LLOYD MAKES A DISCOVERY.
"IT _was_ Molly's little lost sister, I'm sure of it!" insisted Elise
next morning, stopping in the middle of her dressing to argue the matter
with Lloyd and Allison. "Of course I couldn't see her face, for she had
her apron up over it, crying. But neither can you see the little girl's
face in the picture, Allison Walton, and the rest of her was exactly
like the picture. See?"
She ran across the room for the magazine that had been brought up from
the library on the night of Thanksgiving, and which still lay open on
the table.
"They have the same thin little arms and ragged clothes and everything.
Oh, I am sure it was Dot that I ran after, and now that I know how awful
it is to be lost, I'd do anything to find her. I dreamed about her last
night, and I can't think about anybody else."
So positive was she, that Lloyd could hardly wait for ten o'clock to
come, the hour that her mother had promised to call for her. They were
to begin their Christmas shopping that morning, for the calendar showed
them that whatever gifts they intended sending Betty and Eugenia must
soon be started on their way, in order to reach them in time. Lloyd was
so excited over the prospect of finding Dot that she wanted to postpone
the shopping, and start at once for the tenement district where Elise
had wandered away from her carriage.
"I know that Betty and Eugenia would rather do without any Christmas
gifts," she declared almost tearfully, "than miss this chance of finding
her. Betty used to talk about it all the time, and if we don't go this
morning, something may happen that we may never find her."
"But be reasonable, dear," answered Mrs. Sherman. "It would be like
hunting for a needle in a hay-stack. You have such a slight clue, Lloyd.
That picture is _not_ a picture of Molly's sister. It is only one that
reminded Molly of her, and there are thousands of poor little waifs in
the world that look like that. I will see the Humane Society about her,
and the teachers of the free kindergarten who work in that district, and
we will report the case to the police. It would be useless for us to go
wandering aimlessly around, up one flight of dirty stairs and down
another."
Lloyd had to be content with that, but all the time she was going around
among the shops, trying to choose gifts appropriate to send across the
sea, she kept thinking of Molly as she had seen her that rainy day,
lying face downward on her cot and sobbing out her misery in the little
attic room of the Cuckoo's Nest.
They went back to Mrs. Walton's for lunch, where Elise was still talking
of her adventure of the night before.
"I wish Dot had some of this good plum-pudding," she remarked. "She
looked so cold and hungry. Maybe she was crying because she didn't have
anything to eat."
Mrs. Walton shook her head in perplexity. "Everything leads straight
back to that subject," she exclaimed. "The child has talked of nothing
else all morning. Oh, I almost forgot to tell you, Lloyd. Mrs. Moore
called while you were out this morning, and promised Elise she would
take her through all those tenements next week. She is very charitable,
and has helped so many poor people in that part of the city that they
will do anything for her. She thinks that there really may be some
possibility of finding the child."
Lloyd's face shone as if she had come into the possession of a fortune.
She was sure now that Dot would be found in time to keep Christmas with
them, and she could scarcely wait until she reached home to write to
Betty about the search that was to be made.
She went back to her Aunt Jane's that afternoon to wait until train
time, much to the disappointment of Allison and Kitty, who were
arranging some tableaux.
"You'll write to me if they find out anything about Dot, won't you?" she
asked Allison at parting.
"Yes, the very next breath," answered Allison. So the Little Colonel
went away quite hopeful, and for days she haunted the post-office.
Before school, after school, at recess, sometimes the last thing before
dark, she made a pilgrimage to the post-office, to stand on tiptoe and
see if anything was in their box. But the days went by, and the
long-looked-for letter never came. There were papers and magazines,
thick letters from Joyce, and thin foreign-stamped ones from Betty and
Eugenia, but none that told of a successful search for Dot.
Two weeks before Christmas there came a letter from Allison, inviting
her to spend the following Saturday in town. On the opposite page her
mother had pencilled a postscript almost as long as the letter itself,
saying: "Do come in with Lloyd. Sister Elise usually makes a merry
Christmas for the little ones at the Children's Hospital, but this year
she will be so busy with other things that she has asked us to take her
place. Malcolm and Keith have asked for an unusually big celebration at
Fairchance this Christmas, and she will have her hands full trying to
carry out all their plans.
