She lay there quietly all the morning, little Dilsey Quinn, trying in
her hopeful fashion to hurry and get well. It was nicer than the
hospital, and Miss Deering was so sweet, as she sat there crocheting
some lovely rose-wheels out of pale-blue silk. Now and then some
sentences flashed between them, and a soft little laugh from Dil. Miss
Deering felt more like crying.
The doctor came about three.
"I'm most well," said Dil, with her unabated cheerfulness. "Only when I
raise up somethin' seems tied tight around me here," putting her hand to
her side. "'N' you think I c'n be well on Sat'day, cause--some one might
come--"
"Are you expecting a visitor?"
"Miss Deerin' knows. An' he's one of the sure kind. Yes; he'll surely
come. An' if I stay in bed all day to-day, don't you s'pose I'll be well
to-morrow?"
"We'll see. You and Miss Deering seem to be planning secrets. I shall
have to look sharp after both of you. And who brings you flowers?"
"Miss Mary. An' some custard, an' oh, Miss Deerin' fed me like as if I
was a baby."
"That's all right. It's high time you were waited on a little. But I'd
like you to take a nap. Miss Deering, couldn't you read her to sleep?"
"I will try."
"She ought to sleep some," studying the wide eyes.
"But I'm not a bit sleepy. I'm thinkin' 'bout when _he_ comes, an' how
he'll help me find Bess."
"It is astonishing," the doctor said down-stairs. "She has some
wonderful vitality. It seemed this morning as if she couldn't last an
hour, and now if she wasn't all worn out she might recover. But it is
the last flash of the expiring fire. Is there some friend to come?"
"Yes," answered Miss Deering with a faint flush.
"She will live till then. If, she suffers we must try opiates, but we
will hardly need, I think."
"And--the excitement--"
"She will not get excited. She is strangely tranquil. Do not disturb her
serene hope, whatever it is."
The day drew to a close again. Dil asked if she was not going to her own
bed, and seemed quite content. Miss Mary came in early in the evening
and sent Virginia to bed. She could not quite believe the dread fiat.
For Dil might be made so happy in the years to come. Ah, God, must it be
too late? It seemed like the refinement of cruelty.
She came back about midnight, but Miss Mary motioned her away, and then
went out in the hall.
"You must go to bed in earnest," she said. "You may be needed more later
on. She is very quiet; but she lies there with her eyes wide open, as if
she were seeing visions. I get a nap now and then; you see, I'm used to
this kind of work."
"I wish 'twas mornin'," Dil said toward early dawn. "I want to hear the
birds sing an' the children playin'; they do laugh so glad an'
comfortin'. An' I wisht there could be some babies tumblin' round in the
sweet grass. They'd like it so. Don't you _never_ have any babies?"
"There are other homes for babies," was the reply.
"Do you s'pose it'll ever get all round,--homes, an' care, an' joy, an'
such? There's so many, you know. There was little girls in Barker's
Court who had to sew, an' never could go out, not even Sundays. When
'twas nice, Bess an' me used to go out on Sat'days. But the winter froze
her all up. And the other poor children--"
"They will all get here by degrees."
"It's so good in folks to think of it."
"My dear, you must go to sleep."
"But I don't feel sleepy," and Dil's face was sweet with her serene
smile. "There's so many lovely things to think about."
"Try a little, to please me."
Dilsey shut her eyes and lay very still. Was there some mysterious
change in the face?
And so dawned another morning. Virginia Deering came in with a handful
of flowers, which she laid beside Dilsey's cheek on the pillow.
"Oh," the child began in a breathless sort of way, "do you think he'll
be here to-morrow, Sat'day? Cause I don't b'l'eve I'd be well 'nuff to
go down. I don't seem to get reel rested like. An' you'll have to send
word to Patsey. He wanted me to stay a good long while, an' get fat, an'
I want to try."
Did _she_ feel sure John Travis would come? Ah, she would _not_ doubt.
She would take the child's sublime faith for her stay. Even if he had
ceased to care for her, he would not disappoint the child who relied so
confidently upon his word.
