Uncle Titus and His Visit to the Country Part 14

Mamma had failed! "Not Snowdrops; no!" screamed Hunne, almost beside himself with delight.

"I guess it is _ice-cream_," said Mr. Birkenfeld. "Ice makes me cry sometimes, it is so cold. Cream certainly needs a spoon, and I have often heard the cry, 'To-morrow please,' when ice-cream has been mentioned."

Hunne spun round with delight. "No, no!" he shouted. It was almost too good to be true, that his father should have missed it too. He scampered about crying out to everyone, "Guess! guess!"

Rolf was really vexed not to be able to see through this simple little "Hunne riddle" as he called it; and was mortified to perceive that he had made a worse guess than any one.

Meantime the days were pa.s.sing. One morning at breakfast Uncle t.i.tus said,

"My dear Ninette, our last week is drawing near. What should you say if we put off going home, another fortnight? I feel remarkably well here, no dizziness at all, and an extraordinary increase of strength in my legs!"

"You show it in your looks, my dear t.i.tus--" said his wife tenderly, "you look ten years younger, at the very least, than when we came here."

"And to my mind, this way of living has done you a world of good too, my dear Ninette;" replied he, "It seems to me that you find much less to lament over of late."

"Everything is so different," she answered; "It seems to me that everything has changed. The noise of the children even doesn't seem the same, now that I know each one of them. I must say that I am very glad that we didn't leave here that first week; I feel the loss of something pleasant now when I do not hear the children's voices, and I am always a little uneasy if it is perfectly quiet in the garden."

"It is just so with me," said Uncle t.i.tus, "and I cannot get through an evening with any satisfaction unless that bright boy has been in to see me, full of impatience to tell me what he has been about during the day, and eager to hear the enigmas I have to give him. It is a perfect pleasure to have such a young fellow about one."

"My dear t.i.tus, you are growing younger every day. We will certainly stay longer," said Aunt Ninette decidedly, "just as long as we conveniently can. I'm sure even the doctor did not expect such good results from one country visit; it is almost miraculous!"

Dora lost no time in carrying the enchanting news of this decision to Paula, for in her inmost heart she had been very unhappy at the thought of going away so soon. How could she live, away from all this dear family with whom she had learned to feel so entirely at home? She thought that when the day of separation came her heart would surely break.

When the good news of Dora's longer stay among them spread through the family, there was general rejoicing, and the little girl was in danger of being fairly hugged to death by her friends.

That evening after the children were all safely in bed, and Miss Hanenwinkel had withdrawn to her own room, Mr. and Mrs. Birkenfeld sat together upon the sofa, talking. This was the only quiet time that they could count upon in the course of the day, when they could talk over the needs, the pleasures and the pains, of their large and busy family. They were talking now about the decision of their new friends, and Mrs.

Birkenfeld expressed her great satisfaction with it, adding,

"I cannot bear to think of losing Dora. She has grown very dear to me.

What a real blessing that child has been in the family! She leaves her mark wherever she goes, and always for good. Wherever I turn I find some new evidence of her beneficial influence. And to me personally she is particularly attractive; I can't understand exactly why, but whenever I look into her eyes, I feel as if I had known her for a long time, and as if we had been sympathetic friends in days gone by."

"Ah, my dear wife, how often I have heard you say that whenever you feel a particular friendship for any one. I recollect perfectly that after we had known each other a little while, you said it seemed to you as if we had been intimately acquainted some time before."

"Well, suppose I did, you most incorrigible tease," said his wife, "you cannot convince me to the contrary, nor can you take away the fact that Dora is dear and delightful, not only to me, but to all the family besides. Paula goes about beaming like the sunshine, and with no trace of her usual discontent. Jule pulls off his own riding-boots without stirring up the whole house about it; Rolf is so full of interest in his pursuits that he has not a moment of idleness all day long; Lili has developed a love for music and a talent for playing the piano, that we never dreamed she possessed; and little Hunne has become so gentle and so contented at his games, that it is a pleasure just to look at the child."

"I think too," said Mr. Birkenfeld, "that it is because of Dora's being with us, that there has been a cessation of those mischievous pranks that the twins were always at, and that kept the house in a constant state of excitement."

"I have not the least doubt of it;" said his wife, "Dora has aroused in Lili an enthusiasm for music, and all the child's lively energy is turned into that channel. Wili follows his sister's lead, and they are both therefore so busy that they have not even a thought for mischief."

"Dora is certainly an uncommon child and I am very sorry she is to leave us so soon;" said Mr. Birkenfeld regretfully.

"That is what is weighing upon my mind," said his wife, "I am constantly trying to devise some plan for prolonging her stay still farther."

"No, no;" said her husband, decidedly, "we can't do anything about that.

We don't know these people well enough to try to influence their movements. They must go away now, but perhaps next year we may see them here again."

Mrs. Birkenfeld sighed; there was a long winter to come, and there seemed to her to be but little chance of the visit being repeated.

The day fixed for the departure was Monday, and on the day before there was to be a grand feast, a farewell festival; though to tell the truth, none of them felt much like making a jubilee. Rolf alone was in the mood, and he took charge of the preparations, as an important part of which, a number of choice riddles were to be hung about the summer-house as transparencies: in honor of his patron.

