eyes. "It must be ever so early."
"Half-past five," said Tessy, setting down her candle. "I am up because
I have not been in bed; I have been sitting up with Aggy."
"Sitting up!" said Dora, rousing herself. "She is not very sick, is
she? I thought it was only a cold."
"She is very sick, indeed, and the doctor says she has inflammation of
the lungs," replied Theresa. "I am afraid—" She could not finish the
sentence.
Dora sprang up, and began to dress herself.
"What are you going to do?" asked Tessy.
"I am going to Agnes," was the reply. "You ought to have called me
before."
"If you go down, Dora, you must be very still," said Theresa, stopping
her cousin, whose trembling hands showed her excitement, as she vainly
endeavoured to fasten her frock. "You must be composed, and not speak
one word to Agnes, nor let her talk to you. It is as much as her life
is worth."
Dora promised, and went hastily down stairs.
Agnes was still in a troubled sleep, and George allowed her to come
in and look at her sister, whose countenance was already very much
changed. Dora thought she should hardly have known her.
"Can I do anything for her, George?" she asked in a choked whisper.
"I don't know that you can," replied George. "Nurse is here, and I
shall stay till the doctor comes. But you can run and get what is
wanted," he added kindly, seeing how distressed Dora looked. "I am
afraid it won't do for you to stay in the room much, for Aggy begins to
talk as soon as any one comes near her."
The event proved that George was right, for the moment Agnes waked
and saw Dora, she began to talk again; sometimes about the kitten,
sometimes going over the events of the party, and accusing her of
unkindness about the cake. It was too much for Dora's fortitude; she
left the room hastily, and burst into tears when she got into the
passage. George followed her out, and shut the door.
"You must be very quiet, my dear Dora, if you want to be of use to Aggy
or any one," he said kindly but firmly. "You can be of much service if
you can control yourself, for there is a great deal to be done. Mother
is down with nervous headache, and Tessy and Barbara were up all night."
"Do you think Aggy will die, George?" asked Dora, making a great effort
to restrain her sobs.
"I don't know," replied George, turning away his face. "She is very
ill, and nobody can tell how it may turn out, but we will hope and pray
for the best. Will you go up to mother's door very quietly, and see if
she is awake and wants anything?"
Dora glided up stairs, and listened at her mother's door, but all was
still; so she went down again, and took her seat on the stairs to
be ready if she should be wanted in the sickroom. It was yet early
morning—the gaslights were burning in the hall, and the servants were
just beginning to set about their duties. It seemed an age afterwards
to Dora that she sat meditating upon the top of the stairs. Her head
was bent down, and rested on her hands, and she sat so still that one
might have thought her asleep, but it was not so. She was going over
and over her past life and conversations with the sister who was now to
all appearance fast passing away—where?
Dora did not like to think of that. How mean and little did all their
quarrels appear to her now—how every malicious ill-tempered word and
action appeared in their true colours! The very last words to her
sister had been words of unkindness, and they had parted in anger.
Now, Agnes did not even know her, and perhaps would never speak to her
again—would go away into that other unknown world, where Dora felt they
might never meet, and she would never have the opportunity of making
it up—never, never see her any more. She did not cry now. She was too
miserable for tears. She did not know where to look for comfort and
support, and help to do better, for Dora was not a religious child. It
is true she had been taught to say her prayers as soon as she could
speak, and she had always been to church and to Sunday-school, but
she had never thought of religion as anything that concerned herself
personally. She had thought there would be time enough for that when
she was grown up.
So had Barbara always thought, and now that she was grown up, she found
less time than ever. George and Tessy were the only persons in the
family who really made Christian principles the rule of their lives,
and that sympathy was a bond of union between them, stronger even than
Tessy's helplessness, and George's thoughtful kindness of disposition.
All that dreary day, Dora wandered about the house restless and
miserable, finding her only comfort in running up and down stairs, and
waiting upon her mother, who was almost prostrated by one of the severe
attacks of nervous headache, to which she was subject.
Renewed search was made for the kitten, as Agnes still continued very
anxious about it, but no trace of her was to be found.
