Blanchard Amy Ella
A Dear Little Girl

Chapter IX
ABOUT SEVERAL THINGS

It seemed to Edna, as she looked up, that she had never seen Uncle Justus's eyebrows appear so shaggy, nor his eyes snap so. "Boys!" he thundered out, "leave the house."

Every one slunk out of the room and down the stairs without a word.

"Edna," he said, when the last one had left, "go to your room. I thought I could trust you," he added. "Come with me, Louis."

Edna crept up stairs, her bosom heaving, and such a hurt, dreadful feeling in her heart. It was so terrible to be judged in that way, as if she had taken part in all that disorder. She felt as if she could not stand it, but there was no room left for explanation, and she cried as if her heart would break over this dreadful condition of things.

It was not long, however, before she heard some one coming up stairs. "Edna, my child, where are you?" a voice said, quite gently. "Your uncle didn't understand," she heard Aunt Elizabeth say. "He is very sorry he blamed you unjustly. One of the boys, Charlie Stabler, has been here to acknowledge his part in the affair, and to offer to pay for any damage done. He is a very manly boy, although he did not do quite right to join the others. He has also said that you had nothing to do with the trouble, and has told of Louis' defense of you, which in some degree lessens the fault."

Edna jumped up and threw her arms around her aunt. "O, auntie," she cried, "I am so glad you have come back." Aunt Elizabeth smiled and bade Edna bathe her face and go down and see her uncle, who was waiting for her.

Uncle Justus stood at the foot of the stairs; he opened his arms as his little niece came down, and as he held her closely she knew he meant to make amends for the harsh judgment.

"How is your sick sister?" asked the little girl.

"She is better – a little better, but still very ill," replied Uncle Justus.

"I am so glad she is better," returned Edna, "And you won't have to go away again, will you?"

"I hope not. You had a hard time getting along, did you?"

"We didn't at first," acknowledged Edna, truthfully. "We had fun, but to-day it has been just horrid. Why didn't you come back this morning, uncle?"

"We missed the train; there are only two trains a day from that junction, and something happened to the carriage on the way, so we were too late for the morning train. You didn't have school, of course. I found Miss Ashurst's note when I reached here. She has an attack of grippe."

"O, yes, we did have school. I am sorry, uncle, but the little girls weren't as good as the others."

"And you are one of the little girls," returned Uncle Justus, smiling, and looking down at her. But Edna felt that whatever he might hear of the rest, he would not include her with the number of those who had misbehaved.

That he was highly pleased with Agnes Evans's account of the day was evident from his manner to his pupils, and he did not even reprimand the little girls, who continued under Agnes Evans's teaching while Miss Ashurst remained away. To Edna's surprise Louis was not shut up, but there was a sullen look on his face which told of his feelings. Edna's gratitude for his defense of her increased her affection for her cousin, and she tried in every way to show him little attentions, which he took graciously enough, but which did not seem to add very much to his happiness, and at times Edna felt very indignant at the sternness with which he was treated, and the cold tones in which he was addressed. It was very nice to have Uncle Justus give her credit for trying to be a good girl, and to have Aunt Elizabeth smile upon her, but it made her feel the coldness of their manner to Louis all the more.

To be sure Aunt Elizabeth did not seem to think Edna ever could be cured of certain faults. "You are a very careless child," she would say. "I am afraid you will never be the neat housekeeper your grandmother was;" or, "Edna, that exhibition of temper over little things must be controlled; it is a very serious fault." Again it would be, "You are very babyish, and lack self-control; there is no need of crying over such a small matter as a little blister on your finger." And Edna wondered if she were expected to be like the Spartan boy who held the fox under his coat while it gnawed at his heart. Aunt Elizabeth never pitied her, and even the little caresses from Uncle Justus were few and far between.

"I should like a real lap," said the little girl, wistfully, to her doll. "I should like to have mamma to hug and hug as hard as I wanted, and I should like to have sister to be silly with. I like to be silly sometimes, and sister does, too. It is a long time, Ada, since we saw them all, the boys, and the kittens, and Snowflake, and all the rest. I am afraid it is going to be a long time more, for mamma wrote that it would have to be quite warm weather before they could come back."

