Part 30 (2/2)
look on.”
”Don't get homesick after your boys,” and the lady's smile went to Dil's heart. ”You'll feel less strange to-morrow. I want this outing to be of real benefit to you. I'm going down to the city now, and will see Mrs.
Wilson. When I come again I'll bring you some word from the boys. I am sure everything will be done for your comfort.”
”Yes'm,” Dil answered meekly, but with an uplifted smile.
Several little girls ran and kissed her a rapturous good-by. When Dil saw her go out of the gate she felt strangely alone. She wanted to fly home to the boys, to get their supper, to listen to their merry jests and adventures, to see their bright eyes gleam, and hear the glad laughter. She felt so rested. Oh, if she had _not_ promised Patsey to stay a whole long week. And one day was not yet gone.
She espied a vacant hammock, and stole lightly out from her leafy covert to take possession. It was odd, but the little hump-backed girl seemed a centre of attraction. She said so many droll, amusing things. She was pert and audacious to be sure. She could talk broken Dutch and the broadest Irish, and sing all the street songs. The children were positively fascinated with her. A wonder came to Dil as to how it would feel to be so enthusiastically admired.
She lay there swinging to and fro until the supper bell rang long and loud. One of the attendants came and talked with her while the children were tripping in from the woods. Something in her appearance and gentle manner reminded Dil of the hospital nurse.
There was a good deal of singing in the evening, but they all went to bed early. How wonderfully quiet it was! No dogs barking, no marauding cats wauling dismally on back fences, no rattle and whiz of ”L” cars, no clatter of heavy wagons. And oh, the wonderful sweetness in the air! If Dil had ever achieved Bible reading, she would have thought of ”songs in the night” and a ”holy solemnity,” but she could feel the things unutterable.
The window was next to her bed. She sat up and watched the s.h.i.+ps of fleece go drifting by. How the great golden stars twinkled! Were they worlds? and did people live in them? They made a mysterious melody; and though she had not heard of the stars singing for joy, she felt it in every pulse with a sweet, solemn thrill of rapture.
Was that heaven back of the s.h.i.+ning stars? And oh! would she and Bess and John Travis be together there? For he would help her to call back Bess, as she came on Sunday. It was only a little while to wait now. She felt the a.s.surance-for the poor ignorant little girl had translated St.
Paul's sublime, ”By faith.”
The moon silvered the tree-tops, and presently sent one slant ray across the bed. Dil laid her hands in it with a trance of ecstasy. The delicious state of quietude seemed to make her a part of all lovely, heavenly things. It was the ”land of pure delight” that John Travis sang about. A whole line came back to her,-
”And pleasures banish pain.”
Dilsey Quinn had attained to the spiritual pleasures. Pain was not, could not be again.
She was not a bit sleepy. She watched the moon dropping down and down.
All the insects had stopped. A soft darkness seemed spread over everything, and by dozens the stars went out. Ah, how wonderful it all was! If people could only have chances to know!
”My child,” said Miss Mary at the breakfast table, ”you are not eating anything! Don't you like porridge, and this nice milk?”
”Yes, it's so good,” replied Dil gratefully. ”An' the milk seems almost as if 'twas full of roses, it's so sweet. But I can't get hungry as I used, an' when I eat just a little I seem all filled up.”
”Would you like bread better? And some nice creamed potatoes?”
”I don't want nothin' more.” Dil looked up with a soft light in her eyes. ”Mebbe by noon I'll be hungry-I most know I will.”
”Yes, I hope so.”
It was such a long morning to Dil, so hard to sit round and do nothing.
If there had been a baby to tend, or a room to tidy. She would have been glad to go to the kitchen and help prepare the vegetables. She was so used to work that she could not feel at home in idleness.
She went over to the woods with the children to please Miss Mary, who suggested it so gently. But some feeling-the long disuse of childhood-held her aloof. She could not join in their plays, but it was a pleasure to watch them. And how wonderful the woods were! The soft gra.s.ses with feathery heads, the mosses, some of them with tiny red blossoms not as large as a pin's head. There were a few wild flowers left, and long trails of clematis wandering about; s.h.i.+ning bitter-sweet, green chestnut burrs in cl.u.s.ters, the long, fringy blossoms in yellow brown still holding on to some of them. There were bunches of little fox grapes, too bitter and sour for even children to eat.
She sat down on a stone and almost held her breath. It was the real, every-day country, not Central Park. The birds sang at their own sweet will, and made swift dazzles in the suns.h.i.+ne as they flew from tree to tree. Could heaven be any better? But there was no pain nor sickness nor weariness in heaven. And she felt so strangely tired at some moments.
She used her utmost endeavors to eat some dinner. It had such an appetizing flavor. The little girl next to her, who had swallowed her supper so quickly last night, eyed it longingly.
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