In Wild Rose Time

An impudent leer crossed the other face.

“Who yer lookin’ at? Mind yer own biz. I’m jes’ as good as youse!” was the unexpected salutation.

“Yes,” answered Dil meekly, her enthusiastic pity quenched.

Dil’s seat was in the window end, and her companion a stolid little German with two flaxen tails down her back. So she sat quite still. The morning had been so full of excitement she could hardly think. She had been just whirled about, pushed into the adventure.

But the “little mothers” interested her. Did they like babies, she wondered? Did their arms ache, and were their backs strained and tired carrying them about? Most of them were thin and weary looking, yet they were in gay spirits, making little jokes and giving quick, slangy answers, ready to laugh at anything.

Dil seemed quite apart from them. They passed through a tunnel, and there were little shrieks and giggles. The German girl caught Dil’s arm. Then they crossed rivers, passed pretty towns, bits of woods, flower gardens, long fields of waving corn, meadows where daisies still lingered, and tufts of red clover looked like roses. Ah, how large the world was! And maybe heaven was a great deal farther off than she and Bess had imagined. They might have been all winter going if they had walked. She felt suddenly thankful that John Travis had advised against it.

It was Dilsey Quinn’s first railroad journey, and it gave her the sensation of flying. She had brightened up, and a soft flush toned the paleness. An indescribable light hovered about her face, the rapt look that we term spiritual.

They trooped out of the train,—it seemed a week since they had started, her brain was so full of beautiful impressions. A young lady had come down to meet them, and walked with Miss Lawrence. The children were wild with the newness of everything; some of them had not even seen the nearest park before. They chased butterflies; they longed to chase the birds; they ran and laughed, and presently came to a great white house set in an old orchard.

“Children,” said Miss Lawrence, “here is your new home. You can run and play to your heart’s content. In the woods yonder you can shout and be as wild as you like. But you must come in first and take off your best dresses. And now you must mind when you are spoken to, and not quarrel with each other.”

They went through a wide hall and up an old-fashioned staircase. Three large rooms were full of narrow white-draped cots. The girls who pushed on ahead were given numbers to correspond. There were pegs for their hats and garments, a shelf for their satchels and bundles. What a whispering, chattering, and giggling! Here was a bath-room, and basins for washing. And then the bell rang for dinner.

Oh, what a dinner it was to most of the newcomers! A great slice of sweet boiled beef, vegetables, and bread in an unstinted fashion, and a harvest apple for dessert. Dil was too full of rapture to eat, and she let the next girl, whose capacity seemed unlimited, have most of her dinner.

Afterward they went out to play. Hammocks and swings were everywhere. They ran and shouted. They sat in the grass, and laughed with a sense of improbable delight. No one to scold, no work to do, not to be beaten for a whole long week! Oh, what joy it was to these little toilers in courts and slums and foul tenement houses!

Dil sat on a seat built around a great tree, and watched them. She was like one in a dream, quite apart from them. There is a delightful, unquestioning freemasonry among children. The subtle sign is given in a word or look or smile, and they are all kin. But it had been so long since Dil was a child, that she had forgotten the language.

She was not unhappy nor solitary. She was simply beyond playing, far from boisterous mirth. She had been doing a woman’s work so long, and childhood for the poor is ever a brief season.

Two or three girls shyly asked her to play “tag.” She gently shook her head. Then a long-ago sound caught her attention.

Two little girls were holding their clasped hands up as high as they could stretch. A small procession passed, each girl holding to the skirt of the other, and singing:—

        “Open  the  gates  as  high  as  the  sky,
        And  let  King  George  and  his  men  go  by.
 
        Needle’s  eye  as  I  pass  by,
        Awaiting  to  go  through;
        Many  a  lass  I  have  let  pass,
        And  now  I  have  caught  you.”

Down came the arms of the “gates” over the head of the girl just under them. There was a shriek and a giggle. Then the one who was caught had to be a “gate,” and so it went on.

Dil looked, fascinated with a kind of remembered terror. It seemed as if she must have heard that in another world, it was so long, long ago. Before Bess was “hurted,” when Dan was a chubby baby, she had them both out, caring for them. At least, Dan was in the corner of the stoop, and Bess was tossing a ball for his amusement. A group of girls were playing this very game. The arms came down and took Dilsey Quinn prisoner, and all laughed because she had been so quick to evade them.

Something else—her mother’s heavy hand that dragged Dil out of the ring. The girls scattered, afraid of the tall, strong virago. Dil picked up the baby and took Bess by the hand. They were not living in Barker’s Court then. She shuddered, for she knew what awaited her. She should have been in the house, getting supper, to be sure. She had not meant to play so long, and even then she so seldom played.

Poor Dil! For a fortnight or so she carried the marks on her body.

“I’ll tache ye to be wastin’ of yer time foolin’ wid sich,” said her mother.

Then Bess was “hurted,” and her mother ill in bed for weeks. They were warned out of the house, and for some time it was hard lines for them all. Dil never played any more. Childhood was at an end for her.

And when she heard the merry voices here, a cold, terrible shiver came over her with the old memories. Was it softened by the thought that Bess could run about then? But even little Bess had sometimes been cruelly beaten. After that—was there a strange comfort that had never come before, that Bess’s accident had saved her many an unreasonable punishment? For Mrs. Quinn had let the poor little sufferer pretty much alone. Dil had managed to stand between, and take the blows and ill usage.

Does God note all the vicarious suffering in the world, and write it in the book of remembrance?

Dil turned her head away. Another party were playing “Ring a round a rosy.” And a group on the grass were being inducted into the mystery of “Jacks.” She wondered a little where her mother was. She did not want to see her, but she hoped matters were better with her. Surely she need not work so hard. And oh, if she would not drink gin! But Dil had noted the fact that most women did as they grew older.

Miss Lawrence came out presently with a bright cheery word for them all.

“You’re not playing,” she said to Dil. “You must run about and have some fun, and get some color in your cheeks. And you must not sit and brood over your hard life. That is all passed, and we hope the good Father has something better in store. And you must be friendly with the others.”

“Yes’m,” answered Dil, with soft pathos. “Only I’d rather sit here an’ look on.”

