In nearly every household of the big city the children were astir early, all wearing an air of excitement, from the six-year-old in the primary school to the "big brother" or sister in the intermediate, for there was at last something new under the sun—the celebration of "Arbor Day" for the first time in their city and State.
It was a day to be devoted to the trees and their planting. Every school in the city had had a plot of ground set aside for its use, and every school had had at least one tree planted, beside those in memory of the teachers who had passed away to the unknown land.
There was no set time for departure and no special gathering place, so that at almost any hour after nine o'clock on that lovely May morning groups of children might have been seen wending their way toward the eastern hills. Those in the vicinity of Eden Park walked, a few drove over with their parents or friends, but the great majority filled the street cars to overflowing, laughing and chattering and enjoying a holiday as only school children can.
Forming a portion of the last class were the pupils of the "First Intermediate," that old landmark which has guided so many embryo citizens of our great Republic through the intricate paths of fractions, decimals, and so on, to the crowning difficulty of cube root; through grammar and history and geography, before bidding them "Godspeed" as they entered the high-school or took up the story of their lives in some other direction.
Among these last, lunch baskets in hand, were the five young warriors, but with their armor off and as great an air of being on pleasure bent as though they had never thought of anything more serious. Miriam as usual had the floor, and the entire car-load of girls and boys, nearly all of them her classmates, were laughing at her remarks.
There was a change of cars at Fountain Square and again at the foot of the Mt. Adams incline, but the five girls managed to keep from being separated. Arrived at the top of the hill, they stopped to breathe in the fresh air and admire the beautiful landscape—the Kentucky hills far away in the distance, with the beautiful Ohio flowing placidly at their feet; Cincinnati, in its hill-encircled cup, making, with Covington and Newport and the various smaller villages, part of one great whole, linked by the bridges across the Ohio and the Licking.
"This reminds me," said Ernestine, who was the historian of the little company, "of the name first chosen for our city—Losantiville, the town opposite the mouth of the Licking; 'ville,' town; 'anti,' opposite; 'os,' mouth; 'L,' initial of Licking."
"Dreadful!" said Miriam. "Imagine this great city designated as a town across the way from that little stream! It would be like the immense woman I saw the other day. I know she weighed over two hundred. There was a little man walking beside her, and he called her 'Birdie!' Indeed he did, and she called him 'Horatio!'"
"Our city started about here," said Ernestine, after the girls had stopped laughing, "or just at the foot of the hill, and grew first along the river. Later on it spread northward, and Fourth Street was one of its aristocratic streets."
"There comes Josie Thompson," said Fannie. "She's evidently bent on having a good time, and she's gotten up regardless. See that chain around her neck; plated, I'm sure."
"Don't look so sober, Ernestine," said Miriam. "There wouldn't be any use in living if you could not make fun of people once in a while."
"But perhaps Josie has never been taught any better at home," said Winnifred, suddenly thinking of the giants.
"She has eyes, hasn't she?" said Gretta. "But it seems to me she can't have ears, or else she couldn't help hearing that dress she has on. I know that's what my father would say."
Just then Josie came up to them. "Hello, girls! Going to have a good time? I tell you I am! Glad to have one day with no lessons to learn!" And she passed on with her friends, leaving the girls, even Ernestine, convulsed.
"Let's go on to the park," said Ernestine.
Accordingly they gathered up their baskets and other belongings. It was but a short walk, and they soon reached the spot where many of their schoolmates had already assembled.
At twelve o'clock the schools had a few simple exercises. The children sang, "My Country, 'Tis of Thee," one of the girls of their grade recited "Woodman, Spare that Tree," and Fannie's father made a brief address. He talked to them of the part the forests play in helping to prevent drouths and disastrous floods. He told of the old Italian poet who called the trees "my brothers," and said that everyone, whether poet or not, should have especial tenderness and affection for these beautiful and useful bits of nature which grow up around us, relieving our eyes from the glare of day, shading us from the noonday sun, and giving us pleasure in many ways, so that their useless and wanton destruction becomes a sin against mankind.
After the conclusion of this little talk (for it was that rather than a set speech), the children gathered up their lunch baskets and boxes, each party sought the spot that pleased it best, and soon the hillside was dotted with groups of boys and girls engaged in disposing of sandwiches, pickles, pies, cakes, fruit, and so on, with great enjoyment and good appetites.
The afternoon was passed most pleasantly by Winnifred and her own special friends, reinforced by many of the girls and boys of her class. Games of all sorts were indulged in with unflagging energy and good spirits for two or three hours.
