Jewel's Story Book Part 41

Vera looked at her very soberly.

"Now you just stop staring at me like that, Vera. I guess it's mine, and I have a right to keep it if I can think of something that would please Faith better. Now let me see. I must think of something for Ernest. I'll just give him something so lovely that he'll wish he'd bitten his tongue before he spoke so to me in the boat."

Gladys set the singing bird in her lap, fixed her eyes on the bowl, and again decided on a wish.

Taking off the cover, a gold watch was seen reposing on the bottom of the bowl. "That's it, that's what I wished for!" she cried gladly, and she took out the little watch, which was a wonder. On its side was a fine engraving of boys and girls skating on a frozen pond. Gladys's bright eyes caught sight of a tiny spring, which she touched, and instantly a fairy bell struck the hour and then told off the quarters and minutes.

"Oh, it's a repeater like uncle Frank's!" she cried, "and so small, too!

Mother said I couldn't have one until I was grown up. Won't she be surprised! I don't mean to tell her for ever so long where I got it."

"I thought it was for Ernest," remarked Vera quietly.

"Why, Vera," returned the child earnestly, "I should think you'd see that no boy ought to have a watch like that. If it was a different _kind_ I'd give it to him, of course."

"Yes, if it wasn't pretty and had nothing about it that you liked, you'd give it to him, I suppose; and if the bird couldn't sing, and had dark, broken feathers so that no child would care about it, you'd give it to Faith, no doubt."

Gladys felt her face burn. She knew this was the truth, but oh, the entrancing bird, how could she see it belong to another? How could she endure to see Ernest take from his pocket this watch and show people its wonders!

"Selfishness is a cruel thing," said Vera. "It makes a person think she can have a good time being its slave until all of a sudden the person finds out that she has chains on that cannot be broken. You think you can't break that old law of selfishness that makes it misery to you to see another child have something that you haven't. Poor, unhappy Gladys!"

"Oh, but this bird, Vera!" Gladys looked down at the little warbler. What did she see! A shriveled, sorry, brown creature, its feathers broken. She lifted it anxiously. No song was there. Its poor little beady eyes were dull.

She dropped it in disgust and again picked up the watch. What had happened to it? The cover was bra.s.s, the picture was gone. Pus.h.i.+ng the spring had no effect.

"Oh, Faith and Ernest can have them now!" cried Gladys. Presto! in an instant bird and watch had regained every beauty they had lost, and twinkled and tinkled upon the astonished child's eyes and ears until she could have hugged them with delight; but suddenly great tears rolled from her eyes, for she had a new thought.

"What does this mean, Vera? Will they only be beautiful for Faith and Ernest?"

"You asked for them to enjoy the blessing of giving, you know, not to keep for yourself. Beside, they showed a great truth when they grew dull."

"How?" asked Gladys tearfully.

"That is the way they would look to you in a few months, after you grew tired of them; for it is the punishment of the selfish, spoiled child, that her possessions disgust her after a while. There is only one thing that lives, and remains bright, and brings us happiness,--that is thoughtful love for others. There's nothing else, Gladys, there is nothing else. I am Vera."

"And I have none of it, none!" cried the unhappy child, and rising, she threw herself upon the bed, broken-hearted, and sobbed and sobbed.

Ellen heard her and came in from the next room.

"What is it, my lamb, what is it?" she asked, approaching the bed anxiously.

"Oh, Ellen, I can't tell you. I can never tell you!" wailed the child.

"Well, move over, dearie. I'll push Vera along and there'll be room for us all. There, darling, come in Ellen's arms and forget all about it."

Gladys cuddled close, and after a few more catches in her breath, she slept soundly.

When she wakened, the sunlight was streaming through the plain room, gilding everything as it had done in her rose and white bower yesterday at home. Ellen was moving about, all dressed. Gladys turned over and looked at Vera, pretty and innocent, her eyes closed and her lips parted over little white teeth. The child came close to the doll. The wonderful dream returned vividly.

"Your name is Vera. You had to," she whispered, and closed her eyes.

"How is the baby prince?" she asked, after a minute, jumping out of bed.

"He's lively, but I expect he's as hungry as you are. What's he going to have?"

"Meat," replied Gladys, looking admiringly at the pretty little creature.

"I brought in my wash-bowl for your bath. I suppose princes can't be disturbed," said Ellen.

While she b.u.t.toned Gladys's clothes, the little girl looked at the silver bowl, and the chairs where she and Vera had sat last night in her dream.

She even glanced about to see some sign of watch and bird, but could not find them. How busily her thoughts were working!

Sensible Ellen said nothing of bad dreams; and by the time Gladys went downstairs, her face looked interested and happy. After all, it wasn't as though there wasn't any G.o.d to help a person, and she had said a very fervent prayer, with her nose buried in Vera's golden curls, before she jumped out of bed.

She had the satin sh.e.l.l of the baby prince in her hand. He had drawn into it because he was very uncertain what was going to happen to him; but Gladys knew.

She said good-morning to her cousins so brightly that Faith was pleased; but pretty as she looked, smiling, Ernest saw the prince in her hand and was more offended with her than ever.

"I want to thank you, Faith," she said, "for letting the baby stay in my room all night. I had the most fun watching him while I was dressing."

She put the little turtle into her cousin's hand.

"Oh, but I gave him to you," replied Faith earnestly.

"After you hunted for him for two summers, I couldn't be so mean as to take him. I'm just delighted you found him, Faith," and Gladys had a very happy moment then, for she found she _was_ happy. "Let's give him some bits of meat."

"She's all right," thought Ernest, with a swift revulsion of feeling, and he was as embarra.s.sed as he was astonished when his cousin turned suddenly to him:--

"If you'll take me in the boat again," she said, "I won't rock. I'm sorry I did."

"It _is_ a fool trick," blurted out Ernest, "but you're all right, Gladys.

I'll take you anywhere you want to go."

Ellen had heard this conversation. Later in the morning she was alone for a minute with Gladys, and the little girl said:--

"Don't you think it would be nice, Ellen, when we get home, to make up a box of pretty things and send to Faith and Ernest?"

"I do, that," replied the surprised Ellen.

"I'm going to ask mother if I can't send them my music-box. They haven't any piano."

"Why, you couldn't get another, Gladys."

"I don't care," replied the child firmly. "It would be so nice for evenings and rainy days." She swallowed, because she had not grown tired of the music box.

Ellen put her hands on the little girl's brow and cheeks and remembered the sobbing in the night. "Do you feel well, Gladys?" she asked, with concern.

This unnatural talk alarmed her.

"I never felt any better," replied the child.