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ROSA'S QUEST
Or
The Way to the Beautiful Land
by
ANNA POTTER WRIGHT
The Moody Press
153 Institute Place
Chicago
Copyright, 1904, by
The Moody Bible Institute
of Chicago
Printed in United States of America.
_To my mother,_
_who abides in the "beautiful land,"_
_I dedicate this, my first book._
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER. PAGE
I. "How Much is the Fare?" 9
II. Esther's Perplexity 19
III. Rosa's Mother Moves 26
IV. Life with Mrs. Gray 37
V. The Way Sought 51
VI. The Way Found 68
VII. Victory! 91
VIII. Dust to Dust 105
IX. "A Little Child Shall Lead Them" 112
Afterword 121
[Illustration]
I.
"HOW MUCH IS THE FARE?"
"Rosa! Rosa!"
"Yes'm, Mis' Gray, I'm coming."
"Well, fer land sakes then, hurry up, you lazy girl! I've been
a-hollerin' till my throat's sore. You're always underfoot when you
ain't wanted, then when you are wanted, you're no place to be found. If
you wuz my girl, you'd be learnt to know more'n you know now, I can tell
you that. I believe in young uns amountin' to somethin', but it's mighty
little you know."
"But, Mis' Gray," faltered poor little Rosa, "mother was coughing awful,
and I didn't hear you."
"Yes, your ma ag'in. I don't know what you'll have fer an excuse when
she's gone, or what'll become of you either. I know one thing, though; I
won't have you. But it'd be a heap sight better fer you if I would, and
a real blessin', too."
"Why, where's mother going, Mis' Gray?" asked Rosa with wide-open and
frightened eyes.
"There, there, Sary, don't talk to the child so! Never mind, Rosa dear,
Sary don't mean it. Sary's a good woman, yes, a very good woman."
"I do too mean it, father, and I jest want you to keep still. You always
take her part. Yes, I am a good woman, or I'd never kep' you after poor
Tom got killed. I have to sew my finger ends off to git us enough to eat
and to pay the rent. I always did have bad luck from the day I married
Tom Gray. He would insist on keepin' you, and you wuz sick that summer
he couldn't git no work. He'd walk all day a-tryin' to find somethin' to
do, then set up all night with you, though I told him it wuzn't
necessary. I washed and I sewed and I done everything, but our little
home had to go. I thought then, and I think now, that we could a-kep'
it, if it hadn't been fer you. If Tom could git hold of a cent at all,
it would go fer medicine, or somethin' fer you to eat. After you got
well, he found a place to work, and wuz a-tryin' to git back the home,
when he went and got killed, a-tryin' to keep a poor, good-fer-nothin'
beggar from bein' run over by the streetcar. All he left me wuz you to
look after, and you ain't never had a bit of sense, since the day he
wuz brought home to me all torn and bleedin'. There ain't many that's
had as much to put up with as I have. I guess most daughters-in-law
would jest have told you to leave, but no, I've been a-keepin' you fer
the last five years, and no tellin' how much longer you'll live! And you
didn't mind me this mornin', and I sprained my ankle a-goin'--"
"Grandpa," broke in Rosa, heedless of Mrs. Gray's irascible tongue,
"what does she mean about mother going away?"
"Why, I don't know, child; I ain't heard no talk about her leavin', but
then I git things so mixed up since Tom died."
"Rosa Browning, I didn't call you in here to ask foolish questions. I
want you to deliver this package, and quick, too. If you hadn't talked
so much, you could be well on your way by this time. It goes to that
lady over on Lake Avenue, where I sent you once before."
"Oh, where I heard the beautiful music?"
"Yes, but don't you loiter on your way to listen to no music! Fine music
ain't for the likes of us here on Burton street. It's a shame fer me to
have to pay your carfare, but I 'spose you can't carry that big package
so far. If you'd spend a little more time a-workin', and a little less
a-lookin' after your ma, you'd have more strength, I won't have it said
that I git work done fer nothin', so I'll give you ten cents besides.
You git a piece of beefsteak with it, and I'll broil it fer your ma's
supper. You couldn't fix it fit to eat, nohow. I hope to goodness she
won't cough all night and keep me awake."
"Oh, thank you, Mis' Gray, you are so kind," delightedly exclaimed Rosa,
her wan little face lighting up with genuine pleasure at the thought
that mother was going to have something good for supper.
"Now do be gone, and don't talk no more. You're enough to set me crazy,
you and father."
"I'm off now, Mis' Gray. Goodby, grandpa dear," she affectionately said,
kissing the old man's withered cheek, for these two children of the
tenement, the one eight and the other eighty, were the best of friends.
"Rosa," called once again Mrs. Gray's shrill voice, as the child was
making her way across the dark hall, "come back here!"
"Yes'm, Mis' Gray, here I am."
"You're so awful careless, you see to it that you don't lose that money
I give you. If you do, you'll be sorry. You won't git the pay fer the
work; I wouldn't trust you with that, nohow. Now hurry up and don't
waste another minute! Wait! can't you give me a chance to tell you what
I want? You're so provokin'. Be sure to tell your ma where you're goin',
and that it'll take you about an hour and a half. I don't want her
a-gettin' scared and a-hollerin' 'round and a-sendin' some one after
you, like she did that day you didn't git home till dark. She acted
ridiculous, as if she thought you never would come back. I couldn't fer
the life of me see what made her do so; it was real silly, and I told
her so at the time. I did think, though, that you'd ought to be licked
fer not hurryin' up more, but she jest kissed you and cried all the more
when I said so. Go and tell her now, and be sure you don't drop that
package in the dirt."
