ABOUT two years after little Bessie’s death, Daisy, whose health had been failing very much during the summer months, was ordered to go away for some time to a drier and milder place; and as Mrs. Morley had a sister, the wife of a farmer, living at a little village on the south coast, it was arranged that she should spend the winter with her.
Little Lizzie was to go too, partly as a companion for Daisy, and also because she was far from strong herself; for though in better health than when she and her sister were received into the Morleys’ home, she had never thoroughly recovered from the effects of early neglect and exposure to all weathers. She and Polly had continued to go to the little school which had been the means, through God’s blessing, of rescuing them from their life of misery. Their love and gratitude to the kind friends who had taken them into their home had from the first been most touching, and amply repaid Mr. Morley and his wife for the disinterested kindness and tender pity with which they had received into their home, and treated as their own children, the friendless little ones, who had no other claim upon them than their misery and wretchedness.
There were many regrets in the Morleys’ home when the time came for Daisy and Lizzie to set off on their long journey; for all knew how sadly Daisy would be missed from her accustomed corner, and little Lizzie was a general favourite. Mr. Morley went with them the greater part of the way, and saw them safely into the coach which was to carry them the last twenty miles.
Daisy bore the journey better than could have been expected; and both Lizzie and she met with a kindly welcome from the good old farmer and his wife, who had no children of their own, and were well pleased at the thought of having some young faces about them. The old-fashioned farmhouse, nestling down in a sheltered nook, with the hills rising behind it, was the picture of comfort and peace both within and without.
Early the next morning, as they looked out from the windows of the snug sitting-room, the quiet beauty of the scene which lay before them filled both the children with wonder and delight. The farm stood at the head of a valley well wooded with fir-trees, and opening down on to the bay; a little stream ran gurgling down its rocky bed only a few yards from the garden gate, while the cliff itself, down which a winding-path led to the shore, was covered with creepers and ivy, and rich in every kind of foliage. The trees were still in the beauty of their autumn tints, and to Daisy, whose eyes never saw a tree from one year’s end to another, it seemed a perfect paradise.
But the crowning delight to both the children was the wide sea, which bounded the view, and which stretched away to right and left, as far as eye could reach. As they looked out on it for the first time in their lives, it seemed to them more wondrous and beautiful than anything they had ever imagined. Here and there in the far distance they could see the sails of some ships bound for a far-off land, the rising sun just tipping them with gold; or nearer home, down in the bay below, the little fishing-boats returning home after the night’s toil. They were never tired of gazing on the sea with its ever-changing beauty, and the kind-hearted old farmer would often drive the children in his gig down to the shore, and leave them there with their books and work for hours together. Mrs. Morris contrived an easy folding couch for Daisy, which was carried down without trouble, and on which she was able to rest, and enjoy the view without fatigue.
The soft, mild air, with the invigorating sea-breezes, soon brought returning strength to her and little Lizzie, and the quiet peaceful life in the old farmhouse was a time of rest and enjoyment long remembered by them both. The bright mornings were generally spent on the shore; and in the afternoon, while Daisy rested in the pleasant bay-window of the parlour, little Lizzie often went with Mrs. Morris on some mission of love to one or other of the fishermen’s or farm-labourers’ cottages scattered over the valley.
Sometimes, as a great treat, the child was allowed to go by herself, to carry a basket of eggs or a pat of home-made butter, with some tea and sugar, to an aged man and his wife, formerly employed on the farm, but who were now past work, and lived in a lonely cottage half-way down the cliff. The little girl was always welcome to the good old couple, and many a happy half-hour she spent with them, sometimes reading to them as they sat in the chimney-corner out of the large Bible, which always lay open on the table; sometimes sitting on a little stool at their feet, and listening to them as they talked of the days long gone by, when children’s feet had trodden their cottage-floor, and another little girl had occupied the same stool Lizzie was sitting on. Sometimes they would go over the old story, and tell her how, one by one, all those children had been taken from them, in infancy or early childhood, and had been laid side by side to rest, in a quiet corner of the little churchyard under the hill; but how they knew and rejoiced to think that all were safely gathered into the blessed home to which day by day they were drawing nearer themselves.