Dolly on ground resting against a tree with Starr turned towards her.Bessie among the Mountains. p. 196.
Bessie among the Mountains. p. 196.
"Now, don't you be waiting on her, Miss Bessie," said Starr; "you've done more than enough already, to give her your banana. Will you come, miss, and just leave that girl to herself?"
"I think I'd better fix it for her, Starr. She don't know how, and I think there's something the matter with her," said Bessie: and, stripping the peel from the fruit, she placed it once more in Dolly's hand.
"Does something hurt you?" she asked, as the girl moaned again when she moved.
"Yes, I hurts all over," answered Dolly.
"Did you fall down?"
"No, I didn't," mumbled Dolly, with her mouth full.
"Then how did you hurt yourself so much?"
"Dunno," said Dolly, sullenly. But she did know; she knew right well that those terrible racking pains came from that night spent in the Ice Glen. She had a feeling as if Bessie must know it too. "Now justyou and that man clear out. I came here first," she muttered.
"Don't fret yourself: your company's not so pleasant, nor your talk so sweet, that the little lady need want more of it," said Starr. "Miss Bessie, my dear, won't you come?"
"Yes," said Bessie, "in a moment," and then, turning again to the girl,—"Dolly, I am very sorry for you."
"Humph," said Dolly, in a tone as if she could not believe this.
"Don't you think I am?" said Bessie.
"I knows better," was the answer she received.
"But I am, Dolly, really. I am very sorry for you, 'cause you have that pain, and 'cause you don't have any one to love you, and take care of you, and teach you. Wouldn't you let me be a little kind to you?"
"If you're so sorry, give me another of them," said Dolly again, looking at the bananas with a greedy eye. She had never tasted any thing so delicious in her life, andthe one which Bessie had given only made her more anxious for a second.
Bessie gave a little sigh.
"I would if they were mine," she said; "but they are not, and so I cannot give them to you."
"Be off then. You're glad I ache so; I know you are 'cause I plagued you so."
Starr's patience was at an end; and, lifting his little charge in his arms, he plunged through the opening in the bushes.
"Miss Bessie," he said, "you ought to let that girl alone; she's not fit for you to care for, and it's all kindness thrown away."
Bessie looked very grave and thoughtful.
"Starr," she said, presently, "if she is fit for Jesus to care for, she must be fit for us to care for."
Starr was silenced: he had not another word to say.
When Bessie reached her playfellows, the fire was burning famously; but they had waited to husk the corn till she should come to have her share in that pleasure.
"But where is your banana?" asked Maggie, when her sister divided the Colonel's gift.
"It is gone," answered Bessie.
"Oh!" said Maggie, "why, didn't you wait to eat it with the rest of us? But never mind, you shall have half of mine."
"Let's husk the corn now," said Harry; "we'll have the bananas by and by."
The ears were soon stripped of their green dress and silken tassels, and laid round the fire to roast. Then Bessie told Maggie she wanted to tell her a secret, and drew her a little aside from the others.
"Maggie," she said, "I did not eat my banana; I gave it away."
"Did you?" said Maggie. "That was very good of you, 'cause you're so fond of them. Who did you give it to?"
"To Dolly," answered Bessie.
"To Dolly! that bad thing!" exclaimed Maggie; "wheredidyou see her?"
Bessie told how she and Starr had found Dolly, and of what had passed, ending with,—
"I would have given her another banana if any of them had been mine, Maggie; and I thought you would have given her yours too, to show her you wanted to be kind to her, if you only knew about it."
"So I would," said Maggie, "and I wouldn't have cared if you had given it to her. I will let you do just what you choose with any thing of mine, Bessie, and not be a bit provoked."
"But it was not mine, you see," said Bessie, "and I didn't think it would be right when you did not tell me to."
"I'd give it to her now, if I was to see her," said Maggie; "but then we couldn't go and find her, you know. She might do something to us."
"I don't think she could very well," said Bessie. "It hurts her so to move; and her speaking sounds like mine when I have the croup. Starr said he thought she looked very sick. She's just over behind those bushes, and some one could go and take careof us. I think she would be sure we are sorry for her if we took it to her. Shall we ask papa about it?"
Maggie agreed, and papa was called and told the whole story, and of their wish to take the second banana to Dolly.
He thought it over for a moment or two, and then said he would let them take it, and would go with them to see that no harm befell them at Dolly's hands.
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DDOLLY was found lying in the same spot, and almost in the same position, in which Bessie and Starr had left her; but now she was half asleep.
Thinking she might receive the children's kindness in a better spirit, if there was no older person to look on, Mr. Bradford helped his little daughters through the screening bushes, and then drew back a few steps where he might still watch them, and hear all that passed, but where Dolly could not see him.
At the rustling of the children's footsteps upon the dry leaves and branches, Dolly started and opened her heavy eyes, to see Maggie and Bessie standing hand in hand before her. The old, fierce, defiant lookflashed into them for one moment, then died out again before timid Maggie had time to start back and draw her sister with her.
"My Maggie came to bring you her banana," said Bessie, gently. "Icouldn't give it to you, 'cause it was not mine; but when I told her you didn't have any thing to eat for 'most two days, she was sorry for you, and said you should have it."
"It's good. I like it," said Dolly, as Maggie, summoning all her courage, stepped slowly towards her and gave her the banana.
"Dolly," said Bessie, "will you believe now that we are sorry for you, and want to be kind to you?"
"I s'pose so," answered Dolly, gruffly, as if she were still half unwilling or unable to believe that they meant what they said.
They stood in silence, watching the half-famished creature as she eat her fruit, then Bessie said,—
"Dolly, why don't you go home?"
