Part 14

“Yes,” said Belle: “it means cat and hat, and mouse and house, and mean and queen.”

“That’s right,” said Maggie. “Well, if you say a nice thing in rhyme, that’s poetry; but if you say it in unrhyme, then it’s prose.”

“Oh!” said Belle, quite satisfied with Maggie’s explanation. “I wish I were as smart as you two. You write poetry, Maggie; and Bessie can talk prose: and I can’t do either.”

“Never mind,” said Maggie, consolingly. “Maybe you’ll be able to some day.”

“And you’re just good enough for us, any way,” said Bessie, with an affectionate kiss to her little friend; an example which was followed by Maggie.

“Why don’t you go in the water, and let your sister stay out?” said Belle to Johnny, rather reprovingly.

Johnny, who was a gentle-looking boy, colored a little, but answered quietly,--

“They say I ought not to wet my feet, and I want to keep well very much.”

“Yes,” said Sallie, who had just stepped out of the water, and was wringing out her dripping skirts: “it don’t hurt me to go in the water; but it’s not good for him.”

“Are you sick?” asked Bessie.

“No,” said Johnny, looking as if he thought the little girls were blaming him in their own minds for not taking the wetting himself, as indeed they were.

“He’s not just sick,” said Sallie; “but he’s not just strong, and we’re bound he shall go to school this winter, at least for one quarter. He’s an awful fellow for his books and learning.”

“Will one quarter make him too sick to go any more?” asked Bessie.

“Oh! I didn’t mean that,” said Sallie, sitting down on the rock, and spreading out her wet feet and dress to dry in the sun; “but, you see, we’re not sure we’ll put by enough money even to pay for one quarter. Shall I tell you about it?” she added, seeing her little customers looked interested.

“Yes,” said Bessie.

“Well, as I said, Johnny’s such a fellow for book learning, and he’s smart too; and these two winters he’s tried hard for going to the Common School down in the town; but it’s a terrible long walk, and so cold; and both years he’s been taken down sick, and had to give it up; and the doctor told father he was not to try it again. But there’s a young man lives just round the turn of the road who is learning to be a minister, and he’s ready to teach a few boys if they pay him for it; and father said he couldn’t afford to pay a dollar this winter, for it’s been a bad year with him; but he said we might keep all we could make ourselves to pay for Johnny’s schooling; but I don’t know as we’re likely to put by even enough for one quarter. So that’s the reason, you see, why I go in the water. I’m hearty, but Johnny takes cold easy, and then he coughs.”

“Yes, ‘one man’s meat is another man’s poison,’” said Maggie. “Well, you’re a good girl and a dutiful sister.”

“We’ll buy water-lilies of you every day,” said Bessie, “so we can help along. But we don’t come this way every day,” she added, thoughtfully.

“We could bring them to you, if you liked,” said Johnny. “We do take them every day to a lady down yonder,” and he pointed in the direction of the bluff on which Colonel Rush’s house stood, with several others.

This was agreed upon; and the nurse, saying they must be moving homeward, as it was time to go to the beach and bathe, they said good-by to Johnny and Sallie.

“I’ve a plan in my head,” said Maggie; “but then, I’ve learned experience by a very bad lesson, so I thought I’d better not mention it till I’ve advised with mamma.”

Maggie’s bad lesson was this,--

One day, just before they left home for the Southern trip, Maggie was standing on the front stoop, waiting for her mother and Bessie, with whom she was going out, when a poor-looking man spoke to her. He told a most pitiful story; and Maggie, full of sympathy, emptied her little purse into his hand. But this did not satisfy the beggar; and he asked “if the little lady had not an old coat to give a poor soldier.”

“I’ll ask mamma,” said Maggie, and off she rushed upstairs, leaving the beggar-man standing on the stoop by the open hall-door.

Mamma said she could not give old clothes away, unless she was sure the man was deserving: for she knew of many such who needed them; and told Maggie to go back at once and tell Patrick to shut the door, and she would see the man when she came down.

But when Maggie reached the foot of the stairs, the beggar was gone. So far from waiting for the old coat, it was soon found that he had walked off with a new one of papa’s, which lay on the hall table.

