixteen, -and since last winter she had shot up suddenly, as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span> -girls at that age so often do, and left all her clothes -behind her.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Greenough was right,—it <em>was</em> another -seamstress; and Bridget showed in a plain, sad-looking -woman of about forty, with an air of intense -respectability. Mrs. Greenough explained -what she wanted done, and the woman said quietly -that she was accustomed to such work,—would -Mrs. Greenough be so kind as to look at some -recommendations? Whereupon she handed out -several lady-like looking notes, whose writers indorsed -the bearer, Mrs. Margaret Graham, as faithful -and capable, used to trimmings of all sorts, and -quick to catch an idea.</p> - -<p>“Very well indeed,” Mrs. Greenough said, as -she finished reading them; “I could ask nothing -better. Can you be ready to come at once?”</p> - -<p>“To-morrow, if you wish, madam,” was the -answer; and then Mrs. Graham went away.</p> - -<p>Kitty Greenough was an impulsive, imaginative -girl; no subject was too dull or too unpromising -for her fancy to touch it. She made a story for -herself about every new person who came in her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span> -way. After Number Eleven had gone down the -stairs, Kitty laughed.</p> - -<p>“Isn’t she a sobersides, mamma? I don’t believe -there’ll be any frisk in my dresses at all if -she trims them.”</p> - -<p>“There’ll be frisk enough in them if you wear -them,” her mother answered, smiling at the bright, -saucy, winsome face of her one tall daughter.</p> - -<p>Kitty was ready to turn the conversation.</p> - -<p>“What do you think she is, mamma,—wife or -widow?” And then answering her own question: -“I think she’s married, and he’s sick, and she has -to take care of him. That solemn, still way she -has comes of much staying in a sick-room. She’s -in the habit of keeping quiet, don’t you see? I -wish she were a little prettier; I think he would -get well quicker.”</p> - -<p>“There’d be no plain, quiet people in your -world if you made one,” her mother said, smiling; -“but you’d make a mistake to leave them out. -You would get tired even of the sun if it shone -all the time.”</p> - -<p>The next day the new seamstress came, and a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span> -thoroughly good one she proved; “better even -than Lizzie,” Mrs. Greenough said, and this was -high praise. She sewed steadily, and never opened -her lips except to ask some question about her -work. Even Kitty, who used to boast that she -could make a dumb man talk, had not audacity -enough to intrude on the reserve in which Mrs. -Graham intrenched herself.</p> - -<p>“<em>He’s</em> worse this morning,” whispered saucy -Kitty to her mother; “and she can do nothing but -think about him and mind her gathers.”</p> - -<p>But, by the same token, “<em>he</em>” must have been -worse every day, for during the two weeks she -sewed there Mrs. Graham never spoke of any thing -beyond her work.</p> - -<p>When Mrs. Greenough had paid her, the last -night, she said,—</p> - -<p>“Please give me your address, Mrs. Graham, for -I may want to find you again.”</p> - -<p>“17 Hudson Street, ma’am, up two flights of -stairs; and if I’m not there Tom always is.”</p> - -<p>“There, didn’t I tell you?” Kitty cried exultingly, -after the woman had gone. “Didn’t I tell<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span> -you that he was sick? You see now,—‘Tom’s -always there.’”</p> - -<p>“Yes; but Tom may not be her husband, and I -don’t think he is. He is much more likely to be -her child.”</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Greenough, I’m astonished at you. You -say that to be contradictious. Now, it is not -nice to be contradictious; besides, she wouldn’t -look so quiet and sad if Tom were only her -boy.”</p> - -<p>But weeks passed on, and nothing more was -heard of Mrs. Graham, until, at last, Thanksgiving -Day was near at hand. Kitty was to -have a new dress, and Mrs. Greenough, who had -undertaken to finish it, found that she had not -time.</p> - -<p>“Oh, let me go for Mrs. Graham, mamma,” -cried Kitty eagerly. “Luke can drive me down -to Hudson Street, and then I shall see Tom.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Greenough laughed and consented. In a -few minutes Luke had brought to the door the -one-horse coupé, which had been the last year’s -Christmas gift of Mr. Greenough to his wife, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span> -in which Miss Kitty was always glad to make an -excuse for going out.</p> - -<p>Arrived at 17 Hudson Street, she tripped up two -flights of stairs, and tapped on the door, on which -was a printed card with the name of Mrs. Graham.</p> - -<p>A voice, with a wonderful quality of musical -sweetness in it, answered,—</p> - -<p>“Please to come in; I cannot open the door.”</p> - -<p>If that were “he,” he had a very singular voice -for a man.</p> - -<p>“I guess mamma was right after all,” thought -wilful Kitty. “It’s rather curious how often -mamma <em>is</em> right, when I come to think of it.”</p> - -<p>She opened the door, and saw, not Mrs. Graham’s -husband, nor yet her son, but a girl, whose face -looked as if she might be about Kitty’s own age, -whose shoulders and waist told the same story; -but whose lower limbs seemed curiously misshapen -and shrunken—no larger, in fact, than those of a -mere child. The face was a pretty, winning face, -not at all sad. Short, thick brown hair curled -round it, and big brown eyes, full of good-humor, -met Kitty’s curious glance.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span></p> - -<p>“<em>I</em> am Tom,” the same musical voice—which -made Kitty think of a bird’s warble—said, in a -tone of explanation. “I can’t get up to open the -door because, don’t you see, I can’t walk.”</p> - -<p>“And why—what—Tom”—</p> - -<p>Kitty struggled desperately with the question she -had begun to ask, and Tom kindly helped her out.</p> - -<p>“Why am I Tom, do you mean, when it’s a -boy’s name; or why can’t I walk? I’m Tom -because my father called me Tomasina, after his -mother, and we can’t afford such long names in this -house; and I can’t walk because I pulled a kettle -of boiling water over on myself when I was six -years old, and the only wonder is that I’m alive at -all. I was left, you see, in a room by myself, -while mother was busy somewhere else, and when -she heard me scream, and came to me, she pulled -me out from under the kettle, and saved the upper -half of me all right.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, how dreadful!” Kitty cried, with the -quick tears rushing to her eyes. “It must have -almost killed your mother.”</p> - -<p>“Yes; that’s what makes her so still and sober.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span> -She never laughs, but she never frets either; and -oh, how good she is to me!”</p> - -<p>Kitty glanced around the room, which seemed -to her so bare. It was spotlessly clean, and Tom’s -chair was soft and comfortable—as indeed a chair -ought to be which must be sat in from morning till -night. Opposite to it were a few pictures on -the wall,—engravings taken from books and -magazines, and given, probably, to Mrs. Graham -by some of her lady customers. Within -easy reach was a little stand, on which stood a -rose-bush in a pot, and a basket full of bright-colored -worsteds, while a book or two lay beside -them.</p> - -<p>“And do you never go out?” cried Kitty, forgetting -her errand in her sympathy—forgetting, -too, that Luke and his impatient horse were waiting -below.</p> - -<p>“Not lately. Mother used to take me down into -the street sometimes; but I’ve grown too heavy -for her now, and she can’t. But I’m not very dull, -even when she’s gone. You wouldn’t guess how -many things I see from my window; and then I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span> -make worsted mats and tidies, and mother sells -them; and then I sing.”</p> - -<p>Kitty stepped to the window to see what range -of vision it offered, and her eye fell on Luke. -She recalled her business.</p> - -<p>“I came to see if I could get your mother to sew -two or three days for me this week.”</p> - -<p>Tom was alert and business-like at once.</p> - -<p>“Let me see,” she said, “to-day is Tuesday;” -and she drew toward her a little book, and looked -it over. “To-morrow is engaged, but you could -have Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, if you -want so much. Please write your name against -them.”</p> - -<p>Kitty pulled off her pretty gray glove, and wrote -her name and address with the little toy-pencil at -the end of her chatelaine; and then she turned to -go, but it was Tom’s turn to question.</p> - -<p>“Please,” said the sweet, fresh voice, which -seemed so like the clear carol of a bird, “would -you mind telling me how old you are? I’m sixteen -myself.”</p> - -<p>“And so am I sixteen,” said Kitty.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span></p> - -<p>“And you have a father and mother both, -haven’t you?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, indeed,” said Kitty.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I’ve only mother, but she is good as two. -Must you go now? And I wonder if I shall ever -see you again?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, you <em>will</em> see me again,” answered Kitty -cheerily; and then, moved by a sudden impulse -of her kind, frank young heart, she bent over and -touched her lips to the bright, bonny face of the -poor girl who must sit prisoner there for ever, and -yet who kept this bright cheerfulness all the time.</p> - -<p>“Oh mamma, I’ve had a lesson,” cried Kitty, -bursting into her mother’s room like a fresh wind, -“and Tom has taught it to me; and he isn’t <em>he</em> -at all—she’s a girl just my age, and she can’t -walk—not a step since she was six years old.”</p> - -<p>And then Kitty told all the sad, tender little -story, and got to crying over it herself, and made -her mother cry, too, before she was through.</p> - -<p>After dinner she sat half the evening in a brown -study. Finally she came out of it, and began -talking in her usual impulsive manner.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Can’t we have them here to Thanksgiving, -mamma? There’s not a single pretty thing in -that house except Tom herself, and the rose-bush; -and every thing did look so bare and clean -and poverty-stricken; and I know they’ll never -afford a good dinner in the world. Oh, say yes, -mamma, dear! I know you’ll say yes, <em>because</em> -you’re such a dear, and you love to make every -one happy.”</p> - -<p>“Yes; but, first of all, I must love to make -papa happy, must I not? You know he never -wants any company on Thanksgiving but grandpa -and grandma and Uncle John. I’m sure you -would not like to spoil papa’s old-fashioned -Thanksgiving Day.”</p> - -<p>Kitty’s countenance fell. She saw the justice -of her mother’s remark, and there was no more to -be said. She sat thinking over her disappointment -in a silence which her mother was the one to -break.</p> - -<p>“But I’ve thought of a better thing, Puss,” -said this wise mamma, who was herself every bit -as tender of heart as Kitty, and cared just as much<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span> -about making people happy. “No doubt Mrs. -Graham and Tom would just as much prefer being -alone together as papa prefers to be alone with his -family; and how will it suit you if I have a nice -dinner prepared for them, and let you go and take -it to them in the coupé? Mrs. Graham is hardly -the woman one could take such a liberty with; -but I’ll beg her to let you have the pleasure of -sending dinner to Tom.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you darling!” and Mrs. Greenough’s neck-ruffle -suffered, and her hair was in danger, as was -apt to be the case when Kitty was overcome with -emotion, which could only find vent in a rapturous -squeeze.</p> - -<p>Before bed-time Kitty had it all planned out. -She was to go in the coupé and take Bridget and -the basket. Bridget was to mount guard by the -horse’s head while Luke went upstairs with Kitty -and brought down Tom for a drive; and while -they were gone Bridget would take the basket in, -and see that every thing was right, and then go -home.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Greenough consented to it all. I think<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span> -she enjoyed the prospect of Tom’s ride, herself, -just as much as Kitty did. While Mrs. Graham -was sewing there she made the arrangement with -her, approaching the subject so delicately that the -most sensitive of women could not be hurt, and -putting the acceptance of both drive and dinner in -the light of a personal favor to Kitty, who had -taken such a fancy to Tom.</p> - -<p>The last afternoon of Mrs. Graham’s stay Kitty -called her mother into her room. Mrs. Greenough -saw spread out upon the bed a thick, warm, soft -jacket, a woollen dress, a last year’s hat.</p> - -<p>“You know them by sight, don’t you, mother -mine? They are the last winter’s clothes that I -grew away from, and have taken leave of. May -Tom have them?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, indeed, if you’ll undertake to give them -to Tom’s mother.”</p> - -<p>Kitty had seldom undertaken a more embarrassing -task. She stole into the sewing-room with -the things in her arms.</p> - -<p>“You’ll be sure, won’t you, Mrs. Graham, not -to let Tom know she’s going to ride until I get<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span> -there, because I want to see how surprised she’ll -look?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I’ll be sure, never fear.”</p> - -<p>“And, Mrs. Graham, here are my coat and hat -and dress that I wore last year, and I’ve grown -away from them. Would you mind letting Tom -wear them?”</p> - -<p>“Would I mind?” A swift, hot rush of tears -filled Mrs. Graham’s eyes, which presently she -wiped away, and somehow then the eyes looked -gladder than Kitty had ever seen them before. “Do -you think I am so weakly, wickedly proud as to be -hurt because you take an interest in my poor girl, -and want to put a little happiness into her life,—that -still, sad life which she bears so patiently? -God bless you, Miss Kitty! and if He doesn’t, it -won’t be because I shall get tired of asking Him.”</p> - -<p>“And you’ll not let her see the hat and jacket -till I come, for fear she’ll think something?”</p> - -<p>At last Mrs. Graham smiled—an actual smile.</p> - -<p>“How you do think of every thing! No, I’ll -keep the hat and jacket out of sight, and I’ll have -the dress on her, all ready.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span></p> - -<p>When Thanksgiving came Kitty scarcely remembered -to put on the new fineries that Mrs. -Graham had finished with such loving care; -scarcely gave a thought to the family festivities at -home, so eager was she about Tom’s Thanksgiving. -She was to go to Hudson Street just at -noon, so that Tom might have the benefit of the -utmost warmth of which the chill November day -was capable.</p> - -<p>First she saw the dinner packed. There was a -turkey, and cranberry-sauce, and mince-pie, and -plum-pudding, and a great cake full of plums, too, -and fruit and nuts, and then Mr. Greenough, who -had heard about the dinner with real interest, -brought out a bottle of particularly nice sherry, -and said to his wife,—</p> - -<p>“Put that in also. It will do those frozen-up -souls good, once in the year.”</p> - -<p>At last impatient Kitty was off. Bridget and -the basket filled all the spare space in the coupé, -and when they reached Hudson Street, Luke took -the dinner and followed Kitty upstairs, while -Bridget stood by the horse’s head, according to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span> -the programme. He set the basket down in the -hall, where no one would be likely to notice it in -opening the door, and then he stood out of sight -himself, while Kitty went in.</p> - -<p>There was Tom, in the warm crimson thibet,—a -proud, happy-looking Tom as you could find in -Boston that Thanksgiving Day.</p> - -<p>“I have come to take you to ride,” cried eager -Kitty. “Will you go?”</p> - -<p>It was worth ten ordinary Thanksgivings to see -the look on Tom’s face,—the joy and wonder, and -then the doubt, as the breathless question came,—</p> - -<p>“How <em>will</em> I get downstairs?”</p> - -<p>And then Luke was called in, and that mystery -was solved. And then out of a closet came the -warm jacket, and the hat, with its gay feather; -and there were tears in Tom’s eyes, and smiles -round her lips, and she tried to say something, and -broke down utterly. And then big, strong Luke -took her up as if she were a baby and marched -downstairs with her, while she heard Kitty say,—but -it all seemed to her like a dream, and Kitty’s -voice like a voice in a dream,—</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span></p> - -<p>“I’m sorry there’s nothing pretty to see at this -time of year. It was so lovely out-doors six weeks -ago.”</p> - -<p>Through Beach Street they went, and then -through Boylston, and the Common was beside -them, with its tree-boughs traced against the November -sky, and the sun shone on the Frog Pond, -and the dome of the State House glittered goldenly, -and there were merry people walking about -everywhere, with their Thanksgiving faces on; -and at last Tom breathed a long, deep breath -which was almost a sob, and cried,—</p> - -<p>“Did <em>you</em> think there was nothing pretty to see -to-day—<em>this</em> day? Why, I didn’t know there -was such a world!”