At three o'clock, Mary joined Aunt Mandy and her little sisters at the convent gate. The old nurse watched her in surprise as she came down the walk, her feet lagging instead of skipping and dancing in their usual manner. However, Aunt Mandy said nothing until Mary made no offer to push the baby carriage, a thing which she had never failed to do. Instead, she asked if she might put her little suit-case in the carriage.
"What's de mattah, honey chile? Did de Sistah done gib ma bressed lamb a scoldin' dis aftahnoon?"
"No, Aunt Mandy, she gave me a lovely holy picture of Blessed Mother for staying at the head of the class in spelling all week. I am just tired—that's all—my arms and every bit of me. It is so warm that my head aches."
"Wahm, honey! Why, dis yeah chile had to go back in de house to git her li'l shawl. It's a right putty day on de sunny side ob de street, but mighty chilly in de shade. Did yo' eat de apple and de li'l sandwiches what yo' ma done gibbed yo' fo' recess? Yo' nebah teched nuffin fo' lunch."
"I couldn't eat them, Aunt Mandy, but I took three drinks of water and three more on my way out just now. I have been so thirsty all day."
"Huh! I done told yo' ma dat all dis book larnin' ud be de def ob yo' yet. De bery idea ob sendin' a li'l gal lak yo' is to school!"
"Why, Aunt Mandy, there are ever so many little girls younger than I am at the convent. Some of them are only five."
"Laws a massy! Why, honey, dey's nuffin but babies!Babies!An' dat's all yo' is yo' own self. Wait twell yo's as ole as I is, honey chile. Eben yo' ma seems lak a li'l gal to me. 'Tain't no time sence I done toted her round in ma ahms same's I'se doin' now wif dese yeah bressed lambs. I nebah had no book larnin', t'ank de good Lawd! an' I'se libbed longah dan mos' folks what did, an' I 'spects to keep on libbin' fo' a long time yit, I sahtinly does! Ma muddah an' gran'muddah bofe wuz moah dan a hund'ed an' ten when dey ups and died on ma hands. Yo' great-gran'muddah wah eighty; but sho', dat's nuffin! I'se past sebenty ma own self. Nebah yo' mind, honey, we's gwine to be home soon, an' den yo' kin go to bed an' git a good sleep. Hol' on to ma ahm, honey chile. Dat'll holp a li'l."
Aunt Mandy made up her mind then and there to give Mrs. Selwyn some advice on the school question. She had been a servant in the family since she was twelve years of age; and while always respectful, she still looked on "Miss Lisbuf" and "Massa Frank" as mere children, and did not hesitate to speak her mind freely to them.
That evening, she was at the front door to meet Doctor Carlton, who listened kindly to her account of the homeward walk, and then hastened up to Mary's room. One of his first questions was, "Have any of the children in your class been absent?"
"Hazel hasn't been in school all week nor her little brother, either. Marian has been out a few days, too."
"Hm! You play with those little girls a great deal, do you not?"
"Oh, yes, Uncle, and we sit near one another in the classroom, too; and sometimes Sister lets us sit two in a seat to help each other."
"I see. Well, try to sleep a little while, pet," and down to the telephone went the Doctor. He soon returned to Mary's bedside, and in his own jolly way began, "So you are not content to follow the styles in dress, but must take up with everything going, I see."
"Youknow that I never bother about styles, Uncle. I just wear whatever mother gets for me," said Mary, with a tired little smile.
"Well, you are very much in style just now. I have been talking with Mrs. Burns and Mrs. Lee, and they tell me that Hazel and her brother and Marian have measles."
Mary gave a pitiful cry.
"And I have them, too, Uncle? And will I have to be sent away somewhere? But I will go—I will do anything to keep the darling babies from catching them, and—and—don't let Mother comenearme! I want her—oh, I do want her! but she mustn't come on account of the babies."
"There, there, pet, you haven't the small-pox! Who has said anything about sending you away? Of course, Mother must not be with you, just as you say, nor Aunt Mandy, either; but Father and I shall come in to see you very often——"
"But you might carry the measles to the babies——"
"Oh, we shall go out and run around the block after our visits to you; so don't worry any more about it. I shall get the very best nurse I know. All my little patients who have had her to take care of them, love her very much."
"But can't I be moved to the little back room so as to be as far away from the babies as I can be?"
"An idea popped into my head as I came up from the telephone. I am glad now that Mother insisted on giving the third floor a house-cleaning two weeks ago, though, at the time, I did not enjoy being ordered to clear out my old den up there. That big front room had been my private property since my twelfth birthday, and the treasures which I had hoarded there would make a junkman happy. Of course, I had not been near the room for years, and it was high time that I should put things in order. So I spent several evenings destroying more than I saved.
"Out of curiosity, I went up there last Sunday, and what do you think? But I suppose you have seen it for yourself. I thought I was in the wrong house when I saw my old den dressed up in pale blue walls and white woodwork. It seems to me that is the very room in which to get over measles quickly, and you will have no reason to worry about the babies. The third floor is not an attic, you know, though it has always been used for storing away old things. It is what is called a mansard roof."
"I wouldn't mind if itwerean attic, Uncle. I should much rather live in an attic all my life than have any harm come to the babies."
"I am sure you would, pet. Now, I shall send Debby to dust and air the room, and you may lie on the couch in my room while Tom and I carry up your bed."
In less than a half hour, the little patient was comfortably settled in the "hospital," as the Doctor playfully called his old den. He had the next room fitted up for the nurse; but as she could not come before morning, he occupied it himself that night.
It was a great surprise to the little girl when, just after breakfast the next day, he ushered the nurse into the room. Mary had expected a white-gowned, white-capped young lady—not a smiling, rosy-cheeked, little Sister, wearing a big white apron over her black habit and a long, pale blue veil.
"You wear our Blessed Mother's colors, too; don't you, Sister?" was Mary's first remark after she and Sister Julia had been introduced.
"Oh, by the way, Sister," the Doctor paused in the doorway, "there is one thing of great importance which I must ask you to remember, please. Any colors but blue and white have a very bad effect on this patient—yellow in particular. Please see that she closes her eyes while you give her the medicine and, above all, orange-ade. A few drops of wash-bluing in the water might help matters," and he was gone before Mary could say a word.
The little girl soon learned to love her nurse very much; and, though she sorely missed her mother, Sister Julia's beautiful stories kept her from becoming too lonely.
"No wonder your little patients love to have Sister Julia take care of them, Uncle," she said that evening when he came up to sit with her while the nurse went to her dinner. "I could lie here all day and listen to her stories—truestories about our Lord and Blessed Mother and the Saints, and about children she has taken care of—some of them so poor that they didn't have enough to eat or clothes to keep them warm. But Sister knows a good, kind doctor who took care of them while they were sick and gave them medicine and fruit all for nothing; and he told the Saint Vincent de Paul Society about them; so they are getting along better now.
