"But he is in heaven _now_," replied aunt Madge.

"O, no, he hasn't gone a single step. I saw him on the bed. They haven't put his wings on yet!"

Aunt Madge was puzzled, and hardly knew what to say, for it is not easy to make such very little children know the difference between the body, which goes back to dust, and the spirit, which goes to G.o.d who gave it.

She talked a long while, but I doubt if Prudy understood one word, for when the casket which held the form of little Harry was buried in the garden, she cried because the earth was heaped over it.

"What makes 'em do it?" she asked, "he can't get to heaven through all that dirt!"

But by and by, when days pa.s.sed, and there was no longer a baby in the house, Prudy began to think of him as one of the angels. And one morning she told a beautiful dream which she thought she had had, though she sometimes called her _thoughts_ dreams.

"O," said she, "I dreamed about my angel! He had stars all round his head, and he _flowed_ in the air like a bird. There was ever so many little angels with him, and some of 'em sang. They didn't sing _sorry_; they was singing, 'The Little Boy that died.' And, aunt 'Ria, I guess you wouldn't cry if you could see how happy they were!"

"No, no," sobbed poor aunt 'Ria, holding Prudy close in her arms, which she said felt "_so_ empty" now, "it can't be right to cry, can it, Prudy, when I _know_ my baby is so happy in heaven?"

CHAPTER XV

GOING HOME

It was now autumn. The trees couldn't keep green any longer, for their time had come; so they just made the best of it, like sad faces laughing through tears, and glowed and flushed in a perfect blaze of glory, making believe they were having splendid times all by themselves, and didn't care for what was coming.

The Parlin children had stayed a great deal longer than their parents at first meant they should stay, and now they must really go back to Portland.

The little cousins were sorry to part, for you know they had learned to love one another dearly. Grace and Susy clung together till the last moment.

"O Susy," sobbed Grace, "don't you forget these good times! Remember to write, no matter how it looks. I wish I hadn't got to go 'way off out West. I never did have such times in any place as we've had here at grandma's."

"Nor I either," said Susy, looking sorrowfully at the barn, the seat in the trees, and the clover patch. "Remember, you're coming back in just two years. Won't it be splendid?--O dear, but two years is 'most forever!" added Susy, suddenly breaking down.

"Good by, Prudy," said Horace, climbing into the stage-coach, quite out of breath. He had run all the way to the post office just for the sake of seeing her again.

"Good by, Prudy. You're the cunningest little spud! If you lived out West I'd just go a-flyin'."

n.o.body knew whether Horace cried or not, for n.o.body saw him till dinner time, but then he looked very sober indeed. He and Gra.s.shopper had been building a fort, he said; and after he had told so much, he seemed not to care about talking. He felt captain of a little company, and such a brave soldier that he would not even say he felt sorry Prudy was gone.

Grace talked a great deal about Susy, and asked her mamma if she might not invite her to go out West some time.

Mrs. Clifford said she should be very glad, indeed, to have a visit from both the children, and who knew but it might happen so? for Mr.

Parlin, Susy's father, often took journeys out West on business.

This idea struck Grace very pleasantly, and she had a strong hope of the visit in a minute. In two minutes she had a firm belief in it; and the last we see of Grace and Horace in this book, they are sitting on the piazza, eagerly talking about the next winter, when they shall both go to the cars to meet uncle Edward and the children.

"They'll be there my birthday--what'll you bet?" said Horace.

"I shall wear my tippet when we go to the depot, and have a new hood,"

said Grace. "I don't know what my dress will be, though."

"I'll make a bow-arrow, and a gun, and a steamboat for Prudy."

"And I'll give Susy my large doll, and make a blue dress for it, with flowing sleeves. She shall put all her things into my cabinet."

"What'll we have to eat? Pecans, and 'simmons, and raisins, and figs."

"O, we shall have plenty to eat, Horace, we always do. We'll give 'em canned peaches with cream. Susy likes cream as well as a cat."

"I'd like to see Prudy eat a 'simmon--a green one, I mean," cried Horace, laughing aloud. "Seems like I can see her mouth puckering up now."

Susy and Prudy, all this while, were riding home in the cars, under the care of the conductor.

"O," sighed Susy, "I wish we were going backwards, just the other way.

Grandma is going to let Grace boil some candy to-night, and put oilnuts in it."

"I guess they'll want _me_ to help 'em pull it," said Prudy.

"There, now, we've got to Brunswick," murmured Susy. "I don't like to get so far away from the folks at grandma's. Don't it seem real lonesome?"

"No, indeed," replied Prudy. "I'm glad we're goin' home to see mother and the rest of 'em. What do you s'pose the baby'll say?"

But their speech was cut short by some large pieces of sponge cake, which the smiling conductor brought to them wrapped in a newspaper.

Susy and Prudy reached home safely, and there is nothing more to be said about them at present.

I think I will copy the letter which Prudy wrote to her dear friend, Mr. Allen, or which she got aunt Madge to write the next time she went to Portland.

CHRISTMAS DAY.

DEAR MR. 'GUSTUS ALLEN:

When you went off to the wars aunt Madge cried some, for I saw her wiping her eyes. You asked me if I loved you for the candy, but I didn't; I loved you for the nuts and oranges.

I think you was real good to write me a letter. I had just as lief kiss you as not if you _wasn't_ my father; and aunt Madge says she'll answer it, 'cause you couldn't read my writing; _but_ I hain't got any pig! He was a pinky winky little thing, but grandpa kept a keepin' him eatin', and he got so big once when I was gone that they had to kill him.

But he didn't go to heaven, and I'm glad, for I don't ever want to see _him_ again. That was last summer, when I was a _little_ girl. I don't like pigs _now_.

Of course I'm going on five, for if I wasn't most five my grandpa Read wouldn't be dead most two years.

I've got my presents, but they ain't took off the tree yet. Mother gave me a tea-set. O, I wish you could see it, 'cause you wouldn't break a single thing. And I had a doll, and lots of candy and books, and a new dress, and a scarf, and some shiny shoes.

I'm glad you wrote me that darling letter. I can't think of any thing to think of. The skeeters bit me when I was to grandma's. I hate _live_ skeeters. They might be flies, and I wouldn't care then. They used to get into my skin just as easy, and sting me all up.

Won't you write me another letter? Please to.

Susy fastened her tooth to the door-latch once. It got so loose it shook in her mouth, and it hurt her so I had to cry. But _my_ teeth are drove in real hard. I mean it hurt her when 'twas pulled, that's what I mean.