"I wisht it wasn't John," said Bess, a little disappointed. "He ought to
have a fine, grand name, he's so splendid. Rich people have nice ways,
that poor people can't seem to get."
"No, they can't get 'em, they can't," Dil repeated, with a despairing
sense of the gulf between. She had never thought much about rich people
before.
"You'd better hide the book, an' the money, 'fore Owny comes in," said
Bess fearfully. "I don't even dast to look at the pictures. But we'll
have it a good many days when mammy's out, an' I must learn to read the
hard words. O Dil! if I had two good legs, I would jump for joy."
Dil wanted to sit down and cry from some unknown excess of feeling--she
never had time to cry from pure joy. But she heeded Bess's admonition,
and hid their precious gifts. Then she stirred the fire and put on the
potatoes. It was beginning to rain, and the boys came in noisily. The
babies went home, and they had supper.
It was quite late when Mrs. Quinn returned home, and she threw a bundle
on the lounge. The boys being in, and Bess out of the way, she had
nothing to scold about. She had had her day's work praised, and a good
supper in the bargain. Then cook had given her a "drap of the craythur"
to keep out the cold. And she could have two days' work every week
"stiddy," so she resolved to throw over some poorer customer.
But when Mrs. Murphy came down with a few potatoes in her hand that she
had borrowed, and full of her wonderful news, Dil's heart sank within
her like lead.
"An' what do ye think?" the visitor began incautiously. "Poor old Mrs.
Bolan is half wild with all the singin' an' the beautiful prisint he gev
her."
"What prisint?" asked Mrs. Quinn peremptorily.
"Why, it was a five-dollar bill. I thought first she'd faint clear away
wid joy."
"What man?" eying them both suspiciously.
Dil's lips moved, but her throat was so dry she could not utter a sound.
"Wan of them Moody an' Sankey men that do be singin' around, an'
prayin'. An' ye niver heard sich an' iligant v'ice even at the free and
easies! Why, Mrs. Quinn, it's my belafe, in spite of the praist, he cud
draw a soul out o' purgatory just wid his singin'. Mrs. Bolan's that
'raptured she does nothin' but quaver about wid her shaky old v'ice. Ah,
dear--ave ye cud hev heard him!"
"To the divil wid him! Comin' round to git money out'v poor folks. I
knows 'em. Dil, did you give him a cint?"
"I didn't have any; but he didn't ast for none," and the poor child had
hard work to steady her voice.
"An' ye'r mistaken, Mrs. Quinn, if ye think the likes of sich a
gentleman would be beggin' of the poor," returned Mrs. Murphy
indignantly. "An' he a-gevin a poor ould craythur five dollars! An' they
do be goin' around a-missionin' with their prayers and hymns."
"I know 'em. An' the praists an' the sisters beggin' the last cint, an'
promisin' to pray ye outen purgatory! Mrs. Murphy," with withering
contempt, "them men cuddent pray ye outen a sewer ditch if ye fell in!
An' I won't have them comin' here--ye hear that, Dilsey Quinn! If I catch
a Moody an' Sankey man here, I'll break ivery bone in his body, an'
yours too; ye hear that now!"
Mrs. Quinn was evidently "spilin' for a fight." Mrs. Murphy went off in
high dudgeon without another word.
But she stopped to pour out her grievance to Mrs. Garrick on her floor.
"Shure, I pity them childers, for their mother do be the worst haythen
an' infidel, not belayvin' a word about her own sowl, an' spindin' her
money for gin as she do. She was a foine-lukin' woman, an' now her eyes
is all swelled up, an' her nose the color of an ould toper. An' that
poor little Bess dyin' afore her very eyes widout a bit of a mass, or
even christenin' I belayve. I'm not that bigoted, Mrs. Garrick, though
the praists do say there bees but the wan way. I'm willin' that people
shall try their own ways, so long as they save their sowls; but pore,
helpless bits of childer that can't know! An' what are their mothers put
in the wurruld for but to tache them? But when ye don't belayve ye have
a sowl of yer own it's awful! There's them b'ys runnin' wild--an' a
moighty good thing it'll be whin they're in the 'form-school, kapin' out
o' jail, an' wuss!"
Dil sat in awful fear when the door had closed behind their neighbor.
She took up Owen's trousers--the rent was sufficient to send any boy
early to bed.
That recalled her mother. She threw the bundle towards Dil.
"There's some clo'es ye kin be fixin' up for Dan, whin ye've so much
time as to be spindin' it on Moody and Sankey men, drat 'em! foolin'
'round an' wastin' valyble time. Next I'll hear that ye've ast in the
organ man an' the monkey, and I'll come home to find ye givin' a pairty.
