Chapter XVIII: Good-By to Chalecoo 336 (6)

"Schooling will not help you in the way I mean," said Mr. Stanton; and then he explained to Lem what kind of words he did mean, telling him how wicked and useless they were, and how it distressed those who loved God to hear His holy name taken in vain. Lem said he would do so no more; but the habit was so strong upon him, that, even as he promised, he used more than one profane word to make the promise strong.

But now a cry from Dolly told that she was awake and suffering, and the two ladies went in, and found her quite wild again.

"I want to be a angel," she said; "there's no pain, no tired, there--where's the singin'--I like it," and so she wandered on, calling upon the little girls and begging them to sing. In vain did Mrs. Bradford and Mrs. Stanton sing for her the two hymns which had taken her fancy, she only looked about more wildly for Maggie and Bessie, crying that she wanted "little one and t'other one," to sing for her. She grew worse and worse, till at last even the presence of the two ladies seemed to make her more wild; and they went out, leaving Lem to do the best he could with her. Mrs. Bradford was just saying she did not know what to do, since the children were from home, when the blackberry party appeared at the turn in the wood-path.

"Here are the children, heaven-sent, I believe," said their mother, and she beckoned to her little girls.

They came running towards her, eager to show their berries, and to ask for news of Dolly. Mamma told them how ill she was, calling for them; and asked if they would go and sing for her.

Bessie said yes, at once; but timid Maggie looked half doubtfully at the dark, ugly, little house, and had a short struggle with herself before she could make up her mind to venture in. And after they were inside, she held Bessie tightly by the hand, and for a moment or two could scarcely find voice to sing.

Dolly's wild eyes turned towards them, and softened a little with pleasure at the sight; and her loud, hoarse cries ceased. It was evident she knew them.

"Sing, 'I want to be an angel,' my darlings," said mamma.

It was strange to see how the sweet sounds now soothed the sick child, though they had failed when tried by Mrs. Bradford and Mrs. Stanton. A love for music was, beside her affection for Lem, the one soft spot in poor Dolly's sinful, hardened heart; but the practised voices of the two ladies had not half the charm for her of the simple, childish tones which had first sung to her the hymn which had taken such hold upon her fancy, or rather on her heart. They sang it again and again, varying from that only to "Rest for the weary," for no other hymns seemed to satisfy the sick girl. She grew calm and quiet, and at last even appeared to forget her pain as she lay listening.

Once, when they paused, she beckoned to Bessie, and said, "Do you sometimes speak to Him?"

"To whom?" asked Bessie.

"To Him what has the angels, and is glad if we're good,--Jesus."

"Oh, yes!" said Bessie; "we speak to Him very often: when we say our prayers, that is speaking to Jesus; and He always listens too."

"Then you speak to Him for me, will you? You knows Him better than I do: I don't know Him much, only what you and the lady telled me, and what the song says."

"What shall we tell Him?" asked Bessie.

"Tell Him I'm so tired this long while, and the pain aches so, and if He _could_ just let me be a angel, I'd never do so no more; and I'm sorry I plagued you, and I'll do just what He bids me. I'm sorry I broke Miss Porter's plate too."

"Yes, we'll tell Him," said Bessie gently; "but, Dolly, Jesus would like you to tell Him yourself too."

"I done it, and I'll do it some more," said Dolly, feebly; "make some more singin'."

Maggie and Bessie sang again, and before long poor Dolly's eyes closed, and she lay quietly sleeping; while our little girls, having left some of their berries for Lem to give her when she woke, went home with their mother and other friends.

XV.

_A FRIEND IN NEED._

THREE weeks had passed away, and still Dolly lay very ill. The terrible rheumatic pains were better, it is true, and she could now be moved without causing her so much agony; but she had a racking cough and much fever, and showed, in many other ways, how very sick she was. Lem said she had had a cough for a good while before that night spent in the Ice Glen, and that she had always been complaining of feeling tired. The doctor from the village shook his head when he was questioned about her, and so did Mr. Stanton and old Mrs. Porter. She had not wanted for such care as could be given her in her wretched home. Mr. Bradford had found a woman who, in consideration of being well paid, was willing to come and take care of her, and kind Mrs. Porter provided her with such food as she could take. Maggie and Bessie, and some of the ladies from the Lake House, came up to see her every day when the weather permitted, and would sing to her, and tell her of Jesus and His love.

It was strange to see how readily she listened, how eagerly she drank it all in, especially when Bessie talked to her. Perhaps the simple, earnest words of this little teacher were easier to be understood by her poor, untaught mind, than those of others who were older and wiser. Or it might be that she felt Bessie had been her first friend,--the first one to extend to her the hand of forgiveness and kindness,--or perhaps it was both of these things. However it was, she was always glad to see the little girls and have them tell her of that Friend above who was so full of pity, love, and forgiveness.

