"DEAR SISTER:I suppose you want to hear all about our house and barn. I went to Gus Allen's party. We trained, and a pretty set of fellows we were."
"DEAR SISTER:I suppose you want to hear all about our house and barn. I went to Gus Allen's party. We trained, and a pretty set of fellows we were."
That was all he told about our house and barn, and he did not sign his name. Perhaps he would have said more after resting a while; but Miss Rubie saved him the trouble, and ended the letter, by inviting "you darlings,"—Fel and me,—to her wedding, which was to take place in a few weeks.
We had a little waltzing to do then! A wedding! We danced right and left, with that letter under our feet.
"I should think you'd better read on, and see what the man's name is, you little Flutterbudgets," said cousin Joseph, laughing at us.
We hadn't thought of that. We looked, and found it was uncle John! Another surprise. It was a new idea to both of us, that a man who had had one wife should ever have another. We remembered aunt Persis, who wanted to steam Fel.
"And she died years, and years, andyearsago."
"About eleven months," said cousin Lydia. Your uncle John is obliged to go to England this fall, and wants to take Zed; and I am very glad Miss Rubie is willing to be Zed's mother, and will go with them."
"How can she be his mother?" said I. "She's his auntie."
But we didn't care about the relationship, Fel and I; all we cared about was the wedding. And I did hope I should have a string of wax beads to wear on my neck.
Here is our reply to the letter. (The words in Italics are Fel's.)
"Dear Little Mothers:We thought we would write to you.We are glad we shall go to the wedding.Do you think you can buy me some wax beeds?We want to see you very much.But I want the wax beeds, too. Fel said a prayer for my sickness. I think she is a very pias girl. The cow is dead, &c., & ect. So good by."FromMajandRuphelle."
"Dear Little Mothers:We thought we would write to you.We are glad we shall go to the wedding.Do you think you can buy me some wax beeds?We want to see you very much.But I want the wax beeds, too. Fel said a prayer for my sickness. I think she is a very pias girl. The cow is dead, &c., & ect. So good by.
"FromMajandRuphelle."
It seemed as if cousin Lydia never would get ready to start. Ever since the letter from our mammas, Fel and I had been sure we were wanted at home; but there was no end to the things cousin Lydia had to do, and so far as we could see, Miss Samantha and Miss Julia didn't help her much. We dared not say this, however; we laid it away in our minds, with twenty other things we meant to tell our mothers when we got home.
My great consolation while waiting was a Maltese kitten with white toes, and eyes the color of blue clay; and when, at last, the joyful time came for going to Willowbrook, I begged to take that kitty with us. Miss Julia said, "Nonsense!" But cousin Lydia was really a sensible woman; for what did she do but butter Silvertoe's paws, and tie her into an egg-basket.
"But you must take care of her yourself, Maggie; I shall have my hands full with you, and Ruphelle, and the baggage."
Kitty behaved beautifully at first; but presently the rough mountain roads began to jar upon her nerves, I think; for by the time the stage reached the station, she was scratching and mewing at such a rate that I was ashamed of her. I lagged behind, so cousin shouldn't hear.
And was this the depot? A jail, I should say. Such a wicked man staring through the hole in the wall! Wonder what he was put in for?
"The ticket-master, that is," said cousin Lydia, smiling at me, though I hoped she couldn't see what I had been thinking.
Then she bought the tickets; but she wouldn't let Fel or me keep ours. She said the kitty was all I could manage. So I should think!
We heard a shriek like my Big Giant. It frightened me dreadfully; I began to think therewassuch a man. No wonder kitty jumped. Next moment some yellow things came tearing along. Then I knew it was the cars.
"Come," said cousin Lydia, climbing the steps.
Well, I intended to come. My foot was just a little stiff, but I was hurrying as fast as I could, when up sprang the cover of the basket, and out popped the kitty. Of course, I wasn't going without Silvertoes. She scampered round the end of the depot, and I ran after her. It was of no use; she dropped into a hole. I couldn't have been gone half a minute; but those yellow things took that time to whisk off. I ran the whole length of the platform, calling, "Whoa!" but they never stopped.
The black-whiskered man had come out of his cell, and was locking the depot door.
"O, won't you stop that railroad? Please, for pity's sake!"
The man made no reply; only shut one eye and whistled. I danced and screamed. There were those things puffing out of breath, and determined not to stop.
"'Tain't no use to make a rumpus. The cars won't take back tracks for nobody."
