day when a few hours would settle the question of life or death. The
hot flush died out of the cheeks that had lost their soft roundness
now, the lips were parched, the half-shut eyes looked like sick
violets, and all the pretty curls were tangled on the pillow. Rosy
no longer sung to Bella, talked of “three dear little girls” and Mr.
Thomas, tigers and bangles, Cis and necklaces, hens and gates. She
ceased to call for Mamma, asked no more why her “missionary man”
never came, and took no notice of the anxious old faces bending over
her. She lay in a stupor, and the doctor held the little wasted
hand, and tried to see the face of his watch with dim eyes as he
counted the faint pulse, whispering solemnly,--
“We can only hope and wait now. Sleep alone can save her.”
As the sisters sat, one on either side the narrow bed that day, and
Cicely walked restlessly up and down the long hall below, where both
doors stood open to let in the cool evening air, as the sun went
down, a quick but quiet step came up the steps, and Mr. Dover walked
in without ringing. He had been away, and coming home an hour ago,
heard the sad news. Losing not a moment, he hurried to ask about his
little Button, and his face showed how great his love and fear were,
as he said in a broken whisper,--
“Will she live? My mother never told me how serious it was, or I
should have returned at once.”
“We hope so, sir, but--” And there Cicely's voice failed, as she hid
her face and sobbed.
“My dear girl, don't give way. Keep up your heart, hope, pray, will
that the darling SHALL live, and that may do some good. We can't let
her go! we won't let her go! Let me see her; I know much of fevers
far worse than this, and might be able to suggest something,” begged
Mr. Dover, throwing down his hat, and waving an immense fan with
such an air of resolution and cheery good-will that tired Cis felt
comforted at once, and led the way upstairs entirely forgetting the
great feud, as he did.
At the threshold of the door he paused, till the girl had whispered
his name. Miss Penny, always a gentlewoman, rose at once and went
to meet him, but Miss Henny did not even seem to see him, for just
then, as if dimly feeling that her friend was near, Rosy stirred,
and gave a long sigh.
Silently the three stood and looked at the beloved little creature
lying there in the mysterious shadow of death, and they so helpless
to keep her if the hour for departure had come.
“God help us!” sighed pious Miss Penny, folding her old hands, as if
they did that often now.
“Drifting away, I fear;” and Miss Henny's plump face looked almost
beautiful, with the tears on it, as she leaned nearer to listen to
the faint breath at the child's lips.
“No; we will keep her, please the Lord! If we can make her sleep
quietly for the next few hours she is safe. Let me try. Fan slowly
with this, Miss Henrietta, and you, dear lady, pray that the
precious little life may be given us.”
As he spoke, Mr. Dover gave the great fan to Miss Henny, took the
small cold hands in his, and sitting on the bedside held them close
in his large warm ones, as if trying to pour life and strength into
the frail body, as his eyes, fixed on the half-opened ones, seemed
to call back the innocent soul hovering on the threshold of its
prison, like the butterfly poised upon the chrysalis before it soars
away.
Miss Penny knelt down near by, and laying her white head on the
other pillow, again besought God to spare this treasure to the
father and mother over the sea. How long they remained so none of
them ever knew, silent and motionless but for the slow waving of the
noiseless fan, which went to and fro like the wing of a great white
bird, as if Miss Henny's stout arm could never tire. Miss Penny was
so still she seemed to be asleep. Mr. Dover never stirred, but grew
paler as the minutes passed; and Cicely, creeping now and then to
look in and steal away, saw strange power in the black eyes that
seemed to hold the fluttering spirit of the little child by the love
and longing that made them both tender and commanding.
A level ray of sunlight stole through the curtain at last and turned
the tangles of bright hair to pure gold. Miss Henny rose to shut it
out, and as if her movement broke the spell, Rosy took a long full
breath, turned on the pillow, and putting one hand under her cheek,
seemed to fall asleep as naturally as she used to do when well. Miss
Penny looked up, touched the child's forehead, and whispered, with a
look of gratitude as bright as if the sunshine had touched her
also,--
“It is moist! this is real sleep! Oh, my baby! oh, my baby!” And the
old head went down again with a stifled sob, for her experienced eye
told her that the danger was passing by and Rosy would live.
“The prayers of the righteous avail much,” murmured Mr. Dover,
turning to the other lady, who stood beside her sister looking down
at the little figure now lying so restfully between them.
