Mr. Pall prided himself on the reverent manner in which he performed his necessary funereal duties. He always dressed in black, and sat, handkerchief in hand, in the middle of his coffin ware-room, in a prepared state of mind to receive customers.
He had every variety of coffin—from plain pine-wood up to the most polished mahogany and rosewood. His latest invention was "the casket," daintily lined throughout with white satin, and the lid so constructed as to expose the whole person instead of the face only, as in more common coffins. This was what Mr. Pall called "a dress coffin," and was perfectly consistent with any variety of adornment in the shroud that the fancy of grief-stricken affection might suggest.
When Watkins entered, Mr. Pall sat complacently in his chair amid his piles of coffins, with his hands solemnly folded over his handkerchief. He would have scorned to disgrace his profession, like many others of the craft, by reading the newspapers in his sanctum, smoking a cigar, or in any other way conveying the idea that he had lost sight of his mournfulcalling. We are not bound, therefore, to believe, on the authority of a prying policeman's limited vision through the key-hole, that when the shop was closed, Mr. Pall nightly drew from an old-fashioned coffin a bottle of whisky and a box of cigars, wherewith to console himself for the day's solemn and self-inflicted penance.
"Good morning, m-a-a-m," drawled the dolorous Pall.
"'Hark! from the tombs a doleful sound,Mine ears attend the cry.'
"'Hark! from the tombs a doleful sound,Mine ears attend the cry.'
"'Hark! from the tombs a doleful sound,Mine ears attend the cry.'
"'Hark! from the tombs a doleful sound,
Mine ears attend the cry.'
"Want my mournful services, ma'am? I shall take a melancholy pleasure in showing you my coffins. Age of the corpse, ma'am?" and Pall used his white handkerchief.
"Six years."
"'Death strikes down all,Both great and small—'
"'Death strikes down all,Both great and small—'
"'Death strikes down all,Both great and small—'
"'Death strikes down all,
Both great and small—'
"Place of residence, ma'am?
"Orphan Asylum, eh?" repeated the disappointed Pall, as his vision of the costly casket pattern faded away; "pine coffin, of course—no satin lining or silver nails—no carriages—night burial, Potters' Field, etc.
"'Lie in the dust,We all must.'
"'Lie in the dust,We all must.'
"'Lie in the dust,We all must.'
"'Lie in the dust,
We all must.'
"Tell the afflicted matron of the Orphan Asylumthat I will send up directly and take the deceased child's measure."
And Pall flourished his white handkerchief as long as was consistent with the demise of a charity orphan, and the small sum invested in the pine coffin.
It was the day for the committee to make their stated visit of examination at the Asylum. Timmins had swept the school-room floor very carefully, scoured off the black-board, dusted the benches, and placed a bunch of flowers on Mrs. Markham's desk, just as that lady entered on her tour of inspection.
"How on earth came that green trash on my desk?" asked the offended matron.
"I did it, ma'am, to make it look kind o' cheerful like;" said Timmins, a little abashed at exhibiting such a weakness in such an august presence. "It looks so dry and hard here, and children, poor things, is fond of flowers," and Timmins sighed as she thought of poor Tibbie.
"Are you in your dotage, Timmins, to bring such a frivolous thing as a bouquet into a school-room? who ever heard of such a folly?" and Mrs. Markham sent it spinning through the nearest window.
Timmins sighed again, and rubbed off one of the benches with a corner of her apron; then, looking up as if a bright thought had struck her, she said:
"They say, ma'am, that this world is nothing but a school for us, and yet God has strewn flowers all over it. He must have done it for something."
"Pshaw!" exclaimed Mrs. Markham, in extreme disgust; "go, bring in the chairs for the committee, and then ring the bell for the children."
Clang—clang—clang went the bell, and in wound the mournful procession; all habited alike, all with the same listless air, flabby-looking limbs, and leaden complexions.
"Seems to me you look uncommonly stupid," remarked the matron, by way of encouragement to the children; "see if you can't throw a little animation into your faces."
The poor little victims stared open their eyes, and made an ineffectual attempt at a smile, more painful to witness than their former listlessness.
"Stand up straighter, can't you?"
The little crooked spines made a feeble and ineffectual attempt to remedy the irreparable injury Mrs. Markham had inflicted upon them.
"Now, let every toe touch that crack on the floor.
"Now, cross your arms behind, every one of you.
"There—don't you stir a hair till the committee come in; it is now eleven; they will be here at quarter before twelve; now mind what I tell you about throwing a little animation into your faces;" and Mrs.Markham having laid the ferule in sight, seated herself in an easy position in a very comfortable chair, put a checkerberry lozenge in her mouth, and prepared herself to punish the first child whose overstrained limbs relaxed from weariness.
Every one knows how much more easily one can walk a mile than stand perfectly still, in the same position, for fifteen minutes; and no one who has ever seen the martyrdom which restless childhood is compelled to undergo, in this respect (even in our best schools), sometimes in the scorching vicinity of a red-hot stove, sometimes in a shivering draught, for an hour or more, while the teacher, comfortably seated, leisurely experiments upon their intellects, can help wishing that he might have it in his power to subject thoughtless teachers, and as thoughtlessly criminal parents, to the same daily and intolerable torture; can help wishing that, having placedthemin such positions, he could have liberty to punish them for the non-committal of tasks which their aching heads and limbs have rendered impossible.
Let every parent satisfy himself or herself, bypersonal inspection, with regard to these things; not on farce exhibition days, but by unexpected calls, at such times as he or she may see fit; and let any teacher who would debar a parent from such an inalienable right, be deposed from his station.
Many a grave now filled with moldering dust wouldhave been tenantless, had parents, not trusting to show-circulars, satisfied themselves on these points, instead of merely paying the term-bills when due.
"Rose!"
The little drooping head righted itself; the child had fallen asleep; a thump on the head with the ever-ready ferule brought on a head-ache, which rendered a repetition of the offense improbable.
"Quarter before twelve."
Markham slides her little gold watch back under her basque. The committee have arrived. Now she smiles all over. Her hypocritical voice is pitched to the company key. She glides round the benches, and calls to "Rose, dear," and "Mabel, dear," and "Anna, dear," patting them on their shrinking shoulders with her serpent touch.
Now one of the committee makes a prayer, and thanks God that these dear children, rescued from sinks of pollution and crime, and from depraved parents, have here found a Christian home, under the guardianship of a mother in Israel; he prays that God will reward her abundantly for her self-sacrificing devotion to them, and that the children may feel unfeignedly grateful for all their blessings.
