The child watched them with an increasing sense of fascination, for she knew that it would not be very long before she lost her friends, who would fly far, far away.—[Page 8].

Our Winnie
and
The Little Match-Girl

BY

EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN

AUTHOR OF
‘THE MASTER OF FERNHURST,’ ‘IN CLOISTER AND COURT,’ ‘IN SHADOWLAND,’
‘ODEYNE’S MARRIAGE,’ ETC.

John F. Shaw & Co., Ltd.,

Publishers,

3, Pilgrim Street, London, E.C.

CONTENTS.

THE LITTLE MATCH-GIRL.
CONTENTS.

OUR WINNIE,
OR
“WHEN THE SWALLOWS GO.”

CHAPTER I.
WATCHING THE SWALLOWS.

Winifred sat by the nursery window, upon the wide cushioned seat, leaning her little pale face against the glass and gazing with big blue eyes towards the rosy sky, where the sun was setting in a blaze of golden glory.

It was a pretty view the great oriel window commanded—garden and shrubbery just below, and beyond the close laurel hedge, low-lying pasture lands dotted with pine trees, and a large piece of water, which lay shining like molten gold in the glow of sunset radiance.

The swallows were enjoying the beauty of the evening as much as living things could do. They were darting this way and that in the bright, soft sunshine; now flying high, now low, and ever seeming drawn by irresistible attraction towards the shining surface of the water, which lay smiling and placid, without even a ripple to break its glassy smoothness.

Winifred was very much interested in the swallows. In the springtime she had watched them with the utmost absorption as they built their nests and hatched their chattering broods amid the many eaves and jutting lead-pipes of the old-fashioned manor-house in which she lived.

When the summer came, and the young birds had left the nests, she still fancied she knew “her swallows” from all the rest, and was always interested in their movements; fond of foretelling the weather according as to whether they flew high or low, and making stories about them and their cleverness which would rather have astonished an ornithologist.

And now that autumn was drawing on, the child watched them with an increasing sense of fascination, for she knew that it would not be very long before she lost her friends and playmates (for in her eyes they were friends and playmates), who would fly far, far away from England with the first approach of winter.

“I wonder why they want to go?” the child sometimes said. “I shall so miss them. I wish they would stay here always.”

Winifred was nine years old, but she was so small and thin that she hardly seemed so much; and yet her little face, with its large, thoughtful eyes, and grave, serious lips, looked almost older than a nine-year-old child’s should do.

She had been very, very ill last winter, so ill that nobody had thought she could get better; and even now, although the summer had brought a little strength to her limbs, and a little colour to her face, she was still very delicate, and her father and mother often looked anxiously into the deep eyes of their only little daughter, and wondered how long they would keep her with them, and if she would ever grow up strong and hearty like Charley and Ronald, her two big brothers.

Winifred did not know this; she only knew that she could not run about and play like other children, that she soon grew tired, and that it was much more pleasure to her to sit on the nursery window-seat and read a favourite story-book, or watch the swallows, than it was to romp and race about the garden and fields as the boys so loved to do. The little girl was not discontented; she was very happy in her own way, and was fond of being quiet, and indulging in her own dreams and fancies. She saw no reason why she was to be pitied.

A door opened softly, and without turning her head to look, Winifred knew that her mother had come in.

Nobody but mamma had such a soft, gentle step; nobody else seemed to bring into the room that kind of brightness and sweetness which Winifred always felt accompanied her mother’s presence. Sometimes the child would think to herself that it was like music and moonlight just to feel that mamma was near.

Mrs. Digby was a tall, graceful, sweet-faced mother—an ideal woman for a child’s love and worship, so gentle, so firm, so loving and sympathising.

Winifred’s little face smiled all over, a slow smile of satisfaction, although she never turned her head until her mother had seated herself in the great rocking-chair that stood beside the window. Then she left her seat and crept into her mother’s arms, laying her head against that comfortable shoulder, and looking alternately out of the window and into her mother’s face.

“What was my darling doing all alone? What was my little girl thinking of?”

“I was watching the swallows, mamma dear.”

“You are fond of the swallows, Winnie.”

“Yes; so many of them are my swallows—and soon they will go away.”