“How can we thank you?” she whispered, offering her hand, with the
smile which had once made her pretty, and still touched the old face
with something better than beauty.
Mr. Dover took the hand and answered, with an eloquent look at the
child,--
“Let not the sun go down upon our wrath. Forgive me and be friends
again, for her sake.”
“I will!” And the plump hands gave the thin ones a hearty shake as
the great feud ended forever over the bed of the little peacemaker
whose childish play had turned to happy earnest.
MOUNTAIN-LAUREL AND MAIDEN-HAIR
“Here's your breakfast, miss. I hope it's right. Your mother showed
me how to fix it, and said I'd find a cup up here.”
“Take that blue one. I have not much appetite, and can't eat if
things are not nice and pretty. I like the flowers. I've been
longing for some ever since I saw them last night.”
The first speaker was a red-haired, freckle-faced girl, in a brown
calico dress and white apron, with a tray in her hands and an air of
timid hospitality in her manner; the second a pale, pretty creature,
in a white wrapper and blue net, sitting in a large chair, looking
about her with the languid interest of an invalid in a new place.
Her eyes brightened as they fell upon a glass of rosy laurel and
delicate maidenhair fern that stood among the toast and eggs,
strawberries and cream, on the tray.
“Our laurel is jest in blow, and I'm real glad you come in time to
see it. I'll bring you a lot, as soon's ever I get time to go for
it.”
As she spoke, the plain girl replaced the ugly crockery cup and
saucer with the pretty china ones pointed out to her, arranged the
dishes, and waited to see if anything else was needed.
“What is your name, please?” asked the pretty girl, refreshing
herself with a draught of new milk.
“Rebecca. Mother thought I'd better wait on you; the little girls
are so noisy and apt to forget. Wouldn't you like a piller to your
back? you look so kind of feeble seems as if you wanted to be
propped up a mite.”
There was so much compassion and good-will in the face and voice,
that Emily accepted the offer, and let Rebecca arrange a cushion
behind her; then, while the one ate daintily, and the other stirred
about an inner room, the talk went on,--for two girls are seldom
long silent when together.
“I think the air is going to suit me, for I slept all night and
never woke till Mamma had been up ever so long and got things all
nicely settled,” said Emily, graciously, when the fresh strawberries
had been enjoyed, and the bread and butter began to vanish.
“I'm real glad you like it; most folks do, if they don't mind it
being plain and quiet up here. It's gayer down at the hotel, but the
air ain't half so good, and delicate folks generally like our old
place best,” answered Becky, as she tossed over a mattress and shook
out the sheet with a brisk, capable air pleasant to see.
“I wanted to go to the hotel, but the doctor said it would be too
noisy for me, so Mamma was glad to find rooms here. I didn't think a
farm-house COULD be so pleasant. That view is perfectly splendid!”
and Emily sat up to gaze delightedly out of the window, below which
spread the wide intervale, through which the river ran with
hay-fields on either side, while along the green slopes of the hills
lay farm-houses with garden plots, and big barns waiting for the
harvest; and beyond, the rocky, wooded pastures dotted with cattle
and musical with cow-bells, brooks, and birds.
A balmy wind kissed a little color into the pale cheeks, the
listless eyes brightened as they looked, and the fretful lines
vanished from lips that smiled involuntarily at the sweet welcome
Nature gave the city child come to rest and play and grow gay and
rosy in her green lap.
Becky watched her with interest, and was glad to see how soon the
new-comer felt the charm of the place, for the girl loved her
mountain home, and thought the old farm-house the loveliest spot in
the world.
“When you get stronger I can show you lots of nice views round here.
There's a woodsy place behind the house that's just lovely. Down by
the laurel bushes is MY favorite spot, and among the rocks is a cave
where I keep things handy when I get a resting-spell now and then,
and want to be quiet. Can't get much at home, when there's boarders
and five children round in vacation time.”
Becky laughed as she spoke, and there was a sweet motherly look in
her plain face, as she glanced at the three little red heads bobbing
about the door-yard below, where hens cackled, a pet lamb fed, and
the old white dog lay blinking in the sun.
“I like children; we have none at home, and Mamma makes such a baby
of me I'm almost ashamed sometimes. I want her to have a good rest
now, for she has taken care of me all winter and needs it. You shall
be my nurse, if I need one; but I hope to be so well soon that I can
see to myself. It's so tiresome to be ill!” and Emily sighed as she
leaned back among her pillows, with a glance at the little glass
which showed her a thin face and shorn head.
