Bessie among the Mountains

Maggie agreed, and papa was called and told the whole story, and of their wish to take the second banana to Dolly.

He thought it over for a moment or two, and then said he would let them take it, and would go with them to see that no harm befell them at Dolly's hands.

XI.

"GOOD FOR EVIL."

DOLLY was found lying in the same spot, and almost in the same position, in which Bessie and Starr had left her; but now she was half asleep.

Thinking she might receive the children's kindness in a better spirit, if there was no older person to look on, Mr. Bradford helped his little daughters through the screening bushes, and then drew back a few steps where he might still watch them, and hear all that passed, but where Dolly could not see him.

At the rustling of the children's footsteps upon the dry leaves and branches, Dolly started and opened her heavy eyes, to see Maggie and Bessie standing hand in hand before her. The old, fierce, defiant look flashed into them for one moment, then died out again before timid Maggie had time to start back and draw her sister with her.

"My Maggie came to bring you her banana," said Bessie, gently. "I couldn't give it to you, 'cause it was not mine; but when I told her you didn't have any thing to eat for 'most two days, she was sorry for you, and said you should have it."

"It's good. I like it," said Dolly, as Maggie, summoning all her courage, stepped slowly towards her and gave her the banana.

"Dolly," said Bessie, "will you believe now that we are sorry for you, and want to be kind to you?"

"I s'pose so," answered Dolly, gruffly, as if she were still half unwilling or unable to believe that they meant what they said.

They stood in silence, watching the half-famished creature as she eat her fruit, then Bessie said, —

"Dolly, why don't you go home?"

"No, I shan't neither, I aint goin' to stir," she answered snappishly, with one quick, suspicious glance at the children, and another towards the trunk of the old tree against which she leaned. "I've got a right here, if I've a mind to stay. 'Taint your ground nor Porter's neither."

"Oh, no!" said Bessie, "I did not mean that, only you have such a bad cold, and it hurts you so to move, and these rocks are so hard, I should think you'd be more comfortable in your bed at home."

"Guess my home's a sight more comfortable than these rocks, aint it?" said Dolly, with a grin. "One's about as good as t'other."

"Poor Dolly!" said Bessie, "I wish you had a better home, and some one to care for you and Lem."

"What for? I s'pose you think I wouldn't bother you then."

"I hope you wouldn't," said Bessie; "but I was not thinking about that. It was only 'cause I am so sorry that you don't have a nice home and plenty to eat, and people to love you. But, Dolly, you know Jesus loves you."

"No, he don't neither," was the answer.

"But he does, indeed he does," said Bessie, earnestly; "he loves you all the time, and it makes him sorry when you are naughty; but if you won't do so any more, but will try to love him, he will be glad, and then you will be his own little child, 'cause he says, 'Suffer little children to come unto me,' and he means all children. Mrs. Rush taught us that one Sunday."

"I say," said Dolly, "I could ha' plagued you last Sunday if I'd had a mind to. The old dog wasn't there."

"No: Buffer was sick last Sunday afternoon," answered Bessie. "Did you come by our Sunday bower?"

"I came by the place where you go of Sundays," said Dolly; "but I didn't do nothin', 'cause I had a mind to hear you singin'. It sounded nice: I liked it."

"Will you come next Sunday?" said Bessie, eager for the slightest chance of doing Dolly good. "Mrs. Rush and the Colonel would let you, I am sure; and they'll tell you about Jesus a great deal better than I can, and how he loves you, and will take you to heaven, if you will only be a good girl and love him. Wouldn't you like to hear about it?"

"Dunno," said Dolly; "I like to hear you sing. Jesus is God, aint he?"

"Yes," said Bessie, coming closer to the poor girl, and drawing Maggie with her. "He is God's Son, and he came away from his heaven to die for us, so we could go there, and live with him, if we would only love him and do what he tells us. And heaven is such a beautiful place! Dolly, the angels are there; and every one will be so happy; and no one will be hungry or sick or tired there; and Jesus will take care of us always, always. Wouldn't you like to go there, Dolly?"

"I'd like to go somewhere," said Dolly wearily; "I'm about tired of this. I'd like not to be hungry, nor to have this pain no more. But 'taint likely your Jesus wants me in his beautiful place. I s'pose he wants clean folks with nice clothes, not old dirty rags like mine."

Maggie was beginning to feel braver as she saw that Dolly was quiet and not in a mood for mischief, and now she spoke.

