Title: Our Winnie and The Little Match Girl
Author: Everett-Green, Evelyn
Language: English
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 [Illustration: The child watched them with an increasing sense of
 fascination, for she knew that it would not be very long before she
 lost her friends, who would fly far, far away.--_Page 8._]



  Our Winnie

  and

  The Little Match-Girl

  BY

  EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN

  AUTHOR OF
  ‘THE MASTER OF FERNHURST,’ ‘IN CLOISTER AND COURT,’ ‘IN SHADOWLAND,’
  ‘ODEYNE’S MARRIAGE,’ ETC.

  John F. Shaw & Co., Ltd.,

  _Publishers_,

  3, Pilgrim Street, London, E.C.



  CONTENTS.


  CHAP.                      PAGE

  I. WATCHING THE SWALLOWS      7

  II. WINIFRED’S TROUBLE       18

  III. A STRANGE JOURNEY       31

  IV. THE FIRST ATTEMPT        50

  V. LITTLE PHIL               61

  VI. WINIFRED’S BROTHERS      72

  VII. WINIFRED’S PARTY        89

  VIII. SUNDAY                107

  IX. THE LAST FLIGHT         119



  THE LITTLE MATCH-GIRL.



  CONTENTS.


  CHAPTER I.                PAGE

  A LITTLE MATCH-SELLER      127

  CHAPTER II.

  IN THE STUDIO              138

  CHAPTER III.

  WONDERFUL DAYS             149

  CHAPTER IV.

  AT BROOKLANDS              160

  CHAPTER V.

  DARK DAYS                  171

  CHAPTER VI.

  CONCLUSION                 182



  OUR WINNIE,

  OR

  “WHEN THE SWALLOWS GO.”



CHAPTER I.

WATCHING THE SWALLOWS.


Winifred sat by the nursery window, upon the wide cushioned seat,
leaning her little pale face against the glass and gazing with big blue
eyes towards the rosy sky, where the sun was setting in a blaze of
golden glory.

It was a pretty view the great oriel window commanded--garden and
shrubbery just below, and beyond the close laurel hedge, low-lying
pasture lands dotted with pine trees, and a large piece of water, which
lay shining like molten gold in the glow of sunset radiance.

The swallows were enjoying the beauty of the evening as much as living
things could do. They were darting this way and that in the bright,
soft sunshine; now flying high, now low, and ever seeming drawn by
irresistible attraction towards the shining surface of the water, which
lay smiling and placid, without even a ripple to break its glassy
smoothness.

Winifred was very much interested in the swallows. In the springtime
she had watched them with the utmost absorption as they built their
nests and hatched their chattering broods amid the many eaves and
jutting lead-pipes of the old-fashioned manor-house in which she lived.

When the summer came, and the young birds had left the nests, she
still fancied she knew “her swallows” from all the rest, and was
always interested in their movements; fond of foretelling the weather
according as to whether they flew high or low, and making stories
about them and their cleverness which would rather have astonished an
ornithologist.

And now that autumn was drawing on, the child watched them with an
increasing sense of fascination, for she knew that it would not be
very long before she lost her friends and playmates (for in her eyes
they were friends and playmates), who would fly far, far away from
England with the first approach of winter.

“I wonder why they want to go?” the child sometimes said. “I shall so
miss them. I wish they would stay here always.”

Winifred was nine years old, but she was so small and thin that she
hardly seemed so much; and yet her little face, with its large,
thoughtful eyes, and grave, serious lips, looked almost older than a
nine-year-old child’s should do.

She had been very, very ill last winter, so ill that nobody had thought
she could get better; and even now, although the summer had brought a
little strength to her limbs, and a little colour to her face, she was
still very delicate, and her father and mother often looked anxiously
into the deep eyes of their only little daughter, and wondered how long
they would keep her with them, and if she would ever grow up strong and
hearty like Charley and Ronald, her two big brothers.

Winifred did not know this; she only knew that she could not run about
and play like other children, that she soon grew tired, and that it was
much more pleasure to her to sit on the nursery window-seat and read a
favourite story-book, or watch the swallows, than it was to romp and
race about the garden and fields as the boys so loved to do. The little
girl was not discontented; she was very happy in her own way, and was
fond of being quiet, and indulging in her own dreams and fancies. She
saw no reason why she was to be pitied.

A door opened softly, and without turning her head to look, Winifred
knew that her mother had come in.

Nobody but mamma had such a soft, gentle step; nobody else seemed
to bring into the room that kind of brightness and sweetness which
Winifred always felt accompanied her mother’s presence. Sometimes the
child would think to herself that it was like music and moonlight just
to feel that mamma was near.

Mrs. Digby was a tall, graceful, sweet-faced mother--an ideal woman
for a child’s love and worship, so gentle, so firm, so loving and
sympathising.

Winifred’s little face smiled all over, a slow smile of satisfaction,
although she never turned her head until her mother had seated herself
in the great rocking-chair that stood beside the window. Then she left
her seat and crept into her mother’s arms, laying her head against that
comfortable shoulder, and looking alternately out of the window and
into her mother’s face.

“What was my darling doing all alone? What was my little girl thinking
of?”

“I was watching the swallows, mamma dear.”

“You are fond of the swallows, Winnie.”

“Yes; so many of them are my swallows--and soon they will go away.”

“Yes, darling.”

“Mamma,” asked the child, with a serious, wistful look in her eyes,
“how is it that the things we love best and care most for always seem
to go away soonest?”

It seemed to Winifred that the warm, loving arms closed more tenderly
and closely round her as the mother answered gently:

“Does it seem so to you, darling?”

“Yes, mamma. It was my favourite rose-tree that died last winter, and
my favourite oak-tree that was blown down in the storm. Ronald lost his
best puppy, and papa’s favourite horse went lame. I like all the birds
very much, but the swallows much, much the best, and it is the swallows
who go, and the robins and chaffinches that stay behind. I wonder why
it is.”

“But the swallows come back again, darling,” said the mother, kissing
her child’s broad brow. “I remember how sorry my little girl was when
they had all gone last year; but here they are again, and it was such
pleasure to watch them build that you told me it made up for the long
time of waiting. It will be the same again this year, Winnie.”

“Will it, mamma? It seems as if it would be winter for such a long,
long while. I cannot fancy that the spring will ever come again.”

Mrs. Digby made no reply, and by-and-by Winifred went on.

“And last year I was so disappointed, for I never said good-bye; I
never saw them go. I had watched them gather, and gather, and gather,
and I did so want to see them start, and I never did. Do you think
they will gather here again this year, mamma?”

“I think it is very likely. They very often do.”

“If they do, I will be _sure_ not to miss them; I do so want to see
them go, and say good-bye.”

“What is it you are not going to miss, my little girl?” asked a kind,
cheery voice from the other side of the room.

Winifred and her mother looked round, and saw that Dr. Howard had
entered unobserved. He was never very many days without paying the
child a visit, and she had grown fond of the old man, and was not
afraid to talk to him freely.

He came and sat in her vacated seat--the wide window-ledge--and looked
into her face, and took the thin little hand in his, and patted it in a
friendly fashion.

“Well, Winnie, what is it you are so anxious not to miss? Do you want
my leave to go to a children’s party, or to do something else bold and
daring?”

“Oh no!” answered Winnie, smiling; “we were only talking about the
swallows. We think they will gather here before they fly, as they did
last year, and I do so want to see them go. Last year I missed them
somehow.”

Dr. Howard smiled and shook his head.

“I never saw the swallows go yet, little maid, though I am an old man
now; and what is more, I never knew anybody who had, either.”

Winifred’s eyes opened wide.

“Does nobody ever see them go? Somebody must. They do not turn into
fairies and vanish away, do they?”

The old doctor smiled and answered in a fanciful way for a little
while, until seeing the child was growing puzzled, he said at last:

“No, no, my little girl, it is nothing so strange after all; you need
not open your big eyes, and look as if I were telling you mystic
fables. The swallows always start in the night, that is all; and in the
morning we wake up and find them gone, but we do not see them go.”

“In the night?” echoes Winifred, with a cloud passing over her face.
“Then sha’n’t I be able to see them go this year, either?”

“I’m afraid not, little one.”

“Oh I am _so_ sorry!” said the child with a deep sigh; “so very, very
sorry. I did so want to see them go.”

“Dr. Howard,” said her mother’s voice in the pause that followed these
words, “do you think this little bird had better follow the swallows
and the sunshine, and leave the cold and the rain behind? Sometimes I
fancy we ought to run after the swallows and catch them up where they
have caught the summer. What do you think?”

“I think,” answered the kind old man with a look in his eye which the
child did not understand, “that this little bird is best in its own
warm nest, under its mother’s wing. It does not suit all little birds
to fly away.”

And then the doctor rose, and Mrs. Digby too; and Winifred was left
alone to rock herself in the vacated chair and think about the swallows.

She was lying in her little bed that night, cosy and warm, when she
became vaguely conscious that her father and mother had come in, and
were talking together softly, and as it seemed, sadly. Unless it was a
dream (and Winifred did not feel quite sure which it was), papa had his
arm round mamma, and seemed to be comforting her. She almost looked as
if she had been crying, and her voice shook when she said:

“There is nothing that we can do. It is God who gives, and God who
takes away, but it is very, very hard to lose her. You must help me,
Ronald, sometimes I fear my faith will give way.”

“God will give His strength with the trial if He sends it. Perhaps in
His mercy He will spare it us.”

“Yes, we may still hope and pray; but I must struggle for resignation
to His Holy Will. I fear--I fear--”

“I know what you fear, my sweet wife. Did Dr. Howard hold out no hope?”

“He would not--or could not--say anything definite; but he thought--he
thought our darling would not be long after the swallows.”

There was a deep sob, and the sound of tender caresses, then came Mr.
Digby’s voice.

“Our precious little daughter. It is hard to spare her; but think,
dearest, to what a happy place she is going.”

“I know--I know. I try not to be selfish. It is her gain, her
happiness. Oh yes, I know what a happy, happy thing it is for children
to be taken in all their innocence. But oh, I shall miss her so sorely.”

“I know, I know. But we believe that trials are sent us in love and not
in anger; and we must think of our Winifred’s gain and not of our loss.”

Some soft kisses and warm tears were dropped upon the child’s sleepy
face. She had moved, and the voices ceased, but both parents were
bending over her little bed. She opened her eyes drowsily, smiled and
kissed them, and then she sank off to sleep again holding her mother’s
hand in hers.



CHAPTER II.

WINIFRED’S TROUBLE.


Winifred awoke early the following morning, to find the sunshine
playing over the window-blind and the swallows twittering in the eaves.

She fancied that something unusual had happened in the night; but she
could not, all in a moment, recollect what it was.

Gradually some of the sense of what had passed between her parents in
her night-nursery came back to her as she lay in bed puzzling things
over, and she began to talk softly to herself as she had a way of doing.

“I think they said I was going away somewhere, to some nice place
where I should be very happy. I can’t quite remember, and I thought
Dr. Howard meant I was to stay at home; but I don’t always understand
what people mean. I’m almost sure papa and mamma said I was to go--I
suppose it’s to some nice place where little children get strong and
well again. I should like to be able to run about again and play with
the boys. I should like to do what other children can.”

But a little more thinking brought other considerations.

“Mamma was sorry--I think she cried. I’m afraid she isn’t coming with
me, because she talked about losing me. I suppose nurse will take
me--that will be next best; and mamma could not be spared. Papa wants
her and the boys, and there are the servants and the house. Oh no,
they could not possibly spare her. I must try to be brave, and not to
cry and make her more sorry. I won’t seem to mind leaving her, if I
can help it, though it will be very, very hard; and I will try to get
better as fast as ever I can, so as to come back soon strong and well
as Charley did when he had measles, and nurse took him to the seaside.

“I wonder where I am going--a good way off, I think, because I don’t
think mamma would have cried if it had been only a little way or for
a little while. Perhaps I am going where the swallows go--perhaps I
shall see them again. I should like to do that. I think I am going when
they go--I will try to get well to come back when they come. That would
be very nice, for I think they would miss me when they began to build
their nests; and I don’t think I _could_ do without mamma longer than
that--Oh no, I must come back when the swallows come.”

Winifred was smiling now; but by-and-by her face grew grave.

“I wonder if people will miss me when I am gone. I wonder if they will
be sorry. Mamma will, I know, but is there any one else? I should
like to think some of them would miss me and want me to come back;
but--but--I’m not sure that they would!” and here the child’s face grew
rather red.

Children all have their faults, and Winifred was no exception to this
rule. Perhaps there were excuses to be made for this little girl,
because her bad health had made it needful for her to be very quiet
and rather idle, and because, with all her faults, she was always
gentle and docile; but at the same time Winifred was selfish, and she
was more idle than she need have been; and when she began to think
whether people would miss her, she could not help remembering many
little things which she did not quite like to think about.

Charley and Ronald were very fond of their little sister, and would
have liked to spend a good deal of their spare time in the nursery,
which they had once shared all together; but since Winnie’s illness
the nursery had been given up entirely to her service, and she had not
failed to assert her right as mistress of her domain.

It was often quite true that the noise the boys made at play tried her
head and made it ache; but there were other days when she could have
borne the noise quite well, only she did not care to let the boys in
because she felt more inclined to be quiet. Then she never tried to
do any little services for them, or for any one else, thinking nobody
could expect it of her when she had so little strength.

Winifred was a gentle, loveable child, in spite of her tendency to
selfishness, and everybody seemed fond of her. Indeed, it was not
every one who knew what her chief faults were. Charley and Ronald
never thought for a moment that she was selfish, and would have been
indignant if any one had called her so; but at the same time they knew
it was no good ever asking Winifred to do anything for them.

Perhaps Mrs. Digby and nurse knew best where the gentle child’s
weakness lay; but it had not been very easy in her present state of
health and spirits to make her see her own faults in the proper light.

But as Winifred lay in bed thinking, it dawned upon her slowly that
her going away would make very little difference to anybody in the
world--that only mamma would miss her, and that only because mamma was
mamma, not for anything her child had ever done for her.

A resolution came into Winifred’s mind.

“I will be different,” she said. “I will do something before I go to
show them I am fond of them, and then perhaps they will miss me more.
I should like to do something for a good many people. There are the
boys, and the servants--and--and--Oh, I must think about it. I have a
good deal of money: I will see what I can do.”

Winnie turned over this idea very many times in her head, as she lay
waiting for nurse to dress her. She rose late, and breakfast was not
over till nearly half-past ten.

“There doesn’t seem any time left to think this morning,” said Winnie,
after she had taken a little walk in the garden with her mamma. “I feel
tired now, I will watch the swallows a little, and think after dinner.”

Presently nurse came in.

“Miss Winifred, dear,” she said, “Mary wants to clean out the young
gentlemen’s play-room to-day; but it’s their half-holiday, and she
doesn’t like to begin unless they can come here when they come home.
You look pretty well to-day, I think. You won’t mind letting them into
the nursery?”

“Oh, not to-day, nursey, I couldn’t do with them to-day,” answered
Winnie, looking distressed. “Indeed I would if I could, but I have so
much to think about to-day. I can’t think when they are here--and it’s
about them too. It can’t make any difference to Mary what day she
cleans the room. Please tell her I’m very sorry, but I really can’t
to-day. I don’t think she can mind.”

Winifred’s pale little face looked pleading and earnest. Nurse said no
more to urge her.

“Very well, dear, we will arrange something somehow. Mary does not want
to put you out. Have you anything you want to do to-day?”

“I have a great deal to think about.”

“Do you think with your fingers?”

Winifred smiled.

“No, of course not, nursey. What do you mean?”

“Well, I was wondering if you could not do something with your fingers,
whilst you were doing all this thinking.”

Winifred was not fond of employing her idle fingers, and her face was
not very responsive as she asked rather slowly:

“What do you mean, nursey? I have not anything special to do.”

“No, Miss Winnie; but I think there is something somebody would be very
much delighted if you did do,” and nurse nodded her head mysteriously.

Still Winifred did not look eager, though she asked:

“What do you mean? I think I’m rather too tired to work.”

“Work rests as well as tires folks,” answered nurse, looking wise.

“Tell me what you want me to do, please?” said the little girl, who
knew quite well whither all this was tending.

“Well, dear, I thought you might like to finish the tail of Master
Charley’s big kite. It is all done but the tail, and if they had that
to fly, they would play in the fields with it all the while the room
was being done; but it’s a good hour’s work it wants at the tail, and
they would be so pleased to come in and find it done. Shall I bring you
the paper and the string?”

Winifred’s face put on its little wearied, fretful look. She did not
speak crossly, only as if she felt it rather hard to be asked or
expected to do things for other people--“little silly things,” as she
said to herself, when her head was so full of the great things she
meant to do.

“I don’t know how to make kite-tails, nursey.”

“I could show you.”

“I feel tired. The boys can do it themselves quite well. I don’t think
I could make a kite-tail and do my thinking too.”

“Is your thinking very important, Miss Winnie?”

“Yes, very.”

So nurse went away, and Winnie was left alone; but somehow or other the
thinking did not seem to get on. A little puzzled frown began to pucker
the child’s forehead, and before long Winifred was talking slowly to
herself, rather as if she was arguing with somebody, who certainly was
not to be seen.

“I don’t see why I should. It isn’t _that_ sort of thing I meant.
I want to do something big which the boys will understand and care
about--they would have forgotten all about the kite-tail by to-morrow.
Besides it would be so tiresome--like keeping their book-shelves and
toy cupboard tidy, as mamma sometimes wants me to. I don’t like doing
that sort of work. It’s not interesting, and it doesn’t seem worth the
trouble. If I could only think of it, I’m sure there must be some much
better way. I hope I shall be able to find it out soon.”

Puzzling her head over the matter, however, did not seem to help
Winifred much, and she did not feel happy in herself, though she could
hardly have told the reason why.

She looked pale during the early dinner, and it seemed to her that
mamma was more gentle and tender to her than ever.

“Would you like a drive with me this afternoon, my darling?” asked Mrs.
Digby.

“Where are you going, mamma?”

“To see Mrs. Hedlam. You can go and play a little while with Violet
whilst I am there. She will be pleased to have you for a little visit.”

“I should like to go, mamma; but I would rather stay in the carriage,
thank you. I don’t think I am very fond of Violet, and I don’t feel
inclined to play to-day.”

“I can send her out to talk to you instead, then.”

“No, thank you, mamma, I think I would rather be quiet, if you don’t
mind?”

“I don’t mind, darling, but I think poor little Violet would be
disappointed. She has few playfellows, and it would give her pleasure
to see you, I am sure,” answered the mother gently.

“She need not know I have come,” said Winifred. “I don’t want to talk
to-day, I want to think.”

Just at this time Mrs. Digby did not feel as if she could urge the
child against her wishes, even though the wishes were a little selfish.
Her heart was sore and heavy that day, and very little talking was done
upon the drive.

Winifred sat still in the carriage as she had wished, and yet she could
not feel happy or satisfied, and the trouble which had weighed upon her
all the day seemed to grow heavier and heavier.

“I don’t believe any one will miss me. I don’t believe any one will be
sorry when I go. I must be quick and think what to do for people, for
I should like them to be a little sorry and to want me back. Oh dear,
I wish I was grown-up. Grown-up people can do such a lot of things. I
haven’t thought yet of a single one, and I’ve been thinking hard all
the day.”

When Mrs. Digby came back she thought the child looked tired.

“Not very, thank you,” answered Winifred, nestling up to her. “I have
only been thinking. Did you see Violet to-day?”

“Yes, dear.”

“She didn’t ask if I had come?”

“Yes, Winnie, she asked, and I told her you were in the carriage, but I
did not let her go out. I explained that you were poorly to-day.”

Winifred’s face grew red.

“Did--did she seem sorry?”

“I’m afraid so, a little sorry and a little vexed too; but she will not
think about it long.”

Winifred was very silent on the way home. She seemed still thinking
very much, but thinking did not make her face look brighter.

As they drove through the gates of the lodge, she saw a pale little
face looking out of the lattice-window, and her mother leaned out to
ask of the woman who opened the gate:

“How is little Phil to-day?”

“Much the same, thank you, ma’am.”

“I will send him some more jelly soon.”

“Thank you kindly, ma’am.”

As Winifred climbed the stairs to her nursery her face was graver than
ever.

“Why, I’ve never finished those mittens I promised little Phil months
and months ago. And I haven’t been to see him for ever so long. I
don’t believe even he will miss me when I go away, and he used so to
watch for me to come, and be so pleased. Oh dear, dear, he must go
on to the list of people now who are to have things given them--or
something. But I can’t think whatever I can do to make them sorry when
I go.”

When Winifred went to bed that night she still had seen no way out of
the trouble.

[Illustration: Decorative image]



CHAPTER III.

