Owen started out of the door in a great fright. Mrs. Wilson was
strolling in her yard, and the boy called to her. There was a side gate
that led out in the alley-way. She came through quickly, although she
had held very much aloof from these undesirable neighbors.
They had laid Dil on the lounge, stuffed anew and covered with bright
cretonne. Patsey looked at her, wild-eyed.
"I think she has only fainted. My sister faints frequently." She began
to chafe Dil's hands, and asked them to wet the end of the towel, with
which she bathed the small white face, and the brown eyes opened with a
smile, a little startled at the stranger bending over her. She closed
them again; and Mrs. Wilson nodded to the intensely eager faces crowding
about, saying assuringly,--
"She will be all right presently."
Then she glanced around the room. It was clean, and it had some pretty
"gift pictures" tacked up on the whitewashed wall. There was a bowl of
flowers on the window-sill. The table had a red and white cloth, there
were some Chinese napkins, and cheap but pretty dishes. The long towel
hanging by the sink was fairly sweet in its cleanliness, and this pale
little girl was the housekeeper!
"Have you ever fainted before? What had you been doing?" she asked in a
quiet manner.
"We'd been up to Cent'l Park. It was so beautiful! But I guess I got
tired out," and Dil smiled faintly. "You see, I was in the hospital in
the spring, an' I ain't so strong's I used to be. But I feel all well
now."
"Youse jes' lay still there, 'n' Owny, 'n' me'll wash up the dishes."
Patsey colored scarlet as he said this, but he stood his ground
manfully.
"They're so good to me!" and Dil looked up into her visitor's eyes with
such heartsome gratitude that the lady was deeply touched. "Patsey," she
added, "you've got on your best clo'es, 'n' I wish you'd tie on that big
apern. Mrs. Wilson won't make fun, I know."
"No, my child; I shall honor him for his carefulness," returned Mrs.
Wilson.
Patsey's face grew redder, if such a thing was possible, but he tied on
the apron.
"I ought to have been more neighborly," began Mrs. Wilson, with a twinge
of conscience. "I've watched you all so long, and you have all improved
so much since old Mrs. Brown was here! But everybody seems so engrossed
with business!"
"That's along o' Dil," put in Patsey proudly. "When Dil come things was
diff'rent. Dil's got so many nice ways--she allis had."
"Is your mother dead?"
Dil's face was full of scarlet shame and distress, but she could not
tell a wrong story.
"Her mother ain't no good," declared Patsey, in his stout championship;
for he did not quite like to tell a lie, himself, to the lady, and he
knew Dil wouldn't. "But Dil's splendid; and Owny, that's her brother,"
nodding toward him, "is fus' rate. We're keepin' together; an' little
Dan, he's in a home bein' took keer of."
"O Patsey!" Dil flushed with a kind of shamefaced pleasure at his
praise.
"So you be! I ain't goin' back on you, never." And there was a little
gruffness in his voice as is apt to be the case when a lump rises in a
big boy's throat. "An' you couldn't tell how nice she's fixed up the
place--'twas jes' terrible when she come."
"But you all helped," returned Dil.
"And you are all so much cleaner and nicer," and their visitor smiled.
"Yes; we'm gittin' quite tony." Patsey slung out the dishcloth and hung
it up, and spread the towel on a bar across the window. Fin and Shorty
edged their way out, and Fossett settled to a story paper. Owny wanted
to go with the boys, but he compromised by sitting in the doorway.
"There is a little child here through the week, and I've seen a baby. My
child, you are not compelled to care for them, are you?"
"We didn't want her to," protested Patsey; "but you see, there was
another pooty little thing, her sister Bess, who was hurted 'n' couldn't
walk, 'n' Dil took care of her. 'N' las' winter she died, 'n' Dil's been
kinder broodin' over it ever sence. We wos off all day, 'n' she got
lonesome like; but she ain't gonter have 'em any more, 'cause she ain't
strong, 'n' we kin take keer of her," proudly.
"You look as if you ought to be taken care of altogether for a while."
Mrs. Wilson studied the pale little face. It had a curious waxen
whiteness like a camellia. The eyes were large and wistful, but shining
in tender gratitude; the brows were finely pencilled; the hair was
growing to more of a chestnut tint, and curled loosely about her
forehead. She was strangely pretty now, with the pathetic beauty that
touches one's heart.
