"O, Auntee, what is it?"
The awed young voice paused at the threshold.
It was a sight the little girl had never witnessed before--she had seen
Auntee sad at occasional intervals, and a few times had looked upon
tears in the usually merry eyes of her beloved chum, but never before
had she beheld Auntee sobbing in such an abandonment of grief.
There was a very tender tie of love between these two--Alsie, the dear
little twelve-year-old daughter of an older sister of the family, and
Alice, the only remaining unmarried child of a household of many sons
and daughters.
The family circle had never been broken, however, and it was a household
where love prevailed, for although several members lived in far-away
homes, the flame of affection burned as brightly and the cord of love
bound them together as strongly as did ever the same ties bind their
sturdy Scotch ancestors into clans.
Auntee (for that was Alsie's baby name for the aunt, with whom so many
happy hours had been spent) rose half way up from the bed with a
somewhat startled movement, but the sight of the stricken little face at
her side seemed to bring back afresh the reminder of her pain, and she
again buried her face in the pillow with a sob.
After a few moments, however, the young woman put her arm tenderly
around the little namesake and tried to explain.
"I did not intend to burden you, Alsie dear, with my grief, but I feel
so sad and somehow I just couldn't keep it shut in any longer--it _had_
to come out. But I thought you were playing with your little friend
Margaret, and I knew mother had started for the drug store on an errand
which would surely keep her an hour."
"Auntee, are you so sad because dear Uncle James has gone away? You know
grandma said he had been called to his heavenly home, and there are lots
of us left to make you bright and happy."
"So there are, Alsie, and I will try to take courage in that thought,
for surely God wouldn't take another loved one away from us so soon--so
soon." The last two words were spoken pensively and as though she was
unconscious of the presence of the child. Little Alsie's face became
white.
"O, Auntee, you don't mean that dear grandfather"--her voice faltered
and she finished in a whisper--"is worse?"
Auntee regained her self-possession in a moment and said hastily,
"No, dear child, no worse. But sit down with me and I will tell you all
about it. You must promise not to mention it to grandmother, however,
for we will have to be brave together." Then, sitting side by side in
the pretty little blue bedroom where only a few months before so many
joyous hours had been spent in fixing everything up daintily to meet
the gaze of returned travelers, Aunt Alice related to young Alice the
story of her trip to the doctor's that very day, and how he had told
her that the chances were against the recovery of the beloved father
and grandfather, lying so patiently on his bed of pain in the south
bedchamber.
His health had begun to fail in the spring, but grandfather, with his
broad shoulders, military bearing, and six feet of noble manhood, had
never been sick within the memory of either of these two, and it was
hard for them--or, indeed, any other--to conceive that it was more than
a passing ailment, and would soon disappear. The family became vaguely
uneasy as the spring merged into the summer, and a plan was proposed for
the plump little five-foot "wifey" to take her big husband, the Captain,
on a long trip to the seashore and mountains.
The trip had been taken, but Captain Gordon's condition did not show
the improvement that the anxious members of his family had so earnestly
hoped to see, and after the return the busy little wife immediately set
about securing a couch for his office, for the invalid insisted that
he was able to resume his duties. She explained that "the Captain
might rest a little now and then from his labors," for the sturdy old
soldier would not for a moment entertain the thought of giving up his
work--the loved, chosen profession which he had followed so faithfully
and successfully since he came out--a gallant young officer of
twenty-three--from the Civil War, the sole survivor of the four members
of his household who had gone forth to fight for what was to be the
Lost Cause.
Everything at the office was made especially comfortable, for how
willingly would every one have spared the quiet, kind professor, who
combined so wonderfully strength and manliness with gentleness and
lovableness of disposition.
The experiment lasted one week--he came home at the close of the sixth
day and said quietly, "I must get a substitute until I am well enough to
attend to my work as it should be done." So the substitute was secured
and a consultation of doctors followed, with the result that a new line
of treatment had been adopted. A few weeks failed to bring good results,
so other treatments had been tried, until, a few weeks before, a skilled
specialist had ordered him off to the infirmary for a period of several
weeks.
The days spent here were days of great suffering, but grandfather was a
man of monumental patience, and no word of complaint passed his lips. It
was just at this time that a crushing blow had been dealt the hopeful,
cheery little wifey, who had always been laughingly termed "boss of the
ranch," "head of the house," and suchlike terms, but whose right to
these titles had never been disputed by the indulgent husband or devoted
sons and daughters, for her ready hand always carried with it relief,
and her merry laugh brought cheer and sunshine.
Her only brother had been stricken, and died within a few days, but the
brave little wife and mother had hidden her deep sorrow in her bosom,
and after a few days, only a smiling face was presented about the house.
When the allotted time at the infirmary had expired, the young doctor,
who had studied the case with such zeal and attended his patient with
the tender care of a son, brought him back to his home.
After having put her father to bed, to rest from the weariness of the
trip, Alice turned around to the waiting physician, a foreboding anxiety
in her heart, and tried to make her question quite natural:
"Well, doctor, how soon can your friend, the specialist, have father
well again?"
After a pause Dr. Emerson replied, "He will not continue on the case,
Miss Gordon."
"O, doctor, what do you mean? He has not given it up? I can not
relinquish hope--I won't."
