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IT seems to me a year since I last wrote, and yet
'tis only three short weeks. But in that time
so much has happened that I scarcely can realize
it at all. Morrisville was very lonely after the doctor
left, and but for that wild Jessie, who keeps one so constantly
stirred up, I could hardly have borne the loneliness.
She is so full of life, and she has made me laugh
so much as she described her father's conversion to
homœopathy, and then went off into ecstasies over Dr.
West.

“But there came a day when even the gleeful Jessie's
laugh was hushed, and her merry eyes were dim with
tears, as she helped me array a little crippled form for the
grave. Robin is dead! I can write about it now, can
speak of the darling composedly, but at first the thought
of him brought a great choking sob, and I could only
weep, so fast he grew in my love during the few days I
watched over him. He was worse I heard, and in spite
of Mattie's assertion that I was not able to endure it, I
went to see him. Nor was I sorry when I met the look

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of love which beamed in his soft blue eyes, as folding his
arms around my neck, he said:

“`I knew you'd come, for I asked God would He send
you to little Robin, and He did. You'll stay, too, won't
you, till Robin's dead? and you'll tell me again of my
mother in heaven?'

“I might not have stayed with him to the last, but for a
dream I had that night, in which Anna came to me, her
robes all white and pure as are the robes of the redeemed,
a halo of glory round her head, and a look of love in her
eyes as she bent over me and said:

“`There's a little harp in heaven waiting for my boy,
and ere many days his baby hands will sweep its golden
strings; but till that time arrives, he wants you, Dora
Freeman,—wants you to lead him down into the river,
across whose waters I shall wait to meet him. For
Richard's sake, you'll go.'

“The beautiful vision faded from my view, and I awoke
from what seemed more reality than a dream.

“`Not for Richard's sake,' I said, `but for Anna's;'
and so next day I went again to where the little sick boy
lay, watching and waiting for me.

“`I don't call him Papa Richard now,' he said, when
my wrappings were removed, and I sat down beside him.
`I told him what you said, that he was not my father,
and he told me, “No, Robin, I am not,” but he wouldn't

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say where papa was. Do you know, lady, is he in
heaven, too?'

“I could not tell, and I tried to divert his mind into
some other channel, getting him to speak of Richard, and,
vain girl that I was, laying ingenious snares for ascertaining
if Richard had mentioned me when he was home.

“`He talked of “Dora.” Is that you, and may I call
you so?' Robin said, in reply to my direct interrogation
as to what Richard had talked about; and so after that I
was Dora to the child, who would scarcely let another
wait upon him. `You seem like mother. You'll stay,'
he kept repeating, when Mattie came at nightfall after
me.

“I thought of Anna in my dream; thought of the little
golden harp, and stayed, while people talked, as people
will, wondering what kept me at that child's sick-bed, and
associating me at last with Richard, for whose sake they
said I had turned nurse to Robin. This piece of gossip
proved the resurrection of the old story, which was told
and retold in a thousand different forms, until madcap
Jessie Verner threatened to box the first one's ears
who should say Anna West to her again. This she told
me herself, watching with me by Robin, and that was all
that passed between us on the subject. It seemed to be
tacitly understood that neither Mattie, Bell, nor herself
were to speak of the story to me, and they did not.
Somehow it would have been a great relief to know just

[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]

what they thought, but I would not ask, and on this
point surrounded myself with so strong a barrier of reserve,
that they never tried to break it down.

“Jessie had come to Mrs. West's unsolicited, and it was
strange how the quiet, sad woman opened her heart at once
to receive the wild young creature, while Robin turned
to her trustingly, and whispered when she was gone:

“`I don't mind—her seeing my feet. She laughs at
most everything, but she wouldn't at my poor, twisted
toes.'

“Precious Robin! I would he could have seen the gush
of tears with which Jessie baptized those twisted toes
when first the shrivelled things met her view; but he
was then where the halt and maimed are made whole, and
the feet which here had never stepped a step were treading
the golden streets. It was strange that one so young
should be so sensitive about his deformity, but he had
been so from the time he first learned that he was lame,
and when, sitting in his chair upon the lawn, he would
often ask his grandmother if she supposed the passers-by
guessed that he was not like them.