"Yes, I know he will come."
"It'll be all right, then. An' I'll get up to-morrow an' be dressed, an'
go down-stairs all strong an' rested like. An' I think he'll know about
Bess."
Virginia bent over and kissed her.
"Ain't the children jealous 'cause you stay here so much?" she asked
presently. "They all like you so. An' they was so glad to see you."
"They do not mind," she made answer to the unselfish child; "and I like
to stay with you."
"Do you? I'm glad too," she said dreamily.
But now and then she was a little restless. The doctor merely looked at
her and smiled. But outside he said to Miss Mary, "I doubt if she goes
through another night."
"What shall I do for you?" Virginia asked later on. There seemed such a
wistfulness in the eyes turned to the window.
"It's queer like, but seems to me as if Bess was comin'. P'raps she's
jes' found out where I be. O Miss Deerin', are there any wild roses? I'd
like to have some for Bess."
Virginia glanced up in vague alarm.
"I think if I had some Bess would come back. 'N' I'm all hungry like to
see her."
Dil moved uneasily, and worked her fingers with a nervous motion.
"There have been some over back of the woods there," and Miss Mary
inclined her head. "There were in June, I remember."
"I might go and see."
"Oh, will you? I wisht so I had some."
"The walk will do you good." There had come a distraught look in
Virginia's face. Oh, what if John Travis failed! Even to-morrow might be
too late.
"You'll let the children go with you," said Dil. "They'll like it so;
an' I'll keep still 'n' try to go to sleep."
The old serenity came back with the smile. She had learned so many
lessons of patience and self-denial in the short life, the grand
patience perfected through love and sacrifice, the earthly type of that
greater love. But the sweet little face almost unnerved Virginia.
The children hailed her with delight, and clung so to her gown that she
could hardly take a step. Perhaps it was their noise that had
unconsciously worn upon Dil's very slender nerves. Miss Mary read to her
awhile, and in the soft, soothing silence she fell asleep.
Yes, she had come to that sign and seal indelibly stamped on the faces
of the "called." The dread something no word can fitly describe, and it
was so much more apparent in her sleep.
"Miss Mary," said an attendant, "can you come down a moment?"
She guessed without a word when she saw a young man standing there with
a basket of wild roses. But he could not believe the dread fiat at
first. She had been "a little ill," and "wasn't strong" were the tidings
that had startled him, and she had gone to a home for the "Little
Mothers" to recruit. He had heard some other incidents of her sad story,
and he remembered the children's pathetic clinging to the wild roses.
Nothing could give her greater pleasure.
He walked reverently up the wide, uncarpeted steps, beside Miss Mary.
Dil was still asleep, or--O Heaven! was she dead? Miss Mary bent over,
touched her cool cheek.
Dil opened her eyes.
"I've been asleep. It was so lovely. I'm all rested like--why, I'm most
well."
"Well enough to see an old friend?"
Oh, the glow in her eyes, the eager, asking expression of every feature.
She gave a soft, exultant cry as John Travis emerged from Miss Mary's
shadow, and stretched out her hands.
"My dear, dear little Dil!"
All the room was full of the faint, delicious fragrance of wild roses,
kept so moist and sheltered they were hardly conscious of their journey.
And she lay trembling in two strong arms, so instinct with vitality,
that she seemed to take from them a sudden buoyant strength.
"I've been waitin' for you so long," she exclaimed when she found breath
to speak. There was no reproach in the tone, rather a heavenly
satisfaction that he had come now. Her trust had been crowned with
fruition, that was enough.
"My little girl!" Oh, surely it could not be as bad as they said. The
future that he had planned for, that he had meant to make pleasant and
satisfying, and perhaps beautiful, from the fervent gratitude of a manly
heart. Was she beyond anything he could do for her? Oh, he would not
believe it!
"I was detained so much longer abroad than I expected," he began. "And
we did not get in until Monday morning. I went to Barker's Court, and
could not learn where you were. Then I bethought myself of the cop at
the square," smiling as he designated the man.
"An' he gev you my letter?"
