Part 4

“Do you think I wanted _that_?” she asked. “I had had my pay for all I did, ten times over, in just having her here to look at and to love. No; I sent the money back, and I think it must be that my darling understood; for, two months afterwards, I received the only gift I would have cared to have,--her portrait. Will you please to look round, ma’am? It hangs behind you.”

I looked round, and there she was, even lovelier than when I had seen her first,--a bright, smiling creature, silken-clad, patrician to the finger-tips. But it seemed to me that no heart of love looked out of the fair, careless face. I thought I would rather be Surgeon Sally, and know the sweetness of loving another better than myself.

“She is very beautiful,” I said, as I turned away.

“Yes; and sometimes I almost think I feel her lips, her bonny bright lips, touch my face, as they did that last day, and hear her say, ‘Don’t think, Sally, that I’m not sorry.’ Oh, my lot isn’t hard, ma’am. I might have lived my life through and never have known what it was to have something all my own to love. God was good.

“And after all, ma’am,” she added cheerfully, “there’s nothing happier in the world than to give all the pleasure you can to somebody.”

And I went away, feeling that the dwarf surgeon of the dolls’ hospital had learned the true secret of life.

PRETTY MISS KATE.

Everybody called her “pretty Miss Kate.” It was an odd title, and she had come by it in an odd way. A sort of half-witted nurse, whose one supreme merit was her faithfulness, had tended Squire Oswald’s baby daughter all through her early years; and she it was who had first called the girl “pretty Miss Kate.”

It was a small neighborhood where everybody knew everybody else; and, by dint of much hearing this title, all the neighbors grew to use it. And, indeed, at fifteen Kate Oswald deserved it. She was a tall, slight girl, with a figure very graceful, and what people call stylish.

She had blue eyes; not the meaningless blue of a French doll, but deep and lustrous, like the tender hue of the summer sky. She had hair like some Northland princess. It had not a tint of yellow in it, but it was fine and fair, and so light as to be noticeable anywhere. Her skin was exquisite, too, as skin needs must be to match such hair. When any color came to the cheeks it was never crimson, but just the faintest tint of the blush rose; her lips alone were of rich, vivid bloom. A prettier creature, truly, seldom crosses this planet; and the few such girls who have lived among us, and grown to womanhood, have made wild work generally, using hearts for playthings; and, like other children, breaking their toys now and then. But pretty Miss Kate was not at the age yet for that sort of pastime, and her most ardent worshipper was little Sally Green.

There was a curious friendship between these two, if one may call that friendship which is made up of blind worship on one side and gentle pity and kindliness on the other.

Squire Oswald owned the poor little house where Widow Green lived, and whenever there was an unusual press of work at the great house above, the family washing used to be sent down to Mrs. Green at the foot of the hill. Many an hour the widow worked busily, fluting the delicate ruffles and smoothing the soft muslins, out of which pretty Miss Kate used to bloom as a flower does out of its calyx. And on these occasions Sally used to carry the dainty washing home, and she nearly always contrived to be permitted to take it up to Miss Kate’s room, herself.

Nobody thought much about little Sally Green any way,--least of all did any one suspect her of any romantic or heroic or poetical qualities. And yet she had them all; and if you came to a question of soul and mind, there was something in Sally which entitled her to rank with the best. She was a plain, dark little thing, with a stubbed, solid, squarely-built figure; with great black eyes, which nobody thought any thing about in _her_, but which would have been enough for the whole stock-in-trade of a fashionable belle; with masses of black hair that she did not know what to do with; and with a skin somewhat sallow, but smooth. No one ever thought how she looked, except, perhaps, pretty Miss Kate.

One day, when the child brought home the washing, Kate had been reading aloud to a friend, and Sally had shown an evident inclination to linger. At that time Kate was not more than fourteen, and the interest or the admiration in Sally’s face struck her, and, moved by a girl’s quick impulse, she had said,--

“Do you want to hear all of it, Sally? Wait, then, and I will read it to you.”

