Part 23 (1/2)

”Yes, you do! and if any one says you don't I'll shake him. I can't tell what it is, only you always look so happy and contented--sort of sweet and s.h.i.+ny,” said Jack, as he stroked the smooth brown head, rather at a loss to describe the unusually fresh and sunny expression of Ed's face, which was always cheerful, yet had a certain thoughtfulness that made it very attractive to both young and old.

”Soap makes him s.h.i.+ny; I never saw such a fellow to wash and brush,” put in Frank, as he came up with one of the pieces of music he and Ed were fond of practising together.

”I don't mean that!” said Jack indignantly. ”I wash and brush till you call me a dandy, but I don't have the same look--it seems to come from the inside, somehow, as if he was always jolly and clean and good in his mind, you know.”

”Born so,” said Frank, rumbling away in the ba.s.s with a pair of hands that would have been the better for some of the above-mentioned soap, for he did not love to do much in the was.h.i.+ng and brus.h.i.+ng line.

”I suppose that's it. Well, I like it, and I shall keep on trying, for being loved by every one is about the nicest thing in the world. Isn't it, Ed?” asked Jack, with a gentle tweak of the ear as he put a question which he knew would get no answer, for Ed was so modest he could not see wherein he differed from other boys, nor believe that the suns.h.i.+ne he saw in other faces was only the reflection from his own.

Sunday evening Mrs. Minot sat by the fire, planning how she should tell some good news she had been saving up all day. Mrs. Pecq knew it, and seemed so delighted that she went about smiling as if she did not know what trouble meant, and could not do enough for the family. She was downstairs now, seeing that the clothes were properly prepared for the wash, so there was no one in the Bird Room but Mamma and the children.

Frank was reading up all he could find about some Biblical hero mentioned in the day's sermon; Jill lay where she had lain for nearly four long months, and though her face was pale and thin with the confinement, there was an expression on it now sweeter even than health.

Jack sat on the rug beside her, looking at a white carnation through the magnifying gla.s.s, while she was enjoying the perfume of a red one as she talked to him.

”If you look at the white petals you'll see that they sparkle like marble, and go winding a long way down to the middle of the flower where it grows sort of rosy; and in among the small, curly leaves, like fringed curtains, you can see the little green fairy sitting all alone.

Your mother showed me that, and I think it is very pretty. I call it a 'fairy,' but it is really where the seeds are hidden and the sweet smell comes from.”

Jill spoke softly lest she should disturb the others, and, as she turned to push up her pillow, she saw Mrs. Minot looking at her with a smile she did not understand.

”Did you speak, 'm?” she asked, smiling back again, without in the least knowing why.

”No, dear. I was listening and thinking what a pretty little story one could make out of your fairy living alone down there, and only known by her perfume.”

”Tell it, Mamma. It is time for our story, and that would be a nice one, I guess,” said Jack, who was as fond of stories as when he sat in his mother's lap and chuckled over the hero of the beanstalk.

”We don't have fairy tales on Sunday, you know,” began Jill regretfully.

”Call it a parable, and have a moral to it, then it will be all right,”

put in Frank, as he shut his big book, having found what he wanted.

”I like stories about saints, and the good and wonderful things they did,” said Jill, who enjoyed the wise and interesting bits Mrs. Minot often found for her in grown-up books, for Jill had thoughtful times, and asked questions which showed that she was growing fast in mind if not in body.

”This is a true story; but I will disguise it a little, and call it 'The Miracle of Saint Lucy,'” began Mrs. Minot, seeing a way to tell her good news and amuse the children likewise.

Frank retired to the easy-chair, that he might sleep if the tale should prove too childish for him. Jill settled herself among her cus.h.i.+ons, and Jack lay flat upon the rug, with his feet up, so that he could admire his red slippers and rest his knee, which ached.

”Once upon a time there was a queen who had two princes.”

”Wasn't there a princess?” asked Jack, interested at once.

”No; and it was a great sorrow to the queen that she had no little daughter, for the sons were growing up, and she was often very lonely.

”Like Snowdrop's mother,” whispered Jill.

”Now, don't keep interrupting, children, or we never shall get on,” said Frank, more anxious to hear about the boys that were than the girl that was not.

”One day, when the princes were out--ahem! we'll say hunting--they found a little damsel lying on the snow, half dead with cold, they thought.

She was the child of a poor woman who lived in the forest--a wild little thing, always dancing and singing about; as hard to catch as a squirrel, and so fearless she would climb the highest trees, leap broad brooks, or jump off the steep rocks to show her courage. The boys carried her home to the palace, and the queen was glad to have her. She had fallen and hurt herself, so she lay in bed week after week, with her mother to take care of her--”