An' ye'll hev yer head broke for it, that ye will!"
So long as it was not broken now, Dil gave secret thanks. Did God help
any? Then, why didn't he help other times when things were very bad? She
examined the suit, and found it a nice one, rather large for Dan, who
was not growing like a weed, although he ran the streets.
Her mother began to snore. She would be good for some hours' sound
sleep. So Dil stole into the little room, and began to prepare Bess for
bed, though she trembled with a half fear.
"O Dil, I didn't hardly dast to breathe! An' if she'd known _he_ come in
here an' sung, she'd murdered us! An' it made me feel glad like that he
was goin' away, for mammy might happen to be home when he come--though
don't you b'lieve he'd take us away right then? An'--an' wasn't it lucky
you didn't have to tell about the--"
Bess held the bill up in her hand.
"Le's put it in the book, an' hide the book in the bottom of the wagon.
An', Dil, I can't help feeling light like, as if I was goin' to float.
Think of that splendid place, an' no night, an' no winter, an' all
beautiful things. Oh, I wisht he'd gev us the words too; I'm most sure I
could sing 'em. An' the best of all is that mammy won't be there, cause,
you see, 'twouldn't please her any, and I'd be awful feared. She'd
ruther stay here an' drink gin."
They had not gone far enough in the Christian life, poor ignorant little
souls, to have much missionary spirit. But they kissed, and kissed
softly, in the half-dark, and cried a little--tender tears touched with a
sadness that was as sweet as joy.
Dil stepped about cautiously, emptied the grate, and did up her
night-work. There seemed a certainty about heaven that she had not
experienced before, a confidence in John Travis that gave her a stubborn
faith. He would surely return in the spring. They would go out some day
and never, never come back to Barker's Court.
She fell asleep in her visionary journey when she was up beyond Central
Park. She was always so tired, and this night quite exhausted. But Bess
kept floating on a sea of delicious sound; and if ever one had visions
of the promised land, it was Bessy Quinn.
There were seven babies in the next morning, it being a sharp, clear
day. Mrs. Quinn had gone off about her business with no row. When Bess
had been dressed and had her breakfast, they drew out the precious book.
"I'll jes' cover it with a bit of old calico an' no one will mistrust,
for you can jes' slip it down in the carriage. An' we'll get out that
old speller of Owny's, so mother can see that around if we do be taken
by s'prise."
They looked at the pictures as the babies would allow them the leisure,
and spelled out the explanation underneath. It was so wonderful, though
at times they were appalled by the difficulties and dangers. And it was
almost night when they reached the crowning-point of all,--Christiana
going across the river.
_"All the banks beyond the river were full of horses and chariots which
were come down from above to accompany her to the City Gate."_ Her
friends were thronging round. She was entering the river with a fearless
step and uplifted face.
"Why, Dil, she jes' walked right acrost." Bess gave a joyous little
laugh. "You see, she couldn't get drownded, because that Lord Jesus had
made it all right an' safe, jes' as he carried people in his arms. I'm
so glad we know. You see, when we get to the river, an' it will be way,
way above Cent'l Park, when we've been through these giants an' all--an'
I'm _'most_ afraid of thim; but the man did not let 'em hurt her, an'
_he_, our man, won't let 'em hurt us. An' we'll jest step right in the
river,--maybe _he'll_ carry me acrost on account of my poor little
legs,--an' we sha'n't be a mite afraid, for he won't let us drown. O Dil,
it'll be so lovely! An' here's the pallis!"
There was the "throng that no man can number," welcoming Christiana.
Angels with spreading wings and rapturous faces. Her husband coming to
meet her, and the Lord Jesus ministering an abundant welcome.
What a day it was! Never was day so short, so utterly delightful. Some
of the babies were cross: out of seven little poorly born and poorly
nourished babies, there were wants and woes; but Dil hugged them,
cuddled them, crooned to them, with a radiant bliss she had never known
before. She could look so surely at the end.
An old debt of half a dollar came in, and there were thirty-five cents
for the babies. Dan had on his new suit too, and altogether Mrs. Quinn
was remarkably good-natured. Dil felt almost conscience-smitten about
the book--but then the story would have to come out, and alas!
After that they began to read the wonderful story. Dil was not much of a
scholar. Her school-days had been few and far between, never continuous
enough to give her any real interest. Indeed, she had not been bright at
her books, and her mother had not cared. School was something to fill up
the time until children were old enough to go to work. But Dil surely
had enough to fill up her time.