Dolly had heard of God before, but not as the kind, loving Father,--the merciful, gracious Saviour,--who stands ready to receive all who will turn to Him, who comes after us when we go from Him, and who had now put out His pitying hand to draw to Himself this poor little stricken lamb who had wandered so far from his fold. She had heard His holy name taken in vain every day of her miserable little life; she had never until now heard it spoken in love and reverence; and the only idea she had had of Him, had been as some great but terrible being who some day might find her out, and punish her for the naughty things she had done. But the dread of this uncertain punishment had not checked her in her wicked ways; and so she had gone on, till the God she did not love and scarcely feared, had laid his hand upon her, and then sent these little messengers to bring to her the glad tidings of peace and pardon.

Day by day she grew more gentle, more humble, more quiet, more unlike the Dolly of old, on whom kindness and harshness had both been thrown away. Poor child, perhaps it was that she had had so much of the latter, that she had not known how to believe in the former when it came to her. It was touching to see her penitence for past offences, and how anxious she now became to be forgiven by those whom she had wronged. But her ideas of right and wrong were still very strange, and rather difficult to deal with.

One day Mrs. Porter came to see her and brought some nice broth, with which she fed her. As she was leaving, Dolly called her back, and told her to look in the corner beneath a heap of dried sticks and see what she would find. Willing to please the child, Mrs. Porter did so, and drew out a soiled but fine pocket-handkerchief.

"There," said Dolly, "I'm going to give you that for your plate that I broke. I'm right sorry I broke it. Jesus didn't like me much then, I guess."

Mrs. Porter was quite sure that Dolly had not come honestly by the handkerchief, and would not take it, which greatly distressed the child. Just at that moment, Mrs. Bradford came in, and Mrs. Porter told her the trouble.

"Dolly," said Mrs. Bradford, gently, "where did you get this handkerchief?"

"Off old Miss Mapes' currant-bush," said Dolly, promptly; adding, in an aggrieved tone, "I want her to have it 'stead of her plate, and she won't."

"Because it is not yours to give away."

"Then 'taint mine to keep," said Dolly; "and I guess Jesus don't want me to have it."

"He wants you to give it back to Mrs. Mapes, because that is the only right thing to do, Dolly."

"Old Miss Mapes is hateful," answered Dolly. "She chased me off the road when I didn't do nothin', and threw a hoe at me and cut my foot, and that's why I took it; I'd liever Miss Porter would have it. She's good."

"But if you want to be a good girl, and please Jesus, you must do what He wants you to, not what you had rather do yourself."

"Would He rather I'd give the handkercher back to Miss Mapes?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Bradford. "He was grieved when He saw you take it; and He will know you are truly sorry if you send it back to her."

"I'll do it, then," said Dolly; "you can take it to her: but don't you tell her I did it for her, 'cause I don't,--it's only for Him."

Poor child! it was perhaps as much as was to be expected from one so ignorant; and Mrs. Bradford, fearing to do her harm, said no more, trusting that even this blind striving after right was pleasing in the eyes of Him who has said, that little should be required of him to whom little has been given.

"Say 'Gentle Jesus,'" said Dolly, turning to Bessie, who had stood by while her mother was talking.

Next to the two hymns which had first taken her fancy, this seemed to be the one Dolly liked best; and now she often asked for it. Bessie repeated it. When she came to the two last lines of the second verse,--

"In the kingdom of thy grace,
Give a little child a place,"

Dolly said, "I'm going to say, 'Give a better child a place,' 'cause I'll be a better child now: true I will."

"With Jesus' help, Dolly," said Mrs. Bradford.

"He did help me," said Dolly. "He let her"--motioning towards Bessie--"come and tell me about Him."

The small, dirty hut, with the hard ground for its floor, its miserable roof, and chinks and crannies which let in the wind and damp, was no place for a sick child on these cool August nights; and now that Dolly could be moved without putting her to so much pain, it was thought best it should be done. The poor-house was many miles away, and now that Maggie and Bessie had come to take such an interest in her, and she in them, Mr. Porter said it would be cruel to send her so far, and offered to have her put in the old tool-house. So, for two or three days, the four boys and Starr busied themselves in repairing it for her, papa and Uncle Ruthven furnishing what they needed to make it comfortable. A few planks and nails, a little whitewash and paint, a sash-window, and some willing hands, soon made it secure against wind and rain. Then Mrs. Porter had it cleaned, and a cot-bed, a pine-table, and two chairs were put in it. Plain and bare enough it was, to be sure, but a wonderful contrast to Dolly's former home; and the children thought with great pleasure of seeing her brought there. This was to be done in a few days, but Dolly was not to be told of it until the time came.

As Maggie and Bessie were on their way home with their mother, they met Uncle Ruthven and Aunt Bessie, the Colonel and Mrs. Rush, all going for a walk, and were invited to join them. Mamma agreed, if Bessie were not too tired, but the little girl declared she was not; and Uncle Ruthven promised to take her on his shoulder if she gave out before they reached home. Many a ride had the little "princess" taken on this kind, strong shoulder during their mountain rambles, and she now often wondered that she could ever have had "objections" to this dear, loving uncle who was always so ready to help and please her. So they all turned back together, and, passing by the end of the lake, struck into the road which led down the mountain. They strolled slowly down this for some little distance, and then Mrs. Bradford, and Colonel and Mrs. Rush, sat down to rest before they began their homeward walk; while Mr. and Mrs. Stanton and the two little girls wandered about, gathering wild flowers and mosses. Blue gentians, golden-rod, Michaelmas daisies, and the pretty, red partridge-berry grew all about, and the children soon had their hands full.

