"O Winny!" I said, "I am so sorry."
But Winny was too vexed to care just at first for anything I could say.
"You naughty, naughty, unkind Meg," she said, "I do believe you did it
on purpose."
I could not bear that. I thought it very hard indeed that she should
say so, when any one could see how miserable I was. I did not answer
her; I ran out of the nursery, and though Winny called to me to come
back (for the moment she had said those words she was sorry for them), I
would not listen to her. Nurse fetched me back soon, however, for it
was tea-time, but I would not speak to Winny. We never had such a
miserable tea; there we sat, two red-eyed, unhappy little girls, looking
as if we did not love each other a bit. If mamma had come up to the
nursery she would have put it all right--she did put Poupee's foot right
the very next day, she mended it so nicely with diamond cement, that the
place hardly showed at all--but she was busy that evening, and did not
happen to come up. So bed-time came, and still we had not made friends,
though I heard Winny crying when she was saying her prayers. After we
were in bed, and nurse had gone away, Winny whispered to me, "Meg, won't
you forgive me for saying that unkind thing? Won't you kiss me and say
good-night, Winny?"
A minute before, I had been feeling as sorry as could be, but when Winny
spoke to me, a most hard, horrid, unkind feeling seemed to come back
into my heart, and I would not answer. I breathed as if I were asleep,
pretending not to hear. I think Winny thought I was asleep, for she did
not speak again. I heard her crying softly, and then after a while I
heard by her breathing that she had really gone to sleep. But I
couldn't. I lay awake a long time, I thought it was hours and hours,
and I tossed and turned, but I _couldn't_ go to sleep. I listened but I
could not hear Winny breathing--I put my hand out of my cot, and
stretched across to hers to feel for her; she seemed to be lying quite
still. Then a dreadful feeling came into my mind--suppose Winny were
dead, and that I had refused to make friends and say good-night! I must
have got fanciful with lying awake, I suppose, and you know I was only a
very little girl. I could not bear it--I stretched myself across to
Winny and put my arms round her.
"Winny! Winny!" I said, "wake up, Winny, and kiss me, and let us say
good-night."
Winny woke up almost immediately, and she seemed to understand at once.
"Poor little Meg," she said, "poor little Meg. We will never be unkind
to each other again--never. Good-night, dear Meg."
"Good-night, Winny," I said. And just as I was falling asleep I
whispered to her--"I will never let you go to sleep again, Winny,
without saying good-night." And I never did, never except _once_.
I could tell you ever so many other things about Winny, but I daresay
you would be tired, for, of course, they cannot be so interesting to any
other little girls as to me. But I think you will wish to hear about
our last good-night.
Have I told you about our aunts at all? We had two aunties we were very
fond of. They were young and merry and so kind to us, and there was
nothing we liked so much as going to stay with them, for their home--our
grandfather's--was not far away. We generally all went there to spend
Christmas, but one year something, I forget what, had prevented this, so
to make up for it we were promised to spend Easter with them. We did so
look forward to it--we were to go by ourselves, just like young ladies
going to pay a visit, and we were to stay from Saturday till Easter
Monday or Tuesday.
On the Saturday morning we woke up so early--hours before it was time to
be dressed--we were so excited about our visit. But somehow Winny did
not seem quite as happy about it as I wanted her to be. I asked her
what made her dull, and she said it was because she did not like leaving
papa and mamma, and Dolly and Blanche, not even for two or three days.
And when we went into mamma's room to say good-morning as usual, Winny
said so to her too. Mamma laughed at her a little, and said she was a
great baby after all; and Winny smiled, but still she seemed dull, and I
shall never forget what a long long kiss she gave mamma that morning, as
if she could When we went to the nursery for breakfast, baby Blanche was
crying very much, and nurse said she was very cross. She did not think
she was quite well, and we must be good and quiet. After breakfast,
when mamma came to see baby, she seemed anxious about her, but baby went
to sleep before long quite comfortably, and then nurse said she would be
better when she awoke; it was probably just a little cold. And very
soon the pony carriage was ready for Winny and me, and we kissed them
all and set off on our visit. I was in high spirits, but as we drove
away I saw that Winny was actually crying a little, and she did not
often cry.
When we got to our aunties', however, she grew quite happy again. We
were very happy indeed on Sunday, only Winny kept saying how glad she
would be to see them all at home again on Monday or Tuesday. But on
Monday morning there came a letter, which made our aunties look grave.
They did not tell us about it till Winny asked if we were to go home
"to-day," and then they told us that perhaps we could not go home for
several days--not for two or three weeks even, for poor baby Blanche was
very ill, and it was a sort of illness we might catch from her if we
were with her.
"And that would only add to your poor mamma's trouble," said our
aunties; "so you see, dears, it is much the best for you to stay here."
I did not mind at all; indeed I was pleased. I was sorry about baby,
but not very, for I thought she would soon be better. But Winny looked
very sad.
"Aunty," she said, "you don't think poor baby will _die_, do you?"
"No, dear; I hope she will soon be better," said aunty, and then Winny
looked happier.
"Meg," she whispered to me, "we must be sure to remember about poor baby
being ill when we say our prayers." And we fixed that we would.
After that we were very happy for two or three weeks. Sometimes we were
sorry about baby and Dolly, for baby was very ill we were told, and
Dolly had caught the fever too. But after a while news came that they
were both better, and we began to look forward to seeing papa and mamma
and them again. We used to write little letters to them all at home,
and that was great fun; and we used to go such nice walks. The fields
and lanes were full of daffodils, and soon the primroses came and the
violets, and Winny was _always_ gathering them and making wreaths and
nosegays. It was a very happy time, and it all comes back into my mind
_dreadfully_, when I see the spring flowers, especially the primroses,
every year.
