Douglas Amanda M.
In Wild Rose Time

XV – JOHN TRAVIS

She lay there quietly all the morning, little Dilsey Quinn, trying in her hopeful fashion to hurry and get well. It was nicer than the hospital, and Miss Deering was so sweet, as she sat there crocheting some lovely rose-wheels out of pale-blue silk. Now and then some sentences flashed between them, and a soft little laugh from Dil. Miss Deering felt more like crying.

The doctor came about three.

“I’m most well,” said Dil, with her unabated cheerfulness. “Only when I raise up somethin’ seems tied tight around me here,” putting her hand to her side. “’N’ you think I c’n be well on Sat’day, cause – some one might come – ”

“Are you expecting a visitor?”

“Miss Deerin’ knows. An’ he’s one of the sure kind. Yes; he’ll surely come. An’ if I stay in bed all day to-day, don’t you s’pose I’ll be well to-morrow?”

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

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

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

“I will try.”

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

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

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

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

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

“And – the excitement – ”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They will all get here by degrees.”

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

“My dear, you must go to sleep.”

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

“Try a little, to please me.”

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

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

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

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

“Yes, I know he will come.”

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

Virginia bent over and kissed her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Virginia glanced up in vague alarm.

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

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

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

“I might go and see.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dil opened her eyes.

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

“Well enough to see an old friend?”

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

“My dear, dear little Dil!”

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

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

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

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

“An’ he gev you my letter?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her very breath seemed to hang on the answer.

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

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

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

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

Her face was one thought of puzzled intensity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just as you cared for Bess.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XVI – ACROSS THE RIVER

Virginia Deering put by the children’s clinging hands. Her mission had not been very successful. In one shady depth she had found a cluster of belated roses, their mates having blossomed and gone. But the children had enjoyed a rare pleasure.

She came up with a sort of reverent hesitation. She had been thinking of the journey “betwixt this and dawn,” and trying with weak hands to push it farther and farther off, as we always do. Miss Mary had gone to the infirmary. The room was so still; then a soft, glad cry trembled on the air, —

“He’s come, Miss Deerin’! An’ oh, you won’t mind, but he’s been to that wild rose place, an’ I think he’s brought them all to me. Look, look!” and she stretched out her little hands.

Virginia paused, hesitated, her sweet face flushing and paling, as John Travis turned. He was not sure he had made up his mind to any certain step; but, having found her here, he was certain he should never let her go again in this mortal life.

Did it make any difference here in this sacred hour who had sinned? Could not even suffering love fold about another the garment of forgiveness? He took a step forward; she seemed to draw near by some inward volition, and stretched out her hands beseechingly. The sorrow and pain were ended. Was not love too sacred a thing to be bruised and wounded by trifles that should have been forgiven and forgotten as soon as uttered?

“Virginia,” in a breathless sort of whisper. He stooped and kissed the quivering lips, and caught the tenderness of tear-blinded eyes.

“Little Dil, may I have Miss Deering’s roses?” and he took them in his hand.

“I only found a few,” in a faltering voice.

“But he’s brought me hundreds. I’m most buried in roses. An’, Miss Virginia, I told him you’d be so glad. An’ it’s all as you said, only I couldn’t feel quite sure till he come. The Lord Jesus did take Bess to heaven that night; but he left me ’cause there was somethin’ for me to do. It’s all gettin’ plain to me, only I ain’t bright to see into things quick. But you can’t both be mistook. An’ now I’m all bright an’ happy.”

Did Virginia Deering say a year ago that she should always hate wild roses? She buried her face in them now, so that no one should see her tears. God had led this little human wild rose in the pathway of both. It had grown in the world’s wilderness, and learned how to bloom out of its own generous heart. To her it was the lesson of her whole life.

Dilsey Quinn smiled. She knew nothing about love and lovers; but the atmosphere was sweet and cordial, and she felt that.

Virginia began to arrange some of the roses in a bowl, with the nervous desire of occupation.

“Please put thim here on the sill,” pleaded Dilsey. “That’s the way Bess had thim. An’ I told him how you gev thim to Patsey.”

John Travis gave a soft, quaint smile, and took a small case from an inside pocket. There were some poor little withered buds between the leaves. All the color had gone out of them, all the fragrance.

“You gave them to me,” he said. “Do you remember? Bess had them in her hand.”

Dilsey’s eyes filled with tears. Virginia leaned over and looked at them, strangely moved. Then he laid the few she had gathered beside them.