“Yes, darling.”

“Mamma,” asked the child, with a serious, wistful look in her eyes, “how is it that the things we love best and care most for always seem to go away soonest?”

It seemed to Winifred that the warm, loving arms closed more tenderly and closely round her as the mother answered gently:

“Does it seem so to you, darling?”

“Yes, mamma. It was my favourite rose-tree that died last winter, and my favourite oak-tree that was blown down in the storm. Ronald lost his best puppy, and papa’s favourite horse went lame. I like all the birds very much, but the swallows much, much the best, and it is the swallows who go, and the robins and chaffinches that stay behind. I wonder why it is.”

“But the swallows come back again, darling,” said the mother, kissing her child’s broad brow. “I remember how sorry my little girl was when they had all gone last year; but here they are again, and it was such pleasure to watch them build that you told me it made up for the long time of waiting. It will be the same again this year, Winnie.”

“Will it, mamma? It seems as if it would be winter for such a long, long while. I cannot fancy that the spring will ever come again.”

Mrs. Digby made no reply, and by-and-by Winifred went on.

“And last year I was so disappointed, for I never said good-bye; I never saw them go. I had watched them gather, and gather, and gather, and I did so want to see them start, and I never did. Do you think they will gather here again this year, mamma?”

“I think it is very likely. They very often do.”

“If they do, I will be sure not to miss them; I do so want to see them go, and say good-bye.”

“What is it you are not going to miss, my little girl?” asked a kind, cheery voice from the other side of the room.

Winifred and her mother looked round, and saw that Dr. Howard had entered unobserved. He was never very many days without paying the child a visit, and she had grown fond of the old man, and was not afraid to talk to him freely.

He came and sat in her vacated seat—the wide window-ledge—and looked into her face, and took the thin little hand in his, and patted it in a friendly fashion.

“Well, Winnie, what is it you are so anxious not to miss? Do you want my leave to go to a children’s party, or to do something else bold and daring?”

“Oh no!” answered Winnie, smiling; “we were only talking about the swallows. We think they will gather here before they fly, as they did last year, and I do so want to see them go. Last year I missed them somehow.”

Dr. Howard smiled and shook his head.

“I never saw the swallows go yet, little maid, though I am an old man now; and what is more, I never knew anybody who had, either.”

Winifred’s eyes opened wide.

“Does nobody ever see them go? Somebody must. They do not turn into fairies and vanish away, do they?”

The old doctor smiled and answered in a fanciful way for a little while, until seeing the child was growing puzzled, he said at last:

“No, no, my little girl, it is nothing so strange after all; you need not open your big eyes, and look as if I were telling you mystic fables. The swallows always start in the night, that is all; and in the morning we wake up and find them gone, but we do not see them go.”

“In the night?” echoes Winifred, with a cloud passing over her face. “Then sha’n’t I be able to see them go this year, either?”

“I’m afraid not, little one.”

“Oh I am so sorry!” said the child with a deep sigh; “so very, very sorry. I did so want to see them go.”

“Dr. Howard,” said her mother’s voice in the pause that followed these words, “do you think this little bird had better follow the swallows and the sunshine, and leave the cold and the rain behind? Sometimes I fancy we ought to run after the swallows and catch them up where they have caught the summer. What do you think?”

“I think,” answered the kind old man with a look in his eye which the child did not understand, “that this little bird is best in its own warm nest, under its mother’s wing. It does not suit all little birds to fly away.”

And then the doctor rose, and Mrs. Digby too; and Winifred was left alone to rock herself in the vacated chair and think about the swallows.

She was lying in her little bed that night, cosy and warm, when she became vaguely conscious that her father and mother had come in, and were talking together softly, and as it seemed, sadly. Unless it was a dream (and Winifred did not feel quite sure which it was), papa had his arm round mamma, and seemed to be comforting her. She almost looked as if she had been crying, and her voice shook when she said:

“There is nothing that we can do. It is God who gives, and God who takes away, but it is very, very hard to lose her. You must help me, Ronald, sometimes I fear my faith will give way.”

“God will give His strength with the trial if He sends it. Perhaps in His mercy He will spare it us.”

