Apples, Ripe and Rosy, Sir Part 16

Poor Joan learned in those hours what a terrible punishment is that of remorse. Amid all her thoughts of Tilderee one scene was ever before her: the picture of a rosy culprit, with tangled curls and beseeching eyes, grieved at the mischief she had done, and stammering, "I'm so sorry, Joan!" And then herself, as she s.n.a.t.c.hed up the doll and answered harshly: "You naughty girl! I wish you didn't live here! I wish I hadn't any little sister at all!" Well, her wish had come true: Tilderee was gone. Perhaps she would never live in the log house again. There was no "little plague" to vex or bother Joan now. The lighter ch.o.r.es, which were her part of the housework, could be finished twice as soon, and afterward she would have plenty of time to do as she liked: to play with and sew for Angelina, for instance. Angelina!--how she hated the very name! She never wanted even to see the doll again.

Tilderee might get up a "make-believe" funeral, and bury it under the white rosebush. Yes, that would be the prettiest spot; and for old affection's sake the thing should be done properly if she came back, --ah, _if_! And then Joan would put her head down upon the table or a chair, whichever happened to be near, or hide her face in the folds of her ap.r.o.n, and cry: "What _shall_ I do without Tilderee! Oh, if G.o.d will only give her back to us, I will never say a cross or angry word again!"

Dawn brought no news of the lost child, and the dreary night of suspense was succeeded by a day of anguish. At intervals the seekers sent a message back to the desolate home. Sometimes it was: "Keep up your courage; we trust all will be well." Or, "Though we have not yet found the child, please G.o.d we will soon restore her to you," and so on. But, soften it as they could, the fact remained--their expedition had been fruitless: Tilderee was still lost. They at length despaired of gaining trace or tidings of her, and agreed that it was useless to continue the search.

"She must have fallen over a precipice," maintained one of the men.

"If so, we should have met with some sign--" argued another, hesitating at the thought of what that sign might be.

"It is probable that she has been stolen by the Indians," said Lieutenant Miller, of the Fort; "and we must adopt other means to recover her."

Once more dusk was approaching, and they were about to turn back, when--hark! there was a shout from the borders of the canon beyond. A few moments before, Abe, the old scout, had disappeared in that direction. As he pressed onward he presently discovered that, in a wavering line, the brambles seemed to have been recently trodden down.

A little farther on, almost hidden among the briers and dry leaves, lay a withered wild flower, like those that grew in the plain below; and farther still, caught upon a bush, was a bit of the fringe of a shawl, so small that it might have escaped any but his "hunter's eye." As he stood still, with senses alert, he heard a sound amid the brush; and, turning quickly, saw that which made him send forth the ringing halloo to his comrades. It was a little dog crawling down toward a hollow, where a spring of water gushed from the ground.

"Fudge!" he called, softly. The dog started, fawned upon him with a low whine; and, with many backward glances to make sure that he was following, led the way to a high rock which shelved inward, forming a sort of canopy above the bank. There, in the rude recess, as he felt confident would be the case, was the lost child. At first he feared she might be dead, so pale and motionless she lay; but when he whispered gently, "Tilderee!" the white eyelids fluttered, then unclosed; the dull eyes lighted up in recognition, and she smiled a wan, weak little smile. Once more Abe's cheery voice rang out, calling, "Found! found!" and the woods and cliffs made merry with the echoes. His companions hastened toward the ravine; but he met them half way, carrying the little one in his arms.

What a shout of joy greeted the sight! What a feeling of thankfulness filled each heart! Mr. Prentiss, strong man though he was, at the relaxing of the terrible tension, fainted like a woman. For a second Peter felt his brain in a whirl, then he leaped upon Twinkling Hoofs, whom he had been leading by the bridle, breathed a word in the ear of the clever mustang, and sped away like the wind, "to tell them at home." Who could describe the emotions of the fond mother when, half an hour later, she clasped her darling to her breast?

What a happy stillness reigned in the house for hours, while Tilderee was tenderly brought back from the verge of starvation! In the beginning she was too feeble to speak; but after a while Mrs. Prentiss noticed that she wanted to say something, and, bending over her, caught the tremulous words: "Oh mother, I'll never be disobedient any more!"