Agnes continued to grow worse. And at night-fall, the doctor had almost
given up the hope of saving her life.
Just before dark, Ella Merriam came in to inquire for her. Dora burst
into tears as Ella came in, and in answer to her questions, could only
shake her head and sob. Ella cried in sympathy.
"She will never get well, Ella—the doctor says so. Oh! What shall I do
when she is dead?"
"I don't know what I should do if Marian were to die," said Ella.
"You would not feel so bad as I do," replied Dora, "because you and
Ella never quarrel. I don't believe you ever struck one another in your
lives."
"No, indeed!" said Ella, shocked at the very idea. "We have not
quarrelled for ever so long—not since we were little children. Nobody
could quarrel with Marian, she is so sweet tempered. But is Aggy very
ill?"
"The doctor says he has very little hope of saving her," replied Dora
sadly, "but it seems to me as though she must be better, because she is
not crazy as she was this morning. She seems to know everything now."
The little girls were talking in the hall, when the door of Agnes's
room was opened for a moment, and she caught the sound of their voices.
"Is not that Ella Merriam's voice?" she asked of Barbara, who was with
her. "Do let her come in a moment; I want to see her so much. Oh, do
please!"
She pleaded so earnestly that Barbara was afraid to oppose her, and
called Ella in, giving her a caution to be very quiet. The two girls
came in together, and stood by the bedside. Ella was terrified by the
change in her playmate's appearance. She had never seen any one so sick
before, and as Agnes struggled for breath, she almost expected to see
her expire before her eyes. She stooped and kissed her, but did not
speak. Agnes held her hands fast.
"I want to tell you about the kitten," she began, but Barbara
interposed.
"You must not talk, Agnes. I will tell Ella."
"But you don't know, Barbara."
"I know you did something to the kitten to put her away."
"Threw her away in the snow in the meadow," Agnes explained. "It was
very wicked—I am so sorry. Won't you—"
Her voice failed, but she still held Ella's hand tightly, and looked
earnestly in her face.
Ella did not think at first what she meant to say, till Theresa
whispered to her, "She wants you to forgive her, Ella."
"Yes, yes," was all Agnes could say, fixing her eyes upon those of her
companion, as though she would read her very soul. At such a time no
one could be angry, and it was hard for Ella at any time. She stooped
and kissed Agnes, saying earnestly, "I do forgive you, Aggy; and so I
am sure will Marian, and I hope God will forgive you too. Yes, if you
are sorry, He will. Mother says so, and it is in the Bible, I know.
Don't you remember what the minister reads in church:
"'If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our
sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.'"
Barbara was afraid to have the little girls remain longer, and took
them out of the room while Theresa stayed with Agnes. They were afraid
the excitement might have injured her, but on the contrary, she seemed
more quiet and composed than she had done before since the commencement
of her illness. She had almost a comfortable night, and when the doctor
called in the morning, he announced that there was a slight, but
decided improvement in all her symptoms.
When Ella turned to go home, she could not help going round by the
meadow to see if she could find any trace of poor Tabby. But it had
snowed all the morning, and the common was all one sheet of unbroken
white. Ella thought of the poor kitty lying stiff and cold under the
drifted snow, and her tears started afresh, as she turned slowly away,
convinced that search was hopeless. She did not feel quite so much like
forgiving Agnes then as she had done when standing by her bedside, and
holding her feverish hand, but she knew that the feeling was wrong, and
struggled against it.
"After all, if poor dear Tabby is dead, that is the last of her," she
said to herself. "She will never suffer any more, and she has had a
very happy life of it so far—but for Agnes and Dora! Oh! How glad I
am that Marian and I have never quarrelled, though I am sure it is no
thanks to me that we have not."
Then she remembered an instance that very morning, when they were
putting their room in order, in which she had insisted on having her
own way, and Marian had quietly given up to her, and how only the day
before she had been angry at sister Sophia, for showing her that she
had not wiped the tea-cups dry. She felt very much ashamed as she
recalled these and similar instances of unkind temper and feelings, and
it no longer seemed so hard for her to forgive Aggy.
