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Title: Little Button Rose
Author: Louisa May Alcott
Release date: October 4, 2025 [eBook #76977]
Language: English
Original publication: Boston: Little, Brown, and Company, 1887
Credits: Carla Foust, Simon Jones and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LITTLE BUTTON ROSE ***
[Illustration: “Rosamond sat looking about the room.”--_Frontispiece._]
LITTLE BUTTON ROSE
BY
LOUISA M. ALCOTT
AUTHOR OF
“LITTLE WOMEN,” “LITTLE MEN,” “JO’S BOYS,” ETC.
Illustrated
BOSTON
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
_Copyright, 1887_,
BY LOUISA M. ALCOTT.
_Copyright, 1901_,
BY JOHN S. P. ALCOTT.
University Press
JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A.
LITTLE BUTTON-ROSE
“If you please, I’ve come,” said a small girl, as she walked into a
large room where three ladies sat at work.
One of the ladies was very thin, one very stout, and the youngest
very pretty. The eldest put on her glasses, the stout one dropped her
sewing, and the pretty one exclaimed,--
“Why, it must be little Rosamond!”
“Yes, I’ve come; the man is taking my trunk upstairs, and I’ve got a
letter for Cousin Penelope,” said the child, with the sweet composure
of one always sure of a welcome.
The stout lady held out her hand for the letter; but the little girl,
after a keen look at the three faces, went to the old lady, who
received her with a kiss, saying,--
“That’s right; but how did you know, dear?”
“Oh, Papa said Cousin Penny is old, Cousin Henny fat, and Cousin Cicely
rather pretty; so I knew in one minute,” replied Rosamond, in a tone of
innocent satisfaction at her own cleverness, and quite unconscious of
the effect of her speech.
Miss Penelope hastily retired behind the letter, Miss Henrietta frowned
so heavily that the gold-rimmed eye-glasses flew off her nose with a
clash, and Cicely laughed outright, as she exclaimed,--
“I’m afraid we have got an _enfant terrible_ among us, though I can’t
complain of my share of the compliments.”
“I never expected to find Clara’s child well mannered, and I see I was
quite right. Take your hat off, Rosamond, and sit down. It tires Sister
to lean on her in that way,” said Miss Henny in a severe tone, with no
offer of any warmer welcome.
Seeing that something was amiss, the child quietly obeyed, and perching
herself in an ancient arm-chair crossed her short legs, folded her
plump hands over the diminutive travelling-bag she carried, and sat
looking about the room with a pair of very large blue eyes, quite
unabashed, though rather pensive, as if the memory of some tender
parting were still fresh in her little heart.
While Miss Penny slowly reads the letter, Miss Henny works daisies on
a bit of canvas with pettish jerks of her silk, and Miss Cicely leans
in the sofa-corner, staring at the newcomer, we will briefly introduce
our small heroine. Her father was cousin to the elder ladies, and being
called suddenly across the water on business, took his wife with him,
leaving the little girl to the care of these relatives, thinking her
too young for so long a journey. Cicely, an orphan niece who lived with
the old ladies, was to have the care of Rosy; and a summer in the quiet
country town would do her good, while change of scene would console
her for this first separation from her mother. How she fared remains
to be seen; and we need only add that the child had been well trained,
made the companion of a sweet and tender woman, and was very anxious to
please the parents whom she passionately loved, by keeping the promises
she had made them, and being “as brave as Papa, as patient and kind as
dear Mamma.”
“Well, what do you think of it, Missy?” asked Cicely, as the blue eyes
came back to her, after roving round the spacious, old-fashioned, and
rather gloomy room.
“It’s a pretty large, dark place for a little girl to be all alone
in;” and there was a suspicious quiver in the childish voice, as Rosy
opened her bag to produce a very small handkerchief, evidently feeling
that she might have sudden need of it if some one did not speak to her
very soon.
“We keep it dark on account of Sister’s eyes. When _I_ was a little
girl, it wasn’t considered polite to say rude things about other
people’s houses, especially if they were very handsome ones,” said Miss
Henny, with a stern glance over the eye-glasses at the young offender,
whose second remark was even more unfortunate than her first.
“I didn’t mean to be rude, but I _must_ tell the truth. Little girls
like bright places. I’m sorry about Cousin Penny’s eyes. I will read to
her; I do to Mamma, and she says it is very well for a child only eight
years old.”
The gentle answer and the full eyes seemed to calm Miss Henny’s wrath,
for her size was her tender point, and the old house her especial
pride; so she dropped the awe-inspiring glasses, and said more kindly,--
“There is a nice little room ready for you upstairs, and a garden to
play in. Cicely will hear you read every day, and I will teach you to
sew, for of course that _most_ useful part of your education has been
neglected.”
“No, ma’am, I sew my four patches every day, and make little wee
stitches, and I can hem Papa’s hank’chifs, and I was learning to darn
his socks with a big needle when--when they went away.”
Rosy paused with a sudden choke; but too proud to break down, she only
wiped two drops off her cheek with the long ends of her little gray
silk glove, set her lips, and remained mistress of herself, privately
planning to cry all she liked when she was safely in the “nice little
room” promised her.
Cicely, though a lazy, selfish young lady, was touched by the child’s
pathetic face, and said in a friendly tone, as she patted the couch
where she lay,--
“Come here, dear, and sit by me, and tell me what kind of a kitten
you’d like best. I know of a sweet yellow one, and two grays. Our Tabby
is too old to play with you; so you will want a kitty, I’m sure.”
“Oh yes, if I may!” and Rosy skipped to the new seat with a smile which
plainly proved that this sort of welcome was just what she liked.
“Now, Cicely, why will you put such an idea into Rosamond’s head when
you know we can’t have kittens round the house for Sister to stumble
over, not to mention the mischief the horrid things always do? Tabby
is all the child needs, with her doll. Of course you have a doll?” and
Miss Henny asked the question as solemnly as if she had said, “Have you
a soul?”
“Oh yes, I have nine in my trunk, and two little ones in my bag, and
Mamma is going to send me a big, big one from London, as soon as she
gets there, to sleep with me and be my little comfort,” cried Rosy,
rapidly producing from her bag a tiny bride and groom, three seedcakes,
a smelling-bottle, and a purse out of which fell a shower of bright
cents, also crumbs all over the immaculate carpet.
“Mercy on us, what a mess! Pick it all up, child, and don’t unpack any
more in the parlor. One doll is quite enough for me,” said Miss Henny,
with a sigh of resignation as if asking patience to bear this new
calamity.
Rosy echoed the sigh as she crept about reclaiming her precious
pennies, and eating the crumbs as the only way of disposing of them.
“Never mind, it’s only her way; the heat makes her a little cross, you
see,” whispered Cicely, bending down to hold the bag, into which Rosy
bundled her treasures in hot haste.
“I thought fat people were always pleasant. I’m glad _you_ ain’t fat,”
answered the little girl, in a tone which was perfectly audible.
What would have happened I tremble to think, if Miss Penny had not
finished the letter at that moment and handed it to her sister, saying
as she held out her arms to the child,--
“Now I know all about it, and you are to be my baby; so come and give
me some sweet kisses, darling.”
Down dropped the bag, and with a little sob of joy the child nestled
close to the kind old heart that welcomed her so tenderly at last.
“Papa calls me his button-rose, ’cause I’m so small and pink and sweet,
and thorny too sometimes,” she said, looking up brightly, after a few
moments of the fond and foolish cuddling all little creatures love
and need so much when they leave the nest, and miss the brooding of
motherly wings.
“We’ll call you anything you like, darling; but Rosamond is a pretty
old name, and I’m fond of it, for it was your grandmamma’s, and a
sweeter woman never lived,” said Miss Penny, stroking the fresh
cheeks, where the tears shone like dew on pink rose-leaves.
