CHAPTER VII.
WINIFRED’S PARTY.
INIFRED’S tea-party was a great success. Preparations for it occupied the child’s mind for the three days previous to the important Saturday, and by the time the day had arrived nothing had been neglected which she thought could add to the enjoyment of the expected guests.
They had arrived punctual to the appointed hour, and had had fine games in the garden and meadows, which Winifred and Violet had watched from the nursery window.
They had had a splendid tea in the nursery, and had fully appreciated the good fare which their little hostess had pressed upon them. They were all very gentle to Winifred, and seemed to wish to sit by her and talk to her, and the little girl had been pleased to think that her brothers’ friends liked her.
Every one had enjoyed the tea very much, and although Charley had looked a little grave, as he had done for three days past, he did not seem unhappy; and he made so much of his little sister, that she could not wish him other than he was.
The boys had gone away to romp in the play-room now, and Winifred was left alone in the nursery with Violet for her companion.
She was rather tired with her exertions on behalf of her guests, and was glad to curl herself up in a comfortable corner of the old sofa, and rest herself after her labours.
“It was a nice tea-party,” said Violet, coming and sitting beside her friend; “I don’t think I ever was at a nicer one; I do so like boys!” and the little girl sighed and wished she had some brothers.
“They were nice boys,” said Winifred smiling. “I am glad I know them now.”
“Didn’t you know them before?”
“No, hardly at all.”
“How funny! If I had brothers I should always want to know all their friends.”
Violet was a merry little maiden, not at all given to grave moods, or over-much meditation. Her parents were poor, and she had never had many toys or books, or even as many friends as she would have liked. There were very few people living near, and there was no carriage to take her to other people’s houses; so the little girl had been dependent upon her own happy temper and limited resources for most of the enjoyment of life.
Such a tea-party as the one in which she had just been joining was an immense treat to her. She could not understand how it was that Winifred had not cared before to cultivate the acquaintance of such nice boys.
“I’m afraid it was because I was selfish,” said Winifred gravely.
“You selfish!” cried Violet, opening her eyes wide; “Oh, Winnie, I’m sure you’re not.”
“I’m afraid I have been, Vi; I wish I hadn’t; but I don’t think I knew it before. I didn’t see things that I see now.”
“Why do you see them now?” asked Violet with interest; but Winifred did not answer just at once, and the child, too excited to sit down, strayed to the window and looked out.
“What a lot of swallows!”
“Yes. They are beginning to gather. Don’t you know that they will go soon?”
“Go!”
“Yes, they fly away, you know, to other countries, and come back again in the spring.”
“Do they? How clever of them! How do they know when to go, and where to go?”
“I don’t exactly know. I think it must be God who teaches them.”
“God! But God can’t care about the swallows!”
“I think God cares about everything,” said Winifred dreamily. “If he didn’t take care of the swallows, how could they find their way?”
“But swallows are such little things; I don’t see how God can care for them.”
Winifred did not say anything at first, so Violet turned from the window to look at her.
“Violet,” she said presently; “I think if God didn’t care about little things, He couldn’t care about big ones either.”
“Why not?”
“Because it is little things that make big ones. I don’t think anything is really so very little.”
“I don’t see,” said Violet, knitting her brow.
Winifred pondered awhile.
“Mamma once told me a story about it, when I was ill; I don’t think I understood then—I mean I didn’t think what it meant; but I have been thinking about it lately—I understand better now.”
“A story!” repeated Violet, with more animation in her tone. “I like listening to stories. Tell me the story, please, Winnie.”
“I will soon, when it gets dark. I want you to look in that box there in the corner, and see if you like the things in it.”
Violet went eagerly to work, lifting the lid, and carefully examining each of the parcels disclosed to view. As she did so, rapturous exclamations of delight escaped her.
Winifred had taken great pains with her selection of toys and books and pretty trifles. Such a box as Violet was now examining would have filled any child with delight. Poor little Violet, who had always suffered from a lack of childish treasures, could not say enough, nor admire enough; she was in a perfect ecstasy.