When Ella and Marian said their prayers that night, they did not omit
to remember Agnes and Dora, nor did they forget to ask that they might
always live as little children should, in peace and unity.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER FIFTH.
THE HARD ROAD.
WE must now return to Tabby, of whom we have almost lost sight. She was
at first so stunned and amazed by her sudden change of circumstances,
as hardly to understand what had happened to her. But by degrees she
collected her senses, and shaking the snow from her eyes, she raised
herself on her hind legs and looked about her. She was almost in the
midst of a wild lonesome common, which was covered with snow, now about
a foot deep, but not frozen sufficiently hard to allow of travelling on
the crust.
At one side of this piece of ground lay a street or alley, and on the
other some barns and several small houses. It was towards these, after
some consideration, that Tabby directed her course. She thought it
probable that she might find some sort of a home in one of the houses,
and if not, she believed she should be able to make her living in a
barn, as she had lately acquired some experience in mousing.
The snow was deep and powdery, and the bleak wind sweeping over it
whirled it into the face and eyes of the poor kitten. Her little paws
ached with the cold, and her ears felt as though they were being burned
off, but still she toiled painfully along, directing her course towards
the best-looking of the houses. She had just got into something like
a path, made by some one who had crossed a little before, and was
congratulating herself on finding easier travelling, when she heard a
voice exclaim:
"Look, Fred! What is that over in the snow?" And looking up she saw two
lads watching her from the window of a barn not very far off.
"It is a cat," replied the other. "See how neatly I'll fetch her over."
And taking aim at poor Tabby, he threw with all his force a hard apple
which he held in his hand. His aim was only too true. The missile
struck her on the side, and laid her breathless on the ground.
"There now, you have killed the poor thing, I hope you feel better,"
said the other boy. "I do wonder what pleasure any fellow finds in
tormenting everything that comes within his reach."
"Oh, nonsense!" returned the other, looking rather ashamed. "It is
not so easy to kill a cat, I can tell you. I daresay she is only
pretending, and if she is dead, there are more cats in the world. Come,
I am going into the house. It is cold enough to freeze a dog out here."
"And I am going home," said the boy who had spoken for Tabby; "I have
got my lessons to prepare yet."
"I haven't any lessons to prepare, thank you," said Fred.
"Maybe it would be better for you if you had," returned his companion.
"But I must get mine done; so, good-night."
Tabby was not killed, but it was some minutes before she recovered her
senses, and still longer before she was able to walk or even stand.
The hard apple had hurt her cruelly, and it was with difficulty that
she pursued her way, drawing her breath with increased difficulty at
every step she made. More than once she felt as though she must give up
the attempt, and lie down and die where she was, but as we have said
before, she had a remarkable amount of perseverance, and besides, she
had not quite given up the hope of finding her way home again, though
her chances of doing so were growing smaller and smaller every day.
She was often obliged to stop and rest, and the short day was drawing
to a close by the time that she found herself close behind one of the
houses she had been approaching. She made several attempts before
she was able to jump over the low wall at the back of the yard, but
succeeding at last, she went slowly up the walk, and ascended the
steps. There was a smell of cooking perceptible, and a clatter of
plates and knives told Tabby that some one was engaged in setting a
table.
[Illustration: "Only see how she begs."]
"The servants are getting their dinner 'at home,'" she thought, "and
dear mother and Tody are having theirs. O dear! If I had only stayed
with them. I would not mind anything if I could only see them, and tell
them how much I love them, but, O dear! I am afraid I never shall."
With these thoughts passing through her mind, it is no wonder that
her modest mew for admittance took a very piteous tone. A little girl
opened the door.
"It is a little cat," said she, speaking to some one within. "Shall I
let her in?"
"Oh! No, child," replied the woman's voice. "We don't want any cats
around the house. Shut the door, it is as cold as Greenland."
"It looks very cold and hungry," said the little girl compassionately,
"and it is a real pretty kitten. Just come and look at it, mother!"
The woman came to the door accordingly, and as soon as Tabby saw her,
she stood on her hind legs and put her paws over her nose, as Ella had
taught her to do when she wanted anything.