Suddenly, Maggie spied a cluster of bright scarlet maple leaves, the first of the season. The gravelly side of the mountain sloped away here for a few feet, then fell sheer down in a tremendous precipice to the valley beneath; and a foot or so below the edge grew this beautiful, tantalizing bunch of leaves. It was quite beyond Maggie's reach, for she had been forbidden to go near that side of the road, where a slip, or false step, might have sent her down, down a thousand feet.

"O Aunt Bessie!" she cried, "look what a lovely bunch of red leaves. It is just what you said you wanted for that c'llection you are making. I wonder if Uncle Ruthven could not reach it for you."

Aunt Bessie turned and looked.

"I can reach it for myself," she said. "Uncle Ruthven is upon the rocks, after those climbing-ferns. I will stand here and hook it up with this crooked stick."

"Take care, Bessie, take care!" called her brother, the Colonel; "that is loose gravel there; if it slips with you, you are lost;" and, "Come back, Bessie, come back!" called her husband from above, seeing the danger more plainly than any of the others.

It was too late. She looked up, kissed her hand gayly to her husband, and turned to obey. But her foot was already upon the treacherous gravel, and she slipped a little, recovered herself; then, startled, tried too suddenly to spring upon firmer ground, and slipped again. The gravel gave way more and more beneath her weight. She went sliding, sliding down, and, in an instant, had disappeared from the sight of the terrified group above.

"Ruthven! O Ruthven!" was the wild cry that rang out on the still summer air, followed by a shriek of terror from the two little girls, and a groan from the Colonel's lips. Then a stillness like death itself, and the next moment Uncle Ruthven stood among them.

But--how very strange Maggie and Bessie thought it--he did not seem frightened at all. His face was very white, to be sure; but his voice was steady and quiet, only it did not sound like Uncle Ruthven's voice, but like that of some stranger, and as if it came from far, far away.

"She is holding by the bushes below," he said; and, as he spoke, he threw himself flat upon the ground, half on, half over, the edge of the precipice, and, reaching one arm, he succeeded in grasping, and but just grasping, the wrist of his wife.

For it was as he had said. As she slid downwards, Mrs. Stanton had clutched wildly at the bushes growing below, and had succeeded in laying hold of them. But the bushes were slender, and not deeply rooted in the loose gravelly soil, and though Mrs. Stanton was a small, slight woman, even her light weight was too much for them, and they were just giving way, when her husband's strong, firm grasp was upon her wrist. Yes, he had her fast, holding back the precious life; but for how long? and what was to be done next?

Mr. Stanton dared not rise upon his feet or even upon his knees, and so try to draw her up; he was a large, heavy man; the treacherous edge, which would not bear his wife's far lighter weight, would give way beneath his, and send them both to a fearful death below. Even now loose pebbles and gravel were falling down, and striking upon the sweet, upturned face which looked to him for help. Had her feet even been upon the slope, or the ledge beneath it, he might have drawn her up; but they were below it, hanging over that terrible precipice.

In vain did the Colonel, kneeling beside his brother-in-law, clasp his arms about his waist, and so try to draw both him and his sister to a place of safety; the ground only broke away more as the added strain came upon Mr. Stanton's arm, and a fresh shower of gravel and stone went rolling down upon the poor sufferer below.

Then came her voice in feeble tones. "Ruthven, it is of no use, love; my clothes are caught and I cannot free them. Let me go, my husband: it is only throwing away your life."

"Not while God gives life and power to this hand. Courage, my darling, courage. Go, some of you, for help, ropes and men," he said, turning his haggard face towards the others, and still speaking in that strange tone, so unlike his own.

In an instant, Mrs. Bradford was far up the road on her way to the house. To her little girls she seemed scarcely to touch the ground; to herself, it seemed as though leaden weights were upon her feet, and that she made no way at all. Just as she reached the lower end of the lake, she met her husband coming down to join them. Scarcely pausing, she spoke half a dozen words which sent him in haste on his way; then herself sped on towards the house.

Meanwhile, how long the moments seemed to the agonized group below. There was nothing more to be done till help came. Could Mr. Stanton hold on, could that cruel gravel bear them both, till that should be? God, in whom alone they trusted, only knew.

Mrs. Rush sat white and sick upon the bank, the little girls clinging to her and crying bitterly, but quietly. No sound broke that terrible stillness, except Uncle Ruthven's voice as he now and then spoke a few words of hope and encouragement to his wife, till a bird lighted a little way off, and broke into a joyous song. Maggie could not bear it: it seemed a mockery of their grief and agony; and, although at another time she would have been shocked at herself for doing such a thing, she now chased it away.

"Oh! why don't help come to us?" she sobbed out. "Why don't God send us help?"

Bessie raised her head from Mrs. Rush's lap, where she had hidden her face.