About four o'clock Fannie's parents came for her in a carriage. Soon after Winnifred's mother arrived on the scene with little Ralph, and they were shown the trees which had just been planted and told about all the events of the day. By this time nearly every one was making preparations to leave, and by five o'clock the park was almost deserted and the happy day had become only a memory. But the seeds of thought planted there fell not altogether on stony ground, and were destined to bear fruit at some future day.
Indeed, the very next morning Ralph insisted on having an Arbor Day of his own, and he put in the ground a branch of willow, which took root and thrived, growing so rapidly that in a few years it was taller than himself; and each spring, when it put forth its delicate gray-green foliage, it recalled to Winnifred that most delightful Arbor Day.
Another year of Gretta's life had rolled around and brought with it her thirteenth birthday. The little club of "warriors" had not been without its influence upon her behavior, and she had become so ready to enter upon her duties, so cheerful in performing them, and so much less resentful in accepting the reproof which was perhaps too frequent in that busy and overworked household, that her elder sister—whom she had so complained of when the subject of forming their club was first mentioned—had decided that Gretta must have a little birthday party, and asked her whom she wished to invite.
Gretta was greatly delighted, for she had long been wishing to have a meeting of the club at her home, but had hardly known how to broach the subject. She immediately gave her sister the list, and while the latter was somewhat surprised that it should be so small, it was something of a relief to find what she had thought would be quite an undertaking so greatly simplified. It was decided that the girls should be invited to come at four o'clock and that supper should be served at half past five.
Promptly at the hour named Winnifred and Miriam appeared, followed soon after by Fannie, and then by Ernestine. The door was opened by the smiling-faced, German maid-of-all-work, and the girls were met at the foot of the stairs by Gretta, who took them up to the library on the second floor. "Here we will have no one to bother us," said Gretta. "My mother is out of the city on a visit to my uncle, and my sister has a music pupil in the parlor, so we'll have the library all to ourselves."
"How jolly!" said Miriam, looking around. "Oh, here is a big reclining-chair! We'll call it the president's chair, and Winnifred shall occupy it, because she was the first one to think of this club."
"Yes! yes!" they all insisted, so Winnifred climbed into the big chair, and the other girls ranged themselves in various attitudes around her.
"Do you know," said Miriam, with a half laugh and a half sigh, "I don't find fighting such easy work as I thought I would. I like to dress up my 'little observations,' as my brother calls them, just as much as I ever did, and I almost got into a temper this morning because my hair pulled when I began to comb it out."
"And I have been wishing we were richer," said Ernestine, whose great ambition it was to be contented with all that came to her. "You know we had such a hot spell last week, and mamma ought to go away this summer. She is getting thinner and thinner, and she has those awful headaches more and more often lately."
"I don't see why everybody can't have the things they want," said Fannie, feeling guilty to think she ever had a cross minute.
"I said that to mamma last week," said Ernestine, "when I felt uneasy about her, and she said it all comes from something in ourselves. That didn't make it any easier for me; nothing did, until I thought of the One who had not where to lay His head. Then I felt ashamed."
For a minute the girls were silent. Then Winnie said, "Well, I, for one, don't think I have quite killed that ugly old Hate. I can't bear to stop doing what I like, to please other people. I was reading 'Grandfather's Chair' last night, and I just hated to stop and tell Ralph his story before he went to bed. You know he always expects a story from some one of us, and last night nobody had the time but me."
"I'll tell you what upsets me more than anything else," said their little hostess; "that is, to have to jump up from the piano to answer the bell. And there's never a day that I don't have to do it; sometimes three or four times."
"What is your bugaboo, Fannie?" said Miriam; "or don't you have any?"
"Don't I? I believe I have more than any of you," was the answer. "But the thing that grieves me most is that I can't wear prettier and more expensive dresses to school. You know, lots of the girls who haven't half as much money as we dress a great deal better. Mamma would not care so much, but papa won't hear of such a thing."
"What awful troubles we all do have!" said Miriam, laughing.
"Miss Embry would say you shouldn't use 'awful,'" said Winnie from the depths of the big chair.
"There, you've hit it exactly!" said Miriam. "There is my bugaboo in a nut shell, and it really is an awful one. You know I like to make things sound strong, so I use all the strong-sounding words I can find; and I suppose I do exaggerate. Although I am reproved on all sides, it hasn't the slightest effect on me, except to make me wish that all the people who reprove me, or remind me of someone who does reprove,"—here she made big eyes at Winnie—"were hard of hearing when I am about. No, no; my motto is:
"And yet," said Ernestine, "there are a great many very interesting things told in very simple language and without getting away from the white truth."