It was then that the good woman, who, as the saying is, "had kept up"

wonderfully, was overcome, and wept unrestrainedly.

As for Joan, it seemed to her that there could never be any mourning or sadness again. When she had done everything possible for Tilderee, she lavished attentions upon Fudge, and announced to him that henceforth he was to be called Fido (faithful); at which he wagged his tail, as if he found the _role_ of hero quite to his liking. Joan's heart was so light that she wished everyone in the world could share her happiness; but whether she laughed or chattered, or hummed a little song to herself, the refrain of all this gladness was "Oh, how good G.o.d is!

How good G.o.d is!"

A LITTLE WHITE DRESS.

"Only three weeks more, Constance. Aren't you glad?" said Lillie to her little companion and neighbor as they hurried to school.

"Indeed I am. But it's so long in coming!" sighed Constance. "The days never seemed to go so slowly before."

"I have made a calendar, and every morning I cross off a date; there are already seven gone since the 1st of May," explained Lillie, with a satisfied air, as if she had discovered the secret of adding "speed to the wings of time." "We shall not have a great while to wait now."

Was it a grand holiday that our young friends were antic.i.p.ating so eagerly, or the summer vacation, now drawing near? One might suppose something of the kind. But not at all. On the approaching Feast of the Ascension they were to make their First Communion; and, being convent-bred little girls, every thought and act had been directed to preparation for this great event, to which they looked forward with the artless fervor natural to innocent childhood. No one must imagine, however, that they were diminutive prudes, with long faces. Is not a girl or boy gayest when his or her heart has no burden upon it? In fact, it would have been hard to find two merrier folk, even upon this bright spring morning.

Lillie was a sprightly creature, who, somehow, always reminded Sister Agnes of one of the angels in Murillo's picture, "The Immaculate Conception,"--a lively, happy-go-lucky, rollicking angel, who plays hide-and-seek among the folds of Our Lady's mantle, and appears almost beside himself with the gladness of heaven's sunlight. Yet Lillie was by no means an angel. She had her faults of course, and these often sadly tried the patience of the good Sister. She was quick-tempered, volatile, inclined to be a trifle vain. Alas that it is so hard to keep a child's heart like a garden enclosed as with a fragrant hedge, laden with the blossoms of sweet thoughts,--safely shut in from the chilling winds of worldliness! She was lovable withal, generous, affectionate, and would make a fine woman if properly trained.

Constance, a year older, was more sedate, though with plenty of quiet fun about her. But, as a general thing, she knew when to be serious and when to play,--a bit of wisdom which Sister Agnes frequently wished she could manage to impart to the others of the band of aspirants, of whom the gentle nun had special charge.

Constance and Lillie were nearly always together. Now, as they tripped, onward, they were as happy as the birds in the trees above them, and their voices as pleasant to hear. Having turned the corner, they began to meet a company of children, who came along, sometimes in groups, again in detachments of twos and threes, all clad in white, with white veils upon their heads and floating about them as they pa.s.sed joyously on, as if keeping time to the music of their own happy hearts. Poor children they were, most of them, with plain, ordinary faces, but upon which now shone a light that made one think of old sweet stories,--of St. Ursula and her throng of spotless maidens; of Genevieve, the child-shepherdess of Nanterre. Who that has ever witnessed such a scene can forget it!--this flock of fair, spotless doves amid the dust or mire of the city streets, that by their very pa.s.sing bring even to the indifferent spectator a thought above gain or traffic,--a memory perhaps of guileless days and n.o.ble aspirations, as, looking up at the blue, calm sky, perchance he likens them to the snowy cloudlets that gather nearest to the sun and are irradiated by its brightness.

"Why," exclaimed Constance, "here come the first communicants of St.

Joseph's parish! They must be just going home from Ma.s.s. How happy they all are, and how pretty in their white dresses!"

"They do look lovely," a.s.sented Lillie, readily. "How could they help it? And some of the dresses are nice, but surely you see, Connie, that others are made of dreadfully common material, and the veils are coa.r.s.e cotton stuff."

"Well, I suppose they couldn't afford any better," returned Constance, regretfully.

"I declare there's Annie Brogan, whose mother works for us!--don't you know?" cried Lillie, darting toward a girl who had parted with several others at a cross-street and was walking on alone.