"I am going to ask Mother not to buy that blue velvet coat and hat for me that she was looking at when we were down town last Saturday, but to give the money to some poor family instead. The white ones I had last winter are perfectly good, and Mother can have them dyed if she would like me to have blue things this year. They can dye white any color, you know. Hazel has a beautiful red dress trimmed with tiny, black velvet ribbon; and when I told her how pretty it is, she said that it is an old white tennis skirt of her mother's dyed. There is another thing that I would like to do; but I don't know—would you—do you mind what I do with that five dollar gold piece you gave me for my birthday, Uncle?"
"Do I mind, pet? Of course I do not mind! You are to do exactly what you please with that money. I gave it to you just to see what youwoulddo with it. You have never handled any money of your own, except a few pennies."
"But I didn't need to buy anything when you and Father were always giving me things—even pretty pencils for school. But there is something that I would like to buy now. You can tell me whether it is just the best thing to get for those poor, sick children. I might have asked Sister Julia, but she was reading her prayer book when I thought of it."
"Let me hear what you have in mind for them."
"I think it would be nice to send each of them a little blooming plant. It would last ever so much longer than cut flowers, and they could watch it grow and see the new flowers come out. See that chrysanthemum on the window sill? Mr. Daniel at Maryvale sent it in to me this morning; and the sun made two buds blossom right out."
"It is a beautiful plant. I have been wondering where it came from, but you have not given me a chance to ask. As for your little plan, it is an excellent one and will make several little folks, who never see so much as a dandelion, very happy indeed."
Thinking of others who had never known the blessings with which her own life was overflowing, and planning with her father and uncle to bring a little sunshine into their cheerless homes, Mary did not find the days of her illness so very, very long. She was doing so well that everyone in the house was looking forward to having her once more among them; and she herself was counting the hours until she could again be with her mother and little sisters.
"I s'pose the twinnies have grown ever so much, Father," she remarked one evening when she was able to sit up in a big arm chair.
"Well, I have not seen Mother letting out any tucks or hems in their dresses; but," and Mr. Selwyn's eyes danced, "I must admit that they are somewhat better-looking."
Surely, the little birdmusthave been at Maryvale that day, and Mary thought it very strange that she had not caught a glimpse of it. She had seen some sparrows, robins, and thrushes; but she was quite sure that the particular little bird of which Aunt Mandy had so often spoken was different from any of these. It certainly had very large ears to be able to hear what she hadwhisperedto her aunt when they were sitting at such a distance from the window. She started at a thought which came to her.
"Father, have you ever seen the little bird that tells Aunt Mandy so many things? Do you think it can hear what a person is justthinkingabout?"
Mr. Selwyn coughed to hide a smile.
"No, dear, I have never seen that particular little bird; and no one but God knows our thoughts unless we show them in our faces or actions."
"Please take me on your lap, Father, and tell me more about the babies. Has Beth any hair yet?"
"Only a little soft, yellow down; but Berta's is actually beginning to turn up at the ends in tiny, silky curls."
"Oh, she must look darling! Just forty-eight hours more—no, forty-seven, because it is exactly an hour since Uncle was here—and I can see them both again."
"So Uncle Frank said at dinner. That reminds me—here is a note for you from Mother."
"Please read it to me, Father. I can't read writing very well, though Mother tries to make hers plain. Besides, Uncle has asked me not to look closely at anything until my eyes are stronger. They have been so weak that I had to ask Sister to keep the shades down. But she thought it would be too bad to shut out the sunshine; so sometimes she bandaged my eyes and let the shades roll all the way up to the top.
"Then we played a game something like the little boy who was half-past three played with his grandmother, only ours wasBlind Man's Buff. Of course, I couldn't go catch Sister, but I tried to guess where she was; and when I guessed right, she was 'it.' Then I wouldpretendthat I was somewhere, and Sister had to guess. She had a much harder time than I had, because I could pretend to be up the chimney or on top of the wardrobe or in ever so many places where I knew she couldn't be whenIwas 'it.' But please read Mother's letter. She has written to me every day since I came up here," and the little girl snuggled close to her father while he read the following:
My Darling,Uncle has just told us the good news. It will not do you any harm now to know how much we have missed you. Aunt Mandy said to me to-day that she cannot understand how you always succeeded in putting the babies to sleep when she failed to do so; but I think I know the secret.The babies are growing more cunning every day. Two or three days ago, Beth discovered that she has fingers; and this morning when I was dressing her, she kicked up one little foot and caught hold of her toes. Then I found Berta holding on to both ears. But I must not tell you all the surprises we have for you.I have gone into your room very often. It makes me think of a pretty nest from which the little bird has flown. But the wings of my little bluebird are not strong enough to carry her very far away, so she is coming back to the nest again. I shall give Father a kiss and a hug to carry to my birdie away up in the treetop.Mother.
My Darling,
Uncle has just told us the good news. It will not do you any harm now to know how much we have missed you. Aunt Mandy said to me to-day that she cannot understand how you always succeeded in putting the babies to sleep when she failed to do so; but I think I know the secret.
The babies are growing more cunning every day. Two or three days ago, Beth discovered that she has fingers; and this morning when I was dressing her, she kicked up one little foot and caught hold of her toes. Then I found Berta holding on to both ears. But I must not tell you all the surprises we have for you.
I have gone into your room very often. It makes me think of a pretty nest from which the little bird has flown. But the wings of my little bluebird are not strong enough to carry her very far away, so she is coming back to the nest again. I shall give Father a kiss and a hug to carry to my birdie away up in the treetop.
Mother.
"And here are a kiss—and a hug—to carry down to Mother; but before you give them to her, you must walk around the block to let the wind blow the measles off of you."
"There, there, dear, you must not exert yourself so much. You are not quite strong enough to give such bear hugs."
"Well, well, well! Not in bed yet? I was almost sure that I heard you snore as I came upstairs."
"Uncle! I am going to ask Sister Julia if I snore when I am asleep."
"You certainly do not do so while you are awake. But perhaps it was Snowball that I heard. She is asleep on the lowest step."
"Poor little Snowball! I do hope Debby is taking good care of her. Is she very black, Uncle?"
"Who? Debby or the kitten?"
"Why, the kitten, of course. Debby is s'posed to be black, but Snowball is s'posed to be white."
"I see. Well, set your mind at rest, pet, for your kitten looks her name to perfection, curled up as she now is. Indeed, for a moment I was on the point of bringing her up here to wash your face and coax a little color into it. Oh, another thing! I noticed that she has quite a jaunty bow of ribbon on her neck. You would have the nightmare if I should tell you what color it is."