I thought he didn't understand.
"Why, my cousin Lydia bought me a ticket, sir, right out of that hole. Don't youknowshe did? And that railroad went off and left me. I was getting in in a minute, as soon as I found my kitty!"
"O, that's it, hey? Well, you see this ere's only a flag-station, and they don't stop for cats."
I began to cry. The man patted me on the back, just as if I had a fish-bone in my throat, and called me "Poor sissy." It made me very angry—sevenwholeyears old—to be called sissy! I wiped my eyes at once, and told him decidedly that I thought my cousin would make the "driver" come back for me.
The man whistled harder. This caused me to feel a little like a dog that has lost his master; and I felt so all the more when the man pointed his finger at me and told me to follow him, and he would try to get me "put up" for the night. But not knowing anything better to do, I trudged after him with my empty basket, forgetting all about the kitten.
We crossed the road, and went through a long yard where clothes were drying, till we came to a little brown house. Near the open door of the porch sat a woman beating eggs in a yellow pudding-dish. She had a skin somewhat the color of leather, and wore a leather-colored dress, gold beads, a brass-topped comb, and gold ear-drops, like upside down exclamation points. I thought she looked a little like a sheepskin book father had in a gilt binding.
"This little creeter got left by the train, Harr'et; I don't see but we shall have to eat and sleep her. What say?"
"Eat and sleep me!" I took a step backward. Of course they did not mean what they said; but I thought joking on this occasion was in very poor taste.
"Got left over? Poor little dear!"
The woman stopped her work to pity me, and drops of egg dripped from the fork-tines like yellow tears. I fell to crying then.
"It seems she's some related to Captain Tenney's folks," said the whistling man, ending with another love-pat, and "Poor Sissy!"
But even those insulting words could not stop my crying this time.
"Leave her to me, Peter," said the woman. "Most likely she's afraid of men folks."
The man went away, to my great relief, and she took my bonnet and cloak, and then made me tell her all about my trials, while she beat time with her fork. My mouth once open, I talked steadily, giving the complete history of my life between my sobs,—only leaving out my lie about the hatchet.
"Something cut my foot and I go a little lame, or I could have catched that kitty,—she has whitepors. Butdoesthe railroad have any right to run off and leave folks that's bought tickets?"
"Never mind, dear, you're welcome to stay over with us. Brother Peter and I never calculate to turn folks away while we have a crust to eat, or a roof to cover us."
"O, dear, what poor people!" I ought not to stay. But it seemed they were to have something to-night better than crusts. Harr'et was frying pancakes,—how could she afford it?—and shaking them out of the kettle with a long-handled skimmer into a pan in a chair. She brought me one, which she called her "try-cake;" but it didn't look like Ruth's, and I was too homesick to eat; so I managed to slip it into my pocket.
Harr'et wore heavy calfskin shoes, and shook the house fearfully when she walked. I couldn't help thinking of what she had said about the roof, and it seemed as if it might fall any minute and "cover us," sure enough.
While I sat on the door-step watching her, all forlorn, she drew out a red armchair, gave it a little twitch, as you would to a sunshade, and lo! it turned into a table, with a round top. Then she covered it with a cloth, from a drawer in the chair part of the table, and put on some green and white dishes.
When tea was ready, the whistling man seemed to know it, and came in. It didn't look very inviting to me. The biscuits were specked with brown spots as if the oven had freckled them; and I didn't like molasses for sauce.
I thought of home, and the nice supper cousin Lydia was eating there, and could almost see her sitting next to mother, with my purse in her pocket, and my ticket too. And I could almost see Fel, and hear her queer grandpa asking her questions, while Miss Rubie looked on, all smiling, and dressed in her wedding-gown, of course.
They all thought I was lost, and they should never see me again. Perhaps they never would. How could I go home without a ticket? Once there was a man put off the car because he couldn't show a ticket. Fel saw the "driver" do it.
That thought choked me, together with the sudden recollection that I hadn't told Harr'et my purse was gone. She and Peter might be expecting to make quite a little sum out of my board, enough to keep the roof on a while longer.
"Do eat, child," said the man.
"I didn't tell you, sir," I sobbed, "that the railroad ran off with my purse,—cousin Lydia, I mean,—and I haven't the leastest thing to pay you with!"
I drew out my handkerchief in a great hurry, and out flew the pancake. Peter and Harriet looked at it and smiled, and I hid my face in shame.