This time Rosa started on a run, lest she might be called back once
more. She feared the tyrant, but vainly endeavored to love her for
grandpa's sake. He so often told her that "Sary was a good woman, yes, a
very good woman."
"Mother dear," she said, upon entering their one poverty-stricken, but
scrupulously neat, little room, "I'm going to deliver a package over on
Lake Avenue for Mis' Gray, and will not be back for about an hour and a
half, she told me to tell you; and she gave me ten cents, too. Ain't
that nice? I'm going to get some beefsteak, and she'll broil it.
"But, mother, she said something about your going away, and didn't know
what would become of me. You won't move, will you, without taking me
along? I don't know what she could have meant. What did she mean,
anyhow? Why do you cry, mother dear?" tremulously inquired the child,
rushing impulsively up to the side of the bed.
"We'll talk when you come back, darling. Kiss me, my precious"; and the
sufferer fell back upon her pillow, coughing violently, and moaning for
very agony of spirit.
With a heart heavier than the huge package, Rosa sped down the steep
stairway, out into the bitter December weather.
"Oh," she said, half audibly, "how cold it is! I'm glad I haven't far to
go to take the car."
Quickly her nimble feet carried her, and in a few minutes she was
scrutinizing the faces of her fellow-passengers. Sitting across the
aisle from her was a young lady, who to Rosa seemed the embodiment of
beauty and elegance. While intently studying the fair face and neat
costume, this object of her admiration suddenly crossed the car and sat
down by her side. The sweet smile and cordial greeting made the child
forget her timidity, and soon the two were conversing most familiarly.
"And so you are going to deliver that package over on Lake Avenue, are
you?"
"Yes'm, and Mis' Gray gave me ten cents fer it, too. I'm going to get
some steak, and she will broil it for mother's supper. Ain't that nice?
I'd think I'd be happy, but I ain't a bit. I keep wondering what she
meant about mother going away, and she didn't know what would become of
me. Why, lady, mother just can't move now; she's sick and has a dreadful
cough! She hasn't even been in to see grandpa and Mis' Gray for a long
time. Then I know, anyhow, she'd never go and leave me. Of course she
wouldn't, for we're always together. She couldn't get along without me,
'cause I take care of her, and I know I couldn't get along without her
at all. Mis' Gray ought to know that, for we've lived by her a long
time. What do you 'spose she meant? I can't think about anything else."
"Why, my little girl," replied the stranger, while Rosa was more
mystified than ever to see the blue eyes fill with tears, "sometimes
when people are sick, they go to a better country than this. Do you know
about heaven?"
"Not much, ma'am. When Mis' Gray goes away and mother's working, grandpa
gets his old violin and sings to me about the beautiful land. He says
that's heaven, but he can't explain it much to me. He says he can't
think right since Tom got killed. You know Tom was his boy. Grandpa is
so good. When mother moves, I know she will take me, and I wish he could
go too. But, lady, do you 'spose that's the place where mother's going?"
"I hope so, dear, for she would not cough any more there."
"Oh, wouldn't she? I'll tell her about it, then. But how much is the
fare? We're poor, you know."
"You do not have to pay any fare to go to that beautiful land, because
Jesus paid it all long ago."
"Oh, how kind! He must be so good. Last night I wakened, and mother
kissed me and said that Jesus surely would take care of me. Are you real
sure He paid the fare for everybody?"
"Yes, I know it, for God so loved the world that He gave His only
begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but
have everlasting life."
"Ain't that pretty! But where do you start from to get there?"
"Your mother could go right from your home."
"But she just ain't able to go any place; she can't sit up much now.
I'll tell her about it, though, then when she's better, we'll both go.
Does it take long to get there?"
"No, not so very."
"I wish we'd known it before it got so cold. It might make her cough
worse to go out now. Are there many people in this land?"
"Yes, a great many."
"Are there more going?"
"Yes, they are going all the time."
"Do people here in the city know about it?"
"Yes."
"Then why didn't somebody tell me before mother got so sick? I just
can't bear to see her suffer so, and we might be there now. I'm afraid
it will be a long time before she's well enough to start. Oh, if I'd
only known! I'd think somebody should have told me.
"Do folks have enough to eat there? Sometimes since mother's not been
able to work much, we get so awful hungry."
"They have everything they want, and never get hungry."
"Everything they want, and never get hungry?"
"Yes."
"And is it cold there?"
"No."
"Do they have to pay rent?"
"No, for Jesus has paid for everything."
"Oh, oh! won't it be nice? How glad mother will be when I tell her, for
it has been so hard for us to get along this winter. The rent is due
next Monday, and we have nothing to pay it with, but if mother is just
well enough to go, it won't make no difference. But the very best part
of all, she won't be coughing any more!
"Oh!" half screamed Rosa, "I forgot to get off, and have gone a whole
block past Lake Avenue. What would Mis' Gray say to me?"
Without another word she was gone, for already the car was beginning to
move on. Scarcely realizing what she did, she ran after it for a short
distance. With a great pang, she remembered that the girl had not told
her the way to the beautiful land, where mother might go and never cough
any more.
Half stunned by bewilderment and disappointment, and with her heart
heavier than before, she delivered her package, purchased the steak, and
in due time was again at the sufferer's bedside.
[Illustration]
II.
ESTHER'S PERPLEXITY.
The day was gradually fading into darkness.
Esther Fairfax, with sadness upon her usually sunshiny face, was sitting
before her cheery open fire, fruitlessly endeavoring to become
interested in her newly-purchased book.
