and, pushing open the door, the woman entered with Lulu in her arms,
Mamie and the girl coming as closely after as the tired, cramped limbs
of the poor little child could carry her.
The place was neat and clean, though poor; and to Mamie, after the dark
and chill of the sea, it seemed a very haven of refuge. Summer night
though it was, she was not sorry to see a fire of logs burning upon the
open hearth, over which the kettle was singing, while the table was set
for supper. She had not known she was hungry before; but now the brown
loaf upon the table looked very inviting to her, though, at another
time, she would probably have scorned it.
But just now she could attend to nothing but Lulu, who had not ceased
her frantic cries for mamma and "hupper" from the moment she had been
awakened in lifting her from the boat.
Whether the woman understood, or whether she only imagined that the
poor children must be hungry, she sat down beside the fire with Lulu
upon her knee, and, hastily pouring some milk into a cup, held it to
the little one's lips.
Lulu seized upon it, and while Mamie stood close beside her, looking on
with satisfaction, took a long drink, put it from her to take breath,
and ejaculated, "Dood!" then drank again; looked up into the kind,
good-natured face smiling above her, and said, "Mamie some too."
Meanwhile the girl had done a like good office for Mamie, bringing
her also a cup of milk; but she would not touch it till she saw Lulu
satisfied. Their care for one another evidently gratified the woman and
the girl, who both looked on admiringly; and then, Lulu making it quite
plain without the use of words that she wished her sister to share the
privileges of the broad, comfortable lap where she was resting, the
kindly Dutch woman lifted Mamie to her knee, and, in soothing but still
unintelligible tones, tried to find out something of her story, while
the girl bustled about, and soon had ready some more substantial food
in the shape of great bowls of bread and milk, which she brought to the
children.
But it was all in vain that Mamie, encouraged by so much kindness,
endeavored to make the women understand her. She tried them with all
the appropriate words she could think of, speaking to them in a very
loud voice, as if they could comprehend the better for that. "Sea" and
"boat" and "pier" and "lost," shrieked as loud as they might be, made
no impression upon the minds of her hearers. Then she tried them with
such French words as she knew, believing that one foreign language was
as good as another, and Frenchifying the English words she was obliged
to mix with them to make her story at all clear. "Nous came-ez over
l'eau dans le boat-ez," she said with emphasis, "et pauvre mamma will
être très frighten-ez."
These and many other such sentences she composed and delivered with
great care, but _French_ proved of no greater use than English; and
Mamie began to feel very despairing and desperately homesick again.
Lulu, too, was incessantly pleading, "Tome home, Mamie; Mamie tate Lulu
to mamma;" and fretted piteously.
By and by the man and boy came in, and then there was more talk in
Dutch between the family; and at last the boy turned to Mamie, and,
pointing with his finger, said,--
"Netasquet coom?"
One word, at least, was familiar; Mamie understood him to ask her
if they had come from the right direction, and she nodded her
head assentingly. The boy nodded back as if to say, "That is all
right;" and, believing she had now found a satisfactory method of
communication, she kept on nodding her head, and repeating the word
"Netasquet" in answer to all farther questions that were poured upon
her.
Presently the man put on his hat again, and, taking Mamie in his arms
with many encouraging nods and jerks of his thumb over his shoulder,
carried her out of the house, closely followed by the woman, still
carrying Lulu, who, wide awake, and in utter amazement at all the new
and wonderful things which were befalling her at this hour, when she
was accustomed to be fast asleep in her little bed, gazed solemnly
about her with grave, intent eyes, but, strange to say, was perfectly
quiet, and neither cried nor fretted. Perhaps the little one guessed
that these kind, good-natured people were their friends, and meant them
no harm; though she found it necessary to inform the good woman, over
and over again, that she was "mamma's baby," and therefore must "do
home," and could not be expected to stay with her.
Out under the starry night again; and now their bearers walked rapidly
on towards that steady, bright light Mamie had noticed from the boat,
while she looked wistfully through the darkness for some sign or
landmark which might tell her that they were on their way home. For she
could not help hoping that this was the purpose of these good people,
and yet her poor little heart was full of uncertainty and dread.
They went steadily onwards, the man and woman now and then exchanging a
few words, but for the most part in silence, coming nearer and nearer
to the light; and now Mamie saw that it was really in a light-house,
which gradually loomed tall and white out of the dark night.
