"Yours, most sincerely,"PAUL MURRAY."
"Yours, most sincerely,"PAUL MURRAY."
in bold, handsome hand, to notice the different expressions in the eyes that were watching her pleased, smiling face. Perhaps no one detected therein just what Mrs. Dering did, for it takes a marvelously small thing, to open a mother's eyes. But then Kittie's pleasure was as innocent as a child's; she read that letter over and over, and admired the beautiful writing, but thought that all her pleasure grew from the fact of hearing from Pansy, who had beengone a month, and said, as she put it in her pocket, "It was very kind in Mr. Murray to write, I'm sure for I did want to hear from Pansy."
But every one forgot the letters after awhile.
At supper-time Ernestine asked for something to eat. She even raised herself from the pillow by her own strength, and said how very hungry she was, and as the girls left the room to get what she asked for, a strange cold thrill struck their hearts. Eagerly, as though famishing, Ernestine ate the cream toast that they brought, drank the chocolate, and asked for more.
"Give her all she wants," said Dr. Barnett, in answer to an appealing look from Mrs. Dering; and so they brought more, with the strange pain still in their hearts; and she ate it eagerly, with that unearthly brightness in her eyes, and such a fluttering stain of scarlet in her wasted cheeks. The sad truth came first to Beatrice, as she looked from husband to mother, and read it in their pale, quiet faces; then it came to Olive, for she drew near, and put her arm around Bea, with a touch that both gave and asked for help; and then Kittie and Kat, seeing the hopeless sadness in their faces, suddenly realized that they stood in the dread presence at last, and with one accord turned to each other for help; while Jean crept to her mother's side, and hid herface in the folds of her dress. So death found them, as he drew near, and claimed a place before mother, sisters, or brother; but he did not come repulsively, or like the grinning head that portrays him to our mind's eye; instead, it seemed as though a white angel, with kindly eyes had drawn near, and breathed upon the sufferer before he kissed the life from her lips; for after a short stupor Ernestine awoke, and looked upon them with peaceful, shining eyes.
"Don't cry," she said, softly. "I am only going before, as papa did. I think I saw him while I slept, and I am not afraid. It is not a dark river, mama, but beautiful and bright, and nothing can happen, for God stands there and smiles. Please don't cry, or shut the windows; let the sunshine come in, and be glad that I will never suffer any more. Lift me up, mama."
Mrs. Dering did so, and with her head pillowed on that dear breast, Ernestine sank to sleep like a child, breathing softly; while the shadows fell, and no one stirred. But the early moon rose slowly, and lighted the room, and as she drew her last breath, with a fluttering little sigh, it fell across her face, pure and sweet, and touched the withered rose-bud, lying on the pillow.
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Joyand sorrow, laughter and tears come and go and mingle as one in memory of the past. Betweennowandthen, time weaves a veil, misty with tears of our sorrow, and diamond dusted with the bright laughter of our joy, and as we look through it, on the path that weaves our footsteps, the sunshine and shadows, that have fallen thereon, mingle and soften each other, so that neither the brilliant light of one nor the saddening shade of the other can pain our eyes, that look back, in wistful, happy memory.
In the fresh, pure air, that follows rain on a summer day, Kat was leaning from the window, and watching the sun go slowly down behind the hills; while slender spires of light shot up into the hazy atmosphere, and pierced the flitting clouds. She wasgazing idly, with eyes in which many thoughts lay dreamily, and the slight smile that touched her lips came, perhaps, from something in the letter that lay open in her lap, or maybe from the distant view of a basket buggy, drawn by a white pony, coming slowly down the road, as though the riders were in no haste.
At any rate, she smiled; and it crept from the corners of her roguish mouth up to her eyes, and made her face very attractive, especially as she leaned it against the vines that crept in at the window, and looked thoughtfully down at the open letter. It was one such as she received very often now-a-days, as a very large pack, all of that year's date, much worn, and tied with a blue ribbon, would testify. Most of them were dashed boldly off on large office paper, with "Kathie dear," flourished into one corner, and news of all kinds, inquiries and odds and ends, filling several sheets, and "Yours, Ralph," in business scrawls at the bottom. But this was different. It was on small note paper to begin with, much more carefully written than usual, and contained no address whatever, simply starting off with what the writer had to say, and only filling three pages.