The committee then seat themselves, and Markham asks a list of questions, cut and dried beforehand, to which parrot tongues respond. The children then wail out a hymn, composed by a friend of Mrs.Markham's in which they are made to express to that lady their affectionate gratitude, as well as to the philanthropic and discriminating committee present, who blow their noses sympathetically, and wipe their spectacles. The children are then dismissed to their bread and molasses, and so the farce ends.
(Pity, that the munificent bequests of great and good men to such institutions as these, should, for want of a little investigation, sometimes be so sadly misappropriated.)
The next day the readers ofThe Morning Budgetare informed, with a pretty show of statistics, of the flourishing condition of that humane institution theCharity Orphan Asylum, and of the spiritual and temporal well-to-do-a-tiveness of its inmates, under the judicious supervision of its energetic, self-denying, and Christian matron, Mrs. Clara Markham; who forthwith orders a dozen copies ofThe Morning Budget, which she distributes among her friends, reserving one for a fixture on her parlor table, to edify chance visitors.
Meanwhile little Tibbie sleeps peacefully in her pine coffin in the Potters Field, and Rose sits up in her little cot, while all around her sleep, and stretches out her imploring arms to the peaceful stars that shimmer through the window.
On the evening of examination-day, Mr. Balch, as usual, takes his leave with the rest of the committee, but after seeing them safely round the corner, returnsas usual, to tea with Markham in the cosy little parlor; and Markham smiles on him as only an unappropriated elderly female knows how; and Mr. Balch, what with the smile and the Hyson, considers Webster and Worcester united too meager to express his feelings, and falls back upon Markham's hand, upon which he makes an unmistakable record of his bachelor emotions.
"Mercy on us! you don't expect me to sleep in that room, do you?" asked Timmins of Mrs. Markham, as they stopped before the door of the room where little Tibbie died.
"I wouldn't do it for a purse of gold. I know I should see her ghost; oh, it would be awful;" and Timmins put her hands before her face, as if the ghost were looming up in the depths of the dimly-lighted entry.
"Nonsense!" said Mrs. Markham; "how superstitious you are! I am going to sleep there with you."
"Are you? Well, that alters the case," and Mrs. Markham led the way, while Timmins followed her with distended eyes.
"I really can't help thinking shewillcome back," said Timmins, as Mrs. Markham extinguished the light and crept into bed. "I can't seem to get over it, about her dying all alone. How very thin she was. Did you ever think she was unhappy, Mrs. Markham?"
"I don't think any thing about it, Timmins. I go to bed for the purpose of sleeping;" and turning herback upon Timmins, she buried her frilled night-cap in the pillow.
"Don't cuddie up so close, Timmins," said Mrs. Markham, about ten minutes after; "you make me insufferably hot."
"Lor', ma'am, I can't help it; I can't see nothing, and you won't speak to me, and how am I going to know that you are there?"
"Guess at it," said Markham, giving another hitch away toward the wall, and soon her sonorous breathing announced her departure to the land of dreams.
"Goodness alive! if she ain't asleep," said Timmins; "what if Tibbieshouldcome back? Oh dear! I am sure I am sorry enough I left her so. I'll put my head under the bed-clothes. No I won't—because if itiscoming, Mrs. Markham must wake up, for I shan't be good for nothing; I never spoke to a ghost in my life."
"What's—that?" she whispered hoarsely, as, by the dim light of the street-lamp on the window-glass, she saw the door open slowly, and a little figure dressed in white, glide in. "Oh Lor'—oh Mrs. Markham—(griping that lady by the arm)—it's come! Hist—there—there—oh—oh, it's cominghere," whispered Timmins, as Mrs. Markham, now thoroughly roused, trembled as violently as Timmins, and both made a shuddering plunge under the bed-clothes.
"Youlook out, Timmins?"
"No—you, Mrs. Markham!" and both night-caps were thrust carefully from under the sides of the raised sheets.
There was the little figure—it was no illusion—flitting, gliding about the room; now here, now more distant, and now, with its pale, wan face and outstretched arms, it approaches the bed. Timmins and Markham both jump shrieking from it through the door, and fall senseless upon the entry floor.
The wicked flee when none pursueth.
Poor innocent little Rose! Waked suddenly from her somnambulistic sleep, she stands gazing about her, the unconscious avenger of little Tibbie's sufferings, and her own.
Years pass on. Some of the children have been bound out, others Death has more mercifully indentured into his own service. Rose has grown tall. Her step is slow and feeble, and her form has lost its roundness; but her eyes are beautiful from the light within, and her wee mouth has a grieved look which makes the beholder long to clasp her to his heart. Even the ugly charity-school bonnet which Markham has just tied under her chin, can not make her look ugly.
Dolly stands waiting to take her to Difftown; she has no bundle to pack up, she has no regrets at leaving the Asylum, she has no hope for the future, for she has looked into Dolly's face with her clear calm eyes, and read her doom.
"Rose, come and kiss me, darling, before you go," said Markham. "I always feelsomelancholy," she added, in an aside, to Dolly, "at parting with these dear children. It is quite impossible not to feel a motherly interest and solicitude after being with them so long. Good-by, dear Rose—don'tquiteforget me."
Rose thought there was little fear of that, as she followed Dolly out of the house.
"A very nice woman, that Mrs. Markham," said Dolly, as they walked to the stable where she had left her horse and chaise, "a very nice woman."
Rose made no reply.
"I dare say though, you don't like her at all, do you?"
"No," said Rose.
"Why not, I should like to know?" asked Dolly, tartly.
"I had rather not tell, if you please," answered Rose.
The civil manner in which the refusal was couched irritated Dolly.
"You are as like your mother as two peas," said she, angrily; "you look just like her, and speak just like her."
"Do you think so?" asked the child, her whole face brightening.
"I don't know why you should look so pleased about it. Maria was a thriftless creature. No learning but book learning."
"Please don't speak so of my mamma," and the tears stood in Rose's eyes.
"I shall speak just as I please of her," said Dolly; "she was my sister before she was your mother, by a long spell, and I don't know why I am bound to loveher for that reason, when there was nothing to love in her."
"But there was," said Rose. "She was sweet, and gentle, and loving, and oh, Aunt Dolly, she was every thing tome," and the hot tears trickled through Rose's slender fingers.
"Fiddle-faddle! Now ain't you ashamed, you great baby, to be bawling here in the street, as if I was some terrible dragon making off with you? That's all the thanks I get for taking you out of the church-yard and putting you in that nice Orphan Asylum."
"If you had only left me in the church-yard," sobbed Rose.
Dolly was quite too angry to reply. The very bows on her bonnet trembled with rage.
After a pause, she turned round, and laying her hands on Rose's trembling shoulders, said,
"Now, look here, Rose Clark, now just take a fair and square look at me. I don't look much like yourgentlemother, as you call her, do I?"
