A LITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM
"Oh, Elspeth, you can't guess where I've been!" shrieked Peace, puffing
with excitement as she stumbled up the steps after her long run home.
"Why, I thought you were playing with Giuseppe and the Lilac Lady,"
replied the young mother, looking up in surprise from the little white
dress she was hemstitching.
"But I went down to the drug store to telephone grandma!"
"I know you did, but I thought you stopped to tell the news at the stone
house on your way home."
"What news?"
"That the invalids have run away and left you."
"How did you know that?"
"The postman came just after you left, and he brought a letter from Dr.
Campbell, explaining all about it."
"Then he did take time to write, did he? I was pretty hot about it at
first," Peace admitted candidly, "But I don't care at all now. I've had
such a splendid time here with you all the while they've been shut up
sick, that no matter how long they stay in the Pine Woods, it couldn't
make up for all they've missed by not being me."
"Do you really feel that way about it, dear?" cried Elizabeth, much
pleased and touched at the child's unlooked-for declaration.
"You just better b'lieve I do! Why, I've had just the nicest time! I
'xpected I'd miss seeing the girls just dreadfully, but Gail and Faith
have come up every single week, and I've telephoned home 'most every
day, and the rest of the time has been filled so full that I haven't
minded how long I've been away at all. This must be my other home, I
guess."
"You little sweetheart! I wonder if you have any idea how much we are
going to miss you when grandpa takes you away again."
"Oh, yes, I 'magine I do. I make such a racket wherever I go that when I
leave, the stillness seems like a hole. But don't you fret! I'm coming
up here real often--just as often as grandma will let me. 'Cause I've
got not only you to visit now, but the Lilac Lady and Juiceharpie and
the Home children--Oh, that's what I started to tell you about when I
first came up.
"I've just been there. I never knew there was a Home so near here, or
I'd have been there before this. And what do you think? There's a girl
living in it named Lottie, which looks so much like me that when we
changed aprons the other children didn't know the difference at first.
They think she must be my twin sister or some cousin I don't know
anything about, though I kept telling them there weren't any cousins in
our family, and if mother'd ever had twins, she'd have kept 'em both and
not throwed one away to grow up without knowing who her people were.
Don't you think so?"
"I most assuredly do," Elizabeth answered promptly. "Gail has often told
me that your papa was an only child, and the one brother your mamma had
died when he was a little fellow. So there can't be any near cousins,
and you are not a twin, so Lottie isn't your sister. How did it all come
about?"
The story was quickly told, to Elizabeth's mingled amusement and horror;
and Peace ended by sagely remarking, "So I'm going to ask Allee if she's
willing that we should use some of our Fourth of July money to buy them
a treat of sugar and butter for a whole day--or a week, if it doesn't
take too much, and grandpa don't sit down on the plan. I don't think he
will, 'cause these children aren't fakes. They really d'serve having
some good times 'casionally, and it did make them so happy to have
someone extra to play with. I s'pose they get awfully tired of fighting
the same children all the time. Besides, we've got lots of money in our
bank, 'cause we used only about ten dollars of our furnishing money to
dec'rate our room with, and the rest we saved for patriotism. I am awful
glad there are such places for poor children to go to when their own
people can't take care of 'em, but I do wish the Lady Boards weren't so
stingy."
Elizabeth knew it would do no good to argue the matter, and besides, she
was not well posted concerning this particular Home, so she merely
agreed that Peace's plan would no doubt make the little folks happy, but
wisely suggested that she say no more about it until she had consulted
with the family at home and received their consent. "Because, you see,
dear, if you make some rash promises which you can't fulfill, it will
only make the children unhappy, instead of bringing sunshine into their
lives."
"But isn't it a good way to spend money? They ain't beggars with bank
accounts somewhere, like the old woman which got Gail's dollar last
spring."
"I think it is a very nice way, dearie, and I am sure grandpa will not
object a mite; but the best way is not to make any promises that we
don't intend to carry out, or that we are not sure we can fulfill. Then
no one will be disappointed if our plans don't come through the way we
hoped they would. Do you see what I mean?"
"Yes; never promise to do _anything_ until you're sure you can. But that
would keep me from doing lots of things, Elspeth. I could not ever
promise to be good, or--"
"Oh, Peace, I didn't mean that!" Elizabeth never could get accustomed to
this literal streak in the small maiden's character; and, in
consequence, her little preachments often received an unexpected
shower-bath. "I meant not to promise to do favors for other folks unless
we can and will see that they are done."