A STRANGE JOURNEY.


That night Winifred could not sleep. Turn and settle herself as she
would she could not even fall into a doze; and all kinds of troublesome
thoughts kept flocking into her mind.

Chief amongst these was the old fear about the swallows--the fear that
they would go when she was not watching them, and that she would not be
able to bid them good-bye and wish them a pleasant journey.

Winnie’s head was tired and confused that night. She did not remember
that the swallows had hardly even begun to gather for flight as yet.
She fancied they were there in myriads in the water-meadows, and that
any time they might make their silent start.

“Oh dear!” sighed the little child, “perhaps they will go to-night.
Didn’t somebody say they always went at night and nobody ever saw them?
I should so like to see them go. I don’t think they would be angry with
me. I am so fond of them--I think they are fond of me too. I must just
get up and look out of the window.”

It was a mild night, and Winifred wrapped herself well up in her little
flannel gown, and folded the eider-down quilt about her shoulders.

She stole to the window and drew up the blind and looked out into the
dusky night. There was a little moon, but not much, and enough wind
to stir the leaves of the trees and make them look almost like living
things, bending over, and whispering one to the other.

Where were the swallows?

Surely they were flying about the trees, chattering excitedly, whirling
from place to place, planning, discussing, and preparing for flight?
Winifred listened and looked, and felt convinced of this. She was sure
she could see in the uncertain light the darting black forms chasing
one another, hurrying through the air, and sometimes darkening it for
a moment, as a cloud of winged birds rose together from the trees, and
then as suddenly dispersed again. Yes, they were certainly going to fly
away that night, the child thought, and she must wait and watch to see
them go.

She curled up her feet under her little gown, pulled the soft quilt
more comfortably about her, rested her head against an angle of the
window-frame, and prepared to stay for the flight.

How long she waited she did not know. Gradually it seemed to her that
the moonlight grew brighter. It became almost as light as day, only
that there was a softness and beauty in the light which seemed hardly
like sunshine.

Then all at once came a whirring of countless wings. It was a soft,
_feathery_ noise, as Winifred afterwards told herself, that made her
think of the angels flying through heaven. And this sound of wings came
nearer and nearer, and the air seemed dimmed by a dark, soft cloud of
flying birds.

“The swallows!” said Winifred, softly; “they are going. I must open
the window and say good-bye.”

The window was soon thrown wide, and the child leaned eagerly out and
called to the birds who were whirling past.

“Oh swallows, dear swallows! Good-bye! good-bye! Where are you going?”

And the swallows answered in a sort of musical chant:

  “We are going to the land of sunshine and flowers;
  We are leaving behind the darkness and cloud;
  We are going whither the great power leads;
  We are going we know, yet know not where.”

And as the child listened, a great longing came over her to fly with
the swallows to the bright unknown land whither they were bound.

“Swallows, swallows, I want to go to the sunshine and flowers. Can’t
you take me with you?”

And the swallows chanted again:

  “Can you trust the unseen power?
  Dare you fly out into space?
  Dare you leave the known behind you?
  Have you faith to fly away?”

Winifred clasped her hands and leaned out more and more, gazing at the
flying swallows.

“Oh, please stop! Please one of you stop and tell me some more. I want
to fly with you. I have to go away one day, I don’t know where. I
should like to go with you, if you’ll take me. Do please tell me when
you are going, and please wait and take me too. I want to fly with you.”

And then suddenly one of the swallows did stop, and perched upon the
ledge of the open window; and Winifred found that it was a beautiful
black, glossy bird, as big as herself, and yet she was not a bit
surprised or afraid.

“Dear swallow,” she said, stroking the bird’s soft, feathery head,
“dear, pretty swallow, won’t you let me fly away with you?”

“Why do you want to fly?” asked the swallow.

“I want to know where you are going. I want to know why you go; I have
to go away too, very soon. I should like best to go with you.”

“But I don’t know where we are going,” said the swallow; “how do you
know you would like to come?”

“You said it was to a nice place, with sunshine and flowers,” said the
child.

“Yes, so it is. I know that, but I don’t know where it is.”

“Do none of you know?”

“No; none of us know exactly.”

“Then how can you find the way?” asked Winifred, with grave interest.

The swallow looked at her with his bright eyes as he answered:

“We cannot lose the way. Something always tells us how to go. It never
tells us wrong.”

“And you are not afraid?”

“Oh no!”

The swallow looked at the child with grave, bright eyes, and asked:

“Would not you be afraid, either?”

“N--no. I think not,” answered Winifred, with just a little hesitation
in her voice.

“Not afraid to leave your home and your parents, and brothers and
friends, and go somewhere right away, you don’t know where?”

Winifred was silent. She did not know what to say. She was beginning to
feel a little fear, yet she hardly knew how or why.

“You are not afraid, swallow?”

“No; I know I shall be taken care of.”

“Then why should I be afraid?”

“I don’t know; but I think you are.”

Winifred pondered again.

“Do you know what makes you not afraid?”

The swallow turned his head from side to side, and by-and-by answered:

“I think it’s because I always do just as I’m meant to do--stay when
I ought to stay, and fly when I ought to fly, build when I ought to
build, and do just what I ought. If swallows always do that they need
never be afraid.”

“And how do you know what you ought to do?”

“Something inside me tells me.”

“Does it never tell you wrong?”

“No, never.”

Winifred sighed, and shook her head.

“But I never have anything inside me to tell me what I ought to do and
what I ought not,” she said.

“Do you not?” said a soft voice quite close to her, and the child
started, for it did not seem as if it was the swallow who had spoken,
and looking round, Winifred saw a beautiful figure in white standing
beside her, and looking with grave, kind eyes into her face. He had
great white wings, and Winifred said half aloud, half to herself:

“It is an angel.”

“Winifred,” said the angel, softly and yet gravely, “have you nothing
inside you that tells you when you do right and when you do wrong?”

Slowly Winnie’s eyes fell, and the rosy colour mounted to her cheeks.

“I do try not to do wrong. I don’t think I am very naughty,” she said,
as if excusing herself.

“Did I say you were?” asked the angel.

“It seemed as if you did.”

The angel smiled at her a sort of pitying smile.

“Is it I that spoke, my child? or the _something_ in your heart to
which you do not always listen?”

“I do what I can,” said Winifred, still seeming to answer a different
voice from the angel’s. “I am not strong. I can’t do like other people;
and besides, little girls can’t do things. I am going to try before I
go away, but I’ve never been able before.”

“Never?”

“No; there never seems anything for me to do for anybody else.”

“Nothing?”

“No; only such silly little things that it isn’t worth beginning.”

The angel looked gravely down upon the child for some minutes, and
Winifred felt a strange sense of pain and humiliation falling upon
her. Then he turned to the swallow who was still sitting upon the
window-ledge, and said quietly:

“Show her.”

Then the angel disappeared, and Winifred and her friend were left
together.

“Can you get on my back?” asked the swallow.

“Oh yes!” cried Winnie, eagerly, glad to have something to distract her
thoughts. “Are you going to take me with you? I should like that.”

“I am going to take you a little way, and show you some things,”
answered the swallow. “You will come back by-and-by.”

Winifred had no difficulty in making herself comfortable and secure
upon the swallow’s back, and very soon they were flying quickly through
the dark night.

“Are you going after the other swallows?”

“Not just yet.”

“Won’t you be afraid of getting lost if you are left behind?”

“Oh no, we never get lost whilst we are doing our duty.”

Winifred began to feel rather uncomfortable. She was half sorry she had
agreed to go with the swallow.

“Is it your duty to do what the--the angel told you?”

“Yes.”

“I think he was vexed,” observed Winifred rather discontentedly. “I was
glad when he went away.”

“Hush!” answered the swallow, “you ought not to talk like that.”

Winnie was silent for awhile, and then she asked:

“Where are you taking me, swallow? What are all those lights down
there?”

“The lights of a great city. I am going to show you some pictures.”

“I like pictures,” said the little girl, brightening up at the idea. “I
am glad now that I came with you, swallow.”

All in a minute Winifred found herself looking into a pretty garden.
There were some little children at play there, one little girl sitting
by herself with a book, and two younger boys trying hard to mend
a broken toy. It would have been an easy task enough for any more
experienced hands, and by-and-by one little fellow looked up and said:

“Please, sister, will you do it for us?”

“Oh, I can’t; I’m busy. You can quite well do it for yourselves.”

The two little fellows returned to their task, but their efforts
only made the damage worse, and soon they burst out crying in their
disappointment.

“What babies you are!” said the little girl rising, going further away.
“You make my head ache with all that noise.”

“What a horrid little girl!” cried warm-hearted Winnie. “Why couldn’t
she mend the toy? Anybody could have done it at first. Why doesn’t she
go and comfort them? Poor little boys!”

“You see it was such a _little_ thing,” answered the swallow, “only
a toy, and only a few tears. It was not worth while troubling over a
little thing like that. It would be different if it were something
great.”

Winnie was silent, and the swallow flew on again.

Now they were in a room, and a little boy was lying on a sofa, and he
had no books or toys within reach.

“I wish somebody would come--it is so dull,” Winifred heard him say. “I
wonder when the others will be coming in.”

Just then there came a sound of children’s voices laughing and
shouting. They came nearer and nearer, and seemed to pass the door of
the room, but nobody came in. The little sick boy called; but in the
noise of laughing nobody heard, and the tears came into his eyes.

“They have all gone up to play,” he said, “and nobody cares to see if I
want anything, and I did so want to have somebody to talk to!”

“Oh, swallow!” cried Winnie indignantly, “what horrid children! That
poor little boy! How could they?”

“It was such a _little_ thing, coming in to speak to him, I don’t
suppose anybody ever thought of it,” answered the swallow. “They are
not horrid children. They are fond of their little brother; but people
cannot always think of little things, you know.”

Winifred said no more. She felt subdued and ashamed. How could the
swallow know what she had been thinking about that day?

The next time the swallow paused it was again in a room. A lady was
half lying upon a sofa, and she did not look ill, only unhappy. She had
books and flowers and all sorts of nice things round her, but she was
not doing anything.

“Who is that?” asked Winifred. “Why does she look unhappy?”

“She is unhappy,” answered the swallow.

“Why, is she ill?”

“No, she is unhappy because she has nothing to do.”

“What does she generally do?”

“She has never done anything yet. She has been waiting all her life for
something, and it has never come.”

“Why!” said Winifred in a puzzled way, “grown-up people can do such
lots of things. My mamma is always busy.”

“What does she do?”

“Oh, ever so many things. Sees after the servants, takes care of us
all, is kind to poor people, and works for the sick. I can’t think of
half the things, but she is always doing something or other.”

“What little things those are though!” said the swallow almost, as
it seemed, contemptuously. “They would never suit that lady. She is
waiting and has always been waiting for some great thing to do. She
would never be satisfied with ‘little silly things’ like those.”

“Why, swallow,” cried Winifred indignantly, “how can you talk so! Why
it’s little things that make big ones. If mamma never did all those
little things every day, I think everybody would be miserable and
everything would go wrong.”

“Ah!” said the swallow, turning his head knowingly from side to side.
“So you have learnt your lesson at last. Now we will go back.”

Again came that whirling flight through the dark air, and Winifred
found herself at her nursery window again.

The angel was standing there, and it seemed to the child as if he
lifted her gently in his arms.

“Little child,” he said tenderly, “tell me what you have seen.”

Winifred felt in a very different mood from the one in which she had
set out. Looking into the angel’s face she answered humbly:

“I think I see now.”

“I think you do. You will not think things too little now to be worth
thinking of--little acts of self-denial, little words of love, little
deeds of kindness--you will not despise them now.”

“No, angel, I will try not. I did not understand before.”

“You did not; and yet, my child, you might have done.”

“How?”

“You might have read it in your Bible--in the life of Jesus Christ, our
Pattern.”

“Please explain.”

“He came down from Heaven to live for us--that was a great thing, was
it not? And He died on the Cross for our sins--that was a great thing
too. But He took little children up in His arms and blessed them, and
that _seemed_ a little thing to those who stood by; but has it proved
such a little thing?”

“Tell me,” said Winifred earnestly.

“I think it has made little children and loving parents very happy ever
since. I think it has made a great difference to the world, knowing
that He loved the children and did not think them _too little_ to be
blessed and noticed and loved. If nothing is too little for Him, need
we find it too little for us.”

“Dear angel,” said Winifred, with tears in her eyes, “I will try never
to forget.”

“Try, little child,” answered the angel tenderly; and looking down into
Winifred’s eyes, he added almost solemnly, “and when you have learnt
the lesson, will you be afraid to come with me?”

“With you, where?”

“To a bright, happy land, where no sorrow is--to a beautiful home where
you would live always in the light of your Saviour’s love. Would you be
afraid to go there, my child?”

“I don’t know,” answered Winifred slowly. “Do you mean heaven?”

“I mean a happy, holy place, where no sorrow or pain can ever come.
You were not afraid to go with the swallows over the sea to a land of
sunshine and flowers. You were not afraid of a long strange journey
with them, you knew not whither. Would you be afraid to trust to me?
Would you be afraid to let me carry you across a river, and into a new
land far more bright and beautiful than the one where the swallows go?”

Winifred lay still and quiet in the angel’s arms. She did not quite
know what he meant. She felt languid and dreamy; but she was not
afraid. She could not feel afraid looking up into his face and seeing
his kind eyes bent upon her.

“I am going away soon,” she said.

“You are, my child, you are.”

“Did you know?”

“Yes, I knew.”

“Will you come and take me when I go?”

“Yes, if you would not be afraid to come with me.”

“No, I should not be afraid, I think. I will be ready when you come.”

And then it grew dark; the angel and the swallow both faded away and
Winifred knew no more.



CHAPTER IV.

THE FIRST ATTEMPT.


The next thing of which Winifred was conscious, was the bright sunlight
streaming into the room, and her mother’s face bending anxiously over
her.

She woke up wide with a smile and a start.

“Mamma! Is it late?”

“No, dearest; but I have brought you some breakfast, before you get up.
You may have to stay in bed a little while longer than usual to-day.”

“Why, mamma?”

“I am afraid you may have taken cold. Do you know where I found you
last night, when I came up for a last peep? Curled up in the nursery
window-seat, fast asleep.”

Winifred began to smile.

“Oh yes, I remember now; but I didn’t mean to go to sleep.”

“Why did you go there at all, darling? You know you might have taken a
bad cold, though you do not look any the worse.”

“I did not think of that--it was careless,” said the child quickly. “I
think I must have been rather silly, for I thought the swallows would
go last night, though I know it is not time yet; and I wanted so much
to see them fly away that I got up and sat by the nursery window to
watch, and then I suppose I went to sleep.”

“You certainly did that, Winnie, and slept so soundly that you never
even woke when I carried you back to your little bed.”

Winifred smiled, and looked up half-wistfully into her mother’s face.
She was thinking of her dream; but she did not feel as though she could
tell it to anybody yet, not until she had thought it all over in her
own head first.

“May I get up soon, mamma?”

“Not for another hour or two, I think, darling. Then you shall do so,
if you wish.”

For a moment Winifred was disappointed. She wanted to go to the boys’
play-room and tidy their cupboard, and do all the little things for
them which she had neglected so long. For one moment her face fell, and
the little frown appeared; but then a sudden thought struck her and she
smiled bravely.

“Very well, mamma dear, I will do just as you like; only do you think I
might sit up a little while, so that I can _do_ things?”

“Yes, Winnie, I think that would not harm you. What makes my little
girl so anxious to be busy this morning?”

“Because I think I have been very idle for a long while--ever since I
have been ill,” answered Winifred gravely. “Idle and selfish too. I
want to be better now for two reasons, partly because I want to be good
and do what God would like to see me do, and partly because I should
not like people not to miss me, or to think I had been selfish, when I
am gone.”

“Gone!” echoed Mrs. Digby, with a little falter in her voice.

Winnie coloured quickly. She had not meant to say so much. She thought
she ought not to speak of the journey she was to take, until her
mother told her of it. Perhaps she ought not to have heard that
conversation--perhaps it was only a dream like the one she had just
awoke from.

She looked into her mother’s face with a little laugh, and kissed the
soft hand she still held in her own small one.

“I dreamt I was flying with the swallows, mamma. One of them took me on
his back and carried me; but he brought me back home again, you see.”

Was mamma crying? Winifred wondered, for Mrs. Digby had turned quickly
away, and the child fancied she put her handkerchief to her eyes.

Nurse, however, came in just then, and Winnie’s thoughts were directed
into a different channel.

“Nursey,” she called eagerly, “did Charley and Ronald finish the
kite-tail yesterday?”

“No, Miss Winnie, they went out to the Rectory instead, and never
touched it. I heard them this morning wishing it was done; and then
they’d have time to fly it before dark, when they came home in the
evening.”

“Oh, I am so glad! now I can finish it for them!” cried Winnie
eagerly. “Please go and fetch it for me, Nursey--I mean when you have
time to spare.”

“Won’t it tire you, dear?”

“Oh no, not to-day.”

“You haven’t got anything to do to-day then?” asked nurse with a smile,
and Winifred smiled too as she answered:

“Oh, I can think and work to-day both; and I should so like to finish
the boys’ kite for them.”

So in a very short while the child was hard at work, and before her
dinner-time came the long tail of the kite was quite finished.

“Mamma,” she asked whilst she was taking her dinner, “can I go and
see little Phil to-day? I haven’t been for a long while. I thought he
looked as if he would like to see somebody, when we passed yesterday.
May I take him the jelly?”

“The jelly will not be ready till to-morrow, Winnie; and I think I must
keep you indoors to-day; but if you have taken no cold, you shall go
out to-morrow if it is fine. Will that do as well, darling?”

Mrs. Digby looked with an inquiring glance into her little daughter’s
face; for when Winifred had taken a fancy into her head, she was not
always ready to give up without a struggle. The gentle little girl had
a good deal of self-will in her composition.

But to-day, after one little struggle, she looked up and smiled
cheerfully.

“To-morrow will be just as nice; and then I can put the boys’
toy-cupboard tidy for them this afternoon. It is in such a mess!”

“Why, Winnie, I thought that toy-cupboard was your pet horror!” said
the mother with a smile.

“I want to put it tidy to-day, mamma,” answered Winifred gravely. “I
know I shall find ever so many things that the boys have lost. You
see the boys have their lessons, and so much to do, and I have hardly
anything. I ought to do little things for them when I can.”

So the little girl got a duster and went up to the play-room, and
opened the cupboard-door. It was rather a dreadful sight that met her
eyes--toys, books, papers, string, nails, pieces of wood, bottles,
baskets, battered pieces of metal, odds and ends of every description
all tumbled together in one heterogeneous mass of disorder.

“Oh dear!” exclaimed Winnie, “what a mess!”

But she would not be discouraged, and she set manfully to work at her
task.

First she emptied all the contents of the cupboard on to the floor,
and dusted out all the shelves. Then out of the dreadful heap upon the
floor she selected all the books and carried them over to the book-case
where they should have been, and made room for them upon the shelves
there.

This involved a good deal of time and labour, and arrangement of other
books; and little Winnie, whose stock of strength was but small, began
to feel tired already.

Still she would not give up yet. She went down on her knees before the
heap, and picked out all the unbroken toys and the most useful and
respectable of the miscellaneous articles before her; and these she
dusted and arranged upon one shelf by themselves. Broken toys and odds
and ends which might come in useful, were placed in another; and a big
heap of “real rubbish” began to grow upon the floor behind her.

Then the string was collected and wound into little knots and put into
a box; and by that time poor Winnie was so tired she felt almost ready
to cry, and still a vast heap of queer things lay before her, which
seemed as if it defied her to reduce to order. Her head began to ache
and her eyes to swim; she felt as if she never should make an end of
the task, yet she could not bear to give in.

The door opened softly, and somebody looked in.

“Well, Winnie, is the work done yet?”

Winnie bent her head to hide the tears which stood in her eyes; but her
voice would shake a little as she answered:

“Not quite, mamma. There were such lots of things; I don’t know what to
do with them all.”

Mrs. Digby came nearer and looked at the heap and at the child.

“I think, darling, you have done enough for one day. You are tired now.
We will get nurse or Mary to finish the rest now.”

But tired as Winifred was, she could not bear to give up before she had
finished the work she had set herself to do.

“Oh please, mamma, let me finish,” she cried, whilst a round tear
splashed down upon the paper in her hand. “If other people finish it
will spoil it all. I wanted to do it myself.”

“But you are making yourself quite poorly, my darling. I cannot have
you do that. Let me do it for you, and you tell me how to put the
things.”

“No, no. I want to do it all myself,” repeated Winnie with a little
sob. “I’ve been very selfish to the boys--I’ve never done anything for
them. Do please let me do this.”

