HE summer weather lasted only three days longer, but those three days were not wasted.
Winifred was so anxious to get the guinea-fowls into their new home, that everything else for a while gave way to that plan.
The carpenter was called in to mend the little shed, and to wire in a great square from the field to make a run for the expected tenants. The thatcher came with his straw to fill up the holes in the roof, and the blacksmith fixed an iron drinking-trough in one corner, and brought up a padlock for the door of the shed.
Winifred watched all these proceedings with the greatest interest. She had not felt so strong again as she had done on Sunday; she could not walk to the lodge or do anything which required much exertion; but she could just manage to get down to the home field where the work was going on, and sit upon a tree-stump near at hand to watch the men at work, and to ask questions as to how and why they did this or that. Winifred found it all very interesting, and was delighted when on the evening of the second day the home was pronounced complete.
“It’s done, Charley! it’s done!” she called to them gladly, as they came rushing down the field from their day’s lessons. “Come and see how nice it all looks. When can the fowls come?”
“To-morrow,” answered Charley. “We can bring them back with us to-morrow. We’ve arranged it all with Farmer Johnson, and we’re going to start with ten. You’ll see them arrive to-morrow, Winnie.”
“Oh jolly!” cried Ronald; “you will like them, Winnie, they are such jolly birds. I’d sooner keep guinea-fowls than anything now.”
Winifred was as much pleased and excited as anybody, and quite impatient for the arrival of the new pets.
“I do hope they will come to-morrow, and that it will keep hot!” she said to herself that night. “For it can’t be summer always, and the swallows are gathering so fast—so fast. It must be nearly time for them to go.”
The next day the sun still shone warm and bright, and the thousands of swallows in the meadows seemed as full of life and happiness as though there were no winter cold and frost to drive them away.
“We shall be home early to-day, Winnie,” cried Ronald, putting his head in at the nursery-door last thing. “Mr. Arnold has to go to town, and we shall get off early. You’ll be down in the field to see the guinea-fowls come!”
“Oh yes!” cried Winnie, eagerly. “I do so want to see them. I hope they will like their new home.”
Winifred waited eagerly for the appointed time to come, and was down at the new house in the field a good half-hour too soon. The boys, however, were punctual to their time, and soon the sound of wheels being driven over the grass became distinctly audible.
Farmer Johnson’s light spring-cart was bringing its burden down to the appointed place; and with a good deal of clucking and calling and screaming, the pretty, softly-marked birds were transferred from the cart to their new home.
“Oh, nice things!” cried Winnie, “how pretty they are, and how funny! I am glad they have come. I am glad I have seen them. I do hope they will be happy!”
“Not much doubt of that, little miss,” said the good-natured farmer, as he mounted his cart and took the reins. “They’ll be well looked after, I’ll be bound.”
“That they will!” cried Ronald, eagerly. “Aren’t they jolly birds, Winnie?”
Mr. and Mrs. Digby came down to see and admire the new comers; and after much talk about the many perfections of the guinea-fowl, they all walked back together to the house, discussing as they did so the number of chickens to be hatched in the spring.
Winifred’s face looked rather grave and wistful whilst this point was under discussion; but the smiles soon came back under the cheering influence of Ronald’s delight at their new treasures.
That night the weather changed suddenly. The wind shifted from south-west to south-east, and brought with it cold, drenching rain, and piercing blasts of wind, which rattled fiercely at door and window and would not be denied an entrance.
The leaves were whirled from the trees, the few flowers that remained were battered and knocked to pieces. The water-meadows began to show long furrows of glimmering silver, and the swallows gathered faster and faster every day. It seemed as if winter had come with one bound.
“It will come warmer again soon,” people said to one another. “This cold cannot last. We shall have soft, mild days again before long.”
And Winifred, when she heard them, said to herself:
“But the swallows will be gone before that.”
The child had failed all of a sudden, just as a flower sometimes does, looking fresh and bright and full of life one hour, and then at a single touch losing its leaves and dropping quietly out of existence.
With the first breath of winter cold Winifred had drooped and failed, and lost in a day all the little strength she had seemed to gain.
By the end of the week she could not leave her little bed, and although nobody told her so she knew she never should leave it again.