"No, I shan't neither, I aint goin' to stir,"she answered snappishly, with one quick, suspicious glance at the children, and another towards the trunk of the old tree against which she leaned. "I've got a right here, if I've a mind to stay. 'Taint your ground nor Porter's neither."
"Oh, no!" said Bessie, "I did not mean that, only you have such a bad cold, and it hurts you so to move, and these rocks are so hard, I should think you'd be more comfortable in your bed at home."
"Guess my home's a sight more comfortable than these rocks, aint it?" said Dolly, with a grin. "One's about as good as t'other."
"Poor Dolly!" said Bessie, "I wish you had a better home, and some one to care for you and Lem."
"What for? I s'pose you think I wouldn't bother you then."
"I hope you wouldn't," said Bessie; "but I was not thinking about that. It was only 'cause I am so sorry that you don't have a nice home and plenty to eat, and people to love you. But, Dolly, you know Jesus loves you."
"No, he don't neither," was the answer.
"But he does, indeed he does," said Bessie, earnestly; "he loves you all the time, and it makes him sorry when you are naughty; but if you won't do so any more, but will try to love him, he will be glad, and then you will be his own little child, 'cause he says, 'Suffer little children to come unto me,' and he means all children. Mrs. Rush taught us that one Sunday."
"I say," said Dolly, "I could ha' plagued you last Sunday if I'd had a mind to. The old dog wasn't there."
"No: Buffer was sick last Sunday afternoon," answered Bessie. "Did you come by our Sunday bower?"
"I came by the place where you go of Sundays," said Dolly; "but I didn't do nothin', 'cause I had a mind to hear you singin'. It sounded nice: I liked it."
"Will you come next Sunday?" said Bessie, eager for the slightest chance of doing Dolly good. "Mrs. Rush and the Colonelwould let you, I am sure; and they'll tell you about Jesus a great deal better than I can, and how he loves you, and will take you to heaven, if you will only be a good girl and love him. Wouldn't you like to hear about it?"
"Dunno," said Dolly; "I like to hear you sing. Jesus is God, aint he?"
"Yes," said Bessie, coming closer to the poor girl, and drawing Maggie with her. "He is God's Son, and he came away from his heaven to die for us, so we could go there, and live with him, if we would only love him and do what he tells us. And heaven is such a beautiful place! Dolly, the angels are there; and every one will be so happy; and no one will be hungry or sick or tired there; and Jesus will take care of us always, always. Wouldn't you like to go there, Dolly?"
"I'd like to go somewhere," said Dolly wearily; "I'm about tired of this. I'd like not to be hungry, nor to have this pain no more. But 'taint likely your Jesus wants me in his beautiful place. I s'pose he wants clean folks with nice clothes, not old dirty rags like mine."
Maggie was beginning to feel braver as she saw that Dolly was quiet and not in a mood for mischief, and now she spoke.
"Jesus won't mind about rags if you only have a heart that loves him," she said. "He loves you just as much in your rags, as he loves some other little girl who is dressed nicely."
"How do you know he loves me?" asked Dolly.
"'Cause the Bible says so," said Maggie; "so it must be true, 'cause the Bible is God's word. And besides, Dolly, if Jesus came to die for you, so you could go to heaven, don't you think he must love you? When a person does a very kind thing for you, don't that make you think they love you?"
"Did you give me them goodies 'cause you loved me?" said Dolly.
Maggie was rather disturbed at this question, and did not know how to answer it; but Bessie, seeing her trouble, spoke for her.
"Why, no, Dolly," she said, "I'm 'fraid wedon't love you very much; you know you couldn't 'spect us to: but we wanted to be kind to you, and to make you know we wanted to forgive you for troubling us so."
"Youwasreal good to give me them things," said Dolly; "they was first rate. And you was good to get Lem let out too; he told me. But I say,"—and Dolly really looked half ashamed,—"'twant him did that."
Bessie thought she was speaking of the cup.
"I don't believe very much that he did," she said. "Mr. Porter thinks maybe the pedler-man took it, 'cause he went to Farmer Todd's house, and after he was gone some spoons were lost; and they think he stole them, so maybe he has my cup too."
"I didn't mean that," answered Dolly, slowly. "I meant 'twant Lem spiled your gardens, but—Iamsorry I done it—there now. And Lem aint got your cup; you can just know it."
"We try to believe he didn't," said Bessie. Then she added, with a quiver of her lip and a tear or two gathering in her eyes, "I don'tthinkany onecould have taken it if they had known how very fond I was of it. You see, Dolly, I had that cup a great, great many years, ever since I was a little baby; and I always had my drink out of it, so you see we grew up together, and I don't know how I can bear never to see it again. I was pretty much troubled to lose my cup and my garden too."
Dolly looked uneasily at her, moved restlessly on her hard bed, and sank back again with another moan.
"I guess we'll have to go now," said Maggie.
"Will you come next Sunday and hear Mrs. Rush tell about Jesus and how he loved you?" said Bessie. "Or papa and mamma would tell you about it if you liked. They can do it a great deal better than we can."
"No," said Dolly, "I don't want to hear big folks. I don't mind your speaking to me if you choose. But, I say, don't you never sing but on Sundays?"
"Oh, yes!" said Bessie, "we sing every day and sometimes a good many times in the day."
"I like music," said Dolly. "Lem whistles fustrate."
"Yes, we know it," said Maggie. "Once we heard him when we couldn't see him, and we asked Mr. Porter who it was, and he told us it was Lem; and we listened as long as we could hear him: it sounded so sweet and clear. I never heard any one whistle like that."
"Yes," said Dolly, looking pleased; "nobody can beathimat that. S'pose you couldn't sing me a tune 'fore you go, could you? It's so lonesome, lying here."