"Never you worry your little head about money," said Peter, kindly. "I know young ladies about your size ain't in the habit of travelling with their pockets full of rocks——let alone doughnuts."
O, what a kind man! And how I had mistaken him! I forgave him at once for calling me poor sissy.
"If you've done your supper, Peter, I motion you take her out and show her the sheep and lambs."
Peter did so, besides beguiling me with pleasant talk; but pleasantest of all was the remark,—
"Don't be a bit concerned about your ticket; I'll make that all right to-morrow."
And this was the man I had been so afraid of, only because he was rough-looking, and liked to make jokes.
He told me his name was Peter Noble, and Harr'et was his sister, and kept house for him; and I actually told him in confidence that I meant to go to Italy when I grew to be a lady; for we became close friends in a few minutes, and I felt that he could be trusted.
It was almost dark when we went back to the kitchen; but there was Harriet, laughing.
"Whose kitty?" said she.
And it was Silvertoes, lapping milk out of a saucer by the stove. She was very hungry, and I suppose came to that house because it was so near the depot. I felt as happy as Robinson Crusoe when he found Friday. My trials were now nearly over.
I remember little more, except Peter's taking me into a car next day in his arms, and Harriet's giving me my kitty through the window. I hope I thanked them, but am not sure. That was the last I saw of them; but I carried the marks of Harriet's "try-cake" while my frock lasted, for soap took out the color.
The "driver" treated me with marked politeness, and when we reached Willowbrook Corner, put me into the yellow stage, with as much care as if I had been a china tea-set.
There was a shout when I got home, for all the family were at the gate.
Yes, they seemed just as glad to see me as if I was the Queen of England, and had been gone all the days of my life. Father, especially, looked really overjoyed.
"How they must have missed me!" thought I, springing out of the coach and falling headlong over old Towser. "O, please catch that kitten."
Ned seized the empty basket and whirled it over his head.
"Who cares for such trash? We've got something in the house that's better than sixteen kittens."
"Rabbits?"
"Come and see," said 'Ria, giving me one hand, while she stroked Silvertoes with the other.
"O, I don't believe it's anything. Is it wax beads? You haven't asked where I came from, nor whose house I staid to. There was a woman with gold beads, and he called her Harret, and—"
"Yes, I knew they'd take good care of you," said cousin Lydia.
"And where d'you s'pose I found my kitty?" But no one seemed to hear. I had expected to be pelted with questions as to my eating, drinking, and sleeping, and to be pitied for the late distress of my mind. But no one showed the slightest curiosity; they all seemed in a great hurry to get into the house.
I stopped talking, and walked along with all the dignity of an offended pea-chicken. There might or might not be something worth going to see; but I was resolved to keep perfectly cool. Up stairs? Well, up stairs then, or up in the attic, or out on the roof,—it made no difference to me. I could keep from asking questions as long as they could, if not longer.
O, mother's room, was it? Well, I'd been wondering all the while where mother was, only I wouldn't ask. Dear me, was she sick? "So glad to see little Madge," she said, kissing me over and over again. "And what a hard time I had had."
There,sheknew how I'd been suffering, and was just going to ask me some questions, when that troublesome Ned whisked me right up in his arms, and whirled me round towards the fireplace.
"If you've got any eyes, Maggie, look there."
My eyes were good enough, if that was all; but what was that woman sitting there for? I thought she had a heap of woollen clothes in her lap.
Father took it.
"Come here, Totty-wax."
I put out my hands, and felt something as soft as kittens.
"Presto, change!" cried Ned, and pulled down the top of the blanket. There lay a little, wrinkled, rosy face, a baby's face, and over it was moving a little wrinkled hand.
I jumped, and then I screamed; and then I ran out of the room and back again.
"O, O, O! Stop her! Hold her!" said Ned.
But they couldn't do it. I rushed up to the baby, who cried in my face.
"WhatISthat?" said I; and then I burst into tears.
"Your little sister," said father.
"It isn't," sobbed I, and broke out laughing.
Everybody else laughed, too.
"Say that again," said I.
"Your little sister," repeated father.
"Does Fel know it? And itisn'tNed's brother?" seizing father by the whiskers. "And he can't set her on the wood-pile! Came down from heaven. What'm I crying for? Came down particular purpose for me."
"Yes, Totty-wax," said father, smiling, with a tear in the corner of his eye,—
"'Twas for my accommodationNature rose when I was born."