To be sure Ellen had a lap ready whenever there was time for her to sit down, but she was kept very busy, the one servant in a large house, and even on the days when the wash-woman came she worked just as hard. Then Aunt Elizabeth did not approve of much time spent in the kitchen by her niece, and so, with Louis grumpy, Ellen busy, Uncle Justus reading, and Aunt Elizabeth absorbed in her many interests, there were days which seemed very long to the little girl, and once or twice she went to her room at night so homesick that she threw herself, crying, on the bed, with her doll hugged up to her, and fell fast asleep without undressing, to awaken in the middle of the night chilly and uncomfortable, finding herself on the outside of the covers. She would then shiver out of her clothes and creep into bed, after groping around to get Ada and place her safely under the bedclothes. But this was only sometimes; generally speaking, the days were not unhappy ones, for lessons and practicing, so many squares of patchwork, so many pages of reading filled up the hours, and the playtime was not so long as to become tiresome.

Once a week there was a visit to Maggie, who was always overjoyed to see her little friend.

"I don't know what I shall do when you go home," Maggie said, sadly, one day. "And when you take Moggins so far off, I'll never hear of him."

Edna was thoughtful. "What becomes of little girls who live here till they grow up?" she asked.

"Some of 'em don't stay that long, they get 'dopted," replied Maggie, "an' some of 'em get places." And Edna bore this information in mind.

"What do you have to do to get 'dopted?" she asked her aunt.

"You don't do anything but try to behave yourself," replied she. "What are you thinking about, Edna? Surely you do not need to have anyone to adopt you?"

"No," was the reply, "I was thinking of Maggie."

"Well, if some lonely, childless person were to come along and take a fancy to Maggie, she might be adopted, but usually the younger children are preferred; little girls of her age are not often chosen."

Edna was disappointed. She had thought that maybe her aunt's influence might be all that was necessary, provided Maggie should care to be chosen as some one's possible daughter.

But she did not give up the hope. "Maybe some one will 'dopt you, Maggie," she said, "and then, of course, you can have Moggins back again. Your new mamma would want you to have him." And so the two children talked over this possibility, as if it were a delightful fairy tale.

All this time Louis' discontent seemed to increase and he chafed more and more under restraint. It is quite true that the same kind of treatment did not suit the two children. Edna, on the one hand, an honest, conscientious, self-sacrificing little girl, and on the other hand Louis, a spoiled, proud, rather selfish little boy. Gentle firmness would have been best for Louis, but firmness without gentleness did not suit him at all, and he resented the methods of his uncle and aunt.

"I'm not going to stand being ordered about as I am, and treated as if I were the worst person in the world" he said to Edna. "They're all right when you are concerned, but they act as if I were a criminal, and I don't want to be good for them."

Edna looked distressed. "O, Louis," she said, "I don't believe they feel that way."

"They act that way," replied he, "and I know what I am going to do."

"What?" asked Edna. "Tell me, Louis; I won't tell."

"Sure you won't?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

"Give your word of honor that you won't tell anyone I know."

"Yes, I promise."

"Well," and Louis lifted his hand emphatically, "I'm going to run away."

"O, Louis."

"Yes, I'm going to find my mother and father."

"Why don't you write to them to come take you away?"

"I have asked them, but they wrote back that this was the best place for me, and that I must stay, and I won't – I won't."

"Please stay," pleaded Edna. "Just stand it a little while longer. I'm so afraid you'll get into a herd of cattle out on the prairies where they have whole stampedes, and you might get caught by the Indians, and I'd never see you again," and Edna's eyes filled at the possibility.

"Ho! no fear of that. I'd skulk as well as the best of them, and I'd keep out of the way of the cattle. I might stop over night with some of the cowboys, but I wouldn't stay," replied Louis, with a very dim idea of what he might have to encounter.

"Well, anyhow, it wouldn't be right," replied Edna.

"I'd like to know why; it isn't as if I were running away from my father and mother. I'm going to run to them; that makes all the difference."

But Louis had talked so before, and Edna did not take it very much to heart, especially as just about that time came an invitation from Agnes Evans which Uncle Justus accepted for Edna without consulting anyone.

Miss Evans asked if Edna might be allowed to spend Saturday and Sunday in the country. The girl had taken quite a fancy to the child, and had won her confidence so that nowadays Miss Agnes was consulted upon all points, and although Aunt Elizabeth frowned upon the decision, Uncle Justus would not allow it to be changed, and so Edna set out very gayly, and thought nothing could be more delightful than to spend this time with her beloved friend.

