You need not step softly to-night, Pat, though the baby is sleeping. She
will not hear your heavy boots, tramp they never so loudly up the
stairs. Never mind the doll you have in your hand for her--her eyes will
not open to look upon it. Lift the latch quietly, though, for there is
grief in the room, and noise comes harshly and gratingly upon a
sorrowing ear. Nannie can not look up to greet you, neither can her
mother welcome you now, though your silent presence may be grateful to
them both. Winnie does not spring up in her cradle, with her merry
laugh, and stretch out her little hands toward you. She will not twine
her wee fingers in your yellow locks any more, nor try to pick the big
moles off your hard hands. She is lying very still upon her soft pillow.
Her nicest white dress is smoothed down on her tiny form, and her hair
is parted upon a marble brow. There's a little coffin on the table, and
you know who is to occupy it; but it is too sudden, too dreadful for you
to realize at once! Do not try to take her up, nor warm the cold cheek
against your own burning face. The blood is quite chilled in the blue
veins, and the limbs fall passively down. There's a bud from Nannie's
bush in one hand, but she does not hold it first to your nostrils and
then to her own, with her cunning little ways, as she used to do. Do not
ask them how it all happened; how can they tell you, and their hearts
almost breaking? They did not even hear the angel's wings as he came to
bear away the sweet babe. All they knew was, that there was a convulsive
movement of the little limbs, and then they were rigid forever.
There's a terrible gloom all about, and it oppresses them with its
strange weight; but they hardly know that the baby is gone from them. Is
she not there in the cradle, as she is every day at this hour, and are
they not all very quiet for fear of disturbing her? Or, are they all
dreaming, and is a horrible nightmare upon them, from which they vainly
strive to arouse themselves? Pat can not see Nannie so listless, and so
white, with the vacant stare, and not speak to her; so he goes round by
the side of the cradle where she is, and hands her the doll. "It's for
Winnie," said he, and the big drops fell from his full eyes upon her
hand. There's great power in sympathy, and Nannie can weep now; so can
the mother, and there comes a sort of peace over the group, that was not
there before. Nannie gets up and gathers all the little playthings
together and puts them away with the doll; but it is too much! it gives
the place such a forlorn aspect; and she takes them out again and
scatters them, as if it would bring Winnie back, too. The night is very
sad, and so is the morrow; and the next day Mr. Bond comes with a
minister. Winnie is lifted into the narrow coffin, and a fresh bud
graces her breast. Mr. Bond stands a long time gazing upon her white,
white brow, and he fancies he sees a hallowed impress there, as of a
Divine hand. He can not help his strong emotion. Wasn't Winnie getting
deeper and deeper down into his heart every day, and can he see the
little head that lay so often upon his bosom, covered with the cold
earth! The minister thinks her very lovely, as she lies there so free
from spot of sin, and he almost wonders they can weep over her early
release from a world of effort, and toil, and care; but he knows what a
struggle it is to give up a parent's richest possessions, for there are
little ones that used to call him father, now lying beneath the snow,
and he weeps with the afflicted, as he reads the burial-service over
their darling.
There needs but one carriage for the mother and Nannie, and Mr. Bond,
and Pat; and the little coffin is placed on a seat in the middle. They
can not leave it until it is hidden from their sight.