The great house at Beechwood was closed, and the first September sunshine which lay so warmly on the grassy lawn and blooming flower-garden, found no entrance through the doors and curtained windows of what had been Margaret Russell’s home, and whither they were bringing her lifeless form. During the past week there had been hot, passionate tears wept in that desolate home, and touching childish prayers made that God would spare the sick mother till her broken-hearted boy could tell how sorry he was for the angry words spoken to her, and for the many acts of disobedience which came thronging around him like so many accusing spirits. Poor Johnnie’s heart was almost crushed when he heard that his mother must die, and calling Ben and Burt to him, he bade them kneel with him, and ask that God would give her back to them alive. And so with concern for Johnnie on their baby faces, rather than concern for their mother, the two little boys prayed that “God would make mamma well, and not let her die, or anyway send home Auntie Dora.”
This was Ben’s idea, and it brought a world of comfort, making him ask Johnnie “if it wouldn’t be nicer after all to have Auntie than mamma.”
“Perhaps it would, if I hadn’t been so sassy to her that morning, twitting her about not caring for us like Auntie, and telling her to dry up. Oh, oh!” and the conscience-smitten boy rolled on the floor in his first real sorrow.
To Ben, looking on in wonder, there came a thought fraught, as he hoped, with comfort to his brother, and pursing up his little mouth, he said:
“Pho! I wouldn’t keel over like that ’cause I’d said dry up. ’Taint a swear. It’s a real nice word, and all the boys in the street say so.”
Still Johnnie was not comforted, and in a state of terrible suspense he waited from day to day until the fatal morning when there came a telegram which he spelled out with Burt and Ben sitting on the doorstep beside him, their fat hands on his knee, and their little round dirty faces turned inquiringly towards him as he read:
“Saratoga, August 31st.
“Your mother died at midnight. We shall be home to-morrow, on the evening train.”
There was at first no sudden outburst, but a compressed quivering of the lip, a paling of the cheek, a hopeless look in the eyes, which closed tightly as Johnnie began to realize the truth. Then, with a loud, wild cry, he threw himself upon the grass, while Ben and Burt laughed gleefully at the contortions of body which they fancied were made for their amusement. At last, however, they too understood it partially, and Ben tried to imitate his brother’s method of expressing grief by also rolling in the grass, while Burt, thinking intently for a moment, said, with a sigh of relief: