GOOD OUT OF EVIL.
"Sweet are the uses of adversity."--SHAKESPEARE.
A scream that would probably have reached the nursery, which was not
very far from Mrs. Vincent's room, had there been any one there to
hear it! But as it was, the person who had been there--little Bee--was
much nearer than the nursery at the time of Rosy's accident. The house
was very silent that evening, and Nelson had not thought of bringing a
light; so when it got too dark to read, even with the book pressed
close against the window-panes, Bee grew rather tired of waiting there
by herself, with nothing to do.
"I wonder where Rosy is," she thought, opening the door, and looking
out along the dusky passages.
And just then she heard Rosy's voice, at some little distance,
calling, "Nelson, Nelson."
"If she is with Nelson I won't go," thought Bee. "I'll wait till she
comes back;" and she came into the empty nursery again, and wished
Martha was home.
"She always makes the nursery so comfortable," thought Bee. Then it
struck her that perhaps it was not very kind of her not to go and see
what Rosy wanted--she had not heard any reply to Rosy's call for
Nelson.
"Her voice sounded as if she was in Aunt Lillias's room," she said to
herself. "What can she be wanting? perhaps I'd better go and see."
And she set off down the passage. The lamps were not yet lighted;
perhaps the servants were less careful than usual, knowing that the
ladies would not be home till late, but Bee knew her way about the
house quite well. She was close to the door of Mrs. Vincent's room,
and had already noticed that it stood slightly ajar, for a light was
streaming out, when--she stood for a second half-stupefied with
terror--what was it?--what could be the matter?--as Rosy's fearful
scream reached her ears. Half a second, and she had rushed into the
room--there lay a confused heap on the floor, for Rosy, in her fall,
had pulled over the chair; but the first glance showed Bee what was
wrong--Rosy was on fire!
It was a good thing she had fallen, otherwise, in her wild fright, she
would probably have made things worse by rushing about; as it was, she
had not had time to get up before Bee was beside her, smothering her
down with some great heavy thing, and calling to her to keep still, to
"squeeze herself down," so as to put out the flames. The "great thing"
was the blankets and counterpane of the bed, which somehow Bee, small
as she was, had managed to tear off. And, frightened as Rosy was, the
danger was not, after all, so very great, for the quilted under skirt
was pretty thick, and her fall had already partly crushed down the
fire. It was all over more quickly than it has taken me to tell it,
and Rosy at last, half choked with the heavy blankets, and half soaked
with the water which Bee had poured over her to make sure, struggled
to her feet, safe and uninjured, only the pretty dress hopelessly
spoilt!
And when all the danger was past, and there was nothing more to do,
Nelson appeared at the door, and rushed at her darling Miss Rosy,
screaming and crying, while Beata stood by, her handkerchief wrapped
round one of her hands, and nobody paying any attention to her.
Nelson's screams soon brought the other servants; among them, they got
the room cleared of the traces of the accident, and Rosy undressed and
put to bed. She was crying from the fright, but she had got no injury
at all; her tears, however, flowed on when she thought of what her
mother would have to be told, and Bee found it difficult to comfort
her.
"You saved me, Bee, dear Bee," she said, clinging to her. "And it was
because I disobeyed mamma, and I might have been burnt to death. O
Bee, just think of it!" and she would not let Beata leave her.
It was like this that Mrs. Vincent found them on her return late in
the evening. You can fancy how miserable it was for her to be met with
such a story, and to know that it was all Rosy's own fault. But it was
not all miserable, for never had she known her little girl so
completely sorry and ashamed, and so truly grateful to any one as she
was now feeling to Beata.
And even Aunt Edith's prejudice seemed to have melted away, for she
kissed Bee as she said goodnight, and called her a brave, good child.
So it was with a thankful little heart that Beata went to bed. Her
hand was sore--it had got badly scorched in pressing down the
blankets--but she did not think it bad enough to say anything about it
except to the cook, who was a kind old woman, and wrapped it up in
cotton wool, after well dredging it with flour, and making her promise
that if it hurt her in the night she would call her.
It did not hurt her, and she slept soundly; but when she woke in the
morning her head ached, and she wished she could stay in bed! Rosy was
still sleeping--the housemaid, who came to draw the curtains, told
her--and she was not to be wakened.