But even as she saw this she drew a heavy sigh; the light-house she saw
each night was very far away from home, over the water too, and she
shrank from going upon the sea again to-night. Oh! she never, never
would be disobedient, or fret at mamma's orders again. How severely she
had been punished!
Up a flight of steps and through a small door opening into a neat,
comfortable room, where a woman was busy mixing bread. She turned
around as the new-comers entered, and, as if struck dumb with surprise,
stood looking at them with her arms still in the dough she was kneading.
To her the man spoke as if inquiring for some one by name; and she
answered him by an upward jerk of her head, as if she, too, could only
converse with him by signs.
"Oh!" said Mamie piteously, "can you talk a language? These people
can't, and no one seems to know what I say, so I can ask them to take
me home."
"Well, do tell now," said the woman, stripping the dough from her
fingers, and gazing with interest and curiosity from Mamie to Lulu;
"and where did you come from, and where did Muller and his wife pick
_you_ up? Talk! yes, I can talk, I reckon, if you don't try me on the
Dutch. My old man, he makes out Muller's gibberish, but I ain't no hand
at it."
Thankful beyond words to hear the familiar tongue, or "a language," as
she called it again, Mamie burst into tears of relief as she poured out
her story.
"He picked us up on the sea in a boat that we went into," she sobbed.
"Lulu wasn't naughty, 'cause she did not know any better; but I was
just awful, 'cause mamma forbid me to go on the breakwater, and I did;
and I thought we'd never get back, 'cause these kind people don't know
how to talk. Couldn't you show us the way home?"
"To be sure," answered the woman soothingly, while Muller and his wife
stood silent, satisfied to let Mamie make her tale clear by herself;
"at least, we'll see you get there. You'll be coming from the pier, I
reckon?"
"Yes," moaned Mamie.
"Then I'm thinkin' there may be some folks from down your way upstairs
now. They are just gone up to see the light, and will be down in a
jiffy, and we'll see if they can take you home. If they haven't a
mind to,--shame on 'em if they don't!--my man'll just harness up, and
take you home. It might be better to put you to bed for the night,
for 'tisn't no time for a baby like that to be out; but I reckon your
mother must be nigh about crazed if she don't know nothin' about you;
so we'll get you down to the pier to-night. Don't you take on no more,
you poor lamb; but just wait till John brings the folks down. Here, sit
ye down, Mrs. Muller, and you, too, Muller;" shrieking out these last
words at the top of her voice, and giving each chair a slap with her
hand, as she plumped it energetically down before the good Dutchman and
his wife.
Certainly Mamie could not doubt that the light-house keeper's wife
could "talk a language" as she poured forth question after question,
and made her own remarks on the answers Mamie gave, while the child sat
trembling with impatience to see who "the folks" upstairs might be, and
to know if they would really take her home.
The woman would have taken Lulu from Mrs. Muller; but the poor baby,
who began to think that she was handed from one to another stranger
rather freely to-night, clung to her first friend, and could not be
parted from her, which much pleased that good woman, who soothed
her with gentlest tones and caresses. The little thing sadly needed
petting, for she was quite worn out, and whimpered pitifully again
for "mamma," and to be allowed to "do to heep in ittle bed," not
understanding why she should be so long deprived of these privileges.
Presently voices were heard coming down the long flight of
stairs,--voices to which Mamie listened eagerly; more and more eagerly
as they came nearer and nearer; for they seemed to her familiar and
well known. Could it be?--yes, it really was--there they came around
the turn of the staircase--Mr. and Mrs. Norris with Lily, Mr. Powers
and Belle, Mrs. Walton and Mabel.
"O papa!" she heard Lily saying, "just a few moments longer."
"Not a moment, my daughter. Why! do you know what time it is? after ten
now, and the long drive home still to be taken. A nice hour, truly, for
such young damsels to be running over light-houses and"--
He was interrupted by a shriek of joy from Mamie, who, springing
forward, threw herself wildly upon Mrs. Norris, clinging fast to her
skirts, crying and laughing at the same time, raising to the lady's
astonished gaze a pitiful, tear-stained, pale little face; while broken
words of gladness and pleading came from her lips.
