GOOD BY.
It happened that she was a cross baby. It did not take her long to
forget all about heaven. She liked to pull hair, and she liked to
scratch faces; and no matter how much you trotted her up and down, she
just opened her toothless mouth and cried.
"She's a wicked, awful baby!" exclaimed I, scowling at her till my
eyes ached.
"Div her a pill, _I_ would," said Ned, laughing. He could laugh, for
he didn't have to sit and hold her, as I did.
"Poor little thing isn't well," said mother.
"I don't 'spect she knows whether's she's well or not," returned I, in
disgust. "She just hates everybody, and that's what she's crying
about."
"You grieve me, Madge. I thought you loved this dear sister."
"Well, I did; but I don't love her any more, and I don't ever want to
rock a baby that hates me so hard she can't keep her mouth shut."
"You don't mean you are not glad God sent her? O, Madge!"
"Yes'm, that's what I mean. I'm real sorry he sent her, and I wish
he'd take her back again."
Hasty, bitter speech! Even a child knows better than to talk so
recklessly. Next day, and for many days, those words came back to my
heart like sharp knives. Little sister was very ill, and I knew by the
looks of people's faces that they thought she would cross the dark
river, on the other side of which stand the pearly gates. Mother saw
me roving about the house, crying in corners, and sent me away to the
Allens to stay all night. When I got there, Madam Allen took me right
up in her motherly arms, and tried to soothe me; but I refused to be
comforted.
"I thought baby looked a little better this morning," said she.
I shook my head.
"Has baby grown any worse?"
"No'm."
"Then why do you shake your head?"
"'Cause," sobbed I, "'cause--"
And then, hiding behind her turban, I whispered,--
"O, if you tell God you want anything, is that a prayer?"
"Yes, dear, if you tell him you want little sister to get well, that
is a prayer."
I moaned still more bitterly at these words, and slid out of her lap.
"Why, what is it, darling?"
"I can't tell you," said I; "I can't, I can't. There isn't anybody in
this world I can tell but just Fel."
Then Madam Allen went out of the room, and left us two little girls
alone.
"O, Fel," said I, as soon as my sobs would let me speak, "I said I
wished God would take my little sister back again."
Fel looked very much shocked.
"And O, I'm afraid it was a truly prayer, and God 'll do it."
"No, I guess it wasn't a truly prayer, Madge."
"What makes you think it wasn't?" cried I, eagerly, for I supposed she
must know.
"Wasn't you mad when you said it?"
"Yes, very. She made that long scratch on my nose, and I was very
mad."
"She did dig awful deep; I don't wonder you felt bad," said Fel,
soothingly. "But you didn't want her to die, any more'n anything; now
did you?"
"No, O, no!"
"Well, then, if you didn't want her to die, God knows you didn't; for
he knows everything, don't he?"
"Yes, yes."
"And so it wasn't a truly prayer," added Fel, positively.
"And won't he answer it?"
"Why, what you 'spose? Of course not, Madge."
She seemed to feel so clear upon the subject, that I began to breathe
more freely. O, it was everything to have such a wise little friend!
"But I oughtn't to said it, Fel! O, dear! What s'pose made me? _You_
never say bad things, never!"
Fel thought a moment, and then answered, as she looked at me with her
clear, happy eyes,--
"Well, you have lots of things to plague you, Madge; but I don't.
Everybody's real good to me, because I'm sick."
I looked at her, and began to cry again. My little heart had been
stirred to its very depths, and I could not bear to have her speak of
being sick.
"Now, Fel Allen," said I, "you don't s'pose you're going to die 'fore
I do? I can't live 'thout you! If you die, I'll die too."
"Why, I never said a thing about dying," returned Fel, in surprise.
"Well, you won't never leave me, will you? Say you won't never! Just
think of you up in heaven and me down here. I can't bear it!"
"Why, Madge."
"Well, if you should go up to heaven first, Fel, you'd sit there on
those steps, with a harp in your hand, and think about me; how I said
cross things to you."
"Why, what cross things did ever you say to me, Madge Parlin?"
"There, there," cried I, smiling through my tears, and beginning to
dance; "_have_ you forgot? O, that's nice! Why, Fel, I called you a
lie-girl."
"O, well, I don't care if you did. I wasn't, _was_ I?"
"And I called you a borrow-girl, too. And I drowned you, and I--I--"
"I wish you'd stop talking about that," said Fel, "or you'll make me
cry; for you're just the nicest girl. And who cares if you do scold
sometimes? Why, it's just in fun, and I like to hear you."
Now, Dotty Dimple, I declare to you that this conversation is sweeter
to my memory than "a nest of nightingales." Naughty as I was, Fel
didn't know I was naughty!
When I went home next morning, the little Louise was much better, and
in a few days seemed as well as ever. I was very thankful God knew I
was not in earnest, and had not taken me at my word, and called her
back to heaven.