"No, no," sobbed Rose, with a fresh burst of tears.
"Well, I ain't like her in any thing. I ain't a-going to pet you, nor make of you, nor spoil you, as she did. You are bound out to me, and you have got your bread and butter to earn. I have no taste for cry-babies nor idlers, and if you don't work and mind too, the committee of the Orphan Asylum shall know the reason why; you may find worse quarters than mymilliner's shop," and Dolly stopped, not that the subject, but her breath, was exhausted.
The morning was calm and serene, and the road through which Dolly's old horse plodded, very lovely. There had been heavy rains for days before, and now, as they left the city behind them, the sun shone out, and bright drops hung glistening on the trees, shrubs, and grass blades, and the spicy pines and way-side flowers sent forth their sweetest odors. The little birds, too, came out, pluming their wings for a sunny flight far—far into the clear blue ether, whither Rose longed to follow them.
Sucha burst of song as they went!
It thrilled through every fibre of the child's frame.
Rose glanced at the frowning face beside her. There was no appreciation there. No, Dolly was thinking how much work she could get out of the feeble child by her side, the helpless orphan in whose veins her own blood flowed.
On they went—the old horse, and Dolly, and Rose.
Wreaths of mist rolled up from the valleys, crept along the hill-sides, and were eagerly drunk up by the sun's warm breath, leaving the earth fresh and fair as when it first came from the forming hand of God.
Cottages they passed, nestled among the trees, on whose happy thresholds children clambered on a mother's knee.
Churches too, whose glistening spires pointed tothat Heaven where Rose longed to be at rest; and far, far away, the silver lake gleamed in the bright sunlight; oh, how gladly, on its peaceful bosom, would the child have floated away!
"For mercy's sake, what are you thinking about," asked Dolly, "with that curious look in your eyes, and the color coming and going in your face that way?"
"I was thinking," said the child, her eyes still fixed on the silver lake, "how beautiful God made the earth, and how sad it was there should be—"
"Whatnow?" asked Dolly tartly.
"Any sorrow in it," said Rose.
"The earth is well enough, I s'pose," said Dolly. "I never looked at it much, and as to the rest of your remark, I hope you will remember it when you get home, and not plague my life out, when I want you to work. Let's see; you will have the shop to sweep out, the window shutters to take down and put up, night and morning, errands to run, sewing, washing, ironing, and scrubbing to do, dishes to wash, beside a few other little things.
"Of course you will have your own clothes to make and to mend, the sheets and towels to hem, and be learning meanwhile to wait on customers in the shop; I shan't trust you with the money-drawer till I know whether you are honest."
Rose's face became crimson, and she involuntarily moved further away from Dolly.
"None of that now," said that lady, "such airs won't go down with me. It is a pity if I can't speak to my own sister's child."
Rose thought this was the only light in which she was likely to view the relationship, but she was too wise to reply.
"There's no knowing," said Dolly, "what you may have learned among those children at the Asylum."
"You put me there, Aunt Dolly," said Rose.
"Of course I put you there, but did I tell you to learn all the bad things you saw?"
"You didn't tell me not; but I never would take what belonged to another."
"Shut up now—you are just like your mother ex—actly;" and Dolly stopped here, considering that she could go no further in the way of invective.
And now they were nearing the village. Rose thought it looked much prettier at a distance than near.
There was an ugly, dirty tavern in the main street, on whose gaudy sign-board was painted "The Rising Sun;" and on whose piazza were congregated knots of men, smoking, chewing, swearing, and bargaining, by turns; for it was cattle-fair Monday, and the whole population was astir.
Herds of cattle; sheep, cows, calves, oxen, and pigs, divided off into little crowded pens, stood bleating and lowing in the blazing sun, half deadwith thirst, while their owners were chaffering about prices.
On the opposite side of the street were temporary booths, whose owners were making the most of the day by opening oysters, and uncorking bottles for the ravenous farmers; little boys stood by, greedily devouring the dregs of the glasses whenever they could dodge a boxed ear. A few sickly trees were planted here and there, at the sides of the road, which seemed to have dwindled away in disgust at their location. On a small patch of green, dignified by the name of the Park, an ill-assorted, heterogeneous company were drilling for 'lection, presenting arms, etc., in a manner that would have struck Napoleon dumb.
Dolly's house was on the further side of "the Park," a two story wooden tenement, of a bright red color, planted on a sand bank close to the road side, unornamented with a single green thing, if we may except some gawky boys who were eyeing the tin soldiers and peppermint candy in the milliner's window, and who had been attentively listening to the swearing cattle-dealers and picking up stray lobster-claws which good fortune had thrown in their way.
"Thather?" whispered Daffodil (Dolly's factotum), pointing to Rose, as she assisted Dolly to alight. Dolly nodded.
"Why—she'd be a real beauty if she was only alittle fatter, and didn't stoop, and her eyes weren't so big, and she wasn't so pale."
"I don't see any beauty," mumbled Dolly, "she looks exactly like her mother."
"O no—of course she isn't a beauty," said Daffy, retracting her involuntary mistake, "she don't favor you in the least Dolly; I said she would be pretty if—"
"Never mind your ifs now, I'm as hungry as a catamount, give me something to eat, and then I'll talk; some of that cold ham, and warm over some tea; goodness, how faint I am, that young one has tired me all out argufying—she's just like her mother—exactly."
"Shall I set a plate for her too?" asked Daffy.
"Of course not, till I get through; children always cram all before them, there wouldn't be a mortal thing left for me—let her wait till I have done. Rose—here! take off your bonnet, sit down and unpack those boxes, don't break the strings now, untie the knots carefully, the strings may do to use again, and don't litter up the shop floor, and don't——Lord-a-mercy, Daffy, if she ain't undone the wrong boxes, I knew she would."
"T-h-o-s-e," she thundered in Rose's ear, pulling her along to the right pile, and bending her over till her nose touched the boxes; "now see if you can see them, and don't make another mistakeshortof ten minutes," and Dolly threw off her bonnet and sat down to her tea.
Rose stooped down as she was bid, and commenced her task, but the excitement she had undergone, so different from the monotonous life she had led, the heat of the day, and her insufficient breakfast before starting, brought on a sudden vertigo, and as she stooped to execute her task, she fell forward upon the floor.
"Sick now, the very first day," exclaimed Dolly, turning to Daffy, "now ain't that enough to provoke any body? Her mother used to be just so, always fainting away at every thing; she's got to get cured of that trick; get up Rose!" and Dolly shook her roughly by the arm.
"I really think she can't," said Daffy, looking at her white lips and relaxed limbs.