"You know," said Agnes, "I have a little sister, so I am sure we can make you have a good time. Do you like the country?"

"O, I like it much better than the city," was the reply. "I live in a half-and-half country place. We have chickens and a cow. O, it has been so long since I saw a real chicken."

Miss Agnes laughed. "Where did you see any make-believe ones?"

Edna laughed, too. "O, I mean live running-about chickens. I am a little afraid of cows. Ours hasn't any horns; it is the horny kind I am afraid of."

They were then on their way to the pretty country home in which Miss Evans lived. She spent her time during the week at a married sister's, in order to attend Professor Horner's school, but she always went home on Friday afternoons, returning Monday.

It was a mild day in March when the spring seemed quite near, although snow and frost might still be expected. At the station a carriage met them, and they were driven about half a mile to where a low, old-fashioned house stood. Two great cedar trees stood, one on each side the walk which led up to the house, and which was bordered by a box hedge so high that Edna could not see over it. A little girl, a trifle younger than Edna, came dancing down to meet them. She had yellow curly hair and big blue eyes. Edna thought her very pretty and was ready at once to make friends with her.

"Take Edna up to your room, Dorothy," said Miss Agnes. "You are to be roommates, you know. Show her your dolls, and make her at home," and Edna followed her new acquaintance up the broad staircase, feeling that this was much more like being at home.

"She is a dear little child," Agnes said to her mother, "and I am sure is often homesick, and longs for her own little playmates."

"You must bring her out often," replied motherly Mrs. Evans. "I can imagine how glad I should be to have some one take a little notice of Dorothy if she were away from home."

"How long are you going to stay?" asked Dorothy, not meaning to be rude, but like most children, wanting to crowd all she could into the time.

"Till Monday evening," answered Edna. But it was not on the next Monday nor the one following that which found Edna back again in the city.

Chapter X
MORE SURPRISES

"To-morrow," said Dorothy, "we will have a good time. We can play the whole day long."

"That will be so nice," returned Edna, with a little sigh of content; "I just love to play with dolls – don't you? I believe if I had a hundred dolls I should love every one."

"I don't know about a hundred dolls," replied Dorothy; "but I know I could love twenty-five. I am going to hunt up all I have – broken ones and all. We'll get Agnes to help us mend them; then to-morrow we can divide them, and you can have half while you are here," said the little girl, generously.

So a delightful morning it was – choosing dolls, dressing them, playing party, and all done in such a merry humor that Mrs. Evans and Agnes, sitting in the room opposite the nursery, often smiled to hear peals of laughter.

"Those children are having a good time," remarked Mrs. Evans; "there has been nothing but peace between them."

"I thought they would suit one another," returned Agnes.

"I think I shall send them over to Mrs. MacDonald's this afternoon," Mrs. Evans went on. "Edna will like the walk, and I promised to let Mrs. MacDonald know about some flower bulbs."

Therefore, after an early dinner, the two little girls set out to take a walk over the country road to this neighbor's.

Mrs. MacDonald was a widow, who lived all alone in a big house, substantially built of gray stone. She had once been a dressmaker, had married when no longer young a man of wealth, who died a few years after their marriage, leaving her very well off. She had no children, was a little peculiar, but a thoroughly good woman, and a neighbor whom Mrs. Evans much esteemed. She was very fond of Dorothy, and met the little girls very cordially.

"Bless my little Goldilocks," she said, in greeting; "and who is this?"

"This is Edna Conway," Dorothy informed her. "She is making me a visit. O, Mrs. MacDonald, may I show her the greenhouse?"

"To be sure you may; but you must be hungry after your long walk. Go ask Lizzie to get you some doughnuts. You know where to find her."

Edna did not know whether or not to follow her friend, but thought it would be more polite to sit with her hostess. Mrs. MacDonald had nothing to say for a while, and Edna was puzzling her brain as to what suitable remark she could make, when Mrs. MacDonald surprised her by saying:

"How should you like to come here and be my little girl?"

This was a difficult question to answer, but Edna got through bravely by saying, "If I didn't have any mamma and papa of my own I should like it very much, 'cause it is very pretty here, and I'd like to be near Dorothy, and – " she added, timidly, "you look like a very good lady." She would like to have said, "You are a very pretty lady," but Mrs. MacDonald was not handsome.