"Well," said Miriam, "to tell the white truth myself just this once. I don't know whether I want to conquer this or not. I don't believe it is really much relation to the Giant Untruth. I think it's only a little dwarfish imp, a Brownie, who simply 'growed,' like Topsy, and to me is just about as interesting."
"And yet even you couldn't call Topsy beautiful," said Ernestine readily.
"Hardly," laughed Miriam. "But now we've all owned up, let's parade rest, as we say in our broom drills;" and she threw herself back on the sofa, where she sat as if indeed resting from a hard-fought battle.
The five formed a group of American girls good to look upon in their sweet springtime. Ernestine, with serious gray eyes, fair, slender, and tall for her fifteen years, sat erect but graceful in a straight, high-backed chair, her very pose denoting a peaceful courage. Fannie, with skin soft and rosy and eyes of a rare violet hue, occupied a low seat, her arms resting on the sofa against which she was leaning. Miriam, with dark, sparkling eyes and long, thick hair, looking brimful of life in spite of her present lazy attitude, sat just behind Fannie. Next came Winnie, small even for her twelve years, brown-eyed and dainty, looking fond of luxury, as she undoubtedly was and always would be, and yet good and high-minded. Last Gretta herself, a true German, with blue eyes and thick, light braids, a trim and compact little maiden. She sat near a table, her chin in her hand, with its flexible, square-tipped fingers—the fingers of the born and made pianist—for Gretta had "begun," as her mates used to tell, at the age of four.
It was a pleasant room in which they sat; it had many books, German and English and a few in other languages, and where no book-cases rested, the walls were hung with pictures of musicians—Mozart and Bach and Mendelssohn and many others as companions; and on a pedestal stood a bust of Beethoven, whom—so Gretta told the girls as they looked around—her father considered the greatest of them all.
Just then Winnie glanced up at the clock and saw that it was fifteen minutes past five. She made a motion to the girls, at which they all jumped up, and, joining hands, formed a circle around Gretta. Before she had had time to do anything but look astonished, Miriam stopped behind her, and, holding something over her head, said, "Heavy, heavy hangs over your head. What shall the owner do to redeem it?"
Before Gretta had a chance to answer, Miriam had dropped into her lap a box of pretty note-paper, and replied to her own question by saying, "The owner shall redeem it by writing to the giver this summer a letter for each week they are separated."
Then the girls circled about again, and this time Winnifred stopped behind Gretta, saying:
Gretta did as she was bidden, and Winnie popped a big marshmallow into her mouth, depositing the remainder of the box in her lap.
They circled about her for the third time, and Fannie stopped behind her, saying, as Miriam had done, "Heavy, heavy hangs over your head. What shall the owner do to redeem it?" and continued, "Read every word of it and enjoy it," and placed in Gretta's hand a copy of "Little Lord Fauntleroy."
Yet again they circled about her, singing:
and Ernestine placed a crown of flowers on Gretta's brow.
Gretta was quite overcome with pleasure and surprise, for the girls had so skillfully hidden their little gifts that she had not even caught a glimpse of them.
Just then the door opened, and the hostess' sister appeared at the door, saying, "Tea is ready, Gretta." Before they did anything else, however, Gretta had to exhibit her presents. They were duly admired, and then Miss Josephine said, "Come on, now; I'll head the procession. Keep step."
Through the open door came the sound of a lively march, which even Gretta had never heard before.
"That is a new march which father composed in honor of your birthday. He calls it 'Gretchen's March.'"
Winnifred popped a big marshmallow into her mouth.—See page 72.
They all felt very important as they marched down the stairs, headed by Miss Berger, who led them out into the long parlor and twice around it, while her father at the piano, with a merry twinkle in his eyes, kept on playing, and then out into the dining-room.
The table was set for five only, and the girls, directed by Miss Josephine, took their seats, with Gretta at the head, to the inspiring strains of the lively march.
It proved a most enjoyable little feast. Miss Berger left the room as soon as they were all seated, and then the same smiling-faced maid who had opened the door for them, also departed, and gave them an opportunity to look about.
At Gretta's place was a set of cunning china cups and saucers, which had been sent her from Germany when she was quite a little child. The cups were just about the size of after-dinner coffees, and the smiling Mina had insisted on calling the little party "Gretchen's Kaffeeklatch." Miss Berger had been so amused that she fell in with the idea, and had decided that they really should have coffee and some of Mina's coffee-cake on the bill of fare.
As Gretta filled the little cups, and the coffee and its delicious adjunct were passed around, five tongues chattered as fast as those of their elders might have done on a similar occasion.