Poor Maggie was excessively mortified, and much distressed, not only at the loss of the coat, but at that of her little stock of spending money. Mamma made the last good to her; but told her she should not do so again if she acted without thought; and begged her to take counsel of some older person when she felt inclined to help those she did not know.

So Maggie had “learned experience,” and since that time had been careful to ask advice before she allowed her sympathies to run too far with her.

XV.

“_OF SUCH IS THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN._”

They all bathed on the little beach near home that morning; and, as soon as they had gone back to the house, Maggie called Bessie and Belle, and they went together to mamma’s room to unfold Maggie’s plan and ask her consent to it.

What a pretty room that was! Mrs. Rush had taken a fancy to call it the “Lily Room,” and to furnish it accordingly. The carpet was green, and the furniture painted the same color, and ornamented with water-lilies wherever they could be put,--on the head and foot boards of the bed, on each drawer of the dressing bureaus, on the panels of the wardrobe and the backs of the chairs, in short, wherever there was room for them. Over the mantelpiece hung an oil-painting of the same lovely flowers; and now the room was filled with the natural blossoms brought in by the little girls that morning.

Mamma lay upon the couch,--this was covered with chintz printed with water-lilies, too,--resting after her salt-water bath. Her long hair was spread over the cushions to dry; and Maggie and Bessie were busy at it in a moment: it was their great delight to comb it and thread their fingers through it; and dearly mamma loved to feel their little hands twisting it into all manner of fantastic braids and loops.

Maggie told her story about the water-lily boy and girl, and then, saying that she thought there must be a good deal of “glove money” due the little box at home, asked her mother if she did not think it would be a “reasonable charity” to pay for Johnny’s schooling next winter.

Bessie looked surprised at this; but Belle clapped her hands, saying,--

“You’ll let me help too, won’t you?”

“But,” said Mrs. Bradford, “I thought you were saving that money for another purpose.”

“Oh, so we _were_,” said Maggie, biting her underlip; “if I didn’t forget it. What a child I am! always forgetting one thing in another.”

“What is it?” asked Belle.

“To buy a warm cloak and a pair of better _spetacles_ for good Mrs. Granby, who is always being kind to other people, and never thinks about herself,” said Bessie.

“And I suppose it wouldn’t be fair to put by a person we’ve known for so long for people we’re hardly acquainted with, only through water-lilies,” said Maggie. “Oh! I wish, I wish, I wish I had the greatest lots of money that ever were seen, so I could give every one every thing they wanted.”

Maggie was always wishing for lots of money; but it is only justice to her to say that it was generally for the benefit of others, and not for herself.

“Did you promise Mrs. Granby?” asked Belle.

“No, we did not promise, not with words,” said Bessie; “but then, we made up our minds to do it, and we wouldn’t like not to. I think it would seem a little like not being very true in our hearts to Mrs. Granby.”

“Oh, dear!” said Maggie, “there are such lots of things one wants to do; but somehow, one can’t seem to do every thing.”

“Mamma,” said Bessie, “don’t you think papa would like to help this boy? He has enough of money.”

“My dear child,” said mamma, laughing: “you must not think there is no end to papa’s money. He has a good many people to help now, and he cannot do for every one, you know.”

“Well, then,” said Maggie, “we’ll tell Uncle Ruthven and the Colonel, and see what they will do. I don’t mean we’ll ask them to help the lily boy; but we’ll just let them know about him, and then leave it to their own conscience.”

“Uncle Ruthven has a good deal of conscience about poor people; and so has Uncle Horace too,” said Bessie.

But somehow the children could not find an opportunity to tell their uncle and Colonel Rush about the “lily boy.” For the next few days there was a good deal of company coming and going, and they did not care to talk about it before strangers; then papa, Uncle Ruthven, and the Colonel went off yachting, and stayed a week.

Meanwhile, Johnny and Sallie came to the house every morning, bringing their basket of lilies; and when the little girls had bought as many as they wanted for their daily gift to their mother, Mrs. Rush and the other ladies would purchase the remainder. So Maggie and Bessie knew that they were helping Johnny towards his heart’s desire in this way, even if they had devoted their “charity money” to another object.