"I have promised to take her place here, and we have planned a tiny
individual Christmas tree for each child in the hospital. I am going to
take the girls down there Saturday and let them talk to the children,
and find out, as far as possible, what gift would make each one happy.
Be sure to come in with Lloyd. Even if we have failed in our efforts to
find little Dot, we may have a hand in making twenty other little souls
supremely happy on Christmas Day. Come on the early train, and we will
go to the hospital first, and spend the rest of the day in shopping."
Luckily it was late in the week when the letter arrived, or Lloyd would
have had a hard time waiting for Saturday. So impatient was she for the
holiday to come that she began to count the hours and then even the
minutes.
"Two whole days and nights!" she exclaimed. "That makes forty-eight
hours, and there's sixty minutes in an hour, and sixty seconds in a
minute. That makes--let me see." It was too big a sum to do in her head,
so she ran for pencil and paper and began multiplying carefully, putting
down the amount in neat little figures.
"One hundred and seventy-two thousand eight hundred seconds," she
announced, finally. "What a terrible lot. The clock has to tick that
many times before I can go."
"But remember, part of that time you will be asleep," suggested Papa
Jack. "Over fifty thousand of these seconds will be ticked off when you
know nothing about it."
That was some comfort, and the Little Colonel, putting on her warmest
winter wrappings, went out to make some of the other seconds go by
unnoticed, by rolling up snowballs for a huge snow-man on the lawn.
It had been a dull week in the hospital. Gray skies and falling snow is
a dreary outlook for children who can do nothing but lie in their narrow
beds and look wearily out of the windows. This Saturday morning the
nurses had given the little invalids their baths and breakfasts, the
doctors had made their rounds, and in each ward were restless little
bodies who longed to be amused.
Those who were well enough to be propped up in bed fingered the games
and pictures that had entertained them before; but a dozen pairs of eyes
in search of some new interest turned expectantly toward the door every
time it opened. Suddenly a stir went through the ward where the
convalescents lay, and the wintry morning seemed to blossom into
June-time.
Four little girls, each with her arms full of great red roses, with
leafy stems so long that it seemed the whole bush must have been cut
down with them, passed down the room, leaving one at each pillow.
"My Aunt Elise sent them," said the smallest child, pausing at the first
white bed. "She asked us to bring them 'cause she couldn't come herself.
They're American Beauties and they always make me think of my Aunt
Elise."
"She must be a dandy, then," was the response of Micky O'Brady, on whom
she bestowed one, taking it up awkwardly in his left hand. His right one
was still in a sling, and one leg had just been taken out of a plaster
cast, for he had been run over by a heavy truck, and narrowly escaped
being made a cripple for life. Elise stopped to question him about his
accident, and found that despite his crippled leg a pair of skates was
what he wished for above all things. While she was chattering away to
him like a little magpie, Kitty and Allison went on down the room with
their roses. It was not the first time they had been there, and they
knew some of the children by name. But it was all new to Lloyd. In the
next room the sight of the white little faces, some of them drawn with
pain, almost brought the tears to her eyes.
There were only six beds in this ward, and at the last one Lloyd laid a
rose down very softly, because in that bed the little invalid lay on one
side as if she were asleep. But as the perfume of the great American
Beauty reached her, she opened her eyes and smiled weakly. Lloyd was so
startled that she dropped the rest of the roses to the floor and clasped
both hands around the bedpost. For the eyes that smiled up at her, keen
and gray with their curly black lashes, might have been Molly's own,
they were so like hers. The black hair brushed back from the white face
waved over the left temple exactly as Molly's did. There were the same
straight black eyebrows and the familiar droop of the pretty little
mouth, and it seemed to Lloyd, as she stared at her with a fascinated
gaze, that it was Molly herself who lay there white and wan. Only a much
smaller Molly, with a sad, hopeless little face, as if the battle with
life had proved too hard, and she was slowly giving it up.
[Illustration: "'OH, _WHAT_ IS YOUR NAME?'"]
The child, still smiling, weakly raised her bony little hand to lift the
rose from the pillow, and even the gesture with which she laid it
against her cheek was familiar.
