The Girls at Mount Morris by Amanda Minnie Douglas (ebook reader for manga .TXT) 📕

the case was not much more hopeful. A second stroke might end it all. "But she seems to have something on her mind. Is it anxiety about her daughter?"

"I have assured her that Lilian will be my charge. She has the making of an unusually fine scholar, and she is a high minded, honorable girl, sincere and ambitious."

"The daughter has taken from somewhere a much stronger physical and mental equipment. What of the father?"

"Oh, he died when she was a mere infant."

The embargo had been removed from Lilian and Mrs. Dane treated her with a sort of tolerant sympathy. She roamed about the deserted library and chose some books, a few girls waylaid her in the school room. Miss Nevins made an importunate appeal, quite forgetting her past disdain.

"Oh, why can't you stay down here?" she cried. "It's awful dull, and there's no fun going on. Miss Graniss is going to take us down town when the stores are lighted up, but it's so long to wait until evening."

"Mother is ill and I want to stay with her," Lilian returned coldly, provoked at the selfishness. She read awhile, then took up some embroidery. Miss Trenham came in with the gift of a beautiful volume of poems. Claire sent a little reminder in a most exquisite book mark. She was quite delighted in the change to another home, where there were two girls. "Could Edith do anything for them?"

"They are all so good here, and mother doesn't need much, she seems to sleep a good deal."

The sick girl at the Clairvoyant's was improving. Not even a case of measles had been reported in town.

So the winter day drew to a close. Lilian watched the little procession starting out under the convoy of Miss Graniss. Yes, she had run out that way at Laconia--how long ago it seemed. Oh, she ought to have sent a few gifts to old girl friends. She had really no heart for gladness.

Lilian sat over by the gas burner reading that most beautiful Christmas part of "In Memoriam." She almost heard the "happy bells ring across the snow," so rapt was she in the poets charm. Then something stirred. Her mother was trying to raise herself.

"Oh mother--"

"Put the pillows around me, so, I want to sit up. I want to talk. I have been living it over. And I am surely going to that other country. I shall have my own two babies in my arms, and their father will come to meet me. I want to tell you how it was. It has come back so distinctly, much plainer than when I wrote it."

Miss Arran had started to come in but paused at the door. Lilian's back was towards her. Mrs. Dane going through the hall paused as Miss Arran held up her finger.

"Oh, mother, not tonight."

"Yes, now. I feel so strong. After husband died my brother sent for me and wanted me to take up some land adjoining his. Mr. Holland, who was holding the life insurance--all I had, was not willing until I had seen what the place was like and he thought that kind of life very hard on women, but my brother was the only relative I had, though I had not seen him for years. After I had started I was frightened about the journey and the strange people. There was one woman with a baby, a bright, beautiful child with rosy cheeks and brilliant eyes. I supposed her the mother, for I saw her nurse the infant, and there was with them such a beautiful woman. She came to me in the night, and when I looked at her the last time she was dead," and she sighed.

"We were most of us asleep when there was an awful crash. Then horrible shrieks and cries and being thrown about--"

"Oh, mother, don't, don't!" Lilian implored. "Your mind is wandering--"

"No, it is true, horribly true. It was one of the awful accidents of that time, more than fifteen years ago, but I suppose I became unconscious. My babe flew out of my arms; my little baby," in a lingering tone as if the words were sweet to say.

"When I came to myself it was in a room where several were lying around on cots, and two women sat close together trying to hush the crying child."

"Give me my baby, I almost shrieked. Bring me my baby."

"They brought it and I hugged it to my breast, gave it nourishment, cuddled it in my arms and I fell asleep full of joy. We both slept a long while. When I woke the woman brought me a cup of tea and some bread. I was ravenously hungry. Then I asked what had happened. It had been twenty-four hours."

"It was a horrible accident at a place where tracks crossed. All day they had been clearing away the wreck and sending bodies into the nearest towns for this place was small. A number had been killed outright. Will you give me some of that tea in the tumbler?"

"Oh, mother, do not tell any more," the girl pleaded, shuddering.

"Yes, I must, I must! When morning came the woman helped me up and I had some breakfast. I had been stunned and bruised, but no bones were broken."

"We are so glad the baby was yours," one of the women said. "The other poor baby and its mother was killed."