“Yes, we may still hope and pray; but I must struggle for resignation to His Holy Will. I fear—I fear—”

“I know what you fear, my sweet wife. Did Dr. Howard hold out no hope?”

“He would not—or could not—say anything definite; but he thought—he thought our darling would not be long after the swallows.”

There was a deep sob, and the sound of tender caresses, then came Mr. Digby’s voice.

“Our precious little daughter. It is hard to spare her; but think, dearest, to what a happy place she is going.”

“I know—I know. I try not to be selfish. It is her gain, her happiness. Oh yes, I know what a happy, happy thing it is for children to be taken in all their innocence. But oh, I shall miss her so sorely.”

“I know, I know. But we believe that trials are sent us in love and not in anger; and we must think of our Winifred’s gain and not of our loss.”

Some soft kisses and warm tears were dropped upon the child’s sleepy face. She had moved, and the voices ceased, but both parents were bending over her little bed. She opened her eyes drowsily, smiled and kissed them, and then she sank off to sleep again holding her mother’s hand in hers.

CHAPTER II.
WINIFRED’S TROUBLE.

Winifred awoke early the following morning, to find the sunshine playing over the window-blind and the swallows twittering in the eaves.

She fancied that something unusual had happened in the night; but she could not, all in a moment, recollect what it was.

Gradually some of the sense of what had passed between her parents in her night-nursery came back to her as she lay in bed puzzling things over, and she began to talk softly to herself as she had a way of doing.

“I think they said I was going away somewhere, to some nice place where I should be very happy. I can’t quite remember, and I thought Dr. Howard meant I was to stay at home; but I don’t always understand what people mean. I’m almost sure papa and mamma said I was to go—I suppose it’s to some nice place where little children get strong and well again. I should like to be able to run about again and play with the boys. I should like to do what other children can.”

But a little more thinking brought other considerations.

“Mamma was sorry—I think she cried. I’m afraid she isn’t coming with me, because she talked about losing me. I suppose nurse will take me—that will be next best; and mamma could not be spared. Papa wants her and the boys, and there are the servants and the house. Oh no, they could not possibly spare her. I must try to be brave, and not to cry and make her more sorry. I won’t seem to mind leaving her, if I can help it, though it will be very, very hard; and I will try to get better as fast as ever I can, so as to come back soon strong and well as Charley did when he had measles, and nurse took him to the seaside.

“I wonder where I am going—a good way off, I think, because I don’t think mamma would have cried if it had been only a little way or for a little while. Perhaps I am going where the swallows go—perhaps I shall see them again. I should like to do that. I think I am going when they go—I will try to get well to come back when they come. That would be very nice, for I think they would miss me when they began to build their nests; and I don’t think I could do without mamma longer than that—Oh no, I must come back when the swallows come.”

Winifred was smiling now; but by-and-by her face grew grave.

“I wonder if people will miss me when I am gone. I wonder if they will be sorry. Mamma will, I know, but is there any one else? I should like to think some of them would miss me and want me to come back; but—but—I’m not sure that they would!” and here the child’s face grew rather red.

Children all have their faults, and Winifred was no exception to this rule. Perhaps there were excuses to be made for this little girl, because her bad health had made it needful for her to be very quiet and rather idle, and because, with all her faults, she was always gentle and docile; but at the same time Winifred was selfish, and she was more idle than she need have been; and when she began to think whether people would miss her, she could not help remembering many little things which she did not quite like to think about.

Charley and Ronald were very fond of their little sister, and would have liked to spend a good deal of their spare time in the nursery, which they had once shared all together; but since Winnie’s illness the nursery had been given up entirely to her service, and she had not failed to assert her right as mistress of her domain.

It was often quite true that the noise the boys made at play tried her head and made it ache; but there were other days when she could have borne the noise quite well, only she did not care to let the boys in because she felt more inclined to be quiet. Then she never tried to do any little services for them, or for any one else, thinking nobody could expect it of her when she had so little strength.

Winifred was a gentle, loveable child, in spite of her tendency to selfishness, and everybody seemed fond of her. Indeed, it was not every one who knew what her chief faults were. Charley and Ronald never thought for a moment that she was selfish, and would have been indignant if any one had called her so; but at the same time they knew it was no good ever asking Winifred to do anything for them.