The poem was Mrs. Browning’s “Romance of the Swan’s Nest,” and it was the first glimpse for Sally Green into the enchanted land of poetry and fiction. Before that she had admired pretty Miss Kate, but now the feeling grew to worship.

Kate was not slow to perceive it, with that feminine instinct which somehow scents out and delights in the honest admiration of high or low, rich or poor. She grew very kind to little Sally. Many a book and magazine she lent the child; and now and then she gave her a flower, a bit of bright ribbon, or some little picture. To poor Sally Green these trifles were as the gifts of a goddess, and no devotee ever treasured relics from the shrine of his patron saint more tenderly than she cherished any, even the slightest, token which was associated with the beautiful young lady whom she adored with all her faithful, reverent, imaginative heart.

One June evening Sally had been working hard all day. She had washed dishes, run her mother’s errands, got supper, and now her reward was to come.

“You may make yourself tidy,” her mother said, “and carry home that basket of Miss Kate’s things to Squire Oswald’s.”

Sally flew upstairs, and brushed back her black locks, and tied them with a red ribbon Miss Kate had given her. She put on a clean dress, and a little straw hat that last year had been Miss Kate’s own; and really for such a stubbed, dark little thing, she looked very nicely. She was thirteen--two years younger than her idol--and while Miss Kate was tall, and looked older than her years, Sally looked even younger than she was. Her heart beat as she hurried up the hill. She thought of the fable of the mouse and the lion, which she had read in one of the books Miss Kate had lent her. It made her think of herself and her idol. Not that Miss Kate was like a lion at all,--no, she was like a beautiful princess,--but she herself was such a poor, humble, helpless little mouse; and yet there might be a time, if she only watched and waited, when she, even she, could do pretty Miss Kate some good. And if the time ever came, wouldn’t she _do_ it, just, at no matter _what_ cost to herself? Poor little Sally! The time was on its way, and nearer than she thought.

She found Miss Kate in her own pretty room,--a room all blue and white and silver, as befitted such a fair-haired beauty. The bedstead and wardrobe were of polished chestnut, lightly and gracefully carved. The carpet was pale gray, with impossible blue roses. The blue chintz curtains were looped back with silver cords; there were silver frames, with narrow blue edges, to the few graceful pictures; and on the mantel were a clock and vases with silver ornaments.

Pretty Miss Kate looked as if she had been dressed on purpose to stay in that room. She wore a blue dress, and round her neck was a silver necklace which her father had brought her last year from far-off Genoa. Silver ornaments were in her little ears, and a silver clasp fastened the belt at her waist. She welcomed Sally with a sweet graciousness, a little conscious, perhaps, of the fact that she was Miss Oswald, and Sally was Sally Green; but to the child her manner, like every thing else about her, seemed perfection.

“Sit down and stay a little, Sally,” she said, “I have something to tell you. Do you remember what you heard me read that first time, when your eyes got so big with listening, and I made you stay and hear it all?”

“Yes, indeed,” Sally cried eagerly. “I never forgot any thing I ever heard you read. That first time it was ‘The Romance of the Swan’s Nest.’”

“Yes, you are right, and I know I was surprised to find how much you cared about it. I began to be interested in you then, for you know I am interested in you, don’t you, Sally?”

Sally blushed with pleasure till her face glowed like the June roses in Miss Kate’s silver vases, but she did not know what to say, and so, very wisely, she did not say any thing. Miss Kate went on,--

“Well, that very same poem I am going to read, next Wednesday night, at the evening exercises in the academy. The academy hall won’t hold everybody, and so they are going to be admitted by tickets. Each of us girls has a certain number to give away, and I have one for you. I thought you would like to go and see me there among the rest in my white gown, and hear me read the old verses again.”

You would not have believed so small a thing could so have moved anybody; but Sally’s face turned from red to white, and from white to red again, and her big black eyes were as full of tears as an April cloud is of rain-drops.

“Do you mean it, truly?” she asked.