When the coffee-cake and sandwiches and chicken salad had been disposed of, Gretta touched the bell at her place, and Mina appeared. After clearing the table, she brought in a great cake with thirteen little candles on it burning away merrily, and a great bowl of lemonade. Miss Josephine came in and cut the cake and served the lemonade, and was as entertaining and companionable as any of them could have desired.
They sat at the table a long time, then they went into the parlor and were introduced to Gretta's father. They shook hands with him timidly, for they had been so impressed by his strictness with Gretta in regard to her musical studies that they were a little afraid of him. Though they felt vaguely conscious that he was looking at them quizzically, he threw off the yoke of business entirely and entered into their games like a boy.
Among the other enjoyable things they played "Magic Music." It was really the game of "Hunt the Slipper," and when the music was soft they were "cold," and when it was loud they were "hot." Mr. Berger played for them, and never before had these girls played this game to such music.
The four girls walked home together in the Late twilight, declaring to each other that they had never had such a delightful time; and Fannie, who had once spoken so contemptuously of Gretta as a "music teacher's daughter," was loudest in her praise.
A few evenings after the meeting at Gretta's, Uncle Fred came in, and, pulling Winnie's ears according to his custom, said:
"I think it's my turn to treat, Winnifred; at least Kitty says it is. She and I were out boating yesterday, and she suggests that I take you and the other Joans for a row Friday evening."
"Oh, Uncle Fred," cried Winnie, "that will be grand! I'll tell the girls about it to-morrow. Who all are to be invited?"
"'You-all,' as our Southern friends say, and your Aunt Kitty; us seven, and no more, as the poet expresses it."
The girls accepted with eagerness. But on Thursday Ernestine did not come to school. Winnie went around Friday noon to learn the reason of such an unusual occurrence, and found that Mrs. Alroy was sick in bed, and although she had protested against her daughter's staying at home, Ernestine could not be prevailed upon to leave her.
The other girls were, of course, very sorry not to have her go, but soon forgot their disappointment in the excitement of anticipation. At a quarter past six, the hour agreed upon, Fannie was ringing Mrs. Burton's door bell, while Gretta and Miriam were just entering the gate. Winnie and her uncle and aunt were quite ready, so they all started out. After a short ride in the "Green Line," they were transferred to the Covington and Newport cars on their way to the river. None of the girls had been in that neighborhood often enough to be familiar with it, and everything they saw had the interest of novelty for them. When they reached the bridge, Mr. Fred helped them out of the car and they went on down the bank of the river. They stood there for awhile watching the many boats, large and small, the people going and coming, none of whom seemed to be in the same hurry as those farther up in the city, and most of whom were men sauntering leisurely along with their hands in their pockets.
Mr. Fred, who had left the girls for a few minutes, now came back, and, on his giving the command, they followed him to a pretty little dock where there were several row-boats. In one of these the five girls were soon seated, Winnie in the bow, Gretta and Fannie in the stern, while Miriam and Miss Kitty—who could both row—sat together where each could handle an oar, declaring that they meant to help provide some of the power. Uncle Fred took his place in the seat of "the crack oarsman," as he said, the smiling boatman on the wharf pushed them off, and soon they found themselves afloat. Fannie held the rudder and handled it very skillfully, although Mr. Fred kept a sharp lookout himself, for the river at this point was full of craft of all descriptions, from the large steamboats whose journey continues through the beautiful Ohio down through "The Father of Waters;" the ferry boats crossing between Ohio and Kentucky; little steam launches and row-boats, just starting out for pleasure; and fishing-boats returning laden from the day's work.
At first Miss Kitty and Miriam splashed about a little, but soon they became accustomed to each other and pulled such a steady, even stroke that Mr. Fred was obliged to stop laughing at them, and even acknowledged that they were helping to make the boat go.
All along the shores of the river were numbers of shanty boats, and as they approached the mouth of the Licking they saw more of these. Winnie, especially, was much interested in them, and enjoyed her seat in the bow as giving a good opportunity to catch a glimpse of some of their inmates—little boys with bare feet, girls with bright-colored dresses, many barking dogs, and an occasional cat, all of whom, in her eyes, were invested with a peculiar fascination.
But soon they entered the mouth of the Licking, and, gradually leaving all these sights and sounds behind them, passed into an enchanted country, the domain of Nature herself. Miss Kitty started up softly, "My country, 'tis of thee," and the girls joined in, Miriam's contralto adding richness to the voices as they rose and fell on the still air. Miss Kitty and Miriam had already drawn their oars up into the boat, and Mr. Fred let his trail idly in the water as he listened.
