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Title: Two Prisoners

Author: Thomas Nelson Page

Illustrator: Virginia Keep

Release Date: September 7, 2010 [EBook #33667]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TWO PRISONERS ***




Produced by Al Haines









[Frontispiece: "_STRAIGHT AWAY THE BIRD FLEW_"  _See p._ 63]





Two Prisoners

By Thomas Nelson Page



Illustrated in Color

by

Virginia Keep




New York

R. H. Russell

MCMIII




_Copyright, 1898_

_By_ ROBERT HOWARD RUSSELL


_Copyright, 1903_

_By_ HARPER & BROTHERS




_To the memory of_

ALFRED B. STAREY




_ACKNOWLEDGMENTS_

are made to Messrs. Harper & Brothers, in whose magazine, _Harper's
Young People_, when under the management of the late Alfred B. Starey,
some years ago, this story in a condensed form first appeared. The
story has been rewritten and amplified.--_T.N.P._




Illustrations


"Straight Away the Bird Flew" . . . . . . . . . _Frontispiece_

"Could See a Little Girl Walking About with her Nurse"

"Mildred Played Out-of-Doors all Day Long"

"'Are You a Princess?' Asked Molly"

"'Mother,' She Whispered"




Two Prisoners


Squeezed in between other old dingy houses down a dirty, narrow street
paved with cobble-stones, and having, in place of sidewalks, gutters
filled with gray slop-water, stood a house, older and dingier than the
rest.  It had a battered and knock-kneed look, and it leant on the
houses on either side of it, as if it were unable to stand up alone.
The door was just on a level with the street, and in rainy weather the
water poured in and ran through the narrow little passage leaving a
silt of mud in which the children played and made tracks.  The windows
were broken in many places, and were stuffed with old rags, or in some
places had bits of oilcloth nailed over the holes.  It looked black and
disreputable even in that miserable quarter, and it was.  Only the
poorest and the most unfortunate would stay in such a rookery.  It
seemed to be in charge of or, at least, ruled over by a woman named
Mrs. O'Meath, a short, red faced creature, who said she had once been
"a wash lady," but who had long given up a profession which required
such constant use of water, and who now, so far as could be seen, used
no liquid in any way except whiskey or beer.

The dingiest room in this house was, perhaps, the little hall-cupboard
at the head of the second flight of rickety stairs.  It was small and
dim.  Its single window looked out over the tops of wretched little
shingled houses in the bottom below to the backs of some huge
warehouses beyond.  The only break in the view of squalor was the blue
sky over the top of the great branching elm shading the white
back-portico of a large house up in the high part of the town several
squares off.  In this miserable cupboard, hardly fit to be called a
room, unfurnished except with a bed and a broken chair, lived a
person--a little girl--if one could be said to live who lies in bed all
the time.  You could hardly tell her age, for the thin face looked much
older than the little crooked body.  There were lines around the mouth
and about the white face which might have been worn by years or only by
suffering.  The bed-ridden body was that of a child of ten or twelve.
The arms and long hands looked as the face did--older--and as she lay
in her narrow bed she might have been any moderate age.  Her sandy hair
was straight and faded; her dark eyes were large and sad.  She was
known to Mrs. O'Meath and the few people who knew her at all as
"Molly."  If she had any other name, it was not known.  She had no
father or mother, and was supposed by the lodgers to be some relative,
perhaps a niece, of Mrs. O'Meath.  She had never known her father.  Her
mother she remembered dimly, or thought she did; she was not sure.  It
was a dim memory of a great brightness in the shape of a young woman
who was good to her and who seemed very beautiful, and it was all
connected with green trees and grass, and blue skies, and birds flying
about.  The only other memory was of a parting, the lady covering her
with kisses, and then of a great loneliness, when she did not come
back, and then of a woman dropping her down the stairs--and ever since
then she had been lying in bed.  At least, that was her belief; she was
not sure that the memory was not a dream.  At least, all but the bed,
that was real.

Ever since she knew anything she had been lying a prisoner in bed, in
that room or some other.  She did not know how she got there.  She must
belong in some way to Mrs. O'Meath, for Mrs. O'Meath looked after her
and kept others away.  It was not much "looking after," at best.  Mrs.
O'Meath used to bring her her food, such as it was--it was not very
much--and attend to her wants, and bring her things to sew, and make
her sew them.  Molly suffered sometimes, for she could not walk; she
had never walked--at least, unless that vague recollection was true.
She had once or twice asked Mrs. O'Meath about her mother, but she had
soon stopped it.  It always made Mrs. O'Meath angry, and she generally
got drunk after it and was cross with her.

Sometimes when Mrs. O'Meath got drunk she did not come up-stairs at all
during the day.  She was always kinder to her next day, however, and
explained, with much regret, that she had been sick--too sick to get a
mouthful for herself even; but other people who lived in the house told
Molly that she was "just drunk," and Molly soon got to know the signs.
Mrs. O'Meath would be cross and ugly and made her sew hard.  Sometimes
she used to threaten her with the Poorhouse.  Molly did not know what
that was; she just knew it was something dreadful (like a prison, she
thought).  She could not complain, however, for she knew very well that
what Mrs. O'Meath did was out of charity for her and because she had
promised some one to look after her.  The little sewing Molly was able
to do for her was not anything, she knew.  Mrs. O'Meath often told her
so.  And it made her back ache so to sit up.

The rest of the people in the house were so busy they did not have time
to trouble themselves about the child, and Mrs. O'Meath was cross with
them if they came "poking about," as she called it.

Molly's companions were two books, or parts of books--one a torn copy
of the "Pilgrim's Progress," the other a copy of the "Arabian Night's
Entertainment."  Neither of them was complete, but what remained she
knew by heart.  She used to question the women in the house, when they
would stop at the door, about things outside; but they knew only about
their neighbors and their quarrels and misfortunes--who got drunk; who
had a new sofa or frock; who had been arrested or threatened by the
police, and who had been refused a drink at the bar.  Molly's questions
about the fairies and great ladies simply set her down with them as a
half crazy thing.  So Molly was left to her own thoughts.  Her little
bed was fortunately right by the window, and she could look out over
the houses.  The pigeons which circled about or walked upon the roofs,
pluming themselves and coquetting, and the little brown sparrows which
flew around and quarrelled and complained, were her chief companions,
and she used to make up stories about them.  She soon learned to know
them individually, even at a distance, and knew where they belonged.
She learned their habits and observed their life.  She knew which of
them were quiet, and which were blustering; which were shy, and which
greedy--most of them were this--and she used to feed them with crumbs
on the window-sill.  She gave them names out of her books and made up
stories about them to herself.  They were fairies or genii, and lived
under spells; they saw things hidden from the eyes of men, and heard
strange music which the ears of men could not catch.  One bird,
however, interested her more than all the others.  It was a bird in a
cage, which used to hang outside of the back window of a house not far
from hers, but on another street.  This bird Molly watched more closely
than all the rest, and had more feeling for it.  Shut up within the
wire bars, whilst all the other birds were flying so free and joyous,
it reminded her of herself.  It had not been there very long.  It was a
mocking-bird, and sometimes it used to sing so that she could hear its
notes clear and ringing.  She felt how miserable it must be, confined
behind its bars, when there was the whole sky outside for it to spread
its wings under.  (It used to sing almost fiercely at times.  Molly was
sure that it was a prince or princess imprisoned in that form.)
Shortly after it first came it sang a great deal, yet Molly knew it was
not for joy, but only to the sky and the birds outside; for it used to
flutter and look frightened and angry whenever the woman leaned out of
the window; and sometimes the birds would go and look at it in a
curious, half pitying way, and it would try to fly, and would strike
against the cage and fall down, and then it would stop singing for
awhile.  Molly would have loved to pet it, and then have turned it
loose and seen it flying away singing.  She knew what joy would have
filled its little heart to see again the woods and the green fields and
pastures and streams, for she knew how she would have felt to see them.
She had never seen them in all her life, unless she had not dreamed
that dream.  Maybe, if it were set free, it would come back sometimes
and would sing for her and tell her about freedom and the green fields.
Or, maybe, it might even go to Heaven and tell her mother about her.

