Part 14

The little girls around her were breathing peacefully. They were still well enough to have a good time when beneficent fortune favored. They had run and played and shouted, and were healthily tired. Dil remembered how sleepy she used to be when she was crooning songs to Bess. But since the day at Central Park it had been so different. The nights were all alight with fancies, and she was being whirled along in an air full of music and sweetness.

Toward morning it stopped raining. Oh, how the birds sang at daylight! She dropped off to sleep then, but presently something startled her. She was back with the boys, and there was breakfast to get. She heard the eager voices, and sprang out of bed, glancing around.

It was only the children chattering as they dressed. Perhaps she looked strange to them, for one little girl uttered a wild cry as Dil slipped down on the floor a soft little heap.

The nurses thought at first that she was dead, it was so long before there was any sign of returning animation, and then it was only to lapse from one faint to another.

"We must have the doctor," said Miss Mary. "And we will take her to my room. There are three children in the Infirmary, one with a fever."

The room was not large, but cheerful in aspect. A tree near by shut out the glare of the sunshine, and sifted it through in soft, changeful shadows.

"She looks like death itself. Poor little girl! And Miss Lawrence was so interested in her. Will you mind staying a bit, Miss Virginia? There are so many things for me to do, and the doctor will be in soon."

Virginia did not mind. She had been keeping a vigil through the night. She had taken a pride in what she called shaping her life on certain noble lines. How poor and small and ease-loving to the point of selfishness they looked now! What could there ever be as simply grand and tender as Dilsey Quinn's love for her little sister, and her cheerful patience with the evils of a hard and cruel life?

She had been in the wrong, she knew it well. She had waited for him to make an overture; but he had gone without a word, and that had heightened her anger. Then had come a bitter sense of loss, a tender regret deepening into real and fervent sorrow. Out of it had arisen a nobler repentance, and acceptance of the result of her evil moment. She had hoped some time, and in some unlooked-for way, they would meet.

But since she had given the offence, could she not be brave enough to put her fate to the touch and

"Win or lose it all"?

The words that had always seemed so hard to say came readily enough, as she told the story of the human blighted rose that had brought a new faith to her.

Dil seemed to rally before the doctor came. She opened her eyes, and glanced around with the old bright smile.

"It's all queer an' strange like," she said; "but you'm here, an' it's all right. Did I faint away? 'Cause my head feels light an' wavery as it did that Sunday night."

"Yes, you fainted. But you are better now. And the doctor will give you a tonic to help you get well. We all want you to get well."

"I ain't never been sick, 'cept when I was in the hospital, hurted. I only feel tired, for I ain't got no pain anywhere, an' I'll soon get rested. 'Cause I want to go down home an' see _him_. If I _could_ go over to the Square on Sat'day. I 'most know he'll be waitin' for me."

Should she tell the poor child? Oh, was she sure John Travis would come? He need not see _her_. She had not asked for herself.

The kindly, middle-aged doctor looked in upon them at this moment, accompanied by Miss Mary. Dil smiled with such cheerful brightness that it almost gave the contradiction to her pale face. He sat down beside her, counted her pulse, talked pleasantly until she no longer felt strange, but answered his questions, sometimes with a shade of diffidence when they reflected on her mother's cruelty, but always with a frank sort of innocence. Then he listened to her breathing, heart and lungs, and the spot where the two ribs were broken, "that hadn't ever felt quite good when you rubbed over it," she admitted. He held up her hand, and seemed to study its curious transparency.

"So you are only a little tired? Well, you have done enough to tire one out, and now you must have a good long rest. Will you stay here content?" he asked kindly.

"Everybody's so good!" and her eyes shone with a glad, grateful light. "But I'd like to go by Sat'day. There's somethin'--Miss Deerin' knows"--and an expectant smile parted her lips.

"Well, to-day's Thursday, and there's Friday. We'll see about it. I'd like you to stay in bed and be pretty quiet--not worry--"

"I ain't got nothin' to worry 'bout," with her soft little laugh. "It's all come round right, an' what I wanted to know most of all, I c'n know on Sat'day. I kin look out o' the winder and see the trees 'n' the sunshine, an' hear the birds sing. An' everybody speaks so sweet an' soft to you, like 's if their voices was makin' music. O no, I don't mind, only the children'll want Miss Deerin', and I want her too."