</p> - -<p>The clocks had struck twelve when they left -Hudson Street; the bells were ringing for one -when they entered it again. Bridget was gone, -but a good-natured boy stood by the horse’s head, -and Kitty ran lightly upstairs, followed by Luke, -with Tom in his arms.</p> - -<p>Kitty threw open the door, and there was a -table spread with as good a Thanksgiving din<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span>ner -as the heart could desire, with Tom’s chair -drawn up beside it. Luke set his light burden -down.</p> - -<p>Kitty waited to hear neither thanks nor exclamations. -She saw Tom’s brown eyes as they -rested on the table, and that was enough. She -bent for one moment over the bright face,—the -cheeks which the out-door air had painted red as -the rose that had just opened in honor of the day,—and -left on the young, sweet, wistful lips a kiss, -and then went silently down the stairs, leaving -Tom and Tom’s mother to their Thanksgiving.</p> - -<hr /> - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="FINDING_JACK">FINDING JACK.</h2> -<hr /> -</div> - -<p>Conn turned over and rubbed her sleepy blue -eyes. It seemed to her that the world was -coming to an end all at once, there was such a -Babel of noise about her. What was it? Had -everybody gone mad? Then her wits began to -wake up. She remembered that it was Fourth of -July. That worst noise of all—why, that must -be Jack’s pistol, which he had been saving up -money to buy all winter and all summer. And -that other sound—that must be torpedoes; and -there was the old dog, Hero, barking at them, and -no wonder: it was enough to make any respectable -dog bark. Fire-crackers—ugh! Wasn’t the -pistol bad enough, without all these side shows? -Just then Jack called out from the yard below,—</p> - -<p>“Conn! Conn!”</p> - -<p>The girl’s name was Constantia Richmond; but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span> -she was too slight and bonny for such a long name, -and everybody called her Conn.</p> - -<p>She shook back her fair, soft curls, as golden as -a baby’s still, though Conn was fourteen, and, -putting a little shawl over her shoulders, peeped -out of the open window—as pretty a little slip of -a girl as you would care to see—and looked down -on the face, half-boyish, half-manly, which was upturned -to her. If Jack had been her brother, perhaps -she would have scolded at him; for Conn -loved her morning nap, and the general din had -discomposed her, no doubt. But Jack was only -her cousin, and her second cousin, at that,—and -it’s curious what a difference that does make. -Your brother’s your brother all the days of his -life; but your cousin is another affair, and far less -certain. So Conn said, quite gently,—</p> - -<p>“What is it? Can I do any thing? But I’m -sure I don’t want to help you make any more -noise. This has been—oh, really dreadful!”</p> - -<p>She spoke with a droll little fine-lady air, and -put her pretty little fingers to her pretty little -ears. And Jack laughed; he had not begun to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span> -think of her yet as a charming girl,—she was -just Cousin Conn.</p> - -<p>“What!” he cried. “Not like noise on Fourth -of July? Why, you don’t deserve to have a -country.”</p> - -<p>“I’m sure I wish I hadn’t,” said Conn, with a -little dash of spirit.</p> - -<p>“Are you dressed?” cried the boy, nearly -seventeen years old, but all a boy still.</p> - -<p>“No.”</p> - -<p>“Well, just hurry, then, and come down. I’m -off in half an hour with the Brighton Blues, and I -want you to see first how this pistol works.”</p> - -<p>High honor this, that she, a girl, should be invited -to inspect the wonderful pistol!</p> - -<p>Conn began to dress hurriedly. What should -she put on? Her white dress hung in the closet,—such -a white dress as girls wore then,—all -delicate ruffles, and with a blue ribbon sash, as -dainty-fine as possible. She knew that was meant -for afternoon, when Aunt Sarah would have company. -But might she not put it on now? Perhaps -Jack wouldn’t be here then, and she could<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span> -be careful. So she slipped into the dainty gown, -and fastened hooks and buttons in nervous haste, -and then looked in the glass, as every other girl -that ever lived would have done in her place.</p> - -<p>It was a bright, fair face that she saw there—all -pink and white, and with those violet eyes over -which the long lashes drooped, and that soft, bright -hair that lay in little rings and ripples round her -white forehead, and hung a wavy mass down to -the slender waist which the blue ribbon girdled. -Conn was pleased, no doubt, with the sight she -saw in the mirror,—how could she help being? -She tripped downstairs, and out of the door. -Jack whistled when he saw her.</p> - -<p>“What! all your fineries on at this time of -day? What do you think Mother Sarah will say -to that?”</p> - -<p>The pretty pink flush deepened in the girl’s -cheeks, and she answered him almost as if she -thought she had done something wrong,—</p> - -<p>“I’ll be so careful, Jack. I won’t spoil it. By -and by you’ll be gone; and I wanted to look nice -when I saw the new pistol.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span></p> - -<p>This seemed extremely natural to Jack. The -pistol was to him a matter of such moment that -no amount of demonstration in its honor would -have seemed too great. Viewed in this light, it -really appeared quite a meritorious act that Conn -should have put on the white dress; and he looked -her over with that air of half-patronizing approval -with which boys are apt to regard the good looks -of their sisters and their cousins.</p> - -<p>Then he exhibited the pistol. It had—as a -boy’s knife or gun or boat always has—distinguishing -and individual merits of its own. No -other pistol, though it were run in the same mould, -could quite compare with it, and it was by some -sort of wonderful chance that he had become its -possessor. Conn wondered and admired with him -to his heart’s content. Then came breakfast, and -then the marching of the Brighton Blues. This -was a company of boys in blue uniforms,—handsome, -healthy, wide-awake boys from fourteen to -seventeen years old,—every one of them the pride -of mothers and sisters and cousins. They were -to march into Boston, and parade the streets, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span> -dine at a restaurant, and see the fireworks in the -evening, and I don’t know what other wonderful -things.</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/i_128.jpg" width="600" alt="" /> -<div class="caption">Conn stood and watched them.—<span class="smcap">Page <a href="#Page_129">129</a>.</span></div> -</div> - -<p>Jack was in the highest spirits. He was sure -he and his pistol were a necessary part of the day; -and he sincerely pitied Conn, because she was a -girl and must stay at home.</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“‘<i>Bang, whang, whang</i> goes the drum, <i>tootle-te-tootle</i> the fife;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Oh! a day in the city square, there is no such pleasure in life!’”<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>he quoted; and then he called back to her from -the gate,—</p> - -<p>“It’s too bad, Conn, that there’s no fun for -you; but keep your courage up, and I’ll bring you -something.”</p> - -<p>And so they marched away, in the gay, glad -morning sunshine, following their band of music,—a -boy’s band that was, too.</p> - -<p>Conn stood and watched them, with a wistful, -longing look in her great violet eyes, and the soft, -bright color coming and going on her girlish cheeks. -At last she gathered a bunch of late red roses, and -put them in her bosom and went into the house.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span> -She sewed a little, and then she tossed her work -aside, for who cares to work on holidays? Then -she took up her new book; but the tale it told -seemed dull and cold beside the warm throbbing -life of which the outside world was full. She -wished over and over that she were a boy, that she -might have marched away with the rest. Then -she wondered if she could not go into town and -see them from somewhere in all their glory. Very -little idea had she of a Boston crowd on Fourth of -July. She had been into town often enough, with -her aunt or her uncle, and walked through the -quiet streets; and she thought she should have -little trouble in doing the same now. She looked -in her purse; she had not much money, but enough -so that she could ride if she got tired, and she -would be sure to save some to come home. She -called her Aunt Sarah’s one servant, and made her -promise to keep the secret as long as she could, and -then tell Aunt Sarah that she had gone to Boston -to find Jack and see him march with the rest.</p> - -<p>The girl was a good-natured creature, not bright -enough to know that it was her duty to interfere,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span> -and easily persuaded by Conn’s entreaties and the -bit of blue ribbon with which they were enforced.</p> - -<p>And so Conn started off, as the boys had done -before her, and went on her way. But she had no -gay music to which to march, and for company -she had only her own thoughts, her own hopes. -Still she marched bravely on.</p> - -<p>There were plenty of other people going the -same way; indeed it seemed to Conn as if everybody -must be going into Boston. Excitement upheld -her, and she trudged along, mile after mile, -across the pleasant mill-dam, and at last she -reached Beacon Street. Her head had begun to -throb horribly by the time she got into town. It -seemed to her that all the world was whirling -round and round, and she with it. But she could -not turn back then; indeed, she did not know -how to find any conveyance, and she knew her -feet would not carry her much farther. Surely, -she <em>must</em> see Jack soon. He had said they should -march through Beacon Street. She would ask -some one. She had an idea that every one must -know about any thing so important as the Brighton<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span> -Blues. At last she got courage to speak to a kind-looking -servant-maid in the midst of a group on -the steps of one of the Beacon-street houses. The -girl pitied her white face, so pale now, with all -the pretty pink roses faded from the tired young -cheeks, and answered kindly.</p> - -<p>She did not know about the Brighton Blues, but -she guessed all the companies had been by there, or -would come. Wouldn’t the young lady sit down -with them on the steps, and rest, and wait a little?</p> - -<p>And “the young lady” sat down. What could -she do else, with the whole world whirling, whirling, -and her feet so strangely determined to whirl -out from under her? And then it grew dark, -and when it came light again there was a wet cloth -on her hair, and she lay on a lounge in a cool basement, -and the kind girl who had cared for her told -her that she had fainted. And then she had some -food and grew refreshed a little, but was strangely -confused yet, and with only one thought, to which -she held with all the strength of her will,—that -she had come to see Jack and must look for him -till he came. So on the steps she stationed herself,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span> -and the crowd surged by. Military companies, -grown-up ones, came and went with glitter of -brave uniforms and joyful clamor of music, and -Conn watched, with all her soul in her eyes, but -still no Jack.</p> - -<p>It was mid-afternoon at last when suddenly she -saw the familiar blue, and marching down the -street came the boyish ranks, following their own -band—tired enough, all of them, no doubt, but -their courage kept up by the music and the hope of -fireworks by and by. Conn strained her eyes. -She did not mean to speak, but after a little, when -the face she longed for came in sight, something -within her cried out with a sharp, despairing cry, -“Oh, Jack, Jack!”</p> - -<p>And Jack heard. Those who were watching -saw one boy break from the long blue line, and -spring up the step where Conn sat, and seize in -strong hands the shoulders of a girl all in white, -her face as white as her gown, and some red roses, -withered now, upon her breast.</p> - -<p>“Conn—Conn Richmond!” the boy cried, -“what <em>does</em> this mean?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Don’t scold—oh, <em>don’t</em> scold, Jack!” said the -pitiful, quivering lips. “I only came in to see you -marching with the rest, and—I’m tired.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said the girl who had befriended her, -“and she fainted clean away, and she’s more dead -than alive now; and if you’ve a heart in your bosom, -you’ll let your play soldiering go, and take -care of <em>her</em>.”</p> - -<p>And just then Jack realized, boy as he was, that -he <em>had</em> a heart in his bosom, and that his Cousin -Conn was the dearest and nearest thing to that -heart in the whole world. But he did not tell her -so till long years afterwards. Just now his chief -interest was to get her home. No more marching -for him; and what were fireworks, or the supper -the boys were to take together, in comparison with -this girl, who had cared so much to see him in his -holiday glory?</p> - -<p>He took her to an omnibus, which ran in those -days to Brighton, and by tea-time he had got her -home. He found his mother frightened and helpless, -and too glad to get Conn back to think of -scolding.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span></p> - -<hr class="tight" /> - -<p>It was six years after that, that in the battle of -Malvern Hill, July 1, 1862, Jack, a real soldier -then, and no longer a boy playing at the mimicry -of war, was wounded; and next day the news -came to the quiet Brighton home.</p> - -<p>Conn had grown to be a young lady in the sweet -grace of her twenty summers, and she was her Aunt -Sarah’s help and comfort. To these two women -came the news of Jack’s peril. The mother cried -a little helplessly; but there were no tears in -Conn’s eyes.</p> - -<p>“Aunt Sarah,” she said quietly, “I am going to -find Jack.”</p> - -<p>And that day she was off for the Peninsula. It -was the Fourth of July when she reached the hospital -in which her Cousin Jack had been placed. -She asked about him, trembling; but the news, -which reassured her, was favorable. He was -wounded, but not dangerously. It was a girlish -instinct, which every girl will understand, that -made Conn put on a fresh white gown before she -used the permission she had received to enter the -hospital. She remembered—would Jack remem<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span>ber -also?—that other Fourth of July on which -they had found each other, six years before. As -if nothing should be wanting of the old attire, -she met, as she passed along the street, a boy -with flowers to sell,—for the flowers bloomed, -just as the careless birds sang, even amid the -horrors of those dreadful days,—and bought of -him a bunch of late red roses, and fastened -them, as she had done that other day, upon her -breast.</p> - -<p>The sun was low when she entered the hospital, -and its last rays kindled the hair, golden still as in -the years long past, till it looked like a saint’s aureole -about her fair and tender face. She walked -on among the suffering, until, at last, before she -knew that she had come near the object of her -search, she heard her name called, just as <em>she</em> had -called Jack’s name six years before,—</p> - -<p>“Oh, Conn, Conn!”</p> - -<p>And then she sank upon her knees beside a low -bed, and two feeble arms reached round her neck -and drew her head down.</p> - -<p>“I was waiting for you, Conn. I knew you<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span> -would come. I lay here waiting till I should see -you as you were that day long ago,—all in white, -and with red roses on your breast,—my one love -in all the world!”</p> - -<p>And the girl’s white face grew crimson with a -swift, sweet joy, for never before had such words -blessed her. She did not speak; and Jack, full of -a man’s impatience, now that at last he had uttered -the words left unsaid so long, held her fast, and -whispered,—</p> - -<p>“Tell me, Conn, tell me that you <em>are</em> mine, -come life or death. Surely you would not have -sought me here if you had not meant it to be so! -You <em>are</em> my Conn,—tell me so.”</p> - -<p>And I suppose Conn satisfied him, for two years -after that she was his wife, and last night he gave -the old pistol of that first Fourth of July to a -young ten-year-old Jack Richmond to practise -with for this year’s Fourth; and pretty Mother -Conn, as fair still as in her girlhood, remonstrated, -as gentle mothers will, with,—</p> - -<p>“Oh Jack, surely he is too young for such a -dangerous plaything.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span></p> - -<p>Father Jack laughed as he lifted little Conn to -his knee, and answered,—</p> - -<p>“Nonsense, sweetheart. He is a soldier’s boy, -and a little pistol-shooting won’t hurt him.”</p> - -<p>But how noisy it will be round that house on -Fourth of July!</p> - -<hr /> - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="HER_MOTHERS_DAUGHTER">HER MOTHER’S DAUGHTER.</h2> -<hr /> -</div> - -<p>Syl Graham was an only child. Her name -was Sylvia, but everybody called her Syl, -except that sometimes, half playfully and half chidingly, -her father called her Sylly. But that was a -liberty no one else took,—and for which Mr. Graham -himself was not unlikely to pay in extra indulgence.</p> - -<p>Syl was seventeen, and she had never known -any trouble in all her young, bright life. Her -mother had died when she was two years old; and -this, which might easily have been the greatest of -misfortunes,—though Syl was too young to know -it,—had been turned almost into a blessing by the -devotion of her father’s sister, Aunt Rachel, who -came to take care of the little one then, and had -never left her since.