“Oh, Winnie, how lovely! What perfectly sweet things! Oh, I never saw such a lot of lovely toys! That doll is just a darling! Oh! whoever did send you such a splendid box?”
“Nobody sent it to me,” answered Winifred, with a little smile. “I am going to send it to a little girl—a friend of mine.”
Violet was replacing the things in the box with careful, gentle fingers. She gave a little sigh as she wrapped up the beautiful doll in its paper, and gave it one little kiss before she hid its pretty face.
Winifred heard both the sigh and the kiss.
“How pleased the little girl will be!” said Violet, as she closed the box-lid lingeringly.
“I hope she will. I don’t think she has a great many toys; and she is fond of dolls and puzzles and fairy tales.”
“Like me,” Violet was just going to say; but she checked herself, and said instead,
“Does she? How pleased she will be!”
“I hope she will.”
“Of course she will; she must be. Do I know her?”
“Yes.”
“Do you like her? Is she a nice little girl?”
“I think so.”
“What is her name?”
“Her name is Violet.”
Violet gave such a jump that Winifred could not help laughing.
“Yes, Vi dear, the box is for you if you will have it, and you are to take it home with you to-night. You see, I’m getting too old now to care for dolls and toys, and then—and then—Well, I thought perhaps you would like them, and I should like you to have them, because I have been fond of them, and I know you will take care of them. And so the box is yours now.”
It was some time before Violet could really believe the wonderful news, and then it seemed as if she could not thank Winifred enough. She kissed her and hugged her, and showed in every way in her power how delighted she was; and Winifred felt very glad she had thought of a way to make her little friend so happy.
“You are the dearest Winnie in the world,” said Violet, nestling close up to her at last. “I love you a whole lot.” And by-and-by she added, after a little pause, “You are not going away anywhere, are you, Winnie?”
“I don’t quite know,” answered Winifred slowly. “What makes you think so?”
“I thought I heard papa and mamma say something like it—something about how you would be missed—how sorry people would be when you had gone. I could not be quite sure, but I thought they were talking about you, Winnie. When I asked mamma she would not tell me, but I thought she looked somehow as if it was true; is it, Winnie?”
“I don’t know, Vi; nobody has said anything to me. Sometimes I fancy perhaps I am going somewhere, but I don’t know.”
“Would you like to go?” asked Vi with interest. “Will it make you quite well again to go? Do you know where you are going?”
Twilight had crept into the room, and the dancing firelight made flickering lights and shadows upon the walls and low ceiling. Winifred held Violet’s warm hand in hers, and spoke more plainly to her than she had ever done before.
“Vi,” she said gently, “you won’t cry if I tell you?”
“No, Winnie; why should I?” but the tone was a little apprehensive, and Violet crept closer to her little friend, and looked into her face.
“I think, Vi, that I am going to heaven.”
Violet started, and held Winifred’s hand closer and closer, in a frightened way.
“Oh no, no, Winnie! you can’t mean that! Oh no, it can’t be so dreadful!”
“It isn’t dreadful, Vi. Going to heaven couldn’t be dreadful, you know.”
Violet made no answer.
“I thought at first that I was only going away with nurse to a warmer country to get well again, but now, I think—I am almost sure—that I am going to heaven soon. Don’t cry, Vi.”
“Why do you think so?” sobbed the child.
“I don’t know if I can explain, quite. It seems as if something inside told me—just as something tells the swallows when they are to go.”
“The swallows come back,” said Violet, with another convulsive sob.
“Yes,” answered Winifred dreamily; “but when we get to heaven, Vi, I do not think we shall want to come back.”
Violet checked her tears presently, and asked: “Aren’t you afraid, Winnie?”
“No; not now.”
“I should be.”