“I shall call you Chicken Little, because we have Henny and Penny; and
the girls and Tab downstairs can be Goosey-Loosey, Turkey-Lurkey, and
Cocky-Locky. I’ll be Ducky-Lucky, and I’m sure Foxy-Loxy lives next
door,” said Cicely, laughing at her own wit, while Miss Henny looked
up, saying, with the first smile Rosy had seen,--
“That’s true enough! and I hope Chicken Little will keep out of his
way, no matter if the sky does fall.”
“Who is it? A truly fox? I never saw one. Could I peep at him some
time?” cried the child, much interested at once.
“No, dear; it’s only a neighbor of ours who has treated us badly,
at least we think so, and we don’t speak, though we used to be good
friends some years ago. It’s sad to live so, but we don’t quite see how
to help it yet. We are ready to do our part; but Mr. Dover should take
the first step, as he was in the wrong.”
“Please tell about it. I have horrid quarrels with Mamie Parsons
sometimes, but we always kiss and make up, and feel all happy again.
Can’t you, Cousin Penny?” asked the child, softly touching the little
white curls under the lace cap.
“Well, no, dear; grown people cannot settle differences in that pretty
way. We must wait till he apologizes, and then we shall gladly be
friends again. You see Mr. Dover was a missionary in India for many
years, and we were very intimate with his mother. Our gardens join, and
a gate in our fence led across their field to the back street, and was
most convenient when we wanted to walk by the river or send the maids
on errands in a hurry. The old lady was very neighborly, and we were
quite comfortable till Thomas came home and made trouble. He’d lost his
wife and children, poor man, and his liver was out of order, and living
among the heathen so long had made him melancholy and queer; so he
tried to amuse himself with gardening and keeping hens.”
“I’m glad! I love flowers and biddies,” murmured Rosy, listening with
deep interest to this delightful mixture of quarrels and heathen,
sorrow, poultry, mysterious diseases, and gardens.
“He had no right to shut up our gate and forbid our crossing that
little field, and no _gentleman_ would have _dared_ to do it after all
our kindness to his mother,” exclaimed Miss Henny, so suddenly and
violently that Rosamond nearly fell off the old lady’s lap with the
start she gave.
“No, sister, I don’t agree there. Mr. Thomas had a perfect _right_ to
do as he liked with his own land; but I think we should have had no
trouble if you had been willing to sell him the corner of our garden
where the old summer-house is, for his hens,” began Miss Penny in a
mild tone.
“Sister! you know the tender memories connected with that bower, and
how terrible it would have been to _me_ to see it torn down, and
noisy fowls clucking and pecking where I and my poor Calvin once sat
together,” cried Miss Henny, trying to look sentimental, which was
an impossible feat for a stout lady in a flowery muslin gown, and a
fly-away cap full of blue ribbons, on a head once flaxen and now gray.
“We won’t discuss the point, Henrietta,” said the elder lady with
dignity; whereupon the other returned to the letter, bridling and
tossing her head in a way which caused Rosy to stare, and resolve to
imitate it when she played be a proud princess with her dolls.
“Well, dear, that was the beginning of the trouble,” continued Miss
Penny; “and now we don’t speak, and the old lady misses us, I’m sure,
and I often long to run in and see her, and I’m so sorry you can’t
enjoy the wonders of that house, for it’s full of beautiful and curious
things, most instructive for children to observe. Mr. Thomas has been
a great traveller, and has a tiger skin in the parlor so natural
it’s quite startling to behold; also spears, and bows and arrows,
and necklaces of shark’s teeth, from the Cannibal Islands, and the
loveliest stuffed birds, my dear, all over the place, and pretty shells
and baskets, and ivory toys, and odd dresses, and no end of wonderful
treasures. Such a sad pity you can’t see them!” and Miss Penny looked
quite distressed at the child’s loss.
“Oh, but I guess I will see ’em! Every one is good to me, and old
gentlemen like little girls. Papa says so, and _he_ always does what I
want when I say ‘Please’ with my wheedulin smile, as he calls it,” said
Rosy, giving them a sample of the most engaging sort.
“You funny little thing, do try it, and soften the heart of that
tiresome man! He has the finest roses in town and the most delicious
fruit, and we never get any, though he sends quantities everywhere
else. Such a fuss over an old earwiggy arbor! It is perfectly
provoking, when we might enjoy so much over there; and who knows what
might happen!”
As Cicely spoke, she smoothed her brown curls and glanced at the
mirror, quite conscious that a very pretty young lady of twenty was
wasting her sweetness in the great gloomy house, with two elderly
spinsters.
“I’ll get some for you,” answered Rosy, with a nod of such calm
conviction of her own power, that Cicely laughed again, and proposed
that she should go at once and view the battle-field.
“Could I _run_ in the garden? I’d love to, after riding so long,” asked
Rosy, eager to be off; for her active legs ached for exercise, and the
close, shady room oppressed her.
“Yes, dear; but don’t get into mischief, or worry Tabby, or pick the
flowers. Of course you wouldn’t touch green fruit, or climb trees, or
soil your little frock. I’ll ring the bell for you to come in and be
dressed for tea when it is time.”
With these directions and a kiss, Miss Penny, as Cicely did not stir,
let the child out at the back door of the long hall, and watched her
walk demurely down the main path of the prim old garden, where no
child had played for years, and even the toads and fat robins behaved
in the most decorous manner.
“It’s pretty dull, but it’s better than the parlor with all the staring
pictures,” said Rosy to herself, after a voyage of discovery had shown
her the few charms of the place. The sight of a large yellow cat
reposing in the sun cheered her eyes at that moment, and she hastened
to scrape acquaintance with the stately animal: for the snails were not
social, and the toads stared even more fixedly at her than the painted
eyes of her respected ancestors.
But Tabby disliked children as much as her mistress, and after
submitting ungraciously to a few caresses from the eager little hands,
she rose and retired majestically to a safer perch on the top of the
high wall which enclosed the garden. Being too lazy to jump, she walked
up the shelves of an old flower-stand moulding in a corner, and by so
doing, gave Rosy a brilliant idea, which she at once put into action
by following Tabby’s example. Up this new sort of ladder she went, and
peeped over the wall, delighted at this unexpected chance to behold the
enemy’s territory.
“Oh, what a pretty place!” she cried, clasping her grubby little hands
with rapture, as the beauties of the forbidden land burst upon her view.
It was indeed a paradise to a child’s eyes,--for flowers bloomed along
the winding paths; ripening fruit lay rosy and tempting in the beds
below; behind the wire walls that confined them clucked and strutted
various sorts of poultry; cages of gay birds hung on the piazza; and
through the open windows of the house one caught glimpses of curious
curtains, bright weapons, and mysterious objects in the rooms beyond.
A gray-headed gentleman in a queer nankeen coat lay asleep on a bamboo
lounge under the great cherry-tree, with a purple silk handkerchief
half over his face.
“That’s the missionary man, I s’pose. He doesn’t look cross at all. If
I could only get down there, I’d go and wake him with a softly kiss, as
I do Papa, and ask to see his pretty things.”
Being quite unconscious of fear, Rosy certainly would have carried out
her daring plan, had it been possible; but no way of descending on the
other side appeared, so she sighed and sat gazing wistfully, till
Cousin Henny appeared for a breath of fresh air, and ordered her down
at once.
“Come and see if my balsam-seeds have started yet. I keep planting
them, but they _won’t_ come up,” she said, pointing out a mound of
earth newly dug and watered.
Rosy obediently scrambled up, and was trying to decide whether some
green sprouts were chickweed or the dilatory balsams when a sudden
uproar in the next garden made her stop to listen, while Miss Henny
said in a tone of great satisfaction, as the cackle of hens arose,--
“Some trouble with those horrid fowls of his. I detest them, crowing
in the night, and waking us at dawn with their noise. I wish some
thief would steal every one of them. Nobody has a right to annoy their
neighbors with troublesome pets.”
Before Rosy could describe the beauties of the white bantams or the
size of the big golden cock, a loud voice cried,--
“You rascal! I’ll hang you if I catch you here again. Go home quicker
than you came, and tell your mistress to teach you better manners if
she values your life.”