“Don’t get homesick after your boys,” and the lady’s smile went to Dil’s heart. “You’ll feel less strange to-morrow. I want this outing to be of real benefit to you. I’m going down to the city now, and will see Mrs. Wilson. When I come again I’ll bring you some word from the boys. I am sure everything will be done for your comfort.”

“Yes’m,” Dil answered meekly, but with an uplifted smile.

Several little girls ran and kissed her a rapturous good-by. When Dil saw her go out of the gate she felt strangely alone. She wanted to fly home to the boys, to get their supper, to listen to their merry jests and adventures, to see their bright eyes gleam, and hear the glad laughter. She felt so rested. Oh, if she had not promised Patsey to stay a whole long week. And one day was not yet gone.

She espied a vacant hammock, and stole lightly out from her leafy covert to take possession. It was odd, but the little hump-backed girl seemed a centre of attraction. She said so many droll, amusing things. She was pert and audacious to be sure. She could talk broken Dutch and the broadest Irish, and sing all the street songs. The children were positively fascinated with her. A wonder came to Dil as to how it would feel to be so enthusiastically admired.

She lay there swinging to and fro until the supper bell rang long and loud. One of the attendants came and talked with her while the children were tripping in from the woods. Something in her appearance and gentle manner reminded Dil of the hospital nurse.

There was a good deal of singing in the evening, but they all went to bed early. How wonderfully quiet it was! No dogs barking, no marauding cats wauling dismally on back fences, no rattle and whiz of “L” cars, no clatter of heavy wagons. And oh, the wonderful sweetness in the air! If Dil had ever achieved Bible reading, she would have thought of “songs in the night” and a “holy solemnity,” but she could feel the things unutterable.

The window was next to her bed. She sat up and watched the ships of fleece go drifting by. How the great golden stars twinkled! Were they worlds? and did people live in them? They made a mysterious melody; and though she had not heard of the stars singing for joy, she felt it in every pulse with a sweet, solemn thrill of rapture.

Was that heaven back of the shining stars? And oh! would she and Bess and John Travis be together there? For he would help her to call back Bess, as she came on Sunday. It was only a little while to wait now. She felt the assurance—for the poor ignorant little girl had translated St. Paul’s sublime, “By faith.”

The moon silvered the tree-tops, and presently sent one slant ray across the bed. Dil laid her hands in it with a trance of ecstasy. The delicious state of quietude seemed to make her a part of all lovely, heavenly things. It was the “land of pure delight” that John Travis sang about. A whole line came back to her,—

        “And  pleasures  banish  pain.”

Dilsey Quinn had attained to the spiritual pleasures. Pain was not, could not be again.

She was not a bit sleepy. She watched the moon dropping down and down. All the insects had stopped. A soft darkness seemed spread over everything, and by dozens the stars went out. Ah, how wonderful it all was! If people could only have chances to know!

“My child,” said Miss Mary at the breakfast table, “you are not eating anything! Don’t you like porridge, and this nice milk?”

“Yes, it’s so good,” replied Dil gratefully. “An’ the milk seems almost as if ’twas full of roses, it’s so sweet. But I can’t get hungry as I used, an’ when I eat just a little I seem all filled up.”

“Would you like bread better? And some nice creamed potatoes?”

“I don’t want nothin’ more.” Dil looked up with a soft light in her eyes. “Mebbe by noon I’ll be hungry—I most know I will.”

“Yes, I hope so.”

It was such a long morning to Dil, so hard to sit round and do nothing. If there had been a baby to tend, or a room to tidy. She would have been glad to go to the kitchen and help prepare the vegetables. She was so used to work that she could not feel at home in idleness.

She went over to the woods with the children to please Miss Mary, who suggested it so gently. But some feeling—the long disuse of childhood—held her aloof. She could not join in their plays, but it was a pleasure to watch them. And how wonderful the woods were! The soft grasses with feathery heads, the mosses, some of them with tiny red blossoms not as large as a pin’s head. There were a few wild flowers left, and long trails of clematis wandering about; shining bitter-sweet, green chestnut burrs in clusters, the long, fringy blossoms in yellow brown still holding on to some of them. There were bunches of little fox grapes, too bitter and sour for even children to eat.

She sat down on a stone and almost held her breath. It was the real, every-day country, not Central Park. The birds sang at their own sweet will, and made swift dazzles in the sunshine as they flew from tree to tree. Could heaven be any better? But there was no pain nor sickness nor weariness in heaven. And she felt so strangely tired at some moments.

She used her utmost endeavors to eat some dinner. It had such an appetizing flavor. The little girl next to her, who had swallowed her supper so quickly last night, eyed it longingly.

“You can have the potato and the meat,” Dil whispered softly. That travelled down red lane, and still seemed to leave a hollow behind. It was like the hungry boys at home, and she smiled.

She sat under the tree again, and Miss Mary tried to persuade her to go and play, but she was gently obstinate.

“Miss Lawrence asked me specially to look after her,” she said to another of the attendants. “She looks like a little ghost; but whether she is really ill, or only dead tired out, I can’t decide. It’s so natural for children to want to play, but she doesn’t seem to care to do anything but mope. Yet she speaks up so cheerful.”

“Poor children! How hard some of their lives are,” and her companion sighed.

Dil’s supper tasted good; and she was so sorry she couldn’t eat more, as she glanced up and caught Miss Mary’s eye.

“I’m ever so much better,” she said in her soft, bright manner. “I’m glad; for the boys wanted me to get well an’ fat, an’ have red cheeks. I’ll try my best, you’re all so good. An’ it’s such a beautiful place. I wonder what made—some one—think ’bout the little mothers? But the babies ought to be here too.”

“That wouldn’t give the little mothers much rest. Are there many babies in your family?”

“There ain’t any, but—but some that come in. Other people’s babies.”

“And does your mother keep a nursery?”

“I ain’t got any mother now. I took the babies ’cause I liked them.”

“But where do you live?”

“With my brother an’—an’ the boys. I keep house.”

How unchildishly reticent she seemed. And most of the children were ready to tell everything.

The little household was called in for their evening singing.

XIV—VIRGINIA DEERING

Dil had a strange, homesick yearning to-day. She longed so to see the boys. Her eyes overflowed with tears as she thought of them and their warm, vital love. She seemed almost to have lost Bess. Could she see her again at Cent’l Park she wondered? She would ask Patsey to take her there as soon as she went home.