"Oh, _what_ is your name?" cried Lloyd, forgetting that she had been
told not to talk in that room.
"The people I lived with last called me Muggins," said the child,
faintly, "but a long time ago it used to be Dot."
As she spoke she turned her head so that both sides of her face were
visible, and Lloyd saw that across the right eyebrow was a thin white
scar.
"Oh, I knew it!" cried Lloyd, under her breath. "I knew it the minute I
looked at you!" Then to the child's astonishment, without waiting to
pick up the fallen roses, she ran breathlessly into the hall.
"Mothah! Mrs. Walton!" she cried, breaking into their conversation with
one of the nurses. "Come quick, I've found her! It's really, truly
Dot! She says that is her name, and she looks exactly like Molly. Oh,
do come and see her!"
She wanted to rush back to the child with the news that she knew her
sister Molly and that they should soon be together, but the nurse said
it would excite her too much if it were really so. Then she wanted to
send a telegram to Molly and a cable to Betty saying that Dot had been
found, but nobody except herself was sure that this little Dot was
Molly's sister.
"We must be absolutely sure of that first," said Mrs. Sherman, who saw
the same strong resemblance to Molly that had startled the Little
Colonel, but who knew how often such resemblances exist between entire
strangers. "Think how cruel it would be to raise any false hopes in
either one. Think how sure Elise was that the child she followed was
Molly's sister. You both couldn't be right, for this one was brought to
the hospital before Elise was lost."
The nurse could tell very little. The child had been picked up on the
street so ill that she was delirious, and all their investigating had
proved little beyond the fact that she had been deserted by her drunken
father. Her illness was evidently caused by lack of proper food and
clothing. Nobody knew her by any other name than Muggins.
While they were still discussing the matter in the hall, Allison had a
bright idea. "Why couldn't you telephone for Ranald to bring his camera
and take a picture of her and send that to Molly. If she says it is Dot
that will settle it."
The nurse thought that would be a sensible thing to do, but they had to
wait until one of the doctors was consulted. As soon as he gave his
permission, they began to make arrangements. Ranald answered his
mother's summons promptly, and it was not long before he was setting up
his tripod in the room where the child lay.
A pleased smile came over the child's face when she discovered what was
to be done. "Put in all the things that have made me so happy while I
have been in the hospital," she said to the nurse, "so that when I leave
here I can have the picture of them to look at."
So they laid a big wax doll in her arms, that had been her constant
companion, and around her on the counterpane they spread the games and
pictures she had played with before she grew so weak. On her pillow was
the queen-rose, and close beside the bed they wheeled the little table
that held a plate of white grapes and oranges. Just as Ranald was ready
to take the picture, the matron came in with a plate of ice-cream. "Oh,
put that in, too," cried Muggins "Miss Hale sends it every day, and it's
one of the happiest things to remember about the hospital. It is like
heaven, isn't it?" she exclaimed, glancing around at the luxuries she
had never known until she came to the hospital, and that smile was on
her face when Ranald took the picture.
"I'll develop it as soon as I get home, and print one for you this
afternoon," he promised. "You shall have one to-morrow."
"Will you print me one, too?" inquired the Little Colonel, anxiously,
when they had bidden Muggins good-bye, and were going through the hall.
"I want one to send to Betty and Eugenia, and one to send to Joyce, and
one to keep."
"I'll print a dozen next week if you want them," promised Ranald, "but
the first one must be for that little Dot or Muggins, or whatever you
call her, and the next one for Molly."
It was Mrs. Sherman who wrote the letter that carried the picture to
Molly. By the same mail there went a note to Mrs. Appleton, saying that
in case Molly recognised it as her sister, they would send for her to
come and spend Christmas with her in the hospital, for the nurse had
said it would probably be the child's last Christmas, and they wanted
to do all they could to make it a happy one.
In a few days the answer came. Molly was almost wild with joy, and would
start as soon as the promised railroad ticket reached her. The
photograph of little Dot was scarcely out of her hands, Mrs. Appleton
said. She propped it up in front of her while she washed the dishes. It
lay in her lap when she was at the table, and at night she slept with it
under her pillow to bring her happy dreams.