</p> - -<p>Not the dead Mrs. Graham herself could have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span> -been more motherly or more tender than Aunt -Rachel; and the girl had grown up like a flower -in a shaded nook, on which no rough wind had -ever been allowed to breathe.</p> - -<p>And a pretty flower she was; so her father -thought when she ran into the hall to meet him, -as he came in from business at the close of the -short November day.</p> - -<p>The last rays of daylight just bronzed her chestnut -hair. Her face was delicately fair,—as the -complexion that goes with such hair usually is,—colorless -save in the lips, which seemed as much -brighter than other lips as if they had added to -their own color all that which was absent from the -fair, colorless cheeks. The brown eyes were dancing -with pleasant thoughts, the little, girlish figure -was wonderfully graceful, and Papa Graham looked -down at this fair, sweet maiden with a fond pride, -which the sourest critic could hardly have had a -heart to condemn.</p> - -<p>“Are you cross?” she said laughingly, as she -helped him off with his overcoat.</p> - -<p>“Very,” he answered, with gravity.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span></p> - -<p>“I mean are you worse than usual? Will you -be in the best humor now or after dinner?”</p> - -<p>“After dinner, decidedly, if Aunt Rachel’s coffee -is good.”</p> - -<p>Syl nodded her piquant little head. “I’ll wait, -then.”</p> - -<p>The dinner was good enough to have tempted -a less hungry man than Mr. Graham, and the coffee -was perfect. Papa’s dressing-gown and slippers -were ready, upstairs; and when he had sat down -in the great, soft easy-chair that awaited him, and -his daughter had settled herself on a stool at his -feet, I think it would have been hard to find a -more contented-looking man in all New York.</p> - -<p>“Now I’m very sure you are as good as such a -bear can be,” said saucy Syl; “and now we’ll -converse.”</p> - -<p>To “converse” was Syl’s pet phrase for the -course of request, reasoning, entreaty, by which -Papa Graham was usually brought to accede to all -her wishes, however extravagant. He rested his -hand now on her shining chestnut braids, and -thought how like she was to the young wife he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span> -had loved so well, and lost so early. Then he -said teasingly,—</p> - -<p>“What is it, this time? A Paris doll, with a -trunk and a bandbox; or a hand-organ?”</p> - -<p>“For shame, papa! The doll was four years -ago.”</p> - -<p>“All the more reason it must be worn out. -Then it’s the hand-organ. But I must draw the -line somewhere,—you can’t have the monkey. If -Punch and Judy would do, though?”</p> - -<p>“Now, Father Lucius, you know I gave up the -hand-organ two years ago, and took a piano for -my little upstairs room instead; and you know -I’m seventeen. Am I likely, at this age, to want -monkeys, Punch and Judys, and things?”</p> - -<p>“O, no! I forgot. Seventeen,—it must be a -sewing-machine. You want to make all your endless -bibs and tuckers more easily. Well, I’ll -consent.”</p> - -<p>Syl blushed. It was a sore point between her -and Aunt Rachel that she so seldom sewed for -herself. Aunt Rachel had old-fashioned notions, -and believed in girls that made their own pretty -things.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Now, papa, you are not good-humored at all. -I had better have asked you before dinner. You -don’t even let me tell you what I want.”</p> - -<p>Papa sobered his face into a look of respectful -attention, and waited silently. But now Syl was -not quite ready to speak.</p> - -<p>“Don’t you think pomegranate is a pretty color, -papa?”</p> - -<p>“What is it like?”</p> - -<p>“O, it’s the deepest, richest, brightest, humanest -red you ever saw.”</p> - -<p>“Why, I think it must be like your lips;” and -he drew her to him, and kissed the bright young -mouth with a lazy content.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps it <em>is</em> like my lips; then, surely it will -look well <em>with</em> them.”</p> - -<p>“Where does this blossom of beauty grow?”</p> - -<p>“It grows at Stewart’s. It has been woven -into a lovely, soft-falling silk, at four dollars a -yard. Twenty-five yards makes a gown, and -eight yards of velvet makes the trimming and -the sleeveless jacket, and the velvet is six dollars -a yard. And then there is Madame Bodin, she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span> -charges like a horrid old Jew,—forty dollars just -to look at a gown; and then there are the linings -and buttons and things. Have you kept account, -papa, and added it all up in your head?”</p> - -<p>“I think it means about two hundred dollars. -Isn’t that what you call it, Sylly?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, if you please. It’ll be <em>worth</em> that, won’t -it, to have your daughter look like a love, when -all the people come on New Year’s Day?”</p> - -<p>“So that’s it,—that’s what this conspiracy -against my peace and my pocket has for its object,—that -Miss Syl Graham may sit at the receipt of -callers on New Year’s Day, in a robe like a red, -red rose. O Sylly, Sylly!”</p> - -<p>Syl pouted a little, the most becoming pout in -the world.</p> - -<p>“Well, I’m sure I thought you cared how I -look. If you don’t, never mind. My old black -silk is still very neat and decent.”</p> - -<p>“September, October, November,—it’s nearly -three months old, isn’t it? What a well-behaved -gown it must be to have kept neat and decent -so long! And as to the other, I’ll consider,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span> -and you can ask me again when I come home to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>Syl knew what Papa Graham’s considers meant, -and how they always ended. She had gained her -point, and she danced off and sang to the piano -some old Scotch airs that her father loved, because -Syl’s mother used to sing them; and Papa Graham -listened dreamily to the music, while his -thoughts went back twenty years, to the first winter -when he brought his girl-bride home, only a -year older, then, than Syl was now. He remembered -how the firelight used to shine on her fair, -upturned face, as she knelt beside him; how -sweet her voice was; how pure and true and -fond her innocent young heart. And now Syl -was all he had left of her.</p> - -<p>Should he lose Syl herself, soon? Would some -bold wooer come and carry her away, and leave -him with only Aunt Rachel’s quiet figure and fading -face beside him for the rest of his life?</p> - -<p>Just then Syl might have asked him not in vain -for any thing, even to the half of his kingdom.</p> - -<p>Next morning Syl went into the sewing-room.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span> -A young girl just about her own age was there—altering, -sewing, making all the foolish little fancies -in which Syl’s heart delighted, though her -idle fingers never wrought at them. Out of pure -kindness of heart Syl found her way into the sewing-room -very often when Mary Gordon was there. -She knew her presence carried pleasure with it, -and often she used to take some story or poem and -read to the young listener, with the always busy -fingers, and the gentle, grateful face.</p> - -<p>But to-day she found the girl’s eyes very red as -if with long weeping. If Syl was selfish it was -only because she never came in contact with the -pains and needs of others. She had “fed on the -roses and lain among the lilies of life,”—how was -she to know the hurt of its stinging nettles? But -she could not have been the lovesome, charming -girl she was if she had had a nature hard and -indifferent to the pains of others.</p> - -<p>To see Mary Gordon’s red eyes was enough. -Instantly she drew the work out of the fingers -that trembled so; and then she set herself to draw -the secret sorrow out of the poor, trembling -heart.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span></p> - -<p>It was the old story, so sadly common and yet -so bitterly sad, of a mother wasting away and fading -out of life, and a daughter struggling to take -care of her, and breaking her heart because she -could do so little.</p> - -<p>“I’m used to all that,” the girl said sadly, -“and I don’t let myself cry for what I can’t help. -But this morning I heard her say to herself, as I -was getting every thing ready for her, ‘O, the long, -lonesome day!’ She thought I did not hear her, -for she never complains; but somehow it broke me -down. I keep thinking of her, suffering and weary -and all alone. But I can’t help that, either; and -I must learn to be contented in thinking that I -do my best.”</p> - -<p>“But can’t you stay at home with her and work -there?” cried Syl, all eager sympathy and interest.</p> - -<p>“No, I can’t get work enough in that way. -People want their altering and fixing done in their -own houses, and plain sewing pays so poorly. -Sometimes I’ve thought if I only had a machine, -so I could get a great deal done, I might manage -but to hire one would eat up all my profits.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span></p> - -<p>Syl thought a little silent while; and it was a -pretty sight to see the fair young face settle into -such deep earnestness.</p> - -<p>“Well,” she said at length, “at least you shall -stay at home with her to-morrow; for all those -ruffles can be done just as well there as here, -and you shall carry them home with you. And -you’d better go early this afternoon; there’ll -be enough work to last you, and I can’t bear -to think of her waiting for you, and wanting you, -so many long hours. We’ll give her a little surprise.”</p> - -<p>Mary Gordon did not speak for a moment. I -think she was getting her voice steady, for when -she did begin it trembled.</p> - -<p>“I <em>can’t</em> thank you, Miss Syl,—it’s no use to -try; but the strange part is how you understand -it all, when you’ve no mother yourself.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, but you see I have papa and auntie, and I -just know.”</p> - -<p>That day, after Syl and Aunt Rachel had -lunched together, Syl said, in a coaxing little -way she had,—</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Aunt Rachel, we never want to see the other -half of that cold chicken again, do we?”</p> - -<p>“Why, Syl—we”—</p> - -<p>“Why, auntie, no—we never want to-morrow’s -lunch furnished coldly forth by this sad relic. -And there’s a tumbler of jelly we don’t want, -either—and those rolls, and,—let me see, can -sick people eat cake?”</p> - -<p>“Why, Syl Graham, what are you talking -about! Who’s sick?”</p> - -<p>Syl grew sober.</p> - -<p>“I’m thinking about poor Mary Gordon’s -mother, auntie. She’s sick, and dying by inches; -and Mary has to leave her all alone; and I’ve -told her she shall stay at home to-morrow and -make my ruffles, and we’ll pay her just the same -as if she came here. And don’t you see that we -must give her her dinner to take home, since she -can’t come here after it?”</p> - -<p>Aunt Rachel never said a word, but she got up -and kissed Syl on each cheek. Then she brought -a basket, and into it went the cold chicken and a -cold tongue and jelly and buttered rolls and fruit,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span> -till even Syl was satisfied; and she took the heavy -basket and danced away with it to the sewing-room, -with a bright light in her dear brown -eyes.</p> - -<p>“I think you’d best go now,” she said. “I -can’t get your mother, waiting there alone, out of -my mind, and it’s spoiling my afternoon, don’t -you see? And because you mustn’t come here to -dine to-morrow, you must carry your dinner home -with you; and Aunt Rachel put some fruit and -some jelly in the basket that maybe your mother -will like.”</p> - -<p>That night, when Mr. Lucius Graham let himself -into the hall with his latch-key, his daughter -heard him and went to meet him, as usual. But -she was very silent, and he missed his teasing, -saucy, provoking Syl.</p> - -<p>“Why, daughter, are you in a dream?” he -asked once during dinner; but she only laughed -and shook her head. She held her peace until she -had him at her mercy, in the great easy-chair, and -she was on the stool beside him, as her wont was. -Then, suddenly, her question came.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Papa, do you think a pomegranate silk without -velvet would be very bad?”</p> - -<p>He was inclined to tease her, and began with -“Hideous!” but then he saw that her lips were -fairly trembling, and her face full of eagerness, -and forbore.</p> - -<p>“How did you know you were to have the silk -at all? But you know your power over me. -Here is your needful;” and he put into her hands -ten bright, new twenty-dollar bills.</p> - -<p>“O, thank you! and <em>do</em> you think it would be -bad without the velvet?”</p> - -<p>“Sylly, no; but why shouldn’t you have the -velvet if you want it?”</p> - -<p>And then came the whole story of poor Mary -Gordon, and—in such an eager tone,—</p> - -<p>“Don’t you see, with the money the velvet -would cost, and a little more, I could get her the -sewing-machine; and Madame Bodin wouldn’t -ask so much to make the dress if it is plainer?”</p> - -<p>Mr. Graham was a rich man, and his first -thought was to give her the money for the machine, -and let her have her pretty dress, as she had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span> -fancied it, first. But a second thought restrained -him. She was just beginning to learn the joy and -beauty of self-sacrifice. Should he interfere? He -kissed her with a half-solemn tenderness, and answered -her,—</p> - -<p>“You shall do precisely as you please, my dear. -The two hundred dollars is yours. Use it <em>just</em> as -you like. I shall never inquire into its fate again.”</p> - -<p>And then she went away—and was it her voice -or that of some blessed spirit that came to him, a -moment after, from the shadowy corner where the -piano stood, singing an old middle-age hymn, -about the city—</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Where all the glad life-music,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Now heard no longer here,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Shall come again to greet us,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">As we are drawing near.”<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>The next day, who so busy and happy as Syl—dragging -Aunt Rachel from one warehouse to -another—it was in the days when sewing-machines -were costly—till she was quite sure she -had found just the right machine; and then or<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span>dering -it sent, at three o’clock, no earlier, no later, -to Miss Gordon, No. 2 Crescent Place.</p> - -<p>At a quarter before three Syl went there herself. -The pleasure of witnessing Mary Gordon’s surprise -was the thing she had promised herself, in lieu of -velvet on her gown. She found the poor room -neat and clean, and by no means without traces of -comfort and refinement; and Mrs. Gordon was a -sweet and gentle woman, such as Mary’s mother -must have been to be in keeping with Mary. She -chatted with them for a few minutes, noticing the -invalid’s short breath and frequent cough, and -Mary’s careful tenderness over her.</p> - -<p>“It’s too bad Mary can’t be at home all the -time,” said Syl.</p> - -<p>“Yes; but then to have her to-day is such a -blessing. If you knew how we had enjoyed our -day together, and our feast together, I know you -would feel paid for any inconvenience it cost you.”</p> - -<p>Just then an express wagon rumbled up to the -door and the bell rang loudly. Mary opened -it at once, for their room was on the ground -floor.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span></p> - -<p>“A sewing-machine for Miss Gordon,” said a -somewhat gruff voice.</p> - -<p>“No, that cannot be. There is some mistake,” -said Mary’s gentle tones. And then Syl sprang -forward, in a flutter of excitement, which would -have been pretty to see had there been anybody -there to notice it.</p> - -<p>“I’m sure it’s all right. Bring it in, please; -and Mary, you will tell them where to put it, in -the best light.”</p> - -<p>And in five minutes or less it was all in its -place, and Mary was looking, with eyes full of -wonder, and something else beside wonder, at -Syl Graham.</p> - -<p>“It’s nothing,” said Syl hurriedly; “it’s only -my New Year’s present to you, a little in advance -of time.”</p> - -<p>She had thought she should enjoy Mary’s surprise; -but this was something she had not looked -for,—this utter breaking down, these great wild -sobs, as if the girl’s heart would break. And -when she could speak at length, she cried with a -sort of passion,—</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span></p> - -<p>“O Miss Syl, I do believe you have saved my -mother’s life! She will get better—she must—now -that I can stay here all the time and take -care of her.”</p> - -<p>Syl was glad to get out into the street. She -felt something in her own throat choking her. -Just a few steps off she met Dr. Meade,—her own -doctor, as it chanced,—and it struck her that it -would be a good thing if he would go in to see -Mrs. Gordon. So she asked him.</p> - -<p>“I’m going there,” he said. “I try to see her -once every week.”</p> - -<p>“And will she live—can she?”</p> - -<p>The doctor answered, with half a sigh,—</p> - -<p>“I’m afraid not. She needs more constant care, -and more nourishing food and other things. I -wish I could help her more, but I can only give my -services, and I see so many such cases.”</p> - -<p>“But she would take things from you, and not -be hurt?”