Fashion -- 19th century -- Periodicals; United States -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Periodicals; Women's periodicals, American
The angel must have said all this in a very little time, for the
children had only reached the gravel-walk again, when Miss Stebbins
called out to them; and, this time, that spiteful little note in her
voice was not quite so prominent--
"Here, you may sit right down on that corner a little while; but, mind
you, don't stir; for, if you do, you'll have to budge."
"Little sister," said the boy, in a low tone, after they were seated,
"lay your head here, and try to go to sleep."
The little girl laid her head, with its shower of golden bright curls,
on her brother's breast; but, the next moment, she raised it, saying--
"I can't sleep, brother, I'm so thirsty."
"Don't you remember that day you and Willy went into the woods after
blackberries, and how you lost your way groping in the twilight of the
forest?" again whispered the angel, with his hand feeling all the time
for the fountain. "You found an old lightning-blasted tree, and you sat
down on it, and he put his arm round you just so, and said, 'Try and
go to sleep, little sister.' But you couldn't, you were so thirsty;
for you had walked full three miles. Who knows but what those children
have, too?"
There was a little pause after the angel had said this, and then Miss
Stebbins rose up and went into her pantry, where the shelves were all
of immaculate whiteness, and she could see her face in the brightly
scoured tin. She brought out a white pitcher, and, going into the
garden, filled it at the spring. Returning, she poured some of the cool
contents into a cup which stood on the table, and carried it to the
children; and she really held it to the little girl's lips all the time
she was drinking.
Farther and farther down in the heart of the woman crept the hand of
the angel; nearer and nearer to the fountain it drew.
Miss Stebbins went back to her sewing, but, somehow, her fingers did
not fly as nimbly as usual. The memories of bygone years were rising
out of their mouldy sepulchres; but all freshly they came before her,
with none of the grave's rust and dampness upon them.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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