A hearty laugh was the little girl's reply.

"Well, dear," was then made answer, "I'll not rob your father and mother of such a bonny little lass, if it is too big a place for one lonely old woman to have to herself."

"Are you lonely?" asked Edna, with much sympathy in her tones. She jumped down from her chair and came closer. A bright idea had occurred to her. "I know a little girl that wants very much to be 'dopted," she said, earnestly.

"You do? Tell me about her."

So Edna began a story which Dorothy's reappearance did not interrupt, so interested were both herself and her listener.

"You see," said Edna, in conclusion, folding her little, warm hands very closely, as was her fashion when much interested. "You see, Maggie doesn't have a chance to be 'dopted like the littler girls, 'cause people like the baby ones best, though if I were a grown-up lady like you I'd 'dopt Maggie," she concluded.

At this moment Lizzie made her appearance with the plate of doughnuts. She was a middle-aged woman, with rather a sad face, though a kindly one.

"What is Maggie's last name?" asked Mrs. MacDonald.

"Her name is Maggie Horn."

Lizzie, putting down the plate, turned with a look of surprise to Edna. "What Maggie Horn?" she asked. "What about her?"

"Why, do you know my Maggie?" asked Edna.

"I know a Maggie Horn," and she turned to Mrs. MacDonald. "Excuse me, ma'am, but my breath was quite taken away by hearing the young lady speak of a Maggie Horn."

"That is all right, Lizzie. Perhaps you can tell us something of the little girl who has been treated unkindly," said Mrs. MacDonald. "I am interested in Edna's story of her."

"Well, ma'am, the little child that I used to know was left quite alone by a poor lady who died in the house where I lodged. She had been quite well to-do in her day – a milliner, ma'am, and a good one, I take it – but she married a bad man, who went through with her bit of a fortune and then went on, leaving her with this one child. The trouble, and all, ma'am, wore on her, and with weak lungs, she grew worse and worse, poorer and poorer, though always proud, ma'am, and most a respectable lady, with a good education. She died when the little one was three years old, and left the child with me. But, as you know, ma'am, I had my own troubles; and when a family by the name of Hawkins moved into the street, as wanted a bit of a girl to give an eye to the baby, I thought it was a chance for Maggie to begin to make her living. Indeed, ma'am, I didn't mean to turn her off to be ill-treated, but I thought it was none too soon for her to begin to look out for herself. She was eight years old."

"Why, you must be Mrs. Ryan," exclaimed Edna, putting this and that together, "and you were good to Maggie. She was, Maggie told me so," she continued, turning to Mrs. MacDonald.

"It was a sorry day I parted from her," said Lizzie: "but, ma'am, I had my own flesh and blood to look after, and my husband's funeral and doctor's bills to stand, and so – I did my best."

"You meant to do right, I have no doubt," said Mrs. MacDonald. "It was an error of judgment. Now, when the children have finished their doughnuts, I want you to tell John to show them the greenhouses."

Lizzie led the way, asking many questions about Maggie, and expressing her thankfulness that she was freed from an unhappy life.

The greenhouses were a delight to Edna. She was specially pleased to see ripe strawberries this early in the year, and gave the gardener a beaming smile when he told her to pick one for herself.

"I am going to carry it home to Miss Agnes," she declared.

"And I'll take mine to mamma," determined Dorothy, who had been allowed the same privilege.

Mrs. MacDonald had ordered the gardener to give them each a little bunch of violets, so they said their good-byes, much pleased with the visit.

"Wasn't it queer that I should have seen Mrs. Ryan?" said Edna. "I shall have so much to tell Maggie."

"I think it is funny for you to be friends with a little orphan asylum girl," returned Dorothy.

"Well, you see, she isn't zactly a orphan, 'cause they don't know whether she has a father or not, and then, you know, I feel so sorry for her."

"So do I," replied Dorothy. "I don't mean I wouldn't help her if I could, but I never knew anyone before who had a friend like that."

"O!" said Edna, suddenly, "my strawberry is getting so soft I shall have to eat it. I wish I had held it by the stem, instead of in my hand. Yours isn't a bit soft."

"Perhaps yours was the ripest. I'll eat mine, too, if you eat yours, and we can give mamma and sister the violets."

This was agreed upon, and the children disposed of the strawberries lingeringly.