A great hay wagon had come and taken a load of the children down to the meadows. Three were in disgrace for being naughty, and had to spend an hour sitting on the stoop. Some were reading. The German girl was crocheting.

Dil sat out under the old branching apple-tree, whose hard red apples would be delightful along in the autumn. She was counting up the days. To-night they would be half gone. Would they let her go on Saturday she wondered? She looked at her poor little hands—they hadn’t grown any fat.

“Who is that little girl? and why does she keep apart from the others?” asked Miss Deering.

“I don’t know. She seems strange and hard to get on with. But she looks so weakly that even sitting still may do her good. Go and see what you can make of her, Miss Virginia.”

Miss Deering had several roses in her hand. She sauntered slowly down to Dil, and dropped the roses in her lap on the thin white hands.

“Oh, thank you!” Dil exclaimed gravely. She did not pick them up with the enthusiasm Miss Deering expected.

“Don’t you care for flowers?” Miss Deering seated herself beside the quiet child, and studied the face turned a little from her.

“Yes, I like thim so much,” glancing at them with a curiously absent air. Her manner was so formal and old-fashioned, and she roused a sense of elusiveness that puzzled the young lady.

“I think I must have seen you before. I can’t just remember—”

Dil raised her soft brown eyes, lustrous still with the tears of longing that were in them a moment ago. The short curved upper lip, the tumbled hair, the gravely wondering expression—how curiously familiar it seemed.

“I hope you are happy here?” she said gently.

“I like it better home,” Dil returned, but with no emphasis of ungraciousness. “I’m used to the boys, ’n’ they’re so good to me. But they wanted me to come an’ get well. I wasn’t reel sick only—Patsey don’t like me to look like a skiliton, he says. Everybody here’s so nice.”

“And who is Patsey—your brother?”

She seemed to study Virginia Deering in her turn. It was a proud face, yet soft and tender, friendly. It touched the reticent little soul.

“No; Owen’s my brother. There’s some more boys, an’ we keep house. Patsey is—Patsey’s alwers been good to me an’ Bess.”

There was a touching inflection in her tone.

“Who is Bess?” with a persuasive entreaty that found its way to the lonely heart.

“Bess is—Bess was”—The voice trembled and died out. Virginia Deering slipped her arm about the small figure with a sympathetic nearness. Dil made another effort.

“Bess was my poor little hurted sister. I didn’t ever have no other one.”

“Don’t you want to tell me about her? I should so like to hear. How did she get hurt?”

Virginia Deering had of late been taking lessons in divine as well as human sympathy. She was willing to begin at the foundation with the least of these.

Dil looked across the sunny field to the shaded, waving woods. There had never been any one to whom she could tell all of Bess’s story. Mrs. Brian, tender and kindly, had not understood. A helpless feeling came over her.

“I wonder if she loved roses? Did she ever have any?” Miss Deering laid her finger on those in Dil’s hand, then felt under and clasped the hand itself.

Dil was suddenly roused. The grave face seemed transfigured. Where had she seen it—under far different auspices?

“She had some wild roses wunst. Oh, do you know what wild roses is? I looked in the woods for some yest’day.”

Wild roses! She had set herself to bear her lot, bruised and wrecked in an evil moment, with all the bravery of true repentance.

“Yes,” in a soft, constrained tone. “I have always loved them. And last summer where I was staying there were hundreds of them.”

“Oh,” cried Dil eagerly, “that was jest what he said. It was clear away to las’ summer. Patsey was up to Grand Cent’l deepo’. He carried bags an’ such. An’ a beautiful young lady gev him a great bunch. Casey made a grab fer thim, but Patsey snatched, an’ he’s strongest, ’n’ he gev it to Casey good till a cop come, ’n’ then he run all the way to Barker’s Court an’ brought thim to Bess an’ me.”

“A great bunch of wild roses! Oh, then I know something about Patsey. It was one day in August. And—and I had the roses.”

Dil’s face was a rare study. Virginia Deering bent over and kissed it. Then the ice of strangeness was broken, and they were friends.

This was Patsey’s “stunner.” She was very sweet and lovely, with pink cheeks, and teeth like pearls. Dil looked into the large, serious eyes, and her heart warmed until she gave a soft, glad, trusting laugh.

“Patsey’ll be so glad to have me find you! They were the beautifullest things, withered up some, but so sweet. Me an’ Bess hadn’t never seen any; an’ I put them in a bowl of water, an’ all the baby buds come out, an’ they made Bess so glad she could a-danced if she’d been well, ’cause she used to ’fore she was hurted, when the hand-organs come. They was on the winder-sill by where she slept, an’ every day we’d take out the poor dead ones. ’N’ there was jes’ a few Sat’day when we went up to the Square an’ met the man. ’N’ I allers had to wheel Bess, ’cause she couldn’t walk.”

“What hurt her?”

“Well—pappy did. He was dreadful that night along a-drinkin’, an’ he slammed her against the wall, an’ her poor little hurted legs never grew any more. An’ the man said jes’ the same as you,—that he’d been stayin’ where there was hundreds of thim, an’ he made the beautifullest picture of Bess—she was pritty as an angel.”

Miss Deering’s eyes fell on the little trail of freckles across Dil’s nose. They were very small, but quite distinct on the waxen, pale skin.

“And he painted a picture of you! He put you in that wild-rose dell. I know now. I thought I must have seen your face.”

Dil looked almost stupidly amazed.

“Bess was so much prittier,” she said simply. “Do you know ’bout him? He went away ever so far, crost the ’Lantic Oshun. But he said he’d come back in the spring.”

She lifted her grave, perplexed eyes to a face whose wavering tints were struggling with keen emotion.

“He couldn’t come back in the spring. He went abroad with a cousin who loved him very much, who was ill, and hoped to get well; but he grew worse and weaker, and died only a little while ago. And Mr. Travis came in on Monday, I think.”

Her voice trembled a little.

“Oh, I knew he would come!” The glad cry was electrifying.

And she, this little being, one among the waifs of a big city, had looked for him, had a right to look for him.

“He ain’t the kind to tell what he don’t mean. Bess was so sure. An’ I want to ast him so many things I can’t get straight by myself. I ain’t smart like Bess was, an’ we was goin’ to heaven when he come back; he said he’d go with us. An’ now Bess is dead.”