"Every color looks pretty on Snowball. I think the ribbon must be pink, because Debby likes pink herself. No?" as the Doctor shook his head. "Red, then. Debby likes red, too."
"I suppose I may as well tell you. It isyellow! A glorious, golden yellow."
"How lovely! Yes, Uncle, I mean it. I think yellow is a beautiful color; but it wouldn't do for me to wear it, you know. Why, the sun and moon and stars and Dick and ever so many of my favorite flowers are yellow, so you can't tease me about that color."
"I am a naughty old chap to tease you about anything. Come, Rob, it is long past her bedtime. It will be a case of
'You can't get 'em up,You can't get 'em up,You can't get 'em up in the morning,'"
'You can't get 'em up,You can't get 'em up,You can't get 'em up in the morning,'"
sang the jolly man.
On the way down stairs he said, "As far as the measles are concerned, she could be with the family now; but she is weaker than I like to see her, and the little excitement of being with the babies again would be more than is good for her at present. So I have put her off another two days. She will not try to exert herself as much with Sister Julia as she would down stairs. She is getting along better, however, than I expected, for she has had a pretty severe attack; but I have every reason now to hope that it will leave no bad effects."
"How about her eyes? is the sight in any danger?" was the father's anxious question.
"Not now. The disease often affects the eyes; but Sister Julia has been very careful, and the danger is passed. We may all go to sleep to-night with light hearts."
Ah, how little the wisest of us know! How little we suspect what the next hour may bring!
The tick-tock——tick-tock——of the big clock at the foot of the stairs was the only sound that broke the stillness of the night. Midnight came and went.——One o'clock——two o'clock——a piercing scream rang through the silent house! The Doctor, whose room was nearest the stairs, was the first to reach the sick room. He found the little girl in the nurse's arms, imploring her to chase away the man with the terrible knife.
"He stuck it——into me——Uncle! 'Way, 'way into—my side! Oo! It's there yet!—Take it out, Uncle!pleasetake it out! Oh! oh! oh!"
"There, there, darling! No, no! there is no knife. It is only a bad dream," soothed the nurse.
"But it hurts, Sister!—--Oo, oo! Ouch!—--every time——I breathe. Take itout! Oh, Uncle——pleasetake itout!"
"There is absolutely nothing there, pet,—nothing! Sister is right. You have been lying in a cramped position which caused a pain in your side and made you dream of the man with a knife. Lie down and let Sister rub the place where you feel the pain."
But though the Doctor made light of the matter to the little girl, his sister and brother-in-law saw the anxiety written in every line of his face. Sister Julia, too, looked worried as she tried to soothe the moaning child.
"M—Mother!"
"Yes, darling, yes!"
"It hurts so, Mother—oo!—oo! It shoots—right through me. I'm wide awake now, Mother, so—why doesn't it go—away? Oh, oh!"
"She has been restless all night, Doctor,"—Sister Julia had left the little girl to her mother's care for a moment—"so restless that I disobeyed your orders about going to bed myself and remained beside her for fear she would throw off the covering and take cold. She has not been quiet long enough for the muscles to cramp——"
"I know, Sister, I know. I said that merely to quiet her. This is what I have feared all along. She is a frail mite, but I really thought that we had pulled her over the danger line. I hope it is nothing worse than pleurisy. We shall try hot applications first. I shall be back in a moment."
Sister Julia busied herself heating water and making other preparations; and the Doctor soon returned with his "telephone," as Mary called the instrument with which he had several times listened to her lungs.
"Now, dear, let me see whether I can find out just where the pain is——"
"Oh, it is right here, Uncle! On both sides right where my hands are—you don't need to listen—and it shoots—through me and—comes out under those bones—where the angels' wings grow."
"But we can do more to relieve the pain if I listen for a few minutes, pet."
The father and mother did not take their eyes off his face, which grew more and more grave. By the time he had finished the examination, there was little need for him to call the nurse to the bedside and motion them into the hall.
"I shall be perfectly honest with you," he began, "for I know that you are prepared for the worst. I fear pneumonia, but hope that we have caught the trouble in time. I can tell you nothing definite for some hours. The condition in which I find her now is the very one which Sister Julia and I have been guarding against; but I was so sure that all danger was past that I told Sister, when I came home this evening, to change her program and, instead of going to rest at that time and leaving Mary to us, Rob, to go to bed as soon as she had tucked her in for the night. This she did not do, but remained at the bedside until we came up, just as she has done every night from eleven o'clock on.
"With any other nurse, I might fear that some neglect had brought matters to this pass; but not with Sister Julia. She is a wonderful nurse, and we are blessed to have her, especially now. I have never lost a pneumonia patient when she was on the case. So we shall hope for the very best."
But though the Doctor tried to speak cheerfully, a cold fear gripped the hearts of all.
When daylight came, they carried Mary down to her own pretty room and did all that science and love could suggest to relieve her sufferings; but in spite of everything, the child grew steadily worse; and the Doctor was at last obliged to admit that double pneumonia had set in.
"You had better bring the babies to her for a few minutes," he said to his sister. "She has a very high fever and is liable to become delirious. A peep at the twins will satisfy her and perhaps ease her mind later on."
"Sweet—darling—" Mary murmured as the babies were held up before her. "Soon—again?"
"Yes, pet, Mother will bring them to see you very often. Try to sleep now," urged her uncle.
Oh, the long, long days and nights of suffering and grief and anxiety. Though the twins were the delight of the household, they had not been members of the family long enough to twine themselves about the hearts of all as had the dear little girl who was never happier than when making others happy. The servants vied with one another to do her some little service. Old Susie surpassed herself with her delicious broths and gelatines over which she spent more time than she did on the meals for the family; Liza hurried with her other duties so as to be able to devote more time to the babies and leave Aunt Mandy free to help Sister Julia; Tom sat by day and night on the top step of the stairs, ready to run errands,—a task which, by the way, he had always disliked. Even Debby, who had known the little girl less than two months, almost sobbed aloud at sight of the wan little face framed in a mass of golden hair. Indeed, so blinded was she by her tears, that she stumbled about and upset so many things that Sister Julia gently took her dust cloth from her and finished putting the room in order. As for the father, mother, and uncle, Mrs. Selwyn's words just after her brother had told them the dreaded truth, will best express the thoughts that filled their minds.
"Perhaps it is wrong to feel as I do, Rob,—that it would be far easier to lose both of our babies than our little Mary."
