Laura"s eyes opened very wide at this.
"How can I? I do not know the way."
"We will guide you, if you have resolution enough to undertake it."
Perplexed, Laura knew not what to say. How could she go alone? All sorts of dangers rose before her--great gloomy forests to traverse, wild beasts to meet, perhaps. She stood irresolute, her hand on the Motherkin"s shoulder.
The old lady took her hand in hers as she said, "I do not compel it, Laura."
"But the poor little children--how can I be of service to them? I do not know how."
"I will instruct you; I will aid you. All I ask is for you to go alone: will you, or will you not?"
A vision of the little lonely hut and the suffering child and the ministering sister rose before Laura.
"I will go," she said, no longer irresolute.
"The blessing of the poor be upon you!" said Grim, and the Motherkin kissed her brow.
"Now, my child, have a good breakfast, and then I will tell you what you are to do."
Laura obeyed very willingly, no longer disdaining good substantial food or the simple manner of its preparation. After breakfast the Motherkin opened her closets and chose a few garments for the poor children.
These, with a small flask of wine and some oat-cakes, were packed in a basket which had leather straps attached to go over Laura"s shoulder.
Then she was arrayed in a flannel costume that her kind mother had sent with all her fineries. It was blue, with delicate traceries of silver, silver b.u.t.tons, and a silver belt, from which depended a pocket, a fruit-knife, and a little drinking-cup. In the pocket the Motherkin placed a few coins, and then a.s.sured Laura that there was but one thing needed.
"And what is that, dear Motherkin?" asked Laura.
"I will show you," was the reply.
"Grim! Grim!" called the Motherkin to the dwarf, who was sunning himself out-of-doors.
"Yes, madam," said Grim, hurriedly stirring himself.
"Do you think you can cut me a good stout staff for Lady Laura, without any injury to your lame ankle?"
"Of course, madam, of course. What wood shall it be?"
"Of wood that shall serve her well--you know their qualities even better than I; and whether it be ash or birch, you can get the elves to charm it, that it may have the power to guide her aright."
Grim hobbled off in haste, and was soon seen emerging from the forest with the charmed staff in his hand. It was a light, pretty stick, and the Motherkin bade Laura be very careful not to lose it, as it could not be replaced by any ordinary wood.
"And now, my child, you are ready. I will conduct you to the path on which you set forth. You are to follow it all day, wherever it may lead; at night you are to sleep beneath the canopy of heaven; but have no fears: we guard you. In the morning place your staff in your hand, penetrate the forest by which you will be surrounded, and the staff will guide you to the bed of a mountain stream; follow it patiently until the rocks become precipitous, then climb the bank towards which your staff will incline; this will bring you to the summit of the hills, in one of the valleys of which dwell the children you seek. Constantly allow yourself to be guided by your staff; it will very gently but very surely determine your path. Let no song of birds or murmur of bees, no fragrance of flowers nor music of brooks, detain you; do not linger.
Hasten on, and you shall be guided going and coming."
"And the children--what am I to do for them?" asked Laura.
"Give them the clothes, food, and wine, and such a.s.sistance as your heart may suggest."
"But am I to leave them alone to suffer again when that which I carry to them is gone?"
"No; you are to do all in your power for the present, and leave the future to me."
"Ah, how I wish I could take them to my home in the castle, and share all my comforts and pleasures with them! I would teach them, and they should teach me, and we should be so happy together. Ah, please, dear Motherkin, let me; urge my mamma, beg her to let me take the little orphans home."
"Patience, dear child," said the Motherkin, pleased at Laura"s kind wish.
"Yes, patience," reiterated Grim, twirling his ta.s.sel, and looking the picture of delight.
"She does you credit, dear lady," said Grim, as Laura, after embracing the Motherkin, and pressing both Grim"s hands in her own, started out with her staff in hand.
"Yes," said the old lady, "I am well pleased."
[Ill.u.s.tration: "SHE TURNED FROM TIME TO TIME AND THREW KISSES TO THEM."]
They watched the child"s retreating form, as she turned from time to time and threw kisses to them, till at last the glittering figure of silver and blue was merged in the green of the forest foliage.
CHAPTER VII.