"Why, yes: we will if you want us to," Bessie answered readily, though she as well as Maggie was much surprised at the request. "We'll sing, 'I want to be an angel.'"
So they stood, these two "ministering children," and sang; their young voices rising sweet and clear amid the solemn stillness of the grand old woods; for very still it was. As the first notes arose, the friends whom they had left, hushed laughter and merry talk that they might not lose one of the sweet sounds.They only knew that Maggie and Bessie had wandered off with papa, and thought this was meant as a pleasant surprise for them.
But it was a higher, greater Friend,—a "Friend above all others,"—whom our little jewel-seekers were just then trying to please; and, although they might not know it, they had that day taken up the first link of the golden chain, by which poor Dolly's soul was to be drawn out of the clouds and darkness in which it had lain, up into the light and sunshine of his glorious presence. A very slight and fragile link it might seem, but it was doubtless very precious in the eyes of the heavenly Father, whose hands could make it strong and lasting, and fit to shine before him in the "day when he shall make up his jewels."
Very precious it was, too, in the eyes of the earthly father, who watched the scene, and looking from his own tenderly cared for, daintily dressed darlings, to the forlorn, ragged outcast, thanked God that for all three alike hadthe blessed words been spoken, "Suffer little children to come unto me."
"Is that place the song talks about that heaven you was telling about?" asked Dolly when the children had finished "I want to be an angel."
"Yes," said Bessie. "You do want to go there; don't you, Dolly?"
"'Taint no use wantin," said Dolly. "I'll never get there, nor Lem neither. Sing some more."
"We'll sing 'Rest for the weary,' 'cause she said she was so tired," said Maggie.
When they were through, Mr. Bradford stepped from behind the bushes which had hidden him until now.
Dolly started when she saw him, and the old look, half guilty, half defiant, came back to her eyes. But she soon found she need not be afraid; for, bending over her, he said, kindly,—
"My poor girl, you are in great pain, I fear. How did you hurt yourself?"
"Didn't hurt myself," grumbled Dolly, stillsuspicious, and shrinking from that grave, steady look.
"Then you are ill," said Mr. Bradford, noticing the burning cheeks and heavy eyes, "you must not lie here, or you will be worse. Can you go home?"
"I shan't go home," said Dolly, passionately, and with another quick glance over her shoulder.
Mr. Bradford did not insist, though he meant she should obey him, but said, kindly,—
"Are you still hungry? Would you like some roasted corn?"
Dolly muttered something which might be either no or yes, falling back into her old sullenness; but Mr. Bradford answered as kindly as if she had spoken pleasantly, and told her she should have some.
"Shall we bring it to her, papa?" asked Bessie.
Mr. Bradford said no; for he had been rather startled when he found Dolly was ill, not hurt, as he had first supposed; and hewas not willing his little daughters should come near her again, till he was sure what ailed her.
He told the children to bid Dolly good-by, which they did; the girl replying in a more gentle tone than she had yet used, and then calling Bessie back, saying, "Here, littlest one."
But when Bessie looked back to see what she wanted, she refused to speak, and, shutting her eyes, turned her face away.
Mamma and grandmamma, Colonel and Mrs. Rush, had all arrived when our little girls came back to the fire; and the corn was nicely roasted, waiting to be eaten. So the merry, happy party gathered round to enjoy it.
Dolly was not forgotten; for Maggie and Bessie picked out a couple of nice, brown ears, and Starr was sent to carry them to her,—an errand which he did not do very willingly. He came back, saying that he had found her angry, and that she refused to touch or look at the corn.
When all had had enough, Mr. Bradford asked Mr. Stanton if he would go with him and see the poor girl, and tell, if he could, what might be done for her. Uncle Ruthven was not a doctor, but he knew a good deal about medicine, and had often practised it in his travels when no physician was at hand. He willingly agreed to see Dolly, and the two gentlemen went off immediately.
As Mr. Bradford had expected, his brother-in-law pronounced Dolly to be very sick. She would answer no questions, but it was easy to see that she had a bad cold and a high fever, and that the pain, which became so bad when she moved, was rheumatism. Mr. Stanton at once said that she must no longer lie upon the hard, cold rock; she must go home: but it seemed to be doubtful if she could walk. When the gentlemen tried to raise her, they found this no longer doubtful, but quite impossible: the girl's cramped limbs could not hold her up; she could not stir one step. Perhaps she would not have gone had shebeen able to do so, for she broke forth into angry cries and refusals to be moved, which were only stopped by a violent fit of coughing.
These cries brought the Colonel, with Mrs. Stanton and Starr, to see if they could be of any assistance; and Colonel Rush, finding there was difficulty in moving Dolly, proposed that his camp chair should be brought, and the sick girl carried home in that.
No sooner said than done. Starr was sent for the chair, and when it was brought, Dolly was gently raised and placed in it. She would still have resisted, but she saw that the gentlemen were determined, and it was such agony to move that she thought it as well to submit. When she was in the chair, Mr. Stanton and Starr raised it, and began to move off.
"Wait a bit! wait a bit!" exclaimed Dolly.
"Well, what is it?" asked Mr. Stanton, kindly.
"S'pose I might as well tell," muttered Dolly, as if speaking to herself; "he'll just come back and get it, and I'd liever she'd haveit. I say," she added, in a louder tone, "I want to speak to the little gals' pa."
"Well?" said Mr. Bradford, coming nearer.
"You won't say Lem took it, will you?" asked Dolly.
"I would not say Lem took any thing unless I was quite sure of it," said the gentleman.