"Maybe we did not ask Him quite right," she said. "Aunt May, say a prayer for Aunt Bessie and for us all."

Mrs. Rush tried to speak, but could not. One ceaseless, agonized prayer had been going up from her heart; but she could not put it into words, and only shook her head. Bessie looked at her for a moment, and then, as if she understood, said,--

"Shall I say it, Aunt May?"

Mrs. Rush nodded assent; and, kneeling at her side, Bessie clasped her little hands, and looking up to heaven, said,--

"Dear Father in heaven, we are so very troubled, we don't any of us know quite what to say; but you know what we want, even if we can't find the words, and our heart-prayers do just as well for you. Please send dear Aunt Bessie some help very quick. Have pity on her, and make her know our Father don't forget her. Amen."

It was said with many a gasp and sob of terror and distress; and, when it was finished, the little one hid her face in Mrs. Rush's lap again.

But she was right. The all-merciful Father had heard their earnest "heart-prayers," which could not be put into words; and help, such as they did not look for, was at hand.

None saw the figure bounding down the mountain side with such headlong speed--now swinging itself down some steep ascent by the branches of a tree, now springing from rock to rock like a wild goat--till it stood among them, breathless and eager.

The Colonel had risen to his feet, and, going a few steps up the bank where the ground was firmer, grasped the trunk of a tree for support, and looked over the edge at his poor sister. God had been merciful to her, and now sense and feeling had left her, and she hung unconscious in her husband's hand. Colonel Rush saw now what he had not known before,--a narrow ledge of rock, scarce six inches wide, jutted beyond the slope of gravel, and, on this, his sister's form partly rested. Well that it was so, or not even her husband's tremendous strength could have supported the strain so long. The Colonel eyed this ledge eagerly. It must have been on this that his brother-in-law relied, when he called for men and ropes. Could some one but reach it, and be held from above, they might fasten a rope about his sister's waist, and so she be drawn safely up. Could Ruthven hold on till then?

The Colonel looked around him, for a moment, with a wild thought of trying to reach it himself; the next he put it away as worse than folly. There was no rope, nothing to hold him or his sister; and if there had been, who was there to support and guide it? No one but a weak woman and two little children. He himself was a tall man, of no light weight, and with a lame foot: the attempt was sure to bring destruction upon himself, his sister, and her husband.

As he turned away, with another silent appeal for help, Lem stood before him.

"I seen it up there," he said, hurriedly, "and thought I'd never git here. I say, mister,"--to Mr. Stanton,--"if I only had a rope, or a bit of something to fasten about me, I know I could get down there, and put it about her, so you could histe her up."

The quick eye of the boy, used to all manner of make-shifts and hair-breadth escapes, had taken it all in, and saw a way of safety, if the means were but at hand. He looked around, and spied a light shawl lying unheeded upon the ground. He snatched it up, tried its strength, and shook his head.

"'Twon't do," he said, "'taint long enough so; and, if we split it, 'twon't be strong enough."

The children and Mrs. Rush had risen, and were listening; and now a quick thought darted into Maggie's mind.

"Uncle Horace," she said, springing eagerly forward, and pointing to the broad plaid ribbon about her sister's waist, "there's my sash and Bessie's. Wouldn't they be of any use?"

"Thank God! the very thing!" exclaimed the Colonel; and, in an instant, the broad, stout ribbons were untied from the children's waists, and strongly knotted together.

"Can you hold the boy, Horace?" asked Mrs. Rush.

"With God's help, and what you can give me, I trust so," he answered.

"You must keep far enough from the edge not to slide over yourselves, you see," said Lem, coolly, as he and the Colonel drew strongly upon the knot.

The Colonel measured the ribbon with his eye. Tied around Lena's waist, it would scarcely give the length they needed, and it was not safe to fasten it to any of the boy's ragged, worn-out clothes. He snatched up the shawl, twisted and wound it about Lem's waist, fastening it securely, then drew the ribbon through it. As he did so, Bessie cried out,--

"Papa! here's dear papa! That is help."

No one could bring such help as papa, Bessie thought; and there he came, running down the hill, and stood among them. A few words made him understand what they were about; and, as Lem was now ready, he, with the Colonel, took fast hold of the long ribbon.

Slowly and carefully, with the Colonel's cane in his hand, the boy stepped over the edge,--not just above Mrs. Stanton, but at the spot where the Colonel had looked over at her,--down, step by step, till he had disappeared from the sight of all but Mr. Stanton, who, lying over the edge, watched him, God only knows, with what sickening hope; the loose soil crumbled and slid beneath him; but, light and sinewy as he was, his bare feet, trained to all kinds of mountain climbing, took hold where those of a heavier person, with shoes upon them, must have faltered and slipped past all recovery. He had reached the ledge, and now, step by step, slowly neared the lady. Sure-footed as a goat, steady of head and nerve, reckless of danger, yet with sense enough to remember the Colonel's charge not to look below him, he reached her side, freed her clothes from the clinging bushes; then, with a care and steadiness which Mr. Stanton, spite of his agonizing anxiety, wondered to see, unrolled the shawl from his own body, and fastened it about that of the senseless figure beside him; then gave the word to raise her.

