CHAPTER XVIII.

A DREAM FULFILLED.

“Miss Anne, you have a chill,” exclaimed, the doctor, as he bundled his charge into the buggy. “You ought to have stayed at home, close in-doors.”

“On this beautiful day? Why, doctor, I must go to church. I wouldn’t miss it for anything, especially now. Poor—no, happy Columbus! Such an innocent, simple, loving soul! Oh, doctor, I promised to do one thing for him. You will let me do it?”

“What is it?” And Persis told him what Columbus had requested concerning his doll.

“I’ll see to it,” the doctor assured her. “You must not go near there.”

“Not even to the funeral?”

“No. I’m going to take you home and put you to bed. You’re shaking yet.”

“It is only a nervous chill, I know. I was so startled, so shocked.”

“How does your throat feel?”

“My throat? Why, a little stiff. I think that, too, comes from nervousness.”

The doctor hurried her into his office and examined her pulse, her throat. “To bed with you,” he ordered. “I’ve been afraid of it.” And sure enough, before night Persis was in a raging fever, and the white patches on her throat had spread alarmingly.

Night and day she was watched over by the doctor and his wife, who gave her unremitting care. “I was afraid of it from the first,” the doctor told Mrs. Rivers. “The boy Columbus was a very bad case, and Miss Anne was just in a condition to contract any disease.”

It was noised throughout the neighborhood that Miss Maitland was dangerously ill. The children gathered in the school-house one morning, but there was no teacher. Mr. Boone drove up about half an hour after the usual time for opening. “I’m sorry to be obliged to announce that there is no one to take charge of the school,” he said. “Your teacher is very ill. We are not at all inclined to close the school, and will try and have a substitute in a day or two.”

Across the school-room the eyes of Joshua Harman and Josephine Flint met. Josh arose, flushing to the roots of his hair, but there was always a dogged persistence about the boy which prevented his allowing anything to stand in the way of duty. He saw a chance to help Miss Anne. “If you don’t object, sir, and the scholars are willing,” he began, “I’ll do my best to keep them together. I reckon the boys will stand by me. I cyarnt be so sure of the gyurls. Josey Flint’s ahead of the rest; if she’ll take the gyurls, I’ll do my best with the boys.” And Josh sat down.

“I don’t see but that you have suggested an admirable plan,” Mr. Boone assured him. “You two are the oldest, as well as the most advanced pupils, I think I have heard Miss Maitland say, and you know her methods. Yes, I think that is a very good plan, and we’ll be much obliged to you if you can carry it out. If you have the slightest trouble, report to the doctor or me.” And Mr. Boone mounted his horse and drove off well pleased.

Then Josh addressed himself to the school. Rather an uncouth sort of a speech it was, but it meant, “We’ll stand by Miss Anne shoulder to shoulder, and even if we can’t make much headway we won’t slide back.”

Virginia Southall gathered up her books and departed. “She did not mean to be under Joe Flint,” she announced.

“So much the better for me,” Josey thought. And therefore, each helping the other, Josh and Joe started in.

Meantime, Persis lived in a strange, unreal world. She felt herself floating off, with the buoyancy of a spirit untramelled by fleshly conditions, as she had often before dreamed herself doing, out of the window, over the tops of trees, out—out above the earth, yet all that time something was clutching at her throat. What was it? Then again Columbus was calling her to come; he wanted her. “Jes’ Miss Anne, jes’ Miss Anne.” She heard it over and over again, and they would not let her go. And, last of all, she thought she was at home again, and that her mother bent over her and called her “darling daughter.” This dream lasted the longest, for whenever she opened her eyes she saw her mother before her.

And one day she became aware that it was no dream, but that her mother was really there by her side. Then it came to her that she had been dreaming many strange things: that she had gone from home, and had been through many queer experiences; but that thought, too, vanished into the unreal world, and nothing seemed an absolute truth but that her mother was there by her side.

“Mamma,” she said, weakly.

“Yes, my darling.”

“It is you? I’m not dreaming?”

“It is I, dear.”

“I dreamed you were not my mother; wasn’t it queer?”

“Very queer. Don’t talk, darling. Take this. There, now shut your eyes.”

“Mamma.”

“Yes, dearest.”

