A kind-hearted doctor, who lived in the vicinity of the little old brown house, called in occasionally, leaving some dark mixture in a bottle, which the patient woman took with the hope of gaining strength; but the days and weeks flew by, bringing but little relief.
Winter was almost at hand; Mrs. Davis had been unable to provide for its approach, and she knew not what to do. At last she had been forced to give up her work. She had but a little wood, flour, and meal in the house; the snow came drifting down, at first very slowly, but soon increased in rapidity, until at last the ground was covered with a carpet so pure and spotless and clear that even angel feet might tread upon it; yet bitterly cold and uncomfortable to the poor, bare, suffering feet of those mortals who are without clothing and fire.
Down, down came the feathery snow; darkness fell upon the silent house; little Fannie crept to her mother’s side beneath the bed-covering, and was clasped in her tender arms. Sweet sleep visited the child; but none came to bless the weary eyes of the dying mother; for now the poor woman knew the truth,—her hours on earth were numbered. Oh, how she prayed for the good doctor to come and visit her; but he was far away by the side of another sick and suffering one, and knew not of her desire. Only one thought possessed the mind of the sleepless woman,—the future welfare of her little girl. If she could be satisfied of this, she would be content to pass to the spirit world, where she knew her dear husband was waiting to welcome her.
The storm passed with the night; the morning sun shone upon the snow-covered home of our friends, and streamed in upon a little group gathered around the bed of Mrs. Davis: little Fannie weeping pitifully, and clinging to the cold, lifeless hand of that form that had once contained the spirit of her mother; the good, kind doctor, whom I have spoken of, and a beautiful lady robed in mourning garments, with a face as pale as the face of the dead.
Mrs. Davis had passed away peacefully, for the doctor had assured her that her little one should be taken care of. He was now preparing to leave, to send some one to look after the house, and prepare for the funeral service of the departed.
You will remember the little boy, Frankie Hedge, who spent a pleasant hour in the garden of the little brown house, one sunny summer day, in company with little Fannie. Well, Frankie had not forgotten his little playmate of an hour; many times would he speak of her to his mamma and papa, and they had promised him that when he returned from the sea-side, where he was going with them for a few weeks, he should again see the little girl he had taken such a liking to.
But, alas, Frankie Hedge, who went to the sea-side a strong and happy boy of eight years, returned at the end of six weeks a pale and helpless invalid. Frequent bathing in the ocean spray, and remaining in the water too long at a time, weakened his constitution to such a degree that when a chill seized him one cloudy morning, while splashing about with his companions in the water, it was with the utmost difficulty he was brought to land in a senseless condition. From that time he weakened and pined away; all that human love or physician’s skill could do was done, but without avail; and now, when the December winds howled about the splendid residence of his father, he lay panting and moaning, his face as white as the snowy pillows upon which it rested, and his eyes grown large and sorrowful, seeking rest and strength from the gentle face of his mother, who bent above him.
Often, in his hours of illness, had he spoken to his parents of little Fannie Davis, telling of the many fine times he meant to have with her when he got well; but now he knew he should never get stronger in this world, and so it was that on this cold December evening, when the snow was flying thick and fast without, and the gentle, subdued light of the sick chamber fell upon the costly furniture, the rosy curtains, the silver ornaments of the mantel, lighting them up with a mellow glow, and shining upon the pallid faces of the anxious parents, Frankie entreated his mother to go for Fannie Davis, and bring her to him.
Kind Dr. May, who was in attendance, said he knew the little girl and her poor, sick mamma, and he would go for her himself. But this would not do; nothing would pacify the sick child until his mother promised that in the morning she would go in the sleigh with the good doctor, find Fannie, and bring her to Frankie’s side.
“Oh, I am so glad, mamma,” said the child; “there is a nice, tall man here, and he is so glad too. I saw him that day in the garden where Fannie lives; he told me he was Fannie’s father. He says pretty soon Fannie will have no mamma on earth. Do bring her here, mamma, and perhaps when she has no mamma, and you have no little boy, she will be your little girl, and stay with you forever; ’cause I will be will be with the angels; but I will come to see you sometimes.”