thing which lay in his way, with a reckless, headlong speed, that soon
brought him to the spot. Thanks to his wild, rambling life, Lem knew
every foot of the mountain, and, even as he went, thought of what he
might do, quite sure that he could keep his footing on that narrow
ledge, if he could but once reach it. How well he had done, we know;
and Lem knew right well himself, and meant that others should know it
too. Too much puffed up in his own conceit, he certainly was; but we
must remember how ignorant he was, and even this was better than that
he should feel himself the miserable, degraded outcast of a few weeks
since, whose "hand was against every man, and every man's hand against
him."
He had not seen Mr. Stanton since the day of the accident; for, now
that his wife was ill, the gentleman had not the time and attention to
give to him and Dolly that he had before; but he knew that he was not
forgotten, for more than one kind message had been sent to him.
"Think I could get a sight of my gentleman, to-day?" he asked of Mrs.
Bradford.
"Of my brother?" said the lady. "Yes, I think so; he said he would see
you when you came to the Lake House."
"That was a fustrate job I did for him--getting the lady up; now,
warn't it? He said he'd never forget it."
"We shall none of us forget it," said Mrs. Bradford; "but, Lem, when
one has done a great kindness to another person, it is better not to
talk of it too much."
"No, I aint goin' to," said Lem, with a self-satisfied air. "I'll tell
you if it hadn't been for me, the lady would have been gone afore
those fellers got there with the ropes. He couldn't ha' held on much
longer, and like enough they'd both gone down together."
Mrs. Bradford shuddered at the thought.
"Now, what do you s'pose he's goin' to do for me?" continued Lem.
"Somethin' fustrate?"
"I think he is going to try to teach you to do right, and to put you
in the way of earning an honest living, Lem. What would you like him
to do for you?"
"Well," said Lem, "you give me these clothes, and now I'd just as
lieve he'd give me one of his old hats and a red shirt; so I'd be
decent-like; and then I'd like him to get me to be an engine driver on
one of them railroads. If it wasn't for Dolly I'd like to be sent off
on a ship to the place where the tigers and elephants is, so I could
hunt 'em. But then she'd be lonesome after me; and if I was engine
driver, I could come home every spell and see her. And I'm goin' to
fix her a fustrate home, when I get a livin'. But I was thinkin'
what will I do with her meantime. Do you think if _he_ spoke a word
for her, Porters would let her stay round their place? I guess she
wouldn't plague 'em none now; and, when she gets well, she could do
errands and such like for them."
Mrs. Bradford thought this a fitting time to tell Lem what he must
know sooner or later.
"Dolly is going to a better home than any that you or we can give her,
Lem," she said, gently. "She is going to that home which Jesus has
made ready for her,--His own bright, glorious heaven, where she will
never be tired or sick or hungry any more."
Lem stopped short in the path, and turned to the lady.
"She aint, I tell you," he said, fiercely. "You mean she's a goin' to
be an angel,--what she's always talking about nowadays,--and she'll
have to die for that,--_he_ said so,--and she aint agoin' to. She's
better now, I know; for she don't screech out with the pain like she
used to."
"No," said Mrs. Bradford, standing still beside him, as he looked
down the path after Dolly and her bearers, "she does not suffer as she
did; but she is more ill and grows weaker every day. She cannot live
many days, Lem; and she knows that she is going to Jesus, and wanted
that you should be told."
Lem set down the flower-pots, and dug his knuckles into his eyes.
"She shan't neither," he exclaimed. "I'm goin' to ask _him_ to make
her well. He can do it, I know; and, if he will, I won't ask him for
nothin' else along of the good turn I done him, gettin' up the lady."
"My poor boy," said Mrs. Bradford, pityingly, "neither my brother, nor
any other person can do more for Dolly than to make her comfortable
for the few days she will be here. Her life is not in his hands, or
in the doctor's, but in those of God, who sees best to take her to
Himself."
Lem threw himself passionately upon the ground.
"'Taint fair," he sobbed. "She's all I've got, and I always was good
to her, now; ask her if I wasn't. I always gave her half what I got,
and I saved her many a beatin'."
