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_ THE sun was setting upon the day succeeding that of the great
railroad accident, that, for weeks, filled the whole land with
horror and indignation, when a young girl, driving rapidly along a
country-road at a point about five miles distant from the scene of
the disaster, met a child walking slowly toward her, whose
disordered dress, bare head, and wild, sweet face, attracted her
attention and curiosity.
Checking her spirited horse with some difficulty, the young girl
looked back, and found that the child had stopped, and stood
watching her.
"See here, little girl!" called she. "Are you lost? Is any thing the
matter with you?"
The child fixed her solemn eyes upon the face of the questioner, but
made no answer.
"Come here, sissy! I want to talk to you; and I can't turn round to
come to you. Come here!"
The little girl slowly obeyed the kind command, and stood presently
beside the wagon, her pale face upraised, her startled eyes intently
fixed upon the clear and honest ones bent to meet them.
"What is your name, little girl?"
"Sunshine," said the child vaguely; and her eyes dropped from the
face of her questioner to fix themselves upon the far horizon, where
hung already the evening-star, pale and trembling, as it had hung
upon the evening of 'Toinette Legrange's birthday ten months before.
Was it a sudden association with the star and the hour that had
suggested to the heart of the desolate child this name, so long
forgotten, once so appropriate, now so strange and sad?
"Sunshine?" replied the young girl wonderingly. "You don't look like
it a bit. Where do you belong? and where are you going?"
The child's eyes travelled back from Dreamland, and rested wistfully
upon the kind face above her.
"I don't know," said she sadly. "I want to go to heaven; but I've
forgot the way."
"To heaven! You poor little thing, have you no home short of that?"
"I don't know. I wish I had some water."
"You had better jump into the wagon, and come home with me,
Sunshine, if that is your name. Something has got to be done for you
right away."
The child, still looking at her in that strange and solemn manner,
asked suddenly,--
"Who are you?"
"I? Oh! I'm Dora Darling; and I live about five miles from here.
Jump in quick; for it is growing dark, and we must be at home for
supper."
As she spoke, she leaned down, and gave a hand to the little girl,
who mechanically took it, and clambered into the carriage. Dora
lifted her to the seat, and held her there, with one arm about her
waist, saying kindly,--
"Hug right up to me, you poor little thing! and hold on tight. We'll
be at home in half an hour, or less.-Now, Pope!"
The impatient horse, feeling the loosened rein, and hearing his own
name, darted away at speed; whirling the light wagon along so
rapidly, that the child clung convulsively to her new protector,
murmuring,--
"I guess I shall spill out of this, and get kilt."
"Oh, no, you won't, Sunshine! I shall hold you in. You're not Irish,
are you?"
"What's that?"
"Why, Irish, you know. You said 'kilt' just now, instead of
'killed,' as we do."
The child made no reply; but her head drooped upon Dora's shoulder
yet more heavily, and her eyes closed.
"Are you sick, little girl? or only tired?" asked Dora, looking
anxiously down into the colorless face, over which the evening
breeze was gently strewing the tangled curls, as if to hide it from
mortal view, while the poor, worn, spirit fled away to peace and
rest.
"Sunshine!" exclaimed Dora, gently moving the heavy head that still
drooped lower and lower, until now the face was hidden from view.
"She has fainted!" said Dora, looking anxiously about her. No house
and no person were in sight, nor any stream or pond of water; and
the young girl decided that the wisest course would be to drive home
as rapidly as possible, postponing all attempt to revive her little
patient until her arrival there.
Without checking the horse, she dragged from under the seat a
quilted carriage-robe, and spread it in the bottom of the wagon,
arranging a paper parcel as a pillow. Then, laying poor Sunshine
upon this extemporized couch, she took off her own light shawl, and
covered her; leaving exposed only the face, white and lovely as the
marble statue recumbent upon a little maiden's tomb.
"Now, Pope!" cried Dora, with one touch of the whip upon the glossy
haunch of the powerful beast, who, at sound of that clear voice,
neighed reply, and darted forward at the rate of twelve good miles
an hour; so that, in considerably less than the promised time, Dora
skilfully turned the corner from the road into a green country lane,
and, a few moments after, stopped before the door of an
old-fashioned one-story farm-house, painted red, with a long roof
sloping to the ground at the back, an open well with a sweep and
bucket, and a diamond-paned dairy-window swinging to and fro in the
faint breeze. Around the irregular door-stone, the grass grew close
and green; while nodding in at the window, and waving from the low
eaves, and clambering upon the roof, a tangle of white and
sweet-brier roses, of woodbine and maiden's-bower, lent a rare
grace to the simple home, and loaded the air with a cloud of
delicate perfume.
A young man, lounging upon the doorstep, started to his feet as the
wagon came dashing up the lane, and was going to open the gate of
the barn-yard; but Dora stopped before the open door, and called to
him,--
"Karl! Come here, please."
