Mamie's Watchword

For a moment or two she sat perfectly stunned, motionless where she was, crouched at the bottom of the boat, her eyes fixed upon the now fast-receding shore, her lips seeming glued together with horror and affright, a sick, faint feeling coming over her.

Out on the sea! out on the sea! alone! alone!

And so the precious moments were lost.

Little Lulu prattled away, all unconscious of fear or danger, and still interested in her captive, and his efforts to escape. But presently she too looked up.

"Where we doin', Mamie?" she asked, turning great eyes of wonder upon her sister.

Then Mamie found voice and breath, and, clasping the little one in her arms, shrieked aloud for help.

But none heard, although Lulu, terrified by her sister's cries, now joined her own, seeing something was wrong, though she could not yet understand their peril. For the wind, blowing as it did from the shore, carried away the sound of their voices, and floated the piteous tones far out over the sea.

Farther, still farther, and faster now, as the blue waves, crisping and sparkling in the sunlight, toyed with the frail boat, and its precious, helpless freight, and tossed it from one to another, but ever carrying it farther from home!

Was there no one to see? no one to hear? Why was it that no one looked out at that time over the dancing waters, and discovered what terrible plaything they had seized upon?

Far off, so far off it seemed to poor Mamie's straining eyes, and growing each moment more distant, figures were moving upon the shore; some up and down the road; others, she could distinguish them well at first, playing croquet upon the lawns; little children, like themselves, running up and down the long piazzas of the hotels: but no one, no one, turned an eye towards their peril, or lent an ear to the frantic cries which rang from their lips.

Oh, how cruel, how cruel, it seemed!

The boat drifted onward till it was a long distance from the shore, almost in a straight line, keeping directly in the flood of sunshine which fell across the waters; and it may be that if any eye did turn seaward, it was dazzled by the blaze of light, and, even if it saw the boat, could notice nothing amiss. Kind hearts were there that would almost have stood still at the thought of the fearful peril about those little ones; feet which would have flown, hands which would have strained every nerve to rescue them. But ah! to poor Mamie the whole world seemed so heartless, so cruel!

On, on, till she could no longer distinguish any thing more than the long line of hotels on the shore; the beach glistening on the one hand, the bare, stern rocks upon the other.

What was to become of them, herself and Lulu? Would they toss gently about in this way till they died of hunger, or would great fishes come and eat them up? Or would some terrible storm arise, and the waves, now so gentle and playful, grow high and fierce, as she had seen them the other day, and swallow up their frail boat? And the night, the night! What should they do when the darkness came, and the last faint, lingering hope that some one would yet see them should be gone? The sun was sinking towards the west even now; by and by it would be quite dark. What would mamma do when she missed her little girls, and knew not where to look? Would she ever know what had become of them? Would they be found all dead and drowned?

She had ceased to cry aloud now, and sat crouched, in a kind of dumb, helpless despair, at the bottom of the boat, with both arms clasped fast about Lulu, who had also hushed her screams, and sat with questioning, wistful eyes, wandering from Mamie's face over the waves, up to the sky, and back again to her sister. She did not understand: how could she? She only knew that Mamie had been frightened, and cried; and so she had cried too.

It was well that they both sat quite still in the bottom of the boat, or they might have fallen into the water; but Mamie, in the midst of all her terror, had sense enough left to know that they were safer so, and she would not suffer Lulu to stir from her encircling arms.

So on, still on, farther and farther out upon the lonely waters, away from home and friends, drifted the little helpless ones.

What though all was now bustle and alarm in that home, – indeed, throughout all the various houses on the shore; that Maria, missing her charges, so shamefully neglected, had hunted for them in vain, first about their own hotel, then in every other one, hoping that they might have gone visiting, or been taken away by some friend; that, hearing nothing of them, she had first alarmed the other servants of the house, then the ladies, next roused the sick mother, who grew frantic and desperate as moment after moment went by, and brought no news of her darlings? Who dreamed of all the truth?

The alarm was general now; the news went forth like wildfire: two little children lost! and so many dangerous places where they might have come to harm!

