THE LITTLE WIDOW.
Did she go down-stairs then and tell anybody what she had done? That
would have been the right way, but Kittyleen was only a baby. She felt
sadly frightened, and roved all about the chambers crying, till Dora
Whalen heard her from the back stairs, and took her down to the kitchen
in her arms. "The poor little thing is homesick," thought Dora, and fed
her with raisins.
When Flaxie went up to her mother's room soon afterward, she saw that
the cabinet door was open and the doll gone, and was much troubled,
though not prepared for the worst. After long search, the mangled
remains of the once blooming princess were brought to light, and then
Flaxie's heart almost broke. She could not be comforted, and she could
not forgive Kittyleen. It was of no use suggesting a new head for
the poor, wounded doll. What was her mother thinking of? Didn't she
know that Arozarena was just like a _person_? And who ever heard of
a person's losing one head, and then going and having another fitted
on? "She wouldn't be my own child with a new head and face; and you
wouldn't talk of such a thing, mamma, if you'd ever lost a beautiful
doll like this! You'd see the difference and know how I feel."
[Illustration: KITTYLEEN SCREAMED IN FRIGHT.--Page 21.]
Phil and little Ethel looked on with solemn interest as their elder
sister raved. So sad a day as this had not been known in the house
since Preston's dear dog, Tantra Bogus, ate poison by mistake and
died. Princess Arozarena was almost like living flesh and blood to
these little children. They could not remember the time when she did
not exist, and it was really heartrending to think now of her dire and
unexpected fate.
Mrs. Gray dropped her work and told the children of a sorrow she had
known in her own early youth as grievous as this. She, too, had lost a
bright, particular doll, and it had come to its end by the teeth of a
neighbor's dog.
"Was it a mad dog?" asked Flaxie, with a sob. And Phil wondered if his
mother could have cried.
"Indeed I cried."
"Why, you great, big, grown-up woman! Oh, but you weren't our mother
then, _were_ you? and you couldn't have been if you'd tried, for we
weren't born!"
Having settled this in his mind, Phil saw less absurdity in her crying
over a doll.
"Naughty Kittyleen, pick folks' eyes out," exclaimed little Ethel,
returning to the subject anew. "_Effel_ wouldn't pick eyes out! No,
in-deed!"
Never before had the baby felt herself so good and high-minded, so
worthy of praise.
"_I_ think Kittyleen ought to be shut up in the closet and whipped,"
declared Phil; and this opinion was so gratifying to Flaxie that she
kissed him, and said she should never call him a naughty brother again.
"I suppose mother wouldn't shut her up because she is a visitor, but I
_should_ think she might send her home," muttered Flaxie, angrily.
"My daughter, would you have me send little Kittyleen home in the rain?"
"Yes'm, I think she has stayed long enough," sobbed Flaxie, pressing
her hands in anguish to her bosom.
"But she is such a little thing, hardly more than a baby. I dare say
she never dreamed of spoiling your doll. You can't think the child did
it on purpose!"
"Of course she did! She's the queerest girl," cried Phil, "can't stay
at home, can't let things alone. I think," pursued he, encouraged
by the curling of Flaxie's lip--"I think 'twould be a good plan for
Kittyleen to go to Heaven! Folks don't want her down here!"
"Stop, my son, that will do! we will not talk any longer on this
subject; but Mary, if you please, you may hold some worsted for me to
wind."
Mrs. Gray hoped that a night's sleep would soothe her daughter's grief;
but the little girl awoke next morning as sorrowful as ever. Dark
clouds were still lingering in the wintry sky, and clouds quite as
heavy shut all the sunshine out of poor Flaxie's heart. She came down
to breakfast weeping, a black scarf over her shoulders and a bow of
black ribbon pinned at her throat. She had felt a melancholy desire to
"go into mourning," and let the world know that death or worse than
death had befallen her "only child."
"What does this mean?" asked Dr. Gray, who had quite forgotten
yesterday's tragedy.
Phil spoke for her. He was getting into high favor with his sister by
his zeal in espousing her cause.
"Flaxie's little girl is killed dead, and Flaxie is a _widow_ now,"
said he.