As Constance did know, she hastened to greet her, and to vie with Lillie in congratulating her. "O Annie, what a happy day for you!"--"What a favored girl you are!"--"I almost envy you!"--"We have three whole weeks to wait yet!" This is about what they said, again and again, within the next few minutes; while Annie turned from one to the other, with an added gentleness of manner, a smile upon her lips, and a more thoughtful expression in her grey eyes.

Yes, she was happy; she felt that this was indeed the most beautiful day of her life. To be almost envied, too, by such girls as Lillie Davis and Constance Hammond! This was almost incredible; and so she continued to smile at them, putting in a word now and then, while they chattered on like a pair of magpies, and all three were in perfect sympathy.

Presently Lillie chanced to glance at the little communicant's white gown, which, though fresh and dainty as loving hands could make it, was unmistakably well worn, and in some places had evidently been carefully darned; indeed, her sharp eyes discovered even a tiny tear in the skirt, as if Annie had unwittingly put her fingers through it when searching for the pocket.

"Why, Annie Brogan," she exclaimed, thoughtlessly, "you did not wear that dress to make your First Communion!"

"Yes, to be sure. Did not mother do it up nicely?" answered Annie, with naive appreciation of the patient, painstaking skill which had laid the small tucks so neatly, and fluted the thin ruffles without putting a hole through them. "And mother was saying, when she was at work on it, how thankful we ought to be to have it; since, much as she wished to buy a dress for me, she would not have been able to do so, with the rent and everything to pay; and how good your mamma was to give it to me."

"Pshaw!" rejoined Lillie. "I could have given you a dress ten times better than that if I had only remembered. Mamma just happened to put that in with a bundle of some of my last summer's clothes, which she hoped Mrs. Brogan might find useful. But she never dreamed you would wear it to-day."

"I thought it was so nice!" said Annie, coloring, while a few tears of chagrin and disappointment sprang to her eyes; somehow, a shadow seemed to have unaccountably arisen to dim the brightness of this fairest of days,--a wee bit of a shadow, felt rather than defined.

"So it is nice!" declared Constance, frowning at impulsive Lillie, to warn her that she had blundered. "It is ironed perfectly; your mother has made it look beautiful. And what a pretty veil you have!"

"Yes, I did buy that," replied Annie, in a more cheerful tone.

"Oh, it's all right! And Our Lord must have welcomed you gladly, Annie, you are so good and sweet," added Lillie. "I didn't mean any harm in noticing your dress; it was only one of my stupid speeches."

Lillie looked so sorry and vexed with herself that Annie laughed. The shadow was lifted; the children wished one another good-bye; Annie went homeward, while the others quickened their pace, fearing that they would be late for school.

But the circ.u.mstance had made an impression, especially upon Lillie; and at the noon recreation, which the first communicants spent together, she hastened to tell her companions about it.

"Just imagine!" she cried; "Annie Brogan made her First Communion this morning, and she wore an old dress of mine,--an old dress, all mended up, that mamma gave her!"

"The idea!"--"What was she thinking of?" etc., etc.; such were the exclamations with which this announcement was greeted. Most of the girls did not know in the least of whom Lillie was speaking, but it was the fact which created such a sensation.

"Why didn't she get a new one?" inquired Eugenia Dillon, a girl of a haughty disposition, who attached a great deal of importance to costly clothes.

"Hadn't any money," responded Lillie, nibbling at a delicious pickled lime which she had produced from a corner of her lunch basket.

"Then I'd wait till I had--"

"Oh, not put off your First Communion!" protested one of the group.

"Why, yes," returned Eugenia, conscious that she had scandalized them a little and trying to excuse herself. "It is not respectful or proper not to be fitly dressed for such a great occasion."

"But Annie was as neat as could be," said Constance; "and looked as pretty as a picture, too. I'm sure Our Lord was as pleased with her as if she were dressed like a princess, because she is such a good little thing."

"Come, Connie, don't preach!" objected Eugenia, impatiently. "Besides, how could she have looked pretty in a mended dress? I wish you could see the one I'm going to have! It's to be of white silk,--the best that can be got at Brown's."

"It won't be any more beautiful than mine. I'm to have tulle," said Lillie.

"And I--" continued Constance.