"Yes," said Mrs. Bradford, sitting down beside him, and laying her
hand with a soothing touch upon his arm, "Dolly says you have been a
good brother to her, and the only thing that makes her sorry to go is
the fear that you may miss her."
"Like enough I'll miss her," said Lem, in a sullen kind of sorrow.
"But," said Mrs. Bradford, "you may see her again if you will live so
that Jesus may some day take you to dwell with Him in His glorious
home. Will you not try to do this, Lem?"
"Couldn't no way," replied Lem, sitting upright; "they say only good
folks get to heaven, and don't you know they say I'm the worst boy
here about? They used to say Doll was the worst girl too, and--don't
you tell nobody I said it--she did do a heap of bad things, that's so!
How's she goin' to get to heaven?"
"God says in His Word, 'believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and thou
shalt be saved.' Dolly does believe on her Saviour, and He will wash
her soul from all its sin and fit it to live with Him. He has given
her but little time to serve Him on earth since she has learned to
love and trust Him; but she is doing all that she can: she is sorry
for past sin, and whatever she thinks Jesus would like her to do, she
tries to do."
"She's gettin' awful good, that's true," said Lem. "She made you take
back old Miss Mapes' handkercher, and made me go and tell Miss Jones
she was sorry for unhookin' her clothes-line and lettin' down the
clothes in the dirt; and, oh! do you think, there's the biggest kind
of a squash down in Todd's cornfield, and I was a goin' to get it for
_him_, and Dol coaxed me not. She said 'twant right; and, when I said
I guessed God had liever he'd have it than Farmer Todd, she said, No:
God gave it to Todd, and so he ought to have it. She was so set about
it, I had to tell her I wouldn't take it."
"Such things show Dolly's true repentance and love to her Saviour,"
said Mrs. Bradford. "If we wish to please Jesus and come to Him, and
are truly sorry for the wrong things we have done, we will try to undo
them so far as we can."
She talked to Lem a little more of Dolly's new hope, and the Saviour's
great love and forgiveness, and then told him they had better go on.
"Wonder what she wants these for, if she's goin' away to leave 'em,"
said Lem, sorrowfully, as he took up his flower-pots.
"Sick people often take such fancies," said Mrs. Bradford; "and when
Dolly has gone you will be glad to think that you have pleased her by
even such a small thing as caring for her plants."
"And I do think they've picked up a bit," said Lem. "See, this one has
two buds on it. I wouldn't wonder if they made flowers."
When Mrs. Bradford and Lem reached the tool-house, or "Dolly's
home," as the children now called it, they found the sick girl laid
comfortably in the neat bed which had been provided for her; while
Mrs. Rush and Mrs. Porter were beside her, feeding her with some nice
beef-tea.
"Good Lem," she cried, when she saw the flower-pots; and then, turning
to Mrs Porter, she asked, "Could you let them stay here?"
"To be sure, child," said Mrs. Porter; and Mrs. Bradford, taking
the flower-pots from Lem, placed them in the little casement window
opposite to Dolly's bed. Dolly looked pleased, but she was too much
worn out to say more; and, when she had taken her tea, turned her face
on her pillow, and fell into the most quiet sleep she had had since
her illness.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
XVII.
_DOLLY GOES HOME._
DAY after day of the lovely September weather passed by, bringing
change to God's world without and within. The days were warm and
sunny, but the nights were cool; and now and then came the quiet
frost, painting the grand old forest-trees and their clinging vines.
The Virginia creepers--always the first to change--turned a bright
crimson; here and there a maple flung out a scarlet branch, like a
gorgeous banner in the air; while chestnuts and birch showed a few
golden leaves, in beautiful contrast to the vivid green of the foliage
which was yet untouched.
Each day Aunt Bessie improved. She came out among the family once
more, and sat with them in hall, parlor, and piazza, and even took
short drives and walks, though she was still pale, and the poor hurt
arm could not yet be taken from the sling. But, as she said, she had
now a dozen pairs of hands instead of one, for all were anxious to
serve her, and could not do enough for the dear treasure they had so
nearly lost.
