Part 7 (2/2)
eat out of a tin pan. I know it would!”
When Mom Beck opened the door, hunting her, the room was so dark that she would have gone away if the dog had not come running out from under the piano.
”You heah, too, chile?” she asked, in surprise. ”I have to go down now an' see if I can get Judy to come help to-morrow. Do you think you can undress yo'self to-night?”
”Of co'se,” answered the Little Colonel. Mom Beck was in such a hurry to be off that she did not notice the tremble in the voice that answered her.
”Well, the can'le is lit in yo' room. So run along now like a nice little lady, an' don't bothah yo' mamma. She got her hands full already.”
”All right,” answered the child.
A quarter of an hour later she stood in her little white nightgown with her hand on the door-k.n.o.b.
She opened the door just a crack and peeped in. Her mother laid her finger on her lips, and beckoned silently. In another instant Lloyd was in her lap. She had cried herself quiet in the dark corner under the piano; but there was something more pathetic in her eyes than tears. It was the expression of one who understood and sympathized.
”Oh, mothah,” she whispered, ”we does have such lots of troubles.”
”Yes, chickabiddy, but I hope they will soon be over now,” was the answer, as the anxious face tried to smile bravely for the child's sake, ”Papa is sleeping so nicely now he is sure to be better in the morning.”
That comforted the Little Colonel some, but for days she was haunted by the fear of the poorhouse.
Every time her mother paid out any money she looked anxiously to see how much was still left. She wandered about the place, touching the trees and vines with caressing hands, feeling that she might soon have to leave them.
She loved them all so dearly,--every stick and stone, and even the stubby old s...o...b..ll bushes that never bloomed.
Her dresses were outgrown and faded, but no one had any time or thought to spend on getting her new ones. A little hole began to come in the toe of each shoe.
She was still wearing her summer sunbonnet, although the days were getting frosty.
She was a proud little thing. It mortified her for any one to see her looking so shabby. Still she uttered no word of complaint, for fear of lessening the little amount in the pocketbook that her mother had said stood between them and the poorhouse.
She sat with her feet tucked under her when any one called.
”I wouldn't mind bein' a little beggah so much myself,” she thought, ”but I jus' can't have my bu'ful sweet mothah lookin' like that awful red-eyed woman.”
One day the doctor called Mrs. Sherman out into the hall. ”I have just come from your father's,” he said. ”He is suffering from a severe attack of rheumatism. He is confined to his room, and is positively starving for company. He told me he would give anything in the world to have his little grandchild with him. There were tears in his eyes when he said it, and that means a good deal from him. He fairly idolizes her. The servants have told him she mopes around and is getting thin and pale. He is afraid she will come down with the fever, too. He told me to use any stratagem I liked to get her there. But I think it's better to tell you frankly how matters stand. It will do the child good to have a change, Elizabeth, and I solemnly think you ought to let her go, for a week at least.”
”But, doctor, she has never been away from me a single night in her life. She'd die of homesickness, and I know she'll never consent to leave me. Then suppose Jack should get worse--”
”We'll suppose nothing of the kind,” he interrupted, brusquely. ”Tell Becky to pack up her things. Leave Lloyd to me. I'll get her consent without any trouble.”
”Come, Colonel,” he called, as he left the house. ”I'm going to take you a little ride.”
No one ever knew what the kind old fellow said to her to induce her to go to her grandfather's.
She came back from her ride looking brighter than she had in a long time. She felt that in some way, although in what way she could not understand, her going would help them to escape the dreaded poorhouse.
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