The bird had not always been in a cage; it had been born in a lilac
bush in a great garden, with other lilac bushes and tall hollyhocks of
every hue, and rose bushes all around it; and it had been brought up
there, and had found its mate in an orchard near by, where there were
apple trees white with bloom and a little stream bordered with willows,
which sometimes looked almost white, too, when the wind blew fresh and
lifted the leaves.  It had often sung all night long in the moonlight
to its mate; and one day, when it was getting a breakfast for the young
in its nest in the lilacs, it had been caught in a trap with slats to
it; and a man had come and had carried it somewhere in a close basket,
and had put it into a thing with bars all around it like a jail, and
with a dirty floor; and a woman had bought it and had kept it shut up
ever since in a cage.  It had come near starving to death for a while,
for at first it could not eat the seed and stuff which covered the
bottom of its cage, they were so stale; but at last it had to eat, it
was so hungry.  It grew sick, though, not being used to being shut up
in such a close, hot place, with people always moving about.  Though
its owner was kind to it, and talked to it, and was gentle with it, it
could not forget its garden and freedom, and it hoped it would die.
The woman used to hang it outside of her window, and after she went
away it used to sing, hoping that its mate might hear, and, even if it
could not release it, at least might come near enough to sing to it and
tell it of its love and loneliness, and of the garden and the lilacs
and the orchard and the dew.  Then, again, when she did not come, it
would grow melancholy, and sometimes would try desperately to break out
of its prison.  Sometimes at night it would dream of the lilacs and
would sing.  How Molly watched it and listened to it, and how she
pitied it and hoped it knew she was there, too!

One other thing that interested Molly greatly was the great gray house
over beyond the other houses.  She supposed it was a palace.  There she
could see a little girl walking about in the long upper
gallery--sometimes alone and sometimes with a colored woman, her nurse.
Molly had very keen eyes and could see clearly a long distance; but she
could not, of course, see the features of the little girl.  She could
only tell that she had long brown hair, and wore beautiful dresses,
sometimes white, sometimes blue, sometimes pink.  She knew she must be
beautiful, and wondered if she were a princess.  She always pictured
her so, and she was always on the watch for her.  At times she came out
with something in her arms, which Molly knew was a doll, and Molly used
to fancy how the doll looked; it must have golden ringlets, and blue
eyes, and pink cheeks, and look like a princess.  Molly felt sure that
the little girl must be a princess.  The doll would be dressed in silk
and embroidery.  She set to work, and with her scraps, left from the
pieces Mrs. O'Meath brought her, made a dress and a whole suit of
clothes for it, such as she thought it ought to have.  The dress was
nothing but a little piece of shiny cambric, trimmed with her silk
bits, and the underclothes were only cotton; but she flounced the dress
with ends of colored thread and embroidered it beautifully, and folded
it up in a piece of paper and stuck it away under the mattress where
she kept her treasures.

[Illustration: "_COULD SEE A LITTLE GIRL WALKING ABOUT WITH HER NURSE_"]

One day she saw the little girl on the gallery playing with something
that was not a doll; it ran around after her and hung on to her skirt.
At first Molly could not see it well; but presently the little girl
lifted it up in her arms, and Molly saw that it was a little dog, a
fat, grayish-yellow puppy.  For several days it used to come out and
play with its little mistress, or she would play with it, lifting it,
carrying it, feeding it, hugging and kissing it.  Molly sighed.  Oh,
how she would have liked to have a little dog like that!  Her little
room looked darker and gloomier than ever.  She turned over and tried
to sleep, but could not.  She was so lonely.  She had nothing; she had
never had anything.  She could not ever hope to have a doll, but, oh,
if she had a puppy!  Next day she thought of it more than ever, and
every day afterwards she thought of it.

She even dreamed about it at night: a beautiful, fat, yellow puppy came
and got up by her on the bed and cuddled up against her and went to
sleep.  She felt its breathing.  She actually saved some of her dinner,
her bones, next day, and hid them, to feel that she had some food for
it, though she was hungry herself.  No puppy came, however, and she had
to give it up and content herself with looking out for the puppy on the
white gallery under the elm beyond the housetops.




II.

The big house, the back of which, with its double porticos and great
white pillars, Molly could see away up on the hill across the
intervening squares, was almost as different from the rickety tenement
in which the little cripple lay as daylight is from darkness.  It was
on one of the highest points in the best part of the city, and was set
back in grounds laid off with flower beds and surrounded by a high iron
fence.  In front it looked out on a handsome park, where fountains
played, and at the back, while it looked over a very poor part of the
town, filled with small, wretched looking houses, they were so far
beneath it that they were almost as much separated from it as though
they had been in another city.  A high wall and a hedge quite shut off
everything in that direction, and it was only from the upper veranda
that one knew there was any part of the town on that side.  Here,
however, Mildred, the little girl that Molly saw with her doll and
puppy, liked best to play.

Mildred was the daughter of Mr. Glendale, one of the leading men in the
city, and she lived in this house in the winter.  In the summer she
lived in the country, in another house, quite as large as this, but
very different.  The city house was taller than that in the country,
and had finer rooms and handsomer things.  But, somehow, Mildred liked
the place in the country best.  The house in the country was long and
had many rooms and curious corners with rambling passages leading to
them.  It was in a great yard with trees and shrubbery and flowers in
it, with gardens about it filled with lilacs and rosebushes, and an
orchard beyond, full of fruit trees.  Green fields stretched all about
it, where lambs and colts and calves played.  And when in the country
Mildred played out of doors all day long.

