Chapter VI: Part 6

A curious thought came to her unappeased soul. Some one was singing a song, one of the rather pathetic ballads just then a favorite. She did not see the stage nor the young man, but like a distinct vision the little room in Barker's Court was before her eyes. Bess in her old wagon, Mrs. Murphy with her baby in her arms, old Mrs. Bolan, and the group of listening women. The wonderful rapture in Bess's face was distinct. It was the sweet old hymn that she was listening to, the voice that stilled her longing soul, that filled her with content unutterable.

There was a round of applause that brought her back to the present life. They were rather noisy here. She liked the dreamland best.

"That takes the cake jist!" declared Patsey, looking down in the bewildered face. "What's the matter? Youse look nawful pale!"

"My head aches," she said. "It's so warm here. And it's all very nice, but will it be over soon, Patsey?"

The boy _was_ disappointed; but the next morning Dil evinced such a cordial interest in all the points that had amused them, that Patsey decided that it must have been the headache, and not lack of appreciation.

But he hung around after the others were gone, with a curious sense of responsibility.

"Youse don't git reel well any more, Dil," he said, his voice full of solicitude. "Kin I do anythin'--"

"O Patsey!" The quick tears came to her eyes. "Why, I _am_ well, an' everything's so nice now, an' Mrs. Brian jes' lovely. Mebbe I ain't quite so strong sence I was sick. An' sometimes I get lonesome with you away all day."

"I wish youse knowed some gals--"

"Patsey," a soft, tender light came to her brown eyes, "I think I miss the babies. They're so cunnin' an' sweet, an' put their arms round your neck an' say such pritty little words. An' if I could have some babies I wouldn't wash any more. That puts me out o' breath like, an' hurts my side. 'Twas that tired me for last night."

"Youse jist sha'n't wash no more, then. But babies is such a bother!"

"I love thim so. An' only two, maybe. Curis there ain't a baby in this house, nor in the front, neither. Babies would seem like old times, when I had Bess."

There was such a wistful look in her pale, tender face. Patsey thought she had grown a great deal prettier, but he wished she had red cheeks. And he was moved to go out at once and hunt up the babies.

Other girls might have made friends in the neighborhood; but Dil had never acquired friendly arts, and now she shrank from companionship. But she liked Mrs. Brian; and that very afternoon as they sat together Dil ventured to state her desires.

"You don't look fit to bother with 'em. You ought to be out pleasurin' a bit."

"But I'm strong, though; an' I used to be such a fat little chunk! I was stunted like; but I think I look better not to be so fat," she said with quaint self-appreciation.

"There's one baby I could get for you easy. The mother's a nice body--you see, the man went off. She's waitress in a restaurant, an' her little girl's pretty as a pink, with a head full of yellow curls, an' big blue eyes. She pays a dollar for her keep, 'ceptin' nights an' Sundays. An' you'd be so good, which the woman ain't. You couldn't hurt a fly if you tried."

"Oh, if I could have her!" cried Dil eagerly. A little girl with golden hair, curly hair. And a dollar would pay for the washing and ironing. The boys had been so good about fixing up things and buying her clothes that she had felt she must do all she could in return.

"I'll see about it this very evenin', dear."

"Oh, thank you! thank you!"

The mother, a slim young thing, came to visit Dil on Sunday, with pretty, chubby, two-year-old Nelly, who was not shy at all, and came and hugged Dil at once. Her prettiness was not of the _spirituelle_ order, as Bess's would have been under any circumstances. The eyes were merry and wondering, the voice a gay little ripple, and comforted Dil curiously.

And through the course of the week several "incidental" ones came. It _was_ like old times.

"Seems to me it's nawful tough to be nussin' kids," said Patsey; "but, Dil, you've chirked up an' grown reel jolly. You're hankerin' arter Bess, an' can't forgit. An' ef the babies make ye chipper, let 'em come. I only hope they won't take any fat offen yer bones, fer youse most a skiliton now. But sounds good to hear youse laugh agen."

"I'd like just a little fat in my cheeks," she made answer.