"You are merely speaking the thought that is in all our hearts, Elizabeth, and it is only natural that we should feel as we do. In one sense, the babies are just as dear to us as Mary is; but they have not yet entered into our very life as she has done by her own winning ways. So, if she is taken from us, we shall miss her far more than we should either, or even both, of the twins. I doubt whether Berta or Beth could ever quite fill the void which her loss would cause in our lives. But we shall not think of that now. Let us hope for the best and pray that, if it be God's will, our darling may be spared to us. We can trust Frank to see that everything possible is done for her."
"Poor Frank! He could not love her better if she were his own child. I have telephoned to Sister Florian to ask the prayers of the Sisters and pupils, and, of course, I called Maryvale early this morning. Mary asked me to let her know Frank's decision."
"I shall go now to telephone to her. Try to get a little rest before dinner."
Alone with Mary, Sister Julia seized the chance to have a little talk with her.
"There is one very important thing, dear, in this kind of illness, and that is the fight which the patient herself makes."
"Fight, Sister? You mean that I must punch something the way I saw boys doing to each other out on the sidewalk one day?"
"No, dear, I mean that you must make up your mind that you are going to get well as soon as possible and——"
"And I am, Sister. I take my medicine even though it has a very bad taste. I try to remember what you told me about our Lord—that they gave Him a bitter, bitter drink when He was hanging on the cross and said, 'I thirst.' But—but I can't help screaming sometimes when the pain is so dreadful. I seem to forget everything then."
"Indeed, you have been very good and patient, dear; but in spite of the pain and the bad dreams, you must say to yourself, 'I am going to be well and strong very soon.'"
Often in the days which followed, when Mary was delirious from fever and pain, the hearts of those at her bedside were wrung by her cry, "But I am going to be well and strong soon, I am, Iam!" Then she would beg them not to let her fall into the big, black hole where wicked men were waiting to stick long knives into her. Sometimes, she knew those about her for a few minutes, but the greater part of the time she was not conscious. Sister Madeline and Sister Austin came in from Maryvale to see her; Sister Florian with a companion called several times; but the little girl had no memory of their visits when asked later about them. Father Lacey called one afternoon and read a Gospel over her; but she gave no sign that she knew he was there until after he had left the room. Then she murmured, "Sister—was Father Lacey—here?"
"Yes, dear, he has just left the room."
"I—would like—to see him,—please."
The priest, who had stopped in the hall to speak to Mrs. Selwyn, returned and seated himself at the bedside, saying cheerily, "Do not try to talk to me, dear child. I am glad you are awake so that I can tell you how much all your little friends at the convent miss you. They are praying very hard for you every day, and so are all the Sisters. Yes, I know you wish me to thank them for you."
"Did—the girls—go to—Confession—yet, Father?"
"Yes, Mary, they made their first Confession last week."
"Mine—now?—I know—how."
"Certainly, my dear child; but you must let me do most of the talking. I shall ask you questions, and you will just answer them," and Father Lacey again slipped his stole about his neck as Sister Julia left the room.
After he had said with her theHail Marywhich he had given as a penance, Mary's mind again began to wander; and when Sister Julia returned, she was babbling of those tell-tale, little white birds with blue heads and red tails and yellow ribbons about their necks.
"Truly an angelic little soul, Sister," said the priest. "I greatly fear that she will not be with us long. What does Doctor Carlton say of her condition?"
"He will not say anything, Father."
"And I suppose it is not quite the thing for you to express your opinion. When is the Doctor at home?"
"This is the first time in several days that he has left the house, Father. He spends the greater part of the day and night with the child. His devotion to her is touching. I have sometimes wondered at his great gentleness with children, even though he has several times spoken of his small niece and repeated her quaint remarks to amuse his little patients; but I understand it all now. If she does not recover, more than half of his life will go out with hers. And the poor father and mother! They have already lost two little boys, yet they are so patient and resigned. You will have to know Mary better than you do, Father, to understand just what her loss would mean to this home. The servants fairly worship her. No little queen could have more faithful subjects. It is a marvel that she is not badly spoiled."
"Her mother is too wise a woman to permit that, Sister. I admit that I do not know the child as you do, but I have seen enough of her to feel sure that she is all that you say of her, and that her loss would be a great blow. I find her so well instructed that, if the Doctor thinks she will not recover, I shall allow her to make her First Communion.[1]I have not mentioned the matter to her, however. Speak to the Doctor as soon as he comes in, and if he thinks that there is grave danger, let me know when she again becomes conscious, and I shall come at once. At all events, I shall call again to-morrow."
The next morning, three of the finest doctors of New York gathered with Doctor Carlton about the sick child, sadly shook their heads, and quietly went away. In the afternoon, the Doctor himself opened the door for the priest and drew him into the library.
"I would have telephoned to you last evening, Father, but it was useless to do so, for my little niece has not been conscious since your visit yesterday. I have little hope that she will become so before—the end. I have known from the first that she could not pull through except by a miracle. Humanly speaking, it is now merely a question of how long her heart can hold out."
"Humanlyspeaking, yes, Doctor; but the days of miracles are not passed, and He Who raised the dead to life is still the all-powerful God. Mary became conscious yesterday just after I had read a Gospel over her. I feel that our Divine Lord permitted it so that she might make her first Confession for which she was preparing when she became ill. He may permit the same thing to happen to-day so that she may make her First Communion. I am going now to the church for the Blessed Sacrament. Ask Sister Julia to have all in readiness when I return."
But though Father Lacey prayed long and earnestly over the little girl, and her mother and the nurse spoke close to her ear of the happiness awaiting her, Mary gave no sign that she understood. Then the priest anointed her and raised the Blessed Sacrament in benediction above her; and promising to come again the moment he should hear that she had become conscious, he returned to the church.
The long night began. The house was very quiet, for Mary had ceased to moan and cry out, and lay perfectly still, her breath coming in little gasps. Close by her pillow sat the Doctor, his watch in his left hand, the fingers of his right on the child's fluttering pulse. Across from him knelt Sister Julia, her eyes never wavering from his haggard, gray face as she watched for the least sign from him that something was needed. Her lips moved in prayer as the beads slipped through her fingers. At the foot of the bed knelt Mr. Selwyn, his arm supporting his wife, his head bowed on the railing where Mary had so often during the past week seen the strange little birds hopping about. Tom was at his post at the head of the stairs; and Aunt Mandy and Liza had taken the babies down to the kitchen so that nothing would disturb the little sufferer.
The hours dragged on. Midnight passed. The child's breathing grew fainter—then a great stillness fell upon the room. Mr. Selwyn looked up with a start, and his wife clung closer to him. The Doctor had slipped to his knees, his eyes on the still, white face. Suddenly, the little eyelids fluttered open, the big blue eyes looked straight into Mr. Selwyn's, then rested for an instant on the Doctor, while a wan little smile flitted across the child's face. A faint sigh issued from her parched lips, and her eyes closed. The Doctor raised his hand. No one stirred. Was it life or death? Did they hear the rustle of angels' wings, or was it the murmur of the night wind?