“Yes, truly, child. Here is your ticket. Why, don’t cry, foolish girl. It’s nothing. I wanted to be sure of one person there who would think I read well, whether any one else did or not. And I’ve a gown for you, too--that pink muslin, don’t you know, that I wore last year? I’ve shot up right out of it, and it’s of no use to me, now, and mamma said I might give it to you. This is Saturday; you can get it ready by Wednesday, can’t you?”

What a happy girl went home that night, just as the rosy June sunset was fading away, and ran, bright and glad and full of joyful expectation, into the Widow Green’s humble little house! Widow Green wasn’t much of a woman, in the neighbors’ estimation. She was honest and civil, and she washed well; but that was all they saw in her. Sally saw much more. She saw a mother who always tried to make her happy; who shared her enthusiasms, or at least sympathized with them; who was never cross or jealous, or any thing but motherly. She was as pleased, now, at the prospect of Sally’s pleasure as Sally herself was; and just as proud of this attention from pretty Miss Kate. Together they made over the pink muslin dress; and when Wednesday night came the widow felt sure that her daughter was as well worth having, and as much to be proud of, as any other mother’s daughter that would be at the academy.

“You must go very early,” she said, “to get a good seat; and you need not be afraid to go right up to the front. You’ve just as good right to get close up there as anybody.”

When Sally was going out, her mother called her back.

“Here, dear,” she said, “just take the shawl. Do it to please me, for there’s no knowing how cold it might be when you get out.”

“The shawl” was an immense Rob Roy plaid,--a ridiculous wrap, truly, for a June night; but summer shawls they had none, and Sally was too dutiful, as well as too happy, not to want to please her mother even in such a trifle. How differently two lives would have come out if she had not taken it!

She was the very first one to enter the academy. Dare she go and sit in the front row so as to be close to pretty Miss Kate? Ordinarily she would have shrunk into some far corner, for she was almost painfully shy; but now something outside herself seemed to urge her on. She would not take up much room,--this something whispered,--and nobody, no, nobody at all, could love Miss Kate better than she did. So she went into the very front row, close up to the little stage on which the young performers were to appear,--a veritable stage, with real foot-lights.

Soon the people began to come in, and after a while the lights were turned up, and the exercises commenced. There were dialogues and music, and at last the master of ceremonies announced the reading of “The Romance of the Swan’s Nest,” by Miss Kate Oswald.

Other people had been interested in what went before, no doubt; but to Sally Green the whole evening had been but a prelude to this one triumphant moment for which she waited.

Pretty Miss Kate came forward like a little queen,--tall and slight, with her coronet of fair, braided hair, in which a shy, sweet rosebud nestled. She wore a dress of white muslin, as light and fleecy as a summer cloud, with a sash that might, as far as its hue went, have been cut from the deep blue sky over which that summer cloud floated. A little bunch of flowers was on her bosom, and other ornament she had none. She looked like one of the pretty creatures, half angel and half woman of fashion, which some of the modern French artists paint.

As she stepped forward she was greeted with a burst of irrepressible applause, and then the house was very still as she began to read. How her soft eyes glowed, and the blushes burned on her dainty cheeks, when she came to the lines:--

“Little Ellie in her smile Chooseth: ‘I will have a lover, Riding on a steed of steeds! He shall love me without guile, And to _him_ I will discover That swan’s nest among the reeds.

“‘And the steed shall be red-roan, And the lover shall be noble, With an eye that takes the breath, And the lute he plays upon Shall strike ladies into trouble, As his sword strikes men to death.’”

She had the whole audience for her lovers before she was through with the poem, and the last verse was followed with a perfect storm of applause. Was she not young and beautiful, with a voice as sweet as her smile? And then she was Squire Oswald’s daughter, and he was the great man of the village.

She stepped off the stage; and then the applause recalled her, and she came back, pink with pleasure. A bow, a smile, and then a step too near the poorly protected foot-lights, and the fleecy white muslin dress was a sheet of flame.

How Sally Green sprang over those foot-lights she never knew; but there she was, on the stage, and “the shawl” was wrapped round pretty Miss Kate before any one else had done any thing but scream. Close, close, close, Sally hugged its heavy woollen folds. She burned her own fingers to the bone; but what cared she? The time of the poor little mouse had come at last.