There was one particular place where Kat's eyes lingered, and where she smiled, very slowly, as though it was something not to be enjoyed fully, all at once;and we will look right over her shoulder and read it as she does again and again:—
"The time is up now, and I am coming, if you say for me to. Will you? All my work has been done with the hope that you would let me come and share my success, whatever it might be, with you. It has been my one thought, and greatest incentive since I learned to know, and love you, as I did in the old days, when we skirmished and were gay, together. To-day, when I saw my name added as junior partner, to the finest law firm in our city, I thought of you, and felt more willing and proud to offer you that name. If you bid me come, I will do so; the walk out to Raymond's is short, and shall I meet you on the road!"RALPH."
"The time is up now, and I am coming, if you say for me to. Will you? All my work has been done with the hope that you would let me come and share my success, whatever it might be, with you. It has been my one thought, and greatest incentive since I learned to know, and love you, as I did in the old days, when we skirmished and were gay, together. To-day, when I saw my name added as junior partner, to the finest law firm in our city, I thought of you, and felt more willing and proud to offer you that name. If you bid me come, I will do so; the walk out to Raymond's is short, and shall I meet you on the road!
"RALPH."
Should he meet her on the road? I've no way of telling you, I'm sure, for her answer is written and gone, and I, like you, will have to wait and see.
The white pony and basket buggy draws nearer, it comes through the gate and up the drive, and as Kat watches it, some one comes to her side and looks out also.
"They've been a dreadful long ride," says the new-comer, with an impatient relief, as she leans against the window.
"Yes," answered Kat, with a little start, just realizing the fact.
"I think it's very funny," Pansy continued, witha truly puzzled air. "When we was here before, papa always said to me, 'come, Pansy, let's go take Miss Kittie to ride,' and now he never does; he goes off all alone by hisself, and takes her."
"Is it possible!" said Kat with an air of interest.
"Yes, 'tis; an' he does a lot of funny things. Once when we was to New York, I wanted a penny, and he said to get it in his pocket, an' there wasn't one penny there, but all the pretty letters Miss Kittie had writed to me for my own. I thought 'twas so funny, but he said they were safer there, than in my box, an' I better leave 'm, so I did."
"Very strange," said Kat, with a solemn shake of her head.
"I'll guess I'll go down and ask him what for he didn't take me," said Pansy, going away, and leaving Kat to put her letter up and try to look quite composed before Kittie came.
You must know that this was two years later, and that the twins were spending a few weeks with the Raymond's, where there were several other young people. Olive was working hard and rising steadily, and had never once been heard or suspected of wishing that Roger Congreve would come home from the continent, where he still roamed and threatened to settle. She was completely devoted to her art, and was now paying her way by teaching, while shewas being taught. Mrs. Dering and Jean were in Virginia, and when Olive or the twins came home, it was to Bea's home, where everything was cosy and happy, with the rising young physician and his pretty little wife.
Two years had made some changes in the twins, more perceptibly so in Kat than Kittie; for time and love work wonders, and while she would never quite reach the perfection of lady-like grace and dignity, that made Kittie so charmingly attractive, she certainly had quieted much, was more careful of her language and dress, and bade fair to be a most delightful little woman after all, and one that Ralph might well love and be proud of having won.
When Kittie came up stairs, she was very quiet, and in answer to inquiries, said that her head ached. Kat was relieved to think she would not have to be on close guard, for she did not feel like telling her secret just then, and had rather dreaded Kittie's eyes. But Kittie was wholly absorbed in something else; she put away her things, and sat down by the window without saying much.
"It's pretty near tea-time," remarked Kat presently. "Are you all ready?"
"I—don't believe I'll go down," said Kittie. "I'm not hungry."
"Humph!" thought Kat, with a sudden and intensecuriosity. "I guess I'm not the only one that has a secret."
"Did you have a pleasant ride?" she asked, after some silence.
"Yes—very;" answered Kittie absently.
"You were gone long enough."
No answer.
"I had a letter from Ralph;" guardedly.
"Did you?"
"Yes; I expect he'll come before long."
"I'd like to see him;" with more interest. "Wouldn't you?"
"Yes—rather," answered Kat, with a smile at herself in the glass, where she was comparing the effect of pink, or blue bow in her hair. "I'm going down now; what shall I say for you?"
"That I've a headache, and not hungry," said Kittie, and Kat whisked gayly off, laughing to herself, to think how she had intended to be the mystifier, and instead, was the mystified.
When Kittie was alone, she went to the glass, and leaning her chin in her hands, looked herself steadily in the face, as though absorbed in a new and astounding discovery. It was hard to tell just exactly how it affected her, for she looked a good deal astonished, rather sober, but very much pleased and a little bit shy.
"I'm sure," she said, nodding to herself with all earnestness, "I never dreamed of such a thing before, but—but—I do believe it's so;" and then she colored up all of a sudden, and the reflection disappeared from view.