“I was once; but I’m so sure now that God will take care of me. When the swallows go they’re not afraid, and they don’t know where they are going, and they don’t know the way. God takes care of them, so I can’t help being quite sure that He will take care of me.”
Violet sat silent, staring into the fire. By-and-by she heaved a great sigh.
“How sorry every one will be! How they will all miss you!”
“Do you think they will?”
“Oh yes. Why everybody loves you, Winnie. You are so good and kind to every one.”
“I’m afraid not,” answered Winnie gravely. “I used to think about pleasing people, but since I’ve been ill I’ve got very selfish; I did nothing for anybody, and did not try to be even kind or pleasant.”
“You were ill,” answered Vi; “you couldn’t help it. You couldn’t come to see people. It was very naughty of me to be cross with you.”
Another childish conscience was pricking its owner, bringing to mind sundry cross words and ungracious complaints which had fallen from her lips during the past months.
Winifred saw at once that her neglect had pained her little friend.
“I could have asked you to come to me,” she said quickly. “It was very naughty and selfish of me to think of nobody else. It makes me very sorry now, that I was so lazy and so unkind.”
“Don’t, Winnie; you weren’t,” interrupted Violet. “And now you’re just as kind as you can be—everybody says so. What will they do——?”
Violet stopped short, the tears in her eyes.
Winifred knew what she meant, and answered it.
“Mamma will miss me most,” she said. “Vi dear, I want you to do something for me. Will you come to see mamma as often as you can, and try to comfort her? She is fond of you, and she will like it. She hasn’t another little girl; but if you would come in and talk to her, and tell her things, and kiss her, and be fond of her, I am sure she would like it. She is fond of you, Vi.”
“I will, Winnie. I love your mamma a whole lot. I should like to come and see her and tell her things. But oh, Winnie, I can’t bear to think about it—it seems so sad and dreadful.”
“We won’t think about it, then, nor talk about it, if you don’t like. I haven’t talked to anybody else, Vi, and I don’t know—It is only what I fancy. I may—perhaps—be wrong.”
Violet took courage from this idea, which she eagerly seized upon. Children soon turn their minds from a subject which seems sad or painful.
“You have not told me your story yet, Winnie; and it is quite dark enough now.”
“Yes, and almost time to go down to watch the boys’ charade; but I will just tell you what it was, as I promised, because I think perhaps it would be easier to be good if we could always remember that little things matter just as much as big ones, and are really often harder to think of, and to do.”
Winifred paused a moment, whilst Violet settled herself to listen to the story.
“It isn’t a very long one, and I can’t tell it nicely like mamma; but it was about a little boy whom she once knew quite well—a nice little boy whom everybody was fond of, because he was so good-tempered and merry. His name was Frank, and he lived in a nice little house with his mother, and they were very happy.
“One day a pane of glass was broken in the green-house. It was Frank who had done it by accident, but he told a lie, and said he hadn’t. It was the first time he had ever told a lie, and it seemed a very little one, and he didn’t think much about it. But then after he had told one story he told another, and then another, and at last his mother found him out, and was so shocked and grieved about it that she sent him to school.
“For a little while he seemed to do better; but by-and-by he began to tell little lies again to get out of trouble, and then he told big ones, and a wicked big boy found him out once in a great lie, and said he would tell of him if Frank would not help him in some wicked thing he wanted to do. So Frank promised he would, and the big boy led him into all sorts of dreadful mischief, and at last it got found out by the schoolmaster, and Frank was expelled.”
“Oh!” ejaculated Violet, opening her eyes wide. “What did his mother say then?”
“His mother never saw him,” answered Winifred gravely, “for he was afraid to go home; and he ran away to sea, and led a miserable, wicked life for a great many years, and never once wrote to tell his mother that he was alive, or what had become of him.”
“How wicked!”
“Yes, it was wicked; and it broke his mother’s heart; and when she could find out nothing about him, and months and years went by without any news, she grew weaker and weaker, and sadder and sadder, and by-and-by she died. Think, Vi, if he hadn’t told that little lie about the pane of glass, or any other little lie, perhaps he might have grown up a good man.”
