Chapter XXII: Last of All

THE last thing that Karl and Christie did that night was to slip into the front room and take a parting look at their treasures. There was no fire in the stove, but both the children felt a glow all through them as they looked about the pretty room and saw the gleam of the piano keys, and the bright colours of the wonderful books.

"I feel as though I wanted to scream," said Christie. "I would shout right out now, if father and mother wouldn't hear me, and be scared. What does make you so sober, Karl? I have noticed you all day."

"Don't I look glad?" asked Karl, stooping over to straighten a book that was tipping.

"Yes, you do, but you look sober, too. There is a new look, somehow; I never saw it on your face before."

"It never was there before," he said, speaking with a sort of cheerful gravity. "I've made up my mind to one thing, Christie, and I guess it makes a difference with looks and everything; it does with feelings, I know. I'm going to be a servant of the Lord Jesus Christ. I settled it this morning, early. In fact I am a servant now. I have belonged to Him all day, and I like it."

"Oh!" said Christie, drawing a long breath making a low, sweet sound of pleasure after it, in a way that cannot be put on paper; "that is the very best thing yet of all these best times. Karl, I'm too glad to tell you anything about it. You will have to guess how glad I am. Won't you tell me all about it? How came you to decide?"

"Well," said Karl, setting the lamp on the little table, and turning so that he could look into Christie's eyes, "it is all mixed up with these things. I don't suppose I could tell you how much I have wanted to go to school and learn, and have you learn and have books and things. I meant to do it some day, but once in a while I got in a hurry and could not see how it was ever going to be done, and I would feel as though it was too bad, anyhow. Sometimes when you would talk about these things, I would think that if God thought as much of us as you said, he would plan a way for us to go to school and learn. I said once that if I could have books like other boys, I would be ready to belong to Jesus and work for Him too.

"I felt dreadfully that day you went to Uncle Daniel's. I wanted you to go, you know, I wouldn't have had you miss it for anything, and yet I kept thinking that the money it took would have bought us a geography, and what good would the going there just for a day do? Then, when you came home and had such wonderful things to tell, something seemed to say to me that God knew all about it, and sent you there to save Wells Burton's life, and take care of that baby. And I thought maybe He knew all about everything, and was planning for us.

"Then the things began to come, and the more they came, the more astonished I was, and I began to feel as though it was almost certain that God was doing it. Only I couldn't understand how it was going to help about the books and the school. Then last night Wells told me he had some books for you. I was so astonished, after all, to think that God really was going to send books, that I didn't answer a word to Wells. He did all the planning about getting them in slyly, and I kept still.

"But I couldn't get to sleep for a long time last night. This morning I got up before it was light, and I made up my mind, whatever the books were, whether there was a geography or not, God was doing it all, and I would belong to Him and serve Him. Yes, sir," said Karl, in excitement, bringing his strong little fist down on the table, "I said I would, whether I ever went to school a day in my life! And here this morning there came two geographies and two arithmetics, and the school and all! I never saw anything like it!" And here Karl, who had not let even Christie see him cry for more than a year, dashed off two tears and choked back several more.

The door leading from the kitchen into the hall opened, and they heard their mother's voice:

"Children, are you standing in that cold room yet? You do beat all! Go right away to bed! The books won't run away before morning, nor the piano either, you may depend on that."

Wells was standing on the piazza steps the next Monday morning, waiting to show the new scholars to the schoolroom. They came in ample time, their cheeks rosy with the hasty walk, the excitement, or both. They looked very neat and trim. Christie in her travelling dress, which her mother had concluded might be worn for the first day or two, and Karl in a neat jacket made out of his father's old coat. Under his arm he carried what was worth more to him than all the new jackets in the country—the two arithmetics and the two geographies.

"Here we are!" said Wells, gleefully opening the schoolroom door.

It was a long room, built quite at the end of the large old house, and had a piazza running its entire length, with three glass doors opening from it into the schoolroom. Framed in two of these doors stood Christie and Karl, and looked about them in silent delight, not unmingled with awe.

A carpet of mossy green covered the floor. At one end was a blackboard, at the other a history chart, and all the spaces between were filled with maps; larger maps than these two had ever seen before. The long, wide centre table was strewn with books and writing materials, and had cunning rows of drawers—a set for each of them, as Wells explained. There were three large chairs of just the right height for the table, and into one of these Christie presently sank, with clasped hands and a look of such unutterable satisfaction on her face that Wells burst into hearty laughter.