Stony shore and sandy beach were searched in vain to their farthest extent; one party explored the little river; others started for the green, cultivated country lying back of the shore, thinking that the stray lambs might have been tempted by its beauty to wander too far; others again hurried down upon the rocks, hoping to find them, perhaps, hidden in some of their many nooks or niches; the old pier, the dock, the very bathing-houses, were all searched; but who thought of looking out to sea, where the cockle-shell of a boat floated, floated far away?

It was not even missed, the little boat; for Mamie's brothers and Tom Norris were all away, and probably they would not have guessed at the truth, had they known of its loss.

And so hope grew fainter and fainter as one after another returned from the fruitless search only to set forth again; and the dreadful fear grew stronger and stronger that in some way the missing children had fallen into the water, and would never be seen again; while the poor mother went from one fainting fit into another, and those about her scarcely cared to call her back to her misery.

And so the sun sank low in the west, and the twilight gathered, and the night came down upon land and sea, and still no word came to those anxious, aching hearts of the little lost ones for whom they watched and waited.

How was it meanwhile with those poor little waifs?

With that dull, hopeless feeling that nothing could save them now seeming to benumb her, Mamie sat silent a long time, – silent, that is, but for the heavy, gasping sobs that struggled up from her poor little bosom, her eyes fixed on the distant stretch of shore, now fast receding into one gray, undistinguishable line; Lulu, awed by this strange, new grief of her sister's into stillness likewise.

But the baby tired at last. She wanted home and mamma, or, at least, her nurse. The boat and the water had been all very wonderful at first, and had perhaps lent their charm to keep her quiet; but she was wearied of them now. She fretted a little; then, finding this failed to draw Mamie's attention, she spoke.

"Lulu want mamma. Lulu want no more water," she said plaintively.

"O darling! what shall I do? What will become of us?" answered Mamie, roused by her words from the sort of stupor into which she had fallen.

"Tate Lulu home. Lulu want to do home. Lulu want mamma tate tare of her," said the little child, whose vague feeling of trouble was beginning to settle itself into a longing for her mother's care and comforting.

"O Lulu, Lulu!" broke forth Mamie, "there's no one to take care of us, there's no one to see us, there's no one to hear us. We're all alone, all alone, all alone!" her voice dying away to a low murmur of despair.

Was there no Eye to see? Was there no Ear to hear? Was there no Hand to save?

Whose Hand guided the fragile boat over the deep waters, and held their waves in check that they might not deal too roughly with the slight thing which was the sole refuge of those little ones? Whose was the Ear which bent to hear those piteous tones? Whose the Eye which watched them on their perilous way?

A few light clouds were sailing overhead on the deep blue sky; and, as the sun sank in the west, they were tinged with purple, pink, and gold, changing every instant from one hue to another. All around, on sea, earth, and sky, poured a flood of golden glory, the little curling waves breaking into a thousand diamond sparkles as they caught it on their crests.

Lulu gazed wonderingly into Mamie's face as she spoke so piteously, then put up a grieved lip; but, before breaking out into a cry again, she looked about her as if questioning the truth of her words.

The beauty of the sky above caught her eye; a golden-edged cloud fixed her attention for a moment, and her baby thoughts took a new turn.

Lulu had heard that God lived in the sky; she had been told, too, that God loved her, and would take care of her; and the little creature startled her sister with the words, —

"Mamie, where are Dod?"

And across Mamie's mind flashed her watchword. "The eyes of the Lord are in every place, beholding the evil and the good."

"In every place!" Here, now, watching her and Lulu! For a moment it seemed to bring new terror to her, speaking, as it did, to her guilty conscience; but the next there came comfort in the thought.

Not all alone, if His eye watched them there.

"Where are Dod?" repeated Lulu.

"God is in the sky, but He sees us here," she said more calmly than she had spoken before.

"Den He not tate tare of Mamie and Lulu?" questioned the little child.

