"Not that you shall wear it, my dear—not that you shall attempt to put it on your head again, for nobody knows what the hat may have contracted, so to speak, in so horrid and dirty a shop, but that I didn't wish that man to have more of a victory than I could help. Oh, Miss Maggie, darling, you did give me a fright and no mistake!"
"But how did you know where I was, Waters? I kept my secret so well."
"Yes, my dearie; but somehow I got fidgety last night, and I kept thinking and thinking of your words, and the idea got hold of me that maybe the secret wasn't just between you and Master Ralph. This morning I woke earlier than my wont, and as I couldn't sleep, I got up. I had to put one or two little matters right with regard to my mistress' wardrobe, and then I thought I'd see, just when I had a quiet hour, whether you had everything right to go to the garden party. Your new dress was hung up in my mistress' room, and I took it out and saw that the tucker was fastened round the neck, and that your gloves were neat, and your little white French boots wanted no buttons, and then it occurred to me that I'd just curl up the feathers of the hat. The hat was not with the dress, so I ran up to your room to fetch it, thinking of course to see you, dearie, like a little bird asleep in your nest. Well, my dear, the poor little bird was flown, and the beautiful hat was nowhere, and, I mustsay, I was in a taking, and it flashed across me that was the secret. I put on my bonnet and flew into the street, only just in time to see you and Susy talking very earnestly together, and turning the corner. The street, as you know, is a long one, and I couldn't get up with you, run as I might, but thank God, I kept you in sight, and at last overtook you at the pawnshop. Oh, what a wicked girl Susy Aylmer is!"
"She isn't," said Maggie, "Oh, poor Susy isn't wicked. Waters, I'm sorry you found us. I did want to do something for Susy and for Jo!"
Here Maggie burst into such bitter weeping that Waters found it absolutely impossible to comfort her.
Nothing could exceed the fuss which was made over Maggie and her adventure. Mrs. Grenville turned quite pale when she heard of it—even Ralph, who was tranquilly eating his breakfast, and who, as a rule, did not disturb himself about anything, threw down his spoon, ceased to devour his porridge, and gazed at Maggie in some astonishment mingled with a tiny degree of envy and even a little shadow of respect. Mrs. Grenville took the little girl in her arms, and while she kissed and petted her, she also thought it necessary to chide her very gently. It was at this juncture that Ralph did an astonishing thing; he upset his mug of milk, he tossed his spoon with a great clatter on the floor, and dashing in the most headlongstyle round the table, caught Maggie's two hands and said impulsively:
"She oughtn't to be scolded, really, mother. She didn't know anything about its being wrong, and I call it a downright plucky thing of her to do. She couldn't have done more even if she had been a boy—no, not even if she had been a boy," continued Ralph, nodding his head with intense earnestness. "I can say nothing better than that, can I, mother?"
"According to your code you certainly cannot, Ralph," answered his mother. "Now go back to your seat, my boy, and pick up the spoon you have thrown on the floor. See what a mess you have made on the breakfast-table. Maggie, dear, you did not mean to do wrong, still you did wrong. But we will say nothing more on that subject for the present. Now, my darling, you shall have some breakfast, and then I have a surprise for you."
Maggie could not help owning to her own little heart that Ralph's words had cheered her considerably; she thought a great deal more of Ralph's opinion than of any one else's, and itwas an immense consolation to be compared to a boy, and to a plucky one. She accordingly ate her breakfast with considerable appetite, and was ready to receive the surprise which her aunt said awaited her at its close.
This was no less joyful a piece of news than the fact that Lady Ascot's sister was much better, and that Sir John intended to come up to London for a few days.
"After all, Maggie," said her aunt, "if you had shown a little patience, you could have asked your father for the money, instead of trying to sell your best hat. Now, dear, you can go up to the schoolroom with Ralph, and I hope that no bad consequences will arise from this morning's adventure."
"I think, mother," here interrupted Ralph, "it would be a good plan for Maggie and me to go round and see how Jo is. Susy didn't act right, and I know Jo will be very unhappy, and Jo oughtn't to be blamed; ought she, mother?"
"Certainly not, Ralph; Jo has done nothing wrong. Well, if Waters can spare the time, I don't mind you two little people going to seeJo, but remember, you must not stay long; for now I really must buy Maggie a new hat for the garden party."
"Oh, auntie, but I brought my own hat back," exclaimed the little princess.
"Yes, my love, but it is much injured, and there are other reasons why I should not care to see you wear it again. Now run away, children, and get your visit over, for we have plenty to do this afternoon."
