 | CHAPTER XIX.
A CHAMBER OF MEMORIES. Outpost |  |
19. CHAPTER XIX.
A CHAMBER OF MEMORIES.
“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
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
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 put
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
from their tricolored 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,
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. Charley
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
and bath 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
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.
| CHAPTER XIX.
A CHAMBER OF MEMORIES. Outpost | |