The father's eyes sought the Doctor's face, and soon a look of wonder and doubt crept over it. By degrees, the wonder increased, and the doubt disappeared, and two great tears of relief rolled down the haggard face which turned toward Mr. Selwyn with a smile, while the warning hand remained uplifted.
Close to the mother's ear, the father whispered just one little word; then carried her into the next room where, some minutes later, the Doctor joined them. Mr. Selwyn stepped out into the hall, and the next instant, Tom, shoes in hand, was making all possible speed toward the kitchen.
Slowly, oh, so slowly, the little girl crept back from the chill, dark shadow into the warm, bright love-light waiting to envelope her. It would be many and many a long day before she would be able to play with the babies and romp with her little friends; but to those who loved her, it was happiness enough just to have her still among them.
Several remarks that were made caused Mary quite a little surprise.
"But I tried and tried to tell you ever so many times that I was going to get well, Mother. Didn't you hear me?"
"Yes, darling; but, for once, we did not believe you. You can hardly blame us for that, however, when Uncle Frank and three of the finest doctors in the city had said that you could not recover."
"Hm! I think I shall ask Uncle to take me to see those doctors some day just to prove to them that God can make people well if He wants them to get well."
"I am sorry, Rob, that my answer is not what you wish it to be."
"But, Frank, think what a winter in Italy would mean to the child."
"Yes, if you can get her over there by wireless. But you speak of going by steamer, and I need not remind you of the cold and dampness of an ocean voyage at this season."
"I had not thought of that." Mr. Selwyn rose and began pacing to and fro. "How soonwillMary be equal to the trip, Frank?"
"Not before the first of June at the earliest. Her recovery, judging from the past two weeks, will be very, very slow. Why do you take this trip just now? Can't you put it off for six or seven months?"
"No, Frank, that is not possible. We have been waiting for this chance to open a branch of the business in Rome, and now that it has come, we must act promptly."
"Then let Bryce or Ryan go. Bryce has no one but himself to think of."
"His father would have been just the man to put the thing through; but young Bryce is not his father by any means. For one thing, he does not know the business well enough. Ryan says that he is too old to begin to learn Italian; and as I have a fair knowledge of that language, he thinks I should go. I made no objection, because I thought it would be a splendid chance to take Mary away from the winter here. Do you really think that it would be a risk, Frank?"
"So great a risk that I am almost sure you would have a burial at sea."
"Frank!"
"I mean it, Rob. A mere trifle would bring on a relapse; and a long sea voyage is no trifle."
"But what are we to do? Elizabeth will never consent to my living in Italy for a year unless she and the children can be with me."
"She is right about that. Her place is with you."
"But she cannot leave Mary——"
"Why not, Rob?—You know that I would be the last one to ask that question if there was any other way of solving the problem; but since there is not, why cannot Mary be left with me? I need not assure you that she will be taken care of to the best of my ability."
"You have more than proved that, Frank. If she were your own child, you could not show greater love for her. And she almost worships you."
"Yes, I flatter myself that I come a close second to you and Elizabeth and the babies, and I promise to do all in my power to lessen the pain of this separation for her. She is the one who will suffer most, for she is not old enough to see the matter in the proper light. To us, a year is only twelve short months which pass all too quickly; but to a child, it is an eternity. I am sorry that this trial should come upon her now after all that she has been through."
"That is just it, Frank,—not only for her but for all of us. It seems a terrible thing to be separated from her now for so long a time, when we came so near to losing her. I am sure that Elizabeth will not consent to leave her——"
"Then Elizabeth will have to remain at home. Here she is to speak for herself."
"What plan is afoot now, gentlemen? You look as sober as judges," laughed Mrs. Selwyn.
"An ocean voyage followed by a year in Italy is a subject for rather serious thought, is it not?"
"No, indeed, Rob. I should say it is a very pleasant subject. Who among our friends has this treat in store for him?"
"It happens that, in this case, the pleasure is not unmixed with pain."
"But is it not always so, Rob? Is there not a thread of sorrow running through every earthly joy?"
"Yes, even our little Mary has found that out. I think I told you how perfectly happy she was over the twins; but in less than fifteen minutes, she found cause for sorrow in the fact that there was not a third baby to be called Frank."
"Yes, I remember. But you have not answered my question about our friends who are planning a trip to Europe."
"Your husband's name heads the list, Elizabeth; and it remains for you to decide whether he will go alone, or have the company of any other members of the family."
"You are joking, Frank."
"I was never more in earnest."
"I wish from my heart that he was joking, Elizabeth," and Mr. Selwyn repeated some of the facts of the case.
"And are your partners aware that your wife has not only herself but three children to get ready for this trip? However, we shall manage. As you say, the pleasure will be marred to some extent by the pain of parting from this good, old brother of ours; but after all," and Mrs. Selwyn seated herself on the arm of the Doctor's chair and ran her fingers through his hair, "a year passes quickly, and the thought that Mary is growing well and strong in the wonderful Italian climate will help you through the lonely hours. But, Frank," an anxious note sounded in her voice, "do you think she will be equal to the trip in another week? She is doing nicely, I know, but she has not yet been up even in a chair."
"No, Elizabeth, Mary will not be able to make that trip next week nor next month," the Doctor gently replied. "I have just explained to Rob that an ocean voyage for her before the first of June will, without doubt, have a very sad ending."
"Why, Frank! what are we to do? I cannot think of allowing Rob to go away alone and live hotel life for a whole year! And Mary—oh, after the agony of that awful week, I cannot bear to be parted from her now when she needs me so much!"
"I have just thought of a plan which I think should work pretty well. I shall sail alone next Monday, and you and the children, with Aunt Mandy, of course, will follow me early in June."
"No, no, Rob, I cannot listen to such a plan." Mrs. Selwyn crossed the room to her husband's side. "If it were a case of a month or six weeks, I might consider it; but I shall never consent to your living hotel life for half a year. What if you should become ill? Think of the time it would take me to reach you. No, no, I must be with you. We shall find a cosy little place on the outskirts of Rome and make it our home. But Mary——" and the poor little mother bowed her head on the father's shoulder.
