This quiet talk in which the little Bennetts were indulging, was being carried on from the backs of two horses—the two girls mounted upon one and the two boys astride the other—but they happened to be the quietest horses in the world; horses that never budged in fact, tailless and headless, and that belonged to the carpenter who lived on the first floor. The Bennetts lived on the top floor; but whenever there was anything to be talked over, down they trooped to the yard and climbed and helped each other to the backs of these high seats, and when all were able to declare themselves perfectly comfortable the conclave would commence. The little Bennetts were great talkers. They simply loved to discuss things, and this shows, when you stop to consider it, that they must be, on the whole, an amiable little family, for some little people that we hear of are quite too impatient and self-assertive to be willing to discuss things at all. But whatever may have been the faults of the little Bennetts they did have respect for each other’s opinions, and were generally ready to admit that two heads were better than one, and “Four heads,” to quote little Gertrude, “four times as better.” This habit of discussion, for it really amounted to that, was partly no doubt the outcome of a little strategy on the part of their mother. Mary and Teddy and Allan and Gertrude were just a “pair of steps,” as the saying goes, and sometimes the little living-room on the fourth floor seemed all too small for the noisy company, and then Mrs. Bennett would exclaim, and as though the most novel sort of an idea had occurred to her:
“Children, why don’t you run down to the yard and have a good talk?”
There was no resisting this appeal, such untold delights were implied in Mrs. Bennett’s tone and manner, and the children seldom failed to act upon the advice, and what was more, seldom failed to light upon some interesting thing to talk about; and then, always as a last resort, some one could tell a story. The some one was generally Teddy, for he had the wildest imagination, and could upon any and every occasion invent most thrilling romances, which were quite as much of a surprise to himself as to his hearers. And so the children had come to love their perch in the corner of the city yard, with the uncertain shade of an old alanthus flickering over them in summer, and the bright sun streaming full upon them in its leafless winter days. And this was how it chanced that the Bennett children found themselves in their old haunt that breezy May morning, and were easing their heavy little hearts by frankly admitting to one another how very great indeed was their disappointment.
Better so, I think. Wrinkles come earlier and plow deeper, and thoughts are apt to grow bitter and morbid, when one broods and broods, and will not take hearts near and dear into one’s confidence. The day never dawns when truly brave hearts cry out for pity, but sympathy is a sweet and blessed thing the world over, and God meant not only that we should have it, but that, if need be, we should reach our hands and grasp it.
There was one little Bennett, however, who did not share in the general depression. Too short a time in the world to know aught of its joys or sorrows, Baby Bennett lay comfortably in his mother’s lap, having just dropped off to sleep after a good half hour of rocking, Mrs. Bennett, who had herself grown drowsy with her low crooning over the baby, glanced first at the bustling little clock on the mantel shelf, and then, leaning her head against the back of the chair, closed her eyes; but instead of falling asleep she fell to thinking, and then her face grew very sad and tears made their way from beneath her closed eyelids. So, you see, the mother-heart was heavy as well as the-child-hearts in the Bennett family, and for the same reason. It was not because they were not learning to face and accept the thought that Miss Julia, whom they so dearly loved, could not return to them; they were trying to be as brave as Miss Julia herself would have had them. But this was the day, the very day that they were all to have started, and they could not seem to forget it for a moment; neither could somebody else, and soon there came a gentle knock at Mrs. Bennett’s door.
“Come in,” she answered, forgetting the tears in her eyes; and, laying the baby in its little clothes-basket of a bed, she turned to greet the newcomer. Courage had mounted the four flights of stairs very bravely, but the sight of the tears in Mrs. Bennett’s eyes disarmed her, and, sinking into the nearest chair, she found she would best not try to speak for a moment.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Miss Courage, that you should have seen me,” said Mrs. Bennett, with a world of regret in her voice; “it is so much harder for you than for anybody, but this was the day, you know, almost the very hour.”
“Yes, I know,” Courage faltered; “that was why I came.”
“It’s like you, Miss Courage; you’ve Miss Julia’s own thoughtfulness, but I’m thinking it will be easier for us all when this day’s over. I got rid of the trunk last week; it seemed to make us all so disheartened to have it standing round.”
“You didn’t sell it, did you?”