Mrs. Digby sat down near to the child, and answered very gently
and lovingly, yet with a tone in her voice which made Winnie feel
half-ashamed:

“Well, darling, if you have set your heart upon it, you shall try a
little longer.”

So Winnie went to work again; but with less and less success. She could
not see the things for tears, and a little voice in her heart, that
sounded like the swallow’s, kept saying:

“You ought to please your mamma, not yourself. Self-will is only
selfishness in a new dress.”

At last Winnie could stand it no longer. She burst into tears and ran
into her mother’s arms.

“Oh mamma, I wanted to be good and kind, and I’ve only been naughty
and disobedient. Why is it so hard to be good?”

“Because, darling, we sometimes set about it in not quite a right
spirit, or we let a wrong spirit creep in and master the right one,
with which we started. Even in little, little things we must ask Jesus
to help us with His Holy Spirit.”

“I think I forgot to do that,” said the child. “It seemed too little to
ask Jesus about.”

“Ah! darling, we all make that mistake only too often in our lives; yet
nothing is too little for Him to help us in.”

Winifred looked up into her mother’s face, and said with a gravity
beyond her years:

“Mamma, I sometimes think there aren’t such things as _little things_
in the world. They seem little, but really they are quite big.”

Mrs. Digby held her child closely in her arms, feeling that there
was something strange in hearing so advanced a thought fall from
such childish lips. Of late she had fancied that Winifred’s mind had
developed rapidly.

After a little silence the little girl said:

“May Mary come now and finish the cupboard? I should like everything
put straight before the boys come in.”

With Mary’s energetic and willing help, the task was soon accomplished.
Winifred directed operations, and the maid with her strong hands soon
carried out all her wishes. Chaos resolved itself into order, and
the cupboard soon became a pattern of neatness. It was so tidy that
Winifred could hardly believe her eyes, and she could hardly believe,
too, that everything except actual rubbish had been replaced.

She returned to her nursery in a much happier frame of mind; and the
delight of the boys on their return with their finished kite and tidy
cupboard more than repaid her for her trouble.

They had all taken tea together in the nursery by Winnie’s special
request, after she had watched the flying of the kite from the window
with the greatest interest. And the boys had been so kind and so merry,
and had made so much of their little sister, and what she had done for
them, that she went to bed in a very happy frame of mind, wondering
how it was she had not thought more of being kind and useful to her
brothers.



CHAPTER V.

LITTLE PHIL.


It was not for several days after this that Winifred was able to pay
her visit to the little sick boy at the lodge.

It seemed as if the night-watch for the swallows, and the day of hard
work which followed, had tired the little girl more than at first
appeared, and for a good many days following she was very weak and
poorly, and could only just creep from the night to the day-nursery and
back again; and even reading story-books tired her head and made her
eyes ache. The utmost she could do was to work at the red mittens she
was knitting for little Phil, and it was not always that she could even
do this.

“It’s almost like being ill again,” she said one day to her mother,
as she lay in her arms nestling her little curly head against the
supporting shoulder. “I was so much better in the summer. Am I always
going to get ill when the winter comes? I try to be good; but I do get
very tired.”

“My darling, I know you do,” answered the mother tenderly. “But I think
my little girl will be better soon--not ill a very long while.”

“I am glad,” said Winnie; but she could not quite understand why
mamma’s voice sounded sad when she told her this, nor why a great
bright tear rolled down from her dear eyes and fell down upon her own
curls. Why should mamma cry if she were soon going to get well?

But Winifred was learning not to ask questions upon some subjects. She
still believed she was going away, and that it was the thought of the
parting that made her mother sad; but as yet no one had mentioned the
matter to her, and she had refrained herself from alluding to it in any
way. She never felt quite certain whether or not it had been a dream.

[Illustration: He set her upon the stile where she could see
everything.--_p. 63._]

Winifred had thought a great deal during these past days. She was not
unhappy, and yet a sort of weight seemed to hang upon her. She could
not get rid of the idea that some great change was drawing near, and
the idea made her feel serious and thoughtful. She read her little
Bible as she had never read it before, and especially any parts where
it told about birds or angels, and about Jesus Christ noticing or
blessing little children.

Winifred wished so much that Jesus was living on earth now, that she
could go to Him and ask Him to take her in His arms and bless her. She
could love the dear Lord Jesus very much, she knew, if only she could
go to Him like that. It was so different from saying prayers at her
bedside.

She did not speak of these thoughts and fancies even to her mother;
they were hardly clear enough to her own self to be uttered in words
to a grown-up person. And she never told her dream, either, about the
swallows and the angel, although she thought very much about it. She
fancied perhaps it would make mamma sad, though why she should have
this fancy she could not tell.

When she began to feel better again these fancies still haunted her,
although she had expected them to go away; and even when she was so
far well that she was able to drive out with her mother one sunny
afternoon, and be put down at the lodge to talk to Phil till the
carriage returned, she still felt grave and serious--not merry and
gay as she had done on former occasions when she was first allowed out
after a few days’ detention in the house after any little attacks of
illness.

Little Phil’s face was very bright when he saw his visitor enter. The
sick boy led a lonely life, for there were very few people who ever
passed that way, and a visitor was a rare treat to one who could never
leave his couch to run about, but always had to wait for somebody to
come and see him.

“Miss Winnie!” he cried joyously, “how kind of you to come! I was
afraid I’d not see you again all the winter when I heard how poorly
you’d been. I am so glad!”

Phil was twelve years old, although he was so small that he was always
spoken of as “little Phil.” His spine was diseased, and he had not
grown since he was seven years old; but he had thought a great deal
whilst lying on his bed or couch, and his mind was of a thoughtful,
devotional bent, which sometimes led people to say that he was “too
good to live.”

Winnie had known him all her life, and a sort of intimacy had grown
up between the two children. At one time the little girl had been a
constant visitor at the lodge, but since her long illness this habit
had been broken through; and little Phil had sadly missed the visits to
which he had grown used--missed them more than Winnie had ever imagined.

“I am better to-day, Phil, and mamma said she would drive me to see
you. Are you any better?”

“No, Miss Winnie, I don’t suppose I’ll ever be better; but I’m used to
it, and it don’t make me fret--leastways not often.”

“Only when the pain is very bad?” suggested Winifred compassionately,
contrasting in her own mind, as she had never done before, the
difference between this boy’s lot and her own.

“Well, Miss Winnie, I don’t think it’s the pain as I mind most; I’m
kind of used even to that; ’tis the lonesomeness as makes me fret
sometimes.”

“Lonesomeness!”

“Why yes, you see, there ain’t hardly any folks to come in and chat a
bit, and I can’t get to school; and I’ve read all my books till I know
them by heart; and since you’ve been so weak like and poorly there
hasn’t seemed anything to make the time pass.”

Winnie’s heart smote her sorely, and her face flushed suddenly with
pain and shame. She knew it had more often been idleness than weakness
which had kept her during the past months from visiting Phil as before;
and certainly there could be no excuse for forgetting to lend him
books, as she had always done before, from her well-filled shelves.
When she thought of the piles of brightly-bound story-books which had
been showered upon her during her tardy convalescence, she hardly knew
how to look Phil in the face, so ashamed did she feel of her neglect.

“I am so sorry, Phil,” she faltered, blushing and looking down.

“Oh, don’t you trouble about it, Miss Winnie. Folks didn’t ought to
fret for little troubles like that. Besides, I think sometimes it’s
done me good, all that thinking I had time for then.”

Winifred drew a little nearer, interested by the look on Phil’s face.

“What did you think about?”

“Oh, ever such a lot of things; and by-and-by it seemed quite clear.”

“What seemed clear?”

“Why, that it was wrong to fret as I’d been doing--wrong to feel so
lonesome.”

“But why was it wrong?”

“Because it seemed kind of not trusting the Lord Jesus. He said He’d
always be with us to take care of us and comfort us; and sure enough He
is, if only we’ll just look up and find Him.”

Winifred looked awed and reverent.

“Did you look up and find Him, Phil?”

“I did after a bit; but it was a good while before I seemed able to see
Him.”

Winifred sighed, and looked wistful.

“I wish I could do that. I do so wish Jesus lived down here, so that
we could just go and see Him and talk to Him, then it would be all so
nice. Heaven seems such a long way off; it doesn’t seem as if He could
see us or hear us right away there.”

“Well, just at first perhaps it doesn’t,” answered Phil, with a
far-away look in his eyes, “but that feeling goes off by-and-by, and He
seems quite near--at least he does to me; and I _know_, just as well as
if I could see Him, that He’s listening to me, and that He loves me,
just as He loved those little children as He blessed when He did live
down here.”

“Do you feel like that, Phil?” said Winifred. “I wish I could too.”

“I think you will, Miss Winnie, if you think much about Him, and ask
Him to help you to see Him. It seems as if He likes folks to ask Him
things, so as He can give them what they want; leastways, it has always
seemed so to me.”

“Do you like thinking about Jesus?” asked Winnie, after a few minutes’
silence.

“Why, yes, to be sure I do. You see--you see--” and there Phil paused.

“What, Phil?”

“You see, Miss Winnie, I can’t help thinking as I shall go to Him
before so very long. Folks don’t tell me so, but I can kind of see it
in their faces, and it sets me thinking.”

Winifred looked grave and awed. She hesitated a little before she could
bring herself to ask the next question, and when she did so it was in a
very low voice.

“Do you mean that you think you will die soon, Phil?”

“Why, yes, Miss Winnie; I know the doctor doesn’t think I can live very
much longer.”

Winifred’s face was very grave and rather pale; she drew a little
nearer the boy’s couch.

“Doesn’t it make you frightened to think about dying, Phil?” she said.

“Not now, Miss Winnie; it did once. I was ever so much afraid at first,
and couldn’t bear to believe it. But I couldn’t help thinking about it,
do what I would, and now I don’t feel a bit afraid.”

“I think I should be afraid,” said Winnie.

“Not if you loved Jesus,” answered the boy, with a sudden smile like
sunshine lighting all his face.

“I think now I am glad to go, if it is His will to take me.”

“Glad!”

“Why, you see, Miss Winnie, I’m not like other lads. I can’t do no work
in the world, I can only lie here and bear the pain. I’d be ashamed to
fret and make a fuss over it, when the Lord bore such a deal more for
us; but it do make me glad to think as it won’t last always, and that
He will call me soon to come to Him, where there won’t be any more pain
to bear or any sorrow either.”

Something in the words struck a chord of memory in Winifred’s heart.

“That’s just what the angel said to me--no pain, and no sorrow,” she
said in a dreamy way. “Will He send an angel for you, Phil?”

“Sometimes I fancy He will, Miss Winnie; but we don’t know His ways, we
can only guess.”

“I wonder if He will send my angel,” said the child, still intent on
her own thought.

“Your angel, Miss Winnie?”

“Yes, the one that came the other night to teach me how naughty I had
been. Oh, I forgot, you don’t know, I had _such_ a dream a few nights
ago, Phil, I think I should like to tell it to you.”

So Winifred told her strange dream, and Phil listened with absorbed
attention.

“That was a nice dream, Miss Winnie,” he said at the close. “You
wouldn’t be afraid to go away with the angel, would you?”

“Oh no. I don’t think I should be afraid to go with the angel--only I
should be afraid, I think, to die.”

“But,” said Phil in a slow, thoughtful way, “I think dying just means
going away with God’s angel. I don’t think there’s any difference.”

Winifred was silent awhile, and then said slowly:

“If that’s it, Phil, perhaps I shouldn’t be afraid, for I do love
Jesus, and I should like to see Him. Phil, do you think the angel will
come for me soon?”

Phil looked at the child, his great hollow eyes full of thought, and
answered gravely;

“I don’t know, Miss Winnie.”

“I am not ill like you, am I?”

“No, not like me.”

“Do you think I am ill?”

“Some folks think so, Miss Winnie, by all I hear; but nobody can tell
when we shall die except God, and it can’t much matter so long as He
knows, can it?”

Winnie sat grave and pensive for a long while; but there was no fear in
her face, hardly any surprise. Both children were too much in earnest
to feel that anything strange had passed between them.

“I wonder if that is what they meant. I wonder if I am going _there_
when the swallows go.”



CHAPTER VI.

WINIFRED’S BROTHERS.


Winifred went away from little Phil’s home in a grave and quiet mood;
but she did not feel unhappy, and she did not feel afraid.

This serious mood lasted for many days, during which the child did a
great deal of thinking, although, with the invariable reticence of
childhood, she did not speak of her thoughts to those about her.

She did not leave Phil’s couch under any distinct impression of
approaching death. What had passed between the two children was not
sufficient to make Winnie think she was going to die; but the talk
with the sick boy had put new thoughts into her head, made plain some
puzzling questions which had troubled her before, and given her food
for much meditation.

The sense of approaching change seemed to overshadow her more and more
as days passed on.

Nobody spoke to her of any journey, and yet something in Winnie’s heart
seemed to tell her every day that she was going away--that a time would
soon come when she would have to say good-bye to those around her, and
go, she knew not whither.

She watched the swallows with an ever-increasing interest, for were
they not going too before very long? They, too, were feeling as she was
feeling, that some power stronger than themselves was working within
them, and would in time urge them to the last flight. They would have
to go when they were bidden, and they would obey the voiceless call
without a murmur and without a fear, and why should she not do the same?

“They don’t know where they are going, and I don’t know where I am
going,” mused the child sometimes. “They don’t know the way, and I
don’t know the way. But they aren’t afraid to go. They know that
something will show them the way, and will take them to a nice place
where they can be happy. I don’t see why I need be afraid either.
Mamma knows where I am going, I think. She will take care of me; and
God knows too, and He will take care of me. I think it must be God who
takes care of the swallows and shows them where to go. If He is so kind
to the birds, He is sure not to forget me. I don’t see why we need ever
be afraid of anything, because He can always take care of us.”

But in the midst of new thoughts Winifred did not forget the old wish,
to do things for other people, and make herself of use.

She took the boys’ play-room under her special care. She looked after
their toys, their books, and all those nameless treasures which a
housemaid despises, and destroys, but which she could appreciate and
care for.

She let them come to her now with all their stories, either of sorrow
or joy, and was always ready with sympathy or congratulation. She
mended their gloves, and sewed on refractory buttons, and never sent
them out of the nursery because their noise made her head ache.

Charley and Ronald were affectionate boys, and very fond of their
little sister. Now that she had begun to be interested in their
affairs, and to encourage their attentions, it seemed as if they could
not make enough of her, and a very happy nursery party was always to
be found round the fire each evening, the brothers chattering away
to Winnie of all the day’s adventures, she listening with unfeigned
interest, and more often than not working with her active little
fingers at some light task in their service.

She liked to hear about the other boys who shared her brothers’ studies
with the tutor in the nearest town. She soon learnt to know their
names, their characters, and dispositions, and to take an interest in
every one; and by-and-by she revealed a little plan which had long been
working in her head.

“Charley,” she said one evening, “do you think it would be nice to give
a tea-party?”

“A tea-party, Winnie?”

“Yes, a sort of a tea-party on a Saturday afternoon, and ask all the
boys. Do you think they would care to come?” asked the little girl.

“Come here!”

Charley and Ronald looked pleased and interested; and both fastened
their eyes eagerly upon Winifred, as if to make sure of her meaning.

“Yes, I feel as if I should like to see them, before--I mean I have
heard about them and I think it would be nice to know them a little. Do
you think they would come?”

“I’m sure they would!” cried Ronald, “they’d like it awfully.”

“Would you like it too?”

“Of course we should. You’re a brick, Winnie, for thinking of it,”
cried Charley. “What could have put it into your head?”

Winifred smiled in the quiet way which had grown upon her of late.

“I don’t quite know. I seem to think of a lot of things now.”

“You do,” assented Charley with an emphasis that brought a flush of
pleasure to Winifred’s pale face. “You think of everything now. I can’t
think what we did before you were well enough to look after our things.
I knew they were always in a horrid muddle.”

Winnie smiled and sighed too.

“I wish I’d begun before,” she said, “when I had more time. I wish I
hadn’t been so lazy before.”

“You weren’t lazy, you were ill,” said Charley stoutly. “But you’re
getting better now--you’ll soon be well, won’t you, Winnie?”

Charley spoke with a certain earnestness of manner which made his
sister look at him to see what made him ask the question.

“Oh yes, I think so, Charley,” she answered. “I think I’m going to get
well quite soon.”

Ronald’s thoughts were busy with the proposed plan of the tea-party.

“It would be jolly,” he said, “awfully jolly. Do you think mamma will
let us have it?”

“Oh yes, I am almost sure she will,” answered Winnie. “I will ask her
to-night. I was waiting till I had asked you, because I wanted to know
first if you thought it would be nice.”

“Will it be soon?” Ronald asked eagerly.

“I should like it to be soon,” answered Winnie, “just as soon as we can
have it. Next Saturday, perhaps. That is three days off.”

“Oh, jolly!” cried Ronald. “I like things to come soon. I can’t bear to
wait.”

“No, I don’t think it would do to wait,” answered the little girl, her
eyes turning towards the window, which overlooked the water-meadows
where the swallows were beginning to gather.

Charley’s eyes followed the direction of her glance, and then returned
to her face.

“Why wouldn’t it do to wait?” he asked with a touch of uneasiness in
his voice. “What are you thinking of, Winnie?”

“Of the swallows,” she answered still absently; “we must have it before
they go, you know!”

“Why?” and Charley opened his eyes wide, not seeing the connection.

Winifred awoke from her daydream with a little start, and smiled.

“Oh, I don’t quite know. Perhaps it is all fancy. Only it seems
sometimes as if everything would be different when the swallows go.”

Charley looked still half-uneasy and half-puzzled; but Ronald had so
many questions to ask about the tea-party that there was no time to
wonder more about Winifred’s thoughts.

“Will anybody else come beside our fellows?”

“I shall ask Violet,” answered Winifred. “She will be pleased to come,
and can stay with me whilst you and the boys are playing in the garden
before tea. We will get it all ready for you. Violet will like that;
I don’t think I have been quite kind lately. I have forgotten her
sometimes; and poor little Vi has no brothers, and not half so many
nice things as I have. I wish I hadn’t been so selfish.”

Winifred sighed a little, and Charley stood up and put his arm about
her neck.

“You’re not selfish, Winnie. You’re just as nice as you can be.
Everybody says so. Everybody loves you--I know it, if you don’t.”

“Of course they do, Win,” added Ronald, waking up to what was passing.
“All the fellows ask about you. They all want to know how you are
when you’re ill. They don’t know you hardly at all; but they all like
you--everybody does.”

Winifred was pleased to hear this, although she hardly felt to deserve
praise.

“People are very nice and kind,” she said smiling. “I shall like to see
the boys. I know mamma will let us have a very nice tea-party. Cook
will be pleased too; she will like to make us nice things.”

“Jolly!” cried Ronald again, whilst Charley said more gravely:

“People like doing what you want them to, I think, Winnie.”

Winifred was silent a moment, thinking, then she said half-shyly:

“Should you like to do something that I wanted you to, Charley?”

“Yes, to be sure I should.”

“So should I,” added Ronald.

It was a little while before Winifred spoke: but the boys waited
eagerly to hear her commands. They had been wishing one to another that
they could do something to please their little sister.

“I should like very much, if you didn’t mind, if you would go every
week to see little Phil at the lodge. He is so lonely.”

“Oh yes, I’ll go!” answered Charley. “I like poor Phil, but I’m afraid
I’ve forgotten him often; but he likes you best, Winnie.”

“I shall go to see him as long as I can,” answered Winnie. “But--but--”

“Why, Winnie!” cried Ronald, “you’re not going to be ill again this
winter, are you?”

“Oh no, I hope not--I don’t think so. Only--I--I fancy perhaps I shan’t
be able to go and see poor little Phil very much longer. I should like
to think you would go instead, and talk to him and lend him books, so
that he will not miss me very much. Sometimes I think he’ll die before
very long.”

Charley’s face was grave and troubled; but all he said was:

“We’ll take care of him, Winnie. He shan’t be dull if we can help it.
I’ll never forget him any more, I promise you.”

“Thank you,” said Winnie gratefully, and her heart felt the lighter for
this promise. She knew Charley would not fail when he had once pledged
himself.

Mrs. Digby gave a willing consent to Winifred’s plan for the proposed
tea-party; and entered into an animated discussion of its every detail.
It was arranged for the following Saturday. The guests were to be
invited for three o’clock, to have games in the garden, tea in the
nursery, charades in the play-room, and fireworks after supper just
before going home.

Everything sounded delightful, and the boys went off in high spirits to
prepare their lessons.

“Mamma,” said Winnie, after she was in bed, her mother still remaining
beside her, “may I give away some of my books and toys to Violet when
she comes?”

“What makes you wish to do so, dear?”

