CHAPTER XII.
BETTER THAN KITTENS.
Yes, they seemed just as glad to see me as if I was the Queen ofEngland, and had been gone all the days of my life. Father,especially, looked really overjoyed.
"How they must have missed me!" thought I, springing out of the coachand falling headlong over old Towser. "O, please catch that kitten."
Ned seized the empty basket and whirled it over his head.
"Who cares for such trash? We've got something in the house that'sbetter than sixteen kittens."
"Rabbits?"
"Come and see," said 'Ria, giving me one hand, while she strokedSilvertoes with the other.
"O, I don't believe it's anything. Is it wax beads? You haven't askedwhere I came from, nor whose house I staid to. There was a woman withgold beads, and he called her Harret, and--"
"Yes, I knew they'd take good care of you," said cousin Lydia.
"And where d'you s'pose I found my kitty?" But no one seemed to hear.I had expected to be pelted with questions as to my eating, drinking,and sleeping, and to be pitied for the late distress of my mind. Butno one showed the slightest curiosity; they all seemed in a greathurry to get into the house.
I stopped talking, and walked along with all the dignity of anoffended pea-chicken. There might or might not be something worthgoing to see; but I was resolved to keep perfectly cool. Up stairs?Well, up stairs then, or up in the attic, or out on the roof,--it madeno difference to me. I could keep from asking questions as long asthey could, if not longer.
O, mother's room, was it? Well, I'd been wondering all the while wheremother was, only I wouldn't ask. Dear me, was she sick? "So glad tosee little Madge," she said, kissing me over and over again. "And whata hard time I had had."
There, _she_ knew how I'd been suffering, and was just going to ask mesome questions, when that troublesome Ned whisked me right up in hisarms, and whirled me round towards the fireplace.
"If you've got any eyes, Maggie, look there."
My eyes were good enough, if that was all; but what was that womansitting there for? I thought she had a heap of woollen clothes in herlap.
Father took it.
"Come here, Totty-wax."
I put out my hands, and felt something as soft as kittens.
"Presto, change!" cried Ned, and pulled down the top of the blanket.There lay a little, wrinkled, rosy face, a baby's face, and over itwas moving a little wrinkled hand.
I jumped, and then I screamed; and then I ran out of the room and backagain.
"O, O, O! Stop her! Hold her!" said Ned.
But they couldn't do it. I rushed up to the baby, who cried in myface.
"What IS that?" said I; and then I burst into tears.
"Your little sister," said father.
"It isn't," sobbed I, and broke out laughing.
Everybody else laughed, too.
"Say that again," said I.
"Your little sister," repeated father.
"Does Fel know it? And it _isn't_ Ned's brother?" seizing father bythe whiskers. "And he can't set her on the wood-pile! Came down fromheaven. What'm I crying for? Came down particular purpose for me."
"Yes, Totty-wax," said father, smiling, with a tear in the corner ofhis eye,--
"'Twas for my accommodation Nature rose when I was born."
"Has this child had any supper?" asked mother, in a faint voice fromthe bed.
"No, _she_ can't eat," laughed I; "her face looks like a roast apple."
"Your mother means you, Maggie. You are tired and excited," saidcousin Lydia. "Ruth made cream-cakes to-night."
"But I shan't go, 'thout I can carry the baby. Ned's holding her. Sheisn't _his_ brother. I haven't had her in my arms once. How good Godwas! O, dear, what teenty hands! She can't swallow 'em, on 'count ofher arms. Sent particular purpose for me--father said so. 'Ria Parlin,she's nowhere near your age. You have everything, but you can't havethis. She gapes. She knows how to; she's found her mouth; she's foundher mouth!"
And so I ran on and on, like a brook in a freshet, and might neverhave stopped, if they had not taken me out of the room, and tied me ina high chair before a table full of nice things. And Ruthie stoodthere with a smile in her eyes, and said if I spoke another word, Ishouldn't see baby again that night.