But, though strength and health came to her with tender nursing and
the lovely air and sunny days, they did not bring them to the poor
little waif who had been cast upon the care and pity of these kind
friends. She did not suffer much now, except when the cough racked her
poor little wasted frame; but she grew weaker and weaker, and all knew
that the end must soon come. Dolly had long been ailing, far more so
than she imagined. Lem knew no more than herself, and there had been
no one else to care for her. There had been no mother's quickened ear
to mark the warning cough, no mother's loving eye to see the sunken
cheek, no mother's tender hand to guard her child from damp and cold;
and so the trouble had gone on unheeded and unchecked, till the night
spent in the Ice Glen had finished the mischief already at work.
Maggie and Bessie came in to see her very often, bringing her fruit
and flowers, and now and then some other little offering; some dainty
which had been given to themselves and saved for her, a picture or a
toy. For the toys she did not care much; indeed, they were so new to
her that she scarcely understood them, and was too weak to play with
them; but the pictures always interested her, especially one of Christ
blessing little children, which Bessie had brought her. She would lie
for hours with this in her hand, looking at it now and then with a
pleased, happy smile, which said that it told its own story to her.
But as the poor little body grew weaker, her love and trust in her
Saviour grew stronger and brighter. A very simple faith was that of
poor Dolly; but she knew in whom she had trusted,--the Jesus who had
died on the cross to save her soul and fit it for His heaven; and who
had said, "Suffer little children to come unto me." And the "little
one," as she called Bessie, had told her that Jesus meant _all_ little
children; that whoever would, might come to this blessed Saviour, and
he would take them in His arms, and love and care for them. And Dolly
"loved Him because he had first loved" her, and longed to go and live
with Him for ever in that bright world where she had been told He
waited for her.
It was wonderful to see how, without any direct teaching, she caught
the words of the hymns the children sang to her, and how she would fit
them to herself and her own needs.
As for Lem, he watched her with a sort of dumb sorrow which was
touching to see. When he first saw Mr. Stanton, he made a piteous
appeal to him, "to get her well, not to let her die;" and when the
gentleman told him, as Mrs. Bradford had done, that he could do
nothing, and that life and death were in the hands of God, who saw fit
to take Dolly to Himself, he refused to speak or think of any thing
for his own good.
"Lem," said Dolly to him one day, "why don't you be glad I'm going to
Jesus? I'm glad. I asked Him a many times to take me."
"'Cause I can't," said Lem, sullenly. "I thought we was goin' to get
along fustrate if _he_ looked after us; but 'taint no good gettin' to
be engine driver now, if you're goin' away."
"Oh, yes, it is!" said Dolly; "and you'll be good, won't you, Lem, and
not steal no more, and try to come to Jesus too; and I'll ask Him to
help you like He helped me?"
"I don't see as it's much help to make you sick and let you die," said
Lem.
"I don't know," said Dolly. "I guess, maybe it's just the bein' sick
and dyin' is a good help. You know, Lem, if I hadn't a been sick and
the little one found me there, I'd never a heard about Jesus, and
I guess the best help He can give me is to take me right up there.
I asked little one t'other day how she come in that out-of-the-way
place, where I thought nobody never come 'cept for hidin', and she
said the man brought her; but she thought Jesus sent him, so she
could tell me 'bout Him. I guess He did too; I guess He knew I was
lonesome and tired, and would like to be an angel. Don't you think
that was help, Lem; and wasn't He good to let it come to me?"
This had been said with many a pause and very feebly, for Dolly was
too weak to talk much now; and a sudden fit of coughing took away her
breath before Lem could answer.
The dying child had never lost her interest in the poor, sickly
marigolds in her pots. They had for some reason, too, thrived rather
better in their new home, and the two buds Lem had pointed out to
Mrs. Bradford had grown larger, and one of them was now opening
into a ragged, stunted flower. But it was very beautiful in poor
Dolly's eyes, for she had raised and cared for it herself; and no
other blossom could be so lovely for her. But the more she loved and
cherished her own plant, the more bitterly did she grieve over the
destruction of the gardens of the two little girls who had been so
kind and forgiving to her. She knew for what purpose they had taken
so much pains with them, especially with the heliotrope and geranium
which had been so ruthlessly torn to pieces; for Mrs. Porter had told
her, and her sorrow and repentance were very bitter and very sincere.
