FAREWELL.
Prudy was really getting better. Mrs. Parlin said she should trust a
physician more next time. The doctor declared that all the severe pain
Prudy had suffered was really necessary.
"Believe me, my dear madam," said he, "when the poor child has
complained most, she has in fact been making most progress towards
health. When the sinews are 'knitting together,' as we call it, then the
agony is greatest."
This was very comforting to Mrs. Parlin, who thought she would not be
discouraged so easily again; she would always believe that it is
"darkest just before day."
There was really everything to hope for Prudy. The doctor thought that
by the end of three months she would walk as well as ever. He said she
might make the effort now, every day, to bear her weight on her feet.
She tried this experiment first with her father and mother on each side
to support her; but it was not many days before she could stand firmly
on her right foot, and bear a little weight on her left one, which did
not now, as formerly, drag, or, as she had said, "_more_ than touch the
floor." By and by she began to scramble about on the carpet on all
fours, partly creeping, partly pushing herself along.
It was surprising how much pleasure Prudy took in going back to these
ways of babyhood.
Faint blush roses began to bloom in her cheeks as soon as she could take
a little exercise and go out of doors. Her father bought a little
carriage just suitable for the pony, and in this she rode every morning,
her mother or Percy driving; for Mrs. Parlin thought it hardly safe to
trust Susy with such a precious encumbrance as this dear little sister.
She had been willing that Susy should manage Wings in a sleigh, but in a
carriage the case was quite different; for, though in a sleigh there
might be even more danger of overturning, there was not as much danger
of getting hurt. Indeed, Susy's sleigh had tipped over once or twice in
turning too sharp a corner, and Susy had fallen out, but had instantly
jumped up again, laughing.
She would have driven in her new carriage to Yarmouth and back again, or
perhaps to Bath, if she had been permitted. She was a reckless little
horsewoman, afraid of nothing, and for that very reason could not be
trusted alone.
But there was no difficulty in finding companions. Percy pretended to
study book-keeping, but was always ready for a ride. Flossy was not
steady enough to be trusted with the reins, but Ruth Turner was as
careful a driver as need be; though Susy laughed because she held the
reins in both hands, and looked so terrified.
She said it did no good to talk with Ruth when she was driving; she
never heard a word, for she was always watching to see if a carriage
was coming, and talking to herself, to make sure she remembered which
was her right hand, so she could "turn to the right, as the law
directs."
Prudy enjoyed the out-of-doors world once more, and felt like a bird let
out of a cage. And so did Susy, for she thought she had had a dull
season of it, and fully agreed with Prudy, who spoke of it as the "slow
winter."
But now it was the quick spring, the live spring. The brooks began to
gossip; the birds poured out their hearts in song, and the dumb trees
expressed their joy in leaves.
"The bobolink, on the mullein-stalk,
Would rattle away like a sweet girl's talk."
The frogs took severe colds, but gave concerts a little way out of the
city every evening. The little flowers peeped up from their beds, as
Norah said, "like babies asking to be took;" and Susy took them;
whenever she could find them, you may be sure, and looked joyfully into
their faces. She could almost say,--
"And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes."
She said, "I don't suppose they know much, but _perhaps_ they know
enough to have a good time: who knows?"
Susy took long walks to Westbrook, and farther, coming home tired out,
but loaded with precious flowers. There were plenty of friends to give
them to her from their early gardens: broad-faced crocuses, jonquils,
and lilies of the valley, and by and by lilacs, with "purple spikes."
She gathered snowdrops, "the first pale blossoms of the unripened
year," and May-flowers, pink and white, like sea-shells, or like
"cream-candy," as Prudy said. These soft little blossoms blushed so
sweetly on the same leaf with such old experienced leaves! Susy said,
"it made her think of little bits of children who hadn't any mother, and
lived with their grandparents."
Dotty was almost crazy with delight when she had a "new pair o' boots,
and a pair o' shaker," and was allowed to toddle about on the pavement
in the sunshine. She had a green twig or a switch to flourish, and could
now cry, "Hullelo!" to those waddling ducks, and hear them reply,
"Quack! quack!" without having such a trembling fear that some stern
Norah, or firm mamma, would rush out bareheaded, and drag her into the
house, like a little culprit.
It was good times for Dotty Dimple, and good times for the whole family.
Spring had come, and Prudy was getting well. There was a great deal to
thank God for!
It is an evening in the last of May. A bit of a moon, called "the new
moon," is peeping in at the window. It shines over Susy's right
shoulder, she says. Susy is reading, Prudy is walking slowly across the
floor, and Dotty Dimple is whispering to her kitty, telling her to go
down cellar, and catch the naughty rats while they are asleep. When
kitty winks, Dotty thinks it the same as if she said,--
"I hear you, little Miss Dotty: I'm going."
I think perhaps this is a good time to bid the three little girls
good-by, or, as dear grandma Read would say, "Farewell!"