“My dear little girl,” Virginia held her close, and kissed the cool, waxen cheek, the pale lips, “will you tell me all the story, and about going to heaven?”

It was an easy confidence now. She told the plans so simply, with that wonderful directness one rarely finds outside of Bible narratives. Her own share in the small series of tragedies was related with no consciousness that it had been heroic. Virginia could see the Square on the Saturday afternoon, and Bess in her wagon, when she “ast Mr. Travis to go to heaven with them.” And the other time—the singing. Ah, she well knew the beauty and pathos of the voice. How they had hoped and planned—and that last sad night, with its remembrance of wild roses. Dil’s voice broke now and then, and she made little heart-touching pauses; but Virginia was crying softly, moved from the depths of her soul. And Dil’s wonderful faith that she could have brought Bess back to life bordered on the sublime.

“Oh, my dear,” and Virginia’s voice trembled with tenderness, “you need never doubt. Bess is in heaven.”

“No,” returned Dil, with a curious certainty in her tone, “she ain’t quite gone, ’cause I’ve seen her. We all went up to Cent’l Park, Sunday week ago. I was all alone, the boys goin’ off walkin’, an’ me bein’ tired. I wanted her so much, I called to her; an’ she come, all beautiful an’ well, like his picture of her. I c’n talk to her, but she can’t answer. There’s a little ketch in it I can’t get straight, not bein’ smart like to understand. But she’s jes’ waitin’ somewheres, ’n’ he kin tell me how it is. You see, Bess wouldn’t go to heaven ’thout me, an’ he would know just where she is. For she couldn’t get crost the river ’n’ up the pallis steps ’les I had hold of her hand. For she never had any one to love her so, ’n’ she wouldn’t go back on me for a whole world.”

Miss Deering could readily believe that. But, oh, what should she say to this wonderful faith? Had it puzzled John Travis as well?

“And who sent you here?” she asked, to break the tense strain.

Dil told of the fainting spell, and Mrs. Wilson and Miss Lawrence, who had been so good.

“But now he’s come, you see, I must get well an’ go down. He’ll be there waitin’. I’d like to stay with the boys, but somethin’ draws me to Bess. I feel most tore in two. An’ ther’s a chokin’ in my throat, an’ my head goes round, an’ I can’t hardly wait, I want to see her so. When I tell Patsey and Owny all about it, I’m most sure they’ll want me to go, for they know how I loved Bess. An’ when he comes, he’ll know what’s jes’ right.”

They were silent a long while. The bees crooned about, now and then a bird lilted in the gladness of his heart. Virginia Deering was asking herself if she had ever loved like this, and what she had suffered patiently for her love. For her self-will and self-love there had been many a pang. But she let her soul go down now to the divinest humiliation. Whatever he did henceforth, even to the dealing out of sorest punishment, must be right evermore in her eyes.

The children were coming back from their ride, joyous, noisy, exuberant; their eyes sparkling, their cheeks beginning to color a little with the vivifying air and pleasurable excitement. Dil glanced at them with a soft little smile.

“I think they want you,” she said. “They like you so. An’ I like you too, but I’ve had you all this time.”

“You are a generous little girl.” Virginia was struck by the simple self-abnegation. “I will come back again presently.”

She did not let the noisy group miss anything in her demeanor. And yet she was thinking of that summer day, and the poor roses she had taken so unwillingly. How she had shrunk from them all through the journey! How she had tossed them out, poor things, to be fought over by street arabs. They had come back to her with healing on their wings. And that John Travis should have seen them, and the two little waifs of unkind fortune. Ah, how could she have been so fatally blind and cruel that day among the roses? And all for such a very little thing.

What could she say to this simple, trustful child? If her faith and her beliefs had gone outside of orthodox lines, for lack of the training all people are supposed to get in this Christian land, was there any way in which she could amend it? No, she could not even disturb it. John Travis should gather in the harvest he had planted; for, like Dil, she believed him in sincere earnest. She “almost knew that he meant to set out on the journey to heaven,” if not in the literal way poor, trusting little Dil took it. And she honored him as she never had before.

She came back to Dil for a few moments.

“Don’t you want to hear about the picture?” she asked. “It quite went out of my mind. Mr. Travis exhibited it in London, and a friend bought it and brought it home. I saw it a fortnight ago. So you brought him a great deal of good fortune and money.”

“I’m so glad,” her eyes shone with a soul radiance; “for he gev us some money—it was for Bess, an’ we buyed such lots of things. We had such a splendid time! Five dollars—twicet—an’ Mrs. Bolan, an’ she was so glad ’bout the singin’. But I wisht it had been Bess. He couldn’t make no such beautiful picture out’n me. Bess looked jes’ ’s if she could talk.”

“He put you in that beautiful thicket of roses.” Ah, how well he had remembered it! “I do not think any one would have you changed, but you were not so thin then.”

“No;” Dil gave the soft little laugh so different from the other children. “I was quite a little chunk, mammy alwers said, an’ I don’t mind, only Patsey wants me to get fatter. Mebbe they make people look beautifuller in pictures,” and she gave a serious little sigh.

Then the supper-bell rang. Dil held tightly to the slim hand.

“They’re all so good,” she said earnestly. “But folks is diff’rent. Some come clost to you,” and she made an appealing movement of nearness. “Then they couldn’t understand ’bout me an’ Bess—that she’s jes’ waitin’ somewheres till I kin find out how to go to her, an’ then he’ll tell us which way to start for heaven. I’m so glad you know him.”

Dil tried again to eat, but did not accomplish much. She was brimful of joy. Her eyes shone, and a happy smile kept fluttering about her face, flushing it delicately.

“You have made a new child of her,” said Miss Mary delightedly. “I thought her a dull and unattractive little thing, but such lives as theirs wear out the charms and graces of childhood before they have time to bloom. We used to think the poor had many compensations, and amongst them health, that richer people went envying. Would any mother in comfortable circumstances change her child’s physique for these stunted frames and half-vitalized brains?”

Virginia Deering made some new resolves. It was not enough to merely feed and clothe. She thought of Dilsey Quinn’s love and devotion; of Patsey Muldoon’s brave endeavor to rescue Owen, and keep him from going to the bad, and his generosity in providing a home for Dil, to save her from her brutalized mother. Ah, yes; charity was a grander thing,—a love for humanity.