“It is frequently the case that a deformity of the body
manifests itself in the expression of the face, but it was
not so with him. A more beautiful face I never saw, and
I loved to watch it as he lay sleeping upon his pillow,
wondering if the mother could have been as beautiful as
the child, and then speculating bitterly upon the father,

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wherever he might be. I had said in my heart that I
exonerated Richard, but at times I experienced a feeling
which I called hatred for the man whom Mrs. West was
almost hourly expecting, and who, when he came, found
me with Robin on my lap, his head nestled upon my
bosom, while I sang to him of the Heavenly City, where
his mother waited for him.

“It was just at the setting of the sun that I heard the
coach stop before the gate, and a rapid step upon the
walk. My voice must have trembled, for Robin unclosed
his eyes as if to ask the cause, but I hushed him gently,
while in the adjoining apartment a low conversation was
carried on for twenty minutes or more. At last the
doctor started for the room where I was sitting, but I
gave no sign of consciousness until he was close beside
me and I met the glance of his eyes,—a glance in which for
an instant I fancied I read more than a friendly interest;
the blood surged hotly through my veins; but thoughts
of Anna, whom dying he had kissed, holding her as I had
held Robin, froze it back from my face, which must have
turned very white, for after his first words of greeting,
he said to me, `I cannot thank you enough for what you
have been to mother. She has told me of your kindness;
but Dora,' and his hand touched my hair lightly, `I fear
you are overtaxing your strength. You are very pale
to-night. Let me relieve you of Robin.'

“I was not tired, I said, and my manner was so chilling

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that his hand slid from my hair, while he began speaking
to Robin, who only complained of weariness.

“`I am glad you have come, Uncle Richard,' Robin
said, putting out his thin fingers and playing with the
heavy beard of the doctor, who had knelt beside me the
better to see the child. `I call you uncle all the time
because Dora wanted me to.'

“Instantly our eyes met, and I saw his face crimson
with emotions whose nature I could not guess. I only
knew they hardened me into stone, and I was glad when
at last Jessie came in, for she relieved me from all necessity
of talking. Richard liked Jessie; her sprightly
manner amused and rested him, I could see, and it made
me half angry to hear how merrily he laughed at her remarks,
even when he knew that Robin's days were numbered.
How I clung to that child, refusing to give him
to the care of Mrs. West. He could not lie upon the
bed, and I felt a kind of fierce pleasure in holding him,
and in knowing that Richard knew what I was doing for
Anna's child.

“Slowly the summer night darkened around us, and
the August moon cast its beams across the floor, even to
where I sat singing the low lullaby. And out upon the
piazza Dr. West and Jessie talked and laughed together,
until the sick boy whispered moaningly, `It's very cold
and dark in here. Cover me closer, Dora, and light the
candles now.'

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“I covered him up, and saw upon his face a shadow,
whose import I could not mistake, and half bitterly, half
reproachfully, I exclaimed:

“`Dr. West, if you can spend the time, I think Robin
needs you.'

“He was at my side in an instant, and so was Jessie;
her eyes filling with tears when she, too, saw and recognized
the shadow which had alarmed me. Robin was
dying! We all knew it now, and Robin knew it, too,
and still refused to leave me for the arms which Richard
stretched out to him.

“`It's nicer here,' he said, and there was a world of
love in the soft blue eyes as he nestled closer to me.
`I guess I'm dying. It's all so dark and queer. Is it very
far to heaven, and will I lose the way?'

“`No, darling, for Jesus will go with you,' Richard
answered, now pressing so close to Robin that his
shoulder touched mine, and I felt his breath upon my
hair.

“`And I won't be a cripple any more? I'll walk in
heaven, and mother's there sure?' was the next remark,
to which there came no response, except a moan
from Mrs. West, until I answered:

“`Yes, sure, Robin, sure.'

“`I'll tell her how good you was, and how much I
loved you, too. What shall I say for you, Grandma
West? What word shall I carry mother?'

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“Mrs. West was weeping bitterly, with her head upon
the pillow, where Robin's had lain so long, and when he
thus addressed her, she answered:

“`Tell her, if you meet her, how I mourned for her till
my hair all turned white, and tell her how if in thought
I ever wronged her, I am so sorry now.'