Kat came upstairs very soon after supper, and found her sitting in just the same place by the window, and just as little inclined to talk as before, which made matters seem uncomfortable.
"I declare!" muttered Kat, slamming about in the clothes-press, with no particular object in view, except to make a little noise. "This is abominable! I think she might tell me, but I'm not going to ask. I'm sure, I'd tell her quick enough, but she don't care, and I sha'n't 'till she asks me;" and then becoming aware of the inconsistency of her reflections Kat shut the door with some force, and sat down in silence.
There was no telling how long this pleasing quietude might have lasted, if it had not been for an immense bug that sailed in at the window, close to Kittie's nose, and began to bump gayly around the room, while both girls flew up, in feminine nervousness, and opened fire upon him, with any objects they might lay hands on.
"Good gracious!" cried Kat, after a breathless battle, during which three chairs had been laid low, various objects upset, and the lamp blown out. "Letthe old thing go; it won't stay in the dark. What geese we are anyhow, afraid of a bug."
"I wasn't afraid," said Kittie, dropping into her chair with an exhausted sigh. "But they always make me fidgetty; and, beside, it came in right across my nose. Well, anyhow, it's cooler in the dark."
"What in the world are you so quiet for!" exclaimed Kat, in despair, after a few moments, during which silence settled again.
"I? Nothing," said Kittie, with a little start.
"Nonsense!"
"Well, it's the truth; I didn't know that I was so quiet," said Kittie, who in truth had nothing to tell. "I'll talk gay enough if you'll start me on something."
"You never had to be started before," grumbled Kat, who would have teased and tormented unmercifully, had it not been for the weight of her own secret, which was wonderfully subduing.
"We had a delightful ride," continued Kittie, but with very apparent exertion. "Mr. Murray drove out by Hanging Rock, and that's five miles, you know, and then we came home by Craig's creek, and—it was very long. What did Ralph say? Where's the letter?"
"Oh!" said Kat, with a little gasp—for Kittie had covered the whole ground so quickly that itquite took her breath—"you can't read it in the dark, and if we light the lamp that bug will come back. It was only a small one. He has been admitted to the firm, and is coming pretty soon to see us."
Something in the voice, for Kat couldn't hide anything successfully, drew Kittie's thoughts from herself, and made her turn to look closely at the face just visible in the dark. It had been a settled fact in the family, for the past year, that Ralph was growing very fond of "Kathy dear," and that very likely she had been the great object in his thoughts when he went away, and promised to come back, and then—
"Kat," said Kittie, with great solemnity, when her thoughts reached that point, and she was conscious of feeling hurt. "I never thought you'd keep such a thing from me, and wait for me to ask."
"Neither did I think you would, but you are."
"Me? Why I've nothing to tell."
"Honestly?"
"Not a thing. And have you, really?"
"Nothing, except that he asked me if he should come, and I sent a letter right off, and told him yes," confessed Kat, relieved to share her secret, and feeling very glad and happy as she laid her head in Kittie's lap, as though to hide her face from the darkness.
Kittie entirely forgot herself in that moment. There came a little choking feeling in her throat, to think that she now came second in this dearest sister's heart, and she put her arms around her, with a little resentful, defiant clasp, and said nothing.
"Haven't you anything to confess?" asked Kat, in a moment.
"Come, dear; be honest."
"Not much," said Kittie, slowly. "You know, I always thought Mr. Murray was ever so much older than he is, and I never dreamed of his liking me, or any such thing, and it all seems so odd. But since he came this time, and we have been together so often, why—it all seemed different, you know, though I can't tell just how. To-day, while we were riding, I dropped some flowers out of my hair, and he picked them up, and asked if he might keep them, and—and—that's all," finished Kittie, quite shamefacedly.
"How romantic!" sighed Kat. "He'll say something pretty soon, and I'm very glad. It would be dreadful for one of us to go, and not the other. But it all seems odd, doesn't it, dear?"
So they sat together for a long time, dreaming the dream that comes rosily and sweet to all, and the silent clasp of their arms, and the pressure of their cheeks, laid together in the twilight, expressedthe warm love that mutual joy brightened; and into this new experience, as in all that had come to them, they went hand in hand.
