Part 2

Maddie did not know, but she was willing to take him on trust. She held fast to his finger, and leaned her bright head against him, while he put on her shabby little coat that did not fit, and the shabbier little hat. The matron looked at him, half smiling, and then at Maddie with perplexity.

“It is just a little helpless child after all,” she thought. Then, taking the bonny face between her hands, she stooped and kissed her. “Be a good girl, dear,—I hope you will be happy.”

It was here that Maddie made her explanatory apology. “I will be. I couldn’t be happy here, you see—’cause—I wasn’t used to bein’ a ’sylum orphum—I was born the other kind of a orphum—they’re different and always has a granny—and a lap—and——”

“Yes, I know, dear,” replied the matron, looking very red and teary, and ready to laugh all at once, while the doctor shook hands in a haven’t-a-moment-to-spare sort of a way, and hurried the small prattler away.

They found Jeanie waiting at the store with everything ready for the trying on. Jeanie, who seemed to know all about little girls—and doctors. Then followed a most exciting time. Maddie hardly knew just what happened, but dusk found her with the doctor and Jeanie, homeward bound. No one would ever have suspected, to see her then, that she knew aught of “’sylums.”

“Tell me, Maddie,” said the doctor, “what _were_ you doing on the fire escape at midnight?”

“I was talkin’ to God,” she answered, quite simply. “You see, before granny died, she said to me: ‘Maddie, dear, be sure and remember, _God will take care o’ you_. Now don’t _forget_ it,’ she said, ‘just keep _rememberin,’ God will take care o’ you_.’

“You see, granny forgot ’bout God—she told me so—and she wanted me to be different. When I got to the ’sylum, I tho’t He didn’t live there, tho’ they did read ’bout Him outen a book every mornin’, and before we et we shut our eyes and said somethin’ sounded like ‘ou—wou—wo—wou,’ they said it so fast, I never knew just what they was talkin’, but they called it ‘thanking God.’ I just kept rememberin’, _God will take care o’ you_, but it seemed like—He—maybe didn’t.

“Then, when they sent me to bed ’cause I told ’em they all acted sif orphums was to be ’stirm’nated like bugs—I s’pose bein’ in bed so long, ’fore it was night, I woke up, ’fore it was day, and got to thinkin’—He had forgot all about me, ’cause granny had forgot about Him.

“I went out on the fire ’scape, so I could get a little nearer to Him, and told him, nice and p’lite, for I don’t believe God likes to be wowed at: ‘God, I reely ain’t no roach, and I don’t want to be ’sterm’nated. I am that little girl wot _you_ made; please don’t be mad to granny any more ’cause she forgot ’bout you. She was sorry.’

“Then I told God some things ’bout granny. How tired she was, how hard she worked, scrubbin’ and washin’—an’ she was old—and her bones was stiff; and I told God, ‘Granny _never told no lies_, not for fair. Just play lies, you know, like when we didn’t have anythin’ to eat, she’d say, “Well, I guess we’ve been eatin’ too much roast duck and fixin’s, an’ we better fast ’til morning,” and then she’d hold me in her lap and we’d laff ’bout the duck not settin’ well in our stummicks.’

“After ’while she’d say in a sort of a tuney talkin’ way:

‘I’ve got Maddie and Maddie’s got me, High O! High O! For the world we don’t care a fiddle-de-dee, Since I’ve got Maddie and Maddie’s got me, High O! High O!’

“I told God there wasn’t no laps to the ’sylum, and would He please take care o’ me quick.”

The troubled blue eyes lifted to the doctor’s face made him gather her suddenly into his arms and ask, “What is wrong with this lap?” With her curly red head against his shoulder they talked of more joyous happenings. The new shoes, with “shiny tips,” the kid mittens with snappers to make them stay shut, the wonderful things they had seen in the shops, the doll that sat wide-eyed on the arm of Jeanie’s chair.

After a long, dreamy pause, Maddie sat erect, and putting her hands on the doctor’s shoulders, she looked long and earnestly into his strong, kindly face. Slowly a light came into her eyes and she said: “God ain’t forgot me. He sent you. Granny said I was to ’member, ‘God will take care o’ you,’ and _He_ DID!”

“Yes, Maddie,” said the doctor, softly, and again, “Yes! yes!”

