Chapter XVIII: Good-By to Chalecoo 336 (7)

The dying child had never lost her interest in the poor, sickly marigolds in her pots. They had for some reason, too, thrived rather better in their new home, and the two buds Lem had pointed out to Mrs. Bradford had grown larger, and one of them was now opening into a ragged, stunted flower. But it was very beautiful in poor Dolly's eyes, for she had raised and cared for it herself; and no other blossom could be so lovely for her. But the more she loved and cherished her own plant, the more bitterly did she grieve over the destruction of the gardens of the two little girls who had been so kind and forgiving to her. She knew for what purpose they had taken so much pains with them, especially with the heliotrope and geranium which had been so ruthlessly torn to pieces; for Mrs. Porter had told her, and her sorrow and repentance were very bitter and very sincere.

One Sunday morning, towards the end of September, Maggie and Bessie went over with their mother to see her. She was lying with her sunken eyes fixed on the marigolds, which stood on a small table beside the bed; and, oh, how wan, white, and wasted she looked! Yet there was a look of perfect peace on the poor face; and, when the children came in, she turned to them with a bright smile.

"They're coming on nice, aint they?" she said; "don't they look pretty?"

Maggie and Bessie were rather uncomfortable, for they did not think the forlorn marigolds pretty, and they did not wish to hurt Dolly's feelings by saying so; but mamma came to their relief, by saying, as she could with truth,--

"It has agreed with your pets to be up here, Dolly; they have done better since you came."

"Yes," said Dolly; and then asked, "Could you give me a nice bit of white paper and a scissor?"

"Certainly," said Mrs. Bradford, and sent Maggie over to the house for these things.

When Maggie came back, Dolly wanted to raise herself and take the things from her, but could not do it. Mrs. Bradford put her arm under the pillow and lifted her. Then the child tried to fold and cut the paper; but the trembling fingers had no power, and paper and scissors fell from them; while Dolly looked about her with a piteous, disappointed air.

"What is it you want, Dolly?" asked Mrs. Bradford; "cannot we do it for you?"

"I know," said Lem; "she wants to fix up her posy, like the gardener fixes 'em up to the big farm." Lem meant the homestead. "She seen him through the hedge, one day, doin' of it, and she said this mornin' she wanted hers fixed up that way."

Mrs. Bradford understood at once. Poor, simple Dolly had seen the gardener shielding his choice blossoms by a circlet of fringed paper; and she would fain do as much for the stunted little favorite which was so lovely in her eyes.

"Maggie will cut it for you," said the lady; and, under her mother's direction, Maggie's deft little fingers soon prepared the paper to suit Dolly.

But she could not be satisfied without putting it about the flower with her own hands, while Lem held the pot for her; and it was touching to see how the poor, wasted fingers fluttered feebly about the blossom that was to outlive her,--touching it so tenderly, and folding the fringed paper about it with such care. It was done at last, and, as Mrs. Bradford laid her back, she looked at her work with a contented smile; and then, exhausted with the effort, closed her eyes, and whispered faintly, "Sing."

The little ones sang her favorite hymns, until she slept,--slept the last sleep which was to know an awakening upon earth,--and then stole softly out with their mother.

But mamma was back and forth all day,--far more so than usual; and in the afternoon, when the hour came for Sunday school, the children, knowing she was there, ran over to give her a kiss before they went to their class.

"We'll ask Dolly what she wants us to sing," said Maggie; "for you know she can hear us quite well from our Sunday bower."

The door stood open, for the day was so soft and warm, that, save for the changing leaves which showed that autumn was at hand, they might have thought themselves in midsummer. It was a lovely afternoon,--scarce a breath of air was stirring, and the lake lay calm and placid, the trees and rocks reflected on its surface with surprising clearness. A Sabbath hush was in the air; a kind of glory from the golden sunshine seemed to fall on all around,--on lake and mountain, woods and rocks, on the lawn and the cosy old house. It streamed through the lattice of Dolly's little window too, and fell upon the small head which lay on the pillow. Mrs. Porter would have shut it out; but Dolly murmured, "No, no," and seemed to like it.