After awhile, Kat went down to the parlors, where the young people were, and a very funny thing happened. It was too warm to dance, play games, or, in fact, remain in the house; so they strolled out in the yard, and over the veranda, and once, as Kat sat alone in a big rustic chair, she saw Mr. Murray coming towards her. The light fell through the window, and out on to her face and head, showing a silver butterfly that Pansy had given to Kittie, fastened in her hair; and guided by this, Mr. Murray drew near, and paused at her side, never doubting that she was the one he had been in search of. A few words were sufficient to reveal his mistake to Kat, but some mischievous impulse kept her quiet as to her identity, so they talked on and on, and presently he began to tell of the home he had prepared in the city, and Kat's heart sank with a sudden thump, but what could she say? He went on without giving her chance to utter a word, and just as she was growing cold with apprehension, and hardly hearing what he was telling, he laid his hand on hers that were clasped in her lap, and said very tenderly:
"Will you share it with me, darling? I have hoped and dreamed that you would, and have madeit beautiful for your sake. It has been many, many months since the sweet possibility"—but there Kat jumped up, scarlet and ashamed.
"Oh, Mr. Murray! I'm not Kittie; I'm so sorry; but I thought—I meant—I don't know just what. I'll tell her to come down and I think she will," Kat cried incoherently, and vanished with a complicated and wonderful gesture of her hands, that might have passed for a supplication for forgiveness, a benediction, or total despair, or most anything.
"Go down stairs," were her first words, as she rushed into the room where Kittie sat, and cast herself on to the bed with a hysterical laugh. "I've been, and gone, and done, and had a proposal from Mr. Murray, and you better go down quick. Oh, it's too funny, and he's dreadfully in earnest; there's something about a sweet possibility, and you'd better go down and listen to it."
"What do you mean?" cried Kittie, starting up, and dropping her book, with a vague idea that Kat had lost her senses.
"He thought I was you. Oh, it's too funny! and he is out there by the geranium-bed waiting for you," cried Kat, convulsed with laughter; and Kittie dropped into her chair, all trembling.
"Oh, Kat! how could you?"
"Bless you, I didn't do anything except promiseto send you down, and you better go. There, you look like a peach. Put this little posy in your hair and go on."
"Oh, I can't," cried Kittie, all blushes and shyness.
"Yes, you can, you must; it will never do in the world!" exclaimed Kat with decision; so with many pauses, much hesitation and trembling, Kittie went, and appeared shyly before her lover with down-cast eyes, and all the sweet color fled from cheek and lips.
Of course, no one said anything, but somehow the secret crept into the gay company, and Kittie found her ordeal so trying that she threatened to go home.
"Of course we'll go as soon as Ralph comes," said Kat, who had her own reasons for wanting to get away then; so Kittie promised to wait those few days. It was very evident that Kat was going to meet him on the road, for one lovely afternoon, a few days later, she was seen to stroll away, dressed with particular care in a pale blue lawn, with bunches of forget-me-nots in her hair and belt, and a very big hat that conveniently and becomingly shaded her eyes, and flapped in the breeze as she walked.
The train was in; it had whizzed around the corner of Raymond's farm over an hour ago, and Ralph had had time to nearly make the distance between thedepôt and a certain tall sycamore tree, where she had decided to stop and wait; so she strolled slowly, with her eyes down, and thought of him. He would look just as he used to, she thought, not realizing the time that had elapsed, nor how much she had changed herself. There would be the merry dark eyes, and faint mustache, the eager, almost boyish face and figure, and he would kiss her, as he used to, and how funny it would seem, to think they were nearly engaged.
She smiled to herself, unconscious that he was drawing near, and eagerly watching the pretty, slight, blue-robed figure, strolling in the sunshine; but she looked up in a moment and saw him.
Was that Ralph? She felt her heart jump clear into her throat; as she paused, and stared at the tall gentleman rapidly approaching, and she had no strength to take another step. She had arranged a little speech to deliver at the proper moment, but,
"By the sycamore passed he, and through the white clover;"
"By the sycamore passed he, and through the white clover;"
then all the sweet speech she had fashioned took flight. He came nearer with eager brightness in his handsome eyes; he took her two resistless hands and looked under her hat-brim.
"Kathleen, is it you?"
At the sound of the voice, which was still the same, Kat was covered with a swift, shy confusion. Shehad expected a boy; there had come to her a man, who had come at her bidding, and who loved her. She longed to run away or hide her head, or something, but how could she when he held her hands, and persisted in looking under her hat.
"I expected to find you racing along the road or sitting on a fence, and waiting for me," he said, with a laugh. "I looked for my dear romp, and instead of that, I meet a graceful lovely young woman with the sweetest face in the world, and I don't believe she's glad to see me."
"What made you go and change so?" stammered Kat, still unable to reconcile the vision before her with the boyish Ralph Tremayne. "I'd never known you, anywhere."