The head with its bobbing curls was back on his shoulder, the weary eyelids drooping.

“She is off to dreamland,” the doctor thought, when she roused again:

“P’raps He will take care o’ granny; she was sorry.”

V.

WHERE IS DOROTHY?

While the world looked like fairy-land, glistening, sparkling in the glowing sunshine, the city children came. They were whisked away to the different homes amid the jingling of sleigh bells, each person preferring the long way round.

Then followed days of joyous happenings. It was Christmas weather, and there was snow enough for all the wonderful plans for winter games. The grown people as well as the children entered into the festivities and good times reigned supreme.

Dorothy and Lois twinkled about like sunbeams.

Father was kept busy answering questions and telling over and over again Christmas stories, traditions and legends.

Lois and Dorothy had admired again each gift and hidden them for the Santa Claus hunt on Christmas day.

Dorothy whispered to father in one ear and Lois whispered in the other, until father was certain the whispers were tangled in the middle of his head. Timothy said the house was so full of secrets, he expected to step on them.

Jeanie locked the school-room door and put the key in her pocket, and though everyone had approached her on the subject, no one was any the wiser.

The doctor flew in to talk to Jeanie and flew out again with such an air of importance that Jeanie looked thoughtfully after him.

The candy pull was over and had been a great success, each child spending the afternoon in sticky ecstasy.

“Isn’t it wonderful how many lovely things happen every day?” said Dorothy to Timothy, who was sitting with a little girl on each knee, demanding to be told things.

“It will be Christmas day in three days, Dorothy, and your birthday.”

“And I play it’s mine,” Lois interrupted Timothy, “because I don’t really know, and sailor Tom said he thought I must have been born about December.”

“Why not?” said Timothy; “and some day you will know. Just because ships are lost, there is no rhyme nor reason in talking about people being lost; meantime, there are two Christmas candles shining here.”

“Doctor says he is going to have Maddie for his Christmas candle; doesn’t she look like a _real_ one in her white dress and that hair?” Dorothy enthused.

“She does,” Timothy admitted. “She will no doubt shine in more ways than one. She may need some snuffing; candles get into the way of sputtering if they are not well cared for.” A pause, while the black and blond heads rested contentedly against Timothy’s broad shoulder.

“Do you think, Timothy,” and the blond head lifted, “I am beginning to shine a little clearer, the way mother dear would want me to?”

“You do indeed, sweetheart,” and Timothy’s eyes were very soft just then. “You see, a happy, laughing little girl, who is always sharing her joy, is very like a clear light, a twinkling star—one feels better just to know she is there.”

“Tell something about me,” demanded Lois.

“It’s a good little candle,” and Timothy dropped a kiss on the glossy black head. “It burns more steadily every day. Seems to me,” thoughtfully, “I have heard no crying for some time; tears have such a way of extinguishing the light.

“But it’s Christmas secrets I’m waiting to hear,” said Timothy, all animation, and while they assured him they could _not_ tell _anything_, confided to him all the important secrets.

Hand in hand they took him through the house, showing him the exact spot where each treasure was to be found. Up into the tower they climbed to see the candles to be lighted Christmas eve. “Lois’ shines out over the land, and mine shines out over the sea,” said Dorothy.

For a time they stood looking out over the white world. “We will have more snow,” said Timothy, as they turned to go, and the children greeted the announcement with joy.

“Timothy, will you play snowball with us this afternoon? The children will be here about one o’clock, and we want to make a snow man.”

“Well,” said Timothy, “just let me catch anyone so much as thinking of playing without me!”

It was voted the very best afternoon’s fun. There seemed to be as many grown people as children. Everyone played with zest, all were boys and girls together. The snow man looked as if he would walk away.

Timothy and the doctor chose sides, and then followed a snowball match that would be remembered for many a day by old and young.

“It’s snowing! It’s snowing!” chanted Maddie, and the children took up the cry.

“Looks like a big storm,” said father, and while the children shouted and danced in the fast falling snow, the sleighs were brought out and preparations for getting home were quickly made.

Down the long winding driveway, through the gate, the merry party went to the music of the silver bells and happy laughter; while after them, throwing a last snowball, trooped Lois, Dorothy, Timothy, Maddie, Mr. Douglas, Jeanie and the doctor.