“Please hold my hand; I want to be sure I’m not dreaming.” And she fell asleep with her mother’s hand clasping hers. For there had come a time when Persis’s recovery looked very dubious to Dr. Rivers, and he had gone to his desk and had taken from it the envelope the sick girl had given him. “If ever there was to come a time for using this, it is here,” he said, and before long a message flashed over the wires, a message which brought Mrs. Holmes post-haste to the patient’s bedside. It was a struggle, for Persis was very near the dark river, but the doctor never left her till he had overcome the disease, and then followed a low fever, which, after all traces of diphtheria had gone, threatened to sap the patient’s remaining strength. But the unflagging devotion of those about her brought the invalid up out of the valley of the shadow of death, and it was with a leap of thankfulness at her heart that Mrs. Holmes at last saw that she was conscious and in a more natural state, very weak, but better.

“I am sure she is better,” she said, anxiously scanning the doctor’s face.

He felt her pulse, took her temperature, and smiled. “Yes, she shows the most favorable signs I have seen yet. I think we may hope, Mrs. Holmes.” That was the day on which Persis first recognized her mother. The next time she awoke her mind seemed still clearer.

“Mamma,” was the word which first sprang to her lips.

“Yes, my dearest one.”

“It is really you?”

“Yes, really your own mother.”

“But that dream, mamma; it was so very vivid. I seem to have been a long time somewhere else, where I was not myself but some other person, and I wasn’t your daughter. I am your daughter; tell me so, mamma.”

“Yes, my very own dear, darling daughter.”

“You are not saying that because I am so weak?”

“No, dear; you are my very own.”

Just then the doctor came in, and Persis turned a startled look on him. She clutched her mother’s hand nervously. “Mamma,” she whispered, “he is one of the persons in the dream. Why isn’t Dr. Armstrong here?”

“He couldn’t be, dear.”

“Oh, yes; and he has sent this doctor instead. But why does he look so natural, so very familiar? I haven’t just dreamed about him.”

“There, dear, don’t bother about it. It is all right, all right,” her mother said, soothingly.

“And you won’t go and leave me?”

“No; I’ll stay right here.”

“But this is a strange room, mamma. Am I in a hospital?”

“No; in the house of a friend, Persis, a very dear friend.”

“Why, you said Persis. I thought my name was—— What was my name?”

“Never mind; don’t try to think of anything but that you are my dear, dear daughter. You must try to keep quiet, my child.”

The doctor ordered a quieting medicine, and for the time being the patient was soothed. But as strength returned the old questions arose, and one day it all came back to her, and she turned on her pillow and wept softly.

Her mother found her thus, the tears trickling through her wasted fingers. “My precious child, what is it?” she asked. “Are you in pain?”

“No; but oh, mamma, even if you are not my own mother, it isn’t so hard as I thought it would be; and I can’t, I can’t have you leave me.”

“Why, my dearest, I have no idea of leaving you. What is it that is not so hard?”

“The seeing you.”

“And why should it be?”

“Because, oh, mamma, you know I am not really yours. I remember now how I found the papers, and it hurt me so. Oh, I have been so wretched, _so_ wretched! I couldn’t, I couldn’t reconcile myself to it. I said, ‘I won’t! I won’t have it!’ And then I went away. I remember it all now.”

“But my dearest girl, I told you that you were my own, my very own. Don’t you remember that?”

“Yes; but I know you only said it because I was so sick and weak, and you didn’t want to agitate me.”

“But I tell you so again.”

Persis tried hard to rise, but fell back on her pillow, too weak to make the exertion. “You’re doing it again! you’re doing it again!” she cried, the tears coursing down her cheeks.

“Hush, my precious one; try and be quiet, and I will tell you all about it. You must not be so disturbed, it is not good for you. Listen, dear: you found a paper in a box and you thought it related to yourself. Why did you think so?”

“Because it was signed H. B. Holmes, and because I found the little golden curl of the baby that died, and I knew it must have belonged to the real Persis. She had hair like Mellicent’s.”

“But she was not the real Persis.”

“Oh, no, no! You are not trying to deceive me? No, no! I cannot bear it.”

“My darling, I wouldn’t deceive you for my right hand. Your father and I never had an adopted daughter. The only Persis we ever called daughter was our very own child, a little baby with black hair like my mother’s, our own dear little baby, who now that she is grown insists upon calling herself by another name.”

“Oh, mamma! mamma!”

“Yes, dear, you are Persis Holmes. It has always been your name since you had a name at all.”

“And Anne Maitland?”

“Anne Maitland was a little baby girl who died when she was not two years old. Can you remember anything about your Uncle Will’s wife, Persis? She married a second time after Uncle Will died. She lives in Italy. Helen Foscari is her name.”