And so pretty Miss Kate was saved, and not so much as a scar marred the pink and white of her fair girl’s face. Her arms were burned rather badly, but they would heal, and no permanent harm had come to her.

Sally was burned much more severely, but she hardly felt the pain of it in her joy that she had saved her idol, for whom she would have been so willing even to die. They took her home very tenderly, and the first words she said, as they led her inside her mother’s door, were,--

“Now, mother, I know what I took the shawl for!”

I said how differently two lives would have ended if she had not taken that shawl. Pretty Miss Kate’s would have burned out then and there, no doubt; for if any one else were there with presence of mind enough to have saved her, certainly there was no other wrap there like “the shawl.” And then Sally might have grown up to the humblest kind of toil, instead of being what she is to-day; for Squire Oswald’s gratitude for his daughter’s saved life did not exhaust itself in words. From that moment he charged himself with Sally Green’s education, and gave her every advantage which his own daughter received. And, truth to tell, Sally, with her wonderful temperament, the wealth of poetry and devotion and hero-worship that was in her, soon outstripped pretty Miss Kate in her progress.

But no rivalry or jealousy ever came between them. As Sally had adored Kate’s loveliness, so, in time, Kate came to do homage to Sally’s genius; and the two were friends in the most complete sense of the word.

A BORROWED ROSEBUD.

There was a pattering footfall on the piazza, and Miss Ellen Harding went to look out. She saw a little figure standing there, among the rosebuds,--not one of the neighbors’ children, but a bonny little lassie, with curls of spun gold, and great, fearless brown eyes, and cheeks and lips as bright as the red roses on the climbing rosebush beside her.

A little morsel, not more than five years old, she was; with a white dress, and a broad scarlet sash, and a hat which she swung in her fingers by its scarlet strings. She looked so bright and vivid, and she was such an unexpected vision in that place, that it almost seemed as if one of the poppies in the yard beyond had turned into a little girl, and come up the steps.

“Did you want me?” Miss Harding asked, going up to the tiny blossom of a creature.

“No, if you please.”

“My father, then, Dr. Harding,--were you sent for him?”

The child surveyed her, as if in gentle surprise at so much curiosity.

“No,” she answered, after a moment. “I am Rosebud; and I don’t want anybody. Jane told me to come here, and she would follow presently.”

She said the words with a singular correctness and propriety, as if they were a lesson which she had been taught.

“And who is Jane?” Miss Harding asked.

Evidently the process of training had gone no further. The child looked puzzled and uncomfortable.

“Jane?” she answered hesitatingly. “Why, she is Jane.”

“Not your mamma?”

“No,--just Jane.”

“And what did Jane want here?”

“She told me to come, and she would follow presently,” said the child, saying her little lesson over again.

Evidently there was nothing more to be got out of her; but Miss Harding coaxed her to come into the cool parlor, and wait for Jane; and gave her some strawberries and cream in a gayly painted china saucer, that all children liked. Rosebud was no exception to the rest. When she had finished her berries, she tapped on the saucer with her spoon.

“I will have it for mine, while I stay,--may I?” she said. “Not to take away, but just to call, you know.”

“Surely,” said Miss Harding, more puzzled than ever. Had the sprite, then, come to stay? Were there, by chance, fairies after all,--and was this some changeling from out their ranks? She tried to entertain her small guest; and she found her quite accessible to the charms of pictures, and contented for an hour with a box of red and white chessmen. Towards night her curiosity got the better of her courtesy; and, looking from the window, she inquired,--

“I wonder where your Jane can be?”

“Presently; Jane said presently,” answered the child, with quiet composure, and returned to the chessmen.

Miss Harding heard her father drive into the yard, and slipped out to speak to him. She told her story, and the doctor gave a low, soft whistle. It was a way he had when any thing surprised him.

“It looks to me,” said he, “as if Jane, whoever she may be, intended to make us a present of Miss Rosebud. Well, we must make the small person comfortable to-night, and to-morrow we will see what to do with her.”