"Your want is the most needful. She shall stay with you."

The brown quartz eyes irradiated with luminous gleams.

"Very well," he said, with an answering smile.

Miss Deering came out in the hall. He shut the door carefully.

"If she wants anything or anybody, let her have it. Keep her generally quiet, and in bed. Though nothing can hurt her very much. It is too late to help or hinder."

"O surely you do not mean"--Miss Deering turned white to the very lips.

"She's as much worn out as a woman of eighty ought to be. If you could look at her, through her, with the eye of science, you would wonder how the machinery keeps going. It is worn to the last thread, and her poor little heart can hardly do its work. Her cheerfulness is in her favor. But some moment all will stop. There will be little suffering; it _is_ old age, the utter lack of vitality. And she's hardly a dozen years old."

"She is fifteen--yes, I think she is right, though I could hardly believe it at first."

"That poor little thing! I hope with all my soul there is a heaven where the lost youth is made up to these wronged little ones. She has been doing a woman's work on a child's strength."

"O can nothing save her?" cried Virginia Deering, with longing desire. "For her life might be so happy. She has found friends--"

"It all comes too late. If you should ever be tempted to reason away heaven, think of her and hundreds like her, and what else shall make amends? I will be in again this afternoon," and he turned away abruptly.

He met Miss Mary in the lower hall, and left her amazed at the intelligence. She came up-stairs and found Virginia with her eyes full of tears.

"And I thought last night she looked so improved. It is so sudden, so unexpected."

"How long?" asked Virginia, with a great tremble in her voice.

"Any time, my dear. A day or two, an hour may be. We must keep it from the children. So many have improved, and no one has died. I can't believe it."

"I want to stay with her," the girl said in a low tone.

"We shall be so grateful to you. You young girls are so good to give up your own pleasures, and help us in our work."

Virginia went back quietly. Dil's face was turned toward the window, and she was listening to the children's voices, as they ran around tumultuously.

"They do be havin' such a good time," she said, with a thrill of satisfaction in her tone.

"I wish you were well enough to join them," Virginia replied softly.

Dil laughed. "I've been such a big, big girl this long time," she returned with a sense of amusement, but no longing in her tone. "I don't seem to know 'bout playin' as they do; for mammy had so many babies, an' Bess was hurted, an' there wasn't never no room to play in Barker's Court, 'count o' washin' an' such. 'Pears like I'd feel strange runnin' an' careerin' round like thim," and she made a motion with her head. "I'd rather lay here an' get well. Oh, do you think the doctor'll let me go on Sat'day?"

"My dear, I have written to Mr. Travis. I think he will be up then."

"Oh!" Such a joyful light illumined the face, that Virginia had much ado to keep the tears from her own eyes. "You're so good," she said softly. "Everybody's so good."

"And the children don't disturb you?"

"Oh, no; I like it. I c'n jest shut my eyes 'n' see 'Ring around a rosy.' Oh," with a long, long sigh, "Bess would 'a' liked it so! I'm so sorry she couldn't come 'n' see it all, the beautiful flowers 'n' trees 'n' the soft grass you c'n tumble on 'n' turn summersets as they did yest'day. Don't you s'pose, Miss Deerin', there'll be a whole heaven for the children by themselves? For _he_ told me somethin' 'bout 'many mansions' the Lord Jesus went to fix for thim all. Ain't it queer how things come to you?"

XV--JOHN TRAVIS

She lay there quietly all the morning, little Dilsey Quinn, trying in her hopeful fashion to hurry and get well. It was nicer than the hospital, and Miss Deering was so sweet, as she sat there crocheting some lovely rose-wheels out of pale-blue silk. Now and then some sentences flashed between them, and a soft little laugh from Dil. Miss Deering felt more like crying.

The doctor came about three.

"I'm most well," said Dil, with her unabated cheerfulness. "Only when I raise up somethin' seems tied tight around me here," putting her hand to her side. "'N' you think I c'n be well on Sat'day, cause--some one might come--"

"Are you expecting a visitor?"