"I hope you'll like," he said, as soon as he could speak; "I hope you'll like everything. I fixed up things just to my fancy; mamma laughed at some of my notions, but I was sure you would like them. Don't you think, for instance, that those globes look better over on that green table where a fellow can get a chance at them, than they do perched on those upper shelves?"

"Everything looks perfectly lovely," declared Christie, and her eyes were on the cottage piano which occupied an alcove.

Wells' eyes followed hers.

"Yes, that's my piano. It has a good tone, I think; see if it hasn't!"

And he seated himself before it and ran his fingers over the keys in a way which made the blood tingle in Christie's finger-tips.

He laughed at the look in her eyes.

"You can play better than that in a little while, I presume. I have no talent for it. I just do it by hard drumming. Oh, Christie, what do you think! The 'Seaside Library' woman has been heard from!—Fact!" he added, as Christie's astonished, not to say shocked, eyes were raised to his. "She wrote a long letter and tried to smooth over what she had done. She said she had been miserable; I think she ought to have been, don't you? Mamma thinks she must be very much changed, and I should hope she was, since that day we met her in the cars. She sent a message to you; what do you think of that? Said she had reason to thank you. She did not say for what, but I suppose it was the seed cakes."

There was a gleam of fun in his handsome face, but it sobered again as he said: "I suppose I ought to be glad that she is trying to behave better, but you see I don't think I like anything about her."

"I am glad," said Christie, her eyes shining. "She knew she had been doing what was wrong, and that was what made her so cross and disagreeable. Don't you know when you have done something wrong it makes you feel cross?"

Wells had no answer to this but a laugh, and a wise nod over at Karl. He did not choose to confess how he felt when he knew he had done wrong. The entrance of the professor interrupted the talk, and set the schoolroom into a buzz of work.

Many interesting things have happened to Karl and Christie since that time, but neither of them will ever forget that first wonderful day at school.

There was somebody else who had reason to remember this day. It was just at its close that Mrs. Burton called Christie to her room and began to question about the Cox children. How old were they? Of what size? What did they need in the way of clothing? Christie described them as well as she could, and blushed over the question as to what they needed.

"I think they need most everything, ma'am," she said hesitatingly. "I don't feel quite sure what they need worst; they don't seem to have anything."

"There are two suits of Wells' outgrown clothes which would probably do for the boy," Mrs. Burton said thoughtfully, "but I don't know about the little girl. Estelle's clothes would hardly be suitable for her. Still, there are several good strong dresses which might be made over; well, I'll see what can be done. I think we will drive out there this afternoon and call on them, you and I, and perhaps your mother would go with us and see just what they need most."

Christie's eyes were beautiful just then.

"Mother will go, ma'am," she said with great eagerness. "She knows all about everything, and she feels ever so sorry for the Cox family. I will take care of Nettie and the baby and let her go. She knows how to help."

"Very well," Mrs. Burton said, smiling kindly on her.

In her own mind she believed that Christie too "knew how to help," but it was very pleasant to see how wise the womanly little girl thought her mother to be.

Christie was full of the scheme when she reached home. It was the first thing she talked about after she opened the door.

"Oh, mother, Mrs. Burton is coming in the carriage at four o'clock, and she says will you go with her to see Mrs. Cox and find out what they need most? She is going to fix Lucius and Lucy up so they can go to school, and to church, and everything. Oh, mother, isn't it splendid!"

"Me go with her in the carriage!" repeated Mrs. Tucker. "Bless my heart! What does she want of me?"

But she went. Christie stood at the window with the baby in her arms, and watched with intense satisfaction while Karl helped his mother into the carriage precisely as he had seen Wells do to his mother a few days before.

They were gone until nearly dark, and Mrs. Tucker came home with a satisfied air; much had been accomplished.