Her room was by no means elegantly furnished, but every article it
contained, from the rugs upon the floor to the pictures upon the wall,
reflected the refinement and culture of the fair young occupant.
Presently, closing her book and tossing it carelessly from her hand, she
settled back upon her couch for good solid meditation, while tears
gathered in her deep blue eyes, chasing each other in rapid succession
down her flushed cheeks.
For some time she lived over the events of the afternoon, recalling
minutely the details of the unusual conversation with the untaught but
interesting child.
"Oh," she thought, "I shall never forget those words, 'How much is the
fare? We're poor you know.' If only I knew where she lives, that I might
go and see her and minister to the comforts of the dying mother! The
hungry wistfulness of those eyes seems burned into my very soul.
"Father, I am so glad you have come," she said, hastily rising upon
hearing the familiar footstep in the hall. "I have been waiting a long
time for your return."
"Why, my child, you have been crying. What is it? Are you ill, or have
you received an unwelcome message?"
"No, neither, father, but I am so troubled about a little girl I saw in
the car this afternoon, and who disappeared almost magically."
"Come into my study and tell me all about it, Esther."
Although Dr. Fairfax was the pastor of one of the largest churches in
the city, he always had time for his beloved and motherless daughter.
"When I was coming from down town this afternoon," she began, "a very
small girl with a very large package in her arms stepped aboard the
car. Her face was so sweet and innocent that one would notice it even in
a crowd, but overshadowed by an expression of care far too heavy for her
baby years. Her eyes were large, dark and unusually lustrous, while her
wavy brown hair fell about her face and neck in rich profusion. Her
clothing was scant and old, but clean and very neatly mended. The whole
appearance of the child was so pathetically irresistible that I went and
sat down by her side, taking her cold little hand within my own.
"She talked freely, telling me that her name is Rosa Browning. As I now
recall the conversation, I find that I know but little indeed of her
actual circumstances, and nothing at all of the location of her home.
"She spoke most tenderly now and then of 'grandpa', and occasionally
mentioned 'Mis' Gray', who, I imagine, is not specially noted for her
amiability. But oh, father, when she would refer to her mother, it
seemed that her heart was almost crushed with anxiety, and that her
burden was greater than she could bear!"
With tears still flowing, Esther then told of Rosa's bewilderment
concerning her mother's rumored moving, and of her own efforts to
explain what this moving probably meant.
The strong man, accustomed as he was to the tales of woe and misery
among the poor and outcast, bowed his head and wept also. The pathos of
the child's simple, direct questions impressed him quite as much as it
had Esther.
"'But how much is the fare? How much is the fare?'" he repeated over and
over.
"Truly you answered well, daughter. We have no fare to pay, no, none,
for Jesus paid it all! But what a price--the life of the Son of the Most
High God, who, being in the form of God, thought it not robbery to be
equal with God: but made Himself of no reputation, and took upon Him the
form of a servant, and was made in the likeness of men: and being found
in fashion as a man, He humbled Himself, and became obedient unto death,
even the death of the cross!"
For some minutes they remained in silence, lost in the thought of the
price of redemption.
"It is unfathomable, father," at last Esther said softly, "and to think
that His death was for even little Rosa, and the poor child knew nothing
about it! I felt ashamed and speechless when she asked me why she had
never been told before, having no reasonable answer whatever to give. I
wish I could tell you with what earnestness she said, 'Are you real sure
He paid the fare for everybody?' A fact so stupendous seemed quite
beyond her power of comprehension."
"Yes, daughter, His death included the fare for her as well as for you
and for me. In every soul He sees a pearl of greatest price."
"But Rosa left before I could explain anything to her about the way of
salvation. Perhaps she will find no one to tell her, and her mother is
almost dead. Oh, that I knew where she lives! All she needs is some one
to guide her, then perhaps she would lead her mother and grandpa, and
even Mrs. Gray into the light of His love.
"Why is it, father, that so few Christians speak of Jesus to those whom
they meet? They talk fluently of everything else, but the mentioning of
His name seemingly paralyzes their tongues. This city is full of
churches, with many thousands who profess to be the Lord's, yet Rosa in
reality has never heard of Him. Every day of her life, as she goes upon
the street, or is in a car, she comes into contact with some one who
might lead her precious little soul to Christ. Just one moment of
conversation would help her so, and is it possible that there is none
who cares? Why is it? How can those who know Him truly be so utterly
indifferent?"
"My child, you ask me what I cannot answer. I spend many hours of prayer
and study upon every sermon I preach, and seek to deliver it in the
power of the Holy Spirit. Then after having cast myself utterly upon
Him, it is simply crushing to know that at times the message falls upon
deaf ears. The tide of worldliness sweeping over the churches is at the
root of the whole matter. Many to whom I preach are saved, but oh, so
few _surrendered_! They want just enough of Christ to help them in times
of trouble, to make sure of heaven being their ultimate goal, and just
as much of this world as they can possibly carry along. It is their
ambition to be His for eternity, but not for time. Oh, that they might
know the unspeakable joy of a consecrated life, and of leading souls to
Him! After once experiencing it, the charms of this world sink into
utter insignificance, while the realities of the next become more and
more certain.
"The weight of my responsibility well nigh crushes me at times, for the
Lord knows that I want to lead His people aright. How I yearn for
absolute surrender upon the part of myself and of my church! When I
remember Christ's words, 'Out of the abundance of the heart the mouth
speaketh,' it makes me fear that many, indeed, of this generation shall
say in vain at that day, Lord, Lord! It is a fearful thing for those who
profess to know Him, to go up into His presence, leaving behind some
still groping in darkness because of their unfaithfulness. If it is
possible now for the Saviour ever to be unhappy, surely lukewarm
Christians must pain Him the most."
