There was a general hum of satisfaction. Poor Mrs. Linck was fairly trembling for joy, and Mahla looked as if a star had dropped from the sky at her feet.
As for Grace, her heart was so full that she could hardly force back the tears. They should not fall. Nobody would understand that she was crying for joy!
When Mahla whispered to Grace that night, "O, Gracie, I wouldn't have had it but for you, dear!" it would be hard to tell which was the happier girl, grateful Mahla Linck, or noble Grace Clifford.
Nobody but the Lincks, the Cliffords, and Cassy ever knew the whole story. If people had heard it, they would have foolishly praised Grace for her beautiful simplicity of conduct. Then Grace might possibly have grown proud and self-conscious, and that would have spoiled all.
Mrs. Clifford begged leave to furnish the desk with the choicest writing materials. It gave her pleasure to do this, for nothing in her daughter's best deeds had ever touched her like her disinterested kindness to Mahla.
Grace was overjoyed to find that her father did not seem disappointed or displeased with her. He was apparently as glad as any one of Mahla's good fortune. He kissed his daughter that night more tenderly than usual, and there was something in his approving smile which Grace valued, after all, more than a hundred prizes.
It was now vacation. Mahla was too ill to go out; and, as for the other girls, they said they had the "sleeps;" and, instead of working for the soldiers, they preferred to lie under the trees and dream away the summer days.
Not so Grace Clifford. She saw so much of the sick men, and heard so much of them from Lieutenant Lazelle, that she was resolved to give the R. S. S. a good shaking, and wake it up. Quiet was Grace's abomination. She made a speech before the society—an off-hand effort, which I will record, first remarking that Grace could have done vastly better if she had stopped two minutes to think.
The Queen's Address.
DEAR PRINCESSES: In our early youth, while in the morning of life, and with the dew yet sparkling upon us like down on the cheek of a beautiful peach, I think (wethink, I mean) it's our glorious duty, as little girls of theeighteenthcentury (nineteenth, I mean), to put our shoulder to the plough of our dear country! O, my Princesses, will we let the rebels, with glaring eyeballs, set their iron hoofs upon our necks, and choke, and grind, and crush, and trample us into—powder? Will we fold our idle arms, and shut our idle ears, and listen to the cry of their war-whoop, which goes rolling over and over the hills and down into the valleys of our glorious Union? Will we see the furious and howling enemy seize, plunder, and wring off the neck of our American Eagle,—that golden, glorious bird; and, while he screams with hoarse, cavernous echoes, pluck the noble eyes out of his head—hisbaldhead, O Princesses!
(The queen looked round her for sympathy, and not in vain: she was carrying her audience away with her.)
Think of our great, great, very great grandpas, how they fought and bled in freedom's cause. Hail, ye heroes!—No, I mean to say, Friends, countrymen,girls, let's put on our—helmets, and fight for dear life! Are we too weak to fire cannonades? Will we be forbidden to pour out our hearts' blood? And are our limbs too tender to be broken in a thousand pieces? Then we'll fight with ourneedles! We'll make our glorious, splendid, poor, miserable, dying soldier-boys comfortable! If that's all we can do, we'll do that!—Now, girls, I'll tell you what it is, continued the queen, suddenly dropping from her airy flight, let's work like spiders, won't we? and buy jellies, and broths, and things! I'll not have a new dress forever if I can help it. Who's in for a Fair? All that are agreed say,Ay!
It "was a vote." The girls concluded to shake off the "sleeps," and go to work. Mahla, who was duly informed of all that went on, was delighted with the project, and promised to make lace bags and a few little things at home.
At Mahla's urgent request, poor Isa was taken back as a member of the society. She had been wretched enough to satisfy all ideas of justice, and could do no harm now by disclosing secrets. Isa was tolerably subdued and grateful, but a trifle sullen, withal. Her manner said, plainly,—
"O, girls, I'll do anything to make you trust me and like me once more. That's the way I feel; but I don't want you to know it; so I'm trying to look as if I didn't care."
The Princesses were rather youthful, but they had this advantage—they were old enough to know their own ignorance. They chose their mothers for advisers—the wisest thing they could have done.
Twice a week they held meetings in a large chamber at Mrs. Clifford's. Here they kept their pieces of work, each girl having a separate basket. Articles accumulated: unfinished pincushions, babies' socks, bookmarks, dolls' bodies, kettle-holders, and garments of "domestic muslin," known in New England as "factory cloth."
Mrs. Clifford, who was not only a patriotic lady, but an accomplished needlewoman, had a general oversight of matters, and spent an hour or two each afternoon with the children, making suggestions and adding finishing touches.
Before long, a dozen girls from the High School joined the R. S. S. Fancy articles grew apace. It was even hoped now that the Fair could be held before the opening of the schools in September.
Grace was fathoms deep in business. She wanted Horace to work too, and thought he and Phebe should be ready at all hours to run of errands, drive nails, or hold skeins of silk. Horace ought never be complain when called away from play; for what did she ask of him but to help the poor, bleeding soldiers? All he did for the R. S. S. was so much done for his country. Horace had his own opinion upon this subject, forgot his errands, and when sent shopping, stupidly asked if sewing-silk was "cloth," and if tape came in "skeins"? He was willing to work when he could manage for himself, but didn't like to be "anybody's waiter."
Grace's patience sometimes failed; but Cassy could effect wonders with her smiling—"Now, please, Horace." WhenCassywanted anything, the wilful boy put on what his sister called "his heroics," and went to work with a will.