"Nor I, you, hardly. What made you go and change so?" retorted he.
"I haven't."
"Neither have I."
Whereupon they felt better acquainted, and laughed socially; then he kissed her, and slipped her hand through his arm.
"You're not sorry you told me to come, are you?"
"Not a bit. Are you sorry you came?"
"Not a bit. You're altogether lovely and charming, my dear, and may I tell you how much I love you?"
"I guess you'd better not. I'll have to get a little better acquainted with you first, you've gone and grown so big and handsome, and all that," answered Kat, feeling more comfortable, and looking up at him with some of the old saucy twinkle in her eyes.
"Bless those eyes," he exclaimed, with every symptom of telling the forbidden fact. "I must tell you, dear, that you have grown lovely."
"You told me that once."
"Don't you like to hear it?"
"I shouldn't wonder if I did. But I must tell you something important before we go any farther," said Kat solemnly.
"Do so at once; I'm listening."
"Well, Ralph, I've—I've had another proposal since I wrote to you," confessed the wretched little hypocrite, with lowered hat-brim.
"You have? By jingo! Who from?" Ralph dropped her hand, and the ruddy color went from his face suddenly.
"From a New York gentleman at Mrs. Raymond's, and—and—"
"Go on," said Ralph shortly, his voice cold and hard.
"He said he had built—no, bought—no, had a beautiful home, and asked me to share it, and I didn'tknow what on earth to say, so—I told him—that I wasn't Kittie, and then he changed his mind."
"Kathy!" What a blessing it was that no one was anywhere near, for right there in the sunshine, Ralph threw his arm around her and drew her close, to kiss the saucy lips and eyes. "How could you? I'm stunned out of a year's growth! Was it Murray?"
"Well, I don't think you'll miss it," laughed Kat. "Yes, it was Mr. Murray, and Kittie's going to share that home."
"You don't say so. We'll go off doubly and very soon, too, for of course the little mother will be willing."
"Yes, of course," said Kat.
So they strolled on in the sunshine, and the sweetest story in the world, gray with age, yet fresh as spring-time in their hearts, made the sunshine brighter than ever before to their happy eyes.
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Thehouse was lighted from attic to basement, and though it was Christmas Eve, the air was like spring, for nature sometimes turns freakish, and smiles on us when we are expecting the cold shoulder. Here and there, a window was open, for the Derings always did love plenty of air; and so a merry sound of laughter and gay voices was wafted out into the night air, and the old trees rustled joyfully, as though the sound were a familiar and happy one to them, and it did their old bones—or bark, good to hear it. Even the vines, that clambered about as gayly now as ever—only closer and thicker, tapped on the windows and nodded their leafless heads, as though in welcome, and fairly rustled with joy clear downto their aged roots, to see all the dear children at home once more.
The front door stood hospitably open, as it had always had a trick of doing, and in the wide old hall were two children, one of whom sat on the stairs, with a sober, thoughtful face, while the other, in diminutive petticoats, was trying to stand on his head against the stout bannister-post. One failure followed another, in discouraging succession, but the little fellow kept determinedly at it, in spite of bumps and thumps, and finally succeeded in hoisting his fat legs up for the briefest second imaginable, which was perfectly satisfactory, and after which he righted himself, with serenely glowing face.
"Did," he said, triumphantly; to which the judge, sitting gravely on the stairs, assented with much solemnity, and seemed to be casting about in his mind for some other feat to propose.
"Hurts," said the young tumbler, rubbing his top-knot with a mite of a hand, and glancing severely at the judge.
"Stand on this," said the judge, coming down and offering his square inch of pocket-handkerchief, which was accordingly laid down by the post. "That makes it thoft; won't hurt now. Do't over."
With a readiness and faith that was sublime, he of the petticoats went at it, and had just succeededin turning a side somersault, such as was never seen before, when further effort was nipped in the bud by some one coming into the hall.
"Good gracious!" cried a merry voice, as the tumbler was caught up, shaken, and set down with some force. "What are you up to now, Thomas, my lively son?"
"He wath standin' on hith head, auntie," explained the judge, with great politeness, as the tumbler appeared too much confused by all the circumstances to make any answer.
"Wath he, indeed?" laughed Thomas's mama. "Mashing his little head all to jelly; poor Tommy!"
"No," said Tom, whose remarks were more noticeable for brevity than anything else. "No shelly."