One Sunday morning, towards the end of September, Maggie and Bessie
went over with their mother to see her. She was lying with her sunken
eyes fixed on the marigolds, which stood on a small table beside the
bed; and, oh, how wan, white, and wasted she looked! Yet there was a
look of perfect peace on the poor face; and, when the children came
in, she turned to them with a bright smile.
"They're coming on nice, aint they?" she said; "don't they look
pretty?"
Maggie and Bessie were rather uncomfortable, for they did not think
the forlorn marigolds pretty, and they did not wish to hurt Dolly's
feelings by saying so; but mamma came to their relief, by saying, as
she could with truth,--
"It has agreed with your pets to be up here, Dolly; they have done
better since you came."
"Yes," said Dolly; and then asked, "Could you give me a nice bit of
white paper and a scissor?"
"Certainly," said Mrs. Bradford, and sent Maggie over to the house for
these things.
When Maggie came back, Dolly wanted to raise herself and take the
things from her, but could not do it. Mrs. Bradford put her arm
under the pillow and lifted her. Then the child tried to fold and
cut the paper; but the trembling fingers had no power, and paper and
scissors fell from them; while Dolly looked about her with a piteous,
disappointed air.
"What is it you want, Dolly?" asked Mrs. Bradford; "cannot we do it
for you?"
"I know," said Lem; "she wants to fix up her posy, like the gardener
fixes 'em up to the big farm." Lem meant the homestead. "She seen him
through the hedge, one day, doin' of it, and she said this mornin' she
wanted hers fixed up that way."
Mrs. Bradford understood at once. Poor, simple Dolly had seen the
gardener shielding his choice blossoms by a circlet of fringed paper;
and she would fain do as much for the stunted little favorite which
was so lovely in her eyes.
"Maggie will cut it for you," said the lady; and, under her mother's
direction, Maggie's deft little fingers soon prepared the paper to
suit Dolly.
But she could not be satisfied without putting it about the flower
with her own hands, while Lem held the pot for her; and it was
touching to see how the poor, wasted fingers fluttered feebly about
the blossom that was to outlive her,--touching it so tenderly, and
folding the fringed paper about it with such care. It was done at
last, and, as Mrs. Bradford laid her back, she looked at her work with
a contented smile; and then, exhausted with the effort, closed her
eyes, and whispered faintly, "Sing."
The little ones sang her favorite hymns, until she slept,--slept the
last sleep which was to know an awakening upon earth,--and then stole
softly out with their mother.
But mamma was back and forth all day,--far more so than usual; and in
the afternoon, when the hour came for Sunday school, the children,
knowing she was there, ran over to give her a kiss before they went to
their class.
"We'll ask Dolly what she wants us to sing," said Maggie; "for you
know she can hear us quite well from our Sunday bower."
The door stood open, for the day was so soft and warm, that, save
for the changing leaves which showed that autumn was at hand,
they might have thought themselves in midsummer. It was a lovely
afternoon,--scarce a breath of air was stirring, and the lake lay
calm and placid, the trees and rocks reflected on its surface with
surprising clearness. A Sabbath hush was in the air; a kind of glory
from the golden sunshine seemed to fall on all around,--on lake and
mountain, woods and rocks, on the lawn and the cosy old house. It
streamed through the lattice of Dolly's little window too, and fell
upon the small head which lay on the pillow. Mrs. Porter would have
shut it out; but Dolly murmured, "No, no," and seemed to like it.
There was even a deeper stillness within the room than without, for
there was an angel waiting there, and those who watched little Dolly
felt his presence.
The children felt the solemn hush; and their little feet paused upon
the threshold of the open door. Mamma and papa were there, Uncle
Ruthven and Mrs. Porter; and poor Lem, crouched at Mr. Stanton's feet,
his hands clasped about his knees, his head bent upon them.