To be sure, the "cup and saucer" were buried in cares; yet somehow they could steal time for long chats "down by the acorn-tree," their heads under an umbrella or a shawl. While thus pleasantly engaged, it was natural that Grace should think she had no time to assist her brother in pasting his scrap-books or making his kites.
"See, now," said Horace, when, after a search, he had found Grace and Cassy under the acorn-tree, "you make mighty small of some folks! Can't lift a finger to helpme; but whenyouwant some work done, it's 'Horace, dear,' and 'O, you darling!' Reckon I know a thing or two!"
The girls' friendship flowed on smoothly. It was hardly in the power of the most designing person to make any more mischief between them. Grace's highest hopes for her baby-sister were, that she might grow up as "smart and good as Cassy."
All this while, though Mahla Linck never lost interest in the society, she was growing weaker every day. Her little nerveless hands dropped the work they had attempted. She had no more use for her crutch, which lay on the table beside her bed, taking a long rest.
Grace and Cassy made daily visits to their sick friend. Mahla assured them that her writing-desk was one of her greatest comforts: it was almost as good as a sister. When she was too feeble to sit up, it was placed on the bed near her elbow, and she would lie and look over its contents, counting the sheets of perfumed note-paper, and feeling their gloss with her fingers.
When strong enough to write, she liked to copy poems in a neat round hand with her gold pen.
"See how she that desk does love!" said Mrs. Linck, breaking herEnglish into small pieces, as she always did when very earnest. "O,Miss Grace, your kindness forget never I shall."
Grace felt inclined to kiss Mahla and to cry. "O, Mahla," said she, "if you're only well, won't we girls have good times in the upper room when school takes up?"
Mahla smiled sadly. "I'm going some-place else."
"Some-place else? O, Mahla, you're too sick!"
"Not too sick to go to heaven, Gracie!"
Grace shuddered, and hid her face in Mahla's bosom.
"It don't frighten me a bit, Gracie."
"But, Mahla, darling, it's so far off!"
"O, Gracie, no, indeed; it seems as if heaven was right in this room."
"So dark and cold down there," sobbed Grace.
"But I'll not be there!" Mahla whispered. "Not in the grave a minute! I don't know what way I'll go up to heaven, but the Lord will know. O, he loves me so!"
After this conversation, Grace and Cassy walked home together very quietly. Grace looked at the fair, green earth and soft sky, and remembered some of the poetry Mahla had copied:—
"The world is lovely. O, my God, I thank Thee that I live."
As Grace repeated these lines to herself, she drew closer to her friend.
"O, Cassy, it's so lonesome to be in the grave!"
Yet Mahla, whom she pitied, was happier on her sick bed than even these joyous girls. Her clinging trust in God was more delightful than opal skies, and ruddy health, and even the dearest friendships.
The Children's Fair was held in the Music Hall, and was fully attended. Robin said there was no room for more people, unless you drove up some nails.
The benevolent enterprise had been undertaken by a handful of young girls, who had worked with great zeal in the very warmest days of summer; and since this fact was well known, it was enough in itself to bring a crowd of people out of mere curiosity.
The little heroines of the evening, dressed in white, with wreaths on their heads, looked as fresh as lilies, but kept modestly in the background, leaving the management of affairs to older people.
It was very much like other fairs—ice cream, cake, chicken salad, sandwiches, saucers of peaches and cream; then singing, some of which "jingled," Horace said, and he liked it.
Grace held up her hands in horror.
"You queer boy, a 'jingle,' as you call it, is a discord, and it sets my ears on edge! It's worse than the creaking of a horrid grindstone!"
Then there were patriotic remarks, no speaker omitting to praise the "fair and noble young misses" who had been the means of raising hundreds of dollars for the soldiers. If these enthusiastic gentlemen had used less flattery, it might have been wiser; for I fear that some of the Princesses went home that night fancying their own little heads and hearts to be running over with wisdom and benevolence.
The very next day Mahla Linck passed quietly away to the Saviour who "loved her so."
It did not seem like death. Grace and Cassy looked at the face which Mahla had once lighted up. It was quite still, now, and changeless; but the sweet, trusting look was there yet—the very look she gave, her Saviour when she saw him coming to take her in his arms and bless her, and bear her away to heaven.
Grace kissed the cold forehead, but it no longer thrilled to her touch. The purified spirit of little Mahla was not there.
"O, Cassy, do you remember what she said?" whispered Grace through a mist of tears. "She said heaven was right in this room; and seems to me I can feel it!"
The quiet of the spot was indeed hallowed. One might almost believe that the peace which had filled little Mahla's heart still lingered about her sleeping form.
"She loved God dearly," thought Grace. "O, I wish I loved Him so!"
Mrs. Linck took Grace's hand and laid it upon the beautiful writing-desk which stood on a table by the bed. "Keep it," said she; "my Mahla said it must to you belong. She will not, in heaven, need it any more."
Grace sobbed out her thanks, and said she would "always love that desk, and never, never part with it."
She preserves it now among her choicest treasures. It reminds her of the blessed Golden Rule; and she thinks—though I hope never with pride—of the happiness she was once able to give a tired and sick little friend.
It is yet fresh and new; but the years pass so swiftly, that only a little while, and that very desk will be a relic of the past, which another generation of young people will regard as a sacred memento of Grace Clifford's happy girlhood.
[Transcriber's note: Many of the characters in this book speak in dialect or mispronounce words. The many misspellings in the text, including "declar" for "declare" and "mountainious" for "mountainous" have been carefully checked against the hardcopy. The all-caps YOU near the end of the story also appears, as such, in the hardcopy.]
End of Project Gutenberg's Little Prudy's Cousin Grace, by Sophie May