"Jesus won't mind about rags if you only have a heart that loves him," she said. "He loves you just as much in your rags, as he loves some other little girl who is dressed nicely."

"How do you know he loves me?" asked Dolly.

"'Cause the Bible says so," said Maggie; "so it must be true, 'cause the Bible is God's word. And besides, Dolly, if Jesus came to die for you, so you could go to heaven, don't you think he must love you? When a person does a very kind thing for you, don't that make you think they love you?"

"Did you give me them goodies 'cause you loved me?" said Dolly.

Maggie was rather disturbed at this question, and did not know how to answer it; but Bessie, seeing her trouble, spoke for her.

"Why, no, Dolly," she said, "I'm 'fraid we don't love you very much; you know you couldn't 'spect us to: but we wanted to be kind to you, and to make you know we wanted to forgive you for troubling us so."

"You was real good to give me them things," said Dolly; "they was first rate. And you was good to get Lem let out too; he told me. But I say," – and Dolly really looked half ashamed, – "'twant him did that."

Bessie thought she was speaking of the cup.

"I don't believe very much that he did," she said. "Mr. Porter thinks maybe the pedler-man took it, 'cause he went to Farmer Todd's house, and after he was gone some spoons were lost; and they think he stole them, so maybe he has my cup too."

"I didn't mean that," answered Dolly, slowly. "I meant 'twant Lem spiled your gardens, but – I am sorry I done it – there now. And Lem aint got your cup; you can just know it."

"We try to believe he didn't," said Bessie. Then she added, with a quiver of her lip and a tear or two gathering in her eyes, "I don't think any one could have taken it if they had known how very fond I was of it. You see, Dolly, I had that cup a great, great many years, ever since I was a little baby; and I always had my drink out of it, so you see we grew up together, and I don't know how I can bear never to see it again. I was pretty much troubled to lose my cup and my garden too."

Dolly looked uneasily at her, moved restlessly on her hard bed, and sank back again with another moan.

"I guess we'll have to go now," said Maggie.

"Will you come next Sunday and hear Mrs. Rush tell about Jesus and how he loved you?" said Bessie. "Or papa and mamma would tell you about it if you liked. They can do it a great deal better than we can."

"No," said Dolly, "I don't want to hear big folks. I don't mind your speaking to me if you choose. But, I say, don't you never sing but on Sundays?"

"Oh, yes!" said Bessie, "we sing every day and sometimes a good many times in the day."

"I like music," said Dolly. "Lem whistles fustrate."

"Yes, we know it," said Maggie. "Once we heard him when we couldn't see him, and we asked Mr. Porter who it was, and he told us it was Lem; and we listened as long as we could hear him: it sounded so sweet and clear. I never heard any one whistle like that."

"Yes," said Dolly, looking pleased; "nobody can beat him at that. S'pose you couldn't sing me a tune 'fore you go, could you? It's so lonesome, lying here."

"Why, yes: we will if you want us to," Bessie answered readily, though she as well as Maggie was much surprised at the request. "We'll sing, 'I want to be an angel.'"

So they stood, these two "ministering children," and sang; their young voices rising sweet and clear amid the solemn stillness of the grand old woods; for very still it was. As the first notes arose, the friends whom they had left, hushed laughter and merry talk that they might not lose one of the sweet sounds. They only knew that Maggie and Bessie had wandered off with papa, and thought this was meant as a pleasant surprise for them.

But it was a higher, greater Friend, – a "Friend above all others," – whom our little jewel-seekers were just then trying to please; and, although they might not know it, they had that day taken up the first link of the golden chain, by which poor Dolly's soul was to be drawn out of the clouds and darkness in which it had lain, up into the light and sunshine of his glorious presence. A very slight and fragile link it might seem, but it was doubtless very precious in the eyes of the heavenly Father, whose hands could make it strong and lasting, and fit to shine before him in the "day when he shall make up his jewels."

Very precious it was, too, in the eyes of the earthly father, who watched the scene, and looking from his own tenderly cared for, daintily dressed darlings, to the forlorn, ragged outcast, thanked God that for all three alike had the blessed words been spoken, "Suffer little children to come unto me."

"Is that place the song talks about that heaven you was telling about?" asked Dolly when the children had finished "I want to be an angel."

"Yes," said Bessie. "You do want to go there; don't you, Dolly?"