Perhaps Mrs. Digby and nurse knew best where the gentle child’s weakness lay; but it had not been very easy in her present state of health and spirits to make her see her own faults in the proper light.

But as Winifred lay in bed thinking, it dawned upon her slowly that her going away would make very little difference to anybody in the world—that only mamma would miss her, and that only because mamma was mamma, not for anything her child had ever done for her.

A resolution came into Winifred’s mind.

“I will be different,” she said. “I will do something before I go to show them I am fond of them, and then perhaps they will miss me more. I should like to do something for a good many people. There are the boys, and the servants—and—and—Oh, I must think about it. I have a good deal of money: I will see what I can do.”

Winnie turned over this idea very many times in her head, as she lay waiting for nurse to dress her. She rose late, and breakfast was not over till nearly half-past ten.

“There doesn’t seem any time left to think this morning,” said Winnie, after she had taken a little walk in the garden with her mamma. “I feel tired now, I will watch the swallows a little, and think after dinner.”

Presently nurse came in.

“Miss Winifred, dear,” she said, “Mary wants to clean out the young gentlemen’s play-room to-day; but it’s their half-holiday, and she doesn’t like to begin unless they can come here when they come home. You look pretty well to-day, I think. You won’t mind letting them into the nursery?”

“Oh, not to-day, nursey, I couldn’t do with them to-day,” answered Winnie, looking distressed. “Indeed I would if I could, but I have so much to think about to-day. I can’t think when they are here—and it’s about them too. It can’t make any difference to Mary what day she cleans the room. Please tell her I’m very sorry, but I really can’t to-day. I don’t think she can mind.”

Winifred’s pale little face looked pleading and earnest. Nurse said no more to urge her.

“Very well, dear, we will arrange something somehow. Mary does not want to put you out. Have you anything you want to do to-day?”

“I have a great deal to think about.”

“Do you think with your fingers?”

Winifred smiled.

“No, of course not, nursey. What do you mean?”

“Well, I was wondering if you could not do something with your fingers, whilst you were doing all this thinking.”

Winifred was not fond of employing her idle fingers, and her face was not very responsive as she asked rather slowly:

“What do you mean, nursey? I have not anything special to do.”

“No, Miss Winnie; but I think there is something somebody would be very much delighted if you did do,” and nurse nodded her head mysteriously.

Still Winifred did not look eager, though she asked:

“What do you mean? I think I’m rather too tired to work.”

“Work rests as well as tires folks,” answered nurse, looking wise.

“Tell me what you want me to do, please?” said the little girl, who knew quite well whither all this was tending.

“Well, dear, I thought you might like to finish the tail of Master Charley’s big kite. It is all done but the tail, and if they had that to fly, they would play in the fields with it all the while the room was being done; but it’s a good hour’s work it wants at the tail, and they would be so pleased to come in and find it done. Shall I bring you the paper and the string?”

Winifred’s face put on its little wearied, fretful look. She did not speak crossly, only as if she felt it rather hard to be asked or expected to do things for other people—“little silly things,” as she said to herself, when her head was so full of the great things she meant to do.

“I don’t know how to make kite-tails, nursey.”

“I could show you.”

“I feel tired. The boys can do it themselves quite well. I don’t think I could make a kite-tail and do my thinking too.”

“Is your thinking very important, Miss Winnie?”

“Yes, very.”

So nurse went away, and Winnie was left alone; but somehow or other the thinking did not seem to get on. A little puzzled frown began to pucker the child’s forehead, and before long Winifred was talking slowly to herself, rather as if she was arguing with somebody, who certainly was not to be seen.

“I don’t see why I should. It isn’t that sort of thing I meant. I want to do something big which the boys will understand and care about—they would have forgotten all about the kite-tail by to-morrow. Besides it would be so tiresome—like keeping their book-shelves and toy cupboard tidy, as mamma sometimes wants me to. I don’t like doing that sort of work. It’s not interesting, and it doesn’t seem worth the trouble. If I could only think of it, I’m sure there must be some much better way. I hope I shall be able to find it out soon.”