"Tell yer wot, Dil, us fellers'll chip in an' save up a bit 'n' send
youse off to the country like the 'ristocrockery. You don't happen to
know of some nice, cheapish place?" and Patsey glanced questioningly at
the visitor.
"There are very nice places where it doesn't cost anything. Country
people often take children for a fortnight or so. My daughters went to a
beautiful seaside place last summer that a rich lady fitted up for
clerks and shop-girls. Of course they are older than you, young ladies,
but--let me think a bit--"
Mrs. Wilson had never known much besides poverty. Youth, married life,
and widowhood had been a struggle. She hired the whole front house, and
rented furnished rooms to young men whose incomes would not afford
luxurious accommodations. Her sister was in poor health; her two girls
were in stores. Her son, who should have been her mainstay and comfort,
was in an insane asylum, the result of drink and excesses.
"I can't remember, but I must have heard my girls talking about places
where they take 'little mothers,'--the children who tend babies, and give
them a lovely holiday in a beautiful country place, where they can run
about the green fields and pick flowers and play and sing, or sit about
and have nothing to do. I will try to learn something about them."
"I don't b'leve I could go 'way," said Dil, with soft-toned
doubtfulness.
"I wish you'd talk her out'n havin' any babies. She ain't no ways strong
'nuff. An' we boys kin take keer o' her. She airns her livin' over 'n'
over agin. She's had 'nuff to do wid kids all her life," protested her
champion.
"But Nelly's so sweet, and 'companies me so much," Dil said longingly.
"But you orter be chirkin' up a bit, 'stead er gittin' so thin, an'
faintin'. 'Twas nawful, Dil. You looked jes' 's if youse wos dead."
"It didn't hurt any, Patsey;" and she smiled over to him. "'Twas queer
like 's if all the bells in the world was ringin' soft an' sweet, an'
then you went sailin' off. 'Twas worse when I went to ketch my breath
afterward. But I'm all right now."
She glanced up smilingly to Mrs. Wilson, who took the soft little hands
in hers, for soft they were in spite of the hard work they had done.
Patsey had whisked the table up to the side of the room and brushed up
the crumbs. Then he sat down and watched Dil.
Mrs. Wilson said she must go in home, but she would run over in the
morning. Patsey expressed his thanks in a frank, boyish manner, and
Dil's eyes said at least half of hers.
Then Mrs. Brian and her husband returned, and she stopped to hear what
kind of a picnic they had had. Between the three they told all the story
and the fright.
"Yes; she must give up all but Nelly, for her mother wouldn't know how
to stand it on such a short notice. The child achilly cries for you on
Sundays, her mother told me. But we can't have you killed for any babies
in the land," said Mrs. Brian emphatically.
"That's the talk!" exclaimed Patsey.
"Why, I feel jes' as well as ever, an' all rested like," and Dil sat up,
smiling. "We walked so much to-day, but to-morrow I'll be all right."
She seemed quite right the next morning. When Mrs. Brian's "man" had
gone, she came in and helped Dil with the breakfast things. Mrs. Cairns
_would_ leave her baby for the half-day, and Nelly came. Mrs. Wilson
looked in upon her, with a bit of sewing in her hand. Dil did not try to
do anything besides entertain the little ones. How sweet and naturally
she did it!
But she was so tired she lay on the lounge a long while in the
afternoon. Nelly played about, and talked in her pretty broken fashion.
Dil dreamed of the vision she had seen.
About five Mrs. Wilson came in, her thin face lighted with eagerness.
"I must tell you something quite delightful," she began. "I sew for
several ladies; and one of them, a Miss Lawrence, came in about an hour
ago. She's interested in several charities, and I asked her about the
places where they sent poor tired children to recruit. My dear, she is
on the committee of a society; and they have a beautiful large
country-house, where they can take in from twenty to thirty children.
There's a housekeeper and nurses, and different young ladies go up to
stay a week or two at a time. They read to the children, and take them
out in the woods, and help them at playing games; and there are music
and singing, and great shady trees to sit under, and a barn full of
new-mown hay, where they can play and tumble. Why, it made me wish I was
a little girl!"
Mrs. Wilson put her hand on her side, for she had talked herself out of
breath.
Dil's eyes shone with delight. She could see it all in a vivid manner.
"Miss Lawrence couldn't stay to-day; but she is coming to-morrow
morning, and wants to see you. She was so interested in the way all you
children are living here. She's a lovely woman; and if there were more
like her, who were willing to pay fair prices for work, the poor would
be much the gainer."
