WINIFRED’S PARTY.
Winifred’s tea-party was a great success. Preparations for it occupied
the child’s mind for the three days previous to the important Saturday,
and by the time the day had arrived nothing had been neglected which
she thought could add to the enjoyment of the expected guests.
They had arrived punctual to the appointed hour, and had had fine games
in the garden and meadows, which Winifred and Violet had watched from
the nursery window.
They had had a splendid tea in the nursery, and had fully appreciated
the good fare which their little hostess had pressed upon them. They
were all very gentle to Winifred, and seemed to wish to sit by her and
talk to her, and the little girl had been pleased to think that her
brothers’ friends liked her.
Every one had enjoyed the tea very much, and although Charley had
looked a little grave, as he had done for three days past, he did not
seem unhappy; and he made so much of his little sister, that she could
not wish him other than he was.
The boys had gone away to romp in the play-room now, and Winifred was
left alone in the nursery with Violet for her companion.
She was rather tired with her exertions on behalf of her guests, and
was glad to curl herself up in a comfortable corner of the old sofa,
and rest herself after her labours.
“It was a nice tea-party,” said Violet, coming and sitting beside her
friend; “I don’t think I ever was at a nicer one; I do so like boys!”
and the little girl sighed and wished she had some brothers.
“They were nice boys,” said Winifred smiling. “I am glad I know them
now.”
“Didn’t you know them before?”
“No, hardly at all.”
“How funny! If I had brothers I should always want to know all their
friends.”
Violet was a merry little maiden, not at all given to grave moods, or
over-much meditation. Her parents were poor, and she had never had many
toys or books, or even as many friends as she would have liked. There
were very few people living near, and there was no carriage to take her
to other people’s houses; so the little girl had been dependent upon
her own happy temper and limited resources for most of the enjoyment of
life.
Such a tea-party as the one in which she had just been joining was an
immense treat to her. She could not understand how it was that Winifred
had not cared before to cultivate the acquaintance of such nice boys.
“I’m afraid it was because I was selfish,” said Winifred gravely.
“You selfish!” cried Violet, opening her eyes wide; “Oh, Winnie, I’m
sure you’re not.”
“I’m afraid I have been, Vi; I wish I hadn’t; but I don’t think I knew
it before. I didn’t see things that I see now.”
“Why do you see them now?” asked Violet with interest; but Winifred
did not answer just at once, and the child, too excited to sit down,
strayed to the window and looked out.
“What a lot of swallows!”
“Yes. They are beginning to gather. Don’t you know that they will go
soon?”
“Go!”
“Yes, they fly away, you know, to other countries, and come back again
in the spring.”
“Do they? How clever of them! How do they know when to go, and where to
go?”
“I don’t exactly know. I think it must be God who teaches them.”
“God! But God can’t care about the swallows!”
“I think God cares about everything,” said Winifred dreamily. “If he
didn’t take care of the swallows, how could they find their way?”
“But swallows are such little things; I don’t see how God can care for
them.”
Winifred did not say anything at first, so Violet turned from the
window to look at her.
“Violet,” she said presently; “I think if God didn’t care about little
things, He couldn’t care about big ones either.”
“Why not?”
“Because it is little things that make big ones. I don’t think anything
is really so very little.”
“I don’t see,” said Violet, knitting her brow.
Winifred pondered awhile.
“Mamma once told me a story about it, when I was ill; I don’t think I
understood then--I mean I didn’t think what it meant; but I have been
thinking about it lately--I understand better now.”
“A story!” repeated Violet, with more animation in her tone. “I like
listening to stories. Tell me the story, please, Winnie.”
“I will soon, when it gets dark. I want you to look in that box there
in the corner, and see if you like the things in it.”
Violet went eagerly to work, lifting the lid, and carefully examining
each of the parcels disclosed to view. As she did so, rapturous
exclamations of delight escaped her.
Winifred had taken great pains with her selection of toys and books
and pretty trifles. Such a box as Violet was now examining would have
filled any child with delight. Poor little Violet, who had always
suffered from a lack of childish treasures, could not say enough, nor
admire enough; she was in a perfect ecstasy.