Puzzling her head over the matter, however, did not seem to help Winifred much, and she did not feel happy in herself, though she could hardly have told the reason why.

She looked pale during the early dinner, and it seemed to her that mamma was more gentle and tender to her than ever.

“Would you like a drive with me this afternoon, my darling?” asked Mrs. Digby.

“Where are you going, mamma?”

“To see Mrs. Hedlam. You can go and play a little while with Violet whilst I am there. She will be pleased to have you for a little visit.”

“I should like to go, mamma; but I would rather stay in the carriage, thank you. I don’t think I am very fond of Violet, and I don’t feel inclined to play to-day.”

“I can send her out to talk to you instead, then.”

“No, thank you, mamma, I think I would rather be quiet, if you don’t mind?”

“I don’t mind, darling, but I think poor little Violet would be disappointed. She has few playfellows, and it would give her pleasure to see you, I am sure,” answered the mother gently.

“She need not know I have come,” said Winifred. “I don’t want to talk to-day, I want to think.”

Just at this time Mrs. Digby did not feel as if she could urge the child against her wishes, even though the wishes were a little selfish. Her heart was sore and heavy that day, and very little talking was done upon the drive.

Winifred sat still in the carriage as she had wished, and yet she could not feel happy or satisfied, and the trouble which had weighed upon her all the day seemed to grow heavier and heavier.

“I don’t believe any one will miss me. I don’t believe any one will be sorry when I go. I must be quick and think what to do for people, for I should like them to be a little sorry and to want me back. Oh dear, I wish I was grown-up. Grown-up people can do such a lot of things. I haven’t thought yet of a single one, and I’ve been thinking hard all the day.”

When Mrs. Digby came back she thought the child looked tired.

“Not very, thank you,” answered Winifred, nestling up to her. “I have only been thinking. Did you see Violet to-day?”

“Yes, dear.”

“She didn’t ask if I had come?”

“Yes, Winnie, she asked, and I told her you were in the carriage, but I did not let her go out. I explained that you were poorly to-day.”

Winifred’s face grew red.

“Did—did she seem sorry?”

“I’m afraid so, a little sorry and a little vexed too; but she will not think about it long.”

Winifred was very silent on the way home. She seemed still thinking very much, but thinking did not make her face look brighter.

As they drove through the gates of the lodge, she saw a pale little face looking out of the lattice-window, and her mother leaned out to ask of the woman who opened the gate:

“How is little Phil to-day?”

“Much the same, thank you, ma’am.”

“I will send him some more jelly soon.”

“Thank you kindly, ma’am.”

As Winifred climbed the stairs to her nursery her face was graver than ever.

“Why, I’ve never finished those mittens I promised little Phil months and months ago. And I haven’t been to see him for ever so long. I don’t believe even he will miss me when I go away, and he used so to watch for me to come, and be so pleased. Oh dear, dear, he must go on to the list of people now who are to have things given them—or something. But I can’t think whatever I can do to make them sorry when I go.”

When Winifred went to bed that night she still had seen no way out of the trouble.

CHAPTER III.
A STRANGE JOURNEY.

That night Winifred could not sleep. Turn and settle herself as she would she could not even fall into a doze; and all kinds of troublesome thoughts kept flocking into her mind.

Chief amongst these was the old fear about the swallows—the fear that they would go when she was not watching them, and that she would not be able to bid them good-bye and wish them a pleasant journey.

Winnie’s head was tired and confused that night. She did not remember that the swallows had hardly even begun to gather for flight as yet. She fancied they were there in myriads in the water-meadows, and that any time they might make their silent start.

“Oh dear!” sighed the little child, “perhaps they will go to-night. Didn’t somebody say they always went at night and nobody ever saw them? I should so like to see them go. I don’t think they would be angry with me. I am so fond of them—I think they are fond of me too. I must just get up and look out of the window.”

It was a mild night, and Winifred wrapped herself well up in her little flannel gown, and folded the eider-down quilt about her shoulders.

She stole to the window and drew up the blind and looked out into the dusky night. There was a little moon, but not much, and enough wind to stir the leaves of the trees and make them look almost like living things, bending over, and whispering one to the other.

Where were the swallows?