"They are fixed out finely now, specially Lucius," she said, nodding her head at Karl and Christie, but meaning the Cox children. "You two will have as much as you can do not to envy them, I guess. Wells' outgrown suit fits Lucius as well as though it was made for him, and Lucy's doesn't want much fixing, though Mrs. Burton says her Estelle wore it when she was fourteen. She must be a delicate girl. Lucy is really a very pretty child when she gets dressed up. She put a blue flannel suit on her, and it made her look like a lady. Her mother just broke down and cried, but that didn't last long. The next thing she did was to begin to sweep the room; and I thought that was a better sign than the crying."

"Sweeping the room while you and Mrs. Burton were there!" exclaimed Christie, aghast. That sort of politeness was not in keeping with her mother's usual teachings.

"Yes, while we were there; and I was glad to see it too. That poor woman hasn't had the heart to sweep her room this long time, and I was afraid she had lost all care as to how things looked. It did me good to see her start up and begin to pick up things and sweep. The sweeping didn't last long. She said she forgot, for a minute, but she did not notice that things were so bad; that is just it, she has been too discouraged to notice. Now that Mrs. Burton has put a little heart into her, she will wake up and try again, I do believe. That is a good woman, Christie. There is a difference in rich people as well as in poor ones."

"Mother, do you think she is a Christian?"

"No," said Mrs. Tucker, in a low voice, "I know she isn't—she said so, but I guess she wants to be, and I can't help hoping that she is going to be."

"Mother," said Christie softly, after a few minutes of quiet, "don't you think the furniture, and other things, are beginning to work a little bit in the way the old gentleman said he wanted them to?"

"I guess they are, child; I know they are setting me to thinking."

Saturday it rained. If it had not been for that, Christie was to have gone to the depot with Karl when he took in the Saturday night's extra supply of milk. As it was, she stayed at home and watched for him with no little eagerness. The truth was, she was to have a new pair of gloves for Sunday, and Karl had had very careful directions about picking them out. She did hope he wouldn't make a mistake. He was later than usual. She began to fear that it had grown too dark for him to select the right shade.

"Did you get them?" was the first question she asked as at last he opened the door.

You see, when a girl has as few new things as our Christie, a pair of lisle thread gloves, at twenty cents, becomes a matter of great importance.

"Yes," said Karl, "I got them, and I guess they are the right shade, for Wells picked them out. He says he knows they are all right."

"Wells!" said Christie, with a little start. "How came he to?"

"Why, he offered to do it while I went over to the office, and I know he understood how to do such things; he does them for his sister. He was waiting for her. She came in on the train. She is a beauty, Christie. But I got a good deal more than gloves. Something for you. I never did see the beat."

"What is it?" asked Christie, sitting down in the nearest chair. "If anything more comes to me, Karl Tucker, I shall give up!"

"Well, something has. A letter, for one thing, and a little bit of a white box for another. Just as I was coming out of the post office, Hal Parsons called me.—He is the one who was along that day and helped with the piano.—

"'Halloo!' he said. 'Does Miss Christie Tucker live out your way now, or don't you know her?'

"Then they all laughed. Those fellows never will get over laughing at me about that time when I said I didn't know any such person. Well, I told him I had made her acquaintance lately, and then Hal said I had better step in and look after her property. And there was an express package for you."

"An express package!" repeated Christie, her cheeks glowing. "What is that?"

"Oh, it comes by express—on the cars—you know. A man has to go along and take care of the things, and see that they get safely to the express office. Then you have to sign your name, and the clerk gives the package to you. There was nothing to pay. Here it is. What a speck of a thing to send by express!"

Christie took the small white package bearing her name and looked at it eagerly.

"What can it be?" she said, a great deal of suppressed excitement in her voice.

"It can't be a piano," Karl said, laughing. "Nor a sewing machine, nor a rocking chair, nor even a book. It is too little for anything."

"Oh, no," said Christie; "ever so many nice things are small. Don't you know that locket which Mrs. Burton wears on her chain, what a tiny thing it is; I suppose it cost a great deal of money. But of course this isn't a locket."

"Open it, Christie, and let's see what it is."

But Christie turned away and laid it resolutely down on the supper table.

"No, let's keep it until father comes in and we are all ready to sit down. Then we'll have the nice time all together. We have a treat for to-night, Karl. Little bits of soda biscuit, and the nicest maple syrup you ever saw. Mrs. Burton sent us a pail full since you have been gone. And oh! Karl. Dennis had a real load of things for the Coxes—meat, and a sack of flour, and some butter, and I don't know what all. Won't they have a nice Sunday?"

