Mostly Mary Part 12

"Then will you stay with me until I go to sleep? It will be only a little minute."

When Mary awoke the next morning, her father was sitting beside the bed, holding on his knee the very dearest doll she had ever seen. It was as large as a real baby, and its arms were stretched out to her. With a cry of delight, she stretched hers out, too, when--how it happened, Mary did not know--the doll was crying and waving its arms and kicking just as the twins did.

"Why--why--oh, the poor little thing! It must have the colic, Father."

Then something happened again, and dollie was once more smiling.

"Is it a live doll, Father?" whispered the little girl in wonder.

"No, pet. See this b.u.t.ton at the back of its neck? Watch what happens when I push it."

"Oh, oh! _Now_, I know! Its head turns around inside its cap, and it has a crying face instead of hair at the back of its head. Father, where _did_ you find such a darling doll?"

"I happened to see it Sat.u.r.day on my way from the bank to the steams.h.i.+p office. Mother had just telephoned me that our brave little daughter would not think of letting her old daddy live among strangers----"

"But--but I _wasn't_ brave, Father," came the protest in a choked voice.

"Didn't Mother tell you how horrid I was?"

"No, dear; and I really cannot believe that you were horrid. I know that you must have felt just as I did when Uncle Frank said that you could not go with us. Sometimes on the spur of the moment, we say things that we do not really mean, and I am sure that is what you did. But here is something that will interest you--a fine kodak. We shall take pictures of the babies every week, and mail them to you, and Uncle will get you a new alb.u.m to paste them in."

Shortly after luncheon, Aunt Mandy brought the babies in for the last time. Mary hugged them and kissed their rosy little faces over and over again as she whispered, "Take care of them, Aunt Mandy, oh, take care of them and of Father and Mother----"

"'Cose I will, honey chile! Why fo' yo' 'spects old mammy gwine 'long, I lak to know?"

Then her father and mother came; and Mary, winking very fast and swallowing hard, clung to them not daring to speak, but just drinking in every loving word which they uttered. They had hardly left the room when the Doctor appeared. Mary clenched her hands and tried to smile at him.

"They have gone downstairs, have they? I shall be back very soon, Goldilocks." Then, touched by the utter loneliness of the little figure in the big chair, he added, "Just as soon as I put them into the carriage. But you ought to be at a front window to wave to them. Will you please bring some of those sofa cus.h.i.+ons, Sister?"

"But--Uncle," said Mary as he hurried with her through the hall, "I thought you were going to see them off."

"I did think of doing so, but I have changed my mind."

"No, Uncle, you must not stay just for me. Please go with them--_please_! But come back soon."

"I shall be back by three o'clock, little one," and he was gone.

Bravely the little girl tried to smile as she pressed her face close to the windowpane and threw a last kiss to her mother before she stepped into the carriage. Her father and uncle, each holding a baby, made them wave and kiss their tiny hands to her, and then pa.s.sed them in to Mrs.

Selwyn and Aunt Mandy. Another moment, and the door closed after the two men. Mary knelt on the sill with Sister Julia's strong arm to support her, and strained her eyes for the very last glimpse of the handkerchief fluttering from the carriage window. Then she sank upon the cus.h.i.+ons, her frail little form shaking with the sobs she could no longer control.

Just before three o'clock, the Doctor returned. In spite of his own sadness, he had tried on his way home to remember the amusing things which he had seen at the docks so that he would have something cheerful to tell Mary. He made a special effort to whistle a lively tune as he mounted the stairs; but at the door of her room, it died on his lips.

"Why--why--" he was at the bedside in three strides.

"O Uncle! I thought you would _never_ come!"

"But, dear, I stayed only long enough to see the steamer underway, as I thought you wished me to do. I did not even stop at my office on the way home. What is it? Are you in pain?"

"My head, Uncle."

The Doctor looked with questioning eyes at Sister Julia, who was bathing the child's head. She nodded toward the hall and soon followed him from the room.

"It is nothing more than I feared, Doctor. She has been under a greater strain for the past two days than anyone thought. I have seldom seen such self-control in older people, and certainly did not look for it in a frail child like Mary."