“I have so many, you know, mamma, and Violet has so few, and she would
be so pleased. Besides, I feel sometimes as if I was growing older. I
don’t seem to care so much for toys and fairy tales. I like some of my
books better than ever; but I hardly ever read the stories I used to be
so fond of, and I haven’t played with my dolls--Oh, I don’t know when!”

“And so you would like Violet to have them instead, would you?” asked
Mrs. Digby, caressing the child’s head.

“Yes, mamma, if you don’t mind. I feel as if I’d not been quite kind
to Violet all this while. She would have liked to come here oftener to
play, and I haven’t asked her; and I haven’t been to see her when I
know she would have liked it. I didn’t think about things once; but I
do now, and I know it wasn’t quite right of me.”

“And you think Violet would be pleased by having the dolls and fairy
tales?”

“I think she would; and I should like to feel that she had them. You
don’t mind, do you, mamma?”

“No, dearest. If you do not want your toys yourself, it is better to
give them to some one who will be pleased by having them.”

“Yes; and it will be nice to have seen the boys’ friends, and to have
made Vi happy. I wonder I never thought about it before. Mamma, the
swallows won’t have gone by Saturday, will they?”

“No, darling, no,” and it seemed as if Mrs. Digby’s voice shook. “They
will gather a long while yet. What makes my little girl think so much
of the swallows?”

“I don’t quite know, mamma. Sometimes I can’t help fancying that
everything will be different when the swallows have gone.”

The mother kissed her child very fervently and tenderly, and left the
room without another word.

To her surprise she found Charley lingering about the door, as if
waiting for her. His face wore a troubled look, and he did not speak
at once, but followed his mother down the passage, and did not speak
until they reached the window at the end of the corridor near to the
staircase, which looked over the water-meadows.

“Mamma,” he said then, looking up into her face, “have you been crying?”

“Just a tear or two, my boy. What makes you ask?”

Charley was nearly fifteen, and old enough to have been made anxious by
one or two things he had heard and seen of late.

“Were you crying about Winnie? Mamma, is there anything the matter with
Winnie?”

“Your little sister is in a very precarious state of health, Charley.”

“I know, mamma, she is pale and thin and weak; but she was much worse
last winter.”

“She _seemed_ to be worse, my boy.”

“Mamma, mamma!” cried Charley anxiously, “you don’t mean--Oh, mamma,
she isn’t--”

The boy could not say the words, but his eyes spoke his meaning
plainly enough. Mrs. Digby’s tears fell for a moment fast and freely;
but then they were checked, and she answered steadily:

“We are in God’s hands, dear Charley, and our precious little child is
under His care. He may be willing to spare her to us a little longer.
We may all pray and even hope; God’s ways are not our ways, and He is
very merciful.”

Charley’s face grew pale. He saw by his mother’s looks how little hope
she had.

“Mamma!” he cried; “Oh, mamma!”

“Dear Charley,” she said tenderly, “we must all be brave; we may still
pray to God to spare our darling, only we must pray first ‘Thy will be
done.’”

The boy choked and a lump rose in his throat; then he commanded his
voice and asked:

“What does Dr. Howard say?”

“He says that--that--he thinks Winifred cannot get any better.”

There was silence after this, and then the boy said more slowly and
calmly:

“Does Winnie know?”

“I do not know how much; but from what she says I feel sure she knows
something.”

“It was her talk to-day made me begin to think,” said the boy with a
tearless sob. “Oh mamma, she is such a dear Winnie; and she talks just
as if she were going away.”

“My poor Charley, we shall all miss our sweet little girl; but, dear
boy, we must remember where she has gone, and Who has taken her.”

The boy sobbed on still.

“She will never come back any more.”

“No, Charley--could we really wish her back? She will not come to us;
but we may go to her. That must then be more than ever the aim of our
lives.”

“Yes, yes,” said the boy; and by-and-by he asked in a whisper, “When?”

“Ah, Charley, I ask that question every day. Sometimes I think it will
not be very long after the swallows go.”



CHAPTER VII.

WINIFRED’S PARTY.


Winifred’s tea-party was a great success. Preparations for it occupied
the child’s mind for the three days previous to the important Saturday,
and by the time the day had arrived nothing had been neglected which
she thought could add to the enjoyment of the expected guests.

They had arrived punctual to the appointed hour, and had had fine games
in the garden and meadows, which Winifred and Violet had watched from
the nursery window.

They had had a splendid tea in the nursery, and had fully appreciated
the good fare which their little hostess had pressed upon them. They
were all very gentle to Winifred, and seemed to wish to sit by her and
talk to her, and the little girl had been pleased to think that her
brothers’ friends liked her.

Every one had enjoyed the tea very much, and although Charley had
looked a little grave, as he had done for three days past, he did not
seem unhappy; and he made so much of his little sister, that she could
not wish him other than he was.

The boys had gone away to romp in the play-room now, and Winifred was
left alone in the nursery with Violet for her companion.

She was rather tired with her exertions on behalf of her guests, and
was glad to curl herself up in a comfortable corner of the old sofa,
and rest herself after her labours.

“It was a nice tea-party,” said Violet, coming and sitting beside her
friend; “I don’t think I ever was at a nicer one; I do so like boys!”
and the little girl sighed and wished she had some brothers.

“They were nice boys,” said Winifred smiling. “I am glad I know them
now.”

“Didn’t you know them before?”

“No, hardly at all.”

“How funny! If I had brothers I should always want to know all their
friends.”

Violet was a merry little maiden, not at all given to grave moods, or
over-much meditation. Her parents were poor, and she had never had many
toys or books, or even as many friends as she would have liked. There
were very few people living near, and there was no carriage to take her
to other people’s houses; so the little girl had been dependent upon
her own happy temper and limited resources for most of the enjoyment of
life.

Such a tea-party as the one in which she had just been joining was an
immense treat to her. She could not understand how it was that Winifred
had not cared before to cultivate the acquaintance of such nice boys.

“I’m afraid it was because I was selfish,” said Winifred gravely.

“You selfish!” cried Violet, opening her eyes wide; “Oh, Winnie, I’m
sure you’re not.”

“I’m afraid I have been, Vi; I wish I hadn’t; but I don’t think I knew
it before. I didn’t see things that I see now.”

“Why do you see them now?” asked Violet with interest; but Winifred
did not answer just at once, and the child, too excited to sit down,
strayed to the window and looked out.

“What a lot of swallows!”

“Yes. They are beginning to gather. Don’t you know that they will go
soon?”

“Go!”

“Yes, they fly away, you know, to other countries, and come back again
in the spring.”

“Do they? How clever of them! How do they know when to go, and where to
go?”

“I don’t exactly know. I think it must be God who teaches them.”

“God! But God can’t care about the swallows!”

“I think God cares about everything,” said Winifred dreamily. “If he
didn’t take care of the swallows, how could they find their way?”

“But swallows are such little things; I don’t see how God can care for
them.”

Winifred did not say anything at first, so Violet turned from the
window to look at her.

“Violet,” she said presently; “I think if God didn’t care about little
things, He couldn’t care about big ones either.”

“Why not?”

“Because it is little things that make big ones. I don’t think anything
is really so very little.”

“I don’t see,” said Violet, knitting her brow.

Winifred pondered awhile.

“Mamma once told me a story about it, when I was ill; I don’t think I
understood then--I mean I didn’t think what it meant; but I have been
thinking about it lately--I understand better now.”

“A story!” repeated Violet, with more animation in her tone. “I like
listening to stories. Tell me the story, please, Winnie.”

“I will soon, when it gets dark. I want you to look in that box there
in the corner, and see if you like the things in it.”

Violet went eagerly to work, lifting the lid, and carefully examining
each of the parcels disclosed to view. As she did so, rapturous
exclamations of delight escaped her.

Winifred had taken great pains with her selection of toys and books
and pretty trifles. Such a box as Violet was now examining would have
filled any child with delight. Poor little Violet, who had always
suffered from a lack of childish treasures, could not say enough, nor
admire enough; she was in a perfect ecstasy.

“Oh, Winnie, how lovely! What perfectly sweet things! Oh, I never saw
such a lot of lovely toys! That doll is just a darling! Oh! whoever
did send you such a splendid box?”

“Nobody sent it to me,” answered Winifred, with a little smile. “I am
going to send it to a little girl--a friend of mine.”

Violet was replacing the things in the box with careful, gentle
fingers. She gave a little sigh as she wrapped up the beautiful doll in
its paper, and gave it one little kiss before she hid its pretty face.

Winifred heard both the sigh and the kiss.

“How pleased the little girl will be!” said Violet, as she closed the
box-lid lingeringly.

“I hope she will. I don’t think she has a great many toys; and she is
fond of dolls and puzzles and fairy tales.”

“Like me,” Violet was just going to say; but she checked herself, and
said instead,

“Does she? How pleased she will be!”

“I hope she will.”

“Of course she will; she must be. Do I know her?”

“Yes.”

“Do you like her? Is she a nice little girl?”

“I think so.”

“What is her name?”

“Her name is Violet.”

Violet gave such a jump that Winifred could not help laughing.

“Yes, Vi dear, the box is for you if you will have it, and you are to
take it home with you to-night. You see, I’m getting too old now to
care for dolls and toys, and then--and then--Well, I thought perhaps
you would like them, and I should like you to have them, because I have
been fond of them, and I know you will take care of them. And so the
box is yours now.”

It was some time before Violet could really believe the wonderful news,
and then it seemed as if she could not thank Winifred enough. She
kissed her and hugged her, and showed in every way in her power how
delighted she was; and Winifred felt very glad she had thought of a way
to make her little friend so happy.

“You are the dearest Winnie in the world,” said Violet, nestling close
up to her at last. “I love you a whole lot.” And by-and-by she added,
after a little pause, “You are not going away anywhere, are you,
Winnie?”

“I don’t quite know,” answered Winifred slowly. “What makes you think
so?”

“I thought I heard papa and mamma say something like it--something
about how you would be missed--how sorry people would be when you had
gone. I could not be quite sure, but I thought they were talking about
you, Winnie. When I asked mamma she would not tell me, but I thought
she _looked_ somehow as if it was true; is it, Winnie?”

“I don’t know, Vi; nobody has said anything to me. Sometimes I fancy
perhaps I am going somewhere, but I don’t know.”

“Would you like to go?” asked Vi with interest. “Will it make you quite
well again to go? Do you know where you are going?”

Twilight had crept into the room, and the dancing firelight made
flickering lights and shadows upon the walls and low ceiling. Winifred
held Violet’s warm hand in hers, and spoke more plainly to her than she
had ever done before.

“Vi,” she said gently, “you won’t cry if I tell you?”

“No, Winnie; why should I?” but the tone was a little apprehensive, and
Violet crept closer to her little friend, and looked into her face.

“I think, Vi, that I am going to heaven.”

Violet started, and held Winifred’s hand closer and closer, in a
frightened way.

“Oh no, no, Winnie! you can’t mean that! Oh no, it can’t be so
dreadful!”

“It isn’t dreadful, Vi. Going to heaven couldn’t be dreadful, you know.”

Violet made no answer.

“I thought at first that I was only going away with nurse to a warmer
country to get well again, but now, I think--I am almost sure--that I
am going to heaven soon. Don’t cry, Vi.”

“Why do you think so?” sobbed the child.

“I don’t know if I can explain, quite. It seems as if something inside
told me--just as something tells the swallows when they are to go.”

“The swallows come back,” said Violet, with another convulsive sob.

“Yes,” answered Winifred dreamily; “but when we get to heaven, Vi, I do
not think we shall want to come back.”

Violet checked her tears presently, and asked: “Aren’t you afraid,
Winnie?”

“No; not now.”

“I should be.”

“I was once; but I’m so _sure_ now that God will take care of me. When
the swallows go they’re not afraid, and they don’t know where they are
going, and they don’t know the way. God takes care of them, so I can’t
help being quite sure that He will take care of me.”

Violet sat silent, staring into the fire. By-and-by she heaved a great
sigh.

“How sorry every one will be! How they will all miss you!”

“Do you think they will?”

“Oh yes. Why everybody loves you, Winnie. You are so good and kind to
every one.”

“I’m afraid not,” answered Winnie gravely. “I used to think about
pleasing people, but since I’ve been ill I’ve got very selfish; I did
nothing for anybody, and did not try to be even kind or pleasant.”

“You were ill,” answered Vi; “you couldn’t help it. You couldn’t come
to see people. It was very naughty of me to be cross with you.”

Another childish conscience was pricking its owner, bringing to mind
sundry cross words and ungracious complaints which had fallen from her
lips during the past months.

Winifred saw at once that her neglect had pained her little friend.

“I could have asked you to come to me,” she said quickly. “It was very
naughty and selfish of me to think of nobody else. It makes me very
sorry now, that I was so lazy and so unkind.”

“Don’t, Winnie; you weren’t,” interrupted Violet. “And now you’re just
as kind as you can be--everybody says so. What will they do----?”

Violet stopped short, the tears in her eyes.

Winifred knew what she meant, and answered it.

“Mamma will miss me most,” she said. “Vi dear, I want you to do
something for me. Will you come to see mamma as often as you can, and
try to comfort her? She is fond of you, and she will like it. She
hasn’t another little girl; but if you would come in and talk to her,
and tell her things, and kiss her, and be fond of her, I am sure she
would like it. She is fond of you, Vi.”

“I will, Winnie. I love your mamma a whole lot. I should like to come
and see her and tell her things. But oh, Winnie, I can’t bear to think
about it--it seems so sad and dreadful.”

“We won’t think about it, then, nor talk about it, if you don’t like. I
haven’t talked to anybody else, Vi, and I don’t know--It is only what
I fancy. I may--perhaps--be wrong.”

Violet took courage from this idea, which she eagerly seized upon.
Children soon turn their minds from a subject which seems sad or
painful.

“You have not told me your story yet, Winnie; and it is quite dark
enough now.”

“Yes, and almost time to go down to watch the boys’ charade; but I
will just tell you what it was, as I promised, because I think perhaps
it would be easier to be good if we could always remember that little
things matter just as much as big ones, and are really often harder to
think of, and to do.”

Winifred paused a moment, whilst Violet settled herself to listen to
the story.

“It isn’t a very long one, and I can’t tell it nicely like mamma; but
it was about a little boy whom she once knew quite well--a nice little
boy whom everybody was fond of, because he was so good-tempered and
merry. His name was Frank, and he lived in a nice little house with his
mother, and they were very happy.

“One day a pane of glass was broken in the green-house. It was Frank
who had done it by accident, but he told a lie, and said he hadn’t. It
was the first time he had ever told a lie, and it seemed a very little
one, and he didn’t think much about it. But then after he had told one
story he told another, and then another, and at last his mother found
him out, and was so shocked and grieved about it that she sent him to
school.

“For a little while he seemed to do better; but by-and-by he began to
tell little lies again to get out of trouble, and then he told big
ones, and a wicked big boy found him out once in a great lie, and said
he would tell of him if Frank would not help him in some wicked thing
he wanted to do. So Frank promised he would, and the big boy led him
into all sorts of dreadful mischief, and at last it got found out by
the schoolmaster, and Frank was expelled.”

“Oh!” ejaculated Violet, opening her eyes wide. “What did his mother
say then?”

“His mother never saw him,” answered Winifred gravely, “for he was
afraid to go home; and he ran away to sea, and led a miserable, wicked
life for a great many years, and never once wrote to tell his mother
that he was alive, or what had become of him.”

“How wicked!”

“Yes, it was wicked; and it broke his mother’s heart; and when she
could find out nothing about him, and months and years went by without
any news, she grew weaker and weaker, and sadder and sadder, and
by-and-by she died. Think, Vi, if he hadn’t told that little lie about
the pane of glass, or any other _little_ lie, perhaps he might have
grown up a good man.”

“Is that the end of the story, Winnie?”

“No, not quite; for by-and-by when he was a man he thought he would go
back and see his mother again. He was poor, and miserable, and wicked,
and he had been very ill, and he thought he would go back and try and
be a good son if only his mother would forgive him. Well, he came back
to England and went to his own village, and found that his mother was
dead, and that she had died through his wicked conduct. Nobody knew
Frank because he had changed so much, and nobody said a kind word to
him. They did not know him, though he knew some of them. He was so
desperate and miserable that he determined he would kill himself; and
in the evening he crept down the village street to get to the river,
and he meant to shoot himself there, and let his body fall into the
water and be carried away.”

“And did he?” asked Vi, in an awe-struck tone.

“No; for as he was passing down the street he passed the school-room,
and the door was open, and he saw that the room was full of people.
He just fancied he would like to see what was going on, so he crept
into the porch and listened. The clergyman was talking to the children
and people, telling them about the prodigal son coming home to his
father; and then he said that he would give them just one little text
to remember, three little words which would always be a help if ever
they had done wrong and were afraid whether they could be forgiven. The
little text was ‘God is Love’--just that; and he talked to them about
God and God’s love so earnestly, that poor Frank forgot all about the
wicked plan in his head, and listened for every word; and he could not
help crying as he thought how wicked he was and how good God was, and
he crept away to cry outside; and when the clergyman came out, he saw
him sitting on the ground, and he went and spoke to him and found out
who he was. And the clergyman had been a friend of Frank’s mother and
had known him when he was a boy; and he was taking care of some money
which the mother had left for him in case he ever came back. And so
he took Frank home with him, and talked to him and comforted him and
helped him to be a good man; and Frank tried very hard, and always
thought of the three little words, and by-and-by he did grow to love
God and to be a good man, and mamma knows him now, and says he is very
kind and good. And he is never tired of telling people how important
little things are; because it was just a little lie which began all
his wickedness, and it was one little text of three little words which
stopped him from killing himself, and made him try to be a good man
again.”

“That is a nice story,” said Violet. “I am so glad he got good at last.”

“I am so glad that ‘God is Love,’” said Winnie.

“I will try never to do little naughty things again,” added Violet;
“I mean I will try never to call them little or think them little any
more.”

They had not time to discuss the subject any longer, for the boys came
rushing up to tell them that the charade was just going to begin, and
that their presence was requested for the occasion.

The acting was very funny and amusing, and the boys did it very well.
Winifred and Violet laughed heartily, and all grave thoughts seemed for
the time quite driven away.

Then came the supper in the dining-room, and crackers were pulled and
jokes cracked, and everybody was very merry and gay.

Winifred was quite the queen of the night; and so much attention was
heaped upon her that she hardly knew how to respond to it all.

Mr. Digby and Charley let off the fireworks last thing, and the
exhibition gave great delight to the whole party. Everybody agreed that
it had been a splendid evening, and the guests drove away in the big
waggonette in the highest spirits, Violet at the far end with the big
box safe under her feet.

Winifred, from her sheltered nook by the hall-window, watched the
carriage drive away, and kissed her hand in answer to the boys’
farewell cheer; then she turned away with a grave smile on her little
pale face.

“I think they were all pleased,” she said. “They are nice boys,
Charley. I wonder I never wanted them to come before.”

“They can come often if you like them,” said Ronald, eagerly. “They
liked it awfully, and they all said you were a brick. They will come as
often as you like, I’m sure.”

Winifred smiled a little.

“I should like to think they would often come,” said she, slowly. “If
you like it and they like it, and mamma doesn’t mind. It would make it
nice for you, wouldn’t it, Ronald?”

“Yes, jolly!” he answered, turning an agile somersault. “But you look
tired, Winnie. I’ll take you to mamma, and she’ll say you ought to be
in bed.”

“Yes, I should like to go to bed,” said the child, rather wearily; “but
it has been a nice evening.”

[Illustration: Decorative image]



CHAPTER VIII.

SUNDAY.


The next day was Sunday, such a warm bright day, it seemed almost like
a little bit of summer come by mistake into September.

Winifred had slept soundly and well after her exertions of the previous
evening, and she awoke refreshed and happy, feeling as every one else
felt, the joyousness of all around in nature’s beautiful world.

“I feel so strong to-day, mamma,” she said, with one of her old,
bright, childlike smiles. “So strong and so well. It is so nice!”

There was more colour than usual in the child’s face, more brightness
in her eyes, more strength in her voice and in her movements. The
mother folded her closely to her heart, and seemed almost to breathe a
prayer over her.

“Mamma,” said Winifred earnestly, “may I go to church to-day? I should
so like to. I haven’t been for six Sundays, and I do so want to go just
once more, before--before the winter comes. I do feel so strong to-day.”

“I will talk to papa, darling. We should like to please you if we can.
We will talk it over together, and see what can be done.”

“Thank you, mamma,” answered Winnie brightly. She was standing by
the window now, and presently she added with a smile: “Mamma, if the
weather keeps warm like this, it will be a long while before the
swallows go, won’t it?”

“It will make a little difference, no doubt, dear,” answered the mother.

