“The fourth from here, down the lane, lovey—Moses is the lad’s name; he’s a freckled boy, with a cast in one eye. You send him up to me, dearie, but don’t mention the cherries, or he’ll be after stealing them. He’s a sad rogue, is Moses; but I think I can tempt him with the cherries.”
Susan did not wait to bid poor old Betty “good-bye,” but ran out of the cottage, shutting the door after her, and snatching up two or three ripe cherries to eat on her way. She was so far fortunate as to find the redoubtable Moses at home, and to convey him bodily to old Betty’s presence. The queer boy grinned horribly, and looked as wicked as boy could look; but on the subject of cherries he was undoubtedly susceptible, and after a good deal of haggling and insisting that the pint should be a quart, he expressed his willingness to start off at four o’clock on the following morning, and bring away the basket from under the laurel-tree.
Chapter Thirty Five.
“You Are Welcome To Tell.”
Annie continued her walk. The circumstances of the last two months had combined to do for her what nothing had hitherto effected. When a little child she had known hardship and privation, she had passed through that experience which is metaphorically spoken of as “going down hill.” As a baby little Annie had been surrounded by comforts and luxuries, and her father and mother had lived in a large house, and kept a carriage, and Annie had two nurses to wait on herself alone. These were in the days before she could remember anything. With her first early memories came the recollection of a much smaller house, of much fewer servants, of her mother often in tears, and her father often away. Then there was no house at all that the Forests could call their own, only rooms of a tolerably cheerful character, and Annie’s nurse went away, and she look her daily walks by her mother’s side and slept in a little cot in her mother’s room. Then came a very, very sad day, when her mother lay cold and still and fainting on her bed, and her tall and handsome father caught Annie in his arms and pressed her to his heart, and told her to be a good child and to keep up her spirits, and, above all things, to take care of mother. Then her father had gone away; and though Annie expected him back, he did not come, and she and her mother went into poorer and shabbier lodgings, and her mother began to try her tear-dimmed eyes by working at church embroidery, and Annie used to notice that she coughed a good deal as she worked. Then there was another move, and this time Mrs Forest and her little daughter found themselves in one bedroom, and things began to grow very gloomy and food even was scarce. At last there was a change. One day a lady came into the dingy little room, and all of a sudden it seemed as if the sun had come out again. This lady brought comforts with her—toys and books for the child, good, brave words of cheer for the mother. At last Annie’s mother died, and she went away to Lavender House to live with this good friend who had made her mother’s dying hours easy.
“Annie, Annie,” said the dying mother, “I owe everything to Mrs Willis; we knew each other long ago when we were girls, and she has come to me now and made everything easy. When I am gone she will take care of you. Oh, my child, I cannot repay her; but will you try?”
“Yes, mother,” said little Annie, gazing full into her mother’s face with her sweet bright eyes, “I’ll—I’ll love her, mother; I’ll give her lots and lots of love.”
Annie had gone to Lavender House, and kept her word, for she had almost worshipped the good mistress who was so true and kind to her, and who had so befriended her mother. Through all the vicissitudes of her short existence Annie had, however, never lost one precious gift. Hers was an affectionate, but also a wonderfully bright, nature. It was as impossible for Annie to turn away from laughter and merriment as it would be for a flower to keep its head determinedly turned from the sun. In their darkest days Annie had managed to make her mother laugh; her little face was a sunbeam, her very naughtinesses were of a laughable character.