“It’s that man! Such language! I wonder who he’s caught? That bad boy
who steals our plums, perhaps.”
The words were hardly out of Miss Henny’s mouth when her question was
answered in a sudden and dreadful way; for over the wall, hurled by a
strong arm, flew Tabby, high in the air, to fall with a thump directly
in the middle of the bed where they stood. Miss Henny uttered a shrill
scream, caught up her stunned treasure, and rushed into the house as
fast as her size and flounces permitted, leaving Rosy breathless with
surprise and indignation.
Burning to resent this terrible outrage, she climbed quickly up the
steps, and astonished the irate old gentleman on the other side by the
sudden apparition of a golden head, a red childish face, and a dirty
little finger pointed sternly at him, as this small avenging angel
demanded,--
“Missionary man, how _could_ you kill my cousin’s cat?”
“Bless my soul! who are you?” said the old gentleman, staring at this
unexpected actor on the field of battle.
“I’m Button-Rose, and I hate cruel people! Tabby’s dead, and now there
isn’t any one to play with over here.”
This sad prospect made the blue eyes fill with sudden tears; and the
application of the dirty fingers added streaks of mud to the red
cheeks, which much damaged the appearance of the angel, though it added
pathos to the child’s reproach.
“Cats have nine lives, and Tabby’s used to being chucked over the wall.
I’ve done it several times, and it seems to agree with her, for she
comes back to kill my chicks as bold as brass. See that!” and the old
gentleman held up a downy dead chicken, as proof of Tabby’s sin.
“Poor little chicky!” groaned Rosy, yearning to mourn over the dear
departed and bury it with tender care. “It _was_ very naughty of Tab;
but, sir, you know cats are made to catch things, and they can’t help
it.”
“They will have to help it, or I’ll drown the lot. This is a rare
breed, and I’ve but two left after all my trouble, thanks to that
rascal of yours! What are you going to do about it?” demanded Mr.
Dover, in a tone that made Rosy feel as if she had committed the murder
herself.
“I’ll talk to Tabby and try to make her good, and I’ll shut her up in
the old rabbit-house over here; then I hope she will be sorry and
never do it any more,” she said, in such a remorseful tone that the old
gentleman relented at once, ashamed to afflict such a tender little
soul.
“Try it,” he said, with a smile that made his yellow face pleasant all
at once. Then, as if ready to change the subject, he asked, looking
curiously at the little figure perched on the wall,--
“Where did you come from? Never saw any children over there before.
They don’t allow ’em.”
Rosy introduced herself in a few words, and seeing that her new
acquaintance seemed interested, she added with the wheedling smile Papa
found so engaging,--
“It’s pretty lonely here, I guess; so p’r’aps you’ll let me peep at
your nice garden sometimes if it doesn’t trouble you, Sir?”
“Poor little soul! it must be desperately dull with those three
tabbies,” he said to himself, as he stroked the dead chicken in his
hand, and watched the little face bent toward him.
“Peep as much as you like, child; or, better still, come over and run
about. _I_ like little girls,” he added aloud, with a nod and a wave of
welcome.
“I told ’em I was sure you did! I’d love to come, but they wouldn’t let
me, I know. I’m so sorry about the fight. Couldn’t you make it up, and
be pleasant again?” asked Rosy, clasping her hands with a beseeching
gesture as her bright face grew sad and serious remembering the feud.
“So they’ve told you that nonsense already, have they? Nice neighbors
_they_ are,” said the old gentleman, frowning as if ill pleased at the
news.
“I’m glad I know; p’r’aps I can be a peacemaker. Mamma says they are
good to have in families, and I’d like to be one if I could. Would you
mind if I tried to peace-make a little, so I could come over? I do want
to see the red birds and the tiger skin awfully, if you please.”
“What do you know about ’em?” asked the old gentleman, sitting down on
a garden chair, as if he didn’t mind continuing the chat with this new
neighbor.
Nearly tumbling off the wall in her earnestness, Rosy repeated all
that Cousin Penny had said; and something in the reasonable words, the
flattering description, of his treasures, and the sincere regret of
the old lady seemed to have a good effect upon Mr. Dover, for when
Rosy paused out of breath, he said in such an altered tone that it was
evident the peace-making had already begun,--
“Miss Carey is a gentlewoman! I always thought so. You tell her, with
my compliments, that I’d be glad to see you any time if she has no
objection. I’ll put my step-ladder there, and you can come over instead
of the cat. But mind you don’t meddle, or I might give you a toss like
Tabby.”
“I’m not afraid,” laughed Rosy. “I’ll go and ask right away, and I
won’t touch a thing, and I know you’ll like me for a friend. Papa says
I’m a dear little one. Thank you very much, sir. Good-by till I come
again;” and with a kiss of the hand, the yellow head sunk out of sight
like the sun going down, leaving a sense of darkness behind when the
beaming little face disappeared, though fresh stains of green mould
from the wall made it rather like the tattooed countenances Mr. Dover
used to see among his cannibal friends in Africa.
He sat musing with the dead chicken in his hand, forgetful of time,
till a ring of his own door-bell called him in to receive a note from
Miss Penelope, thanking him for his invitation to little Rosamond, but
declining it in the most polite and formal words.
“I expected it! Bless the silly old souls! why can’t they be
reasonable, and accept the olive branch when I offer it? I’ll be hanged
if I do again! The fat one is at the bottom of this. Miss Pen would
give in if that absurd Henrietta didn’t hold her back. Well, I’m sorry
for the child, but that’s not my fault;” and throwing down the note,
Mr. Dover went out to water his roses.
For a week or two, Button-Rose hardly dared glance toward the forbidden
spot from her window, as she was ordered to play in the front garden,
and sent to take sober walks with Cicely, who loved to stop and gossip
with her friends, while the poor child waited patiently till the long
tales were told.
Nursing Tabby was her chief consolation; and so kind was she, that
the heart of the old cat softened to her, and she actually purred her
thanks at last, for all the saucers of cream, bits of chicken, soft
pats, and tender words bestowed upon her by the little girl.
“Well, I declare! Tab won’t do that even for me,” said Miss Henny, one
day, when she came upon the child sitting alone in the hall with a
picture-book and the cat comfortably asleep in her lap.
“Ammals always love me, if people don’t,” answered Button-Rose,
soberly; for she had not yet forgiven the stout lady for denying her
the delights offered by the “missionary man.”
“That’s because _an-i-mals_ can’t see how naughty you are sometimes,”
said Miss Henny tartly, not having recovered her temper even after many
days.
“I shall make _every_ one love me before I go away. Mamma told me to,
and I shall. I know how;” and Button smiled with a wise little nod that
was pretty to see, as she proudly cuddled her first conquest.
“We shall see;” and Miss Henny ponderously departed, wondering what odd
fancy the little thing would take into her head next.
It was soon evident; for when she came down from her long nap, later
in the afternoon, Miss Henny found Rosamond reading aloud to her
sister in the great dim parlor. They made a curious contrast,--the
pale, white-haired, feeble old lady, with her prim dress, high cap,
knitting, and shaded eyes; and the child, rosy and round, quaint and
sweet, a pretty little ornament for the old-fashioned room, as she sat
among the tea-poys and samplers, ancient china and furniture, with the
portraits of great grandfathers and grandmothers simpering and staring
at her, as if pleased and surprised to see such a charming little
descendant among them.
“Bless the baby! what is she at now?” asked Miss Henny, feeling more
amiable after her sleep.
“I’m reading to Cousin Penny, ’cause no one else does, and her poor
eyes hurt her, and she likes stories, and so do I,” answered Button,
with one chubby finger on the place in her book, and eyes full of pride
at the grown-up employment she had found for herself.
