CHILDREN'S DAY AT HILL STREET CHURCH
"What do you think's happened now?" asked Peace, seating herself
gloomily upon the footstool beside the invalid, and thrusting a long
grass-blade between her teeth.
"I am sure I don't know," smiled the older girl. "You look as if it were
quite a calamity."
"It's worse'n a c'lamity. It's a _capostrophe_. Glen's gone and got the
croup--"
"Yes, so his papa told Aunt Pen this morning. How is the poor little
fellow now?"
"He's better, doctor says; but his cold is dreadfully bad and may last
for days, so Elspeth can't hear the children practise for next Sunday--I
mean a week from tomorrow. That is Children's Day, you know. And Miss
Kinney has ab-so-lute-ly refused to sing for us, 'cause Elspeth asked
Mildred George to take a solo part, too, and Miss Kinney doesn't like
Mildred. Why are huming beings so mean and horrid to each other? Now, I
wouldn't care if I found someone which could sing better'n I,--s'posing
I could sing at all. I'd just help her make all the music she could and
be glad there was somebody who could beat me."
"Would you really?" asked the lame girl with a queer little note of
doubt in her voice.
"Why, of course! I sh'd hate to think I was the best singer God knew how
to make."
This was an idea which the invalid had never heard expressed before; but
still somewhat skeptical, she asked, "Do you feel that way about
whistling, too?"
"I sure do! I like to whistle, and it's nice to know I can beat all the
boys that go to our school, and even Saint John. But you should hear
Mike O'Hara! Oh, but he can whistle! It sounds like the woods full of
birds. It's--it's--it's--" words failed her--"it's _heaven_ to listen to
him. I'm glad I _know_ someone who whistles better than I can, 'cause
there's that to work for, to aim at. But if I ever get so I can whistle
as well as he does, I s'pose there will be lots better ones still. Miss
Kinney wants to be the very best singer at Hill Street Church, though,
and she's afraid if Mildred gets to taking solo parts in the exercises
folks will want her all the time; so she's just trying to spoil the
whole program that Saint Elspeth has worked so hard over."
Peace's observations were sometimes positively uncanny, and as she
voiced this sentiment, the Lilac Lady asked curiously, "How do you know
that is her reason? Did she tell you, or did Mildred?"
"Neither one. I heard Mrs. Porter tell Elspeth yesterday that Miss
Kinney had cold feet; so after she was gone, I asked about it. Saint
John was there, and Elspeth just laughed and said it was a remark I must
forget, 'cause it wasn't real kind to speak so about anybody. But when I
was in bed and they thought I'd gone to sleep, I heard Saint John ask
Elizabeth about it, and she told him how Miss Kinney was acting, and how
the program would all be spoiled, 'cause there isn't anyone to take her
place in the solo parts, and it is too late now to drill the children
for anything else. It's even worse now, with Glen down sick so's Elspeth
can't help get up some other program."
"What kind of exercises were you going to have, may I ask? You have had
such hard work to keep from telling me at different times that I thought
perhaps it was a secret."
"Elspeth wanted it as a surprise, you know, so I thought it would be
better not to talk about it even with you. Do you care?"
"Not a bit, dearie, only I had an idea that possibly I might take
Elizabeth's place for a few days, with Aunt Pen's help. She used to be a
famous driller for children's entertainments, and I know she would be
more than pleased to have her finger in this pie, for she admires your
young preacher very much, while Beth is an old friend of hers. The
children could come here to rehearse--"
"Oh, but wouldn't that be fine! You do have the splendidest thinks!
Who'd take Miss Kinney's part? That's the most important of all. Would
you?"
"I? Oh, Peace, how could _I_ take part--a cripple? I haven't been
outside these gardens for years."
"It's time you had a change, then. It wouldn't hurt you to be rolled
down the street in your chair, would it?"
"So everyone could see and pity me?" The voice was full of scathing
bitterness.