The small person was easily made comfortable. She ate plenty of bread-and-milk for her supper, and more strawberries; and when it was over, she went round and stood beside the doctor.

“I think you are a dood man,” she said, with the quaint gravity which characterized all her utterances. “I should like to sit with you.”

The doctor lifted her to his knee, and she laid her little golden head against his coat. There was a soft place under that coat, as many a sick and poor person in the town knew very well. I think the little golden head hit the soft place. He stroked the shining curls very tenderly. Then he asked,--

“What makes you think I’m a ‘dood’ man, Pussy-cat?”

“My name is not Pussy-cat,--I am Rosebud,” she replied gravely; “and I think you are dood because you look so, out of your eyes.”

The little morsel spoke most of her words with singular clearness and propriety. It was only when a “g” came in that she substituted a “d” for it, and went on her way rejoicing.

As the doctor held her, the soft place under his coat grew very soft indeed. A little girl had been his last legacy from his dying wife; and she had grown to be about as large as Rosebud, and then had gone home to her mother. It almost seemed to him as if she had come back again; and it was her head beneath which his heart was beating. He beckoned to his daughter.

“Have you some of Aggie’s things?” he asked. “This child must be made comfortable, and she ought to go to bed soon.”

“No,” the child said; “I’m doing to sit here till the moon comes. That means ‘do to bed.’”

“Yes, I have them,” Miss Harding answered.

She had loved Aggie so well, that it seemed half sacrilege to put her dead sister’s garments on this stranger child; and half it was a pleasure that again she had a little girl to dress and cuddle. She went out of the room. Soon she came running back, and called her father.

“O, come here! I found this in the hall. It is a great basket full of all sorts of clothes, and it is marked ‘For Rosebud.’ See,--here is every thing a child needs.”

The doctor had set the little girl down, but she was still clinging to his hand.

“I think,” he said, “that Jane has been here, and that she does not mean to take away our Rosebud.”

But the little one, still clinging to him, said,--

“I think it is not ‘presently’ yet,--Jane wouldn’t come till ‘presently.’”

“Do you love Jane?” the doctor asked, looking down at the flower-like face.

“Jane is not mamma. She is only Jane,” was the answer.

When the moon rose, the little girl went willingly to bed; and all night long Miss Ellen Harding held her in her arms, as she used to hold her little sister, before the angels took her. Since Aggie’s death, people said Miss Ellen had grown cold and stiff and silent. She felt, herself, as if she had been frozen; but the ice was melting, as she lay there, feeling the soft, round little lump of breathing bliss in her arms; and a tender flower of love was to spring up and bloom in that heart that had grown hard and cold.

There was no talk of sending Rosebud away, though some people wondered much at the doctor, and even almost blamed him for keeping this child, of whom he knew nothing. But he wanted her, and Miss Ellen wanted her; and, indeed, she was the joy and life and blessing of the long-silent household.

She was by no means a perfect child. A well-mannered little creature she was,--some lady had brought her up evidently,--but she was self-willed and obstinate. When she had said, “I’m doing to do” such and such a thing, it was hard to move her from her purpose; unless, indeed, the doctor interposed, and to him she always yielded instantly. But, just such as she was, they found her altogether charming. The doctor never came home without something in his pocket to reward her search; Miss Ellen was her bond-slave; and Mistress Mulloney in the kitchen was ready to work her hands off for her.

Often, when she had gone to bed, the doctor and Miss Ellen used to talk over her strange coming.

“We shall lose her some day,” the doctor would say, with a sigh. “No one ever voluntarily abandoned such a child as that. She is only trusted to our protection for a little while, and presently we shall have to give her up.”

“Should you be sorry, father,” Miss Ellen would inquire, “that we had had her at all?”

And the doctor would answer thoughtfully “No, for she has made me young again. I will not grumble when the snows come because we have had summer, and know how bright it is.”

But the child lived with them as if she were going to live with them for ever. If she had any memories of days before she came there, she never alluded to them. After the first, she never mentioned Jane,--she never spoke of a father or mother. But she was happy as the summer days were long,--a glad, bright, winsome creature as ever was the delight of any household.