[Illustration: "_MILDRED PLAYED OUT-OF-DOORS ALL DAY LONG_"]

The city Mildred did not like.  She was a little lame and had to wear
braces; but the doctors had always said she must be kept out of doors,
and she would become strong and outgrow her lameness.  Thus she had
been brought up in the country, and knew every corner and cranny there.
She knew where the robins and mocking-birds nested; the posts where the
bluebirds made their homes and brought up their young, and the hollow
locusts where the brown Jenny Wrens kept house, with doors so tiny that
Mildred could not have gotten her hand in them.  In town she felt
constrained.  There she had to be dressed up and taken to walk by her
mammy.  In the country she never thought of her lameness; but in town
she could not help it.  It was hard not to be able to run about and
play games like the other children.  Rough boys, too, would talk about
the braces she had to wear, and sometimes would even laugh at her.  So
she was shy, and often thought herself very wretched.  Her mother and
her mammy used to tell her that she was better off than most little
girls, but Mildred could not think so.  At least, they did not have to
wear braces, and could run about where they pleased and play games and
slide down hills without any one scolding them for ruining their
dresses or not being a lady.  Mildred often wished she were not a lady,
and, though efforts were made to satisfy her least whim, she was
dissatisfied and unhappy.

A large playroom was set apart for her in town; and it was fitted up
with everything that could be thought of.  After the first few days it
ceased to give her pleasure.  The trouble was that it was all "fixed,"
her playthings were all "made playthings."  She had to play according
to rule; she could not do as she pleased.  In the country she was free;
she could run about the yard or garden, and play with the young birds
and chickens and "live" things.  One "live" thing was, in Mildred's
eyes, worth all the "made" ones in the world; and if it was sick or
crippled, she just loved it.  A lame chicken that could not keep up
with the rest of the brood, or a bird that had broken its wing falling
out of the nest, was her pet and care.  Her playroom in town was filled
with dolls and toys of every size and kind, and in every condition, for
a doll's condition is different from that of people; it depends not on
the house it lives in and the wealth it has, but on the state of its
body and features.  Mildred's playhouse in the country was a corner of
a closet, under the roof.  There she used to have war with her mammy,
for Mammy was very strict, and had severe ideas.  So whenever a sick
chicken or lame duck was found crying and tucked up in some of the
doll's best dresses there was a battle.  "I don't want dolls," Mildred
would say.  "It don't hurt a doll to break it; they don't care; and it
don't help them to mend them; they can't grow.  I want something I can
get well and feed."  Indeed, this was what her heart hungered for.
What she wanted was company.  She felt it more in the city than in the
country.  In town she had nothing but dolls.  She used to think, "Oh,
if I just had a chicken or a bird to pet and to love--something young
and sweet!"  The only place in town where she could do as she pleased
was the upper back veranda.  Thus she came to like it better than any
other spot, and was oftenest there.




III.

One day when Mildred had been dressed up by her mammy and taken out to
walk, as she stopped on the edge of the park to rest, a fat, fawn
colored puppy, as soft as a ball of wool and as awkward as a baby, came
waddling up to her on the street; pulled at her dress; rolled over her
feet, and would not let her alone.  Mildred was delighted with it.  It
was quite lame in one of its legs.  She played with it, and hugged it,
and fed it with a biscuit; and it licked her hands and pinched her with
its little white, tack-like teeth.  After a while Mammy tried to drive
it away, but it would not go, it had taken too great a fancy to its new
found playmate to leave her, and, though Mammy slapped at it and
scolded it, and took a switch and beat it, it just ran off a little way
and then turned around when they moved on and followed them again,
coming up to them in the most cajoling and enticing way.  When they
reached home Mammy shut it out of the gate; but it stayed there and
cried, and finally squeezed through the fence, scraping its little fat
sides against the pickets, and, running up to the porch after them,
slipped into the house, and actually ran and hid itself from Mammy
under some furniture in the drawing-room.

Mildred begged her father to let her keep the dog.  He said she might,
until they could find the owner, but that it was a beautiful puppy and
the owner would probably want him.  Mildred took him to her veranda and
played with him, and that night she actually smuggled him into her bed;
but Mammy found him and turned him out of so snug a retreat, and
Mildred was glad to compromise on having him safely shut up in a box in
the kitchen.  Her father put an advertisement in the papers and every
effort was made to find the owner, but he never appeared, which was
perhaps due to Mildred's fervent prayers that he might not be found.
She prayed hard that he might not come after Roy, as she named him,
even if he had to die not to do so.

From that time Mildred found a new life in the city.  The two were
always together, playing and romping.  Roy was the most adorable of
puppies, and was always doing the most comical and unexpected things.
At times he would act like a baby, and other times would be as full of
mischief as a boy.

The upper gallery was Mildred's favorite place.  Her mother had given
it up to her.  There she could run about, without having Mammy scold
her for letting Roy scratch up the floor.  Roy made havoc in her
playroom; he appeared to have a special fondness for doll babies, and
would chew their feet off recklessly.  He did not have a wholly easy
time, however, for Mildred used to insist on dressing him up and making
him sleep in her doll's carriage, and, as Roy had the bad taste not to
appreciate these honors, he had to be trained.  Mammy had been strict
enough with Mildred to give her very sound ideas of discipline, so
sometimes Mildred used to coerce Roy till he rebelled with whines.  It
was all due to affection, however, and Roy used to whine more over the
huggings his little mistress gave him than anything else.

"What you squeezin' dat dog so for?  Stop dat!  Don' you heah him
crying?" Mammy used to say.

"'Tain' any use havin' a dog if you carn't squeeze him," Mildred would
reply.

Whenever they went out Roy used to go along.  Roy was a most
inquisitive dog.  Curiosity was his besetting sin.  It got him into
more trouble than anything else.  He used to chew up lace curtains, and
taste the silk of the chair covers in the parlors just to try them,
though anything else would have done just as well; and once or twice he
actually tried the bottom of Mammy's dress.  This was a dreadful
mistake for him to make, as he found out, for Mammy allowed no
liberties to be taken with her.

"Ain't you got no better sense'n to be chawing my frock, dog?" she used
to say.  "Ef you ain't, I gwine teach you better."  And she did.  When
he went out to walk he carried his curiosity to great limits; indeed,
as it proved, to a disastrous length.  He had grown somewhat and could
run about without tripping up over himself every few steps; and as he
grew a little older he was always poking into strange yards or around
new corners.  Once or twice he had come near getting into serious
trouble, for large dogs suddenly bounded up from door-mats and out of
unnoticed corners and appeared very curious to know what business he, a
little, fat puppy, had coming into their premises uninvited.  In such
cases Roy always took out as hard as his little fat legs could carry
him; or, if they ran after him, he just curled over on his back,
holding up his feet in the most supplicating way, till no dog would
have had the heart to hurt him.