Faster and faster whirled the snow, until the sleighing party was lost to sight and those on foot turned back. Everybody hurried away, the doctor and Maddie went home, father and Timothy remembered things that must be done, Jeanie to see about dry clothing for the children.

Half an hour later, Lois ran into the library calling, “Dorothy!”

“She has not been here,” said Mr. Douglas, and Lois went to Jeanie. It soon became apparent that Dorothy was not in the house. No one could remember just when they had seen her last.

“She is so taken up with Maddie, she may have gone on with the doctor,” suggested a maid.

But no, she had not. It was discovered that Rings was also missing.

“It is not like Dorothy to go anywhere unless I know,” said Jeanie, looking white and troubled.

“It is an exciting time,” Mr. Douglas excused; “she probably got into one of the sleighs.” But after everyone had been telephoned to and still no trace, serious alarm took possession of them.

By eight o’clock it was known throughout the place that Dorothy Douglas was missing. Men left their warm firesides and breasted the wild storm.

Mr. Douglas never rested, seeming with brain, heart and hand to accomplish the work of two men.

Timothy was everywhere, advising, encouraging, hoping.

Lights burned all night in the windows of rich and poor alike.

Mothers looked often at their sleeping children, and prayed for the little one lost in the storm.

The doctor, tireless, was directing someone, somewhere throughout all the anxious hours. With frightened, sobbing little Lois in his arms, he had walked the floor, soothing, comforting, until she forgot her fears and slept.

Fires were kept up, hot blankets in readiness, steaming drinks and food for the exhausted searchers were always ready.

Everywhere people listened, longed, prayed for the signal agreed upon, the ringing of the church bells that would tell them Dorothy Douglas was safe.

VI.

CHRISTMAS CANDLES.

Morning dawned, but no slightest trace of the little wanderer had been found. Many of those who had toiled all night stood in groups talking.

“It was a wild night,” said one.

“The wires are down and trains stalled,” said another.

“It seems as though we had done everything we could, and yet one hardly knows how to stop, to just sit and wait,” mourned Mr. Wright, the minister. He was white and worn with the anxiety of the night and he made no effort to hide his tears. He, like many others, loved Dorothy Douglas. “She is as dear to me as my own child,” he said earnestly.

“It was in that blinding storm that she probably was bewildered and walked no one knows how far.”

“I cannot understand why we found no trace of the dog; he would have made an effort to get help. No one seems to have heard him even bark or howl.”

“At any rate, the dog would stay with her; I am glad she was not all alone.”

“Has anyone thought of the sea?” suggested a man; “we have searched so thoroughly and so long, and it was less than an hour before at least a dozen people were looking for her.”

No one spoke for a time. Everyone _had_ thought of the sea and everyone had resolutely put the thought aside.

“It is too awfully cruel to think of,” and a young man, a mere boy, suddenly put his head against the porch pillar and sobbed. He was employed about the Douglas estate.

Judge Lorimer laid his arm about the lad’s shoulder and bent his splendid white head close to the rough brown one.

“I know just how you feel,” he assured him, “why we cannot have it. The little white blossom, always defending, sheltering, comforting someone.”

“She just made life over for me,” continued the lad; “you know I was about down and out when I went begging Mr. Timothy to give me a chance. I can see her now, nothing but a baby—made me think of a bit of thistle-down with the sun shining on it. ‘Boy,’ she said, ‘come and have some dinner, then you won’t feel so sorry’—I was fair starved I tell you. _She_ took hold of _my_ hand and led me to the house. ‘Bridgie, don’t forget to give him a big plate of pudding,’—and it’s been that way ever since.”

So they talked of little Dorothy. Each had some tender memory. “She belongs to the community; in her estimation everyone is good and kind; she never saw anything but the angel side; she has been a little Christmas messenger,” sorrowed an old man.

“What they are going to do at her own home, I can’t think.”

“Has anyone seen Mr. Douglas? He has grown old since yesterday; and Timothy—I could hardly bear the look in the man’s eyes.”

A tall, handsome man, who had been a silent listener, spoke, and at the sound of his voice every one turned. “Let us not give up _hope_,” he said. “I know we cannot think of anything more to do just now; still, let us think of her alive. We will accomplish more.”