“I’m jes’ happy all through,” Dil said with shining eyes.

Miss Mary came up with some broth.

“’Pears like I don’t never want anythin’ to eat again; but you’re all so good. An’ now I’m goin’ to get well, though sometimes I want to see Bess so. An’ I’d be sorry to go ’way from Patsey. Owen’s gettin’ to be such a nice boy. Patsey keeps him straight. I d’know who’d look after thim.”

John Travis turned and gave her a rare, comforting smile. He owed her so much earthly and heavenly happiness; and he realized with a pang of anguish that she could never be repaid in this world. Had God noted the labor and love of this poor, unknown life, and written it in his Book, – the heroism so simply worked out, with no thought of self to mar any of it?

Miss Mary sent them down to supper.

“I am so thankful you had my letter in time,” Virginia said softly. “We did not think then – ”

She turned scarlet under his gaze.

“Your letter! Oh, did you write? My darling, thank you! You shame me with your trust, your sweet readiness to forgive. But I have hardly been at home these two days. I think,” and his voice fell to a reverent inflection, “that God was watching over it all, and guiding our steps. It is a long story, and some day you shall hear it all, but in infinite pathos Dilsey Quinn’s far exceeds it. Our whole lives will be more sacred to us for this remembrance. But I cannot bear to have her go. Is it as the nurse said?”

Virginia made a sign with her bowed head.

“I hoped so to give her a better, brighter life. I left a little work for her in the hands of a friend, and it came to naught. But perhaps – God’s love must be wiser than our human plans, and his love is greater. We must rest content with that. But she has been an evangel to me.”

Miss Mary bathed the face and hands of her invalid in some fragrant water. She had considered Dil a rather dull and uninteresting child at first; but her pitiful story that had come to light in fragments, her passionate love for her little “hurted” sister, and her wild dream of going to heaven, had moved them all immeasurably. The cheerful sweetness would have deceived any but practised eyes, and even now Dil seemed buoyed up by her delicious happiness.

“Won’t they come back?” she asked presently, with a touch of longing in her voice.

“Yes, dear.”

“I’d like him to stay.”

“Yes, he shall stay.”

The household had not been disturbed by the near approach of the awesome visitant. The children had not missed her, since she had brought no gayety to them, but rather grudged Miss Virginia to her. They were at their supper now. How easily they had forgotten the hardships of their lives!

Virginia and John Travis entered presently. The soft summer night fell about them, as they sat watching the frail little body, so wasted that its vitality was fast ebbing. She talked in quaint, disjointed snatches, piecing the year’s story together with a pathos almost heart-breaking in its very simplicity. Her trust in him had been so perfect.

“I don’t know what’s ’come o’ mother,” she said, after one of the silences. “But Bess ’n’ me’ll tell the Lord Jesus ’bout her, ’n’ mebbe he can do somethin’ that’ll keep her ’way from Mrs. MacBride’s, ’cause she wasn’t so bad before she took to goin’ there. I’ve been so feared of her all the time, but I don’t feel feared no more. Bess said we shouldn’t when you came back, and wisht your name had been Mr. Greatheart. We liked him so. But they’ve all gone wrong in Barker’s Court. Oh, can’t some one set thim right an’ straight, an’ bring thim outen the trouble an’ drinkin’ an’ beatin’, an’ show thim the way? It’s jes’ like thim folks leavin’ the City of Destruction. An’ oh, we’ve all come out of it, Owny an’ little Dan. Maybe mother’ll find the way.”

“We’ll find her and try to show her,” said John Travis, with a voice full of emotion.

“Oh, will you?” There was a satisfying delight in her tone. “An’ the boys? If some one’d look after thim, I think I’d like to go to Bess. Do you b’l’eve the Lord Jesus would come an’ take me if I ast him? Seems so long since I had Bess.”

“I think he will,” Travis said, in a tone he tried to keep steady.

“I ain’t pritty, like Bess, an’ I can’t sing.”

“But you will sing there. And you will love the Saviour. That is all he asks.”

“I can’t seem to understand how he could be so good to poor folks. An’ I don’t see why they ain’t all jes’ wild to love Him. Tell me some more ’bout his comin’ down from heaven to help thim.”

With the little hand in his, he told the wider, greater story of the Saviour’s love, – how he had come to redeem, to sanctify all future suffering in his own, to give himself a ransom. And even now Travis’s mind reverted to the hours of discussion with his cousin. Ah, how could he have brought bread to that famishing soul, that had fed so long on the husks of the world’s wisdom, but for the afternoon with the children, the meeting with the Lord Jesus in the way.

