“An’, Patsey, d’ye mind the wild roses ye brought in the summer? They was so sweet. She ’most went crazy over ’em with pure joy. An’ that night she talked of thim, an’ smelled thim, an’ it was a bad sign. If I’d knowed, I might a done somethin’, or had the doctor. An’ she talked so beautiful—”
Dil was choked with sobs.
“Ye did iverything. Ye were like an angel. She wouldn’t a lived half so long, but for yous. O Dil, I wisht I could bring her back. There was a boy tellin’ ’bout some one—he heerd it at the Mission School—that jist took a man outen his coffin, an’ made him alive. I’ll ask him how it was, an’ tell yous.”
“Ye’s so good, Patsey,” with a weary sigh.
“An’ I’ll be droppin’ in an’ bring ye news. An’ ye mustn’t git sick, fer whin spring opens we’ll spring a trap that’ll s’prise ye. O Dil dear!”
He bent over and kissed her, his face all wet with tears. He had often kissed little Bess, though he was not “soft on gals.” It was a solemn caress. Dil seemed so far away, as if he might lose her too.
The next morning the Christmas chimes rang out, and there were houses full of happy children making merry over Christmas gifts. The mission schools were crowded, the Christmas-trees and the feasts thronged. There were hundreds of poor children made happy, even if they could not take in the grand truth that eighteen hundred years ago a Saviour had been born to redeem the world. “Why is it not redeemed?” cried the cavillers, looking on. “If the truth is powerful, why has it not prevailed?” But the children amid their pleasures asked no questions.
Churches were full of melody, homes were full of joy and gladness, the streets in a tumult of delight; but Bessy Quinn was in her small grave, and Dil bitterly alone.
John Travis thought of them both this morning. “I hope Miss Nevins has planned a nice Christmas for them,” he said to himself, since his Christmas in a foreign land was not as hopeful as he could wish. Perhaps Miss Nevins had found a way to Mrs. Quinn’s heart. Women could sometimes do better than men.
Dilsey Quinn could not die; and if she was miserable and forlorn she had not the morbid brain to consider suicide, though she knew people had killed themselves. But the utter dreariness of the poor child’s soul was overwhelming.