"I wish you were well enough to join them," Virginia replied softly.

Dil laughed. "I've been such a big, big girl this long time," she returned with a sense of amus.e.m.e.nt, but no longing in her tone. "I don't seem to know 'bout playin' as they do; for mammy had so many babies, an'

Bess was hurted, an' there wasn't never no room to play in Barker's Court, 'count o' washin' an' such. 'Pears like I'd feel strange runnin'

an' careerin' round like thim," and she made a motion with her head.

"I'd rather lay here an' get well. Oh, do you think the doctor'll let me go on Sat'day?"

"My dear, I have written to Mr. Travis. I think he will be up then."

"Oh!" Such a joyful light illumined the face, that Virginia had much ado to keep the tears from her own eyes. "You're so good," she said softly.

"Everybody's so good."

"And the children don't disturb you?"

"Oh, no; I like it. I c'n jest shut my eyes 'n' see 'Ring around a rosy.' Oh," with a long, long sigh, "Bess would 'a' liked it so! I'm so sorry she couldn't come 'n' see it all, the beautiful flowers 'n' trees 'n' the soft gra.s.s you c'n tumble on 'n' turn summersets as they did yest'day. Don't you s'pose, Miss Deerin', there'll be a whole heaven for the children by themselves? For _he_ told me somethin' 'bout 'many mansions' the Lord Jesus went to fix for thim all. Ain't it queer how things come to you?"

XV-JOHN TRAVIS

She lay there quietly all the morning, little Dilsey Quinn, trying in her hopeful fashion to hurry and get well. It was nicer than the hospital, and Miss Deering was so sweet, as she sat there crocheting some lovely rose-wheels out of pale-blue silk. Now and then some sentences flashed between them, and a soft little laugh from Dil. Miss Deering felt more like crying.

The doctor came about three.

"I'm most well," said Dil, with her unabated cheerfulness. "Only when I raise up somethin' seems tied tight around me here," putting her hand to her side. "'N' you think I c'n be well on Sat'day, cause-some one might come-"

"Are you expecting a visitor?"

"Miss Deerin' knows. An' he's one of the sure kind. Yes; he'll surely come. An' if I stay in bed all day to-day, don't you s'pose I'll be well to-morrow?"

"We'll see. You and Miss Deering seem to be planning secrets. I shall have to look sharp after both of you. And who brings you flowers?"

"Miss Mary. An' some custard, an' oh, Miss Deerin' fed me like as if I was a baby."

"That's all right. It's high time you were waited on a little. But I'd like you to take a nap. Miss Deering, couldn't you read her to sleep?"

"I will try."

"She ought to sleep some," studying the wide eyes.

"But I'm not a bit sleepy. I'm thinkin' 'bout when _he_ comes, an' how he'll help me find Bess."

"It is astonishing," the doctor said down-stairs. "She has some wonderful vitality. It seemed this morning as if she couldn't last an hour, and now if she wasn't all worn out she might recover. But it is the last flash of the expiring fire. Is there some friend to come?"

"Yes," answered Miss Deering with a faint flush.

"She will live till then. If, she suffers we must try opiates, but we will hardly need, I think."

"And-the excitement-"

"She will not get excited. She is strangely tranquil. Do not disturb her serene hope, whatever it is."

The day drew to a close again. Dil asked if she was not going to her own bed, and seemed quite content. Miss Mary came in early in the evening and sent Virginia to bed. She could not quite believe the dread fiat.

For Dil might be made so happy in the years to come. Ah, G.o.d, must it be too late? It seemed like the refinement of cruelty.

She came back about midnight, but Miss Mary motioned her away, and then went out in the hall.

"You must go to bed in earnest," she said. "You may be needed more later on. She is very quiet; but she lies there with her eyes wide open, as if she were seeing visions. I get a nap now and then; you see, I'm used to this kind of work."

"I wish 'twas mornin'," Dil said toward early dawn. "I want to hear the birds sing an' the children playin'; they do laugh so glad an'

comfortin'. An' I wisht there could be some babies tumblin' round in the sweet gra.s.s. They'd like it so. Don't you _never_ have any babies?"

"There are other homes for babies," was the reply.

"Do you s'pose it'll ever get all round,-homes, an' care, an' joy, an'

such? There's so many, you know. There was little girls in Barker's Court who had to sew, an' never could go out, not even Sundays. When 'twas nice, Bess an' me used to go out on Sat'days. But the winter froze her all up. And the other poor children-"

"They will all get here by degrees."

"It's so good in folks to think of it."

"My dear, you must go to sleep."

"But I don't feel sleepy," and Dil's face was sweet with her serene smile. "There's so many lovely things to think about."

"Try a little, to please me."

Dilsey shut her eyes and lay very still. Was there some mysterious change in the face?

And so dawned another morning. Virginia Deering came in with a handful of flowers, which she laid beside Dilsey's cheek on the pillow.

"Oh," the child began in a breathless sort of way, "do you think he'll be here to-morrow, Sat'day? Cause I don't b'l'eve I'd be well 'nuff to go down. I don't seem to get reel rested like. An' you'll have to send word to Patsey. He wanted me to stay a good long while, an' get fat, an'

I want to try."

Did _she_ feel sure John Travis would come? Ah, she would _not_ doubt.

She would take the child's sublime faith for her stay. Even if he had ceased to care for her, he would not disappoint the child who relied so confidently upon his word.

"Yes, I know he will come."

"It'll be all right, then. An' I'll get up to-morrow an' be dressed, an'

go down-stairs all strong an' rested like. An' I think he'll know about Bess."

Virginia bent over and kissed her.

"Ain't the children jealous 'cause you stay here so much?" she asked presently. "They all like you so. An' they was so glad to see you."

"They do not mind," she made answer to the unselfish child; "and I like to stay with you."