I couldn't help pitying Ned. I wasn't sure I had treated him justright. I had prayed, off and on, as much as two or three weeks in all,that God would send me a sister, and of course that was why she hadcome. I didn't wish Ned to know this; he would be so sorry he hadn'tthought of it himself, and prayed for a brother. I told Fel about it,and she didn't know whether it was quite fair or not. "Yes, it was,too," said I; for I never would allow Fel the last word. "It was fair;Ned's older 'n me, and ought to say his prayers a great deal more_reggurly_."
O, that wonderful new sister! For days I never tired of admiring her.
"Look, mamma! 'Ria, did you ever, ever see such blue eyes?"
And then I sat and talked to the new sister, and asked her
"Where did she get her eyes of blue?"
But she did not answer, as the baby does in the song,--
"Out of the sky, as I came through."
"What makes the light in them sparkle and spin? Some of the starry spikes left in."
"Where did you get that pearly ear? God spake, and it came out to hear."
Ah! If she could only have talked, wouldn't she have told some sweetstories about angels?
I couldn't have left her for anything else but that wedding; butRuthie promised to take good care of her--and I could trust Ruthie!Ned wasn't going; there were to be no children but Fel and me. Well,yes, Gust was there; but that was because he happened to be in thehouse. The wedding was in Madam Allen's parlors. _I_ stood up beforethe minister, with wax beads on my neck, and white slippers on myfeet. Somebody else stood there, too; for one wouldn't have beenenough. Fel dressed just like me--in white, with the same kind ofbeads; only she was pale, and I wasn't, and she looked like a whiterosebud, and I didn't.
We stood between the "shovin' doors,"--that was what Gust calledthem,--and there was a bride and bridegroom, too. I nearly forgotthat. I remember lights, and flowers, and wedding cake; and by and byMadam Allen came along, looking so grand in her white turban, and gavethe bride a bridal rose, but not Fel or me a single bud. Then, whenpeople kissed the bride, I kissed her, too, and she whispered,--
"Call me aunt Martha, dear."
"O, yes, Miss Rubie," said I; "you are my cousin, aunt Martha."
For I could not understand exactly.
Uncle John hugged me, and said they were all going away in themorning, he and aunt Martha, and Zed; and then I felt sorry, even withmy wax beads on, and said to father,--
"I tell you what, I love my uncle John _that was_."
No, Fly, he didn't have any horse then called "Lighting Dodger;" butit was the same uncle John, and aunt Martha is the very woman who petsyou so much, and has that pretty clock, with a pendulum in the shapeof a little boy in a swing.
After that wedding there was a long winter. I went to school, but Feldidn't. She looked so white that I supposed her mother was afraid shewould freeze. Miss Rubie was gone, and there were no lessons to learn;but Madam Allen didn't care for that; she said Fel was too sick tostudy. Whenever I didn't have to take care of the baby, I went to seeher; but that baby needed a great deal of care! For the first month ofher life I wanted to sit by her cradle, night and day, and not let anyone else come near her. The next month I was willing Ned should haveher half the time; and by the third month I cried because I had totake care of her at all.
CHAPTER XIII.
GOOD BY.
It happened that she was a cross baby. It did not take her long toforget all about heaven. She liked to pull hair, and she liked toscratch faces; and no matter how much you trotted her up and down, shejust opened her toothless mouth and cried.
"She's a wicked, awful baby!" exclaimed I, scowling at her till myeyes ached.
br />
"Div her a pill, _I_ would," said Ned, laughing. He could laugh, forhe didn't have to sit and hold her, as I did.
"Poor little thing isn't well," said mother.
"I don't 'spect she knows whether's she's well or not," returned I, indisgust. "She just hates everybody, and that's what she's cryingabout."
"You grieve me, Madge. I thought you loved this dear sister."
"Well, I did; but I don't love her any more, and I don't ever want torock a baby that hates me so hard she can't keep her mouth shut."
"You don't mean you are not glad God sent her? O, Madge!"
"Yes'm, that's what I mean. I'm real sorry he sent her, and I wishhe'd take her back again."
Hasty, bitter speech! Even a child knows better than to talk sorecklessly. Next day, and for many days, those words came back to myheart like sharp knives. Little sister was very ill, and I knew by thelooks of people's faces that they thought she would cross the darkriver, on the other side of which stand the pearly gates. Mother sawme roving about the house, crying in corners, and sent me away to theAllens to stay all night. When I got there, Madam Allen took me rightup in her motherly arms, and tried to soothe me; but I refused to becomforted.