</p> - -<p>“I should <em>make</em> her if I had a full purse to go -to.”</p> - -<p>“Well, then, here are forty dollars for her; and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span> -you are to get her what she needs, and never let -her know where it came from—will you?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I will,” he answered earnestly. And -then, after a moment, he said,—“Syl Graham, -you are your mother’s daughter. I can say no better -thing of you,—she was a good woman.”</p> - -<p>Syl had a hundred dollars left; but that -wouldn’t compass the pomegranate silk, and Syl -had concluded now she did not want it. She had -had a glimpse of something better; and that hundred -dollars would make many a sad heart glad -before spring.</p> - -<p>On New Year’s Day, Papa Graham was off all -day making calls; and the gas was already lighted -when he went into his own house, and into his -own drawing-room. He saw a girl there with -bands of bright chestnut hair about her graceful -young head; with shining eyes, and lips as bright -as the vivid crimson roses in her braided hair, and -in the bosom of her black silk gown. He looked -at her with a fond pride and a fonder love; and -then he bent to kiss her,—for the room was -empty of guests just then. As he lifted his head<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span> -and met Aunt Rachel’s eyes, it happened that he -said about the same words Dr. Meade had used -before,—</p> - -<p>“She is her mother’s daughter; I can say of her -no better thing.”</p> - -<hr /> - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="MY_QUARREL_WITH_RUTH">MY QUARREL WITH RUTH.</h2> -<hr /> -</div> - -<p>I suppose if I had not loved Ruth Carson so -much my resentment against her would not -have been so bitter. She was my first friend. She -had no sister, neither had I; and we used to think -that no sisters could be nearer to each other than -we were. She had black eyes,—great, earnest, -beautiful eyes, with pride and tenderness both in -them; sometimes one and sometimes the other in -the ascendant. I was yellow-haired and blue-eyed, -but we always wanted our gowns and hats alike, -and coaxed our mothers into indulging us. I don’t -know whether Ruth suffered more in appearance -when the clear dark of her face was set in my pale -blues, or I, when her brilliant reds and orange -turned me into a peony or a sunflower; but we -thought little about such effects in those days. If -Ruth got her new article of attire first, I must<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span> -have one like it, whether or no; and if I was first -favored, she followed my example.</p> - -<p>It was thus in every thing. We studied from -the same text-books, keeping a nearly even pace -Ruth was quicker than I at figures, so she helped -me there; and my eyes were better than her near-sighted -ones at finding towns, mountains, and -fivers on the atlas, so we always did our “map -questions” together. Of course our play hours -were always passed in company, and one face was -almost as familiar as the other in each of our -houses. “The twins,” people used to call us, for -fun; and if ever two girls were all and all to each -other, we were.</p> - -<p>What did we quarrel about? It is a curious -thing that I have forgotten how it began. It was -some little difference of opinion, such as seldom -occurred between us; and then, “what so wild as -words are?” We said one thing after another, -until, finally, Ruth’s black eyes flashed, and she -cried out passionately,—</p> - -<p>“I just about hate you, Sue Morrison!”</p> - -<p>Then my temper flamed. It was a different<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span> -kind of temper from Ruth’s,—slower to take fire, -but much more sullen and resolute. I loved her -as I did my own life, but I hated her also, just -then,—if you can understand that contradiction. -I looked at her, and I remember I thought, even -then, how handsome she was, with the red glow -on her cheeks, and her eyes so strangely bright. -I could have kissed her for love, or cursed her for -hate; but the hate triumphed. Slowly I said,—</p> - -<p>“Very well, Ruth Carson. I shall not trouble -you any more. I shall never speak to you again, -until I see you lie a-dying.”</p> - -<p>I don’t know what made me put that last sentence -in. I suppose I thought, even then, that I -could not have her go out of the world, for good -and all, without one tender word from me. When -I spoke, Ruth turned pale, and the light died in -her eyes. I presume she did not think I really -meant what I said; but, at any rate, it startled her. -She did not answer. She just looked at me a moment. -Then she turned away, and, for the first -time in years, she and I walked home, so far as our -roads lay the same way, on opposite sides of the -street.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Where is Ruth?” my mother asked, when I -went in.</p> - -<p>“Gone home, I believe,” was my only answer.</p> - -<p>It seemed to me that I could not tell even my -mother of this estrangement, which had changed -in a day the whole current of my life. Of course, -as time went on, she saw that all was different -between Ruth and me; but, finding that I did not -voluntarily tell her any thing, she ceased even to -mention Ruth in my presence.</p> - -<p>You cannot think how strange and solitary my -new life seemed to me. For the first time since I -could remember I felt all alone. I don’t think -Ruth thought this unnatural state of things could -last. The first day after our quarrel she spoke to -me, at school, half timidly. I looked at her, and -did not answer. She sighed, and turned away; -and again, when school was over, each of us went -home alone on our separate path.</p> - -<p>Sometimes I would find a bunch of roses on my -desk, for it was June when our quarrel took place, -and all the roses were in bloom. Then, later, I -would lift up the desk cover and come upon an<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span> -early apple or a peach; later still, a handful of -chestnuts. I always let the roses wither without -touching them; and the fruit I gave away, as if -unconscious where it came from. Ruth would -watch me and sigh; but after that first morning -she never spoke to me. I think my rebuff then -hurt her too much for her to be willing to risk receiving -such another. What a strange, new, sad -thing it was to get our lessons, as we did now, all -alone! How the hateful figures tormented me, -without Ruth’s quick brain to help me unravel -them! How puzzled she looked, as I saw her holding -the map close to her near-sighted eyes, trying -to find the rivers and lakes and mountains all by -herself!</p> - -<p>It was a curious thing that after the first two or -three days my anger had passed away entirely. I -held no longer the least bitterness in my heart -toward Ruth; and yet I felt that I must keep my -word. I looked upon my rash utterance as a vow, -for which I had a sort of superstitious reverence. -Then, too, there was a queer, evil kind of pride -about me,—something that wouldn’t <em>let</em> me speak<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span> -to her when I had said I wouldn’t,—wouldn’t <em>let</em> -me show her that I was sorry. The teacher spoke -to me about the trouble between me and Ruth, but -he might as well have spoken to a blank wall,—I -did not even answer him. Whether he said any -thing to Ruth I do not know.</p> - -<p>In the late fall there was a vacation, which held -over Thanksgiving. I had an idea that my mother -watched me curiously to see how I would pass -those weeks without Ruth. But I was resolute to -show no pain or loneliness. I made occupations for -myself. I read; I worked worsted; I crocheted; -I copied out poems in my common-place book; I -was busy from morning till night. One thing I did -not do,—I did not take another friend in Ruth’s -stead. Several of the girls had shown themselves -willing to fill the vacant place, but they soon found -that “No admittance here” was written over the -door. I think they tried the same experiment with -Ruth, with the same result. At any rate, each of -us went on our solitary way, quite alone. Ruth -had her own pride, too, as well as I; and, after a -little while, she would no more have spoken to me<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span> -than I to her; but she could not help those great, -dark eyes of hers resting on me sometimes with a -wistful, inquiring look, that almost brought the -tears to mine.</p> - -<p>School commenced again the first of December. -Ruth came, the first day, in her new winter dress. -It was a deep, rich red; and somehow she made -me think of the spicy little red roses of Burgundy, -that used to grow in my grandmother’s old-fashioned -garden. My own new gown was blue. For -the first time in years, Ruth and I were dressed -differently. We were no longer “the twins.” I -thought Ruth looked a little sad. She was very -grave. I never heard her laugh in these days. -When it rained or snowed, and we stayed at school -through the noonings, instead of going home for -our dinner, neither of us would join in the games -that made the noontime merry. I suppose each -was afraid of too directly encountering the other.</p> - -<p>But when the good skating came, both of us -used to be on the pond. The whole school, teacher -and all, would turn out on half holidays. Both -Ruth and I were among the best skaters in school<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span> -My father had taught us, two or three winters before, -and we had had great pride in our skill. We -had always skated in company before; but now, as -in every thing else we did, we kept at a distance -from each other.</p> - -<p>The pond used to be a pretty sight, on those -crisp, keen winter afternoons, all alive with boys -and girls. A steep hill rose on one side of it, -crowned by a pine wood, green all the winter -through. Great fields of snow stretched far and -away on the other side, and in the midst was the -sheet of ice, smooth as glass. Here was a scarlet -hood, and there a boy’s gay Scotch cap. Here -some adventurer was cutting fantastic capers; -there a girl was struggling with her first skates, -and falling down at almost every step. I loved -the pastime,—the keen, clear air, the swift motion, -the excitement. I loved to watch Ruth, too, -for by this time not only was all the bitterness -gone from my heart, but the old love was welling -up, sweet and strong, though nothing would have -made me acknowledge it to myself. Wherever -she moved, my far-sighted eyes followed her; and,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span> -indeed, she was a pretty sight, the prettiest there, -in her bright scarlet skating dress, and with her -cheeks scarcely less scarlet, and her great eyes -bright as stars.</p> - -<p>There came a day, at last, when we promised -ourselves an afternoon of glorious skating. The -ice was in excellent condition, the sky was cloudless, -the weather cold, indeed, but not piercing, -and the air exhilarating as wine. I ate my dinner -hurriedly—there was no time to lose out of such -an afternoon. I rose from the table before the -rest, put on my warm jacket and my skating-cap, -and was just leaving the house when my father -called after me.</p> - -<p>“Be very careful of the west side of the pond, -Sue. They have been cutting a good deal of ice -there.”</p> - -<p>The whole school was out; only when I first -got there I did not see Ruth. The teacher repeated -to us what my father had said, but I remembered -afterward that it was not till he had done -speaking that Ruth came in sight, looking, in her -bright scarlet, like some tropical bird astray under<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span> -our pale northern skies. As usual she and I began -skating at some distance from each other, but -gradually I drew nearer and nearer to her. I had -no reason for this. I did not mean to speak to her, -and the pride that held me from her was as untamed -as ever. But yet something for which I -could not account drew me towards her.</p> - -<p>Did she see me, and wish to avoid me? I did -not know; but suddenly she began to skate -swiftly away from me, and toward the dangerous -west side of the pond. I think I must have called, -“Come back! come back!” but if I did, she did -not heed or hear. She was skating on, oh, so fast! -I looked around in despair—I was nearer to her -than any one else was. I shouted, with all my -might, to Mr. Hunt, the teacher. I thought I saw -him turn at the sound of my voice, but I did not -wait to be sure. I just skated after Ruth.</p> - -<p>I never can tell you about that moment. All -the love with which I had loved her swept back -over my heart like a great flood. Pride and bitterness, -what did they mean? I only knew that I -had loved Ruth Carson as I should never, never<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span> -love any other friend; and that if she died I wanted -to die too, and be friends with her again in the -next world, if I could not here. I think I called -to her, but the call was wasted upon the wind -which always bore my voice the other way. So -Ruth skated on and on, and I skated after her. -Whether any one was coming behind me I did not -know. I never even looked over my shoulder. -It seemed to me that some mad wind of destiny -was sweeping us both ahead.</p> - -<p>Suddenly there came a plash, the scarlet cap appeared -a moment above the ice, and then that went -under, and there was no Ruth in sight, anywhere. -You cannot think how calm I was. I wonder at it -now, looking back over so many years, to that -bright, sad, far-off winter day. I succeeded in -checking my own headlong speed, and, drawing -near cautiously to the spot where Ruth had gone -down, I threw myself along the ice. It was thick -and strong, and had been cut into squares, so it -bore me up. I looked over the edge. Ruth was -rising toward me. I reached down and clutched -her, I hardly know by what. At that moment I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span> -felt my ankles grasped firmly by two strong hands, -and then I knew that I could save Ruth. I held -her until some one helped me to pull her out, -and then I don’t know what came next.</p> - -<p>I waked up, long afterward, in my own bed, in -my own room. I seemed to myself to have been -quite away from this world, on some long journey. -A consciousness of present things came back to -me slowly. I recalled with a shudder the hard, -sharply cut ice, the water gurgling below, and -Ruth, <em>my</em> Ruth, with her great black eyes and her -bright, bonny face, going down, down. I cried -out,—</p> - -<p>“Ruth! Ruth! where are you?”</p> - -<p>And then I turned my head, and there, beside -me, she lay, my pretty Ruth—mine again, after so -long.</p> - -<p>“She clung to you so tightly we could not separate -you,” I heard my mother say; but all my being -was absorbed in looking at Ruth. She was -white as death. I had said I would not speak to -her again until I saw her lie a-dying. <em>Was</em> she -dying now? I lifted myself on my elbow to look<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span> -at her. I held my own breath to see if any came -from her half-parted lips; and as I looked, her -eyes unclosed, and she put her arm up,—oh, so feebly!—and -struggled to get it round my neck. I -bent over her, and one moment our lips clung together, -in such a kiss as neither of us had ever -known before—a kiss snatched from death, and full -of peace and pardon, and the unutterable bliss of a -restored love. Then Ruth whispered,—</p> - -<p>“Sue, I have been only half a girl since I lost -you. I would rather have died there, in the black -water from which you saved me, than not to find -you again.”</p> - -<p>“I thought you <em>were</em> dying, Ruth,” I whispered -back, holding her close; “and if you were, I -meant to die too. I would have gone after you -into the water but what I would have had you -back.”</p> - -<p>Then we were too weak to say any thing more. -We just lay there, our hands clasped closely, in -an ineffable content. Our mothers came and went -about us; all sorts of tender cares were lavished -on us of which we took no heed. I knew only one<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span> -thing,—that I had won back Ruth; Ruth knew -only one thing,—that once more she was by my -side.</p> - -<p>That was our first and our last quarrel. I think -no hasty word was ever spoken between us afterward. -The first one had cost us too dear.</p> - -<hr /> - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="WAS_IT_HER_MOTHER">WAS IT HER MOTHER?</h2> -<hr /> -</div> - -<p>Just a little voice, calling through the dark, -“Mamma, O mamma!” and then a low -sound of stifled sobbing.</p> - -<p>Colonel Trevethick heard them both, and they -smote him with a new sense of loss and pain. He -had scarcely thought of his little girl since his wife -died, five hours before,—died at the very instant -when she was kissing him good-by, taking with her -into the far heavens the warm breath of his human -love. He had loved her as, perhaps, men seldom -love, from the first hour of their first meeting.</p> - -<p>“There is Maud Harrison,” some one had said; -and he had turned to look, and met the innocent -gaze of two frank, gentle, very beautiful brown -eyes. “Brightest eyes that ever have shone,” he -said to himself. Their owner had other charms -besides,—a fair and lovely face, round which the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span> -ruffled hair made a soft, bright halo; a lithe, girlish -figure; a manner of unaffected cordiality, blent -with a certain maidenly reserve, and which seemed -to him perfection. He loved her, then and there. -His wooing was short and his wedding hasty; but -he had never repented his haste, never known an -unhappy hour from the moment he brought his -wife home, nine years ago, till these last few days, -in which he had seen that no love or care of his -could withhold her from going away from him to -another home where he could not follow her,—the -home where she had gone now, far beyond his search.