“So kind of the little dear! She found me alone and wanted to amuse me;
so I proposed a story to suit us both, and she does very well with a
little help now and then. I haven’t read ‘Simple Susan’ for years, and
really enjoy it. Maria Edgeworth was always a favorite of mine, and I
still think her far superior to any modern writer for the young,” said
Miss Penny, looking quite animated and happy in the new entertainment
provided for her.
“Go on, child; let me hear how well you can read;” and Miss Henny
settled herself in the sofa-corner with her embroidery.
So Button started bravely off, and tried so hard that she was soon out
of breath. As she paused, she said with a gasp,--
“Isn’t Susan a dear girl? She gives _all_ the best things to other
people, and is kind to the old harper. She didn’t send him away, as you
did the music-man to-day, and tell him to be still.”
“Organs are a nuisance, and I never allow them here. Go on, and don’t
criticise your elders, Rosamond.”
“Mamma and I always talk over stories, and pick out the morals of ’em.
_She_ likes it;” with which remark, made sweetly not pertly, Button
went on to the end, with an occasional lift over a long word; and the
old ladies were interested, in spite of themselves, in the simple tale
read in that childish voice.
“Thank you, dear, it is very nice, and we will have one every day.
Now, what can I do for you?” asked Miss Penny, as the little girl
pushed the curls off her forehead, with a sigh of mingled weariness and
satisfaction.
“Let me go in the back garden and peep through the knot-hole at the
pretty roses. I do long to see if the moss ones are out, and the
cherries ripe,” said Rosy, clasping her hands imploringly.
“It can do no harm, Henrietta. Yes, dear, run away and get some catnip
for Tabby, and see if the balsams are up yet.”
That last suggestion won Miss Henny’s consent; and Button was off at
once, skipping like a young colt all over the garden, which now seemed
delightful to her.
At the back of the summer-house was a narrow space between it and the
fence where certain plump toads lived; peeping in to watch them, Rosy
had spied a large knot-hole in the old boards, and through it found she
could get a fine view of several rose-bushes, a tree, and one window
of the “missionary man’s” house. She had longed for another peep since
the flower-stand was gone, and climbing trees forbidden; now with joy
she slipped into the damp nook, regardless of the speckled gentlemen
who stared at her with dismay, and took a good look at the forbidden
paradise beyond.
Yes, the “moss ones” were in bloom, the cherries quite red, and at the
window was the gray head of Mr. Dover, as he sat reading in his queer
yellow dressing-gown.
Button yearned to get in, and leaned so hard against the hateful fence
that the rotten board cracked, a long bit fell out, and she nearly
went after it, as it dropped upon the green bank below. Now the full
splendor of the roses burst upon her, and a delightful gooseberry bush
stood close by with purplish berries temptingly bobbing within reach.
This obliging bush hid the hole, but left fine openings to see through;
so the child popped her curly head out, and gazed delightedly at the
chickens, the flowers, the fruit, and the unconscious old gentleman not
far away.
“I’ll have it for my secret; or maybe I’ll tell Cousin Penny, and beg
her to let me peep if I truly promise never to go in,” thought Button,
knowing well who her best friend was.
At bedtime, when the dear old lady came to give the good-night kiss,
which the others forgot, Rosy, as Miss Penny called her, made her
request; and it was granted, for Miss Penny had a feeling that the
little peacemaker would sooner or later heal the breach with her pretty
magic, and so she was very ready to lend a hand in a quiet way.
Next day at play-time, Button was hurrying down her last bit of
gingerbread, which she was obliged to eat properly in the dining-room,
instead of enjoying out-of-doors, when she heard a sudden flurry in the
garden, and running to the window saw Roxy the maid chasing a chicken
to and fro, while Miss Henny stood flapping her skirts on the steps,
and crying, “Shoo!” till she was red in the face.
“It’s the white banty, and it must have come in my hole! Oh dear, I
hope they won’t catch it! Cousin Henny said she’d wring the neck of the
first one that flied over the wall.”
Away went Rosy, to join in the hunt; for Miss Henny was too fat to run,
and Roxy found the lively fowl too much for her. It was a long and hard
chase; feathers flew, the maid lost her breath, Rosy tumbled down, and
Miss Henny screamed and scolded till she was forced to sit down and
watch in silence.
At last poor, hunted Banty ran into the arbor, for its clipped wings
would not lift it over the wall. Button rushed after it, and dismal
squalls plainly proclaimed that the naughty chicken was caught.
Miss Henny waddled down the path, declaring that she _would_ wring
its neck; and Roxy went puffing after her, glad to rest. But the old
summer-house was empty. No little girl, no ruffled bantam, appeared.
Both had vanished like magic; and mistress and maid stared at each
other in amazement, till they saw that the long-disused window was
open, and a gleam of light came in from the narrow opening behind.
“My patience! if that child hasn’t crept out there, and bolted through
that hole in the fence! Did you ever, Miss?” exclaimed Roxy, trying not
to look pleased at being spared the distasteful task of killing the
poor chicken.
“Naughty girl!” began Miss Henny, when the sound of voices made both
listen. “Slip in there, and see what is going on,” said the mistress,
well knowing that her stout person never could be squeezed into the
small space between house and fence.
Roxy, being thin, easily obeyed, and in a whisper telephoned what went
on beyond the hole, causing Miss Henny much vexation, surprise, and
at last real pleasure, as the child performed her little part in the
mission she had undertaken.
“Oh, please, it’s all my fault! I kept the hole open, Mr. Thomas, and
so Banty flied in. But it isn’t hurt a bit, and I’ve brought it home
all safe, ’cause I know you love your chickies, and Tabby ate lots of
’em,” said the childish voice in its most conciliatory tone.
“Why didn’t you fling it over the wall, as I did the cat?” asked Mr.
Dover, smiling, as he shut up the truant fowl, and turned to look at
the rosy, breathless child, whose pink frock bore the marks of many a
tumble on grass and gravel.
“It would hurt Banty’s feelings, and yours too, and not be polite. So
I came myself, to make some pollygies, and say it was my fault. But,
please, could I keep the hole to peep through, if I always put up a
board when I go away? It is so dull in there, and _so_ sweet in here!”
“Don’t you think a little gate would be nicer,--one just big enough for
you, with a hook to fasten it? We’ll call it a button-hole,” laughed
Mr. Dover. “Then you could peep; or perhaps the ladies will think
better of it, and show that they pardon my ill-treatment of Tabby by
letting you come in and pick some cherries and roses now and then.”
This charming proposal caused the little girl to clasp her hands and
cry aloud,--
“That would be perfully sp’endid! I know Cousin Penny would like it,
and let me. P’r’aps she’d come herself; she’s so thin, she could, and
she loves your mother and wants to see her. Only, Cousin Henny won’t
let us be nice and friendly. S’pose you send _her_ some cherries; she
loves good things to eat, and maybe she will say yes, if you send lots.”
Mr. Dover laughed at this artless proposal, and Miss Henny smiled at
the prospect of a gift of the luscious black-heart cherries she had
been longing for. Roxy wisely repeated only the agreeable parts of the
conversation; so nothing ruffled the lady’s temper. Now, whether Mr.
Dover’s sharp eye caught a glimpse of the face among the gooseberry
bushes, and suspected eavesdroppers, or whether the child’s earnest
desire to make peace touched him, who shall say? Certain it is that
his eyes twinkled like a boy’s, as he said rather loudly, in his most
affable tone,--
“I shall be most happy to send Miss Henrietta a basket of fruit. She
used to be a charming young woman. It’s a pity she shuts herself up
so much; but that sad little romance of hers has darkened her life, I
suppose. Ah, well, I can sympathize with her!”
Rosy stared at the sudden change in his manner, and was rather
bewildered by his grown-up way of talking to her. But being intent
on securing something nice to carry home, she stuck to the cherries,
which she _did_ understand, and pointing to the piazza said with a
business-like air,--
“There’s a basket; so we might pick ’em right away. I love to go up in
trees and throw ’em down; and I know Cousin Henny will like cherries
ever so much, and not scold a bit when I take some to her.”