There was even a deeper stillness within the room than without, for there was an angel waiting there, and those who watched little Dolly felt his presence.

The children felt the solemn hush; and their little feet paused upon the threshold of the open door. Mamma and papa were there, Uncle Ruthven and Mrs. Porter; and poor Lem, crouched at Mr. Stanton's feet, his hands clasped about his knees, his head bent upon them.

Mamma put out her hand, and beckoned to the children; and, with careful steps, they came to the bedside.

"Would you like to speak to my little girls, Dolly?" asked Mrs. Bradford, gently.

Dolly opened her eyes, and fixed them on the children, with a wistful smile.

"You was good to Doll," she said, in a faint whisper. "Jesus sent you. He loves you, 'cause you was good--and--I'll be an angel--and tell Him--you teached me about Him, and--He'll love you more. Good-by."

"Good-by, Dolly," said Bessie, not knowing this was to be the last good-by, and yet with the tears gathering in her eyes.

"Good-by, Dolly," whispered Maggie; "we are going to our Sunday school, and you will hear us sing."

"We'll think a good deal about you, and sing all your hymns, shall we?" asked Bessie.

"Rest for the weary," sighed Dolly.

"My darlings," said mamma, "ask Aunt May to leave the lessons for this afternoon, and let you sing as long as you can;" and drawing them to her, she kissed first one, and then the other, with a long, tender kiss.

Dolly's eyes followed them, as they went out, and then came back to Mrs. Bradford's face with a longing, wistful look.

"What is it, my child?" asked the lady.

"I guess, if I'd had a mother, she'd kiss me, like that,--don't you?"

"Shall I kiss you, Dolly?" asked Mrs. Bradford, with tearful eyes.

"Could you?" said Dolly, with a brightening look.

Warm from the loving mother's heart came the motherly kiss, which Dolly had never known before; and with a long, satisfied sigh, she again closed her eyes.

Then came the sweet voices of the children and their teacher, hymn after hymn of infant praise floating in, as it seemed, on that soft, shimmering sunshine, and filling the little room with music. Dolly lay still, and they could not tell whether she were listening or not. Presently, she opened her eyes again, started, and murmured,--

"Oh! I don't want to go in the Ice Glen; it's dark and cold,"--then, more gently, "well, never mind; Jesus will take care of me, I guess,--yes, Jesus will. He'll let me--be an angel--to praise Him--day--and--night. He does--care--for me."

Slowly, slowly the words dropped from her lips; then came one or two fluttering sighs; and a little ransomed soul, thirsting for the water of life, had flown away, and was safe within the bosom of Him who has said, "Suffer little children to come unto me." The little, weary, homesick child had gone home to the love that never fails, to the care that never tires.

Lem came over to the Lake House, the next day, carrying one of Dolly's flower-pots on each arm; and, setting them down before Maggie and Bessie, who were on the piazza with Uncle Ruthven and Aunt Bessie, drew his sleeve across his eyes, and said,--

"She telled me I was to bring 'em to you, and say, maybe they'd go a little bit to make up for the sp'ilin' of your gardens, and maybe, when the flowers was out, they'd do to go to the show. That was what she was settin' so much by 'em for, when she lay a dyin'."

The tears which had not fallen over the happy little child who had gone to be an angel, fell fast over the simple tokens of gratitude and repentance she had left behind her; and faithful was the care bestowed upon them by our Maggie and Bessie.

Not with any thought of taking them to the flower show, however; it was only for Dolly's sake: it would never do to display these wretched little plants beside some of the really beautiful and flourishing things which their more fortunate brothers and cousins had raised. Besides, these were not of their own growing, and Maggie and Bessie had, long since, given up all thought of trying for a prize.