"'Taint no use wantin," said Dolly. "I'll never get there, nor Lem neither. Sing some more."

"We'll sing 'Rest for the weary,' 'cause she said she was so tired," said Maggie.

When they were through, Mr. Bradford stepped from behind the bushes which had hidden him until now.

Dolly started when she saw him, and the old look, half guilty, half defiant, came back to her eyes. But she soon found she need not be afraid; for, bending over her, he said, kindly, —

"My poor girl, you are in great pain, I fear. How did you hurt yourself?"

"Didn't hurt myself," grumbled Dolly, still suspicious, and shrinking from that grave, steady look.

"Then you are ill," said Mr. Bradford, noticing the burning cheeks and heavy eyes, "you must not lie here, or you will be worse. Can you go home?"

"I shan't go home," said Dolly, passionately, and with another quick glance over her shoulder.

Mr. Bradford did not insist, though he meant she should obey him, but said, kindly, —

"Are you still hungry? Would you like some roasted corn?"

Dolly muttered something which might be either no or yes, falling back into her old sullenness; but Mr. Bradford answered as kindly as if she had spoken pleasantly, and told her she should have some.

"Shall we bring it to her, papa?" asked Bessie.

Mr. Bradford said no; for he had been rather startled when he found Dolly was ill, not hurt, as he had first supposed; and he was not willing his little daughters should come near her again, till he was sure what ailed her.

He told the children to bid Dolly good-by, which they did; the girl replying in a more gentle tone than she had yet used, and then calling Bessie back, saying, "Here, littlest one."

But when Bessie looked back to see what she wanted, she refused to speak, and, shutting her eyes, turned her face away.

Mamma and grandmamma, Colonel and Mrs. Rush, had all arrived when our little girls came back to the fire; and the corn was nicely roasted, waiting to be eaten. So the merry, happy party gathered round to enjoy it.

Dolly was not forgotten; for Maggie and Bessie picked out a couple of nice, brown ears, and Starr was sent to carry them to her, – an errand which he did not do very willingly. He came back, saying that he had found her angry, and that she refused to touch or look at the corn.

When all had had enough, Mr. Bradford asked Mr. Stanton if he would go with him and see the poor girl, and tell, if he could, what might be done for her. Uncle Ruthven was not a doctor, but he knew a good deal about medicine, and had often practised it in his travels when no physician was at hand. He willingly agreed to see Dolly, and the two gentlemen went off immediately.

As Mr. Bradford had expected, his brother-in-law pronounced Dolly to be very sick. She would answer no questions, but it was easy to see that she had a bad cold and a high fever, and that the pain, which became so bad when she moved, was rheumatism. Mr. Stanton at once said that she must no longer lie upon the hard, cold rock; she must go home: but it seemed to be doubtful if she could walk. When the gentlemen tried to raise her, they found this no longer doubtful, but quite impossible: the girl's cramped limbs could not hold her up; she could not stir one step. Perhaps she would not have gone had she been able to do so, for she broke forth into angry cries and refusals to be moved, which were only stopped by a violent fit of coughing.

These cries brought the Colonel, with Mrs. Stanton and Starr, to see if they could be of any assistance; and Colonel Rush, finding there was difficulty in moving Dolly, proposed that his camp chair should be brought, and the sick girl carried home in that.

No sooner said than done. Starr was sent for the chair, and when it was brought, Dolly was gently raised and placed in it. She would still have resisted, but she saw that the gentlemen were determined, and it was such agony to move that she thought it as well to submit. When she was in the chair, Mr. Stanton and Starr raised it, and began to move off.

"Wait a bit! wait a bit!" exclaimed Dolly.

"Well, what is it?" asked Mr. Stanton, kindly.

"S'pose I might as well tell," muttered Dolly, as if speaking to herself; "he'll just come back and get it, and I'd liever she'd have it. I say," she added, in a louder tone, "I want to speak to the little gals' pa."

"Well?" said Mr. Bradford, coming nearer.

"You won't say Lem took it, will you?" asked Dolly.

"I would not say Lem took any thing unless I was quite sure of it," said the gentleman.

"Well, then, you just may be sure he didn't take it, and I didn't neither; 'twas the pedler, and I seen where he put it. He didn't know I was behind the bushes, but I seen him. That's why I stayed about, so as to scare him off if he came; but Lem didn't know nothin' about it. I guess I'll tell where he put it, 'cause the little gal was good to me after I plagued her. Jes' you put your hand in that hole, and see what you find;" and, with trembling fingers, she pointed to a hole in the trunk of the old tree against which she had been leaning.