“Then come on,” cried Mr. Thomas, relapsing into the hearty manner she
liked so much; and away he went, quite briskly, down the path, with
his yellow skirts waving in the wind, and Button skipping after him in
great glee.
“They actually _are_ a-picking cherries, Miss, up in the tree like a
couple of robins a-chirpin’ and laughin’ as gay as can be,” reported
Roxy, from her peep-hole.
“Rip off the rest of that board, then I can see,” whispered Miss Henny,
quivering with interest now; for she had heard Mr. Dover’s words, and
her wrath was appeased by that flattering allusion to herself.
Off came the rest of the board, and from the window, half hidden in
woodbine, she could now see over the bushes into the next garden. The
peep-hole commanded the tree, and she watched with eager eyes the
filling of the basket to be sent her, planning the while a charming
note of thanks.
“Do look, Miss; they are resting now, and she’s on his knee. Ain’t it
a pretty picter?” whispered Roxy, unmindful of the earwigs, ants, and
daddy-long-legs promenading over her as she crouched in her mouldy
corner, intent on the view beyond.
[Illustration: “‘Do look, Miss! they are resting now.’”--PAGE 32.]
“Very pretty! He lost several children in India and I suppose Rosy
reminds him of them. Ah, poor man! I can sympathize with him, for _I_
too have loved and lost,” sighed Miss Henny, pensively surveying the
group on the rustic seat.
They were playing cherry-bob; and the child’s laughter made pleasant
music in the usually quiet place, while the man’s face lost its sad,
stern look, and was both gay and tender, as he held the little creature
close, and popped the ripe fruit into the red, laughing mouth.
As the last sweet morsel disappeared Rosy said, with a long breath of
perfect content,--
“It’s _almost_ as good as having Papa to play with. I do hope the
cousins _will_ let me come again! If they don’t, I think my heart will
break, ’cause I get so homesick over there, and have so many trials,
and no one but Cousin Penny ever cuddles me.”
“Bless her heart! We’ll send her some flowers for that. You tell her
that Mrs. Dover is poorly, and would like very much to see her; and
so would Mr. Thomas, who enjoys her little niece immensely. Can you
remember that?”
“Every word! _She_ is very nice to me, and I love her, and I guess she
will be glad to come. She likes _moss_-roses, and so do I,” added the
unblushing little beggar, as Mr. Dover took out his knife and began to
make the bouquet which was to be Miss Penny’s bribe. He could not bear
to give up his little playmate, and was quite ready to try again, with
this persistent and charming ally to help him heal the breach.
“Shall you send anything to Cis? You needn’t mind about it, ’cause
she can’t keep me at home, but it might please her, and make her stop
rapping my head with her thimble when I ask questions, and slapping my
fingers when I touch any of her pretty things,” suggested Button, as
the flowers were added to the fruit, making a fine display.
“I never send presents to _young_ ladies,” said Mr. Thomas shortly,
adding, with both hands out, and his most inviting smile, “But I
_always_ kiss nice little girls if they will allow me?”
Button threw both arms about his neck and gave him a shower of grateful
kisses, which were sweeter to the lonely old man than all the cherries
that ever grew, or the finest flowers in his garden. Then Miss Rosamond
proudly marched home, finding no trace of the watchers, for both
had fled while the “cuddling” went on. Roxy was soberly setting the
dinner-table, and Miss Henny in the parlor breathing hard behind a
newspaper. Miss Penny and Cicely were spending the day out, so the
roses had to wait; but the basket was most graciously received, also
the carefully delivered message, and the child’s heart was rejoiced
by free permission to go and see “our kind neighbor now and then, if
Sister does not object.”
Rosy was in great spirits, and prattled away as they sat at dinner,
emboldened by the lady’s unusual amiability to ask all sorts of
questions, some of which proved rather embarrassing to Miss Henny, and
very amusing to Roxy, listening in the china-closet.
“I wish _I_ had ’spepsia,” was the abrupt remark of the small person
as her plate of drumsticks was removed and the pudding appeared,
accompanied by the cherries.
“Why, dear?” asked Miss Henny, busily arranging the small dish of
delicate tidbits, which left little but the skeleton of the roast fowl
for the kitchen.
“Then I could have the nicest bits of chicken, and heaps of sauce on my
pudding, and the butteryest slices of toast, and _all_ the cream for my
tea, as you do. It isn’t a _very_ bad pain, is it?” asked Rosy, in such
perfect good faith that Miss Henny’s sudden flush and Roxy’s hasty dive
into the closet never suggested to her that this innocent speech was
bringing the old lady’s besetting sin to light in the most open manner.
“Yes, child, it is _very_ bad, and you may thank your stars that I
try to keep you from it by feeding you on plain food. At my age, and
suffering as I do, the best of everything is needed to keep up my
strength,” said Miss Henny, tartly. But the largest plate of pudding,
with “heaps of sauce,” went to the child this day, and when the fruit
was served, an unusually small portion was put away for the invalid,
who was obliged to sustain nature with frequent lunches through the day
and evening.
“I’m s’prised that you suffer much, Cousin Henny. How brave you must
be, not to cry about it, and go round in horrid pain, as you do, and
dress so nicely, and see people, and work ’broidering, and make calls!
I hope I shall be brave if I ever _do_ have ’spepsia; but I guess I
shan’t, you take such care to give me small pieces every time.”
With which cheerful remark Rosy closed that part of the conversation
and returned to the delights of her new friend’s garden. But from that
day, among other changes which began about this time, the child’s
cup and plate were well filled, and the dread of adding to her own
sufferings seemed to curb the dyspeptic’s voracious appetite. “A cheild
was amang them takin’ notes,” and every one involuntarily dreaded
those clear eyes and that frank tongue, so innocently observing and
criticising all that went on. Cicely had already been reminded of
a neglected duty by Rosy’s reading to Miss Penny, and tried to be
more faithful in that, as in other services which she owed the old
lady. So the little missionary was evidently getting on, though quite
unconscious of her work at home, so absorbed was she in her foreign
mission; for, like many another missionary, the savage over the way
was more interesting than the selfish, slothful, or neglected souls at
home.
Miss Penny was charmed with her flowers and the friendly message
sent her, and to Rosy’s great delight went next day, in best bonnet
and gown, to make a call upon the old lady “who was poorly,” for
that appeal could not be resisted. Rosy also, in honor of the great
occasion, wore _her_ best hat, and a white frock so stiff that she
looked like a little opera dancer as the long black legs skipped along
the street; for this was far too grand a visit to be paid through a
hole in the wall.
In the basket were certain delicacies for the old lady, and a card had
been prepared, with the names of Miss Carey and Miss Rosamond Carey
beautifully written on it by Cis, who was dying to go, but dared not
after Rosy had told her Mr. Dover’s remark about young ladies.
As the procession of two paused at the door, both the young and the old
heart fluttered a little, for this was the first decided step toward
reconciliation, and any check might spoil it all. The maid stared, but
civilly led these unexpected guests in and departed with the card. Miss
Penny settled herself in a large chair and looked about with pensive
interest at the familiar room. But Rosy made a bee-line for the great
tiger-skin, and regardless of her clean frock lay down on it to examine
the head, which glared at her with yellow eyes, showing all its sharp
teeth in the most delightfully natural manner.
Mr. Dover came in with a formal bow, but Miss Penny put out both hands,
and said in her sweet old voice,--
“Let us be friends again for the sake of your mother.”
That settled the matter at once, and Mr. Thomas was so eager to do his
part that he not only shook the hands heartily, but kept them in his as
he said like an honest man,--
“My dear neighbor, I beg your pardon! _I_ was wrong, but I’m not too
proud to own it and say I’m glad to let bygones be bygones for the sake
of all. Now come and see my mother; she is longing for you.”
What went on in the next room Rosy never knew or cared, for Mr. Thomas
soon returned, and amused her so well, showing his treasures, that she
forgot where she was till the maid came to say tea was ready.