“Yes; but I never remember seeing her.”

“No, I don’t suppose you do. Her maiden name was Helen Bancroft. She had a sister who married a man by the name of Maitland, a very cruel, bad man, who deserted his wife. On her death-bed Mrs. Maitland gave her baby to her sister Helen, who legally adopted her; and because the child had been called Anne, after Mr. Maitland’s mother, Helen determined that she would change the name. She was very fond of your grandmother, so she asked if she might name the little one after her, for she said, ‘I never want the child in any way to be reminded of her father or his family.’ You may remember having been told that for a long time you were not given a name. Your father wanted you called Mary, after me; your Aunt Esther was very anxious that you should be her namesake; and I wanted to name you Persis, after your grandmother; so when there was no longer any little Persis, Aunt Esther and your father compromised, and agreed that you should be named as I so greatly desired you should be. The adoption papers for little Anne were made out legally, and, unfortunately, instead of Helen’s signing her full name she simply signed H. B. Holmes. Your father’s initials are the same, and you made a very natural mistake, although if you had examined closely you would have seen a difference in the signatures, although they do closely resemble each other. Moreover, if you had read all the papers you would have learned the truth. The little baby did not live long, but Helen loved her devotedly; and after your uncle’s death, when she went abroad, she left the box containing the papers and the lock of hair in your father’s charge, and they have been in his desk ever since.”

Persis’s eyes were fastened on her mother’s face as though she would never remove her gaze.

“We had almost forgotten about them,” continued Mrs. Holmes, “until your discovery brought the old story to mind, and so, dear child, you see how very easy it is to make a mistake, even with the proof of what we call ‘black and white.’”

Persis drew her mother’s hand towards her, and laid her cheek upon it. She could scarcely realize yet that all these months had not been a dream, but she felt that one great and good blessing was hers, that her mother, her own mother, was by her side, and she sighed. “Oh, I am so thankful, so thankful.” She lay very still, only now and then pressing the dear hand closer. After a time she looked at her mother wistfully and said, “Dear mamma, did you feel very bad when your naughty child ran away?”

“How could I help it, darling? And yet I knew my child so well that I could understand how she, of all my daughters, would be likely to suffer the most at such a discovery as she believed she had made.”

“I ought not to have taken so much for granted, but it seemed so very, very plain. Why had I never heard about the little baby that died?”

“Because, dear, we have not spoken much of your uncle’s wife, she lived so far away, and I suppose we felt a little disapproval of her second marriage, and a coolness seemed to arise after it took place. We have not seen her for nearly twenty years.”

“I see. Everything seemed to conspire to make me take the wrong view.”

“Yes, it does seem as if it did.”

“Oh, mamma dear, think of how much there is for me to know. You will not leave me?”

“I shall not go till you are able to go with me.”

“But my school.”

“Never mind the school. The doctor will not consent to any such labors on the part of his patient for many weeks, I am sure, and then the school session will be over.”

Dr. Rivers came in soon after this. “Well, Miss Anne,” he said, cheerfully, “how goes it to-day?”

“But I’m not Miss Anne any more,” she said, smiling.

“You will be to me, to the end of the chapter.”

“Very well, I don’t care. I am quite willing to be called anything as long as I know——Has mamma told you, doctor, what a strange mistake I made?”

“Yes, I was told long ago.”

“Nobody seems to scold me very much, yet I think I deserve it.” And the tears began to flow again.

“I think your punishment was inflicted by yourself, and that it has been quite severe enough,” Mrs. Holmes remarked.

“But I had no right to punish you, only I thought—I didn’t believe you could care so very, very much, for I thought only an own mother could, and I didn’t dream I was making my own dear ones feel unhappy over me.”

“Or you wouldn’t have done it, of course. It’s as clear as mud,” said the doctor, laughing. “But you’ve had excitement enough for one day. Will you let this precious mother out of your sight long enough to give her a chance for a breath of fresh air?”

“Oh, yes.”

“But you’d rather not, I’ll venture to say.”

“No matter what I’d rather. Take her right along before I get so silly as to object.”

After this Persis recovered rapidly. There was so much that she was eager to learn, that when she was able to be propped up in bed she asked so many questions that her mother declared it kept her busy from morning till night answering them.

“Tell me about Annis,” was one of the first requests.

Mrs. Holmes looked grave. “Annis has had a sad time,” she replied. “She has met with a great loss.”