Dil came to say good-night. Virginia was startled by the unearthly beauty, the heavenly content, in her eyes that transfigured her.

“You breathe too short and fast,” she said. “You are too much excited.”

“I d’n’ know—I think it’s ’cause he’s comin’. ’N’ I’ve waited so, ’n’ now it’s all light ’n’ beautiful, ’n’ I don’t feel worried no more.”

“You must go to sleep and get rested, and—get well.” Yes, she must get well, and have the different kind of life Virginia began to plan for her.

A soft rain set in. There was such a tender patter on the leaves that Dil almost laughed in sympathetic joy. Such delightful fragrance everywhere! For a moment she loathed the city, and it seemed as if she could not go back to the crowded rooms and close air. But only for a little while. John Travis would set her on the road to heaven.

It was curious how bits of the hymn came back to her. She could not have repeated the words consecutively—it was like the strain of remembered melody one follows in one’s brain, and yet cannot give it voice. She seemed actually to see it.

        “O’er  all  those  wide  extended  plains,
        Shines  one  eternal  day.”

Eternal day! and no night. Forever to be walking about with Bess, when the Lord Jesus had taken her in his arms and made her like other children. Oh, did Sadie Carr know that in heaven she would be straight and nice and beautiful? She must ask Miss Deering to tell her. Then her heart went out with trembling, yearning tenderness toward her mother. Couldn’t the Lord Jesus do something to keep her from drinking gin and going up to the Island? Was little Dan in a happy home like this, with plenty to eat?—boys were always hungry. She used to be before Bess went away, but it seemed as if she should never be hungry again.

The little girls around her were breathing peacefully. They were still well enough to have a good time when beneficent fortune favored. They had run and played and shouted, and were healthily tired. Dil remembered how sleepy she used to be when she was crooning songs to Bess. But since the day at Central Park it had been so different. The nights were all alight with fancies, and she was being whirled along in an air full of music and sweetness.

Toward morning it stopped raining. Oh, how the birds sang at daylight! She dropped off to sleep then, but presently something startled her. She was back with the boys, and there was breakfast to get. She heard the eager voices, and sprang out of bed, glancing around.

It was only the children chattering as they dressed. Perhaps she looked strange to them, for one little girl uttered a wild cry as Dil slipped down on the floor a soft little heap.

The nurses thought at first that she was dead, it was so long before there was any sign of returning animation, and then it was only to lapse from one faint to another.

“We must have the doctor,” said Miss Mary. “And we will take her to my room. There are three children in the Infirmary, one with a fever.”

The room was not large, but cheerful in aspect. A tree near by shut out the glare of the sunshine, and sifted it through in soft, changeful shadows.

“She looks like death itself. Poor little girl! And Miss Lawrence was so interested in her. Will you mind staying a bit, Miss Virginia? There are so many things for me to do, and the doctor will be in soon.”

Virginia did not mind. She had been keeping a vigil through the night. She had taken a pride in what she called shaping her life on certain noble lines. How poor and small and ease-loving to the point of selfishness they looked now! What could there ever be as simply grand and tender as Dilsey Quinn’s love for her little sister, and her cheerful patience with the evils of a hard and cruel life?

She had been in the wrong, she knew it well. She had waited for him to make an overture; but he had gone without a word, and that had heightened her anger. Then had come a bitter sense of loss, a tender regret deepening into real and fervent sorrow. Out of it had arisen a nobler repentance, and acceptance of the result of her evil moment. She had hoped some time, and in some unlooked-for way, they would meet.

But since she had given the offence, could she not be brave enough to put her fate to the touch and

        “Win  or  lose  it  all”?

The words that had always seemed so hard to say came readily enough, as she told the story of the human blighted rose that had brought a new faith to her.

Dil seemed to rally before the doctor came. She opened her eyes, and glanced around with the old bright smile.

“It’s all queer an’ strange like,” she said; “but you’m here, an’ it’s all right. Did I faint away? ’Cause my head feels light an’ wavery as it did that Sunday night.”

“Yes, you fainted. But you are better now. And the doctor will give you a tonic to help you get well. We all want you to get well.”

“I ain’t never been sick, ’cept when I was in the hospital, hurted. I only feel tired, for I ain’t got no pain anywhere, an’ I’ll soon get rested. ’Cause I want to go down home an’ see him. If I could go over to the Square on Sat’day. I ’most know he’ll be waitin’ for me.”

Should she tell the poor child? Oh, was she sure John Travis would come? He need not see her. She had not asked for herself.

The kindly, middle-aged doctor looked in upon them at this moment, accompanied by Miss Mary. Dil smiled with such cheerful brightness that it almost gave the contradiction to her pale face. He sat down beside her, counted her pulse, talked pleasantly until she no longer felt strange, but answered his questions, sometimes with a shade of diffidence when they reflected on her mother’s cruelty, but always with a frank sort of innocence. Then he listened to her breathing, heart and lungs, and the spot where the two ribs were broken, “that hadn’t ever felt quite good when you rubbed over it,” she admitted. He held up her hand, and seemed to study its curious transparency.

“So you are only a little tired? Well, you have done enough to tire one out, and now you must have a good long rest. Will you stay here content?” he asked kindly.

“Everybody’s so good!” and her eyes shone with a glad, grateful light. “But I’d like to go by Sat’day. There’s somethin’—Miss Deerin’ knows”—and an expectant smile parted her lips.

“Well, to-day’s Thursday, and there’s Friday. We’ll see about it. I’d like you to stay in bed and be pretty quiet—not worry—”

“I ain’t got nothin’ to worry ’bout,” with her soft little laugh. “It’s all come round right, an’ what I wanted to know most of all, I c’n know on Sat’day. I kin look out o’ the winder and see the trees ’n’ the sunshine, an’ hear the birds sing. An’ everybody speaks so sweet an’ soft to you, like ’s if their voices was makin’ music. O no, I don’t mind, only the children’ll want Miss Deerin’, and I want her too.”

“Your want is the most needful. She shall stay with you.”

The brown quartz eyes irradiated with luminous gleams.

“Very well,” he said, with an answering smile.