"Yes, indeed, little soft-head; come, ask papa," and with that Mrs. Tremayne—for who should it be but lively Kat—shouldered her small, but ambitious son, and carried him away. The judge looked forlorn after that. He folded his small handkerchief and put it carefully away in its tiny pocket, then he sat down on the lowest step and looked thoughtfully out of the front door, as though he expected further developments to arrive from that direction. Nor was he disappointed. There arose a sound of labored and energetic breathing from without, as of some one toiling up the steps, and then something inwhite fluttered across the porch, and in at the door, and the judge fairly beamed with delight and satisfaction.
"Hullo!" he said politely.
"'Llo," returned the new-comer.
"Where'd you come from?"
"Off," said the stranger, with a flourish of both small arms, intended to indicate some great distance. "Runned off."
"Did you? From Pansy?"
"Yeth." And the bunch of ruffles and brown ribbon shook its head with distinctive force, while the bits of slippered feet began to dance wildly up and down the hall.
"Mama'll come," said the judge, warningly, and, sure enough, out came a lady, with the loveliest face, and a white lace cap on her grey hair.
"Come, dears," she said, in a voice we know well and both flew to her, for who was dearer to their loving hearts than "Dramma?" "Time for little birdies to be eating supper, and getting little peepers shut up tight, before Santa Claus comes," she said, going towards the dining room, with a little hopper clinging to each hand, and playing peep around her. Tom was already at the table, pounding with his spoon, and smiling serenely through the milk that spattered his face from forehead to chin, and therewere two other bowls and spoons and high chairs, ready and waiting.
"Naughty Louise," said Mrs. Kittie, as she lifted the white-robed morsel to her chair, and tied on her bib. "Run away from poor sister Pansy, and make her feel bad."
"All baddy, mama?" inquired Louise, looking over her bowl with repentant eyes.
"She comed in the front door," said Philip, otherwise the judge, who was the eldest hopeful of the Barnett household, and was, at present, under the care of aunt Kathy, as mama Bea had the baby in the sitting-room. "I thaw her," he went on to explain with care; but was evidently disgusted, that every one laughed and talked, instead of listening to him; so paused right there, and ate his bread and milk in silence and with dignity, not even unbending when Tom and Louise had a skirmish, and testified their cousinly regard, by throwing their spoons at each other, and upsetting what milk had been left in their bowls.
"Dear me, what children!" cried Kittie, running for a towel, with a laugh that sounded as though "such children" were very delightful.
"Thomas, Thomas!" said Mrs. Kat, with an air of grave reproof, such as she sometimes wasted on her lively son; and Thomas looked up at her, withroguish eyes, brimful of mischief, and fairly crowed with glee, a method of expression that he resorted to in gay moments, as it was still an exertion for him to talk.
When the young people were finally carried off to bed, every one went along, for the gentlemen were all down town, and what better could the mothers and aunties do than follow the procession headed by "Dramma," and watch the roguish imps get into their snowy little nests? There was much skirmishing and crowing, but it all ended in a doleful wail, for Tom fell out of bed and bumped his precious head, and refused to be comforted, in any way, shape, or form, until Philip was heard to remark with admiration:
"You stood on your head, Tom, and wath straight up," and that was Balm-of-Gilead to the infantile soul of that Young America, for he immediately ceased to weep, and looked content.
They all lingered there some time after the children had grown quiet, but finally went down stairs, and left Grandma rocking and watching, till the last little peeper should be closed, for she insisted on staying, as all the little folks were not with her always, and dearly she enjoyed each moment spent with them.
Down stairs, the sisters clustered about the fire,with all the old girlish love and glee, and looking at them, in that familiar group, very few changes were noticeable, for time brings few foot-prints if the heart is happy. Bea wore a matronly little cap of bits of lace and blue bows, and held in her arms a gleeful baby, with roguish eyes and sunny little rings of hair, who was named after dear grandma, and who obstinately refused to go "by-low," as any well regulated baby ought to do, by seven o'clock in the evening. Kittie and Kat, on the lounge with clasped arms as of old, looked scarcely a whit changed, though they were both indelibly stamped with the grace and elegance of city ladies, and had fulfilled the promise in girlhood, by becoming truly refined and lovely women. The little stool by the fire was not vacant, for there sat Jean as of old, with the same sweet face and lovely eyes, only now she was taller than mama, and the still childish face wore a perfect happiness, for on the hand that supported her chin, the firelight showed a ring, and in the smiling eyes any one could read the story of it. Olive was there too. Olive, of whom they were all so proud, and who was still Olive Dering; and time had made her very fair to look upon; for energy and purpose had stamped her face indelibly, and the clear eyes were beautiful in their light of strength and happy content. She was no longer a struggling girl, battling with all circumstances, and fighting herway into work, but a woman, restful, yet not resting, in perfect success; for every nerve was still alert to further progress, and every wish and ambition had been sacrificed to one great desire, which would next year be satisfied; she was going to Europe. Masters and travel awaited her eager heart, and her own hand had carved the way. Her studio in New York was filled with works; many homes, far and wide, owed their pleasure, in the portrayed face of some dear one, to her pencil or brushes; and a large class, constantly increasing in size, trod the first pathways of art under her careful guidance. And so with hard work and economy, the money had come in, and been laid away; and now at last, there was enough. Mother and Olive were going to Europe.
