"That's good advice," said Tessa, as the children shouted--
"Rise, Sally, rise, and wipe off your eyes."
"I wish that I were a little girl over there in the fun," said Sue.
"Suppose we go."
"I intended to go. Perhaps we can teach them some new games."
No one among the children was merrier than Sue; not one any more a
child.
"I think I'll stay little," said Sue, coming to Tessa, half out of
breath. "I'm never going to grow up; it's hateful being a woman, isn't
it?"
"You will never know," said Tessa laughing. "There's little Harry
Sherwood calling for Sue Greyson now."
Towards midnight, when Tessa was asleep, Sue awakened her with, "Put
your arm around me, I can't go to sleep."
Sue lay still not speaking or moving.
The clock in the sitting-room struck three.
"Tessa, Tessa," whispered a startled voice, "are you awake?"
"Yes," rousing herself, "what is it? Is any thing the matter?"
"Oh, no," wearily, "but it has struck one, and two, and three, and I'm
afraid it will strike four."
"I suppose it will unless the clock stops or time ceases to be."
"What will be when time ceases to be? What comes next?"
"Forever comes next. Don't you want it to be forever?"
"You sha'n't talk so and frighten me. I can't go to sleep. I thought
somebody was dying or dead."
"You were dreaming." Tessa put a loving arm around her. "Didn't you ever
say the multiplication table in the night?"
"No, nor any other time."
The moonlight shone in through the open window, making a golden track
across the carpet.
"The moon shines on Red Riding Hood," said Sue. "Tell me a story,
Tessa."
"Don't you like the moonlight? Some one had a lovely little room once
and she said that the moonlight came in and swept it clean of foolish
thoughts."
"What else?" in an interested voice.
"It is a long story; it is in blank verse, too, and you like rhymes."
"I've been trying to say Mother Goose and Old Mother Hubbard."
"I will tell you a story," said Tessa, as wide awake as if the sun were
shining. "I will rhyme it as I run along, and when I hesitate and can
not make good sense and a perfect rhyme, we'll go to sleep."
"Well, but you must do your best."
"I always do my best. I tell Gus and Dine stories in rhyme."
So she began with a description of a little girl who was fair and a boy
who was brave, who grew up and grew together, but cruel fate in the
shape of a step-mother separated them, and he travelled all over the
world, and she stayed at home and made tatting, until a hundred years
went by and he came to the door a worn-out traveller and found her a
withered maiden sitting alone feeding her cat. Afterward in trying to
recall this, she only remembered one couplet:
"He was covered with snow, his hat with fur,
He took it off and bowed to her."
Once or twice Sue gave a hysterical laugh.
The story was brought to a proper and blissful conclusion; still Sue was
sleepless.
"How far on their journey do you suppose they are now?"
"I'm not a time-table."
Sue lay too still to be asleep; when she _was_ still she was a marvel of
stillness.
Daylight and breakfast found her in high spirits, asking advice of Mrs.
Wadsworth about making a wrapper out of an old brown cashmere, and
talking to Tessa about the drive that she had promised to take with Dr.
Lake, saying the last thing as she ran down the steps, "I'll come and
study German if I can't find any thing better to do."
In all the talks afterward, Sue never alluded to this night; it was the
only part of her life that she wished Tessa to forget; she herself
forgot every thing except that she was miserable about Mr. Ralph and two
of the lines in the story that she had laughed about and called as
"stupid" as her own life:
"The room in which she lived alone, was carpeted with matting;
She spent the hours, she spent the days, in making yards of
tatting."