Miss Deering came out in the hall. He shut the door carefully.

“If she wants anything or anybody, let her have it. Keep her generally quiet, and in bed. Though nothing can hurt her very much. It is too late to help or hinder.”

“O surely you do not mean”—Miss Deering turned white to the very lips.

“She’s as much worn out as a woman of eighty ought to be. If you could look at her, through her, with the eye of science, you would wonder how the machinery keeps going. It is worn to the last thread, and her poor little heart can hardly do its work. Her cheerfulness is in her favor. But some moment all will stop. There will be little suffering; it is old age, the utter lack of vitality. And she’s hardly a dozen years old.”

“She is fifteen—yes, I think she is right, though I could hardly believe it at first.”

“That poor little thing! I hope with all my soul there is a heaven where the lost youth is made up to these wronged little ones. She has been doing a woman’s work on a child’s strength.”

“O can nothing save her?” cried Virginia Deering, with longing desire. “For her life might be so happy. She has found friends—”

“It all comes too late. If you should ever be tempted to reason away heaven, think of her and hundreds like her, and what else shall make amends? I will be in again this afternoon,” and he turned away abruptly.

He met Miss Mary in the lower hall, and left her amazed at the intelligence. She came up-stairs and found Virginia with her eyes full of tears.

“And I thought last night she looked so improved. It is so sudden, so unexpected.”

“How long?” asked Virginia, with a great tremble in her voice.

“Any time, my dear. A day or two, an hour may be. We must keep it from the children. So many have improved, and no one has died. I can’t believe it.”

“I want to stay with her,” the girl said in a low tone.

“We shall be so grateful to you. You young girls are so good to give up your own pleasures, and help us in our work.”

Virginia went back quietly. Dil’s face was turned toward the window, and she was listening to the children’s voices, as they ran around tumultuously.

“They do be havin’ such a good time,” she said, with a thrill of satisfaction in her tone.

“I wish you were well enough to join them,” Virginia replied softly.

Dil laughed. “I’ve been such a big, big girl this long time,” she returned with a sense of amusement, but no longing in her tone. “I don’t seem to know ’bout playin’ as they do; for mammy had so many babies, an’ Bess was hurted, an’ there wasn’t never no room to play in Barker’s Court, ’count o’ washin’ an’ such. ’Pears like I’d feel strange runnin’ an’ careerin’ round like thim,” and she made a motion with her head. “I’d rather lay here an’ get well. Oh, do you think the doctor’ll let me go on Sat’day?”

“My dear, I have written to Mr. Travis. I think he will be up then.”

“Oh!” Such a joyful light illumined the face, that Virginia had much ado to keep the tears from her own eyes. “You’re so good,” she said softly. “Everybody’s so good.”

“And the children don’t disturb you?”

“Oh, no; I like it. I c’n jest shut my eyes ’n’ see ‘Ring around a rosy.’ Oh,” with a long, long sigh, “Bess would ’a’ liked it so! I’m so sorry she couldn’t come ’n’ see it all, the beautiful flowers ’n’ trees ’n’ the soft grass you c’n tumble on ’n’ turn summersets as they did yest’day. Don’t you s’pose, Miss Deerin’, there’ll be a whole heaven for the children by themselves? For he told me somethin’ ’bout ’many mansions’ the Lord Jesus went to fix for thim all. Ain’t it queer how things come to you?”

XV—JOHN TRAVIS

“We’ll see. You and Miss Deering seem to be planning secrets. I shall have to look sharp after both of you. And who brings you flowers?”

“Miss Mary. An’ some custard, an’ oh, Miss Deerin’ fed me like as if I was a baby.”

“That’s all right. It’s high time you were waited on a little. But I’d like you to take a nap. Miss Deering, couldn’t you read her to sleep?”

“I will try.”

“She ought to sleep some,” studying the wide eyes.

“But I’m not a bit sleepy. I’m thinkin’ ’bout when he comes, an’ how he’ll help me find Bess.”

“It is astonishing,” the doctor said down-stairs. “She has some wonderful vitality. It seemed this morning as if she couldn’t last an hour, and now if she wasn’t all worn out she might recover. But it is the last flash of the expiring fire. Is there some friend to come?”

“Yes,” answered Miss Deering with a faint flush.

“She will live till then. If, she suffers we must try opiates, but we will hardly need, I think.”

“And—the excitement—”

“She will not get excited. She is strangely tranquil. Do not disturb her serene hope, whatever it is.”

The day drew to a close again. Dil asked if she was not going to her own bed, and seemed quite content. Miss Mary came in early in the evening and sent Virginia to bed. She could not quite believe the dread fiat. For Dil might be made so happy in the years to come. Ah, God, must it be too late? It seemed like the refinement of cruelty.

She came back about midnight, but Miss Mary motioned her away, and then went out in the hall.

“You must go to bed in earnest,” she said. “You may be needed more later on. She is very quiet; but she lies there with her eyes wide open, as if she were seeing visions. I get a nap now and then; you see, I’m used to this kind of work.”

“I wish ’twas mornin’,” Dil said toward early dawn. “I want to hear the birds sing an’ the children playin’; they do laugh so glad an’ comfortin’. An’ I wisht there could be some babies tumblin’ round in the sweet grass. They’d like it so. Don’t you never have any babies?”

“There are other homes for babies,” was the reply.

“Do you s’pose it’ll ever get all round,—homes, an’ care, an’ joy, an’ such? There’s so many, you know. There was little girls in Barker’s Court who had to sew, an’ never could go out, not even Sundays. When ’twas nice, Bess an’ me used to go out on Sat’days. But the winter froze her all up. And the other poor children—”

“They will all get here by degrees.”

“It’s so good in folks to think of it.”

“My dear, you must go to sleep.”

“But I don’t feel sleepy,” and Dil’s face was sweet with her serene smile. “There’s so many lovely things to think about.”

“Try a little, to please me.”

Dilsey shut her eyes and lay very still. Was there some mysterious change in the face?

And so dawned another morning. Virginia Deering came in with a handful of flowers, which she laid beside Dilsey’s cheek on the pillow.

“Oh,” the child began in a breathless sort of way, “do you think he’ll be here to-morrow, Sat’day? Cause I don’t b’l’eve I’d be well ’nuff to go down. I don’t seem to get reel rested like. An’ you’ll have to send word to Patsey. He wanted me to stay a good long while, an’ get fat, an’ I want to try.”