"So everyone could know and love you, my Lilac Lady! They couldn't
_help_ loving you. I wanted to hug you the first time I ever laid eyes
on you, and I don't feel any different yet."
"All the world is not like you."
"No, I reckon it ain't, 'cause there's millions and millions of
pig-tailed Chinamen and little brown Japs, and Esquimeaux who take baths
in whale oil 'stead of water, which ain't a bit like me. But I'm
speaking of 'Merican children. They'd love you for the way you sing and
tell stories first, most likely; but when they came to know you
yourself, they'd like just the bare you. Tony and Ethel and Lottie and
George and all the rest of the Home children can't talk enough about
you, and Miss Chase says they're 'most wild to think you want 'em to
come every week steady this summer. She says a person like you can do
'em more good now than years of sermons after they are older. She calls
you the children's 'good angel.' I meant to tell you before, 'cause I
thought you'd like to know, but somehow this fuss of Elspeth's made me
forget everything else. Say! Why couldn't we get the Home children to
help us in our choruses? They usu'ly go to the church just across the
street from there on account of it being nearer, but I'm sure the matron
would let 'em help us this one time, 'specially as tomorrow is their
Children's Sunday. Tony told me."
"That is a splendid plan, Peace. If you think Aunt Pen and I can take
Elizabeth's place until Glen is better, I'll send Hicks over to the Home
with a note for Miss Chase, and we will have a rehearsal this very
afternoon. Can you get me the music?"
"Yes, Elspeth's got the song-books at the parsonage now. There was to be
a practise this afternoon for the _corn-tatter_, but she thought she'd
just have to send 'em home as fast as they came. I'll run right over and
tell her your plans so's she'll have the children come over here
instead. It will be ever so nice to have the boys and girls from the
Home take part, 'cause there didn't begin to be enough lilies or poppies
or vi'lets, and so many had dropped out of the rose chorus that only
Mittie Cole is left. She's a good singer, though, if she doesn't get too
scared."
"Well, you run along and get me as many copies of the cantata as you
can. Tell Elizabeth I will be very careful of them."
"Shall I tell her you'll take Miss Kinney's part?"
"No, indeed," was the hasty answer. "If she asks about it, you might say
that it will be taken care of, so she need not fret the least little
bit."
"Oh, and say, what about the flowers for the Home children? I guess
likely we can't have them after all, 'cause we're to be dressed up in
flowers to represent our parts."
"Flowers? Oh, I will attend to that. Our French maid is perfection when
it comes to getting up costumes of any kind."
"It ain't _costumes_. It's just our flowers, but there are daisies and
poppies and vi'lets and maybe others that ain't in blossom yet or else
are all done for; so's we would either have to buy them at the
greenhouses or get artificial ones."
"That is easily done, dear. Elise can do wonders with crepe paper and
the glue-pot. Don't you worry about the Home children if Miss Chase will
let us borrow them."
So Peace skipped joyously home to pour out the good news to the
preacher's troubled little wife, who was worrying alternately over the
hoarse, sick little man lying in her arms and the program for
Children's Sunday, which now looked as if it must prove a failure in
spite of all the time and hard work she had given it. So when the child
explained the Lilac Lady's plans, Elizabeth gladly resigned the cantata
music, expressed her sincere thanks by kissing Peace warmly--for she
knew, of course, that whatever beautiful plans the young crippled
neighbor might have, they were prompted by the active brain under the
bobbing brown curls--and returned with a lighter heart to her vigil over
Glen.