“I don’t feel as though I was quite ready for them to go yet,”
continued Winifred gravely. “It would be nice if they would stay just a
little longer.”

Mrs. Digby went away, and returned by-and-by to say that Winifred might
be driven to church by Charley in the little pony-carriage, and then
she would be able to enjoy the service, and walk back without too much
fatigue. The child was very much pleased, and was ready in good time
for the promised drive.

It was a lovely autumn day; the sun shone, the birds twittered, the air
seemed full of sweet sounds, and everything looked as bright and happy
as if such things as frost and cold and winter winds did not exist--as
if summer were perpetual.

“Oh, Charley, isn’t it lovely?” cried Winifred with clasped hands
and flushed cheeks. “Isn’t it just a perfect Sunday morning? I think
it feels as if everything knew it was Sunday, birds and flowers and
everything. Do you think they do?”

“I don’t know, Winnie,” answered Charley; but he did not laugh at her
fancy.

Winifred thought a little, and by-and-by she said:

“Do you think it is always Sunday in heaven Charley?”

“I don’t know, Winnie; what makes you think about heaven?”

“I often think about it now, and to-day it just seems as if everything
was like heaven. I wonder if it will always be Sunday there?”

Charley made no answer.

“I suppose it will, because, you see, Sunday is God’s day, and in
heaven all days will be God’s, won’t they?”

“I suppose so.”

Winifred pursued the thought a little farther, and then added
thoughtfully:

“Every day ought to be God’s day here, too, Charley, I think, only we
don’t remember to make them so.”

“We couldn’t do with Sundays all the week, Winnie,” answered the boy.
“The work would never get done at that rate.”

“I don’t quite mean _that_,” said Winnie smiling. “It would not be
right to do no work. God would not like that at all; but it would be
nice if all days seemed to belong to Him alike--working Sundays and
resting Sundays. I’ve heard people say that lots of men and women never
think about God, or about being good all the week, and think it’s quite
enough to go to church on Sunday. I don’t think God can like that kind
of Sunday-keeping.”

Charley was silent. He was conscious that he had been rather after
this way of thinking himself--keeping his few thoughts of God and of
heaven and holy things for Sunday use, and putting them quite out of
his head during the busy week with its many pleasures and occupations.
Was Winifred right in her theory? Ought every day to have its share of
serious thought and prayer?

“It would not be very easy to work such a plan as that, Winnie.”

“Why not?”

“Why because--because. Oh, don’t you know, it’s so hard to remember
about God always. I suppose it’s wrong; but I don’t feel as if I could
keep it up, if I was to try and make every day a kind of Sunday. We
can’t always be thinking of one thing.”

“No, I know we can’t, we can’t always be _thinking_ exactly; but we can
always be loving, you know,” answered Winnie earnestly. “We are not
always thinking about papa and mamma; but we always love them, and we
try every day to do as they wish, not to break rules, and not to vex
them.”

“Ah yes, that is different.”

“Is it?”

“Well, it seems different to me.”

“I don’t think it is really very different, Charley. I don’t see why it
should be, except that we ought to think even more about pleasing God
than pleasing papa and mamma, though it is not very easy.”

“No, it isn’t; but I’ll think about what you’ve said, Winnie. I can’t
think where all your grown-up ideas come from. Ronald and I never
troubled our heads over such things when we were little--and we don’t
very much now for the matter of that. What is it has changed you
lately, Winnie?”

The boy looked into her face with a half-troubled, half-playful look,
which Winnie answered by a very bright smile. She did not reply, for
they had reached the church by this time; but she held Charley’s hand
very fast as he led her to the pew.

Winifred felt almost as if she were dreaming, as she sat in her
accustomed nook beside her mother, and looked round the grand old
church, whose every detail was as familiar to her eyes as were the
pictures and panelling of her nursery walls.

It was only six weeks since she had sat there last--only six
weeks--but what a long, long time it seemed to the child!

It was almost like heaven the little girl thought when the organ began
to play. The sunshine streaming through the coloured windows, seemed
like a halo of glory. Everything was very solemn, very beautiful, and
very peaceful. Winifred said again and again in her heart:

“I am so glad God let me come once again.”

Shadows of the darting swallows crossed the sunny windows now and
again. Yes, the swallows never forgot her, Winifred thought, and the
swallows were always fond of flying round the church. Dreamily the
child recalled some verse of Holy Writ, which told how the swallows had
made a nest in the sanctuary of the God of Hosts.

“I know God loves the swallows. I know it is He who takes care of them
when they go, and shows them the way to go. He is sure--oh quite, quite
sure to take care of me too.”

The clergyman’s text seemed to chime in peculiarly happily with the
little girl’s thoughts:

“Suffer little children to come unto Me; for of such is the kingdom of
heaven.”

Winifred looked up into her mother’s face and smiled. Mrs. Digby
pressed the little hand that was slipped into hers, and her eyes
sparkled through a mist of tears as she smiled back.

Winifred walked home between her two brothers, who seemed very pleased
and proud of their charge.

All three children were very merry and happy together, and Ronald built
fine castles in the air of all the things they would do in the future,
when Winnie should be strong and well again.

Charley, with all the hopefulness of a boy’s nature, joined in eagerly,
and Winifred listened and smiled, and took her share in the talk, and
she felt herself so strong and well that she wondered dreamily to
herself whether she had made a mistake all this time, whether perhaps
she would see the swallows go and come back again after all, without
having herself to take an unknown journey into a far-off land.

As they neared the park-gates, Winifred made a suggestion:

“Let us go in and see little Phil. He will be so pleased; and then I
can rest a little while.”

“Are you tired?”

“No; at least only a very little; but I should like to go and see Phil.”

“All right,” said Ronald; “come on.”

Phil’s couch was in the little garden to-day. The summer brightness had
tempted him out.

“It seemed a pity to miss the last of the summer,” he said in answer to
Charley’s question. “It could hardly last; but it was just lovely to
feel the sun and fancy the summer had come back again.”

He was very pleased to see his visitors, and thanked Winifred over and
over again for the books she had sent him, and the mittens she had made.

Winifred sat looking quietly about her, listening to the boys’ chatter.
Phil was a great referee in matters pertaining to birds, and beasts,
and fishes; and Charley and Ronald wanted to ask many questions about
the respective advantages of keeping pigeons or rabbits--a point upon
which their minds had been much exercised of late.

The talk was carried on with animation, and Winnie became interested as
she listened. The talk had taken a wider range.

“I think you’d like guinea-fowls, Mr. Charley,” Phil was saying.
“They’re pretty things, and more interesting, I think, than pigeons.
You say Mr. Digby’s given you the little house at the bottom of the
field; well, if you wired in a good run for them--he’d be sure to let
you do that--why that is all you’d want, and they’d do splendidly, I’m
almost sure; I kept a few once, and liked them a lot.”

“Guinea-fowls are jolly things,” cried Ronald. “I like to hear them
call ‘go back!’ ‘go back!’ ‘go back!’ Let us have them, Charley. They’d
be much nicer than rabbits or pigeons.”

“But,” said Charley, “it will cost so much more. We’ve got enough money
to repair the house and buy some animals; but I’m afraid we sha’n’t be
able to have a run wired in, and we couldn’t have them straying all
over the place; we should lose them, and it would never do.”

Ronald’s face fell.

“Would it cost much?”

“Pretty much, I’m afraid. You see there would have to be the uprights,
and the wire, and a door to get in and out; and they would want a
good space or they wouldn’t do. I’m afraid it would cost two or three
pounds.”

“Oh dear!” sighed Ronald, “then we can’t do it. I should have liked the
guinea-fowls.”

“Oh yes,” cried Winnie, eagerly, “do get guinea-fowls; they are so
pretty and funny. I have got a lot of money in my box--more than three
pounds, I know. I will get the wire and wood, and make the run for
them. Oh please let me, Charley! I should so like it!”

“But, Winnie, it doesn’t seem fair to take your money to spend over our
animals.”

“Oh, but I want to do it, Charley, I should so like it; and I’m sure
you would so like them when you had them. Do please let me make them
their run. I don’t want my money--indeed I don’t.”

Ronald clapped his hands ecstatically.

“You _are_ a brick, Winnie, a real trump! Charley, they have splendid
guinea-fowls at Farmer Johnson’s. We could go and talk to him about it
to-morrow after school. Oh, won’t it be jolly? I am glad you thought of
it, Phil. You shall have some eggs by-and-by, and so shall Winnie. It’s
just first-rate!”

The children rose to go; all the faces were very bright.

“Shall you be able to come again, Miss Winnie?” asked Phil wistfully;
“it is so nice to see you sometimes.”

“I’ll come if I can,” answered the child slowly; “only I’m not sure,--I
think sometimes--”

“We’re afraid sometimes she won’t be able to get out much, now that
the summer is gone,” broke in Charley, with almost nervous haste; “but
we’ll come to see you, Phil, Ronald and I, so don’t look blue.”

“Thank you, Mr. Charley, thank you kindly. Good-bye, Miss Winnie.”

“Good-bye, Phil.”

The two children smiled into each other’s eyes. It was the last look
they ever exchanged on earth.

[Illustration: Decorative image]



CHAPTER IX.

THE LAST FLIGHT.


The summer weather lasted only three days longer, but those three days
were not wasted.

Winifred was so anxious to get the guinea-fowls into their new home,
that everything else for a while gave way to that plan.

The carpenter was called in to mend the little shed, and to wire in a
great square from the field to make a run for the expected tenants. The
thatcher came with his straw to fill up the holes in the roof, and the
blacksmith fixed an iron drinking-trough in one corner, and brought up
a padlock for the door of the shed.

Winifred watched all these proceedings with the greatest interest. She
had not felt so strong again as she had done on Sunday; she could not
walk to the lodge or do anything which required much exertion; but
she could just manage to get down to the home field where the work was
going on, and sit upon a tree-stump near at hand to watch the men at
work, and to ask questions as to how and why they did this or that.
Winifred found it all very interesting, and was delighted when on the
evening of the second day the home was pronounced complete.

“It’s done, Charley! it’s done!” she called to them gladly, as they
came rushing down the field from their day’s lessons. “Come and see how
nice it all looks. When can the fowls come?”

“To-morrow,” answered Charley. “We can bring them back with us
to-morrow. We’ve arranged it all with Farmer Johnson, and we’re going
to start with ten. You’ll see them arrive to-morrow, Winnie.”

“Oh jolly!” cried Ronald; “you will like them, Winnie, they are such
jolly birds. I’d sooner keep guinea-fowls than anything now.”

Winifred was as much pleased and excited as anybody, and quite
impatient for the arrival of the new pets.

“I do hope they will come to-morrow, and that it will keep hot!” she
said to herself that night. “For it can’t be summer always, and the
swallows are gathering so fast--so fast. It must be nearly time for
them to go.”

The next day the sun still shone warm and bright, and the thousands of
swallows in the meadows seemed as full of life and happiness as though
there were no winter cold and frost to drive them away.

“We shall be home early to-day, Winnie,” cried Ronald, putting his
head in at the nursery-door last thing. “Mr. Arnold has to go to town,
and we shall get off early. You’ll be down in the field to see the
guinea-fowls come!”

“Oh yes!” cried Winnie, eagerly. “I do so want to see them. I hope they
will like their new home.”

Winifred waited eagerly for the appointed time to come, and was down
at the new house in the field a good half-hour too soon. The boys,
however, were punctual to their time, and soon the sound of wheels
being driven over the grass became distinctly audible.

Farmer Johnson’s light spring-cart was bringing its burden down to
the appointed place; and with a good deal of clucking and calling and
screaming, the pretty, softly-marked birds were transferred from the
cart to their new home.

“Oh, nice things!” cried Winnie, “how pretty they are, and how funny! I
am glad they have come. I am glad I have seen them. I do hope they will
be happy!”

“Not much doubt of that, little miss,” said the good-natured farmer, as
he mounted his cart and took the reins. “They’ll be well looked after,
I’ll be bound.”

“That they will!” cried Ronald, eagerly. “Aren’t they jolly birds,
Winnie?”

Mr. and Mrs. Digby came down to see and admire the new comers; and
after much talk about the many perfections of the guinea-fowl, they all
walked back together to the house, discussing as they did so the number
of chickens to be hatched in the spring.

Winifred’s face looked rather grave and wistful whilst this point was
under discussion; but the smiles soon came back under the cheering
influence of Ronald’s delight at their new treasures.

That night the weather changed suddenly. The wind shifted from
south-west to south-east, and brought with it cold, drenching rain, and
piercing blasts of wind, which rattled fiercely at door and window and
would not be denied an entrance.

The leaves were whirled from the trees, the few flowers that remained
were battered and knocked to pieces. The water-meadows began to show
long furrows of glimmering silver, and the swallows gathered faster and
faster every day. It seemed as if winter had come with one bound.

“It will come warmer again soon,” people said to one another. “This
cold cannot last. We shall have soft, mild days again before long.”

And Winifred, when she heard them, said to herself:

“But the swallows will be gone before that.”

The child had failed all of a sudden, just as a flower sometimes does,
looking fresh and bright and full of life one hour, and then at a
single touch losing its leaves and dropping quietly out of existence.

With the first breath of winter cold Winifred had drooped and failed,
and lost in a day all the little strength she had seemed to gain.

By the end of the week she could not leave her little bed, and although
nobody told her so she knew she never should leave it again.

“Mamma,” she said one day, “I can’t see the swallows now. May my bed go
into the day nursery? I like so much to look out of the window there. I
like to watch the swallows, and I like to watch the sunsets.”

The child’s wish was granted. The little low bed was moved into the
west room, and as Winifred lay, she could watch her friends the
swallows, and see the sun go down. Even when the days were wet, the
evenings were generally bright, and the sky would grow gradually all
crimson and gold, like a sea of glory, and great soft clouds of every
colour of the rainbow would rise and float over the golden distance,
and to the little grave eyes that watched the beautiful dying day, it
seemed as if the gates of heaven opened night by night to take the
great sun in, and she wondered dreamily if the floating clouds were the
souls of the people who had died in the day, and who were finding their
way home as the evening drew on.

A great many strange thoughts and fancies passed through the child’s
mind, as she lay day after day in her little bed, too weak and tired to
talk, not always quite able to put her thoughts into words, but always
able to think in a dreamy fashion of her own. She always knew the
people who came in and out to look at her, kiss her, or wait upon her,
and she had a smile for every one, even when she could not talk.

She hardly knew how time passed. Sometimes she grew confused between
day and night; but it always seemed as though mamma were in the room,
whoever else shifted and changed, and Winifred always felt happiest
holding her hand and listening to her voice.

Little Violet came sometimes with hushed steps and tearful voice; and
the boys stole in each morning and evening to kiss her and whisper
loving words. One day Winnie roused herself to ask after the new pets,
and ten minutes later Ronald appeared, carrying in his arms a scolding
struggling guinea-hen; and the little girl laughed a weak little laugh
to see how it pecked and kicked and called “go back!” “go back!”

Dr. Howard came very often, as it seemed to the child, and papa was in
the room almost as constantly as mamma, although he did not stay quite
so long. The servants often stole in just to look at her, and Winnie
had a smile for every one, and a word of greeting when she was well
enough.

“You will give them all something of mine by-and-by, when I am gone,”
said the child to her mother one day. “And nursey must have as many
as she wants--dear nursey, who has been so kind and good always! I’m
afraid they would cry if I gave them away now.”

“I will do as you wish, darling.”

“Thank you; and you will take care of little Phil?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Thank you; I know you will do everything right.”

Winifred lay silent after that; it tired her now to talk even a little.
The sunset was very bright that evening, and the swallows were making
a great twittering; myriads there seemed of them now, gathered in the
water-meadows, and there seemed an unusual bustle amongst them on this
particular night.

“They will soon be going now,” Winnie said half-aloud, and her mother
answered gently:

“Very soon now, my darling.”

Mother and child looked at one another, and Winnie smiled. These
two did not need to talk of what was in their inmost hearts, they
understood without words. Every morning when the blind first went up,
the child had said, “Have the swallows gone yet?” and when she heard
the answer she would say, “I am glad; I feel as if I should miss them.”

A good many people came in to kiss Winnie that night, and she said
“good-bye” to them all, not “good-night,” though she could hardly have
told why.

Papa and mamma stayed on, and nurse; and Dr. Howard seemed to come in
the middle of the night.

“Mamma,” said Winifred once, “I am very happy, I haven’t any pain--I’m
so glad God takes care of little things--swallows, you know--and
children. He will take care of me, I know.”

“My darling is not afraid to go to Him, then?” asked the mother very
gently.

“Oh no--not now.”

Talking was very hard, her tongue seemed heavy, and only whispers came
from between the parted lips. A strange singing filled the child’s ears.

Father and mother bent over the little one and kissed her, oh, so
tenderly and so lovingly!--but they did not cry. Winnie was glad that
they did not cry.

“Into Thy Hands, O most loving Father--”

Was it her father’s voice speaking thus? The child thought so, but
could not tell, for a rushing sound as of many wings seemed to fill the
air drowning the voice that still spoke in solemn tones.

“The swallows!” she tried to say--“the swallows--they are going--at
last--” but with that strange rushing of wings mingled another and a
sweeter sound, that made Winnie clasp her hands and look up with a
smile on her little white face.

“It is my angel--come for me--I am not afraid to go--now. Did God send
you for me, angel?--I am ready.”

In the morning there were no swallows in the water-meadows--they had
all flown away in the night; and one little blood washed soul had
flown in at Heaven’s wide gate to rest for evermore in the care of the
Heavenly Father, who watches over little helpless things, and thinks
no child that trusts His love too small or weak to be taken in to the
eternal Home at last.


  THE END.



  THE LITTLE MATCH-GIRL.



CHAPTER I.

A LITTLE MATCH-SELLER.


She was a pathetic little figure for those who had eyes to spare for
anybody so insignificant as a little street match-seller. She had
been shivering just before in the chill February blast; but a dancing
sunbeam had forced its way through the grey, hurrying clouds, and
an answering smile seemed to light up the face of the child, as she
watched it creeping nearer and nearer, till she could feel the warmth
touch her bare feet like a caress.

Some boys not far off were playing marbles in the gutter, and the
little girl was watching the play with great interest. She had a
wholesome fear of boys, and seldom or never attempted to exchange
remarks with them, shrinking away if they seemed disposed to address
her; but she took a keen interest in their games for all that, and
was very ardently on the side of a curly-headed urchin with carroty,
unkempt locks, who was the happy possessor of a couple of very fine
coloured marbles that quite put all the others into the shade.

Bright colour of any sort was the little girl’s delight. No matter
whether it was the glow of the sky, the sunshine upon red chimney
stacks, or the dresses of the passers-by, anything that was gaily
coloured was such a joy to her that her little face would smile all
over whilst the vision of colour flitted before her eyes.

It was a pathetic little face, with singularly delicate features for a
child of the people; framed in a tangled mass of short, yellow hair,
which if properly dressed and cared for would have been a real beauty.
The blue eyes could sparkle with joy or swim in tears with equal
readiness, just as the varying mood of childhood prompted. For the
little one was singularly emotional for one of her hard bringing up,
and was quickly moved to sorrow or pleasure by the passing events of
daily life.

Just as the game of marbles came to an end, and the boys scampered
away to their respective duties or amusements, a great church clock
somewhere high overhead boomed out the hour of two. The little girl’s
face instantly took upon it a rather eager expression, and seizing her
matches in a firmer grip, she ran a few steps to a certain corner,
and there stationing herself in a nook, to which she was evidently
no stranger, she began looking intently and expectantly in a certain
direction.

Crowds of business men were hurrying along, some to the train, others
to the various omnibuses, which passed in endless succession at
this busy junction of streets. The child held out her matches, and
mechanically offered them for sale, but her eyes were always bent in
one direction; and had anybody been watching her face, he could not
have failed to note the sudden illumination which beamed out over it,
as though kindled by some light from within.

Evidently somebody was coming for whom the little one was waiting with
eager expectancy. The lips parted in a smile, the eyes began to sparkle
and dance, a flush crept into the pale cheek. A moment or two later and
another expression swept over the sensitive face, and the child said
half aloud--

“Oh, he is not alone! He has a lady with him! Perhaps he will not
notice me to-day.”

Evidently much hinged upon this vital point; for the colour came and
went in the child’s face, and her eyes were fixed immovably upon a
certain face belonging to somebody in that hurrying throng. Her lips
were parted in intense absorption, and perhaps there was something
magnetic in the fixed gaze, for the successful young barrister,
Bertram Clayton, who was walking with his sister through the crowded
thoroughfare, paused suddenly just as he drew near to the child, and
looking about him said in a pleasant voice--

“Ah, here is little Allumette! I must have a box of matches if they are
not too dear to-day!”