Miss Agnes was lying on the lounge when they found her in the sitting-room.

"I have a bad headache," she told Edna. "Did you enjoy your walk?"

"Yes," replied she; "but I'm awfully tired."

"Come cuddle up here by me," said Miss Agnes. "You have had such an exciting time I don't wonder you are tired. You must go to bed early."

Edna was quite ready to share with Dorothy the pretty little brass bedstead, but she did not lie awake long, and in the morning was very loath to move when Dorothy called her.

"How red your face is," said Dorothy, as Edna sat up. "You look sort of queer."

"I feel sort of queer," replied she, putting her head down on the pillow again.

Dorothy slipped out of bed, and ran into the next room, where her sister slept. At her gentle little shake Agnes turned over with a sigh.

"What is it?" she asked, sleepily.

"Why – " began Dorothy. "O, sister, your face is red, too."

"Is it? I feel headachy."

"You and Edna look just the same way," declared Dorothy. And sure enough, both showed well-developed cases of measles.

Edna was not very ill, but it was not considered safe for her to go back to the city for some time, much to Dorothy's delight.

Hearing of the two sick girls, Mrs. MacDonald came over and took Edna under her especial care. She was an excellent nurse, and made the little child as comfortable as a tender mother could. Then when Edna was able to be up, and Mrs. MacDonald was no longer needed, every day came fruit or flowers from the kind woman.

One day Edna was much surprised by a visit from Uncle Justus. Two whole weeks since she had seen him; and he brought her – who would have thought it! – he brought Edna's doll, Ada, with him.

"Why, Uncle Justus," said Edna, looking at her doll with pleased eyes. "How did you happen to know that I wanted to see Ada so much?"

"I did not know; I only thought that a little girl who was so fond of her doll would be very likely to be glad to see it. When are we going to have you back again?"

"Next week," replied Mrs. Evans. "We cannot let her go till then. I am afraid that Dorothy will be very disconsolate at the loss of her little friend. They have had such good times together."

"I am afraid Edna will be very far behind her classes," said Uncle Justus, "and will have to study hard to make up for lost time."

Having seen Uncle Justus, and heard all the news, Edna felt that she should like to stay on indefinitely. It was very nice to be just sick enough to be considered, and to have good things to eat; to have such cosy little meals with Miss Agnes, before either of them were well enough to go down stairs; to receive from Mrs. MacDonald every day some dainty, and to have Mrs. Evans appear every evening with a delightful story book from which she would read aloud. Then it was pleasant to be thrown with such a bright companion as Dorothy, who was always ready to devise some new play or to shake out a bag of pretty pieces for doll clothes. Altogether, Edna thought herself very fortunate to have fallen into such good hands.

"It is almost like being at home," she said. "I wish you knew my mamma, Mrs. Evans."

"It will not be very long before you see her, will it?" asked Mrs. Evans, stooping to tuck in a shawl around the child.

"Not till May," replied Edna; "I s'pose mamma will stay till then."

"Well, perhaps you will come back next year, and then we shall see more of you."

Edna looked thoughtful. She knew there had been some talk of her returning another year. She loved all these friends, but she was still quite sure that home was best. Mrs. Evans' speech made her a little homesick. She wanted her mamma. To be sick without any mother at hand seemed a very unnatural thing. She was a little tired, perhaps. She would try to go to sleep.

She dozed off just as Dorothy came tiptoeing into the room. There was a look of pleased excitement upon her face, and she fidgeted about till Edna awoke from her little nap.

"Did I wake you?" she asked, contritely. "O, Edna, I know such a splendid something."

"What?" asked Edna, raising herself on her elbow.

"I can't tell you just now. You'll know pretty soon. O, you'll be so glad."

"I think you might tell me," returned Edna, a little peevishly.

"Don't be cross," said Dorothy, winningly. "I had to promise not to tell; but I did want you to expect something awfully nice."

"When shall I know?"

"To-morrow."

"O, I know what it is. I'm going to take a drive. Your mamma told me."

"That's not all," replied Dorothy, gleefully.

"I can hardly keep from telling, so please don't ask me. Here comes your supper – Mrs. MacDonald has sent you some lovely jelly."

Several times before bedtime Dorothy almost let out the secret, but Edna never suspected, so when the next day the carriage stood waiting to take her to drive she did not in the least know where they were going, nor why.