"After the fright she had, it is better to sleep it off," the servant
said, "though, for some things, it's to be hoped she won't forget it.
It should be a lesson to her. But you don't look well, Miss Bee," she
went on; "is your head aching, my dear?"
"Yes," Bee allowed, "and I can't think why, for I slept very well.
What day is it, Phoebe? Isn't it Sunday?"
"Yes, Miss Bee. It's Sunday."
"I don't think I can go to church. The organ would make my head
worse," said Bee, sitting up in bed.
"Shall I tell any one that you're not well, Miss Bee?" asked Phoebe.
"Oh no, thank you," said Bee, "I daresay it will get better when I'm
up."
It did seem a little better, but she was looking pale when Mrs.
Vincent came to the nursery to see her and Rosy, who had wakened up,
none the worse for her fright, but anxious to do all she could for
poor Bee when she found out about her sore hand and headache,
"Why did you not tell me about your hand last night, dear Bee?" Mrs.
Vincent asked.
"It didn't hurt much. It doesn't hurt much now," said Bee, "and Fraser
looked at it and saw that it was not very bad, and--and--you had had
so many things to trouble you, Aunt Lillias," she added,
affectionately.
"Yes, dear; but, when I think how much worse they might have been, I
dare not complain," Rosy's mother replied.
Bee did not go to church that day. Her headache was not very bad, but
it did not seem to get well, and it was still rather bad when she woke
the next morning.
And that next morning brought back to all their minds what, for the
moment, had been almost forgotten--that it was within three days of
the fete at Summerlands!--for there came a note from Lady Esther,
giving some particulars about the hour she hoped they would all come,
and rejoicing in the promise of fine weather for the children's treat.
Rosy's mother read the note aloud. Then she looked at Aunt Edith, and
looked at the little girls. They were all together when the letter
came.
"What is to be done?" said Miss Vincent; "I had really forgotten the
fête was to be on Wednesday. Is it impossible to have a new dress made
in time?"
"Quite impossible," said Mrs. Vincent, "Rosy must cheerfully, or at
least patiently, bear what she has brought on herself, and be, as I am
sure she is, very thankful that it was no worse."
Rosy glanced up quickly. She seemed as if she were going to say
something, and the look in her face was quite gentle.
"I--I--I _will_ try to be good, mamma," she broke out at last.
"And I know I might have been burnt to death if it hadn't been for
Bee. And--and--I hope Bee will enjoy the fête."
But that was all she could manage. She hurried over the last words;
then, bursting into tears, she rushed out of the room.
"Poor darling!" said Aunt Edith. "Lillias, are you sure we can do
nothing? Couldn't one of her white dresses be done up somehow?"
"No," said Mrs. Vincent. "It would only draw attention to her if she
was to go dressed differently from the others, and I should not wish
that. Besides--oh no--it is much better not."
She had hardly said the words when she felt something gently pulling
her, and, looking down, there was Bee beside her, trying to whisper
something.
"Auntie," she said, "would you, oh! _would_ you let Rosy go
instead of me, wearing my dress? It would fit her almost as well as
her own. And, do you know, I _wouldn't_ care to go alone. It
wouldn't be _any_ happiness to me, and it would be such happiness
to know that Rosy could go. And I'm afraid I've got a little cold or
something, for I've still got a headache, and I'm not sure that it
will be better by Wednesday."
She looked up entreatingly in Mrs. Vincent's face, and then Rosy's
mother noticed how pale and ill she seemed.
"My dear little Bee," she said, "you must try to be better by
Wednesday. And, you know, dear, though we are all very sorry for Rosy,
it is only what she has brought on herself. I hope she has learnt a
lesson--more than one lesson--but, if she were to have the pleasure of
going to Summerlands, she might not remember it so well."
Beata said no more--she could not oppose Rosy's mother--but she shook
her head a little sadly.
"I don't think Rosy's like that, Aunt Lillias," she said; "I don't
think it would make her forget."
Beata's headache was not better the next day; and, as the day went on,
it grew so much worse that Mrs. Vincent at last sent for the doctor.
He said that she was ill, much in the same way that Fixie had been.
Not that it was anything she could have caught from him--it was not
that kind of illness at all--but it was the first spring either of
them had been in England, and he thought that very likely the change
of climate had caused it with them both. He was not, he said, anxious
about Bee, but still he looked a little grave. She was not strong, and
she should not be overworked with lessons, or have anything to trouble
or distress her.