The child’s face was rippling all over now. At first his grave
bargaining over her wares, and his way of shaking his head over their
costliness, had half frightened her, and she had sometimes abated their
price, thinking that she must be in the wrong. But now that she had
learned by experience that the gentleman always gave her in the end
double and treble their value, she was no longer abashed, and entered
with a shy spirit into the game of bargains.

Almost always this tall, handsome gentleman was alone. Now and then
he had a black-coated, grave-faced friend with him, in which case he
seldom stopped to buy matches or speak to the child, but just gave her
a passing nod if he caught sight of her wistful face and appealing blue
eyes. Never before in her experiences had he been with a lady, and the
child’s eyes lighted eagerly as they rested upon the soft fur and
bright crimson cloth which composed the lady’s dress.

“What a duck of a child!” she exclaimed to her brother, “I must really
give her something!”

The gentleman had finished his bargain and got his matches by this
time, and the little girl was smiling over the pennies in her hand. Not
that it was the pennies so freely given which made this customer more
to her than all the rest put together: it was the kind smile beaming
from his eyes, the tones of his voice, the undefined feeling she always
had that he looked out for her, and sometimes thought of her when he
was elsewhere. For had he not brought her now and then a bag of sweets,
or some trifling toy, such as are hawked about in the streets?

By this time the lady had opened her purse, and now held up before
the child’s astonished eyes a large piece of silver money that shone
brilliantly in the gleam of sunshine.

“Little Allumette,” she said, using the name by which the gentleman
always called her--she never could guess why, “do you know what this
is?”

“It is money, ma’am; beautiful new money!”

“Have you ever had anything like it before?”

“Only bright pennies sometimes, ma’am; not beautiful silver money like
that.”

“And what would you do with a whole silver crown if you had one of your
very own?”

The child’s eyes sparkled, but no words came. The idea of being
possessor of such fabulous wealth was too big a one to be grasped in a
moment. The lady laughed at the expression upon the upturned face, and
put the big silver coin into her hand.

“There, little Allumette, there is a keepsake for you. You have such a
wise little face that I am sure you will make a good use of it. Come,
Bertram, we must not miss our train.”

Before the child could find words in which to thank the lady the crowds
had swallowed up both brother and sister, and she was left alone at her
corner, grasping the wonderful piece of fairy silver (for such indeed
it seemed to her) tightly in her hand, her heart beating thick and fast
with the excitement of such a wonderful piece of fortune’s favour.

It was Saturday afternoon, and trade was brisk. She had soon sold all
her matches, and was ready to turn her feet homewards, but first she
must think what to do with this wonderful treasure-trove. That was her
own--her very own. She scarcely dared to look at it as she walked the
streets; she was afraid lest some passer-by might get a glimpse at the
shining coin, and might set upon her and rob her of it.

Where could she put it to keep it safe? At home there was no nook or
corner she could call her own. Poor little Allumette! Her life was a
sad and shadowed one now, and yet once nobody would ever have guessed
that she would come to selling matches in the streets.

Her father had been a clever and respectable artisan, and her mother
a farmer’s daughter. But Allumette could not remember a mother’s
care, for her mother had died whilst she was but a baby, and her
father had married again a woman of a very different stamp. Moreover,
misfortunes had come upon him, and he had lost his health and then his
work. Three years before, when Allumette was only five, he had died,
and the stepmother had almost at once married a widower with three
children--she herself had four.

So that Allumette had now neither father nor mother, and though she was
still permitted to live in the double attic where this heterogeneous
family party made their home, she was nobody’s child, and nobody wanted
her. She had to earn her own living in the streets, and though she met
with no ill-treatment at home, she received no love or tenderness, and
knew that her presence was felt to be a nuisance by the parents of the
other children.

Moreover, some of the boys were of an age when teasing becomes a
delight, and Allumette was always reckoned as fair game, for she had
nobody to stand by her and take her part.

It was before the days of School Boards, and Allumette had no chance
of learning except at a ragged school which she frequented as often as
she could in the evenings. But if she had been unlucky with her matches
by day, she was always sent out again to dispose of her stock later
on, and then she was too late and too tired ever to think of learning
anything.

And yet the child was not altogether unhappy in her life. She made
interests for herself, and sometimes friends too. Had she not several
customers who showed her kindness in a fitful way? and was there not,
above all, “her gentleman,” as she called him, who was more to her than
all the rest put together? And was there not the old cobbler and his
wife at the end of the alley, who were always glad to see her when she
came? She did not like to go too often, because Mrs. Gregg would give
her bread and treacle, and she did not think they always had enough to
eat themselves; but it was always pleasant to sit by their little fire
and hear the old man’s stories; and to-day she bent her steps there
with great eagerness, for she meant to spend her own two pennies (given
by the gentleman) on some herrings for them, and then she would not
mind sharing the frugal meal, and could tell them about her wonderful
windfall, and ask their advice as to what she could do with her
treasure.

Allumette’s home was up a number of rickety stairs in a narrow court,
and when she arrived there she found her stepmother in the midst of a
Saturday clean, and by no means prepared to welcome anybody. The child
only paused to hand in her money, and then disappeared down the stairs
with alacrity; for one of the most valued privileges which had been
accorded her was that her time was her own when she had disposed of her
stock of matches.

Her bare feet went pattering up the alley, which grew darker and
narrower towards the end. At the end stood a tall, grim-looking
house, let out in rooms to a poor class of tenants, the lowest floor,
comprising two rooms and a tiny kitchen beyond, being rented to the
cobbler, whose front room was a sort of workshop where he was always to
be seen cobbling and patching old boots, many of which seemed almost
past the skill of even his dexterous fingers.

Sometimes Allumette picked up old boots in rubbish heaps and brought
them to him, and often she found bits of leather which were useful to
him in patching. The little girl was fond of the old couple, and they
of her. It was always a treat to her to go and sit in the quiet of
their room.

The herrings were bought at a shop in the alley, where they were to
be had cheaper than anywhere else; and with her odorous burden she
hastened to the little house at the end, where her old friends received
her with smiles and kind words.

It was a slack afternoon with the cobbler, as he had taken home his
last batch of work, and had not much in hand until fresh orders
arrived. So he sat holding the child’s hand while she poured into his
ears her wonderful tale, and displayed before his astonished eyes her
wonderful shining coin.

Mrs. Gregg came up to look and admire and wonder, and eager was the
discussion which followed.

“No, I shan’t spend it--I shall keep it,” said Allumette. “The lady
said it was a sort of keepsake. I shall keep it and look at it
sometimes; only I don’t know where it will be safe.”

“I’ll make you a little leather bag for it, ducky,” said the old man,
“and then I’ll make a little hole in the crown itself, if you like, and
you can hang it round your neck, bag and all. It’ll be safest so, as
you might lose it out of the bag if ’twasn’t bored through itself; but
we’ll make it all safe for you!”

Allumette was delighted. She watched the whole process with eager
interest, and when the coin was wrapped in its covering and hung about
her neck, her little face beamed all over with joy.

“It feels as if it would bring me good luck!” she cried, with dancing
eyes.

“Perhaps it will for sure!” said the old couple fondly.

A happy child was Allumette that night when she fell asleep, though she
little dreamt of the golden hours that were in store for her.

[Illustration: Decorative image]



CHAPTER II.

IN THE STUDIO.


“It is provoking!” exclaimed Cora Clayton.

“What is the matter now?” asked bright-faced Madge, who had strolled
into her sister’s studio from the garden, her hands full of snowdrops
and aconites from the shrubbery borders.

“Why, little Muriel Ellerton has just sickened with measles, and you
know I was depending upon her as a model for my Academy picture. It
is so difficult to get a really picturesque-looking child; and Muriel
would have done beautifully. I really haven’t any time to lose; and
here I am at a perfect deadlock!”

“What a pity!” said Madge, who took great interest in her talented
sister’s drawing. Cora Clayton had achieved a rather considerable
success for an amateur, and for two years past had exhibited a small
picture in the Royal Academy. During the winter months just past she
had been away from home with her brother’s delicate wife, who had
been ordered to the south of France, so that she had not been able to
do much painting. Now that she was home again she was eager to get
forward, and it was provoking to be disappointed of her model just upon
the very morning when she had reckoned to start work.

“Is there no other child who would do?” asked a voice from the couch
beside the fire. Young Mrs. Clayton, the barrister’s delicate wife,
had established herself in Cora’s studio, as she was fond of doing.
The sisters were greatly attached to their brother’s wife, and the
family lived happily together in perfect harmony in their old-fashioned
semi-country house at Hampstead.

“I can’t think of one that just suits my ideas,” answered Cora. “Muriel
would just have done, with her cloud of fair curls and blue eyes with
a sort of pathetic wistfulness behind their brightness. It was just
the face for my subject. It is provoking! You know I am not like some
artists; I know what I want to paint, but imagination doesn’t do
everything for me. I must have the model, and the right model, and I’m
sure I don’t know where to turn to next!”

“I wonder if little Allumette would do!” suddenly exclaimed Madge. “She
had the sweetest little face, and just such eyes and hair as Muriel;
only I think she is prettier.”

“Allumette! What do you mean? I never heard such a name!”

“Oh, that is Bertram’s nickname. She is a little match-seller in the
City. I saw her the other day when I was in town with him. Evidently
she is often on his beat, for he had given her that cognomen, and one
could see that she quite adored him. I daresay he has been kind to her
often.”

Cora and Eva were both interested, and when Madge had described the
child, Cora declared she really had a good mind to go and have a look
at her.

“It would really be easier in some ways than Muriel,” she said, “for if
I paid her I suppose her relations would be glad enough to let me have
her over here; and they would keep her for me at the gardener’s cottage
for a week or two, so that I could have her backwards and forwards as I
wanted, instead of being fettered by lesson hours and other things as I
should be with Muriel. One does see very pretty children often in the
streets; only, as a rule, it would not be practicable to get hold of
them.”

“We will ask Bertram about little Allumette when he comes home,” said
Eva, “and if he thinks it a good plan we could have her over here
whilst your picture was being painted, Cora.”

“Little Allumette,” said the young barrister when appealed to at
dinner that evening, “why, I should think you could get her, and that
she would think herself in the seventh heaven to come! Oh, yes, I
have asked her about herself sometimes. Her relationships are rather
complicated. Her own father and mother are dead, and she lives with
a stepmother who has married again. I like the little puss! She has
always a smile and a bit of arch fun. Sometimes she brings me a
button-hole when times are good. We are great friends in our way,
little Allumette and I.”

“Then I will come into town with you to-morrow, Bertram, and see if she
will do for me, and what arrangements I can make.”

“I’ll come too,” added Madge gaily; “I will give my valuable assistance
in the matter, since it was my idea to start with.”

Brother and sisters went up to town together the following day, and
sure enough there was little Allumette with her tray of matches at the
accustomed corner, eagerly scanning the faces of the passing crowd, to
see if her gentleman was amongst them.

Cora was delighted with the little bright, sensitive face, and when the
child caught sight not only of Bertram himself, but of the lady who had
made her that wonderful present, she was at once resolved to get the
little one for her model, and soon Allumette was overwhelmed with shy
delight, because the gentleman and two beautiful ladies had stopped in
front of her.

“Allumette,” said her friend with a twinkle in his eye, “do you know
how to sit or stand very still?”

“Please, sir, I think so. I sit still with baby very often.”

“And what do you get for sitting still with baby?”

“I don’t get anything, sir, unless baby wakes up, and then I sometimes
get a clout on the head.”

Cora and Madge both laughed, whilst Bertram went on gravely--

“Then do you think that for sixpence an hour and your keep you could
stand very still for this lady to draw? Did you ever see anybody draw
pictures?”

“Please, sir, they draw them on the blackboard at school; and there’s
a man comes ’long here sometimes that draws them beautifully on the
pavement, all red and blue and yellow. Ah! I could watch him all day, I
could! It’s real beautiful!”

Bertram looked at his sisters smilingly.

“Well, I must be getting on; you’d better finish settling the matter.
It’s a long way for her to go backwards and forwards. If you do have
her, I should put her up at the cottage for a week or so, and make
what use you want of her at the time. I don’t suppose she makes much by
her matches; but of course you must pay her people a fair equivalent.”

He moved off, and then Cora and Madge tried to explain to the
bewildered and blushing Allumette what it was they wanted.

It was all like part of a wonderful dream to the child. She showed the
ladies the way to her home; she heard them talk to her stepmother, and
vaguely knew that something very strange and wonderful was about to
happen; and then she was rather summarily hustled into the best clothes
she possessed, which was not saying much, and was bidden to run and
ask Mrs. Gregg if she could take her up to Hampstead at once, as the
overworked woman with a large number of children to look after could
not possibly do so.

Mrs. Gregg came and took the directions from the ladies, and promised
to bring the little girl at once. She was given the railway fare, and
Allumette stood by, dancing from one foot to the other with keenest
excitement. She could not believe that this thing could really be true,
and kept asking Mrs. Gregg if she was sure she knew how to get to the
place, and whether she really thought the ladies meant it.

“Bless the child, yes! Why should they have taken all that trouble
else?” was the reassuring answer. “I’ve heerd tell before of fine
folks getting others to come and sit for them. They call them models.
It may be a good thing for you, ducky. It’s poor work selling matches
in the street. Perhaps the ladies will find you something better to do
by-and-by.”

It was all like a dream to Allumette. She had not to be at her
destination till the afternoon; but Mrs. Gregg took her a wonderful
walk upon the Heath first. The child had never seen such a place
before, and although the wind blew cold the sun shone, and the child
held her breath in awe and wonder at the great expanse of sky and the
green sweep of broken ground, the shining water, the budding trees.

“Will heaven be like this, do you think, Mrs. Gregg?” she asked in a
low voice.

Allumette was very hazy as to what heaven was, but she had an idea that
it was a very beautiful place where the sun always shone, and she had
never seen anything so beautiful before as the scene upon which her
eyes now rested.

Later on, with a feeling of great awe, mingled with that of joy, she
stood at the back door of a big house within sheltering walls, holding
very fast to Mrs. Gregg’s hand, and almost disposed to cry and run away
when told that she must leave her friend, and follow the servant into
the house.

“Don’t be frightened, ducky, they’ll be kind to you,” said Mrs. Gregg,
kissing her; “and I’m to have a cup of tea in the kitchen, they say; so
maybe I’ll see you again before I leave.”

There was consolation in that thought, and Allumette rallied her
courage. The servant smiled kindly at her as she went on in front,
and although everything seemed to swim before the child’s eyes as she
walked, and she could not see clearly where she was going, she knew
that she was taken down a long passage, and then a door was opened at
the end, a curtain was drawn back, and she heard her guide say--

“Here is the little girl, ma’am!”

Allumette stood just within the threshold of this most wonderful place.
She thought she had got into a fairy palace, and she rubbed her eyes
and gasped in her astonishment.

It was a great square room with all the windows overhead; and wherever
she looked she saw beautiful things, rich colours, pictures, hangings,
ornaments--things of whose names and uses she had no idea, but the
very sight of which filled her soul with awe and rapture, they were so
wonderful and beautiful.

“Come, little Allumette; come to the fire!” said a kind voice. “You
shall have a mug of hot tea and a piece of cake here, and we will see
how to dress you up as a little model!”

It was the lady who spoke--the first lady--Miss Madge, as Allumette
came to call her later on, and she came forward dressed in that lovely
red dress with the soft grey fur upon it, in which the child had first
seen her. And when Allumette had timidly advanced a few steps, and
could see the room better, she saw that the other lady was there too,
standing before an easel which held a picture, whilst upon a sofa near
the fire a third lady lay, who had put down her book, and was now
looking straight at the little girl, with a kind smile in her eyes.

“So you are little Allumette, are you? My husband has told me about
you. He says you sell very good matches. Come and sit on that little
stool here, and you shall tell me all about yourself. Madge, bring the
mite some tea and cake. I’m sure she looks as though she wanted it!”

Allumette sat down where she was bidden, and soon a great wedge
of delicious cake was put into her hands. But although she was so
strangely happy in this beautiful place, she was almost too shy and
excited to feel hungry; and as she nibbled at the unwonted dainty,
she answered the questions of the ladies about herself and her life,
gradually losing her fear of them, and beginning to smile and even to
laugh at the funny remarks of Miss Madge, or the questions of young
Mrs. Clayton.

Meantime the artist studied the face of the little one, and dashed
off a few little pencil sketches with great satisfaction to herself.
Yes, it was just such a face as she wanted--wistful without being sad,
bright and sunny, yet pathetic withal. Eva Clayton had a knack with
children which she was exercising now for Cora’s benefit, and before
half an hour had passed she was fully satisfied that she had got the
right model for her picture.

It was a wonderful life that began for little Allumette. No more early
rising in the dark and cold to do her household tasks, and lay in her
store of matches for the day. No standing about at street corners in
the cold wind and driving rain; no more hunger and uncertainty of the
day’s earnings; no harsh words and unkind teasing from boys either at
home or in the streets.

Here everything was beautiful and happy. She lived with a kind couple
who soon treated her almost as if she had been their child, and the
greater part of her day was spent in that wonderful studio, where all
that was asked of her was to stand still in a pretty frock whilst the
tall lady painted her; and Miss Madge generally came in and out or sat
still by the fire with a book, and often amused them by her play with
the dog, or with her merry chatter, or else by teaching Allumette out
of some simple primer.

“She’s a dear little thing,” Madge said to her brother a day or two
after the commencement of the experiment. “I’ve often wanted an object
for my benevolence, and an object on which to expend my superfluous
energy in the matter of good works. I think I shall take up Allumette
and make her my special charge. You needn’t look so grave, sir!
Wouldn’t it be a very deserving object?”

“Perhaps; but take care, Madge, take care. You know how often you
have failed from lack of perseverance. Don’t unfit the child for her
old life, or buoy her up with false hopes, only to forget her and
disappoint her later on. It is always a serious matter taking the
destinies of another human being as it were into our hands. Don’t do
anything rash; don’t give the child cause to regret in days to come
that she has ever known us!”

“Gracious! what a lecture!” cried Madge gaily. “I thought you’d
be pleased at my desiring to do a good work; and, behold, I get a
scolding!”

[Illustration: Decorative image]



CHAPTER III.

WONDERFUL DAYS.


The growth of that picture was a source of endless wonder and delight
to little Allumette. Her naïve remarks amused the ladies vastly, and
the child became, perhaps, more of a pet with them all than was quite
advisable, considering the circumstances of the case.

To live in an atmosphere of warmth and colour; to be spoken to kindly
and gently; to hear and see only pleasant things from morning till
night, all this was a perfect delight to the little one, and she throve
and blossomed out in the genial influence in a way that was wonderful
to watch.

She was not admitted to the house itself, only to the studio by the
little garden door; and she had that sense of native refinement which
hindered her from taking liberties, or trading upon the kindness of the
ladies.

To watch them with their books or needlework, to hear Miss Madge sing
and play upon the studio piano, or to sit on a little stool beside
one or the other, learning little lessons which they would teach her,
constituted such pleasure that she never desired anything more; and
even the sitting still for the picture was no trouble to the child.
There was always something pretty to look at, and Miss Madge was often
practising her music, and that always filled the child’s whole soul
with delight.

Her horizon was widening every day. Madge had discovered that she was
very anxious to be able to read nicely, and thought she could not do
better than devote some of her leisure in teaching her. And she got
big-print fairy stories, which entranced Allumette and lured her along
the path of learning faster than her teacher had dared to hope; and
when left alone in the studio, the child would pore over one of these
charming volumes, till she began to read the letterpress quite easily.
Then young Mrs. Clayton had lessons to give her of a different sort.

“The poor mite is almost a little heathen,” she had said to her husband
a few days after the experiment of the little model had begun. “She
seems to know nothing of religion, except what she has picked up
from an old cobbler and his wife, who read the Bible in her hearing
sometimes, and tell her a few elementary truths, which she has got
jumbled up in a very odd way. I must try and teach her a little better.
Don’t you think it would be a good plan, Bertram?”

“Yes, I think that kind of knowledge never comes except as a blessing,”
answered her husband gravely; “but have a care, Eva, and keep an eye
over the sisters, that they do not spoil the poor little thing, making
her life harder to her when she goes back to it. I am not quite sure
that the experiment is not rather a dangerous one to Allumette. She
will be so happy here, and the life of the streets will come so hardly
afterwards!”

“Perhaps we could think of something better for her afterwards,” said
Eva.

“Possibly; but those things are more easily said than done. However, we
must see what turns up. Only be careful all of you with the child. Too
much petting and softness will not be really good for her. But teach
her all you can; learning will never come amiss to her wherever her
future lot may be cast.”

