"I did like her so much that day," she said, "and she looked so sorry,
too. It's terrible to die!"
Then she plied Guy with questions concerning Maddy's probable future.
"Would she go to heaven, sure?" and When Guy answered at random,
"Yes," she asked, "How did he know? Had he heard that Maddy was that
kind of good which lets folks in heaven? Because, Brother Guy," and
the little preacher nestled closely to the young man, fingering his
coat buttons as she talked, "because, Brother Guy, folks can be good--
that is, not do naughty things--and still God won't love them unless
they--I don't know what, I wish I did."
Guy drew her nearer to him, but to that childish yearning for
knowledge he could not respond, so he said: "Who taught you all this, little one?--not your mother, surely."
"No, not mamma, but Miriam, the waiting-maid we left in Boston. She
told me about it, and taught me to pray different from mamma. Do you
pray, Brother Guy?"
The question startled the young man, who was glad his coachman spoke
to him just then, asking if he should drive through Devonshire
village, or go direct to Honedale by a shorter route.
They would go to the village, Guy said, hoping that thus the doctor
might be persuaded to accompany them. This diverted Jessie's mind, and
she said no more of praying; but the first tiny grain was sown, the
mustard seed, which should hereafter spring up into a mighty tree, the
indirect result of Maddy's disappointment and almost fatal illness.
They found the doctor at home and willing to go with them. Indeed, so
impatient had he become listening for the first stroke of the bell
which was to herald the death he deemed so sure, that he was on the
point of mounting his horse and galloping off alone, when Guy's
invitation came. It was five miles from Devonshire to Honedale, and
when they reached a hill which lay halfway between, they stopped for a
few moments to rest the tired horses. Suddenly, as they sat waiting, a
sharp, ringing sound fell on their ears, and grasping Guy's knee, the
doctor said, "I told you so; Madeline Clyde is dead."
It was the village bell, and its twice three strokes betokened that it
tolled for somebody youthful, somebody young, like Maddy Clyde. Jessie
wept silently, but there were no tears in the eyes of the young men,
as with beating hearts they sat listening to the slow, solemn sounds
which came echoing up the hill. There was a pause; the sexton's
dirgelike task was done, and now it only remained for him to strike
the age, and tell how many years the departed one had numbered.