Mildred's New Daughter. Finley Martha
absence of their only child and her little ones. But to-day as she sat with her eyes riveted upon his sleeping face and noted its haggard look – so thin, wan and marked with lines of suffering – her heart misgave her as never before. Was he – the light and joy of her life – about to pass away to that bourn whence no traveller returns? Oh, the anguish of that thought! how could life ever be endured without him? Her heart almost stood still with terror and despair.
“Oh, my darling!” she moaned, as suddenly the sunken eyes opened and gazed mournfully into hers, “do not leave me! I cannot live without you,” and as she spoke she pressed her hand upon her heart and gasped for breath.
His lips moved but no sound came from them, the fingers of the hand she held closed convulsively over hers, he drew a long sighing breath, and was gone.
The sound of a heavy fall brought the cook and housemaid running from the kitchen to find the captain dead and the new-made widow lying prone upon the floor by his bedside, apparently as lifeless as he.
“Dear, dear!” cried the cook, stooping over the prostrate form, “there don’t seem to be a bit more life in her than in him. Take hold here with me, Myra, and we’ll lift her to the couch yonder. Poor thing, poor thing! between nursin’ and frettin’ she’s just about killed, and I shouldn’t wonder if she wouldn’t be long a-following o’ him, if she hasn’t done it already.”
“Betty, I’m afraid she has!” sobbed the girl, “and what will the poor children do? She was just the sweetest lady I ever saw, so she was.”
“There now, Myra, don’t go on so, but run and bring somethin’ to bring her to. Oh, there’s the doctor’s gig at the gate! Run and let him in, quick as you can go.”
In another minute the doctor entered the room, followed by the sobbing Myra. He glanced first at the still form on the bed. “Yes, the poor gentleman has gone!” he said, sighing as he spoke; “but it is only what was to be expected.”
He turned quickly to the couch where lay the still form of Mrs. Eldon, the face as pale and deathlike as that of the husband, laid his finger on her wrist, turned hastily, caught up a hand-glass lying on the bureau and held it to her lips for a moment, then laying it down with a sigh:
“She too is gone,” he said in a low, moved tone, “and I am hardly surprised.”
“Oh, sir, what ailed her?” sobbed Myra, “She scarce ever complained of being ill.”
“No, but I knew she had heart trouble likely to carry her off should she be subjected to any great or sudden shock.”
“And he’s been took that suddent! and she so fond o’ him,” groaned Betty. “Well, well, well! we’ve all got to die, but when my time comes I ’ope I’ll go a bit slower; that I do!”
The doctor was looking at his watch. “I must be going,” he said, “for I have other patients needing attention; but I’ll drive to the vicarage and ask Mrs. Rogers to come and oversee matters here. By the way, can either of you tell me where any relatives are to be found?”
“No, sir, that we can’t,” replied the cook, sighing heavily. “Leastways I don’t remember so much as oncet hearing the capting nor Mrs. Eldon mention no relations ’cept it might be some o’ her folks ’way acrost the sea somewheres.”
“Too far away to be of any use in this extremity,” muttered the physician meditatively. Then a little louder, “Well,” he said, “I’ll go for the vicar’s wife, and she’ll see to all the necessary arrangements. Where are the children?”
“Out walkin’ in the fields, sir,” answered Myra. “Oh, dear, the poor little things! Whatever will they do? What’s to become o’ them without no father nor no mother?”
“I dare say there are relations somewhere,” returned the doctor, then hurried out to his gig, and in another minute was driving rapidly in the direction of the parsonage.
Not far from the house he came upon the little group of children returning from their walk.
“Oh, doctor,” cried Ethel, and perceiving that she wanted to speak to him, he reined in his horse for a moment, “have you been to our house? and did you find papa better? Oh, I hope – I think he is very much better, and will soon be well.”
“Yes, my dear,” returned the kind-hearted physician after a moment’s pause, as if considering the question and the best reply to make. “I found him entirely free from the pain from which he has been so long suffering; and I am sure you and your little brother and sisters will be glad of it.”
“Oh, yes, indeed, sir! just as glad as we can be; as I am sure dear mamma must be.”
The doctor drove on, sighing to himself, “Poor little orphans! I wonder what is to become of them. If I were only a rich man instead of a poor one with a family of my own to support – ah, well! I hope there are relatives somewhere who will see that they are clothed, fed, and educated.”
CHAPTER II
“Oh, papa is better, dear, dear papa!” cried Ethel, jumping and dancing in delight.
“Oh, I’m so glad! I’m so glad!” cried Blanche and Harry in chorus.
“I so blad! I so blad!” echoed Nannette. “But I don’t want to doe home, Ethel; I’se tired.”
“Then we’ll go and sit down a while under the trees by the little brook over yonder,” returned Ethel in soothing tones. “You will like that, Blanche and Harry, won’t you?”
A ready assent was given, and all three turned aside and spent an hour or more in the pleasant spot, rolling on the grass, picking flowers, throwing them into the water, and watching them sail away out of sight.
At length Nannette began fretting. “I so tired, so s’eepy. Me wants to doe home see papa and mamma.”
“So you shall, Nan. I want to see them, too,” returned Ethel, rising and taking her little sister’s hand as she spoke. “Come, Blanche and Harry.”
“Yes, I’m ready,” said Harry, flinging the last pebble into the water. “I want to see papa and mamma; ’sides I’m hungry for my lunch.”
“So am I,” said Blanche, and they followed on behind Ethel and the baby sister, laughing and chatting merrily as they went.
Myra met the little party at the gate, her eyes red with weeping.
“O Myra, what’s the matter?” asked Ethel in alarm.
“Never mind,” returned the little maid evasively. “Your lunch is ready, and you’d best come and eat first thing, ’cause I know you must be hungry.”
So saying she led the way into the house and on to the dining room.
They had come in with appetites sharpened by exercise in the open air, and were too busy satisfying them to indulge in much chatter. Nannette at length fell asleep in her chair and was carried to her bed by Myra, whither Harry presently followed her.
“Has mamma had her lunch yet, Myra?” asked Ethel.
Myra seemed not to have heard, and the question was repeated.
“No, miss,” she replied, and Ethel noticed a suspicious tremble in her voice.
“O Myra, I hope mamma isn’t sick,” exclaimed the little girl. “She has been looking so pale of late!”
“She – she’s lying down – asleep,” Miss Ethel, Myra returned with difficulty, swallowing a lump in her throat and hurrying from the room.
“How oddly Myra acts! and she looks as if she’d been crying ever so long and hard,” remarked Ethel, half to herself, half to Blanche.
But Blanche had thrown herself on the bed beside the two little ones, and was so nearly asleep that she scarcely heard or heeded.
Ethel seated herself in a large easy-chair by the window with a book in her hand; but all being so quiet within and without the house, she too, rather weary with the walk and sports of the morning, was