Dr. Gray raised his coffee-cup to his lips to hide a smile. Kittyleen
peeped up at the little "widow" with innocent curiosity, but was
frowned down severely, and began to cry. Her tears, however, were small
and few. She could not possibly grieve much over her own naughtiness,
committed so long ago as yesterday; but even if she had been as sorry
as she ever knew how to be, the nice buckwheat cakes and syrup would
have consoled her.
Mrs. Gray was pained to see that Flaxie still cherished bitter feeling
against a child of that tender age.
"My daughter," said she, after breakfast, "if Kittyleen were older and
had tried wilfully to destroy your doll and make you unhappy, I should
not blame you so much. But just see what a simple, unconscious little
thing she is, hardly wiser than your kitten. Don't you feel really
ashamed of being angry with her?"
"Yes, mamma, I do," replied Flaxie, hanging her head. "But it is hard
to forgive children sometimes, when they ought to be at home, you know,
and not going 'round to other people's houses to make trouble!"
"Is Kittyleen at fault for going where her mother sends her? You are
old enough, my daughter, to be more reasonable. Is this the way you are
beginning to receive the discipline of your life?"
Flaxie knew what "discipline" meant. It was the name her mother gave to
all troubles, both great and small, assuring Flaxie they are sent to
us in love, to do us good, unless, alas, we receive them in a perverse
spirit, and then they only make us worse.
"You _can_ forgive Kittyleen, my child; God will help you; and until
you do it you will have no peace; you will live in darkness and gloom.
Go away by yourself for a while, and when I see you again I hope there
will be a little light in your soul."
About an hour afterward, Flaxie, with a beaming smile, came into the
parlor where her sister Julia sat amusing Kittyleen. She had a plate of
golden-brown cookies in her hand, baked in the form of stars, fishes,
and elephants.
"Here's a star for you, all sugar and spice," said she very pleasantly
to Kittyleen. "And I'll forgive you for scratching my doll all up and
digging her eyes out. She's just ruined, did you know it? _Ruined!_ And
you're a bad little girl; _but I forgive you_!"
"Mary, my child, my child, is _that_ what you meant to say?"
The grieved look on Mrs. Gray's face touched Flaxie's heart in a moment.
"No, mamma, it wasn't what I meant at all. She isn't bad, and I didn't
know I was going to say that. I do forgive you, Kittyleen, really and
truly. You never meant the least harm. Kiss me, darling! Flaxie loves
you just the same, for you're only a baby and didn't know any better."
There was no "half-way work" about this. Kittyleen, perfectly willing
to be forgiven, nestled up to Flaxie and laid her soft cheek against
hers, murmuring, without meaning anything at all,--
"Me vely much obliged."
And at that moment the clouds broke away and the tardy sun came out.
A ray of light shone over Mrs. Gray's face,--partly sunshine from the
sky, and partly an inner sunshine from her happy heart. She was a good
mother, and nothing gave her so much joy as to see her children rise
above selfishness and sincerely strive to do right.
Kittyleen went home after dinner, loaded with toys. Flaxie was the one
to fasten her cloak and tippet, and lead her by the hand to the front
door; but not a word did she say to Martha about the "murder" of her
waxen child. Not a word did any one say about it; and Mrs. Garland
would never have heard of Kittyleen's mischief if the little one had
not told of it herself.
Mr. Garland was quite disturbed, but his wife was too busy painting to
pay much attention.
"My dear," said he, "Mary Gray is an uncommon little girl to bear what
she does from Kittyleen. Suppose, as a reward for her patience, you
send her a handsome present at Christmas."
"Very well," replied Mrs. Garland, serenely, "I'll send her a piece of
the china I'm painting."
"No, no, she won't care anything about that. Buy her something really
pretty," said Mr. Garland, who had no true love for the fine arts, and
secretly wished his wife's paint-tubes and brushes were sunk in the sea.
"Oh, well, you may buy her something yourself! I don't want to bother
my head about it," said Mrs. Garland, drawing a rim of gold around a
teacup.
And Mr. Garland, who could get no help from his wife, was obliged to go
to Mrs. Prim, a particular friend of the Gray family, and ask her what
she thought Flaxie would like for a Christmas present.