Early on the morning after the gentlemen had returned, the children had gone down to the sands, and were playing happily together, when Belle came on her daily visit. Belle considered herself almost as much at home in Mrs. Rush’s house as Maggie and Bessie did.

“You live at the Ocean House, don’t you?” asked a little girl one day.

“Oh, no!” said Belle; “I don’t live there. I only sleep there, and eat my breakfast there. I live at Aunt May’s, even when it rains, Maggie and Bessie and I can’t do wifout oneanofer.”

She now came running swiftly over the beach towards Maggie and Bessie; and, as soon as she had kissed them for good-morning, said eagerly,--

“O Maggie and Bessie! what do you fink? It is my birfday next week, and papa told me to choose what he should give me, and I can’t think of any thing I want. Do you know any thing I want?”

“Well, no,” said Maggie. “I think you have about every thing a sensible child could want. I can’t remember a single thing; and that is rather a bad business not to have some thing you _want_ for your birthday present. I think, after all, maybe it is a better economy not to have all you want; but to save up your wishes, so you can think of something when any person tells you to choose a present.”

Maggie said this with her wiseacre air, and Belle and Bessie listened with solemn admiration, believing it to be a speech containing a great deal of wisdom; nor, indeed, do I know that they were far wrong.

“How much is your father going to cost for your present?” asked Bessie.

“I asked him that,” said Belle; “and he said that ’pended on what I wanted. He said if it was a locket or necklace, or any thing that would keep till I was a big girl, he would not mind giving a good deal of money for it, he had to give me a present from mamma and himself too; but if it was only a toy I could break or be tired of in a little while, it would not be right to frow away much money on it. That is just what he said. I ’member it very well. But I don’t want a locket or those kind of things, there’s a whole lot of my own mamma’s pretty things I can have when I’m a big girl. Papa is keeping them for me, and I like those best. And I can’t think of a toy, not one;” and Belle looked quite melancholy over her want of wants.

“Yes,” said Maggie again, “I b’lieve you have every thing in the world a child could want.”

“Not my mamma,” said Belle, with the touch of sadness which always came over her when she thought or spoke of her dead mother.

“Dear Belle,” said Maggie, tenderly. “But then God gives us our mammas; and I only meant things that earth people could give you.”

“And, Belle, darling,” said Bessie, “your mamma is yours yet, even if she has gone to Jesus! It is only that she is more of Jesus’s, and He is more of hers now she is in His home with Him.”

Belle wiped away the tears which had gathered in her eyes; and then, with Bessie’s arm about her neck, and Maggie holding her hand, sat gazing up into the cloudless, blue sky, almost as if she expected to see the face of her “angel-mother” looking down with tender love upon her.

They all three sat silent for a few moments. The waves--they were hardly more than wavelets, on this still, calm day--came up with their gentle murmur upon the beach; and there was a sort of golden haze upon the sea, and far off on the horizon, telling, perhaps, of a coming fog later in the day: but the sky was clear above them now, and all was bright and fair around.

The quiet and the peace stole into all three little hearts,--God’s peace, which He gives to those who love and trust in Him, and who strive to do His work, and bear His will, with simple faith that He knows best, and will order all things right.

Old Daphne and Jane, each with her work, sat at a little distance, but did not interfere with the children more than to see they did not run into any danger; and were occupied with their own conversation, the burden of which, on Daphne’s side, was the extreme loveliness and sweetness of her young mistress; while each story that she told of Belle’s goodness and smartness was immediately matched with one from Jane of the wisdom and droll sayings of her particular young charge. Each bird sang loud in praise of her own nestling; but the little birds themselves neither heard nor heeded.

“Belle,” said Bessie, after a little, “a thought came into my mind just now; no, not into my _mind_ either. I guess it was into my _heart_, it was such a thought of love.”

“What was it?” asked Belle, looking as if all thoughts of love were in _her_ heart towards the dear Bessie.

“About your mamma,” said Bessie. “You know your papa said he had to give you a present from her. I just thought if maybe you wouldn’t like to have her present something that by and by would be fit to go back to heaven like a jewel for our Father.”

“Yes, I would,” answered Belle, to whom the oft-repeated, oft-referred-to story was nearly as familiar and as dear as it was to Maggie and Bessie. “Yes, I would; but what thing could I ask for that would be like that? If you want any thing or Maggie, I’ll ask papa for it, and give it to you, liever than to have it myself, you’re so dear and good to me. I would, Bessie.”