Patsey brought her home a white dress one day, and said they would all go down to Coney Island some Sunday.

"I wouldn't dast to," she said. "I'd be that afeared o' meetin' mother. She used to go las' summer. An' if she should find me--"

"Yer cudden't find anybody, les' yer looked sharp. An' youse er that changed an' sollumn lookin' an' big-eyed, no one'd know yer."

"But _you_ knew me," with a grateful little smile.

Patsey grinned and rolled his eyes.

"I was a-layin' fer ye."

"You can take me up to Cent'l Park, Patsey. I'd like to go so much."

"That's the talk, now! So I will. We'll all go. We'll have a reg'lar persesh, a stunner, an' take our lunch, like the 'ristocrockery!"

Dil did brighten up a good deal. Baby kisses helped. She was starving for love, such as boys did not know how to give. She used to take Nelly out walking, and imagine her her very own. The mother instinct was strong in Dil.

Having the washing done did ease up the work; though one would have considered it no sinecure to feed five hungry boys. Now and then her head would ache, and occasionally something inside of her would flutter up in her throat, as it had when Bess died, and she would stretch out her hands to clasp some warm human support, her whole body in a shiver of vague terror.

If John Travis would only come. She _could not_ disbelieve in him. Last autumn in the moment of desperate despair he had come, bringing such a waft of joy and satisfaction. There were so many things she wanted to ask him. She began to hope, in a vague way, that the Lord had come for Bess, for she wanted her in that beautiful heaven. But the mystery was too great for her untrained mind. And there intruded upon her thought, the horror of that moment when she knew Bess was dead.

The hot weather was very trying. Hemmed in on all sides by tall buildings, her own room so small, with a window on a narrow space hardly six inches from the brick wall of the next house, there was little chance for air. The boys seemed to sleep through anything.

So the weeks passed on with various small delights and events. The boys would go off and spend their money when they needed clothes, and then would follow heroic efforts at economizing. Dil had such shrewd good sense, and they did listen to her gentle advice. They were a gay, rollicking lot, but their very spirits seemed to be of a world she had passed by. It was as if she was on the way to some unknown land, not quite a stranger, but a sojourner.

Owen was a really tolerable boy, and bade fair to keep out of the reform school. They all mended of their swearing; they were ready to wait on her at a word.

The white frock was a beauty. Shorty brought her some pink ribbons that made her look less pale, and she had a wreath of wild roses on her hat that Mrs. Brian gave her.

They made ready for their excursion one beautiful Sunday morning in July. There had been a tremendous shower the night before, and all nature was fresh and glowing. The very sky was full of suggestions in its clear, soft blue, with here and there a white drift.

Oh, how lovely the park looked! Dil had to pause in a strange awe, as if she was hardly prepared to enter. It was like the hymn that was always floating intangibly through her mind--the fields and rivers of delight, the fragrant air, the waving trees and beds of flowers, the beautiful nooks, the bridges, the winding paths that seemed leading into delicious mysteries.

The boys were wild over the animals. They were irrepressible, and soon tired out poor Dil. She had to sit down and press her hand on her heart. There was a strange sinking, as if she was floating off, like the fleecy white drifts above her.

"Youse air nawful white!" cried Patsey in alarm. "An' ther's sich a queer blue streak acrost yer lip. Air ye sick?"

She drew a long breath, and the world seemed to settle again, as she raised her soft eyes with a smile all about them.

"No, Patsey--I'm only a bit tired. Let me sit an' get rested."

She took the sunbrowned hand in hers with a mute little caress that brought a strange flush to the lad's face.

"Youse jist work too hard wid dem babies an' all."

"I'm only going to have Nelly next week, an' the Leary baby is to go in the country with his mother to live. 'Twasn't nothin' but a queer flutt'rin' like, an' it comes sometimes in the night when I _can't_ be tired. It's all over now;" and she looked bright and happy, if still pale.

Patsey seemed hardly satisfied.