At last one day he disappeared, and no efforts could find him.  He was
hunted for high and low; advertisements were put in the papers; a
reward was offered, and every exertion was made to find him; but in
vain.  The last that had been seen of him he was playing out in the
street in front of the house, and had gone down a side street.  It was
in the direction of the worst part of the town, and, after he did not
turn up, there was no doubt that he was stolen, or maybe killed.
Mildred was inconsolable.  She cried herself almost sick.  Her father
offered to get her another puppy just like Roy; but it did no good; it
would not be Roy, she said; it would not be lame.  The sight of the
dolls which Roy had so often chewed with so much pleasure made her cry
afresh.  She prayed that he might come back to her.




IV.

That very afternoon on which Roy disappeared Molly had just got her
dinner--a little soup, with a knuckle-bone in it, and a piece of
bread--and she was thinking what a pity the bone was so large, as she
was hungry, when she heard something on the staircase outside.  The
door had been left slightly open by the woman who had brought the
dinner, and the sound was quite distinct; it sounded like something
dragging up the steps.  She thought it was a rat, for there were a
great many of them about, and she was wishing the door was shut, for
she did not want it to come into her room, and, besides, it was cold.
But as she could not reach the door, she was about to begin on her
dinner.  Just as she started, however, she heard a soft and low step at
her door, and she looked up.  There came a dear, fat, yellow-gray
puppy, with a black nose, walking in just as straight and solemnly as
if he were a doctor and had a visit to pay.  She did not dare to move
for fear he would be frightened and go out; but he did not trouble
himself.  Walking straight on, he took a glance around as if to assure
himself that this was the place he wanted, and then, looking at her, he
gave a queer little switch of his tail, which twisted half his body in
the funniest way, and, quickening his pace, came trotting up to her bed
and reared up to try and climb up on it.  Molly put her hand over on
it, and he began to lick it rapidly and whimper in his efforts to get
up.  She gave a little cry of delight and, catching him, pulled him up
on the bed.  He immediately began to walk over her and lick her face.
It was the first time she had ever been kissed in her life that she
remembered.  The next thing he did was to poke his little head into her
soup bucket, and begin to eat as if it belonged to him.  He finished
the soup and began at the bone.  This gave him the greatest delight.
He licked and nibbled and chewed it; got his fat paws in, and worked
over it.  Molly, too, got the greatest pleasure out of it.  She forgot
that she was hungry.

Suddenly he lay down and went fast asleep snuggled up against her.
Molly felt as if he were a little fat baby curled up in her arm.  Her
life seemed suddenly to have opened.  The only trouble was the fear
that Mrs. O'Meath might take him away and drive him out.  To prevent
this was her dream.  She thought of hiding him, but this was difficult;
besides, she wanted to tell Mrs. O'Meath about him.

The puppy stayed with her that night, sleeping beside her, and
snuggling up against her like a little child.  Molly had never spent so
happy a night.

Next morning by light he was awake hunting for his knuckle-bone, and
when he got it went to work at it.  In the midst of Molly's reflections
Mrs. O'Meath walked in.  Her eye fell on Roy, and Molly's heart sank.

"What's that dirty dog doin' in this room?"

Roy answered for himself.  The hair on his back rose and he began to
bark.  Molly tried to check him.

"Where did ye git him?"

"Oh, Mrs. O'Meath, please, madam, let me keep him.  He came from
heaven.  I haven't anything, and I want him so.  Hush!  You must not
bark at Mrs. O'Meath.  Hush, sir!"

But Roy just pulled loose, and, standing astride of Molly, barked worse
than ever.

"Not I, indeed.  Out he goes.  'Ave I to be slavin' meself to death for
the two of you?  It isn't enough for the wan of you, and him barkin' at
me like that."

"Oh, Mrs. O'Meath, please, madam!  I will sew for you all my life, and
do everything you want me to do," cried Molly.  "O God, don't let her
take him away from me!" she prayed.

Whether it was that Mrs. O'Meath was troubled by the great, anxious
eyes of the little girl, and did not have the heart to tear the dog
away from her, or whether she thought that perhaps Roy was a piece of
property worth preserving, she did not take him away.  She simply
contented herself with abusing him for "a loud-mouthed little baste,"
and threatening to "teach him manners by choking the red, noisy tongue
out his empty head."  She actually brought him a new knuckle-bone at
dinner time, which greatly modified his hostility.  No puppy can resist
a knuckle-bone.

Roy had been with Molly four days, and they had been the sweetest days
of the crippled girl's life.  He had got so that he would play with his
bones on the floor, rolling them as a child does a ball.  He would come
when Molly called him, and would play with her, and he slept on her bed
beside her.  One day he walked out of the room and went down the steps.
Molly called and called, but to no purpose.  He had disappeared; he was
gone.  Molly's heart was almost broken.  Her room suddenly became a
prison; her life was too dark to bear.

Mildred had prayed and prayed in vain that Roy might come back to her,
and had at length confided to Mammy that she did not believe he was
coming, and she was not going to pray any more.  She was sure now that
she was the most wretched child in the world.  She took no pleasure in
anything, even in the finest new doll she had ever seen.  However, she
was playing with her doll on the front portico that morning when Roy
came walking up the steps as deliberately as if he had just gone out.
She gave a little shriek of delight, and ran forward.  Seeing her, he
came trotting up, twisting himself as he always did when he was
pleased.  She called her mother.  There was a great welcoming, and Roy
was petted like the returned prodigal.  Mildred determined never again
to let him get out of her sight.

Looking out of her little window next day Molly saw her little girl on
the white gallery romping with a dog, and her heart was bitter with
envy.  She glanced down at the cage below her, and the mocking-bird,
which, whilst she had the puppy she had almost forgotten, was drooping
on his perch.

Mildred, however, though she watched Roy closely, did not have a wholly
easy time.  After this Roy had a wandering fever.  One day he was
playing in the yard with Mildred, who was about to give him a roll she
had.  Near where they were playing stood a rose-bush covered with great
red roses.  Mildred thought it would be great fun to take a rose and
tease Roy with it.  So she turned and broke off from the bush one of
the finest.  It took some little time, and when she turned back, Roy,
whether offended at being neglected or struck by some recollection, had
squeezed through the fence, and started down the street.  Mildred
called after him, but he paid no attention to her.  She opened the gate
and ran after him.

"Roy, Roy!" she called.  "Here, Roy, come here."

But Roy took no heed of her; he just trotted on.  When she ran faster
he ran, too, just as if she were a stranger.  He turned into another
street and then another.  She had to hurry after him for fear she might
lose him.  He reached a dirty little narrow street and turned in.  She
was not far behind him, and she saw the door he went into.  She ran to
it.  He was going up the stairs, climbing steadily one after another.
As she did not see anybody to catch him she went on up after him.  She
saw him enter a door that was slightly ajar, and when she reached it
she started to follow him in, but at the sight that caught her eye she
stopped on the threshold.  There was Roy up on a bed licking the face
of a little girl, and acting as if he were wild with joy.




V.