Surely they were flying about the trees, chattering excitedly, whirling from place to place, planning, discussing, and preparing for flight? Winifred listened and looked, and felt convinced of this. She was sure she could see in the uncertain light the darting black forms chasing one another, hurrying through the air, and sometimes darkening it for a moment, as a cloud of winged birds rose together from the trees, and then as suddenly dispersed again. Yes, they were certainly going to fly away that night, the child thought, and she must wait and watch to see them go.

She curled up her feet under her little gown, pulled the soft quilt more comfortably about her, rested her head against an angle of the window-frame, and prepared to stay for the flight.

How long she waited she did not know. Gradually it seemed to her that the moonlight grew brighter. It became almost as light as day, only that there was a softness and beauty in the light which seemed hardly like sunshine.

Then all at once came a whirring of countless wings. It was a soft, feathery noise, as Winifred afterwards told herself, that made her think of the angels flying through heaven. And this sound of wings came nearer and nearer, and the air seemed dimmed by a dark, soft cloud of flying birds.

“The swallows!” said Winifred, softly; “they are going. I must open the window and say good-bye.”

The window was soon thrown wide, and the child leaned eagerly out and called to the birds who were whirling past.

“Oh swallows, dear swallows! Good-bye! good-bye! Where are you going?”

And the swallows answered in a sort of musical chant:

“We are going to the land of sunshine and flowers;
We are leaving behind the darkness and cloud;
We are going whither the great power leads;
We are going we know, yet know not where.”

And as the child listened, a great longing came over her to fly with the swallows to the bright unknown land whither they were bound.

“Swallows, swallows, I want to go to the sunshine and flowers. Can’t you take me with you?”

And the swallows chanted again:

“Can you trust the unseen power?
Dare you fly out into space?
Dare you leave the known behind you?
Have you faith to fly away?”

Winifred clasped her hands and leaned out more and more, gazing at the flying swallows.

“Oh, please stop! Please one of you stop and tell me some more. I want to fly with you. I have to go away one day, I don’t know where. I should like to go with you, if you’ll take me. Do please tell me when you are going, and please wait and take me too. I want to fly with you.”

And then suddenly one of the swallows did stop, and perched upon the ledge of the open window; and Winifred found that it was a beautiful black, glossy bird, as big as herself, and yet she was not a bit surprised or afraid.

“Dear swallow,” she said, stroking the bird’s soft, feathery head, “dear, pretty swallow, won’t you let me fly away with you?”

“Why do you want to fly?” asked the swallow.

“I want to know where you are going. I want to know why you go; I have to go away too, very soon. I should like best to go with you.”

“But I don’t know where we are going,” said the swallow; “how do you know you would like to come?”

“You said it was to a nice place, with sunshine and flowers,” said the child.

“Yes, so it is. I know that, but I don’t know where it is.”

“Do none of you know?”

“No; none of us know exactly.”

“Then how can you find the way?” asked Winifred, with grave interest.

The swallow looked at her with his bright eyes as he answered:

“We cannot lose the way. Something always tells us how to go. It never tells us wrong.”

“And you are not afraid?”

“Oh no!”

The swallow looked at the child with grave, bright eyes, and asked:

“Would not you be afraid, either?”

“N—no. I think not,” answered Winifred, with just a little hesitation in her voice.

“Not afraid to leave your home and your parents, and brothers and friends, and go somewhere right away, you don’t know where?”

Winifred was silent. She did not know what to say. She was beginning to feel a little fear, yet she hardly knew how or why.

“You are not afraid, swallow?”

“No; I know I shall be taken care of.”

“Then why should I be afraid?”

“I don’t know; but I think you are.”

Winifred pondered again.

“Do you know what makes you not afraid?”

The swallow turned his head from side to side, and by-and-by answered:

“I think it’s because I always do just as I’m meant to do—stay when I ought to stay, and fly when I ought to fly, build when I ought to build, and do just what I ought. If swallows always do that they need never be afraid.”

“And how do you know what you ought to do?”

“Something inside me tells me.”

“Does it never tell you wrong?”

“No, never.”

Winifred sighed, and shook her head.

“But I never have anything inside me to tell me what I ought to do and what I ought not,” she said.