“Oh, Winnie, how lovely! What perfectly sweet things! Oh, I never saw
such a lot of lovely toys! That doll is just a darling! Oh! whoever
did send you such a splendid box?”
“Nobody sent it to me,” answered Winifred, with a little smile. “I am
going to send it to a little girl--a friend of mine.”
Violet was replacing the things in the box with careful, gentle
fingers. She gave a little sigh as she wrapped up the beautiful doll in
its paper, and gave it one little kiss before she hid its pretty face.
Winifred heard both the sigh and the kiss.
“How pleased the little girl will be!” said Violet, as she closed the
box-lid lingeringly.
“I hope she will. I don’t think she has a great many toys; and she is
fond of dolls and puzzles and fairy tales.”
“Like me,” Violet was just going to say; but she checked herself, and
said instead,
“Does she? How pleased she will be!”
“I hope she will.”
“Of course she will; she must be. Do I know her?”
“Yes.”
“Do you like her? Is she a nice little girl?”
“I think so.”
“What is her name?”
“Her name is Violet.”
Violet gave such a jump that Winifred could not help laughing.
“Yes, Vi dear, the box is for you if you will have it, and you are to
take it home with you to-night. You see, I’m getting too old now to
care for dolls and toys, and then--and then--Well, I thought perhaps
you would like them, and I should like you to have them, because I have
been fond of them, and I know you will take care of them. And so the
box is yours now.”
It was some time before Violet could really believe the wonderful news,
and then it seemed as if she could not thank Winifred enough. She
kissed her and hugged her, and showed in every way in her power how
delighted she was; and Winifred felt very glad she had thought of a way
to make her little friend so happy.
“You are the dearest Winnie in the world,” said Violet, nestling close
up to her at last. “I love you a whole lot.” And by-and-by she added,
after a little pause, “You are not going away anywhere, are you,
Winnie?”
“I don’t quite know,” answered Winifred slowly. “What makes you think
so?”
“I thought I heard papa and mamma say something like it--something
about how you would be missed--how sorry people would be when you had
gone. I could not be quite sure, but I thought they were talking about
you, Winnie. When I asked mamma she would not tell me, but I thought
she _looked_ somehow as if it was true; is it, Winnie?”
“I don’t know, Vi; nobody has said anything to me. Sometimes I fancy
perhaps I am going somewhere, but I don’t know.”
“Would you like to go?” asked Vi with interest. “Will it make you quite
well again to go? Do you know where you are going?”
Twilight had crept into the room, and the dancing firelight made
flickering lights and shadows upon the walls and low ceiling. Winifred
held Violet’s warm hand in hers, and spoke more plainly to her than she
had ever done before.
“Vi,” she said gently, “you won’t cry if I tell you?”
“No, Winnie; why should I?” but the tone was a little apprehensive, and
Violet crept closer to her little friend, and looked into her face.
“I think, Vi, that I am going to heaven.”
Violet started, and held Winifred’s hand closer and closer, in a
frightened way.
“Oh no, no, Winnie! you can’t mean that! Oh no, it can’t be so
dreadful!”
“It isn’t dreadful, Vi. Going to heaven couldn’t be dreadful, you know.”
Violet made no answer.
“I thought at first that I was only going away with nurse to a warmer
country to get well again, but now, I think--I am almost sure--that I
am going to heaven soon. Don’t cry, Vi.”
“Why do you think so?” sobbed the child.
“I don’t know if I can explain, quite. It seems as if something inside
told me--just as something tells the swallows when they are to go.”
“The swallows come back,” said Violet, with another convulsive sob.
“Yes,” answered Winifred dreamily; “but when we get to heaven, Vi, I do
not think we shall want to come back.”
Violet checked her tears presently, and asked: “Aren’t you afraid,
Winnie?”
“No; not now.”
“I should be.”
“I was once; but I’m so _sure_ now that God will take care of me. When
the swallows go they’re not afraid, and they don’t know where they are
going, and they don’t know the way. God takes care of them, so I can’t
help being quite sure that He will take care of me.”
