They looked at the pictures as the babies would allow them the leisure, and spelled out the explanation underneath. It was so wonderful, though at times they were appalled by the difficulties and dangers. And it was almost night when they reached the crowning-point of all,-Christiana going across the river.

_"All the banks beyond the river were full of horses and chariots which were come down from above to accompany her to the City Gate."_ Her friends were thronging round. She was entering the river with a fearless step and uplifted face.

"Why, Dil, she jes' walked right acrost." Bess gave a joyous little laugh. "You see, she couldn't get drownded, because that Lord Jesus had made it all right an' safe, jes' as he carried people in his arms. I'm so glad we know. You see, when we get to the river, an' it will be way, way above Cent'l Park, when we've been through these giants an' all-an'

I'm _'most_ afraid of thim; but the man did not let 'em hurt her, an'

_he_, our man, won't let 'em hurt us. An' we'll jest step right in the river,-maybe _he'll_ carry me acrost on account of my poor little legs,-an' we sha'n't be a mite afraid, for he won't let us drown. O Dil, it'll be so lovely! An' here's the pallis!"

There was the "throng that no man can number," welcoming Christiana.

Angels with spreading wings and rapturous faces. Her husband coming to meet her, and the Lord Jesus ministering an abundant welcome.

What a day it was! Never was day so short, so utterly delightful. Some of the babies were cross: out of seven little poorly born and poorly nourished babies, there were wants and woes; but Dil hugged them, cuddled them, crooned to them, with a radiant bliss she had never known before. She could look so surely at the end.

An old debt of half a dollar came in, and there were thirty-five cents for the babies. Dan had on his new suit too, and altogether Mrs. Quinn was remarkably good-natured. Dil felt almost conscience-smitten about the book-but then the story would have to come out, and alas!

After that they began to read the wonderful story. Dil was not much of a scholar. Her school-days had been few and far between, never continuous enough to give her any real interest. Indeed, she had not been bright at her books, and her mother had not cared. School was something to fill up the time until children were old enough to go to work. But Dil surely had enough to fill up her time.

Bess would have far outstripped her in learning. But Dil had a shrewd head, and was handy with her needle. She possessed what Yankee people call "faculty;" and her training had given her a sharp lookout for any short cuts in what she had to do, as well as a certain tact in evading or bridging over rough places.

But the reading was very hard labor. They did not know the meaning or the application of words, and their p.r.o.nouncing ability was indeed halting.

They had not even attained to the practical knowledge acquired by mingling with other children. Dil's life had been pathetic in its solitariness, like the loneliness of a strange crowd. Other children had not "taken to her." Her days had been all work. She would have felt awkward and out of place playing with anything but a baby.

Bess found the most similitudes in Christiana. Even John Travis would have been amused by her literal interpretation. Though it had been simplified for children's reading, it was far above their limited capacity. But the pictures helped so much; and when Dil could not get "the straight of it," when the spiritual part tried and confused their brains, they turned to Christiana crossing the river and entering heaven.

Valiant Mr. Greatheart appealed strongly to Bess.

"He's got such a strong, beautiful name," she declared enthusiastically.

"He always comes when there's troubles, an' gettin' lost, an' all that.

I 'most wish _his_ name was Mr. Greatheart. He could fight, I know; not this common, hateful fightin' down here in the court, but with giants an' wild beasts. An' there were the boys, Dil; but I s'pose Owny wouldn't care 'bout goin'."

"Well," Dil hesitated curiously, "you've got to try to be good some way, an' Owny wouldn't quit swearin' an' snivyin' when he got a chance. An' I don't think he'd understand. Then he might tell mammy 'bout our plans."

"An' mammy jes' wouldn't let you stir a step, I know. An' I couldn't go athout you, Dil, though there'll be many people on the road. I was most feared it would be lonesome like."

"An' I'll be gettin' a few clo'es ready, the best of thim. I'll wash an'

iron your new white dress when we don't go out no more, an' put it away kerful. An' I hope some one will give mother some clo'es for a big girl!

I'll be so glad to go, for sometimes I'm so tired I jes' want to drop."

"But October's 'most gone. An' last winter don't seem long to me now, an' the summer that was so hot,-but it had that beautiful Sat'day when we found _him_. An' to think of havin' him forever 'n' ever!"

Dil gave a long sigh. She was as impatient as Bess, but she hardly dared set her heart upon the hope.

She was a very busy little woman, and her mind had to be on her work.