“It must be! I never was sick, but I have taken care of sick folks,
and have a sight of sympathy for 'em. Mother says I make a pretty
good nurse, being strong and quiet,” answered Becky, plumping up
pillows and folding towels with a gentle despatch which was very
grateful to the invalid, who had dreaded a noisy, awkward
serving-maid.
“Never ill! how nice that must be! I'm always having colds and
headaches, and fusses of some kind. What do you do to keep well,
Rebecca?” asked Emily, watching her with interest, as she came in to
remove the tray.
“Nothing but work; I haven't time to be sick, and when I'm tuckered
out, I go and rest over yonder. Then I'm all right, and buckle to
again, as smart as ever;” and every freckle in Becky's rosy face
seemed to shine with cheerful strength and courage.
“I'm 'tuckered out' doing nothing,” said Emily, amused with the new
expression, and eager to try a remedy which showed such fine results
in this case. “I shall visit your pet places and do a little work as
soon as I am able, and see if it won't set me up. Now I can only
dawdle, doze, and read a little. Will you please put those books
here on the table? I shall want them by-and-by.”
Emily pointed to a pile of blue and gold volumes lying on a trunk,
and Becky dusted her hands as she took them up with an air of
reverence, for she read on the backs of the volumes names which made
her eyes sparkle.
“Do you care for poetry?” asked Emily, surprised at the girl's look
and manner.
“Guess I do! don't get much except the pieces I cut out of papers,
but I love 'em, and stick 'em in an old ledger, and keep it down in
my cubby among the rocks. I do love THAT man's pieces. They seem to
go right to the spot somehow;” and Becky smiled at the name of
Whittier as if the sweetest of our poets was a dear old friend of
hers.
“I like Tennyson better. Do you know him?” asked Emily, with a
superior air, for the idea of this farmer's daughter knowing
anything about poetry amused her.
“Oh yes, I've got a number of his pieces in my book, and I'm fond of
'em. But this man makes things so kind of true and natural I feel at
home with HIM. And this one I've longed to read, though I guess I
can't understand much of it. His 'Bumble Bee' was just lovely; with
the grass and columbines and the yellow breeches of the bee. I'm
never tired of that;” and Becky's face woke up into something like
beauty as she glanced hungrily at the Emerson while she dusted the
delicate cover that hid the treasures she coveted.
“I don't care much for him, but Mamma does. I like romantic poems,
and ballads, and songs; don't like descriptions of clouds and
fields, and bees, and farmers,” said Emily, showing plainly that
even Emerson's simplest poems were far above her comprehension as
yet, because she loved sentiment more than Nature.
“I do, because I know 'em better than love and the romantic stuff
most poetry tells about. But I don't pretend to judge, I'm glad of
anything I can get. Now if you don't want me I'll pick up my dishes
and go to work.”
With that Becky went away, leaving Emily to rest and dream with her
eyes on the landscape which was giving her better poetry than any
her books held. She told her mother about the odd girl, and was sure
she would be amusing if she did not forget her place and try to be
friends.
“She is a good creature, my dear, her mother's main stay, and works
beyond her strength, I am sure. Be kind to the poor girl, and put a
little pleasure into her life if you can,” answered Mrs. Spenser, as
she moved about, settling comforts and luxuries for her invalid.
“I shall HAVE to talk to her, as there is no other person of my age
in the house. How are the school marms? shall you get on with them,
Mamma? It will be so lonely here for us both, if we don't make
friends with some one.”
“Most intelligent and amiable women all three, and we shall have
pleasant times together, I am sure. You may safely cultivate Becky;
Mrs. Taylor told me she was a remarkably bright girl, though she may
not look it.”
“Well, I'll see. But I do hate freckles and big red hands, and round
shoulders. She can't help it, I suppose, but ugly things fret me.”
“Remember that she has no time to be pretty, and be glad she is so
neat and willing. Shall we read, dear? I'm ready now.”
Emily consented, and listened for an hour or two while the pleasant
voice beside her conjured away all her vapors with some of Mrs.
Ewing's charming tales.
“The grass is dry now, and I want to stroll on that green lawn
before lunch. You rest, Mamma dear, and let me make discoveries all
alone,” proposed Emily, when the sun shone warmly, and the instinct
of all young creatures for air and motion called her out.
So, with her hat and wrap, and book and parasol, she set forth to
explore the new land in which she found herself.