Bess would have far outstripped her in learning. But Dil had a shrewd
head, and was handy with her needle. She possessed what Yankee people
call "faculty;" and her training had given her a sharp lookout for any
short cuts in what she had to do, as well as a certain tact in evading
or bridging over rough places.
But the reading was very hard labor. They did not know the meaning or
the application of words, and their pronouncing ability was indeed
halting.
They had not even attained to the practical knowledge acquired by
mingling with other children. Dil's life had been pathetic in its
solitariness, like the loneliness of a strange crowd. Other children had
not "taken to her." Her days had been all work. She would have felt
awkward and out of place playing with anything but a baby.
Bess found the most similitudes in Christiana. Even John Travis would
have been amused by her literal interpretation. Though it had been
simplified for children's reading, it was far above their limited
capacity. But the pictures helped so much; and when Dil could not get
"the straight of it," when the spiritual part tried and confused their
brains, they turned to Christiana crossing the river and entering
heaven.
Valiant Mr. Greatheart appealed strongly to Bess.
"He's got such a strong, beautiful name," she declared enthusiastically.
"He always comes when there's troubles, an' gettin' lost, an' all that.
I 'most wish _his_ name was Mr. Greatheart. He could fight, I know; not
this common, hateful fightin' down here in the court, but with giants
an' wild beasts. An' there were the boys, Dil; but I s'pose Owny
wouldn't care 'bout goin'."
"Well," Dil hesitated curiously, "you've got to try to be good some way,
an' Owny wouldn't quit swearin' an' snivyin' when he got a chance. An' I
don't think he'd understand. Then he might tell mammy 'bout our plans."
"An' mammy jes' wouldn't let you stir a step, I know. An' I couldn't go
athout you, Dil, though there'll be many people on the road. I was most
feared it would be lonesome like."
"An' I'll be gettin' a few clo'es ready, the best of thim. I'll wash an'
iron your new white dress when we don't go out no more, an' put it away
kerful. An' I hope some one will give mother some clo'es for a big girl!
I'll be so glad to go, for sometimes I'm so tired I jes' want to drop."
"But October's 'most gone. An' last winter don't seem long to me now,
an' the summer that was so hot,--but it had that beautiful Sat'day when
we found _him_. An' to think of havin' him forever 'n' ever!"
Dil gave a long sigh. She was as impatient as Bess, but she hardly dared
set her heart upon the hope.
She was a very busy little woman, and her mind had to be on her work.
The garments given to the boys had, of course, the best taken out of
them, and Owen was hard on his clothes. As for the stockings, their
darning was a work of labor, if not of love. Bess had to be kept warm
and comfortable, and Dil tried to make her pretty as well. There were
some rainy Saturdays, and the one baby often came in that day. But she
tried to give Bess an airing on Sunday. It was such a change for the
poor little invalid.
Mrs. Quinn was better pleased to be busy all the time. Besides the
money, which was really needed now that fires were more expensive, she
liked the change, the gossiping and often it was a pleasure to find
fault with her customers. She still went to Mrs. MacBride's of an
evening.
With the advent of November came a week of glorious Indian summer
weather. And one Saturday Mrs. Quinn was to do some cleaning at a fine
house, and stay to help with a grand dinner. Dil rushed through with her
work, and they went up to the Square that afternoon, and sat in the old
place. The sparrows came and chirped cheerfully; but the flowers were
gone, the trees leafless. Yet it was delightful to picture it all again.
John Travis would have felt sorry for Dil to-day--perhaps if he had seen
her for the first time he would not have been so instantly attracted.
Her eyes were heavy, her skin dark and sodden. Even Bess grew weary with
the long ride. But they shopped a little again; and Dil was extravagant
enough to buy some long, soft woollen stockings for Bess's "poor, hurted
legs."
"I'm so tired," she said afterward. "'Tain't quite like summer, is it?
Make up a good fire, Dil, an' get me snappin' warm."
She did not want much to eat. Even the grapes had lost their flavor.
"I wish you could sing that beautiful hymn," she said to Dil. "I'd just
like to hear it, 'cause it keeps floatin' round all the time, an' don't
get quite near enough. O Dil! don't you s'pose you can sing in heaven?"
"Seems to me I heard at the Mission School that everybody would. If the
Lord Jesus can mend your legs, I'm sure he can put some music in my
throat."
"We'll ask him right away. Then read to me a little."
Bess fell asleep presently. Dil made slow work spelling out the words
and not knowing half the meanings. Her seasons at the Mission School had
always been brief, from various causes. Now and then some visitor came
in, but the talk was often in phrases that Dil did not understand. She
had not a quick comprehension, neither was she an imaginative child.