Up, up, steadily, inch by inch, was the precious form drawn, till her husband's arm could grasp her waist, and she was lifted safe,--but oh! so white and still,--and laid upon the grassy bank; while Uncle Ruthven, almost as white, fell exhausted beside her. But he was on his knees and bending over her, by the time that Mr. Bradford and Colonel Rush had lowered the ribbon again; and Lem, flushed and triumphant, was drawn up unhurt. The boy was very proud, and perhaps justly so, of the feat he had performed, and would have broken out into some loud, exultant expressions, if Mr. Bradford had not checked him; and then, before a word was spoken, the gentlemen uncovered their heads, and Mr. Bradford spoke a few words of earnest, solemn thanksgiving for the wonderful mercy just shown them. Lem stared, open-mouthed; and the instant he was allowed to speak, sprang forward to Mr. Stanton,--

"I told you I'd do you a good turn, if I got the way, mister; and I did, didn't I?"

"By God's mercy, yes," said Mr. Stanton. "May he bless you for this, my brave boy. I will be a friend to you as long as I live."

Lem immediately turned half a dozen somersets, which, in spite of their admiration and gratitude, greatly disgusted Maggie and Bessie; for they did not see how he could have the heart to do such a thing while dear Aunt Bessie lay there, so white and still. They could scarcely believe Aunt May's assurance that she was not dead, but had only fainted, and were still filled with terror and distress.

And now, Uncle Ruthven lifted her in his arms, and they all set out on the way home; Lem keeping close to Mr. Stanton with his precious burden, as if he felt that he had some sort of a claim on her. But when they were about half way home, they met all the men and boys from the Lake House coming down the road with ropes, and Lem was taken with a sudden fit of shyness, and, turning about, rushed away without a word.

XVI.

_LEM'S SORROW._

IT would be impossible to tell what joy and gratitude filled the hearts of all at the Lake House that night. It was true, indeed, that the dear one who had been snatched from such a fearful death was very ill from the fright and shock, weak and exhausted, and dreadfully nervous. Her arm, too, was badly hurt with the long-continued strain upon it, and her sweet face scratched and bruised with the falling stones and gravel; but the precious life had been spared, by God's great mercy, and they might hope, that, in a few days, she would be herself again.

The whole family had been sadly shaken by the terrible accident. Not only on that night, but for several succeeding ones, Maggie and Bessie were constantly starting awake with cries of fear, and then they would sob and tremble so, that it was difficult to quiet them. Maggie would burst into tears for the merest trifle,--sometimes, even if she were spoken to suddenly, and then would cry and laugh by turns; and Bessie was often found in some corner, with her face hidden, sobbing as if her heart would break. "Just because I could not help it, mamma," she would say, when asked the reason; and she would shudder and quiver all over, at the least mention of that dreadful day. The shock had been too much for the tender young hearts, and it took them some time to recover from it.

It was necessary to keep the house very still, on account of Aunt Bessie, who was so very nervous that the least sound disturbed her; and roguish, noisy Frankie was, by Aunt Patty's earnest request, allowed to go to her house, where, for a few days, he lorded it over that humble servant of his to his heart's content. But there was no need to send the little girls away; they were only too quiet, and moped about the house in a way that was quite melancholy to see. The weather was damp and rainy, so they could not be much out of doors; and, although their friends did all they could to divert them with stories, reading aloud, and games, they did not seem able to shake off their sadness. The truth was, they could not forget Aunt Bessie's face, as they had seen it lying on Uncle Ruthven's shoulder, white and still; and it scarcely seemed possible to them that she could ever be well again.

But one day, grandmamma, coming out of Aunt Bessie's room, found the two little maidens sitting disconsolately on the stairs, looking wistfully at the door of the sick-room. She stepped back, spoke a few words to those within, and then, coming to the children, asked them if they would like to go and see the dear invalid. Bessie sprang eagerly forward, but Maggie, with the fear of seeing Aunt Bessie look as she had done on that dreadful day, hung back a little, till Bessie urged her forward.

They went in with hushed steps, for grandmamma said they must be very quiet, stay but a moment, and on no account must they speak of the accident. There lay Aunt Bessie on the pillows. Very white still was her face; but life and love looked out at them from the dear eyes: it was Aunt Bessie's own sweet smile which welcomed them, her own gentle voice which told them how glad she was to see them, her own warm kiss which met theirs.

"Aunt Bessie!" said her little namesake, and then she nestled her face on the pillows beside her, and said no more. But there was no need: there was a whole world of tenderness and joy in those two words, and Aunt Bessie felt it.

Maggie said nothing, but stood with swimming eyes, and rising color, gazing at her aunt, till Mrs. Stanton said,--

"Have you not a word for me, dear Maggie?"

Then Maggie gave a wistful kind of a smile, and tried to speak, but broke down in a half-choked sob.

"Do not be worried about me, dearie," said Aunt Bessie; "I shall be quite well again in a few days."

Maggie did not answer, except by gently kissing the poor hurt hand, which lay upon the coverlet; but it was plainly to be seen that she was a good deal excited; and Uncle Ruthven, fearing one of her sudden bursts of crying, said the children had stayed long enough, and led them from the room.

