THOSE PRECIOUS LAST HOURS.
Sunday evening found the trunks packed and strapped. Except for a while
in the morning and afternoon, when Mary was resting, the whole family
spent the day in her room. Perhaps it would have been better for the
child if they had not done so; for the more she saw of her little
sisters, the harder it became for her to think of parting with them. It
seemed to her that the hours fairly flew, and as evening drew near, her
poor little heart grew heavier and heavier. But she bore up bravely--so
bravely that her mother was more than surprised. Then bedtime came; and
Mrs. Selwyn herself, instead of the nurse, tucked the little girl in for
the night and sat by the bedside until she thought Mary was asleep.
An hour later, she tiptoed into the room. All was quiet; but as she bent
to give the child a last good-night kiss and to smooth her pillow, she
found the little face wet with tears and the pillow soaked. Wrapping
Mary in a blanket, she took her in her arms, and seating herself,
rocked quietly for some time. The child's big wistful eyes never left
her face. At last the mother spoke.
"When Father told me, dear, that he must go away for a year and found
that you must remain at home, he made a plan to which I would not
listen. He said that he would sail now, and that we should follow in
June. I could not bear to think of his being alone in a strange country
with none of his own near him for six or seven months; but neither can I
bear to leave my little girl in such a state. I know that this is a very
great trial for you, darling, and I fear that we are asking too much of
you in your present weakness. So I think I had better place Father in
our dear Lord's hands, and let him carry out his plan. Perhaps something
will happen so that he need not be away so long; but if by the first of
June he cannot return, we shall go to him. So try to sleep now, my
darling. Mother will not leave you."
"But you must, you _must_, Mother!" whispered Mary. "We would just die
thinking of Father and how lonely he would be and--and everything. I
won't cry any more--truly, I won't. I shall go to sleep just as fast as
I can. Is it very late, Mother?"
"No, dear, only half-past nine."
"Then will you stay with me until I go to sleep? It will be only a
little minute."
When Mary awoke the next morning, her father was sitting beside the bed,
holding on his knee the very dearest doll she had ever seen. It was as
large as a real baby, and its arms were stretched out to her. With a cry
of delight, she stretched hers out, too, when--how it happened, Mary did
not know--the doll was crying and waving its arms and kicking just as
the twins did.
"Why--why--oh, the poor little thing! It must have the colic, Father."
Then something happened again, and dollie was once more smiling.
"Is it a live doll, Father?" whispered the little girl in wonder.
"No, pet. See this button at the back of its neck? Watch what happens
when I push it."
"Oh, oh! _Now_, I know! Its head turns around inside its cap, and it has
a crying face instead of hair at the back of its head. Father, where
_did_ you find such a darling doll?"
"I happened to see it Saturday on my way from the bank to the steamship
office. Mother had just telephoned me that our brave little daughter
would not think of letting her old daddy live among strangers----"
"But--but I _wasn't_ brave, Father," came the protest in a choked voice.
"Didn't Mother tell you how horrid I was?"
"No, dear; and I really cannot believe that you were horrid. I know that
you must have felt just as I did when Uncle Frank said that you could
not go with us. Sometimes on the spur of the moment, we say things that
we do not really mean, and I am sure that is what you did. But here is
something that will interest you--a fine kodak. We shall take pictures
of the babies every week, and mail them to you, and Uncle will get you a
new album to paste them in."
Shortly after luncheon, Aunt Mandy brought the babies in for the last
time. Mary hugged them and kissed their rosy little faces over and over
again as she whispered, "Take care of them, Aunt Mandy, oh, take care of
them and of Father and Mother----"
"'Cose I will, honey chile! Why fo' yo' 'spects old mammy gwine 'long, I
lak to know?"
Then her father and mother came; and Mary, winking very fast and
swallowing hard, clung to them not daring to speak, but just drinking
in every loving word which they uttered. They had hardly left the room
when the Doctor appeared. Mary clenched her hands and tried to smile at
him.
"They have gone downstairs, have they? I shall be back very soon,
Goldilocks." Then, touched by the utter loneliness of the little figure
in the big chair, he added, "Just as soon as I put them into the
carriage. But you ought to be at a front window to wave to them. Will
you please bring some of those sofa cushions, Sister?"
"But--Uncle," said Mary as he hurried with her through the hall, "I
thought you were going to see them off."
"I did think of doing so, but I have changed my mind."
"No, Uncle, you must not stay just for me. Please go with
them--_please_! But come back soon."
"I shall be back by three o'clock, little one," and he was gone.
Bravely the little girl tried to smile as she pressed her face close to
the windowpane and threw a last kiss to her mother before she stepped
into the carriage. Her father and uncle, each holding a baby, made them
wave and kiss their tiny hands to her, and then passed them in to Mrs.
Selwyn and Aunt Mandy. Another moment, and the door closed after the two
men. Mary knelt on the sill with Sister Julia's strong arm to support
her, and strained her eyes for the very last glimpse of the handkerchief
fluttering from the carriage window. Then she sank upon the cushions,
her frail little form shaking with the sobs she could no longer control.
Just before three o'clock, the Doctor returned. In spite of his own
sadness, he had tried on his way home to remember the amusing things
which he had seen at the docks so that he would have something cheerful
to tell Mary. He made a special effort to whistle a lively tune as he
mounted the stairs; but at the door of her room, it died on his lips.
"Why--why--" he was at the bedside in three strides.
"O Uncle! I thought you would _never_ come!"
"But, dear, I stayed only long enough to see the steamer underway, as I
thought you wished me to do. I did not even stop at my office on the way
home. What is it? Are you in pain?"
"My head, Uncle."
The Doctor looked with questioning eyes at Sister Julia, who was
bathing the child's head. She nodded toward the hall and soon followed
him from the room.
"It is nothing more than I feared, Doctor. She has been under a greater
strain for the past two days than anyone thought. I have seldom seen
such self-control in older people, and certainly did not look for it in
a frail child like Mary."
"I knew that she was making an immense effort to keep up, and I feared
the result; but this--have you taken her temperature, Sister?"
"Fifteen minutes ago, it was one hundred and two."
"Hm, I thought so. However, as a mere cold throws her into quite a
fever, I am not alarmed yet. I shall stay with her for awhile, and you
had better take a few hours rest. You will get very little of that
to-night."