"Mary will be safe with me, Elizabeth," urged the Doctor. "She will be loved and cared for as if she were my own child. I shall arrange my affairs so as to take her South to a warm, dry climate, after Christmas, and remain there until the first of May. Then, I think Maryvale will be the best place for her with our own sister to keep a watchful eye on her. The Sisters and many of the pupils are old friends of hers, and I shall go out to see her two or three times a week. She will have country air and country food; and when you return in the fall, you will not know your tanned, rosy-cheeked little lass. Yes, Mary will be far better off there than alone here during the day with the servants. You, Elizabeth, will need Aunt Mandy, and I think you will find Tom very useful, Rob. I shall close the house and take some apartments in the building where my office is. Liza will keep house for me. But I would advise you to say nothing of all this to Mary before Saturday. She will be stronger then and better able to bear the thought of separation from you."
"Italy, Mother! Father must go to Italy? Where is that?"
It was Saturday morning. During the week, every one had been busy helping to prepare for the voyage; but as Mary was still too weak to do more than sit up in a big chair for a short time every day, she saw and heard nothing that was going on outside her own room.
"Italy is a country in the southern part of Europe, dear. Have you ever seen a map of Europe?"
"I am not sure, Mother. One warm day at school, Sister took us across the hall to a cooler room. There were big maps hanging on the walls; and she showed us the one of our country, and put her pointer right on New York. She couldn't find Maryvale; but only large cities are shown on that map; and Maryvale is not even in the village, you know. It is more than a mile beyond it."
"Maryvale is the name of the convent grounds only; and though they are very large, they could not be shown on such a map."
"But about Europe, Mother. There is another map hanging next to the one where New York is. P'r'aps that is Europe. There is one country at the lower part of it shaped exactly like a boot sticking out into the sea. Rome, the city where the Pope lives, is in that country."
"And that country is Italy, dear, and Rome is the very city to which Father is going."
"Oh, will Father see the Pope?"
"He will surely go to see the Holy Father."
"Father Lacey saw the Holy Father last summer when he went to Rome and took the audience with him. Of course, the whole audience didn't go—you and Father and Uncle Frank and Rosemary's mother and some others who were in the audience on the last day of school didn't go."
Mrs. Selwyn laughed merrily.
"If you were to ask Father Lacey about his companions, he would tell you that he made that trip alone. Hehadan audience with the Holy Father, dear; that is, he was allowed to see the Pope and speak with him. The wordaudience, like many other words, has more than one meaning."
"Dear, me," sighed the little girl, "there is so much to learn; isn't there, Mother? It seems to me that I just get a thing all fixed in my mind when I have to upset it and fix it over again a different way."
"Then your first idea was not the correct one. You should ask the meaning of new words instead of trying to decide for yourself?"
"That's exactly what I shall do after this. But—but, Mother,—don't you—isn't it just a little strange for Father to go to Italy by himself? He has never gone away without us, you know. But I s'pose he will be back in a few days, and he thinks it would be too hard for you to travel with the babies. Is he going soon?"
"The steamer sails at two o'clock Monday afternoon and will take a week to reach England where Father must stay for two or three days. Then, there is the trip across the Channel to France, and from there by train to Italy. We must allow two weeks for the entire trip."
"Two weeks! Twoweeks! Why, Mother! Father to be awaytwo whole weeks!—But no,—he will be gone much longer, because it will take two more weeks to come home, and besides that, he will have to stay in Italy a few days to attend to that business. Two weeks and two weeks are four weeks and—why, he will be gone atleastfive weeks, and what shall we ever do without him, Mother?"
Mrs. Selwyn's heart sank. How was she to tell the child of the long, long separation to come? But Mary must hear of it without more delay; and taking the little girl on her lap, she began: "I have something to say to you, darling, that you will not like to hear any better than I like to tell it. Father cannot put off this trip. If he had only himself and us to think of, he would surely do so even though he would lose the chance of opening a branch of the business in Rome. But he must think of his partners in the bank. Now, this is where the trouble lies. Father must be away from home, not for five or six weeks, but for a year, and Mother should be with him. It would never do, you know, to have him living alone in a hotel for a year. In case of illness or accident, it would take me nearly two weeks to reach him."
"Ofcourseyou should be with him, Mother. That is why I said it seemed strange for Father to go away without us. But Uncle Frank—can he go, too?"
"No, dear."
"But—but—won't he be very lonely without us, Mother? Oh, dear, me! Howcanwe go away for a whole year and leave him here all by himself? But I s'pose there isn't any other way to fix it. Mother, I think I ought to try to walk to-day. I am sure I can if you and Sister will hold my hands. Then to-morrow, I shall try going down stairs so as to be ready for Monday."
"No, no, Mary, you are far too weak to do any walking yet. I fear that it will be many days before Uncle will allow you to try that. Remember, he said that you must not sit up in the big chair longer than an hour at a time. Whether you could walk or not by Monday would make no difference if you were strong enough otherwise. Father or Uncle Frank could easily carry you down to the carriage and on the steamer; but——"
"Why—why, Mother!" Mary fixed her startled eyes on Mrs. Selwyn's face. "You—you sound as if—as if you mean that I am not—not able to go!"
"That is what Mother does mean, darling," Mrs. Selwyn murmured in a husky voice, pressing her lips to the bright little head. "Uncle says that the voyage at this time of year would kill you; that the cold and dampness would bring on a relapse, and you would die before we could reach England. Oh, my baby! Father and Mother feel very, very bad about leaving you. What we should do were it not for dear Uncle Frank, I do not know. It will be a great comfort to us to feel that you are safe with him, darling, and that you are helping him not to be too lonely. He loves you so dearly and has the most beautiful plans to keep you happy and make you well and strong. He will help you to write long letters to us every Sunday, and I shall write to you every day to tell you just what we are doing and how fast the babies are growing and——"
Mary had been very, very quiet; but at this—"O Mother, Mother! don't—don'ttake the babies away from me," she wailed. "I can't b—bearthat! I d—d—don't see how—I can—l—let you and Father—g—go, but oh! d—don't t—t—take the b—babies away from m—m—me! Aunt Mandy—a—and Liza will—t—take good care of them, a—and I will h—help; oh!—I will, Iwill! I d—don't care wh—what Uncle s—s—says! I d—don't care if I n—n—neverlearn—a—anything! I don't care if—I gr—grow up to b—be a d—dunce! I'm going—t—to help—t—take care of the b—b—babies!"
"Darling, darling! there, there! You will make yourself ill again! Listen to Mother a moment!"
Mrs. Selwyn was really alarmed, for never before had the child given way to such an outburst. She knew that Mary felt things more deeply than do most children of her age, and had dreaded the hour when she should be obliged to tell her the sad news. She saw that the little girl was much weaker after her illness than she had thought. By degrees, she quieted her, and then resolved to appeal to her generous nature.