Did she feel sure John Travis would come? Ah, she would not doubt. She would take the child’s sublime faith for her stay. Even if he had ceased to care for her, he would not disappoint the child who relied so confidently upon his word.

“Yes, I know he will come.”

“It’ll be all right, then. An’ I’ll get up to-morrow an’ be dressed, an’ go down-stairs all strong an’ rested like. An’ I think he’ll know about Bess.”

Virginia bent over and kissed her.

“Ain’t the children jealous ’cause you stay here so much?” she asked presently. “They all like you so. An’ they was so glad to see you.”

“They do not mind,” she made answer to the unselfish child; “and I like to stay with you.”

“Do you? I’m glad too,” she said dreamily.

But now and then she was a little restless. The doctor merely looked at her and smiled. But outside he said to Miss Mary, “I doubt if she goes through another night.”

“What shall I do for you?” Virginia asked later on. There seemed such a wistfulness in the eyes turned to the window.

“It’s queer like, but seems to me as if Bess was comin’. P’raps she’s jes’ found out where I be. O Miss Deerin’, are there any wild roses? I’d like to have some for Bess.”

Virginia glanced up in vague alarm.

“I think if I had some Bess would come back. ’N’ I’m all hungry like to see her.”

Dil moved uneasily, and worked her fingers with a nervous motion.

“There have been some over back of the woods there,” and Miss Mary inclined her head. “There were in June, I remember.”

“I might go and see.”

“Oh, will you? I wisht so I had some.”

“The walk will do you good.” There had come a distraught look in Virginia’s face. Oh, what if John Travis failed! Even to-morrow might be too late.

“You’ll let the children go with you,” said Dil. “They’ll like it so; an’ I’ll keep still ’n’ try to go to sleep.”

The old serenity came back with the smile. She had learned so many lessons of patience and self-denial in the short life, the grand patience perfected through love and sacrifice, the earthly type of that greater love. But the sweet little face almost unnerved Virginia.

The children hailed her with delight, and clung so to her gown that she could hardly take a step. Perhaps it was their noise that had unconsciously worn upon Dil’s very slender nerves. Miss Mary read to her awhile, and in the soft, soothing silence she fell asleep.

Yes, she had come to that sign and seal indelibly stamped on the faces of the “called.” The dread something no word can fitly describe, and it was so much more apparent in her sleep.

“Miss Mary,” said an attendant, “can you come down a moment?”

She guessed without a word when she saw a young man standing there with a basket of wild roses. But he could not believe the dread fiat at first. She had been “a little ill,” and “wasn’t strong” were the tidings that had startled him, and she had gone to a home for the “Little Mothers” to recruit. He had heard some other incidents of her sad story, and he remembered the children’s pathetic clinging to the wild roses. Nothing could give her greater pleasure.

He walked reverently up the wide, uncarpeted steps, beside Miss Mary. Dil was still asleep, or—O Heaven! was she dead? Miss Mary bent over, touched her cool cheek.

Dil opened her eyes.

“I’ve been asleep. It was so lovely. I’m all rested like—why, I’m most well.”

“Well enough to see an old friend?”

Oh, the glow in her eyes, the eager, asking expression of every feature. She gave a soft, exultant cry as John Travis emerged from Miss Mary’s shadow, and stretched out her hands.

“My dear, dear little Dil!”

All the room was full of the faint, delicious fragrance of wild roses, kept so moist and sheltered they were hardly conscious of their journey. And she lay trembling in two strong arms, so instinct with vitality, that she seemed to take from them a sudden buoyant strength.

“I’ve been waitin’ for you so long,” she exclaimed when she found breath to speak. There was no reproach in the tone, rather a heavenly satisfaction that he had come now. Her trust had been crowned with fruition, that was enough.

“My little girl!” Oh, surely it could not be as bad as they said. The future that he had planned for, that he had meant to make pleasant and satisfying, and perhaps beautiful, from the fervent gratitude of a manly heart. Was she beyond anything he could do for her? Oh, he would not believe it!

“I was detained so much longer abroad than I expected,” he began. “And we did not get in until Monday morning. I went to Barker’s Court, and could not learn where you were. Then I bethought myself of the cop at the square,” smiling as he designated the man.

“An’ he gev you my letter?”

“He gave me the letter. I hunted up the boys. I saw Patsey and Owen last night, and they are counting on your getting well. They sent you so much love. And to-day I went to Chester. Here are your roses.”

He tumbled them out all dewy from the wet papers. Oh, such sweetness! Dil breathed it in ecstatic delight. She had no words. She looked her unutterable joy out of her limpid brown eyes, and he had much ado to keep the tears from his. So pale, so spiritualized, yet so little like Bess, and—oh, the last hope died as he took in all the signs. For surely, surely she was on the road to heaven and Bess. No hand of love, no touch of prosperity, could hold her back.

“’Pears like everything’s come, an’ there ain’t nothin’ left to wish for,” she said as he laid her down again, and watched the transfigured face. “For now you c’n tell me ’bout Bess. Mother burned up the book one day, an’ we never could quite know, only she got crost the river, an’ they was all so glad at the pallis. An’ Bess was so sure you’d come. The cough was dreadful when we didn’t have some good medicine that helped her. An’ the lady come one afternoon, ’n’ mammy was home ’n’ she was norful sassy to her. You see, we hadn’t dast to tell mammy—”

“My poor child!” He was toying with the soft, tumbled hair. He had heard another side of the story, and of Mrs. Quinn’s insulting impudence.

“An’ then Bess she smelt the wild roses all around one night, an’ thought she was gettin’ better—an’—an’ she jus’ died.”

“Yes; God came for her in the night. He put his arms around her, and wrapped her in the garment of his great love, and took her through the pathway of the stars. She did not feel any cold nor pain, and he gave her a new, glorified body, so she could leave the poor old one behind.”

“But she wouldn’t have leaved me ’thout a word, when she loved me so, an’ wanted me to go to heaven with her.”

Dil’s lip quivered, and her chest heaved with the effort of keeping back the tears.

