She drew Bessie Bell closer to her, and she said: "Sister Helen
Vincula, can you doubt?"
Bessie Bell stood contentedly where the lady held her, and she looked
first at the night-gown and then at the lady, then at Sister Helen
Vincula. She did not know or care what it was all about--she scarcely
wondered.
"Sister Helen Vincula," said the lady, "I know past all doubting that I
worked this name. You believe that. Much more past all doubting do
you not know--You must know--"
"Ah," said Sister Helen Vincula, "I hope with you." She reached for the
little night-gown, and she smoothed it in her fingers. "Ah," she said,
"the child has grown since she has been with us, so much, but the
little gown--it looks--really smaller to me--"
But the lady was not listening to Sister Helen Vincula. She had her
arms about Bessie Bell's shoulders and was looking into her face.
"I am glad I brought the little gown," Sister Helen Vincula was saying;
"the child was so ill, so fearfully thin, I feared--it was only a
fancy--I feared--"
"No, no, no," cried the lady, drawing Bessie Bell closer.
"Now nearly two years she has been with us," said Sister Helen Vincula.
"She was just old enough to be put to the table in a high chair," said
the lady. "Ah, how she did laugh and crow and jump when her father
took the peacock-feather-fly-brush from the maid, and waved it in front
of her! She would seize the ends of the feathers, and laugh and crow
louder than ever, and hide her laughing little face deep into the
feathers--Ah me--"
But Bessie Bell said nothing, nor remembered anything. For she did not
know that the lady was talking of something green, and blue, and soft,
and brown.
And it was Sister Justina, and not Sister Helen Vincula, who had told
her to be ashamed when she had cried: Pretty! Pretty! Pretty! as the
something green, and blue, and soft, and brown was waved to and fro in
front of her until she seized it and buried her little face in it for
the joy--of remembering--
So Sister Helen Vincula did not know, and Bessie Bell did not remember,
while the lady talked.
Only long after, when Bessie Bell grew much larger, it happened that
whenever she saw an old-fashioned peacock-feather-fly-brush--at first,
just for a second, she felt very glad; and then, just for a second, she
felt very sorry; and she never knew or could remember why. She forgot
after awhile how she had been so full of sorrow when Sister Justina
said, Be Ashamed, and she could no longer remember why she was glad;
only a feeling of both was left--and she could not tell how or why.
But the lady would not let Bessie Bell get far from her, and Bessie did
not care to go far from her. She stood with her little pink hands
folded, and looked up at the lady who held to her so closely.
Sister Helen Vincula said: "It was Sister Theckla who spent that summer
with the sick, and it was Sister Theckla who brought the child to us.
Can you not go home with us? Or I could write to you at once--"
"No," said the lady. "I will go. The child shall not leave me--'
"And we will talk to Sister Theckla, and she will tell us all that she
knows, and then--God willing--we shall know all."