Molly's day had been very dark.  It was dark without and within.  She
had suffered a great deal.  She had seen the little girl on the gallery
playing with her puppy and running about, and her own life had seemed
very wretched.  Mrs. O'Meath was drunk and had threatened her with the
Poorhouse, and she had not got any breakfast; she was very unhappy.

It seemed to her that she and the bird in the cage outside the window
were the most wretched things in the world.  She thought of her mother,
and wondered if she should go to Heaven if she would know her.
Perhaps, she would not want her.  She lay back and looked around her
little dark room, and then shut her eyes and began to pray very hard.
It was not much of a prayer, just a fragment, beginning, "Our Father,
who art in Heaven"--which had somehow stuck in her memory, and which
she always used when she wanted anything.  Just then she heard a noise
outside on the steps.  It came pulling up step by step, and Roy trotted
in at the open door and came bouncing and twisting over toward the bed.
In an instant she had him on the bed, and he was licking her face and
walking over her.  She heard a noise at the door and was aware that
some one was there, and, looking up, she saw standing in the door the
most beautiful creature she had ever beheld--a little girl with brown
curls and big brown eyes.  She was bareheaded and beautifully dressed,
and her eyes were wide open with surprise.  In her hand she held a
small green bough, with a wonderful red thing on the end.  Molly
thought she must be a fairy or an angel.

Mildred had stopped for a moment and was looking at Molly.

In her sympathy for the poor little thing lying there she forgot all
about Roy.  Her eyes were full of pity.

"How do you do?" she said, coming softly to the bedside.

"Oh, very well, thank you," said Molly.  "My dog has come back."

"Why, is he your dog, too?  He's my dog," said Mildred.

The face of the crippled child fell.

"Is he?  I thought he was mine.  I hoped he was.  He came in one day,
and I didn't know he belonged to anybody but me.  I had been lying here
so long I hoped he would always stay with me."

The face looked so sad.  The large eyes looked wistful, and Mildred was
sorry that she had claimed the dog.  She thought for a moment.

"I will give him to you," she said, eagerly.

Molly's eyes lit up.

"Oh, will you?  Thank you so much."

"Have you got anything to feed him on?" asked Mildred.

"Yes, some bones I put away for him."  She pulled from under the side
of the bed two bones wrapt in paper, and Roy at once seized them and
began to gnaw at them.

"I have a roll here I will give him," said Mildred.  "I shall have my
lunch when I get back."

She held out her roll.  Molly's eyes glistened.

"Can I have a little piece of it?" she asked timidly; "I haven't had
any breakfast."

Mildred's eyes opened wide.

"Haven't had any breakfast, and nearly lunch time!  Are you going to
wait till luncheon?"

"'Luncheon?'  What's that?" said Molly.  "I get dinner generally; but I
am afraid I mayn't get any to-day.  Mrs. O'Meath is drunk."

She spoke of it as if it were a matter of course.  Mildred's face was a
study.  The idea of such a thing as not getting enough to eat had never
crossed her mind.  She could not take it in.

"Here, take this; eat all of it.  I will get my mother to send you some
dinner right away, and every day."  She took hold of Molly's thin hand
and stroked it in a caressing, motherly sort of way.  "What is your
name?"  She leaned over her and stroked her little dry brow, as her
mother did hers when she had a headache.

"Molly."

"Molly what?"

"I don't believe I've got any other name," said Molly.  "My mother was
named Mary."

"Where is she?" asked Mildred.

"She's dead."

"And your father?"

"Kilt!" said Molly.  "'T least I reckon he was.  Mrs. O'Meath says he
was.  I don't know whether he's dead or not."

Mildred's eyes opened wide.  The idea of any one not knowing whether or
not her father was living!

"Who is Mrs. O'Meath?" she asked.

"She's the lady 't takes care of me."

"Your nurse?"

"N--I don't know.  She ain't my mother."

"Well, she don't take very good care of you, I think," said Mildred,
looking around with an air of disapproval.

"Oh! she's drunk to-day," explained Molly, busily eating her bread.

"Drunk!"  Mildred's eyes opened with horror.

"Yes.  She'll be all right to-morrow."  Her eyes, over the fragment of
roll yet left, were fastened on the rose which Mildred, in her chase
after Roy, had forgotten all about and still held in her hand.

"What is that?" she asked, presently.

"What?  This rose?"  Mildred held it out to her.

"A rose!"  The girl's eyes opened wide with wonder, and she took it in
her thin hands as carefully as if it had been of fragile glass.  "Oh!
I never saw one before."

"Never saw a rose before!  Why, our garden and yard are full of them.
I break them all the time."

"Are you a princess?" asked Molly, gazing at her.

[Illustration: "_'ARE YOU A PRINCESS?' ASKED MOLLY_"]

Mildred burst out into a clear, ringing laugh.

"No.  A princess!"

Molly was perhaps a little disappointed, or perhaps she did not wholly
believe her.  She stroked the rose tenderly, and then held it out to
Mildred, though her eyes were still fastened on it hungrily.

"You can have it," said Mildred, "for your own."

"Oh!  For my own?  My very own?" exclaimed the cripple, her whole face
lit up.  Mildred nodded.

"Oh!  I never thought I should have a rose for my own, for my very
own," she declared, holding it against her cheek, looking at it,
smelling it and caressing it all at once, whilst Mildred looked on with
open-eyed wonder and enjoyment.

Mildred asked a great many questions, and Molly told her all she knew
about herself.  She had been lying there in that little room for years
without ever going out, and she had never seen the country.  Mildred
learned all about her life there; about the birds outside and the bird
in the cage.  Mildred could see it from the window when she climbed
upon the bed.  She thought of the roses in her garden and of the birds
that sang around her home, flying about among the trees, and to think
that Molly had never seen them!  Her heart ached.  It dawned upon her
that maybe she could arrange to have her see it.  She asked what she
would rather have than anything in the world.

"In the whole world?" asked Molly.

"Yes, in the whole world."

Molly thought profoundly.  "I would rather have that bird out there in
the cage," she said.

Mildred was surprised and a little disappointed.

"Would you?" she asked, almost in a whisper.  "Well, I will ask my
mamma to give me some money to buy it for you.  I've got to go now."

Roy, who had been asleep, suddenly opened his eyes and looked lazily at
her.  He crawled a little closer up to Molly and went asleep again.

"Here," said Molly, "take this."

She pulled out of her little store inside the bed where she kept her
treasures concealed a little bundle.  It was her doll's wardrobe.
Mildred opened it.

"Why, how beautiful!  Where did you get it?  It would just fit one of
my new dolls."

"I made it," said Molly.

"You did?  I wish I could make anything like that," said Mildred,
admiring the beautiful work.

"Would you mind something?" Molly asked, timidly.  "Would you let me
kiss you?"  She looked at her pathetically.

Mildred leaned over and kissed the poor little pale lips.

"Thank you," said Molly, with a flush on her pale cheeks.

