Rosa's Quest Part 3

"Find someone--to tell you--the way,--and come--to that--beautiful--land--where you will--find Jesus--and mother!"

So calmly did she fall back upon her pillow that Rosa, though awe-struck, thought she was sleeping. Still clasping the thin hand, she noticed the chill. Cautiously, lest she might disturb the sleeper, she slipped off her little flannel skirt, the last article made by her mother, and wrapped the cold hands within its folds. The scant coverings she also tucked up more closely and put their last bit of coal upon the fire.

Till midnight she sat by the bed, wondering why mother was so very still, and why she was growing so cold. At last, being able to endure the suspense no longer, stepping across the hall, she called for Mrs.

Gray.

"Land sakes, child, why ain't you in bed this time of night?"

"Please, Mis' Gray, I'd like to borrow a comfort, 'cause mother's so awful cold, and I can't get her warm."

"Well, when a body's as accommodatin' as I am, I 'spose they must expect to be bothered any time of day or night, too. I'll git up and see what your ma wants. Glad of one thing, she ain't kept me awake by her coughin' tonight, anyway; but it comes from me fixin' her a decent supper, I reckon."

Mrs. Gray stepped to the door of Mrs. Browning's room, but something impelled her to stop. A fear seized her, while involuntarily she clutched Rosa's trembling hand.

There was no light in the room, save that which shone from across the hall, the faint rays falling directly over the motionless form upon the bed.

"Mis' Browning," she cautiously asked, "do you want anything?"

"Mother doesn't hear, Mis' Gray," said Rosa sobbing violently and throwing herself within the cold arms, kissing over and over the lips. .h.i.therto so responsive to her own.

"Mother dear, don't you hear me? Oh, wake up, please do! I want you so.

I don't know the way, and will get lost to go alone."

"Rosa," said Mrs. Gray almost gently, "git up and go and stay with grandpa till I tell you to come in here, and don't you come before. I'll have to go down them steps ag'in fer an undertaker."

"What is an undertaker, Mis' Gray, and what do they do? Will they take mother to the beautiful land?"

"Didn't you hear me tell you to go in and stay with grandpa? So go right this minute, and ask no more questions. You do beat all fer askin'

questions, anyhow. You might as well learn now as any time to mind, since I have to keep you till spring. I ain't the woman to go back on my word, but there ain't many but what would, a-promisin' under the circ.u.mstances."

The little heart was nearly crushed with a feeling of perplexity and of indescribable dread, but, after all, there was some comfort in being alone with grandpa.

Stealing softly into his room, she found him sitting by the stove; and climbing up into his lap, pillowing her tired head upon his shoulder, the two lonely children, soothing each other, were soon fast asleep.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

IV.

LIFE WITH MRS. GRAY.

The events of the next few days were like a troubled dream to Rosa, as she in vain endeavored to comprehend the meaning of all the mysterious things going on about her. Only once was she allowed to look upon the silent sleeper. That was just before the arrival of the great black carriage, which, she was sure, would take her mother to the beautiful land.

"Rosa ain't goin' to the burial, I can tell you that," announced Mrs.

Gray to a neighbor, "or she'd be a-hollerin' in her sleep all winter.

I've been broke of my rest so much that I ain't goin' to be bothered with her any more'n I can help from now on. I didn't promise to keep her only till spring, but I can make her run errands and sich, so it won't cost me a great sight. I can't afford it no other way, and Mis'

Browning was unreasonable, anyhow, to ask it of me."

Rosa and grandpa stood hand in hand, watching the small procession until it disappeared around the corner.

"Grandpa," queried Rosa in a tearful voice, "do you know where that beautiful land is where folks never cough no more, and where they don't have to pay rent? That's where mother's going, and she told me to find out the way, so I could go too."

"'Pears like I'd ought to know, child, fer that's where Tom went. I can't think much somehow, but, Rosa," he added tenderly, drawing her up closer to his side, "I don't want you to go and leave me, fer I'm so lonesome. Sary's a good woman, yes, a very good woman, but it seems like I need you, too, dearie."

"Grandpa, if we'd start out together, don't you think we could find it?

Folks have all they want to eat there, and I'm hungry now."

"Why, yes, yes, mebbe we could! Some way I'm gittin' homesick. I don't like it here in the city, and it seems like I used to know more about that land than I do now. Since poor Tom got killed, I can't remember no how.

"Sometimes in the night I git that happy, but if I make a little noise, Sary wakes me up, 'cause it bothers her, then that spoils it all. I think I'm back in the country ag'in, and the church bell is a-ringin' of a Sunday mornin'. Tom's mother and me start out from the little cottage, and I'm a-carryin' Tom. We walk down the cool gra.s.sy lane with the brook a-runnin' on one side, and the trees is a-wavin' in the soft breeze, and the birds is a-singin', and Tom's mother stops to pick some wild roses.

And the little white meetin' house with the steeple a-p'intin' straight up. My Rosa, I wish you could see it, and with vines a-growin' all over it! I can 'most git it, then it slips away ag'in. If I could jest be inside of that meetin' house once more, it would all come straight, I know, fer there they used to talk and sing about that land and Jesus."

"Yes, grandpa, you know it was Jesus that paid the fare. Wasn't He kind to do that? 'cause if He hadn't poor folks couldn't go."

"Yes, mighty kind, mighty kind!

"Rosa," after a pause, "come real close," and the faded eyes sparkled with a new thought; "I want to whisper somethin' so n.o.body'll hear. The very first day Sary's away, let's start out, and mebbe we can find some one to tell us how to go. Will you, child?"

"Oh, yes, grandpa, good! then we'll find mother."

In her delight she clapped her hands for very joy.

"s.h.!.+ s.h.!.+ child, Sary might hear, and that would spoil it all, though of course Sary's a good woman, yes, a very good woman. You won't tell, will you?"

"No, no, grandpa, this'll be our secret. I'm just sure there must be lots of folks that can tell us, for the fare is paid for everybody, and they're going all the time. But I do wish we could find that pretty lady again I saw on the car."

"Yes, dearie, I wish so too, but I think we'll find it anyhow. I'm a-gittin' so very homesick, we jest must."

"Sing about that land, won't you, grandpa?"

"All right, you git the fiddle. That's the only song I can remember.

They used to sing it in the little white meetin' house with the steeple a-p'intin' straight up. Wish I could remember more, but I can't."

In a quavery voice he sang many times over the grand old hymn:

"I will sing you a song of that beautiful land, The far away home of the soul, Where no storms ever beat on that glittering strand, While the years of eternity roll.

Oh, that home of the soul in my visions and dreams, Its bright, jasper walls I can see, Till I fancy but thinly the vail intervenes Between that fair city and me!

That unchangeable home is for you and for me, Where Jesus of Nazareth stands; The King of all kingdoms forever is He, And He holdeth our crowns in His hands.

Oh, how sweet it will be in that beautiful land, So free from all sorrow and pain, With songs on our lips and with harps in our hands, To meet one another again!"

"That must be the place, grandpa, for it says Jesus is there, and that we'll meet one another again."

"Yes, yes, child, it's the place, I'm mighty sure of that, and I'm so glad we're a-goin' to find it. I'll like it so much better than the city. I wonder I ain't gone before."