How they all crowded about her and Lulu, who, seeing the familiar face
of Mrs. Norris, also stretched out her arms to her with a glad cry, and
was speedily nestling upon her neck! and how astonished every one was!
and how they all questioned and pitied!--no one had the heart to blame
now, may easily be imagined.
The gentlemen, who were all good German scholars, and could speak with
Muller, soon heard from him how and where he had found the little
castaways,--how, coming home from deep-sea fishing, his boat had, in
the darkness, nearly run down that in which Mamie and her sister were
drifting; how he had made it fast to his own, and brought it in, taking
the children first to his own house, and then bringing them up here,
because, although he had rightly guessed from what quarter they had
come, he had no horse or other means of taking them speedily home, and
so had come to see if his good friend, the light-house keeper, would
not take further steps to restore them to their friends.
There was no need for this now; here were some of their friends on the
spot, and they were ready enough to take all further charge of them,
and carry them home as fast as possible.
With sympathizing thoughts for the agonized mother, searching vainly
for her babies, Mrs. Norris and Mrs. Walton hurried the party away; and
presently they were all in the great wagon which had brought Mamie's
friends to the light-house, and driving home as fast as the darkness of
the evening would allow.
Lulu nestled in Mrs. Norris' arms, and, covered with her shawl, was
soon fast asleep; while Mamie sat with one hand clasped in Lily's, the
other in that of Belle, who, sitting one on each side of her, could not
do enough to show their pity and sympathy. Even Mabel, who sat behind
her, quite forgot the chronic feud between them, and was constantly
leaning forward to put her arm about Mamie's neck, and kiss her cold
cheek, or to ask tenderly, "How do you feel now, Mamie?"
And the rejoicing there was over them when at last they reached home,
and the little wanderers were restored to their frantic mother! How
fast the glad news spread from house to house, bringing joy and relief
even to the hearts of those who had never known or seen them, can be
imagined only by those who knew what the suspense and anxiety had been.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
XI.
_REPENTANCE._
THERE might have been some danger that Mamie would feel herself too
much of a heroine, and forget that all this had been brought about by
her own sad disobedience and naughtiness, but for the trouble which
followed.
Strange to say, neither of the children suffered much from the exposure
and excitement of the evening; and, beyond a little paleness and
languor, seemed as well as usual the next day.
But it was far different with their mother. Not very strong at any
time, the agony and suspense about her little ones had proved too much
for her, and she was very ill; so ill that Mr. Stone was telegraphed
for, and for some hours it was believed she could not live. She was
quite wild, too; and, though she called and pleaded incessantly for
her children, she did not know them when they were brought to her, but
thrust them away from her in a way that frightened little Lulu, and
quite broke poor repentant Mamie's heart. Oh! was her tender, indulgent
mother going to leave her? Would she never know her, never speak to her
again, never tell her she forgave all her disobedient, naughty ways,
all her disrespect and pettishness?
She sat all day, just outside of her mamma's room, listening to every
sound from within, crying bitterly, but silently, and utterly refusing
to be comforted or coaxed away.
But at night there was a little change for the better; Mrs. Stone fell
into a quiet sleep, and the doctor said he had hope for her now.
So Mamie, utterly worn out, suffered herself to be led away by some of
the pitying ladies, and to be put to bed, where she forgot her troubles
until the morning.
She had dreaded facing her father when he should come and hear all the
sad story; but she was awakened by his kiss; and, though he looked
very sober when she poured forth her confession, and offered to submit
patiently to any punishment he might think proper, he told her he
thought she had brought punishment enough upon herself, and that he
hoped this would be a lasting lesson to her.
Mamie thought that it would indeed; she should never forget that
terrible night upon the sea, alone with Lulu, who was rather a silent
reproach than a comfort to her. She could not believe, poor child! that
the night had not been half gone when she was brought home, or that it
was hardly an hour after dark when the fisherman had found her, and
brought her to land.
She was curious to know, as perhaps you may be, how her young
playmates and their parents happened to be at the light-house "in the
middle of the night;" and this was soon satisfactorily explained to her.
It was in this way.
The whole party had driven that afternoon to the house of a friend
whose beautiful place was situated some distance from the shore; and
they had there taken tea, and spent the earlier part of the evening, so
that they had known nothing of the alarm about the lost children.