And so Eva Clayton began giving the little waif of the streets simple
Bible lessons every day, in which the child came to apprehend the
mystery of Christ’s redeeming love, and to believe that He loved her
and was taking care of her, and wanted her to be a faithful little
follower of His, that some day she might live with Him in His beautiful
kingdom for ever and ever.

It was easy for Allumette to believe in this love and care now. She
would look up at Mrs. Clayton with shining eyes and say--

“I think it must have been Jesus who sent me here. I shall always love
Him for that.”

On Sundays she was taken to church by the gardener’s wife, who had made
her a neat little frock and had soon taught her to wear the shoes and
stockings provided by the ladies. Truth to tell, Allumette preferred
running barefoot, as she was used to in the streets, although she had
some old shoes and had put them on to come down here. But the footgear
provided for her was so much more comfortable than what she had been
used to that she soon grew reconciled to it, and she realised that it
would not be at all proper to go about barefoot here.

She did not understand the services on Sunday, but she loved the sound
of the organ and the glow of light through the painted windows. Her
behaviour was irreproachable, and afterwards Mrs. Clayton would try and
explain to her the meaning of what she had heard and seen, so that the
child had food for much thought and reflection.

On Sundays too she always saw her “gentleman,” as she always called Mr.
Clayton in her thoughts. He would come into the studio and ask her what
she had been learning in the week, and soon Allumette had a little bit
of poetry or a few verses from the Bible ready to repeat to him. He
generally had some little gift for her in return, and these were the
red-letter days in her calendar above all others.

The picture was finished in due course; and when the tea-party was
given in the studio, and all the artist’s friends were asked to come
and see it, Allumette was permitted to be present, to hand round cakes
and bread and butter; and people patted her head and asked if she were
a little model, and one lady took a great deal of notice of her, and
presently got Cora into a corner and began eagerly talking to her.

“If you would only do me some illustrations for the book I am writing,
and use that child as the model for my little heroine, I should
like it so much! I could easily arrange with the editor about the
illustrations; and she has exactly the face I want. Do you think you
could manage it for me, Cora?”

The girl’s face lighted eagerly.

“Oh, Mrs. Maberley--I should love it! I have often longed to do
illustrating; and to illustrate one of your books would be delightful!
I will keep the child a few more weeks, and you shall tell me just what
you would like each picture to be. She is a dear little model, and I
shall like keeping her. I have quite a number of studies I have taken
when she has been having lessons from Eva and Madge. I will get my
portfolio and show you.”

The pencil sketches, dashed off impromptu, delighted Mrs. Maberley.
There was Allumette sitting beside Eva’s couch with her eyes fixed on
the lady’s face in eager attention; Allumette curled up in a corner
with a book, her curls falling over her face; Allumette standing beside
the piano, with a rapt expression of wonder and pleasure.

“It will be charming!” cried Mrs. Maberley, delighted. “I shall bring
the story to read to you one day, and we will settle on the pictures.
Some of these would almost do as they stand. You have quite a gift for
drawing children, Cora.”

Allumette heard nothing of all this, which was passing in one corner of
the studio; but she was deeply interested in another little scene going
on elsewhere. She had noticed a little while before that Mr. Clayton,
when he came in to show himself at his sister’s reception, brought
with him two gentlemen (there were not many gentlemen in the room as
compared with the number of the ladies), and the quick eyes of the
child observed that Miss Madge’s face flushed a rosy red at the sight
of them, and that almost at once one of the strangers came over towards
where she stood at the tea-table, and seemed disposed to remain there.

She had made him useful, handing cups about for a time, after which he
had come back to her side, and they were talking eagerly together.

Allumette had been dipping deep into fairy lore, and knew all about
what princes and princesses did; and how the prince came and told the
lady that he loved her, and that by-and-by they went off together
and lived happily ever afterwards. Miss Madge had told her that in
a different sort of way people did that still. Indeed Allumette had
watched with the keenest excitement a wedding party from the next
house, in which Miss Madge had played the part of bridesmaid. It had
given Allumette quite a different idea about marriage from any she had
had before, and she had heard the servants talking and saying that they
supposed soon they would lose one of their young ladies, and wondering
whether it would be Miss Cora or Miss Madge who would be first to go.

Somehow all this came back to the child’s mind as she saw the gentleman
standing beside Miss Madge and talking to her.

“You know you have promised, Madge,” he said, in a rather louder tone.
“You will not disappoint us?”

And Madge laughed as she made answer--

“Oh, yes, we will be as good as our word; we will pay a visit to
Brooklands by-and-by. We shall all be glad of a change when the hot
weather comes; for Hampstead is after all only a make-believe at
country--and one likes the real thing sometimes.”

“I hope the country is not all the attraction!” said the young man,
bending an intent look upon Madge’s blushing face.

“Don’t fish for compliments, sir,” she replied, in her bright, saucy
way. “You won’t get change of that sort out of me!”

“I don’t want compliments,” said the young man in a very low voice;
“you know very well what I do want, Madge.”

Later on little Allumette heard from the gardener’s wife who the
gentleman was.

“His name is Mr. Arthur Brook, and he’s the only son of a baronet, and
they have a beautiful place in the country, where the young ladies
sometimes stay. He and Mr. Clayton were at college together, and have
always been great friends; and we all think that he wants Miss Madge
for his wife. And a bonny one she will make him, if she ever decides
to have him; and I think he is worthy of her, which I wouldn’t say for
many!”

It was all very interesting to little Allumette, who henceforth
regarded Madge even more as a fairy princess, who would one day be
carried off to live in a grand house or castle of her own.

Mr. Brook came rather often to the house during the next weeks whilst
Allumette remained to serve as a model for the set of illustrations;
and one day Madge came into the studio half laughing and half crying,
and flinging herself on her knees beside Cora she cried out----

“Kiss me, darling, and tell me you don’t mind! I have given Arthur my
promise at last!”

And then Cora threw down her brush, and the sisters clung rather close
together; for they were deeply attached, and though both had felt that
the separation would come, it seemed rather strange to both when the
thing had finally been settled.

However, Miss Madge was very happy during the next days, Allumette
thought, though both the sisters were a little preoccupied; and the
drawings were relegated to a secondary place.

Besides, there was commotion in the house of another sort, for young
Mrs. Clayton was taken ill, and the doctors advised that she should be
taken into the country as soon as possible; and so there was a great
deal of discussion and talk; and by-and-by Allumette heard that the
three ladies were going to stay near Brooklands, which was the home of
Mr. Arthur Brook, who was to marry Miss Madge some time during the year.

“I must finish my drawings quickly, little Allumette,” said Cora, next
time the child was called in for a sitting, “for I shall be going away
very soon; and we have let the house to some friends, who want it very
much.”

And then it suddenly came into the child’s mind that this beautiful
holiday was over. She would have to go back to her match-selling in the
streets; and for a time there would not be even her gentleman coming
and going, for Mr. Clayton had been called away on some important
business latterly, and though he had come home for a few days when his
wife was ill, he had gone away again, and might be detained some little
while.

Great tears gathered slowly in the child’s eyes. She tried to keep
furtively brushing them away, but they would not be altogether hidden,
and when Madge came dancing in she saw them there and guessed their
source.

“But we won’t forget you, little Allumette,” she said kindly, “I have
thought sometimes about you. I’ve got some plans in my head. Allumette,
have you ever seen the country--the real country, where the fields are
full of buttercups and daisies, and there are woods and birds and cows
and farms?”--and Madge plunged into a description of the sights and
sounds of rural country life, whilst Allumette listened with a rapt
expression that was instantly caught and transferred to paper by the
delighted Cora.

“Well, Allumette, if you have not seen such things, you shall some day.
I shall look out for a nice farmhouse or cottage, where the woman will
take you in for a few weeks, and some day I shall send for you, and you
shall come down in the train and have a real good holiday, and go on
cultivating those roses in your cheeks which we are teaching to bloom
there now. Will that make up to you for going back to the streets for a
little while?”

The child’s face was answer enough. With such a prospect in view she
dreaded nothing, could bear with courage and equanimity the life of
the dusty streets. So through the last days she kept a brave face, and
when she saw the beautiful picture-books and the clothes she had had
given her made up into a parcel for her to take home, it seemed like an
earnest of those joys that were to come.

Tears swam in her eyes as she said good-bye, and was led away by the
gardener’s wife who was to take her back; but she held them bravely in
check, saying to herself--

“I shall see them again, I shall see them again. Miss Madge said she
would not forget.”

[Illustration: Decorative image]



CHAPTER IV.

AT BROOKLANDS.


“And you like your future home, my dear one? You think you can be happy
here?”

“Oh, Arthur! it is beautiful, beautiful! I think I never knew before
quite how exquisite everything was! I am only afraid of being too
happy!”

“That is an ailment we do not often suffer from in this world, Madge,”
he answered smilingly; “but I intend my wife to be the happiest woman
in the country. She shall not know an ungratified wish if I can help
it.”

“What a selfish creature she will become!” cried Madge with a soft
laugh, and an arch upward glance into her lover’s face; “I wonder how
soon you will grow tired of your bargain!”

“Try me,” he replied, taking her two hands in his; “I am ready to be
put to the proof as quickly as you will.”

The colour flooded her face, for she knew that he meant he wanted her
as soon as she could be persuaded to come to him, and so far she had
not actually fixed the date of the wedding, although she had said it
should be “soon.”

She had been a month in the neighbourhood of Brooklands now, and
Eva Clayton was much better, and was to be taken by Cora to the sea
to complete her restoration. Madge had intended to be one of the
party, but Lady Brook had persuaded her to come and be her guest at
the fine old baronial hall, as she was anxious to make more intimate
acquaintance with the betrothed wife of her idolised son. She had known
Madge for several years, but not very intimately. Now she was anxious
to become the friend and mother of the bright, loving girl. She did not
grudge the love her son lavished upon the woman of his choice; she only
desired that Madge should learn to love her too, and be willing to be a
daughter to her and her husband.

Madge was a warm-hearted girl, and was ready to love and be loved. She
had consented to the proposed arrangement, after a little hesitation
about leaving Cora before the time. But Cora said it would be right for
her to accept the invitation, and had said that she must learn to do
without her sister’s constant presence, and the matter was now settled
to Arthur’s satisfaction.

“We shall have so much to think of and to plan,” continued Arthur,
“for you know what they have set their hearts upon--my father and
mother? That we shall live at Brooklands, using the great west wing as
our very own, having our own servants and establishment, but being all
under one roof. My mother spoke of it to you, did she not, Madge? You
will not think that a difficult arrangement?”

“Oh, no,” answered the girl eagerly; “I think Brooklands is charming,
and the west wing has lovely rooms, and I have never cared for being
shut up alone. People said that when Bertram was married Cora and I
would find it so difficult to go on living with him, but we never did.
If your father and mother will let me, I want to be a daughter to them;
and your mother will tell me how to do everything, for I never lived in
a grand house before, and I don’t know the ways of country people,” and
Madge made a little whimsical grimace.

“My Madge’s ways will be good enough for me,” answered Arthur with a
smile, as he took her willing hands in his; “only tell me how soon you
will come to me, Madge. I don’t want to wait long. What have we to wait
for?”

“There is the trousseau,” said Madge, blushing and laughing; but her
lover swept away all such trivial objections with masculine logic.
In the end Madge promised that early in September she would come to
him for good and all. As May was now well advanced, and another week
would see June upon them, the young man could not complain that she was
keeping him over long.

But the idea that the thing was definitely settled turned Madge’s mood
into something graver. The lovers were walking through a shady woodland
glade, carpeted with wild flowers, and full of sweet sounds and scents.
Madge suddenly paused and exclaimed--

“But we must not be selfish, Arthur, we must not be selfish! We must
try and do some good in the world. If we are happy ourselves, we must
make other people happy too.”

“With all my heart,” he answered gaily: “you shall be as philanthropic
as you like, Madge, and I will learn of you.”

“I wonder what we could do,” mused Madge, looking round her. “Arthur,
shall we be rich?”

“Well, sweetheart, that depends upon what you call riches. We shall not
be millionaires, but I have an income sufficient for all our needs, and
a margin over. I suppose that will do?”

“Oh, yes; I am not thinking about ourselves. Arthur, you know I have
a little money myself. I have three hundred a year of my own. Do you
think we shall want that when we are living at Brooklands?”

He smiled an amused, indulgent smile.

“I think we can do without it. Do you want to keep your private
fortune to yourself? You know married women have no property. I shall
be able to despoil you of your fortune, unless you tie it up very
tightly!”

“Don’t tease, Arthur,” she answered; “do be serious, for I am really
in earnest. I don’t want the money for myself. I would rather take
everything from you. But I want to do some good with it. I should like
to use it for some special purpose.”

“What sort of purpose, dearest?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I must think. I want to make people happy. Some have
such sad lives always. It hardly seems fair. Oh, I know what I should
like best!--to take a dear little cottage, and have a nice woman there
to look after things, and to bring poor children down from London for
a month at a time, to give them a real holiday and outing. Oh, yes,
that would be lovely! and little Allumette should be the first. Do you
remember that pretty little model Cora had for her picture? She was a
dear little thing, and I told her she should come into the country one
day. I would have her for the first of the children. Don’t you think it
would be a delightful plan?”

“It might; but some of those delightful plans sound better than they
work out. No, no, don’t look so crestfallen, my Madge; I am not
throwing cold water. On the contrary, I will help you all I can.
And, by-the-by, not far from here is a very pleasant and roomy old
farmhouse, which is going to be empty at Michaelmas. It is only a small
one for a farm, but it might serve your purpose, and I daresay you
could coax my father to let you have it rent free. He wants to take the
land and throw it into the home farm which it adjoins, as small farms
don’t pay now, and the tenant is giving up. The house might do very
well for some purpose of that sort. Would you like to go and see it?”

Madge was eager to do so, and was delighted with the place when she
got there. It was a small farmstead, picturesque and overgrown with
creepers, with a tumble-down old barn that would make an ideal playroom
for children on wet days, and a tangled orchard full of gnarled old
apple trees just going out of bloom, a duck pond, a nut walk, and
fields and copses all round.

The house was quaint and fairly roomy, and Madge was enchanted with the
flagged kitchen, the dormer windows, and the little odd stairs up and
down at every turn.

“Oh, Arthur!--it would be a sweet place for them to come to--poor
little darlings! I should like to see little Allumette’s face when she
was set down at the gate. Michaelmas, did you say? That will be after
we are married, and if I had arranged about a woman, we could have a
few little things down in October, could we not? The nuts would be
ripe then, and you know how lovely the trees are through October. And
on wet days there would be the old barn. It would be delightful, would
it not, Arthur? And for little children from London no doing up of the
house would be needed. It would be better not too spick and span. Just
a few beds and chairs and tables. Oh, I could see to everything like
that, and tell little Allumette that she should be the first visitor.
Perhaps I would let her introduce me to some friends of hers, and bring
them all down together.”

Madge was so full of delight with her new scheme that she could talk of
nothing else all the evening with Eva and Cora.

They were both quite pleased and interested in the plan.

“But I thought you half promised little Allumette a country holiday
this summer,” said Cora. “Won’t she get rather tired of waiting if you
put it off till the autumn?”

“Oh, but this will be worth waiting for; and I haven’t had time to
think about the other. I did speak to one or two women in the cottages,
but they had children of their own, and didn’t seem to like the idea
of a strange London child. One can’t wonder at it. People fancy London
children bring dirt and disease and other unpleasantnesses. It will be
far better to work it oneself on a regular footing.”

“Yes, in some ways it will be better. I was only thinking that the
child might be disappointed.”

“Ah, well, she shall have it made up to her if she is; and she had a
nice long happy time at Hampstead which seemed to her quite like a
country holiday. I didn’t forget her, but things aren’t just as easy to
arrange as one thinks they will be. Besides, I shouldn’t have time here
to look after her as I should like. Arthur wants so much of me, and he
might not quite care for me to be running off to see little Allumette
in a cottage. Men don’t understand that sort of thing!”

So Madge dismissed the thought of any immediate summons of the little
match-seller, and busied herself with eager plans as to the management
of her little institution when it should be organised. Sir John and
Lady Brook were quite ready to interest themselves in it. The house
was to be given rent free for the purpose, and Lady Brook said that
she should pay the salary of a capable matron. Madge’s little fortune
could go to the working of the scheme, paying the fares to and fro, and
the keep of the little inmates. The girl made numerous calculations,
and amused her lover not a little by the results thereof at different
times. But in spite of blunders, Madge had plenty of shrewdness, and
Lady Brook was pleased to note her interest in domestic details, as
well as her desire after a sphere of usefulness.

“You are quite right, my dear, to resolve not to live too much for
yourself alone, or even for that joint life which you will lead with
Arthur. We are not put here in the world just to pass our lives as
pleasantly as we can. We shall have one day to give an account, and it
often seems to me that to us, to whom God’s gifts have been lavishly
furnished, He will look to give a good account of the use we have made
of them.”

Madge’s face was full of eager assent.

“That is just how I feel about it. I have had such a happy life! Except
the death of our parents, Cora and I have had no troubles, and we lost
our father before we were either of us old enough to feel it very
keenly. I think I should not really enjoy my happiness if I could not
do things for other people. At home I often felt that I wanted to do
more, but I seemed to have no work there. I did try one or two things,
but somehow they did not succeed. I daresay it was my fault, but I
do like the idea of a thing like this. It will be always there, and
even if I have not quite as much time myself as I should like, it will
always be going on.”

Madge had plenty to think of just now besides her scheme of
benevolence. She had innumerable preparations to make for her coming
marriage, involving a great deal of correspondence with dressmaker and
milliner, the selection and discussion of patterns, and a great deal
of correspondence with private friends, whose congratulations still
continued to arrive, and whose presents began to follow.

Cora and Eva betook themselves off to the sea, but Madge remained at
Brooklands week after week. The house at Hampstead was let, the tenant
wanted to keep it on. Bertram was well off, in comfortable rooms,
running down each week to spend Sunday with his wife. London was said
to be unbearably hot and stuffy, and none too healthy this season. The
Brooks urged Madge to stay on with them, and she was nothing loth. It
was most interesting to see how her new home was being transmogrified
to receive her. It seemed to her that she had only to express a wish to
see it instantly gratified. Again and again she had to remonstrate with
Arthur for “spoiling her so dreadfully.” But it was a very delightful
experience and she was as happy as the day was long.

Her brother wrote to her from time to time, sometimes on business
matters, sometimes just a little brotherly note. There was a letter
from him one morning which contained a sentence which puzzled Madge a
good deal.

“I am glad you have remembered your promise to little Allumette at
last. The poor little child has been looking very white and thin of
late, but the country air will pull her up again. How happy she will be
when she sees all the beautiful things about her. I have been sometimes
afraid that those weeks at Hampstead rather unfitted her for the
sharper battle of life she has to fight at home.”

“What can he mean?” said Madge, half aloud. And when she read the
passage in the letter aloud, Lady Brook said--

“I suppose somebody else has given the child an outing, and your
brother thinks it is you.”

“Oh, I suppose that is it,” answered Madge; “but I will ask Bertram
when I write.”

Nevertheless, the letter was never written. For a moment Madge’s
conscience had been uneasy, but the press of things crowding into her
life quickly drove all thoughts of little Allumette out of it.

[Illustration: Decorative image]



CHAPTER V.

DARK DAYS.


“Why, little Allumette! Where have all your roses gone? I thought you
had learnt to grow them in Hampstead! What have you done with them now?”

The child’s face had been pinched and wan the moment before, but at the
sound of that well-remembered voice the blood came rushing back, and
the light sprang into the wistful eyes.

“Oh, sir, you have come back!” she exclaimed, as though the sunshine
itself had returned with him.

“Yes, I have come back. Did you think I had gone for good? I shall be
going away again by-and-by; but I am here for a few weeks. What have
you been doing with yourself since I saw you last? Sitting for any more
pictures?”

“No, sir, I’ve only been selling matches.”

“Which do you like best?”

Bertram was almost sorry he had put the question, for sudden tears
sprang to the child’s eyes, and he saw that she could not reply. Some
chord of memory had been struck. Plainly she could not think of those
happy days at Hampstead without suffering the pangs of longing and
regret.

“There, there,” he said kindly, “perhaps there will be some more
sitting for pictures to do by-and-by, but the ladies are in the country
still. We are not living at Hampstead just now.”

“No, sir, I know. And are the ladies quite well?”

“Yes, quite. I hear from them often. They are in a very pretty place.”

The child’s face lighted and beamed all over.

“Yes, sir, Miss Madge told me so, and I am going there soon!”

“Are you? That is right! You look as if you would be the better for a
holiday.”

“I didn’t ought to want it; I had such a beautiful one up at your
house. But the streets do get so hot, and I just think and think and
think about what Miss Madge told me of the place I was to go to. Mother
says I’m a lucky girl, and I think I am too! I can think about it all
day, and then when it’s night I often dream about it too. I wonder if
it’ll be like the dreams when it comes? They’re so beautiful, they are!”

