THE DAY THAT FOLLOWED.
DORA had resolved to be up to see her father start, and she felt vexed
with herself when on awaking she heard the clock strike seven. She
knew then that he had been gone nearly two hours, and becoming aware
it was a very cold morning, she nestled down in her bed again, while
her thoughts went back to the conversation of the previous evening and
the good resolutions she had formed. How much she would do during the
year begun that day! The children should all look up to, and love, and
obey her, and her mother would lean more and more upon her, till when
her father came home her mother would say, "I do not know what I should
have done without Dora. Right nobly has she fulfilled the trust you
gave her."
And thereupon she began thinking what a pretty story she could weave
out of her own life. A year ago she had been told she might have a tiny
room at the top of the house for her own use. It was very little larger
than a good-sized cupboard, but she considered it a great privilege
to be its only occupant, and here she had spent many a spare hour and
half-holiday in scribbling tales and "making poetry," for it was Dora's
great ambition to become an authoress.
Now, with herself for the heroine of her story, she wove a charming
little romance. This proved such a delightful occupation that she quite
forgot the lapse of time till the sound of a church bell, tolling for
an early service, brought her back to the real world in which she
lived. Ten minutes to eight, and eight o'clock was the breakfast hour!
It was impossible to dress properly. So having put on her clothes, she
washed her face, hurried over a prayer, and ran downstairs. She was
relieved to find Katie cutting bread and butter, and helping generally.
"I am so sorry to be late," she said, as she gave her mother a kiss.
"I meant to be in such good time this morning."
"Never mind, dear," was the kind reply. "I have no doubt you were
tired when you went to bed last night, and perhaps did not go to sleep
quickly. Now, will you please do Phil's feeder, and see that he doesn't
eat his bread and milk too quickly?"
The Christmas holidays were not yet come to an end. Consequently as
there was no hurrying off to be in good time for school, the meal was
rather a longer one than usual. Perhaps Mrs. Grainger wished there had
been need for haste. The younger children did not understand that it
would have been kinder to their mother to have made no remark on the
vacant place at the breakfast-table, nor to have talked so freely, and
dolefully, too, of the father who had gone away.
Then Giles was very anxious to know whether he went "in a four-wheeler
or a hansom," and whether he had taken a certain aluminium pencil-case,
which Giles had bought with a shilling—the careful savings of several
months—and given him for a Christmas present.
So the younger children lingered over the meal long after Edgar—who had
returned from seeing his father off—had left for business, and Robert
had taken his departure to the house of a schoolfellow with whom he
was going to spend the day. They finished at last, however, and Dora
offered to go for Lancie's tray. He, poor child, was not so well as
usual this morning, and had taken his breakfast in bed.
When she returned to the sitting room, Mary, their little maid
of-all-work, was clearing the table. Dora had to wait a few minutes
before she found an opportunity of speaking to her mother.
"Mother dear," she said, "I want to begin at once to help you all I
can. Will you let me attend to the cooking to-day?"
"You will do me a greater service if you will take the children for a
long walk. It will be so good for them, this cold frosty morning, and
in holiday time they always get restless if they are kept in the house."
Dora would much have preferred making the pudding, and preparing
the cold meat left from yesterday's dinner for a hash, but her good
resolutions were fresh in her memory, and she instantly said she would
do as her mother wished.
"But you need not go yet," went on Mrs. Grainger. "If you start in an
hour, or an hour-and-a-half, it will be soon enough. Before then you
might get a nice practice."
"Yes, but I will put my room tidy first, please," said Dora. "I hadn't
time to do it before I came down this morning. Oh, mother—" she stopped
a moment, then throwing her arms round her mother's neck whispered, "I
do hope I shall be a real help to you now and always. Will you let me
have a quiet talk with you some time to-day? And will you give me a lot
of work? I have been thinking I might teach the children entirely now.
And there are other things I should like to undertake."
"Do not want to do too much at once, my child," replied her mother,
fondly. "But I am sure it will be good for you to have regular daily
work, and I intended speaking to you about it as soon as your father
had gone. I cannot promise you a talk before the little ones have gone
to bed, but we will certainly have a quiet chat together then. Now,
dear, run and put your room in order."