"Well, then, you just may be sure he didn't take it, and I didn't neither; 'twas the pedler, and I seen where he put it. He didn't know I was behind the bushes, but I seen him. That's why I stayed about, so as to scare him off if he came; but Lem didn't know nothin' about it. I guess I'll tell where he put it, 'cause the little gal was good to me after I plagued her. Jes' you put your hand in that hole, and see what you find;" and, with trembling fingers, she pointed to a hole in the trunk of the old tree against which she had been leaning.
Mr. Bradford put his hand into the opening, and, after feeling about a little, drew forth a bundle. Opening it, he found not only whathe had expected to see, Bessie's lost cup, but also Farmer Todd's silver spoons, and one or two other small articles which he thought must have been stolen. The finding of the spoons with the cup, made it almost certain that Lem had not taken the latter; and Mr. Bradford was very glad that he had not suffered appearances to make him judge the boy too harshly.
And now Mr. Stanton and Starr moved on with the chair. They carried it as steadily as possible, but the way was rough, and with all their care every step gave great pain to Dolly. Mr. Bradford and Mrs. Stanton followed to see what could be done to make the poor creature comfortable. Comfortable! that seemed a hopeless task, indeed, when they reached the wretched hovel and looked about them.
Dolly was laid upon the pile of leaves and rags which served for a bed; and Mr. and Mrs. Stanton stayed with her while Mr. Bradford, taking Starr with him, went back to beg from Mrs. Porter what was needful for her.
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DDOLLY, quite tired out with pain, had sunk into a restless sleep; and Mr. and Mrs. Stanton were sitting on the rocks outside the door, waiting till Mr. Bradford should return, when a sweet, clear whistle, like a bird-call, rang through the wood. It was repeated again, and yet again, and was plainly some signal. Each time it came nearer, and at the third sounded close at hand; and the next instant Lem sprang round a point of the rock. As he caught sight of the lady and gentleman before the hovel door, he started, and, after staring at them for one instant, turned to run away.
But Mr. Stanton's voice stopped him.
"Do not run off again," he said, kindly;"your sister is very sick, and lying here in the house. Come and see her."
Lem stood a moment, half doubtful; then rushed past the gentleman into the house. He came out again presently, his eyes wide open with astonishment and alarm.
"What you been a doin' to her?" he said, fiercely.
"We found her lying upon the rocks, unable to move," said Mr. Stanton, not heeding the angry tone, "and so brought her here in this chair. We have sent to Mrs. Porter for some things to make a bed for her, but no bed can be kept fit for her unless it is quite dry; and I fear this roof of yours is not water-tight. I wonder if you and I could not make it so. Do you know where you can buy some straw?"
"Know where there's plenty of straw for them as can pay for it," answered Lem.
"Oh, well," said Mr. Stanton, cheerfully, "you find the straw, and I'll do the paying. There; bring as many bunches as they willgive you for that," and he put fifty cents into Lem's hand.
The boy gazed at the money open-mouthed,—probably he had never in his life had so much, honestly come by, in his hands at once,—turned it over, stared at Mr. Stanton, and then again at the money. That any one should trust him with money, or with any thing that had the least value, was something so new that he could scarcely believe his own senses.
"They'll say I didn't come by it fair, and won't give me no straw," he said at last, thrusting the money back upon Mr. Stanton.
The gentleman knew this was only too likely, and too well deserved; and, taking a pencil and slip of paper from his pocket-book, he wrote a few words, and handed the paper to Lem.
Lem could neither read nor write, but he was no fool; and he knew that those few black marks would do more for him than any amount of talking on his own part; but hewas even yet a little suspicious. He stood hesitating for a moment, looking back into the house, where his sister lay moaning in her uneasy sleep, then darted away into the path which led down the mountain.
"Do you think he is to be trusted, Ruthven?" said Mrs. Stanton. "Will he come back?"
"I think so," replied her husband; "any way, I thought I would try it. It may give me some hold upon him."
In less time than could have been thought possible by one who knew the distance he had to go, Lem was back; but a good deal had been done in the mean time. Mr. Bradford had returned with Starr and John Porter, bringing a straw bed and pillow, a coarse but clean pair of sheets, and a blanket. Good old Mrs. Porter came too, full of pity for the forlorn, sick child, and carrying a kettle of tea, ready milked and sugared.
The bed had been made,—upon the floor, to be sure: there was no other place to put it,—Dolly had been given some medicine, her fevered face and hands washed, and she laid in the bed. A fire had been kindled without, and the tea warmed afresh; and when Lem came back with the straw, Mrs. Porter was just offering Dolly a drink. She took it eagerly; but, although she knew Lem, she would not speak to him, and soon sank again into an uneasy sleep or stupor. Lem had brought six bundles of straw; and, throwing them down, he handed Mr. Stanton some change, saying the man from whom he had bought them could let him have no more, and had given him back that money.
Mr. Stanton privately asked John Porter how much the straw should have cost, and found that Lem had brought him the right change. So here was something gained: the boy had been true to his trust for once.
"Now we will go to work," said Mr. Stanton to Lem; and he told him to follow him deeper into the woods, where he soon cut down a dozen or so of tall, slender saplings,and bade Lem strip them of their leaves and branches.
When these were finished, some long strips of birch bark were cut by Mr. Stanton, while Lem stood looking on, and wondering if it were possible the gentleman could be taking so much trouble for him and Dolly, and what in the world he could be going to do with those things. That was soon seen. When all had been made ready and carried to the hut, Mr. Stanton made Lem climb upon the low roof, and, directing him how to lay the straw so as to cover the worst part, bound it in its place with the saplings, and tied them down with the strips of birch. Lem wondered and admired as the strong, firm fingers twisted and knotted, making all close and tight, and at last broke out with,—
"I say, mister, was you brought up to roof-mending?"