“Oh, no, Belle!” said Bessie. “I never would _hint_ you to give me a thing. Mamma says that is not a nice thing to do; and I was thinking of something better than that, something that would be a great, great help to some one, and last a great, great while, maybe for ever.”

“Well,” said Belle, “why don’t you tell me what it is? You know I don’t have a great deal of _think_ in me to find out how to do good for ofers; but I b’lieve I have some _do_ in me when I know how.”

“Yes, you have,” said Maggie, “and some day you’ll learn how to think for yourself. You see you have not been quite so much brought up to it as we have. That’s the mercy of having such a papa and mamma as ours.”

“Well,” said Belle rather hurt, “my papa is very such too, and I’d rafer have him than any papa.”

“Oh, yes!” said Maggie quickly, seeing that she had made a mistake, and hastening to heal the wound she had unintentionally given; “to be sure you would, and I didn’t mean the least discompliment to your papa, Belle; but you know he has had a great deal of trouble, and so has not had time to teach you so much as our papa and mamma have taught us.”

“Yes, I know it,” said Belle, quite satisfied with this apology; “but tell me now, Bessie, I can’t think what you mean.”

“Water-lily boy,” said Bessie, willing to give Belle the credit of thinking out the matter for herself.

Belle looked puzzled.

“Lily boy, Johnny, school,” said Bessie, helping her along.

“Oh!” said Belle, as Bessie’s meaning came to her, “do you mean I could ask papa to give the money for Johnny to go to school next winter?”

“Yes, dear,” said Bessie; “and it’s partly your mamma’s present it would seem as if you and she were doing good together, and as if the help for Johnny came from heaven.”

“Bessie! oh, you precious love!” burst forth Maggie. “You need never say another word about my having good ideas. If I have ideas about compositions and things, you have a great deal better ones about living. I never did see such a child as you are,--no, never; and I hope I never will: one of such a kind as you are is quite enough for _me_;” and Maggie, after gazing at her sister with an air of the most intense pride and satisfaction, threw her arms about her neck and kissed her. “Don’t you think that is lovely, Belle?” she said; “and don’t you want to do it?”

But little Belle sat silent for a moment, her eyes raised again towards her dear mother’s home, her hands clasped, and a gentle, happy smile on her lips.

Then she spoke, with that same, soft smile, and with a peaceful light in her eyes.

“I was just saying a little prayer inside of my mouf,” she said, “to ask Jesus to make papa feel like doing it, so dear mamma and I can do some work for Him togefer. And papa will be helping too, all fee of us togefer,” added the dear little thing, to whom no thought could bring more happiness than the one that mamma in heaven, waiting for papa and Belle, would know and be glad when she tried to please Jesus and to do His work.

“I shall tell your papa Johnny is an honest boy,” said Maggie. “You know we know he is, that day when the lilies were six cents a bunch, and he had no pennies change for the ten cents I gave him, he would not keep it, but pulled four lilies out of another bunch to make it even with me. I told him he could keep it all, too.”

“I guess he is a pretty good boy,” said Bessie. “Sallie says he is.”

“I’ll tell papa all about him,” said Belle, which she did as her father drove home with her that evening in the starlight. The fog which the morning haze had foretold had lasted but a few hours, and all was now again fair and clear.

“Has my pet thought of what she wants me to give her on her birthday?” said Mr. Powers.

“Yes, papa.”

“Ah! Maggie and Bessie helped you to it, I suppose. I thought they would,” said Mr. Powers.

“Papa,” said Belle, leaning her head upon her father’s breast, and gazing upward at the stars, “if a present comes from mamma, it must come from heaven, and so it ought to be somefing very, very good: don’t you think so?”

“It shall be what my darling pleases, if papa can bring it about,” said Mr. Powers, drawing her closer to him as she sat upon his knee.

“The fought of it came from heaven, I know papa,” Belle went on. “Bessie gave it to me; and I am sure Jesus gave it to her.”

“What is it, dearest?” asked her father.

So Belle told her father of the “lily boy” and his desire to go to school, and of what she wanted for her birthday gift from him and dear mamma.