"I thought baby looked a little better this morning," said she.
I shook my head.
"Has baby grown any worse?"
"No'm."
"Then why do you shake your head?"
"'Cause," sobbed I, "'cause--"
And then, hiding behind her turban, I whispered,--
"O, if you tell God you want anything, is that a prayer?"
"Yes, dear, if you tell him you want little sister to get well, thatis a prayer."
I moaned still more bitterly at these words, and slid out of her lap.
"Why, what is it, darling?"
"I can't tell you," said I; "I can't, I can't. There isn't anybody inthis world I can tell but just Fel."
Then Madam Allen went out of the room, and left us two little girlsalone.
"O, Fel," said I, as soon as my sobs would let me speak, "I said Iwished God would take my little sister back again."
Fel looked very much shocked.
"And O, I'm afraid it was a truly prayer, and God 'll do it."
"No, I guess it wasn't a truly prayer, Madge."
"What makes you think it wasn't?" cried I, eagerly, for I supposed shemust know.
"Wasn't you mad when you said it?"
"Yes, very. She made that long scratch on my nose, and I was verymad."
"She did dig awful deep; I don't wonder you felt bad," said Fel,soothingly. "But you didn't want her to die, any more'n anything; nowdid you?"
"No, O, no!"
"Well, then, if you didn't want her to die, God knows you didn't; forhe knows everything, don't he?"
"Yes, yes."
"And so it wasn't a truly prayer," added Fel, positively.
"And won't he answer it?"
"Why, what you 'spose? Of course not, Madge."
She seemed to feel so clear upon the subject, that I began to breathemore freely. O, it was everything to have such a wise little friend!
"But I oughtn't to said it, Fel! O, dear! What s'pose made me? _You_never say bad things, never!"
Fel thought a moment, and then answered, as she looked at me with herclear, happy eyes,--
"Well, you have lots of things to plague you, Madge; but I don't.Everybody's real good to me, because I'm sick."
I looked at her, and began to cry again. My little heart had beenstirred to its very depths, and I could not bear to have her speak ofbeing sick.
"Now, Fel Allen," said I, "you don't s'pose you're going to die 'foreI do? I can't live 'thout you! If you die, I'll die too."
"Why, I never said a thing about dying," returned Fel, in surprise.
"Well, you won't never leave me, will you? Say you won't never! Justthink of you up in heaven and me down here. I can't bear it!"
"Why, Madge."
"Well, if you should go up to heaven first, Fel, you'd sit there onthose steps, with a harp in your hand, and think about me; how I saidcross things to you."
"Why, what cross things did ever you say to me, Madge Parlin?"
"There, there," cried I, smiling through my tears, and beginning todance; "_have_ you forgot? O, that's nice! Why, Fel, I called you alie-girl."
"O, well, I don't care if you did. I wasn't, _was_ I?"
"And I called you a borrow-girl, too. And I drowned you, and I--I--"
"I wish you'd stop talking about that," said Fel, "or you'll make mecry; for you're just the nicest girl. And who cares if you do scoldsometimes? Why, it's just in fun, and I like to hear you."
Now, Dotty Dimple, I declare to you that this conversation is sweeterto my memory than "a nest of nightingales." Naughty as I was, Feldidn't know I was naughty!
When I went home next morning, the little Louise was much better, andin a few days seemed as well as ever. I was very thankful God knew Iwas not in earnest, and had not taken me at my word, and called herback to heaven.
She was never quite as cross from that time, and I had many happyhours with her, though, as I told Fel,--
"She's cross _enough_ now, and sometimes seems 's if I couldn'tforgive her; but I always do; I don't dass not to!"
I was not required to hold her very much, for Fel was not well, andwanted me with her half the time. Mother was always willing I shouldgo, and never said,--
"Don't you think you ought to be pacifying the baby?"
I never dreamed that Fel was really sick. I only knew she grew sweeterevery day, and clung to me more and more. I had stopped teasing herlong ago, and tried to make her happy. I couldn't have said a crossword to her that winter any more than I could have crushed a whitebutterfly.