Then Maggie's tears came forth, but they were happy tears, for she and Bessie were both satisfied about Aunt Bessie now; and she soon wiped them away, and from this time was her own bright, merry self.

And that afternoon there was a new subject of interest for them, for the weather cleared up warm and beautiful, and it was thought safe to bring Dolly to the better quarters provided for her. Mrs. Bradford and Mrs. Porter went to tell her what was to be done, and then came John Porter and one of his brothers to carry her over. They lifted her bed between them, and moved as carefully as possible, but it was a rough way, with many ups and downs, and spite of all their care Dolly suffered very much.

As they left the shanty, the sick child raised her head a little, and, looking towards the side where her flower-pots stood, cried out,--

"Oh! my posy boxes, bring 'em along, Lem."

Lem obeyed, and, taking up the two flower-pots which contained the scragly, sickly looking plants, trotted along beside Mrs. Bradford with one on each arm.

"She sets such a heap on the old things," he said to the lady as if in excuse. "I'm sure I don't know what for; but since she's been better, she's like crazed about 'em, and would have 'em brought in every day for her to see. I've watered 'em all along 'cause _he_ told me to."

The _he_ of whom Lem spoke was Mr. Stanton; and whatever he said and did had become right in the boy's eyes. Lem had improved a good deal during these three weeks, though the change was by no means so surprising in him as it was in Dolly. Dolly was trying in her own simple, ignorant way, to please that Heavenly Friend of whom she had so lately learned; while Lem, as yet, looked no higher than man's praise. Still it was much that such a hold had been gained upon the boy. He looked up to Mr. Stanton with a blind admiration and desire for his approval, which kept him from much mischief and wrong-doing. It was very strange, he thought, that this magnificent gentleman--whose appearance, tremendous strength, and wonderful adventures, made him a great hero in Lem's eyes--should trouble and interest himself so much about a poor, ragged boy, for whom every one had a hard word; and who, Lem knew very well, richly deserved all that could be said of him. To please Mr. Stanton had now become the aim of Lem's life, and with this purpose he was learning to give up many of his old bad ways. Mr. Stanton had even partly succeeded in curing him of his habit of using bad words every time he spoke. One day when he was telling the boy a story in which he was much interested, Lem suddenly broke out with some expression of delight, mingling with it a dreadful oath. Mr. Stanton immediately ceased his tale; and, when asked by Lem why he did so, told him that he could not talk to a boy who dared to take the name of his Maker in vain. Lem was disappointed, and angry too, but it did him good; and when, the next day, the gentleman offered to finish the interrupted story, he was very careful not to offend again. This happened more than once, and each time Lem became more unwilling to risk not only the loss of his story, but also the look of grave displeasure on his new friend's face. He also tried to keep the old place a little tidier, and, when he knew that any of the family from the Lake House were coming there, would wash his face and hands; and a comb having been brought by some of the ladies for Dolly's use, he would draw it a few times through his tangled locks. On the day before this, Mrs. Bradford had given him an old suit of Harry's, and he was now dressed in this, which, though too large for him, was at least clean and whole; and a proud boy was Lem as he walked by the lady's side.

Lem thought himself rather a hero, and not without reason, for the share he had had in saving young Mrs. Stanton's life; and was much inclined to talk of it to any one who would listen to him. He was still rather shy of the boys; but since the little girls had been so often to see Dolly, he had been quite friendly with them; and they were ready enough to allow him all the credit he deserved for the service he had rendered to their dear Aunt Bessie. Poor boy! praise and encouragement were so new to him, that it was perhaps no wonder he craved all that could fall to him.

On that memorable afternoon, he had been sitting on the rock in front of the hut, watching our friends as they sauntered down the road below him. He saw them stop, some sitting down to rest, while Mr. and Mrs. Stanton and the little girls wandered about in search of flowers.

He saw the lady fall, and was off in an instant, dashing over every thing which lay in his way, with a reckless, headlong speed, that soon brought him to the spot. Thanks to his wild, rambling life, Lem knew every foot of the mountain, and, even as he went, thought of what he might do, quite sure that he could keep his footing on that narrow ledge, if he could but once reach it. How well he had done, we know; and Lem knew right well himself, and meant that others should know it too. Too much puffed up in his own conceit, he certainly was; but we must remember how ignorant he was, and even this was better than that he should feel himself the miserable, degraded outcast of a few weeks since, whose "hand was against every man, and every man's hand against him."

He had not seen Mr. Stanton since the day of the accident; for, now that his wife was ill, the gentleman had not the time and attention to give to him and Dolly that he had before; but he knew that he was not forgotten, for more than one kind message had been sent to him.

"Think I could get a sight of my gentleman, to-day?" he asked of Mrs. Bradford.

"Of my brother?" said the lady. "Yes, I think so; he said he would see you when you came to the Lake House."

"That was a fustrate job I did for him--getting the lady up; now, warn't it? He said he'd never forget it."

