“Never mind; don’t cry any more, darling, and we will ask our Father above to forgive and forget all about it. Mother knows that her dear little Agnes will try not to love herself best any more. And then the black curtain will never fall, and we shall never again be a whole long day standing sadly out in the cold. Good-night from mother, and another sweet good-night from father.”
The treatment seems to answer. On the slightest return of the old sullen symptoms we show our little girl what they mean. But the grief that follows is so painful that I’m afraid we could not go on with it for the sake of the child’s health. But, happily, we very rarely see a sulky face now; and when we do we turn and look upon our child, and the look melts her, until she is all gentleness, penitence, and love.
CHAPTER IV
DOROTHY ELMORE’S ACHIEVEMENT: A FORECAST
Part I
I know of no happier moment for parents than that when their eldest daughter returns from school to take her place finally by her mother’s side. It was two years that very day since we had seen Dorothy when her father set out for Lausanne to bring her home; and how the children and I got through the few days of his absence, I don’t know. The last touches had been put, many times over, to her rooms—not the plain little room she had left, but a dainty bower for our young maiden, a little sitting-room opening into a pure nest of a bedroom. Our eyes met, her father’s and mine, and moistened as we conjured up I don’t know what visions of pure young life to be lived there, the virginal prayers to be offered at the little prayer table, the gaiety of heart that should, from this nook, bubble over the house, and, who knows, by-and-by, the dreams of young love which should come to glorify the two little rooms.
Two or three times already had the children put fresh flowers into everything that would hold a flower. Pretty frocks and sweet faces, bright hair and bright eyes, had been ready this long time to meet sister Dorothy.
At last, a telegram from Dover—“Home by five”—and our restlessness subsided into a hush of expectation.
The sound of wheels on the gravel, and we flew to the hall door and stood in two files, children and maids, Rover and Floss, waiting to welcome the child of the house. Then, a lovely face, glad to tears, looking out of a nest of furs; then, a light leap, almost before the carriage drew up, and I had her in my arms, my Dorothy, the child of my heart! The order of the day was “high tea,” to which every one, down to baby May, sat up. We two, her father and I, gave her up to the children, only exchanging notes by the species of telegraphy married folk understand.
“Indubitably lovely!” said her father’s eyes; “And what grace—what an elegant girl she is!” answered mine; “And do but see what tact she shows with the little ones;” “And notice the way she has with us, as if her heart were brimming with reverence and affection.” Thus, we two with our eyes. For a week or more we could not settle down. As it was the Christmas holidays, we had not Miss Grimshaw to keep us in order, and so it happened that wherever Dorothy ran,—no, she went with a quick noiseless step, but never ran,—about the house to find out the old dear nooks, we all followed; a troop of children with their mother in the rear; their father too, if he happened to be in. Truly we were a ridiculous family, and did our best to turn the child’s head. Every much has its more-so. Dorothy’s two special partisans were Elsie, our fifteen years old girl, fast treading in her sister’s steps, and Herbert, our eldest son, soon to go to college. Elsie would come to my room and discourse by the hour, her text being ever, “Dorothy says.” And as for Herbs, it was pleasant to see his budding manhood express itself in all sorts of little attentions to his lovely sister.