A few days after Dolly's death, Mrs. Bradford took up Maggie's second volume of "The Complete Family," which she had not looked over for some time, and there she found written something which touched her very much. Mingled with many other things, giving an account of their summer among the mountains, and written in Maggie's own droll, peculiar way, ran the story of Lem and Dolly, of their persecutions, and of the difficulty she and Bessie had had in forgiving their many injuries; but all that was not new to the mother, who now read for the first time what Maggie had written during the last week. It ran thus, leaving out Maggie's mistakes:--

"M. and B. Happy were very thankful to our Father in heaven,
because he let them be of a mind to forgive Dolly. If they
had not forgiven her, and made up their resolutions to do a
kind thing for her, then B. would have run away when she saw
Dolly, and not waited to speak to her and give the banana,
and so nobody might have known that Dolly was sick, and she
might have died without knowing about Jesus, who died for
her; but she never knew it till Bessie told her. And, oh,
how dreadful that would have been for M. and B. Happy! but
God was so good as to spare them of it, and Dolly learned
about Jesus, and loved Him, and wanted to please Him, only
she did not have much time; but Jesus does not care about
that, so long as she believed on Him, and loved Him, and He
took Dolly away to His own heaven to live with Him. And M.
and B. Happy were happy about it, even if Dolly was dead,
because papa and mamma, and all our grown-up, wise people,
think she is happy with Jesus; and we hope our Father will
let it be a little jewel to carry to Him, when the angel
takes us over the river, and the Elder Brother will say we
did it unto Him, because we did it to His poor little lamb
that did not know about Him. And now M. and B. Happy do not
mind so much about the gardens, even though they can't try
for a prize, and B. says she had rather have Dolly's little
marigold than the prettiest prize that ever was, but I am
afraid M. would not; but then, you see, she is not so very
perfect as B., and besides I don't like the smell of the
marigolds: I think it's awful. And God let M. have a very
happy dream. M. knows it is foolish to think much about
dreams, because they are not a bit of consequence, and
she hopes any one who reads this will not think she was so
foolish as to believe any thing about it; but it did make
her feel a little glad about it, and B. liked it too. The
dream was this: I was out by the lake with Bessie, but it
was the night, and oh! there were so very many stars, and
Dolly's little bed was out by the lake too, and she was in
it, quite alive. And we heard voices all around, but we
could not see where they came from; but we knew it was the
angels, and they were calling to Dolly, and she came out of
her bed, and tried to go, but she could not, because she had
no wings. Then such a beautiful thing happened,--the stars
came down out of the sky, and fixed themselves down to the
ground where Dolly stood, and she went up, up, up on them,
just as if they were steps, to heaven. And when she stepped
over each one, it went right back to its place in the sky;
but it left a long light behind it, like the shooting star
we saw the other night; and at the top of the stair of stars
was a soft, white cloud; and when Dolly came to it, a hand
came out of the cloud, and took her in, and we knew she was
quite safe, and would never come back again. But for all
I was glad M. cried, and dear mamma came and woke her up,
and asked me why I cried, and kissed me, and I told her I
was glad Dolly went to heaven, because she had no precious
mamma to kiss and love her, or to tell her troubles and
happinesses to. So it was a very happy, grateful thing, all
about Dolly."

A very happy, grateful thing, the dear mamma thought it too; and very happy, grateful tears were those which dimmed her eyes as she read her little daughter's simple story, and then thanked God that the lessons of love and forgiveness which were given to her little ones fell not upon stony ground, but took root and bore precious fruit in those tender young hearts.

XVIII.

_GOOD-BY TO CHALECOO._

AND now there was much talk of going home, and the time for the flower show was at hand, and our Maggie and Bessie could not help a little feeling of sorrow, that they had nothing to show that they had tried to do as well as the others. They had thought they should not mind it so very much; but as the time drew near, they found they did; and many a sigh and sad thought went to the memory of the lost heliotrope and geranium.

The day came, and the whole party from the Lake House, from grandmamma down to baby, were to go and spend the day at the homestead, and to have a grand family dinner after the flower show.