“Are we going to stay?” cried the little girl, beaming from under a
Feejee crown of feathers, which produced as comical an effect upon her
curly head as did the collar of shark’s teeth round her plump neck or
the great Japanese war-fan in her hand.
“Yes, we have tea at five; come and turn it out. I’ve ordered the
little cups especially for you,” said her host, as he changed the small
Amazon to a pretty child again and led her away to preside at the
table, where the quaint china and silver, and the dainty cake and bread
and butter proved much more attractive than the little old lady in a
big cap who patted her head and smiled at her.
Never had Rosy enjoyed such a delicious meal; for the rapture of
pouring real tea out of a pot shaped like a silver melon, into cups as
thin as egg-shells, and putting in sugar with tongs like claws, not to
mention much thick cream, also spicy, plummy cakes that melted in one’s
mouth, was too great for words.
The little maid was so absorbed in her new duties that she never
minded what the elders talked about, till the plates were empty, the
pot ran dry, and no one could be prevailed on to have any more tea.
Then she leaned back in her chair and remarked with an air of calm
satisfaction, as she looked from one to the other, and smiled that
engaging smile of hers,--
“Isn’t being friends a great deal nicer than fighting and throwing cats
over walls and calling bad names?”
It was impossible not to laugh, and that cheerful sound seemed to tune
every one to the sweetest harmony, while the little peacemaker was
passed round as if a last course of kisses was absolutely necessary.
Then the party broke up, and Mr. Dover escorted his guests to their
own gate, to the great amazement of the neighbors and the very visible
pride of Miss Button-Rose, who went up the walk with her head as high
as if the wreath of daisies on her little hat had been a conqueror’s
crown.
Now that the first step had been taken, all would have gone smoothly
if Cicely, offended because Mr. Thomas took no notice of _her_, had
not put it into Miss Henny’s head that as the original quarrel began
between her and their neighbor, it would not be dignified to give in
till Mr. Dover had come and begged pardon of _her_ as well as of Miss
Penny. This suited the foolish old lady, who never could forget certain
plain words spoken in the heat of battle, though the kindly ones
lately heard had much softened her heart toward the offender.
“No, I shall not forget my dignity nor humble myself by going over
there to apologize as Penelope has. _She_ can do as she likes; and now
that he has asked to be forgiven, there is perhaps no harm in _her_
seeing the old lady. But with me it is different. _I_ was insulted, and
till Thomas Dover comes here and solemnly asks my pardon I will _not_
cross his threshold, no matter what bribes he sends,” said Miss Henny,
with an air of heroic firmness.
But it did cost her a pang when her sister went every now and then to
take tea with the old lady and came home full of pleasant news; while
Rosy prattled of the fine things she saw, the nice things she had to
eat, and never failed to bring some gift to share, or to display to the
exiles from Paradise. They ate the “bribes,” however, as they called
the fruit, admired the pretty trinkets and toys, and longed to share in
the mild festivities of the pleasant house over the way, but stood firm
in spite of all Rosy’s wiles, till something unexpected happened to
touch their hearts, conquer their foolish pride, and crown the little
peacemaker’s efforts with success.
One August afternoon Cicely was discontentedly looking over her small
store of ornaments as she made ready for a party. She loved gayety,
and went about a great deal, leaving many duties undone, or asking the
little girl to attend to them for her, neglecting, however, to show any
gratitude for these small services so cheerfully done.
As she sat tossing over her boxes, Button-Rose came in looking tired
and listless, for it was a hot day, and she had been out twice to do
errands for Cicely, besides trotting busily up and down to wait on
the old ladies while the young one put fresh ribbons on her dress and
curled her hair for the evening.
“Could I lie on your sofa, please, Cis? My head aches, and my legs are
_so_ tired,” said little Button, when her tap had been answered by a
sharp “What do you want, child?”
“No, I’m going to lie there myself and have a nap as soon as I’m done
here. It’s cooler than the bed, and I must be fresh for to-night,” said
Cicely, too intent on her own affairs to see how used up Rosy looked.
“Then could I look at your pretty things if I don’t touch ’em?” asked
the child, longing to peep into the interesting boxes scattered on the
table.
“No, you can’t! I’m busy, and don’t want you asking questions and
meddling. Go away and let me alone.”
Cicely spoke crossly, and waved her hand with a warning gesture,
thereby upsetting the tray which held the beads of the necklace she had
decided to wear for want of something better.
“There, now see what you’ve done! Pick up every one, and be quick, for
I’m in a hurry.”
“But I didn’t touch ’em,” began poor Button, as she crept about hunting
for the black and white beads that looked like very ugly marbles.
“Don’t talk; pick them up and then scamper; you are always in
mischief!” scolded Cis, vexed with herself, and the heat, and the
accident, and the whole world just then.
Rosy said no more, but several great tears dropped on the carpet as
she groped in corners, under the bed, and behind the chairs for the
runaways; and when the last was found she put it in her tyrant’s hand,
saying, with a wistful look,--
“I’m very sorry I troubled you. Seems to me if _I_ had a little cousin,
I’d love to have her play with my things, and I wouldn’t be cross to
her. Now I’ll go and try to _amoose_ myself with Bella; _she_ is always
good to me.”
“Run along then. Thank goodness that doll came when it did, for I’m
tired of ‘amoosing’ small girls as well as old ladies,” said Cis, busy
with her beads, yet sorry she had been so petulant with patient little
Button, who seldom reproached her, being a cheery child, and blessed
with a sweet temper.
Rosy felt too languid to play; so when she had told Bella, the London
doll, her trials, and comforted herself with some kisses on the waxen
cheeks, she roamed away to the summer-house, which was cool and quiet,
longing for some one to caress her; for the little heart was homesick
and the little head ached badly.
The “button-hole” had been made, the alley swept out, to the great
dismay of the spiders, earwigs, and toads, who had fled to quieter
quarters, and Rosy had leave to go and come when she liked if Mr.
Dover did not object. He never did; and it was her greatest delight to
walk in the pretty garden at her own sweet will, always with the hope
of meeting its kindly owner, for now they were firm friends. She had
been too busy for a run there that day; and now, as she peeped in, it
looked so shady and inviting, and it seemed so natural to turn to her
dear “missionary man” for entertainment, that she went straight up to
his study window and peeped in.
He too seemed out of sorts that hot afternoon, for he sat leaning
his head on both hands at the desk strewn with piles of old letters.
Button-Rose’s tender heart yearned over him at once, and stepping
quietly in at the long open window she went to him, saying in her
tenderest tone,--
“Does your head ache, Sir? Let me soft it as I do Papa’s; he says that
always makes it more better. Please let me? I’d love to dearly.”
“Ah, my darling, I wish you could. But the pain is in my heart, and
nothing will ever cure it,” sighed Mr. Thomas, as he drew her close and
put his wrinkled yellow cheek to her soft one, which looked more like a
damask rose than usual.
“You have trials too, I s’pose. Mine trouble me to-day, so I came over
to see you. Shall I go away?” asked Rosy with a sigh and the wistful
look again.
“No, stay, and we will comfort each other. Tell me your troubles,
Button, and perhaps I can help them,” the kind old gentleman said as he
took her on his knee and stroked the curly head with a paternal touch.
So Rosy told her latest grief, and never saw the smile that crept about
the lips that asked in a tone of deep interest,--
“Well, what do you mean to do to that unkind Cicely?”
“For a minute I wanted to slap her back when she tried to spat my
hands. Then I ’membered that Mamma said a kiss for a blow was a good
thing, so I picked up the beads and planned to do it; but Cis looked
_so_ cross I couldn’t. If I had a pretty necklace I’d go and give it to
her, and then maybe she’d love me better.”
“My dear little missionary, you _shall_ have beads to win the heart of
_your_ heathen, if that is all you need. See here; take anything you
like, and give it with the kiss.”