When they had finished the last stanza, Winnie said, "Aunt Kitty, won't you and Uncle Fred sing 'Juanita' for us? The moon is just rising behind those trees, and this is the very time for that duet."
"What a romantic little thing it is!" said Fred, teasingly; but he joined his sister in the pretty duet, which has been sung on the water so many times as almost to be considered a boating song. After this they took to their oars again, and, pulling hard against the stream, advanced silently but rapidly.
Presently Mr. Fred, with a strong pull on his left oar, turned the boat, in spite of Fannie's hold on the rudder, and it shot suddenly in toward the right bank, where was a little beach in a sheltered cove under an immense willow tree. Here Mr. Fred jumped out, and, after making the boat fast to the tree, assisted the other members of the party to disembark.
"Follow me!" he commanded, starting up the bank, which here sloped gradually to the water's edge.
The little company soon reached the top of the bank. The moon, nearly full, had just risen, and by its light, struggling with that of the dying day, they saw a little path leading up the green hillside. Along this they went, single file, wondering where Mr. Fred and Miss Kitty were taking them, when suddenly they were startled by the bark of a dog, and in a second a great mastiff jumped up almost to Mr. Fred's shoulders, and nearly knocked him down by the force of the spring.
Winnie was struck dumb with fear, and the other girls screamed, but Mr. Fred said, in a tone which quite reassured them:
"Down, down, Jasper! Don't let your joy make you forget your manners."
Jasper wagged his tail as if to say, "All right, sir," and trotted along the path, with Mr. Fred's hand on his head.
The path wound about through the trees, and when they reached the top of the hill they saw a large white house, and coming towards them a tall young man, who called out cheerily:
"We've been looking for you for the last half hour. Come right along. Nellie and Rob can hardly contain themselves, they have been so afraid you wouldn't come."
He led the way around the house, and soon had ushered the new-comers into a large, square parlor with long windows opening on a broad veranda.
"Nellie, Rob," he said, "here are the 'Warrior Maidens,' of whom you have heard so much."
The two children, Nellie about fourteen, and Rob a few years younger, bowed bashfully, and then looked appealingly at their elder brother, as they sat down on the two chairs farthest removed from those occupied by their guests. The moon was now above the tree tops, and shone into the room brightly through the long windows.
They passed unto an enchanted country.—See page 75.
"A glorious night for a game of hide-and-seek," said the older brother suggestively, in answer to an unspoken appeal of the younger ones.
"And this would be a grand place for it," said Miss Kitty. "I used to think a game of I-spy on a moonlight night the finest thing in the world. Suppose we try it now?"
"Yes! yes!" they all exclaimed; and, headed by their young hosts, rushed out of doors, and for half an hour made the hills echo with their shouts of merriment.
Such places as there were in which to hide!—a dark corner in the grape arbor, a nook in the vine-covered summer-house, a deep-shadowed projection from the stable or house or veranda: such chances to "make home" around the house, which stood in the center of the yard! Miss Kitty generally came in first, but once, after long searching, she was found in the hollow of a tree into which she had crawled, and from which, being caught in her own trap, she had to be pulled out by the united efforts of her brother and niece.
Then Miss Kitty declared that it was high time they should start for home. But when they went into the house to get their wraps, they found the smiling mother of their hosts waiting for them with a great bowl of strawberries, picked, she said, just before the sun went down, and which they must really try. It was not a difficult task to persuade the guests to do this, and after they had all done full justice to the berries and the accompanying cake and rich, sweet milk, they set forth to embark for home, escorted to the river by the entire family of their new friends.
The row home was enjoyed even more, if that were possible, than the one thither. The moon was now high in the sky, and hill and tree and rock and dimpling wave were beautified by its enchanting glamour.
They all felt either too tired, or too happy, or both perhaps, to talk, and the trip was made almost in silence, although Miss Kitty stopped rowing once, and quoted softly:
The next morning Winnie wakened early and lay for some time thinking over the pleasure of the evening before and the events of the past six months. It seemed to her as if a long time had elapsed since the evening on which she began to look upon life as something of a battle-field. She felt older, and yet light-hearted, as the gentle air of late May, stealing in through the open window, lightly stirred the thin curtains and brushed her face "like the breeze from an angel's wing," she thought.
"How happy we all have been!" she said aloud. "And Ernestine—I wish she had been with us last night—is the happiest of all, because she is the best."
Then she dozed off again, and did not awake until she heard little Ralph calling at her door: "Hurry up, 'Innie! B'eakast is 'most weady!"
She sprang out of bed in haste then, and was in the dining-room in time to take her seat with the rest.
"'He maketh the storm a calm, and the waves thereof are still,'" she quoted when it came her turn to give her selection. She had chosen this one for its gentle beauty.
