Bessie on Her Travels

Maggie and Bessie stood waiting behind the house-keeper’s stout figure, till she had, as Maggie afterwards said, “finished up her scoldings,” when Bessie said rather timidly: —

“Mrs. Housekeeper?”

“Well, what’s wanted now?” asked the woman, turning sharply round; but, when she saw who was speaking to her, her face softened and her manner changed.

Now the worst of all this poor woman’s troubles was the long tedious sickness of her only child, a little girl about Bessie’s age, but not bright and happy, and able to run about and play like our little “princess.” This poor child had been ailing for more than six months, sometimes suffering a great deal, and always very weak; and her mother had not much time to give to her, since she was obliged to attend to her duties about the hotel of which she had charge.

When the child was well enough, she was put into a perambulator and taken out for fresh air; and she had just returned from one of these rides on the day before this, as Maggie and Bessie came in from a drive with the elders of their party. They had been to visit an Indian encampment just outside the city, and returned laden with all manner of pretty trifles purchased for the dear ones at home, and some for themselves.

They had each of them also a handful of flowers given to them by some friend; and, as they passed the sick child lying in her wagon, and turned towards her with a look of sympathy, Bessie saw her eyes fixed longingly on the sweet blossoms she held.

She stopped and turning to Maggie said, —

“I think I’ll give my flowers to that sick child, she looks as if she’d like them,” and then going to the child she put the flowers in her hand, and said, “Here are some flowers for you, and I am sorry you are sick.”

“And here’s a basket for you,” said Maggie, coming forward with her offering too; and she gave a pretty little basket, the work of the Indians, which she had bought for her own use: “you can put Bessie’s flowers in it, and it will look lovely. See, let me fix them for you,” and in two minutes her skilful little fingers had arranged the flowers most tastefully, greatly to the child’s delight.

“And am I to keep the basket?” asked the sick child.

“Oh, yes! for ever and ever if you like,” said Maggie; “and when the flowers are faded you can take them out and put some more in.”

“I don’t often have flowers,” said the child; “but I love them so: only I don’t like to take all yours,” she added, looking at Bessie.

“Oh! she is going to have half mine,” said Maggie; “you needn’t be troubled about that. Good-by now,” and she and Bessie ran after their parents, leaving the sick child brightened and happy.

Her mother had been standing near enough to hear and see all that had passed; and so you will not wonder that now, when she turned and saw Maggie and Bessie, her harsh look and tone became gentle and pleasant.

“Oh! it’s you, you little dears,” she said. “Now, is there ever a thing I can do for you?”

“Yes,” said Bessie. “We are so sorry for Matilda, and we wanted to know if you would let us pay for the pitcher she broke if we have money enough, and try her just once more?”

“I like to please you,” said the woman; “but Matilda is so careless I cannot put up with her.”

“But it really wasn’t her fault this time,” pleaded Bessie; “she says a man ran against her, and knocked it out of her hand when she was carrying it so carefully.”

“And we’ll pay for it if we have enough,” said Maggie.

“And her mother is sick,” said Bessie; “and you know we ought to be sorry and kind to sick people; and you know, too, we ought to forgive as we want to be forgiven. Couldn’t you do it for the sick mother’s sake? And maybe this will be a good lesson to Matilda.”

“I’ll keep her for your sake, and strive to be more patient with her too,” said the house-keeper; “and I think you’ll never lack for comfort and kindness when you’re sick yourselves: at least, not if the Lord repays what’s done for Him, as the good book says He does.”

“And how much must we pay for the pitcher?” asked Bessie.

“Not a penny. I don’t know as Matilda was to blame this time, and I didn’t listen to her story as I should, I own; but I’ve been so put about this morning. You go your ways, you little dears; and Matilda shall stay for your good word.”

Now the children did not know it, but probably the good word of the two little strangers would have gone but little way with the angry house-keeper, had it not been for the kindness done to her sick child the day before; but so it was, and so the one good thing sprang from the other.

They left Montreal the next morning, and then came two long days of railway travelling, ending in Boston. Here they stayed only a few hours, and then started afresh about six o’clock in the evening, bound “for Narragansett Bay,” papa said, when he was asked where they were now going. Bessie was so thoroughly tired that she was soon glad to nestle her head against her father and go to sleep: a very comfortable sleep it was too, from which she did not wake even when she was carried from the cars to a carriage, and from the carriage into a certain house. Maggie, too, after refusing similar accommodation from Uncle Ruthven, and holding herself very upright, and stretching her eyes very wide open, at last gave in, and accepted the repeated offer of his arm as a pillow.

