“Tib” did an unusual thing as she heard the familiar “whoa” outside the door. She shook the folds of her black silk gown, and tripped along in her white satin slippers to meet him, as if she knew that he would not come very soon again, and as if she wanted to do him all the honor she could by ushering him in. For you must know that it is always a beautiful courtesy when we open the door for a guest, rather than leave it to a servant to do; and I suppose you have learned long, ago that it is true politeness to accompany a friend to the portals of your house, when he must leave you, and bid him adieu, as he goes out from under your roof. “Adieu,”—that is a precious prayer in a word,—think of it always when it escapes your lips, and be sure that it comes from your earnest heart. “I commend you to God, who is able and willing to take care of you.” That is what it means.
Mrs. Beth made Gill drink from her tin coffee-kettle, and gave him a buttered roll to eat. She and Tib vied with each other in hospitality. He thought he had never seen her with such light in her eyes as on this morning; but then you must remember that his own soul was particularly bright and sunny, and we often see the reflection of ourselves in other faces. That is a good thing to know, for it will lead us to take especial care as to what is within us; for we must surely desire the very best and happiest reflection. Nobody likes an ugly image of himself. I want to sit again, and again, when the photographer shows me a disagreeable picture, and I always turn away from my mirror when it does not give my very best expression. I wonder if one can not have the very best expression all the time, if the heart is full of sweet and pure and holy thoughts. It is worth trying.
Gill did not stop long in the market. It was never his way to loiter after his errand was finished. He put the baskets of vegetables upon the bench around the stall, and the crisp green cabbages and purple kale and nice cauliflowers upon the table, and turned to go away; but Mrs. Beth had another word to say. She took off her spectacles, and wiped them, and put them on her nose again. Then she lifted Tib upon her knee and stroked gently the creature’s head.
“If any thing should happen to me,” said she, “I should like for Tib to have a good home where they will treat her as one of the family. She’s been a faithful companion to me, and I should feel easy about her if you will promise to take her to the farm, and care for her, if she ever needs other care than mine; will you?”
To be sure the Scotchman said, “Yes,” for he knew that Sally would go almost wild with joy over such a cat as Tib; but he wondered all the way home what was the matter with the old market-woman that she should be so eager to provide a home for her pet. Not all the way home, for when he had reached the first few rods of the last mile there was a poor man by the wayside half dead from fatigue, and Gill helped him into the cart, and talked to him the rest of the way, so that Mrs. Beth faded quite out of his mind. The man was old and very feeble, and had no friends. He had been a soldier, and had outlived all who loved him,—all but One. We can neither outlive Him, nor his boundless love. It was that almighty and everlasting Friend, who sent Gill to lift him into the cart at the very moment when his own strength had failed him. The children ran to meet Gill as he drove into the yard. They saw the old gray head, and had pity. They walked beside the soldier as Gill led him to a seat in the kitchen, and talked pleasantly to him as Lucy refreshed him with a cup of tea, and a biscuit, and the old man blessed them, and called them “God’s angels.” How beautiful a name!
Mamma came out with her arms full of clothing, and said that she would give him shelter and food, until he could be taken to the “Home.” That was an institution not far away for aged and poor men. But you should have heard little Sally, as she talked to the old market-cart, rehearsing its good deeds and giving it a well merited praise.
“You dear old body!” said she, as she brushed away the dust preparatory to moving in from the corn-crib, with her little family. “I don’t know what you haven’t done in your life, and what you haven’t been! Ever since I was born you’ve been going, going, with a great burden on your back,—not your own burden either, but every body’s else,—carrying food for hungry mouths, and bringing home good things for us; and you’ve been such a splendid house for Jennie and me, and such a grand church for us all,—don’t you remember? under the apple tree by the fence, when we sang that hymn of praise. And to-day, you’ve been,—what do you call it? an—am—ambulance, to bring the sick soldier in, and now you are my home once more, and my baby and I are going to live here always, always, for I love you better than any thing in the world, next to mother and father and Ben, and Gill and Lucy and Jack.” Lucy brought out the old comforter, and spread it on one side of the cart floor, and put Jack upon it with his playthings, and left him with Sally; and Gill and Ben got some of the white beets, and were pressing them and boiling them over the kitchen fire to see what sort of sugar they would make. They told Sally; but she preferred her housekeeping, and was too tired with moving, she said. “She could taste the sugar when it was ready.”
Lucy was stuffing a turkey for dinner. She had mixed the bread-crumbs and water, and put in a little salt, and an egg, and some sweet marjorum, and pepper, and summer-savory; and had plumped out the creature with it, and sewed up the openings with strong linen thread, and put a link of sausages around the neck, and laid it in the dripping-pan to roast. The poor old man sat looking on, and thinking of the time when he had a home of his own, and a wife to get good cheer for the table, and sons and daughters round about the board when the viands were smoking.
“All gone now,” he muttered to himself, “all gone,—wife, and children, and home.”
But Lucy caught him up there in his speech.