Part 4 (1/2)
”Yes; I'll make a picture of Bess too, if you can stay long enough,” he answered good humoredly.
”We can stay till dark, 'f we like. Summer nights ain't never lonesome.
An' Sat'day's full of folks.”
Travis laughed. ”All right. Push your hat up higher-so. No, let your hair stay tumbled.”
”It isn't pritty hair. They used to call me red-top, an' names. 'Tain't so red as it was.”
She ran her fingers through it, and gave her head a shake.
”Capital.” He had just drawn out his sketch-book, when the policeman came down with a solemn tread and authoritative countenance. But Travis nodded, and gave him an a.s.suring smile that all was right.
”Let me see; I think I'll tell you about an old apple orchard I know.
You never saw one in bloom?”
”Oh, do apples have flowers?” cried Bess. ”There's never any such in the stores. What a wonderful thing country must be!”
”The blossom comes first, then the fruit.” Then he began with the fascinating preface: ”When I was a little boy I had been ill a long while with scarlet fever. It was the middle of May when I was taken to the country.”
What a wonderful romance he made of bloom and bird music, of chickens and cows, of lambs, of the little colt that ran in the orchard, so very shy at first, and then growing so tame that the little lad took him for a playfellow. Very simple indeed, but he held his small audience entranced. The delight in Bess's face seemed to bring fine and tender expressions to that of Dil. Her nose wrinkled piquantly, her lips fell into beguiling curves. Travis found himself speculating upon the capacity of the face under the influence of cultivation, education, and happiness. He really hated to leave off, there were so many inspiring possibilities.
Now and then some one gave them a sidelong glance of wonder; but Travis went on in a steady, business-like manner; and the guardian of the square s.h.i.+elded them from undue curiosity.
”Bess isn't well,” he said presently. ”She looks like a little ghost.”
”She was hurted a long while ago and she can't walk. Her little legs is just like a baby's, an' they never grow any more. But she won't grow either, and I don't so much mind so long as I can carry her.”
”Will she never walk again?” he asked in surprise. ”How old is she?”
”She's ten; but she's littler than the boys now, so she's the baby-the sweetest baby of thim all.”
Ah, what a wealth of love spoke in the tone, in the simple words.
”I think you may take off Bess's cap,” he said, with an unconsciously tender manner. Poor little girl! And yet it could not be for very long.
He noted the lines made by suffering, and his heart went out in sympathy.
”Now, if there is anything you would like to ask me-anything that puzzles you”-and he reflected that most things might seem mysteries to their untrained brains.
They glanced at each other and drew long breaths, as if this was the golden opportunity they had long waited for. Then an irresistibly shy, sweet, beseeching expression crossed Bess's face, as her eyes wandered from him to her sister.
”O Dil-you might ast him 'bout-you know”-hesitating with pitiful eagerness in her large eyes-”'bout goin' to heaven, an' how far it is.”
”Do you know where heaven is, mister?”
The question was asked with the good faith of utter ignorance; but there was an intense and puzzled anxiety in every line of the child's countenance.
”Heaven!” He was struck with a strange mental helplessness. ”Heaven!” he repeated.