Soon after breakfast, the wagons came to the door, and the happy, merry party were ready to be packed in. The boys had already taken their seats in the last one, where the prize flowers and vegetables had been stored; and the little girls were waiting their time to be put snugly in between some of the older people, when Bessie suddenly bethought herself of the marigolds, which had not been attended to that morning.

"O Maggie!" she said: "we forgot to water Dolly's marigolds. Let's run and do it before we go."

Away they scampered to the side of the house where they had stood Dolly's treasures, but came back in a moment, with wondering faces, crying out,--

"Somebody has moved our marigolds."

"Where are our marigolds?"

"Never mind the marigolds now," said papa, catching up Bessie, and putting her into the wagon, where, the next moment, she was seated on Colonel Rush's knee,--"never mind the marigolds; they are safe, and will keep until you come back again;" and then he whisked Maggie into the wagon, and she was nestled into a seat beside Uncle Ruthven, with his arm about her to keep her from falling out.

Away they went, the whole party as merry as crickets,--laughing, singing, and joking, as they drove down the mountain. They might make as much noise as they pleased, on this lonely mountain road; there was no one but the squirrels and the wood-pigeons to be consulted, and they did not seem to object to the fun. The woods were lovely to-day. Crimson and gold, scarlet and purple, were gaining fast upon the green of the past summer; each moment, some one was calling to the others to look here, and look there, at the brilliant leaves, so wonderful in the richness and variety of their gay coloring.

When they had come down into the valley, where farms and cottages lay, and where people were coming and going, papa said they had better make less noise, or these good, quiet folks would think them a band of wild Indians coming down from the mountains. But the boys were beside themselves with fun and frolic, and it seemed impossible for them to be quiet. They had a flag with them, which they waved and cheered whenever they passed a house or saw laborers at work in the fields; and the people seemed to like it, and came running to see the fun, and waved and cheered in return, as good-naturedly as if they thought it was all done for their pleasure.

As they passed Aunt Patty's cottage, she drove out of the gate in her low pony carriage, with Nonesuch before it, on their way to the homestead. The old lady nodded and smiled, as if she were glad to see them so happy, but Nonesuch seemed not only surprised, but displeased, at finding himself in such jolly company; and, after some shaking of his head and putting back of his ears, stood stock still in the middle of the road; nor could all Aunt Patty's coaxing or scolding, or even some gentle touches of the whip, persuade him to go on, till the whole party were out of sight. Aunt Patty and Nonesuch often had such differences of opinion, and I am sorry to say the donkey generally had the better of the old lady.

What a delightful bustle there was when our friends arrived at the homestead, and the whole family came pouring out to receive them! For the time, Maggie and Bessie forgot the little sore spot in their hearts which was caused by the thought that they had no share in that which brought them all together, until lisping little Katy Bradford, who was very fond of her young cousins, said,--

"Maggie and Bethie, I'm tho thorry you have no flowerth for the thow."

"Yes," said Bessie, "it's a very mournful thing for us; but we try not to think too much about it."

"Papa ith going to give very nith prithes," said Katy, taking a very poor way to console her cousins; but she meant well. "We think he ith going to give thome one a canary-bird. Thith morning there hath been a bird thinging--oh, tho thweetly!--in the libr'y where papa hath the pritheth, and will not let uth go in, and Aleck thaid it wath a canary."

Maggie gave a little sigh.

"Bessie and I want a canary very much," she said. "There is one in the nursery at home; but we want one for our own room, and we are going to ask mamma to let us have it next Christmas."

"I'd jutht like you to have thith one, 'cauthe you're tho good and I love you," said Katy, and she put up her lips, for a kiss, to first one little cousin and then the other.

And now Mr. Alexander Bradford said he should like to have papa, and Uncle Ruthven and the Colonel come with him, and act as judges on the fruit and flowers.

While the gentlemen were gone, making these last arrangements, the children had a good play; and in about an hour's time they were all called in to take part in the great event of the day. The spot chosen for this was the latticed piazza which served as the children's summer play-room; and here a long table was set out with the fruit, vegetables, and flowers, each of which it was hoped by the young owners might gain a prize.