"He gave me the letter. I hunted up the boys. I saw Patsey and Owen last
night, and they are counting on your getting well. They sent you so much
love. And to-day I went to Chester. Here are your roses."
He tumbled them out all dewy from the wet papers. Oh, such sweetness!
Dil breathed it in ecstatic delight. She had no words. She looked her
unutterable joy out of her limpid brown eyes, and he had much ado to
keep the tears from his. So pale, so spiritualized, yet so little like
Bess, and--oh, the last hope died as he took in all the signs. For
surely, surely she was on the road to heaven and Bess. No hand of love,
no touch of prosperity, could hold her back.
"'Pears like everything's come, an' there ain't nothin' left to wish
for," she said as he laid her down again, and watched the transfigured
face. "For now you c'n tell me 'bout Bess. Mother burned up the book one
day, an' we never could quite know, only she got crost the river, an'
they was all so glad at the pallis. An' Bess was so sure you'd come. The
cough was dreadful when we didn't have some good medicine that helped
her. An' the lady come one afternoon, 'n' mammy was home 'n' she was
norful sassy to her. You see, we hadn't dast to tell mammy--"
"My poor child!" He was toying with the soft, tumbled hair. He had heard
another side of the story, and of Mrs. Quinn's insulting impudence.
"An' then Bess she smelt the wild roses all around one night, an'
thought she was gettin' better--an'--an' she jus' died."
"Yes; God came for her in the night. He put his arms around her, and
wrapped her in the garment of his great love, and took her through the
pathway of the stars. She did not feel any cold nor pain, and he gave
her a new, glorified body, so she could leave the poor old one behind."
"But she wouldn't have leaved me 'thout a word, when she loved me so,
an' wanted me to go to heaven with her."
Dil's lip quivered, and her chest heaved with the effort of keeping back
the tears.
"My dear child, there are many mysteries that one cannot wholly explain.
Don't you remember telling me the Mission teacher said it was an
allegory, a story that is like our daily lives? We are going heavenward
in every right and tender and loving thing we do. We are the children of
God as well as the children of mortal parents; God gives us the soul,
the part of us that is to live forever. And when he calls this part of
you to the heavenly mansions, he gives it the perfect new body. The old
one is laid away in the ground. When Jesus was here he helped and cured
people as I told you. But he does not come any more. He calls people to
him, and sends his angels for them. So he said, 'It is very hard for
poor little Bess to wait all winter, to suffer with the cold, the pain
in her maimed body, to be afraid of her mother, to hear the babies cry
when her head aches. She must come to the land of pure delight, and have
her new body. She must be well and joyous and happy, so that she can run
and greet her sister Dil when I send for her."
Dilsey Quinn was listening with rapt attention. But at the last words
she cried out with tremulous eagerness,--
"Oh, will he send? Will he take me to Bess? You are quite sure?"
Her very breath seemed to hang on the answer.
"He will send. He has a place for you in the many mansions he went to
prepare. And this little step we take from one world to the other is
called the river of death, and you know how Christiana went through it.
Sometimes the Lord Jesus lifts people quite over it."
There was a long silence. He could see she was studying the deep,
puzzling points. The lines came in her forehead, white as a lily now,
and her eyes seemed peering into fathomless depths.
Looking into the sweet, wasted face, holding the slim little hands, once
so plump and brown, thinking of the heroic, loving life, he felt that
indeed "of such was the kingdom of heaven."
"Well, 'f I c'n go to Bess," a sigh of heavenly resignation seemed to
quiver through the frail body, "'n' I think the Lord couldn't help bein'
good to Bess, she was so sweet 'n' patient; for 'twas so hard not to run
about, 'n' have to be lifted, 'n' I couldn't always come on 'count of
the babies 'n' mother 'n' things. 'N' she never got cross. 'N' I do
b'lieve she understood 'bout Christiana, for after that she wanted so to
go to heaven. An' she was so glad about her poor hurted legs bein' made
well. We couldn't read fast, you know; an' we couldn't see into things,
'cause we hadn't been to school much. But she kinder picked it out, she
was such a wise little thing, an' the pictures helped. But I don't
understand 'bout the new body."
