Tell Me a Story

Winny was.

  "I _hope_ she will soon be better," she said. "And, Meg, dear, it isyour bed-time now."

  The thought of going to bed again without Winny was too hard. I beganto cry.

  "O aunty!" I said, "I do so want to say good-night to Winny. I_always_ say good-night, and last night I couldn't."

  Aunty thought for a minute. She looked so sorry for me. Then she said,"I will see if I can manage it. Come after me, Meg." She went upthrough a part of the house I did not know, and into a room where therewas a closed door. She tapped at it without opening, and called out."Meg has come to say good-night to you, through the door, Winny dear."

  Then I heard Winny's voice say softly, "I am so glad;" and I called outquite loud, "Good-night, Winny," but Winny answered--I could not hearher voice without listening close at the door--"Not good-night now, Meg.It is _good-bye_, dear Meg."

  I looked up at aunty. It seemed to me her face had grown white, and thetears were in her eyes. Somehow, I felt a little afraid.

  "What does Winny mean, aunty?" I said in a whisper.

  "I don't know, dear. Perhaps being ill makes her head confused," shesaid. So I called out again, "Good-night, Winny," and aunty led meaway.

  But Winny was right. It _was_ good-bye. The next morning when aunty'smaid was dressing me, I saw she was crying.

  "What is the matter, Hortense?" I said. "Why are you unhappy? Is anyone vexed with you?"

  But she only shook her head and would not speak.

  After I had had my breakfast, Hortense took me to my aunties'sitting-room. And when she opened the door, to my delight there wasmamma, sitting with both my aunties by the fire. I was so pleased, Igave quite a cry of joy, and jumped on to her knee.

  "Does Winny know you've come?" I cried, "_dear_ mamma."

  But when I looked at her I saw that her face was very white and sad, andmy poor aunties were crying. Still mamma smiled.

  "Poor Meg!" she said.

  "What is the matter? Why is everybody so strange to-day?" I said.

  Then mamma told me. "Meg, dear," she said, "you must try to remembersome of the things I have often told you about Heaven, what a happyplace it is, with no being ill or tired, or any troubles. Meg, dear,Winny has gone there."

  For a minute I did not seem to understand. I could not understandWinny's having gone without telling me. A sort of giddy feeling cameover me, it was all so strange, and I put my head down on mamma'sshoulder, without speaking.

  "Meg, dear, do you understand?" she said.

  "She didn't tell me she was going," I said, "but, oh yes, I remember shesaid good-bye last night. Did she go alone, mamma? Who came for her?Did _Jesus_?" Something made me whisper that.

  Mamma just said softly, "Yes."

  "Had she only her little pink dressing-gown on?" I asked next."Wouldn't she be cold? Mamma, dear, is it a long way off?"

  "Not to _her_," she said. She was crying now.

  "Do you think if I set off now, this very minute, I could get up toher?"

  But when I said that, mamma clasped me tight.

  "Not that too," she whispered. "Meg, Meg, don't say that."

  I was sorry for her crying, and I stroked her cheek, but still I wantedto go.

  "Heaven is such a nice place, mamma. Winny said so, only she wonderedabout the primroses. Why won't you let me go, mamma?" And just then myeyes happened to fall on the little piece of black sticking-plaster thatWinny had put on my thumb only two evenings before, when she had hurt itwithout meaning. "Mamma, mamma," I cried, "I _can't_ stay here withoutWinny."