"I knew that she was making an immense effort to keep up, and I feared the result; but this--have you taken her temperature, Sister?"

"Fifteen minutes ago, it was one hundred and two."

"Hm, I thought so. However, as a mere cold throws her into quite a fever, I am not alarmed yet. I shall stay with her for awhile, and you had better take a few hours rest. You will get very little of that to-night."

CHAPTER XIII.

SISTER JULIA.

The following morning, the fever had left her; but Mary was tired and listless, refusing milk, broth, everything. When her uncle was with her, she clung to him, great tears running down her pale little face. Nothing that he or Sister Julia could say comforted her. She was lonely, lonely, lonely! That day pa.s.sed, as did the next, without any change. The Doctor felt helpless; and when at noon, Thursday, the usual scene took place, he strode from the room, muttering, "I will send a wireless! They must try to be transferred to the first homeward bound steamer that they meet. To Halifax with the business!"

Then Sister Julia made up her mind to take matters into her own hands.

Drawing a low chair to the bedside, she began, "I think I shall tell you a story, Mary."

"I--don't seem to care very much about stories any more, Sister."

"I have noticed that, dear; but this is one that I think you really should hear."

"Is it a long one, Sister? Please don't make it very long, because I don't want to think of anything but my darling father and mother and little sisters."

"Very well, I shall make it as short as possible--this true story which I am going to tell you.

"I once had a little patient suffering from the same illness which you have just had. Like you, too, she was blessed with a very loving father and mother and a good, kind uncle. The doctor who attended her had told me how much this uncle thought of the little girl; but it was not until I was sent to take care of her that I saw just how matters stood. There were other children in the family; but before I was in the house one hour, I knew that the sick little girl had first place in her uncle's heart as well as in the hearts of everyone in that home. And she well deserved it; for in all my years of nursing, I have never met a more lovable child. Gentle, patient, obedient, always thinking of others--why, before the first day had pa.s.sed, I think I loved her almost as dearly as those who had known her all her life. I was quite ready to agree with the doctor in his opinion of her.

"Well, not to make too long a story of it, the child grew steadily worse. My heart ached more for the uncle than for her parents; because they had their other children, while he seemed too wrapped up in his little pet to think of anyone else. Then came a night when we thought the little girl's soul was about to return to G.o.d. I shall never forget the face of that poor uncle as he knelt at the bedside. It was gray, Mary, positively _gray_, and the pain in his kind eyes made me long to go away and cry. Great drops stood on his forehead though the room was really chilly, for the doctor had ordered me to keep it very cool.

"Oh, how I prayed to the loving Heart of our Divine Lord that, if it was His holy will, He would spare the child to that good man who had done so much for Him in the persons of His poor, suffering, little ones----"

"Sister, you are telling about Uncle! I know you are! It is all coming back to me about that night--I had forgotten it. I remember that I didn't know anything for a long time. Even the man with the knives was gone--and the silly little birds. Then, I woke; but I didn't open my eyes right away. The pain was all gone, and everything was so quiet that I thought I was alone; so I opened my eyes and saw Father at the foot of the bed looking straight at me. Then I saw Uncle, and he looked so strange that I thought he must be sick, too. But his eyes smiled at me and I tried to smile back, but I was too tired; and before I knew it, I went to sleep again."

"Yes, dear, it all happened just as you say, only that you did smile.

But even then, we thought you were slipping away from us, and fully fifteen minutes pa.s.sed before we knew that G.o.d had answered our prayers."

There was a long pause.

"But--but, Sister,--not all of your story is true. I was cross and cranky and screamed when the pain was bad; and I couldn't think of anyone but that dreadful man with the long knives, or of those silly little birds with yellow ribbons around their necks. No wonder Uncle teases me about yellow."

"But, Mary, you were not yourself for many, many days. Do you remember the morning I told you that you must fight to get well? I had good reason to regret that advice; for instead of fighting the illness, you used those little fists on everyone who came near you. When your uncle tried to listen to your lungs, you struck out so well that your mother and I had to hold your hands----"

"Why, _Sister_, you don't mean _that_!"