"You're so good to me! Everybody is now," said the child gratefully.
Dil thought she hadn't done much of anything that day, but she was
really afraid to tell Patsey how tired she felt. He _would_ wash up the
dishes.
"That'll be jes' the daisy, Dil!" he said, when he heard about Miss
Lawrence. "You want some country air, an'--an' reel fresh country milk.
An' don't you worry. We'll git along. You jes' go an' hev a good time."
Oh, could she go to such a blessed place--like Central Park all the time?
She was quite shy and embarrassed when Miss Lawrence called. A large,
pleasant-looking woman, with indications of wealth and refinement that
Dil felt at once, and she seemed so much farther away than Mrs. Wilson.
But she questioned Dil very gently, and drew her out with a rare art.
The pale face and evident weakness appealed to her,--seemed, indeed, to
call for immediate attention.
"I shall put you on our next week's list," Miss Lawrence said with
gracious interest. "If any one ever earned a rest, I think you have. And
I will come in to-morrow evening and talk it over with your brother and
the boys."
The "boys" made themselves scarce, except Patsey and Owen, although
Shorty went and sat on Mrs. Brian's stoop. But Miss Lawrence had seen
boys before, and even ventured on a dainty bit of slang that won Patsey
at once. He was eager for Dil to go and get some red cheeks like Owen.
It didn't seem as if the two could be brother and sister.
If Miss Lawrence had seen the sleeping accommodations she would have
been more than shocked; and yet there were hundreds in the city not as
well housed, and few of the real poor as tidily kept.
"It would be jes' lovely to go," admitted Dil, with curious reluctance.
"But a whole week!"
"Two weeks!" almost shouted Patsey. "An' youse'll come home so fat wid
de new milk an' all, yer clo'es won't fit yer. We'll jes' hev to make an
auction an' sell em' second-hand."
"An' take half the money an buy her some new ones," said Owen with a
laugh. "T'other half we'll put in the bank."
Shorty had come sneaking back, and joined in the merriment.
"'N' I kin cook purty good, 'n' wash dishes," began Patsey, when Dil
interrupted,--
"Oh, you will be careful of thim, won't you?"
"Careful! I'll treat 'em as if they was aiggs. An' I'll make the boys
stan' roun', so's to keep the house--well--decent!" and he made a funny,
meaning face. "Je-ru-sa-lem! what a hole we had when youse come! An' now
it's like a pallis."
Not like the palace Dil remembered in the book that had been such a
treat to her and Bess.
Everybody made it easy for Dil. Mrs. Brian would see to the boys, and
Mrs. Wilson offered to keep Nelly until her return. Still, it was Friday
before Dil could really make up her mind.
On Saturday Dil took Nelly and went up to Madison Square. The policeman
kept out of her way; he could not bear to face her look of
disappointment. But just at the last she took him inadvertently.
"You see, I'm sure he'll come soon," she said with a confidence that
seemed like a presentiment. "'Cause he'll be thinkin' 'bout the Sat'day
he made the picture of Bess an' me. An' I want him to know where I've
gone; so I've writ it out. I've been studyin' writin'."
"She looks like a ghost," the man said to himself as his eyes followed
her. "She's that changed in a year no one would know her except for her
eyes. If he don't come soon, he won't see her at all, to my thinking.
Hillo! what a scheme! I'll hunt him up. Why didn't I think of it before!
John Travis! Seems to me I've heard something about John Travis."
Sunday was a soft, cloudy day, with a touch of rain. Every boy stayed at
home--you couldn't have driven them away. They promised to give Mrs.
Brian the rent every night, so as to be provided for next Monday. They
sang some of their prettiest songs for her; they didn't know many hymns,
but they had a spirit of tenderest devotion in their hearts.
The boys said good-by to her the next morning in a rather sober fashion.
Patsey and Owen were going to take her to the ferry. Mrs. Brian brought
down her satchel, and Dil put in her white dress, some aprons, and
various small matters. She was to wear her best pink gingham. Mrs.
Wilson was full of hope, Mrs. Brian extremely jolly, and was sure Barnum
would want her for a "fat girl" when she came back.
Dil's similitudes were very limited, but Cinderella and the fairy
godmother _did_ come into her mind.
Miss Lawrence was in the waiting-room with half a dozen girls. She came
and greeted Dil cordially, and told her she looked better already. The
child's eyes brightened with a sunny light.