Miss Chase was glad to lend the children to Hill Street Church, and they
were overjoyed at the idea of being loaned. As they proved to be apt
pupils, they were already quite familiar with the beautiful songs by the
time the original chorus members put in appearance at the parsonage for
the afternoon's rehearsal. At first, the regular scholars were inclined
to criticize the new plans which dragged in the little Home waifs; but
Aunt Pen, who had readily agreed to help, was very tactful, the lame
girl very lovable, and in a few minutes all the objections had been
swept aside and harmony reigned supreme. Then they settled down to hard
work, and how they did practise! Aunt Pen played the piano, Giuseppe
took up the refrain on his violin, and the great stone house fairly rang
with the chorus of the hundred or more voices. Indifference melted into
interest, and interest into enthusiasm. Before the afternoon had drawn
to a close, every heart present was fairly aching for the coming of
Children's Sunday with its beautiful service of song, and the Lilac Lady
was triumphant.
"But who will take Miss Kinney's part?" frowned Marjorie Hopper, the
deacon's granddaughter. "She told papa last night that she simply
washed her hands of the whole affair."
"Never you fret," said Peace, nodding her head sagely. "Let her wash!
We've got someone to take it who can sing lots prettier than she ever
thought of doing."
"Not Mildred--"
"No, Mildred's got her own part, but--"
There was a sudden movement in the invalid's chair, and the lame girl
sat up with a most becoming blush tinting the waxen cheeks. "Can you
keep a secret, children?" she asked.
"Of course!" they shouted, gathering around her to hear what the secret
might be.
"Well, I am going to--"
"Take Miss Kinney's place," finished Tony, with a deep sigh of
anticipated pleasure.
"I knew she'd do it!" crowed Peace, dancing a jig for pure joy.
"Will you?" asked Marjorie.
"Would you like it?"
"Like it! Well, I guess yes!" they shouted again.
"You can beat Miss Kinney all hollow," added George with blunt, boyish
admiration.
"I am not figuring on that," smiled the invalid, amused at the thought.
"I don't care any more about being 'it,' as you children say. I just
want to help Hill Street Church, for it has brought me the sun again
when I thought I had lost it forever."
They looked at her mystified, uncomprehending, but no one asked her to
explain; they were content to know that she was to take the important
solo part which Miss Kinney had thrown down.
Thus the days flew by, and Children's Sunday dawned bright and cool.
Glen was almost well, but Elizabeth did not feel that she could leave
him in any other hands, and he was still too fretful to attend the
service. In her quandary she flew to Aunt Pen, and that worthy lady
smiled happily as she answered, "Of course, I can take charge if you
wish, and I shall count it a privilege. You have done so much for
Myra--"
"Thank Peace for that. She is the one who found out her hiding-place."
"I do thank Peace with all my heart, and it has been a pleasure to help
her with her beautiful, generous, impulsive plans. She suggested--well,
you must come this morning and hear the children. We simply can't let
you off. Sit near the door if you like, so you can take the baby out if
he frets,--but I don't think he will. He loves music, and we've quite a
surprise in store for the congregation."
And indeed, it proved a great surprise, for no one saw the wheel-chair
which Hicks rolled stealthily into the tiny church early that morning
and hid so skilfully behind tall banks of fern and great clusters of
roses that only the lovely face of the lame girl could be seen by the
congregation--she was still very sensitive concerning her sad
affliction. And when the happy-hearted children, almost covered with the
garlands of flowers they carried, took their places around their queen,
the platform looked like some great, wonderful garden, where children's
faces were the blossoms.
And the music! How can words describe the joyous anthems which filled
the sanctuary with praise and thanksgiving, or the gloriously sweet,
silvery tones of the garden queen when she lifted her voice and poured
out her soul in song that bright June morning. All the bitterness of the
long months of anguish, despair and rebellion had been swept forever out
of her heart, and in its place reigned the gladness, the rapture, the
supreme joy which triumphs even over death. It seemed almost as if some
angel choir had opened the gates of heaven and let the strains of
celestial music flood the earth. It was inspiring, uplifting, sublime!
But that was not all. When the beautiful service had ended, and the
congregation was slowly filing out into the sunshine again, there stood
the wheel-chair by the door, and the lame girl, her blue eyes alight
with happiness, her face wreathed in smiles, greeted one by one the
friends of the old days from whom she had so long hidden herself away.