“Is that the end of the story, Winnie?”
“No, not quite; for by-and-by when he was a man he thought he would go back and see his mother again. He was poor, and miserable, and wicked, and he had been very ill, and he thought he would go back and try and be a good son if only his mother would forgive him. Well, he came back to England and went to his own village, and found that his mother was dead, and that she had died through his wicked conduct. Nobody knew Frank because he had changed so much, and nobody said a kind word to him. They did not know him, though he knew some of them. He was so desperate and miserable that he determined he would kill himself; and in the evening he crept down the village street to get to the river, and he meant to shoot himself there, and let his body fall into the water and be carried away.”
“And did he?” asked Vi, in an awe-struck tone.
“No; for as he was passing down the street he passed the school-room, and the door was open, and he saw that the room was full of people. He just fancied he would like to see what was going on, so he crept into the porch and listened. The clergyman was talking to the children and people, telling them about the prodigal son coming home to his father; and then he said that he would give them just one little text to remember, three little words which would always be a help if ever they had done wrong and were afraid whether they could be forgiven. The little text was ‘God is Love’—just that; and he talked to them about God and God’s love so earnestly, that poor Frank forgot all about the wicked plan in his head, and listened for every word; and he could not help crying as he thought how wicked he was and how good God was, and he crept away to cry outside; and when the clergyman came out, he saw him sitting on the ground, and he went and spoke to him and found out who he was. And the clergyman had been a friend of Frank’s mother and had known him when he was a boy; and he was taking care of some money which the mother had left for him in case he ever came back. And so he took Frank home with him, and talked to him and comforted him and helped him to be a good man; and Frank tried very hard, and always thought of the three little words, and by-and-by he did grow to love God and to be a good man, and mamma knows him now, and says he is very kind and good. And he is never tired of telling people how important little things are; because it was just a little lie which began all his wickedness, and it was one little text of three little words which stopped him from killing himself, and made him try to be a good man again.”
“That is a nice story,” said Violet. “I am so glad he got good at last.”
“I am so glad that ‘God is Love,’” said Winnie.
“I will try never to do little naughty things again,” added Violet; “I mean I will try never to call them little or think them little any more.”
They had not time to discuss the subject any longer, for the boys came rushing up to tell them that the charade was just going to begin, and that their presence was requested for the occasion.
The acting was very funny and amusing, and the boys did it very well. Winifred and Violet laughed heartily, and all grave thoughts seemed for the time quite driven away.
Then came the supper in the dining-room, and crackers were pulled and jokes cracked, and everybody was very merry and gay.
Winifred was quite the queen of the night; and so much attention was heaped upon her that she hardly knew how to respond to it all.
Mr. Digby and Charley let off the fireworks last thing, and the exhibition gave great delight to the whole party. Everybody agreed that it had been a splendid evening, and the guests drove away in the big waggonette in the highest spirits, Violet at the far end with the big box safe under her feet.
Winifred, from her sheltered nook by the hall-window, watched the carriage drive away, and kissed her hand in answer to the boys’ farewell cheer; then she turned away with a grave smile on her little pale face.
“I think they were all pleased,” she said. “They are nice boys, Charley. I wonder I never wanted them to come before.”
“They can come often if you like them,” said Ronald, eagerly. “They liked it awfully, and they all said you were a brick. They will come as often as you like, I’m sure.”
Winifred smiled a little.
“I should like to think they would often come,” said she, slowly. “If you like it and they like it, and mamma doesn’t mind. It would make it nice for you, wouldn’t it, Ronald?”
“Yes, jolly!” he answered, turning an agile somersault. “But you look tired, Winnie. I’ll take you to mamma, and she’ll say you ought to be in bed.”
“Yes, I should like to go to bed,” said the child, rather wearily; “but it has been a nice evening.”