"Certainly. I was running out of the way for fear of being ground to
powder beneath your chariot-wheels; for I said to myself, 'Surely
the driving is as the driving of Jehu, the son of Nimshi.'"
"I shouldn't have driven so fast; but-see here!"
She pulled away the shawl as she spoke, and showed to the young man,
who now stood beside the carriage, the still inanimate form of the
little waif at her feet.
"Phew! What's that? and where did you get it?"
"A little girl that I met; lost, I think. I took her into the buggy,
and then she fainted, and I laid her down," rapidly explained Dora;
adding, as she raised the little figure in her arms,--
"Take her in, and lay her on the bed in the rosy-room."
"Poor little thing! She's not dead, is she, Dora?" asked the young
man softly, as he took the child in his arms and entered the house,
followed by Dora.
"Oh, no! I think not; only fainted. I suppose there's hot water, for
a bath, in the kitchen."
As she spoke, they entered the sitting-room,--a cool, shady
apartment, with a great beam crossing the ceilings, and deep
recesses to the windows, with seats in them.
At the farther side, Dora threw open the door of a little bedroom,
whose gay-papered walls and flowered chintz furniture, not to speak
of a great sweet-brier bush tapping and scratching at the window,
with all its thousand sharp little fingers, gave it a good right to
be called the rosy-room. Dora hastily drew away the bright
counterpane, and nodded to Karl, who laid the little form he carried
tenderly upon the bed.
At this moment, another door into the sitting-room opened; and a
girl, somewhat older than Dora, put in her head, looked about for a
moment, and then came curiously toward the door of the rosy-room.
"I thought I heard you, Dora," said she. "What are you doing in
here? Why!-who's that?"
"O Kitty! can you warm a little of that broth we had for dinner, to
give her? She's just starved, I really believe. And is there any
ammonia in the house?-smelling-salts, you know. Didn't aunt have
some?" asked Dora rapidly.
"I believe so. But where did you get this child? Who is she?"
"Run, Kitty, and get the salts first. We'll tell you afterward."
"What shall I do, Dora?" interposed the young man; and Kitty ran
upon her errand, while Dora promptly replied,--
"Open the window, and bring some cold water; and then a little wine
or brandy, if we have any."
"Enough for this time, at any rate," said Karl, hurrying away, and
returning with both water and wine just as Kitty appeared with the
salts; but it was Dora who applied the remedies, and with a skill
and steadiness that would have seemed absolutely marvellous to one
unacquainted with the young girl's previous history and training.
"She's coming to herself. You'd better both go out of sight, and let
her see only me. Kitty, will you look to the broth?" whispered Dora;
and Karl, taking his sister by the sleeve, led her out, softly
closing the door after them.
"Dora does like to manage, I must say. Now, do tell me at last who
this child is, and where she came from, and what's going to be done
with her," said Kitty as they reached the kitchen. "Why shouldn't
she like to manage, when she can do it so well? I can tell you, Miss
Kitty, if she hadn't man aged to some purpose on one occasion, you
wouldn't have had a brother to-day to plague you."
The girl's dark eyes grew moist as she turned them upon him, saying
warmly,--
"I know it, Charley; and I would love her for that, if nothing else:
but I can't forget she's almost a year younger than I am, and ought
not to expect to take the lead in every thing."
"Pooh, Kit-cat, don't be ridiculous! Get the soup, and put it over
the fire; and I'll tell you all I know about our little guest."
"I let the fire go down when tea was ready, it is so warm to-night,"
said Kitty, raking away the ashes in the open fireplace, and drawing
together a few coals.
"That will do. You only want a cupful or so at once, and you can
warm it in a saucepan over those coals."
"Dear me! I guess I know how to do as much as that without telling.
Sit down now, and let me hear about the child."
So Karl dropped into the wooden arm-chair beside the hearth, and
told his story; while Kitty, bustling about, warmed the broth, moved
the tea-pot and covered dish of toast nearer to the remnant of fire,
waved a few flies off the neat tea-table, and drove out an intrusive
chicken, who, before going to roost, was evidently determined to
secure a dainty bit for supper from the saucer of bread and milk set
in the corner for pussy.
"If the broth is ready, I'll take it in," said Karl, as his sister
removed it from the fire.
"Well, here it is; and do tell Dora to come to supper, or at least
come yourself. I want to get cleared away some time."
"I'll tell her," said Karl briefly, as he took the bowl of broth,
set it in a plate, and laid a silver spoon beside it.
"How handy he is! just like a woman," said Kitty to herself as her
brother left the room; and then, going out into the sink-room, she
finished washing and putting away the "milk-things,"-a process
interrupted by the arrival of Dora with her little charge. _
Read next: CHAPTER XIX - A CHAMBER OF MEMORIES
Read previous: CHAPTER XVII - WHOLESALE MURDER
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