"Not exactly," replied Mr. Stanton, with a smile; "but I have had to contrive many a strange roof for myself and others. Whatshould you say to a roof made of a single leaf, large enough to shelter twelve men from a scorching sun? Or to one of snow; ay, to roof, walls, floor, all of snow,—making a warm, comfortable home too?"
"Are you the fellow they tell about that's hunted lions and tigers and wild beasts?" asked Lem, gazing with new interest at the gentleman.
"I am the man," said Mr. Stanton.
"And never got ate up?" questioned Lem, eagerly.
"I am here to answer for that, though I have been pretty near it once or twice. Should you like to hear some of my adventures some time?"
"Wouldn't I, though! I s'pose you couldn't tell a feller now?"
"Not now," said Mr. Stanton, "we have done the best we can for the roof, and I must go home; but I shall come over again this afternoon to see Dolly, and I will tell you the story of a tiger hunt then. But"—lookingabout him,—"this is not a very nice place to sit down and tell a story in, with all these bones, ashes, and bits of old iron lying about."
"I'll fix it up, fustrate," exclaimed Lem; "but now, I say, mister," and Lem hitched up his ragged pantaloons, scratched his head, and dug his bare toes into a patch of moss in an unwonted fit of shame.
"Well," said Mr. Stanton, kindly.
"I didn't take little Shiny-hair's cup, now, I didn't; and I wish you wouldn't think it."
"I do not think it, Lem. The cup is found, and I do not believe you took it."
"Don't you, now?" said Lem, looking up; "well, I thought may be you didn't when you gi' me the money for the straw."
"I am glad to know that I may trust you, Lem," said Mr. Stanton.
Mr. Bradford, Mrs. Stanton, and the Porters had long since gone away, leaving Mr. Stanton to finish the roof. He walked slowly homeward, wondering if he had that morning really gained any hold on these wretched children;or if, as so many others had proved, his pains had all been labor thrown away. When he reached the fireplace, he found that the rest of the party had gone home; for the mending of the roof had been a good two hours' work, and it was now nearly Mrs. Porter's early dinner hour.
When Mr. Bradford left Lem's hovel, and joined his wife and children, he found his little girls very eager for news of Dolly. He told them of all that had been done, and then said,—
"Bessie, I have a pleasant surprise for you. Can you guess what it may be?"
"I know what I wouldlikeit to be, papa, but I suppose it couldn't; and mamma said it was not best to wish for things that cannot be."
"Well," said Mr. Bradford, "suppose you let me hear what you would like it to be."
"Papa, I would like it to be my cup; but if it was, I would betoosurprised andtooglad for any thing, and I try not to think too much about it."
Mr. Bradford put his hand into his pocket,and, pulling out the beloved cup, held it before the delighted eyes of his little daughter. She gave a glad cry, and the next moment both small hands were holding fast the recovered treasure, and clasping it to her breast. She even kissed it in her joy and thankfulness. Then papa was asked when and how he had found it, and told the whole story. Maggie and Bessie were very glad to hear that it was probably the pedler who had taken the cup; for since they had been trying to act and feel kindly towards Lem and Dolly, they were anxious to believe as much good and as little ill of them as possible.
"For you see, papa," said Maggie, "you see the pedler is quite a stranger to us, and we know Lem and Dolly a little. It's a pretty poor kind of a way to be acquainted, to be sure; but then we are pretty interested about them, and we like to think they did not do this one bad thing. And I think it would be rather astonishing if Dolly was not mad when Lem was shut up, and she knew he had not takenBessie's cup. I would have been, if some one had shut up Fred or Harry, and I'm afraid I would have wanted to return them a little evil; so now it is a little easier to forgive her about our gardens."
"And she said she was sorry about the gardens," said Bessie; "maybe it was her sorriness that made her tell where my cup was. Oh, my dear, dear cup! I am so glad it has come back."
And now the cup must have a good washing in the spring; after which, Bessie took a long drink from it. Not that she was in the least thirsty, but it was such a pleasure to drink once more from the beloved cup, and she thought no water had ever tasted so delicious. Then each one of her friends was obliged to take a drink, and to say how very nice it was; and for the rest of the day, she was every five minutes asking some one if they were not thirsty, and if she could persuade them to say yes, she would run and fill the cup. So much water did she and Maggie find it necessary todrink, and so much did they persuade, and even bribe, Frankie to take, that mamma was obliged to put a stop to the fun lest they should make themselves sick.
When Mr. Stanton and Mr. Bradford went up to the hut that afternoon, they found that Lem had been as good as his word. All the old bones and feathers, bits of rusty iron, half-burnt sticks, and ashes, had been picked up, and put out of sight. Lem had even made a poor broom out of some dry birch twigs and a stick, and with this he had tried to sweep off the broad slab of rock on which the house stood. It was not half done, to be sure; Lem was not used to sweeping, or to making things tidy; but he thought he had made the place very fine for his new friends, and they did not fail to praise and admire. Moreover, Lem had washed his face, for the first time perhaps in many weeks or months; and, although he had left his cheeks all streaked and channelled, it was at least an attempt at something better, and, so far, even this was promising.
Dolly was awake, but quite wild, and talked in a rambling way of silver cups and angels, of gardens and music, of the Ice Glen and the dark, dark night. Her fever was very high, and her poor head rolled from side to side; but, in spite of her restlessness, she could not move hand or foot, for the terrible pains which racked her and made her cry out on the slightest motion.
"She's awful sick, aint she?" said Lem, as he stood beside the two gentlemen, and saw with what grave faces they watched his sister.