"Good-bye.  I will come again," said Mildred, gravely.  The eyes of the
crippled girl brightened.

"Oh! will you!  Thank you."

Mildred leaned over and kissed her again.

As she walked down the dark stairs and out of the narrow damp street
into the sunlight she seemed to enter a new world.  It came to her how
different her lot was, not only from that of the poor little crippled
girl lying in that dark prison up that rickety stair, but from many and
many others who wanted nearly everything she had in such abundance.
She almost trembled to think how ungrateful and complaining she had
been, and a new feeling seemed to take possession of her.




VI.

During the hour of Mildred's absence there had been great excitement at
her home.  They thought she was lost, and they were all hunting for her
everywhere when she walked in with her little bundle in her hand.  She
might ordinarily have been punished for going off without permission,
but now they were all too glad to see her back, and she had such a good
excuse.  Even Mammy confined herself to grumbling just a little.
Mildred rushed to her mother's room and told her everything about her
visit--about Molly and everything connected with her.  She drew so
graphic a picture of the little cripple's condition that her mother at
once had a basket of food prepared and ordered her carriage.  Mildred
begged to go with her, so they set out at once.  She had taken notice
of the house, and, after driving up one or two streets, they found the
right one.  She asked her mother to let her carry the basket.  When
they entered the room Mildred's mother found it even worse than Mildred
had pictured it; but a half hour's vigorous work made a great change,
and that night, for the first time in many years, Molly slept in a
clean bed and in as much comfort as her poor little broken body would
admit.

That night Mildred could hardly sleep for happiness.  She had the money
to buy the mocking-bird.  Inquiry was made next day on the street where
Mildred described the bird as being.  It was found that the only bird
on the block belonged to a Mrs. Johnson, "a widow lady who took in
sewing."  She lived in the third story back room of a certain house and
had not been there very long, so no one could tell anything about her
except that she owned "a mocker."  This, however, was all that was
needed, and Mildred was promised that next morning the bird should be
bought and she should be allowed to take it to Molly with her own
hands.  She planned just the way in which she would surprise her.

Next morning a servant was sent around to buy the bird.  When he
returned Mildred's high hopes were all dashed to the ground.  The owner
did not wish to sell the bird.  The money was doubled and the servant
was sent back.  The answer came back: "The bird was not for sale."
Mildred was grievously disappointed.  She could not help crying.

"Send to the dealer's and buy two birds," said her father.

"Perhaps the bird is a pet," suggested her mother gently.

Mildred thought Molly did not want any bird--she wanted that one,
though she herself did not understand just why, unless it was that she
knew that one could sing.

"Then Molly is unreasonable," said Mildred's father.

Mildred was unreasonable, too.  If Molly did not want any other bird
she did not want it either.  She persuaded her mammy to walk around
through the street where the woman with the mocking-bird lived.  She
knew the house.  Just as she passed it the door opened and a woman came
down the steps with a bundle.  She was dressed in black and looked very
poor, but she also looked very kind, and Mildred, who was gazing at the
door as she came out, asked her timidly:--"Do you know Mrs. Johnson?"

"Why, I am one Mrs. Johnson," she said.  "Whom do you mean?"

"The lady that has the mocking-bird," said Mildred.

"I have a mocking-bird."

"Have you?  I mean the lady that has a mocking-bird and won't sell it,"
said Mildred, sadly.

The woman looked down at her kindly and for a moment did not answer.
Then she said:--"What do you know about it?"

"I wanted to buy it," said Mildred.

"I am sorry I could not sell it to you," said Mrs. Johnson kindly.
"The bird is all the company I have, and besides I don't think it is
well.  It has not been singing much lately."

"Hasn't it?" asked Mildred.  "I wanted it for Molly.  She wants it."

"Who is Molly?"

"The little crippled girl that lives around that way."  She pointed.
"She lies at a window away, way up.  You can almost see her out of your
window where the cage hangs.  She saw the bird from her window where
she lies and that's the reason she wants it."

The woman looked down at the little girl thoughtfully.  The big eyes
were gazing up at her with a look of deep trouble in them.

"You can have the bird," she said suddenly.  "Wait, I will get it."
And before Mildred could take in her good fortune she had gone back
into the house, and a second later she brought down the cage.

Mildred had not just understood that it was to be brought her then, and
a new difficulty presented itself.

"But I haven't any money," she said.

"I don't want any money," said the poor lady.

"But I can send it to you."

"I don't want any; I give it to you."

Mildred was not sure that she ought to accept the bird this way.  "Do
you think mamma would mind it?" she asked earnestly.

"Not if she ever had a crippled child," said the woman.

"She had.  But I'm well now," said Mildred.

She took the cage and bore it down the street, talking to her mammy of
the joy Molly would have when she took the bird to her.  The poor woman
suddenly turned and went back into the house and up the stairs, and a
second later was leaning out of the window scanning one by one every
window in sight.

Mildred and her mammy soon found the rickety house where Molly lived,
and as Mildred climbed the stairs to Molly's room, though she walked as
softly as she could, her heart was beating so she was afraid Molly
might hear it.  Curious faces peeped at her as she went up, for the
visit to Molly of the day before was known, but Mildred did not mind
them.  She thought only of Molly and her joy.  She reached the door and
opened it softly and peeped in.  Molly was leaning back on her pillow
very white and languid; but she was looking for her, and she smiled
eagerly as she caught her eye.  Mildred walked in and held up the cage.
Molly gave a little scream of delight and reached out her hands.

"Oh, Mildred, is it--?"  She turned and looked out of the window at the
place where it used to hang.  Yes, it was the same.

Mildred had a warm sensation about the heart, which was perfect joy.

"Where shall I put it?" she asked.  "He looks droopy, but Mrs. Johnson
says he used to sing all the time.  He is not hungry, because he has
feed in the cage.  I don't know what is the matter with him."

"I do," said Molly, softly.

She showed where she wanted the cage, and Mildred climbed up and put it
in the open window.  Then she propped Molly up.  She had never seen
Molly's eyes so bright, and her cheeks had two spots of rich color in
them.  She looked really pretty.  She put her arm around the cage
caressingly.  The frightened bird fluttered and uttered a little cry of
fear.

"Never mind," murmured Molly, softly, as she pulled at the catch.  "It
is only a minute more, and there will be the fields and the sky."

The peg was drawn out and she opened the door wide.  The bird did not
come out; it just fluttered backwards and forwards.  Molly pushed the
cage a little further out of the window.  The bird got quiet.  It
turned its head and looked out of the door.  Mildred had clasped her
hands tightly, and was looking on with speechless surprise.  She
thought it might be some spell of Molly's.  The bird hopped out of the
cage on to the window-sill and stood for a second in a patch of
sunlight.  It craned its neck and gazed all around curiously; turned
and looked at the cage, and then fastened its eye steadily on Molly,
shook itself in the warm air, gave a little trill, almost a whimper,
and suddenly tore away in the sunlight.