“Do you not?” said a soft voice quite close to her, and the child started, for it did not seem as if it was the swallow who had spoken, and looking round, Winifred saw a beautiful figure in white standing beside her, and looking with grave, kind eyes into her face. He had great white wings, and Winifred said half aloud, half to herself:

“It is an angel.”

“Winifred,” said the angel, softly and yet gravely, “have you nothing inside you that tells you when you do right and when you do wrong?”

Slowly Winnie’s eyes fell, and the rosy colour mounted to her cheeks.

“I do try not to do wrong. I don’t think I am very naughty,” she said, as if excusing herself.

“Did I say you were?” asked the angel.

“It seemed as if you did.”

The angel smiled at her a sort of pitying smile.

“Is it I that spoke, my child? or the something in your heart to which you do not always listen?”

“I do what I can,” said Winifred, still seeming to answer a different voice from the angel’s. “I am not strong. I can’t do like other people; and besides, little girls can’t do things. I am going to try before I go away, but I’ve never been able before.”

“Never?”

“No; there never seems anything for me to do for anybody else.”

“Nothing?”

“No; only such silly little things that it isn’t worth beginning.”

The angel looked gravely down upon the child for some minutes, and Winifred felt a strange sense of pain and humiliation falling upon her. Then he turned to the swallow who was still sitting upon the window-ledge, and said quietly:

“Show her.”

Then the angel disappeared, and Winifred and her friend were left together.

“Can you get on my back?” asked the swallow.

“Oh yes!” cried Winnie, eagerly, glad to have something to distract her thoughts. “Are you going to take me with you? I should like that.”

“I am going to take you a little way, and show you some things,” answered the swallow. “You will come back by-and-by.”

Winifred had no difficulty in making herself comfortable and secure upon the swallow’s back, and very soon they were flying quickly through the dark night.

“Are you going after the other swallows?”

“Not just yet.”

“Won’t you be afraid of getting lost if you are left behind?”

“Oh no, we never get lost whilst we are doing our duty.”

Winifred began to feel rather uncomfortable. She was half sorry she had agreed to go with the swallow.

“Is it your duty to do what the—the angel told you?”

“Yes.”

“I think he was vexed,” observed Winifred rather discontentedly. “I was glad when he went away.”

“Hush!” answered the swallow, “you ought not to talk like that.”

Winnie was silent for awhile, and then she asked:

“Where are you taking me, swallow? What are all those lights down there?”

“The lights of a great city. I am going to show you some pictures.”

“I like pictures,” said the little girl, brightening up at the idea. “I am glad now that I came with you, swallow.”

All in a minute Winifred found herself looking into a pretty garden. There were some little children at play there, one little girl sitting by herself with a book, and two younger boys trying hard to mend a broken toy. It would have been an easy task enough for any more experienced hands, and by-and-by one little fellow looked up and said:

“Please, sister, will you do it for us?”

“Oh, I can’t; I’m busy. You can quite well do it for yourselves.”

The two little fellows returned to their task, but their efforts only made the damage worse, and soon they burst out crying in their disappointment.

“What babies you are!” said the little girl rising, going further away. “You make my head ache with all that noise.”

“What a horrid little girl!” cried warm-hearted Winnie. “Why couldn’t she mend the toy? Anybody could have done it at first. Why doesn’t she go and comfort them? Poor little boys!”

“You see it was such a little thing,” answered the swallow, “only a toy, and only a few tears. It was not worth while troubling over a little thing like that. It would be different if it were something great.”

Winnie was silent, and the swallow flew on again.

Now they were in a room, and a little boy was lying on a sofa, and he had no books or toys within reach.

“I wish somebody would come—it is so dull,” Winifred heard him say. “I wonder when the others will be coming in.”

Just then there came a sound of children’s voices laughing and shouting. They came nearer and nearer, and seemed to pass the door of the room, but nobody came in. The little sick boy called; but in the noise of laughing nobody heard, and the tears came into his eyes.

“They have all gone up to play,” he said, “and nobody cares to see if I want anything, and I did so want to have somebody to talk to!”

“Oh, swallow!” cried Winnie indignantly, “what horrid children! That poor little boy! How could they?”