Mamma put out her hand, and beckoned to the children; and, with
careful steps, they came to the bedside.
"Would you like to speak to my little girls, Dolly?" asked Mrs.
Bradford, gently.
Dolly opened her eyes, and fixed them on the children, with a wistful
smile.
"You was good to Doll," she said, in a faint whisper. "Jesus sent you.
He loves you, 'cause you was good--and--I'll be an angel--and tell
Him--you teached me about Him, and--He'll love you more. Good-by."
"Good-by, Dolly," said Bessie, not knowing this was to be the last
good-by, and yet with the tears gathering in her eyes.
"Good-by, Dolly," whispered Maggie; "we are going to our Sunday
school, and you will hear us sing."
"We'll think a good deal about you, and sing all your hymns, shall
we?" asked Bessie.
"Rest for the weary," sighed Dolly.
"My darlings," said mamma, "ask Aunt May to leave the lessons for this
afternoon, and let you sing as long as you can;" and drawing them to
her, she kissed first one, and then the other, with a long, tender
kiss.
Dolly's eyes followed them, as they went out, and then came back to
Mrs. Bradford's face with a longing, wistful look.
"What is it, my child?" asked the lady.
"I guess, if I'd had a mother, she'd kiss me, like that,--don't you?"
"Shall I kiss you, Dolly?" asked Mrs. Bradford, with tearful eyes.
"Could you?" said Dolly, with a brightening look.
Warm from the loving mother's heart came the motherly kiss, which
Dolly had never known before; and with a long, satisfied sigh, she
again closed her eyes.
Then came the sweet voices of the children and their teacher, hymn
after hymn of infant praise floating in, as it seemed, on that soft,
shimmering sunshine, and filling the little room with music. Dolly
lay still, and they could not tell whether she were listening or not.
Presently, she opened her eyes again, started, and murmured,--
"Oh! I don't want to go in the Ice Glen; it's dark and cold,"--then,
more gently, "well, never mind; Jesus will take care of me, I
guess,--yes, Jesus will. He'll let me--be an angel--to praise
Him--day--and--night. He does--care--for me."
Slowly, slowly the words dropped from her lips; then came one or two
fluttering sighs; and a little ransomed soul, thirsting for the water
of life, had flown away, and was safe within the bosom of Him who has
said, "Suffer little children to come unto me." The little, weary,
homesick child had gone home to the love that never fails, to the care
that never tires.
Lem came over to the Lake House, the next day, carrying one of Dolly's
flower-pots on each arm; and, setting them down before Maggie and
Bessie, who were on the piazza with Uncle Ruthven and Aunt Bessie,
drew his sleeve across his eyes, and said,--
"She telled me I was to bring 'em to you, and say, maybe they'd go a
little bit to make up for the sp'ilin' of your gardens, and maybe,
when the flowers was out, they'd do to go to the show. That was what
she was settin' so much by 'em for, when she lay a dyin'."
The tears which had not fallen over the happy little child who had
gone to be an angel, fell fast over the simple tokens of gratitude and
repentance she had left behind her; and faithful was the care bestowed
upon them by our Maggie and Bessie.
Not with any thought of taking them to the flower show, however; it
was only for Dolly's sake: it would never do to display these wretched
little plants beside some of the really beautiful and flourishing
things which their more fortunate brothers and cousins had raised.
Besides, these were not of their own growing, and Maggie and Bessie
had, long since, given up all thought of trying for a prize.
A few days after Dolly's death, Mrs. Bradford took up Maggie's second
volume of "The Complete Family," which she had not looked over for
some time, and there she found written something which touched her
very much. Mingled with many other things, giving an account of their
summer among the mountains, and written in Maggie's own droll,
peculiar way, ran the story of Lem and Dolly, of their persecutions,
and of the difficulty she and Bessie had had in forgiving their many
injuries; but all that was not new to the mother, who now read for the
first time what Maggie had written during the last week. It ran thus,
leaving out Maggie's mistakes:--