When Maggie, with her heart beating high, and one of her hands held tightly in Ralph's, entered Mrs. Aylmer's room, she was startled to find herself in a scene of much confusion. Mrs. Aylmer prided herself on keeping a very neat and orderly home, but there was certainly nothing orderly about that home to-day. Mrs. Aylmer herself was seated on a low, broken chair, her hands thrown down at her sides, her cap on crooked, and her face bearing signs of violent weeping. The two little boys stood one at each side of their mother: Ben had his finger in his mouth, and Bob's red hair seemed almost to stand on end. They kept gazing withsolemn eyes at their mother, for tears on her face were a rare occurrence. Susy was nowhere to be seen; and most startling fact of all, Jo's little sofa was empty.
It was Jo's absence from the room which Ralph first remarked. He rushed up to Mrs. Aylmer and clutched one of her hands.
"What is the matter? Where's Jo? Where's our darling little Jo?" he exclaimed.
"Oh, Master Ralph Grenville," exclaimed the poor woman, "you had better not come near me; you had better not, sir, it mightn't be safe. I'm just distraught with misery and terror. My little Jo, my little treasure, is tuk away from me; she's tuk bad with the fever, sir, and they've carried her off to the hospital. She's there now; I 'as just come from seeing her there."
By this time Waters, panting and puffing hard, had reached the room, and had heard, with a sinking heart, the last of Mrs. Aylmer's words. She eagerly questioned the poor woman, who said that Jo had not been well for days, and yesterday the doctor had pronouncedher case one of fever and had ordered her, for the sake of the other children, to be moved at once to the nearest fever hospital.
"She was werry willing to go herself," continued the mother; "she wouldn't harm no one, not in life, nor in death, would my little Jo."
"And Susy knew of this!" exclaimed Waters. "Oh, was there ever such a bad girl? Mrs. Aylmer, you'll forgive me if I hurries these dear children out of this infected air! I'll come back later in the day, ma'am, and do what I can for you; and if Susy comes home, you might do well to keep her in, for I can't help saying she is no credit to you. It sounds hard at such a moment, but I must out with my mind."
"Susy!" here exclaimed Mrs. Aylmer, "I ain't seen nothing of Susy to-day."
"No, ma'am, very like; but it's my duty to tell you she has been after no good. Now come away, darlings. I'll look in again presently, Mrs. Aylmer."
Maggie could never make out why her auntturned so pale and looked so anxiously at her when the news of Jo's dangerous illness was told to her. The pity which should have been expended on the sick and suffering little girl seemed, in some inexplicable way, to be showered upon her. A doctor even was sent for, who asked Maggie a lot of questions, and was particularly anxious to know if she held Susy's hand when she walked with her, and how long she and Ralph had been in the infected room. In conclusion, he said some words which seemed to Maggie to have no sense at all.
"There is nothing whatever for us to do, Mrs. Grenville. If the children have imbibed the poison it is too late to stop matters. We must only hope for the best, and watch them. Nothing, of course, can be certainly known for several days."
Maggie could not understand the doctor, and both she and Ralph thought Mrs. Grenville rather wanting in feeling not to let them go and inquire for Jo at the hospital. Under these circumstances the garden-party was a rather cheerless affair, and Maggie was glad toreturn home and to lay a very tired little head on her pillow.
She was awakened from her first sleep by her father bending over her and kissing her passionately. Never had she seen Sir John's face so red, and his eyes quite looked—only of course that was impossible—as if he had been crying.
"Oh, father, I am glad to see you," exclaimed Maggie, "only I wish you had come last night, for then I wouldn't have tried to sell my hat, and you'd have given me the money for the tambourine. I wish you had come last night, father, dear."
"So do I, Mag-Mag," answered poor Sir John. "God knows it might have saved me from a broken heart."
Maggie could not understand either her father or aunt.
She began, perhaps, to have a certain glimmering as to the meaning of it all when, a few days later, she felt very hot, and languid, and heavy, when her throat ached, and her head ached, and although it was a warm summer'sday, she was glad to lie with a shawl over her on the sofa. Then certain words of the doctor's, as he bent over her, penetrated her dull ears, and crept somehow down into her heart.
"There is no doubt whatever that she has taken the fever from Susy Aylmer. Well, all we have to do now is to pull her through as quickly as possible, and of course, Mrs. Grenville, as Ralph is still quite well, and as he was not exposed to anything like the same amount of infection as Maggie, you will send him away."
Mrs. Grenville responded in rather a choking voice, and she and the doctor left the room together.
A few moments later Mrs. Grenville came back and bent over the sick child.
"Is that you, Auntie Violet?" asked Maggie.
"Yes, my darling," responded her aunt.
"What's fever, auntie?"
"An illness, dear."
"And am I going to be very, very ill?"
"I hope not very ill, Maggie. We are going to nurse you so well that we trust that willnot be the case; but I am afraid my poor little girl will not feel comfortable for some time."
"And did I take the fever that's to make me so sick from Susy—only Susy wasn't sick, auntie?"
"No, dearest; but she carried the infection on her clothes, and there is no doubt you took it from her."