"Father, I want to find Rosa. If I had been more eager for her soul and
for the glory of the Lord, I should have left the car and followed her.
How can I begin the search? It seems so utterly impossible, yet I must."
"My darling, it would be folly for you to try to find this child, but
let us ask God to send her to us. He can direct in some way. He sees her
this very moment, and sees us as well."
A new and radiant light flooded Esther's face with joy, as they arose
from their knees.
"I am sure He will hear us, father, dear," she said, "for it was by no
mere chance I saw her today. The Lord's directing hand was in it. He
will, I know, forgive my unfaithfulness and open another opportunity.
"Let us sing 'The Home of the Soul', father. How mother loved that song,
when she knew that soon she would behold the beauties of the place!"
The two voices, the one a sweet soprano, the other a fine tenor, blended
in the old-time hymn:
"I will sing you a song of that beautiful land,
The far away home of the soul,
Where no storms ever beat on that glittering strand,
While the years of eternity roll."
At the conclusion of the song, Esther kissed her father and quietly left
the room.
[Illustration]
III.
ROSA'S MOTHER MOVES.
"Miss Browning, here's your steak I broiled fer you and some toast and
tea. I fixed some fer Rosa, too you're so mighty queer, I knew you
wouldn't eat unless she had some. I can't afford to buy her any more,
and there ain't many that'd done it this time. I have to work awful hard
fer all I git."
"Thank you, Mrs. Gray, you are very kind, but," she added softly, lest
Rosa who had run in to speak to grandpa might hear, "if only I knew what
would become of her! Oh, my poor child! how can I bear to leave her, and
what will her future be?"
The moans of the poor, tortured mother, whose life was fast ebbing away,
were most piteous.
"Now, Mis' Browning, don't take on so; chirk up a bit! She's plenty old
enough to work and make her own livin'. Of course you couldn't expect me
to say I'd keep her. Land sakes! Grandpa's all I can manage now, and
he's gittin' worse and more tryin' every day. Why, jest this mornin'
when I wuz that busy I didn't know what to do a-finishin' up that
sewin', what should he do but stumble ag'in the coal pail and upset the
whole thing right on the floor, and jest after I'd scrubbed, too! Then I
thought I'd git rid of him a few minutes by sendin' him to the grocery.
Of course I never trust him with a cent of money. They know him at the
corner grocery, so it's all right; but it all comes of my credit a-bein'
so good, that's the reason. Well, I told him it wuz not necessary fer
him to be gone but fifteen minutes, but when he wuz gone twenty, I had
to put my work down and go after him. I'd better have gone in the first
place. That's always the way when I trust him fer anything, it jest
makes it that much harder fer me in the end. I had to go clean down the
stairs, and in some way twisted my ankle, so I ain't got over it yet;
then I saw him a-comin', but that slow, it made me real provoked. If
he'd jest a-hurried up a little, it would have saved me all that
trouble. He said he wuz tired, but I think I wuz the one to be tired,
a-hurryin' down them steps so, and a-gittin' hurt, too.
"Land sakes, Mis' Browning, I'd think you could see I have my hands
more'n full now, though I don't wonder you would like to have Rosa
brought up by me. I could train her mighty well, so as she'd know how to
do somethin'. She's old enough to work, and I'll keep an eye on her and
correct her whenever she needs it, and that'll be often. I'd think you'd
ought to be satisfied with that. There ain't many that'd take sech an
interest in a homeless little waif, I can tell you.
"You eat your supper now, and I'll tell Rosa to come home. That's one
thing she'll have to quit, a-wastin' so much time. What she sees in
grandpa is more'n I can tell, fer he ain't got a bit of sense. Often in
the night he wakes me up a-hollerin' and a-carryin' on a-thinkin' he's a
boy ag'in. There's not many as patient as I am, or they wouldn't put up
with it."
Every word was a knife thrust through the sensitive, bleeding heart of
the distracted mother.
"Oh," she thought, "that some one in this great, crowded city might love
my darling, and that she need not fall into the hands of this woman!
"Mrs. Gray," she asked excitedly, and with an effort controlling the
great dry sobs which were choking her, "won't you promise me one thing?
Won't you keep Rosa at least till spring? What can my baby do without a
home and without a mother, especially when the weather is so bitterly
cold? The mere thought of such a possibility drives me insane with fear
and grief. She can run errands for you, and grandpa loves her so. Do not
deny me, for I am almost dead!"
Mrs. Gray half staggered backward, for never before had she heard Mrs.
Browning speak with such intensity. The dark eyes riveted upon her
conquered even this unfeeling heart, and before realizing the import of
her words, granted the request. "But," she added in the same breath,
"there ain't many that'd do it, I can tell you that."
"And be gentle with her, Mrs. Gray. She is so affectionate, she will
miss her mother and the love I have always bestowed upon her."
Thinking that other promises still more difficult to fulfill might be
exacted, Mrs. Gray hastily left the room.
"Thank God," the mother murmured falling back upon her pillow, "my baby
will have food and shelter at least till spring, but how she will miss
the love!"
The hot tears began coursing down the flushed cheeks, causing Rosa to
give a cry of alarm as she stepped up to the bedside.
"Mother dear, do you feel worse? Why do you cry?"
"My darling, mother is tired now and cannot talk. Pull the little table
up by the bed, then if I can eat some supper, we shall talk afterward.