"Yes, I think He will; I do believe He will," sobbed Mamie. "I b'lieve He'll take care of you any way, Lulu darling, 'cause this wasn't your fault, but only mine. Oh, dear! oh, dear!"

"Tell him tate tare of us, tate de boat home to mamma," lisped the baby lips. "Tell Him loud up in de sty, Mamie; and tell Him we so 'faid."

Innocent darling! she did not know why or of what she was afraid; only that she and Mamie were in some great trouble, that she wanted mamma, that mamma was not here, and that somehow the beauty of the sunset sky had brought to her mind the thought of God and of His care, of which she had been told.

"So afraid!"

Poor Mamie was indeed afraid, stricken with such awful dread as, happily, seldom finds its way into childish heart; but Lulu's words brought another verse into her mind. It almost seemed to her as if a voice came over the water, and sounded it into her ear, so suddenly and so strongly did it come to her.

"What time I am afraid, I will trust in Thee."

Bessie Bradford had told it to her one day in the early part of the summer.

Mamie had a great terror of a thunder-storm; so had Bessie; but once, when they had happened to be together when one was passing, the former had shrieked and cried at every flash and peal, while the latter, though pale and shrinking, had remained perfectly quiet. Afterwards Mamie had said to her, —

"Bessie, how can you keep from crying when you are frightened in a thunder-storm?"

And Bessie had answered, —

"When I am very much frightened, I try to think of a verse mamma taught me to comfort me: 'What time I am afraid, I will trust in Thee.'"

At the moment it had not made much impression on Mamie; but she had not forgotten the words; and now, in her time of need, they came to her so clearly, as I have said, that it almost seemed as if they were spoken to her: —

"What time I am afraid, I will trust in Thee."

What a sense of hope and comfort, almost of relief, crept over the poor, miserable little child with the recollection!

And "the eyes of the Lord are in every place."

How she clung to the thought now, – the thought that she had been so ready to put from her for many a day past, which she had tried to forget because it was a reproach to her conscience, a check upon the purpose of disobedience which had led to such a terrible result!

"O God!" she said with quivering lips, "I am afraid, so afraid! please let me trust in Thee; and take a great deal of care of my Lulu and me on this dreadful water; and if there could be any way for us to go home to mamma, let us; and help me not to be naughty and disobedient again; and don't let mamma be very much frightened about us. Amen."

"Is mamma tomin' pitty soon now?" asked Lulu.

"I asked God, darling, to let us go back to her," moaned Mamie, "and He can help people a great deal; but I don't know but this is 'most too much even for Him."

Lulu understood, or noticed, only the first part of her speech, and it satisfied her, at least for the time; and, nodding her pretty head contentedly, she said, —

"Den Lulu will love Dod, an' be dood dirl."

Still the boat drifted onward, farther and farther from home and safety, out from the friendly waters of the bay, and more and more towards the open sea, where, on the distant horizon, hung a misty veil, soft purplish gray beneath, brightening above into tints of pink and amber which melted away again into the clear blue of the heaven above.

Not a sound was to be heard but the plashing of the water against the sides and keel of their boat; not a living thing was to be seen save their own two little selves. God's curtain of night was falling; and still they were alone out on the sea!

The sun was gone now; even the glorious colors which he left painted on the clouds after he had himself sunk from sight, had faded out; the evening breeze, cool and refreshing on the land, came chilly and damp over the water; and Lulu shivered as it struck through the thin muslin covering upon her tiny shoulders.

She had sat uncomplainingly after Mamie had told her she had asked God to take care of them, waiting in her own docile way to go to mamma; but now her baby patience was exhausted, as it well might be; for she was cold, hungry, and tired.

She broke into a pitiful cry.

"Lulu so told; Lulu want hupper; Lulu want mamma," she said appealingly to her sister, with oh! such a grieved, piteous face and voice, that Mamie's heart was quite broken; and now all thought of self was forgotten; and she prayed, poor little soul, that darling Lulu, at least, might be saved, and taken back to mamma, even if she might not.