"Going to keep the letter too?" Karl asked. "Well, then, I'm off. Hurry up your biscuit; father and I will be in in five minutes."

Ten minutes more of pleasant bustle and then baby was tied in his high chair, and Nettie climbed into hers, and the happy family gathered about their table.

"Now for the letter," said Father Tucker, as he tucked away a nice biscuit. "Will your supper keep, my girl, while you read it out?"

Christie thought it would, and with her clean knife dexterously made an opening and drew out the neat sheet of very handsome note paper, written in a man's hand.

"Oh, Karl," she said in admiration, "what beautiful writing! I want you to learn to write just like it."

"All right," said Karl cheerily. "Of course I can, as well as not. I'll attend to it to-morrow."

Then the reading began.

"DEAR LITTLE SUNSHINE,—

"I cannot help calling you so, because on that long, long rainy day which we spent together, you were the only ray of sunshine to be seen anywhere, and you shone steadily and patiently all day, and reached right into my heart, which I thought was too sad and gloomy ever to get into sunshine again. Do you remember me, I wonder? And the number of times I looked at my watch, and how you laughed at me—a sweet, bright little laugh—and then how gently you apologized for doing what was no harm at all? Oh, I remember every little thing you said and did that day. I had nothing else to do, and I cannot help thinking that your sunshine had a great deal to do with helping me keep my senses, and your praying did, I believe, great things for me.

"Do you remember my promise, little woman? I was to write you a letter—"

("Oh," said Christie, looking up, "he did say he would, but I thought he would forget all about it. He promised to tell me—well, I'll read on. Oh, dear, I hope it did do some good, though I don't see how it could!")

Then she read:

"If our five hours' stop in the rain and the mud did any possible good to my friend, in any way, I was to tell you of it. Remember? Well, now, I have a wonderful story to tell you. There was a great physician whom I happened to know was travelling that day, and would take a train at Brightwood Junction about noon, for his home in a far-away city. My plan was to get to the city in time to connect with the Brightwood cars, and get out there before the noon train would leave, and beseech that doctor to go on with me, and try to do something for my friend. This was my plan. But it so happened that nothing of this was true. The great doctor did not go to Brightwood Junction at all, as I had been telegraphed that he would. At the last minute, he changed his mind and went to the City to get the East-bound train on the Wabash railroad. But the same storm which made trouble for us worked mischief on the Wabash road, and there that doctor sat and waited, and hoped that the train would leave. Pretty soon came into the depot a man, a friend of mine, who had been waiting at our depot for two hours for me, and then gone around to the Wabash depot in the hope that I might have come that way. The first person he saw was this doctor, whom I had telegraphed him I was going to try to bring with me. He rushed up to him and told his eager story, and the doctor went away with him to my friend's sick room.

"When I reached there at night, the great doctor had just gone, having stayed with her all day, and done for her what he hoped would save her life. Now, little friend, let me stop right here and say with all my heart, Thank God! And next to Him, thank you, for your faith and your prayers. It would take a great deal to convince me that your praying all that day had not a great deal to do with the strange providences that led us all. For see! Suppose I had been able to carry out my plans: I should have gone as fast as I could to Brightwood Junction and so missed the doctor entirely. Or suppose I had appeared at the station on the train which my friend expected, then he would not have gone to the other station at all, and in that way we would have missed him.

"Dear little Sunshine, he is a wonderful God. I know you will be glad to hear that I have learned to pray. I got down on my knees that night, and told Him that I would serve Him for ever, and I thanked Him for overturning my foolish plans, and carrying out His own that day. I wonder how many things were accomplished by that rain storm? Wouldn't you like to have the story of that day written out for you? And now, my little woman, I have taken the first leisure moment in which to write you. There has been a great deal to do, and you see my letter comes from a long way off. I was married ten days ago to the friend whose life was saved that Christmas Day, and I carried her away at once for change of air. She is growing strong and well. In a little box which you will find at the express office, there is a wedding present for you to help you to keep in mind the time when you laughed and prayed a soul out of sore trouble. My wife sends her love to you, and says kiss baby twice—for us both. Write and tell me how often you look at my wedding present.

"Yours, for Christ and Heaven,

"LEONARD RAMSEY."