Their way home lay near the old "Point Light;" for this was not the
light-house which Mamie saw each evening from the piazza of the hotel,
but another, in quite a different direction, though much nearer home;
and Lily and the other children, who were wild to see the light-house
at night while its revolving lamp was burning, had persuaded their
parents to indulge them, late as it was, with a visit there. They
had been up to the very top, seen all that was to be seen, had the
screeching fog-whistle blown many times for their benefit, and had
come down to be astonished by the sight which met them below.
All this, and much more, Belle and Lily poured into Mamie's ears on the
morning of the second day, when her mother had been pronounced a little
better, and she could be coaxed out of doors.
But mamma was still very ill, and must be kept perfectly quiet;
and Mamie, feeling that this was all her fault, and filled with
self-reproach, which was perhaps the greater for her father's kindness,
had no spirits for play, and sat quite subdued and mournful in the
midst of her playmates, who were all ready to devote themselves to her,
and to talk to her if she did not choose to play.
"Mamma says," said Lily, when she had concluded her account of the
way in which they came to be at the light-house,--"Mamma says that it
was quite a providential _dispensary_ that we should have gone to the
light-house."
"What does that mean?" asked Belle.
"I asked her," answered Lily; "and she said it meant that it really
seemed as if God intended us to go there on purpose to find Mamie and
Lulu; because she had really thought it was too late for us to be out,
and was not very willing to be persuaded."
"Because God knew what trouble we were in, and wanted to help us out
of it, I suppose," said Mamie thoughtfully, with the words of her
neglected watchword in her mind.
"Yes," said Belle. "If He did not see us always, and take care of us,
what would become of us? Mamie, it makes me feel like crying, even now
when you're all safe, to think about your being out all alone on the
sea in the dark."
"Yes," assented Lily, "it did me, too, at first; but I'm getting used
to it now. But I hope there's one good thing come out of it. Mamma
doesn't approve at all of children sitting up late; but now, I suppose,
she will see that it can have very delightful consequences."
"Does she think that light-house man would not have brought us home if
you had not come to his light-house?" said Mamie.
"Well, no; but I suppose you wouldn't have been home quite so soon,"
said Lily. "Maybe he wouldn't have brought you at all till the morning."
"I never knew the nights were so dreadfully long," said Mamie. "People
say the nights and the days are just about as long as each other, and
now I know they're not. The nights are a great deal the longest,--oh,
so long!"
And Mamie gave a shuddering sigh at the recollection of the long, weary
time she had passed upon the waters.
"Mamma said the time seemed longer to you than it really was," said
Lily, "because you were alone and frightened; and the days are really
the longest now, 'cause it's summer. In the winter the nights are the
longest. It must be so, you know, 'cause our jography says so, and our
'Elements of 'Stronomy' too."
"Then they never were up all night, and don't know," said Mamie
emphatically, quite resenting the idea that any one could be better
informed in the matter than she who had had such an experience.
"Who were not up all night?" asked Mabel.
"She means the jogra-fers and the 'stron-amers," said Lily; "not the
books of course, but the people who wrote them; but they must have been
grown up; so I dare say they stayed up all night if they chose."
"I should think that _I_ ought to know about it," said Mamie; "and when
I'm grown up, I shall write a jography that says all the others don't
know; 'cause once I stayed up and up and up, and there was a piece of
the night left yet to go to sleep in."
Mamie was not to be convinced, and the others, with a feeling that
she was to be indulged, and not contradicted under the present
circumstances, left her to her belief.
"What did you think about, Mamie?" asked Belle. "Did you think you were
going to be drowned?"
"Yes," said Mamie, her eyes filling with tears; "and, Belle, I
thought a good deal about that watchword you gave me, and how, if I'd
remembered it all the time, that wouldn't have happened to me; but it
did make me feel a little better,--no, not better, there wasn't any
better about it,--but not quite so very afraid to think God could see
me, and take care of me, even out on the sea and in the dark. I did
not see, either, how He was going to help me; and yet the way did come
quite easy after all. And now--and now"--Mamie hesitated, and looked
doubtfully from one to another of her companions.
"Well," said Lily encouragingly.
"I think," said Mamie, "that now I will have to remember always
that God sees me all the time; and that He would think I am very
ungrateful, and don't deserve to be taken care of, if I don't try to be
good and never disobey mamma."