"Miss Deerin' knows. An' he's one of the sure kind. Yes; he'll surely come. An' if I stay in bed all day to-day, don't you s'pose I'll be well to-morrow?"

"We'll see. You and Miss Deering seem to be planning secrets. I shall have to look sharp after both of you. And who brings you flowers?"

"Miss Mary. An' some custard, an' oh, Miss Deerin' fed me like as if I was a baby."

"That's all right. It's high time you were waited on a little. But I'd like you to take a nap. Miss Deering, couldn't you read her to sleep?"

"I will try."

"She ought to sleep some," studying the wide eyes.

"But I'm not a bit sleepy. I'm thinkin' 'bout when _he_ comes, an' how he'll help me find Bess."

"It is astonishing," the doctor said down-stairs. "She has some wonderful vitality. It seemed this morning as if she couldn't last an hour, and now if she wasn't all worn out she might recover. But it is the last flash of the expiring fire. Is there some friend to come?"

"Yes," answered Miss Deering with a faint flush.

"She will live till then. If, she suffers we must try opiates, but we will hardly need, I think."

"And--the excitement--"

"She will not get excited. She is strangely tranquil. Do not disturb her serene hope, whatever it is."

The day drew to a close again. Dil asked if she was not going to her own bed, and seemed quite content. Miss Mary came in early in the evening and sent Virginia to bed. She could not quite believe the dread fiat. For Dil might be made so happy in the years to come. Ah, God, must it be too late? It seemed like the refinement of cruelty.

She came back about midnight, but Miss Mary motioned her away, and then went out in the hall.

"You must go to bed in earnest," she said. "You may be needed more later on. She is very quiet; but she lies there with her eyes wide open, as if she were seeing visions. I get a nap now and then; you see, I'm used to this kind of work."

"I wish 'twas mornin'," Dil said toward early dawn. "I want to hear the birds sing an' the children playin'; they do laugh so glad an' comfortin'. An' I wisht there could be some babies tumblin' round in the sweet grass. They'd like it so. Don't you _never_ have any babies?"

"There are other homes for babies," was the reply.

"Do you s'pose it'll ever get all round,--homes, an' care, an' joy, an' such? There's so many, you know. There was little girls in Barker's Court who had to sew, an' never could go out, not even Sundays. When 'twas nice, Bess an' me used to go out on Sat'days. But the winter froze her all up. And the other poor children--"

"They will all get here by degrees."

"It's so good in folks to think of it."

"My dear, you must go to sleep."

"But I don't feel sleepy," and Dil's face was sweet with her serene smile. "There's so many lovely things to think about."

"Try a little, to please me."

Dilsey shut her eyes and lay very still. Was there some mysterious change in the face?

And so dawned another morning. Virginia Deering came in with a handful of flowers, which she laid beside Dilsey's cheek on the pillow.

"Oh," the child began in a breathless sort of way, "do you think he'll be here to-morrow, Sat'day? Cause I don't b'l'eve I'd be well 'nuff to go down. I don't seem to get reel rested like. An' you'll have to send word to Patsey. He wanted me to stay a good long while, an' get fat, an' I want to try."

Did _she_ feel sure John Travis would come? Ah, she would _not_ doubt. She would take the child's sublime faith for her stay. Even if he had ceased to care for her, he would not disappoint the child who relied so confidently upon his word.

"Yes, I know he will come."

"It'll be all right, then. An' I'll get up to-morrow an' be dressed, an' go down-stairs all strong an' rested like. An' I think he'll know about Bess."

Virginia bent over and kissed her.

"Ain't the children jealous 'cause you stay here so much?" she asked presently. "They all like you so. An' they was so glad to see you."

"They do not mind," she made answer to the unselfish child; "and I like to stay with you."

"Do you? I'm glad too," she said dreamily.

But now and then she was a little restless. The doctor merely looked at her and smiled. But outside he said to Miss Mary, "I doubt if she goes through another night."

"What shall I do for you?" Virginia asked later on. There seemed such a wistfulness in the eyes turned to the window.

"It's queer like, but seems to me as if Bess was comin'. P'raps she's jes' found out where I be. O Miss Deerin', are there any wild roses? I'd like to have some for Bess."

Virginia glanced up in vague alarm.