"Then I'm 'fraid," continued Maggie, "you're very angry with her still."
"I cannot say that I'm pleased with her, darling."
"Oh, but, auntie, I want you to forgive her, and I want father to forgive her, 'cause she didn't know nothing about 'fection or fevers—and—and—do forgive her, Auntie Violet."
Here poor sick little Maggie began to cry and Mrs. Grenville was glad to comfort her with any assurances, even of promises of forgiveness for the naughty Susy.
After this there came very dark and anxious days for the people who loved the little princess. Ralph was sent back to Tower Hill, where he wandered about and was miserable,and thought a great deal about Maggie, and found out that after all he was very fond of her. He did not take the fever himself, but he was full of anxieties about Jo and Maggie; for both the little girls, one in the fever hospital and the other in his mother's luxurious home, were having a hard fight for their little lives.
Lady Ascot and Sir John were always, day and night, one or another of them, to be found by Maggie's sick-bed, and of course there were professional nurses, and more than one doctor; but with all this care the sick child in the home seemed to have as hard a time of it as the other sick child who was away from those she loved and who was handed over to the tender mercies of strangers. It was very curious how, through all her ravings and through all the delirium of her fever, Maggie talked about Jo. She had only seen Jo once in her life, but although she mentioned her mother and her father, and her old nurse and Ralph, there was no one at all about whom she spoke so frequently, or with so keen an interest, as the lame child of the poor laundress. From the moment she heard that Susywas to be forgiven, that very mischievous little person seemed to have passed from her thoughts; but with Jo it was different, until at last Waters began to think that there was some mysterious link between the two sick children.
This idea was confirmed, when one evening little Maggie awoke, cool and quiet, but with a weakness over her which was beyond any weakness she could ever have dreamed of undergoing. Her feeble voice could scarcely be heard, but her thoughts still ran on Jo.
"Mother," she whispered, very, very low indeed in Lady Ascot's ear, "I thought Jo had got her day-dream."
"Try not to talk, my precious one," whispered the mother back in reply.
"But why not?" asked Maggie. "Jo often had day-dreams, Susy told me, and so did Ralph. She wanted to be in a cool place, where beautiful things are, in the country, or in—in heaven. And I want to be with Jo in the country—or in—heaven."
Maggie looked very sweet as she spoke, and when the last words passed her pale little lips,she closed her eyes with their pretty curly lashes. The father and mother both felt, as they looked at her, that a very, very little more would take their darling away.
"I wonder how the sick child in the hospital is," said Sir John Ascot to his wife. "I must own I have had no time to think about her, and she and hers have done mischief enough to us; but the little one's heart seems set on her—has been all through. It might be a good thing for our little Maggie if I could bring her word that the other child is better."
"It would be the best thing in all the world for Maggie," answered Lady Ascot.
"Then I will go round to the fever hospital now, and make inquiries," said Sir John.
On his way downstairs he met Mrs. Grenville, and told her what he was doing. She said:
"Wait one moment, John, and I will put on my bonnet and go with you."
It was a lovely evening toward the end of July. The day had been intensely hot, but now a soft breeze began to stir the heated atmosphere,a breeze with a little touch of health and healing about it.
"This night will be cooler than the last," said Mrs. Grenville, "and that will be another chance in our little one's favor."
At this moment the lady's dress was plucked rather sharply from behind, and looking round Mrs. Grenville saw, for the first time since all their trouble, the excited and rough little figure of Susy Aylmer. Her first impulse was to shake herself free from the touch of so naughty a child, but then she remembered her promise to Maggie, and looked again at the little intruder.
A great change had come over poor Susy; the confidence and assurance had all left her round face. It was round still, and was to a certain extent red still, but the eyes were so swollen with crying, and the poor face itself so disfigured by tear-channels, that only one who had seen her several times would have recognized her.
"Oh, ma'am," she exclaimed, "I has been waiting here for hours and hours, and nobodywill speak to me nor tell me nothing. Mrs. Cook won't speak, nor the housemaid, nor Mrs. Waters, nor nobody, and I feel as if my heart would burst, ma'am. Oh, Mrs. Grenville, how is Miss Maggie, and is she going away same as our little Jo is going away?"
"Who is that child, Violet?" inquired Sir John. "Does she, too, know some one of the name of Jo, and what is she keeping you for? Do let us hurry on."
"She is little Jo Aylmer's sister," whispered back Mrs. Grenville. "Susy, it is very hard to forgive you, for through your deceit we have all got into this terrible trouble; but I promised Maggie I would try, and I can not go back from my word to the dear little one. Maggie is a shade, just a shade better to-night, Susy, but she is still very, very ill. Pray for her, child, pray for that most precious little life. And now, what about Jo? It is not really true what you said about Jo, Susy?"
"Yes, but it is, ma'am; they has just sent round a message to mother, and they say that our little Jo won't live through the night. It's quite true as she's going away to God, ma'am."
