HOW IT ENDED
LITTLE by little that weary afternoon wore away. The rain fell
steadily, and the mud grew deeper every minute. And the grumblings of
some of the people grew louder, though all the while their courage
was kept up by having an official appear occasionally to say that
he "guessed they would get on now, pretty soon." Baby waked, and
frolicked, and fretted, and drank milk, and was trotted, and carried,
and petted, as well as Christie and the old gentleman could manage it;
and the swollen foot was bathed, and all the seed cakes were eaten,
and the pale young man walked "miles," just going up and down the car,
"like a caged lion," Wells said.
Christie pitied him so much that she went over to him at last as he
stood by the farther door of the car, and said timidly: "I think, sir,
if you would make up your mind to pray to God, you would feel so much
better! He can make it all come out right, you know, even now. Why
'won't' you ask Him?"
The young man turned toward her a despairing face. "If your mother
should die to-day, while you are sitting here in a mud hole, waiting to
get out, would it be all right?" he asked.
"I have asked Him to take care of her," said Christie, with quivering
lip, "and I mean to trust Him; I know He can do it, and I know He will,
if it is the best thing. Perhaps the lady that you want to get to is
better now."
"Perhaps my staying here in the mud all day, helped to make her better."
He said this with a very sarcastic tone, but Christie who was busy
wiping her eyes, did not look at him just then, and answered gravely:
"Yes, sir, perhaps so. God could make even 'that' help, and I cannot
keep from thinking that He has made it all right. I have prayed about
it a good deal, and I feel just as I always do, when things come right.
I wish you would pray, dear sir."
In spite of himself, a tender smile stole over the sad face, and he
looked down on her. "How could my staying here possibly help anybody?"
he asked, but his voice was more gentle.
"Oh, I don't know 'how,'" said Christie. "God does not tell His 'hows,'
you know; He just 'does' them."
"Well," he said, after another thoughtful pause, "I'll tell you one
thing, little woman, I am very much obliged to you for trying to help
and comfort me. I shall not forget it. I want you to give me your
address, and if things have all come out right as you say, I will write
you a letter; and if our sticking in the mud for a dozen hours can be
found to have helped anything along, I will be sure to tell you."
"Thank you, sir," said Christie. "And will you pray about it?"
"Ah, that I don't know."
So after all the "little woman" turned away sorrowfully. She wanted to
give the invitation, but she was not sure that she had.
While the old gentleman was entertaining baby with his gold-headed
cane, she took out the two seed cakes which she had carefully wrapped
by themselves in the bit of towel, and went over to the young lady, who
had her face turned to the window, and had not looked around for more
than an hour.
"Won't you please to eat these?" said Christie. "You must be very
hungry. Mother made them, and she is very neat and particular."
The lady turned suddenly, and behold her eyes were wet with tears! "You
are a good little thing," she said hesitatingly. "I don't think I am
hungry. You would better eat them yourself."
"Oh, no," Christie answered earnestly. "I ate bread and butter. It
wasn't 'much' sour. I would like to have you know Jesus Christ and go
to heaven. He can make you very happy."
It sounded almost rude to poor Christie, now that she had said it, but
she did not know how else to put the thought. Ever since her talk with
the old gentleman, she had felt that she ought to invite this lady; and
she had prayed about her, until she felt very sorry for her.
"You are a strange child," said the lady, but her voice was not hard
any more. And she murmured under her breath that she was sure she
needed happiness if anybody did.
Christie slipped softly away after that, but the two seed cakes were
eaten, every crumb.
And now there began to be a bustling of train-men through the cars;
ropes were pulled, and bells were rung, and a general air of something
about to happen stole over things.
"Some train is coming or going," said Wells. "I hear the rumble in the
distance."
Sure enough! It drew nearer.
"It's coming up behind us," said Wells. "Now I wonder if the next thing
on the programme is to be smashed into by the afternoon express?"
And said Christie:
"Oh, I wonder if baby's mother can be in that train?"