"I think it's the hot weather. It's been so hot, you know. An' to-day's splendid! I'll get better when cool weather comes, I'm most sure. You an' the boys take a good long walk, an' I'll stay here with the lunch, an' get all rested up. An' I'll make b'leve it's heaven; it's so beautiful."

"See here, Dil, don't yer go an' be thinkin' 'bout--'bout heaven an' sich--"

Patsey swallowed over a big lump in his throat, and winked vigorously.

"Bess an' I used to talk about it," she said in a soft, disarming fashion. "We thought 'twas some-wers over the river there," nodding her head. "But I'll jes' sit still in some shady place, an' I won't go to-day," with a soft, comforting laugh.

The boys protested at first. But Dil had a way of persuading them that was quite irresistible. They were boys to the full, and to sit still would have half killed them. They found a lovely nook, where she could see the lake and the boats, and the people passing to and fro in their Sunday attire. There were merry voices of little ones that touched her like music.

She sat very still, with the lunch-basket at her feet. Occasionally some one cast a glance at the pale little girl in her white gown, with the wild roses drooping over the brim of her hat. A friendly policeman had seen the pantomime and the departure of the boys, and meant to keep guard that no one molested her.

Dil could understand being ill from some specific disease; but she did not feel ill, only tired. It was a different kind of fatigue from that back in Barker's Court, for then she could fall asleep in a moment. Now the nights were curiously wakeful. And the babies _were_ heavy, even if there were only two of them.

The refreshing atmosphere and the tranquil, beautiful pictures all about her intensified the thought of the heaven she was going to "make b'leve" about. She could picture it out, up and up, through country ways and flowers, wild roses maybe. Houses where they took you in and fed you, and put you to bed in such soft, clean beds. Queer people too, who couldn't understand, and were wanting to turn back,--people who were afraid of lions and Giant Grim. She called up all the pictures she could remember, and they floated before her like a panorama.

"Though I can't get it out straight myself," and she sighed in helpless confusion. "I ain't smart as little Bess was, an' can't see into things. But I could push Bess along, an' Mr. Travis would be Mr. Greatheart for us, an' he'd know the way on 'count of his being book learned. An' we'd just be kerful an' not get into briars and bad places."

Was that Bess laughing softly, as she did sometimes when her poor back didn't hurt, and her head didn't ache. The sweet, lingering sound seemed to pervade the summer air. She could see the time-worn wagon, the rug made of odds and ends, that they had both considered such a great achievement. There was the sweet, pallid face, not quite as it had looked in those last days, but resembling more the beautiful picture that had gone to the flames, the crown of golden hair, the mysterious, fathomless eyes, with a new knowledge in them, that Dil felt had not been garnered in that old, pinched life.

Her own soul was suddenly informed with a mysterious rapture. She knew nothing of the Incarnation, of the love that came down and tasted pain and anguish, that others, in the suffering laid upon them, might also know of the joy of redemption. At that moment Dilsey Quinn was not far from the kingdom.

"O Bess! can't you come back?" she cried in a breathless, entreating manner, her eyes luminous with the rare insight of faith, the evidence of things unseen. "O Bess, you must be somewhere! I don't b'leve you died jes' like other folks! Can't you come back an' tell me how it happened, 'cause I know you wouldn't have gone and leaved me free of your own will?"

A tremendous longing surged at Dil's heart, and almost swept her away. Her breath came in gasps, her heart beat in great bounds, and then well nigh stopped. She was suddenly attuned to spiritual influences in that sweet, solemn solitude. Was it really Bess's voice in the softly penetrative summer air--was the strange, shadowy presence, so near that she could reach out and touch it--almost--that of the child?

She sat there rapt, motionless, seeing nothing with her mortal eyes; but in that finer illumination Bess moved slowly toward her, not walking, but floating, veiled in a soft, cloud-like drapery, stretching out her small, white hands. Dil took them, and they were not cold. She glanced into the starry eyes, and for moments that was enough.

"O Bess!" in the softest, tenderest whisper, "if you was in heaven I couldn't touch you, you'd be so far away. An' it's so sweet. But how did it all happen?"

