Five Little Peppers Midway Part 18

"I trust not," said Mrs. Whitney fervently. "d.i.c.ky, would you like to have a secret?" she asked suddenly.

The boy's eyes sparkled. "Wouldn't I mamma?" he cried, springing forward in the chair; "ugh!"

"Take care, darling," warned his mother. "You must remember the poor leg."

d.i.c.k made a grimace, but otherwise took the pain pluckily. "Tell me, do, mamma," he begged, "the secret."

"Yes, I thought it would be a pleasant thing for you to have it to think of, darling, while you are getting well. d.i.c.ky, papa is coming home soon."

"Right away?" shouted d.i.c.k so l.u.s.tily that Mrs. Henderson popped her head in the door. "Oh! beg your pardon," she said; "I thought you wanted something."

"Isn't it lovely," cried Mrs. Whitney, "to have a boy who is beginning to find his lungs?"

"Indeed it is," cried the parson's wife, laughing; "I always picked up heart when my children were able to scream. It's good to hear you, d.i.c.ky," as she closed the door.

"Is he--is he--is he?" cried d.i.c.k in a spasm of excitement, "coming right straight away, mamma?"

"Next week," said mamma, with happy eyes, "he sails in the Servia. Next week, d.i.c.ky, my boy, we will see papa. And here is the best part of the secret. Listen; it has all been arranged that Mr. Duyckink shall live in Liverpool, so that papa will not have to go across any more, but he can stay at home with us. Oh, d.i.c.ky!"

That "Oh, d.i.c.ky!" told volumes to the boy's heart.

"Mamma," he said at last, "isn't it good that G.o.d didn't give boys and girls to Mr. Duyckink? Because you see if he had, why, then Mr.

Duyckink wouldn't like to live over there."

"Mr. Duyckink might not have felt as your father does, d.i.c.ky dear, about having his children educated at home; and Mrs. Duyckink wants to go to England; she hasn't any father, as I have, d.i.c.ky dear, who clings to the old home."

"Only I wish G.o.d had made Mr. Duyckink and Mrs. Duyckink a little sooner," said d.i.c.k reflectively. "I mean, made them want to go to England sooner, don't you, mamma?"

"I suppose we ought not to wish that," said his mother with a smile, "for perhaps we needed to be taught to be patient. Only now, d.i.c.ky, just think, we can actually have papa live at home with us!"

"Your cheeks are pink now," observed d.i.c.k; "just the very pink they used to be, mamma."

Mrs. Whitney ran to the old-fashioned looking-gla.s.s hanging in its pine-stained frame, between the low windows, and peered in. "Do I look just as I did when papa went away six months ago, d.i.c.ky?" she asked, anxiously.

"Yes," said d.i.c.k, "just like that, only a great deal nicer," he added enthusiastically.

His mother laughed and pulled at a bright wave on her forehead, dodging a bit to avoid a long crack running across the looking-gla.s.s front.

"Here's Dr. Fisher!" shouted d.i.c.k suddenly. "Now, you old fellow, you,"

and shaking his small fist at his lame leg, "you've got to get well, I tell you. I won't wait much longer, sir!" And as the doctor came in, "I've a secret."

"Well, then, you would better keep it," said Dr. Fisher. "Good morning," to Mrs. Whitney. "Our young man here is getting ahead pretty fast, I should think. How's the leg, d.i.c.ky?" sitting down by him.

"The leg is all right," cried d.i.c.k; "I'm going to step on it," trying to get out of the chair.

"d.i.c.ky!" cried his mother in alarm.

"Softly--softly now, young man," said Dr. Fisher. "I suppose you want me to cure that leg of yours, and make it as good as the other one, don't you?"

"Why, of course," replied d.i.c.k; "that's what you are a doctor for."

"Well, I won't agree to do anything of the sort," said the little doctor coolly, "if you don't do your part. Do you know what patience means?"

"I've been patient," exclaimed d.i.c.k, in a dudgeon, "forever and ever so many weeks, and now papa is coming home, and I"--

And then he realized what he had done, and he turned quite pale, and looked at his mother.

Her face gave no sign, but he sank back in his chair, feeling disgraced for life, and ready to keep quiet forever. And he was so good while Dr.

Fisher was attending to his leg that when he was through, the little doctor turned to him approvingly: "Well, sir, I think that I can promise that you can go home Sat.u.r.day. You've improved beyond my expectation."

But d.i.c.k didn't "hurrah," nor even smile.

"d.i.c.ky," said Mrs. Whitney, smiling into his downcast face, "how glad we are to hear that; just think, good Dr. Fisher says we may go next Sat.u.r.day."

"I'm glad," mumbled d.i.c.k, in a forlorn little voice, and till after the door closed on the retreating form of the doctor, it was all that could be gotten out of him. Then he turned and put out both arms to his mother.

"I didn't mean--I didn't mean--I truly didn't mean--to tell--mamma," he sobbed, as she clasped him closely.

"I know you didn't, dear," she soothed him. "It has really done no harm; papa didn't want the home people to know, as he wants to surprise them."

"But it was a secret," said d.i.c.k, between his tears, feeling as if he had lost a precious treasure entrusted to him. "Oh, mamma! I really didn't mean to let it go."

"Mamma feels quite sure of that," said Mrs. Whitney gently. "You are right, d.i.c.ky, in feeling sorry and ashamed, because anything given to you to keep is not your own but belongs to another; but, my boy, the next duty is to keep back those tears--all this is hurting your leg."

d.i.c.k struggled manfully, but still the tears rolled down his cheeks. At last he said, raising his head, "You would much better let me have my cry out, mamma; it's half-way, and it hurts to send it back."

"Well, I don't think so," said Mrs. Whitney, with a laugh. "I've often wanted to have a cry out, as you call it. But that's weak, d.i.c.ky, and should be stopped, for the more one cries, the more one wants to."

"You've often wanted to have a cry out?" repeated d.i.c.k, in such amazement that every tear just getting ready to show itself immediately rushed back again. "Why, you haven't anything to cry for, mamma."

"Indeed I have," she declared; "often and often, I do many things that I ought not to do"--

"Oh! never, never," cried d.i.c.k, clutching her around the neck, to the detriment of her lace-trimmed wrapper. "My sweetest, dearingest mamma is ever and always just right."

"Indeed, d.i.c.k," said Mrs. Whitney earnestly, "the longer I live, I find that every day I have something to be sorry for in myself. But G.o.d, you know, is good," she whispered softly.

d.i.c.k was silent.

"And then when papa goes," continued Mrs. Whitney, "why, then, my boy, it is very hard not to cry."

Here was something that the boy could grasp; and he seized it with avidity.

"And you stop crying for us," he cried; "I know now why you always put on your prettiest gown, and play games with us the evening after papa goes. I know now."

"Here are three letters," cried the parson, hurrying in, and tossing them over to the boy. "And Polly Pepper has written to me, too."

d.i.c.k screamed with delight. "Two for me; one from Ben, and one from Grandpapa!"

"And mine is from Phronsie," said Mrs. Whitney, seizing an epistle carefully printed in blue crayon.