As he spoke, Mr. Dover pulled open a drawer in the desk and displayed a
delightful collection of pretty, quaint, and curious trinkets picked up
in foreign lands, and kept for keepsakes, since no little daughters of
his own lived to wear them.
“How perf’ly dorgeous!” cried Rosy, who often fell into baby talk when
excited; and plunging in her hands, she revelled for some minutes
in sandal-wood cases, carved ivory fans, silver bangles, barbaric
brooches, and necklaces of coral, shells, amber, and golden coins, that
jingled musically.
“What _shall_ I take for her?” cried the little maid, bewildered by
such a mine of wealth. “You pick out one, Mr. Thomas, that will please
her so much, ’cause you never send her anything, and she don’t like
it,” said Rosy, fearing that her own taste was not to be trusted, as
she liked the shells and shark’s teeth ornaments best.
“No, I’ll give _you_ one, and you shall do as you like about giving it
to her. This, now, is really valuable and pretty, and any young lady
would like to wear it. It makes me think of you, my Button, for it is
like sunshine, and the word cut on the little heart means peace.”
Mr. Dover held up a string of amber beads with its carved amulet, and
swung it to and fro where the light shone through it till each bead
looked like a drop of golden wine.
“Yes, that is lovely, and it smells nice, too. She will be so s’prised
and pleased; I’ll go and take it to her right away,” cried Rosy,
forgetting to ask anything for herself, in her delight at this fine
gift for Cis.
But as she lifted her head after he had fastened the clasp about her
neck, something in his face recalled the look it wore when she first
came in, and putting both hands upon his shoulders, she said in her
sweet little way,--
“You’ve made my troubles go away, can’t I make yours? You are _so_ kind
to me, I’d love to help you if I could.”
“You do, my child, more than you know; for when I get you in my arms it
seems as if one of my poor babies had come back to me, and for a minute
I forget the three little graves far away in India.”
“Three!” cried Button, like a sad, soft echo; and she clung to the poor
man as if trying to fill the empty arms with the love and pity that
overflowed the childish soul in her small body.
This was the comfort Mr. Thomas wanted, and for a few moments he just
cradled her on his hungry heart, crooning a Hindostanee lullaby, while
a few slow tears came dropping down upon the yellow head, so like those
hidden for years under the Indian flowers. Presently he seemed to
come back from the happy past to which the old letters had carried
him. He wiped his eyes, and Rosy’s also, with the big purple silk
handkerchief, and pressing some very grateful kisses on the hot cheeks,
said cheerfully again,--
“God bless you, child, that’s done me good! But don’t let it sadden
you, dear; forget all about it, and tell no one what a sentimental old
fool I am.”
“I never truly will! Only when you feel sorry about the poor little
babies, let me come and give you cuddlings. They always make people
feel more better, and I love ’em, and don’t get any now my dear people
are away.”
So the two made a tender little plan to comfort each other when hearts
were heavy with longings for the absent, and parted at the small gate,
both much cheered, and faster friends than ever.
Rosy hastened in with her peace-offering, forgetful now of headache or
loneliness as she sat patiently in the wide entry window-seat listening
till some sound in Cicely’s room should show that she was awake. Before
that happened, however, poor Button fell asleep herself, lulled by the
quiet of the house,--for every one was napping,--and dreamed that Mr.
Dover stood waving a rainbow over his head, while several Indian gods
and three little girls were dancing round him, hand in hand, to the
tune of “Ring around a rosy.”
[Illustration: “Poor Button fell asleep.”--PAGE 49.]
A loud yawn roused her, and there was Cis peeping out of her door to
see what time it was by the old-fashioned clock on the landing. Up
scrambled the child, feeling dizzy and heavy-eyed, but so eager to give
pleasure that she lost no time in saying, as she swung the necklace in
the sunshine,--
“See! this is for you, if you like it more better than the
thunder-and-lightning marbles, as Cousin Penny calls the one you were
going to wear.”
“How lovely! Where _did_ you get it, child?” cried Cis, wide awake at
once, as she ran to the glass to try the effect of the new ornament on
her white neck.
“My dear Mr. Thomas gave it to me; but he said I could give it away if
I liked, and I want you to have it, ’cause it’s ever so much prettier
than any you’ve got.”
“That’s very kind of you, Chicken, but why not keep it yourself? You
like nice things as well as I do,” said Cicely, much impressed by the
value of the gift, for it was real amber, and the clasp of gold.
“Well, I’ve talked with Mr. Thomas about missionarying a great deal,
and he told me how he made the _savinges_ good by giving them beads,
and things to eat, and being patient and kind to them. So I thought
I’d play be a missionary, and call this house Africa, and try to make
the people here behave more better,” answered Rosy, with such engaging
earnestness, as well as frankness, that Cis laughed, and exclaimed,--
“You impertinent monkey, to call us heathen and try to convert us! How
do you expect to do it?”
“Oh, I’m getting on pretty well, only you don’t _convert_ as quick as
some of the _savinges_ did. I’ll tell you about it;” and Button went on
eagerly. “Cousin Penny is the good old one, but rather fussy and slow,
so I’m kind and patient, and now she loves me and lets me do things I
like. _She_ is my best one. Cousin Henny is my cannybel, ’cause she
eats so much, and I please _her_ by bringing nice things and getting
her cushions ready. You are my baddest one, who is cross to me, and
fights, and raps my head, and slaps my hands; so I thought some beads
would be nice for you, and I bringed these beauties. Mr. Thomas gave
’em to me when I told him my trials.”
Cicely looked angry, amused, and ashamed, as she listened to the
funny yet rather pathetic little play with which the lonely child
had tried to cheer herself and win the hearts of those about her.
She had the grace to blush, and offer back the necklace, saying in a
self-reproachful tone,--
“Keep your beads, little missionary, I’ll be converted without them,
and try to be kinder to you. I _am_ a selfish wretch, but you shall
play be my little sister, and not have to go to strangers for comfort
in your trials any more. Come, kiss me, dear, and we’ll begin now.”
Rosy was in her arms at once, and clung there, saying with a face all
smiles,--
“That’s what I wanted! I thought I’d make a good _savinge_ of you if I
tried _very_ hard. Please be kind to me just till Mamma comes back, and
I’ll be the best little sister that ever was.”
“Why didn’t you tell me all about it before?” asked Cicely, smoothing
the tired head on her shoulder with a new gentleness; for this last
innocent confession had touched her heart as well as her conscience.
“You never seemed to care about my plays, and always said, ‘Don’t
chatter, child; run away and take care of yourself.’ So I did; but it
was pretty dull, with only Tabby to tell secrets to and Bella to kiss.
Mr. Thomas said people over here didn’t like children very well, and I
found they didn’t. _He_ does, dearly, so I went to him; but I like you
now, you are so soft and kind to me.”
“How hot your cheeks are! Come and let me cool them, and brush your
hair for tea,” said Cis, as she touched the child’s feverish skin, and
saw how heavy her eyes were.
“I’m all burning up, and my head is _so_ funny. I don’t want any tea.
I want to lie on your sofa and go to sleep again. Can I?” asked Rosy,
with a dizzy look about the room, and a shiver at the idea of eating.
“Yes, dear, I’ll put on your little wrapper, and make you all
comfortable, and bring you some ice-water, for your lips are very dry.”
As she spoke, Cicely bustled about the room, and soon had Rosy nicely
settled with her best cologne-bottle and a fan; then she hastened down
to report that something was wrong, with a fear in her own heart that
if any harm did come to the child it would be her fault. Some days
before Cicely had sent Button-Rose with a note to a friend’s house
where she knew some of the younger children were ill. Since then she
had heard that it was scarlet fever; but though Rosy had waited some
time for an answer to the note, and seen one of the invalids, Cis had
never mentioned the fact, being ashamed to confess her carelessness,
hoping no harm was done. Now she felt that it _had_ come, and went to
tell gentle Cousin Penny with tears of vain regret.