"She has not been overworked," Mrs. Vincent said.
"And she seems very sweet-tempered and gentle. A happy disposition, I
should think," said the doctor, as he hastened away.
His words made Mrs. Vincent feel rather sad. It was true--Bee had a
happy disposition--she had never, till lately, seen her anything but
bright and cheery.
"My poor little Bee," she thought, "I was hard upon her. I did not
quite understand her. In my anxiety about Rosy when her aunt and
Nelson came I fear I forgot Bee. But I do trust all that is over, and
that Rosy has truly learnt a lesson. And we must all join to make
little Bee happy again."
She returned to Bee's room. The child was sitting up in bed, her eyes
sparkling in her white face--she was very eager about something.
"Auntie," she said, "you see I cannot possibly go to-morrow. And you
must go, for poor Lady Esther is counting on you to help her. Auntie,
you _will_ forgive poor Rosy now _quite_, won't you, and let
her go in my dress?"
The pleading eyes, the white face, the little hot hands laid coaxingly
on hers--it would not have been easy to refuse! Besides, the doctor
had said she was neither to be excited nor distressed.
The tears were in Mrs. Vincent's eyes as she bent down to kiss the
little girl, but she did not let her see them.
"I will speak to Rosy, dear," she said. "I will tell her how much you
want her to go in your place; and I think perhaps you are right--I
don't think it will make her forget."
"_Thank_ you, dear auntie," said Bee, as fervently as if Mrs.
Vincent had promised her the most delightful treat in the world.
That afternoon Bee fell asleep, and slept quietly and peacefully for
some time. When she woke she felt better, and she lay still, thinking
it was nice and comfortable to be in bed when one felt tired, as she
had always done lately; then her eyes wandered round her little room,
and she thought how neat and pretty it looked, how pleased her mother
would be to see how nice she had everything; and, just as she was
thinking this, her glance fell on a little table beside her bed, which
had been placed there with a little lemonade and a few grapes. There
was something there that had not been on the table before she went to
sleep. In a delicate little glass, thin and clear as a soap-bubble,
was the most lovely rose Bee had ever seen--rich, soft, _rose_
colour, glowing almost crimson in the centre, and melting into a
somewhat paler shade at the edge.
[Illustration: 'IT'S A ROSE FROM ROSY.']
"Oh you beauty!" exclaimed Bee, "I wonder who put you there. I would
like to scent you"--Bee, like other children I know, always talked of
"scenting" flowers; she said "smell" was not a pretty enough word for
such pretty things--"but I am afraid of knocking over that lovely
glass. It must be one of Aunt Lillias's that she has lent."
A little soft laugh came from the side of her bed, and, leaning over,
Bee caught sight of a tangle of bright hair. It was Rosy. She had been
watching there for Bee to wake. Up she jumped, and, carefully lifting
the glass, held it close to Bee.
"It isn't mother's glass," she said; "it's your own. It _was_
mother's, but I've bought it for you. Mother let me, because I
_did_ so want to do something to please you; and she let me
choose the beautifullest rose for you, Bee. I am so glad you like it;
It's a rose from Rosy. I've been sitting by you such a time. And
though I'm so pleased you like the rose, I _have_ been crying a
little, Bee, truly, because you are so good, and about my going
to-morrow."
"You _are_ going?" said Bee, anxiously. In Rosy's changed way of
thinking she became suddenly afraid that she might not wish to go.
"Yes," said Rosy, rather gravely, "I am going. Mother is quite pleased
for me to go, to please you. In one way I would rather not go, for I
know I don't deserve it; and I can't help thinking you wouldn't have
been ill if I hadn't done that, and made you have a fright. And it
seems such a shame for me to wear _your_ dress, when you've been
quite good and _deserve_ the pleasure, and just when I've got to
see how kind you are, and we'd have been so happy to go together. And
then I've a feeling, Bee, that I _shall_ enjoy it when I get
there, and perhaps I shall forget a little about you, and it will be
so horrid of me, if I do--and that makes me, wish I wasn't going."
"But I want you to enjoy it," said Bee, simply, in her little weak
voice. "It wouldn't be nice of me to want you to go if I thought you
wouldn't enjoy it. And it's nice of you to tell me how you feel. But I
would like you to think of me _this_ way--every time you are
having a very nice dance, or that any one says you look so nice, just
think, "I wish Bee could see me," or "How nice it will be to tell Bee
about it," and, that way, the more you enjoy it the more you'll think
of me."
