Then they crossed rivers, pa.s.sed pretty towns, bits of woods, flower gardens, long fields of waving corn, meadows where daisies still lingered, and tufts of red clover looked like roses. Ah, how large the world was! And maybe heaven was a great deal farther off than she and Bess had imagined. They might have been all winter going if they had walked. She felt suddenly thankful that John Travis had advised against it.

It was Dilsey Quinn's first railroad journey, and it gave her the sensation of flying. She had brightened up, and a soft flush toned the paleness. An indescribable light hovered about her face, the rapt look that we term spiritual.

They trooped out of the train,-it seemed a week since they had started, her brain was so full of beautiful impressions. A young lady had come down to meet them, and walked with Miss Lawrence. The children were wild with the newness of everything; some of them had not even seen the nearest park before. They chased b.u.t.terflies; they longed to chase the birds; they ran and laughed, and presently came to a great white house set in an old orchard.

"Children," said Miss Lawrence, "here is your new home. You can run and play to your heart's content. In the woods yonder you can shout and be as wild as you like. But you must come in first and take off your best dresses. And now you must mind when you are spoken to, and not quarrel with each other."

They went through a wide hall and up an old-fashioned staircase. Three large rooms were full of narrow white-draped cots. The girls who pushed on ahead were given numbers to correspond. There were pegs for their hats and garments, a shelf for their satchels and bundles. What a whispering, chattering, and giggling! Here was a bath-room, and basins for washing. And then the bell rang for dinner.

Oh, what a dinner it was to most of the newcomers! A great slice of sweet boiled beef, vegetables, and bread in an unstinted fashion, and a harvest apple for dessert. Dil was too full of rapture to eat, and she let the next girl, whose capacity seemed unlimited, have most of her dinner.

Afterward they went out to play. Hammocks and swings were everywhere.

They ran and shouted. They sat in the gra.s.s, and laughed with a sense of improbable delight. No one to scold, no work to do, not to be beaten for a whole long week! Oh, what joy it was to these little toilers in courts and slums and foul tenement houses!

Dil sat on a seat built around a great tree, and watched them. She was like one in a dream, quite apart from them. There is a delightful, unquestioning freemasonry among children. The subtle sign is given in a word or look or smile, and they are all kin. But it had been so long since Dil was a child, that she had forgotten the language.

She was not unhappy nor solitary. She was simply beyond playing, far from boisterous mirth. She had been doing a woman's work so long, and childhood for the poor is ever a brief season.

Two or three girls shyly asked her to play "tag." She gently shook her head. Then a long-ago sound caught her attention.

Two little girls were holding their clasped hands up as high as they could stretch. A small procession pa.s.sed, each girl holding to the skirt of the other, and singing:-

"Open the gates as high as the sky, And let King George and his men go by.

Needle's eye as I pa.s.s by, Awaiting to go through; Many a la.s.s I have let pa.s.s, And now I have caught you."

Down came the arms of the "gates" over the head of the girl just under them. There was a shriek and a giggle. Then the one who was caught had to be a "gate," and so it went on.

Dil looked, fascinated with a kind of remembered terror. It seemed as if she must have heard that in another world, it was so long, long ago.

Before Bess was "hurted," when Dan was a chubby baby, she had them both out, caring for them. At least, Dan was in the corner of the stoop, and Bess was tossing a ball for his amus.e.m.e.nt. A group of girls were playing this very game. The arms came down and took Dilsey Quinn prisoner, and all laughed because she had been so quick to evade them.

Something else-her mother's heavy hand that dragged Dil out of the ring.

The girls scattered, afraid of the tall, strong virago. Dil picked up the baby and took Bess by the hand. They were not living in Barker's Court then. She shuddered, for she knew what awaited her. She should have been in the house, getting supper, to be sure. She had not meant to play so long, and even then she so seldom played.

Poor Dil! For a fortnight or so she carried the marks on her body.

"I'll tache ye to be wastin' of yer time foolin' wid sich," said her mother.

Then Bess was "hurted," and her mother ill in bed for weeks. They were warned out of the house, and for some time it was hard lines for them all. Dil never played any more. Childhood was at an end for her.

And when she heard the merry voices here, a cold, terrible shiver came over her with the old memories. Was it softened by the thought that Bess could run about then? But even little Bess had sometimes been cruelly beaten. After that-was there a strange comfort that had never come before, that Bess's accident had saved her many an unreasonable punishment? For Mrs. Quinn had let the poor little sufferer pretty much alone. Dil had managed to stand between, and take the blows and ill usage.

Does G.o.d note all the vicarious suffering in the world, and write it in the book of remembrance?

Dil turned her head away. Another party were playing "Ring a round a rosy." And a group on the gra.s.s were being inducted into the mystery of "Jacks." She wondered a little where her mother was. She did not want to see her, but she hoped matters were better with her. Surely she need not work so hard. And oh, if she would not drink gin! But Dil had noted the fact that most women did as they grew older.

Miss Lawrence came out presently with a bright cheery word for them all.

"You're not playing," she said to Dil. "You must run about and have some fun, and get some color in your cheeks. And you must not sit and brood over your hard life. That is all pa.s.sed, and we hope the good Father has something better in store. And you must be friendly with the others."

"Yes'm," answered Dil, with soft pathos. "Only I'd rather sit here an'

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 ships 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 shining 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; shining 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 sunshine 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.