Mr. Bradford put his hand into the opening, and, after feeling about a little, drew forth a bundle. Opening it, he found not only what he had expected to see, Bessie's lost cup, but also Farmer Todd's silver spoons, and one or two other small articles which he thought must have been stolen. The finding of the spoons with the cup, made it almost certain that Lem had not taken the latter; and Mr. Bradford was very glad that he had not suffered appearances to make him judge the boy too harshly.

And now Mr. Stanton and Starr moved on with the chair. They carried it as steadily as possible, but the way was rough, and with all their care every step gave great pain to Dolly. Mr. Bradford and Mrs. Stanton followed to see what could be done to make the poor creature comfortable. Comfortable! that seemed a hopeless task, indeed, when they reached the wretched hovel and looked about them.

Dolly was laid upon the pile of leaves and rags which served for a bed; and Mr. and Mrs. Stanton stayed with her while Mr. Bradford, taking Starr with him, went back to beg from Mrs. Porter what was needful for her.

XII.

UNCLE RUTHVEN'S WORK

DOLLY, quite tired out with pain, had sunk into a restless sleep; and Mr. and Mrs. Stanton were sitting on the rocks outside the door, waiting till Mr. Bradford should return, when a sweet, clear whistle, like a bird-call, rang through the wood. It was repeated again, and yet again, and was plainly some signal. Each time it came nearer, and at the third sounded close at hand; and the next instant Lem sprang round a point of the rock. As he caught sight of the lady and gentleman before the hovel door, he started, and, after staring at them for one instant, turned to run away.

But Mr. Stanton's voice stopped him.

"Do not run off again," he said, kindly; "your sister is very sick, and lying here in the house. Come and see her."

Lem stood a moment, half doubtful; then rushed past the gentleman into the house. He came out again presently, his eyes wide open with astonishment and alarm.

"What you been a doin' to her?" he said, fiercely.

"We found her lying upon the rocks, unable to move," said Mr. Stanton, not heeding the angry tone, "and so brought her here in this chair. We have sent to Mrs. Porter for some things to make a bed for her, but no bed can be kept fit for her unless it is quite dry; and I fear this roof of yours is not water-tight. I wonder if you and I could not make it so. Do you know where you can buy some straw?"

"Know where there's plenty of straw for them as can pay for it," answered Lem.

"Oh, well," said Mr. Stanton, cheerfully, "you find the straw, and I'll do the paying. There; bring as many bunches as they will give you for that," and he put fifty cents into Lem's hand.

The boy gazed at the money open-mouthed, – probably he had never in his life had so much, honestly come by, in his hands at once, – turned it over, stared at Mr. Stanton, and then again at the money. That any one should trust him with money, or with any thing that had the least value, was something so new that he could scarcely believe his own senses.

"They'll say I didn't come by it fair, and won't give me no straw," he said at last, thrusting the money back upon Mr. Stanton.

The gentleman knew this was only too likely, and too well deserved; and, taking a pencil and slip of paper from his pocket-book, he wrote a few words, and handed the paper to Lem.

Lem could neither read nor write, but he was no fool; and he knew that those few black marks would do more for him than any amount of talking on his own part; but he was even yet a little suspicious. He stood hesitating for a moment, looking back into the house, where his sister lay moaning in her uneasy sleep, then darted away into the path which led down the mountain.

"Do you think he is to be trusted, Ruthven?" said Mrs. Stanton. "Will he come back?"

"I think so," replied her husband; "any way, I thought I would try it. It may give me some hold upon him."

In less time than could have been thought possible by one who knew the distance he had to go, Lem was back; but a good deal had been done in the mean time. Mr. Bradford had returned with Starr and John Porter, bringing a straw bed and pillow, a coarse but clean pair of sheets, and a blanket. Good old Mrs. Porter came too, full of pity for the forlorn, sick child, and carrying a kettle of tea, ready milked and sugared.

The bed had been made, – upon the floor, to be sure: there was no other place to put it, – Dolly had been given some medicine, her fevered face and hands washed, and she laid in the bed. A fire had been kindled without, and the tea warmed afresh; and when Lem came back with the straw, Mrs. Porter was just offering Dolly a drink. She took it eagerly; but, although she knew Lem, she would not speak to him, and soon sank again into an uneasy sleep or stupor. Lem had brought six bundles of straw; and, throwing them down, he handed Mr. Stanton some change, saying the man from whom he had bought them could let him have no more, and had given him back that money.