“My dear child, there are many mysteries that one cannot wholly explain. Don’t you remember telling me the Mission teacher said it was an allegory, a story that is like our daily lives? We are going heavenward in every right and tender and loving thing we do. We are the children of God as well as the children of mortal parents; God gives us the soul, the part of us that is to live forever. And when he calls this part of you to the heavenly mansions, he gives it the perfect new body. The old one is laid away in the ground. When Jesus was here he helped and cured people as I told you. But he does not come any more. He calls people to him, and sends his angels for them. So he said, ‘It is very hard for poor little Bess to wait all winter, to suffer with the cold, the pain in her maimed body, to be afraid of her mother, to hear the babies cry when her head aches. She must come to the land of pure delight, and have her new body. She must be well and joyous and happy, so that she can run and greet her sister Dil when I send for her.”

Dilsey Quinn was listening with rapt attention. But at the last words she cried out with tremulous eagerness,—

“Oh, will he send? Will he take me to Bess? You are quite sure?”

Her very breath seemed to hang on the answer.

“He will send. He has a place for you in the many mansions he went to prepare. And this little step we take from one world to the other is called the river of death, and you know how Christiana went through it. Sometimes the Lord Jesus lifts people quite over it.”

There was a long silence. He could see she was studying the deep, puzzling points. The lines came in her forehead, white as a lily now, and her eyes seemed peering into fathomless depths.

Looking into the sweet, wasted face, holding the slim little hands, once so plump and brown, thinking of the heroic, loving life, he felt that indeed “of such was the kingdom of heaven.”

“Well, ’f I c’n go to Bess,” a sigh of heavenly resignation seemed to quiver through the frail body, “’n’ I think the Lord couldn’t help bein’ good to Bess, she was so sweet ’n’ patient; for ’twas so hard not to run about, ’n’ have to be lifted, ’n’ I couldn’t always come on ’count of the babies ’n’ mother ’n’ things. ’N’ she never got cross. ’N’ I do b’lieve she understood ’bout Christiana, for after that she wanted so to go to heaven. An’ she was so glad about her poor hurted legs bein’ made well. We couldn’t read fast, you know; an’ we couldn’t see into things, ’cause we hadn’t been to school much. But she kinder picked it out, she was such a wise little thing, an’ the pictures helped. But I don’t understand ’bout the new body.”

Her face was one thought of puzzled intensity.

“My dear little Dil, we none of us quite understand. It is a great mystery. The Lord Jesus came down from heaven and was born a little child that children might not be afraid of him, but learn to love him. When he grew to manhood he helped the needy, the suffering, and healed their illnesses. He went about doing good to everybody, and there were people who did not believe in him and treated him cruelly.” How could he explain the great sacrifice to her comprehension? “Dil,” he said in a low tone, “suppose you could have saved Bess great sorrow and suffering by dying for her, would you not have done it? Suppose that night the Lord Jesus had said to you, ‘I can only take one of you to-night, which one shall it be?’ What would you have done?”

“Oh, I’d let her gone. Was it that way?” The tears stood in her eyes, and her voice trembled with tenderest emotion.

“God loves us all as you loved Bess. But we do not all love him. We are not ready to do the things he tells us, to be truthful and honest and kindly. But he is ready to forgive us to the very last. And he knows what is best for us.”

“Then that other body went to heaven,” she said after a long silence. “An’ I know now she must have been in some lovely place, ’cause that Sunday she come to me in Cent’l Park she was all smilin’ an’ strange an’ sweet, an’ beautiful like that picture you made. She looked jes’ ’s if she wanted to tell me somethin’. An’ the Lord Jesus let her out of heaven ’cause I was so lost like ’n’ uncertain.”

The small face was illumined with joy. And to John Travis it was as the face of an angel.

He owed her so much. Again had God chosen the weak things of the world to confound the mighty. He thought of that other soul whose throes he had watched; whose guide-posts of science and philosophy had shed no light on the unknown hereafter; and how both of them had at last become little children in the faith. For when he promised to go to heaven with Bess and Dilsey Quinn, he meant to search out the way of truth if such a thing was possible. His had been a slower and more toilsome way, but Dil had seen and believed, and was among the blessed already. And he had come to a realization of the higher truths, not according to the lights of human knowledge, but faith in the Lord Jesus.

“I shall be so glad to see Bess. I’m most worn out an’ wasted away longin’ for her. But when I see her all straight an’ strong an’ lovely in heaven, I’ll feel rested right away. I d’n’ know how the Lord Jesus can care so much ’bout poor sick folks, when there’s so many splendid people.”

“Just as you cared for Bess.”

“Oh, was that the way?” Her smile had the radiance of the everlasting knowledge. “But you see, I’d had Bess alwers an’ loved her, ’n’ he didn’t know much about us, stowed away there in Barker’s Court. So he’s better ’n any folks. He had all that lovely heaven, an’ he didn’t need to come down. He must have loved people uncommon. It was like your stoppin’ that day an’ talkin’ to us poor little mites. Why, ’twas jes’ if you’d made a new splendid world for us!”

She stopped a moment and drew some long breaths. Then an eager light flashed across her face.

“Oh!” she cried, “I’ve found the lady who gev the wild roses to Patsey that day. She’s here, ’n’ all the children are jes’ crazy ’bout her. An’ she told me ’bout the picture you put me in. She said you’d be sure to come.”

“She? Who?” John Travis was momentarily bewildered.

“Miss Deerin’, Miss Virginia Deerin’. Ain’t it a pretty name? An’ she knows all ’bout that beautiful place of roses. I was hankerin’ so for some, an’ she went out to see ’f she could find any. I couldn’t know you’d bring me such a lovely lot. Don’t you know how Bess alwers b’l’eved you’d come, an’ she b’l’eves jes’ that way. An’ she likes you so.”

“Virginia Deering!” John Travis said under his breath, his whole frame athrill with subtle emotion, “what makes you think she likes me?” he asked softly.

“Oh, can’t you tell it in any one’s voice? An’ their eyes get soft an’ strange, ’s if they were lookin’ ’way off, an’ saw the other one comin’, jes’ ’s Bess come to me that day.”

Then Dil raised a little and glanced out of the window, listened smilingly.

“She’s come back. That’s her voice. An’ oh, won’t she be glad to see you an’ the heaps an’ heaps of wild roses!”