CHAPTER XIX

SWEET AND SOFT REPENTANCE.

She was awakened by a hoarse whisper in her ear: "Get up and go on, get up and go on. Don't croak, don't croak!"

Her eyelids felt as heavy as lead, it seemed as if she would rather die than stir her sluggish limbs, yet she moved slightly as the rough whisper went on, "Get up and go on, get up and go on. Don't croak, don't croak!"

It was the parrot with the cold in her throat, and she was perched on the sofa cushion by her head. 'Tilda Jane raised herself on one hand. How weary, how unspeakably weary she was! If she could only lie down again--and what was the matter with her? Why had she waked with that terrible feeling of unhappiness?

She remembered now--Poacher was gone. She had not shed a tear over him before, but now she hid her face in her hands, and indulged in low and heart-broken lamentation. Poor Poacher--dear, handsome dog! She would never see him again. What would the Lucases say if they knew of his untimely end? What should she do without him? and she cried miserably, until the sound of voices in the next room recalled her to herself.

She was in the minister's house, and she must get her business over with, and be gone. So choking back her emotion, she wiped her face, smoothed her dress, and, followed by Gippie, stepped into the dining-room.

The minister was seated by the fire reading to his wife. He got up when he saw 'Tilda Jane, gave her a chair, then went on with his book. After some time he laid it down. His caller was composed now, and something told him that she was ready to consult him.

He smiled a beautiful, gentle smile at her, and thus encouraged, she swallowed the lump in her throat and began:

"I'm 'bliged to you, sir, for lettin' me sleep an' givin' me some breakfus, an' can I tell you somethin' 'bout myself? I'm all kind o' scatter-wise."

"And you wish some one to straighten you out?" he asked, benevolently.

"Yes, sir--an' I thought the best person would be a minister--they said you was the best here."

Mrs. Tracy smiled in a gratified fashion, while 'Tilda Jane went earnestly on, "I'm all mixy-maxy, an' I feel as if I hadn't started right. I guess I'll tell you jus' where I come from--I s'pose you know the Middle Marsden Orphan 'Sylum?"

The minister told her that he had heard of it. He did not tell her that he had heard it was one of the few badly managed institutions for orphans in the State, that the children were kept strictly, fed poorly, and were rapidly "institutionalised" while under the care of uneducated, ignorant women, who were only partially supervised by a vacillating board of lady managers.

"Well, I was riz there," continued 'Tilda Jane, "rizzed mostly in trouble, but still I was riz, an' the ladies paid for me, an' I didn't take that into 'count when I run away."

"So you ran away," he said, encouragingly.

"Yes, sir, 'count o' this dog, I said," and she pointed to Gippie, "but I guess inside o' me, 'twas as much for myself. I didn't like the 'sylum, I wanted to run away, even when there was no talk o' the dog, an' I'll tell you what happened," and while the minister and his wife courteously listened, she gave a full and entire account of her wanderings during the time that she had been absent from the asylum. She told them of Hank Dillson, of her sojourn at Vanceboro, and her experience with the Lucases, and finally her story brought her down to the events of the day before.

"When that ole man keeled over my dog," she said, brokenly, "that dog as had saved my life, I wanted murder. I wished something would strike him dead. But he didn't fall dead, an' then I thought it was time for me to chip in an' do somethin'. I took them crutches as he can't move without, an' I burnt 'em most up--all but a little bit at the top with the gold writin', 'cause he sits an' gazes at it, an' I guess sets store by it."

"You burnt Hobart Dillson's crutches!" exclaimed Mrs. Tracy, in surprise.

"Yes, ma'am--'cause he'd killed my dog."

"I wonder he had not struck you down," said the lady, with a shudder. "He is said to be a man with a very violent temper."

'Tilda Jane sprang up, her face as white as a sheet. "I mos' forgot. I s'pose he's sittin' there this minute. He can't move without 'em, an' nobody'll go near him. Now, sir,"--and she turned in desperate haste to the little, dark, silent man,--"tell me quick what I ought to do."

"You are a child with a conscience," he said, gravely; "you have been turning the matter over in your own mind. What conclusion have you reached?"