Sir John and Mrs. Grenville left poor Susy standing with her apron to her eyes at the corner of the street, and went on in the direction of the fever hospital. Their hearts had sunk very low at Susy's words, and they began to share in Waters' belief that there was a mysterious sympathy between the two sick children, and that if one went away perhaps the other would follow quickly.
The fever hospital was some little distance off, but they both preferred walking to calling a cab. It was not the visiting hour when they got there, but Mrs. Grenville scribbled some words on a little card, and begged of the porter who admitted them into the cool stone hall to send a note with her card and Sir John's at once to the lady superintendent. This littlenote had the desired effect, and in a few moments they were both admitted to the good lady's private sanctum.
Mrs. Grenville in a few low words explained the nature of their errand. The good lady nurse was all sympathy and interest, but when they mentioned the name of the child they had come to see her face became very grave and sad.
"That little one!" she remarked; "I fear that God is going to take that sweet child away to himself. She is the sweetest and prettiest child in the hospital—she has gone through a terrible illness, and I don't think I have once heard her murmur. Poor little lamb! her sufferings are over at last, thank God; she is just quietly moment by moment passing away. It is a case of dying from exhaustion."
"But, good madam, can nothing be done to rouse her?" asked Sir John, his face turning purple with agitation. "Has she the best and most expensive nourishment—can't her strength be supported? Perhaps, ma'am, you are not aware that a good deal depends on thelife of that little girl. It is not an ordinary case—no, no, by no means an ordinary case. My purse is at your command, ma'am; get the best doctors, the best nurses, the best care—save the child's life at any cost."
While Sir John was speaking the lady nurse looked sadder than ever.
"We give of the best in this hospital," she said; "and there has been from the first no question of expense or money. Perhaps the worst symptom in the case of little Joanna Aylmer is in the fact that the child herself does not wish to recover. I confess I have no hope whatever, but it is a well-known saying that, in fever, as long as there is life there is hope. Would you like to see the child, Mrs. Grenville? It might comfort your own little darling afterward to know that you had gone to see her just at the end."
Mrs. Grenville nodded in reply, but poor Sir John, overcome by an undefined terror, sank down by the table, and covered his face with his hands.
Mrs. Grenville followed the nurse into thelong cool ward, passing on her way many sick and suffering children. The child by whose little narrow white bed they at last stopped was certainly now not suffering. Her eyes were closed; through her parted lips only came the gentlest breathing; on her serene brow there rested a look of absolute peace. Little Jo Aylmer was alive, but she neither spoke nor moved. Mrs. Grenville stooped down and kissed her, leaving what she thought was a tear of farewell on her sweet little face.
As she was walking home by Sir John's side, she said abruptly, after an interval of silence:
"It is quite true, John—we must do what we can to keep Maggie, but little Jo is going home."
"She must not die. We must keep her somehow," replied Sir John.
That night it seemed to several people that two little children were about to be taken away to their heavenly home, for Maggie's feeble strength fluttered and failed, and, as the hours went by, the doctors shook their heads andlooked very grave. She still talked in a half-delirious way about Jo, and still seemed to fancy that she and Jo were soon going somewhere away together.
All through her illness no one had been more devoted in her attentions to the sick child than the faithful servant Waters. When the day began to break, Waters made up her mind to a certain line of action. Her mistress had told her how very ill little Jo Aylmer was—she had described fully her visit to the hospital—had told Waters that she herself had no hope whatever of Jo, and had further added that the child herself did not wish to live.
"That's not to be wondered at," commented Waters. "What have she special to live for, pretty lamb? and there's much to delight one like her where she's going; but all the same, ma'am, it will be the death-knell of our little Miss Maggie if the other child is taken."
When the morning broke, Waters felt that she could bear her present state of inaction no longer, and accordingly she tied on her bonnet and went out.
First of all she wended her steps in the direction of the Aylmers' humble dwelling. She mounted the stairs to Mrs. Aylmer's door and knocked. The poor woman had not been in bed all night, and flew to the door now, fearing that Waters' knock was the dreaded message which she had been expecting from the hospital.
"'Tis only me, ma'am," said Waters, "and you has no call to be frightened. I want you just to put on your bonnet and shawl, and come right away with me to the hospital. We has got to be let in somehow, for I must see Jo directly."
"For aught I know," said Mrs. Aylmer, "little Jo may be singing with the angels now."
"We must hope not, ma'am, for I want that little Jo of yours to live. She has got to live for our Miss Maggie's sake, and there is not a moment to lose; so come away, ma'am, at once."
Mrs. Aylmer stared at Waters; then, because she felt very weak, and feeble, and wretchedherself, she allowed the stronger woman to guide her, and the two went out without another word being said on either side.