The garments given to the boys had, of course, the best taken out of them, and Owen was hard on his clothes. As for the stockings, their darning was a work of labor, if not of love. Bess had to be kept warm and comfortable, and Dil tried to make her pretty as well. There were some rainy Sat.u.r.days, and the one baby often came in that day. But she tried to give Bess an airing on Sunday. It was such a change for the poor little invalid.

Mrs. Quinn was better pleased to be busy all the time. Besides the money, which was really needed now that fires were more expensive, she liked the change, the gossiping and often it was a pleasure to find fault with her customers. She still went to Mrs. MacBride's of an evening.

With the advent of November came a week of glorious Indian summer weather. And one Sat.u.r.day Mrs. Quinn was to do some cleaning at a fine house, and stay to help with a grand dinner. Dil rushed through with her work, and they went up to the Square that afternoon, and sat in the old place. The sparrows came and chirped cheerfully; but the flowers were gone, the trees leafless. Yet it was delightful to picture it all again.

John Travis would have felt sorry for Dil to-day-perhaps if he had seen her for the first time he would not have been so instantly attracted.

Her eyes were heavy, her skin dark and sodden. Even Bess grew weary with the long ride. But they shopped a little again; and Dil was extravagant enough to buy some long, soft woollen stockings for Bess's "poor, hurted legs."

"I'm so tired," she said afterward. "'Tain't quite like summer, is it?

Make up a good fire, Dil, an' get me snappin' warm."

She did not want much to eat. Even the grapes had lost their flavor.

"I wish you could sing that beautiful hymn," she said to Dil. "I'd just like to hear it, 'cause it keeps floatin' round all the time, an' don't get quite near enough. O Dil! don't you s'pose you can sing in heaven?"

"Seems to me I heard at the Mission School that everybody would. If the Lord Jesus can mend your legs, I'm sure he can put some music in my throat."

"We'll ask him right away. Then read to me a little."

Bess fell asleep presently. Dil made slow work spelling out the words and not knowing half the meanings. Her seasons at the Mission School had always been brief, from various causes. Now and then some visitor came in, but the talk was often in phrases that Dil did not understand. She had not a quick comprehension, neither was she an imaginative child.

Looking now at Bess's pinched and pallid face a strange fear entered her mind. Would Bess be strong enough in the spring to take the long journey? For it was so much longer than she imagined, and Bess couldn't be made well until they reached the Lord Jesus. There was a vague misgiving tugging at her heart. They ought to have gone that lovely Sat.u.r.day.

They talked so much about John Travis that they almost forgot what he had said about his friend. They were husbanding their small resources for the time of need. There had been so many babies that Dil had not needed to make up deficiencies. Sometimes they felt quite afraid of their hiding-place, and Dil made a little bag and put it around Bess's neck, so no one would come upon the money unaware.

The touch of Indian summer was followed by a storm and cool, brisk winds. It was too cold to take Bess out, even if she had cared; but she had been rather drooping all the week. There was a baby in, also, and Bess kept in her own room, as she often did Sat.u.r.day morning, to be out of the way of her mother's sharp frowns.

Dil had gone of an errand. Mrs. Quinn sat furbishing up an ulster she had bought at a second-hand store at a great bargain. The baby was asleep on the lounge. When Dil returned, a dreadful something met her on the threshold that made her very heart stand still.

"I have come from a Mr. Travis, to see the children. He has gone abroad, and he asked me to look after them."

This was what had gone before-very little, indeed. Mrs. Quinn had answered, "Come in," to a tap at the door; and there had entered a rather pretty, well-dressed, well-bred young woman, who considered herself quite an important member of the charitable world. She saw a clean-looking room with more comforts than usual, and she gave a sharp glance around the corners.

Mrs. Quinn received her very civilly, considering her a possible customer.

"You have a little girl who is an invalid, I believe?" she queried.

"That I have," was the brief reply.

The stranger glanced at the two open doors, and wondered; was the child in bed?

The next sentence was what Dil had caught. Miss Nevins checked herself suddenly. Mr. Travis had said, "See the children alone if you can. Their mother is out to work most of the time, and it will be an easy matter.

But do not give any money to the woman for them; they will not get it."

"Well-what?" asked Mrs. Quinn sharply, with an aspect that rather nonplussed the lady. "Whin did he see so much of thim, an' come to think they needed his attintion?"

"Why-when he was here-"

"Was he here now? an' what called him?"

Mrs. Quinn gave her visitor an insolent stare that rendered her very uncomfortable.

"I-I really do not know _when_. Kindly disposed people _do_ visit the sick and the needy. I go to a great many places-"