The day that Mrs. Appleton's letter came, Allison went up to her
mother's room and stood beside her desk waiting for her pen to come to
the end of a page. "Mamma," she said, as Mrs. Walton finally looked up,
"I've thought of such a nice plan. Have you time to listen?"
Mrs. Walton smiled up at the thoughtful face of her eldest daughter.
"You should have been named Pansy, my dear. _Pensee_ is for thought, you
know, and I'm glad to say you are always having thoughts of some
sensible way to help other people. I'm very busy, but I am sure your
plan is a good one, so I'll let the letters wait for awhile."
She leaned back in her chair, and Allison, dropping down on the rug at
her feet, began eagerly. "Out at the hospital, mamma, there is a little
empty room at the end of a side hall. It is a dear little room with a
fireplace and a sunny south window. It has never been furnished because
they haven't enough money. I asked one of the nurses about it, and she
said they often need it for cases like Dot. It would be so much
pleasanter to have her away from all the noise. And I've been thinking
if it could be fixed up for Dot to spend Christmas in, how much nicer it
would be for her and Molly both. It wouldn't cost very much to furnish
it, just enough to get the little white bedroom set and the sheets and
towels and things. Anyhow, it wouldn't be much more than you've often
spent on my Christmas presents. And I wanted to know if you wouldn't let
me do that this year instead of your giving me a Christmas present.
Please, mamma, I've set my heart on it. If I got books they'd soon be
read, and jewelry or games I'd get tired of after awhile, and things to
wear, no matter how pretty, would be worn out soon. But this is
something that would last for years. I could think every day that some
poor little soul who has never known anything but to be sick or sad was
enjoying my pretty room."
"That is as beautiful a _pensee_ as ever blossomed in any heart-garden,
I am sure," said Mrs. Walton, softly, smoothing the curly head resting
against her knee, "and mother is glad that her little girl's plans are
such sweet unselfish ones. We'll go this very afternoon and talk to the
matron about it."
Aladdin's lamp is not the only thing that can suddenly bring wonderful
things to pass. There is a modern magic of telephones and electric cars,
and the great Genii of sympathy and good-will are all-powerful when once
unbottled. So a few hours wrought wonderful changes in the empty little
room, and next morning Allison stood in the centre of it looking around
her with delighted eyes.
Everything was as white and fresh as a snowdrop, from the little bed to
the dainty dressing-table beside the window. A soft firelight shone on
the white-tiled hearth of the open fireplace. The morning sun streamed
in through the wide south window, where a pot of pink hyacinths swung
its rosy bells, and Allison's Japanese canary, Nagasaki, twittered in
its gilded cage. She had brought it all the way from Japan.
"Of course they won't want it in the room all the time," she said, "but
there will be days when the children will love to have it brought in a
little while to sing to them."
"If you give up Nagasaki then I'll give my globe of goldfish," said
Kitty, anxious to do her part toward making a happy time for little Dot.
"Afterward, if the child who stays in that room is too sick to enjoy
it, it can go into the convalescent ward."
It was into this room that Molly came, bringing her picture of the Good
Shepherd. She had carried it in her arms all the way, frequently taking
it out of its brown paper wrapping, for down in one corner of the frame
she had fastened the photograph of Dot.
All that morning on the train, the refrain that had gone through her
happy heart as she looked at the picture was, "Oh, she's been happy for
a month! She's got grapes and oranges, and a doll, and roses in the
picture, and _ice-cream_! And there's lace on her nightgown, and she is
_smiling_."
"Shall we name the room for you, Miss Allison?" asked the nurse, when
the picture of the Good Shepherd was hung over the mantel, and Dot lay
looking up at it with tired eyes, her little hand clasped in Molly's,
and a satisfied smile on her face.
"No," whispered Allison, her glance following the gaze of the child's
eyes. "Call it _The Fold of the Good Shepherd_. She looks like a poor
little lost lamb that had just found its way home."
"I wish all the poor little stray lambs might find as warm a shelter,"
answered the nurse, in an undertone, "and I hope, my dear, that all your
Christmases will be as happy as the one you are making for her."