"Ain't it a favor to be good when it's easier and naturaler to be
bad--not really bad, either, but just yourself?"
"No, dear. We ought to _try_ to be good without anyone's asking us to,
and just because it is easier to do wrong than right is no excuse for us
at all."
Unconsciously she said this very severely, for she thought she heard
Saint John chuckling behind the curtains of the study window; but Peace
interpreted the lecture literally, and hastily jumping up from the step,
said, "I think I'll go and tell the Lilac Lady about the children, and
see if she hasn't got more roses than she knows what to do with, 'cause
I know they'd like 'em at the Home. Do you care?"
"No, Peace. Glen is asleep. But don't stay long, for it is nearly five
o'clock now, and tea will soon be ready."
"All right. I'll bring you some roses for the table if she has any to
spare today, and she ought to, 'cause the pink and white bushes have
just begun to open."
She whisked out of sight around the corner in a twinkling, and was soon
perched on the stool beside the lame girl's chair, regaling her with an
account of the afternoon's adventures.
The white signal fluttering from the lilac bushes had been discarded
long ago, and Peace was welcome whenever she came now, for with her
peculiar childish instinct, she seemed to know when the invalid found
her chatter wearisome. At such times she would sit in the grass beside
the chair, silently weaving clover chains, or wander quietly about the
premises, revelling in the beauty and perfume of the garden flowers, or
better still, whistling softly the sweet tunes which the pain-racked
body always found so soothing.
But this afternoon the young mistress of the stone house was lonely, for
Aunt Pen and Giuseppe were in town shopping, and she wished to be
amused; so Peace was doubly welcome, and felt very much flattered at the
attention her lengthy story received. To tell the truth of the matter,
the lame girl had just discovered how cunningly the small, round face
was dimpled, and in watching these little Cupid's love kisses come and
go with the child's different expressions and moods, she did not hear a
word that was said until Peace heaved a great, sympathetic sigh, and
closed her tale with the remark, "And so I'm going to see if I can't
take them some--enough to last a week maybe--for it must be _dreadful_
to eat bread and potatoes every day without any butter or gravy."
The older girl roused herself with a start, and promptly began asking
questions in such an adroit fashion that in a moment or two she had the
gist of the whole story, and was much interested in the picture Peace
drew of the Home children's life. "Why, do you know, I used to go there
with Aunt Pen--years ago--to carry flowers and trinkets, and sometimes
to sing. My! How glad they used to be! They would sit and listen with
eyes and mouths wide open as if they simply couldn't get enough. Aunt
Pen used to be quite interested in the Home. Poor Aunt Pen! She gave up
all her pet hobbies when I was hurt."
"Didn't you like to go?"
"Oh, it was flattering to have such an appreciative audience, of course;
but--my ambitions soared higher than that. They were as well satisfied
with a hand-organ."
"Oh, Tony ain't! And neither is Ethel! They both just _love_ music, and
they kept me whistling until I was tired. And how they do love stories!
I 'magined for them till my thinker ran empty. I couldn't help wishing I
was you, so's I could tell them all the beau-ti-ful fancies you make up
as you lie here under the trees day in and day out. I told 'em about
you and pictured this garden for 'em, and the flowers which Hicks cuts
by the _bushel-basket_, and Juiceharpie which plays the fiddle and
dances and sings like a cheer-up--"
"A cherub, do you mean? Giuseppe is inconsolable to think he can't teach
you to say his name correctly."
"Yes, and I'm the same thing to think he's got such a name that won't be
said right. He doesn't like Jessup any better. But never mind, I know
he'd like Tony and the other Home boys; and I thought maybe you would
let him go some day and play for the children there. Miss Chase is
awfully sweet and nice, even if she is fat, and she'd be tickled to
pieces to give him a permit any time he could come."
The lame girl laid a thin, waxen hand on the curly head bobbing so
enthusiastically at her side, and murmured gently, "How do you think up
so many beautiful things to do for other people?"
"I don't," Peace frankly replied. "I guess they just think themselves.
You see, I know what it is to be poor and not have nice things like
other folks, and now that grandpa's taken us home to live with him in a
great, big house where there's always plenty and enough to spare, seems
like it was just the proper thing to give some of it away to make the
less _forchinit_ a little happier. It takes _such_ a little to make
folks smile!"