“`I'll tell her,' Robin whispered; `and you, Uncle
Richard, what for you?'

“The doctor's frame shook, and his face was white as
ashes as he was thus appealed to for a message to the
dead, but he did not speak until Robin twice repeated,
`And what for you?'

“Then with a sob, he said:

“`Nothing, Robin; nothing from me.'

“`Why! didn't you love my mother?' the dying boy
asked, the look of surprise for a moment mastering the
look of death upon his face.

“`Yes, he did,' I said. `He loved her better than
his life. He loves her still. Tell her so.'

“Again my eyes met those of Dr. West, but in the expression
of his there was something which subdued all
my pride, and brought a rain of tears upon my face. I
did not longer refuse to let him take the child, nor did
Robin refuse to go; and I leaned back in my chair sick
and faint, while that great struggle went on between
death and the little life whose lamp had burned so
feebly.

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“It was not long, but while it lasted I knew that Richard
was praying softly, and that his words were soothing
to the sufferer, who suddenly exclaimed:

“`I see my mother! She's like the picture in the
frame! She's waiting for me over there where the banks
are so green! She is in heaven sure; but I don't see
my father anywhere! He is not there! Oh, where is
my father?'

“That was the last; and two hours later, Robin lay
quietly upon his couch, his golden curls all smooth and
shining, just as Jessie had made them, his blue eyes
closed, his tiny hands folded upon his bosom, his poor,
crippled feet hidden from curious sight.

“That night I began to love Jessie Verner, and so I
fancied did Dr. West. All her levity was gone for the
time, and in its place there came a tender, motherly
manner, which brooded over and encircled all in its
careful forethought. Even Mrs. West became a very
child in the hands of this girl of eighteen, while Richard,
too, was brought within her influence. He was weary
with his long ride of a hundred and thirty miles, but no
one save Jessie seemed to think of this. She remembered
everything, and when I would have worried Mrs.
West with questions as to where Robin's clothes were
kept, she hushed me gently, going about the house in
quest of what was needed, with as much assurance as if
she had been the daughter instead of a perfect stranger.

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It was Jessie who made Richard lie upon the lounge in
the quiet sitting-room; Jessie who arranged his pillows
for him, covering him up with his travelling-shawl, and
then brought him tea and toast she herself had made,
and which he so much needed after his wearisome ride.
I did not marvel that he followed her movements with
eyes in which I read, as I believed, more than an ordinary
interest; while at me, still keeping a useless watch by the
dead boy, he seldom glanced. There was a pang at my
heart which I suppose was jealousy, though I did not so
define it, and I rather enjoyed thinking that Anna, and
Robin, and myself, were in some way wronged by this
new interest of Richard's. I had cared for Robin to the
last, but with his life my usefulness had ceased. I was
not needed longer, I thought, and so next morning I
went home, saying to Mrs. West and Richard, when they
asked if I would soon be back:

“`I shall attend the funeral, of course. There in no
necessity for coming before. Jessie will do everything.'

“Mrs. West did not urge me to return, neither did
Richard, but he went with me to the gate, opening it for
me, and then, standing a moment as if there was something
he would say, `You do look tired, Dora,—more so
than I thought. You are not strong enough for all you
have gone through. I think I must prescribe,' and he
took my hand to feel the quickened pulse. `You are
feverish,' he continued. `You ought to rest, but we

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shall miss you so much. It's a comfort to know you are
here.'

“I was very foolish, very nervous, and the tears started,
but I dashed them away, and taking the offered medicine,
answered back, `I leave to Jessie the task of comforter.
She will do better than I.'

“The next moment I was walking rapidly down the
street, never looking back until the corner was reached,
when, glancing over my shoulder, I saw the doctor still
standing where I had left him, leaning upon the gate. I
never remember a time when I was so childish, or more
unhappy, than I was that day and the following, which
last was the day of Robin's funeral. There was no parade,
no display,—only a few friends and neighbors, with
Jessie, presiding genius, telling everybody what to do,
while, stranger than all, Judge Verner himself was there
as director, his carriage bearing Mrs. West and Richard
to the grave where they buried Robin.

