“Aunt Emily came and took her home to tea. She asked me, too; but, oh, cousin John, they do pity me so much, and ask so many questions about it,—all those old ladies,—that I can’t bear it. But she said you were to come, and I was to tell you the instant you came in, but I forgot. Shall you go?”
“Shall I, Polly? I leave you to decide.”
“Oh, cousin! will you? And may I tell you to stay? I want you so much: only I don’t wish to be selfish; and aunt Emily said you and Grandmamma were dreadfully moped with us children.”
“Are we?” said cousin John, smiling. “I’m much obliged to aunt Emily; I never should have guessed it without her help. I thought it was very nice to have a little Polly to welcome me home every evening, and to be company for Grandmamma all day; and I am sure the house was never so lively as it is since Jemmy and Jenny came. I should have said, now, if any one had asked me, that it was aunt Emily’s tea-parties which moped us; but then, of course, she knows.”
“I don’t believe you are moped at all,” said Polly, energetically; “you are always so bright and merry, or, when you are sad, it is not in a stupid way. I wonder at you sometimes, cousin John. You are just like me,—that is, I mean you have no father and mother; and you have not even the twins;—you have only Grandma in all the world, and yet you seem so happy, while I can do nothing but cry.”
“Only Grandmamma! Why, Polly, I should not be so very poor in friends, even if you were right. Grandma counts for a great deal with her Johnny, I can tell you. But I thought myself richer than that. I thought I had you, my little cousin, and the twins. Don’t you mean to give me any share in the twins?”
“Oh, cousin John! I didn’t mean that!” cried the little girl, very earnestly. “I’m sure I love you better than anybody in the world,—at least now,—and Jemmy and Jenny are always calling for ‘Cuddy.’ They never call papa or brother now; and nurse won’t let me put them in mind, because she says it does them no good and only makes me cry. Oh no! I did not mean that. I meant people that belong to you,—people that you have a right to.”
“And I insist that I have a right to you, Polly,” said the young gentleman, pressing Polly very tight in his arms. “But I know what you mean, puss, and I won’t tease you any more. Indeed, I have been wishing to talk with you a little about this for some time; and, now we have begun it, perhaps I had better say my say. I know very well how sad it is to be an orphan, and I have seen the time, at first, when, like you, I could do nothing but cry; so, I don’t mean to set myself up for an example; but, my little Mary, there is one thing which you and I must both remember, and which ought to help us very much, and that is this: whatever our trials are, they are sent by One who knows much better than we do what is good for us, and for those we love; and whatever our blessings are, they come to us straight from His hand. If we believe this,—as I try to do, as I hope you also try to do,—it will make us afraid to murmur at the one, and ashamed to be unthankful for the other,—will it not?”
“Perhaps so; I suppose it ought,” said Mary, slowly; “but, oh, cousin John, it is so very hard. You are a man, and you are so very good you would be sure to feel just right; but I am only a little girl, and it is so very hard, so very different. You and Grandma are very kind, but, oh, I want papa so much, and mamma, and Ned! Oh, cousin, you don’t know! It seems sometimes as if my heart would break!”—and the child leaned her head against her cousin’s shoulder, and wept as if her heart were really breaking.
The young man soothed her very tenderly, and waited patiently until her tears were dried; then he said, gently, “My darling must not think I mean to blame her, but only to help her bear her trouble better. I know it is sad, very sad, to lose so many dear friends at one blow; but Polly must count up her blessings as well as her trials: she has not been left quite helpless and friendless, as so many poor children are, by this same fearful Providence.”