The English Orphans; Or, A Home in the New World

by Mary Jane Holmes

And all this time there came no kind word or message of love from Ella, who knew that Alice was dying, for Billy had told her so. "Oh, if she would only come and see her;" said Mary, "it wouldn't seem half so bad."

"Write to her," said Sal; "peradventure that may bring her."

Mary had not thought of this before, and now tearing a leaf from her writing-book, and taking her pen, she wrote hurriedly, "Ella, dear Ella, won't you come and see little Alice once before she dies? You used to love her, and you would now, if you could see how white and beautiful she looks. Oh, do come. Mrs. Campbell will let you, I know."

This note, which was blurred and blotted with tears was carried by Billy, who was going to the village, and delivered to Mrs. Campbell herself. Perhaps the proud woman remembered the time when her own darling died, or it may be that conscience upbraided her for caring so much for one orphan and utterly neglecting the other two. Be that as it may, her tears fell upon the paper and mingled with Mary's as she replied, "Ella shall come this afternoon."

But before afternoon a drizzling shower came on, and Mary watched and wept in vain, for Ella did not come. The next morning was bright and beautiful as April mornings often are, and at as early an hour as was consistent with Mrs. Campbell's habits, her carriage was before the door, and herself and Ella seated within it. The little lady was not in the best of humors, for she and her maid had quarrelled about her dress; Ella insisting upon a light-blue merino, and the maid proposing a plain delaine, which Ella declared she would not wear. Mrs. Campbell, to whom the matter was referred, decided upon the delaine, consequently Ella cried and pouted, saying she wouldn't go, wondering what Alice wanted to be sick for, or any way why they should send for her.

Meantime in and around the poor-house there was for once perfect silence. Sal Furbush had been invisible for hours,—the girl with crooked feet trod softly as she passed up and down the stairs,—Uncle Peter's fiddle was unstrung, and, securely locked in his fiddle box, was stowed away at the bottom of his old red chest,—and twice that morning when no one saw her, Miss Grundy had stolen out to Patsy's grave. Mary was not called to wash the dishes, but up in her own room she sat with her head resting upon the window sill, while the sweet, fresh air of the morning swept over her face, lifting the hair from her flushed brow. Billy Bender was standing near her, his arm thrown around her, and his lips occasionally pressing her forehead.

Suddenly there was the sound of carriage wheels, and he whispered in her ear, "Ella is coming."

Hastily running down the stairs, Mary met her sister in the doorway, and throwing her arms around her neck, burst into tears. Ella would gladly have shaken her off, for she felt that her curls were in danger of being mussed, and she had besides hardly recovered from her pet. But Mary firmly held her hand, and led her on through the long hall, into a room which they usually denominated "the best room."

There, upon the table, lay a little stiffened form. The blue eyes were closed, and the long eyelashes rested upon the marble cheek, and in the waxen hands, folded so carefully over the other, there was a single snow-drop. No one knew who placed it there, or whence it came. Gently Mary laid back the thin muslin covering, saying as she did so, "Allie is dead. I've got no sister left but you!" and again her arms closed convulsively about Ella's neck.

"You kind of choke me!" said Ella, trying to get free, and it was not until Mrs. Campbell, thoroughly ashamed of her want of feeling, took her hand and placed it on Alice's cold cheek, asking her if she were not sorry her little sister was dead, that she manifested any emotion whatever. Then, as if something of her better nature were roused, her lip trembled for a moment, and she burst into a violent fit of weeping.