Then she tried to speak words of comfort to her baby-sister. Ah, how hard it was, and what a mockery they seemed! and, taking off her own little jacket, she wrapped it about Lulu's shoulders, and, resting the weary little head against her own bosom, petted and soothed, until the long eyelashes drooped upon the dimpled cheek, and Lulu was asleep in her arms.

And then it was so lonely, oh, so lonely! far more so than when Lulu was awake, with her sweet voice prattling broken words now and then; but so great was Mamie's sense of the wrong she had done to her innocent sister, that she would not wake her, even for the comfort of her voice and look.

She had no thought or wish for sleep herself; the child's senses were all strained to the utmost, listening and watching for she knew not what.

How still it was, how very still! and deeper and yet deeper grew the dusky shadows, shrouding the distant white sails which all the afternoon had specked the far horizon, shutting them out from sight, and with them the last faint hope of help, which Mamie had somehow connected with them, leaving her no ray of comfort to cling to but those words: —

"What time I am afraid, I will trust in Thee."

And night was upon the sea where drifted the lost baby voyagers; but "the eyes of the Lord are in every place."

X.

RESCUED

A SHOUT, a loud halloo, broke the stillness; a hail so sharp and sudden, so near at hand, that it startled Mamie into new terror for one moment; then, as it was repeated, brought a fluttering of hope to her sinking young heart.

A glimmer over the water; then, as she turned her head, and glanced half fearfully over her shoulder, a light shining brightly through the surrounding darkness, and coming nearer.

Another hail, to which she still made no answer; perhaps she did not understand that she would be expected to do so; then a boat coming near, – a boat from which shone the welcome light, a torch held high above the head of the boy who carried it.

Then the stranger boat was close to her own, with two people in it, an old man and a boy; and the light of the torch was falling over the little figures crouched close together; over the white face and straining eyes of the elder, over the peaceful, sleeping form of the younger.

Exclamations of wonder were exchanged between the man and boy, and questions poured upon her; this Mamie knew from the tone of voice in which they were uttered, but not one word could she understand; and their language seemed so harsh and rough to her that it almost made her afraid of them.

The end of a rope was thrown towards her, but she did not know that she was expected to catch it; and the directions the man and boy shouted out only confused and frightened her the more.

Poor child! she did not know whether to look upon these rough creatures as friends or foes.

Several times they threw the rope, but each time it fell with a dull splash into the water; and at last a boat-hook was thrown out, and grappled her own boat. All the while, she heard the man and boy talking eagerly together in their own uncouth tongue, and she wondered what they were going to do with her and her little sister. All manner of wild fancies flitted through her over-excited brain, and made her poor little frame quiver at one moment with dread, at another with hope.

Who were these people, and where were they taking her? To some far-off foreign land, where every one spoke that strange, rough language, and no one would understand a word she might say when she told who she was, and begged to be taken back to her friends; or could it really be that they were taking her home? No, that could not be, for they did not know where she belonged, and she had no way of telling them, or so she believed.

They had now made her boat fast to their own, and were drawing it after them; the man was rowing, the boy steering; the light from their torch falling over both figures, and casting a red glare upon the waves around. It was a curious scene, and one so new to Mamie that she watched it with a feeling of there being something unreal about it all.

"It's 'most like a fairy tale, or a book story," she said to herself. "I wonder what they are going to do with us;" and she drew her arms close about Lulu, who still slept quietly on her breast.

She wished that the daylight would come, and show her more plainly the faces of those who now had her in their keeping; for she believed that it must be nearly morning, so long did the time seem since the light had died out of the far west; whereas it was scarcely an hour since dark, and it was still comparatively early in the evening.

Except for the measured dash of the oars, and the ripple of the waters as the two boats cut through the waves, it was almost as still now as it had been before her new companions had appeared; for man and boy had ceased talking, and rowed steadily forward without exchanging a word.

Oh, if she only could know whether these were kind and good people, who would be ready to take her home, or if they were bad and cruel, and would do something dreadful to her and Lulu! She thought of every terrible thing which she had ever heard of as happening to children, and tormented herself with imagining her little sister and herself in like situations.