The place looked very pretty. It was festooned with dahlias, chrysanthemums, and other bright-colored autumn flowers and leaves; and, although the display upon the table might not have seemed very grand to less interested eyes, the children desired nothing better; and it certainly did them great credit.

"Bessie," whispered Maggie, as they went in, "does it make you feel a little as if you was homesick for our geranium and heliotrope?"

"Yes," answered Bessie, in the same tone; "it makes the cry come in my throat, Maggie; but I am not going to let it come out, and I shall try to find enough of 'joyment in the others' 'joyment."

They kept very close together, these two generous little girls, and hand in hand walked round the table to look at the pretty sight. Each article was labelled with its owner's name, and behind such as took a prize was the reward it was thought to have merited. Not a child but had some one pretty or useful gift; even the little Persian, who had not been very successful, but to whom Mr. Alexander Bradford had given a humming-top and ball, as the reward of his industry and perseverance.

Fred displayed an enormous melon which had been ripe for some days, and was now rather too mellow and soft, and, having been jolted somewhat severely on its ride down the mountain, had fallen to pieces, presenting, as joking Fred said, "a very _melon_choly sight." But Cousin Alexander had seen the melon in its glory, before it was taken from the vine; and, in spite of its present distressed appearance, Fred found a handsome six-bladed knife placed beside the fragments,--"A blade for each piece, and the handle thrown in," said pleased Fred; adding, that he thought Cousin Alexander wanted an excuse for giving presents.

The little girls were standing lost in admiration of a miniature set of croquet, just the thing for small hands, and which had rewarded the care bestowed by Katy upon a lovely tea-rose, when Harry called suddenly from the other side of the room,--

"Hallo! Midget and Queen Bess, how came these old things here?" Then in a tone of still greater astonishment, "Why, I declare! Oh, what jolly good fun! Come here, pets, and see this!"

Maggie and Bessie ran round to the other side; and there, to their great surprise, stood Dolly's two marigolds. Forlorn enough they certainly looked among the flourishing plants and bright blossoms which had been the fruit of their cousins' labors; even more forlorn than they had done when Dolly left them as her dying legacy to the dear little ones who had been her friends.

The flower which had been in blossom when she died, now hung black and withered on its feeble stem, kept there only by the fringed paper which she had put about it with such touching care. The second bud had half opened into another scragly, stunted flower, about which not even the most loving eyes could see the slightest beauty, and, in spite of the care which Maggie and Bessie had given them, the leaves of both plants were wilted and drooping. But there was more than one heart at that table for which those feeble, sickly plants had a value far beyond that of the richest and rarest exotic.

Beside the marigolds stood a bird-cage, and in it, hopping about, and with his little head perking from side to side, as he watched the scene so curious and new to him, was a beautiful canary-bird. He was not singing now, for he did not know what to make of it all, and was not quite sure whether he were pleased or no; but, as the children stood looking from him to the marigolds in blank amazement, he gave a little inquiring "cheep, cheep!" as a first move to a better acquaintance.

"Oh, the darling birdie!" cried Bessie; "who is he for?"

But Maggie exclaimed with a trembling lip,--

"Fred, Fred! it wasn't fair. You ought not to make fun of poor Dolly's marigolds, and to hurt our feelings that way."

"I did not do a thing," said Fred, "and knew no more about it than yourself."

"Nor I," said Harry: "most likely it was papa or some grown-up person; and certainly no one has meant to make fun of you. Don't you see the card on the cage, and what is written on it?"

Maggie looked at the card, as her brother moved the cage nearer to her.

"'For our Maggie and Bessie--the dear'--oh! what is it Harry? read it to me quick."

Harry read it,--

"For our Maggie and Bessie, the dear little workers in
the garden of the Lord, who tended the Christian plants
of patience, kindness, and forbearance, till their lovely
blossoms overran the evil weeds of malice and ill-will, and
sowed the seeds of that which brought forth fruit for the
glory of God."