Mildred gave a little gasp, "Oh!"  But Molly did not move a muscle.
Straight away the bird flew, at first up and then on over the black
houses and the smoke toward the blue sky over Mildred's home, his wings
beating the fresh spring air, on, on, growing smaller to the sight,
flying straight for the open country--a mere speck--till at last he
faded from sight.  Molly lay motionless, with her gaze still on the
fair blue sky where he had disappeared, as if she could still see him.
Her lips had been moving, but now were stilled.

"There!" she said, softly.  "At last!" and sank back on the pillow, her
eyes closed, her face full of deep content.  Mildred sat and gazed at
her, at first with a vague wonder and then almost with awe.  A new idea
seemed to enter her mind.  Could Molly be sending the mocking-bird to
heaven with a message to her mother?




VII.

The poor lady who had given Mildred the bird was still leaning out of
her window studying the backs of the houses on the other street down
below hers in the direction the little girl had gone, when at the top
window of one of the oldest and most tumbled-down houses there was a
movement, and a flash of sunlight on something caught her eye.  Yes,
that was the place.  Looking hard, she could make out what was going
on.  She could see the cage set on the window sill and two little
figures on the bed at the open window.  It was a flash of sunshine on
the cage which had reached her.  She knew now where the bird would
hang, and if it ever sang again she would be able to hear it faintly.
In the distant past she had heard birds singing at least that far off.
She was watching intently, when to her astonishment she saw the bird
step out on the sill into the sunlight, and the next second it dashed
away.  It had escaped!  With a gasp she watched it until it rose above
the housetops and disappeared far away in the depths of the blue sky.

When it had quite disappeared she looked back at the window.  The two
little figures were there as still as ever.  There was no excitement.
Could they have set the bird free on purpose?  She gazed at them long
and earnestly, then turned and looked back at the sky where the bird
had faded from her view.  It was deep and fathomless, without a speck.
Her thoughts followed the lost bird--away over the housetops into the
country, into the past, into the illimitable heavens.  Her life was all
spread out before her like a panorama.  She saw a beautiful country of
green fields, where lambs skipped and played; gardens filled with
flowers, and orchards with clouds of bloom, where bees hummed all day
long and birds sang in the leafy coverts.  A little girl was playing
there as free as the birds; as joyous as the lambs.  In time the little
girl grew to be a big girl.  And one day a lad came up the country road
and stopped at the gate and looked across at her.  He was shy, but
pleasant looking, and after a moment he opened the gate and came
straight up to her and asked for lodging.  He was unlike any one else
she had ever known.  He had come from a State far away.  He looked into
her eyes, and she felt a sudden fear lest her father would not take him
in.  He was, however, given lodging, and he stayed on and on, and
helped her father on the farm.  He knew more than any one she had ever
seen, and he bought her books and taught her.  The girl's whole life
seemed to open up under his influence, and in his presence.  She used
to wander with him through the pleasant woods; among the blossoms; in
the moonlight; reading with him the books he brought her; finding new
realms of which she had never dreamed.  Then one evening he had leaned
over, and put his arm around her and begun to speak as he had never
spoken before.  Her happiness was almost a pain, and yet it was only
such pain as the bud must feel when the warm sun unfolds its petals and
with its deep eyes seeks its fragrant heart.  The young girl's life
suddenly opened as that rose opens; and for a time she seemed to walk
in paradise.  Then clouds had gathered; talk of war disturbed the peace
of her quiet life.  Her lover was on one side, her father on the other.
One day the storm burst.  War came.  Her husband felt that he must go.
Her father said that if she went with him she could never more come
back.  Her heart was torn asunder and yet she could not hesitate.  Her
place was with her husband.  So she had parted from her father; she
half fainting with sorrow, he white and broken, yet both sustained by
the sense of duty.  For a time there had been great happiness in a baby
girl, who, though feeble, was the light of her eyes.  The doctors said
if she were taken care of she would outgrow her trouble.  Then came a
bitterer parting than the first; her husband went off to the war,
leaving her a stranger in a strange land, with only her baby.  Even
this was not the worst.  Shortly came the terrible tidings that her
husband had been desperately wounded and left in the enemy's hands.
She must go to him.  She learned at the last moment that she could not
take her child with her.  Yet it was life or death.  She must go.  Then
Providence had seemed to open the way.  Unexpectedly she met an old
friend; a woman who had been a servant of her mother's in the old days
back at her old home.  Though she had one weakness, one fault, she was
good and kind, and she had always been devoted to her.  She would take
care of her child.  So she left the little girl with her, together with
the few pieces of jewelry she possessed.  She herself set off to go
through the lines to her husband.  It was a long journey.  In time she
arrived at the place where he had been.  But it was too late.  He was
gone.  All that was left was an unmarked mound in a field of mounds.
Since that time there had been for her nothing but graves.  Just then
the lines were closely drawn, and before she could get back through
them she had heard from the woman that her child was dead of a
pestilence that had broken out, and she herself dying.  So she was
left.  In her loneliness she had turned to her father.  She could go to
him.  He, too, was dead.  The war had killed him.  His property had
melted away.  The old home had passed from his hands and he himself had
gone, one of the unnamed and unnumbered victims.

When at length the war had closed the widowed and childless woman had
gone back to where she had left her child, to find at least its grave.
But even this was denied her.  There had been a pestilence, and in war
so many are falling that a child's death makes no difference except to
those who love it.  The mother could not find even the grave to put a
flower on.

Since that time she had lived alone--always alone except for the
memories of the past.  Her gift with her needle enabled her to make
enough to keep body and soul together.  But her heart hungered for that
it had lost.

Of late her memories had gone back much to her girlhood; when she had
walked among the fruit trees with the lambs frisking and the birds
singing about her.  She had bought the mocking-bird to sing to her.  It
bore her back to the time when her lover had walked beside her; and
there had been no thought of war, with its blood and its graves.  She
tried to blot out that dreadful time; to obliterate it from her memory;
to bridge it over, except for the memory of her child--with its touch,
its voice, its presence.  Always that called her, and she prayed--if
she only might find its grave.

For this she had come back once more to the place where she had left
it, and where she knew its grave was.  She had not found it; but had
put flowers on many unmarked little mounds; and had blessed with her
tender eyes many unknown little crippled children.

The mention of the crippled girl had opened her heart.  And now when
she lifted her head she was in some sort comforted.  She rose and took
up her bundle, and once more went down into the street.  She determined
to go and see the little crippled child who had let her bird go.

She could not go, however, till next day, and when she went she learned
that the child had been taken away by a rich lady and sent to a
hospital.  This was all the people she saw knew.  She did not see Mrs.
O'Meath.




VIII.

As soon as Molly could be moved she was taken from the hospital out to
Mildred's country home.  She had pined so to see the country that the
doctors said it might start her towards recovery and would certainly do
her good.  So Mildred's mother had closed her town house earlier than
usual and moved out before Easter.