Laura"s step was light and brisk, for she carried a light heart, she was animated by a new purpose; the pleasure of doing good, or of only having the wish to do good, was a new happiness to her, and as she walked she trolled out a merry little song she had heard Nannette sing in the nursery. When she grew weary, she sat down and made a wreath for her hat; when she was thirsty, she drank from the little cup at her girdle, for there was always a stream at hand, first on one side of the road, then on the other, and the babbling of the brook was like a pleasant voice telling her sweet stories. It seemed to whisper to her how glad her mother would be to hear that she was getting to be a better child.
Then again it sang to her of the woods and the mosses, the wild-flowers and the birds, and of its own busy life--how much it had to do to keep all these pretty things refreshed and alive, and how it suffered when the drought came, and the sun was scorching, and the little leaflets withered on its brink; and as its voice became sad, and tears welled in the child"s eyes, it would suddenly seem to burst into a foam of laughter and toss itself in tiny cascades over the pebbles. Then Laura would laugh too, and forget all sadness. Then she would take off her shoes and stockings and wade, and watch the flies dart hither and thither as she dashed the drops apart. So the day went on. Her path grew wilder, the woods more difficult to go through. Great ma.s.ses of tangled vines interlaced and hung low, reaching out their tendrils as if to hinder her. Clouds gathered, and the skies were dark. A storm seemed coming. The birds ceased twittering. Low mutterings of thunder, far away, broke the stillness.
Laura"s feet were aching, and her heart oppressed. Doubts troubled her.
Why had they let her come alone on this long journey? It was cruel. She forgot the poor children, and, throwing herself down, she thought she would go no farther. Her staff was still in her hand, and as she fell it seemed to draw her gently up again, just as a magnet picks up a needle; it led her to a little cave or grotto, merely a nook under great rocks, but in it was a heap of leaves which would serve her as a place of repose, and she would be sheltered from the approaching storm, which, now that the wind had arisen, was swaying the trees violently. Crouching in a corner, she listened to the crashing of boughs, the peals of thunder, and the dash of the rain. But she was safe and unharmed.
Gradually the wind decreased, the vivid gleam of lightning stopped flashing in her frightened eyes, the thunder rolled farther and farther away; the birds began chirping softly; there was but a gentle plash of drops from the dripping leaves; long rays of sunshine stole in between the branches. The storm was over.
Laura took courage, ate her dinner, and started forth again.
She was not so merry as in the early morning; Nannette"s song was forgotten; but in her graver face was an expression of determination.
The poor children came again to her recollection, and she renewed her zeal.
On and on she went, sometimes nearly falling, but her staff maintained her, and prevented that. She climbed, she waded, she slipped, she scrambled. Sometimes on dizzy heights she looked down into chasms; then she would cross peaceful and lovely valleys; then the road would wind up to some high summit again, giving her pictures of mountain-peaks and clouds and all their many charms; and while on the crest of a high hill, with all the heavens in a glow, she saw the sun sink beneath the horizon, and knew that darkness would soon surround her. Hurriedly descending, her staff led her to a group of oak-trees, whose wide and shadowy boughs seemed to offer her the protection of which she was in need. Farther and farther sank the sun, leaving clouds of purple and gold to fade into the soft shades of twilight. The hush of evening fell upon nature; stars peeped out. Laura watched the waning light until, too tired to keep her eyes open, she laid her head upon her little knapsack, and was soon in a deep slumber. Whether or not wild beasts came prowling about, or owls hooted, or the night winds sighed in the tree-tops, Laura knew not; she slept as soundly and as safely as if in her own carefully watched nest in the castle. When she awoke, the sun was rising, birds were singing, and every blade of gra.s.s twinkled with dew-drops. After her morning prayer of thanks for the night"s rest, a dip into the brook close by, and a little shake and jump by way of dressing, she sat down to her breakfast of oat-cake.
[Ill.u.s.tration: "SHE SAW A QUEER LITTLE FIGURE MAKING GRIMACES AT HER."]
As she munched it in leisurely fashion, wishing for some honey, she thought she saw a queer little figure making grimaces at her. It was an odd little creature, with a rabbit-skin so thrown over him that she fancied it might, after all, be only a bunny out in search of breakfast.
"Good-morning, my dear, good-morning! So you wish you had some honey, do you?" said the queer little creature.
Laura laughed out in surprise. "How do you know?" she asked.
"How do I know anything, Miss Rudeness? By my wits, to be sure."
"Oh, I beg your pardon," said Laura, conscious at once of having offended; "but I did not know I had spoken aloud."