Mr. Stanton privately asked John Porter how much the straw should have cost, and found that Lem had brought him the right change. So here was something gained: the boy had been true to his trust for once.

"Now we will go to work," said Mr. Stanton to Lem; and he told him to follow him deeper into the woods, where he soon cut down a dozen or so of tall, slender saplings, and bade Lem strip them of their leaves and branches.

When these were finished, some long strips of birch bark were cut by Mr. Stanton, while Lem stood looking on, and wondering if it were possible the gentleman could be taking so much trouble for him and Dolly, and what in the world he could be going to do with those things. That was soon seen. When all had been made ready and carried to the hut, Mr. Stanton made Lem climb upon the low roof, and, directing him how to lay the straw so as to cover the worst part, bound it in its place with the saplings, and tied them down with the strips of birch. Lem wondered and admired as the strong, firm fingers twisted and knotted, making all close and tight, and at last broke out with, —

"I say, mister, was you brought up to roof-mending?"

"Not exactly," replied Mr. Stanton, with a smile; "but I have had to contrive many a strange roof for myself and others. What should you say to a roof made of a single leaf, large enough to shelter twelve men from a scorching sun? Or to one of snow; ay, to roof, walls, floor, all of snow, – making a warm, comfortable home too?"

"Are you the fellow they tell about that's hunted lions and tigers and wild beasts?" asked Lem, gazing with new interest at the gentleman.

"I am the man," said Mr. Stanton.

"And never got ate up?" questioned Lem, eagerly.

"I am here to answer for that, though I have been pretty near it once or twice. Should you like to hear some of my adventures some time?"

"Wouldn't I, though! I s'pose you couldn't tell a feller now?"

"Not now," said Mr. Stanton, "we have done the best we can for the roof, and I must go home; but I shall come over again this afternoon to see Dolly, and I will tell you the story of a tiger hunt then. But" – looking about him, – "this is not a very nice place to sit down and tell a story in, with all these bones, ashes, and bits of old iron lying about."

"I'll fix it up, fustrate," exclaimed Lem; "but now, I say, mister," and Lem hitched up his ragged pantaloons, scratched his head, and dug his bare toes into a patch of moss in an unwonted fit of shame.

"Well," said Mr. Stanton, kindly.

"I didn't take little Shiny-hair's cup, now, I didn't; and I wish you wouldn't think it."

"I do not think it, Lem. The cup is found, and I do not believe you took it."

"Don't you, now?" said Lem, looking up; "well, I thought may be you didn't when you gi' me the money for the straw."

"I am glad to know that I may trust you, Lem," said Mr. Stanton.

Mr. Bradford, Mrs. Stanton, and the Porters had long since gone away, leaving Mr. Stanton to finish the roof. He walked slowly homeward, wondering if he had that morning really gained any hold on these wretched children; or if, as so many others had proved, his pains had all been labor thrown away. When he reached the fireplace, he found that the rest of the party had gone home; for the mending of the roof had been a good two hours' work, and it was now nearly Mrs. Porter's early dinner hour.

When Mr. Bradford left Lem's hovel, and joined his wife and children, he found his little girls very eager for news of Dolly. He told them of all that had been done, and then said, —

"Bessie, I have a pleasant surprise for you. Can you guess what it may be?"

"I know what I would like it to be, papa, but I suppose it couldn't; and mamma said it was not best to wish for things that cannot be."

"Well," said Mr. Bradford, "suppose you let me hear what you would like it to be."

"Papa, I would like it to be my cup; but if it was, I would be too surprised and too glad for any thing, and I try not to think too much about it."

Mr. Bradford put his hand into his pocket, and, pulling out the beloved cup, held it before the delighted eyes of his little daughter. She gave a glad cry, and the next moment both small hands were holding fast the recovered treasure, and clasping it to her breast. She even kissed it in her joy and thankfulness. Then papa was asked when and how he had found it, and told the whole story. Maggie and Bessie were very glad to hear that it was probably the pedler who had taken the cup; for since they had been trying to act and feel kindly towards Lem and Dolly, they were anxious to believe as much good and as little ill of them as possible.