"I think if I had some Bess would come back. 'N' I'm all hungry like to see her."

Dil moved uneasily, and worked her fingers with a nervous motion.

"There have been some over back of the woods there," and Miss Mary inclined her head. "There were in June, I remember."

"I might go and see."

"Oh, will you? I wisht so I had some."

"The walk will do you good." There had come a distraught look in Virginia's face. Oh, what if John Travis failed! Even to-morrow might be too late.

"You'll let the children go with you," said Dil. "They'll like it so; an' I'll keep still 'n' try to go to sleep."

The old serenity came back with the smile. She had learned so many lessons of patience and self-denial in the short life, the grand patience perfected through love and sacrifice, the earthly type of that greater love. But the sweet little face almost unnerved Virginia.

The children hailed her with delight, and clung so to her gown that she could hardly take a step. Perhaps it was their noise that had unconsciously worn upon Dil's very slender nerves. Miss Mary read to her awhile, and in the soft, soothing silence she fell asleep.

Yes, she had come to that sign and seal indelibly stamped on the faces of the "called." The dread something no word can fitly describe, and it was so much more apparent in her sleep.

"Miss Mary," said an attendant, "can you come down a moment?"

She guessed without a word when she saw a young man standing there with a basket of wild roses. But he could not believe the dread fiat at first. She had been "a little ill," and "wasn't strong" were the tidings that had startled him, and she had gone to a home for the "Little Mothers" to recruit. He had heard some other incidents of her sad story, and he remembered the children's pathetic clinging to the wild roses. Nothing could give her greater pleasure.

He walked reverently up the wide, uncarpeted steps, beside Miss Mary. Dil was still asleep, or--O Heaven! was she dead? Miss Mary bent over, touched her cool cheek.

Dil opened her eyes.

"I've been asleep. It was so lovely. I'm all rested like--why, I'm most well."

"Well enough to see an old friend?"

Oh, the glow in her eyes, the eager, asking expression of every feature. She gave a soft, exultant cry as John Travis emerged from Miss Mary's shadow, and stretched out her hands.

"My dear, dear little Dil!"

All the room was full of the faint, delicious fragrance of wild roses, kept so moist and sheltered they were hardly conscious of their journey. And she lay trembling in two strong arms, so instinct with vitality, that she seemed to take from them a sudden buoyant strength.

"I've been waitin' for you so long," she exclaimed when she found breath to speak. There was no reproach in the tone, rather a heavenly satisfaction that he had come now. Her trust had been crowned with fruition, that was enough.

"My little girl!" Oh, surely it could not be as bad as they said. The future that he had planned for, that he had meant to make pleasant and satisfying, and perhaps beautiful, from the fervent gratitude of a manly heart. Was she beyond anything he could do for her? Oh, he would not believe it!

"I was detained so much longer abroad than I expected," he began. "And we did not get in until Monday morning. I went to Barker's Court, and could not learn where you were. Then I bethought myself of the cop at the square," smiling as he designated the man.

"An' he gev you my letter?"

"He gave me the letter. I hunted up the boys. I saw Patsey and Owen last night, and they are counting on your getting well. They sent you so much love. And to-day I went to Chester. Here are your roses."

He tumbled them out all dewy from the wet papers. Oh, such sweetness! Dil breathed it in ecstatic delight. She had no words. She looked her unutterable joy out of her limpid brown eyes, and he had much ado to keep the tears from his. So pale, so spiritualized, yet so little like Bess, and--oh, the last hope died as he took in all the signs. For surely, surely she was on the road to heaven and Bess. No hand of love, no touch of prosperity, could hold her back.

"'Pears like everything's come, an' there ain't nothin' left to wish for," she said as he laid her down again, and watched the transfigured face. "For now you c'n tell me 'bout Bess. Mother burned up the book one day, an' we never could quite know, only she got crost the river, an' they was all so glad at the pallis. An' Bess was so sure you'd come. The cough was dreadful when we didn't have some good medicine that helped her. An' the lady come one afternoon, 'n' mammy was home 'n' she was norful sassy to her. You see, we hadn't dast to tell mammy--"

"My poor child!" He was toying with the soft, tumbled hair. He had heard another side of the story, and of Mrs. Quinn's insulting impudence.