“That is Mr. Stanley,” said the judge to a friend at his side; “built the big house on the Point, you know; only reached here last night.”

* * * * *

It was Christmas eve. Stockings were filled and Christmas trees were trimmed, for little children slept in expectation of a joyous to-morrow.

No cheering news had come to the waiting hearts in Dorothy’s home. Mr. Douglas paced back and forth in his library, while outside of the closed door the doctor kept time with the weary walker.

Timothy spoke softly to the doctor: “There is a Mr. Stanley here.”

Mr. Douglas was with them instantly. “Bring him to the library, Timothy—come in doctor—perhaps——”

Mr. Stanley came forward with outstretched hand. “Mr. Douglas, understanding your sorrow as I do, though a stranger to you, let me try to comfort you. Let me beg of you to keep up your courage. So many things could have happened that none of us even suspect. I know it is better for all concerned that you believe that the child is safe. Why take it for granted that evil has befallen her? Is not God our very present help in trouble?

“The storm is over,” he assured them; “I think before morning much of the damage will be repaired and we will be in touch with the outside world again.”

Mr. Douglas resumed his restless walk. “Dorothy is by nature a timid child; I cannot think of her, alone.”

Suddenly a little figure reached his side, soft hands clasped his, and Maddie demanded: “Did _you_ forget God? Granny did—_she_ was sorry—she told me ‘God will take care o’ you!’ and He did. Did you tell Dorothy, ‘God will take care o’ you?’ ’Cause if you did, she will know about it and won’t be afraid.”

Timothy drew the little girl to his side. “Maddie,” he said, “Dorothy knows God—she has always known Him.”

“Then,” said Maddie, “let’s not be frightened any more. He _will_ take care o’ her.”

Mr. Douglas sat down with a new light in his eyes, “Yes, Maddie, God will take care of her, I am certain He will. She understood so well—and in her own way explained to me,—‘Love never faileth.’ I _had_ forgotten.”

The doctor leaned forward and patted his old friend’s hand.

Timothy stole softly up to the tower and lighted the Christmas candles.

Mr. Stanley’s eyes rested longingly on Maddie. “Somewhere,” he said, “I have a little daughter. I have not seen her for about six years. I have gone around the world following clues, but because I think as Maddie does, I am still expecting to find her.

“My wife and I were on the ill-fated Steamship M——. We were picked up by different vessels and for a time each believed the other lost. The baby we have never found. My wife thinks a sailor took the baby when helping her into the life-boat.”

Mr. Douglas leaned forward and looked earnestly into the wonderful eyes of the speaker.

“How old was the child?”

“Nine months.”

“Was there any distinguishing mark about her?”

“We hope so. The baby had put her arm in some tea and my wife tied her handkerchief around the little arm to keep the wet sleeve from touching it. The handkerchief had the initials L.O.I.S. in the corner.” The doctor and Mr. Douglas rose simultaneously.

“I believe your quest is at an end. The child is here, in my house, has been for a long time.”

“My child, here! How good God is!” Mr. Stanley’s face was radiant.

Questions and explanations followed, then Mr. Douglas took him to the nursery, but counseled as little excitement as possible, as Lois had had a most trying day.

Surrounded by everything that love could provide, Lois slept in Jeanie’s arms, her dark head pillowed against Jeanie’s cheek.

“So this is our baby,” he murmured as he stood looking through a mist of tears upon the beautiful little face. Then stooping down, he gathered the sleeping child in his arms, holding her close in one long, clinging embrace.

Brokenly he expressed his gratitude and hurried away on his mission of love.

At midnight, Timothy in the tower looked out over a world glistening in the moonlight.

“The earth in solemn stillness lay, To hear the angels sing,”

he quoted softly to himself. Then, hushed by the very presence of that love which had winged the angel song of old, his fears grew still, and the peaceful assurance that

“No harm could come to her On ocean or on shore”

was born in his heart. Renewing the little candles, he recalled her face all alight, as she said: “My candle shines out over the sea, and Lois’ over the land,” and then he remembered that love’s light shines out so far and wide that none may drift “beyond His love and care.”