“It was such a little thing, coming in to speak to him, I don’t suppose anybody ever thought of it,” answered the swallow. “They are not horrid children. They are fond of their little brother; but people cannot always think of little things, you know.”

Winifred said no more. She felt subdued and ashamed. How could the swallow know what she had been thinking about that day?

The next time the swallow paused it was again in a room. A lady was half lying upon a sofa, and she did not look ill, only unhappy. She had books and flowers and all sorts of nice things round her, but she was not doing anything.

“Who is that?” asked Winifred. “Why does she look unhappy?”

“She is unhappy,” answered the swallow.

“Why, is she ill?”

“No, she is unhappy because she has nothing to do.”

“What does she generally do?”

“She has never done anything yet. She has been waiting all her life for something, and it has never come.”

“Why!” said Winifred in a puzzled way, “grown-up people can do such lots of things. My mamma is always busy.”

“What does she do?”

“Oh, ever so many things. Sees after the servants, takes care of us all, is kind to poor people, and works for the sick. I can’t think of half the things, but she is always doing something or other.”

“What little things those are though!” said the swallow almost, as it seemed, contemptuously. “They would never suit that lady. She is waiting and has always been waiting for some great thing to do. She would never be satisfied with ‘little silly things’ like those.”

“Why, swallow,” cried Winifred indignantly, “how can you talk so! Why it’s little things that make big ones. If mamma never did all those little things every day, I think everybody would be miserable and everything would go wrong.”

“Ah!” said the swallow, turning his head knowingly from side to side. “So you have learnt your lesson at last. Now we will go back.”

Again came that whirling flight through the dark air, and Winifred found herself at her nursery window again.

The angel was standing there, and it seemed to the child as if he lifted her gently in his arms.

“Little child,” he said tenderly, “tell me what you have seen.”

Winifred felt in a very different mood from the one in which she had set out. Looking into the angel’s face she answered humbly:

“I think I see now.”

“I think you do. You will not think things too little now to be worth thinking of—little acts of self-denial, little words of love, little deeds of kindness—you will not despise them now.”

“No, angel, I will try not. I did not understand before.”

“You did not; and yet, my child, you might have done.”

“How?”

“You might have read it in your Bible—in the life of Jesus Christ, our Pattern.”

“Please explain.”

“He came down from Heaven to live for us—that was a great thing, was it not? And He died on the Cross for our sins—that was a great thing too. But He took little children up in His arms and blessed them, and that seemed a little thing to those who stood by; but has it proved such a little thing?”

“Tell me,” said Winifred earnestly.

“I think it has made little children and loving parents very happy ever since. I think it has made a great difference to the world, knowing that He loved the children and did not think them too little to be blessed and noticed and loved. If nothing is too little for Him, need we find it too little for us.”

“Dear angel,” said Winifred, with tears in her eyes, “I will try never to forget.”

“Try, little child,” answered the angel tenderly; and looking down into Winifred’s eyes, he added almost solemnly, “and when you have learnt the lesson, will you be afraid to come with me?”

“With you, where?”

“To a bright, happy land, where no sorrow is—to a beautiful home where you would live always in the light of your Saviour’s love. Would you be afraid to go there, my child?”

“I don’t know,” answered Winifred slowly. “Do you mean heaven?”

“I mean a happy, holy place, where no sorrow or pain can ever come. You were not afraid to go with the swallows over the sea to a land of sunshine and flowers. You were not afraid of a long strange journey with them, you knew not whither. Would you be afraid to trust to me? Would you be afraid to let me carry you across a river, and into a new land far more bright and beautiful than the one where the swallows go?”

Winifred lay still and quiet in the angel’s arms. She did not quite know what he meant. She felt languid and dreamy; but she was not afraid. She could not feel afraid looking up into his face and seeing his kind eyes bent upon her.

“I am going away soon,” she said.

“You are, my child, you are.”

“Did you know?”

“Yes, I knew.”

“Will you come and take me when I go?”

“Yes, if you would not be afraid to come with me.”

“No, I should not be afraid, I think. I will be ready when you come.”

And then it grew dark; the angel and the swallow both faded away and Winifred knew no more.