It was, of course, against all rules for visitors to be admitted at five o'clock in the morning; but in the case of mothers and dying children such rules are apt to become lax, and the two women presently found themselves behind the screen which sheltered little Jo from her companions.
"She won't hear you now," said the nurse; "she has not noticed any one for many hours." Waters looked round her almost despairingly—the poor mother had sunk down by the bedside, and had covered her face with her hands. Waters, too, covered her face, and as she did so she prayed to her Father in heaven with great fervor and strong faith and hope. After this brief prayer she knelt by the little white cot, and took the cold little hand of the child who was every moment going further away from the shore of life.
"Little Jo," she said, "you have got to live. I don't believe God wishes you to die, and youmustn't wish it either. You have got your work to do, Jo; do you hear me? Look at me, pretty one—you have got to live."
Waters spoke clearly, and in a very decided voice. The little one's violet eyes opened for a brief instant and fixed themselves on the anxious, pleading woman; both the nurse and the mother came close to the bed in breathless astonishment.
"Have you got a cordial?" said Waters, turning to the nurse. "Give it to me, and let me put it between her lips."
The nurse gave her a few drops out of a bottle, and Waters wetted the parched lips of the child.
"There's another little one, my pretty, and she's waiting for you. If you go I fear she'll go, but if you stay I think she'll stay. There are them who would break their hearts without her, and she ought to do a good work down on the earth. Will you stay for her sake, little Jo?" Here the sick child moved restlessly, and Waters continued.
"Send her a message, Jo Aylmer," she said."Tell her where you two are next to meet—in the country, where the grass is green, or in—heaven. Oh, Jo! do say you will meet Miss Maggie in the cool, shady, lovely country, and wait until by and by for heaven, my pretty lamb."
Whether God really heard Waters' very earnest prayer, or whether little Jo was at that moment about to take a turn for the better, she certainly opened her eyes again full and bright and wide, and quite intelligible words came from her pretty lips.
"My day-dream," said little Jo Aylmer; "tell her—tell her to meet me where the grass is green."
The little princess of Tower Hill and the child of the poor laundress were both pronounced out of danger. Death no longer with his terrible sickle hovered over these pretty flowers; they were to make beautiful the garden of earth for the present.
Waters felt quite sure in her own heart that she, under God, had been the means of saving Maggie's life, for Maggie had smiled so sweetly and contentedly when Waters had brought her back the other child's message, and after that she had ceased to speak about meeting Jo in heaven.
When the scales were turned and the children were pronounced out of danger, they both grew rapidly better, and at the end of a fortnight Maggie was able to sit up for a few momentsat a time, and almost to fatigue those about her with her numerous inquiries about Jo.
Every day Waters went to the hospital, and came back with reports of the sick child, whose progress toward recovery was satisfactory, only not quite so rapid as Maggie's.
At last the doctor gave Sir John and Lady Ascot permission to take their little darling back to Tower Hill. Mrs. Grenville accompanied her brother and sister and little niece; and of course in the country Maggie would have the great happiness of meeting Ralph again.
Ralph by this time had taken the hearts of Miss Grey and the numerous servants at Tower Hill by storm. He was thoroughly at home and thoroughly happy, assumed a good deal the airs of a little autocrat, and had more or less his own way in everything. He was delighted to see Maggie, and immediately drew her away from the rest to talk to her and consult her on various subjects.
He Put His Arm Around His Little Cousin.—Page 158.He Put His Arm Around His Little Cousin.—Page 158.
"You look rather white and peaky, Mag, but you'll soon brown up now you've got into the real country. You must run about a great deal, and forget that you were ever ill. You mustn't even mind being a little tottery upon your legs at first. I know you must be tottery, because I've been consulting Miss Grey about it, and she once had rheumatic fever, and she used to totter about after it awfully; but the great thing is not to be sentimental over it, but to determine that you will get back your muscle. Now what do you think I have found? Come round with me into the shrubbery and you shall see."
Ralph's words were decidedly a little rough and tonicky, but his actions were more considerate, for he put his arm round his little cousin and led her quite gently away. Maggie found the sweet country air delicious; she was also very happy to feel Ralph's arm round her waist, and she could not help giving his little brown hand a squeeze.
"I wish you'd kiss me, Ralph," she said. "I have thought of you so often when I was getting better; I know you must think me notmuch of a playfellow, and I am so sorry that I began by vexing you about the rabbits."
"I'll kiss you, of course, Mag," said Ralph. "I don't think kisses are at all interesting things myself, but I'd do a great deal more than that to make you happy, for I was really, really sorry when you were ill. I don't think you're at all a bad sort of playfellow, Mag—I mean for a girl. And as to the rabbits, why, that was the best deed you ever did. You are coming to see my dear bunnies now."
"Oh, Ralph, you don't mean Bianco and Lily?"