In the nursery, the room that Dorothy loved, Jeanie, her face white with suffering, stood before the illuminated text which she had so often read to the child, as she held her little quivering form in her arms, quieting the baby fears, and assuring her of the all-loving care of the heavenly Father.

“Thou shalt not be afraid!”

It is a command, she had impressed upon Dorothy—“Mother dear wanted you to understand and obey.” To-night, Jeanie is battling with her own fears, but the loving command, with its promise, does its work, as it so often has before.

“Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night, For He shall give His angels charge over thee, To keep thee in all thy ways.”

There is no fear in love, and Jeanie, obedient, listening, heard—the terror is withdrawn.

In the library, father dear kept his lonely vigil. Only the fire-light dispelling the gloom. But two sentences ring in his ears:—

“God is love!” “Love never faileth!”

The doctor friend, walking back and forth in the wide hall, found his feet keeping time with the song in his heart—

“God will take care o’ her! God will take care o’ her!”

Hurried footsteps on the walk—someone bounded up the steps; the old butler, Robert, was at the door before the bell sounded. The messenger’s face was all aglow: “Telegram—Mr. Douglas;” thrusting the yellow envelope into the man’s hand, he was off like a shot. Robert never knew just how he reached the library. He was faint with fear, torn with apprehension.

“Dorothy safe! Hope to get through to-night.—Stanley.”

Mr. Douglas read and re-read, and his voice rang out as it had not for years. Robert knew, for he had served in his father’s house.

Out in the hall the household waited—tearful, hushed. The doctor stood on a chair and read the telegram to them, while the clanging of the bells told far and wide the glad tidings. What did not willing hands and happy hearts do with those bells? How they talked, laughed, danced, exulted!

Timothy, hastening to the station, wondered if no one had gone to bed that night. The telegraph operator told him that Mr. Stanley had sent out the last telegram that had gone through the night of the storm.

The coast for miles had been watched. He had had wireless, searchlights, vessels, lighthouses and the life-saving stations all at work. “He’s a great man! Nothing he has not thought of. Told me to keep still—no use adding to the heartache. I don’t know just what he did say or do, but he made me know it was all right. He’s made every one _want_ to work their heads off. He was off last night on the first engine that got through to the city. “Couldn’t wait for wires,” he said to me; “you’ll know what to do when you get a message”—and _I did_.

“Listen—there she is!”

The shrieking of an engine—long—loud. It seemed as though no one breathed until the engine rounded the curve, and then cheer after cheer rent the air. No one knew what they did after that, until the doctor’s voice rose above the din:

“A clear path, my friends,” and like magic it was made.

The next moment Dorothy was in her father’s arms and all the sorry lines were kissed away. Perched upon his shoulder, she greeted her friends in her own sunny way.

“I suppose,” she said to Mr. Wright, “I did not get here in time for the Christmas Carols?”

“Yes, we waited for you; let’s have them now, and “father dear,” who had not lifted his glorious voice in song since that Christmas eight years ago, led the singers:

“It came upon the midnight clear, That glorious song of old, From angels bending near to earth To touch their harps of gold.”

Such singing! It came from hearts overflowing with joy and gratitude.

One after another of the old carols pealed forth, while the hearts of men and women grew kind toward all the world, opened wide the gates that the message of Christmas might enter in.

“God rest you, merry gentlemen, Let nothing you dismay,”

sang the happy voices.

“The last verse once more,” said someone:

“Now all your sorrows He doth heal, Your sins He takes away; For Jesus Christ, your Savior, Was born on Christmas day.”

* * * * *

It was nearly morning when, home at last, in her little white eider down gown, Dorothy sat in Jeanie’s lap—Jeanie, whose arms had ached for her.

Warm and happy, she told them how she had stopped to play with Rings, till, bewildered by the snow, she had run in the wrong direction, felt water dashing over her feet, and then she had climbed into a boat and Rings jumped in after her; the next moment a big wave had carried them away into the blinding storm.

“It was cold and dark, and I began to be frightened,” she said. “I remembered, ‘Thou shalt not be afraid,’ and the things father dear and Jeanie had told me. So I talked to God; I told Him this was a pretty big trouble to face, and asked Him to take care of me, and, _of course_, He did. I began to think of that song—‘Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep’:

‘Secure I rest from all alarm, For Thou alone hast power to save.’