“And you would really rather I should do this than to have any thing for yourself, my little girl?” said he.

“Yes, papa, really, really I would; and then you know, papa, if the present comes from mamma and you, it will be as if she and me and you did a little work for Jesus, all fee togefer,” and she put up her little soft hand caressingly against his mouth.

He took it in his and kissed it, but no more was said for a little while, as they drove slowly home in the still summer night.

“Will you promise, papa?” said Belle at last.

“Yes, darling, I will promise; that is, you shall send the boy to school if I find he is steady and good, and his parents are deserving people.”

“And if not, papa?” questioned his little daughter, fearful lest this plan, which seemed to bring her nearer to her mother, should fail her at the last.

“If not, or if I find any reason why this thing is not wise, I will set aside the sum of money it would have taken, and we will soon find some way in which mamma’s gift may do work for Jesus.”

Belle was satisfied.

“I am so glad my darling is learning to be unselfish, and to take thought for others,” continued Mr. Powers.

“It’s all Maggie’s and Bessie’s fault, papa, all their fault. It never came to me, myself; but they taught me how. And it makes me want to be good when I see them good, even when they don’t tell me a word.”

“Yes,” said her father: “I think it has been a great blessing to you to know Maggie and Bessie.”

“They’re the best of all my blessings, ’cept only you, papa. I’m a great, great deal happier since I knew them, and I guess gooder too. I don’t slap Daphne now; and I don’t fret so much when you tell me a thing can’t not: do I papa?”

“No, my darling,” said her father: “my little Belle is becoming very good and obedient, and I see she takes pains with her quick temper too.”

Mr. Powers felt as if he could not bear to part from his darling that night, and when Daphne had undressed her and laid her in her bed, he went and sat beside her, and held her little hand.

“Put out the light, and leave the window open, papa,” she pleaded; “so we can look up at dear mamma’s home. See how bright the stars are. Bessie says the water-lilies are like the stars come down here, so we can think the stars are heaven’s lilies; but they do not fade like the lilies; do they, papa?” She rambled on half sleepily, without waiting for an answer. “And Jesus never fades, nor the angels He takes up to His heaven. Papa, I’ll try to be like a little water-lily, and then when Jesus has done wif me on earf, He will gafer me up to His home where mamma is.”

So she talked on about mamma and Jesus and heaven till sleep came, and she forgot alike the joys and sorrows of her young life.

But her father sat there, long after she fell asleep, and thought with more pleasure than any thing had given him since his wife’s death, of the work which “all fee togefer” might do for Jesus. And as he remembered the many mercies which God had still left to him, especially the blessing of this loving little child, he took shame to himself that he had allowed his own great grief to make him forget the wants and troubles of others; and he resolved that on each Christmas and birthday, from this time forth, Belle’s gift from her “mamma in heaven,” should be the means of doing good to some one who needed it.

He was as good as his word respecting the water-lily boy; and the very next day went to work to find if Johnny Howe and his parents were worthy of the help his little daughter wished to offer them.

All was satisfactory. Johnny’s parents proved to be industrious, deserving people, with whom the world had gone rather hardly for the last year or two. Johnny himself, a bright boy, eager to learn, and who made the most of all his opportunities. His father and mother thankfully accepted the offer Mr. Powers made to provide for his education as long as they should need such help; and dear little Belle was made happy in this “birfday present.”

Belle’s were not the only young eyes which gazed upward at the starry sky that night with sweet thoughts of the heaven beyond.

Maggie and Bessie had gone out with Colonel Rush to see Mr. Powers and Belle drive away; and the evening was so soft, and warm and lovely, that after they had gone the Colonel sat down upon the steps of the piazza to enjoy it, with one of his pets on either side of him.

It was very quiet: only two sounds broke the stillness; the ceaseless song of the sea,--very low and gentle it was to-night,--and mingling with it came the sweet tones of Mrs. Rush’s voice, as she sang her baby to sleep in one of the upper rooms. They all sat listening to the two hymns; so different, yet with no discord between them; the music of the one blending so perfectly with the music of the other.

For a moment the sweet singer above paused; then, unconscious of the listening ears below, began,--

“I was a wandering sheep.”