Violet sat silent, staring into the fire. By-and-by she heaved a great
sigh.
“How sorry every one will be! How they will all miss you!”
“Do you think they will?”
“Oh yes. Why everybody loves you, Winnie. You are so good and kind to
every one.”
“I’m afraid not,” answered Winnie gravely. “I used to think about
pleasing people, but since I’ve been ill I’ve got very selfish; I did
nothing for anybody, and did not try to be even kind or pleasant.”
“You were ill,” answered Vi; “you couldn’t help it. You couldn’t come
to see people. It was very naughty of me to be cross with you.”
Another childish conscience was pricking its owner, bringing to mind
sundry cross words and ungracious complaints which had fallen from her
lips during the past months.
Winifred saw at once that her neglect had pained her little friend.
“I could have asked you to come to me,” she said quickly. “It was very
naughty and selfish of me to think of nobody else. It makes me very
sorry now, that I was so lazy and so unkind.”
“Don’t, Winnie; you weren’t,” interrupted Violet. “And now you’re just
as kind as you can be--everybody says so. What will they do----?”
Violet stopped short, the tears in her eyes.
Winifred knew what she meant, and answered it.
“Mamma will miss me most,” she said. “Vi dear, I want you to do
something for me. Will you come to see mamma as often as you can, and
try to comfort her? She is fond of you, and she will like it. She
hasn’t another little girl; but if you would come in and talk to her,
and tell her things, and kiss her, and be fond of her, I am sure she
would like it. She is fond of you, Vi.”
“I will, Winnie. I love your mamma a whole lot. I should like to come
and see her and tell her things. But oh, Winnie, I can’t bear to think
about it--it seems so sad and dreadful.”
“We won’t think about it, then, nor talk about it, if you don’t like. I
haven’t talked to anybody else, Vi, and I don’t know--It is only what
I fancy. I may--perhaps--be wrong.”
Violet took courage from this idea, which she eagerly seized upon.
Children soon turn their minds from a subject which seems sad or
painful.
“You have not told me your story yet, Winnie; and it is quite dark
enough now.”
“Yes, and almost time to go down to watch the boys’ charade; but I
will just tell you what it was, as I promised, because I think perhaps
it would be easier to be good if we could always remember that little
things matter just as much as big ones, and are really often harder to
think of, and to do.”
Winifred paused a moment, whilst Violet settled herself to listen to
the story.
“It isn’t a very long one, and I can’t tell it nicely like mamma; but
it was about a little boy whom she once knew quite well--a nice little
boy whom everybody was fond of, because he was so good-tempered and
merry. His name was Frank, and he lived in a nice little house with his
mother, and they were very happy.
“One day a pane of glass was broken in the green-house. It was Frank
who had done it by accident, but he told a lie, and said he hadn’t. It
was the first time he had ever told a lie, and it seemed a very little
one, and he didn’t think much about it. But then after he had told one
story he told another, and then another, and at last his mother found
him out, and was so shocked and grieved about it that she sent him to
school.
“For a little while he seemed to do better; but by-and-by he began to
tell little lies again to get out of trouble, and then he told big
ones, and a wicked big boy found him out once in a great lie, and said
he would tell of him if Frank would not help him in some wicked thing
he wanted to do. So Frank promised he would, and the big boy led him
into all sorts of dreadful mischief, and at last it got found out by
the schoolmaster, and Frank was expelled.”
“Oh!” ejaculated Violet, opening her eyes wide. “What did his mother
say then?”
“His mother never saw him,” answered Winifred gravely, “for he was
afraid to go home; and he ran away to sea, and led a miserable, wicked
life for a great many years, and never once wrote to tell his mother
that he was alive, or what had become of him.”
“How wicked!”
“Yes, it was wicked; and it broke his mother’s heart; and when she
could find out nothing about him, and months and years went by without
any news, she grew weaker and weaker, and sadder and sadder, and
by-and-by she died. Think, Vi, if he hadn’t told that little lie about
the pane of glass, or any other _little_ lie, perhaps he might have
grown up a good man.”