"Yes, I mean my darling white beauties that Jo gave me. I found them again in the wood, and they have grown as friendly as possible. I don't shut them up in any hutch; they live in the wood and they come to me when I call them. Yesterday I found that they had made a nest, and the nest was full of little bunnies, all snow white, and with long hair like the father and mother. I'm going to show you the nest now."
At the thought of this delightful sight Maggie'scheeks became very pink, her blue eyes danced, and she forgot that her legs were without muscle, and even tried to run in her excitement and pleasure.
"Don't be silly, Mag!" laughed her cousin; "the bunnies aren't going to hide themselves, and we'll find them all in good time. You may walk with those tottery legs of yours, but you certainly cannot run. Here, now we're at the entrance to the wood; now I'll help you over the stile."
The children found the nest of lovely white rabbits, and spent a very happy half-hour sitting on the ground gazing at them.
Then Maggie began to confide a little care, which rested on her heart about Jo, to her cousin.
"She has got well again, you know, Ralph, and I promised she should meet me in the country somewhere where the grass is green, and yet I don't know how she's to come. I have got no money, and Jo has got no money, and father and mother don't say any thing about it. It would be a dreadful thing for Jo to stayaway from heaven—for she was very, very near going to heaven, Ralph—and then to find that I had broken my word to her, and that after all we were never to see each other where the grass is green."
"It would be worse than dreadful," answered Ralph, "it would be downright cruel and wicked. Dear little Jo! she'd like to come here and look at the bunnies, wouldn't she? Well, I've got no money either, and she can't be got into the country without money; that I do know. Perhaps I'd better speak to mother about it."
But Ralph, when he did question Mrs. Grenville on the subject, found her wonderfully silent, and in his opinion unsympathetic. She said that she could not possibly interfere with Sir John and Lady Ascot in their own place, and that if she were Ralph she would let things alone, and trust to the Ascots doing what was right in the matter.
But Ralph was not inclined to take this advice.
"I like Maggie for being good about Jo," hesaid, "and Jo shan't be disappointed. I'll go myself to Uncle John; he probably only needs to have the thing put plainly to him."
Sir John listened to the little boy's somewhat excited remarks with an amused twinkle in his eyes.
"So the princess has sent you to me, my lad?" he said. "You tell her to keep her little mind tranquil, and to try to trust her old father."
Little Jo Aylmer came very slowly back to health and strength, but at last there arrived a day when the hospital nurse pronounced her cured, and when her mother arrived in a cab to take her away.
The hospital nurse had tears in her eyes when she kissed Jo, and the other sick children in the ward were extremely sorry to say good-by to her, for little Jo, without making any extraordinary efforts, indeed without making any efforts at all, had a wonderful faculty for inspiring love. No doubt she was sympathetic, and no doubt also she was self-forgetful, and her ready tact prevented her saying the wordswhich might hurt or doing the deeds which might annoy, and these apparently trivial traits in her character may have helped to make her popular. On that particular sunshiny afternoon the preparations made by certain excited little people in Philmer's Buildings were great. From the day Jo was pronounced out of danger Susy had begun to recover her spirits, and at any rate to forgive herself for her conduct in the matter of the tambourine. She had not spent any of the seven shillings which the pawnbroker had given for poor Maggie's best hat; it had all been securely tucked away in her best white cotton pocket-handkerchief, and neither her mother nor the boys knew of its existence, for to purchase a tambourine while Jo was so ill, and Maggie supposed to be dying was beyond even thoughtless Susy's desires.
After her own fashion, this rather heedless little girl had suffered a good deal during the past weeks, and suffering did her good, as it does all other creatures.
Now, while the boys were very busy gettingthe room into a festive condition for Jo, Susy quietly and softly withdrew one shilling from her mysterious hoard, and went out to make purchases. A shilling means almost nothing to some people; they spend it on utter rubbish—they virtually throw it away. This was, however, by no means the case with Susy Aylmer; she knew a shilling's worth to the uttermost farthing, and it was surprising with what a number of parcels she returned home.
"Now, Ben and Bob, we'll lay the tea-table," she said, addressing her excited little brothers. "Yere, put the cloth straight, do—you know as Jo can't abide nothing crooked. Now then, out comes the fresh loaf as mother bought; pop it on the cracked plate, and put it here, a little to one side—it looks more genteel—not right away in the very middle. Here goes the teapot—oh, my! ain't it a pity as the spout is cracked off?—and here's the little yaller jug for the milk! Here's butter, too—Dosset, but not bad. Now then, we begins on my purchases. A slice of 'am on this tiny plate for Jo; red herrings, which we'll toast up andmake piping hot presently; a nice little bundle of radishes, creases ditto. Oh, my heyes! I do like creases, they're so nice and biting. Now then, what 'ave we 'ere?—why, a big packet of lollipops; I got the second quality of lollipops, so I 'as quite a big parcel; and the man threw in two over, 'cause I said they was for a gal just out of 'ospital. Shrimps is in this 'ere bag. Now, boys, there ain't none of these 'ere for you, they're just for mother and Jo, and no one else—don't you be greedy, Ben and Bob, for ef you are, I'll give you something to remember. Yere's a real fresh egg, which must be boiled werry light—that's for Jo, of course—and 'ere's a penn'orth of dandy-o-lions to stick in the middle of the table. Yere they goes into this old brown cracked jug, and don't they look fine? Well, I'm sure I never see'd a more genteel board."