"When _he_ comes, an' I 'most know now that he will come soon, Bess, dear, he c'n tell me how to go to where you are--waitin', an' we'll start. There's somethin' I don't know 'bout, an' can't get straight. I never was real smart at ketchin' hold; but it's so beautiful to remember that his Lord Jesus took little children in his arms. An' mebbe he's took you up out o' the place they buried you, an' is keepin' you safe. You ain't there in the ground--you must be ris' up some way--"

The very birds sang of an unknown land in their songs; the wind murmuring gently through the trees thrilled her with an unutterable certainty. Her slow-moving eyes seemed to penetrate the very sky. Clear over the edge of the horizon it almost opened in its glory, as when Christiana was entering in; and she felt certain now that she should walk through its starry gates with Bess's little hand held tight in hers.

"O Bess, I c'n hardly wait for him to come! Seems as if I must fly away to where you be, but Patsey an' all the boys are so good to me. Seems if I never had such lovely quiet, an' no one to scold ner bang my poor head. But I want you so, Bess--"

She stretched out her hands, but the sweet form seemed to float farther off.

"O Bess, don't go away," she pleaded.

If the seers and the prophets saw heaven in their rapt visions, why not this poor starved little one whose angel always beheld the face of the Father in heaven. She was too ignorant to seize upon the truths of immortal life, but they thrilled through every pulse. She had no power of grasping any but the simplest beliefs, but she knew some love and care had sheltered Bess. The dawning of a knowledge that held in its ineffable beauty and sacredness the truths of resurrection penetrated her in a mysterious sense, aroused a faith that she could not yet comprehend; but it gave her a strange peace.

Her life had been a little machine out of which so much work must be steadily ground. It had needed all her attention. And Bess had taken all her love. But in the solitude and sense of loss she was learning to think.

Dil was startled when she saw the boys straggling along irregularly. How large and strong Patsey was growing! And how nice Owen looked in his clean summer suit! Oh, where was little Dan? She hoped he was happy, and had enough to eat and some time to play.

They were a hungry lot. The great pile of sandwiches disappeared in a trice. And the cake that an artist in cook-books might have disdained, the boys believed beat anything the best baker could turn out. There had never been any treat quite up to the cake. Of course the stew was more "fillin'" when one was tearing hungry, and cake was a luxury to their small income, but, oh, what a delight!

"You don't eat nothin," said Patsey, studying Dil anxiously.

"But I've rested so much. And I feel so happy."

There was a divine light shining in her eyes, and it touched the boy's soul.

"Dil, ef it wosn't fer them ere freckles right acrost yer nose, an' you wos a little fatter, you'd be jes' as pooty as they make 'em. Youse growed real han'some, only you want some red cheeks."

Dil colored at the praise. Did a light shine in her face because she had seen Bess? She would like to tell Patsey all about it. Yes, she had really seen her, but it was all infolded in mystery. How could she make it plain?

The boys ate up every crumb, and seasoned their repast with much merry jesting. Then they wanted to go on again. Wasn't Dil rested enough to go to the Museum?

It was a long walk, and after they entered Dil was glad to sit down. She looked at the curious white marble people, and asked Patsey if "they was truly people or dead folks." Shorty said "it was the mummies who were dead folks;" but Dil shuddered at the thought of Bess being like that. There were so many curious things, beautiful things, that the child was bewildered.

"'Tain't so nice as out o' doors," said Fin. "There's somethin' in the trees an' flowers, an' them places that are so still an' quiet like, that stirs a feller all up."

Rough and unlearned as they were, nature appealed to them powerfully. Ah, what a day it was!

"I've never had but just one time in my life that was so lovely," said Dil with sweet gratefulness: "an' that wasn't so beautiful, only strange. If anybody was so runnin' over full o' happiness all the time, 'pears to me it would kinder choke them all round the heart, so's they couldn't live."

"Don't know 'bout that," and Patsey chuckled. "Happy people ain't dyin' off no faster'n other people, an' don't commit suicide so easy. But, golly! 'twould take a good deal to fill a feller up chock full o' happiness, 'cause it's suthin' like ice-cream, keeps meltin' down all the time, 'n' youse can pack in some more."

