Part 58 (2/2)

”And to think I have had boys, actually young life here in this room.” Mrs.

Sterling raised herself suddenly to rest on one elbow.

”Mistress--mistress,” implored the alarmed Gibson, with restraining hands, ”you'll hurt yourself.”

”No, I shan't,” protested Mrs. Sterling, her eyes beaming, and going on resolutely, ”and just to think of boys being here!”--she looked around the room with a sudden affection--”and liking it--for they did, Gibson, they surely did, until the fire started. Oh, it is perfectly beautiful!”

”Well, do lie back, mistress,” begged Gibson, thumping up the pillows invitingly, ”else those dreadful creatures will finish you entirely.”

”Don't say so,” cried Mrs. Sterling laughingly, ”and I will be good,” and she settled back comfortably into her accustomed place. ”Yes, Gibson, I have my young folks now, the same as other people,” she added proudly. ”You needn't try to fix up the room yet; you may finish the story you were reading to me last night.”

She had to turn her face on the pillow, for the smile would come, at the picture of Gibson, the immaculate, sitting down calmly in the midst of the awful effects of the tumult that had so vexed her soul.

She had her young people, there was no manner of doubt after that. And though the exit from their evening's excitement was not again made to the clang of the fire-bell, all the subsequent visits held fun and jollity, and quiet enjoyment, and everything else that was delightful, mixed up together.

And the Comfort committee had so much pleasure out of the whole thing, that one evening little Porter looked up from his laborious pasting, whereby a joke from a funny paper was going down for the sick boy's amus.e.m.e.nt.

”I wish some one else would get hurt,” he said abruptly, without stopping to think.

”Oh, you beggar!” It was Curtis Park who turned on him, though every boy had glanced up in surprise.

”We can't have such fun,” said Porter, waving his sticky hands in both directions, ”unless they do,” and he twisted uncomfortably in his chair, as he realized the effect of his words.

”Well, we must think of somebody else to help with our Comfort committee,”

said Mrs. Sterling from her sofa. ”Don't worry, Porter, we won't let ourselves die out for want of work. Boys--” She looked at them suddenly, and raised herself on her elbow, Gibson over in her watchful corner trotting across in great apprehension.

”Mistress--mistress,” she began.

”There are ever so many young people who are hurt and sick and distressed and are taken right out of life.” She was gazing at them now with eyes that were large and dark and s.h.i.+ning.

”But we don't know them,” burst out Joel Pepper, for she seemed to expect somebody to answer.

”No, but they need you.”

”Mistress--mistress,” begged Gibson, hanging over her.

”And if you do the work after Lawrence doesn't need it, and he is here with us, well and happy once more, I will see that some sick or unhappy boy gets it.”

Joel Pepper hopped out of his chair, upsetting the mucilage bottle, seeing which, Gibson left her mistress to reach the table in time to save a disaster.

”Will you--will you?” he cried, running over to the sofa. ”Will you give our things, if we make them, to some poor sick boys who are hurt, Mrs.

Sterling?”

”I surely will, Joel,” promised Mrs. Sterling, taking his two brown hands in her thin one.

”Then I'm going to make things,” declared Joel, who never in his life before had been willing to sit still and cut out and snip and paste and write, and he plunged back to his seat. ”Oh!” he cried, in dismay, and his face grew terribly red, ”did I upset that?”--pointing to the mucilage bottle.

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