  It all seemed to come into my mind then what it would really be to bewithout her, and I cried and cried till my face _ached_ with crying. Ican't remember much of that day, nor of several days. I did not getill, the fever did not come to me somehow, but I seemed to get _stupid_with missing Winny. Mamma and my aunties talked to me, but it did notdo any good. They could not tell me the only things I cared to hear--all about Winny, what she was doing, what lessons she would have, if shewould always wear white frocks, and all sorts of things, that I musthave sadly pained them by asking. For I did not then at all understandabout death. I thought that Winny, my pretty Winny, just as I had knownher, had gone to Heaven. I did not know that her dear little body hadbeen laid to rest in the quiet churchyard, and that it was her _spirit_,her pure happy spirit, that had gone to heaven. It was not for a longtime after that, that I was old enough to understand at all, and evennow it is hard to understand. Mamma says even quite big, and very, veryclever people find it hard, and that the best way is to trust to God toexplain it afterwards. But still I like to think about it, and I liketo think of what my aunties told me of the days Winny was ill--how happyand patient she was, how _she_ seemed to "understand" about going, andhow she loved to have fresh wreaths of primroses about her all the timeshe was ill.

  I am a big girl now--nearly twelve. I am a good deal bigger than Winnywas when she died, even Blanche is now as big as she was--is that notstrange to think of? Perhaps I may live to be quite, quite an oldwoman--that seems stranger still. But even if I do I shall never forgetWinny. I shall know her dear face again, and she will know mine--I feelsure she will, in that happy country where she has gone. But I willnever again say "good night" to my Winny, for in that country "there isno night--neither sorrow nor weeping."

  CHAPTER FOUR.

  CON AND THE LITTLE PEOPLE.

  "They stole little Bridget For seven years long; When she came home again Her friends were all gone."

  There was once a boy who was a very good sort of a boy, except for twothings; or perhaps I should say one thing. I am really not sure whetherthey were two things, or only two sides of the same thing; perhaps,children, you can decide. It was this. He could not bear his lessons,and his head was _always_ running on fairies. You may say it is no harmto think about fairies, and I do not say that in moderation it is. Butwhen it goes the length of thinking about them so much that you have nothought for anything else, then I think it _is_ harm--don't you? and Idaresay that this had to do with Con's hating his lessons so. Perhapsyou will think it was an odd fancy for a boy: it is more often thatgirls think about fairies, but you must remember that there are a greatmany kinds of fairies. There are pixies and gnomes, and brownies andcobs, all manner of queer, clever, mischievous, and kindly creatures,besides the pretty, gentle, little people whom one always thinks of ashaunting the woods in the summer time, and hiding among the flowers.

  _Con_ knew all about them; where he got his knowledge from I can't say,but I hardly think it was out of books. However that may have been, hedid know all about the fairy world as accurately as some boys know allabout birds' nests, and squirrels, and field mice, and hedgehogs. Andthere was one good thing about this fancy of Con's; it led him to know agreat many queer things about out-of-door's creatures that most boyswould not have paid attention to. He did not care to know about birds'nests for the sake of stealing them for instance, but he had fanciesthat some of the birds were special favourites of the fairies, and itled him to watch their little ways and habits with great attention. Heknew always where the first primroses were to be found, because hethought the fairies dug up the earth about their roots, and watered themat night, when every one was asleep, with magic water out of the ladywell, to make them come up quicker, and many a morning he would get upvery very early, in hopes of surprising the tiny gardeners at their workbefore they had time to decamp. But he never succeeded in doing so;and, after all, when he did have an adventure, it came, as most thingsdo, just exactly in a way he had never in the least expected it.

  Con's home had something to do with his fancifulness perhaps. I won'ttell you where it was, for it doesn't matter; and though some of thewiser ones among you may think you can guess what country he belonged towhen I tell you that his real name was not Con, but Connemara, I musttell you you are mistaken. No, I won't tell you where his home was, butI will tell you _what_ it was. It was a sort of large cottage, and it
was perched on the side of a mountain, not a hill, a real mountain, anda good big one too, and there were ever so many other mountains near by.There was a pretty garden round the cottage, and at the back a dooropened in the garden wall right on to the mountain. Wasn't that nice?And if you climbed up a little way you had _such_ a view. You could seeall the other mountains poking their heads up into the sky one above theother--some of them looked bare and cold, and some looked comfortableand warmly clad in cloaks of trees and shrubs and furze, but still theyall looked beautiful. For the sunshine and the clouds used to chaseeach other over the heights and valleys so fast it was like giantsplaying bo-peep;