Owen said good-by in a boy's awkward fashion, and gave her the bag.
Patsey was reluctant, and he turned slowly away.
Then he came back.
"Good-by, Dil, dear," he said again with deep tenderness as he stooped
to kiss her. He was so much taller, though only a few months older. And
always Patsey Muldoon was glad he came back for that kiss.
Then Miss Lawrence bought tickets and ushered her small procession, nine
of them now, through the narrow way and out on the boat. They huddled
together at first like a flock of sheep. Dil noticed one little
hump-backed girl, who had large, light eyes and golden hair in ringlets.
She was not like Bess, and yet she moved Dil's sympathetic heart. Had a
drunken father "hurted her"?
She felt shy of the others, they all seemed in such spirits. As they
were going off the boat, she drew nearer the unfortunate child and
longed to speak.
An impudent leer crossed the other face.
"Who yer lookin' at? Mind yer own biz. I'm jes' as good as youse!" was
the unexpected salutation.
"Yes," answered Dil meekly, her enthusiastic pity quenched.
Dil's seat was in the window end, and her companion a stolid little
German with two flaxen tails down her back. So she sat quite still. The
morning had been so full of excitement she could hardly think. She had
been just whirled about, pushed into the adventure.
But the "little mothers" interested her. Did they like babies, she
wondered? Did their arms ache, and were their backs strained and tired
carrying them about? Most of them were thin and weary looking, yet they
were in gay spirits, making little jokes and giving quick, slangy
answers, ready to laugh at anything.
Dil seemed quite apart from them. They passed through a tunnel, and
there were little shrieks and giggles. The German girl caught Dil's arm.
Then they crossed rivers, passed pretty towns, bits of woods, flower
gardens, long fields of waving corn, meadows where daisies still
lingered, and tufts of red clover looked like roses. Ah, how large the
world was! And maybe heaven was a great deal farther off than she and
Bess had imagined. They might have been all winter going if they had
walked. She felt suddenly thankful that John Travis had advised against
it.
It was Dilsey Quinn's first railroad journey, and it gave her the
sensation of flying. She had brightened up, and a soft flush toned the
paleness. An indescribable light hovered about her face, the rapt look
that we term spiritual.
They trooped out of the train,--it seemed a week since they had started,
her brain was so full of beautiful impressions. A young lady had come
down to meet them, and walked with Miss Lawrence. The children were wild
with the newness of everything; some of them had not even seen the
nearest park before. They chased butterflies; they longed to chase the
birds; they ran and laughed, and presently came to a great white house
set in an old orchard.
"Children," said Miss Lawrence, "here is your new home. You can run and
play to your heart's content. In the woods yonder you can shout and be
as wild as you like. But you must come in first and take off your best
dresses. And now you must mind when you are spoken to, and not quarrel
with each other."
They went through a wide hall and up an old-fashioned staircase. Three
large rooms were full of narrow white-draped cots. The girls who pushed
on ahead were given numbers to correspond. There were pegs for their
hats and garments, a shelf for their satchels and bundles. What a
whispering, chattering, and giggling! Here was a bath-room, and basins
for washing. And then the bell rang for dinner.
Oh, what a dinner it was to most of the newcomers! A great slice of
sweet boiled beef, vegetables, and bread in an unstinted fashion, and a
harvest apple for dessert. Dil was too full of rapture to eat, and she
let the next girl, whose capacity seemed unlimited, have most of her
dinner.
Afterward they went out to play. Hammocks and swings were everywhere.
They ran and shouted. They sat in the grass, and laughed with a sense of
improbable delight. No one to scold, no work to do, not to be beaten for
a whole long week! Oh, what joy it was to these little toilers in courts
and slums and foul tenement houses!
Dil sat on a seat built around a great tree, and watched them. She was
like one in a dream, quite apart from them. There is a delightful,
unquestioning freemasonry among children. The subtle sign is given in a
word or look or smile, and they are all kin. But it had been so long
since Dil was a child, that she had forgotten the language.
She was not unhappy nor solitary. She was simply beyond playing, far
from boisterous mirth. She had been doing a woman's work so long, and
childhood for the poor is ever a brief season.
Two or three girls shyly asked her to play "tag." She gently shook her
head. Then a long-ago sound caught her attention.
Two little girls were holding their clasped hands up as high as they
could stretch. A small procession passed, each girl holding to the skirt
of the other, and singing:--
"Open the gates as high as the sky,
And let King George and his men go by.