Dolly seized a pitcher of water near, and dashed it with rather more force than was necessary in the child's face.
"That's warm water," said Daffy.
"How did I know that?" muttered Dolly, "bring some cold then;" and Dolly repeated the application, at a different temperature.
Rose shivered slightly, but did not open her eyes.
"She intends taking her own time to come to," said Dolly, "and I have something else to do, beside stand by to wait for it."
"But it won't do for her to lie here," said Daffy. "Suppose Mrs. John Meigs should come in after that new bonnet of hern? It don't look well."
Dolly appreciated that argument, and Daffy had permission to carry her out of sight, into a back sitting-room, on the same floor.
"Shedoes itremarkable, if sheismaking believe," soliloquized Daffy, as she laid Rose on the bed; "and sheispretty, too, I can say it now Dolly isn't round, pretty as a waxen doll, and not much heavier; she is not fit for hard work anyhow, with those bit-fingers. I shouldn't wonder if Dolly is too hard on the child, but I daren't say so. What can that little scar be on her left temple?" and Daffy lifted the curls to look at that indelible proof of Mrs. Markham's affection on Rose's initiation day.
"Well, she's a pretty cretur!" said Daffodil again, as she took one more glance at her from the half open door. "I couldn't find it in my heart to speak cross to the poor motherless thing; but it won't do for me to stay up here."
"Shall I make a cup of tea for Rose, agin she wakes up?" asked Daffy.
"Sick folks ought not to eat and drink," said Dolly, sarcastically; "no, of course not; clear away the table, and put things to rights here. Our Maria was always acting just so; if she didn't have her breakfast ready to put in her mouth the minute she got out of bed, she'd up and faint away; she'd faint if it was hot, and she'd faint if it was cold. She'd faint if she wasglad, and faint if she was sorry. She was always a-fainting; I never fainted in my life."
"Sisters are different, you know;" said Daffy, polishing a tea-cup with a towel.
"I believe you," said Dolly. "It is lucky they are; I am glad I ain't such a miserable stick; but Rose has got to get out of that," added she.
"You don't really believe she, nor Maria, as you call her, could help it, do you?" asked Daffy.
"Help a fiddlestick," said Dolly, jerking down her pea-green paper window-curtain; "ridikilis!"
Daffy knew that word was Dolly's ultimatum, and pursued the subject no further.
"Aunt Dolly," said Rose, timidly, about a month after the events above related, "Aunt Dolly"—and here Rose stopped short.
"Out with it," said Dolly, "if you've got any thing to say. You make me as nervous as an eel, twisting that apron-string, and Aunt Dolly-ing such an eternity; if you have got any thing to say, out with it."
"May I go to the evening school?" asked Rose, "it is a free school."
"Well—you are not free to go, if it is; you know how to read and write, and I have taught you how to make change pretty well, that is all you need formypurposes."
"But I should like to learn other things, Aunt Dolly."
"What other things, I'd like to know? that's your mother all over. She never was content without a book at the end of her nose. She couldn't have earned her living to have saved her life, if she hadn't got married."
"It was partly to earn my living I wanted to learn, Aunt Dolly; perhaps I could be a teacher."
"Too grand to trim caps and bonnets like your Aunt Dolly, I suppose," added she, sneeringly; "it is quite beneath a charity orphan, I suppose."
"No," said Rose; "but I should like to teach, better."
"Well, you won't do it; never—no time. So there's all there is to that: now take that ribbon and make the bows to old Mrs. Griffin's cap—the idea of wanting to be a school-teacher when you have it at your fingers' ends to twist up a ribbon so easy—it is ridikilis. Did Miss Snow come here last night, after I went out, for her bonnet?"
"Yes," answered Rose.
"Did you tell her that it was all finished but the cap frill?" asked Dolly.
"No; because I knew that it was not yet begun, and I could not tell a—a—"
"Lie! I suppose," screamed Dolly, putting her face very close to Rose's, as if to defy her to say the obnoxious word; "is that it."
"Yes," said Rose, courageously.
"Good girl—good girl" said Dolly; "shall have a medal, so it shall;" and cutting a large oval out of a bit of pasteboard, and passing a twine string through it, she hung it round her neck—"Good little Rosy-Posy—just like its conscientious mamma."
"I wish I were half as good as my mamma," said Rose, with a trembling voice.
"I suppose you think that Aunt Dolly is a great sinner!" said that lady.
"We are all great sinners, are we not?" answered Rose.
"All but little Rosy Posy;" sneered Dolly, "sheis perfect, only needs a pair of wings to take her straight up to heaven."
"Many a true word is spoken in jest," muttered Daffy, as she waxed the end of a bit of sewing silk, behind the counter.
Mr. Clifton, the minister of Difftown village was one of those few clergymen who possessed of decided talent was yet content to labor in an humble sphere. Many of his brother clergymen had left their country parishes to become stars in cities. Some, unspoiled by the breath of applause, had laid their honors meekly at the Saviour's feet; others, inflated with pride and self-conceit, preached soft things to those who built them palaces of ease, and healed the hurt of the daughter of God's people slightly.
Mr. Clifton feared the test. Appreciation is as dear to the sanctified as the unsanctified heart. Itwerepleasant to see the heart's dear ones, fitted by nature to enjoy the refinements of life, in full possession of them; it were pleasant to have daily intercourse with the large circle of the gifted who congregate in cities—but what shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his own soul? Mr. Clifton felt that with his ardent social and impulsive temperament, his quiet village parish, with its home endearments, was most favorable to his growth in grace; and so, turning a deaf ear tothe Syren voices which would have called him away, he cheerfully broke the bread of life, year after year, to his humble flock.
It was Sabbath evening—Mr. Clifton lay upon the sofa, suffering under one of those torturing head-aches which excessive mental excitement was sure to bring on. He loved his calling—it was not mere lip service for him to expound the word of God, and teach its sacred truths—the humblest among his people knew this; the tremor in his voice, the moisture in his eye, told their own eloquent tale. There must have been something to enchain those whose active limbs, never still during the other days of the week from dawn till dark, could sit on those narrow seats and never droop with uneasiness or sleep.
But the physical reaction was too apt to come to the delicately strung frame; and with closed eyelids, Mr. Clifton lay upon the sofa in the parlor of the little parsonage, while his wife bent over him, bathing his aching temples.
The parsonage parlor! how difficult to furnish it to suit every carping eye, for there were those, even in Mr. Clifton's parish, as in all others, whom his blameless life and welling sympathies could neither appease nor conciliate.