"Yes, I think so too," said Lily; "and that's the very best kind of a
verse to help you to 'resist the hm--hm--and he will flee from you.'"
"The who?" asked Belle, amazed; and Mamie and Mabel also looked
inquiringly at this mysterious utterance from Lily.
"The hm--hm," repeated Lily, no ways abashed, and persisting in the
ambiguous form of expression; "you know that verse, don't you?"
"I know the verse, 'Resist the _devil_, and he will flee from you,'"
said Belle.
"Yes, that's it," said Lily; "but if everybody knows the verse, which
'most all the world does,--and ought to be ashamed of themselves, if
they don't,--why, then it's just as well to say hm--hm, and not that
other ugly word."
"But the Bible says it," said Mabel.
"Yes," answered Lily, in a tone of indulgence for the Scriptures; "the
Bible can say what it pleases, because it _is_ the Bible; but mortals
ought to be more careful."
"You learned that from Maggie and Bessie, I suppose," said Belle. "They
never say that word if they can help it."
"Yes, partly," said Lily with an air of becoming modesty, but yet as
one who feels that she has ground of her own to stand upon, "partly
from them, but partly from my own self. You see, children, I do it to
keep myself from temptation."
"Temptation of what?" asked Belle.
"Temptation to say things I ought not," answered Lily. "Mamma told me
I was falling into the habit of talking rather strongly, of saying
'awful' and 'horrid,' and such words to things that were not at all
awful or horrid, or saying I was 'most dead, when I was not 'most dead
at all; and she said she wanted me to watch myself, and try not to use
such strong expressions; and I thought hm--hm was rather a strong
expression, so I would not say it right out when there was no need.
What's that now?" as a smothered laugh was heard from behind the closed
blinds of the parlor. "I just believe some one is there listening to
us. Go and see, Mamie; it's your house."
Mamie did as she was bid; but she found no one near the window; and
Lily was satisfied that she had been mistaken, as Mamie reported
only two or three young ladies in the parlor, who did not seem to be
thinking of them.
"You know," she continued, when Mamie had returned, "that when we feel
like doing a thing, it is best to keep ourselves quite out of the way
of temptation,--I learned that pretty well when I was always putting
off,--and I _do_ like to talk that kind of a way; so I'm going to keep
myself as much as I can without using wrong words at all. I only began
this morning; but you see I've improved already."
Mamie drew a long, weary sigh.
"Yes, Lily," she said with a doleful shake of her head, "yes, I know
now how one ought not to put one's self in the way of temptation, if
they don't want to do a wrong thing. But--but--I'm afraid I meant all
the time to go on the breakwater if I found a chance. And I b'lieve,
oh, dear! I b'lieve all these days I have been real mad at mamma 'cause
she would not let me go; and now, if she don't get well, I can never
tell her how sorry I am, or try to make up for it."
"But she's a little better to-day," said Belle consolingly. "I heard
everybody say so."
"Yes, a little," said Mamie, who was again crying bitterly; "but papa
says she is very ill yet; and even if she does get well, I shall always
have to remember how bad I was to her. I think I never knew before how
dreadful it is to be bad to your mother; and, when I was out in that
boat, I b'lieve I thought of 'most every naughty thing I ever did to
her."
"Then if she gets well now, it will make you very careful how you
behave badly or saucily to her again," said Lily; "so that will be a
good thing."
"Oh, yes! I should think it might," sighed Mamie.
"Mamie, we are very sorry for you," said Belle, taking her hand and
holding it tenderly.
"So am I," said Mabel: "and, Mamie, I believe I know a little how you
feel by the duckling."
"Oh, you can't!" said Mamie almost indignantly; "a duckling is nothing
to your own mamma. But, Mabel, I was horrid and stuck-up to you about
that duckling, and made an awful fuss 'cause you took it without leave;
and then I did a great deal worse thing myself, and never remembered or
didn't care that God saw me all the time. It's very good in you to be
so kind to me now, and never say any thing hateful."
Mamie had on her confession cap now, and was fain to make a clean
breast of all her misdemeanors, past and present, feeling, poor child!
as if it were somewhat of a relief to do so.
"I'm never going to make faces at you again," said Mabel, moved by this
new meekness.