"Has this child had any supper?" asked mother, in a faint voice from the bed.
"No,shecan't eat," laughed I; "her face looks like a roast apple."
"Your mother means you, Maggie. You are tired and excited," said cousin Lydia. "Ruth made cream-cakes to-night."
"But I shan't go, 'thout I can carry the baby. Ned's holding her. She isn'thisbrother. I haven't had her in my arms once. How good God was! O, dear, what teenty hands! She can't swallow 'em, on 'count of her arms. Sent particular purpose for me—father said so. 'Ria Parlin, she's nowhere near your age. You have everything, but you can't have this. She gapes. She knows how to; she's found her mouth; she's found her mouth!"
And so I ran on and on, like a brook in a freshet, and might never have stopped, if they had not taken me out of the room, and tied me in a high chair before a table full of nice things. And Ruthie stood there with a smile in her eyes, and said if I spoke another word, I shouldn't see baby again that night.
I couldn't help pitying Ned. I wasn't sure I had treated him just right. I had prayed, off and on, as much as two or three weeks in all, that God would send me a sister, and of course that was why she had come. I didn't wish Ned to know this; he would be so sorry he hadn't thought of it himself, and prayed for a brother. I told Fel about it, and she didn't know whether it was quite fair or not. "Yes, it was, too," said I; for I never would allow Fel the last word. "It was fair; Ned's older 'n me, and ought to say his prayers a great deal morereggurly."
O, that wonderful new sister! For days I never tired of admiring her.
"Look, mamma! 'Ria, did you ever, ever see such blue eyes?"
And then I sat and talked to the new sister, and asked her
"Where did she get her eyes of blue?"
But she did not answer, as the baby does in the song,—
"Out of the sky, as I came through.""What makes the light in them sparkle and spin?Some of the starry spikes left in.""Where did you get that pearly ear?God spake, and it came out to hear."
Ah! If she could only have talked, wouldn't she have told some sweet stories about angels?
I couldn't have left her for anything else but that wedding; but Ruthie promised to take good care of her—and I could trust Ruthie! Ned wasn't going; there were to be no children but Fel and me. Well, yes, Gust was there; but that was because he happened to be in the house. The wedding was in Madam Allen's parlors.Istood up before the minister, with wax beads on my neck, and white slippers on my feet. Somebody else stood there, too; for one wouldn't have been enough. Fel dressed just like me—in white, with the same kind of beads; only she was pale, and I wasn't, and she looked like a white rosebud, and I didn't.
We stood between the "shovin' doors,"—that was what Gust called them,—and there was a bride and bridegroom, too. I nearly forgot that. I remember lights, and flowers, and wedding cake; and by and by Madam Allen came along, looking so grand in her white turban, and gave the bride a bridal rose, but not Fel or me a single bud. Then, when people kissed the bride, I kissed her, too, and she whispered,—
"Call me aunt Martha, dear."
"O, yes, Miss Rubie," said I; "you are my cousin, aunt Martha."
For I could not understand exactly.
Uncle John hugged me, and said they were all going away in the morning, he and aunt Martha, and Zed; and then I felt sorry, even with my wax beads on, and said to father,—
"I tell you what, I love my uncle Johnthat was."
No, Fly, he didn't have any horse then called "Lighting Dodger;" but it was the same uncle John, and aunt Martha is the very woman who pets you so much, and has that pretty clock, with a pendulum in the shape of a little boy in a swing.
After that wedding there was a long winter. I went to school, but Fel didn't. She looked so white that I supposed her mother was afraid she would freeze. Miss Rubie was gone, and there were no lessons to learn; but Madam Allen didn't care for that; she said Fel was too sick to study. Whenever I didn't have to take care of the baby, I went to see her; but that baby needed a great deal of care! For the first month of her life I wanted to sit by her cradle, night and day, and not let any one else come near her. The next month I was willing Ned should have her half the time; and by the third month I cried because I had to take care of her at all.
It happened that she was a cross baby. It did not take her long to forget all about heaven. She liked to pull hair, and she liked to scratch faces; and no matter how much you trotted her up and down, she just opened her toothless mouth and cried.
"She's a wicked, awful baby!" exclaimed I, scowling at her till my eyes ached.
"Div her a pill,Iwould," said Ned, laughing. He could laugh, for he didn't have to sit and hold her, as I did.
"Poor little thing isn't well," said mother.