Her face was one thought of puzzled intensity.
"My dear little Dil, we none of us quite understand. It is a great
mystery. The Lord Jesus came down from heaven and was born a little
child that children might not be afraid of him, but learn to love him.
When he grew to manhood he helped the needy, the suffering, and healed
their illnesses. He went about doing good to everybody, and there were
people who did not believe in him and treated him cruelly." How could he
explain the great sacrifice to her comprehension? "Dil," he said in a
low tone, "suppose you could have saved Bess great sorrow and suffering
by dying for her, would you not have done it? Suppose that night the
Lord Jesus had said to you, 'I can only take one of you to-night, which
one shall it be?' What would you have done?"
"Oh, I'd let her gone. Was it that way?" The tears stood in her eyes,
and her voice trembled with tenderest emotion.
"God loves us all as you loved Bess. But we do not all love him. We are
not ready to do the things he tells us, to be truthful and honest and
kindly. But he is ready to forgive us to the very last. And he knows
what is best for us."
"Then that other body went to heaven," she said after a long silence.
"An' I know now she must have been in some lovely place, 'cause that
Sunday she come to me in Cent'l Park she was all smilin' an' strange an'
sweet, an' beautiful like that picture you made. She looked jes' 's if
she wanted to tell me somethin'. An' the Lord Jesus let her out of
heaven 'cause I was so lost like 'n' uncertain."
The small face was illumined with joy. And to John Travis it was as the
face of an angel.
He owed her so much. Again had God chosen the weak things of the world
to confound the mighty. He thought of that other soul whose throes he
had watched; whose guide-posts of science and philosophy had shed no
light on the unknown hereafter; and how both of them had at last become
little children in the faith. For when he promised to go to heaven with
Bess and Dilsey Quinn, he meant to search out the way of truth if such a
thing was possible. His had been a slower and more toilsome way, but Dil
had seen and believed, and was among the blessed already. And he had
come to a realization of the higher truths, not according to the lights
of human knowledge, but faith in the Lord Jesus.
"I shall be so glad to see Bess. I'm most worn out an' wasted away
longin' for her. But when I see her all straight an' strong an' lovely
in heaven, I'll feel rested right away. I d'n' know how the Lord Jesus
can care so much 'bout poor sick folks, when there's so many splendid
people."
"Just as you cared for Bess."
"Oh, was that the way?" Her smile had the radiance of the everlasting
knowledge. "But you see, I'd had Bess alwers an' loved her, 'n' he
didn't know much about us, stowed away there in Barker's Court. So he's
better 'n any folks. He had all that lovely heaven, an' he didn't need
to come down. He must have loved people uncommon. It was like your
stoppin' that day an' talkin' to us poor little mites. Why, 'twas jes'
if you'd made a new splendid world for us!"
She stopped a moment and drew some long breaths. Then an eager light
flashed across her face.
"Oh!" she cried, "I've found the lady who gev the wild roses to Patsey
that day. She's here, 'n' all the children are jes' crazy 'bout her. An'
she told me 'bout the picture you put me in. She said you'd be sure to
come."
"She? Who?" John Travis was momentarily bewildered.
"Miss Deerin', Miss Virginia Deerin'. Ain't it a pretty name? An' she
knows all 'bout that beautiful place of roses. I was hankerin' so for
some, an' she went out to see 'f she could find any. I couldn't know
you'd bring me such a lovely lot. Don't you know how Bess alwers
b'l'eved you'd come, an' _she_ b'l'eves jes' that way. An' she likes you
so."
"Virginia Deering!" John Travis said under his breath, his whole frame
athrill with subtle emotion, "what makes you think she likes me?" he
asked softly.
"Oh, can't you tell it in any one's voice? An' their eyes get soft an'
strange, 's if they were lookin' 'way off, an' saw the other one comin',
jes' 's Bess come to me that day."
Then Dil raised a little and glanced out of the window, listened
smilingly.
"She's come back. That's her voice. An' oh, won't she be glad to see you
an' the heaps an' heaps of wild roses!"