</p> - -<p>She was a good little creature, and she did not -rebel even at the summons to go out of her earthly -Eden in search of the paradise of God. She -longed, indeed, to live, for she so loved her own, -and she could have resigned herself to die more -willingly but for her husband’s uncontrollable passion -of woe. That very day she had said to him, -as he knelt beside her,—</p> - -<p>“Do not grieve so, darling! I am not going so -far but that I shall come back to you every day. -Something tells me that I shall be always near you<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span> -and Maudie. You cannot call, or she cry, but -that I shall hear you. I know that when she most -needs, or you most want me, I shall be close beside -you.”</p> - -<p>And with that very last kiss, when her breath -was failing, she had whispered,—</p> - -<p>“I shall not go so far as you think.”</p> - -<p>Now when he heard the low call of his little -Maudie and her smothered sobbing, he remembered -the words of his dead wife. Did she, indeed, -hear Maudie cry, and was it possibly troubling -her? He got up and went into the little -room where the child had slept alone ever since -her sixth birthday, a couple of months ago. He -bent over her low bed, and asked tenderly,—</p> - -<p>“What is it, darling?”</p> - -<p>A tiny night-gowned figure lifted itself up and -two little arms clung round his neck.</p> - -<p>“Bessie put me to bed without taking me to -mamma. Mamma did not kiss me good-night, and -I want she should,—oh, I <em>want</em> she should! Bessie -wouldn’t carry me to see her; and I want you to. -Bessie said mamma never <em>would</em> kiss me again<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span> -but that isn’t true, is it? You know I’ve heard -mamma say Bessie wasn’t always ’sponsible.”</p> - -<p>Colonel Trevethick considered for a moment what -he should say to his child—how he could make -her understand the great, sad, awful, yet triumphant -mystery which had come to pass that day -under their roof—the great loss, and the great -hope that hallowed it.</p> - -<p>She was such a mere baby it seemed hard to -choose his words. Must he tell her that her mamma -would never kiss her again? But how did he -know that? When the dear Lord promised the -“all things” to those who loved Him, did it not -include the joining of broken threads, the up-springing -of dead hopes, the finding one’s own -again, somewhere? He thought it must; for -what a word without meaning heaven would be -to him if his own Maud were not there! He temporized -a little.</p> - -<p>“She cannot kiss you now, my darling, but you -shall kiss her.”</p> - -<p>So he lifted the little white figure in his arms, -holding it close, as one who must be father and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span> -mother both together, now, and carried his little -one across the hall to the room, where her dead -mother lay,—oh, so fast asleep!—with a look like -a smile frozen upon her fair, sweet face. He held -Maudie down by the pillow on which her mother’s -head rested, but that did not satisfy her.</p> - -<p>“Put me on the bed, please, papa. I get on the -bed every night and kiss her, since she’s been ill.”</p> - -<p>So he let her have her will; and for a moment -she nestled close to the still dead heart, which had -always beaten for her so warmly. Then she lifted -up her head.</p> - -<p>“Mamma is very cold,” she said, “and she does -not stir. Can she hear what I say?”</p> - -<p>Again something invisible seemed to warn him -against taking away from the child her mother. -He answered very gently and slowly,—</p> - -<p>“She’s dead, my darling,—what we call dead. -<em>I</em> do not understand it—no one understands it; -but it comes, one day, to everybody, and it is -God’s will. Your mamma cannot speak to us any -more, and soon she will be gone out of our sight; -but she truly believed that she would always be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span> -able to see your face and hear your voice, as when -she was here.”</p> - -<p>“She <em>is</em> here. Won’t she be here always?” the -little girl asked, growing cold with the shadow of -an awful fear.</p> - -<p>“No, dear, she will not be here long. In a few -days this dear white face will be put away, underneath -the grass and the flowers; but the real -mamma, who loves little Maudie, will not be buried -up. She will be somewhere, I truly believe, -where she can see and hear her little girl.”</p> - -<p>For a moment the child slid again from his -arms, and nestled close against the cold breast, -kissed the unmoving lips. Then she said,—</p> - -<p>“Good-by, this mamma, who can’t see; and good-night, -other mamma, that hears Maudie.”</p> - -<p>Colonel Trevethick marvelled. Had he, indeed, -succeeded in making this little creature understand; -or had some one whom he could not see -spoken to her words of sweet mother-wisdom?</p> - -<p>He carried her then, and laid her in her little -bed, and went back to his own loneliness; but half -an hour afterward he heard the small voice calling.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span> -“Papa, papa!” and again he went to her, and the -little arms came up around his neck, and held him -fast.</p> - -<p>“Can’t I go too, papa? If you ask God, won’t -He let me? Because I do so love my mamma.”</p> - -<p>That afternoon Colonel Trevethick had felt as if -he had nothing at all left in this world; but now -he realized how much emptier still his home might -be if he lost out of it this child who was so like -her mother.</p> - -<p>“Mamma would not want you to come,” he -said passionately. “<em>She</em> has all heaven, and <em>I</em> -only you,—only you, little Maudie, in all the -world. Mamma wants you to stay with me.”</p> - -<p>After that she was quite quiet; and when he -looked in at her, an hour later, she was sound -asleep, with one little hand like a crushed white -rose under the red rose of her flushed cheek.</p> - -<p>She never asked for her mother after that night; -but her father was sure that she never forgot her. -She was the strangest, gravest little creature. She -never made any noise, even at her play; and she -never did any of the things for which her mother<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span> -had been used to reprove her. The trouble was -that she was too perfect; there was something -unnatural about it which frightened Colonel Trevethick. -He would have been glad if she had been -naughty, sometimes, like other children. He -longed to have her tease him, to see in her some -spirit of naughtiness or contradiction; but he saw -none. She grew tall quite fast, but she was very -thin,—a little white wraith of a creature, who -looked as if she had been made out of snow, and -might melt away as soon.</p> - -<p>It was a good thing for Colonel Trevethick, no -doubt, that he had her to tend, and to be anxious -about. It kept him from surrendering himself to -his own grief.</p> - -<p>Nearly two years went on, and all the time the -little girl grew more and more frail; until, at last, -when she had just passed her eighth birthday, she -was taken very ill. Her illness seemed a sort of -low, nervous fever, and she grew daily more feeble. -A skilful nurse came to share with Bessie -the task of tending her, and her father was seldom -far away. Half the day he would be sitting in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span> -her room, and half a dozen times in the night he -would steal in to watch her breathing.</p> - -<p>One afternoon, as he sat by her bed, she looked -up at him with a sad, tender look, too old for her -years,—but then all her words and ways were too -old for her years.</p> - -<p>“Papa,” she said, “I would get well if I could, -to please you. I <em>should</em> get well, I know, if I had -mamma to nurse me. Don’t you know how she -used, if my head ached, to put her hand on it and -make it stop?”</p> - -<p>A sudden mist of tears came between his eyes -and the little white face looking up at him. She -had not spoken before of her mother for so many -months, and yet how well she remembered! Instantly -his wife’s words, that last day, came back -to his memory. She had said, “I know that -when Maudie needs me most, or you most want -me, I shall be there beside you.”</p> - -<p><em>Was</em> she there now? Could she breathe upon -the little wasting life some merciful dew of healing? -or was she, perhaps, by her very love and -longing, drawing the child home to herself?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span></p> - -<p>That night Bessie was to sit up until one -o’clock, and then to call the nurse. As for Colonel -Trevethick, he would be in and out, as -usual.</p> - -<p>He went to bed, and fell into sleep and a dream. -His own Maud was beside him as he saw her first, -then as his bride, his wife, then with Baby Maudie -on her breast; just as of old he seemed to have -her with him again,—his pride, his darling, the -one woman he had ever loved.</p> - -<p>He woke at last. Had his dream, then, lasted -the night through? Was this red ray that touched -his face the first hint of the rising sun? He -sprang up quickly. The whole night had indeed -passed, and he had not seen Maudie. He hurried -into a dressing-gown and went to her room. He -expected to find the nurse there, but, instead, -Bessie sat beside the table just where he had left -her the night before, but sound asleep. Evidently -she must have been asleep for hours, and had not -called the nurse, who had slept in her turn: they -were all tired enough, Heaven knows. But, meantime, -what of Maudie? What harm had come to -her, alone, unattended?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span></p> - -<p>He drew aside the curtain of her little bed and -looked in. Surely this was not the Maud he had -left the night before, so pale and worn upon her -pillows? A face looked up at him bright as the -new day. A soft, healthy color was in the cheeks, -and the moist lips were crimson.</p> - -<p>“I knew I should be well if <em>she</em> tended me,” -a voice cried, gayer and gladder than he had heard -from her lips in two years.</p> - -<p>What <em>did</em> the child mean? Had she gone mad? -He controlled himself, and asked,—</p> - -<p>“Who tended you, my child? I found Bessie -sound asleep.”</p> - -<p>“Yes; mamma made her sleep, and you, and -nurse. She sent all of you the dreams you like -best; and all night long she sat here beside my -bed, with her hand on my head, just as she used -to put it long ago. She was all in white, and her -hair fell about her shoulders, and her eyes were -very, very bright, and her lips, when she kissed -me, seemed somehow to melt away.”</p> - -<p>“So you, too, dreamed about mamma, darling?”</p> - -<p>“No, indeed, papa, I did not dream. Mamma<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span> -sat there all night long, with her hand upon my -head. Sometimes I slept, but more often I woke -up to look at her; and all the time she sat there, -and did not tire, until the first sunshine came in at -the windows; and then she kissed me and went -away. I did not see her go. Perhaps I shut my -eyes a moment. Then I looked and she was gone, -and then I heard you coming in. She said she -was with me every day, but she couldn’t have -come to me like <em>this</em>, except because I needed her -so very, very much. And she wanted to make me -well, because you would grieve for me if I came -to her; and I was to be very good, and tend you -and make you comfortable; and I must laugh and -must make you laugh, for laughter was good, and -the reason I got ill was because I had been sorry -so long, and had not laughed at all. And I was <em>not</em> -to be sorry after <em>her</em> any more, because she was -very happy, and nothing grieved her except when -she saw you and me mourning for her, and -not knowing that she was waiting close beside -us.”</p> - -<p>“<em>Was</em> it her mother? Can it <em>be</em> it was the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span> -child’s mother?” the father cried, uttering his -thought aloud unconsciously.</p> - -<p>“Of course it was mamma; and she has made -me well. See if Dr. Dale does not tell you I am -well.”</p> - -<p>Two hours afterward Dr. Dale came. He stood -for a few moments beside the little bed. He -looked in the child’s glad eyes, he counted the -throbs of her pulse, he made her put out her -healthy little tongue. Then he turned to her -father.</p> - -<p>“Trevethick,” he said, “can you swear that this -is the same little girl I left here last night? If the -days of miracles were not gone by, I should say -that one had been wrought here. I left, I thought, -a very sick little person, about whom I was anxious -enough, certainly, to make this my first call -this morning; and I find my small patient so well -that I shall only keep her in bed a day or two -longer, for form’s sake.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps it <em>is</em> a miracle,” Colonel Trevethick -said, smiling. But he did not explain. There are -some experiences too marvellous for belief and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span> -too sacred for doubt or question, and that was -one of them.</p> - -<p>Two days afterward little Maudie went down to -tea. She wore a fresh white gown, with lovely -blue ribbons, and looked as much like a little -angel in festal attire as a human child can be -expected to look. But she did not take her usual -seat. She sat down, instead, behind the tea-pot, -where Bessie usually stood to pour out the tea.</p> - -<p>“Hadn’t Bessie better do that?” papa asked, -as he saw the little hand close round the handle -of the tea-pot.</p> - -<p>But Maud laughed, and shook her head.</p> - -<p>“No, I don’t think Bessie is ’sponsible,” she -said; “and mamma said I was to live just on purpose -to do every thing for papa.”</p> - -<p>And again Colonel Trevethick asked, but this -time silently,—</p> - -<p>“Was it—<em>could</em> it have been the child’s mother?”</p> - -<hr /> - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_LADY_FROM_OVER_THE_WAY">THE LADY FROM OVER THE WAY.</h2> -<hr /> -</div> - -<p>It was the twilight of Christmas evening,—that -twilight which always seems so early, since -nobody is ever quite ready for it. The pale gray -of the winter’s sky was scarcely flushed by the -low-lying sunset clouds, though sometimes you -could catch a gleam of their scant brightness as -you turned westward.</p> - -<p>The streets of New York were crowded, as -usual, but everybody seemed even more than -usually in a hurry. The air was intensely cold, -and nipped the noses of those who were late with -their Christmas shopping; but, in spite of it, men -and women still jostled each other upon the sidewalk, -or stopped to look at the tempting displays -of holiday goods in the shops. Everybody, it -seemed, had some small person at home who must -be made happy to-morrow.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span></p> - -<p>From the window of a large but rusty-looking -house on one of the avenues, two children looked -down at the throng below, as they had been looking -all day. They were in the fourth story of the -house, and they could not see into the street very -distinctly, but still the movement and the bustle -interested them, and their mother was thankful -that they had it to watch.</p> - -<p>She herself was sewing, catching the last glint -of the sunset light for her work, as she had the -first ray of the dawning. She had been a beautiful, -high-bred woman; indeed, she was so still, -though there was no one to note the unconscious -elegance of her gestures or the graceful lines of -her curving figure and bent head. She was very -thin now, and very poorly clad, but a stranger -would have felt that she was a lady, and wondered -how she came in the fourth story of this -house,—a great house, which had been handsome, -too, in its day, but which was now let out to innumerable -lodgers, mostly of the decent sort of -honest, hard-working, half-starved poor people. -Not with such neighbors had Mrs. Vanderheyden’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span> -lot been formerly cast, nor for such uses as this -had the old house itself been designed. It had -been a stately mansion in its time, belonging to -the estate of a good old Knickerbocker family, -which was quite run out now. But there was one -great comfort in this house: it had been so well -built that its thick walls shut out all alien noises -effectually, and made solitude possible even in a -tenement house. Perhaps Mrs. Vanderheyden had -thought of this when she chose her abode there.</p> - -<p>There was something in the faded grandeur of -the old mansion that harmonized with the lingering -grace of her own faded beauty. Its lofty -walls were wainscoted with carved oak, almost -black with time; and any imaginative person -would have been likely to people it with the -ghosts of the beautiful girls whose room no doubt -this was in the old days. There, between those -windows, hung, perhaps, their great, gleaming -mirror, and into it they looked, all smiles and -blushes and beauty, when they were ready for -their first ball. But Mrs. Vanderheyden’s two -little girls did not think of the other girls who<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></span> -might have lived there once. They were too -young for that, and too hungry. Ethel, the elder, -was only ten; and shy little Annie, beside her, -scarcely seven. They saw a sight, however, from -the window at which they stood, that interested -them more than any vision of the past would -have done.