“Oh, mamma, not her mother!”

“Yes, dear.”

“Oh, my poor, poor little Annis? Where is she?”

“With your Aunt Esther. Mrs. Brown died in Washington last October, and Aunt Esther has kept Annis with her ever since. Excepting our family, Aunt Esther is, you know, about her nearest relative.”

“And I was away when the poor darling needed me most. Oh, mamma, how many dreadful things happen to make one reproach one’s self! How does Annis bear it?”

“She is, of course, almost heart-broken, but I think she is becoming calmer now. Mr. Danforth seems to be a great comfort to her.”

“Mr. Dan?” Persis’s eyes opened wide.

“Yes.” And Mrs. Holmes told of the young man’s work in Washington. “He is very kind-hearted, and at the time of Mrs. Brown’s death did everything in his power. I hardly know how Aunt Esther could have managed without him, for the captain was laid up with rheumatism, and Mr. Danforth relieved them of all trouble in the matter. His having lost his own mother so recently has made him feel a very keen sympathy for Annis. They are each comparatively alone in the world, and that is a great bond between them.”

Persis looked very grave and thoughtful. “Mamma,” she said, “where is Basil? Is he in Washington, too?”

“No; didn’t I tell you that he went abroad again, soon after his accident? The doctor thought the voyage would do him good, and Basil is such an earnest fellow, his friends all advised him not to settle down to business for another year, and his mother insisted that he should travel, since he had seen very little of any of the noted places, except Paris. And so now he is hunting up the best examples of architecture, and I dare say it is much better for his profession that he is doing just what he is. Porter and his mother have lived in Mrs. Brown’s house all winter. It is Annis’s house now, of course.”

“Yes; doesn’t it seem strange? I wonder——” Persis paused.

“What, dear?”

“Nothing much. I was wondering about Mr. Dan, that is all. It seems strange that I never thought of his liking Annis, but they would suit each other perfectly. Mr. Dan is so strong and reliable and likes to take responsibilities, while Annis is dependent and needs some one on whom she can lean. I think Mr. Dan always hoped I’d outgrow my independent ideas, and come to accept him as my oracle.”

Mrs. Holmes smiled. “I knew he was fond of you, Persis; he told your father so.”

“Then it is not such a secret. Yes, he was too fond of me, and I was sorry. He is such a good man, such a fine character, yet I couldn’t like him just in that way. I hope he has recovered from his fancy.”

“I think he has. He is not the man to let such a thing overwhelm him; and from all I hear he is likely to be consoled.”

Persis smiled. All the snarls were beginning to unravel. How she should like to see Annis, and hear about all her experiences!

It was very delightful to receive letters from all the dear people. Grandma wrote such a long, loving epistle, and then came one from Mr. Holmes. After this the missives poured in very fast. Mellicent, Annis, every one, wrote.

“What is that letter, mamma?” asked Persis, the first day she was able to be up and dressed, for her mother’s eyes looked very “weepy,” as the children used to say, over a letter she had been reading.

“It is a letter from grandma, dear.”

“And why, mamma? Has anything happened?” Persis looked nervous and anxious.

“Nothing but what we are glad to hear. Think of it, Persis. I am grandma now, and grandma is great-grandmother. Lisa has a little son.”

“Oh, mamma, has she, really? And you are not with her!”

“No, but grandma is, and Mellicent is keeping house for them all. I did not tell you, for fear you would grow impatient, but Lisa came home before I left.”

“Oh, I shall be glad to be at home again, mamma; and yet—and yet, isn’t it strange? I feel very sorry to leave this place. Did you ever see such dear, good people as Dr. and Mrs. Rivers? And the Temples, too, are so kind.”

“They have been friends, indeed. We owe them a great debt of gratitude, which we shall never be able to repay. But for them I should have lost my precious child, I am afraid.”

“Oh, mamma, it is dreadful, dreadful to think what one mistake can do! I think I shall bear the marks of it to my dying day. But maybe—I do think it has done me some good.”

“My dear one, I think it has, sad as it has been for us all. Sorrow is a wonderful friend, if we could but learn to think so.”

Persis nodded thoughtfully. She looked very pale and thin, and her eyes were big and shadowy. She was very unlike the rosy girl who had so blithely started away for her summer outing.

“Mamma,” she said, after a moment’s silence, “I don’t believe I shall ever be quite the same again; but one thing I do know, I shall never, never want to leave you and papa and grandma again.”

[Illustration: '[Fleuron]’]