"I don't 'spect she knows whether's she's well or not," returned I, in disgust. "She just hates everybody, and that's what she's crying about."
"You grieve me, Madge. I thought you loved this dear sister."
"Well, I did; but I don't love her any more, and I don't ever want to rock a baby that hates me so hard she can't keep her mouth shut."
"You don't mean you are not glad God sent her? O, Madge!"
"Yes'm, that's what I mean. I'm real sorry he sent her, and I wish he'd take her back again."
Hasty, bitter speech! Even a child knows better than to talk so recklessly. Next day, and for many days, those words came back to my heart like sharp knives. Little sister was very ill, and I knew by the looks of people's faces that they thought she would cross the dark river, on the other side of which stand the pearly gates. Mother saw me roving about the house, crying in corners, and sent me away to the Allens to stay all night. When I got there, Madam Allen took me right up in her motherly arms, and tried to soothe me; but I refused to be comforted.
"I thought baby looked a little better this morning," said she.
I shook my head.
"Has baby grown any worse?"
"No'm."
"Then why do you shake your head?"
"'Cause," sobbed I, "'cause—"
And then, hiding behind her turban, I whispered,—
"O, if you tell God you want anything, is that a prayer?"
"Yes, dear, if you tell him you want little sister to get well, that is a prayer."
I moaned still more bitterly at these words, and slid out of her lap.
"Why, what is it, darling?"
"I can't tell you," said I; "I can't, I can't. There isn't anybody in this world I can tell but just Fel."
Then Madam Allen went out of the room, and left us two little girls alone.
"O, Fel," said I, as soon as my sobs would let me speak, "I said I wished God would take my little sister back again."
Fel looked very much shocked.
"And O, I'm afraid it was a truly prayer, and God 'll do it."
"No, I guess it wasn't a truly prayer, Madge."
"What makes you think it wasn't?" cried I, eagerly, for I supposed she must know.
"Wasn't you mad when you said it?"
"Yes, very. She made that long scratch on my nose, and I was very mad."
"She did dig awful deep; I don't wonder you felt bad," said Fel, soothingly. "But you didn't want her to die, any more'n anything; now did you?"
"No, O, no!"
"Well, then, if you didn't want her to die, God knows you didn't; for he knows everything, don't he?"
"Yes, yes."
"And so it wasn't a truly prayer," added Fel, positively.
"And won't he answer it?"
"Why, what you 'spose? Of course not, Madge."
She seemed to feel so clear upon the subject, that I began to breathe more freely. O, it was everything to have such a wise little friend!
"But I oughtn't to said it, Fel! O, dear! What s'pose made me?Younever say bad things, never!"
Fel thought a moment, and then answered, as she looked at me with her clear, happy eyes,—
"Well, you have lots of things to plague you, Madge; but I don't. Everybody's real good to me, because I'm sick."
I looked at her, and began to cry again. My little heart had been stirred to its very depths, and I could not bear to have her speak of being sick.
"Now, Fel Allen," said I, "you don't s'pose you're going to die 'fore I do? I can't live 'thout you! If you die, I'll die too."
"Why, I never said a thing about dying," returned Fel, in surprise.
"Well, you won't never leave me, will you? Say you won't never! Just think of you up in heaven and me down here. I can't bear it!"
"Why, Madge."
"Well, if you should go up to heaven first, Fel, you'd sit there on those steps, with a harp in your hand, and think about me; how I said cross things to you."
"Why, what cross things did ever you say to me, Madge Parlin?"
"There, there," cried I, smiling through my tears, and beginning to dance; "haveyou forgot? O, that's nice! Why, Fel, I called you a lie-girl."
"O, well, I don't care if you did. I wasn't,wasI?"
"And I called you a borrow-girl, too. And I drowned you, and I—I—"
"I wish you'd stop talking about that," said Fel, "or you'll make me cry; for you're just the nicest girl. And who cares if you do scold sometimes? Why, it's just in fun, and I like to hear you."
Now, Dotty Dimple, I declare to you that this conversation is sweeter to my memory than "a nest of nightingales." Naughty as I was, Fel didn't know I was naughty!
When I went home next morning, the little Louise was much better, and in a few days seemed as well as ever. I was very thankful God knew I was not in earnest, and had not taken me at my word, and called her back to heaven.
She was never quite as cross from that time, and I had many happy hours with her, though, as I told Fel,—
"She's crossenoughnow, and sometimes seems 's if I couldn't forgive her; but I always do; I don't dass not to!"