One day I was going to see her, with some jelly in my little basket,when "the Polly woman" walked mournfully into the yard.
"I've just come from Squire Allen's," said she, unfastening hershawl, and sighing three times,--once for every pin.
"And how is Fel?" asked mother.
Polly slowly shook her head,--
"Very low; I--"
Mother looked at her, and then at me; and I looked at her, and then atPolly.
"Dr. Foster says her brain has always been too active, and--"
"Madge, you'd better run along," said mother. "The baby's asleep now;but she'll wake up and want you."
I went with a new thought and a new fear, though I did not know what Ithought or what I feared.
When I reached Squire Allen's, Ann Smiley came down the path to meetme.
I asked, "_Is_ Fel very low? Polly said so."
And she answered,--
"Why, no, indeed; she is as well as common. Polly is so queer."
I went into the house, and Madam Allen drew me close to her, andsaid,--
"Bless you, child, for coming here to cheer our little darling."
When she set me down, I saw she had been crying. I had never seen herwith red eyes before.
"You and Fel may stay in the warm sitting-room," said she; "and Annshall carry in some sponge cake and currant shrub, for Fel hardlytasted her dinner."
I remember how Fel clapped her hands, and smiled to see me; and howAnn brought the cake into the sitting-room, and drew up a little tablebefore the fire. We sat and played keep house, and sipped currantshrub out of some silver goblets which had crossed the ocean.
It is a beautiful picture I am seeing now, as I shut my eyes: Fel,with that lovely smile on her face, as if some one were whisperingpleasant things in her ear.
"I love you so, and it's so nice;" said I.
Gust came in, and she took his hand and patted it.
"Yes," said she; "I love you and Gust, and it is nice; but we'll havenicer times when we get to heaven, you know."
Gust gave her one little hug, and rushed out of the room. Then Iremember throwing myself on the rug and crying; for there was an acheat my heart, though I could not tell why.
Grandpa Harringto
n came in, and began to poke the fire.
"Well, well," said he; "its hard for one to be taken and the otherleft, so it is. But Jesus blessed little children; and I wouldn't cry,my dear."
That was the last time I ever played with Fel. She grew feverish thatnight, and the doctor said she must not see any one. Something was thematter with her head, and she did not know people. I heard she had"water on the brain," and wondered if they put it on to make it feelcool.
There, children, I do not like to talk about it. It was all over inthree short weeks, and then the angels called for Fel. She was "taken"and I was "left," and it seemed "very hard." I grieved for a longwhile, and wanted to go too; but Madam Allen said,--
"You are all the little girl I have now to take in my arms. Don't youwant to stay in this world to make Fel's mother happy?"
"Yes," said I; "I do."
And my own mamma said,--
"The baby needs you, too. See, she has learned to hold her hands toyou!"
They all tried to comfort me, and by and by I felt happy again. I amtold that the loss of my dear little friend made me a different child.I grew more kind and gentle in my ways, more thoughtful of otherpeople. Not very good, by any means, but trying harder to be good.
Well, I believe this is all I have to tell you of my little days, forvery soon I began to be a large girl.
I am leaving off at a sad place, do you say, Prudy? Why, I don't thinkso. To me it is the most beautiful part of all. Just think of my dearlittle friend growing up to womanhood in heaven! I ought to be willingto spare her. O, yes!
She was always better than I, and what must she be now? It wouldfrighten me to think of that, only she never knew she was good, andhad such a way of not seeing the badness in me.
I shall never forget my darling Fel, and I think she will remember meif I should live to be very old. Yes, I do believe she loves me still,and is waiting for me, and will be very glad to see me when I go tothe Summer Land.
Here is a lock of her hair, Fly. You see it is a beautiful goldenbrown, and as soft as your own. A certain poet says,--
"There seems a love in hair, though it be dead."
And that is why I shall always keep this little tress.
Now kiss me, dears, and we will all go to the study, and see whatuncle Gustus is doing.
Yes, Fly, I did like your uncle Gustus, because he was Fel's brother.Well,--I don't know--yes, dear,--perhaps that _was_ part of one littlereason why I married him.
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