"She is very sick, Lem," said Mr. Bradford; "too sick to be left here alone with you. I must go and see if I can find some one to come and take care of her to-night;" and, after saying a few words in French to his brother-in-law, Mr. Bradford walked away.
Mr. Stanton stayed behind. He had brought with him the upper half of an old window-sash which he had begged from Mr. Porter, a hammer, and some large nails; and he now told Lem they must go to work again, and he wouldtell the promised story as they worked. The sash was too large for the square hole in the side of the house which served for a window; but Mr. Stanton made it answer for the time, hanging it by strips of leather, nailed at one end to the sash, at the other to the boards above the window. This now served the purpose, since it could be raised or let down as might be needed. Then the crazy door was taken down, and hung anew on its two hinges; and, as the old latch was quite worn out and useless, Mr. Stanton fashioned a wooden button by which it might be fastened.
Meanwhile he told in low tones, that Dolly might not be disturbed, the story of a famous tiger hunt. Lem listened eagerly,—listened with ears, eyes, and mouth, if such a thing could be; for the two latter were so wide open that he seemed to be drinking in the tale by these as well as by the proper channel. But Mr. Stanton soon found he was not to be depended upon for work. Accustomed to an idle, lazy life, Lem could not fix his attentionand employ his hands at the same time. If Mr. Stanton reminded him of his work, he would hammer or cut away for one moment; the next his hands would be clasping his knees in an ecstasy of delight and wonder at the strange but true tale he was listening to.
The gentleman let it pass, however. Lem's help was not of much account at the best; and his object just now was to gain a hold on the boy, and interest him. Teaching, advice, or reproof might come by and by, when he had made Lem feel he meant to be a friend to him.
Nevertheless, Lem had not the least idea that he had not done his own share of the work; and when the door and make-shift window were both in their places he exclaimed,—
"We did fix it up fustrate; didn't we mister?"
"I am glad you like it," said Mr. Stanton, looking about him. "What have you there, Lem?" and he pointed to four small rustic boxes standing at the side of the hut. They were made of twigs and bits of wood curiouslywoven together, and were filled with earth. Two of these held nothing else, in each of the others grew two scraggy little plants.
"Oh, them!" said Lem, "them's nothing but Doll's pots. She made 'em at odd times, always had a knack that way; and them things growin' in 'em is marygools, I guess. She picked up a paper with some seeds in it, on the road one day, and nothin' would serve her but to plant 'em. So she made the pots for 'em and stuck 'em in, but none of 'em come to nothin', only them two. I tell her there's lots of better lookin' things in the woods, to be had for the pickin'; but somehow she sets a heap by them old things, and waters 'em every day.
"Then you must take care of them for her, while she is sick; won't you?" said Mr. Stanton.
"S'pose so," said Lem; "but they'll never be no good."
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MMR. BRADFORD had gone in search of Mr. Porter; but when he reached the Lake House, he did not find him there; for this was harvest time, and the old man, still strong and hearty, was out in the fields, helping his sons and hired men to mow and carry in the grain. The whole flock of little ones, boys and girls, were out in the harvest fields too, and there went papa.
What a pretty, joyous sight it was! At the farther side of the fields, were the reapers, cutting with long, regular sweeps the yellow grain; while, nearer at hand, were others binding it in sheaves. Among these were Harry, Fred, and Hafed.
Upon an overturned sheaf, sat mammy, herbaby on her knee, the little one crowing and laughing, and shaking her dimpled hands, each of which grasped half a dozen ears of wheat, a new and wonderful plaything to baby's eyes, as they bobbed their heads up and down with the motion.
Near by, where the wheat still lay as it had been cut, in long even rows, was Frankie, in busy mischief as usual, snatching up whole handfuls of it, and tossing it above his head with shouts of glee. Mr. Porter would not have him stopped; no one minded a little more trouble, provided the children had their fun, he said. The old man himself stood by the side of the great ox cart, which was filled with golden sheaves; and on the top of these Maggie and Bessie sat in state, their hands and round straw hats filled with bright, red poppies. John Porter was about to give them a ride up to the great barn where the wheat was to be stored.
Mr. Bradford stood for a moment looking at it all, then walked up to Mr. Porter.
"Mr. Porter," he said, "can you tell me where I can find some one who will go and nurse that poor girl? She is too ill to be left with no one but her brother to take care of her."
Mr. Porter shook his head.
"I don't know of a soul that would be willing to go. 'Taint a place where one would care to pass the night, with the chance, too, of Owen coming home."
"If good pay could induce any one to do it, that shall not be wanting," said Mr. Bradford. "Is there no one in the village who would do it for that?"
"Well, I do know of a poor woman who might be glad to earn a little that way," said Mr. Porter; "but we could not get at her to-night. It is too late now to go down the mountain, with the roads washed as they were by the rain of night before last. There's no moon, and it would not be safe coming back; but I'll send for her in the morning, if you say so."
"I do say so," replied Mr. Bradford; "but what are we to do for to-night?"
Maggie and Bessie heard no more; for just then John Porter gave the word to his oxen, and they started off, leaving papa and Mr. Porter still talking.
What a pleasant ride that was: out of the field where the bars had been let down; past other fields ready, or nearly ready, for the harvesting; pale green oats, and golden wheat, the white, sweet-scented buckwheat, and the tall Indian corn; then through the orchard where a flock of sheep were feeding, past the locust grove, and then into the farmyard; stopping at last between the open doors of the great barn!
But, in spite of it all, our little girls were rather thoughtful as they jogged slowly on.
"Maggie," said Bessie, presently, "won't it be dreadful if papa can't get any one to take care of poor sick Dolly to-night?"
"Yes," said Maggie: "I wonder what she will do."