How pleasant it all was! How full of life and joy everything seemed, even to the carnations in the center of the table, with their spicy odor!
She performed her Saturday morning duties cheerfully, and after lunch asked permission to take her books and go to Ernestine's to look over the lessons for Monday, for the end of the year—their last year in the Intermediate—was rapidly approaching, and, their course being almost completed, they would soon begin the heavy review in preparation for the high-school examination.
Permission was readily granted, and Winnifred started off with a light heart. When she reached Ernestine's home, a gentleman came down the steps and passed out of the door just as she was about to enter the hall, so, somewhat surprised, she went up the stairs more slowly than usual and knocked softly. It was opened by a strange lady, who, in answer to Winnifred's inquiry for Ernestine, said: "Ernestine is with her mother, who is so ill that the doctor says she must either have a trained nurse or go to the hospital."
"Oh, I must go right home and tell mamma!" said Winnie, and she went away without another word.
When she reached home, she found her mother in the sitting-room doing the week's mending. On hearing her daughter's sad news she hurriedly changed her dress and set out at once for Mrs. Alroy's.
She was gone an hour—an age, it seemed to Winnifred, unsuccessfully struggling to keep her mind on her lessons. When Mrs. Burton returned, her face was very grave, and she drew Winnie toward her with a warm embrace as she said:
"Mrs. Alroy has decided to have a nurse; she says she has saved a little money for just such an emergency and prefers to be at home where she can have Ernestine with her. She asked me to send for Mr. Allen."
"Fannie's father?" said Winnifred, surprised.
"Yes, and I want you to go there now and leave a note for him." And seating herself at her desk, Mrs. Burton wrote a short note while Winnie was getting on her hat.
Winnie felt very sober—and, it must be confessed, also somewhat important—as she hurried away to deliver the note. She found Mr. Allen at home, and, having sent up the note by the servant who answered the bell, she asked for Fannie, for she longed to talk the matter over with one of her mates. But Fannie, from her room at the head of the stairs, had heard Winnifred's voice, and now came running down to meet her.
"What is it, Win?" she said.
"Oh, Fannie," was the reply, "I'm afraid something awful is going to happen at Ernestine's house! Her mother is very, very sick. I went there this morning just as the doctor was coming away, and he said she must either go to the hospital or have a trained nurse. Mamma went over right away, and now Mrs. Alroy has sent for your father."
"For papa! Isn't that strange? Come up to my room, Winnie, and stay awhile, can't you?"
"I don't know," said Winnie, hesitatingly. "Mamma didn't say for me to hurry—"
"Well, come on then," said Fannie, leading the way up the softly carpeted stairs.
Winnie followed with scarcely a glance around. Although Fannie's father was much wealthier than her own, and his house finer in every way, her heart was too full for much interest in fine ornamentation; and besides, child though she was, she instinctively felt that culture and true refinement are at home anywhere.
But it was the first time she had ever been in Fannie's own room, and this she found interesting in spite of the emotions which had troubled her heart during the day. It certainly was a charming nook, with its pink-curtained bed half hidden behind a large four-fold screen with the Seasons painted in oil upon its panels; the pretty white dressing-table, draped to match the bed, and filled with the dainty accessories of a girl's toilet; a low, well-filled book case and desk combined; the pretty matting and rugs; and the many pictures and other ornaments here and there.
The girls sat down on a little willow seat, large enough for two, and Winnie had to begin all over again and tell what she knew about Mrs. Alroy's illness. In the meantime they heard Mr. Allen descend the stairs and go out of the street door before Fannie had time to call to him.
"I wonder if papa has gone to Mrs. Alroy's now," said she. "Whatever can she want of him? Perhaps she is going to have him make her will."
"But why should she do that?" said Winnie. "She can't have much to leave to anybody; and, if she had, Ernestine would be the only one to get it, wouldn't she? But what would Ernestine do if her mother should die? Who would take care of her? You know she has always said she would teach when she had finished school, and it will be years before she does that. Do you know, if the worst should happen, I'd love to have her stay with us, and I almost believe mamma would be willing."
"I think that would be a good deal for your family to do," was the answer, "but maybe papa would help."
"I don't believe Ernestine would be helped by anyone unless she did something in return. But how long I am staying! I must go right away."
"Oh, stay just a minute longer," said Fannie. "I want to show you my hanging garden;" and she threw up the long window and stepped out to a little balcony, almost filled with flowers in pots and boxes, and baskets full of vines drooping over all.
"Oh, how lovely!" exclaimed Winnie.