I know it is all very nice and easy to carry a girl through ambitious battles in a book, and after a lapse of years, which are left to the imagination, to bring her out, glowing with success, and with her heart's desire realized. It is done in a book this time; but Olive Dering's love and longing for art, her struggles, determination, and final success, are taken from the life of one who still lives, and who is now enjoying the perfect happiness earned by hard labor, in the galleries of the old masters. There had been toil and troubles and trials; discouraging tears and times of despair, in the yearsthrough which we have slipped without a pause; but it would do no good to tell them all; it is enough to know that patience, perseverance and will had overcome them, as there is rarely a case where they will not.
"Next year this time we'll not be here together," said Kittie, breaking a long pause, such as will often come, when hearts are content with worldless communion.
"Why not?" asked Jean. "Mama and Olive being in Italy, is no reason why you should not come and spend Christmas with me."
"Bless the baby, to think she will be married then," exclaimed Bea, caressing the brown head with loving hand. "Every one gone from the old home but Jeanie, and she presiding over it, a married lady; to think of it, girls?"
"So wags the world," said Kat with a brisk nod. "I think it would be sad to come here and spend Christmas, with Olive and mama gone; but you must all come to Boston, and if my house isn't big enough, I'll have an addition put on."
"No, my home is best," put in Kittie with decision. "It's between you all, and is plenty big enough. That is the place."
"Yes, indeed," chimed in Pansy, who was now a tall pretty girl of ten, and perfectly devoted tomama. "We want you to come to New York, and spoke about it before we left home; didn't we mama?"
"Yes, and we'll wage a brisk war with any one who puts in a claim, so you had better subside at once my dear," answered Kittie with a smile at her twin, which looked like most anything except a war-like preparation.
"There's the gate, the boys are coming," was the answer of Mrs. Kat, and sure enough, there arose a clatter of feet on the porch, a smell of cigar smoke in the air, and in came "the boys," with the usual amount of noise, which boys, big or little, invariably make; and then grandma came flitting down stairs, with a smile and a warning "hush;" and there they were all together.
Supper was a gloriously gay meal, where every one's health was drank in fragrant coffee, from Grandma Dering, down to Prince, who had been returned to the home of his youth, and was passing his last days in peaceful content, with just enough exercise to keep his old bones from rusting out too fast. And then they talked of those who were gone from the circle: Father Dering, Ernestine, and lastly, dear old Uncle Ridley, who had died that year, and for whom every one had such a warm loving memory.
After supper the boys went off to the library tosmoke, and mother and daughters clustered together in the dear old sitting-room, to chat lovingly as in other days; for now, as then, the sweet motherly face, to which they still looked for love, comfort, and praise, was the dearest in the world to them, and the loveliest, they all thought, with its serene happy smile and contented loving eyes.
"Has anybody any disappointments to tell to-night," she asked, looking around at the bright happy faces, and remembering another night long ago, when they all sat so, and told such.
"Yes, I've got one," announced Kat, just as briskly as she had done on that other night. "I can't, to save my life, arrive at the point where I will always look stately and unruffled, and ready to receive callers, in spite of babies and household work, as Mrs. McGregor does, who lives opposite me. And then, I do believe that Thomas is going to be short and fat, instead of tall and slim, and from present indications I think he will prefer being a clown to anything else in the world. That's my disappointment, and it's just about as sensible as my other, but it's the best I've got. What's yours, Kittie?"
"I don't know, I'm sure," answered Kittie, looking down into Pansy's upturned face, and laying her hand lovingly on the curly head. "I have the dearest husband, and two of the most precious little daughtersin the world, and what more could I ask? I always did want curly hair and black eyes, but Pansy has one, and Louise the other, so I'm content. The only disappointment I have, is that mama and Olive will not be with us next Christmas."
"Well, I've a very small one," said Bea, as she rocked and trotted, with a vain attempt to get small Bessie's eyes shut. "Walter isn't quite as well as I should like to have him; he works too hard, poor fellow, and I want him to go off to the mountains next summer, and get rested, but we can't all afford to go, and he says he will not go and leave me at home in the hot weather with the house and babies. So I can't help worrying and wishing that I could help him some way."