There is something I want to tell you."
Mechanically she obeyed, weighted beneath the feeling that something
dreadful was about to happen. The trembling of the tiny hands and
twitching of the delicate face betrayed a heart suffering which a child
of her tender years should never know.
The odor of the steak, while being broiled, had given Rosa an appetite,
for her dinner had consisted only of boiled potatoes. Now, however, that
mother apparently did not relish her supper, it seemed that every
mouthful would choke her.
With a feeling of relief, the supper things at last were cleared away,
and Rosa sat down by the sufferer, taking her hot thin hand within her
own.
"You need not talk, mother, if you do not feel like it, but I do so want
to know about the moving, and you won't go without me, will you? But oh,
I have such good news, I must tell you the very first thing! Mebbe it
will change your plans and make it easier to know what to do.
"I saw a lovely lady today, and she told me about a beautiful land some
place, where folks never cough no more, and they don't have to pay rent,
and they have all they want to eat. And she said, too, that it don't
cost nothing to go, nor after you get there, 'cause Jesus paid all the
fare a long time ago. I wish I knew where to find Jesus, so He could
explain all about it. I had to leave the car before the lady could tell
me the way. I think He must be so good to pay the fare for everybody.
There's no mistake, 'cause she said something about God so loving the
world. I don't know what she meant, but it was so pretty. I know I'd
love Jesus so, if I could only find Him, and He'd tell us how to go, I'm
sure He would.
"Oh, mother, why do you cry so much? Don't feel so, for I'll try my very
best to find out the way, then we'll both go. It will be so nice, won't
it, for you not to have a cough no more? And mebbe we can manage to get
off before the rent is due again."
The anxious little nurse, old beyond her years, tenderly kissed the
pallid brow, repeating soothingly the assurance that in some way she
would find out how to reach this beautiful land.
"O God," at last the invalid faltered after several minutes of silence,
"forgive me and take me to that beautiful land, for Jesus' sake, and
care for my darling!
"Rosa dear, my breath is growing very short, but I must tell you
something. You are too young to know what it all means now, but try to
remember, and sometime you will understand.
"Just ten years ago today I was married to your father, Harold Browning;
and you are so like him, precious.
"I was left an orphan at the age of fourteen, and from that time till
the day of marriage, made my living by clerking in a down-town store.
Your father, too, was alone in the world, and how we loved each other!
"We rented a small furnished flat, which to me was a paradise. Your
father was a bookkeeper on a comfortable salary, and for a time all went
well. At the end of the second year you were born, and then our joy knew
no bounds. Every evening while holding you in his arms, we would plan
for the future, you being the center of everything. There was not a
shadow over our lives, till one morning he was not able to go to work.
In a few hours he became so very ill that in great alarm I summoned the
doctor. Then followed weeks of suspense, the days being divided between
hope and fear, till at last all thought of his recovery was given up. My
anguish was too deep for tears. I went around as one stunned, not
knowing at times what I was about. Your dear father tried to comfort me,
pointing me to Jesus whom he loved intensely, but who I said was cruel
to allow our little home nest thus ruthlessly to be broken up.
"What happened the last days of his life to me is a blank, for I myself
was very ill. When I recovered and paid all the bills, there was not one
cent left for us. I could hold the flat no longer, so moved here on
Burton street, making our living, as you know, darling, by the day's
work. It has been very hard, for often I have felt unable to be out of
bed; but then I could not let my Rosa suffer."
The intervals when the poor heartbroken woman had to stop to regain her
breath, were growing more frequent.
"But, dearest," she continued, and in her earnestness she raised herself
partly up, "the worst of all has been that I have tried to carry the
burden alone. Your father told me that I must be brave for your sake,
and that Jesus would help me; but I would not let Him.
"Last night and today I have been praying much, and now, thank God, it
is all right!"
Rosa wondered at the expression of joy flooding her mother's face,
immediately followed by one of deepest grief.
"Bend closer, darling, my voice is becoming so weak that you cannot
hear! I am so sorry that I did not do as your father said, and have
never taught you of Jesus, and now it is--too late!--I'm glad--the
lady--told you.--Yes,--He paid--the fare!--I'm--going--to move--now--to
that--beautiful land!"
"Oh, mother," sobbed Rosa, beginning to realize a little of the import
of her words, "please, oh, please don't leave me! What could I ever do
without you? Nobody loves me but you and grandpa, and I just can't stand
it, if you go away."
With her last atom of strength, the dying mother kissed her child,
whispering just so that Rosa could hear:
"Find someone--to tell you--the way,--and come--to
that--beautiful--land--where you will--find Jesus--and mother!"
So calmly did she fall back upon her pillow that Rosa, though
awe-struck, thought she was sleeping. Still clasping the thin hand, she
noticed the chill. Cautiously, lest she might disturb the sleeper, she
slipped off her little flannel skirt, the last article made by her
mother, and wrapped the cold hands within its folds. The scant coverings
she also tucked up more closely and put their last bit of coal upon the
fire.
Till midnight she sat by the bed, wondering why mother was so very
still, and why she was growing so cold. At last, being able to endure
the suspense no longer, stepping across the hall, she called for Mrs.
Gray.
"Land sakes, child, why ain't you in bed this time of night?"
"Please, Mis' Gray, I'd like to borrow a comfort, 'cause mother's so
awful cold, and I can't get her warm."
"Well, when a body's as accommodatin' as I am, I 'spose they must expect
to be bothered any time of day or night, too. I'll git up and see what
your ma wants. Glad of one thing, she ain't kept me awake by her
coughin' tonight, anyway; but it comes from me fixin' her a decent
supper, I reckon."
