She dressed herself very quietly that day, all in dark things, and she and grandmother did not look joyful, as they always did when they went out together.

"I'd like to go, too," I said, wistfully.

Then Norah coaxed me.

"Ah, stay and play with your Norah," she cried. "Sure you'll not be after leaving your Norah alone in this big house!"

I always liked to play with Norah, when her work was done and she had time to be sociable. That day we played blindman's buff together--she, and I and the twins. Norah was always the blind man, and she was the longest time catching us, and when she did she could never tell who it might be. She would guess quite impossible people,--the grocer's boy, and the lady from over the way, and her own very mother in Ireland,--and she never once, by any chance, thought that it was Rhoda or little d.i.c.k or Trixie.

"Sure, you're too big to be Trixie!" she cried, when we told her who it was.

That day, when the blind man was out of breath, and his feet were sore from walking hundreds of miles, I climbed up on the window-sill and watched the people going along the street. There were a great many of them, much more than usual. Suddenly there was the sound of a fife and drum in the distance, and a long line of carriages came into sight, and one was filled with beautiful flowers, and one was draped with a torn old flag.

"Come quick, Norah!" I cried, eagerly. "It's a procession!"

"It's the old major's funeral," Norah said, coming with the twins in her arms to look over my shoulder.

I had known, somehow, that it was the major's, for everything nice belonged to him. I was so proud to think that my major should have all that big procession, with the lovely flowers and the music in front. I looked for him in every carriage, that I might wave as he went by. He was not there, but other people were,--my mother and my grandmother, and the lady from over the way, and men with gold braid on their coats come to grace the major's procession.

"Is it all his, Norah?" I asked.

"Sure, dear."

"I am so glad," I cried. "Oh, I'm so glad!"

I clapped my hands in my delight, and was quite angry with Norah when she dragged me, hurriedly, away from the window.

That night my mother took me in her lap, and told me that the old major had gone to heaven. I had heard of heaven before. It was where I came from, and the twins, away back in the early days. Heaven was a nice place, and now, as the major's home, it acquired a new charm. But there was one drawback.

"Shan't I ever see him again, mother?" I asked.

"Never again, Rhoda."

"But, mother, it's a children's place," I urged, anxiously. "And the major is old, quite old. He won't like it there, mother."

"The major has gone to heaven to be a little child again," my mother said, with a sob.

Then she put a blue velvet box in my hand. Inside there was the littlest watch in the world, and on the back of the watch there was a star in blue stones. It was the last thing which the old major bought before he went to heaven.

IV

THE FIRESIDE G.o.d

A Christmas Dream that Came True

"ENGLAND is a long way off," grandmother said, softly. "Especially at Christmas time."

She was not talking to any one in particular, but just to herself. She had been sitting for quite awhile by the parlor window reading her Bible. Sometimes her eyes were fastened on the page, and sometimes when a strange step came down the street, she would glance up hurriedly, almost in an eager way, as if she were watching for some one. Then, when she saw who it was, her eyes would drop again on the book in a disappointed fashion. I knew what she would do next. Very slowly she would turn the pages right to the middle of the Bible, where a picture lay between the leaves.

"Isn't that father, grandma?" I asked, anxiously, leaning against her knee.

"No, Rhoda," she said, in that decisive way of hers.

I hung closer over the picture to make real sure.

It looked so like father when he was a little boy that I thought she must be mistaken. Yet somehow it was different. This little boy was fairer. There was a curl of hair on the page, a light-brown curl with red glints in it, and a tiny wreath made of pressed lilacs which once upon a time he had joined together, flower by flower, out in our front garden. I could almost see him doing it, while the wind blew through those brown curls.

"Oh, I do hope that he isn't grown up!" I cried, quickly.

People had such an astonishing way of growing up fast. Why, even Joseph in his pretty new coat in the Bible was not a little boy any longer! And I had always so longed to play with Joseph.

Grandmother did not tell me anything more about the picture. She took it out of my hand, and put it back on the page beside the curl and the faded lilac ring. Then she closed the book tightly; but when I ran into the parlor five minutes later to announce a visitor the picture was out again on her lap.

"Evelyn is coming, grandma!" I cried.

The tall young lady who followed me into the room was grandmother's great friend, and, also, in a way she was mine. I loved her because she was so beautiful; but grandmother loved her because they both liked a man named Frank. He was engaged to Evelyn. I had heard my mother say so.

"Is there any news?" grandmother asked, eagerly.

She had risen out of her chair and looked startled.

Evelyn went up to her with a letter in her hand.

"Frank is quite well," she said, "and very busy. Would you like to see his letter?"

Grandmother hesitated. She almost turned her back upon Evelyn.

"No," she answered, slowly. "No. When he writes a letter to _me_, I will read it. Not before."

"Oh, you are hard on Frank," Evelyn protested. "How can he write to you?

Didn't you say you would have nothing more to do with him, unless he gave up his profession?"

"Profession! Has an actor a profession?" grandmother cried. "This is the first time I ever heard it called by that name. I said he was to choose between his mother and a child's mad whim, and he made his choice."

She picked up the picture and looked at it with tears in her eyes.

"I could forgive him anything but acting," she said. "Sometimes I think I could even forgive him that. I do so long to see him again."

Evelyn slipped her arm about grandmother.

"He will come back," she cried, consolingly.

"Never," grandmother replied, with a despairing glance at the empty street. "Don't I know him, Evelyn? Man and boy? He is as stubborn as I am."

"Would the little boy play with me, grandma, if he came back?" I asked, excitedly.