"Patience, dear child," said the Motherkin, pleased at Laura's kind wish.
"Yes, patience," reiterated Grim, twirling his tassel, and looking the picture of delight.
"She does you credit, dear lady," said Grim, as Laura, after embracing the Motherkin, and pressing both Grim's hands in her own, started out with her staff in hand.
"Yes," said the old lady, "I am well pleased."
They watched the child's retreating form, as she turned from time to time and threw kisses to them, till at last the glittering figure of silver and blue was merged in the green of the forest foliage.
CHAPTER VII.
Laura's step was light and brisk, for she carried a light heart, she was animated by a new purpose; the pleasure of doing good, or of only having the wish to do good, was a new happiness to her, and as she walked she trolled out a merry little song she had heard Nannette sing in the nursery. When she grew weary, she sat down and made a wreath for her hat; when she was thirsty, she drank from the little cup at her girdle, for there was always a stream at hand, first on one side of the road, then on the other, and the babbling of the brook was like a pleasant voice telling her sweet stories. It seemed to whisper to her how glad her mother would be to hear that she was getting to be a better child. Then again it sang to her of the woods and the mosses, the wild-flowers and the birds, and of its own busy life—how much it had to do to keep all these pretty things refreshed and alive, and how it suffered when the drought came, and the sun was scorching, and the little leaflets withered on its brink; and as its voice became sad, and tears welled in the child's eyes, it would suddenly seem to burst into a foam of laughter and toss itself in tiny cascades over the pebbles. Then Laura would laugh too, and forget all sadness. Then she would take off her shoes and stockings and wade, and watch the flies dart hither and thither as she dashed the drops apart. So the day went on. Her path grew wilder, the woods more difficult to go through. Great masses of tangled vines interlaced and hung low, reaching out their tendrils as if to hinder her. Clouds gathered, and the skies were dark. A storm seemed coming. The birds ceased twittering. Low mutterings of thunder, far away, broke the stillness.
Laura's feet were aching, and her heart oppressed. Doubts troubled her. Why had they let her come alone on this long journey? It was cruel. She forgot the poor children, and, throwing herself down, she thought she would go no farther. Her staff was still in her hand, and as she fell it seemed to draw her gently up again, just as a magnet picks up a needle; it led her to a little cave or grotto, merely a nook under great rocks, but in it was a heap of leaves which would serve her as a place of repose, and she would be sheltered from the approaching storm, which, now that the wind had arisen, was swaying the trees violently. Crouching in a corner, she listened to the crashing of boughs, the peals of thunder, and the dash of the rain. But she was safe and unharmed. Gradually the wind decreased, the vivid gleam of lightning stopped flashing in her frightened eyes, the thunder rolled farther and farther away; the birds began chirping softly; there was but a gentle plash of drops from the dripping leaves; long rays of sunshine stole in between the branches. The storm was over.
Laura took courage, ate her dinner, and started forth again.