Mrs. Gray stepped to the door of Mrs. Browning's room, but something
impelled her to stop. A fear seized her, while involuntarily she
clutched Rosa's trembling hand.
There was no light in the room, save that which shone from across the
hall, the faint rays falling directly over the motionless form upon the
bed.
"Mis' Browning," she cautiously asked, "do you want anything?"
"Mother doesn't hear, Mis' Gray," said Rosa sobbing violently and
throwing herself within the cold arms, kissing over and over the lips
hitherto so responsive to her own.
"Mother dear, don't you hear me? Oh, wake up, please do! I want you so.
I don't know the way, and will get lost to go alone."
"Rosa," said Mrs. Gray almost gently, "git up and go and stay with
grandpa till I tell you to come in here, and don't you come before. I'll
have to go down them steps ag'in fer an undertaker."
"What is an undertaker, Mis' Gray, and what do they do? Will they take
mother to the beautiful land?"
"Didn't you hear me tell you to go in and stay with grandpa? So go right
this minute, and ask no more questions. You do beat all fer askin'
questions, anyhow. You might as well learn now as any time to mind,
since I have to keep you till spring. I ain't the woman to go back on my
word, but there ain't many but what would, a-promisin' under the
circumstances."
The little heart was nearly crushed with a feeling of perplexity and of
indescribable dread, but, after all, there was some comfort in being
alone with grandpa.
Stealing softly into his room, she found him sitting by the stove; and
climbing up into his lap, pillowing her tired head upon his shoulder,
the two lonely children, soothing each other, were soon fast asleep.
[Illustration]
IV.
LIFE WITH MRS. GRAY.
The events of the next few days were like a troubled dream to Rosa, as
she in vain endeavored to comprehend the meaning of all the mysterious
things going on about her. Only once was she allowed to look upon the
silent sleeper. That was just before the arrival of the great black
carriage, which, she was sure, would take her mother to the beautiful
land.
"Rosa ain't goin' to the burial, I can tell you that," announced Mrs.
Gray to a neighbor, "or she'd be a-hollerin' in her sleep all winter.
I've been broke of my rest so much that I ain't goin' to be bothered
with her any more'n I can help from now on. I didn't promise to keep her
only till spring, but I can make her run errands and sich, so it won't
cost me a great sight. I can't afford it no other way, and Mis'
Browning was unreasonable, anyhow, to ask it of me."
Rosa and grandpa stood hand in hand, watching the small procession until
it disappeared around the corner.
"Grandpa," queried Rosa in a tearful voice, "do you know where that
beautiful land is where folks never cough no more, and where they don't
have to pay rent? That's where mother's going, and she told me to find
out the way, so I could go too."
"'Pears like I'd ought to know, child, fer that's where Tom went. I
can't think much somehow, but, Rosa," he added tenderly, drawing her up
closer to his side, "I don't want you to go and leave me, fer I'm so
lonesome. Sary's a good woman, yes, a very good woman, but it seems like
I need you, too, dearie."
"Grandpa, if we'd start out together, don't you think we could find it?
Folks have all they want to eat there, and I'm hungry now."
"Why, yes, yes, mebbe we could! Some way I'm gittin' homesick. I don't
like it here in the city, and it seems like I used to know more about
that land than I do now. Since poor Tom got killed, I can't remember no
how.
"Sometimes in the night I git that happy, but if I make a little noise,
Sary wakes me up, 'cause it bothers her, then that spoils it all. I
think I'm back in the country ag'in, and the church bell is a-ringin' of
a Sunday mornin'. Tom's mother and me start out from the little cottage,
and I'm a-carryin' Tom. We walk down the cool grassy lane with the brook
a-runnin' on one side, and the trees is a-wavin' in the soft breeze, and
the birds is a-singin', and Tom's mother stops to pick some wild roses.
And the little white meetin' house with the steeple a-p'intin' straight
up. My Rosa, I wish you could see it, and with vines a-growin' all over
it! I can 'most git it, then it slips away ag'in. If I could jest be
inside of that meetin' house once more, it would all come straight, I
know, fer there they used to talk and sing about that land and Jesus."
"Yes, grandpa, you know it was Jesus that paid the fare. Wasn't He kind
to do that? 'cause if He hadn't poor folks couldn't go."
"Yes, mighty kind, mighty kind!
"Rosa," after a pause, "come real close," and the faded eyes sparkled
with a new thought; "I want to whisper somethin' so nobody'll hear. The
very first day Sary's away, let's start out, and mebbe we can find some
one to tell us how to go. Will you, child?"
"Oh, yes, grandpa, good! then we'll find mother."
In her delight she clapped her hands for very joy.
"Sh! sh! child, Sary might hear, and that would spoil it all, though of
course Sary's a good woman, yes, a very good woman. You won't tell, will
you?"
"No, no, grandpa, this'll be our secret. I'm just sure there must be
lots of folks that can tell us, for the fare is paid for everybody, and
they're going all the time. But I do wish we could find that pretty lady
again I saw on the car."
"Yes, dearie, I wish so too, but I think we'll find it anyhow. I'm
a-gittin' so very homesick, we jest must."
"Sing about that land, won't you, grandpa?"
"All right, you git the fiddle. That's the only song I can remember.
They used to sing it in the little white meetin' house with the steeple
a-p'intin' straight up. Wish I could remember more, but I can't."