One day we had had a particularly nice walk, and when we came in Winny
seemed so full of spirits that she hardly knew what to do with herself.
We had a regular romp. In our romping, by accident, Winny knocked me
down, for she was very strong, and I hurt my thumb. I was often silly
about being hurt even a little, and I began to cry. Then Winny was _so_
sorry; she kissed me and petted me, and gave me all her primrose wreaths
and nosegays, so I soon left off crying. But somehow Winny's high
spirits had gone away. She shivered a little and went close to the fire
to get warm, and soon she said she was tired, and we both went to bed.
I remember that night so well. Winny did not seem sleepy when she was
in bed, and I wasn't either. She talked to me a great deal, and _so_
nicely. It was not about when we should be big girls; it was about
_now_ things; about not being cross ever, and helping mamma, and about
how pretty the lowers had looked, and how kind every one was to us, and
how kind God must be to make every one so, and just at the last, as she
was falling asleep, she said, "I do wonder so if there are primroses in
heaven?" and then she fell asleep, and so did I.
When I woke in the morning, I heard voices talking beside me. It was
one of our aunties. She was standing beside Winny, speaking to her.
When she looked round and saw that I was awake, she said to me in a kind
but rather a strange voice, "Meg, dear, put on your dressing-gown and
run down to my room to be dressed. Winny has a headache, and I think
she had better not get up to breakfast."
I got up immediately and put on my slippers, and I was running out of
the room when I thought of something and ran back. I put Winny's
slippers neatly beside her crib, and I said to her, "I have put them
ready for you when you get up, Winny." I wanted to do something for her
you see, because I was so sorry about her headache. She did not speak,
but she looked at me with such a look in her eyes. Then she said, "Kiss
me, Meg, dear little Meg," and I was just going to kiss her when she
suddenly seemed to remember, and she drew back. "No, dear, you
mustn't," she said; "aunty would say it was better not, because I'm not
well."
"Could I catch your headache, Winny?" I said, "or is it a cold you've
got? You are not _very_ ill, Winny?"
She only smiled at me, and just then I heard aunty calling to me to be
quick. Winny's little hand was hanging over the side of the bed. I
took it, and kissed it--poor little hand, it felt so hot--"I may kiss
your hand, mayn't I?" I said, and then I ran away.
All that day I was kept away from Winny, playing by myself in rooms we
did not generally go into. Sometimes my aunties would come to the door
for a minute and peep at me, and ask me what I would like to play with,
but it was very dull. My aunties' maid took me a little walk in the
garden, and she put me to bed, but I cried myself to sleep because I had
not said good-night to Winny.
"Oh how I wish I had never been cross to her!" I kept thinking; and if
_only_ I could make other children understand how _dreadful_ that
feeling was, I am sure, quite sure, they would never, never quarrel.
The next day was just the same, playing alone, dinner alone, everything
alone. I was so lonely. I never saw aunty till the evening, when it
was nearly bed-time, and then she came to the room where I was, and I
called out to her immediately to ask how Winny was.
"I _hope_ she will soon be better," she said. "And, Meg, dear, it is
your bed-time now."
The thought of going to bed again without Winny was too hard. I began
to cry.
"O aunty!" I said, "I do so want to say good-night to Winny. I
_always_ say good-night, and last night I couldn't."
Aunty thought for a minute. She looked so sorry for me. Then she said,
"I will see if I can manage it. Come after me, Meg." She went up
through a part of the house I did not know, and into a room where there
was a closed door. She tapped at it without opening, and called out.
"Meg has come to say good-night to you, through the door, Winny dear."
Then I heard Winny's voice say softly, "I am so glad;" and I called out
quite loud, "Good-night, Winny," but Winny answered--I could not hear
her voice without listening close at the door--"Not good-night now, Meg.
It is _good-bye_, dear Meg."
I looked up at aunty. It seemed to me her face had grown white, and the
tears were in her eyes. Somehow, I felt a little afraid.
"What does Winny mean, aunty?" I said in a whisper.
"I don't know, dear. Perhaps being ill makes her head confused," she
said. So I called out again, "Good-night, Winny," and aunty led me
away.
But Winny was right. It _was_ good-bye. The next morning when aunty's
maid was dressing me, I saw she was crying.
"What is the matter, Hortense?" I said. "Why are you unhappy? Is any
one vexed with you?"
But she only shook her head and would not speak.
After I had had my breakfast, Hortense took me to my aunties'
sitting-room. And when she opened the door, to my delight there was
mamma, sitting with both my aunties by the fire. I was so pleased, I
gave quite a cry of joy, and jumped on to her knee.
"Does Winny know you've come?" I cried, "_dear_ mamma."
But when I looked at her I saw that her face was very white and sad, and
my poor aunties were crying. Still mamma smiled.
"Poor Meg!" she said.
"What is the matter? Why is everybody so strange to-day?" I said.
Then mamma told me. "Meg, dear," she said, "you must try to remember
some of the things I have often told you about Heaven, what a happy
place it is, with no being ill or tired, or any troubles. Meg, dear,
Winny has gone there."
For a minute I did not seem to understand. I could not understand
Winny's having gone without telling me. A sort of giddy feeling came
over me, it was all so strange, and I put my head down on mamma's
shoulder, without speaking.
"Meg, dear, do you understand?" she said.
"She didn't tell me she was going," I said, "but, oh yes, I remember she
said good-bye last night. Did she go alone, mamma? Who came for her?
Did _Jesus_?" Something made me whisper that.