“There was something in the young man which he liked,
he said, even if he was a fool, and so he had offered no
objections to Jessie's proceedings, and was himself doing
what he could for the family. There was room in the
carriage for four, and greatly to my surprise the Judge
whispered to me:

“`That chap they call Doctor wants you to go with
them. He says, next to his mother, the child loved you
the best.'

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“I was very faint for an instant, and then shrinking
back into the corner I answered no, so decidedly that the
judge hastened away, repeating his ill success to Richard,
who had risen, and with his mother on his arm was advancing
to the door. As he passed me he stopped, and
reaching his hand said gently, `Dora, come with us; for
Robin's sake.'

“I could not resist that voice, and I went forward taking
his other arm, and so out into the yard, past the
groups of people who speculated curiously as to why Miss
Freeman should go with the chief mourners. Behind us
came Mr. Randall's carriage, with Mattie, and Bell, and
Jessie, and that in a measure relieved me of my rather
awkward position.

“`Mother,' Richard said, as we drew near the cemetery,
`it is seven years to-day since Anna died. Do you remember?
'

“`Yes,' she answered sadly, while I remembered that
seven years ago was also to have been his bridal.

“Did he think of it as we wound round the gravelled
road, past the willow and the cedar, past the box, the
pine, and fir, to where Anna lay sleeping? Did he look
back with anguish and regret to that other day, when,
with the August sunshine falling upon him as it was falling
now, he listened to the solemn words, `Ashes to
ashes, dust to dust,' and heard the cold earth rattle
down upon the coffin-lid? Yes, he did, I was sure, and

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this was what blanched his cheeks so white and made his
lips quiver so, as we returned to the carriage and were
driven from the yard, leaving Anna and Robin there alone.

“That afternoon I was restless and wretched. I could
not remain quietly in any place, but wandered uneasily
about until near nightfall, when I stole out unobserved
and took my way to the burying-ground, where Anna
and Robin were. Just outside the iron railing which enclosed
their graves there was a rude, time-worn seat,
placed upon the grass-plat years ago, it would seem, from
the names and dates carved upon it. Here I sat down,
and leaning my face upon my hand, tried to think of all
that had transpired since I had come to Morrisville.
Had I known all I was to see and hear, would I have
wished to come? I asked myself; but could find no satisfactory
answer. I was glad I had known Robin, for his
memory would be a sacred thing to me, and I said I was
glad I had heard of Anna ere I learned to think too
much of Richard. Then thoughts of Jessie arose, and I
said aloud, `Can he ever forget Anna, who died in his
arms?'

“`No, Dora, I shall never forget her, neither can I
mourn for her always, as I mourned when we first laid
her here, and I sat nearly all the night just where you
are sitting, watching the stars as they held their first vigil
over Anna's grave, and almost impiously questioning
the Providence which had dealt so strangely with me.'

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“I knew it was Richard's voice speaking to me, and I
gave a little start of surprise, but did not lose a word
which he had spoken.

“`I half believed I should find you here,' he said, sitting
down beside me, and drawing a little more about my
neck the shawl which had fallen off. `Something told
me I should find you, and so I came quite as much to
join the living as the dead. Dora, you will forgive the
familiarity,—I never called you so at home, but here,
where you have done me and mine so much good, you
will surely let me use a name which mother and Robin
adopted.'

“I bowed, and he went on.

“`You do not know how glad I am that you were with
us when Robin died, or how it lessens the smart to have
you sitting with me in sight of Robin's grave.'

“`And Anna's?' I said, looking at him for the first
time.

“`Yes, Anna's,' he continued in the same kind tone;
`and it is of her I would tell you, Dora,' and he spoke
hurriedly now. `How much do you know of Anna, and
who told you?'

“`Sarah Felton; and I know more than I wish I did,'
I answered, my voice full of tears, which I could not repress.

“`Felton!' he repeated in dismay. `Unless her reputation
for veracity has improved, I would not vouch for

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the truth of what she might say, though she liked Anna.
Shall I tell you her history, Dora?'

“I knew it would cost him a mighty effort to do so, but
I must hear the story. I should never be happy till I
had, and I answered eagerly:

“`Yes, tell me of Anna.'

p605-107

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