"If I was big, and mamma would let me, I'd go myself," said Bessie.
"Would you?" said Maggie; "well, I am afraid I wouldn't: so it's better that I am not big, 'cause then I needn't have a troubled conscience for not doing it."
They were both silent for a moment or two. John Porter was walking at his oxen's heads, out of hearing, if the children lowered their voices.
"Bessie," said Maggie, in a whisper, "John Porter might do it, mightn't he? He is big and strong enough."
"Yes," answered Bessie, "and he heard what papa said too; but he didn't say he'd go. Perhaps it didn't come into his head. Shall we try to put it there, Maggie?"
"Yes: maybe you can coax him to do it."
"I'll try, and see if I can make him compassioned of poor Dolly. John," she said, in a louder tone, "you are very glad you are well and strong; are you not?"
"Surely," said John.
"And you wouldn't like to be sick at all, would you, John?"
"Not one bit," said John. "I'd scarce know myself, for I never was sick in my life, that I remember."
"Then I s'pose you feel very thankful for it, and as if you'd like to help make sick people as well as you are; don't you?" said Bessie.
"Guess I wouldn't make much hand at that," answered John.
"But you are big and strong, John."
"Yes, I'm big and strong enough; but it takes more than that to make a good nurse. If it came in my way to do a good turn for a sick body, and there was no one else to do it, why I'd lend a hand; but I don't know as they'd thank me for it."
"Oh yes they would, John," said Maggie, eagerly; "if I was sick and had no one to take care of me, and you came to do it, I'd thank you ever so much."
"Well, I'll do it when you come to thatpass," said John, without the least idea what the little girls were driving at.
"He don't seem to understand yet," whispered Maggie to her sister; "try him with the 'Golden Rule.'"
"John," said Bessie, "are you not very fond of doing as you would be done by?"
"As fond as most folks, I guess," said John. "'Gee, there! gee, Whitefoot!"
Bessie waited till they had passed through the gate of the orchard, then began again.
"John, if there was a chance to do as you would be done by, and you did not think of it, would you like some one to tell you of it?"
John looked round at her and laughed.
"If there's any thing you want me to do for you, out with it. It's no good beating about the bush. You know I always like to do for you what I can."
"Yes: you are very good to us," said Bessie; "but it was not us: it was Dolly. Don't you think it would be doing as you would be done by to go and take care of her to-night?"
"Whew! that's it, is it?" said John. "Maybe it would be; but thatwouldbe a good thing to see me taking care of Dolly Owen;" and John laughed loud and long.
Bessie was displeased, and drew herself up with a little dignified air.
"I don't think he is coaxed a bit," she whispered; "he is very hard-hearted."
"No," said Maggie: "I don't believe he is the kind to be coaxed."
"Then I'll have to be a little strict with him, and show him it's his duty," said Bessie, in the same tone.
"Yes, to let him see he ought to do it, whether he likes it or not," said Maggie; "maybe he's never been taught that."
"John," said Bessie, folding her little hands gravely in her lap, and trying to look sternly at the young man, "perhaps you don't know that if we know we ought to do a thing and don't do it, our Father is not very pleased with us."
"May be so," said John; "but I don't feel it'smyduty to go and take care of Dolly."
"Whose duty is it, then?" asked Bessie.
"Not any one's that's likely to do it, I guess."
Bessie was in despair, but she thought she would try a little more severity.
"John," she said, "when you are poor and ragged, and sick and bad, I hope some one will have pity of you, and go take care of you."
"I hope so too; but I don't feel there's any call on me to go and look after that thieving beggar, nor for you to trouble yourselves about her, after all she's done to you," answered John.
"John," said Bessie, solemnly, "I'm afraid we don't think you quite so very nice as we did this morning; and I'm afraid you are one of those to whom our Lord will say, 'I was sick, and ye visited me not.'"
But John was only amused at her displeasure, and laughed aloud again.
Neither of the children spoke till they reached the barn, when John came to the side of the cart and lifted them down.
"Well, you are just two of the funniest,forgivingest little things," he said, as he put Bessie on her feet.
Bessie deigned no answer; but with an air of great displeasure turned away, and stood at a little distance with Maggie, watching the men pitch the sheaves up into the loft.
"Are you going back with me?" asked John, when he was ready to start for the harvest-field again.
"No," Bessie answered, rather shortly.
"Why, you're not offended with me, are you?" said John, "and all along of that ragamuffin up there."
"We're displeased with you," said Bessie. "It's right to be displeased with people when you tell them what is right, and they don't do it; but if you're going to repent, we'll forgive you."
John answered with another "ha-ha."
"Well, no," he said; "I don't think I'm ready for repentance in that line yet. I hope I'll never do any thing worse than refusing to take care of a sick beggar."
"I hope so too," said Bessie, reprovingly. "That's quite worse enough," and she and Maggie walked out of the farmyard, and turned into the lane which led up to the house.
"Hallo!" John called out, mischievously; "if you feel so bad about Dolly, why don't you ask your father or uncle to go up and see after her?"
Neither of the little girls turned their heads, but walked straight on in the most dignified silence, followed by the sound of John's merriment.
"That's a little too much," said Maggie, when they were beyond hearing; "idea of papa or Uncle Ruthven staying all night in that dirty place!"
Bessie did not like the idea either, but her little head was puzzled. If she thought it right for John Porter to go, ought she not to think it right for her papa or uncle? She did not at all thank John for putting the thought into her head: it was fresh cause ofoffence against him; but now that it was there, she could not shut it out.
"Maggie," she said, "I wonder if we ought not to put it into papa's or Uncle Ruthven's mind?"
"Pooh! no," said Maggie; "they've sense enough to think it out for themselves if they ought to go: but I don't think John Porter is very sensible; do you?"