“Miss Madge will keep her promise--you needn’t be afraid!” said
Bertram, as he put a shilling into the child’s hand and passed on.
He was very busy just then, but he found time to feel a real sense of
pleasure that his sister should remember their little protégée, and
arrange a country outing for her. He had been a little afraid that
the experiment of transplanting her for a time had not been entirely
successful. And the child’s appearance when first he saw her had been a
shock to him, she had looked so frail and white.

“But I will tell Madge to keep her for a really good outing when she
does get her,” he said to himself as he went on his way. “The child
looks as though she needed it. She is not of the stuff of the average
street waif. I will bear the expense of some extra weeks. Perhaps when
Madge settles at Brooklands she might find a nook for the little one
somewhere.”

Bertram was exceedingly busy just at this juncture, having been away on
professional business for some time, and having his own holiday in view
not far ahead. Moreover, his daily road did not now lead by Allumette’s
corner, and he only saw her by chance once or twice during the week
that followed.

Each time he thought she looked more white and wan than the last, and
it was with real relief he observed one day that she was missing from
her corner at the very hour she was always there to look out for him
coming from the Law Courts.

“Ah, then Madge has got her!” he thought with a sense of satisfaction.
“She is revelling in the joys of the country. I should like to see
her little face light up as she gets out of the smoke of town. I will
take care that she does not come back too soon. I will run down to
Brooklands one of these days, when I can make time, and see Madge and
the Brooks and little Allumette.”

Yet at the very time when Bertram was picturing the child happy in the
midst of wild flowers, scented hay, and the glories of summertide in
the country, and Madge was busy with her preparations for receiving her
later on when the woods should be scarlet and the nuts hanging ripe
from the bough, little Allumette was sitting, languid and suffering,
pent up in a close and reeking attic with three sick children, all
prostrated by a sort of low fever which had broken out in the locality,
and which was carrying off little victims by the dozen.

It was not a regularly infectious fever, and it was practically
impossible to isolate or remove the sick. Many children recovered after
a few days’ prostration, and seemed little the worse, but some died,
and others lay helpless and weak for a considerable time, and though
the overworked doctor did his best to cope with it, he was able to do
but little except offer a few hints as to feeding and treatment, which
too often could not be carried out.

The children in Allumette’s home had sickened rather early. One little
boy had died, whilst the rest were struggling back to convalescence,
their recovery greatly retarded by the heat of the attic, and the bad
air they constantly breathed.

Allumette had gone to her match-selling as usual for some considerable
time. It was a relief to get out of the unwholesome place, and even the
hot streets seemed almost fresh by comparison.

Yet never had the life of the streets seemed so hard or so uncongenial
to little Allumette as they did upon her return from the gardener’s
cottage at Hampstead.

She shrank from the rough words and rough ways of the boys and girls
plying a like calling with herself as she had never shrunk from it
before. They jeered at her, too, in her neater clothes, and made game
of her when she spoke of what she had been doing in her absence. Her
gentleman was not in London, and the days seemed so long and dreary.
She could not eat the coarse food with the old relish, and the
uncleanly odours of the court and of the attics where she lived, which
before she had taken as a matter of course, now turned her sick.

She still snatched a few happy minutes when she could go and pay a
visit to the old cobbler and his wife. Here she was doubly happy in
being away from all that was foul and disagreeable, and in being able
to talk freely to the old people of all the joys of those wonderful
weeks in the studio.

She was never tired of telling, and they were never tired of hearing
about them; and Allumette had left in their charge the picture-books
Miss Madge had given her, and the Bible which had been young Mrs.
Clayton’s parting gift. Allumette shared with her old friends all the
knowledge she had come by during her stay in that wonderful house, and
it comforted her to talk of Jesus and His love, and to try and believe
that He saw and cared for her, just as much as He had done when she
had been so happy and cared for. Moreover, old Gregg and his wife were
always cheering her up by telling her that very soon she would be sent
for into the country for a beautiful holiday.

“It’s not till the middle of July as folks begins to think much about
holidays for children,” they would say. “August is the real month for
it, but it begins before that sometimes. The young lady won’t forget,
don’t you be afraid, little one. You’ll get a letter or a message one
of these days, and then you’ll have fine times!”

So Allumette lived on in hope, and in spite of increasing languor and
weakness kept a brave heart, and never forgot morning and night to
say the little prayer taught her by Mrs. Clayton, always adding, “and
please let Miss Madge remember about me!”

The sight of her gentleman’s face in the streets again had come like a
ray of sunlight, and his kindness had warmed her heart. She thought,
perhaps, he would say something to Miss Madge to remind her if she had
forgotten. But Allumette did not believe Miss Madge would forget, only
she did hope she would remember soon, for every day life seemed harder
and work more burdensome, and at last she hardly knew how to drag her
weary limbs over the hot pavements to her accustomed corner.

Then came the day when she dropped down in a giddy fit, just as she
was going out as usual, and her stepmother said with a sort of kindly
impatience--

“There, child, just you stop at home and mind the little ones. You’re
not fit for the streets. You’ve got a touch of the fever yourself. I’ve
got a day’s charing, and I’ll be glad to leave you at home with the
children. Keep them as quiet as you can, and I’ll ask Mrs. Gregg to
look in upon you whilst I’m away. I daresay she’ll cheer you up a bit.”

For tears of weakness and depression were running down little
Allumette’s face. It had come into her mind that if she really had the
fever the summons to the country would arrive too late. They would
not let a sick child go lest she should do harm to the others. She
had been fighting and fighting against the fear that she too was
sickening--fighting against it for a whole long week. Now she could
not fight any longer, and whilst Bertram Clayton was picturing her
revelling in the delights of rural life she lay upon the wretched bed
with the other sick children, parched with thirst, wasted by fever,
talking in low, soft tones of happy days which seemed present to her
again in a dream, but by no means always conscious of her surroundings,
or certain who was with her.

At the beginning of August the tenant of the Hampstead house gave
it up, and the Claytons came back to make preparations for Madge’s
wedding, which was now little more than a month distant.

Blooming and radiant was Madge after her happy time at her future
home, Eva was almost strong again from her visit to foreign baths,
and Bertram and Cora looked quite brown after their climbs amid the
surrounding hills.

They had so much to say that first evening that it was only just last
thing before they parted at night that Bertram suddenly exclaimed--

“Ah, by-the-by! did you get my letter, about little Allumette? I can’t
remember when or how I posted it; but I daresay it reached you all
right.”

“What letter?” asked Madge, and seemed about to say more, only he spoke
again quickly--

“Oh, the one telling you to keep her longer--to let her have August
too down there. But I daresay you would not want prompting about that.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Madge. “I never got that letter at
all. The only time you mentioned Allumette to me was once when you said
you were glad she had got away into the country. I meant to ask you who
had taken her. I am going to have her down to my new home (I’ll tell
you all about that some other time) as soon as it’s ready, but that
won’t be before October. But we’ll make up to her for the waiting when
we get her.”

Bertram looked a little puzzled.

“I thought she had gone to you when she disappeared. She told me you
had promised, and I said that if you had promised you would not forget,
and a day or two afterwards she disappeared from her corner. I made
sure you had sent for her, and that is what I meant in my letter.”

Madge’s face was rather hot. This was not the first time in her
life that Bertram had had occasion to show her how she had let fall
the chance of doing some small kindness through her eagerness to do
something bigger by-and-by.

“Did you promise the poor child a country holiday, Madge?” asked Eva
half-reproachfully. “I wish I had known. I would have taken care that
she was not disappointed.”

“It wasn’t exactly a promise--at least I don’t think so, Cora, was it?
I said something, I know, and I meant to be better than my word, only
it wasn’t convenient just then, and I thought this would be so much
better.”

Madge’s face was glowing, and her heart was beating rather fast. She
felt as though whilst planning an act of rather munificent charity
(which after all would cost her no self-denial) she had shirked the
little present trouble of seeking an asylum for one little waif, half
afraid that Arthur would think her absurd over the child, and that
the cottagers might not like it. She knew it was little half-formed
thoughts like these which had hindered her, and she felt a qualm of
shame and self-contempt.

“I did not hear exactly,” answered Cora. “I was drawing at the time,
but I certainly thought you had spoken of the summer, and I was
surprised when you put it off till October.”

“And you might have written and told her,” said Bertram. “It would
have cheered her to know herself remembered, and she would have had
a definite hope to look forward to, instead of suffering the pain of
feeling herself forgotten.”

“I was so busy, and I didn’t know how to write to a street child, and I
had forgotten the address,” said Madge. “Oh, don’t all scold me! I have
been very selfish. But I hope somebody else has taken her away, and
to-morrow I’ll go and see about it!”

“Do,” said Bertram rather gravely, “for I begin to be afraid that
instead of a country holiday it is illness which is keeping the child
from her post. She was looking very white and thin when I saw her last.
You know what the saying is about hope deferred, and it is especially
hard for children.”

“Oh, I will go to-morrow! I will go to-morrow!” cried Madge, springing
up. “I will make up to her for everything that has gone before!”

[Illustration: Decorative image]



CHAPTER VI.

CONCLUSION.


“I shall go with you, Madge,” said Bertram; “I do not like your
visiting such places alone. My work is quite slack now, since the
vacation has commenced. It matters little enough whether I appear at
chambers or not.”

So brother and sister went into town together, and soon found the
steamy, airless court which was the home of little Allumette. Madge
gave a little shudder as she passed into it.

“Oh, Bertram,” she exclaimed suddenly, “I shall never forgive myself if
harm has come to her from my neglect! I had been here before. I ought
to have remembered what it would be like after taking her out of it for
so many weeks.”

“It made her very happy; but perhaps it was a mistake. It is difficult
to judge in some cases. One of the lessons we have to learn in life is
that there is an element of danger in intermeddling too much with the
lives of others, unless we can do something permanent and substantial.
We must not rush into responsibilities which are not given us to bear
without due thought and consideration; but then we must not, on the
other hand, hold back from any effort, lest we should not be quite
successful.”

“I rushed my attempt at benevolence!” cried Madge. “When Allumette was
with us I was always teaching her and making much of her, and I was
quick to promise another holiday, without thinking whether I could be
as good as my word. And when I was down there so busy and happy I let
it go out of my mind, and could not take any trouble over it. I always
put it off till I could carry out my big scheme. Oh, Bertram, I feel as
though I were not worthy to attempt anything!”

“Cheer up, Madge! though perhaps that is a better frame of mind than
to feel able to attempt anything and everything. There is a worthy old
soul signalling to you over there. She seems to know you.”

“It is Mrs. Gregg!” cried Madge eagerly; “she will tell us about little
Allumette!”

“Oh, thank God you have come, missie!” cried the woman, hastening up.
“I was just saying to Gregg that I would go off to try to find you.
Though he did say as fine folks was never at home this time of year.
The poor lamb keeps calling and calling for Miss Madge, till it’s
pitiful to hear. It don’t seem as though she could go quiet till she’s
seen you again!”

“Do you mean little Allumette?” cried Madge breathlessly. “Is she ill?”

“I’m afeard she’s dying, miss. She’s had the fever on her a long while
now, but she wouldn’t give way. She kept saying as Miss Madge was
a-goin’ to send for her into the country, and she fought and fought
against it, till she could fight no more. If she could only ha’ bin got
away a week or two earlier--ah! that would ha’ made all the difference.
But maybe the Lord knows best. ’Tis a hard world we live in. The tender
lambs are best in His keeping maybe!”

Madge felt as though a cold hand were clutching at her heart.

“Can I see the child?” she asked in a low voice.

“Yes, miss, for sure; the fever ain’t one of the catching kind--not to
folks as don’t live down about here. The children get it, but grown-up
folks take no harm from them. There’s abin a many little one die down
here this summer, and the poor lambie up there will be the next!”

They went into that wretched attic, and stood beside the child’s bed.
She was the only sick one there now, the other children having either
died or recovered.

Madge felt the hot tears rising in her eyes as she saw the white,
wasted face, and saw the restless, fever-stricken tossings of the
child she had always seen before with a laugh in her eyes and a bright
responsive smile upon her lips. She would have spoken her name as
she bent over her, but no voice came. The dim eyes were roving round
and round in the listlessness of fever. Words began to form upon the
parched lips.

“Please, dear Lord Jesus, let Miss Madge remember! Please let her
remember. I do try to be patient; but I am so tired! If I could go
where she said I should be able to rest. Please help her to remember!”

“Allumette! Allumette!” cried Madge, with a note of almost passionate
entreaty in her voice. “Little Allumette, don’t you know me?”

The voice seemed to penetrate the child’s dimmed understanding.
Something like the shadow of the old smile crept over the pinched face;
the little transparent hands made a groping movement as though trying
to stretch themselves out.

“Miss Madge! Miss Madge!” she gasped feebly. “Miss Madge has come!
Oh, Mrs. Gregg, are you there? You see you were right. You said Jesus
always heard, and that He would answer by-and-by!”

She spoke the words in feeble gasps, trying to raise herself up; but
the excitement and exertion were too much, and she fell back in a
state of unconsciousness.

“Ah, poor lamb! she’s going! But she’s got her wish. She is happy now!”
breathed Mrs. Gregg, drawing Madge away from the bedside. The girl
turned to her brother, and caught his arm almost fiercely.

“Bertram, we must save her! we must save her!” she cried. “Don’t tell
me she is dying! I won’t--I can’t believe it!”

“Not actually dying, I think,” he answered gravely, “but in a very
critical condition. If she remains here she will certainly die. We must
bestir ourselves if we are to save her.”

“Oh, tell me what to do! What can be done? Bertram, you will help me!
You will not let me have this burden to carry about with me!”

She was growing painfully excited. He led her away, promising Mrs.
Gregg that they would make speedy arrangements for the removal of the
little patient to some better place, and asking the good woman to have
her ready for the bearers when they should come.

“You must not give way, Madge,” he said, when they were in the street.
“It has been rather a sad experience for you; but we will still hope
for a happy ending. I trust and hope we may save this little life, and
make it a happier one in the future. But think of the thousands of
children who are growing up in dens like that! It almost crushes the
life out of one to think of it!”

“I won’t think of it!” cried Madge, clenching her teeth to choke back
the wave of emotion which threatened to overcome her. “I will think of
the individual little ones whom I shall be able to help and cheer and
make happy for a little while in their small lives. I must be careful,
I see. I must not unfit them for the battle of life. I must not promise
or attempt more than I can perform, or make pets and playthings of
the little ones. All their surroundings must be plain and homely. But
they shall have their fill of fresh air and sunshine and liberty. Oh,
Bertram, my heart bleeds for them! You will not think that I ought to
give up my scheme because I have been so foolish once. I have had such
a lesson. And there I shall have wiser heads to counsel me.”

“I would never give up anything planned for the help and benefit of
our suffering brethren--least of all of suffering children,” answered
Bertram gravely, “and I think you are building on a better foundation
now, Madge! The less we trust in ourselves, the more we ask help where
it is to be found, the firmer our building will be, and more abiding
will be the results.”

Madge nipped her brother’s arm fast. She understood much that was
implied in that speech. He was not a man to speak readily of his
deeper feelings; but Madge knew that they were there, and that they
had been deeply stirred to-day.

“Now for some hospital where they will take the child,” he said in a
different tone after a long silence. “I think I know one place where
they will take a case in which I am specially interested, and make a
nook for the little one somewhere, whether they are full or not.”

       *       *       *       *       *

“St. Luke’s summer, my lamb! Just the day for Miss Madge to come home!
But we mustn’t call her Miss Madge any longer. We must learn to say
Mrs. Brook; and one day it will be Lady Brook, when the old gentleman
is gone; but he’s wonderful hale and hearty still!”

Mrs. Gregg was bustling about the cheerful kitchen of the old-fashioned
farmhouse, of which mention has been made before, and Allumette was
sitting curled up on an antique oak settle in the ingle-nook, with
a book open beside her. She was still a little white, frail bit of
humanity--“a bag of bones,” Mrs. Gregg had called her when first
she appeared at the farm, just after her own installation there as
caretaker of the infant experiment. She had picked up a little flesh
since then, but was still very weak and wan; only the light was coming
back into the wistful eyes, and the lips were ready to smile with pure
happiness and joy of life.

Life had indeed become a very wonderful thing for little Allumette
since her awakening to the consciousness of her surroundings in the
cheerful hospital ward. Everything since then had been so beautiful--so
wonderful! Nothing but kindness had been her portion; and to crown all
had come Miss Madge’s visits, upon the last of which she had heard that
the cobbler and his wife--her best friends--had been sent down to live
in a farmhouse close to the lady’s future home, and that Allumette
herself was to go there as soon as she was well enough to leave the
hospital, to live in the country always with her old friends, and
by-and-by to be trained for service in Miss Madge’s own house, with the
prospect of becoming her little maid in the future.

Miss Madge had told her all this just before she was to be married;
and since then the child had not seen her. For, when she reached this
delightful place, Mr. and Mrs. Brook were away upon their wedding trip,
and only to-day were they to return.

“Hark to the bells!” cried Mrs. Gregg suddenly. “That means that the
carriage is in sight of the village. Run, ducky! It will pass the place
I showed you this morning. Take your posy and run and see them go by!”

A huge and very tasteful arrangement in brightly-tinted autumn leaves
and flowers, tied with a white riband, lay upon the table. Little
Allumette started up, tied on her hat, seized her bouquet, and started
off like an arrow from a bow. She was strong enough to run a short
distance now, and she knew just where the carriage would pass.

“They be a-coomin’, ducky!” cried the old cobbler, who was now working
busily in the garden, rejoicing in the sort of toil to which he had
been brought up, and which seemed to infuse new vigour into his bent
frame. He and his wife both appeared to have taken a new lease of
life since coming down into the country. It had been one of their
unfulfilled dreams to save enough to leave the cruel city and make
a little home in some quiet country place such as both remembered
in their youth. But they had long given up hoping for it, when the
unexpected offer from Miss Madge brought about its realisation.

The child ran swiftly down the sloping meadow to the stile at the end.
The road ran along just below, and from that vantage ground she would
see the carriage pass, and be able to throw her posy into Miss Madge’s
lap. She could not yet think of her as anything but Miss Madge, though
she practised the new name conscientiously with Mrs. Gregg.

But hardly had she reached the stile before she uttered a little
exclamation of rapture, for there was a tall familiar figure standing
beside it, his face turned away, watching for the arrival of the
carriage.

At the sound of the pattering feet he turned and smiled.

“Little Allumette!” he exclaimed; and, lifting her up, he set her upon
the stile, where she could see everything to the greatest advantage.

“Oh, sir!” she exclaimed in a sort of ecstacy; and he laughed as he
said--

“I had to come down on business. I was in the down train, and walked
up. I thought I should get to Brooklands before the bridal party
arrived. But I heard the bells begin, and decided to let them pass me.
So you are down here for good, are you, little Allumette? But we shall
have to find a new name for you now. Matches don’t belong to you any
longer.”

“No, sir,” she answered shyly; “but I shall always like the name you
gave me better than any other!”

The roll of the carriage wheels began to be heard.

“They are coming!” said Bertram Clayton, and stood the child up on the
broad ledge of the stile, holding her with one strong arm. Two or three
mounted tenants trotted past on horseback, and then the carriage dashed
into sight round the bend.

Allumette was quivering all over with excitement and a sort of vague
fear lest Mrs. Brook might not be quite the same person as Miss Madge
had been; but when she saw the smiling face in the carriage all fear
left her, and, holding up her posy, she waved it in the air and threw
it deftly into the lady’s lap.

But Madge had already seen the pair, and was signalling to the coachman
to stop.

“Bertram, this is too delightful! Get into the carriage, and tell me
all the news at home!”

But though she spoke first to her brother her eyes were on the child
too, and when he led her up to the carriage she held out her hands, and
bending down, kissed the little quivering upturned face.

“Little Allumette!” she said softly, and there was a sparkle of tears
of thankfulness in her eyes.

The carriage drove off; the child stood looking after it. Happiness was
written on every line of her face. Her lady had seen her, had spoken to
her, had kissed her. It was more than enough for little Allumette.


  THE END.



Transcriber’s Notes

Page 16: “resignation to His Holy Will” changed to “resignation to His
Holy Will.”

Page 102: “end of the story, Winnie!” changed to “end of the story,
Winnie?”

Page 111: “as that, Winnie?” changed to “as that, Winnie.”

Page 175: “when she could to go” changed to “when she could go”

Page 183: “be as good as my word” changed to “be as good as my word.”

The original has several pages of text that are skipped in the page
numbering. This has been maintained in the digital version.



*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Our Winnie and The Little Match Girl" ***

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