The boys thoroughly agreed with Susy on this point, and while they were skipping and dancing about, and making many dives at the tempting eatables, and Susy was chasing them with loud whoops, half of anger, half of mirth,about the room, Mrs. Aylmer and the little pale, spiritual-looking sister arrived.
At the sight of Jo the children felt their undue excitement subsiding—their happiness became peace, as it always did in her blessed little presence.
There was no wrangling or quarreling over the tea-table—the look of pretty Jo lying on her sofa once again kept the boys from being over-greedy, and reduced Susy's excitement to due bounds.
Mrs. Aylmer said several times, "I'm the werry happiest woman in London," and her children seemed to think that they were the happiest children.
The pleasant tea-hour came, however, to an end at last, and Susy was just washing up the cups and saucers and putting the remainder of the feast into the cupboard, when the whole family were roused into a condition of most alert attention by a sharp and somewhat imperative knock on the room door.
"Dear heart alive!" exclaimed Mrs. Aylmer. "Whoever can that be? It sounds like thelandlord, only I paid my bit of rent yesterday."
"It's more likely to be some one after you as laundress, mother," remarked practical Susy; and then Ben flew across the room and, opening the door wide, admitted no less a person than Sir John Ascot himself.
Mrs. Aylmer had never seen him, and of course did not know what an important visitor was now coming into her humble little room. Susy, however, knew Maggie's father, and felt herself turning very white, and took instant refuge behind Jo's sofa.
"Now, which is little Jo?" said Sir John, coming forward and peering round him. "I've come here specially to-day to see a child whom my own little girl loves very much. I've something to say to that child, and also to her mother. My name is Ascot, and I dare say you all, good folks, have heard of my dear little girl Maggie."
"Miss Maggie!" exclaimed Jo, a delicate pink coming into her face, and her sweet violet eyes becoming, not tearful, but misty. "Areyou Miss Maggie's father, sir? I seems to be near to Miss Maggie somehow."
"So you are, little lassie," said the baronet; and then he glanced from pretty Jo to the other children, and from her again to her mother, as though he could not quite account for such a fragile and pure little flower among these plants of sturdy and common growth.
"My little Jo favors her father, Sir John," said Mrs. Aylmer, dropping a profound courtesy and dusting a chair with her apron for the baronet. "Will you be pleased to be seated, sir?" she went on. "We're all pleased to see you here—pleased and proud, and that's not saying a word too much. And how is the dear, beautiful little lady, Sir John, and Master Ralph, bless him?"
"My little girl is well again, thank God, Mrs. Aylmer, and Ralph is as sturdy a little chap as any heart could desire. Yes, I will take a seat near Jo, if you please. I've a little plan to propose, which I hope she will like, andwhich you, Mrs. Aylmer, will also approve of. This is it."
Then Sir John unfolded a deep-laid plot, which threw the Aylmer family into a state of unspeakable rapture. To describe their feelings would be beyond any ordinary pen.
On a certain lovely evening in the beginning of September, when the air was no longer too warm, and the whole world seemed bathed in absolute peace and rest, little Maggie Ascot and her Cousin Ralph might have been seen walking, with their arms round each other, in very deep consultation. Maggie was quite strong again, had got her roses back, and the bright light of health in her blue eyes. She and Ralph were pacing slowly up and down a shady path not far from the large entrance gates.
"I can't think what it means," exclaimed Maggie; "it is the fourth time Aunt Violet has gone up there to-day, and Susan the scullery-maid has gone with her now, carrying an enormous basket. Susan let me peep intoit, and it was full of all kinds of goodies. She said it was for the new laundress. I never knew such a fuss to make about a laundress."
Here Ralph thought it well to administer a little reproof.
"That's because you haven't been taught to consider the poor," he said. "Why shouldn't a laundress have nice things done for her? and if this is a poor lonely stranger coming from a long way off, it's quite right for mother to welcome her. Mother always thinks you can't do too much for lonely people, and she'll wash your dresses all the whiter if she thinks you're going to be kind and attentive. Why, Maggie, our little Jo's mother is a laundress, you forget that. Laundresses are most respectable people."
At the mention of Jo's name Maggie sighed.
"There's nothing at all been done about her, Ralph," she said. "Nobody seems to take any notice when I speak about her. She must be tired of waiting and watching by this time. She must be dreadfully sorry that she did not go away to heaven and God; for she must knownow that I never meant anything when I wanted to meet her in the country—and yet I did, Ralph, I did!"