The parsonage parlor! The father of Mary Clifton would gladly have filled it with luxuries for his only daughter; but Mary shook her little head, and plantedher little foot firmly on the plain Kidderminster carpet, and sat down contentedly in the bamboo rocking-chair, and hung the pretty pictures her girlhood had cherished in a spare room up-stairs, and looked round upon the bare walls of the parlor without a murmur of dissatisfaction.
Flowers she still clung to. The parsonage parlor was never without them. They were on the breakfast and tea-table—sometimes but a single blossom, for Mary had little time to cull them—sometimes only a green branch or sprig, whose wondrously beautiful leaves, shaded with the nicest skill, had given her a thrill of pleasure—sometimes a bunch of simple clover—sometimes a tuft of moss, or a waving corn tassel, mixed with spears of oats and grass-blades.
Mr. Clifton loved Mary all the better that she loved these things; and when she came to him with her blue eye beaming, and her cheek flushed with pleasure, and held up to him some tiny floral treasure, whose beauty no eye less spiritual than her's could have discerned, and pointed out its delicate tinting, he thanked God her heart could be made happy by such pure, innocent, and simple pleasures.
But it was at such times as I have alluded to, when Mr. Clifton sank under his pastoral duties, that Mary's love shone forth the brightest. On the Sabbath eve of which we speak, his eyes were closed, but he heard the rustle of her dress and her light foot-fall on thecarpet. He felt her fragrant breath upon his cheek, and the touch of her soft fingers charming the fever from his temples. Gradually it crept away, yielding to her magnetic touch, and the smile came back to her husband's lip, and the beam to his languid eye. And now the healing cup of tea was prepared, and the little stand with its tray set before him, and Mary herself sweetened it, more with the smile on her lip and the love-beam in her eye than with the big lump of sugar she dropped into it; and as her husband drained the cup and laid his head back again upon the cushions, he thanked God, as many a convalescent has done, for the untold wealth of love which sickness may draw forth.
"Did you see that sweet child, George, in Dolly Smith's pew to-day?" asked Mary. "Her little face quite fascinated me. It was as sad as it was sweet. I fancied the child must have known sorrow; perhaps be motherless," and Mary kissed her own little blue-eyed baby. "You know, George, things sometimes come to me like a revelation. I am sure that child's heart is sore. When you read the hymn I saw the tears standing in her eyes, but then your voice is so musical, George, it might have been from excess of pleasure."
"Foolish little wife," said her husband; "as if every body saw me through your eyes, and heard me with your partial ears."
"Well, be that as it may," said Mary, "I want you to call at Dolly's and see that child; get her into my Sabbath-school class if you can, and if she has a sorrow, we will try to lighten it."
Not the least difficult part of a clergyman's duty is his round of parochial calls. They must be rightly timed with regard to the domestic arrangements of each family. This he is supposed to know by a sort of intuition. They must not be too infrequent. He must remember the number of the inmates, and be sure to inquire after the new baby. He must stay no longer at Mrs. Wheeler's than he did at Mrs. Brown's. He must swallow, at any physical cost, whatever is set before him in the way of eating or drinking.
Mr. Clifton was fully aware of all these parochial shoals, and, as far as mortal man could do it, steered clear of shipwreck; but "offenses will come," and Dolly was at the wash-tub, up to her elbows in soapsuds, when "the minister" was announced by the breathless Daffy, who was unaware that Monday is generally the day when all clergymen turn their backs upon the study and recruit their exhausted energies by locomotion.
"Why, in the name of common sense, couldn't he have called Saturday?" asked Dolly, hastily, wipingthe suds from her parboiled fingers; "then I had on my green silk, and should as lief have seen him as not; but ministers never have any consideration. Daffy—Daffy, here—where's my scalloped petticoat and under-sleeves? I dare say now that the sitting-room center-table is all awry. Daffy, is the Bible on the light stand? and the hymn-book too? Hand me my silk apron trimmed with the pink bows, and get my breast-pin quick, for goodness' sake; men prink forever themselves, but they never can wait a minute for a woman to dress; how do I look, Daffy? I do wish people had sense enough to stay away of a Monday morning. Don't let these calicos lay soaking in the tub, now, till I come back; give 'em a wring and hang 'em out."
"Good morning, Mr. Clifton," said Dolly, dropping a bobbing courtesy; "it is quite a pleasure to see you."
"Thank you, Miss Dolly," replied the minister, with a gravity truly commendable, when the fact is taken into consideration that he had heard every syllable of the foregoing conversation, through the thin partition; "thank you, Miss Dolly."
"Yes, I was just saying to Daffy," resumed Dolly, "how long it was since you called here, and how welcome you were at any time, when you feltinclinedto come. I don't think it at all strange that you should prefer calling oftener at Lawyer Briggs's and SquireBeadle's, than at my poor place. I know it is hardly fit to ask a clergyman into."
"Lawyer Briggs and Squire Beadle are my wife's relatives, you know, Miss Dolly."
"Oh, I wasn't complaining, at all," said Dolly; "they are eddicated people, it isn't at all strange; how's your folks?"
"Very well, I thank you; the baby is getting through his teeth bravely."
"I saw Mrs. Clifton go into Mrs. Messenger's the other day," said Dolly. "I see she has herfavoritesin the parish."
"Mrs. Messenger's little boy was taken in a fit," said Mr. Clifton, "and they sent over in great haste for my wife."
"Ah," said Dolly, "well, I didn't blame her, of course not; I wouldn't have you think so. Mrs. Messenger is considered very genteel here in the village; Mrs. Messenger and I are two very different persons."
"I see you brought me a new parishioner last Sunday," said Mr. Clifton, glad to change the conversation.
"Yes; she is a poor child whom I took out of pity to bring up; her mother is dead, and so I offered her a home."
"That's right," said Mr. Clifton, who had his own views about Dolly's motives. "I hope she will attendthe Sabbath-school; Mrs. Clifton, I know, would like her to be in her class."
Dolly's countenance fell. "Well, I don't know about that, though I'm obleeged to Mrs. Clifton. I don't think Rose would be willing to go."
"She might be shy at first," said the minister, "but my wife has quite a gift at drawing out children's hearts. I think little Rose would soon love her."
"I don't think she will be able to go," said Dolly, coldly; "but I'll think of it."
"Do," replied Mr. Clifton, "and perhaps you would allow her sometimes to run over and see the baby and the garden. Children are sociable little creatures, you know. Is she fond of flowers?"
"I guess not," said Dolly. "I am sure I never could see any use in them, except to make artificial ones by, to trim bonnets."
Mr. Clifton smiled, in spite of himself, at this professional view of the subject. "Well, the baby then," he added; "it is just beginning to be interesting. I think she would like the baby."