"Go on," said the parrot, hoarsely, and between intervals of climbing by means of bill and claw to the top of a chair, "go on, and don't croak. Don't cr-r-r-r-oak!"

'Tilda Jane turned her solemn face toward the bird. "Walkin' to an' fro las' night, a verse o' Scripter kep' comin' to me, 'Children, obey your parents in the Lord--' Now, I ain't got any parents, but I had lady-boards. I oughtn't to 'a' run away. I ought to have give up the dog, an' trusted. I ought to 'a' begged them to get me a home. I ought to 'a' been a better girl. Then I might 'a' been 'dopted. Ever sence I've run away, there's been trouble--trouble, trouble, nothin' but trouble. I've led another dog astray, an' now he's dead!"

Mr. and Mrs. Tracy exchanged a pitying glance. The child was intensely in earnest. Her black eyes were bent absently on the parrot who had fallen prey to an immense curiosity with regard to Gippie, and having surveyed him from the back of the chair and the mantel, and finding him harmless, was now walking cautiously around him as he lay on the hearth-rug. Presently, emboldened by his silence, she took the end of his tail in her beak. He did not move, and she gently pinched it.

There was a squeal, a rush, and a discomfited parrot minus three tail feathers flying to her master's shoulder.

"Oh, my!" she exclaimed, "my, my! What a fuss--what a fuss!"

Very little attention was paid her. Her master and mistress were taken up with the youthful owner of the dog, but Mr. Tracy mechanically stroked the bird as he put another question to 'Tilda Jane.

"And what do you propose to do?"

"I think I ought to go back," she said, earnestly. "I ought to say I'm sorry. I ought to say I'll do better."

"Go back--where?" asked Mrs. Tracy, eagerly.

"First to the ole man. I ought to be civil to him. I ought to talk, an' not be mum like an oyster. I ought to ask him if he wants me to go 'way. I ought to write the lady-boards an' tell 'em where I be. I ought to say I'll go back."

"Do you wish to go back?" asked Mr. Tracy.

A shiver passed over 'Tilda Jane's slight frame, but she spoke up bravely. "I ain't a-goin' to think o' that, sir. I've got to do what's right."

"And what about your dog?"

"Oh, Gippie ain't in it at all," she said, with animation. "He don't need to go. I guess I'll find some nice home for him with somebody as likes animiles," and a shrewd and melancholy smile hovered about her tense lips as she gazed at her host and hostess.

"Poor little girl," said Mrs. Tracy, sympathetically; "we will take your dog and you, too. You shall not go back--you shall live with us."

As she spoke, her big blue eyes filled with tears, and she laid a caressing hand on 'Tilda Jane's shoulder.

"Please don't do that, ma'am," said the little girl, vehemently, and slipping her shoulder from under the embracing hand. "Please don't do anything homey to me. Treat me as if I was a real orphan."

"A real orphan," repeated Mrs. Tracy, in slight bewilderment.

"Oh, I want a home," cried the little girl, clenching her hands, and raising her face to the ceiling. "I want some one to talk to me as if I had blue eyes and curly hair. I want a little rocking-chair an' a fire. I don't want to mind bells, an' run with a crowd o' orphans, but it ain't the will o' Providence. I've got to give up," and her hands sank to her sides, and her head fell on her breast.

Mrs. Tracy bit her lip, and pressed her hands together.

"Will you stay to dinner with us, my dear?" said Mr. Tracy, softly. "I will take you into my study where there is a fire and a rocking-chair, and you shall see some curiosities that I picked up in Palestine."

"Oh, no, sir, I must go," and she again became animated. "That ole man--I mus' see him. Tell me, sir, jus' what I am to do. I've been doin' all the talkin', an' I wanted to hear you. I guess I'm crazy," and she pressed her hands nervously over her ears.

She was in a strange state of nervous exaltation that was the natural reaction from her terrible dejection of the evening before. She had decided to make a martyr of herself--a willing martyr, and Mr. Tracy would not detain her.

"Go back to Mr. Dillson's, my dear; you have mapped out your own course. I do not need to advise you. Your conscience has spoken, and you are listening to its voice. Go, and God bless you. You shall hear from us."

'Tilda Jane was about to rush away, but Mrs. Tracy detained her. "Wait an instant. I have something for you," and she hurried from the room.