It was not trying to smash into anything. It came up very slowly, and
finally made a dead stop just below them. The passengers could be seen,
getting out in the mud and rain, and making all haste to the train
which was a few feet ahead of them.
"Then the bridge wasn't down?" said a passenger to a brakeman.
"No, there was a broken rail just this side of it, and the beginning of
a washout, that has kept them back."
Just then the car door opened with a sudden jerk. A shrill voice was
heard to say in tones divided between a scream and a groan, "Where is
he?" And then, "Oh, my darling, my darling!"
And Christie, who was standing with her back to the door, with the
baby in her arms, felt herself almost tipped over, in the dash which a
richly-dressed lady made to get baby.
No sooner did he have a glimpse of her than the ungrateful fellow
set up shouts of delight, and was in such a hurry to get away that
he scrambled wildly over Christie's shoulder, taking a piece of her
delicate ruffle in his eager hand.
Oh dear me! Such a time as there was! I couldn't think of trying to
describe it to you. That mother behaved herself in such a manner as to
nearly drive the lookers-on frantic. She laughed, and she cried, almost
both at once. She hugged the baby until he rebelled and scratched her
for it. She kissed him, until he cried. Then she hugged Christie, and
kissed her, until her face was too red to grow any redder. And all the
time she tried to tell her wild story, and to ask a dozen questions.
"I thought there would be a dispatch waiting for me at that office, and
I went to see. And that dreadful telegraph clerk kept me waiting, and
the first thing I knew the train was gone! Oh, I thought I should die!
I screamed and shouted; it seemed to me that the very engine would be
sorry for me and stop! Mamma's poor darling! Did he cry dreadfully? I
saw you, little girl, this morning, and saw you look at baby with a
pleasant face, and I wondered if you would try to take care of him. Oh,
such a day as this has been! Oh, baby, baby! I'll never let you out of
my arms again for a minute!"
Whereupon, baby at that moment, as if to prove to his mother how
false and foolish was her promise, gave a sudden delighted spring and
landed in Christie's arms again, hiding his pretty roguish head on her
shoulder.
So eager were the people over all this, and such long stories had they
to tell the questioning mother, that they forgot to take note of the
bustle going on in the train.
Suddenly Wells waked up to it.
"I really believe we are going on again!" he said, as he watched the
rapid movements of the brakeman. "Halloo, Brewster! Do you mean to take
us into the city in time for bed, after all?"
"Looks like it," said the brakeman, smiling good-naturedly. "We had to
wait for the mother, you know. Now we've got her, we think of going on
as soon as the up train passes."
"The up train?" said Wells. "Is it time for that? When does it come?"
"It will be along in five minutes. We are going to switch for her to
pass, then on we go."
"The up train!" echoed Christie, a sudden new dismayed thought in her
heart. "Why, isn't that the six o'clock at our station?"
"The very same. This interesting day is about done."
"Well—but that's the train I am to come home on, and father will be at
the depot to meet me. Why, I've got to go home!"
"Oh, no! They will never expect you to do such a thing as that! Less
than an hour now will take us, into the city. We'll go kiting, when we
do start. Of course your people will expect you to go on and make your
visit. Have the conductor telegraph your father that you are all right.
I'll see to it for you and if your uncle isn't at the depot, I'll take
a carriage and go there with you. I wouldn't give up my Christmas in
this fashion."
Christie thought a moment, a world of perplexity on her face, then
presently the face cleared:
"No, I thank you. I must go home; mother said be sure to come back
to-night. She didn't say a word about what I was to do if I didn't get
to Uncle Daniel's at all. She just said:
"'And, Christie, you be sure and come home to-night, whatever happens.
Don't you let them coax you to stay; tell them mother expects you. So
you see, I must go back on that very train.'"
"Of course she must," said the old gentleman, who had been listening
attentively. "She is not the sort of woman to keep her mother waiting
and watching, while she goes and makes a visit."