"I don't understand it," said Maggie. "Does it mean the canary is for Bessie and me?"

"Of course," said Harry.

"But I am sure we ought not to have any credit about the marigolds," said Maggie, still wondering. "If there is any, it is Dolly's or Lem's."

"And Harry," said Bessie, "the marigolds are pretty ugly. I don't much think we ought to have a prize, even if we had grown them up."

"Dolly left you the marigolds," said Harry; "so, if they win a prize you ought surely to have it, and I am glad of it,--that I am. But I don't quite think it was these poor little scrubs that had that honor."

"But, O Maggie! just to think of that lovely, darling, little birdie being for us," said Bessie, pleasure beginning to have its way over surprise; "and we never 'spected a thing 'cause we had no flowers."

"Yes," said Maggie, now in great delight as she began to understand how it was, "and we would rather have had it than any thing else."

Never was a birdie coaxed with more pretty names than was this one during the next ten minutes; and he seemed to like them well, for, after answering with one or two more half-timid "cheeps," he broke into a soft trill, which soon swelled into a clear, sweet song of joy.

Maggie and Bessie were in ecstasies, and Cousin Alexander certainly had reason to think his kindness had given all the pleasure he intended it should.

This was the last day they were to spend at the homestead, and the children made the most of it. Every nook and corner was visited, and all kinds of odd traps were dragged to light, and presented by the young cousins to be kept in memory of the old place, "family relics," Maggie called them; and very curious "family relics" some of them were. Among other things were two or three peacock feathers, a turkey wing, some pebbles from the brook where papa used to sail his boats when he was a boy, a piece of rusty tin pipe, which, because it looked black and smoky, and came from the field where the burnt barn had stood, they persuaded themselves must be a part of the very leader down which papa slid when he ran for the ladder to save his little brother,--all these, and other treasures of like value, were carefully collected and stowed in the wagons, to be carried to the Lake House, and thence to the city.

But at last the busy, happy day came to an end, and farewell had to be said to the dear old homestead and the kind family there.

Birdie did not like his ride up the mountain at all, but chirped in a very miserable, beseeching manner all the way; and, when he was safely at the Lake House and hung up out of the reach of Mrs. Porter's old pussy cat, tucked his head under his wing, and went to sleep at once, as if he were glad to forget all his troubles.

But he was bright enough the next morning; for he woke the little girls with his song some time before the hour at which they were accustomed to rise. Bessie, always a light sleeper, was the first to be roused by his sweet notes, that soft, half-doubtful little trill with which he began; but, as it rose into a gush of joyous music, Maggie, too, stirred, and opened her eyes. She listened a moment, then turned towards Bessie, who lay with her eyes fixed on the bird with a dreamy, thoughtful look.

"What are you thinking of, Bessie?" she asked, softly.

"I was thinking," said Bessie, "that it seemed as if our Father was letting the jewel of forgiveness sparkle a little for us here before we carried it over the river to Him."

"Yes," said Maggie, "I was thinking something like that last night, but I did not put it in such nice words; and I am just going to put in the Complete Family, that B. Happy said it. And perhaps, Bessie, if we had not taken up the jewel of prayer, and asked our Father for help, we might never have found the other jewels."

"Or, if He had not helped us very much, we might not have taken them up, when we did find them," said Bessie. "It was pretty hard work to take up that first one of giving the banana to Dolly; and, Maggie, do you know I did such a very naughty thing as 'most to wish He did not give me the chance I had asked for: but, after that, all the rest were very easy to take up, and I did not find it at all hard to forgive Dolly every thing she had done."

"Yes," said Maggie: "I guess that's always the way, and after all, I did not have to forgive Lem and Dolly near so many times as 'seventy times seven.' Oh, yes, you darling birdie! do you want to say you know all about it? Bessie, let's think the canary is a kind of keepsake from Dolly, 'cause you know it seems as if it came by her, and mamma says it is of no use to take the marigolds to town, for they will be quite dead in a few weeks."