"She don't seem to have much inclination to go about," answered Dolly, "and it is not best to put her up to it; home is the best place for children."
Ay,home, thought Mr. Clifton, as Rose's sweet sad eyes and pale face passed before him.
"Well, good morning, Miss Dolly; perhaps, after all, you will change your mind about the little girl."
"Good morning, Mr. Clifton," and Dolly bobbed a succession of little courtesys, and avoided answering his last remark. "Good morning, Mr. Clifton; thank you even for ashortvisit, but I don't complain. It is a poor place, after all, to invite a clergyman into."
"I think I see Rose going to Sabbath-school," said Dolly, as she folded up her finery, put it away, rolled up her sleeves and went back to the wash-tub; "I think I seehergoing off to Sunday-school and me doing up the work; visiting at the minister's house too; 'baby and flowers,' and all that: she'd be so set up in a fortnight that there would be no getting along with her: all sorts of notions put in her head, instead of thinking herself well off here as she is, with her head under shelter, ten to one she would imagine she was terribly abused. No—Rose don't make any acquaintances if I can help it, and as to Sunday-school, there's the Bible, she might as well study it in one place as another; there's something behind all this; I verily believe that child is going to bewitch folks, just as her mother did before her; the amount of it is, they took a fancy to her, Sunday, in meetin'; Rose is just like her mother exactly;shealways looked just so innocent, as if she didn't know that she was—(Dolly couldn't sayprettyeven to herself, so she added—artful). No, that child shan't go any where, nor see any body, nor do any thing, but work for me;"and Dolly gave the towel she was wringing out, as vigorous a twist as if it had been Rose's neck.
The kind-hearted clergyman and his wife made many after attempts to show Rose some little kindness, but Dolly was always sure to out-general them, and fearing at last that the situation of the child might be made still more irksome by their persistence, they reluctantly confined themselves to sympathetic glances, and nods, when they met her; and this was much to poor Rose, for Dolly's voice grew each day harsher and colder, and Rose's future, hour by hour, looked more dark and rayless.
And now the minister and his gentle wife had their own sorrow to bear.
The baby was dead.
There are those to whom that phrase conveys but little meaning; there are others whose every heart-string thrills to it. "The baby" may not be pretty to any, save those who gave it being. Its first smile, its first word, its first tottering step, are trifles all to the busy world without; but ah, not in the little home circle: not tohimwho contending all day long with the jostling world of trade, sickened and disgusted with its trickeries and overreaching, selfishness, and duplicity, weary with the clamorous din of traffic, crosses at length his own peaceful threshhold, and sitting down by that little cradle, bends a brow seamed with care, over the little sleeper, with heaven's own smile upon its lip, heaven's own purity on its baby brow.
Not toher; to whom its faintest smile were reward enough for mortal pangs and throes; its faintest wailof pain loud enough to drown the united call of hunger, thirst, and weariness.
Not tothosewho, folding it to theirunitedhearts, say—Our baby.
Istheirlove the less when disease lays its withering finger on the roses of its cheek and lip? Can they spare "the baby" even though other children cluster round the hearth? And when death's shadow falls, can they forget the night-watch nestling of that little velvet cheek? the imploring look of that fading, upturned eye? Can such chords be rudely snapped without a jarring discord? No,letthem weep; Jesus wept.
Inexpressibly dreadful is the touch of careless fingers upon the loved dead; the careless robing and unrobing of limbs in life so dearly cherished, so delicately draped.
Inexpressibly beautiful are the services weeping love jealously renders to the departed; bearing on its own shoulders to its last resting-place the coffin and the pall, lowering it carefully, reverently, as if the pulseless heart within would be pained by a stranger touch.
It was Mary Clifton's own fingers which shrouded the baby; it was the father's own hands which placed it in the coffin, it was in their own arms by the light of the quiet stars, it was borne to its garden grave.
"Ridikilis!" exclaimed Dolly, "as if nobody wasgood enough to touch that child; minister's folks, too, having sich stuck-up notions; as if the child knew who carried it, as if the sexton didn't understand his business, as if the whole village oughtn't to have seen 'em bury it, if they wanted to. Polly Smith was up in a tree, and saw the whole of it. She said she was determined to. She said they cried like every thing; now that just shows how much they believe what they preach about 'heaven's being the best place;' if that is so, they'd naterally be glad the young one had gone there; pooh, it is all stuff—they don't believe it no more nor I do; any how, I shall make the most of this world, and then, if there's nothing better in t' other, I shall have at least gained something.
"It was perfectly ridikilis, there not being a funeral time; I should have sold yards and yards of black ribbon, for the parish to wear; but minister's folks never think of any body but themselves. I've found that out."
Mary Clifton sits at her nursery-window; the empty cradle is by her side, with its snowy pillow and coverlid, the baby's rattle lies on the mantle, and its little cloak and silken hood hang just in sight within the closet.
That window was her favorite seat; there she used to toss the baby up and down, to catch the woodbine branches that clambered over the open window;theystill stirred with life—but oh, where was the little dimpled hand, so late outstretched in glee to reach them?
Just one short week ago that day (before "the baby" was taken sick), oh, how well she remembered it, how bright it looked that morning, with its snowy frock and blue ribbons, she stood just in that spot with it; a pane of glass had lately been broken, and the cement in the new one was yet fresh; the baby pressed its tiny little finger on it, and left its impress. No wonder Mary sits there passing her own finger slowly over the indentation, while the tears chase each other down her face; oh, to how many maternal hearts have such memories been at once a sorrow and a solace?
"Oh, Aunt Dolly!" said Rose, coming in with her face all a-glow, "will you please tell me is this my mother's thimble? I found it in the drawer, andmayI have it?" she asked, pressing it to her lips.
"It don't take me long to answer questions," said Dolly; "itisyour mother's, and you maynothave it. You had no business to go ferreting round among my things."
"You told me to go to the drawer, and get the thread," answered Rose, "and it lay right there, and I could not help seeing it. Won't you please let me have it? I shall besohappy if you will."
Poor child! This was the worst argument she could have used.
"I will do any thing, Aunt Dolly, if you will," said she, poising the coveted treasure on her tiny finger. "I'll—I'll—"
"Won't you ever say another word to me again about going to school, as long as you live?"
Rose hesitated, and looked at the thimble. "I don't like to promise that, Aunt Dolly."
"Then I don't like to give you the thimble," answered Dolly, snatching it from Rose's finger, and stuffing it into her own pocket. "Now go back to your work, miss."
"I would have given it to her, had I been you," said the good-natured Daffy (adding the only argument which she knew would tell on Dolly); "I really believe the child would do twice the work with that thimble on her finger."