“Mamma,” she said one day, “I can’t see the swallows now. May my bed go into the day nursery? I like so much to look out of the window there. I like to watch the swallows, and I like to watch the sunsets.”
The child’s wish was granted. The little low bed was moved into the west room, and as Winifred lay, she could watch her friends the swallows, and see the sun go down. Even when the days were wet, the evenings were generally bright, and the sky would grow gradually all crimson and gold, like a sea of glory, and great soft clouds of every colour of the rainbow would rise and float over the golden distance, and to the little grave eyes that watched the beautiful dying day, it seemed as if the gates of heaven opened night by night to take the great sun in, and she wondered dreamily if the floating clouds were the souls of the people who had died in the day, and who were finding their way home as the evening drew on.
A great many strange thoughts and fancies passed through the child’s mind, as she lay day after day in her little bed, too weak and tired to talk, not always quite able to put her thoughts into words, but always able to think in a dreamy fashion of her own. She always knew the people who came in and out to look at her, kiss her, or wait upon her, and she had a smile for every one, even when she could not talk.
She hardly knew how time passed. Sometimes she grew confused between day and night; but it always seemed as though mamma were in the room, whoever else shifted and changed, and Winifred always felt happiest holding her hand and listening to her voice.
Little Violet came sometimes with hushed steps and tearful voice; and the boys stole in each morning and evening to kiss her and whisper loving words. One day Winnie roused herself to ask after the new pets, and ten minutes later Ronald appeared, carrying in his arms a scolding struggling guinea-hen; and the little girl laughed a weak little laugh to see how it pecked and kicked and called “go back!” “go back!”
Dr. Howard came very often, as it seemed to the child, and papa was in the room almost as constantly as mamma, although he did not stay quite so long. The servants often stole in just to look at her, and Winnie had a smile for every one, and a word of greeting when she was well enough.
“You will give them all something of mine by-and-by, when I am gone,” said the child to her mother one day. “And nursey must have as many as she wants—dear nursey, who has been so kind and good always! I’m afraid they would cry if I gave them away now.”
“I will do as you wish, darling.”
“Thank you; and you will take care of little Phil?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Thank you; I know you will do everything right.”
Winifred lay silent after that; it tired her now to talk even a little. The sunset was very bright that evening, and the swallows were making a great twittering; myriads there seemed of them now, gathered in the water-meadows, and there seemed an unusual bustle amongst them on this particular night.
“They will soon be going now,” Winnie said half-aloud, and her mother answered gently:
“Very soon now, my darling.”
Mother and child looked at one another, and Winnie smiled. These two did not need to talk of what was in their inmost hearts, they understood without words. Every morning when the blind first went up, the child had said, “Have the swallows gone yet?” and when she heard the answer she would say, “I am glad; I feel as if I should miss them.”
A good many people came in to kiss Winnie that night, and she said “good-bye” to them all, not “good-night,” though she could hardly have told why.
Papa and mamma stayed on, and nurse; and Dr. Howard seemed to come in the middle of the night.
“Mamma,” said Winifred once, “I am very happy, I haven’t any pain—I’m so glad God takes care of little things—swallows, you know—and children. He will take care of me, I know.”
“My darling is not afraid to go to Him, then?” asked the mother very gently.
“Oh no—not now.”
Talking was very hard, her tongue seemed heavy, and only whispers came from between the parted lips. A strange singing filled the child’s ears.
Father and mother bent over the little one and kissed her, oh, so tenderly and so lovingly!—but they did not cry. Winnie was glad that they did not cry.
“Into Thy Hands, O most loving Father—”
Was it her father’s voice speaking thus? The child thought so, but could not tell, for a rushing sound as of many wings seemed to fill the air drowning the voice that still spoke in solemn tones.
“The swallows!” she tried to say—“the swallows—they are going—at last—” but with that strange rushing of wings mingled another and a sweeter sound, that made Winnie clasp her hands and look up with a smile on her little white face.
“It is my angel—come for me—I am not afraid to go—now. Did God send you for me, angel?—I am ready.”
In the morning there were no swallows in the water-meadows—they had all flown away in the night; and one little blood washed soul had flown in at Heaven’s wide gate to rest for evermore in the care of the Heavenly Father, who watches over little helpless things, and thinks no child that trusts His love too small or weak to be taken in to the eternal Home at last.
THE END.