"Any time—to-morrow, if you like," Madeline returned triumphantly, withdrawing her hand from her bosom and thrusting the crisp notes into Jessie's; "my father gave me all that money to-day—and it's to pay the doctor—it's to pay everything," she amended jubilantly. "Only father doesn't want any one to know who did it—when do you think she'll go, Jessie?" she asked, a little irrelevantly, for matters had taken a rather unexpected turn.
Jessie was staring at her through swimming eyes, the import of the great moment too much for her childish soul. Her mother's face passed before her, beautiful in its tender patience; and all the pathos of the long struggle, so nearly over now, broke upon the little mind that knew not what pathos meant except by the slow tuition of a sorrow-clouded life. Poor child, she little knew by what relentless limitations even great city doctors may be bound.
"Is it because you're glad, Jessie?" Madeline enquired in a reverent sort of voice, dimly diagnosing the paradox of human joy. But Jessie answered never a word; her gaze was fixed downward now upon the money, such a sum of it as she had never seen before in her poor meagre life. And the big tears fell on the unconscious things lying in her lap, the poor dead symbols baptized and quickened by the living tokens of human love and feeling.
"Oh, yes," she sobbed at last, "it's 'cause I'm glad—mother'll be able to see the flowers now, an' the birds, an' everything—she loves them so. An' poor Harvey won't have to spend his raspberry money; he hasn't any winter coat, but now—I'm nearly as glad for Harvey as I am for mother," she broke off, suddenly drying her eyes, the ever-ready smile of childhood returning to the playground from which the tears had driven it.
"What makes you so glad about Harvey?" Madeline broke in, hailing the returning smile with one no less radiant of her own.
"Because—because mother was sorrier about Harvey than anything else. You see, he's nearly ready to—to be a scholar. An' mother always said she'd be able to do everything for Harvey—everything like that, you know—if she could only see. Our Harvey's goin' to be a great man—if he gets a chance," she prophesied solemnly, looking straight into Madeline's face, the bills quite forgotten now, one or two of them having fallen among the leaves upon the grass.
"Mind you, our Harvey isn't always goin' to be poor—mother says there's lots of rich people gets poor, an' lots of poor people gets rich. An' that's what Harvey's goin' to be—an' mother an' me's goin' to help him," the little loyalist proclaimed, her face beaming with confidence.
This opened up quite a vein of conversation, to which the youthful minds addressed themselves for a serious season. Finally, forgetting all philosophic matters, Jessie exclaimed: "I wonder where Harvey is—he doesn't often leave me alone like this. Won't he be glad though?—I'm goin' to find Harvey."
Little did either of them dream how the object of their wonderings had been employed while they were sequestered in their peaceful nook.
Having left the table, Harvey loitered about till varying sounds assured him that the meal he had abandoned was completed. Then he strode along till he stood beside the drowsy sorrel, still doing spasmodic battle with the flies. Unbuttoning his coat, he removed the tarts and hid them in a hollow log; their confinement had not improved them much. Then he stood a while, pondering. A relieved and purposeful expression at length indicated that his mind was formed. But considerable time elapsed before a wandering urchin hove in sight—and such a being was absolutely necessary. The boy who thus suddenly appeared was evidently bent on an inspection of the animal, looking even from afar with the critical eye that universal boyhood turns upon a horse. The youngster drifted nearer and nearer; he was contriving to chew a slab of tamarack gum and eat an apple at one and the self-same time, which tempered his gait considerably.