_ "How is she now, Dora?" asked Karl, softly opening the door of the
rosy-room.
"Better. You can come in if you want to. Have you got the broth?"
"Yes: here it is."
"That's nice. Now hold her up, please, this way, while I feed her.
See, little Sunshine! here is some nice broth for you. Take a
little, won't you?"
The pale lips slightly opened, and Dora deftly slipped the spoon
between them. The effect was instantaneous; and, as the half-starved
child tasted and smelled the nourishing food, she opened wide her
eyes, and, fixing them upon the cup, nervously worked her lips, and
half extended her poor little hands, wasted and paled by even two
days of privation and fatigue.
"I tell you what, Dora, this child has had a mighty narrow chance of
it," said Karl aside, as Dora patiently administered the broth,
waiting a moment between each spoonful.
"Yes," replied she softly. "I am so glad I met her! it was a real
providence."
"For her?"
"For me as much," returned Dora simply. "It is so pleasant to be
able to do something again!"
"You miss your wounded and invalid soldiers, and find it very dull
here," said Karl quickly, as he glanced sharply into the open face
of the young girl.
"Hush, Karl! don't talk now: it will disturb her. Is tea ready?"
"Yes, and Kitty sent word for you to come. Run along, and I will
stay with the chick till you come back."
"No: I can't leave her yet. You go to supper, and perhaps, when you
are done, I will leave you with her; or Kitty can stay, and I will
clear away."
"Won't you let me stay now?" asked the young man hesitatingly.
"No. Here, take the bowl, and run along."
"'Just as you say, not as I like,' I suppose," said Karl, laughing;
and, taking the bowl, he went softly out.
"Now, little girl, you feel better, don't you?" asked Dora cheerily,
as she laid the heavy head back upon the pillow, and tenderly
smoothed away the tangled hair.
"Si, signora," murmured Giovanni's pupil.
"What's that? I don't know what you mean. Say it again, won't you?"
But the child only fixed her dreamy eyes upon the face of the
questioner, with no effort at reply; and then the lids began slowly
to close.
"Now, before you go to sleep, Sunshine, I am going to take you up
stairs, and put you in my own bed, because I sha'n't want to leave
you alone to-night; and no one sleeps here. Wait till I fold this
shawl round you, and then pull your arms about my neck. There: now
we'll go."
She lifted the child as she spoke, and carried her again into the
front entry, and up the square staircase to a cottage-chamber with
white, scoured floor, common pine furniture, the cheapest of white
earthern toilet-sets, and nothing of expense or luxury to be found
within its four whitewashed walls, and yet a room that gave one a
feeling of satisfaction and peace not always inhabiting far wider
and more costly chambers: for the little bed was artistically
composed, and covered with snow-white dimity, as was the table
between the windows, and the cushion of the wooden rocking-chair;
while curtains of the same material, escaped from their tri-colored
fastenings, floated in upon the soft breeze like great sails, or the
draperies of twilight spirits departing before mortal presence.
In the fireplace stood a large pitcher, filled with common flowers,
fresh and odorous; and upon the high mantle-shelf, and all around
the room, was disposed a collection of the oddest ornaments that
ever decked a young girl's sleeping-chamber. Among them we will but
pause to mention two muskets, the one bent, the other splintered at
the stock; four swords, each more or less disabled; an officer's
sash; three sets of shoulder-straps; a string of army-buttons, each
with a name written upon a strip of paper, and tied to the eye; two
or three dozen bone rings, of more or less elaborate workmanship,
disposed upon the branches of a little tree carved of pine; a large
collection of crosses, hearts, clasped hands, dogs'-heads, and other
trinkets, in bone, some white, and some stained black; a careful
drawing of a crooked and grotesque old negro, in a frame of carved
wood; and, finally, a suit of clothes hung against the wall in the
position of a human figure, consisting of a jaunty scarlet cap, with
a little flag of the United States fastened to the front by an
army-badge; a basque, skirt, and trousers of blue cloth, with a worn
and clumsy pair of boots below. From a belt fastened across the
waist hung a little barrel, a flask, and by a wide ribbon of red,
white and blue, a boatswain's silver whistle.
Singular ornaments, we have said, for a young girl's sleeping-room,
and yet, in this case, touchingly appropriate and harmonious: for
they were the keepsakes given to the daughter of the regiment by the
six hundred brave men, who each loved her as his own; they were the
mementoes of a year in Dora Darling's life, of such vivid
experiences that it threatened to make all the years that should
come after pale and vapid in comparison.
Just now, however, all the girl's strong sympathies were aroused and
glowing; and as she tenderly cared for the child so strangely placed
within her hands, and finally laid her to sleep in the
clover-scented sheets of the fair white bed, she felt happier than
she had for months before.
A light tap at the door, and Kitty entered.
"I'll stay with her while you go and eat supper. Charles said he'd
come; but I'd like well enough to sit down a little while. My!-she's
pretty-looking; isn't she?"
"The prettiest child I ever saw," replied Dora, with her usual
decision; and then the two girls stood for a moment looking down at
the delicate little face, where, since the food and broth Dora had
administered, a bright color showed itself upon the cheeks and lips;
while the short, thick curls, carefully brushed, clustered around
the white forehead, defining its classic shape, and contrasting with
its pearly tints.
"Who can she be?" asked Kitty in a whisper.
"Some sort of foreigner,--French maybe, or perhaps Italian. She has
talked considerably since I gave her the broth; but I can't make out
a word she says. She spoke English when I first met her; but I don't
believe she knows much of it," said Dora thoughtfully.
"There is something sewed up in a little bag, and hung round her
neck," added she, "just such as some of our foreign volunteers
had,--a sort of charm, you know, to keep them from being struck by
the evil eye. That shows that her friends must have been
foreigners."
"Yes; and Catholics too, likely enough," said Kitty rather
contemptuously; adding, after a pause,--
"Well, you go down, and I'll sit by her a while. If she sleeps as
sound as this, I don't suppose I need stay a great while. There's
the supper-dishes to do."
"I'll wash them, of course; but, if you want to come down, you might
leave the door open at the head of the back stairs, and I should
hear if she called or cried. And, now I think of it, I have a letter
to show Karl and you. I got it at the post-office."
"From Mr. Brown?" asked Kitty quickly.
"No, from a Mr. Burroughs; a man I never heard of in my life till
to-day. But come down in a few minutes, and I will read it to you."
"Well, don't read it till I come."
"No: I won't." And Dora quietly went out of the room, leaving Kitty
to swing backward and forward in the white-cushioned rocking-chair,
her dark eyes wandering half contemptuously, half enviously, over
Dora's collection of treasures, with an occasional glance at the
sleeping child. _