"Indeed it does, little philosopher. Your name should have been Lady
Bountiful. Giuseppe may go with you to the Home as often as he wishes
with his violin, and help you make them happy."
"Oh, you're such a darling!" cried Peace in ecstasy, hugging the hand
between her own pink palms. "I wish you could go, too. Tony says they
have song services every Sunday afternoon, and they are great! I'm to go
next Sunday and hear them, but I wish you could, too."
"You are very generous," murmured the lame girl a trifle huskily.
Then--perhaps it was because Peace's enthusiasm was contagious, perhaps
it was due to a growing desire in her own heart for the world from which
she had shut herself so long ago--the older girl suddenly electrified
her companion by adding, "I should like to hear them myself. Do you
think the matron would allow them to visit me in my garden, seeing that
I can't go to the Home as other folks do?"
"Oh, do you mean that?"
"Every word!"
"Miss Chase couldn't say no to anything so beautiful, and I don't think
the Lady Boards would object, either; but I'll find out. Saint John can
tell me, I'm sure. Oh, I never dreamed of anything so lovely! I wouldn't
have _dared_ dream it!" She hugged herself in rapture, and her eyes
beamed like stars. How grand it was to have friends like the Lilac
Lady!
So it came about that a few days later fifty shining-faced, bright-eyed
boys and girls from the Home marched proudly up Hill Street and in
through the great iron gates to the Enchanted Garden, where the lame
girl, with Aunt Pen and the parsonage household to assist her, waited to
greet them.
That was a gala day, talked about for weeks afterward, dreamed of in the
silent watches of the night, and recorded in memory's treasure book to
be lived over again and again in later years,--one of those heart's
delights, the fragrance of which never dies.
The Home children were charmed with the beautiful garden and its cool
fountain, just as Peace had known they would be, and the frail young
hostess was as charmed with her guests. They had games on the wide lawn,
they sang their sweet, happy choruses, Giuseppe played and danced, Peace
and the preacher whistled, Elizabeth told them stories, and Aunt Pen
surprised them all by serving sparkling frappe with huge slices of fig
cake, such as only Minnie, the cook, could make. Then, as the afternoon
drew to a close, and the matron began lining up her charges for the
homeward walk, Tony and Lottie stepped out of the ranks and sang a
pretty little verse of thanks for the good time all had enjoyed.
So surprised was the Lilac Lady at this unexpected little turn, that for
an instant her eyes grew misty with unshed tears; then she smiled
happily, and obeying a sudden impulse, she lifted her voice and
carolled,
"Come again, my little friends,
You have brought me joy today;
In my heart you've left a hymn
That shall linger, live alway."
"Oh, my!" cried Peace, squeezing Elizabeth's hand in her astonishment
and pleasure, "is it an angel singing?"
"Your Lilac Lady, dear. Didn't you know she could sing?"
"She told me she used to once, but I never heard her before."
"At college she was our lark. How we loved that voice! I think, little
girl, you have saved a soul."
But Peace did not hear the words. She was joining in the wild applause
that greeted this burst of melody from the long silent throat. Everyone
had been taken by surprise, the children were dancing with delight, the
matron's homely face was beaming, Aunt Pen's lips worked pathetically,
and Hicks, still busy filling small arms with the choicest flowers from
the garden, could only whisper over and over again, "Praise be, praise
be, she has found her voice!"
The Lilac Lady herself seemed almost unconscious of the fact that she
had torn down this last and strongest barrier between self and the
world, and if she noticed the pathetic surprise on the loving faces
hovering about her, she did not show it, but smiled serenely and
naturally when the applause had died away. She would sing no more that
afternoon, however, and the little visitors had to be contented with a
promise of another song the next time they came. So they said good-bye
to their charming hostess and filed happily down the walk to the street.
As the iron gates closed behind the little company homeward bound, Peace
turned to blow a good-night kiss between the high palings to the young
mistress, lying in her chair where they had left her, but paused
enraptured by the picture her eyes beheld. A rosy ray of the setting sun
filtered through the oak boughs overhanging her couch and fell full upon
the white face among the cushions, bringing out the rich auburn tints of
the heavy hair till it almost seemed as if a crown of gleaming gold
rested upon her head, and the wonderful blue eyes reflected the light
like sea-water, clear and deep and--unfathomable.
"Oh," whispered Peace, thrilling with delight, "I ought to have called
her my _Angel_ Lady!"