In a quavery voice he sang many times over the grand old hymn:
"I will sing you a song of that beautiful land,
The far away home of the soul,
Where no storms ever beat on that glittering strand,
While the years of eternity roll.
Oh, that home of the soul in my visions and dreams,
Its bright, jasper walls I can see,
Till I fancy but thinly the vail intervenes
Between that fair city and me!
That unchangeable home is for you and for me,
Where Jesus of Nazareth stands;
The King of all kingdoms forever is He,
And He holdeth our crowns in His hands.
Oh, how sweet it will be in that beautiful land,
So free from all sorrow and pain,
With songs on our lips and with harps in our hands,
To meet one another again!"
"That must be the place, grandpa, for it says Jesus is there, and that
we'll meet one another again."
"Yes, yes, child, it's the place, I'm mighty sure of that, and I'm so
glad we're a-goin' to find it. I'll like it so much better than the
city. I wonder I ain't gone before."
The two sang and talked till the twilight began to fall, then they heard
Mrs. Gray shuffling up the stairs.
"Now don't fergit and tell, Rosa," hurriedly whispered grandpa.
"Oh, no indeed, and we'll go the very first chance we have. Won't mother
be glad to see us?"
"Land sakes, Rosa, you look and act a heap like you'd jest lost your ma.
I heard that fiddle and you a-singin' with grandpa long before I got up
the steps. But it is real lucky fer you, though, that I'll have you to
manage till spring. You'll learn how to do somethin' a-stayin' here with
me, or I'll miss my guess.
"Why ain't you got a brisker fire started up fer supper? Do it right
this minute. It'll be somethin' new fer you to have a cooked meal every
day, and sometimes two or three of them. But you'll have to earn them
first, or eat by yourself, and jest what you can git.
"I ain't a-goin' to keep you fer nothin'. Hurry up now, fer I'm cold,
and my ankle's 'most a-killin' me. Father'd ought to be shook yet, fer
causin' me so much trouble. No tellin' how much longer it'll pain me,
and I shouldn't wonder if it'd lay me up."
Thus rudely was Rosa's reverie broken in upon, bringing her face to face
with her present dingy surroundings in general, and with Mrs. Gray in
particular. Her first impulse was to run home, then in agony she
remembered that her mother was not there.
Patiently she worked away till the fire was started. Mrs. Gray's bulky
form in the meantime was swinging energetically back and forth in the
one rocking chair of her two-room apartment, while her voluble tongue
wagged mercilessly on.
"You can cook them potatoes and fry some mush and make me a cup of tea.
You and father can drink water; tea ain't good fer children nohow, ha,
ha!
"Ugh, this fire feels good! I'm glad I ain't where your ma is tonight."
"Why, Mis' Gray," half sobbed Rosa, "didn't mother go to the beautiful
land?"
"You be still and git supper, and don't ask me no questions!"
"There, there, dearie, don't cry! Of course your ma went there." It was
grandpa who spoke.
"A heap you know about it, father, and I jest want you to keep still,
too!
"Look out there! Don't you spatter no grease a-fryin' that mush, or
you'll wish you hadn't. I believe in the good old-fashioned rod, and
there's one stuck up over that door, handy like. See it?"
To her great dismay, looking in the direction indicated, Rosa beheld a
cruel whip, the first one ever intended for her. Her little frame shook
so violently from fear that grandpa could endure it no longer.
"Tut, tut, Sary; Rosa ain't the child to need no whippin', and don't
skeer the poor lamb so.
"Never mind, dearie," reaching out for her a withered hand, "Sary don't
mean it; Sary's a good woman, yes, a very good woman."
"Father, I want you to remember right now that you ain't to put no say
in when I correct her. There ain't but one boss here, and that's me, so
there! Do you understand? I 'spose not, though, fer you ain't got no
sense. You're tryin' enough, goodness knows, that there ain't many but
what'd use the rod on you."
So blinded by tears that she could not see what she was doing, by
accident Rosa dropped a piece of the fried mush upon the floor.
"There!" shrieked Mrs. Gray, "what did I tell you? I'm a-goin' to lick
you this very minute, now you jest see. I guess you'll learn to mind
after I've done it a few times."
"Grandpa!" and with a bound Rosa jumped into the old man's outstretched
arms, while tears chased each other in quick succession down his faded
cheeks.
Making an effort to arise hastily from her chair, Mrs. Gray with a sharp
cry of pain, suddenly sank backward again.
"Oh, my ankle's plum give out--I can't take one step! But you never
mind, I'll lick you some other time, and you needn't fergit it neither.
Git right down and clean up that mush, and fix some hot water fer me to
put my foot in."
Seeing the helpless condition of the tyrant, Rosa waited long enough
before obeying to kiss grandpa, and for him to whisper encouragingly:
"Never mind, dearie; we'll go the very first chance we have, and if we
can't do no better, we'll run off."
[Illustration: "There!" shrieked Mrs. Gray, "what did I tell you?" (Page
44.)]
With some degree of composure, Rosa performed her tasks, for evidently,
judging from the groans of the patient, the promised "lickin'" would be
indefinitely postponed.
While eating supper, Mrs. Gray divided her attentions about equally
between the two helpless victims of her wrath. The sprained ankle was
entirely due to the fact that grandpa was gone twenty minutes instead of
fifteen, and that she, obliging woman that she was, took it upon herself
to make all the arrangements for Mrs. Browning, instead of looking after
her own welfare. Not many could be found who would do half as much for
others as she.
The grease from that mush would stay in the floor all winter, seriously
injuring her reputation of being the best housekeeper in the thickly
populated building. She never could endure dirt and disorder, though
poverty-striken from the day she married Tom Gray.