Dora did as she was bid, but finding Katie stripping the beds, she
offered to help her make them. When this was done, she dusted and put
her own little "den" tidy, and then went down stairs to begin her
practice. She did not grumble, as she often did, at being obliged
to perform this duty in a cold room, and scales and exercises were
patiently repeated till her fingers felt delightfully warm and lissom.
But she was not sorry to shut the piano and go in search of her mother.
She found her in the kitchen. Katie was there, too, washing currants
for the pudding.
"Shall we start now, mother?" Dora asked.
"Yes, I think so. Will it be too much trouble to take Phil?"
"In the perambulator, do you mean?"
"He certainly could not walk to the Park and back. Katie will take her
turn at pushing him."
At the mention of her own name, Katie looked up quickly.
"But, mother," she exclaimed, "Connie Pafford said she might perhaps
call for me to go for a walk with her."
"So you said yesterday, dear, but she didn't come."
"No; and that is why I think she is sure to call this morning."
"I do not know that I should be sorry, Katie, if she should come and
find you out," said Mrs. Grainger, somewhat gravely.
"Why, mother," and Katie's face flushed. "I am sure Connie Pafford is
very nice. And it's very kind of her to want to be friendly with me.
They are very much better off than we are. She has an uncle who keeps
his carriage."
Mrs. Grainger smiled.
"I hope my little daughter will be wiser some day, and not think
that because a little girl has an uncle who keeps his carriage, her
friendship should be cultivated. But indeed, Katie, I am not at all
anxious that your intimacy with the Paffords should increase; it is not
likely to bring you any real good or happiness. Had it not been that
on hearing of our trouble Miss Loam offered to take you and Dora on
greatly reduced terms, you could not have remained at so good a school,
and you must remember that your social position is very different from
that of most of Miss Loam's pupils."
"Yes, and that's just what makes it so hard," rejoined Katie, with a
sigh.
"Some of the girls would not think any the worse of you for being
poorer than themselves, dear child," said her mother; "and there is no
reason why you should not be friendly with them. But from what I have
heard, I should not think the Paffords are of that class, and I do not
think it well for you to seek their acquaintance."
"I don't consider the Paffords at all nice," remarked Dora. "They are
proud and stuck-up, and Mrs. Pafford never takes the least notice of us
if we happen to meet her in the street."
"You couldn't expect her to stop and speak to you when you were
carrying that big basket the other day," said Katie. "You looked
exactly like a servant."
"Let us hope she did not recognise your sister," said Mrs. Grainger,
quietly, "for if Dora had been a servant and Mrs. Pafford had known
her, it would have shown great ill-breeding to pass without any outward
sign of recognition. It would have been more, a direct violation of the
command 'be courteous.' But," she added, changing her voice, "we must
break off our talk, or you will not get the long walk I want you to
have. Katie dear, it is my desire that you go with your sister."
The words were said very kindly, but with a certain firmness that left
no room for argument, and Katie went away to get ready herself and help
to dress her little brothers and sisters.
But she forgot her vexation when she found herself in Regent's Park. It
was a remarkably clear fine morning, and the trees were covered with
tiny particles of hoar-frost that glittered like diamond dust in the
bright sunshine. No wonder Phil wanted to get out of his perambulator
and run and stamp his little feet on the hard, frozen ground.
Indeed the air was so fresh and exhilarating that Dora and Katie forgot
their dignity as the two eldest daughters, and begging Giles and Olive
to "mind Phil" for a few minutes—Lottie was considered old enough to
take care of herself—started off for a race. Now, though there was a
difference of two years in their ages, there was very little difference
in their height; it was not surprising, therefore, that the younger
girl was the victor. But, after all, it was a closely-contested point,
and panting and laughing, with rosy-cheeks and sparkling eyes, they
came back to their charges.
"Couldn't we go as far as the lake?" asked Giles. "I shouldn't wonder
if there's skating going on, and I'd like to see it."
The lake was exactly opposite that part of the Park nearest Madeira
Street, but as they were already half way across the large open piece
of pleasure-ground, it was decided they could easily go to the water
and be home by dinner-time. Giles was right; there were some skaters on
the ice, but they were all near one spot, and too far off to be plainly
seen, for Dora said they would not have time to go farther than the
iron bridge that spans the lake at its narrowest point.
