Night wore on. By morning the passion of the storm was abated. The
blizzard had not lifted; but waves of wind burst less frequently on a
world now white with frozen snow.
Early in the day the doctor arrived with the belated nurse. The priest
was virtually discharged from duty. He would have gone away at once but
for Reginald, who held tightly to his hand. The sick boy was sweetly
despotic in his little kingdom. A child's appealing trust, his angelic
weakness, claimed all that Father Barry could give. "Reggie--won't
have--nudder nurse," he protested. The young woman who had just arrived
moved into the background, while the boy's mother sank to his side.
Isabel's face shone with joy. The gladness of the moment half stopped
her voice. But she took her darling's tiny hand. Reginald's fingers
clung to her own; then, with a satisfied smile, he reached out eagerly
to the priest. "Hold nudder hand," he implored. To refuse was not to be
thought of. Father Barry knelt once more; but now, like a jewel in a
clasp, the precious body of the boy joined him to Isabel. On opposite
sides of the bed, both man and woman felt instant thrill of a despotic
measure. The sick child's eyes sought eagerly for his new nurse. "You
can go home," he announced. "Take your trunk," he coolly added. He
sighed contentedly, looking first at his mother, then at his friend.
The French clock on the dresser ticked moments. The boy seemed to be
asleep. He was only planning fresh despotism. "Mudder dear and Fadder
Barry will make Reggie well," he summed up conclusively. "Some day--I'm
doin' to buy Fadder Barry a wotto-mobile--a nice, bu-ti-ful--great big
one----"
"Thank you," said the priest. The child spoke easily. His improvement
seemed marvelous.
"Dear Reggie must not talk. Be quiet, darling," Isabel entreated.
"Mother dear and Father Barry will both stay with you; but you must
close your eyes and go to sleep." Unconscious of the priest's emotion
the mother had promised much. The boy drooped his lids, squeezing them
hard. Below purple eyes, dark lashes swept his cheeks, then raised like
curtains, as he peeped on either hand. Isabel was faint with joy.
"Darling," she pleaded, "go to sleep."
"I can't keep shut," the little fellow whimpered. His head turned on the
pillow. "I want Fadder Barry to put on his fine cape and his nice suit,"
he begged, suddenly recalling the priest's vestments. "And I want to
hear the little bell," he persisted.
"Yes, dear Reggie," Father Barry answered. "When you are well you may
come to church--may hear the beautiful music--see the little boys about
the altar. But now you must mind the doctor. Don't you remember? just a
little time ago you told him that you would be a good boy and do
everything Father Barry wished. If you talk your throat will get bad
again. You don't want it to hurt?"
Sympathy wrought on the boy's imaginative temperament; he enjoyed his
own little part. "I felt so bad!" he wailed. He had naturally a broad
accent, despite his Middle West locality. His voice, deep and full for
so young a child, inclined to unflattened vowels.
"I felt so bad!" he repeated, in view of more attention.
"But now you will soon be well," his mother quieted. "Just think how
good you should be when you are going to California!"
The promise in question acted like magic.
"Tell Reggie about the big ningen," he coaxed.
"If you close your eyes," Isabel agreed. The boy's lashes shut down.
"Soon mother dear and Reggie are going far away on a long train," she
began. "Every morning the engineer will give his big engine a hot
breakfast,--a great deal of coal, and all the water it can drink. The
long, long train will run ever so fast, away out across the plains, over
the high mountains, to California. At first Jack Frost may try to catch
the train, but the engineer must run the faster. Then soon Jack Frost
will go howling back East."
"I want Fadder Barry to come too," the boy put in.
"If you talk, I shall not go on," his mother cautioned. "Reggie may eat
his breakfast and dinner and supper on the train. At night he will sleep
in a funny little bed. Maggie must watch that her boy doesn't roll on to
the floor. After a long time the train will stop. Mother and Reggie and
Maggie will get out, and----"
"Fadder Barry, too!" the boy persisted. He did not open his eyes, while
tremulous lashes expressed his joy in the story.
"When Reggie gets to California he won't have to wear mittens or carry
his muff or put on his fur coat," the mother continued, regardless of
comment. "It will be bright and warm, so warm that Reggie may play out
of doors all day long. There will be gardens filled with flowers.
Mother's little boy may pick her a beautiful bouquet every morning."
"And Fadder Barry, too--and Maggie--and----" The sick boy was
reluctantly dropping to sleep. The rhythm of his mother's voice and a
satisfying story had worked a charm.
"In California the trees are full of birds that sing just like Dickey;
only poor Dickey has to live in his cage. In California the birds are
free to fly. Sometimes they fly over the great mountains; sometimes down
to the deep, big ocean." The boy's dark lashes had ceased to quiver.
"All day long yellow bees and bright butterflies play hide and seek
among the flowers; at night they all go to bed inside of roses, tucked
between pink and white blankets, just like little boys and girls. They
sleep--and sleep--and sleep--just like Reggie."
The priest and Isabel looked into each other's eyes. For a moment they
held the tiny fingers of the boy, then very gently each released a hand
and moved from the bedside.
The nurse came forward, smiling. "You might both better go," she
commanded. Without comment the boy's mother led the way. In the hall
below, Pat Murphy stood in earnest conversation with his cousin Maggie.
The girl looked frightened. Father Barry approached without hesitation.
"What is the matter?" he asked.
The Irishman waited, confused. "I do be sint by Sister Simplice. Your
mother--the old lady--she have just gone." He crossed himself.
"Tell me again," the priest commanded. "What do you mean?"
"Your mother--do be dead," Pat faltered.