But they both roused up at last when they were brought into that house. Where were they now? and whose voices were those, so familiar and so dear, but not heard for many weeks?

Maggie opened her eyes with a start, wide-awake on the instant, and, immediately understanding all, gave a shriek of delight, sprang off the sofa where Uncle Ruthven had placed her, and was fast about Mrs. Rush’s neck, exclaiming, —

“It’s Newport! it is Newport! and this is Aunt May’s house, and papa has surprised us. Oh! lovely, lovely! Bessie! Bessie! wake up, and hear the good news.”

Bessie slowly opened her eyes at the call, not yet understanding; but as she saw the face that was bending over her, and knew that here was her “own dear solger,” whom she had so longed to see, she gave a long sigh of intense satisfaction, and, after her usual manner when her heart was full of love and tenderness, let two words speak for her, —

“Uncle Horace.”

There was no surprise in the tone, only unspeakable pleasure and affection; and she laid her head against his shoulder with an expression of utter content.

“This is the very best thing in all our travels,” said Maggie. “Where is May Bessie, Aunt May?”

“Fast asleep in her cradle, and I can’t let you peep at her to-night,” said Mrs. Rush. “We’ll keep that for the morning.”

Mamma said all other pleasures must be kept for the morning, save that of following May Bessie’s example; and Bessie, who could scarcely keep her eyes open, even for the purpose of looking at her beloved Colonel Rush, was quite ready to obey; but Maggie thought she had had sleep enough for one night, and would like at once to make acquaintance with all her new surroundings.

“But we are all going to rest, for it is nearly midnight,” said the colonel; which caused Maggie to change her mind, as she had no fancy for staying up alone; and she was now eager to go to sleep at once, so that “morning might come before she knew it,” and she went off saying, —

“I never saw children who had such heaps and heaps of happiness as we do. I don’t know how I’m ever going to make up enough gratitude for it.”

Perhaps her gratitude to the kind hand which showered so much happiness upon her was best shown in the sunny spirit with which she took both trials and blessings, and in her readiness to share the latter with all whom she met.

XII

“HAPPY DELIGHTS.”

“Woof! woof! woof! woof!”

Was it possible Flossie knew who was in that pretty room where Maggie and Bessie had been snugly tucked away last night? Certain it is that these sounds, accompanied by a violent scratching at the door, as if he were in a great hurry to have it opened, awakened our little sisters in the morning.

“Why!” said Maggie, in great surprise, “if that don’t sound like – why, Janie!” as her eyes fell upon the smiling face of Jane, looking at her over the foot-board of her bed.

“Why, Janie!” repeated Bessie in her turn. “Who is barking?” she added, as a fresh burst of scratching, and “woof, woof”-ing, came from the door.

“Shall I open it and see?” asked Jane; and she opened the door, when in rushed Flossie, who, jumping on the bed, went into an ecstasy of delight and welcome that fell little short of speaking. He wriggled and twisted and barked, and nearly wagged his tail off, and behaved altogether as if he were half frantic. His little mistresses almost smothered him; but he did not object, and put his cold nose in their faces, and wagged and wriggled harder than ever. Never was such a delighted little dog.

Before the children had time to ask any questions, Frankie came running in, exclaiming, —

“Hi! Maddie and Bessie. Flossie and me and Janie found you. All the peoples is downstairs to brekwis.”

Maggie was dismayed. All the people down to breakfast! and she had meant to be awake with the first streak of daylight. Frankie had to be squeezed and kissed of course; and then Jane and nurse were begged to wash and dress them as fast as possible.

“Why, what’s that noise?” asked Bessie while nurse was busy with her. “It sounds just like the sea.”

“The wind is high this morning,” said nurse, who had had her orders.

“How much it sounds like my dear sea,” said Bessie, unsuspectingly, as she glanced up at the window and saw the branches of the trees waving about in what was, as Mammy said, rather a high wind. “Can’t we have the window open, so we could hear it plainer? I could most think it was the sea.”