"Well, I declare!" grumbled Wells, not convinced, and much disgusted
at the thought of parting with his nurse. "That is the queerest way to
make a Christmas visit that I ever heard of! Here's the train! You'll
have to hurry, if you're really going to be so foolish as to go. That
train doesn't stop at places long enough for a fellow to wink."
"I'll help her off," said the pale young man, and he had his umbrella
raised before she reached the platform.
Her flowered satchel was on his arm, and there was nothing for Christie
to do but to smile her good-bye to her friends in the car, and step
down into the night and the darkness. A few steps in the mud, a strong
hand springing her to the platform of another train, a kind voice
saying,—
"Good-bye, little woman; I'll not forget!"
And Christie had parted from all the friends and acquaintances whom
she seemed to have known so long and well, and was in a strange car,
surrounded by strange and rather cross-looking people, and felt
grown-up and lonely.
"Why, is it possible that she has gone!" exclaimed the mother of the
baby, taking in the change of plan just as the car door closed after
Christie. "I thought she was going to the city. Why, I wanted to talk
with her, and take care of her. What shall I do? I must have the
child's address. Who knows her?"
Then up started the old gentleman:
"Bless my heart! I have let her slip away after all, without getting
her address. That is too bad."
"I can help you about that," said Wells, waking out of his ill-humour
to be interested. "Her name is Christie Tucker, and her father is Mr.
Jonas Tucker, a farmer who lives about two miles from Pierpont station,
where she took the train this morning. She is a friend of mine," he
added proudly.
I suppose Karl Tucker would have been very much amazed, could he have
heard that. The world had moved much faster that day than Karl Tucker
dreamed of. Or Karl Tucker's father, for the matter of that. He waited
in the rain and the darkness, for his little girl. He had spent a busy
day about the farm, and had heard no news. The two men whom he had met
and talked with a few minutes on his way to the cars, neither knew,
nor knowing, would have cared, that there had been confusion on the
railroad all day. So Mr. Tucker as he waited anxiously on the milk
platform for the coming of the up train, only knew that it was dark and
rainy, and that railroad cars were "skittish" things, and hoped that
"Daniel had put his little girl in a good seat, and that she wasn't
scared."
"Ha!" he said with a relieved sigh, as at last he folded her in his
arms and kissed her. "Father's got you again. It's been a long day for
Christmas. Come in here and let me wrap you up. We'll hurry, for it is
going to rain hard, and your mother will be anxious. Karl stayed at
home to do the chores. Don't talk any more now, my girl, only wrap up
close and duck your head down out of the driving rain, and we'll get
home in no time. Supper's waiting. A regular Christmas supper, too:
though it ain't much like your dinner I s'pose."
A silvery little laugh rang out to him from behind the old shawl, and a
muffled voice said she didn't believe it was. And they drove home with
all speed, the rain coming thicker and faster.
How the tea-kettle sang on the bright stove, and what a supper that
was! Stewed chicken, and potatoes stewed in cream, and hot apple sauce
are not bad to eat at any time, if one is hungry. But when one has had
only a small slice of "Sarah Ann's" bread for dinner, and has given
away every one of her seed cakes, I cannot begin to tell you how good
it tastes.
Then think of the story that there was to tell.
"I don't believe I can finish it before next Christmas," declared
Christie, laughing, and kissing the baby for the tenth time.
"You see I have only told you the heads of the chapters, just as Karl
always read the index of his book; but when I begin to put in the
little bits, it will take days and 'days.' Oh, father, what do you
think! I saw the Governor, and sat with him, and talked with him!"
"Well," said father, after having heard dashes at that wonderful part
of that wonderful story, "I guess you saw lots of things to-day, and
it's my opinion some other folks saw some things too. It is a great
day, I think. I'm glad she was there to take care of that boy—" and
here he put his arm around Karl—"and that baby, eh, mother?" And here
he kissed the baby.
"And you never went to Uncle Daniel's at all!" said Mrs. Tucker, with
her elbow on the table, and her hand on the teapot handle. "Well I 'am'
beat!"
And so, at last, Christie's Christmas was ended.