"And I do not wish you to, Miss Gordon. Dr. Helm did not find your
father's condition to be what he had expected, but we are going to begin
at once a treatment that has been practiced with great success in
Germany, in cases like his."
Nothing more was said at that time between them, but the memory of that
conversation was indelibly printed on Alice's mind, and a long night of
the keenest anguish she had ever experienced, followed.
She thought, and thought, and thought, until the sounds from the
sick-chamber near by, would bring a flood of tender memories and her
pillow would be wet with tears.
It was thus that most of the night was spent. Toward morning she sank
into a deep slumber, but, when she wakened, a terrible leaden weight
seemed to oppress her, and it was several hours before the buoyant
cheerfulness, with which she was by nature endowed, could again assert
itself.
After several days and nights spent thus, Alice came to the wise
conclusion that the situation _must_ be faced, for obvious reasons.
After this decision was reached, she became more calm, and the next day,
without consulting any member of the family, slipped away to the doctor's
downtown office, and waited patiently until he was at leisure to see
her.
Dr. Emerson seemed a little surprised at her appearance, but said, "What
is it, Miss Gordon--what can I do for you?"
"I only came, Dr. Emerson, to say to you that I am now ready to hear
what you have to tell about my father. I want to know just how much we
may hope for--or how little." Her voice faltered, but she continued, "I
could not listen a few days ago when you suggested that Dr. Helm was not
able to relieve him, but tell me all now."
Perhaps it was because the kind physician felt sorry for the sorrowing
daughter, or perhaps it was because, personally, he cherished a deep
affection for the scholarly old gentleman on whom he was expending his
most earnest efforts, but whatever the reason, he told her in the
gentlest, kindest manner, enough to make her understand that the chances
were against her father's recovery. His concluding remarks, however,
were reassuring. "Please do not understand for a moment, Miss Gordon,
that I have given up hope. I do not agree altogether with Dr. Helm, and
I feel that we have good ground for expecting favorable results from the
treatment that we have recently begun."
After hearing the news, Alice returned home, to find a letter in which
was a small check from one of the loving family circle, to be spent in
a Christmas present for the dear sick one.
It had come to be a sort of habit in the family for a few of the
far-away members to send little sums to Alice at Christmas time, in
order that the presents should be such as would give service as well
as pleasure.
The carrying out of these commissions had always been a source of
delight to both big and little Alice, for did _they_ not know best of
all the individual needs and hopes of each member of the household?
Who, then, could so well plan and shop for the merry Christmas, which
was _always_ a success in the Gordon household?
Yes, a merry, happy season it had always been for, while all the
comforts of a refined home had ever been theirs, the provision of
these comforts had required constant economy and management on the part
of the busy little "wifey" of the house. As the former children had
grown up and flitted away from the home nest to establish families for
themselves, they had gradually come to realize that it was because of
_not having_ so many things that they were enabled to get such a degree
of pleasure from those gifts which just fitted the need, or perhaps
those gifts, for which the ordinary craving might be counted an
extravagance.
It had always been the custom for each one of the family to hang up his
or her stocking, and when the grandchildren began to appear upon the
scene, grandfather's big sock always held a conspicuous place among the
stockings of all sizes.
It was the remembrance of all these established customs that had caused
the entire breakdown of Alice's walls of self-control (which she thought
had been so well built), and when little Alsie found her there, alone
in her chamber, in such deep distress, it was not surprising that the
little maid was frightened.
This was the first time that Alice had ever confided to the child
anything that was, even, in a remote degree, depressing, but her heart
was so overwrought that she had poured out the whole sad story to the
little girl before time could be taken for consideration of the wisdom
of such a course. A flicker of doubt, however, came to her as she saw
the troubled look of the child deepen into an expression of pain and
perplexity, and she continued, half apologetically,
"I ought not to feel so discouraged, dearie, I know. I ought to be
brave, but when I tried to think what I _could_ get for dear father with
the checks that will surely be coming in to me, within the next two or
three weeks, I felt so utterly broken-hearted that I could do nothing
but cry." The child put her arms tenderly around the neck of her beloved
aunt, and gave her message of sympathy in mute kisses.
"I am completely at a loss to know what to do," said Alice, with
emphasis. "Here is Christmas, only a month distant--I have made no
preparation, for I have had no heart for it; we can not hang up the
stockings after the usual merry fashion, for it would be only a farce;
we should cry instead of laugh when we see them, so I feel almost
desperate to know _what_ to do. O, Alsie, can't we think of some plan
by which we may give dear grandfather a merry Christmas, especially
if it is to be his last with us?"
"Auntee, I'll _think_ of something--I promise you I will--and it will be
soon, too--perhaps by to-morrow--but anyhow by the day after, so trust
to me and let us both hope that grandfather will get better."
"I will, dear--I will. There! I feel more hopeful already. Don't you
remember, when you were a wee tot, and would come in and ask me for a
piece of cake? When I would say, 'Well, now, I wonder where grandma has
put that cake?' you would reply, so eagerly, 'Fink hard, Auntee--fink
hard.' You knew well that a real hard _think_ would bring results. Now
we must both 'think hard' and see if we can't produce a little genuine
Christmas cheer."
They parted with this compact, and when Alice, half an hour later,
walked into Captain Gordon's sick-chamber, a pleasant smile was on her
lips and her voice had regained its usual composure.