On the whole, Rosa was so thoroughly miserable that very little supper
could she eat. The thought that she and grandpa would soon find the
beautiful land and mother, was all that gave her even the slightest ray
of hope. "But," she added mentally, "I am sure mother would tell me to
stay and take care of Mis' Gray till she can walk again. She always did
do more talking than anything else, mother said so, mebbe she won't whip
me."
The evening was long and gloomy, but Rosa was kept busily employed,
carrying out the peremptory commands of the cripple. She bathed and
tenderly rubbed the offending ankle till her arm ached cruelly.
At last, with a sigh of relief, wrapping herself up in a blanket and
lying down upon the floor, she dreamed till morning of mother, the
beautiful land, and of Jesus who paid the fare.
For three weeks Mrs. Gray was unable to take a step except by using a
crutch, the pain at times being so severe that sewing was out of the
question.
Her slender savings not being sufficient to meet the emergency of the
case, Rosa in her spare moments was obliged to run errands, tend babies
while the mothers were out working, or to do anything else chancing to
come her way.
Her allowance of food often was meager, though never once did she
complain. Every day she was growing more thin and pale, her eyes more
large and lustrous, while her heart was almost breaking.
Night after night the swollen ankle had to be gently rubbed, or Mrs.
Gray could not sleep. No word of praise ever escaped the cruel lips, but
fretting, scolding, and threats of the much talked of "lickin'" for that
grease spot upon the floor were the only reward the weary little worker
ever received.
There was one, however, though his mind was badly shattered, who saw
and understood, causing the feeble old man to suffer quite as intensely
as did the child.
They could snatch opportunities only now and then for a word, fearing
that the ever-vigilant Mrs. Gray might discover their cherished secret.
"Be brave, dearie," grandpa would sometimes whisper, "the very first
chance, you know!" Then Rosa's pensive face would light up with a smile
angelic, reflecting some of the very beauty itself of the land of which
they were so earnestly thinking.
One Thursday afternoon, just as Mrs. Gray was beginning to walk again,
the postman stopped with a letter, a rare occurrence.
"Land sakes, who can it be from?" she exclaimed, scrutinizing the
envelope quite long enough to have read the letter through.
"I'd like to awful well," at last she soliloquized, "but don't 'spose
it'd be safe to leave grandpa and Rosa here alone. No tellin' what
they'd be up to. There ain't many that'd be as self-sacrificin' as I am,
and keep an old man that ain't got a drop of your own blood, then take
in as good as a street waif, too. If it wuzn't fer them, I'd do it, I
jest would!"
Rosa's curiosity was aroused, but experience had taught her the futility
of asking questions.
"Rosa," commanded the speaker, "bring me that tin can up there on the
shelf.
"I guess I could manage the streetcar fare," she announced a few
minutes later, counting over several times Rosa's earnings in pennies,
nickels and dimes.
"My old neighbor over on the south side wants me to come tomorrow and
stay till Monday. Bein' that I've had it so awful hard, I jest guess
I'll do it, and you can git along the best way you can. Let me see: I'll
go tomorrow afternoon, and be gone all day Saturday and Sunday and till
late Monday afternoon. I'll leave you fifteen cents apiece to live on,
and I guess you won't starve."
Instinctively grandpa and Rosa cast a glance at each other. At last
their opportunity had come, and a better one by far than for which they
had dared to hope!
The time intervening between the reception of the letter and her
departure, Mrs. Gray spent mostly in giving directions to her two
charges, as she delighted to call them.
After having gone down the first flight of stairs, she called back:
"Rosa, I'll lick you sure if you git another speck of grease on that
there floor, while I'm gone."
But Rosa heeded not. Tomorrow she and grandpa would start for the
beautiful land and mother, for Jesus had paid all the fare.
[Illustration]
V.
THE WAY SOUGHT.
Early the next morning Rosa and grandpa were up, eagerly preparing for
the events of the day, their every motion evidencing a subdued
excitement, while joy beamed from their eyes.
"I'm going to make you some tea, grandpa, 'cause it's cold, and I think
you'll feel better to drink it. Mis' Gray told me I shouldn't touch it,
but since we're going away, I guess it won't make no difference. We may
have to travel a good ways, you know. Mother used to drink tea, when we
could afford it, before starting out to work all day. My, ain't I glad
we're going to find mother! And she won't be coughing no more. I want to
see her so bad. Of course Mis' Gray has been good to give me a home, but
I'd rather be with mother. She's different some way, and I love her so.
It seems so long since she went away."
"Thank you, dearie, fer this tea; it's real bracin' like, and I can't
remember when I've had none before Tom used to git it fer me, and
anything else I wanted.
"Yes, I'm mighty glad we're a-goin', mighty glad, fer I'm a-gittin'
homesicker all the time. I think we'll find Tom, too, and Tom's mother.
There's a lot I want to tell 'em. Sary's so busy, she don't have no time
to talk to me.
"Last night I dreamed ag'in that I wuz in the little white meetin' house
with the steeple a-pintin' straight up. The green vines a-wavin' in the
breeze wuz a-growin' all over it, and the roses smelled so pretty. And
the man wuz a-readin' out of the Book, Rosa. Wish I could read, then I'd
know it fer myself."
"What was he reading about, grandpa?"
"Dunno as I can tell you, child, only somethin' about a river, and a
tree by it, and fruit, and the folks don't git sick no more, and--well,
I can't tell you, Rosa, but hurry up, let's start! When we git there,
we'll know all about it then."