“Is that the end of the story, Winnie?”
“No, not quite; for by-and-by when he was a man he thought he would go
back and see his mother again. He was poor, and miserable, and wicked,
and he had been very ill, and he thought he would go back and try and
be a good son if only his mother would forgive him. Well, he came back
to England and went to his own village, and found that his mother was
dead, and that she had died through his wicked conduct. Nobody knew
Frank because he had changed so much, and nobody said a kind word to
him. They did not know him, though he knew some of them. He was so
desperate and miserable that he determined he would kill himself; and
in the evening he crept down the village street to get to the river,
and he meant to shoot himself there, and let his body fall into the
water and be carried away.”
“And did he?” asked Vi, in an awe-struck tone.
“No; for as he was passing down the street he passed the school-room,
and the door was open, and he saw that the room was full of people.
He just fancied he would like to see what was going on, so he crept
into the porch and listened. The clergyman was talking to the children
and people, telling them about the prodigal son coming home to his
father; and then he said that he would give them just one little text
to remember, three little words which would always be a help if ever
they had done wrong and were afraid whether they could be forgiven. The
little text was ‘God is Love’--just that; and he talked to them about
God and God’s love so earnestly, that poor Frank forgot all about the
wicked plan in his head, and listened for every word; and he could not
help crying as he thought how wicked he was and how good God was, and
he crept away to cry outside; and when the clergyman came out, he saw
him sitting on the ground, and he went and spoke to him and found out
who he was. And the clergyman had been a friend of Frank’s mother and
had known him when he was a boy; and he was taking care of some money
which the mother had left for him in case he ever came back. And so
he took Frank home with him, and talked to him and comforted him and
helped him to be a good man; and Frank tried very hard, and always
thought of the three little words, and by-and-by he did grow to love
God and to be a good man, and mamma knows him now, and says he is very
kind and good. And he is never tired of telling people how important
little things are; because it was just a little lie which began all
his wickedness, and it was one little text of three little words which
stopped him from killing himself, and made him try to be a good man
again.”
“That is a nice story,” said Violet. “I am so glad he got good at last.”
“I am so glad that ‘God is Love,’” said Winnie.
“I will try never to do little naughty things again,” added Violet;
“I mean I will try never to call them little or think them little any
more.”
They had not time to discuss the subject any longer, for the boys came
rushing up to tell them that the charade was just going to begin, and
that their presence was requested for the occasion.
The acting was very funny and amusing, and the boys did it very well.
Winifred and Violet laughed heartily, and all grave thoughts seemed for
the time quite driven away.
Then came the supper in the dining-room, and crackers were pulled and
jokes cracked, and everybody was very merry and gay.
Winifred was quite the queen of the night; and so much attention was
heaped upon her that she hardly knew how to respond to it all.
Mr. Digby and Charley let off the fireworks last thing, and the
exhibition gave great delight to the whole party. Everybody agreed that
it had been a splendid evening, and the guests drove away in the big
waggonette in the highest spirits, Violet at the far end with the big
box safe under her feet.
Winifred, from her sheltered nook by the hall-window, watched the
carriage drive away, and kissed her hand in answer to the boys’
farewell cheer; then she turned away with a grave smile on her little
pale face.
“I think they were all pleased,” she said. “They are nice boys,
Charley. I wonder I never wanted them to come before.”
“They can come often if you like them,” said Ronald, eagerly. “They
liked it awfully, and they all said you were a brick. They will come as
often as you like, I’m sure.”
Winifred smiled a little.
“I should like to think they would often come,” said she, slowly. “If
you like it and they like it, and mamma doesn’t mind. It would make it
nice for you, wouldn’t it, Ronald?”
“Yes, jolly!” he answered, turning an agile somersault. “But you look
tired, Winnie. I’ll take you to mamma, and she’ll say you ought to be
in bed.”
“Yes, I should like to go to bed,” said the child, rather wearily; “but
it has been a nice evening.”
[Illustration: Decorative image]