"No, Patsey-I'm only a bit tired. Let me sit an' get rested."

She took the sunbrowned hand in hers with a mute little caress that brought a strange flush to the lad's face.

"Youse jist work too hard wid dem babies an' all."

"I'm only going to have Nelly next week, an' the Leary baby is to go in the country with his mother to live. 'Twasn't nothin' but a queer flutt'rin' like, an' it comes sometimes in the night when I _can't_ be tired. It's all over now;" and she looked bright and happy, if still pale.

Patsey seemed hardly satisfied.

"I think it's the hot weather. It's been so hot, you know. An' to-day's splendid! I'll get better when cool weather comes, I'm most sure. You an' the boys take a good long walk, an' I'll stay here with the lunch, an' get all rested up. An' I'll make b'leve it's heaven; it's so beautiful."

"See here, Dil, don't yer go an' be thinkin' 'bout-'bout heaven an'

sich-"

Patsey swallowed over a big lump in his throat, and winked vigorously.

"Bess an' I used to talk about it," she said in a soft, disarming fashion. "We thought 'twas some-wers over the river there," nodding her head. "But I'll jes' sit still in some shady place, an' I won't go to-day," with a soft, comforting laugh.

The boys protested at first. But Dil had a way of persuading them that was quite irresistible. They were boys to the full, and to sit still would have half killed them. They found a lovely nook, where she could see the lake and the boats, and the people pa.s.sing to and fro in their Sunday attire. There were merry voices of little ones that touched her like music.

She sat very still, with the lunch-basket at her feet. Occasionally some one cast a glance at the pale little girl in her white gown, with the wild roses drooping over the brim of her hat. A friendly policeman had seen the pantomime and the departure of the boys, and meant to keep guard that no one molested her.

Dil could understand being ill from some specific disease; but she did not feel ill, only tired. It was a different kind of fatigue from that back in Barker's Court, for then she could fall asleep in a moment. Now the nights were curiously wakeful. And the babies _were_ heavy, even if there were only two of them.

The refreshing atmosphere and the tranquil, beautiful pictures all about her intensified the thought of the heaven she was going to "make b'leve"

about. She could picture it out, up and up, through country ways and flowers, wild roses maybe. Houses where they took you in and fed you, and put you to bed in such soft, clean beds. Queer people too, who couldn't understand, and were wanting to turn back,-people who were afraid of lions and Giant Grim. She called up all the pictures she could remember, and they floated before her like a panorama.

"Though I can't get it out straight myself," and she sighed in helpless confusion. "I ain't smart as little Bess was, an' can't see into things.

But I could push Bess along, an' Mr. Travis would be Mr. Greatheart for us, an' he'd know the way on 'count of his being book learned. An' we'd just be kerful an' not get into briars and bad places."

Was that Bess laughing softly, as she did sometimes when her poor back didn't hurt, and her head didn't ache. The sweet, lingering sound seemed to pervade the summer air. She could see the time-worn wagon, the rug made of odds and ends, that they had both considered such a great achievement. There was the sweet, pallid face, not quite as it had looked in those last days, but resembling more the beautiful picture that had gone to the flames, the crown of golden hair, the mysterious, fathomless eyes, with a new knowledge in them, that Dil felt had not been garnered in that old, pinched life.

Her own soul was suddenly informed with a mysterious rapture. She knew nothing of the Incarnation, of the love that came down and tasted pain and anguish, that others, in the suffering laid upon them, might also know of the joy of redemption. At that moment Dilsey Quinn was not far from the kingdom.

"O Bess! can't you come back?" she cried in a breathless, entreating manner, her eyes luminous with the rare insight of faith, the evidence of things unseen. "O Bess, you must be somewhere! I don't b'leve you died jes' like other folks! Can't you come back an' tell me how it happened, 'cause I know you wouldn't have gone and leaved me free of your own will?"

A tremendous longing surged at Dil's heart, and almost swept her away.

Her breath came in gasps, her heart beat in great bounds, and then well nigh stopped. She was suddenly attuned to spiritual influences in that sweet, solemn solitude. Was it really Bess's voice in the softly penetrative summer air-was the strange, shadowy presence, so near that she could reach out and touch it-almost-that of the child?

She sat there rapt, motionless, seeing nothing with her mortal eyes; but in that finer illumination Bess moved slowly toward her, not walking, but floating, veiled in a soft, cloud-like drapery, stretching out her small, white hands. Dil took them, and they were not cold. She glanced into the starry eyes, and for moments that was enough.

"O Bess!" in the softest, tenderest whisper, "if you was in heaven I couldn't touch you, you'd be so far away. An' it's so sweet. But how did it all happen?"

"When _he_ comes, an' I 'most know now that he will come soon, Bess, dear, he c'n tell me how to go to where you are-waitin', an' we'll start. There's somethin' I don't know 'bout, an' can't get straight. I never was real smart at ketchin' hold; but it's so beautiful to remember that his Lord Jesus took little children in his arms. An' mebbe he's took you up out o' the place they buried you, an' is keepin' you safe.

