Aunt Madge's Story Part 16

"'Cause," sobbed I, "'cause--"

And then, hiding behind her turban, I whispered,--

"O, if you tell G.o.d you want anything, is that a prayer?"

"Yes, dear, if you tell him you want little sister to get well, that is a prayer."

I moaned still more bitterly at these words, and slid out of her lap.

"Why, what is it, darling?"

"I can't tell you," said I; "I can't, I can't. There isn't anybody in this world I can tell but just Fel."

Then Madam Allen went out of the room, and left us two little girls alone.

"O, Fel," said I, as soon as my sobs would let me speak, "I said I wished G.o.d would take my little sister back again."

Fel looked very much shocked.

"And O, I'm afraid it was a truly prayer, and G.o.d 'll do it."

"No, I guess it wasn't a truly prayer, Madge."

"What makes you think it wasn't?" cried I, eagerly, for I supposed she must know.

"Wasn't you mad when you said it?"

"Yes, very. She made that long scratch on my nose, and I was very mad."

"She did dig awful deep; I don't wonder you felt bad," said Fel, soothingly. "But you didn't want her to die, any more'n anything; now did you?"

"No, O, no!"

"Well, then, if you didn't want her to die, G.o.d knows you didn't; for he knows everything, don't he?"

"Yes, yes."

"And so it wasn't a truly prayer," added Fel, positively.

"And won't he answer it?"

"Why, what you 'spose? Of course not, Madge."

She seemed to feel so clear upon the subject, that I began to breathe more freely. O, it was everything to have such a wise little friend!

"But I oughtn't to said it, Fel! O, dear! What s'pose made me? _You_ never say bad things, never!"

Fel thought a moment, and then answered, as she looked at me with her clear, happy eyes,--

"Well, you have lots of things to plague you, Madge; but I don't.

Everybody's real good to me, because I'm sick."

I looked at her, and began to cry again. My little heart had been stirred to its very depths, and I could not bear to have her speak of being sick.

"Now, Fel Allen," said I, "you don't s'pose you're going to die 'fore I do? I can't live 'thout you! If you die, I'll die too."

"Why, I never said a thing about dying," returned Fel, in surprise.

"Well, you won't never leave me, will you? Say you won't never! Just think of you up in heaven and me down here. I can't bear it!"

"Why, Madge."

"Well, if you should go up to heaven first, Fel, you'd sit there on those steps, with a harp in your hand, and think about me; how I said cross things to you."

"Why, what cross things did ever you say to me, Madge Parlin?"

"There, there," cried I, smiling through my tears, and beginning to dance; "_have_ you forgot? O, that's nice! Why, Fel, I called you a lie-girl."

"O, well, I don't care if you did. I wasn't, _was_ I?"

"And I called you a borrow-girl, too. And I drowned you, and I--I--"

"I wish you'd stop talking about that," said Fel, "or you'll make me cry; for you're just the nicest girl. And who cares if you do scold sometimes? Why, it's just in fun, and I like to hear you."

Now, Dotty Dimple, I declare to you that this conversation is sweeter to my memory than "a nest of nightingales." Naughty as I was, Fel didn't know I was naughty!

When I went home next morning, the little Louise was much better, and in a few days seemed as well as ever. I was very thankful G.o.d knew I was not in earnest, and had not taken me at my word, and called her back to heaven.

She was never quite as cross from that time, and I had many happy hours with her, though, as I told Fel,--

"She's cross _enough_ now, and sometimes seems 's if I couldn't forgive her; but I always do; I don't da.s.s not to!"

I was not required to hold her very much, for Fel was not well, and wanted me with her half the time. Mother was always willing I should go, and never said,--

"Don't you think you ought to be pacifying the baby?"

I never dreamed that Fel was really sick. I only knew she grew sweeter every day, and clung to me more and more. I had stopped teasing her long ago, and tried to make her happy. I couldn't have said a cross word to her that winter any more than I could have crushed a white b.u.t.terfly.

One day I was going to see her, with some jelly in my little basket, when "the Polly woman" walked mournfully into the yard.

"I've just come from Squire Allen's," said she, unfastening her shawl, and sighing three times,--once for every pin.

"And how is Fel?" asked mother.

Polly slowly shook her head,--

"Very low; I--"

Mother looked at her, and then at me; and I looked at her, and then at Polly.