"Of course, dear, Father will go alone to Italy rather than have you make yourself ill again. He loves you so much that he would suffer loneliness and many other things all his life if by so doing he could keep you well and happy. If Mother goes with him, shemusttake the babies. They are too young to be left with even so good a nurse as dear old Aunt Mandy. But I am going to let you decide whether I shall go or stay. I know that will be very, very hard for you to do, because you are not selfish; and I am perfectly sure of what your answer would be if you were a little stronger. I know my little bluebird too well to doubt it. But if you really feel that you cannot do without Father and Mother and the babies and Aunt Mandy—for, of course, I shall need her—you must not fear to tell me so. Now, I am going to put you to bed and give you some broth; and then I shall go away for a little while to let you have time to think."
The frail little arms went round her neck as Mary whispered, "No, no, Mother, I don't need time to think. I know now. I will stay," she gulped hard, "with Uncle. I'm sorry—I was so selfish and horrid, and that I said I wouldn't mind Uncle. I will, Mother, everything he tells me. But—but I'll just have to cry a little bit now."
When the Doctor went up to Mary's room after luncheon to make his usual visit, he found a very quiet little girl waiting for him. His sister had told him no more than was necessary of the scene an hour earlier, so that he was more than surprised to find the child in bed and oh, so tired!
"I fear that you stayed up too long this morning, little one. Better take a nap and not try to sit up again to-day. You are going to have company this afternoon. Can you guess who it is?"
"To-day is Saturday. Aunt Mary, Uncle?"
"Exactly. She and Sister Dominic are in town doing some shopping, and she called me up at the office to know at what hour they might see my patient. I told them to come about three o'clock. That will give you plenty of time for a little rest."
"Uncle—please put your head down." Her little arms clasped his neck, and she whispered close to his ear, "I love to be with you, but—but I just can't help wishing that I could go——"
"I know, dear, I know. I, too, wish that you were able to go—that we might both go; but you have no idea what it is going to mean to me to have you with me. I have so many lovely plans that I fear we shall never have time to carry them all out. One is about the pony you will learn to ride when we go South after Christmas to a beautiful, warm place where we shall almost live outdoors under such a bright blue sky that you may have to wear black spectacles. Green ones might be more to your taste, or those new style amber-colored ones."
"What is amber color, Uncle?"
"A deep, golden yellow. Oh, Ibegyour pardon! Yellow is not your favorite color, nor green, either."
"Nor black,either. If Imustwear glasses, they will have to be clear ones like Aunt Mandy's or blue ones."
"But black is not a color. It is the absence of all color. Do you know, it seems to me strange that your hair has escaped——"
"My hair escaped!" Mary felt her head. "Why, Uncle, it is on my head just as tight as ever. You frightened me. I thought it was flying away. I s'poseescapedhas more than one meaning just as so many words have. When I forgot to close the door of Dick's cage, and he flew out, Mother said he had escaped."
"In this case, I mean that I am surprised that you have not dyed your hair blue or bleached it white."
"Now, Uncle, you are just teasing me. Haveyouever seen anyone with blue hair?"
"I must admit that I have not. Such a person would soon make her fortune in a dime museum or in a side-show at a circus."
"You know very well, sir, that the promise doesn't mean that a person has to change the color of her hair and lips. Why, no one's face is pure white; and who ever heard of blue lips?"
"Two weeks ago, the lips of a certain person, not a thousand miles away, were as blue as I should ever care to see anyone's, and her face looked as white as the pillow. But I am glad to know that you do not intend to blue your hair. It brightens things up as a sudden burst of sunshine does on a gloomy day. Let me punch up that pillow for you, and then go to sleep just as fast as you can so as to be ready for Aunt Mary and Sister Dominic."
When Mary opened her eyes two hours later, the sound of voices in the next room told her that her visitors had arrived. Presently, her mother peeped in, and finding the little girl awake, propped her up against the pillows and put a fluffy white shawl about her shoulders.
This was Sister Madeline's first visit since Mary had begun to recover.
"I'm so sorry that I didn't know you were here those other times, Aunt Mary. Mother told me afterwards when the bad dreams went away. It seems strange that I had them nearly all the time then, and they never bother me now."
"That is a very good sign that you are much better. You will soon be able to spend the day with us at Maryvale. By the way, Elizabeth, where did you put that famous black bag at which you are always poking fun? Mary will have greater respect for it than you have when she sees what there is in it for her. Now," and Sister Madeline drew from her cloth bag a large oblong package, "can you guess what this is?"
"Some of Sister Wilfred's cookies?"
"Oh, dear, no! But remember that, Sister Dominic, for our next visit. You are so 'cold,' Mary, that I am sure you can never guess. Just see how your little friends spent their library hour last evening."
"Letters! and such a pile of them!"
"Yes, it will take you some time to read them. I was so afraid that the postman might object to bringing such a number to one little girl that I thought I had better carry them myself. Some of the children feared that they would not look like real letters; so they took the stamps from old envelopes to paste on theirs and made circles with spools for postmarks and asked some of the larger girls to print in them the names and dates. I am very sure that no little girl has ever received so many letters from distant lands. Here is one with the Cuban stamp, one from Brazil, several from Canada, one from China, one from Italy——"
"Oh, please let me look at that stamp, Aunt Mary—Now I shall know which letters are from Father and Mother the very minute the postman brings them," Mary murmured wistfully.
"Do you think, Sister, that the boy with our suit-case is lost? We had something else for Mary packed in a black suit-case, Elizabeth; and as we did not care to carry it about town with us, we sent a boy out here with it."
"It is safe in Sister Julia's room. The boy handed it to Liza with the message, 'For the Sister;' and as Sister Julia has returned to her convent for a few hours, we thought, of course, that she had sent back some clothing by him. I shall get it."
"Perhaps you will make a warmer guess this time, Mary," said Sister Dominic, placing the suit-case on a chair beside the bed. "I assure you that it is nothing Sister Julia would think of wearing."
"I guess books, Sister."
"The suit-case is not heavy enough for books, dear. Indeed," laughed Mrs. Selwyn, "I rather think that Aunt Mary is playing a joke on you."
"Not at all!" and Sister Madeline threw back the cover.
"Oh, oh! what beauties!"
Mary's eyes shone with delight at sight of the great mass of chrysanthemums—big, ragged yellow ones; fluffy pink ones; curly white ones; "and see, Mother, see the long sprays of little baby ones!"
"Dan has had great success with his chrysanthemums this year," explained Sister Madeline. "I tell him that they would win the prize at the flower show; but he insists that he raises his flowers for the altar, not for prizes."
"I think that is where these ought to be, Aunt Mary. Do you think Mr. Daniel would mind if Mother sends the big ones to Father Lacey for the altar, and keeps just the little ones for us?—the little white ones to put before Blessed Mother's statue, the pink ones for the dinner table, and the yellow ones in here to prove to Uncle that I do like yellow."