"Yes, so we will, Maggie, and that's a very nice idea of you; and then we might call our birdie 'Marigold,' for memory of the poor little plants as well as Dolly."

"Oh, yes!" said Maggie; "that's lovely, so we just will."

So from this day the canary was called Marigold, nor was it long before he knew his name, and would answer with a chirp when it was called.

In two or three days more, they said good-by to Chalecoo and all its pleasures. The parting was a hard one on all sides, especially for Mr. Porter's family, who knew how much they would miss the sweet childish voices, the merry laughter, and patter of little feet, which had made the old house so gay and bright through all the long summer.

As for poor Lem, he was in despair. He had begged hard to go with Mr. Stanton, promising the best of behavior if he were only allowed to do so; but the gentleman did not think the city was the best place for a boy like Lem, and thought it wiser to leave him in the care of Mr. Porter, who promised to keep him for the winter, and give him work if he would try to do well, and be honest and industrious. In the spring, if Mr. Porter could give a good account of him, Mr. Stanton meant to send him out to sea, with some good, careful captain who would try to do well for the boy. Lem had such a fancy for a roving life, that this was thought the best thing for him; but just now even this promised pleasure was lost sight of in his grief at the loss of his kind friend. His father had never come back; and, from all that could be learned, it was believed that he had gone to a far-away country, leaving his poor children to shift for themselves.

All agreed that it was better so. A heavenly Father had cared for these poor desolate ones, and sent them help in the time of their greatest need. One had no longer need of earthly care, but was safe with Jesus in that home which He had bought for her with His precious blood; and for the other, there was much to be hoped. A strong desire to please Mr. Stanton, and a fear of doing what would have grieved Dolly, kept him from much that was wrong; and he could scarcely be known for the same boy, who a few months since had been a terror to every small child and harmless animal, and a torment to every farmer and housekeeper in Chalecoo.

"Good-by! good-by! good-by!" The words, so hard to say, were spoken; and dear old Mrs. Porter stood upon the piazza steps, wiping her eyes with her apron, as she watched the wagons going slowly past the lake, and carrying our friends down the mountain for the last time.

"Well, I hope we may see them all back another summer," she said to Dolly and Fanny, who stood beside her, feeling almost as mournful; "if I'd known I'd feel so bad to part with them, I don't know as I could have made up my mind to take them: but those dear little ones have just taken the heart right out of me. Well, God bless them, wherever they may go."

"As He does," said Fanny, "for surely they have brought a blessing here this summer. Who would have thought such little things could do a bit of good to those two?" and she looked at Lem, who lay with his face buried in the grass, trying to hide his tears; "and yet see what they've been the means of bringing to them."

"Ay, Fanny," said her mother, "little hands may do God's work, if they but take it up in His strength and with His help."

"Well," said Mr. Porter, when he had taken the homeward-bound party safely to the place where they were to take the boat down the river, "I reckon one of the best jobs I ever did was to take you up Chalecoo mountain for the first time, and one of the worst to bring you down for the last."

"But you can find _consolement_ to think we are coming back some other time," said Maggie; "and we thank you very much for letting us have a nice time this summer, Mr. Porter."

"Yes," said Bessie, "we had a lovely, happy time among the mountains, even if the sea was not there."

And now as we leave our Maggie and Bessie, are there not some little friends who will say that they have spent a useful as well as a happy summer among the mountains?

Cambridge: Press of John Wilson and Son.

Transcriber's Notes

Minor punctuation typos have been silently corrected.

Retained both spellings of "Fanny" and "Fannie."

Page 41: Changed "eat" to "ate."
(Orig: cracked and eat his almond.)

Page 354: Retained original sentence, but Dolly was dead.
(Orig: "Well, I hope we may see them all back another summer,"
she said to Dolly and Fanny, who stood beside her,)

End of Project Gutenberg's Bessie among the Mountains, by Joanna H. Mathews