"You do help him, dear," interposed Mrs. Dering promptly. "You keep home bright and happy, and anticipate all his wants and wishes. In times of weariness or trouble, he has you and the dear babies for comfort. You love, sympathize and help him in a thousand ways, the want of which he could not do without."
"And sew on his buttons," added Kat. "Don't leave that out, for if he's anything like Ralph, it's a mighty big item."
"And here's my little girl," continued Mrs. Dering in a moment, and looking down at Jean, whose head lay in her lap. "Has she any?"
"None, mama," answered Jean, looking up with happy eyes. "Except that you are going away, and that Uncle Ridley is not here."
"Surely, no one supposes for an instant that I have any," said Olive, and every one shook their heads in a decided negative, except Mrs. Dering, and she looked across into Olive's eyes with a smile, and Olive, catching the look, dropped them to the fire, and said no more. She had intimated that she had none; but was it so in the depths of her heart? Was she quite content?
"You do to-night, as you did before, and no one asks me for mine," said Mrs. Dering with a smile. "Do you rightly guess that I have none?"
"We hope that you have none, mama," said Bea, lovingly.
"Indeed, I have not, my dear girls; instead, as I sit here to-night with you all around me, I wonder if I am fully grateful for how good God has been to me. I look at you, and I see in my girls just such good, true women as their father would have them, and I am more than content. I would that these three vacant places might be filled to-night, but God knows best, and I feel only love, not regret. No, my dear girls, I have no disappointments to-night, only a heart full of happiness and content."
They were silent after that for a little while, andthen Bess dropped to sleep, and Olive crossed to Bea's side, as the gentlemen were heard coming from the library.
"Let me take her up stairs, Bea—you look tired;" and Bea handed the precious charge over, and Olive went slowly up stairs, with her arms tenderly clasped about the little form, her cheeks laid to the soft baby face, and a look in her eyes that mother might have read had she seen it.
The sleepers already there, and sprawled about in characteristic attitudes, was a sight to hold one's gaze.
Philip lay perfectly straight and orderly, with a sober countenance, and both hands crossed on his little stomach; while Tom, the tumbler, had completely reversed himself, and lay with his feet on the pillow, his body in a snarl, and his head just ready to fall off the edge with the next jerk. Louise had dispensed with her pillow, it was on the floor, while she lay in the sweetest possible attitude, with one tiny hand under the dimpled cheek, on which the long, dark lashes rested softly, and one wee snowy little foot peeped out of the clothes. Olive laid the baby in its nest, and covered it warmly, bending many times to kiss the rosy little face; then she righted Tom, restored the pillow, and removed some of Philip's covering, as he seemed to be too warm; and then she stood still looking at them.
Was she perfectly happy, and quite content?
The pale light that fell across her, as she stood there watching the sleepers, with eyes that were traitorously expressive, would have made a very dear picture to one pair of eyes, had they not been too far away to rest on. The grey dress which she wore, fell in colorless draperies, and the soft laces at her throat and wrists, were very becoming to the clear skin. In the rich dark hair, was a white flower, that touched the tip of her ear as with a caress; but greatest of all was the eyes, that were growing dim with tears, as she stood there. The feeling that was in her heart was no new one, but to-night it came differently from what it ever had before. Then it had only been a half defined loneliness that could be quenched with a little effort, and pass without a name; but to-night it came surging up and assumed shape and title before her eyes. She had no claim on these little ones; she would never be able to stand so and watch one of her own in its innocent sleep. Would never feel the tender happiness of knowing that her blood beat in another little heart, that her life had given breath to its laughing lips, and the warm color to the dimpled cheeks. In the room down stairs, each sister had her own; even little Jean would soon be claimed by one to whom she was dearer than all else in the world; and in a few years mother might be gone, and then—successwas hers. Shehad worked and won. Her name was on many lips, and her fame spreading. The goal she had looked forward to for years, with eager heart, was hers at last, and while the anticipation, had in this case, lost nothing through possession; did it wholly satisfy her? Was there no corner, no longing, or want that brushes, oils, and inspiration failed to satisfy? Her eyes grew blind with strange, wistful tears, a queer choking filled her throat, and with a sudden movement she had crossed the room and knelt down by the baby. Had she no disappointment? Would she not have said "come," to some one, still a wanderer beyond the seas, had it been in her power? Or, had he stood before her, with the old, old longing, would she have drawn back and said: "My art is all I want."
Ah, indeed, Uncle Ridley had been right: