THE SPECTACLES.
Ashamed as Maud was of her mother, she found new cause for unhappiness, when, one day, Susan died.
"Who is there, now," asked the beauty, "to make my fine dresses, and keep them clean, and to pet me, and praise my beauty, and carry me to the fair sometimes, so that every one may look at my face, and wish hers were half so handsome?"
"Poor, dear mother, your hard work is done," said Daisy, in her gentle way, bending over the dead form that Susan had left. "You will never see the old dame's face again, nor hear the wolves growl in the wood, nor tire yourself with taking care of us."
The corpse's hands were hard and rough, but they had grown so with working for her children; and Daisy kissed them tenderly, and filled them with fresh flowers, and bore her mother's body far into the still wood, and buried it under the same great tree that lay still, like a tombstone, across Peter's grave.
Though Daisy was no longer a child, she could not have done this without fairy help. All the way, she felt as if other arms than hers were bearing her mother's form, and as if new strength were in her own when they handled the heavy spade.
As Daisy worked there alone in the wood,—for she could not see the fairy, who was helping her,—the little birds sang sweet and tender songs, as if they would comfort their friend.
For Daisy had loved her mother dearly, and remembered her loving, parental care, and could not but be sorrowful at losing her, even for a little while.
Yet she tried to calm her aching heart, because Maud, she knew, would need all her care now, and must be served, and entertained, and comforted more carefully than ever, so that she might not constantly miss her mother, and spend her days in weeping over what could not be helped.
The young girl did not think how much more toil, and care, and unhappiness was coming to herself; for it was always Daisy's way to ask what she could do for others, and not what others might do for her.
And, children, if you want your friends, and God himself, to love you, depend upon it there is no way so sure as this—to forget yourselves, and think only whom you can serve. It is hard, at first, but becomes a pleasure soon, and as easy and natural as, perhaps, it is now for you to be selfish.
You must not be discouraged at failing a few times; for it takes a great deal of patience to make us saints.
But every step we move in the right way, you know, is one step nearer to our home in heaven—the grand and peaceful home that Christ has promised us.
We left Daisy in the wood, with the birds singing above her, as she finished her pious work; perhaps, with finer ears, we might have heard angels singing songs of joy above the holy, patient heart that would not even grieve, because another needed all its strength.
But the birds' songs ceased; they fluttered with frightened cries, instead; the wind rose, and the boughs began to dash about, and the night came on earlier than usual. Daisy saw there was to be another fearful storm; and her first thought was of Maud, alone in the lonely wood.
How she wished for wings, like the birds, that she might fly home to her nest! But, instead, she must plod her way among the underbrush, which grew so thick in places, and the wind so tangled together across the path, that she went on slowly, hardly knowing whether she were going nearer home or deeper into the wood.
"Silly girl, where are your spectacles?" said a voice by Daisy's side; and the old woman seized her arm, and dragged her over the rough path, as she had done once before.
"There is no need of them, now I have your lamp," said Daisy in a sad voice; for she was thinking of dear faces that her eyes would never rest upon again.
"That's as much as you know. But you cannot cheat me, Daisy. Have my glasses been of so little use that you put them in your pocket, and choose rather to look through tears?"
"I did not mean to cry; but how can any one help it when——"
"I know—I know; you needn't tell me of your sorrows, but take out the spectacles."
So Daisy did as she was told, and never had the glasses seemed so wonderful; for, besides that now the old dame's lamp gave a clearer light, something made Daisy lift her eyes, and, instead of two poor bodies lying asleep in the storm, she saw a splendid city far, far up upon the tops of the tallest trees, and Peter and Susan walking there, hand in hand, and smiling upon her as Peter had smiled in her dream.
"Well," said the shrill voice of the dame, "will you give me back my glasses now, and keep your tears?"
"O, no!" and Daisy seized the old woman's withered hand, and turned to thank her; but she was not there: one moment Daisy felt the pressure of a gentle hand in hers, and then the beautiful fairy floated from before her sight, far up above the trees, and stood, at last, with her father and mother. All three were smiling upon her now, and pointing upwards to the trees, whose leaves were broader and more beautiful than any in the wood.
But the young girl stumbled, and fell among the thorns, and seemed all at once to awake from a dream; for, the dame's lamp gone, her path had grown narrow and dark again; and she found it would not do to look any more at the city of gold, until she should find her own poor cabin in the wood.