A Little Hero

by H. Musgrave

Then as he sat very close to her, clasping her thin hands in his own feverish little fingers, she told him why it must be. Jeff knew quite well that a great many children were sent to England from this station in the plains and that they never came back. He had lost many little companions in this way, not when they were quite babies, but just after they began to run about and to grow amusing. There were none as old as he was left here.

When his gentle mother began to remind him of the last summer's heat, and recalled how he sickened and drooped in the sultry breathless days, he remembered all he had suffered and how very tired and languid he felt. Now the summer would soon be here again, for it was the end of March already, and the doctor had said that if Jeff was not sent away to a cooler climate he would certainly die.

"We are not rich, my darling, your father and I, and he must stay here this year through the summer. I could not take you up to the hills as I did last year when you were so ill. You are everything to me—you are all I have got, my darling—" her voice broke a little. "You would certainly get ill again, and you might even leave me altogether—you might die—if I kept you here. Your grandmama knows my trouble, and she has written to ask me to send you to her. You will live with them all at Loch Lossie till some day we can come home." The pretty lady sighed and pushed her soft brown hair away from her forehead.

"Two or three years, Jeff, my darling, will pass soon—to you and me. I shall hope to hear that you are growing strong and well, and that you are mother's own brave lad, waiting patiently till she is able to meet you again. Be a man—do not grieve me now, my own little lad, by any tears. There are many things I want to say to you before you go, and if you cry—well—I cannot say them."

The little boy's face was quite hidden on his mother's knee. She felt him sob once or twice, and then all was quite still in this great shady room. So still that at last the poor mother thought her noisy active Jeff must have fallen asleep. Her hand was resting on his head, while her beautiful sad eyes gazed through the open window and across the parched bit of garden towards the high hills far away. Oh! if only she could take her child up there to the mountains and rest peacefully with him near the melting snows, and see the colour come back to his pale cheeks in the beautiful green gardens. She did hot weep, though her heart was very sore. For it seemed very cruel to send the child so far away to kinswomen who were strange to him—who she knew were not gifted with any loving tenderness towards childhood, any compassion or sympathy for waywardness. They would not understand Jeff. Might not the cold discipline warp all the noble generous instincts of her child's nature?

Then her hand began softly to stroke the quiet head. She could not see his face, but his little body quivered more than once at her touch, and she knew then that he could not be asleep. She did not speak to him any more—she had no words ready—her heart was so full.

Presently Jeff lifted himself slowly from her knee. His glance followed the direction of her eyes. He did not look her in the face at once.

"Mother, dear, indeed I will remember. I have been saying it over and over to myself, not to forget. I will be brave; it is a great thing to be a brave man father has always said. When you come to fetch me you shall see that I have not forgotten what you say, but—but do not let it be too long. It is so hard to be a man—for a boy to be a man—to be really brave—oh, so very hard! I wish I might cry, you know, but now you have asked me not to—I cannot—I will not."

The mother rose up quickly and paced the room backwards and forwards, with hands clasped and eyes bent on the floor. The little boy remained quite still where she had left him.

"Jeff, not to-morrow, but the day after is when you are to go. Your father will take you down to Bombay and see the steamer. We have so short a time together, you and I, and, dearest, I can never say all the things that are in my heart. You could not remember them if I did, and even if you could they would only sadden you. It would be a cruel burden to lay upon you, to tell you of my sorrow."