On Sat.u.r.day Dora took her seat, as usual, with the family at dinner, but no one had any appet.i.te; the coming separation was too much in their thoughts. As the mother was helping to soup, one after another exclaimed, "Very little for me," "Please only a little," "I really don't care for any to-day," "Scarcely any for me, thank you," "And less for me, to-day."

"I should like to ask--" said their father, amid this shower of "No, thank yous;" "I can't help wondering whether this 'thank you, to-morrow,' style of thing is caused by grief at parting, or by a general dislike for onion-soup."

"Onion-soup! onion-soup! that is the answer to Hunne's riddle!" cried Rolf with a cry of victory, for he had really taken it seriously to heart, that Hunne's charade had been so long unguessed. The answer was right. Poor Hunne was quite depressed at this unexpected blow, and in a moment he said somewhat pitifully,

"Oh dear! papa, if you had not said that about 'thank you, to-morrow,' for the soup, then no one would ever have found it out. Now I shall have no more fun with it."

But Dora had a comforting word for him, even now, and whispered softly, "Yes, Hunne dear, you shall have some more fun with it, for I will bring over my alb.u.m this afternoon, and I will guide your hand while you write the charade in it, and then I will take it to Karlsruhe, and show it to all the people I know there, and they will all try to guess it."

So Hunne was comforted, and was able to finish his dinner happily. But under the apple-tree where they were a.s.sembled for the last time, the family were in very low spirits. For the next day Dora must stay with her aunt to help her, and could not join them until the evening, in time for the good-bye feast. Paula sat with her eyes full of tears, and did not speak one word. Lili had already given signs of her state of mind, by all sorts of restless movements, and at last she exclaimed,

"Mamma, I wish I never need touch the piano again; it will be terribly tiresome without Dora, and Miss Hanenwinkel will find fault again and say I am 'not progressing,' and I don't want to 'progress' when Dora is not here!"

"Oh dear!" sighed Jule, "what terrible days are before us, with danger to life and limb, when the twins begin again to find their time hang heavy on their hands. It is a very stupid arrangement anyway," he went on quite excitedly; "it would be far better for Dora to pa.s.s the winter with us.

Her aunt and uncle could go on in their quiet way in Karlsruhe all the same without her."

The mother sympathized entirely in the children's regret at the separation and said she hoped to persuade Mr. Ehrenreich to bring his wife and Dora back for another summer.

Hunne was the only one more interested in the present than in the future, and he kept pulling Dora's dress and saying,

"Go get your book, Dora! get the book!"

So Dora went to get her alb.u.m, and brought it over for each one of her friends, in the good old fashion, to write a verse or a motto in it, by way of remembrance. It was no new, elegant, gilded affair. It was an old book, faded and worn, and much of the writing in it was pale with age.

Here and there had been pasted on, tiny bunches of flowers and leaves all of which had lost their color, and many of which had fallen off. The alb.u.m had belonged to Dora's mother, and the verses were all written in unformed, childish characters. There were also some drawings, and among these one of a small house and a well, with a man standing near it, particularly attracted Hunne's attention, and he took the book in his own hands, and began turning the leaves.

"Hallo!" he exclaimed with a knowing look, as he took out a piece of paper that lay folded between the leaves; "Mamma has one like this; it belongs to Lili; the one I am going to America to find."

Julius laughed aloud. "What in the world are you chattering to Dora about now, Hunne?" But his mother glanced, quickly at the little boy as she caught his words, took the paper from his hand and read what was written there.

Great tears fell from her eyes as she read; the memory of long past hours of her happy childhood rose before her, clear and distinct, and almost overpowered her, Her own mother's face, and all the sights and sounds of childhood! It was the other half of her own poem that she held in her hand, the half that had been kept by her dearly loved friend. She gave it silently to her husband; she could not trust her voice to read it aloud.

The children watched her curiously as she took the other half from her notebook, and laid the two bits of yellow faded paper side by side. They made a sheet of the usual size of old-fashioned letter paper. The writing was the same on both, and as the lines were joined, their meaning became plain. Mr. Birkenfeld read the verses aloud:

"Lay your hand in mine dear, Joined thus we need not fear, Each the other clasping fast, That our union should not last, But behold, the fates decree That our future severed be.

We will cut our verse in two, Half for me and half for you.

But we still will hope forever That the halves may come together, And with no loss to deplore.

Our friendship be as 'twas before."

The mother had taken Dora's hand in hers. "Where did you get this paper, Dora?" she asked, much moved.

"It has always been in my mother's alb.u.m," replied the child with surprise.

"Then you are my Lili's child!" cried Mrs. Birkenfeld, "and that is what your eyes always said to me, when I looked into them;" and she folded Dora softly to her heart.

The children were intensely excited, but seeing how much moved their mother was, they restrained themselves, and sat very still, watching Dora and their mother with eager looks. But little Hunne broke the spell.

"Then I sha'n't have to go to America, shall I, mamma?" he said gaily, for since he had given his word to go to find the lost Lili, he had often thought with alarm of the long journey that he must take alone.