Needle's eye as I pass by,
Awaiting to go through;
Many a lass I have let pass,
And now I have caught you."
Down came the arms of the "gates" over the head of the girl just under
them. There was a shriek and a giggle. Then the one who was caught had
to be a "gate," and so it went on.
Dil looked, fascinated with a kind of remembered terror. It seemed as if
she must have heard that in another world, it was so long, long ago.
Before Bess was "hurted," when Dan was a chubby baby, she had them both
out, caring for them. At least, Dan was in the corner of the stoop, and
Bess was tossing a ball for his amusement. A group of girls were playing
this very game. The arms came down and took Dilsey Quinn prisoner, and
all laughed because she had been so quick to evade them.
Something else--her mother's heavy hand that dragged Dil out of the ring.
The girls scattered, afraid of the tall, strong virago. Dil picked up
the baby and took Bess by the hand. They were not living in Barker's
Court then. She shuddered, for she knew what awaited her. She should
have been in the house, getting supper, to be sure. She had not meant to
play so long, and even then she so seldom played.
Poor Dil! For a fortnight or so she carried the marks on her body.
"I'll tache ye to be wastin' of yer time foolin' wid sich," said her
mother.
Then Bess was "hurted," and her mother ill in bed for weeks. They were
warned out of the house, and for some time it was hard lines for them
all. Dil never played any more. Childhood was at an end for her.
And when she heard the merry voices here, a cold, terrible shiver came
over her with the old memories. Was it softened by the thought that Bess
could run about then? But even little Bess had sometimes been cruelly
beaten. After that--was there a strange comfort that had never come
before, that Bess's accident had saved her many an unreasonable
punishment? For Mrs. Quinn had let the poor little sufferer pretty much
alone. Dil had managed to stand between, and take the blows and ill
usage.
Does God note all the vicarious suffering in the world, and write it in
the book of remembrance?
Dil turned her head away. Another party were playing "Ring a round a
rosy." And a group on the grass were being inducted into the mystery of
"Jacks." She wondered a little where her mother was. She did not want to
see her, but she hoped matters were better with her. Surely she need not
work so hard. And oh, if she would not drink gin! But Dil had noted the
fact that most women did as they grew older.
Miss Lawrence came out presently with a bright cheery word for them all.
"You're not playing," she said to Dil. "You must run about and have some
fun, and get some color in your cheeks. And you must not sit and brood
over your hard life. That is all passed, and we hope the good Father has
something better in store. And you must be friendly with the others."
"Yes'm," answered Dil, with soft pathos. "Only I'd rather sit here an'
look on."
"Don't get homesick after your boys," and the lady's smile went to Dil's
heart. "You'll feel less strange to-morrow. I want this outing to be of
real benefit to you. I'm going down to the city now, and will see Mrs.
Wilson. When I come again I'll bring you some word from the boys. I am
sure everything will be done for your comfort."
"Yes'm," Dil answered meekly, but with an uplifted smile.
Several little girls ran and kissed her a rapturous good-by. When Dil
saw her go out of the gate she felt strangely alone. She wanted to fly
home to the boys, to get their supper, to listen to their merry jests
and adventures, to see their bright eyes gleam, and hear the glad
laughter. She felt so rested. Oh, if she had _not_ promised Patsey to
stay a whole long week. And one day was not yet gone.
She espied a vacant hammock, and stole lightly out from her leafy covert
to take possession. It was odd, but the little hump-backed girl seemed a
centre of attraction. She said so many droll, amusing things. She was
pert and audacious to be sure. She could talk broken Dutch and the
broadest Irish, and sing all the street songs. The children were
positively fascinated with her. A wonder came to Dil as to how it would
feel to be so enthusiastically admired.
She lay there swinging to and fro until the supper bell rang long and
loud. One of the attendants came and talked with her while the children
were tripping in from the woods. Something in her appearance and gentle
manner reminded Dil of the hospital nurse.
There was a good deal of singing in the evening, but they all went to
bed early. How wonderfully quiet it was! No dogs barking, no marauding
cats wauling dismally on back fences, no rattle and whiz of "L" cars, no
clatter of heavy wagons. And oh, the wonderful sweetness in the air! If
Dil had ever achieved Bible reading, she would have thought of "songs in
the night" and a "holy solemnity," but she could feel the things
unutterable.