"Yes," said Rosy, "that's putting it a very nice way; or, Bee, if
there are very nice things to eat, I might think of you another way. I
might, perhaps, bring you back some nice biscuits or bonbons--any kind
that wouldn't squash in my pocket, you know. I might ask mamma to ask
Lady Esther."
"Yes," said Bee, "I'm not very hungry, but just a few very nice,
rather dry ones, you know, I would like." "I could keep them for Fixie
when he comes back," was the thought in her mind.
She had not heard anything about when Fixie and Martha were coming
back, but she was to have a pleasant surprise the next day. It was a
little lonely; for, though Rosy meant to be very, very kind, she was
rather too much of a chatterbox not to tire Bee after a while.
"Mamma said I wasn't to stay very long," she said; "but don't you mind
being alone so much?"
"No, I don't think so," said Bee, "and, you know, Phoebe is in the
next room if I want her."
"I know what you'd like," said Rosy, and off she flew. In two minutes
she was back again with something in her arms. It was Manchon! She
laid him gently down at the foot of Bee's bed. "He's so 'squisitely
clean, you know," she went on, "and I know you're fond of him."
"_Very_" said Bee, with great satisfaction.
"I like him better than I did," said Rosy, "but still I think he's a
sort of a fairy. Why, it shows he is, for now that I'm so good--I mean
now that I'm going to be good always--he seems to like me ever so much
better. He used to snarl if ever I touched him, and to-day when I said
'I'm going to take you to Bee, Manchon,' he let me take him as good
as good."
But that evening brought still better company for Bee.
She went to sleep early, and she slept well, and when she woke in the
morning who do you think was standing beside her? Dear little Fixie,
his white face ever so much rounder and rosier, and kind Martha, both
smiling with pleasure at seeing her again, though feeling sorry, too,
that she was ill.
"Zou'll soon be better, Bee, and Fixie will be so good to you, and
then p'raps we'll go again to that nice place where we've been, for
you to get kite well."
So Bee, after all, did not feel at all dull or lonely when Rosy came
in to say good-bye, in Bee's pretty dress. And Mrs. Vincent, and even
Miss Vincent, kissed her so kindly! Even Nelson, I forgot to say, had
put her head in at the door to ask how she was; and when Bee answered
her nicely, as she always did, she came in for a moment to tell her
how sorry she was Bee could not go to the fete. "For I must say, Miss
Bee," she added, "I must say as I think you've acted very pretty, very
pretty, indeed, about lending your dress to dear Miss Rosy, bless her."
"And, if there's anything I can do for you--" Here Bee's breakfast
coming in interrupted her, which Bee, on the whole, was not sorry for.
She did not see Rosy that evening, for it was late when they came
home, and she was already asleep. But the next morning Bee woke much
better, and quite able to listen to Rosy's account of it all. She had
enjoyed it very much--of course not _as_ much as if Bee had been
there too, she said; but Lady Esther had thought it so sweet of Bee to
beg for Rosy to go, and she had sent her the loveliest little basket
of bonbons, tied up with pink ribbons, that ever was seen, and still
better, she had told Rosy that she had serious thoughts of having a
large Christmas-tree party next winter, at which all the children
should be dressed out of the fairy tales.
"Wouldn't it be lovely?" said Rosy. "We were thinking perhaps you
would be Red Riding Hood, and I the white cat. But we can look over
all the fairy tales and think about it when you're better, can't we,
Bee?"
Beata got better much more quickly than Fixie had done. The first day
she was well enough to be up she begged leave to write two little
letters, one to her mother and one to Colin, who had been very kind;
for while she was ill he had written twice to her, which for a
schoolboy was a great deal, I think. His letters were meant to be very
amusing; but, as they were full of cricket and football, Bee did not
find them very easy to understand. She was sitting at the
nursery-table, thinking what she could say to show Colin she liked to
hear about his games, even though the names puzzled her a little, when
Fixie came and stood by her, looking rather melancholy.
"What's the matter?" she said.
"Zou's writing such a long time," said Fixie, "and Rosy's still at her
lessons. I zought when zou was better zou'd play wif me."
