"Do you? I'm glad too," she said dreamily.

But now and then she was a little restless. The doctor merely looked at her and smiled. But outside he said to Miss Mary, "I doubt if she goes through another night."

"What shall I do for you?" Virginia asked later on. There seemed such a wistfulness in the eyes turned to the window.

"It's queer like, but seems to me as if Bess was comin'. P'raps she's jes' found out where I be. O Miss Deerin', are there any wild roses? I'd like to have some for Bess."

Virginia glanced up in vague alarm.

"I think if I had some Bess would come back. 'N' I'm all hungry like to see her."

Dil moved uneasily, and worked her fingers with a nervous motion.

"There have been some over back of the woods there," and Miss Mary inclined her head. "There were in June, I remember."

"I might go and see."

"Oh, will you? I wisht so I had some."

"The walk will do you good." There had come a distraught look in Virginia's face. Oh, what if John Travis failed! Even to-morrow might be too late.

"You'll let the children go with you," said Dil. "They'll like it so; an' I'll keep still 'n' try to go to sleep."

The old serenity came back with the smile. She had learned so many lessons of patience and self-denial in the short life, the grand patience perfected through love and sacrifice, the earthly type of that greater love. But the sweet little face almost unnerved Virginia.

The children hailed her with delight, and clung so to her gown that she could hardly take a step. Perhaps it was their noise that had unconsciously worn upon Dil's very slender nerves. Miss Mary read to her awhile, and in the soft, soothing silence she fell asleep.

Yes, she had come to that sign and seal indelibly stamped on the faces of the "called." The dread something no word can fitly describe, and it was so much more apparent in her sleep.

"Miss Mary," said an attendant, "can you come down a moment?"

She guessed without a word when she saw a young man standing there with a basket of wild roses. But he could not believe the dread fiat at first. She had been "a little ill," and "wasn't strong" were the tidings that had startled him, and she had gone to a home for the "Little Mothers" to recruit. He had heard some other incidents of her sad story, and he remembered the children's pathetic clinging to the wild roses.

Nothing could give her greater pleasure.

He walked reverently up the wide, uncarpeted steps, beside Miss Mary.

Dil was still asleep, or-O Heaven! was she dead? Miss Mary bent over, touched her cool cheek.

Dil opened her eyes.

"I've been asleep. It was so lovely. I'm all rested like-why, I'm most well."

"Well enough to see an old friend?"

Oh, the glow in her eyes, the eager, asking expression of every feature.

She gave a soft, exultant cry as John Travis emerged from Miss Mary's shadow, and stretched out her hands.

"My dear, dear little Dil!"

All the room was full of the faint, delicious fragrance of wild roses, kept so moist and sheltered they were hardly conscious of their journey.

And she lay trembling in two strong arms, so instinct with vitality, that she seemed to take from them a sudden buoyant strength.

"I've been waitin' for you so long," she exclaimed when she found breath to speak. There was no reproach in the tone, rather a heavenly satisfaction that he had come now. Her trust had been crowned with fruition, that was enough.

"My little girl!" Oh, surely it could not be as bad as they said. The future that he had planned for, that he had meant to make pleasant and satisfying, and perhaps beautiful, from the fervent grat.i.tude of a manly heart. Was she beyond anything he could do for her? Oh, he would not believe it!

"I was detained so much longer abroad than I expected," he began. "And we did not get in until Monday morning. I went to Barker's Court, and could not learn where you were. Then I bethought myself of the cop at the square," smiling as he designated the man.

"An' he gev you my letter?"

"He gave me the letter. I hunted up the boys. I saw Patsey and Owen last night, and they are counting on your getting well. They sent you so much love. And to-day I went to Chester. Here are your roses."

He tumbled them out all dewy from the wet papers. Oh, such sweetness!

Dil breathed it in ecstatic delight. She had no words. She looked her unutterable joy out of her limpid brown eyes, and he had much ado to keep the tears from his. So pale, so spiritualized, yet so little like Bess, and-oh, the last hope died as he took in all the signs. For surely, surely she was on the road to heaven and Bess. No hand of love, no touch of prosperity, could hold her back.

"'Pears like everything's come, an' there ain't nothin' left to wish for," she said as he laid her down again, and watched the transfigured face. "For now you c'n tell me 'bout Bess. Mother burned up the book one day, an' we never could quite know, only she got crost the river, an'

they was all so glad at the pallis. An' Bess was so sure you'd come. The cough was dreadful when we didn't have some good medicine that helped her. An' the lady come one afternoon, 'n' mammy was home 'n' she was norful sa.s.sy to her. You see, we hadn't dast to tell mammy-"

"My poor child!" He was toying with the soft, tumbled hair. He had heard another side of the story, and of Mrs. Quinn's insulting impudence.

"An' then Bess she smelt the wild roses all around one night, an'

thought she was gettin' better-an'-an' she jus' died."

"Yes; G.o.d came for her in the night. He put his arms around her, and wrapped her in the garment of his great love, and took her through the pathway of the stars. She did not feel any cold nor pain, and he gave her a new, glorified body, so she could leave the poor old one behind."

"But she wouldn't have leaved me 'thout a word, when she loved me so, an' wanted me to go to heaven with her."

Dil's lip quivered, and her chest heaved with the effort of keeping back the tears.

"My dear child, there are many mysteries that one cannot wholly explain.

Don't you remember telling me the Mission teacher said it was an allegory, a story that is like our daily lives? We are going heavenward in every right and tender and loving thing we do. We are the children of G.o.d as well as the children of mortal parents; G.o.d gives us the soul, the part of us that is to live forever. And when he calls this part of you to the heavenly mansions, he gives it the perfect new body. The old one is laid away in the ground. When Jesus was here he helped and cured people as I told you. But he does not come any more. He calls people to him, and sends his angels for them. So he said, 'It is very hard for poor little Bess to wait all winter, to suffer with the cold, the pain in her maimed body, to be afraid of her mother, to hear the babies cry when her head aches. She must come to the land of pure delight, and have her new body. She must be well and joyous and happy, so that she can run and greet her sister Dil when I send for her."

Dilsey Quinn was listening with rapt attention. But at the last words she cried out with tremulous eagerness,-

"Oh, will he send? Will he take me to Bess? You are quite sure?"

Her very breath seemed to hang on the answer.

"He will send. He has a place for you in the many mansions he went to prepare. And this little step we take from one world to the other is called the river of death, and you know how Christiana went through it.

Sometimes the Lord Jesus lifts people quite over it."

There was a long silence. He could see she was studying the deep, puzzling points. The lines came in her forehead, white as a lily now, and her eyes seemed peering into fathomless depths.

Looking into the sweet, wasted face, holding the slim little hands, once so plump and brown, thinking of the heroic, loving life, he felt that indeed "of such was the kingdom of heaven."

"Well, 'f I c'n go to Bess," a sigh of heavenly resignation seemed to quiver through the frail body, "'n' I think the Lord couldn't help bein'

good to Bess, she was so sweet 'n' patient; for 'twas so hard not to run about, 'n' have to be lifted, 'n' I couldn't always come on 'count of the babies 'n' mother 'n' things. 'N' she never got cross. 'N' I do b'lieve she understood 'bout Christiana, for after that she wanted so to go to heaven. An' she was so glad about her poor hurted legs bein' made well. We couldn't read fast, you know; an' we couldn't see into things, 'cause we hadn't been to school much. But she kinder picked it out, she was such a wise little thing, an' the pictures helped. But I don't understand 'bout the new body."

Her face was one thought of puzzled intensity.