"Because I know they say so," returned Paul, "and I want to know what
they mean, Floy."
Florence would have sat by him all night, and would not have danced at
all of her own accord, but Paul made her, by telling her how much it
pleased him. And he told her the truth, too; for his small heart
swelled, and his face glowed, when he saw how much they all admired her,
and how she was the beautiful little rosebud of the room.
Then after the party came the leave-takings, for Paul was going home.
And every one was good to him--even the pompous doctor, and
Cornelia--and bade him good-bye with many regrets; for they were afraid,
as they looked upon his pinched, wan face, that he would not be able to
come back and take up that load of heavy books ever again.
There was a great deal, the next day and afterwards, which Paul could
not quite get clear in his mind. As, why they stopped at Mrs. Pipchin's
for a while instead of going straight home; why he lay in bed, with
Florence sitting by him; whether that had been his father in the room,
or only a tall shadow on the wall.
He could not even remember whether he had often said to Florence, "Oh,
Floy, take me home and never leave me!" but he thought he had. He
fancied sometimes he had heard himself repeating, "Take me home, Floy!
take me home!"
But he could remember, when he got home, and was carried up the
well-remembered stairs, that there had been the rumbling of a coach for
many hours together, while he lay upon the seat, with Florence still
beside him, and Mrs. Pipchin sitting opposite. He remembered his old
bed too, when they laid him down in it; but there was something else,
and recent, too, that still perplexed him.
"I want to speak to Florence, if you please," he said. "To Florence by
herself, for a moment!"
She bent down over him, and the others stood away.
"Floy, my pet, wasn't that papa in the hall, when they brought me from
the coach?"
"Yes, dear."
"He didn't cry, and go into his room, Floy, did he, when he saw me
coming in?"
Florence shook her head, and pressed her lips against his cheek.
"I'm very glad he didn't cry," said little Paul. "I thought he did.
Don't tell them that I asked."
Paul never rose from his little bed. He lay there, listening to the
noises in the street quite tranquilly; not caring much how time went,
but watching everything about him with observing eyes. And when
visitors or servants came softly to the door to inquire how he was, he
always answered for himself, "I am better; I am a great deal better,
thank you! Tell papa so!"
And sometimes when he awoke out of a feverish dream, in which he thought
a river was bearing him away, he would see a figure seated motionless,
with bowed head, at the foot of his couch. Then he would stretch out
his hands and cry, "Don't be so sorry for me, dear papa! Indeed, I am
quite happy!"
His father coming, and bending down to him--which he did quickly, and
without first pausing by the bedside--Paul held him round the neck, and
repeated those words to him several times, and very earnestly; and Paul
never saw him in his room at any time, whether it were day or night, but
he called out "Don't be so sorry for me! Indeed, I am quite happy!"
This was the beginning of his always saying in the morning that he was a
great deal better, and that they were to tell his father so.
Then one day he asked to see all his friends, and shook hands with each
one quietly, and bade them good-bye. His father he clung to as though
he felt more deeply for that proud man's sorrow and disappointment, than
any unhappiness on his own account. For he was going to his
mother--about whom he had often talked with Florence in these closing
days.
"Now lay me down," he said, "and Floy, come close to me, and let me see
you!"
Sister and brother wound their arms around each other, and the golden
light came streaming in, and fell upon them, locked together.
"How fast the river runs, between its green banks and the rushes, Floy!
But it's very near the sea. I hear the waves! They always said so!"
Presently he told her that the motion of the boat upon the stream was
lulling him to rest. How green the banks were now, how bright the
flowers growing on them, and how tall the rushes! Now the boat was out
at sea, but gliding smoothly on. And now there was a shore before him.
Who stood on the bank!--
He put his hands together, as he had been used to do at his prayers. He
did not remove his arms to do it; but they saw him fold them so, behind
her neck.
"Mamma is like you, Floy. I know her by the face. But tell them that
the print upon the stairs at school is not divine enough. The light
about the head is shining on me as I go!"
The golden ripple on the wall came back again, and nothing else stirred
in the room. The old, old fashion! The fashion that came in with our
first garments, and will last unchanged until our race has run its
course, and the wide firmament is rolled up like a scroll. The old, old
fashion--Death!
Oh, thank God, all who see it, for that older fashion yet, of
Immortality! And look upon us, angels of young children, with regards
not quite estranged, when the swift river bears us to the ocean!