"An' then Bess she smelt the wild roses all around one night, an' thought she was gettin' better--an'--an' she jus' died."

"Yes; God came for her in the night. He put his arms around her, and wrapped her in the garment of his great love, and took her through the pathway of the stars. She did not feel any cold nor pain, and he gave her a new, glorified body, so she could leave the poor old one behind."

"But she wouldn't have leaved me 'thout a word, when she loved me so, an' wanted me to go to heaven with her."

Dil's lip quivered, and her chest heaved with the effort of keeping back the tears.

"My dear child, there are many mysteries that one cannot wholly explain. Don't you remember telling me the Mission teacher said it was an allegory, a story that is like our daily lives? We are going heavenward in every right and tender and loving thing we do. We are the children of God as well as the children of mortal parents; God gives us the soul, the part of us that is to live forever. And when he calls this part of you to the heavenly mansions, he gives it the perfect new body. The old one is laid away in the ground. When Jesus was here he helped and cured people as I told you. But he does not come any more. He calls people to him, and sends his angels for them. So he said, 'It is very hard for poor little Bess to wait all winter, to suffer with the cold, the pain in her maimed body, to be afraid of her mother, to hear the babies cry when her head aches. She must come to the land of pure delight, and have her new body. She must be well and joyous and happy, so that she can run and greet her sister Dil when I send for her."

Dilsey Quinn was listening with rapt attention. But at the last words she cried out with tremulous eagerness,--

"Oh, will he send? Will he take me to Bess? You are quite sure?"

Her very breath seemed to hang on the answer.

"He will send. He has a place for you in the many mansions he went to prepare. And this little step we take from one world to the other is called the river of death, and you know how Christiana went through it. Sometimes the Lord Jesus lifts people quite over it."

There was a long silence. He could see she was studying the deep, puzzling points. The lines came in her forehead, white as a lily now, and her eyes seemed peering into fathomless depths.

Looking into the sweet, wasted face, holding the slim little hands, once so plump and brown, thinking of the heroic, loving life, he felt that indeed "of such was the kingdom of heaven."

"Well, 'f I c'n go to Bess," a sigh of heavenly resignation seemed to quiver through the frail body, "'n' I think the Lord couldn't help bein' good to Bess, she was so sweet 'n' patient; for 'twas so hard not to run about, 'n' have to be lifted, 'n' I couldn't always come on 'count of the babies 'n' mother 'n' things. 'N' she never got cross. 'N' I do b'lieve she understood 'bout Christiana, for after that she wanted so to go to heaven. An' she was so glad about her poor hurted legs bein' made well. We couldn't read fast, you know; an' we couldn't see into things, 'cause we hadn't been to school much. But she kinder picked it out, she was such a wise little thing, an' the pictures helped. But I don't understand 'bout the new body."

Her face was one thought of puzzled intensity.

"My dear little Dil, we none of us quite understand. It is a great mystery. The Lord Jesus came down from heaven and was born a little child that children might not be afraid of him, but learn to love him. When he grew to manhood he helped the needy, the suffering, and healed their illnesses. He went about doing good to everybody, and there were people who did not believe in him and treated him cruelly." How could he explain the great sacrifice to her comprehension? "Dil," he said in a low tone, "suppose you could have saved Bess great sorrow and suffering by dying for her, would you not have done it? Suppose that night the Lord Jesus had said to you, 'I can only take one of you to-night, which one shall it be?' What would you have done?"

"Oh, I'd let her gone. Was it that way?" The tears stood in her eyes, and her voice trembled with tenderest emotion.

"God loves us all as you loved Bess. But we do not all love him. We are not ready to do the things he tells us, to be truthful and honest and kindly. But he is ready to forgive us to the very last. And he knows what is best for us."

"Then that other body went to heaven," she said after a long silence. "An' I know now she must have been in some lovely place, 'cause that Sunday she come to me in Cent'l Park she was all smilin' an' strange an' sweet, an' beautiful like that picture you made. She looked jes' 's if she wanted to tell me somethin'. An' the Lord Jesus let her out of heaven 'cause I was so lost like 'n' uncertain."

The small face was illumined with joy. And to John Travis it was as the face of an angel.