"I jes' wish we had some now!" cried Owen, referring to the cream.

"It's been--well--super splacious! There ain't no word long ernuff to hold all's been crowded in this ere day," cried Fin enthusiastically. "Say, boys, why don't we come agin? Only ther's music days--an golly! I jes' wish I had lots of money an' a vacation. Vacations ain't no good when you don't have money."

Dil enjoyed their pleasure. She was so strangely happy. She had seen Bess, and some time the puzzle would be explained. She had taken her first lesson in faith, and she felt light and joyous, as if she could fly. The very air was full of expectation.

It was time to return, unless, indeed, they had brought their suppers along. Dil appreciated the long ride home. She was very tired, but the joy within buoyed her up.

There was the rather well-gleaned ham bone and a dish of potatoes for supper, and the last of the wonderful cake, which they stretched out, and made to go all around. And they seasoned the supper with jests and pleasant laughs, and plans of what they would do, and hopes of being rich some day. Dil listened and smiled. They were all so good to her!

When they were through, Patsey began to pile up the dishes and carry them to the sink. He often did this for Dil, and none of the boys dared chaff him. She rose presently.

The room, the very chair on which she rested her hand, seemed slipping away. All the air was full of feathery blue clouds. There was a curious rushing sound, a great light, a great darkness, and Dil was a little heap on the floor, white as any ghost.

Patsey picked her up in his arms, and screamed as only a boy can scream,--

"Run quick for some one. Dil's dead!"

XIII--THE LAND OF PURE DELIGHT

Owen started out of the door in a great fright. Mrs. Wilson was strolling in her yard, and the boy called to her. There was a side gate that led out in the alley-way. She came through quickly, although she had held very much aloof from these undesirable neighbors.

They had laid Dil on the lounge, stuffed anew and covered with bright cretonne. Patsey looked at her, wild-eyed.

"I think she has only fainted. My sister faints frequently." She began to chafe Dil's hands, and asked them to wet the end of the towel, with which she bathed the small white face, and the brown eyes opened with a smile, a little startled at the stranger bending over her. She closed them again; and Mrs. Wilson nodded to the intensely eager faces crowding about, saying assuringly,--

"She will be all right presently."

Then she glanced around the room. It was clean, and it had some pretty "gift pictures" tacked up on the whitewashed wall. There was a bowl of flowers on the window-sill. The table had a red and white cloth, there were some Chinese napkins, and cheap but pretty dishes. The long towel hanging by the sink was fairly sweet in its cleanliness, and this pale little girl was the housekeeper!

"Have you ever fainted before? What had you been doing?" she asked in a quiet manner.

"We'd been up to Cent'l Park. It was so beautiful! But I guess I got tired out," and Dil smiled faintly. "You see, I was in the hospital in the spring, an' I ain't so strong's I used to be. But I feel all well now."

"Youse jes' lay still there, 'n' Owny, 'n' me'll wash up the dishes."

Patsey colored scarlet as he said this, but he stood his ground manfully.

"They're so good to me!" and Dil looked up into her visitor's eyes with such heartsome gratitude that the lady was deeply touched. "Patsey," she added, "you've got on your best clo'es, 'n' I wish you'd tie on that big apern. Mrs. Wilson won't make fun, I know."

"No, my child; I shall honor him for his carefulness," returned Mrs. Wilson.

Patsey's face grew redder, if such a thing was possible, but he tied on the apron.

"I ought to have been more neighborly," began Mrs. Wilson, with a twinge of conscience. "I've watched you all so long, and you have all improved so much since old Mrs. Brown was here! But everybody seems so engrossed with business!"

"That's along o' Dil," put in Patsey proudly. "When Dil come things was diff'rent. Dil's got so many nice ways--she allis had."

"Is your mother dead?"

Dil's face was full of scarlet shame and distress, but she could not tell a wrong story.

