“Yes, indeed,” cried Helen, “I feel that.”
“I would like to speak to you about—But I must not keep you out here. There is Mrs. Rawls. Another time!” He hurried off down the street, while Helen found herself drawn inside the door by Mrs. Rawls and into the little dining-room, where the blinds were open somewhat, now that the evening dusk had settled down. The room was warm and quiet, with a heavy perfume of flowers loading the air.
“Such a time as we’ve had!” said Mrs. Rawls in a loud whisper. “Me and Mis’ Loomis and Ellen Grant has just had our hands full seein’ people. Ellen’s as deaf as a post, but she would stay, and she set by the winder and let us know when she seen anyone comin’ up the steps. Mis’ Dunham, she spelled us for a while. You never see anything like it in all your born days, Mis’ Armstrong! The hull town’s been here, and carriages driving up, folks some of ’em Mis’ Rhodes didn’t even know, comin’ to inquire or leave cards. There’s been port wine sent for her, and Tokay, and chicken broth, and jellies—I thought there’d been enough sent last week for him, but they’re comin’ yet. What to do with ’em I don’t know, for she won’t touch nothin’. And there’s flowers, flowers, flowers!—from them great white lilies from Colonel Penn’s greenhouse to a little wilty sprig o’ pink geranium that one of them colored children at the corner brought tied with a white ribbon, for ‘little Marse Silvy’; the child was cryin’ when she came. I filled her full of broth and jelly before she went home. Some of the things has on ’em ‘For Silvy’s mother’—that pleases her best of all. And the dear child lies there so peaceful and sweet—She put the geranium by him herself. But she’s waitin’ in there to see you, I know.”
Such a slender, drooping figure in its black garments that came to meet Helen! Such patience, such gentleness in the pale face! The tears rose once more to Helen’s eyes as she put her protecting arms around her friend and held her close in a long embrace.
“I’m glad you’ve come,” said Anne Rhodes at last. “I want you to sit here by me, we shall be alone for a little while. There is something I want to say—while I can.” Her voice was very sweet and low, and her tearless eyes were luminous. “Let me take your hand—this one; it held my darling’s hand when he was dying. I knew! Dear hand, dear hand!” She held it close to her cheek. After a moment she went on. “Such love, such goodness! I never dreamed of anything like it, that people should be so good. I want you to tell everyone—all who have done the least thing for my little child’s sake, yes, or who have wanted to do anything, that never while my life lasts—I hope it won’t be long—but never while it lasts will I forget them, never will I cease to ask God to bless them, ‘to reward them sevenfold into their bosom.’ I have been praying to-day, when I could pray, that He would teach me how to help others, that the world might be better because my little child had lived in it, and I had had such joy. Helen, you will not forget?”
“No,” said Helen. She drew her friend’s head to her shoulder, and they spoke no more. It grew darker and darker in the room where they sat, but in the next chamber the moonlight poured through an opening in the curtains and shone upon the lovely face of the child whose life had been a delight, whose memory was a blessing, whose death touched the spring of love in every heart, and, for one little heavenly space, made men know that they were brothers.
Wings