The moon came up and flooded the room with softened splendor, the summer night was fragrant with exquisite odors. Almost it seemed as if the very heavens were opened. The wide eyes were full of wordless rapture, and a great content shone in the ethereal face.

Then Dilsey moved about restlessly.

“My little Dil, what can I do for you?” he asked with tender solicitude.

A strange shudder seemed to run over her. Was it a premonition?

“I wish you’d take me in your strong arms ’n’ hold me. ’Pears if I’d like to be clost to some one, just sheltered like. An’ you an’ Miss Virginia sing ’bout ‘The rivers of delight.’”

John Travis lifted her up. She was so small and light; a child who was never to know any earthly joy or hope of girlhood, who would learn all the blessedness of life in the world to come. Virginia folded the soft blanket about her, and her face rested against the shoulder that would have been glad to bear a far heavier burthen for her. He took the cool little hands in his, and noted the fluttering, feeble pulse, the faint, irregular beating of the tired heart against his.

Sometimes both voices came to a pause through emotion. He remembered the other scene in the stuffy little room, and could see Bess’s enraptured face.

Then Dilsey Quinn gave a little start, and raised her head, turning her eyes to him.

“I c’n understand it all now,” she said joyously. “The Lord Jesus wanted me to wait till you come back, so I could tell Bess. An’, Miss Virginia, she’ll be so glad to know who gave the wild roses to Patsey. An’ you promised her – you’d come. We was all goin’ to heaven – together – ”

The head dropped. The heart was still. The labor of the hands was done. The slow brain had the wisdom of the stars. But her eyes still kept the subtle glory; a radiance not of this world shone in her face as she left the night behind her and stepped into the dawn of everlasting life.

“She has seen Bess.”

Then John Travis laid her reverently on the cot, and sprinkled a baptism of roses over her. The two left behind, clasped hands, their whole lives sanctified by the brave sweetness and devotion of this one gone up to God.

No one told the “little mothers” that one of their number lay up-stairs in Miss Mary’s room waxen white and still in her last sleep. They sang and played and ran and shouted, perhaps jangled as well. Death often met them in the byways of the slums, but in this land of enchantment they were not looking for it. Their holidays were brief enough; their days of toil and deprivation stretched out interminably. How could they sorrow for this pale, quiet little girl who had not even played with them?

In the afternoon John Travis brought up Patsey and Owen, who were stunned by the unlooked-for tidings. Dil had on her white frock, Patsey’s gift, that had been both pride and pleasure to him.

Owen looked at her steadily and in great awe, winking hard to keep back the tears. Patsey wiped his away with his coat-sleeve.

“Ther’ wasn’t ever no girl like Dil Quinn,” he said brokenly. “She was good as gold through and through. Nobody never loved any one as she loved Bess. Seems like she couldn’t live a’thout her. O mister, do you think ther’s railly a heaven as they preach ’bout? Fer if ther’ is, Dilly Quinn an’ Bess are angels, sure as sure. An’ Owen, we’ve got to be tip top, jes’ ’s if she was watchin’ us all the time. But it’s norful to think she can’t never come down home to us.”

He leaned over and kissed the thin hands, and then sobbed aloud. But all his life long the tender remembrance followed him.

In a corner of the pretty burying-ground where they laid her, there is a simple marble shaft, with this quaint, old-fashioned inscription: —

“Sacred to the Memory of

BESS AND DILSEY QUINN.”

For, even if Bess is elsewhere in an unknown grave, her unfailing and sweetest remembrance is here with Dilsey.

And in one home in the city, made beautiful by love and earnest endeavor, and a wide, kindly charity that never wearies in the Master’s work for the poor, the sinful, and the unthankful, there hangs a picture that Patsey Muldoon adores. It is Dilsey Quinn idealized, as happiness and health might have made her. The sunrise gleam in her eyes stirs one with indescribable emotion. She looks out so bravely sweet, so touched and informed by the most sacred of all knowledges. The high courage is illumined by the love that considered not itself; the tenderness seems to say, “to the uttermost,” through pain and toil and discouragements; never quenched in the darkest of times, but, even when blown about by adverse winds, still lighting some soul. The face seems ripened to bloom and fragrance, and speaks of a heavenly ministry begun when the earthly was laid down.