Looking now at Bess's pinched and pallid face a strange fear entered her
mind. Would Bess be strong enough in the spring to take the long
journey? For it was so much longer than she imagined, and Bess couldn't
be made well until they reached the Lord Jesus. There was a vague
misgiving tugging at her heart. They ought to have gone that lovely
Saturday.
They talked so much about John Travis that they almost forgot what he
had said about his friend. They were husbanding their small resources
for the time of need. There had been so many babies that Dil had not
needed to make up deficiencies. Sometimes they felt quite afraid of
their hiding-place, and Dil made a little bag and put it around Bess's
neck, so no one would come upon the money unaware.
The touch of Indian summer was followed by a storm and cool, brisk
winds. It was too cold to take Bess out, even if she had cared; but she
had been rather drooping all the week. There was a baby in, also, and
Bess kept in her own room, as she often did Saturday morning, to be out
of the way of her mother's sharp frowns.
Dil had gone of an errand. Mrs. Quinn sat furbishing up an ulster she
had bought at a second-hand store at a great bargain. The baby was
asleep on the lounge. When Dil returned, a dreadful something met her on
the threshold that made her very heart stand still.
"I have come from a Mr. Travis, to see the children. He has gone abroad,
and he asked me to look after them."
This was what had gone before--very little, indeed. Mrs. Quinn had
answered, "Come in," to a tap at the door; and there had entered a
rather pretty, well-dressed, well-bred young woman, who considered
herself quite an important member of the charitable world. She saw a
clean-looking room with more comforts than usual, and she gave a sharp
glance around the corners.
Mrs. Quinn received her very civilly, considering her a possible
customer.
"You have a little girl who is an invalid, I believe?" she queried.
"That I have," was the brief reply.
The stranger glanced at the two open doors, and wondered; was the child
in bed?
The next sentence was what Dil had caught. Miss Nevins checked herself
suddenly. Mr. Travis had said, "See the children alone if you can. Their
mother is out to work most of the time, and it will be an easy matter.
But do not give any money to the woman for them; they will not get it."
"Well--what?" asked Mrs. Quinn sharply, with an aspect that rather
nonplussed the lady. "Whin did he see so much of thim, an' come to think
they needed his attintion?"
"Why--when he was here--"
"Was he here now? an' what called him?"
Mrs. Quinn gave her visitor an insolent stare that rendered her very
uncomfortable.
"I--I really do not know _when_. Kindly disposed people _do_ visit the
sick and the needy. I go to a great many places--"
"Av ye plaise," she interrupted, "we're not paupers. I'm well enough, ye
see, to be takin' care of me own childers. An' he nor no one else nade
throubble theirselves. I'm not askin' charity; an' av they did it
unbeknownst to me, I'll hammer thim well, that I will! They're as well
off as common folk, an' ye needn't be worritin'. Av that's all ye come
fer, ye kin be goin' about yer own bisniss, bedad! An' ye kin tell Mr.
What's-his-name that I'm not sufferin' fer help."
This was not the fashion in which Miss Nevins was generally received.
"You do not understand"--with rising color. "We desire to be of whatever
service we can; and if your child is ill, you cannot have a better
friend--"
"Frind! is it? Bedad, I kin choose me own frinds! An' if he knows whin
he's well off, he'll not show his foine forrum here, er his mug'll get a
party mash on it. Frind, indade!"
The irate woman looked formidable as she rose, but Miss Nevins did not
mean to be daunted.
"You may see the time when you will be glad of a friend, though you need
not worry about _his_ coming. I shall tell him you are not worth his
interest. As for the child"--and her indignation sparkled in her eyes.
"The child wants none of his help, ye kin tell him. I kin look afther
her mesilf."
"Good-day," and the visitor opened the door. Dil stepped back in the
obscurity. The lady held up her fine cloth gown, and gave her nose a
haughty wrinkle or two as she inhaled the stifling air once, and then
did not breathe until she was in the court.
"Such a horrid hole!" she commented. "The child ought to be moved to a
hospital--or perhaps she is well by this time. John is so easily taken
in--his swans so often turn out to be geese. As if _I_ would have given
her any money, the impudent, blowsy thing! I know pretty well how far to
trust that class! Though it's rather funny," and she smiled in the midst
of her disgust; "they are always whining and pleading poverty, and will
be abject enough for a quarter. And she was very high and mighty! I'll
write a good long letter to John about it, but I won't trouble her
ladyship again."
Dil stood shaking with terror, and some moments elapsed before she had
courage enough to open the door. She was in a degree prepared for a line
of defence.