"I didn't think of that," replied Dolly, "perhaps she would—Rose?"
Rose came back with traces of tears upon her face.
"Will you be a very, very good girl, and do every thing I tell you, always?"
Rose could not answer for sobbing.
"Give it to her," whispered the tortured Daffy, "you'll see how it will work."
"Well, there's the thimble," said Dolly, throwing it at her.
"Oh, Aunt Dolly," said Rose, "I thank you. I'll try; indeed I'll try."
"Well, go along, and see that you keep your word. I haven't much faith in it, though."
"I declare," said Dolly, leaning back in her chair, "our Maria was the beater for one thing; every body who ever saw her used to carry on about her just like that child; even the cats and dogs liked a kick from her, better than a petting from any body else, and asto her husband, he thought the model was broke (as that image man said) after his wife was made. I don't suppose fire could burn out the love of that young one for her mother, for all she was so little when Maria died. I am sure I have done my best, but the fact was, Maria had a way with her."
Ah, selfish Dolly! Thy sister had a heart. It shone in her eyes, lingered in her smile, sweetened her voice.Lovewas the open sesame by which she unlocked all hearts, and without which thy grasping fingers shall try in vain.
"Aunt Dolly," said Rose, returning, "there is a boy in the shop who wants to know if you can make three mourning bonnets right away. Mrs. Sharp died this morning."
"Oh! that's very nice. To be sure I can. Go tell him I will begin them this minute. Those hats, Daffy, must not cost less than eight dollars a-piece. It don't do for people in affliction to chaffer about prices and make bargains beforehand, that's one comfort; they must be made of the most expensive English crape, Daffy."
"I thought the Sharps were not very well off," suggested Daffy.
"That's nothing. They ought to pay a proper respect to the dead, if they ain't; beside, they have rich relations. I shall be sure to get it out of some of 'em, never fear. Hand the black crape, Daffy. I wonderwhat ailed Mrs. Sharp? She was out to meetin' last Sunday. I hope her husband will call to settle the bill. Daffy, don't it make you laugh to see what a fuss widowers maketryingto grieve for their wives? It is ridikilis! Mr. Sharp isn't a bad man to look at. How many children has he, Daffy?"
"Ten," said Daffy.
"Couldn't stand it," said Dolly. "Rose is enough of a pill for me. I shall certainly refuse him."
"Good afternoon, Dolly," said one of her neighbors, coming into the back room, and tossing off her shawl, which served the double purpose of cloak and bonnet. "Whoisthat pretty girl you have there in the shop?"
"Who can she mean?" asked Dolly of Daffy, in affected surprise.
"Why," said Miss Tufts, anticipating Daffy, "that pretty creature with the curly hair and large eyes, who is rolling up your ribbons; she is a real beauty."
"She can't mean Rose?" asked Dolly of Daffy, looking innocent again.
(Simple Daffy, puzzled to know how Dolly wished her to answer, contented herself with a little doubtful shake of the head.)
"Callherpretty?" said Dolly, returning from a tour of observation into the shop, as if she had not the slightest idea who was there; "call Rose pretty. Well, I'm beat now."
"Why—don't you?" asked Miss Tufts. "I don't see how you can help it; her hair curls so beautiful,and she has such a way with her, it took right hold of me; her voice sounds as if a little bird was singing in her mouth."
"Ridikilis!" said Dolly; "how you talk. Has your pa got over his pleurisy? That's right. How do you like this ribbon? It is new style, you see; one side is green, and the other red."
The visitor's eyes being fixed on the ribbon which she had taken to the window to examine, Dolly took the opportunity to whisper to Daffy, "Go tell Rose to go out of the shop into the back part of the house."
"It is a first-rate ribbon," said Miss Tufts, refolding it; "but look, there's Mrs. Clifton going down street. She hasn't held her head up since her baby died. How she does take it to heart, Dolly."
"Yes," said Dolly, snipping off the end of her thread, "that's the way with those people who are always talking about 'another and a better world.' I don't see but they hold on to this one with just as tight a grip as other folks."
"It isn't nature not to feel bad, when a friend dies," remarked Miss Tufts.
"Well, there's no need of making such a blubbering about it," said Dolly. "I didn't, when our Maria died, I restrained my feelings; it is perfectly disgusting."
"Here Daffy," said Dolly, as Miss Tufts tossed her shawl over her head, and bade them good-by, "here'sthe trimmings Nancy Dawes brought for her bonnet; it is not much matter how you put them on, she has no taste you know; it will be all one to her, if you only tell her it is the fashion; that is the right kind of customer for me, your knowing people are a sight of bother, with their fussing. Daffy, mind you save me enough of Nancy Dawes's ribbon for a bow for my neck, three quarters will make a very decent one, but I had rather have a yard; and Daffy, when Lawyer Grant's wife comes in to ask how much ribbon it will take to trim her bonnet, mind that you tell her a yard extra. She has all her ribbons from the city, and they are just the thing for neck-ribbons. She never will know but it is all put on her bonnet, when the bows are cut up and twisted together; she never asks no questions, there's nothing mean about Lawyer Grant's wife; she don't mind milliners and mantua-makers taking their little perquisites."
"Sometimes I think it isn't right," said Daffy.
"You do? that's a good one, I'd like to see your year's profits on any other system. Why, Mrs. Bond gets all hers and her children's aprons out of the silk, and de-laine, and thibet-cloth that ladies bring her for dresses; it is all right enough. We must take it out some way, when ladies beat us down to the lowest possible price for work; talk to me about its not being right—'self-preservation is the first law of natur,' as the Bible says."
Daffy did not dispute the questionable authority of the quotation, but rolling the responsibility of the anticipated sin she had assumed, off on Dolly's broad shoulders, proceeded to do her bidding.
Mrs. Cliftonwasgoing down street, as Miss Tufts had said; going to "the baby's" grave, for she could bear the deserted nursery and empty cradle no longer. It was something to be near the little form, though the spirit which shone through the sweet eyes had winged its way to Him who gave it; and so she passes the little wicket-gate, and winds her way among other graves, over which other mothers, like her, have wept. Some of them, carefully kept, others overrun with briars and nettles; seas perhaps, rolling between some babe and her under whose heart it once stirred with embryo life; or, far away, perhaps, the mother too, may be sleeping, waiting, as does her solitary babe, for that day when the dead who are in their graves, shall hearHisvoice, and come forth!
Mrs. Clifton nears her baby's grave. A little form is bending over it, a slender, delicate child, whose clustering curls, as she stoops, quite hide her sweet face. Somebody else loves "the baby," for the little grave is dotted over with flowers, simple enough, indeed, but love's own offering. The mother draws nearer, smilingthrough her tears the while—the child looks up; it is Rose.