</p> - -<p>The avenue on which they lived was in a transition -state. Trade had come into it and lodging-houses -had vulgarized it, and yet there were some -of the rich old residents who still clung to the -houses in which their fathers and mothers had -lived and died. There was one such directly opposite; -and to look into the parlor over the way, -and see there all the warmth and brightness and -beauty of which they themselves were deprived, -had been one of the chief enjoyments of the -little Vanderheydens ever since they had been in -the house. They were all that Mrs. Vanderheyden -had left, these two girls. Wealth was -gone, friends were gone, father and father’s home, -husband and husband’s home—hope itself was -gone; but she was not quite alone while she had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[190]</a></span> -these two for whom to struggle—to live or to die, -as Heaven would. It was for their sakes that she -had worked from dawning till nightfall, though -she had felt all the time what seemed to her a -mortal sickness stealing over her. Their breakfast -and dinner had been only bread, of which she -herself had scarcely tasted; but to-morrow would -be Christmas, and it should go hard with her but -she would give them better fare then. A dozen -times during the day one or the other little voice -had asked anxiously,—</p> - -<p>“Shall we surely, surely, have dinner to-morrow, -because it is Christmas Day?”</p> - -<p>And she had answered,—</p> - -<p>“Please Heaven, you surely shall. My work is -almost done;” and then she had stitched away -more resolutely than ever on the child’s frock -she was elaborately embroidering. The children -meanwhile were feeding upon hope, and watching -a scene in the house over the way, where, as they -thought, all that any human creature could possibly -hope for had already been given. Busy -preparations had been made in that other house<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a></span> -for Christmas. There was a great Christmas-tree -in one corner, all full of little tapers, and a large, -fair, gentle-looking woman had been engaged -much of the afternoon in arranging gifts upon -it. Now, with the twilight, a boy and girl had -come in and were watching the lighting up of the -Christmas-tree.</p> - -<p>“It’s so good of them not to pull the curtains -down,” Ethel said, with a sigh of delight. “It’s -almost as good as being there—almost.”</p> - -<p>“I do suppose that’s the very grandest house in -all New York,” little Annie said, in a tone of awe -and admiration.</p> - -<p>“Nonsense! You only think that because you -are so little,” answered Ethel, from the height of her -three years more of experience. “<em>You</em> forget, but -<em>I</em> can remember. We had a finer house ourselves, -before poor papa died. There are plenty of them, -only we’re so poor we don’t see them.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, it’s good to be that little girl!” cried -Annie. “See how pretty her dress is, and how -her hair curls; and she’ll have lots of presents -off that Christmas-tree.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[192]</a></span></p> - -<p>“So should we, if we had papa,” Ethel answered -gravely. “Mamma, when we get up to -heaven, do you think papa will know we’re his -little girls?”</p> - -<p>“I’m sure he will,” Mrs. Vanderheyden answered; -and then she rose wearily. “It’s all -done,” she said, as she shook out the lovely little -robe into which she had wrought so many patient -stitches. “I cannot carry it home just yet, I am -so tired; I must lie down first; but you shall -have a good dinner to-morrow, my darlings.”</p> - -<p>The children had seen her very tired before, -and they didn’t think much about it when she -groped her way to a bed in the corner and lay -down, drawing the scant bed-clothes up over her. -They stood at the window still, and watched the -merry children opposite, until at last a servant -came and pulled down the curtains and shut away -from them the Christmas-tree, with all its gleaming -lights, and the boy and girl, who were dancing round -it to some gay tune which their mother played.</p> - -<p>Then Ethel and Annie began to realize that -they were cold and hungry and the room was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[193]</a></span> -dark. Ethel lit a candle. The fire was nearly out, -but she would not make another till morning.</p> - -<p>“I won’t wake up mamma,” she said, with the -premature thoughtfulness that characterized her; -“she’s so tired. We’ll just have supper, and -then I’ll hear you say ‘Our Father,’ and we’ll -get to bed, and in the morning it will be Christmas.”</p> - -<p>Some vague promise of good was in the very -word: Ethel did not know what would come, but -surely Christmas would not be like other days. -“Supper” was the rest of the bread. And then -the two little creatures knelt down together and -said their well-known prayers, and I think “Our -Father” heard, for their sleep was just as sweet -as if they had been in the warm, soft nest of the -children over the way, tucked in with eider down. -Through the long evening hours they slept,—through -the solemn midnight, when the clear, -cold Christmas stars looked down, just as they -had looked centuries ago when the King of Glory, -Himself a little child, lay asleep in an humble -manger in Judea. Nothing troubled their quiet<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[194]</a></span> -slumber until the sunshine of the Christmas morning -broke through their dingy windows, and the -day had begun.</p> - -<p>“It must be ever so late,” said Ethel, rubbing -her sleepy eyes, “and mamma isn’t awake yet. -But she was so tired. You lie still, Annie, and -I’ll build the fire, and when she wakes up she’ll -find it all done.”</p> - -<p>Very patiently the poor little half-frozen fingers -struggled with the scant kindlings and the coal -that seemed determined never to light; but they -succeeded at last, and the room began to grow a little -warm. Then she dressed Annie, and then it began -to seem very late indeed, and she wondered if -mamma would never wake up. She went to the -bedside and, bending over, kissed her mother gently, -then started back with a sudden alarm.</p> - -<p>“Why, Annie, she’s so cold—almost like poor -papa—only you can’t remember—just before they -took him away.”</p> - -<p>“No, she can’t be like papa,” Annie said stoutly, -“for he was dead, and mamma is asleep.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, she’s asleep,” said the elder sister firm<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</a></span>ly. -“We must wait till she wakes up. We’ll -look over the way, and then, maybe, it won’t seem -so long.”</p> - -<p>But over the way was brighter than ever this -Christmas morning. The curtains had been looped -back once more, the table glittered with lovely -gifts, and presently the little girl who lived there -came to the windows. She looked up at them—they -were sure of it; but they could not have -guessed what she said, as she turned away, and -spoke to her mother.</p> - -<p>“O mamma,” cried the sweet young voice, -“won’t you come and see these two poor little -girls? They stood there all day yesterday and -last night; and now see how sad they look. I can’t -eat my Christmas candies or play with my Christmas -things while they look so pale and lonesome. -Won’t you go over and see them, mamma dear?”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Rosenburgh was a woman of warm and earnest -sympathies when once they were aroused. -When she was a girl she too had had quick impulses -like her child’s; but she had grown selfish, -perhaps, as she grew older, or maybe only careless;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</a></span> -for the quick sympathies were there still, as you -could see, now that her little girl had touched them.</p> - -<p>“To be sure I will,” she answered at once. -“Poor little things! I wish we could make merry -Christmas for all New York; but since we can’t, -at least we won’t have faces white with want looking -in at our very windows.”</p> - -<p>So the watching, wondering children saw the -large, fair lady wrap herself in a heavy shawl and -tie a hood over her head, and then come out and -cross the street and enter their house.</p> - -<p>“What if she saw us, and what if she is coming -here!” Ethel said breathlessly.</p> - -<p>Then they listened as if their hearts were in -their ears. They heard feet upon the stairs and -then a gentle tap, and the lady from over the way -stood in their room.</p> - -<p>“I saw you at the window,” she said, “and came -over to wish you a merry Christmas. How is -this? Are you all alone?”</p> - -<p>“No, ma’am, mamma is in the bed there; but she -was very tired yesterday, and she hasn’t waked -up.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a></span></p> - -<p>An awful terror seized Mrs. Rosenburgh. Had -this woman died of want and weariness, in sight of -her own windows? She stepped to the bedside, -and drew away the clothes gently from the face of -the sleeper. She looked a moment on that fair, -faded face, and then she grew white as death.</p> - -<p>“Children,” she asked, “what are your names?”</p> - -<p>“I am Ethel Vanderheyden,” the oldest girl answered, -“and she is Annie.”</p> - -<p>“And your mother—was she Ethel Carlisle -once?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, ma’am, before she married papa.”</p> - -<p>“And your little sister is Annie?”</p> - -<p>“Yes; she was named for mamma’s best friend, -one she hadn’t seen for a long, long time.”</p> - -<p>Meanwhile Mrs. Rosenburgh had knelt by the -bedside. She had lifted the low-lying head upon -her arm, and drawn a bottle of pungent salts from -her pocket, and she was crying as if her heart -would break, while the children looked wondering -on.</p> - -<p>“O Ethel, my own old Ethel, <em>wake</em> up!” And -then she dropped her cheek, all wet with tears,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a></span> -against the white, cold cheek, that was so -still.</p> - -<p>Oh, was it the warm tears, or the voice that -sounded from far away out of the past, or only the -strong odor that roused the poor soul from that -long, heavy sleep of exhaustion that had so nearly -been the sleep of death? I do not know, but I -know the eyes did open, and beheld the tender -face bending above them. And then, like a little -child, the children heard their mother cry,—</p> - -<p>“O Annie, Annie, have I been dreaming all -this time?”</p> - -<p>And then there were explanations, and the story -of the long years since Annie Bryant and Ethel -Carlisle were girls together was told. But the -best of it all, the children thought, was when the -lady from over the way took them home with her, -and told them the boy and girl there should be -their brother and sister, and they should live there -henceforth; for she, who had found again her best -friend, would never more let her struggle with -want alone.</p> - -<p>And so the children had gifts and dinner, and a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[199]</a></span> -merry, merry Christmas in the bright, warm, crimson-hung -room, which had seemed to them such a -paradise of delights when they looked down into it -from their fourth-story window through the falling -shadows of Christmas Eve.</p> - -<hr /> - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[200]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="HIS_MOTHERS_BOY">HIS MOTHER’S BOY.</h2> -<hr /> -</div> - -<p>The days were growing very dark for George -Graham. He had not known at first what -it meant that black specks should so dance between -him and the page he tried to read, that -his eyes should ache so much, that all things -should seem so strangely dim about him. It -would have been better, no doubt, had he stopped -work as soon as he felt these symptoms; but how -could he? This was his last term at school, and -if he passed his examination creditably, especially -if he thoroughly mastered the bookkeeping he was -trying so hard to conquer, he was to have a place -in Deacon Solomon Grant’s store, with wages that -would not only take care of himself, but greatly -help his mother.</p> - -<p>His mother was a widow, and George’s love for -her was a sort of passion of devotion. When he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[201]</a></span> -could scarcely talk, the first two words he put -together were, “Pretty mamma,” and ever since -then she had been the first and fairest of created -beings to him. He was very fond of Susie Hale, -but Susie was only a nice girl,—a dear, sweet, -good girl, such as any fellow would like; but his -mother was the elect lady to whom were due his -love, his care, his uttermost duty.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Graham was the kind of woman for a son -to be romantic about. She was only seventeen -when George was born; and now, when he was -sixteen and she was thirty-three, she was, so he -thought, more beautiful than ever. She had been -a pretty, rather helpless little creature all her -life,—one of those women toward whom every -man feels the instinct of protection. George’s -father had felt it always, and had never allowed -care to come near his dainty darling. His one -great agony, as he lay dying, was that he must -leave her almost unprovided for. That was when -George was thirteen, and the boy would never forget -how his father had called him to his bedside, -and charged him to take care of his mother.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[202]</a></span></p> - -<p>“You are old enough to be her staff, even -now,” the dying man had said, clinging to his boy’s -hand. “You can be good to her in a thousand -ways, save her a thousand cares, and in a few -years more you can work for her, and keep her -comfortably, as I have done.”</p> - -<p>George never forgot this trust for one moment. -The plans he made in life were all for his mother’s -sake—his future was to be spent in her service. -He wanted to come out of school at the time of -his father’s death, and try by all manner of little -industries to help take care of the household, but -his mother was too wise to permit this. She developed -a strength of mind and of body for which -no one who saw her pink-and-white prettiness,—the -prettiness of a girl still, despite all her years -of married life,—would have given her credit.</p> - -<p>She saw clearly that if her boy’s education -stopped at thirteen, he would be held in check -all his life by his own ignorance—he must be -drudge always, and never master. So she made -him go to school three years longer.</p> - -<p>How she lived and kept up her refined little<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[203]</a></span> -home puzzled all lookers-on, and indeed she -hardly knew herself. She lived simply; she was -busy from morning till night. She sewed for one -neighbor, she helped another through some season -of sickness, she taught a naughty child who had -worn out its welcome at school, but who could not -wear out Mrs. Graham’s sweet patience,—and all -these things helped. It is true, it was very often -hard work to compass the simple necessaries of -life, but she struggled on bravely.</p> - -<p>When George was sixteen he should come out -of school, well trained, she hoped, for a business -man, and then things would be so much easier. -With this hope in view, she never repined. She -kept her strength of soul and her sweetness of -temper, her fresh beauty and her fresh heart. -She kept, too, her boy’s adoration,—an adoration -which was, as I said, the romance of his life.</p> - -<p>When the days began to grow so dark for -George Graham, it was of his mother that he -thought. So far he had no ambitions, no hopes, -that were not centred in her. What if this growing -shadow about him was to increase until all<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[204]</a></span> -was dark, until dense night shut him in,—a night -through whose blackness no star of hope could -shine? What if he must be no help to his -mother, but only a burden on her for ever, a burden -lasting through heaven only knew how many -helpless years?</p> - -<p>He rebelled against such a fate madly. He -stretched out his hands toward heaven, he lifted -the dumb prayer of his darkening eyes, but no -help came.</p> - -<p>Dimmer and dimmer grew the world about -him, more and more desperate the gloom of his -hopeless heart. His scholarship had been so fine -that his teacher hesitated to reprove his now continual -failures; and George said nothing of the -increasing darkness around him,—nothing to his -mother, for he felt that it would break her -heart; nothing to teacher or school-mates, for -it seemed to him his grief would be nothing to -them. But one afternoon the crisis came.</p> - -<p>His recitation had been an utter failure, and, at -last, his teacher spoke in severe terms of the -neglect which had become habitual. No one who<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[205]</a></span> -was present that day—not even the smallest -child—will ever forget the look of despair that -swept over George Graham’s face, or the gesture -of helpless anguish with which he stretched out -his hands, as if to seek among them all some -friend, as he cried,—</p> - -<p>“God help me, sir! I have been going blind; -and now I cannot see one figure in my book—I -can hardly see your face.”</p> - -<p>There was a silence after this, through which -came no sound but the audible beating of George -Graham’s tortured heart. Then the master sent -away the others, for school hours were nearly -over, and tried his best to comfort his stricken -pupil. It might not be so bad as he feared, an -oculist might help him, perhaps it was only -temporary.