Great was the lamentation when the doctor, who was sent for in hot
haste, pronounced it scarlet fever; and deep was the self-reproach of
the two older women for their blindness in not before remarking the
languid air and want of appetite in the child. But Cicely was full of
remorse; for every quick word, every rap of the hateful thimble, every
service accepted without thanks, weighed heavily on her conscience
now, as such things have an inconvenient way of doing when it is too
late to undo them. Every one was devoted to the child, even lazy Miss
Henny gave up her naps to sit by her at all hours, Miss Penny hovered
over the little bed like a grandmother, and Cicely refused to think of
pleasure till the danger was over.
For soon Button-Rose was very ill, and the old house haunted by the
dreadful fear that death would rob them of the little creature who
grew so precious when the thought of losing her made their hearts
stand still. How could they live without the sound of that sweet voice
chirping about the house, the busy feet tripping up and down, the
willing hands trying to help, the sunny face smiling at every one, and
going away into corners to hide the tears that sometimes came to dim
its brightness? What would comfort the absent mother for such a loss as
this, and how could they answer to the father for the carelessness that
risked the child’s life for a girl’s errand? No one dared to think, and
all prayed heartily for Rosy’s life, as they watched and waited by the
little bed where she lay so patiently, till the fever grew high and
she began to babble about many things. Her childish trials were all
told, her longings for Mamma, whose place no one could fill, her quaint
little criticisms upon those about her, and her plans for making peace.
These innocent revelations caused many tears, and wrought some changes
in those who heard; for Miss Penny quite forgot her infirmities to live
in the sick-room as the most experienced nurse and tenderest watcher.
Miss Henny cooked her daintiest gruel, brewed her coolest drinks, and
lost many pounds in weight by her indefatigable trotting up and down to
minister to the invalid’s least caprice. Cicely was kept away for fear
of infection, but _her_ penance was to wander about the great house,
more silent than ever now, to answer the inquiries and listen to the
sad forebodings of the neighbors, who came to offer help and sympathy;
for all loved little Button-Rose, and grieved to think of any blight
falling on the pretty blossom. To wile away the long hours, Cicely fell
to dusting the empty rooms, setting closets and drawers to rights, and
keeping all fresh and clean, to the great relief of the old cousins,
who felt that everything would go to destruction in their absence. She
read and sewed now, having no heart for jaunting about; and as she made
the long neglected white pinafores, for Rosy, she thought much of the
little girl who might never live to wear them.
Meantime the fever took its course, and came at last to the fateful day
when a few hours would settle the question of life or death. The hot
flush died out of the cheeks that had lost their soft roundness now,
the lips were parched, the half-shut eyes looked like sick violets, and
all the pretty curls were tangled on the pillow. Rosy no longer sung
to Bella, talked of “three dear little girls” and Mr. Thomas, tigers
and bangles, Cis and necklaces, hens and gates. She ceased to call for
Mamma, asked no more why her “missionary man” never came, and took no
notice of the anxious old faces bending over her. She lay in a stupor,
and the doctor held the little wasted hand, and tried to see the face
of his watch with dim eyes as he counted the faint pulse, whispering
solemnly,--
“We can only hope and wait now. Sleep alone can save her.”
As the sisters sat, one on either side the narrow bed that day, and
Cicely walked restlessly up and down the long hall below, where both
doors stood open to let in the cool evening air, as the sun went down,
a quick but quiet step came up the steps, and Mr. Dover walked in
without ringing. He had been away, and coming home an hour ago, heard
the sad news. Losing not a moment, he hurried to ask about his little
Button, and his face showed how great his love and fear were, as he
said in a broken whisper,--
“Will she live? My mother never told me how serious it was, or I should
have returned at once.”
“We hope so, Sir, but--” And there Cicely’s voice failed, as she hid
her face and sobbed.
“My dear girl, don’t give way. Keep up your heart, hope, pray, will
that the darling _shall_ live, and that may do some good. We can’t let
her go! we won’t let her go! Let me see her; I know much of fevers far
worse than this, and might be able to suggest something,” begged Mr.
Dover, throwing down his hat, and waving an immense fan with such an
air of resolution and cheery good-will that tired Cis felt comforted at
once, and led the way upstairs entirely forgetting the great feud, as
he did.
At the threshold of the door he paused, till the girl had whispered his
name. Miss Penny, always a gentlewoman, rose at once and went to meet
him, but Miss Henny did not even seem to see him, for just then, as if
dimly feeling that her friend was near, Rosy stirred, and gave a long
sigh.
Silently the three stood and looked at the beloved little creature
lying there in the mysterious shadow of death, and they so helpless to
keep her if the hour for departure had come.
“God help us!” sighed pious Miss Penny, folding her old hands, as if
they did that often now.
“Drifting away, I fear;” and Miss Henny’s plump face looked almost
beautiful, with the tears on it, as she leaned nearer to listen to the
faint breath at the child’s lips.
“No; we will keep her, please the Lord! If we can make her sleep
quietly for the next few hours she is safe. Let me try. Fan slowly with
this, Miss Henrietta, and you, dear lady, pray that the precious little
life may be given us.”
As he spoke, Mr. Dover gave the great fan to Miss Henny, took the small
cold hands in his, and sitting on the bedside held them close in his
large warm ones, as if trying to pour life and strength into the frail
body, as his eyes, fixed on the half-opened ones, seemed to call back
the innocent soul hovering on the threshold of its prison, like the
butterfly poised upon the chrysalis before it soars away.
Miss Penny knelt down near by, and laying her white head on the other
pillow, again besought God to spare this treasure to the father and
mother over the sea. How long they remained so none of them ever knew,
silent and motionless but for the slow waving of the noiseless fan,
which went to and fro like the wing of a great white bird, as if Miss
Henny’s stout arm could never tire. Miss Penny was so still she seemed
to be asleep. Mr. Dover never stirred, but grew paler as the minutes
passed; and Cicely, creeping now and then to look in and steal away,
saw strange power in the black eyes that seemed to hold the fluttering
spirit of the little child by the love and longing that made them both
tender and commanding.
A level ray of sunlight stole through the curtain at last and turned
the tangles of bright hair to pure gold. Miss Henny rose to shut it
out, and as if her movement broke the spell, Rosy took a long full
breath, turned on the pillow, and putting one hand under her cheek,
seemed to fall asleep as naturally as she used to do when well. Miss
Penny looked up, touched the child’s forehead, and whispered, with a
look of gratitude as bright as if the sunshine had touched her also,--
“It is moist! this is real sleep! Oh, my baby! oh, my baby!” And the
old head went down again with a stifled sob, for her experienced eye
told her that the danger was passing by and Rosy would live.
“The prayers of the righteous avail much,” murmured Mr. Dover, turning
to the other lady, who stood beside her sister looking down at the
little figure now lying so restfully between them.
“How can we thank you?” she whispered, offering her hand, with the
smile which had once made her pretty, and still touched the old face
with something better than beauty.
Mr. Dover took the hand and answered, with an eloquent look at the
child,--
“Let not the sun go down upon our wrath. Forgive me and be friends
again, for her sake.”
“I will!” And the plump hands gave the thin ones a hearty shake as the
great feud ended forever over the bed of the little peacemaker whose
childish play had turned to happy earnest.
Transcriber’s Note
Words in italics are marked with _underscores_.
Words in small capitals are shown in UPPER CASE.
Plate illustrations (printed separately and bound without page numbers)
near pages 32 and 49 have captions quoting text from the story. The
illustrations have been moved to be immediately after the paragraph
being quoted.
The image of the book cover was partially obscured in the top-left
corner by labels. The obscured portion has been restored with reference
to a scan of another copy of the same book.
Inconsistent hyphenation and capitalisation have been retained.
The name “Button-Rose” is hyphenated throughout the story and in the
header on every page, however in the book title on the cover and on the
title page it is “Button Rose” (no hyphen). These have also all been
left unchanged.
There is use of deliberate mis-spelling to emphasize childish or other
pronunciation. This has been retained.
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