"Bless you! bless you, my darling," Mrs. Clifton murmurs, and draws her to her bosom.
"Why did you strew flowers on my baby, dear?" asked Mrs. Clifton, wiping her eyes.
"Because I was so sorry for you," said Rose, timidly, "I thought perhaps it would make you happy, when you came here, to see them."
"Did any one ever die whom you loved?" asked Mary.
Rose's lip quivered, the tears gathered slowly in her eyes, and hung trembling on her lashes, as she nodded her little head.
"Who, my darling?" asked Mary, drawing the child nearer to her.
"My mother, my own dear mother!" said the weeping child, drawn to her kind questioner by the mutual sympathy of sorrow.
"Rose—Rose—Rose!" screamed the shrill voice of Dolly from over the wall.
"Oh, I must go! indeed I must; please don't tell, please don't say any thing," and Rose, hastily wiping away her tears, ran breathlessly toward the little wicket-gate.
"Now I'd just like to know, miss, where you have been without leave?" asked Dolly.
"Daffy told me you wanted me to go out of sighttill after the company was gone," said Rose, "and I thought I would just step over into the church-yard, and put some daisies on the baby's grave."
"Ridikilis!" exclaimed Dolly; "just as if that baby knew what was top of it; it is perfectly disgusting—you are just like your mother exactly. Now go along into the house."
Rose entered the back parlor and sat down at the little window to her work.
"Rose," said Dolly, about half an hour after, "don't your hair trouble you when you are sewing?"
Rose looked up in astonishment at this demonstration of interest on the part of her tormentor.
"I don't know," she answered; "I never thought any thing about it."
("Now don't go to cutting it," whispered Daffy; "it looks so pretty.")
"I think it is spoiling her eyes," said Dolly; "bring me the scissors, Rose," and Dolly notched her locks in and out, in as jagged a manner as she knew how. As for the offending eyes which Miss Tufts had complimented, they were too useful to be extinguished, and as there was no helping the "bird in her mouth," or the "pretty way she had with her," Dolly resolved to keep Rose out of sight as much as possible, with her sewing in the attic, which she designated as Rose's bed-room; and, in pursuance of this determination, she was ordered up there.
Every body knows what a country attic is, with its hot, sloping, pitch-oozing roof, with its indescribable paraphernalia of dried mullen, elder-blow, thorough-wort, and tansy; with its refuse garden-tools, boxes, baskets, and chests of odds and ends; its spider-webs and its rat-holes.
A salamander could scarcely have endured Dolly's attic that hot August noon. Rose sat down on the rickety old bed, under the heated eaves, to ply her needle. There was an opening in the roof, but the breeze seemed to blow over it, not into it. Rose made little progress with her sewing, for her temples began to throb painfully, and her fingers almost refused their office. Now she rubs her forehead and eyes, for a mist seems to be gathering over them; now she pulls her needle slowly out again, and now dizziness overpowers her, and she falls forward upon the floor.
"Now just hear that noise," exclaimed Dolly; "hear that young one capering round that attic instead of doing her work. I'll soon settle that:" and taking her little riding-whip from behind the old-fashioned claw-footed clock in the corner, she mounted up stairs into the attic.
Phew! how hot it was—the perspiration started at every step, and this fact did not tend to the diminution of Dolly's rage.
"You needn't play asleep now, because it won't do," said she, laying the whip vigorously round theprostrate child. "I shall whip you till you get up and ask my pardon, d'ye hear?"
There is not much satisfaction in whipping a person who does not appear to feel it, and Dolly turned Rose over to see what was the cause of her obtuseness; the face was so ghastly white that even she was for a moment daunted.
But it isonlyfor a moment. Going to the head of the stairs, she calls, "Daffy?"
"Look here, now," said Dolly, "see what comes of that young one's going into grave-yards, where all those horrid dead people lie moldering; take her up, Daffy, and carry her down into your bed-room; there's a whole day's work lost now for that nonsense; she won't be able to do another stitch to-day."
Days, weeks, and months passed on, no lightening of the heavy load; but now the active spirit which seemed always devising fresh means of torture for the child, was itself prostrated by sickness. A fever had settled upon Dolly's strong frame and iron nerves, and reduced her to almost childish helplessness. Ah—who glides so gently, so tirelessly up stairs and down, bearing burdens under which her feeble frame totters? Who runs to the doctor's, and the apothecary's, who spreads the napkin over the little light-stand, that no rattle of spoons, glasses, and phials, may disturb the chance naps or jar the nerves of the invalid? Andwho, when she has done her best to please, bears the querulous fretfulness of disease and ill temper, with lamb-like patience?
Who but Rose?
"Why are you crying?" asked Daffy, as Rose stood by the kitchen table upon which she had just set down some glasses. "What is the matter with you?"
"I am so sorry that I can not please Aunt Dolly; she says I have not done a single thing right for her since she was sick; and indeed, Daffy, I have triedveryhard," and Rose sobbed again: "I thought perhaps—that—Aunt—Dolly—might love me a little when she got well."
"Never you mind, Rose," said the distressed Daffy, twitching at her thread, "never you mind, she's a—a—there's a six-pence for you Rose."
"No, I thank you," said Rose, returning it, "I don't want money—I want—I want—somebody to love me," said the poor tired child, hiding her face in her apron.
"Never you mind," said Daffy, again, rubbing her sleeve into her own eyes, "you shall—you shall—
"Lor', I don't know what to say to you—Dolly's a—a—well she's sick and childish," said Daffy, ending her sentence in a very different manner from what she had intended.
"Perhaps itisthat," said the good little creature, brightening up, "I did not think of that. How cruelit was for me to think her unkind, when she was only sick; I am glad you said that, Daffy," and Rose wiped her eyes and went back into the sick chamber.
"It's awful to hold in when a body's so rampageous mad," said Daffy, jumping up and oversetting her basket of spools, cotton, needles, pins, etc. "I shouldn't wonder if I burst right out some day, to think of that poor, patient little creature being snubbed so, after being on her tired little legs these six weeks, traveling up and down, here and there, and lying on the floor side of Dolly's bed, night after night, and all after the way she has been treated too (for I have eyes if I don't say nothing), and as long as nobody hears me, I'll just out with it; Dolly has no more heart than that pine table," and Daffy gave it a vindictive thump.
"There—now I feel better—I wish I dared tell her so to her face—but it isn't in me; she makes me shrivel all up, when she puts on one of her horrid looks, and I can't be looking out for a new place with this rheumatism fastening on me every time the wind blows; I don't know what is to become of the poor child, bless her sweet face."