I was not required to hold her very much, for Fel was not well, and wanted me with her half the time. Mother was always willing I should go, and never said,—
"Don't you think you ought to be pacifying the baby?"
I never dreamed that Fel was really sick. I only knew she grew sweeter every day, and clung to me more and more. I had stopped teasing her long ago, and tried to make her happy. I couldn't have said a cross word to her that winter any more than I could have crushed a white butterfly.
One day I was going to see her, with some jelly in my little basket, when "the Polly woman" walked mournfully into the yard.
"I've just come from Squire Allen's," said she, unfastening her shawl, and sighing three times,—once for every pin.
"And how is Fel?" asked mother.
Polly slowly shook her head,—
"Very low; I—"
Mother looked at her, and then at me; and I looked at her, and then at Polly.
"Dr. Foster says her brain has always been too active, and—"
"Madge, you'd better run along," said mother. "The baby's asleep now; but she'll wake up and want you."
I went with a new thought and a new fear, though I did not know what I thought or what I feared.
When I reached Squire Allen's, Ann Smiley came down the path to meet me.
I asked, "IsFel very low? Polly said so."
And she answered,—
"Why, no, indeed; she is as well as common. Polly is so queer."
I went into the house, and Madam Allen drew me close to her, and said,—
"Bless you, child, for coming here to cheer our little darling."
When she set me down, I saw she had been crying. I had never seen her with red eyes before.
"You and Fel may stay in the warm sitting-room," said she; "and Ann shall carry in some sponge cake and currant shrub, for Fel hardly tasted her dinner."
I remember how Fel clapped her hands, and smiled to see me; and how Ann brought the cake into the sitting-room, and drew up a little table before the fire. We sat and played keep house, and sipped currant shrub out of some silver goblets which had crossed the ocean.
It is a beautiful picture I am seeing now, as I shut my eyes: Fel, with that lovely smile on her face, as if some one were whispering pleasant things in her ear.
"I love you so, and it's so nice;" said I.
Gust came in, and she took his hand and patted it.
"Yes," said she; "I love you and Gust, and it is nice; but we'll have nicer times when we get to heaven, you know."
Gust gave her one little hug, and rushed out of the room. Then I remember throwing myself on the rug and crying; for there was an ache at my heart, though I could not tell why.
Grandpa Harrington came in, and began to poke the fire.
"Well, well," said he; "its hard for one to be taken and the other left, so it is. But Jesus blessed little children; and I wouldn't cry, my dear."
That was the last time I ever played with Fel. She grew feverish that night, and the doctor said she must not see any one. Something was the matter with her head, and she did not know people. I heard she had "water on the brain," and wondered if they put it on to make it feel cool.
There, children, I do not like to talk about it. It was all over in three short weeks, and then the angels called for Fel. She was "taken" and I was "left," and it seemed "very hard." I grieved for a long while, and wanted to go too; but Madam Allen said,—
"You are all the little girl I have now to take in my arms. Don't you want to stay in this world to make Fel's mother happy?"
"Yes," said I; "I do."
And my own mamma said,—
"The baby needs you, too. See, she has learned to hold her hands to you!"
They all tried to comfort me, and by and by I felt happy again. I am told that the loss of my dear little friend made me a different child. I grew more kind and gentle in my ways, more thoughtful of other people. Not very good, by any means, but trying harder to be good.
Well, I believe this is all I have to tell you of my little days, for very soon I began to be a large girl.
I am leaving off at a sad place, do you say, Prudy? Why, I don't think so. To me it is the most beautiful part of all. Just think of my dear little friend growing up to womanhood in heaven! I ought to be willing to spare her. O, yes!
She was always better than I, and what must she be now? It would frighten me to think of that, only she never knew she was good, and had such a way of not seeing the badness in me.
I shall never forget my darling Fel, and I think she will remember me if I should live to be very old. Yes, I do believe she loves me still, and is waiting for me, and will be very glad to see me when I go to the Summer Land.
Here is a lock of her hair, Fly. You see it is a beautiful golden brown, and as soft as your own. A certain poet says,—
"There seems a love in hair, though it be dead."
And that is why I shall always keep this little tress.
Now kiss me, dears, and we will all go to the study, and see what uncle Gustus is doing.
Yes, Fly, I did like your uncle Gustus, because he was Fel's brother. Well,—I don't know—yes, dear,—perhaps thatwaspart of one little reason why I married him.