Down the wide, creaking stairs and out upon the door-stone she went,
pausing there for a moment to decide where first to go. The sound of
some one singing in the rear of the house led her in that direction,
and turning the corner she made her first pleasant discovery. A hill
rose steeply behind the farm-house, and leaning from the bank was an
old apple-tree, shading a spring that trickled out from the rocks
and dropped into a mossy trough below. Up the tree had grown a wild
grape-vine, making a green canopy over the great log which served as
a seat, and some one had planted maidenhair ferns about both seat
and spring to flourish beautifully in the damp, shady spot.
“Oh, how pretty! I'll go and sit there. It looks clean, and I can
see what is going on in that big kitchen, and hear the singing. I
suppose it's Becky's little sisters by the racket.”
Emily established herself on the lichen-covered log with her feet
upon a stone, and sat enjoying the musical tinkle of the water, with
her eyes on the delicate ferns stirring in the wind, and the lively
jingle of the multiplication-table chanted by childish voices in her
ear.
Presently two little girls with a great pan of beans came to do
their work on the back doorstep, a third was seen washing dishes at
a window, and Becky's brown-spotted gown flew about the kitchen as
if a very energetic girl wore it. A woman's voice was heard giving
directions, as the speaker was evidently picking chickens somewhere
out of sight.
A little of the talk reached Emily and both amused and annoyed her,
for it proved that the country people were not as stupid as they
looked.
“Oh, well, we mustn't mind if she IS notional and kind of wearing;
she's been sick, and it will take time to get rid of her fretty
ways. Jest be pleasant, and take no notice, and that nice mother of
hers will make it all right,” said the woman's voice.
“How anybody with every mortal thing to be happy with CAN be
out-of-sorts passes me. She fussed about every piller, chair, trunk,
and mite of food last night, and kept that poor tired lady trotting
till I was provoked. She's right pleasant this morning though, and
as pretty as a picture in her ruffled gown and that blue thing on
her head,” answered Becky from the pantry, as she rattled out the
pie-board, little dreaming who sat hidden behind the grape-vine
festoons that veiled the corner by the spring.
“Well, she's got redder hair 'n' we have, so she needn't be so grand
and try to hide it with blue nets,” added one little voice.
“Yes, and it's ever so much shorter 'n' ours, and curls all over her
head like Daisy's wool. I should think such a big girl would feel
real ashamed without no braids,” said the other child, proudly
surveying the tawny mane that hung over her shoulders,--for like
most red-haired people all the children were blessed with luxuriant
crops of every shade from golden auburn to regular carrots.
“I think it's lovely. Suppose it had to be cut off when she had the
fever. Wish I could get rid of my mop, it's such a bother;” and
Becky was seen tying a clean towel over the great knot that made her
head look very like a copper kettle.
“Now fly round, deary, and get them pies ready. I'll have these
fowls on in a minute, and then go to my butter. You run off and see
if you can't find some wild strawberries for the poor girl, soon's
ever you are through with them beans, children. We must kind of
pamper her up for a spell till her appetite comes back,” said the
mother.
Here the chat ended, and soon the little girls were gone, leaving
Becky alone rolling out pie-crust before the pantry window. As she
worked her lips moved, and Emily, still peeping through the leaves,
wondered what she was saying, for a low murmur rose and fell,
emphasized now and then with a thump of the rolling-pin.
“I mean to go and find out. If I stand on that wash-bench I can look
in and see her work. I'll show them all that _I_'m NOT 'fussy,' and
can be 'right pleasant' if I like.”
With this wise resolution Emily went down the little path, and after
pausing to examine the churn set out to dry, and the row of pans
shining on a neighboring shelf, made her way to the window, mounted
the bench while Becky's back was turned, and pushing away the
morning-glory vines and scarlet beans that ran up on either side
peeped in with such a smiling face that the crossest cook could not
have frowned on her as an intruder.
“May I see you work? I can't eat pies, but I like to watch people
make them. Do you mind?”
“Not a bit. I'd ask you to come in, but it's dreadful hot here, and
not much room,” answered Becky, crimping round the pastry before she
poured in the custard. “I'm going to make a nice little pudding for
you; your mother said you liked 'em; or would you rather have
whipped cream with a mite of jelly in it?” asked Becky, anxious to
suit her new boarder.
