EXPLANATIONS.
NEVER will Maud forget the unutterable sense of desolation that
swallowed her up at that moment of realizing that her mother was
nowhere within call; that she had left them, and gone out into the
woeful storm, out alone, as the girl at first believed, to seek their
missing father.
Minnie, awakened in terror by Maud's last piercing cry of "Mother!" met
her white and trembling on the landing as she went back to the bed-room.
"Oh, Maud, what is it? What is the matter?" she distressfully
questioned.
"Mother's gone!"
"Gone! Gone where? You must have been dreaming, child!" exclaimed the
elder girl.
"I've not. I wish I was!" answered Maud between her chattering teeth.
"Father has never been home—their room is empty—and now I can't find
mother!"
Shivering though she was with cold and fright, poor Maud sat down on
the top stair, and began to cry.
"Sh-sh! Don't make a noise; go back to bed both of you!" said the voice
of Ellen the servant from above. "You'll catch your deaths standing out
there."
"Where's mother, then?"
"Gone to the hospital, to see your pa. Go right back into bed, now, if
you want me to tell you. Lawkamussy, what a night I'm having! We shall
all be laid up to-morrow."
Thus adjured, the girls huddled down beneath the bed-clothes again.
"What's happened to father? What hospital? Has he had an accident?"
they queried breathlessly.
"Hush now! Don't wake your poor little sister," said Ellen in a loud
whisper. "Let her sleep on in peace, if she may. Your ma came up to
me," continued the girl, seating herself on the side of the bed,
"just as I was dropping off to sleep—near upon twelve it was, for
somehow I couldn't forget myself, try all I might, which isn't like
me, particular after a hironin' day—and says that a gentleman from
St. Mercy's Hospital had come to tell her as how your pa had met with
a haccident, and been took there, and there was just time for her to
catch the last train."
"To go to him! Oh, Ellen, is he much hurt?" asked the girls in tones of
dread. "How did it happen? When? Where?"
"I don't know no more than I've told you," said the maid. "Your ma was
off again like a shot, but as quiet as a mouse.
"'I do hope those poor children won't wake,' she said.
"And now I am going to bed again," concluded Ellen. "I declare every
bone in my body's a-shakin'. Get to sleep again as fast as you can.
It's no manner of use for you to go frettin' and making yourselves ill."
"Oh, don't go yet, Ellen!" begged Maud, clutching the girl's sleeve.
"Do you think it's anything very serious?"
"Well, I should reckon it is by their sending for your ma at twelve
o'clock at night, and such a night as this."
"Oh, what 'shall' we do? Whatever shall we do?" wailed Minnie.
"Go to sleep again, I tell you, and not keep me standin' here while
my very feet freeze to the floor!" returned Ellen, with not wholly
inexcusable brusqueness. "I've told you all I know; so, good-night!"
And away she sped.
Little Margerie had lain undisturbed through it all; her soft, regular
breathing telling of peaceful sleep.
"Oh! Isn't it 'dreadful?' Oh, Maudie, what shall we do?" said Minnie
again, as the sisters clung together. "What 'can' have happened to
father? Fancy poor dear mother being fetched to go to him like that!
Hark at the wind! Oh, Maudie, I do wish I'd helped mother mend the
stockings last night instead of doing up that lace thing!"
"I wish I'd gone and helped father on with his greatcoat in the morning
instead of sticking over the fire reading!" rejoined Maud. "And now,
perhaps, he'll ne-ever want his greatcoat again!"
And overcome with these self-reproachful recollections—such as ever
cut the most deeply of all in times of trouble—the girls mingled their
tears and sobs in each other's arms.
"We haven't been nearly as good to father and mother as we ought, have
we?" whispered Minnie, still burdened by the thought of admonitions
disregarded and duties left undone. "If only God will have mercy on us,
and let them both come safe back to us, we will be better—won't we,
Maudie?"
"Yes," answered Maud. Then she suggested:
"Let's say the Lord's Prayer together, Minnie. And—and that one,
'Lighten our darkness;' shall we?"
So, holding fast each other's hands, they murmured together in broken
whispers these brief and simple prayers, adding of their own accord
to the evening collect the names of those precious parents for whom
the "perils and dangers" of that night seemed to their small hearts so
fearsome and great.
Then by and by, they once more forgot their anxieties in slumber.
The morning dawned clear, cold, and dazzlingly white. Very comfortless
and empty looked the parlour when the sisters went downstairs, albeit
the breakfast was all laid, and a blazing fire strove to warm the flood
of blue-shadowed light that poured in from the snow-mantled outer world.
"I don't want any breakfast," said Margerie tearfully; "I want mother!"
"Oh, you must eat something, dearie; I'm going to," returned Minnie,
beginning to act upon last night's good resolution by putting on a
cheerful air for the sake of her little sister. "It would worry poor
mother dreadfully if she thought we neglected ourselves because she
isn't here to see after us."
"I wonder if father is able to eat any breakfast," was Margerie's next
remark, as with unwilling throat she gulped down scarcely-tasted bites
of bread and marmalade.
Minnie silently wiped her eyes, and neither of the sisters made any
reply.
"Come, Maudie," said Minnie presently, "your coffee is poured out."
Maud was standing at the window gazing with wide sad eyes and drooping
mouth at the pall-like waste of snow that reflected a cold, white light
on her already pallid face. Suddenly, however, even as Minnie spoke,
her countenance became radiant with a brightness from within.
"Here's mother!" she cried.
They ran hurriedly to the door.
"Oh, mother—mother, 'dear!'" and six eager arms embraced that weary
form. "Oh, mother! It is good to have you back. How is father?"
"My poor dears, how cruel it seemed to desert you!" said Mrs. Grace
sinking down on the first chair she found. "You didn't know it till
this morning, did you?"
"Maud and I woke in the night, and Ellen told us," answered Minnie
briefly. "Mother, dearest, what has happened to father?"
"He had a fall at a railway-station coming home last night," replied
Mrs. Grace, in a voice which she strove to keep steady.
Margerie was untying her bonnet-strings, and tenderly smoothing her
wind-tossed hair.
"It was in the City. I think the snow must have frozen on the heels of
his boots. He fell from the top to the bottom of a flight of steps."
"Oh, mother! Is he—is he 'much' hurt?"
"He was insensible for some hours—that is how it was they could not let
us know any sooner. He did not happen to have a card or anything about
him. As soon as he became conscious for a little while, he managed to
tell them where he lived."
"Isn't he conscious now?" asked Maud, catching apprehensively at what
was implied in her mother's words.
"Not when I came away. I want to get back again as soon as possible.
But," added Mrs. Grace with a tearful smile, "I felt I must come and
peep at my three poor deserted chicks."
"Mother, darling, drink this; it's nice and sweet," said Margerie,
holding a cup of coffee to her mother's lips, while she cuddled her
dear head so close that to comply with the request was impossible. "And
I'll make you a slice of my very best toast with all the crust cut off."
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