</p> - -<p>To all these well-meant consolations George -listened in a sort of dreary silence. The words of -the teacher entered his ears, but they did not -reach his heart or kindle his hope.</p> - -<p>As soon as he could, he went away. He did -not go straight home. How could he face his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[206]</a></span> -mother and tell her what he <em>must</em> tell her now,—what -she would be sure to hear from others, if not -from him? He kept thinking how she would take -it. Would not all the light go out of her face? -Maybe she would faint away, as he remembered -she had done when his father died.</p> - -<p>He sat down on a bank, a little removed from -the road-side, a bank which overhung a swift and -deep, yet narrow stream.</p> - -<p>An awful temptation came over him,—such a -temptation as, thank Heaven! comes to few boys of -sixteen, with the young, glad life running riot in -their veins. He thought, what if he should die, -then and there? It seemed to him the one desirable -thing. To be sure, to die would be to leave -his mother to fight her battle of life alone; but -also it would relieve her from the heavy burden -he must needs be to her if he lived. The river -rushing down there below invited him with its -murmur. Should he seek refuge there, and let his -mother hear that he was dead, before she heard -that he was blind? He bent forward over the -stream. Then he drew back, for a longing came<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[207]</a></span> -over him to go home first, and see his mother just -once more; and then an exceeding bitter cry -burst from his lips,—</p> - -<p>“<em>See</em> her! What am I talking about? Do I -not know I shall <em>never</em> see her again?”</p> - -<p>And a girl’s voice, soft and cooing and tender,—an -utterly unexpected voice,—answered -him,—</p> - -<p>“Yes, you <em>will</em> see her again. Surely you will -see her again.”</p> - -<p>The boy turned his face toward the sound.</p> - -<p>“How did you come here, Susie Hale?” he -asked.</p> - -<p>“Don’t be angry, George,” the gentle voice -entreated. “I waited for you. I could not go -home till I had told you how sorry I was, and -tried to comfort you.”</p> - -<p>“Comfort me!” There was a sort of scornful -bitterness in the cry. “How <em>can</em> I be comforted? -Do you think what it will be never to see the -green earth or the blue sky, or any dear face any -more, for ever and ever?”</p> - -<p>“But you will see them,” she said gently.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[208]</a></span> -“I did not mean that you must be reconciled to -give up hope. I mean that you must take heart, -and try to be cured. I have known people who -could not see at all to be helped, and why not -you? At least, you must try.”</p> - -<p>An evil mood was upon George Graham, and he -answered harshly,—</p> - -<p>“Where is the money to come from, if you -please? It has been all mother could do just to -live and she has struggled on, in the expectation of -my being able soon to help her. She has no money -for experiments. There is nothing for it but for -me to rest a dead weight upon her hands, or—die.”</p> - -<p>He said the last word with a sort of gasp. Susie -Hale shivered. She drew closer to him. She -looked into his poor, tortured face, with her dark -and tender eyes, and said very quietly,—</p> - -<p>“You believe in God, George Graham, and you -will not defy Him. If He means you to bear this -you will bear it like a man, and not try to get rid -of the burden. But I do not believe He does -mean you to bear it; and I will not believe it till -every means has been tried for your cure. Just<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[209]</a></span> -now, it seems to me, you ought to go home. -Would you like your mother to hear this first -from some one else?”</p> - -<p>He rose slowly.</p> - -<p>“You are right,” he said, “and you are a good -girl. Good-by, Susie.”</p> - -<p>She did not try to go with him; she followed -him only with her eyes. She was contented if she -could but send him home in safety to his mother.</p> - -<p>His mother met him at the gate. When she -took his hand in hers the poor fellow felt that she -knew all. She was very quiet and self-controlled.</p> - -<p>“Your teacher has been here,” she said, “and -he has told me. My darling, why have you sat in -the darkness, and shut your mother out from any -share in your trouble?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I couldn’t tell you, mother!” he sobbed, -with his head upon her breast, at last,—“I -couldn’t, I thought it would break your heart.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! that was because you did not know. If -you should die and leave me alone in the world, -<em>that</em>, indeed, would break my heart; but while I -have you beside me, nothing can make me alto<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[210]</a></span>gether -miserable, and nothing must make you so. -There is help somewhere, and we will find it, please -God; or, if not, we will bear what others have -borne, and find a way to lighten the darkness.”</p> - -<p>Meantime, Susie Hale had gone home full of an -absorbing purpose. Somehow money must and -should be raised to try what a skilful oculist -could do for George Graham.</p> - -<p>Susie was the orphan niece of Deacon Solomon -Grant, in whose store a place was awaiting George. -She knew that she had a modest little fortune of -her own, but it was all in her uncle’s hands, and -without his consent she could not dispose even of -her slender income. But would he not be persuaded -to let her have enough of her own money -to accomplish her desire? She asked him, using her -utmost power of persuasion to touch his heart, -but he refused with peremptory decision. He -wouldn’t mind contributing moderately to a fund -for young Graham’s help—he would not even -mind letting her have five or ten dollars of her -own for that purpose—but beyond that the duty -of one neighbor did not go. And Deacon Solomon<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[211]</a></span> -shut his lips together as tightly as he buttoned up -his pocket.</p> - -<p>Susie had in the world one treasure,—a diamond -ring which had been her mother’s, with a -stone white and clear as a dew-drop. This must, -she knew, be worth three or four hundred dollars. -It was her very own. She had meant to keep it all -her life for her mother’s sake, but surely this great -need of George Graham’s justified her in parting -with it.</p> - -<p>She had one friend in Boston,—an old teacher,—in -whose good faith and judicious management -she felt implicit confidence, and to him she sent her -mother’s ring, with a request that he would sell -it as speedily and on as good terms as possible, -and remit her the price of it in bank-notes, not in -a check, and keep for ever the secret that she had -disposed of it.</p> - -<p>It was a week after George Graham had given -up hope, when a most unexpected hope came to -him. A neighbor, going by from the post-office, -handed in at the door a letter addressed to him. -Mrs. Graham opened it, for George’s vision had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[212]</a></span> -failed with every day, and his eyes were utterly -useless now.</p> - -<p>“George,” she cried, after a moment, in an eager, -trembling voice, “here are three one-hundred dollar -bills, and this is the letter that comes with -them:—</p> - -<p>“‘This money is from a true friend of George -Graham’s, and is to be applied to taking him to -an oculist, in the hope that his sight may be -restored. The giver withholds his name, both -because he desires no thanks, and because he -wishes to make the return of the money impossible.’</p> - -<p>“It is from Heaven, itself!” the mother cried. -“George, we will start for Boston to-morrow. I -feel in my soul that you are to be cured.”</p> - -<p>The next day a mother and her blind son sought -rooms at a quiet boarding-house, of which they -had found the number in the advertisement column -of a city paper, and the day after that -they were among the earliest patients of Doctor -Annesley. The first examination of George’s eyes -was unpromising enough. They would be worse -before they were better; an operation might or<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[213]</a></span> -might not restore sight to them, but the time for -it had not yet come. Meanwhile the doctor -wanted to see him daily.</p> - -<p>Those were weary days and weeks that followed, -both before the operation and afterward, -when the poor eyes were carefully bandaged from -the light, and mother and son sat day after day in -the dark together, wondering, wondering, wondering -what the result would be. It was curious -that the mother was always hopeful, and the son -always despairing. At last it almost irritated him -to hear her speak of hope to him; and one day he -turned on her with the first burst of passionate impatience -she had ever experienced from him.</p> - -<p>“Mother,” he said, “for the love of Heaven do -not talk to me as if it was a sure thing that I am -going to see again. I <em>want</em> to think it doubtful, -almost impossible. If you should make me expect -a sure cure, and then it shouldn’t come, -don’t you see that I should go mad? I think I -should dash my head against the wall. I can only -<em>live</em> by expecting nothing.”</p> - -<p>After that the mother held her peace; but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[214]</a></span> -whenever she went out of that darkened room -those who saw her marvelled at the light of joy in -her eyes, the bloom of hope upon her cheeks. At -last the time came—the bandage was removed. -There was just one wild cry, “Mother, I see you!” -and then George Graham lay at the doctor’s feet, -swooning and helpless in his great joy.</p> - -<p>It was weeks yet before he went home again, -but the good news preceded him. The mother -wrote it to Deacon Grant, who had agreed still to -keep the place in his store open, while awaiting -the result of this experiment.</p> - -<p>The deacon read the letter in full family conclave, -with the slow deliberation of a man unused -to correspondence. He little knew how his niece -longed to snatch the paper from his hand and read -it for herself; nor did he heed the tears that swam -in her dark eyes.</p> - -<p>Deliberately he smoothed out the letter, and -folded it. Deliberately he took off his spectacles, -and wiped them, and put them on again. Then -he said, with the half pompous, half solemn manner -which became his position,—</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[215]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Well, well, I’m ready always to rejoice with -those that rejoice; and I’m sure I’m thankful -that the Widow Graham hasn’t got to struggle -with so much trouble as it looked as if Providence -was laying on her; but wherever she got that -money the Lord knows.”</p> - -<p>Another letter came, afterward, to tell when the -widow and her son were to return, and to ask -Deacon Grant, in whose keeping the key of their -house had been left, to put it in their door on that -day as he was passing by to the store.</p> - -<p>It was Susie who walked over with the key, -early in the afternoon, carrying with her a basket -of dainties for the travellers’ supper, from Mrs. -Grant, a woman who knew how to be a good -neighbor, and to make life pleasant with cheap -kindnesses. Susie’s black eyes danced, and her -heart sang within her as she set the table in the -little parlor and lighted a fire in the kitchen stove, -ready to make a fresh cup of tea whenever the -widow and her son should arrive. Then she -dusted every thing; and then she gathered some -of the flowers of September,—for already the sum<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[216]</a></span>mer -was over,—and put them in the vases on the -mantel, and on the widow’s little round sewing-table.</p> - -<p>And at last the travellers came, as at last every -thing does come, if we wait long enough for it. -They had expected to find an empty house; they -found instead, warmth and brightness and good -cheer and Susie Hale.</p> - -<hr /> - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[217]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="DR_JOES_VALENTINE">DR. JOE’S VALENTINE.</h2> -<hr /> -</div> - -<p>There were half-a-dozen of the girls together,—pretty -creatures, in the very first season -of their long dresses,—the eldest not quite sixteen. -They were all braids and puffs and fluffy -curls, all loops and ruffles and ribbons, all -smiles and dimples. It was the Saturday before -Valentine’s Day, in a certain year of grace, of -which I will not give you the precise date, but -less than ten years ago, and more than five. Of -the half-dozen girls, two are busy teachers now, -two are married, one is playing mother to her -brother’s little brood of orphan children, and the -sixth, not less happy than the rest, has gone on to -“the next country,” where they tell us she will -never grow old, never be sick or sorry any more,—happy -Bertha, whom, surely, God loved.</p> - -<p>But, that day in February, none of them<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[218]</a></span> -thought much about the future: the present was -enough, with its fun and frolic, its wealth of all -the pleasures which girlhood holds dear. The six -were passing the long day together. Two of them -were sisters and belonged in one house, and the -rest had come there to be with them; for they -were all going to make valentines. They had -made funny ones and foolish ones, tender ones, -with just a little dash of satire in them, poetic -ones and prosy ones; and at last it was dinner-time, -a feast of all the things that school-girls -love, and these were hungry girls. At least they -were all hungry girls but Nelly Hunt, and she -scarcely ate any dinner at all, she was so busy -thinking. She was Bertha’s sister, and this was her -home and Bertha’s, and it was to the girls’ own -room that the little party went back again, after -they had eaten and praised Mrs. Hunt’s dinner.</p> - -<p>“What are you thinking about, Nell?” Bertha -asked, sitting on the arm of Nelly’s chair.</p> - -<p>“These valentines,” Nelly answered slowly.</p> - -<p>“Well, surely they need not make you sober,—they -are absurd enough.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[219]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Yes, and it’s just because they are so absurd -that they make me sober. I was wondering why -we couldn’t just as well have said something to -help somebody—to make somebody think—to do -some good.”</p> - -<p>“Nelly’s heroics!” cried Kate Greene flippantly. -“Miss Hunt as a moral reformer!”</p> - -<p>Nelly blushed from her pretty ears to the roots -of her sunny hair; but her eyes shone clear, and -there was a ring of earnestness in her voice as she -answered,—</p> - -<p>“You can laugh if you will, but I mean what I -say, and I’m going to try an experiment. I will -write one boy a valentine, such as I think a girl -ought to write, and I’ll send it.”</p> - -<p>“So you shall,” Bertha said gently,—Bertha -always was peacemaker,—“and we’ll all go away -and see mamma and the baby while you write it. -When it’s done you must call us.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, and you must show it to us,” cried Kate -Greene, as she went away; “that’s only fair. We -promised this morning to show each other all we -sent, and we sha’n’t let you off.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[220]</a></span></p> - -<p>And then the five fluttered away like a flock of -birds, and Nelly was quite alone.</p> - -<p>Her task was harder than she had imagined. It -is only the old, perhaps, who are sage in counsel -by nature. At any rate, to give good advice did -not come naturally to pretty Nelly. But she had -an idea of what she wanted to say, and at last she -got it said. She had written and rewritten it, and -finally concluded that she could do no better, and -then copied it out into her neatest handwriting -before she called the others. It was a little stiff, -to be sure, and preachy and high-flown, but it -sounded like a lofty effort and a complete success -to the listening girls. This was what it -said:—</p> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">My Valentine</span>,—You will have plenty of -fine speeches and praises, and, perhaps, of fun and -fancy from others, so I shall not give you those,—I -who have but one interest in you, namely, that -you should be the best boy and the best man -which it is possible for you to become. If you are -selfish, if you are indolent, if you are mean, you -will never be happy in your own society, until you<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[221]</a></span> -have sunk so low that you don’t know the difference -between goodness and badness. But if you -set out to be a gentleman and a man of honor -and a faithful worker, you will do good deeds and -live a happy life, and be worthy the everlasting -esteem of</p> - -<p> -<span class="smcap">Your Valentine</span>.”<br /> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/i_220.jpg" width="600" alt="" /> -<div class="caption">Nelly Reading her Valentine.—<span class="smcap">Page <a href="#Page_220">220</a>.</span></div> -</div> - -<p>Nelly read it with rising color and a little quiver -about her mouth, which Bertha understood; but -she read it with firm voice and careful, deliberate -accent.</p> - -<p>“Then,” she said, when she had finished, “I -shall burn up all the rest of my valentines, and -send only this one; for it is what I mean, in earnest, -and, as old Aunty Smoke says, ‘Ef it don’t do -no good, it can’t do no harm.’”