"I can't play much," said Bee, "for I've still got a funny buzzy
feeling in my head, and I'm rather tired."
"Yes, I know," said Fixie, with great sympathy, "mine head was like
fousands of trains when I was ill. We won't play, Bee, we'll only
talk."
"Well, I'll just finish my letter," said Bee. "I'll just tell Colin he
must tell me all about innings and outings, and all that, when he
comes home. Yes--that'll do. "Your affectionate--t-i-o-n-a-t-e--Bee."
Now I'll talk to you, Fixie. What a pity we haven't got Rosy's beads
to tell stories about!"
A queer look came into Fixie's face.
"Rosy's beads," he said.
"Yes, Rosy's necklace that was lost. And you didn't know where it was
gone when Martha asked you--when your mother wrote a letter about it."
As she spoke, she drew their two little chairs to what had always been
their favourite corner, near a window, which was low enough for them
to look out into the pretty garden.
"Don't sit there," said Fixie, "I don't like there."
"Why not? Don't you remember we were sitting here the last afternoon
we were in the nursery--before you went away. You liked it then, when
I told you stories about the beads, before they were lost."
"Before _zem_ was lost," said Fixie, his face again taking the
troubled, puzzled look; "I didn't know it was _zem_--I mean it
was somefin else of Rosy's that was lost--lace for her neck, that I'd
_never_ seen."
Bee's heart began to beat faster with a strange hope. She had seen
Fixie's face looking troubled, and she remembered Martha saying how
her questioning about the necklace had upset him, and it seemed almost
cruel to go on talking about it. But a feeling had come over her that
there was something to find out, and now it grew stronger and
stronger.
"Lace for Rosy's neck," she repeated, "no, Fixie, you must be
mistaken. Lace for her neck--" and then a sudden idea struck her,--"can
you mean a _necklace?_ Don't you know that a necklace means
beads?"
Fixie stared at her for a moment, growing very red. Then the redness
finished up, like a thundercloud breaking into rain, by his bursting
into tears, and hiding his face in Bee's lap.
"I didn't know, I didn't know," he cried, "I thought it was some lace
that Martha meant. I didn't mean to tell a' untrue, Bee. I didn't like
Martha asking me, 'cos it made me think of the beads I'd lost, and I
thought p'raps I'd get them up again when I came home, but I can't.
I've poked and poked, and I think the mouses have eatened zem."
By degrees Bee found out what the poor little fellow meant. The
morning after the afternoon when Bee and he had had the necklace, and
Bee had put it safely back, he had, unknown to any one, fetched it
again for himself, and sat playing with it by the nursery-window, in
the corner where the hole in the floor was. Out of idleness, he had
amused himself by holding the string of beads at one end, and dropping
them down the mysterious hole, "like fishing," he said, till,
unluckily, he had dropped them in altogether; and there, no doubt,
they were still lying! He was frightened at what he had done, but he
meant to tell Bee, and ask her advice. But that very afternoon the
doctor came, and he was separated from the other children; and, while
he was ill, he seemed to have forgotten about it. When Martha
questioned him at the seaside, he had no idea she was speaking of the
beads; but he did not like her questions, because they made him
remember what he _had_ lost. And then he thought he would try to
get the beads out of the hole by poking with a stick when he came
home; but he had found he could not manage it, and then he had taken a
dislike to that part of the room.
All this was told with many sobs and tears, but Bee soothed him as
well as she could; and when his mother soon after came to the nursery
and heard the story, she was very kind indeed, and made him see how
even little wrong-doings, like taking the beads to play with without
leave, always bring unhappiness; and still more, how wise and right it
is for children to tell at once when they have done wrong, instead of
trying to put the wrong right themselves. That was all she said,
except that, as she kissed her poor little boy, she told him to tell
no one else about it, except Martha, and that she would see what could
be done.
Bee and Fixie said no more about it; but on that account, I daresay,
like the famous parrot, "they thought the more." And once or twice
that afternoon, Fixie _could_ not help whispering to Bee,
"_Do_ you fink mamma's going to get the beads hooked out?" or, "I
hope they won't hurt the mouses that lives down in the hole. _Do_
you fink the mouses has eaten it, p'raps?"
Beata was sent early to bed, as she was not yet, of course, counted as
quite well; and both she and Fixie slept very soundly--whether they
dreamt of Rosy's beads or not I cannot tell.