"We shall none of us forget it," said Mrs. Bradford; "but, Lem, when one has done a great kindness to another person, it is better not to talk of it too much."

"No, I aint goin' to," said Lem, with a self-satisfied air. "I'll tell you if it hadn't been for me, the lady would have been gone afore those fellers got there with the ropes. He couldn't ha' held on much longer, and like enough they'd both gone down together."

Mrs. Bradford shuddered at the thought.

"Now, what do you s'pose he's goin' to do for me?" continued Lem. "Somethin' fustrate?"

"I think he is going to try to teach you to do right, and to put you in the way of earning an honest living, Lem. What would you like him to do for you?"

"Well," said Lem, "you give me these clothes, and now I'd just as lieve he'd give me one of his old hats and a red shirt; so I'd be decent-like; and then I'd like him to get me to be an engine driver on one of them railroads. If it wasn't for Dolly I'd like to be sent off on a ship to the place where the tigers and elephants is, so I could hunt 'em. But then she'd be lonesome after me; and if I was engine driver, I could come home every spell and see her. And I'm goin' to fix her a fustrate home, when I get a livin'. But I was thinkin' what will I do with her meantime. Do you think if _he_ spoke a word for her, Porters would let her stay round their place? I guess she wouldn't plague 'em none now; and, when she gets well, she could do errands and such like for them."

Mrs. Bradford thought this a fitting time to tell Lem what he must know sooner or later.

"Dolly is going to a better home than any that you or we can give her, Lem," she said, gently. "She is going to that home which Jesus has made ready for her,--His own bright, glorious heaven, where she will never be tired or sick or hungry any more."

Lem stopped short in the path, and turned to the lady.

"She aint, I tell you," he said, fiercely. "You mean she's a goin' to be an angel,--what she's always talking about nowadays,--and she'll have to die for that,--_he_ said so,--and she aint agoin' to. She's better now, I know; for she don't screech out with the pain like she used to."

"No," said Mrs. Bradford, standing still beside him, as he looked down the path after Dolly and her bearers, "she does not suffer as she did; but she is more ill and grows weaker every day. She cannot live many days, Lem; and she knows that she is going to Jesus, and wanted that you should be told."

Lem set down the flower-pots, and dug his knuckles into his eyes.

"She shan't neither," he exclaimed. "I'm goin' to ask _him_ to make her well. He can do it, I know; and, if he will, I won't ask him for nothin' else along of the good turn I done him, gettin' up the lady."

"My poor boy," said Mrs. Bradford, pityingly, "neither my brother, nor any other person can do more for Dolly than to make her comfortable for the few days she will be here. Her life is not in his hands, or in the doctor's, but in those of God, who sees best to take her to Himself."

Lem threw himself passionately upon the ground.

"'Taint fair," he sobbed. "She's all I've got, and I always was good to her, now; ask her if I wasn't. I always gave her half what I got, and I saved her many a beatin'."

"Yes," said Mrs. Bradford, sitting down beside him, and laying her hand with a soothing touch upon his arm, "Dolly says you have been a good brother to her, and the only thing that makes her sorry to go is the fear that you may miss her."

"Like enough I'll miss her," said Lem, in a sullen kind of sorrow.

"But," said Mrs. Bradford, "you may see her again if you will live so that Jesus may some day take you to dwell with Him in His glorious home. Will you not try to do this, Lem?"

"Couldn't no way," replied Lem, sitting upright; "they say only good folks get to heaven, and don't you know they say I'm the worst boy here about? They used to say Doll was the worst girl too, and--don't you tell nobody I said it--she did do a heap of bad things, that's so! How's she goin' to get to heaven?"

"God says in His Word, 'believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and thou shalt be saved.' Dolly does believe on her Saviour, and He will wash her soul from all its sin and fit it to live with Him. He has given her but little time to serve Him on earth since she has learned to love and trust Him; but she is doing all that she can: she is sorry for past sin, and whatever she thinks Jesus would like her to do, she tries to do."

"She's gettin' awful good, that's true," said Lem. "She made you take back old Miss Mapes' handkercher, and made me go and tell Miss Jones she was sorry for unhookin' her clothes-line and lettin' down the clothes in the dirt; and, oh! do you think, there's the biggest kind of a squash down in Todd's cornfield, and I was a goin' to get it for _him_, and Dol coaxed me not. She said 'twant right; and, when I said I guessed God had liever he'd have it than Farmer Todd, she said, No: God gave it to Todd, and so he ought to have it. She was so set about it, I had to tell her I wouldn't take it."

"Such things show Dolly's true repentance and love to her Saviour," said Mrs. Bradford. "If we wish to please Jesus and come to Him, and are truly sorry for the wrong things we have done, we will try to undo them so far as we can."

She talked to Lem a little more of Dolly's new hope, and the Saviour's great love and forgiveness, and then told him they had better go on.

"Wonder what she wants these for, if she's goin' away to leave 'em," said Lem, sorrowfully, as he took up his flower-pots.

"Sick people often take such fancies," said Mrs. Bradford; "and when Dolly has gone you will be glad to think that you have pleased her by even such a small thing as caring for her plants."

