How beautiful, and strange, and far-away looked that weak and ailing mother! She who had let you nestle beside her in the bed and kissed you every night and morning. But now she was going away to heaven—to be really beautiful and never to be ill any more.
After that life settled down pretty much as it had been before, and all the usual little trivialities went on in the farm.
Marion became mistress in her mother’s place. Susan was sent away to school. Elinor, and fat, chubby, sturdy Maggie went to school near by, and Deborah, being the youngest, stayed at home.
It was very nice being at home all alone, as then she could wander about the orchard and garden, and the yard and the lot, and be happy. Besides, there were nine special chickens to feed, and they were so tame that they would let Deborah carry them about; and she used to sit upon the little stone slabs at the door and feed them—and they were so greedy that they nearly upset the tin with the oatmeal paste in it, and if she didn’t look quick about it she nearly always missed her share, for naturally she always ate a little with them. Also they used to drink in such a funny way, holding their heads up and letting the water trickle down their throats, but though they were always hungry they didn’t often want to drink—so perhaps they belonged to the Blue Ribbon Army like the servant girl.
Then there was the old grey cat. It was the most wonderful cat on the earth, and the biggest. But alas! poor thing! it had seen bad days. The girl (you will understand that to mean the servant) let some scalding porridge fall on it one day, which made it so timid that for a long time it would not come near anyone. And when it had got over that catastrophe and was one day sneaking round the stable, probably in search of mice, one of the horses struck out and kicked it on the head. Ever after that it walked about as if it had forgotten something, and formed a great affection for Deborah. They loved each other very sincerely, and she used to nurse it by the hour together; it used to lay its great head upon her little breast, and she for pure love used to kiss its velvet ears.
Besides, the grey cat was really so much better behaved than the black cat. The black cat was cruel and wild and would think nothing of killing and eating a mouse before your very eyes. Moreover, it often went away from home for six weeks at a time, and never left word where it was going to, nor when it would come back; which was decidedly bad manners, to say the least of it. And it was pretty certain that it never went away for any good purpose, because after it came back the least thing would frighten it, and it would fly off for the least sound, just like some guilty person.
Then there were the little Bantams—two little Bantam hens and a Bantam cock—they kept quite aloof from all the other big clumsy fowls, and refused to let their small and pretty families mix with them.
Then there was the fierce old sheep-dog, Spring, who died. There was a very grand funeral and a properly-dug grave. Jack, the youngest boy, acted as grave-digger, clerk and clergyman all in one; he was so serious that he never saw anything the least bit funny about his work. And there followed him to the grave-side, Elinor, Maggie and Deborah, all wearing a remnant of black.
They were strange days—curious dream-like days—and they followed each other silently, like shadows over grain fields.
Thus the time passed on, and gradually, gradually, the cloud darkened.