"Only see how she begs," said the little girl. "Do let her come in,
mother, just for a little while."
Seeing the effect produced, Tabby lay down and rolled over, and then
sneezed, which exhausted the list of her accomplishments. "O dear!" she
said to herself, as she performed these feats: "How I do wish I had
learned more of the other things Miss Ella used to try so hard to teach
me. But it is too late now."
At this moment the cry of a baby was heard from the inner room, and
the woman turned away without making any reply to the little girl,
who, profiting by the implied permission, allowed Tabby to slip in,
and then shutting the door, went on in haste with her occupation of
setting the table. Tabby found herself in a kitchen, small but neat and
comfortable. There was a cooking stove with a good coal fire, enough
of plain furniture, and a general air of respectability. The next room
was handsomely furnished for a parlour, and through the open door of
a pantry Tabby could perceive a handsome set of china with nice glass
dishes and other matters, such as she had been accustomed to see in
daily use at home. But the dishes which her little friend was putting
on the table were very different, being coarse, mismatched, and scanty,
with bits broken out here and there, and an abundance of cracks.
The little girl, whose name she discovered was Polly, was clothed in a
forlorn old merino dress which had once been handsome, with a good many
patches and darns, and need of more, and her hair was tucked up behind
with a broken horn comb. Her face was not very pretty, nor even very
amiable in its expression, and yet there was something about it that
Tabby liked.
She made all these observations as she was warming herself under the
stove. Presently the woman made her appearance from the other room with
a baby of ten months old, which she set down upon the floor, and then
proceeded in her preparations for supper. She placed upon the table
a moderate supply of bread and butter, the latter of very doubtful
quality, some brown sugar in a bowl, and a small pitcher full of bluish
milk. Then she put a very little black tea into a small tin teapot,
which looked as if it might have seen service since the time of the
last war, and having filled it up to the top with water, she set it
on the stove. Hungry as she was, Tabby did not think the meal very
inviting in its appearance, and Polly seemed to be of the same opinion.
"Father will want some cold meat," she said as her mother turned round.
"He had nothing but bread and milk for his dinner."
"He cannot have what is not in the house," was the short reply.
"There is the dried beef, at any rate," persisted Polly, "and the
smoked halibut that father brought home on Monday night. We haven't had
a bit of that."
"I want that for tea to-morrow night," replied Mrs. Webster. "I am
going to have company to tea, and I want something decent."
"And then I suppose we shall have down the china cups and all the rest,
and make a grand display," muttered Polly to herself, as her mother
went into the other room for something. "For my part, I should like to
have something comfortable for ourselves once in a while. I don't see
the use of keeping everything for company. Here comes father, mother,"
she added in a louder tone as the door opened. "Shall I put the tea on
the table?"
Mr. Webster, a tall, thin, rather amiable-looking man, apparently
several years younger than his wife, made his appearance as Polly
spoke, with his dinner-pail in one hand, and several bundles in the
other.
"Here, Polly, there's something for you," said he good-naturedly, as he
chucked a good-sized bundle at her, which she caught with dexterity.
"So don't say I didn't give you a Christmas present at last."
"What is it?" asked Mrs. Webster coming out of the bedroom, and looking
on as Polly proceeded to unfold the parcel, and display to view a very
pretty piece of dark calico. "Now, Mr. Webster, what in the world did
you go and get that child a calico dress for? She doesn't want it the
least in the world, and she does want a nice dress to wear to church
and dancing-school. I meant to get her a silk dress this time, and
her old frocks do well enough to wear about home. And what is the use
of all those new school-books?" as another paper displayed several
neat-looking volumes, at sight of which Polly's eyes sparkled. "She has
more books now than she ever studies. I do wish you would let me spend
the money. I can make it go twice as far as you do."
"Why, yes," replied Mr. Webster, unwinding his comforter and taking off
his great-coat, "you make it go rather too far, quite out of sight, in
fact. Now I like to see the girl look pretty about home, even if she is
not quite so smart abroad, hey, Polly?"