"Why," said Katie, as she stood there straining her eyes to see the
skaters, "there's somebody just like Robert. There! Don't you see that
boy who has just fallen down?"
But Dora was a little bit short-sighted.
"Nonsense," she said, "it couldn't be Robert. He wouldn't go against
father's wishes so much as that."
Mr. Grainger's only brother had met his death from an accident on the
ice. It had happened years ago end before he himself had married, but
as long as he lived, he would never forget the fearful shock of seeing
the dead body brought into the house. From that day he had a horror of
skating, and he made it a command that not one of his children should
learn the art. And Katie, remembering her father's well-known and
solemnly impressed desire, thought she must have been mistaken, and
dismissed the subject from her mind.
Perhaps she would have thought of it on her return home, and told her
mother of the strange resemblance between Robert and the skater she
had seen in the distance, but as soon as she got in, a note was given
her, and, for a while, the contents banished everything else from her
memory. It was an invitation from Connie Pafford to an evening party at
her house.
"Oh! Mother, may I go?" she asked, breathlessly, when she had read the
note aloud.
"You think it will give you pleasure?"
"Yes, of course," and Katie's eyes sparkled. "Besides, it isn't
everybody Connie would invite to her house. Lots of the girls at school
will envy me when I tell them where I've been. What kind of dress shall
I have?"
"My dear child, you can only wear your best merino," replied her mother.
"But it's a dress party. Connie says in her postscript that she's going
to wear a light blue silk, trimmed with cream-coloured lace. I don't
think I can go in a dark green merino."
"I cannot give you a new frock for the occasion, Katie; that is quite
impossible. If Connie really wants you at her party, she will not care
about your dress. And your green will look very nice with some pretty
lace at the neck and wrists."
"I'm afraid I couldn't go in a woollen dress," and tears of
disappointment suddenly filled Katie's eyes.
"I am sorry to appear unsympathetic," said her mother, "but in that
case, I see nothing else for you to do but to write and decline the
invitation."
Dora, who had been reading aloud to Lancie when Connie's letter was
brought in, had only left off to hear what it was about, and then
resumed her occupation. But her attention was only half given to the
book; she had heard the whole of the conversation between her mother
and sister, and now looking up, said eagerly—
"But I have a dress I think you could wear, Katie—the white serge I had
for cousin Mary's wedding. It's a little bit dirty, and it may be a
little old-fashioned now, but we could turn it, and perhaps alter the
make."
"That will do beautifully," said Katie, whose face was again all
smiles. "And if it's too short, I daresay we could let it down. I'll go
and fetch it at once. Where shall I find it, Dora?"
Hardly waiting for the answer, she ran upstairs to her sister's room,
and Dora again turned to her book. But a little, thin hand was put
gently over the page, and a low, sweet voice said,—
"I am glad you did that, Dolly. It was kind of you. Katie has set her
heart upon the party, and else wouldn't have gone in her merino."
Dolly was Lancie's pet name for his eldest and favourite sister.
"It's not any great kindness," said Dora. "I don't suppose I should
ever have worn the dress myself again. I think—" she paused a moment,
then went on thoughtfully—"it seems to me, Lancie, that the more a
thing costs us the more merit there is in doing it, and if it doesn't
cost us anything, there's no merit in doing it. It isn't as if I were
going to the party end wanted to wear the dress myself, for instance.
Now it cost me a great deal more to take the children out for a walk
this morning, when I would much rather have stayed at home, and made
the pudding and cooked the dinner. I am afraid I haven't expressed
myself very well, but you know what I mean."
"Yes—'neither will I offer burnt offerings unto the Lord my God of that
which cost me nothing.'"
There was a silence after that until Katie came back with the dress
over her arm, for Lancie had covered his face with his hands, and Dora
knew he did not wish to be spoken to.
Again a deep thrill of joy had throbbed through the little cripple's
heart. God knew what it cost him to lie so many weary hours in pain and
weakness, and be cut off from the pleasures which all his brothers,
down to Baby Phil, enjoyed. He knew how high a price was paid for the
sacrifice which he could daily offer up—the price of his weariness and
suffering—and in the thought, a deep thankfulness rose from Lancie's
heart that he had so rich a gift to offer. Ah! If he could always feel
as he was feeling then.
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