From the very beginning it seemed to do her good.  The fresh air and
sunshine; the trees just putting on their spring apparel; the tender
green grass; the flowers, and the orchards filled with bloom, all
entranced her and invigorated her.  She loved to be out of doors, to
lie and look at the blue sky, with the great white clouds sailing away
up in it (she said they were great snow islands that floated about in
the blue air), and to listen to the songs of the birds flitting about
in the shrubbery and trees.  She said she felt just as that mocking
bird must have done that day when he stood in the warm sunshine and saw
the blue sky above him when he got out of prison.  Mildred used to take
her playthings and stay with her, and read to her out of her story
books, whilst Roy would lie around and look lazy and contented.  There
was no place where he loved to sleep so well as on Molly's couch,
snuggled up against her.

One afternoon she was lying on her couch out in the yard.  Mildred was
sitting by her, and Roy was asleep against her arm.  It was Easter
Sunday, and everything was unusually quiet and peaceful.  There had
been a good deal of talk about Easter.  Molly did not know what Easter
was, and she had been wondering all day.  Mildred herself had mentioned
it several times.  She had a beautiful new dress, and Mrs. Johnson, the
lady who had given her the mocking bird, and for whom her mother had
gotten a place, had made it.  Still to Molly's mind this was not all
that Easter meant.  Molly had heard something about somebody coming
back from the dead.  This had set her to thinking all day.  She knew
about Sunday, because that day people did not go to work as on other
days; and could not go into the barroom by the front door, and some of
them went to church.  But Easter was different.  Something strange was
to happen.  But nothing had happened.  Mildred had been to church with
her mother; but no one had come.  Even the poor lady who had made
Mildred's dress, and who had been invited to come out to the country
and spend Easter, had not appeared; and had written that she could not
come until the evening, if she could get off at all.  So Molly was
puzzled and a little disappointed.  She had waited all day and no one
had come.  She must have misunderstood or else they had told her a lie.
Now Mildred was sitting by her.

"Mildred," she said.  Mildred leaned over her.

"Well, what is it?"

"Do you think my mother will know me when I get to Heaven?  I was so
little when she went away."

Mildred told her that a mother would know her child always.  "Just so."
This seemed to satisfy her.

A mocking-bird on a lilac bush began to sing.  It sang until the air
seemed to be filled with music.

"Molly," said Mildred, "I wonder if that is not your mocking-bird?"
Molly's eyes turned slowly in that direction.

"I think maybe he went to Heaven that day, to my mother," she said,
softly.

"And told your mother that you set him free?"

Suddenly Molly spoke, slowly and softly.

"Mildred, I am very happy," she said.  "If I had all the money in the
world, do you know what I would do with it?"

"No.  What?"  Mildred took her hand and leaned over her.  She did not
answer immediately.  She was looking at the far away horizon beyond the
blue hills, where the softly fading light was turning the sunset sky
into a land of purple and gold.  Presently she said:--

"I would buy up all the birds in the world that are in cages--every
one--and set them free."  Mildred looked at her in vague wonder.

"Mildred, what is Easter?" she asked suddenly.  Mildred was astonished.
The idea of any one not knowing what Easter was!

"Why Easter was the time when----"  She paused to find just the word
she wanted, and as it did not come to her mind she began to think what
Easter really was.  It was harder to explain than she had thought.  Of
course, she knew; but she just could not remember exactly all about it.
Oh!  Yes----

"Why Easter is the time when you have nice things--a new dress and
don't have to give up butter or candy, or any thing you want to
eat--don't you know?"

This was beyond Molly's experience.  She did not know.  Mildred was not
satisfied with her explanation.  She added to it.  "Why, it's the day
Christ rose from the dead--Don't you know?"

"Is that a fairy tale?" asked Molly.

"No, of course not; it's the truth."  Mildred looked much shocked.
Molly looked a little disappointed.

"Oh!  I was in hopes it was a fairy tale.  Tell me about it."

Mildred began, and told the story; at first in vague sentences merely
to recall it to Molly's memory, and then as she saw the interest of her
hearer, in full detail with the graphic force of her own absolute
belief.  She had herself never before felt the reality of the story as
she did now, with Molly's eager eyes fastened on her face; her white
face filled with wonder and earnestness, her thin hand holding hers,
and at times clutching it until it almost hurt her.  She began with the
birth in the manger and ended with the rising in the garden.

"And did he sure 'nough come back--what you call rise again?" said
Molly presently.  Mildred nodded.  She was still under the spell of
Molly's vivid realization of it.

"And where is He now?"

"He went back up to Heaven."  Mildred looked up in the sky.  Molly too
looked up and scanned the pale blue cloudless depths.

"Can He send back anybody he wants?"

Mildred thought so.

"Then I'm going to ask Him to send back my mother to me," she said.  "I
did not know about Him.  I always asked God; but I never thought He
would do it.  I always thought He had too much to do to think about a
poor little thing like me--except once.  I asked Him not to let Mrs.
O'Meath take Roy and He didn't.  But I never asked that other one.
Maybe that's the reason He never did it before.  He'll know about it
and maybe He'll do it, because He was a little child too once, and he
must know how bad I want her."  She ducked her head down, squeezed her
eyes tightly, and remained so about two minutes.

This was a little too complicated for Mildred's simple theology.  She
was puzzled; but she watched Molly with a vague, curious interest.
Molly opened her eyes and gazed up to the skies with an air of deep
relief, not unmingled with curiosity.

"Now, I'm going to see if He'll do it," she said.  "I've asked Him real
hard three times, and if He won't do it for that I ain't ever goin' to
ask Him no more."  Mildred felt shocked, but somehow Molly's eagerness
impressed her, and she too followed Molly's gaze up into the deep
ether, and sat in silence.  Roy moved his head a little and licked
Molly's hand gently.  The mocking-bird sang sweetly in the softening
light.  The only other sound was that of footsteps coming softly across
the grass.  Mildred, half turning, could see from where she sat.  Her
mother and another person, who, as she came near, Mildred saw was Mrs.
Johnson, the poor woman who had given her the mocking-bird, were coming
together.  As they came nearer Mildred's mother was just saying:--

"This is the little girl who turned the bird loose."

Molly was still watching the far off skies, too earnest to hear the new
comers.  Mrs. Johnson's eyes fell on her.  She stopped; started on
again; stopped again, and drew her hand across her forehead, as if she
were dreaming and trying to awake.  The next second with a cry she was
down on her knees beside Molly's lounge, her arms around her.

"My baby----!"

The cripple lay quite still, gazing into her eyes with vague wonder.
Then a sudden light seemed to fall across her face.

"Mother?" she whispered, with an awed inquiry in her tone.  Then as she
caught the look in the eyes fastened on hers the inquiry passed away
and a deeper light seemed to illumine her face.

[Illustration: "_'MOTHER,' SHE WHISPERED_"]

"Mother!" she cried.




THE END











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