Then she tried to turn her thoughts another way, picturing to herself the going home, back to her mamma, and how glad mamma would be to see her and Lulu, and how she would forgive all her naughtiness for very joy at seeing them. And then she thought how distressed mamma must be now, and again a heavy sob shook her breast, and two or three scalding tears ran down upon Lulu's head.

Oh! if she could but be with mamma once more, she would try so hard never to vex and worry her again; and she was so sure that she would always be attentive and obedient to her wishes.

But should she ever have the chance? She looked up to the sky, now thickly studded with stars, – more stars than she had ever seen before; and how bright and beautiful they were, seeming as if they looked down upon her right out of heaven, – the heaven where God was! and again there came to her the thought, —

"What time I am afraid, I will trust in Thee;" and once more she asked that no further harm might befall her and Lulu, but that these people into whose hands they had fallen might be kind to them, and find some way to take them home.

By and by another light shone out of the darkness, burning unsteadily, but more and more brightly as the boat moved on; and Mamie knew that they were nearing it. Then a long, low line, growing each instant more distinct; and presently she saw that the light came from a fire that was built upon – yes, it was the shore! The land once more! the land where mamma was! far off it might be, perhaps in another country even; for it seemed to the poor little voyager that she had come from such a distance; but still it was the land, and she felt as if she must be nearer home than upon the water.

She could see two figures moving about the fire which cast its fitful light upon shore and sea, now dying down, now flashing up brightly, but serving always as a point to guide them landwards.

Not very far off, and burning with a clear, steady flame, was another light which seemed high up, and looked to Mamie like that of the light-house which she could see every evening from the piazza of the hotel. Was it possible it was the same? It would seem almost like a friend if it were so.

Now the man rowed slower and slower, and presently the foremost boat made a harsh, grating sound upon the beach. The boy jumped out, and then Mamie's boat was hauled up, and she and Lulu lifted out, while a woman and a girl pressed eagerly forward with wondering faces to see what strange cargo the men had brought to shore.

But alas! the hope that Mamie had felt that these females might understand her was soon put to flight. They talked fast enough, pouring out question after question; but she could not comprehend one word; and when the man had put her down upon her feet on the beach, and she turned to the woman, and begged, oh, so earnestly! to be taken home to mamma, the latter shook her head, and only gazed helplessly and wonderingly into her pitiful face.

Then Lulu, roused from her sleep by the change, and frightened by the strange scene and faces about her, broke into a loud, distressed cry, in which Mamie herself could not help joining, as she stretched out her arms for her little sister, whom the man had now given into the woman's care.

The woman did not give her up, but spoke a few words to Mamie in a coaxing voice, and then set off with long, rapid strides, while the girl seized upon Mamie's hand and followed, leaving the man and boy to attend to the boats and their fish; for they were fishermen, as Mamie afterwards found out.

A few steps brought them to a small, a very small house, a mere hut; and, pushing open the door, the woman entered with Lulu in her arms, Mamie and the girl coming as closely after as the tired, cramped limbs of the poor little child could carry her.

The place was neat and clean, though poor; and to Mamie, after the dark and chill of the sea, it seemed a very haven of refuge. Summer night though it was, she was not sorry to see a fire of logs burning upon the open hearth, over which the kettle was singing, while the table was set for supper. She had not known she was hungry before; but now the brown loaf upon the table looked very inviting to her, though, at another time, she would probably have scorned it.

But just now she could attend to nothing but Lulu, who had not ceased her frantic cries for mamma and "hupper" from the moment she had been awakened in lifting her from the boat.

Whether the woman understood, or whether she only imagined that the poor children must be hungry, she sat down beside the fire with Lulu upon her knee, and, hastily pouring some milk into a cup, held it to the little one's lips.

Lulu seized upon it, and while Mamie stood close beside her, looking on with satisfaction, took a long drink, put it from her to take breath, and ejaculated, "Dood!" then drank again; looked up into the kind, good-natured face smiling above her, and said, "Mamie some too."