"Yes, isn't it? I care more for this than anything else I have," Fannie replied, breaking off a bunch of heliotrope and pinning it to her friend's dress.
"Oh, thank you!" said Winnie. "But now I must go."
"Yes, I suppose you must," said Fannie, reluctantly. "I'll put on my hat and go a ways with you."
They went down the stairs and out into the street together, talking alternately—as people do under such circumstances—of trivial things and of that which filled their hearts.
When Winnifred reached home, she found her mother seated at the open window of the sitting-room, darning a pair of stockings—a homely enough occupation, but to Winnie's eyes her mother had never looked so dear or so beautiful, and she went and put her arms about her neck. Her mother returned the embrace, holding her close for a moment, and then she said gently:
"Have you your lessons for Monday, dear?"
"Oh, mamma," said Winnie, "it does not seem to me as if I can ever study again!"
"Is there any nearer duty, Winnie?"
"I don't know—I suppose not. But, mamma, I can't put my mind on my lessons, when Ernestine's mother is so sick."
"Can you help Ernestine any by neglecting your own duties, dear? You do not recognize Giant Despair when he comes in the guise of love and sympathy for your friends, but he it is who comes at these times. You know in Whose hands are the issues of life and death, of health and sickness. You cannot help Ernestine's future by worrying over her present; but you may mar a portion of your own by neglecting your present."
Winnie could not help knowing that her mother was right. She took out her books, and was soon so hard at work that her disturbed emotions were quieted, and by supper time, though still full of sympathy for her friend, she was quite herself again, and ready to play the accompaniment to the new piece her brother was learning. And when she went to bed, it was to sleep peacefully, rather than to lie awake fighting unseen terrors, as Mrs. Burton well knew would have been the case with her high-strung child had she been allowed to brood over the events of the day.
The next day at breakfast Mrs. Burton announced her intention of going to see Mrs. Alroy instead of attending church, and said that if she were not home to dinner they might know she had thought it necessary to remain.
"Mayn't I go with you, mamma?" asked Winnifred.
"I think it would not be best for either Ernestine or yourself, Winnie, and certainly not for Mrs. Alroy."
Winnie at once saw that her mother was right, and instead of demurring, she went and gathered some beautiful clusters of lilacs for Ernestine, and cut the one white rose in bloom on her window-sill to send to Mrs. Alroy.
Mrs. Burton set off, taking a basket of fruit and the flowers, but she sighed as she turned the corner leading to Mrs. Alroy's, for she felt that the fruit would never refresh the world-weary woman for whom it was intended.
When she reached her destination she glanced apprehensively up to the second-story windows, for, although she said nothing about it to Winnie, she had on the previous day given up all hope of Mrs. Alroy's recovery. But the sorrowful banner which she had dreaded to see was not there, and she breathed more freely as she passed up the stairs.
In answer to her low knock the door was opened by Ernestine, who smiled as Mrs. Burton took her hand, a sad little smile of welcome which went to her visitor's heart.
"Mamma is resting quite easily now, but she passed a painful night. I will tell the nurse you are here. How beautiful the flowers and fruit are!" she said, as Mrs. Burton handed the basket to her.
"Yes, dear; the lilacs are for you—you know their odor is too strong for a sick-room—but Winnie sent this rose from her own little monthly to your mother."
Ernestine's lips quivered, as she took the rose without speaking, and went into the little bedroom, closing the door gently behind her.
Mrs. Burton found a vase, which she filled with water to put the lilacs in, and sat down to await the nurse's coming. She had not long to wait. The nurse, entering, closed the door behind her as softly as Ernestine had done, and motioned Mrs. Burton to follow her into the little kitchen.
"There is not the slightest hope," said she, in answer to Mrs. Burton's anxious inquiry. "The doctor says it may be a matter of hours only, although she may live for some days yet. It is neuralgia of the heart and she has been suffering exceedingly. However, she is resting easier now—which is not a good sign, you know—and wants to see you. She has asked me to send her daughter on some little errand, because she wants to see you alone."
They entered Mrs. Alroy's room together, and Ernestine, at a sign from the nurse, followed her out of the room. Mrs. Alroy took Mrs. Burton's outstretched hand, and for a moment neither spoke. Then the former said quietly:
"Please sit down, Mrs. Burton, for I have much to say to you. And I cannot speak long at a time, so you will have to be patient with me. You are not in a hurry?"
"My dear Mrs. Alroy, I have the day at your disposal. Do not hesitate to command me."