"I guess I won't say he's unsensible just now," said Bessie. "I'm 'fraid I feel 'most too mad."
"What difference does that make?" asked Maggie.
"'Cause mamma said, when I was angry it was better not to say unkind things about a person; and then when I was pleased with them again I would see that the unkind things were only in my own heart, and not quite true. She didn't say just those very words, but that was what she meant."
"I'm never, never going to be pleased with John Porter again," said Maggie, shaking herhead very decidedly. "Oh! there's Mrs. Porter going to feed the chickens; let's go help her."
The chickens had been fed and had gone to roost, and the little girls had been with Dolly and Fanny to the pasture to see the cows milked, before they went back to the house, and met Uncle Ruthven just coming home. They ran up to him, and each taking a hand, asked for news of Dolly. It was not good,—worse, if any thing, than the last; and they looked rather sober as they walked with their uncle up the steps of the piazza, where all the rest of the family were gathered.
"Well," said Uncle Ruthven to papa, "have you had any success?"
"Not the least," said Mr. Bradford; and then he told what Mr. Porter had said.
"She must be looked after to-night," said Mr. Stanton. "Lem does not know what to do for her, and is frightened half out of his senses at the thought of being alone with her. It would be cruel to leave them."
"Yes," said Maggie, indignantly; "we were trying to make John Porter see it was his duty to go and take care of her, but he would not. He has not a bit of compassion."
"We said every thing we could, till we were quite despaired of him," put in Bessie; "but it was all of no use."
"What makes you think John Porter ought to go and take care of her?" asked Uncle Ruthven.
"Oh! 'cause he's such a big, strong fellow," said Maggie, "so we thought it was his duty; but he would not be put in mind of it."
"Well," said Uncle Ruthven, "there is another big, strong fellow whom you have put in mind ofhisduty. He had an inkling of it before, but I must say he was not very willing to see it."
"Ruthven!" exclaimed his wife, "you do not mean you are going to that dreadful place to pass the night!"
"I do not see that Maggie and Bessie have left me any choice," he answered, smiling, andsitting down on the steps beside her, "at least not if being a big, strong fellow makes it one's duty to go."
"Oh, Uncle Ruthven!" said Maggie, "we never meant you."
"Perhaps not, Maggie; but the shoe fits, so I think I must put it on."
"Is there no one we could find to do it if they were well paid?" said his wife, pleadingly.
"I expect to be well paid, love," he said in a low tone and with another smile. "I shall have all the reward I can ask."
Little Bessie was standing at Mrs. Stanton's knee, twisting one over another her aunt's soft, white fingers, and as her uncle spoke she looked up brightly.
"We know what he means, don't we, dear Aunt Bessie? He means the cup of cold water given in Jesus' name shall have its reward. I think Uncle Ruthven is taking up a jewel."
"Thank you, darling," said Aunt Bessie, with a quiver in her voice.
"For what, Aunt Bessie?"
But Aunt Bessie only smiled and kissed her, and Uncle Ruthven said,—
"I shall borrow the Colonel's camp chair with his permission, and take some candles and a book, so I shall do very well on this fine, still night."
"And I shall keep awake all night and think about you, Uncle Ruthven," said Maggie; "so if you feel lonely you can know my soul is over there with you."
So when tea was over, Uncle Ruthven with a lantern, the Colonel's camp-chair, and some other needful things for Dolly, went over to pass the night at the wretched hut.
The little girls stood beside Aunt Bessie and watched him as he walked away, and Bessie, taking Mrs. Stanton's hand in hers, laid her cheek upon it in her own caressing way, and said,—
"Aunt Bessie, I think we'llallhave to try to bear Dolly's burden to-night."
"It's too bad!" exclaimed Maggie; "it's anawful burden to bear, it makes me feel homesick, and I want to cry about it, and I just will—there now!" and Maggie burst into tears.
Mamma came, and after a little petting carried them off to bed, for they were both tired. But on the way she had to stop in the kitchen to speak to Mrs. Porter, and there her little girls followed her and found John.
Now we know Maggie had said she "never, nevermeant to be pleased with John again;" but when he called to them, and said he had a treat for them the next day, she somehow found herself, she did not quite know how, talking away to him, and begging to know what it was, as if she had never been displeased with him in her life.
But after she was in bed and mamma had gone, she suddenly popped up her head and said,—
"Bessie, what do you think? I went and forgot I was mad with John Porter. Now, what shall I do about it?"
"I guess you'll have to stay unmad," said Bessie, sleepily.
"Yes, I s'pose I will," said Maggie; "and I believe I'm rather glad of it. I don't feel very nice when I keep displeased with people, and John is real good to us, if he wouldn't go stay with Dolly. Are you going to stay awake all night, and think about Uncle Ruthven?"
"I'd like to," said Bessie; "but I'm 'fraid I can't. I'm so tired and sleepy, my eyes won't stay open."
"Mine will," said Maggie. "I'm going to make them. I don't mean to sleep a single wink, but just think about Uncle Ruthven all the time. Isn't he kind and good, Bessie? John Porter is pretty good too: I wonder where he's going to take us to-morrow, and if mamma will let us go,—and s'pose—maybe—Uncle Ruthven in the—rocks—and I'm—not—going"—
"Maggie," said Uncle Ruthven, the next morning, "I rather think I missed the company of those constant thoughts you promised me last night, at least for part of the time."
Maggie climbed on her uncle's knee, put herarms about his neck and her lips very close to his ear, and whispered,—
"Pleasedon't tell any one, Uncle Ruthven; but I am afraid I did go to sleep for a few minutes last night. I didn't mean to, but I did."