"Oh, Cherry," said Belle, who, though only two years younger than Cherry, was no taller than ten-year-old Pidgie, and not nearly so heavy—"oh, Cherry, it seems as though if I could only go up to that dear little village where mother used to live, and get some May-flowers, and smell them, and the fresh earth! Oh, Cherry!"—the tears streamed down the child's thin cheeks—"I wouldn't tell mother for the world, for I know she would feel so badly; but I'm so very, very tired of the city, and I seem to grow sicker and sicker."
"It isn't very nice up in the country in this April weather," said Cherry, cheerfully. "The roads are muddy, and there's lots of rain and snow. Mother says it's often horrid."
"Only," interrupted Belle, "when there is a pleasant day, it is perfectly splendid."
"Yes," said Cherry, doubtfully, "but I fancy they don't come more than once a week or so."
"Oh yes," cried Belle, deprecatingly, "oftener than that."
"It costs nearly four dollars a ticket to go up there, too," continued Cherry.
"Yes, I know"—Belle spoke a trifle crossly and impatiently, she was so tired, and so weak, and so seldom "had anything"—"I know I can't go, but it must smell very sweet up there; and oh! I'd love to go."
"Dear little sister," said Cherry, tucking her in tenderly, and setting a tumbler of water and a call-bell and the camphor bottle on the little stand by the bedside, "maybe we'll have things some time." She kissed Belle softly, and then went back to sit by her mother. Soon her needle was flying fast too. Cherry was a good girl, and they all depended a great deal upon her.
"Your story reminds me, mother," said Cherry, as she sewed, "that I saw some bunches of May-flowers for sale when I was out walking with the children to-day."
"Did you?" said Mrs. Mullen, in some surprise. "They are very early this year."