"Her mother ain't no good," declared Patsey, in his stout championship; for he did not quite like to tell a lie, himself, to the lady, and he knew Dil wouldn't. "But Dil's splendid; and Owny, that's her brother," nodding toward him, "is fus' rate. We're keepin' together; an' little Dan, he's in a home bein' took keer of."

"O Patsey!" Dil flushed with a kind of shamefaced pleasure at his praise.

"So you be! I ain't goin' back on you, never." And there was a little gruffness in his voice as is apt to be the case when a lump rises in a big boy's throat. "An' you couldn't tell how nice she's fixed up the place--'twas jes' terrible when she come."

"But you all helped," returned Dil.

"And you are all so much cleaner and nicer," and their visitor smiled.

"Yes; we'm gittin' quite tony." Patsey slung out the dishcloth and hung it up, and spread the towel on a bar across the window. Fin and Shorty edged their way out, and Fossett settled to a story paper. Owny wanted to go with the boys, but he compromised by sitting in the doorway.

"There is a little child here through the week, and I've seen a baby. My child, you are not compelled to care for them, are you?"

"We didn't want her to," protested Patsey; "but you see, there was another pooty little thing, her sister Bess, who was hurted 'n' couldn't walk, 'n' Dil took care of her. 'N' las' winter she died, 'n' Dil's been kinder broodin' over it ever sence. We wos off all day, 'n' she got lonesome like; but she ain't gonter have 'em any more, 'cause she ain't strong, 'n' we kin take keer of her," proudly.

"You look as if you ought to be taken care of altogether for a while."

Mrs. Wilson studied the pale little face. It had a curious waxen whiteness like a camellia. The eyes were large and wistful, but shining in tender gratitude; the brows were finely pencilled; the hair was growing to more of a chestnut tint, and curled loosely about her forehead. She was strangely pretty now, with the pathetic beauty that touches one's heart.

"Tell yer wot, Dil, us fellers'll chip in an' save up a bit 'n' send youse off to the country like the 'ristocrockery. You don't happen to know of some nice, cheapish place?" and Patsey glanced questioningly at the visitor.

"There are very nice places where it doesn't cost anything. Country people often take children for a fortnight or so. My daughters went to a beautiful seaside place last summer that a rich lady fitted up for clerks and shop-girls. Of course they are older than you, young ladies, but--let me think a bit--"

Mrs. Wilson had never known much besides poverty. Youth, married life, and widowhood had been a struggle. She hired the whole front house, and rented furnished rooms to young men whose incomes would not afford luxurious accommodations. Her sister was in poor health; her two girls were in stores. Her son, who should have been her mainstay and comfort, was in an insane asylum, the result of drink and excesses.

"I can't remember, but I must have heard my girls talking about places where they take 'little mothers,'--the children who tend babies, and give them a lovely holiday in a beautiful country place, where they can run about the green fields and pick flowers and play and sing, or sit about and have nothing to do. I will try to learn something about them."

"I don't b'leve I could go 'way," said Dil, with soft-toned doubtfulness.

"I wish you'd talk her out'n havin' any babies. She ain't no ways strong 'nuff. An' we boys kin take keer o' her. She airns her livin' over 'n' over agin. She's had 'nuff to do wid kids all her life," protested her champion.

"But Nelly's so sweet, and 'companies me so much," Dil said longingly.

"But you orter be chirkin' up a bit, 'stead er gittin' so thin, an' faintin'. 'Twas nawful, Dil. You looked jes' 's if youse wos dead."

"It didn't hurt any, Patsey;" and she smiled over to him. "'Twas queer like 's if all the bells in the world was ringin' soft an' sweet, an' then you went sailin' off. 'Twas worse when I went to ketch my breath afterward. But I'm all right now."

She glanced up smilingly to Mrs. Wilson, who took the soft little hands in hers, for soft they were in spite of the hard work they had done. Patsey had whisked the table up to the side of the room and brushed up the crumbs. Then he sat down and watched Dil.

