“I think I’ll give my flowers to that sick child, she looks as if she’d
like them,” and then going to the child she put the flowers in her
hand, and said, “Here are some flowers for you, and I am sorry you are
sick.”
“And here’s a basket for you,” said Maggie, coming forward with her
offering too; and she gave a pretty little basket, the work of the
Indians, which she had bought for her own use: “you can put Bessie’s
flowers in it, and it will look lovely. See, let me fix them for you,”
and in two minutes her skilful little fingers had arranged the flowers
most tastefully, greatly to the child’s delight.
“And am I to keep the basket?” asked the sick child.
“Oh, yes! for ever and ever if you like,” said Maggie; “and when the
flowers are faded you can take them out and put some more in.”
“I don’t often have flowers,” said the child; “but I love them so: only
I don’t like to take all yours,” she added, looking at Bessie.
“Oh! she is going to have half mine,” said Maggie; “you needn’t be
troubled about that. Good-by now,” and she and Bessie ran after their
parents, leaving the sick child brightened and happy.
[Illustration: Bessie’s Travels. p. 268.]
Her mother had been standing near enough to hear and see all that had
passed; and so you will not wonder that now, when she turned and saw
Maggie and Bessie, her harsh look and tone became gentle and pleasant.
“Oh! it’s you, you little dears,” she said. “Now, is there ever a thing
I can do for you?”
“Yes,” said Bessie. “We are so sorry for Matilda, and we wanted to know
if you would let us pay for the pitcher she broke if we have money
enough, and try her just once more?”
“I like to please you,” said the woman; “but Matilda is so careless I
cannot put up with her.”
“But it really wasn’t her fault this time,” pleaded Bessie; “she says
a man ran against her, and knocked it out of her hand when she was
carrying it so carefully.”
“And we’ll pay for it if we have enough,” said Maggie.
“And her mother is sick,” said Bessie; “and you know we ought to be
sorry and kind to sick people; and you know, too, we ought to forgive
as we want to be forgiven. Couldn’t you do it for the sick mother’s
sake? And maybe this will be a good lesson to Matilda.”
“I’ll keep her for your sake, and strive to be more patient with her
too,” said the house-keeper; “and I think you’ll never lack for comfort
and kindness when you’re sick yourselves: at least, not if the Lord
repays what’s done for Him, as the good book says He does.”
“And how much must we pay for the pitcher?” asked Bessie.
“Not a penny. I don’t know as Matilda was to blame this time, and I
didn’t listen to her story as I should, I own; but I’ve been so put
about this morning. You go your ways, you little dears; and Matilda
shall stay for your good word.”
Now the children did not know it, but probably the good word of the
two little strangers would have gone but little way with the angry
house-keeper, had it not been for the kindness done to her sick child
the day before; but so it was, and so the one good thing sprang from
the other.
They left Montreal the next morning, and then came two long days of
railway travelling, ending in Boston. Here they stayed only a few
hours, and then started afresh about six o’clock in the evening, bound
“for Narragansett Bay,” papa said, when he was asked where they were
now going. Bessie was so thoroughly tired that she was soon glad to
nestle her head against her father and go to sleep: a very comfortable
sleep it was too, from which she did not wake even when she was carried
from the cars to a carriage, and from the carriage into a certain
house. Maggie, too, after refusing similar accommodation from Uncle
Ruthven, and holding herself very upright, and stretching her eyes very
wide open, at last gave in, and accepted the repeated offer of his arm
as a pillow.
But they both roused up at last when they were brought into that house.
Where were they now? and whose voices were those, so familiar and so
dear, but not heard for many weeks?
Maggie opened her eyes with a start, wide-awake on the instant, and,
immediately understanding all, gave a shriek of delight, sprang off the
sofa where Uncle Ruthven had placed her, and was fast about Mrs. Rush’s
neck, exclaiming,--
“It’s Newport! it is Newport! and this is Aunt May’s house, and papa
has surprised us. Oh! lovely, lovely! Bessie! Bessie! wake up, and hear
the good news.”
Bessie slowly opened her eyes at the call, not yet understanding; but
as she saw the face that was bending over her, and knew that here was
her “own dear solger,” whom she had so longed to see, she gave a long
sigh of intense satisfaction, and, after her usual manner when her
heart was full of love and tenderness, let two words speak for her,--
“Uncle Horace.”
There was no surprise in the tone, only unspeakable pleasure and
affection; and she laid her head against his shoulder with an
expression of utter content.
“This is the very best thing in all our travels,” said Maggie. “Where
is May Bessie, Aunt May?”
“Fast asleep in her cradle, and I can’t let you peep at her to-night,”
said Mrs. Rush. “We’ll keep that for the morning.”
Mamma said all other pleasures must be kept for the morning, save that
of following May Bessie’s example; and Bessie, who could scarcely keep
her eyes open, even for the purpose of looking at her beloved Colonel
Rush, was quite ready to obey; but Maggie thought she had had sleep
enough for one night, and would like at once to make acquaintance with
all her new surroundings.
“But we are all going to rest, for it is nearly midnight,” said the
colonel; which caused Maggie to change her mind, as she had no fancy
for staying up alone; and she was now eager to go to sleep at once,
so that “morning might come before she knew it,” and she went off
saying,--
“I never saw children who had such heaps and heaps of happiness as we
do. I don’t know how I’m ever going to make up enough gratitude for it.”
Perhaps her gratitude to the kind hand which showered so much happiness
upon her was best shown in the sunny spirit with which she took both
trials and blessings, and in her readiness to share the latter with all
whom she met.