The window was next to her bed. She sat up and watched the ships of
fleece go drifting by. How the great golden stars twinkled! Were they
worlds? and did people live in them? They made a mysterious melody; and
though she had not heard of the stars singing for joy, she felt it in
every pulse with a sweet, solemn thrill of rapture.
Was that heaven back of the shining stars? And oh! would she and Bess
and John Travis be together there? For he would help her to call back
Bess, as she came on Sunday. It was only a little while to wait now. She
felt the assurance--for the poor ignorant little girl had translated St.
Paul's sublime, "By faith."
The moon silvered the tree-tops, and presently sent one slant ray across
the bed. Dil laid her hands in it with a trance of ecstasy. The
delicious state of quietude seemed to make her a part of all lovely,
heavenly things. It was the "land of pure delight" that John Travis sang
about. A whole line came back to her,--
"And pleasures banish pain."
Dilsey Quinn had attained to the spiritual pleasures. Pain was not,
could not be again.
She was not a bit sleepy. She watched the moon dropping down and down.
All the insects had stopped. A soft darkness seemed spread over
everything, and by dozens the stars went out. Ah, how wonderful it all
was! If people could only have chances to know!
"My child," said Miss Mary at the breakfast table, "you are not eating
anything! Don't you like porridge, and this nice milk?"
"Yes, it's so good," replied Dil gratefully. "An' the milk seems almost
as if 'twas full of roses, it's so sweet. But I can't get hungry as I
used, an' when I eat just a little I seem all filled up."
"Would you like bread better? And some nice creamed potatoes?"
"I don't want nothin' more." Dil looked up with a soft light in her
eyes. "Mebbe by noon I'll be hungry--I most know I will."
"Yes, I hope so."
It was such a long morning to Dil, so hard to sit round and do nothing.
If there had been a baby to tend, or a room to tidy. She would have been
glad to go to the kitchen and help prepare the vegetables. She was so
used to work that she could not feel at home in idleness.
She went over to the woods with the children to please Miss Mary, who
suggested it so gently. But some feeling--the long disuse of
childhood--held her aloof. She could not join in their plays, but it was
a pleasure to watch them. And how wonderful the woods were! The soft
grasses with feathery heads, the mosses, some of them with tiny red
blossoms not as large as a pin's head. There were a few wild flowers
left, and long trails of clematis wandering about; shining bitter-sweet,
green chestnut burrs in clusters, the long, fringy blossoms in yellow
brown still holding on to some of them. There were bunches of little fox
grapes, too bitter and sour for even children to eat.
She sat down on a stone and almost held her breath. It was the real,
every-day country, not Central Park. The birds sang at their own sweet
will, and made swift dazzles in the sunshine as they flew from tree to
tree. Could heaven be any better? But there was no pain nor sickness nor
weariness in heaven. And she felt so strangely tired at some moments.
She used her utmost endeavors to eat some dinner. It had such an
appetizing flavor. The little girl next to her, who had swallowed her
supper so quickly last night, eyed it longingly.
"You can have the potato and the meat," Dil whispered softly. That
travelled down red lane, and still seemed to leave a hollow behind. It
was like the hungry boys at home, and she smiled.
She sat under the tree again, and Miss Mary tried to persuade her to go
and play, but she was gently obstinate.
"Miss Lawrence asked me specially to look after her," she said to
another of the attendants. "She looks like a little ghost; but whether
she is really ill, or only dead tired out, I can't decide. It's so
natural for children to want to play, but she doesn't seem to care to do
anything but mope. Yet she speaks up so cheerful."
"Poor children! How hard some of their lives are," and her companion
sighed.
Dil's supper tasted good; and she was so sorry she couldn't eat more, as
she glanced up and caught Miss Mary's eye.
"I'm ever so much better," she said in her soft, bright manner. "I'm
glad; for the boys wanted me to get well an' fat, an' have red cheeks.
I'll try my best, you're all so good. An' it's such a beautiful place. I
wonder what made--some one--think 'bout the little mothers? But the babies
ought to be here too."
"That wouldn't give the little mothers much rest. Are there many babies
in your family?"
"There ain't any, but--but some that come in. Other people's babies."
"And does your mother keep a nursery?"
"I ain't got any mother now. I took the babies 'cause I liked them."
"But where do you live?"
"With my brother an'--an' the boys. I keep house."
How unchildishly reticent she seemed. And most of the children were
ready to tell everything.
The little household was called in for their evening singing.