Mrs. Wilson said she must go in home, but she would run over in the morning. Patsey expressed his thanks in a frank, boyish manner, and Dil's eyes said at least half of hers.

Then Mrs. Brian and her husband returned, and she stopped to hear what kind of a picnic they had had. Between the three they told all the story and the fright.

"Yes; she must give up all but Nelly, for her mother wouldn't know how to stand it on such a short notice. The child achilly cries for you on Sundays, her mother told me. But we can't have you killed for any babies in the land," said Mrs. Brian emphatically.

"That's the talk!" exclaimed Patsey.

"Why, I feel jes' as well as ever, an' all rested like," and Dil sat up, smiling. "We walked so much to-day, but to-morrow I'll be all right."

She seemed quite right the next morning. When Mrs. Brian's "man" had gone, she came in and helped Dil with the breakfast things. Mrs. Cairns _would_ leave her baby for the half-day, and Nelly came. Mrs. Wilson looked in upon her, with a bit of sewing in her hand. Dil did not try to do anything besides entertain the little ones. How sweet and naturally she did it!

But she was so tired she lay on the lounge a long while in the afternoon. Nelly played about, and talked in her pretty broken fashion. Dil dreamed of the vision she had seen.

About five Mrs. Wilson came in, her thin face lighted with eagerness.

"I must tell you something quite delightful," she began. "I sew for several ladies; and one of them, a Miss Lawrence, came in about an hour ago. She's interested in several charities, and I asked her about the places where they sent poor tired children to recruit. My dear, she is on the committee of a society; and they have a beautiful large country-house, where they can take in from twenty to thirty children. There's a housekeeper and nurses, and different young ladies go up to stay a week or two at a time. They read to the children, and take them out in the woods, and help them at playing games; and there are music and singing, and great shady trees to sit under, and a barn full of new-mown hay, where they can play and tumble. Why, it made me wish I was a little girl!"

Mrs. Wilson put her hand on her side, for she had talked herself out of breath.

Dil's eyes shone with delight. She could see it all in a vivid manner.

"Miss Lawrence couldn't stay to-day; but she is coming to-morrow morning, and wants to see you. She was so interested in the way all you children are living here. She's a lovely woman; and if there were more like her, who were willing to pay fair prices for work, the poor would be much the gainer."

"You're so good to me! Everybody is now," said the child gratefully.

Dil thought she hadn't done much of anything that day, but she was really afraid to tell Patsey how tired she felt. He _would_ wash up the dishes.

"That'll be jes' the daisy, Dil!" he said, when he heard about Miss Lawrence. "You want some country air, an'--an' reel fresh country milk. An' don't you worry. We'll git along. You jes' go an' hev a good time."

Oh, could she go to such a blessed place--like Central Park all the time?

She was quite shy and embarrassed when Miss Lawrence called. A large, pleasant-looking woman, with indications of wealth and refinement that Dil felt at once, and she seemed so much farther away than Mrs. Wilson. But she questioned Dil very gently, and drew her out with a rare art. The pale face and evident weakness appealed to her,--seemed, indeed, to call for immediate attention.

"I shall put you on our next week's list," Miss Lawrence said with gracious interest. "If any one ever earned a rest, I think you have. And I will come in to-morrow evening and talk it over with your brother and the boys."

The "boys" made themselves scarce, except Patsey and Owen, although Shorty went and sat on Mrs. Brian's stoop. But Miss Lawrence had seen boys before, and even ventured on a dainty bit of slang that won Patsey at once. He was eager for Dil to go and get some red cheeks like Owen. It didn't seem as if the two could be brother and sister.

If Miss Lawrence had seen the sleeping accommodations she would have been more than shocked; and yet there were hundreds in the city not as well housed, and few of the real poor as tidily kept.

"It would be jes' lovely to go," admitted Dil, with curious reluctance. "But a whole week!"

"Two weeks!" almost shouted Patsey. "An' youse'll come home so fat wid de new milk an' all, yer clo'es won't fit yer. We'll jes' hev to make an auction an' sell em' second-hand."

"An' take half the money an buy her some new ones," said Owen with a laugh. "T'other half we'll put in the bank."