You ain't there in the ground-you must be ris' up some way-"

The very birds sang of an unknown land in their songs; the wind murmuring gently through the trees thrilled her with an unutterable certainty. Her slow-moving eyes seemed to penetrate the very sky. Clear over the edge of the horizon it almost opened in its glory, as when Christiana was entering in; and she felt certain now that she should walk through its starry gates with Bess's little hand held tight in hers.

"O Bess, I c'n hardly wait for him to come! Seems as if I must fly away to where you be, but Patsey an' all the boys are so good to me. Seems if I never had such lovely quiet, an' no one to scold ner bang my poor head. But I want you so, Bess-"

She stretched out her hands, but the sweet form seemed to float farther off.

"O Bess, don't go away," she pleaded.

If the seers and the prophets saw heaven in their rapt visions, why not this poor starved little one whose angel always beheld the face of the Father in heaven. She was too ignorant to seize upon the truths of immortal life, but they thrilled through every pulse. She had no power of grasping any but the simplest beliefs, but she knew some love and care had sheltered Bess. The dawning of a knowledge that held in its ineffable beauty and sacredness the truths of resurrection penetrated her in a mysterious sense, aroused a faith that she could not yet comprehend; but it gave her a strange peace.

Her life had been a little machine out of which so much work must be steadily ground. It had needed all her attention. And Bess had taken all her love. But in the solitude and sense of loss she was learning to think.

Dil was startled when she saw the boys straggling along irregularly. How large and strong Patsey was growing! And how nice Owen looked in his clean summer suit! Oh, where was little Dan? She hoped he was happy, and had enough to eat and some time to play.

They were a hungry lot. The great pile of sandwiches disappeared in a trice. And the cake that an artist in cook-books might have disdained, the boys believed beat anything the best baker could turn out. There had never been any treat quite up to the cake. Of course the stew was more "fillin'" when one was tearing hungry, and cake was a luxury to their small income, but, oh, what a delight!

"You don't eat nothin," said Patsey, studying Dil anxiously.

"But I've rested so much. And I feel so happy."

There was a divine light shining in her eyes, and it touched the boy's soul.

"Dil, ef it wosn't fer them ere freckles right acrost yer nose, an' you wos a little fatter, you'd be jes' as pooty as they make 'em. Youse growed real han'some, only you want some red cheeks."

Dil colored at the praise. Did a light shine in her face because she had seen Bess? She would like to tell Patsey all about it. Yes, she had really seen her, but it was all infolded in mystery. How could she make it plain?

The boys ate up every crumb, and seasoned their repast with much merry jesting. Then they wanted to go on again. Wasn't Dil rested enough to go to the Museum?

It was a long walk, and after they entered Dil was glad to sit down. She looked at the curious white marble people, and asked Patsey if "they was truly people or dead folks." Shorty said "it was the mummies who were dead folks;" but Dil shuddered at the thought of Bess being like that.

There were so many curious things, beautiful things, that the child was bewildered.

"'Tain't so nice as out o' doors," said Fin. "There's somethin' in the trees an' flowers, an' them places that are so still an' quiet like, that stirs a feller all up."

Rough and unlearned as they were, nature appealed to them powerfully.

Ah, what a day it was!

"I've never had but just one time in my life that was so lovely," said Dil with sweet gratefulness: "an' that wasn't so beautiful, only strange. If anybody was so runnin' over full o' happiness all the time, 'pears to me it would kinder choke them all round the heart, so's they couldn't live."

"Don't know 'bout that," and Patsey chuckled. "Happy people ain't dyin'

off no faster'n other people, an' don't commit suicide so easy. But, golly! 'twould take a good deal to fill a feller up chock full o'

happiness, 'cause it's suthin' like ice-cream, keeps meltin' down all the time, 'n' youse can pack in some more."

"I jes' wish we had some now!" cried Owen, referring to the cream.

"It's been-well-super splacious! There ain't no word long ernuff to hold all's been crowded in this ere day," cried Fin enthusiastically. "Say, boys, why don't we come agin? Only ther's music days-an golly! I jes'

wish I had lots of money an' a vacation. Vacations ain't no good when you don't have money."

Dil enjoyed their pleasure. She was so strangely happy. She had seen Bess, and some time the puzzle would be explained. She had taken her first lesson in faith, and she felt light and joyous, as if she could fly. The very air was full of expectation.

It was time to return, unless, indeed, they had brought their suppers along. Dil appreciated the long ride home. She was very tired, but the joy within buoyed her up.

There was the rather well-gleaned ham bone and a dish of potatoes for supper, and the last of the wonderful cake, which they stretched out, and made to go all around. And they seasoned the supper with jests and pleasant laughs, and plans of what they would do, and hopes of being rich some day. Dil listened and smiled. They were all so good to her!