Then she sang, "Ring, ting! I wish I were a primrose;" and then another of dear William Allingham's, which had been her own pet song when she was Benny's age.
"'Oh, birdie, birdie, will you, pet?
Summer is far and far away yet.
You'll get silken coats and a velvet bed,
And a pillow of satin for your head.'
"'I'd rather sleep in the ivy wall!
No rain comes through, though I hear it fall
The sun peeps gay at dawn of day,
And I sing and wing away, away.'
"'Oh, birdie, birdie, will you, pet?
Diamond stones, and amber and jet,
I'll string in a necklace fair and fine,
To please this pretty bird of mine.'
"'Oh, thanks for diamonds and thanks for jet,
But here is something daintier yet.
A feather necklace round and round,
That I would not sell for a thousand pound.'
"'Oh, birdie, birdie, won't you, pet?
I'll buy you a dish of silver fret;
A golden cup and an ivory seat,
And carpets soft beneath your feet.'
"'Can running water be drunk from gold?
Can a silver dish the forest hold?
A rocking twig is the finest chair,
And the softest paths lie through the air.
Farewell, farewell to my lady fair!'"
By the time the song was finished, Benny was sleeping quietly, and the nurse thanked Hildegarde for "getting him off so cleverly. He needed a nap," she said; "and if he thinks we want him to go to sleep, he sets all his little strength against it. He's getting better, the lamb!"
"What has been the matter?" asked Hildegarde.
"Pneumonia," was the reply. "He has come out of it very well, but I dread the day when he must go home to a busy, careless mother and a draughty cottage. He ought to have a couple of weeks in the country."
At this moment the head nurse—a tall, slender woman with a beautiful face—came from an inner room, the door of which had been standing ajar. She held out her hand to Hildegarde, and the girl saw that her eyes were full of tears. "Thank you," she said, "for the song. Another little bird has just flown away from earth, and he went smiling, when he heard you sing. Have you any sweet little flowers, pink and white?"
The quick tears sprang to Hilda's eyes. She could not speak for a moment, but she lifted some lovely sprays of blush rosebuds, which the nurse took with a smile and a look of thanks. The girl's eyes followed her; and before the door closed she caught a glimpse of a little still form, and a cloud of fair curls, and a tiny waxen hand. Hildegarde buried her face in her hands and sobbed; while Benny's gentle nurse smoothed her hair, and spoke softly and soothingly. This was what she had called a "frolic,"—this! She had laughed, and come away as if to some gay party, and now a little child had died almost close beside her. Hildegarde had never been so near death before. The world seemed very dark to her, as she turned away, and followed Mrs. Murray into another room, where the convalescent children were at play. Here, as she took the remaining flowers from the box, little boys and girls came crowding about her, some on crutches, some with slings and bandages, some only pale and hollow-eyed; but all had a look of "getting well," and all were eager for the flowers. The easiest thing seemed to be to sit down on the floor; so down plumped Hildegarde, and down plumped the children beside her. Looking into the little pallid faces, her heart grew lighter, though even this was sad enough. But she smiled, and pelted the children with bouquets; and then followed much feeble laughter, and clutching, and tumbling about, while the good matron looked on well pleased.
"What's them?" asked one tiny boy, holding up his bunch.
"Those are pansies!" answered Hildegarde. "There are little faces in them, do you see? They smile when the sun shines, and when children are good."
"Nein," said a small voice from the outside of the circle, "dat iss Stiefmütterlein!"