Shorty had come sneaking back, and joined in the merriment.

"'N' I kin cook purty good, 'n' wash dishes," began Patsey, when Dil interrupted,--

"Oh, you will be careful of thim, won't you?"

"Careful! I'll treat 'em as if they was aiggs. An' I'll make the boys stan' roun', so's to keep the house--well--decent!" and he made a funny, meaning face. "Je-ru-sa-lem! what a hole we had when youse come! An' now it's like a pallis."

Not like the palace Dil remembered in the book that had been such a treat to her and Bess.

Everybody made it easy for Dil. Mrs. Brian would see to the boys, and Mrs. Wilson offered to keep Nelly until her return. Still, it was Friday before Dil could really make up her mind.

On Saturday Dil took Nelly and went up to Madison Square. The policeman kept out of her way; he could not bear to face her look of disappointment. But just at the last she took him inadvertently.

"You see, I'm sure he'll come soon," she said with a confidence that seemed like a presentiment. "'Cause he'll be thinkin' 'bout the Sat'day he made the picture of Bess an' me. An' I want him to know where I've gone; so I've writ it out. I've been studyin' writin'."

"She looks like a ghost," the man said to himself as his eyes followed her. "She's that changed in a year no one would know her except for her eyes. If he don't come soon, he won't see her at all, to my thinking. Hillo! what a scheme! I'll hunt him up. Why didn't I think of it before! John Travis! Seems to me I've heard something about John Travis."

Sunday was a soft, cloudy day, with a touch of rain. Every boy stayed at home--you couldn't have driven them away. They promised to give Mrs. Brian the rent every night, so as to be provided for next Monday. They sang some of their prettiest songs for her; they didn't know many hymns, but they had a spirit of tenderest devotion in their hearts.

The boys said good-by to her the next morning in a rather sober fashion. Patsey and Owen were going to take her to the ferry. Mrs. Brian brought down her satchel, and Dil put in her white dress, some aprons, and various small matters. She was to wear her best pink gingham. Mrs. Wilson was full of hope, Mrs. Brian extremely jolly, and was sure Barnum would want her for a "fat girl" when she came back.

Dil's similitudes were very limited, but Cinderella and the fairy godmother _did_ come into her mind.

Miss Lawrence was in the waiting-room with half a dozen girls. She came and greeted Dil cordially, and told her she looked better already. The child's eyes brightened with a sunny light.

Owen said good-by in a boy's awkward fashion, and gave her the bag. Patsey was reluctant, and he turned slowly away.

Then he came back.

"Good-by, Dil, dear," he said again with deep tenderness as he stooped to kiss her. He was so much taller, though only a few months older. And always Patsey Muldoon was glad he came back for that kiss.

Then Miss Lawrence bought tickets and ushered her small procession, nine of them now, through the narrow way and out on the boat. They huddled together at first like a flock of sheep. Dil noticed one little hump-backed girl, who had large, light eyes and golden hair in ringlets. She was not like Bess, and yet she moved Dil's sympathetic heart. Had a drunken father "hurted her"?

She felt shy of the others, they all seemed in such spirits. As they were going off the boat, she drew nearer the unfortunate child and longed to speak.

An impudent leer crossed the other face.

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

"Yes," answered Dil meekly, her enthusiastic pity quenched.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Open the gates as high as the sky,
And let King George and his men go by.

Needle's eye as I pass by,
Awaiting to go through;
Many a lass I have let pass,
And now I have caught you."

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

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

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

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

"I'll tache ye to be wastin' of yer time foolin' wid sich," said her mother.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes'm," answered Dil, with soft pathos. "Only I'd rather sit here an' look on."

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

"Yes'm," Dil answered meekly, but with an uplifted smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And pleasures banish pain."

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

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

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

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

"Would you like bread better? And some nice creamed potatoes?"

"I don't want nothin' more." Dil looked up with a soft light in her eyes. "Mebbe by noon I'll be hungry--I most know I will."

"Yes, I hope so."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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