"Yes, indeed," said Polly heartily. "Sarah Ann Bond never had a silk
frock in her life, but she has real nice calico ones for every day, and
always looks fit to be seen, and so does Mrs. Bond. She has not to run
and change her dress if she sees any one coming. And I am sure I needed
the new school-books. I have used Sarah Ann's till I am ashamed, and
Miss Parker says we must all have books of our own after this."
"Well, well, that will do," said Mrs. Webster, not in the best humour.
"I wish you would not be always quoting the Bonds, as if they were the
eighth wonder of the world. I think you might find some other models
than a policeman's wife and daughter."
"I don't care whose daughter she is," returned Polly. "She is the
nicest girl I know, and the best scholar in our school. What else have
you got, father?"
"There is some beefsteak—I should like a bit of that cooked for my
supper, and there are the coffee and the sugar, and baby's dress. I
believe that is all, wife. They will send the flour in the morning."
"You did not get the goblets then?" said his wife, a deep shade of
disappointment coming over her face.
"Why, no, I could not buy them and Polly's things too, and still have
the money to meet my payments. I think our glasses are good enough—too
good for use, it appears," he added, looking at the cracked ones on the
table.
"Mrs. Cox had beautiful goblets the last time I was there to tea,"
replied Mrs. Webster. "I should not have asked her here to-morrow, if I
had not supposed I should have things as good as she had at home."
"Come, come, don't fret, wife: your friends, since you call them so,
will take us as they find us, or leave us alone. When I get as good a
salary as Cox, it will be time enough for you to spend as much as his
wife. In the meantime, I want you to cook my steak, or let Polly do it.
Oh! Come, take a good big piece," as his wife cut off what was a scanty
allowance for one. "Enough for all round. I daresay Polly will be glad
of a bit."
"Beefsteak is a very genteel dish for tea, isn't it?"
"Who cares for gentility? Not you, I think, considering the table
furniture you use every day. Give the cat a bit too—here, puss, where
did you come from?"
"Now, Mr. Webster, I won't have that," interposed Mrs. Webster. "I'll
feed her after supper, if there is any left. Take up the baby if you
can't find anything else to do. Polly, get the gridiron."
Mr. Webster was a printer, and earned good wages in the office of a
daily paper. He had, when very young, married a young woman several
years older than himself, with one child—the little girl to whom we
have just been introduced. He was an industrious, easy, good-tempered
man, very steady, and fond of his wife and children, especially of
Polly, who, on her part, worshipped her step-father, and fully believed
him to be the very best man in the world.
Mrs. Webster was an active, stirring woman, strong, neat, and
economical, and they might have been one of the happiest families
in the world, but for one circumstance. That circumstance was Mrs.
Webster's intense desire to be fashionable—to make as much display on
her husband's moderate salary as her friend and model, Mrs. Cox, did
upon twice the sum. To this end, she pinched herself and her family in
everything that did not make an outside show.
Mr. Webster loved his comfort, and would have enough to eat, such as
it was, but Mrs. Webster "took it out," upon herself and Polly, who
was kept at the lowest point, both of provisions and clothes when at
home that she might go to church, Sunday-school, and dancing-school,
in a silk frock, fine shoes, and worked skirts and drawers, and, as
her mother expressed it, "look as if she was somebody." Now Polly
cared nothing at all for worked skirts or silk frocks, and very little
for dancing-school, but she did love books, both story-books and
school-books, and she liked to be neat every day. She could not help
feeling very much ashamed when her dear friend, Sarah Ann Bond, came
in to see her of a morning before school, to be caught in a dirty old
merino frock, worn and faded, and patched to the last degree, and shoes
down at heels.
Sarah Ann had no silk dress. Her very best frock was a plaid merino,
which cost two shillings and sixpence a yard: but she always wore
nice calico frocks and white aprons every day, and subscribed for the
'Children's Magazine' and the 'Penny Gazette,' and she had a convenient
satchel in which to carry her books to and from school. She had a
nice collection of story-books, which Polly would have given all her
nice frocks to possess, and she had a canary bird and a cat, and a
play-house which her father had made for her out of an old cupboard.