"You know something of my past life—so I found out yesterday. I need not touch upon it further. It is past now and I no longer regret it. But it is of the future I wish to speak. Not my own—that lies beyond our knowing—but of my daughter's—"
The sick woman put her hand over her eyes a moment, and Mrs. Burton walked to the window to fight back the tears which were fast rising to her eyes. Mrs. Alroy was the first to regain control of herself, and as Mrs. Burton resumed her seat, she went on:
"I had a long talk with Mr. Allen yesterday. He knows my family and I have placed my affairs in his hands. I have no doubt that Ernestine will be taken care of, but it is of her immediate future that I wish to speak. I would not have her go among strangers at once, and I am about to ask a great favor of you. The child loves you next to myself; your daughter is her dearest friend—"
"Winnifred feels it an honor to be thought so. Nothing would please both of us, all of us, better than to have Ernestine make her home with us for as long a time as she may desire."
"You give me courage to die. You could almost give me courage to live—but not quite. Yes, that is what I wish to ask of you, but only for the remainder of the school year. Preparing for the high-school examination will occupy my little girl's mind and help her to bear the separation, and after that—in the shadow of death pride vanishes, and I have requested Mr. Allen to write to my brother. They will settle everything else." She sank back on her pillows and closed her eyes wearily.
Mrs. Burton could not immediately command her voice, but laid her hand gently on that of the sick woman. The latter, without opening her eyes, continued:
"I shall not last long; this pain has too constantly been hovering about my heart; it cannot be driven back again; it must soon strike its last blow. But I do not fear it; it will be sharp but quick. Nor do I wish to live. Even my little daughter's wonderful love for me can no longer hold me. Besides, I know that from a material point of view she will only profit by my departure. She does not know that, and I am all she has—and I have not had the courage to tell her. This hard task I must ask you to do for me. I have only a hope—to you that hope is certainty. Your views are different; you can soften the blow as I cannot do. You will stay here awhile?"
"Anything I can do for you is too little."
"I have been loquacious, but I had long restrained myself. What time is it?"
"Half past eleven."
"Ernestine will soon be here, and I will tell her to make a cup of tea for you."
"Yes, it will give her occupation and relieve the strain. There she is now."
Ernestine came in with soft footsteps. "How do you feel now, mamma?" she asked gently.
"Quite easy, dear. I think I shall sleep for a little while. Mrs. Burton will stay to lunch, and you may make a cup of tea for her and yourself. The nurse will stay with me now; you can call her."
The nurse came, and Mrs. Burton and Ernestine left the room together.
After the sad little lunch Mrs. Burton, summoning up all her courage, spoke.
"Ernestine," she said, "your mother has asked me to tell you something which she would gladly spare you knowledge of, but which you must know. She is going on a long journey, from which she can no more return to you. But you will one day go to her."
Ernestine's great eyes dilated wildly. "You mean that my mother is going—"
"My dear, my dear! Your mother walks in the valley of the shadow of death, yet she fears no evil. You—and I and all who love you and her—are enveloped in its gloom, but if she fears not passing to the Unknown, shall we fear for her or for ourselves?"
"I cannot do without my mother, Mrs. Burton! I cannot! I cannot! She is all I have—all I want!" and the girl burst into a tempest of tears.
Mrs. Burton gathered her up in her arms and let her weep undisturbed for some minutes. Then she said gently:
"Your mother wants to go. If she could live longer, she would seldom be free from pain. Besides, it is God's will."
"Oh, my mother! my mother!" And Ernestine dropped upon her knees.
Mrs. Burton went out and left her, knowing that the stricken child's hope was in a Comforter greater than herself.
When Ernestine went in later, pale but quiet, her mother turned toward her with a smile.
"Kiss me, my daughter, my baby!" she said, "and be at peace, as I am."
The windows of the little bedroom faced the west, and toward evening Mrs. Alroy asked the nurse to draw back the curtains. "It has been a stormy day," she said, "but the sun is setting clear. I think I will go to sleep."
And she closed her tired eyes, and "fell on sleep" without being touched by the dreaded pain.
When they knew that it was indeed all over, they led Ernestine away, and she allowed them to put on her hat and went submissively home with Mrs. Burton.
When she returned to her own home again, the little room had been transformed into a bower of flowers, and Mrs. Alroy slept under their fragrant covering, beautiful and serene, with a smile on her lips. Ernestine was met on the threshold by a tall, handsome man, who put his arms about her and said how glad he was to see his little niece. He had come at once in response to Mr. Allen's telegram.
All was quiet and beautiful. A dozen or so friends gathered to listen to the sweet words of farewell to the dead and of benediction to the living; and then Mr. Van Orten took his sister home with him, that she might lie beside her kindred in the little old village on the banks of the Hudson.