"I hope so, little girl," the lady said.
"I thought, maybe, you were a Sister," said Bessie Bell.
"No," said the lady.
"Like Sister Mary Felice, and Sister Angela, and Sister Helen Vincula,"
said Bessie Bell.
"No," said the lady.
"Are you a Mama, then?" asked Bessie Bell.
The lady looked as if she were going to cry.
But Bessie Bell could see nothing to cry about. The band was still
playing ever so gaily, and all the little children looked so beautiful
and so happy, all playing and running hither and thither on the sawdust
walks, that it was good just to look at them.
But on the instant Bessie Bell remembered how sorrowful it was to cry
when you could not understand things, so she quickly reached out her
little pink hand and laid it on the lady's hand--just because she knew
how sorrowful it felt to feel like crying and not to know.
"You see," said Bessie Bell gently, as she softly patted the lady's
hand, "you see, you do look something like a Sister,--but," said Bessie
Bell, "I believe you do look more like a Mama."
"Little girl," said the lady, "what do you mean?"
And she still looked as if she might cry.
"Yes," said Bessie Bell, for she had begun to think very hard, "Alice
has a mama. Robbie has a mama. Lucy has a mama. Everybody has a
mama. Never mind, Bessie Bell will find a mama--"
"Little girl," said the lady, "why do you say, Bessie Bell--?"
When the lady said that it seemed to Bessie Bell that she heard
something sweet--something away off beyond what the band was playing,
so she just clapped her hands and laughed out loud, and said over and
over as if it were a little song:
"Bessie Bell! Bessie, Bessie, Bessie Bell!"
But the lady at her side looked down at the child as if she were
afraid. Bessie Bell knew how sorrowful it was to be afraid, so she
stopped patting her hands and laughing,--for she didn't know why she
had begun to do it--and she laid her hand again on the lady's hand,
just because she knew how sorrowful it was to be afraid.
But Bessie Bell could not see anything to be afraid of: the band was
playing just as gaily as ever, and the children, and the nurses, and
the babies, and the parasols were as gay as ever.
"Where is your mama?" asked the lady, taking fast hold of the little
hand that patted her hand.
"Everybody has a mama--never mind--"
"But where is your mama?" asked the lady again.
Bessie Bell had begun to wonder and so had forgotten to answer.
"Child, where is your mama?" said the lady again, still holding fast to
Bessie Bell's hand.
"But--I don't know," said Bessie Bell.
Then the lady looked as if she had begun to wonder, too, and she seemed
to be looking away off; away off, but how closely she held Bessie
Bell's hand--closer than Sister Angela, or Sister Theckla, or even
Sister Helen Vincula, or Sister Justina--
Then Bessie Bell began to wonder still more, and to remember, as the
lady held fast to her little fingers. She began to talk her thinking
out loud, and she said: "Yes, there was a window--where everything was
green, and, small, and moving--but Sister Justina said there was not
any window like that in the whole world--"
The lady held Bessie Bell's hand very hard, and she said--softly, as if
she, too, was talking her thinking aloud:
"Yes, there was a window like that in the world, for just outside the
nursery-window there grew a Pride of China Tree, and it filled all the
window with small, green, moving leaves--"
Then Bessie Bell just let the lady draw her up close, and she leaned up
against the lady.
She felt so happy now, for she knew she had found the Wisest Woman in
the world, for this lady knew the things that little girls only could
remember. If she had thought about it she would have told the lady
about the tiny apple-trees with the very, very small apples on them,
and other rows of apple-trees over those, and other rows on top of
those, and on top of all a row of big round red apples.
Then the lady might have said: Yes, there were apple-trees like that in
the world, for all the nursery walls were papered like that, with a row
of big round red apples at the top.
But Bessie Bell did not think of or remember that then; she just leaned
up against the lady and swung one of her little feet up and down, back
and forth, as she sat on the stone bench: she was so happy to have met
the Wisest Woman in the world.
The people who passed by looked, and turned to look again, at the
little girl in the stiff-starched, faded blue checked apron leaning up
against the lady in the crisp, dull silk.
But Bessie Bell did not look at anybody who passed.
And the lady did not look at anybody who passed.
And the band kept on playing gay music.
It was not very long before Sister Helen Vincula came back from seeing
the ladies across the long bridge, and from telling them Good-bye. As
soon as she saw Bessie Bell leaning up against the lady she cried:
"Why, Bessie Bell!"
Bessie Bell said, "Sister Helen Vincula," and she knew she had done
something wrong, but she could only wonder what.
But the lady said very quickly,--and she held Bessie Bell's hand even
harder than before,--she said:
"Sister Helen Vincula, I must ask you something--"
Sister Helen Vincula and the lady talked a long time.
Bessie Bell did not listen very much to what they said.
She did not lean up against the lady now, but she sat close. Sister
Helen Vincula did not seem to mind that.
She did not swing her foot to and fro now, but she still felt very
contented and happy to have met the very Wisest Woman.
When she did listen a little she heard the lady say:
"There came news that my husband was ill in Mobile, and I feared that
it was of the Dreadful Fever, and I hurried there so that I could get
to him before the Dreadful Quarantines were put on. I felt all safe
about the baby, for I left her with my mother and the faithful nurse
who had been my nurse, too. But when the worst had come and was
over,--and it was the Dreadful Fever,--then I tried to get back to my
home; but I could not for many, many days, because the Dreadful
Quarantines were on. Then at last I did get there--I slipped up
secretly by water. All were gone. I could find no one who could tell
me anything. I could find no one who knew anything. The house was
wide open. There was no sign of life, but that the cat came and rubbed
up against me, and walked round and round me. The Dreadful Fever was
everywhere, and nobody could tell me anything; and I searched
everywhere, always and always alone--there was no one to help me:
everyone was trying to save from the Dreadful Fever--"
Bessie Bell did not know what all that was about, but she felt so sorry
for the lady that she squeezed down ever so softly on her hand that
held her own still so tightly.
Sister Helen Vincula wiped her eyes.
The lady kept looking away off, but still held Bessie Bell's hand in
hers.