She was never quite as cross from that time, and I had many happy
hours with her, though, as I told Fel,--
"She's cross _enough_ now, and sometimes seems 's if I couldn't
forgive her; but I always do; I don't dass not to!"
I was not required to hold her very much, for Fel was not well, and
wanted me with her half the time. Mother was always willing I should
go, and never said,--
"Don't you think you ought to be pacifying the baby?"
I never dreamed that Fel was really sick. I only knew she grew sweeter
every day, and clung to me more and more. I had stopped teasing her
long ago, and tried to make her happy. I couldn't have said a cross
word to her that winter any more than I could have crushed a white
butterfly.
One day I was going to see her, with some jelly in my little basket,
when "the Polly woman" walked mournfully into the yard.
"I've just come from Squire Allen's," said she, unfastening her
shawl, and sighing three times,--once for every pin.
"And how is Fel?" asked mother.
Polly slowly shook her head,--
"Very low; I--"
Mother looked at her, and then at me; and I looked at her, and then at
Polly.
"Dr. Foster says her brain has always been too active, and--"
"Madge, you'd better run along," said mother. "The baby's asleep now;
but she'll wake up and want you."
I went with a new thought and a new fear, though I did not know what I
thought or what I feared.
When I reached Squire Allen's, Ann Smiley came down the path to meet
me.
I asked, "_Is_ Fel very low? Polly said so."
And she answered,--
"Why, no, indeed; she is as well as common. Polly is so queer."
I went into the house, and Madam Allen drew me close to her, and
said,--
"Bless you, child, for coming here to cheer our little darling."
When she set me down, I saw she had been crying. I had never seen her
with red eyes before.
"You and Fel may stay in the warm sitting-room," said she; "and Ann
shall carry in some sponge cake and currant shrub, for Fel hardly
tasted her dinner."
I remember how Fel clapped her hands, and smiled to see me; and how
Ann brought the cake into the sitting-room, and drew up a little table
before the fire. We sat and played keep house, and sipped currant
shrub out of some silver goblets which had crossed the ocean.
It is a beautiful picture I am seeing now, as I shut my eyes: Fel,
with that lovely smile on her face, as if some one were whispering
pleasant things in her ear.
"I love you so, and it's so nice;" said I.
Gust came in, and she took his hand and patted it.
"Yes," said she; "I love you and Gust, and it is nice; but we'll have
nicer times when we get to heaven, you know."
Gust gave her one little hug, and rushed out of the room. Then I
remember throwing myself on the rug and crying; for there was an ache
at my heart, though I could not tell why.
Grandpa Harrington came in, and began to poke the fire.
"Well, well," said he; "its hard for one to be taken and the other
left, so it is. But Jesus blessed little children; and I wouldn't cry,
my dear."
That was the last time I ever played with Fel. She grew feverish that
night, and the doctor said she must not see any one. Something was the
matter with her head, and she did not know people. I heard she had
"water on the brain," and wondered if they put it on to make it feel
cool.
There, children, I do not like to talk about it. It was all over in
three short weeks, and then the angels called for Fel. She was "taken"
and I was "left," and it seemed "very hard." I grieved for a long
while, and wanted to go too; but Madam Allen said,--
"You are all the little girl I have now to take in my arms. Don't you
want to stay in this world to make Fel's mother happy?"
"Yes," said I; "I do."
And my own mamma said,--
"The baby needs you, too. See, she has learned to hold her hands to
you!"
They all tried to comfort me, and by and by I felt happy again. I am
told that the loss of my dear little friend made me a different child.
I grew more kind and gentle in my ways, more thoughtful of other
people. Not very good, by any means, but trying harder to be good.
Well, I believe this is all I have to tell you of my little days, for
very soon I began to be a large girl.
I am leaving off at a sad place, do you say, Prudy? Why, I don't think
so. To me it is the most beautiful part of all. Just think of my dear
little friend growing up to womanhood in heaven! I ought to be willing
to spare her. O, yes!
She was always better than I, and what must she be now? It would
frighten me to think of that, only she never knew she was good, and
had such a way of not seeing the badness in me.
I shall never forget my darling Fel, and I think she will remember me
if I should live to be very old. Yes, I do believe she loves me still,
and is waiting for me, and will be very glad to see me when I go to
the Summer Land.
Here is a lock of her hair, Fly. You see it is a beautiful golden
brown, and as soft as your own. A certain poet says,--
"There seems a love in hair, though it be dead."
And that is why I shall always keep this little tress.
Now kiss me, dears, and we will all go to the study, and see what
uncle Gustus is doing.
Yes, Fly, I did like your uncle Gustus, because he was Fel's brother.
Well,--I don't know--yes, dear,--perhaps that _was_ part of one little
reason why I married him.