"And I do think they've picked up a bit," said Lem. "See, this one has two buds on it. I wouldn't wonder if they made flowers."

When Mrs. Bradford and Lem reached the tool-house, or "Dolly's home," as the children now called it, they found the sick girl laid comfortably in the neat bed which had been provided for her; while Mrs. Rush and Mrs. Porter were beside her, feeding her with some nice beef-tea.

"Good Lem," she cried, when she saw the flower-pots; and then, turning to Mrs Porter, she asked, "Could you let them stay here?"

"To be sure, child," said Mrs. Porter; and Mrs. Bradford, taking the flower-pots from Lem, placed them in the little casement window opposite to Dolly's bed. Dolly looked pleased, but she was too much worn out to say more; and, when she had taken her tea, turned her face on her pillow, and fell into the most quiet sleep she had had since her illness.

XVII.

_DOLLY GOES HOME._

DAY after day of the lovely September weather passed by, bringing change to God's world without and within. The days were warm and sunny, but the nights were cool; and now and then came the quiet frost, painting the grand old forest-trees and their clinging vines. The Virginia creepers--always the first to change--turned a bright crimson; here and there a maple flung out a scarlet branch, like a gorgeous banner in the air; while chestnuts and birch showed a few golden leaves, in beautiful contrast to the vivid green of the foliage which was yet untouched.

Each day Aunt Bessie improved. She came out among the family once more, and sat with them in hall, parlor, and piazza, and even took short drives and walks, though she was still pale, and the poor hurt arm could not yet be taken from the sling. But, as she said, she had now a dozen pairs of hands instead of one, for all were anxious to serve her, and could not do enough for the dear treasure they had so nearly lost.

But, though strength and health came to her with tender nursing and the lovely air and sunny days, they did not bring them to the poor little waif who had been cast upon the care and pity of these kind friends. She did not suffer much now, except when the cough racked her poor little wasted frame; but she grew weaker and weaker, and all knew that the end must soon come. Dolly had long been ailing, far more so than she imagined. Lem knew no more than herself, and there had been no one else to care for her. There had been no mother's quickened ear to mark the warning cough, no mother's loving eye to see the sunken cheek, no mother's tender hand to guard her child from damp and cold; and so the trouble had gone on unheeded and unchecked, till the night spent in the Ice Glen had finished the mischief already at work.

Maggie and Bessie came in to see her very often, bringing her fruit and flowers, and now and then some other little offering; some dainty which had been given to themselves and saved for her, a picture or a toy. For the toys she did not care much; indeed, they were so new to her that she scarcely understood them, and was too weak to play with them; but the pictures always interested her, especially one of Christ blessing little children, which Bessie had brought her. She would lie for hours with this in her hand, looking at it now and then with a pleased, happy smile, which said that it told its own story to her.

But as the poor little body grew weaker, her love and trust in her Saviour grew stronger and brighter. A very simple faith was that of poor Dolly; but she knew in whom she had trusted,--the Jesus who had died on the cross to save her soul and fit it for His heaven; and who had said, "Suffer little children to come unto me." And the "little one," as she called Bessie, had told her that Jesus meant _all_ little children; that whoever would, might come to this blessed Saviour, and he would take them in His arms, and love and care for them. And Dolly "loved Him because he had first loved" her, and longed to go and live with Him for ever in that bright world where she had been told He waited for her.

It was wonderful to see how, without any direct teaching, she caught the words of the hymns the children sang to her, and how she would fit them to herself and her own needs.

As for Lem, he watched her with a sort of dumb sorrow which was touching to see. When he first saw Mr. Stanton, he made a piteous appeal to him, "to get her well, not to let her die;" and when the gentleman told him, as Mrs. Bradford had done, that he could do nothing, and that life and death were in the hands of God, who saw fit to take Dolly to Himself, he refused to speak or think of any thing for his own good.

"Lem," said Dolly to him one day, "why don't you be glad I'm going to Jesus? I'm glad. I asked Him a many times to take me."

"'Cause I can't," said Lem, sullenly. "I thought we was goin' to get along fustrate if _he_ looked after us; but 'taint no good gettin' to be engine driver now, if you're goin' away."

"Oh, yes, it is!" said Dolly; "and you'll be good, won't you, Lem, and not steal no more, and try to come to Jesus too; and I'll ask Him to help you like He helped me?"

"I don't see as it's much help to make you sick and let you die," said Lem.

"I don't know," said Dolly. "I guess, maybe it's just the bein' sick and dyin' is a good help. You know, Lem, if I hadn't a been sick and the little one found me there, I'd never a heard about Jesus, and I guess the best help He can give me is to take me right up there. I asked little one t'other day how she come in that out-of-the-way place, where I thought nobody never come 'cept for hidin', and she said the man brought her; but she thought Jesus sent him, so she could tell me 'bout Him. I guess He did too; I guess He knew I was lonesome and tired, and would like to be an angel. Don't you think that was help, Lem; and wasn't He good to let it come to me?"

This had been said with many a pause and very feebly, for Dolly was too weak to talk much now; and a sudden fit of coughing took away her breath before Lem could answer.