The woman's poor, worn hand placed in mine, the look of confidence upturned to me in her tearful eyes, her readiness to forgive, to forget any resentment which she might have cherished towards me, all touched me deeply and strengthened me in a sincere determination to win Rebecca back.
"She made me promise I wouldn't let George Olver know where she was, teacher," said Aunt Patty, breathlessly, as I was going out of the door. "She had her reasons; we'd ought to respect 'em some. I wouldn't be deceiving her entirely."
On my way homeward, I reflected how altogether burdensome it was to one-half of humanity that the other half was not better calculated to take care of itself, and resolved that my letter to Rebecca should be at once dignified, imperative, and kind.
CHAPTER XVII.
TEACHER HAS THE FEVER.—DEATH OF LITTLE BESSIE.
There were oppressive days in Wallencamp, when no fresh winds were borne to us from the ocean. The sun shone hot on the stunted cedars. The tides crept in lazily. All one weary afternoon, in the hum and stir of the dusty school-room, little Bessie Sartell—Captain Sartell's youngest, and his darling—sat stringing lilac blossoms together in a chain. She was such a cunning edition of the big Captain. She had the same strong Saxon physique in miniature, the same clear pink and white complexion, eyes hardly more limpidly blue than his, and hair that was sunniest flax, like the ends of the Captain's beard. And how patient the chubby little fingers were at their task. What small, charmingly despairing sighs escaped the child when some link fell out in the chain of purple flowers! I was struck with her air of weary, patient endeavor—so important it seemed—so important that the chain should be finished before school was out. And, at last, little Bessie lifted it to wear upon her neck, and it broke and fell in pieces on the floor.
Then there was a look of gentle dismay in the blue eyes, a tear or two, and Bessie folded her arms on the desk, her head sank slowly down on them, and she fell asleep.
She was still sleeping when I dismissed the school. The sound of the others going out did not wake her; the Phenomenon, disappearing through the door, pointed a finger at her, his face full of scornful merriment—so incredible was it to him that any one should sleep when school was out.
I went down to Bessie and woke her gently. She looked at me, at first, with startled, feverish eyes, as though she did not know me, and screamed in pain or terror. I noticed then that the color of her cheeks was unnaturally bright. I put my hand on her pulse. It was throbbing violently. I was thoroughly frightened.