"I went to the bed presently and turned down the blanket. There lay the lovely child warm and rosy, the picture of health. I devoured it with kisses. Yes, it was mine. God had saved it and sent it to me. It had no mother, so it was mine. I called it by my baby's name, and I couldn't have cared more for my own flesh and blood. You were so beautiful and bright--so fond and loving. On the other side of the room lay the lovely woman who had interested me so much. They thought her dying, she looked as if she were dead, I never saw anything more perfect. She was like sculptured marble. They were trying to get every one away and the next day an official questioned me and offered to make good any loss. I had my ticket pinned to the lining of my dress, and what money I had taken with me sewed up in a little bag. There had been a fire as well, and much of the baggage was burned. I had lost my trunk but they paid me its full value and more, and sent me on my journey."

"I have told you what a dismal place my brother had in Wisconsin. There were five big, rough children. I was not fitted for farm work. I missed my old friends and so I went back to Laconia, but my whole life was wrapped up in you."

"And many a time I must have seemed ungrateful. Oh, mother, when you did so much for me!" sobbed Lilian.

"Oh, dear, I have thought it all out. You were not of my kind. It fretted me at first. You were always a little lady, doing things in a nicer way than most girls, and you were forever reading and studying. If we could have kept the boarding house," in tones of regret, "but there was my long illness and the house was sold torn down for a great factory. Then I took up the sewing. It was easier in some ways. I liked Sally Marks and her mother so much. The gay jolliness and the merry chat. They were like two girls together. But your heart was set on the High School. Oh, Lilian, do believe I would have kept you there if I could. Then I began to wonder what your own mother and father had been like, and if your father was alive. Perhaps he could have done much better for you. The thought wore on me, and I was not well; I knew that. You see I should have had a girl who did not mind working in a shop and enjoying good times with other girls, going to parties and picnics and having lovers and marrying as I did, and having babies. I loved babies so. To be a grandmother to a little flock seemed very heaven to me."

"Oh, mother, don't! You will break my heart," sobbed Lilian.

"No, child, you were not to blame. God gave you all these high thoughts and ambitions; I never had any of them, and after we came here I understood it still better. You belonged to these kind of people, your ways were theirs, your ambition was right, and I was very thankful that such a refuge opened for us. You have been a good, devoted child. Tomorrow we will talk it over again. Now will you send for some toast and eat. Oh, Lilian, child, don't cry. God will bring you out right and forgive me for what I did out of longing love."

Lilian turned, Miss Arran took a step forward. "I will bring it to you," she said, and she motioned to Mrs. Dane who stood like a statue.

"Let us go to Mrs. Barrington. She must know this," she whispered.

Lilian bathed her face and readjusted her mother's pillows. The whole world seemed in a daze about her. Yet she was not so much surprised either, but stunned, incapable now of judging whether there had been any right or wrong. If no one belonging to her had been found--and her own mother was among the killed, she might have been turned over to some foundling asylum.

"I feel much better," exclaimed Mrs. Boyd. "But, oh, Lilian, don't pray for me to live, for I should be a helpless burden on you, and I'll have my two own babies in heaven. I meant to do it for the best when I claimed you, and I think God will understand. It's been a poor, broken sort of life but I've tried to do up to the lights I had, and yours will be better, higher. Mrs. Barrington appreciated you and will help you. God surely opened this way for us."

Was it truly of God's providence? She had longed so ardently for the refinements of life, the possibilities of education. Some times it seemed as if He answered petitions in the suppliant's way and freighted them with another burden.

But if this should be laid upon her she would pray for strength to do her whole duty. It was hardly likely she would ever find any one belonging to her, that was too wild a thought. She would keep this generous foster mother as long as she needed love and care.


CHAPTER IX

WHOSE CHILD AM I?

Miss Arran tapped lightly at the half-open door and Mrs. Barrington bade both ladies enter.

"How is Mrs. Boyd?"

"Why she seems curiously better. She has been talking awhile to her daughter and her voice has a latent strength that surprises one, and we have been unwitting listeners to a most remarkable story. Did you ever suspect that she might not be the own mother of Miss Boyd?"

"The thought has crossed my mind. They are so dissimilar."

"I have never really liked Mrs. Boyd or the girl either," began Mrs. Dane. "There seemed something to conceal, some secret between them. I had a fancy Lilian was on the watch all the time lest her mother should betray it."

"Oh, did you think that? It appeared to me the anxiety of a girl