“Whichever is easiest to make. I don't care what I eat. Do tell me
what you were saying. It sounded like poetry,” said Emily, leaning
both elbows on the wide ledge with a pale pink morning-glory kissing
her cheek, and a savory odor reaching her nose.
“Oh, I was mumbling some verses. I often do when I work, it sort of
helps me along; but it must sound dreadfully silly,” and Becky
blushed as if caught in some serious fault.
“I do it, and it's a great comfort when I lie awake. I should think
you WOULD want something to help you along, you work so hard. Do you
like it, Becky?”
The familiar name, the kind tone, made the plain face brighten with
pleasure as its owner said, while she carefully filled a pretty bowl
with a golden mixture rich with fresh eggs and country milk--
“No, I don't, but I ought to. Mother isn't as strong as she used to
be, and there's a sight to do, and the children to be brought up,
and the mortgage to be paid off; so if _I_ don't fly round, who
will? We are doing real well now, for Mr. Walker manages the farm
and gives us our share, so our living is all right; then boarders in
summer and my school in winter helps a deal, and every year the boys
can do more, so I'd be a real sinner to complain if I do have to
step lively all day.”
Becky smiled as she spoke, and straightened her bent shoulders as if
settling her burden for another trudge along the path of duty.
“Do you keep school? Why, how old are you, Becky?” asked Emily, much
impressed by this new discovery.
“I'm eighteen. I took the place of a teacher who got sick last fall,
and I kept school all winter. Folks seemed to like me, and I'm going
to have the same place this year. I'm so glad, for I needn't go away
and the pay is pretty good, as the school is large and the children
do well. You can see the school-house down the valley, that red
brick one where the roads meet;” and Becky pointed a floury finger,
with an air of pride that was pleasant to see.
Emily glanced at the little red house where the sun shone hotly in
summer, and all the winds of heaven must rage wildly in winter time,
for it stood, as country schools usually do, in the barest, most
uninviting spot for miles around.
“Isn't it awful down there in winter?” she asked, with a shiver at
the idea of spending days shut up in that forlorn place, with a
crowd of rough country children.
“Pretty cold, but we have plenty of wood, and we are used to snow
and gales up here. We often coast down, the whole lot of us, and
that is great fun. We take our dinners and have games noon-spells,
and so we get on first rate; some of my boys are big fellows, older
than I am; they clear the roads and make the fire and look after us,
and we are real happy together.”
Emily found it so impossible to imagine happiness under such
circumstances that she changed the subject by asking in a tone which
had unconsciously grown more respectful since this last revelation
of Becky's abilities,--
“If you do so well here, why don't you try for a larger school in a
better place?”
“Oh, I couldn't leave mother yet; I hope to some day, when the girls
are older, and the boys able to get on alone. But I can't go now,
for there's a sight of things to do, and mother is always laid up
with rheumatism in cold weather. So much butter-making down cellar
is bad for her; but she won't let me do that in summer, so I take
care of her in winter. I can see to things night and morning, and
through the day she's quiet, and sits piecing carpet-rags and
resting up for next spring. We made and wove all the carpets in the
house, except the parlor one. Mrs. Taylor gave us that, and the
curtains, and the easy-chair. Mother takes a sight of comfort in
that.”
“Mrs. Taylor is the lady who first came to board here, and told us
and others about it,” said Emily.
“Yes, and she's the kindest lady in the world! I'll tell you all
about her some day, it's real interesting; now I must see to my
pies, and get the vegetables on,” answered Becky, glancing at the
gay clock in the kitchen with an anxious look.
“Then I won't waste any more of your precious time. May I sit in
that pretty place; or is it your private bower?” asked Emily, as she
dismounted from the wash-bench.
“Yes, indeed you may. That's mother's resting-place when work is
done. Father made the spring long ago, and I put the ferns there.
She can't go rambling round, and she likes pretty things, so we
fixed it up for her, and she takes comfort there nights.”
Becky bustled off to the oven with her pies, and Emily roamed away
to the big barn to lie on the hay, enjoying the view down the
valley, as she thought over what she had seen and heard, and very
naturally contrasted her own luxurious and tenderly guarded life
with this other girl's, so hard and dull and narrow. Working all
summer and teaching all winter in that dismal little school-house,
with no change but home cares and carpet-weaving! It looked horrible
to pleasure-loving Emily, who led the happy, care-free life of
girls of her class, with pleasures of all sorts, and a future of
still greater luxury, variety, and happiness, opening brightly
before her.