"I am quite sure that Dan would be pleased with your plan, dear."
"Then I shall pack the large ones in a box," said Mrs. Selwyn, "and Tom may leave them at the rectory when he returns after driving you to the ferry."
"Please thank Mr. Daniel, Aunt Mary, and the girls, too, for their letters; but tell them I am afraid that I can't answer them very soon."
"But the children do not expect you to answer those letters, Mary."
"I know the very thing! I shall ask Uncle to write one letter to all of them, and I shall tell him what to say. We can do the same thing to the girls in my class. Every one of them wrote to me, too, and said prayers for me while I was so sick."
Sunday evening found the trunks packed and strapped. Except for a while in the morning and afternoon, when Mary was resting, the whole family spent the day in her room. Perhaps it would have been better for the child if they had not done so; for the more she saw of her little sisters, the harder it became for her to think of parting with them. It seemed to her that the hours fairly flew, and as evening drew near, her poor little heart grew heavier and heavier. But she bore up bravely—so bravely that her mother was more than surprised. Then bedtime came; and Mrs. Selwyn herself, instead of the nurse, tucked the little girl in for the night and sat by the bedside until she thought Mary was asleep.
An hour later, she tiptoed into the room. All was quiet; but as she bent to give the child a last good-night kiss and to smooth her pillow, she found the little face wet with tears and the pillow soaked. Wrapping Mary in a blanket, she took her in her arms, and seating herself, rocked quietly for some time. The child's big wistful eyes never left her face. At last the mother spoke.
"When Father told me, dear, that he must go away for a year and found that you must remain at home, he made a plan to which I would not listen. He said that he would sail now, and that we should follow in June. I could not bear to think of his being alone in a strange country with none of his own near him for six or seven months; but neither can I bear to leave my little girl in such a state. I know that this is a very great trial for you, darling, and I fear that we are asking too much of you in your present weakness. So I think I had better place Father in our dear Lord's hands, and let him carry out his plan. Perhaps something will happen so that he need not be away so long; but if by the first of June he cannot return, we shall go to him. So try to sleep now, my darling. Mother will not leave you."
"But you must, youmust, Mother!" whispered Mary. "We would just die thinking of Father and how lonely he would be and—and everything. I won't cry any more—truly, I won't. I shall go to sleep just as fast as I can. Is it very late, Mother?"
"No, dear, only half-past nine."
"Then will you stay with me until I go to sleep? It will be only a little minute."
When Mary awoke the next morning, her father was sitting beside the bed, holding on his knee the very dearest doll she had ever seen. It was as large as a real baby, and its arms were stretched out to her. With a cry of delight, she stretched hers out, too, when—how it happened, Mary did not know—the doll was crying and waving its arms and kicking just as the twins did.
"Why—why—oh, the poor little thing! It must have the colic, Father."
Then something happened again, and dollie was once more smiling.
"Is it a live doll, Father?" whispered the little girl in wonder.
"No, pet. See this button at the back of its neck? Watch what happens when I push it."
"Oh, oh!Now, I know! Its head turns around inside its cap, and it has a crying face instead of hair at the back of its head. Father, wheredidyou find such a darling doll?"
"I happened to see it Saturday on my way from the bank to the steamship office. Mother had just telephoned me that our brave little daughter would not think of letting her old daddy live among strangers——"
"But—but Iwasn'tbrave, Father," came the protest in a choked voice. "Didn't Mother tell you how horrid I was?"
"No, dear; and I really cannot believe that you were horrid. I know that you must have felt just as I did when Uncle Frank said that you could not go with us. Sometimes on the spur of the moment, we say things that we do not really mean, and I am sure that is what you did. But here is something that will interest you—a fine kodak. We shall take pictures of the babies every week, and mail them to you, and Uncle will get you a new album to paste them in."
Shortly after luncheon, Aunt Mandy brought the babies in for the last time. Mary hugged them and kissed their rosy little faces over and over again as she whispered, "Take care of them, Aunt Mandy, oh, take care of them and of Father and Mother——"
"'Cose I will, honey chile! Why fo' yo' 'spects old mammy gwine 'long, I lak to know?"
Then her father and mother came; and Mary, winking very fast and swallowing hard, clung to them not daring to speak, but just drinking in every loving word which they uttered. They had hardly left the room when the Doctor appeared. Mary clenched her hands and tried to smile at him.
"They have gone downstairs, have they? I shall be back very soon, Goldilocks." Then, touched by the utter loneliness of the little figure in the big chair, he added, "Just as soon as I put them into the carriage. But you ought to be at a front window to wave to them. Will you please bring some of those sofa cushions, Sister?"
"But—Uncle," said Mary as he hurried with her through the hall, "I thought you were going to see them off."
"I did think of doing so, but I have changed my mind."
"No, Uncle, you must not stay just for me. Please go with them—please! But come back soon."
"I shall be back by three o'clock, little one," and he was gone.
Bravely the little girl tried to smile as she pressed her face close to the windowpane and threw a last kiss to her mother before she stepped into the carriage. Her father and uncle, each holding a baby, made them wave and kiss their tiny hands to her, and then passed them in to Mrs. Selwyn and Aunt Mandy. Another moment, and the door closed after the two men. Mary knelt on the sill with Sister Julia's strong arm to support her, and strained her eyes for the very last glimpse of the handkerchief fluttering from the carriage window. Then she sank upon the cushions, her frail little form shaking with the sobs she could no longer control.
Just before three o'clock, the Doctor returned. In spite of his own sadness, he had tried on his way home to remember the amusing things which he had seen at the docks so that he would have something cheerful to tell Mary. He made a special effort to whistle a lively tune as he mounted the stairs; but at the door of her room, it died on his lips.
"Why—why—" he was at the bedside in three strides.
"O Uncle! I thought you wouldnevercome!"
"But, dear, I stayed only long enough to see the steamer underway, as I thought you wished me to do. I did not even stop at my office on the way home. What is it? Are you in pain?"
"My head, Uncle."
The Doctor looked with questioning eyes at Sister Julia, who was bathing the child's head. She nodded toward the hall and soon followed him from the room.
"It is nothing more than I feared, Doctor. She has been under a greater strain for the past two days than anyone thought. I have seldom seen such self-control in older people, and certainly did not look for it in a frail child like Mary."
"I knew that she was making an immense effort to keep up, and I feared the result; but this—have you taken her temperature, Sister?"
"Fifteen minutes ago, it was one hundred and two."
"Hm, I thought so. However, as a mere cold throws her into quite a fever, I am not alarmed yet. I shall stay with her for awhile, and you had better take a few hours rest. You will get very little of that to-night."