</p> - -<p>“To whom shall you send it, dear?” Bertha -asked gently, a little subdued by Nelly’s epistolary -success.</p> - -<p>“I hadn’t made up my mind,” Nelly answered -thoughtfully; “they all need it.”</p> - -<p>“O, send it to Joe, my cousin Joe,” cried Kitty -Greene. “He is staying with us, and <em>he</em> needs it—bad -enough. If ever a boy was full of his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[222]</a></span> -pranks, Joe is, and if ever a boy tormented a girl’s -life out, Joe does mine.”</p> - -<p>A color clear and bright as flame glowed on -Nelly Hunt’s cheeks. Had she had dark-eyed Joe -in her mind all the while? She only answered -very quietly,—</p> - -<p>“I don’t mind. I had just as lief send it to Joe. -That is, I’ll send it to him if you’ll promise, on -your sacred honor, never in any way to let him -know who wrote it.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I will—true as I live and breathe I’ll -never tell him, and never let him guess, if I can -help it.”</p> - -<p>“And all you girls?” Nelly asked, with the -pretty pink glow deepening in her cheeks. “Will -you all promise?”</p> - -<p>And they all promised; for there was a sort of -honest earnestness in Nelly’s nature to which they -found it natural to yield.</p> - -<p>So the valentine was directed in Nelly’s most -neat and proper manner to “Mr. Joe Greene,” -and was dropped into the post-office with the rest -of the valentines the girls had written that day.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[223]</a></span></p> - -<p>On the fifteenth the six girls were all together -at school, comparing notes and exchanging confidences. -But Kitty Greene drew Nelly aside, and -said, while they walked up and down the hall together, -their arms around each other as girls will,—</p> - -<p>“I saw Joe get it, Nelly.”</p> - -<p>Nelly’s pretty cheeks glowed and her eyes shone -like stars, but she asked no questions. Indeed, -they were scarcely necessary, for Kitty was eager -enough to tell her story.</p> - -<p>“He got it, don’t you think, along with half-a-dozen -others, and he read them all before he came -to this one. I knew this, you know, by the shape -of the envelope. When he came to it I saw him -read it all through, and then I saw him go back -and read it again. I heard him say to himself,—</p> - -<p>“‘That’s an honest letter from some little saint.’</p> - -<p>“Then he came up to me and held it toward -me, while I pretended to be very busy with my -valentines. Then he asked,—</p> - -<p>“‘Do you know that handwriting, Kit?’</p> - -<p>“I felt like an awful little liar, but I had promised -you. I stretched out my hand for it, and said -carelessly,—</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[224]</a></span></p> - -<p>“‘Why, ain’t it Sue’s?’</p> - -<p>“Sue is his sister, you know. So he thought I -did not know who it came from, and he changed -his mind, and put it into his pocket, and went off. -When I teased him afterward to let me see it, he -said,—</p> - -<p>“‘No; there are some things a fellow would be -a cad to show.’</p> - -<p>“So I saw it hit home, and well it might. It -was a tremendous letter, Nelly.”</p> - -<p>And Kitty ended with a hug and a kiss, and a -look of that loyal admiration which a girl can give -another girl now and then.</p> - -<p>When the spring came Joe Greene went away -from Chester, and did not come back there any -more. No doubt Nelly Hunt would have forgotten -his very existence but for the valentine, which -she could not forget. She used to blush, as she -grew older, to think how “bumptious” it was, as -she used to call it to herself. What was <em>she</em>, that -she should have undertaken to preach a sermon to -that boy? What if he remembered it only to -think how presuming it was, and to laugh at it?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[225]</a></span> -But, luckily, he did not know from whom it came; -and with that thought she cooled her blushes.</p> - -<p>Nelly was twenty when Joe Greene came back -to Chester again. And now he came as a physician, -just through his studies, and anxious to build -up a practice. Soon his fame grew. His patients -were among the poor at first, and he cured them; -and then richer people heard of it, and sent for -him. But, while he took all the patients that -came, he never gave up his practice among those -who most needed him. His praise was in all their -mouths. There had never been any doctor like -this one.</p> - -<p>Nelly was Miss Hunt now, for Bertha had gone -away from her into the other, unknown country, -and Nelly’s grief had made her gentle heart yet -more gentle, and her helpful spirit yet more -helpful.</p> - -<p>Toward night, one summer day, she had gone to -see an old woman who had been her nurse once, -and had found her very ill,—quite too ill to be -left alone, and certainly in need of a physician. -So Nelly tore a leaf from her memorandum-book<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[226]</a></span> -and wrote on it a few lines, begging Dr. Greene -to come at once, and then called to the first -passer-by and entreated him to take it to the -doctor.</p> - -<p>It was scarcely half an hour before Dr. Greene -came in, quietly and gravely. He attended to his -patient with that careful consideration which made -all those poor souls whom he visited adore him. -Then he turned to Nelly.</p> - -<p>“Who will stay with her to-night?” he asked; -“for, indeed, she hardly ought to be left alone.”</p> - -<p>“I shall stay,” was the quiet answer.</p> - -<p>“Then come to the door with me, please, and -let me give you your directions.”</p> - -<p>Nelly followed, and stood there, in the soft summer -dusk,—a pretty picture, with the wild-rose -flush dawning in her cheeks, and a new light kindling -her eyes. She listened carefully to all his -injunctions, and then turned as if to go. But he -put out a hand to detain her.</p> - -<p>“How very much I owe to you!” he said.</p> - -<p>“<em>You</em>, how?” And a deep, deep crimson dyed -Nelly’s face and throat. In that moment she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[227]</a></span> -thought of her “bumptious” valentine, which had -not crossed her mind before for a long time.</p> - -<p>He looked at her with a smile in his eyes, but -with a face that preserved all its respectful gravity. -He took a red leather case out of his pocket, -and from the case he took the very old valentine -which Nelly remembered so well. Then he produced -the brief note she had written that afternoon; -and still there was light enough left in the -day to see them by, as he held them side by side.</p> - -<p>“Your hand has matured somewhat since this -valentine was written,” he remarked quietly; -“but some of these letters I should know anywhere. -No one could deceive me.”</p> - -<p>“I did not suppose you had kept that foolish -thing,” Nelly said, with a pitiful little quiver in -her voice, as if she were just on the point of bursting -into tears. “I am so ashamed!”</p> - -<p>Dr. Joe looked at her a moment, as she stood -there in the waning light,—a lovely, graceful girl -from whom any man might be proud to win even -a passing interest. So this was the woman, the -thought of whom he had carried in his heart for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[228]</a></span> -years! If he had ever done any good thing, he -was paid for it in the satisfaction of that hour.</p> - -<p>“Are you sorry,” he asked slowly, “that you -have helped one man to be his best self? Those -words of yours were to me like the voice of my inmost -soul. Since then this paper has never left -me, nor have I ever ceased to strive to be worthy -of the esteem of my unknown ‘valentine.’ If ever -I have been generous instead of selfish, brave instead -of cowardly, strong instead of weak, it has -been because I have remembered the words written -here, and meant to live in their spirit. Are -you sorry for that? or do you grudge me the dear -pleasure of thanking you?”</p> - -<p>“No, I’m not sorry, nor do I grudge you any -thing; but it was a girl’s freak, and I am not -worthy of so much praise and honor.”</p> - -<p>“It was a good girl’s good intention,” he said -almost solemnly. “Let us be thankful that it succeeded.”</p> - -<p>Nelly went back to the bedside of the old woman -with a fluttering heart. How strange it seemed to -think this sick woman was old enough to have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[229]</a></span> -outlived all anxieties except those about her pains -and her supper! Had not she been young once? -and had no one ever looked at her as Dr. Joe -looked?</p> - -<p>The next morning he came again. His medicine, -a night’s sleep, Nelly’s care,—something -seemed to have given the poor old patient a fresh -lease of life. There was no need that Nelly should -stay with her any more; but she went to see her -daily, and it was curious how often Dr. Joe’s visits -happened at the same time.</p> - -<p>One night the doctor had left his horse at home, -and he and Nelly walked away together. They -talked about the lingering sunset and the soft -south wind and even the old woman; for Nelly, -woman-like, was struggling desperately to keep -Dr. Joe from saying what she desperately wanted -to hear. But, at last, it came,—a half-blunt, half-awkward -speech, yet with Dr. Joe’s honest heart -in it,—</p> - -<p>“I’ve lived all these years just to earn your -esteem, and now I find I don’t care a thing about -that unless I can also win your love.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[230]</a></span></p> - -<p>I think Nelly’s answer must have satisfied him, -for she is Mrs. Joseph Greene now; and that valentine—worn -and old, but choicely framed—always -hangs over the doctor’s study table.</p> - -<hr class="pb" /> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/i_colophon.jpg" width="200" alt="" /> -</div> - - -<hr class="pb" /> - -<p class="ph3 bd u"><i>Bright; Lively, and Enjoyable</i></p> - -<p class="ph2 bd">“Jolly Good Times” Series</p> - -<p class="ph3 bd"><i>By Mary P. Wells Smith</i></p> - -<hr class="tight" /> - -<div class="figright"> -<img src="images/i_advert.jpg" width="300" alt="Illustration from Jolly Good Times Series" /> -</div> - -<p class="hang">JOLLY GOOD TIMES; or, <span class="smcap">Child Life on a Farm</span>.</p> -<p class="hang">JOLLY GOOD TIMES AT SCHOOL; also, <span class="smcap">Some Times not so Jolly</span>.</p> -<p class="hang">THE BROWNS.</p> -<p class="hang">THEIR CANOE TRIP.</p> -<p class="hang">JOLLY GOOD TIMES AT HACKMATACK.</p> -<p class="hang">MORE GOOD TIMES AT HACKMATACK.</p> -<p class="hang">JOLLY GOOD TIMES TO-DAY.</p> -<p class="hang">A JOLLY GOOD SUMMER.</p> - -<p><i>With Illustrations, 12 mo, -cloth, gilt, $1.25 per volume. -The set of eight volumes, uniformly -bound in cloth, gilt, in -a box, $10.00.</i></p> - -<hr class="tight" /> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>Of these stories the Boston “Transcript” says: “Few series of juvenile -books appeal more strongly to children than the ‘Jolly Good Times’ -Series, written by Mary P. Wells Smith. The naturalness of the stories, -their brightness, their truth to boy and girl life and character, and -the skill with which the author manages incident and dialogue, have -given them deserved popularity.”</p> - -<p>It is Mrs. Smith’s happy ability to take the incidents of child-life,—such -a life as any child of bright mind and sweet character, blessed with -the surroundings of a good home, might have,—and to record them with -such faithfulness to the child’s character, and yet with such charm in the -narrative, as to make them engagingly interesting to other children.—<cite>Gazette -and Courier</cite>, Greenfield, Mass.</p></div> - -<hr class="pb" /> - -<p class="ph2 bd">The Young Puritans Series</p> - -<p class="ph3 bd"><i>By Mary P. Wells Smith</i></p> - -<p class="ph4"><i>Author of “The Jolly Good Times” Series</i></p> - -<p class="hang">THE YOUNG PURITANS OF OLD HADLEY.</p> -<p class="hang">THE YOUNG PURITANS IN KING PHILIP’S WAR.</p> -<p class="hang">THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY.</p> -<p class="hang">THE YOUNG AND OLD PURITANS OF HATFIELD.</p> - -<p class="ph4"><i>Cloth, 12mo, Illustrated, each, $1.25.</i></p> - -<hr class="tight" /> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>Mrs. Smith deserves very hearty commendation for the admirable -pictures of Puritan life which are drawn with a skilful hand in this book. -She has chosen a representative Puritan village as the scene, and the -period of very early settlement of western Massachusetts for her story, a -village which retains many of its early features to this day. Mrs. Smith -knows the people of whom she writes thoroughly, and holds them in -high and loving esteem. Even the most prejudiced reader can hardly -close this book without seeing in these genuine Puritan people a phase of -human life at once fine in its courage, its endurance of terrible hardships, -and not unbeautiful in its childlike acceptance of God’s dealings and its -daily hunger and thirst after righteousness.—<cite>The Churchman.</cite></p></div> - - -<p class="p1">THE YOUNG PURITANS OF OLD HADLEY. 12mo. -Cloth. Illustrated. $1.25.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> -<p>A capital colonial story.—<cite>Congregationalist</cite>, Boston.</p> - -<p>She catches the very spirit of Puritan life.—<cite>Chicago Inter-Ocean.</cite></p> - -<p>The work has historic value as well as unique interest.—<span class="smcap">Lilian -Whiting</span>, <cite>in Chicago Inter-Ocean</cite>.</p> - -<p>An excellent book for school libraries.—<cite>Literary News</cite>, New York.</p> - -<p>The adventures of the boys while hunting, the trapping of wolves and -panthers, which infested the forests in those early days, the encounters -with the Indians, friendly and otherwise, are incidents which make up a -book which will fascinate all young readers.—<cite>San Francisco Bulletin.</cite></p> - -<p>The author has studied her subject carefully; and the pictures of this -life, extinct, yet still blood of our blood and bone of our bone, have -unusual interest.—<cite>Chicago Dial.</cite></p> - -<p>Mrs. Smith has proven that she can write as simple and natural a -story of child-life when the scene is laid two hundred and fifty years ago -as when she chooses to describe country life in the New England of the -present century.—<cite>Christian Register.</cite></p> -</div> - -<p class="p1">THE YOUNG PURITANS IN KING PHILIP’S WAR. -Illustrated by <span class="smcap">L. J. Bridgman</span>. 12mo. Cloth. $1.25.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> -<p>From a letter written the author by Bishop F. D. Huntington, Syracuse, -N. Y.: “Have read all the pages through, every word,—finding -the whole volume readable, entertaining, and satisfactory. Of course I -feel rather competent to say that, in the phraseology, the territorial descriptions, -the geography, the account of customs, language, family habits, -natural phenomena, you are singularly correct, accurate, and felicitous.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Smith seems to have caught the very breath and echo of those -old days, and she makes one seem not to be merely reading of those -Puritans and their constant struggles with their savage neighbors, but -to be actually beholding them.—<cite>Jersey City Evening Journal.</cite></p> - -<p>The history of the seventeenth century in New England would gain -new life when read in the light of such books.—<cite>Christian Endeavor -Herald.</cite></p> -</div> - - -<p class="p1">THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. Illustrated -by <span class="smcap">Jessie Willcox Smith</span>. 12mo. Cloth. $1.25.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> -<p>Nothing could be more interesting than the period of which this story -treats, and the author has handled the subject in a manner that is highly -creditable. The reader will be for the nonce a Puritan, and will follow -the adventures of three children taken captive by the Indians, feeling -that he is a participant in the scenes so well portrayed. He will sleep in -the Indians’ wigwam and breathe the odor of the pines. He will paddle -a canoe upon the broad waters of the Connecticut, when New England -was but a wilderness, and get an insight into Indian nature which he -probably never had before.—<cite>Sacramento Bee.</cite></p> - -<p>She shows the same power of graphic description, the same faithful use -of the best available material, and the same logical way of putting it into -shape.—<cite>Commercial Advertiser, N. Y.</cite></p> - -<p>Mrs. Smith has made history live again in her life-like narrative. The -children of to-day may well learn something of the sterner virtues in -reading this story of the endurance and fortitude of children of two -centuries ago.—<cite>Springfield Republican.</cite></p> -</div> - - -<p class="p1">THE YOUNG AND OLD PURITANS OF HATFIELD. -Illustrated by <span class="smcap">Bertha C. Day</span>. 12mo. $1.25.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="ph3 bd">LITTLE, BROWN, & CO., Publishers,<br /> -<small>254 WASHINGTON STREET, BOSTON.</small> -</p> - -<hr class="pb" /> - -<div class="transnote"> - <p class="bd">Transcriber's Note</p> - <p>A few minor typographical errors have been silently corrected.</p> - <p>A page number in the Contents was corrected from 77 to 79.</p> -</div> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's New Bed-Time Stories, by Louise Chandler Moulton - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NEW BED-TIME STORIES *** - -***** This file should be named 60418-h.htm or 60418-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/0/4/1/60418/ - -Produced by Sonya Schermann, Nigel Blower and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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