Here Maggie's blue eyes grew full of tears.
"Never mind, Mag," replied her little cousin soothingly; "it is very odd, and I don't understand it a bit, but mother says things are sure to come right, and you know Uncle John wished us to trust him."
"But the time is going on," said Maggie; "the summer days will go, and Jo won't have seen the lovely country where the grass is green. Oh! Ralph, we must do something."
"If only Mrs. Aylmer were the new laundress!" began Ralph. "You can't think what a nice cottage that is, Mag—four lovely rooms, and such a nice, nice kitchen, with those dear little lattice panes of glass in the window, and lots of jasmine and Virginia creeper peeping in from outside, and a green field for the laundress to dry her clothes in, just beyond. Poor laundress! she will like that field awfully, and it would be very unkind of us to wish to take it away from her and give it to Mrs. Aylmer, forof course Mrs. Aylmer knows nothing about it, and the new laundress has probably arrived, and set her heart on it by this time; and she may be a widow, too, with lots and lots of little children."
"But none of the children could be like Jo," said Maggie.
"Well, perhaps not," answered Ralph. "Oh, here comes mother; let's run to meet her. Mother darling, has the new laundress come?"
"Yes, Ralph, she and her family arrived about an hour ago; they are settling down nicely into the cottage, and seem to be respectable people. They all think the cottage very comfortable."
"And are you going to see them again to-night, Auntie Violet?" asked Maggie with rather a sorrowful look on her little face.
"Why, yes, Maggie; they are all strangers here, you know, and I fancy they rather feel that, so it might be nice to walk up presently and take a cup of tea with them. There are some children, so you and Ralph might come too."
"Didn't I tell you how mother considered the poor?" here whispered Ralph, poking the little princess rather violently in the side. "Oh, yes, mother, we'd like to go to tea with the little laundresses. Is there anything we could take them—anything they would like, to show that we sympathize with them for having come so far, and having left their old home?"
"They don't seem at all melancholy, Ralph," said Mrs. Grenville, smiling, "and when they have seen you and Maggie, I fancy they will none of them have anything further to desire to-night. Why, Maggie dear, you look quite sad; what is the matter?"
"I am thinking of little Jo," whispered Maggie. "Her mother is a laundress, too, and she's poor. Why couldn't you have considered the poor in the shape of Jo's mother, Aunt Violet?"
Mrs. Grenville stooped down and kissed Maggie.
"Here come your father and mother," she said, "and I know they too want to see the new people who have come to the pretty cottage.Now let us all set off. I told the laundress and her family that you were coming to have tea with them, Maggie and Ralph. Suppose you two run on in front; you know the cottage and you know the way."
"Tell the good folks we'll look in on them presently," shouted Sir John Ascot, and then the children took each other's hands and ran across some fields to the laundress' cottage. They heard some sounds of mirth as they drew near, and saw two rather wild little boys tumbling about, turning somersaults and standing on their heads; they also heard a high-pitched voice, and caught a glimpse of a remarkably round and red face, and it seemed to Maggie that the voice and the face were both familiar, although she could not quite recall where she had seen them before.
"We must introduce ourselves quite politely," said Ralph as they walked up the narrow garden path. "Now here we are; I'll knock with my knuckles. I wish I knew the laundress' name. It seems rude to say, 'Is the laundress in?' for of course she has got a name, and hername is just as valuable to her as ours are to us. How stupid not to have found out what she is really called. Perhaps we had better inquire for Mrs. Robbins; that's rather a common name, and yet not too common. It would never do to call her Mrs. Smith or Jones, for if she wasn't Smith or Jones, she wouldn't like it. Now, Maggie, I'll knock rather sharp, and when the new laundress opens the door you are to say, 'Please is Mrs. Robbins the laundress in?'"
All this time the girl with the red face was making little darts to the lattice window and looking out, and there were some stifled sounds of mirth from the boys with the high-pitched voices.
"The laundress' family are in good spirits," remarked Ralph, and then he gave a sharp little knock, and Maggie prepared her speech.
"Please is the new—is Mrs. Rob—is, is—oh! Ralph, why, it's Mrs. Aylmer herself!"
Nothing very coherent after this discovery was uttered by any one for several minutes. Maggie found herself kneeling by Jo, with herarms round Jo's neck, and two little cheeks, both wet with tears, were pressed together, and two pair of lips kissed each other. That kiss was a solemn one, for the two little hearts were full.
In different ranks, belonging almost to two extremes, the child of riches and the child of poverty knew that they possessed kindred spirits, and that their friendship was such that circumstances were not likely again to divide them. Waters was right when she said there was a strong link between Maggie and Jo.
That is the story, an episode, after all, in the life of the little princess, but an episode which was to influence all her future days.
THE END.