But the next morning Bee felt so much better that she begged to get up
quite early.
"Not till after you've had your breakfast, Miss Bee," said Martha.
"But Mrs. Vincent says you may get up as soon as you like after that,
and then you and Miss Rosy and Master Fixie are all to go to her room.
She has something to show you."
Bee and Fixie looked at each other. They felt sure _they_ knew
what it was! But Rosy, who had also come to Bee's room to see how she
was, looked very mystified.
"I wonder what it can be," she said. "Can it be a parcel come for us?
And oh, Martha, by-the-bye, what was that knocking in the nursery last
night after we were in bed? I heard Robert's voice, I'm sure. What was
he doing?"
"He came up to nail down something that was loose," said Martha,
quietly; but that was all she would say.
They all three marched off to Mrs. Vincent's room as soon as Beata was
up and dressed. She was waiting for them.
"I am so glad you are so much better this morning, Bee," she said, as
she kissed them all; "and now" she went on, "look here, I have a
surprise for you all." She lifted a handkerchief which she had laid
over something on a little table; and the three children, as they
pressed forward, could hardly believe their eyes. For there lay Rosy's
necklace, as bright and pretty as ever, and there beside it lay
another, just like it at the first glance, though, when it was closely
examined, one could see that the patterns on the beads were different;
but any way it was just as pretty.
"Two," exclaimed Fixie, "_two_ lace-beads, what _is_ the
name? Has the mouses made a new one for Bee, dear Bee?"
"Yes, for dear Bee," said his mother, smiling, "it is for Bee, though
it didn't come from the mouses;" and then she explained to them how
"Mr. Furniture" had sent the second necklace for Bee, but that she had
thought it better to keep it a while in hopes of Rosy's being found,
as she knew that Bee's pleasure in the pretty beads would not have
been half so great if Rosy were without hers.
How happy they all looked!
"What lotses of fairy stories we can make now!" said Fixie--"one for
every bead-lace, Bee!"
"And, mamma," said Rosy, "I'll keep on being very good now. I daresay
I'll be dreadfully good soon; and Bee will be always good too, now,
because you know we've got our talismans."
Mrs. Vincent smiled, but she looked a little grave.
"What is it, mamma?" said Rosy. "Should I say talis_men_, not
talismans?"
Her mother smiled more this time.
"No, it wasn't that. 'Talismans' is quite right. I was only thinking
that perhaps it was not very wise of me to have put the idea into your
head, Rosy dear, for I want you to learn and feel that, though any
little outside help may be a good thing as a reminder, it is only your
own self, your own heart, earnestly wishing to be good, that can
really make you succeed; and you know where the earnest wishing comes
from, and where you are always sure to get help if you ask it, don't
you, Rosy?"
Rosy got a little red, and looked rather grave.
"I _nearly_ always remember to say my prayers," she answered.
"Well, let the 'talisman' help you to remember, if ever you are
inclined to forget. And it isn't _only_ at getting-up time and
going-to-bed time that one may _pray_, as I have often told you,
dear children. I really think, Rosy," she went on more lightly, "that
it would be nice for you and Bee to wear your necklaces always. I
shall like to see them, and I believe it would be almost impossible to
spoil or break them."
"Only for my fairy stories," said Fixie, "I should have to walk all
round Bee and Rosy to see the beads. You will let them take them off,
_sometimes_, won't you, mamma?"
"Yes, my little man, provided you promise not to send them visits down
the 'mouses' holes,'" said his mother, laughing.
This is all I can tell you for the present about Rosy and her brothers
and little Bee. There is more to tell, as you can easily fancy, for,
of course, Rosy did not grow "quite good" all of a sudden, though
there certainly was a great difference to be seen in her from the time
of her narrow escape--nor was Beata, in spite of _her_ talisman,
without faults and failings. Nor was either of them without sorrows
and disappointments and difficulties in their lives, bright and happy
though they were. If you have been pleased with what I have told you,
you must let me know, and I shall try to tell you some more.
And again, dear children,--little friends, whom I love so much, though
I may never have seen your faces, and though you only know me as
somebody who is _very_ happy, when her little stories please
you--again, my darlings, I wish you the merriest of merry Christmases
for 1882, and every blessing in the new year that will soon be coming!
THE END.