Susan cook one, for he would much rather Mr. Lee had them all! which determination so comforted him, that he looked at Sarah’s Polish hens, admired their topknots, and then went on his way home.
Mr. Parker had been Michael Lee’s tutor. At his death his wife was left with one daughter of ten and a baby a few months old. Two boys and a girl had gone before him. I may as well say how they died. The fever was bad in the village. John Brown’s wife died of it and her two children. William Hodge, the drunken blacksmith, got it next, and he died. Then three or four cottages down that narrow lane with the pigsties, and that pond which was always green and the water always black, they got it. Then Mr. Harvey, who came from Manchester, and bought a good deal of land in Leamington, and built a large house, and stables, and greenhouses, and hot-houses, and ice-houses, and all that (those cottages down the narrow lane belonged to him), ‘his’ little daughter took it. He never let her go out of his own grounds, and thought there was, what he called, “no chance” of her getting it; but she did; and there is a little tomb with a white cross on it in the church at Lemmington: and the cottages are comfortable now, and the pigsties at the end of the garden (not up against the one bedroom on the ground-floor), and the pond has been drained, and Mr. Harvey is not what he was when the fever began, and he thanks God for it often, on his knees, though he is lonely, very lonely, never hearing her little feet pattering about now, except in his dreams. Many others had it, and Mrs. Parker was frightened. Four children under eight years old she had of her own, and she wished there were some Sisters of Mercy at Leamington, as there were at some places, who could take the good soup and wine to the poor sick ones, without the terrible fear pulling and gnawing at their hearts all the time that she had. That terrible fear! She had it—she could not help it, though her husband said:
“My dear, I change my coat, I wash my hands and face, and then I trust.”
She tried to trust, too; but somehow the fear clung to her; and on Sunday night Arthur said:
“Mother, my throat is so sore.” He was only three and a half, and she tried to hope he did not know where his throat was, and that he would put his hand to his back, or leg, or anywhere else, only not to his throat, and she said:
“Where, my darling; where is it sore?” And the child put up his hand, and said:
“I mean where my dinner goes down, mother.” And then she knew her boy had got the fever; and the next day Mary said:
“Mother, just look what a lump there is under my ear, by my cheek, and it hurts me so when I swallow; I hope I am not going to be ill, like papa said poor little Mary Brown was.” And she knew Mary had the fever, too.
Next Sunday, after the afternoon service, Arthur was buried. They had an old-fashioned way of ringing the bells at Leamington; they do not everywhere; but it was an old-fashioned place, and old fashions about church things are best. They rang the curfew at Leamington always from Advent to Lent, and they tolled the bell, when there was to be a funeral, all day, until the mourners and the coffin could be seen coming near the church; and then they rang a joyful peal for a minute or so—not like a wedding, or any other peal; and it always sounded like a welcome—like the angels welcoming one more—one more who had passed through the waves of this troublesome world, and had reached the haven where we all would be. So, sitting by little Mary’s bed, wetting her hot lips, the mother heard the joyful peal ring out for Arthur, and she knelt down by Mary, and kissed her hot cheek; and Mary heard the bells, too, and she opened her eyes, and said:
“Arthur will be with the daisies soon, mother, he was so fond of daisies, and those double red ones.”
Mary died that evening—Sunday evening; and when all was over, and the little fair thing lay with the little hands crossed on her breast, the mother turned away to change her dress, and wash her face and hands, and to trust. Trust to Him who had only taken what He had given. She might go and look at her youngest now; she was no longer needed in the sick room—it was empty. The little merry laugh as she went along the passage! Baby should be asleep; but babies in summer, in the long days so light, do not always do what they ought to do about going to sleep, and baby was laughing as she reached the door! So strange it sounded to hear a laugh then, even from a baby. Sitting up in his little crib, was the two-year-old baby, hugging the kitten which had been beside little Mary, and fondled to the last. By the next Sunday, two more were with the daisies beside Arthur, and the eldest, Katherine, the only child, left them.
Harry was born a year after, and Mr. Parker died, and then the widow, with her two children, returned to the neighbourhood of her old home, where her husband had been curate, and afterwards tutor to Mr. Lee. Mr. Lee was one of the first to welcome Mrs. Parker; a sad welcome to the place where her early, happy days had been spent. Michael Lee was then a young man of six-and-twenty. He had had a sincere regard for his tutor, and every little attention in his power he bestowed on Mrs. Parker. There was the quiet old pony for Katherine to ride, his park was open to her and her mother; some of the choicest flowers were always on her table. It was no self-denial, he had plenty of everything; but he had a way of being kind—he always thought of others—and his way of being kind and thoughtful was never disagreeable; with some people it is. He and Katherine were soon great friends. As she grew older, and the old pony more stupid, a younger one took its place; the “Frisky” of which we have heard, and fishing and boating at Oldcourt were among her greatest pleasures. Then came the news of Mr. Lee’s approaching marriage. It was quite true, he told Mrs. Parker of it himself, all joy and happiness; and two months after the bells at Oldcourt were tolling for her who was to have been mistress there so soon—tolling for the bride elect.
Katherine was sixteen then, and Mrs. Parker moved to London for a twelvemonth, to give her