"Well, I never!" said Mrs. Tucker.

"I should think as much!" said Mr. Tucker.

"Pooh! Pooh!" said the baby, but he did not mean any disrespect. He was simply trying to blow out the light.

As for Karl, he pushed the package toward Christie and said in unusual excitement:

"Open it, quick! I most guess what is it."

"What!" said Christie.

And "What?" said Nettie, her eyes bright with expectation.

"I'm not going to tell; open it; quick!"

So amid silence, except from the baby who gravely and steadily pursued his scientific project, the seal of the package was broken. It showed a small white box, with a string tied around it. The string was cut and the lid lifted. It showed simply a puff of white cotton! Then Karl seized the box and held it to his ear.

"I knew it!" he said in intense excitement. "It is alive."

Christie's face was growing pale. She took back the box and pushed away the cotton. Certainly it was alive, and it spoke very distinctly too.

"Tick-tock, tick-tock!" was what it said.

"Do for pity's sake lift it up," said Mrs. Tucker.

And Christie lifted it up. A small gleaming gold watch, which despite its journey from the city, was steadily engaged at its work saying "Tick-tock, tick-tock!"

Don't expect me to tell you what any of them said or did for the next half-hour, for really I cannot do it.

"Well," said Karl, drawing a long breath when the excitement was somewhat abated, "I know one thing, I know I was never so glad of anything in my life as that I stayed at home Christmas and you went to Uncle Daniel's."

"But I didn't go!" said Christie, bursting into laughter.

Then they all laughed.

THE END.

UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME ————————————————————————

THE

ROYAL SERIES

THE new issue of this well-known library has been expressly designed to meet the demand for cheap but tasteful editions of the old favourite authors. The large, clear type, good paper, and dainty bindings render the volumes eminently serviceable both for home use and for presentation.

LITTLE WOMEN _ _ _ _ Louisa M. Alcott
GOOD WIVES _ _ _ _ Louisa M. Alcott
ROBINSON CRUSOE_ _ _ _ Daniel Defoe
GRIMM'S FAIRY TALES _ _ _ Brothers Grimm
TOM BROWN'S SCHOOL DAYS _ _ Thomas Hughes
ALICE IN WONDERLAND _ _ _ Lewis Carroll
UNCLE TOM'S CABIN _ _ _ Mrs. H. Beecher Stowe
WHAT KATY DID _ _ _ _ Susan Coolidge
WHAT KATY DID AT SCHOOL _ _ Susan Coolidge
FAVOURITE FAIRY TALES_ _ _ _ _ _
THE WATER-BABIES _ _ _ Charles Kingsley
ANDERSEN'S FAIRY TALES _ _ Hans Andersen
HELEN'S BABIES _ _ _ _ John Habberton
FIVE WEEKS IN A BALLOON _ _ Jules Verne
THE ARABIAN NIGHTS' ENTERTAINMENTS _ _ _
THE BASKET OF FLOWERS_ _ _ G. T. Bedell
THE YOUNG FUR-TRADERS_ _ _ R. M. Ballantyne
A WONDER BOOK _ _ _ _ Nathaniel Hawthorne
A JOURNEY INTO THE INTERIOR OF THE EARTH
Jules Verne
FROM THE EARTH TO THE MOON _ _ Jules Verne
ROUND THE MOON _ _ _ _ Jules Verne
ÆSOP'S FABLES _ _ _ _ _ _ _
STORIES FROM THE BIBLE _ _ _ _ _
TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE _ _ Charles and Mary Lamb
DAISY _ _ _ _ _ Elizabeth Wetherell
THE HEROES _ _ _ _ Charles Kingsley
AROUND THE WORLD IN EIGHTY DAYS _ Jules Verne
CHRISTIE'S CHRISTMAS _ _ _ "Pansy"
UNGAVA _ _ _ _ _ R. M. Ballantyne
BLACK BEAUTY _ _ _ _ Anna Sewell
THREE PEOPLE _ _ _ _ "Pansy"
ADRIFT IN A BOAT _ _ _ W. H. G. Kingston
DAISY IN THE FIELD _ _ _ Elizabeth Wetherell
HOLIDAY HOUSE _ _ _ _ Catherine Sinclair

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WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED, LONDON, E.C.4.