"What’s it about?" Jessie asked, her eyes opening wide.
"It’s about your mother," answered Madeline.
"Anything about the tarts?" she enquired earnestly, her mind still absorbed with the tragedy.
"No, no—of course it’s not about anything like that. It’s about her eyes—I’m pretty sure they’re going to get well."
Jessie’s own were dancing. "Who said so? Why? Tell me quick."
"Well, I know all about everything," Madeline replied, importantly. "I know about you wanting to take her to the doctor in the city—and she’s going to go," she affirmed conclusively.
"Any time—to-morrow, if you like," Madeline returned triumphantly, withdrawing her hand from her bosom and thrusting the crisp notes into Jessie’s; "my father gave me all that money to-day—and it’s to pay the doctor—it’s to pay everything," she amended jubilantly. "Only father doesn’t want any one to know who did it—when do you think she’ll go, Jessie?" she asked, a little irrelevantly, for matters had taken a rather unexpected turn.
Jessie was staring at her through swimming eyes, the import of the great moment too much for her childish soul. Her mother’s face passed before her, beautiful in its tender patience; and all the pathos of the long struggle, so nearly over now, broke upon the little mind that knew not what pathos meant except by the slow tuition of a sorrow-clouded life. Poor child, she little knew by what relentless limitations even great city doctors may be bound.
"Is it because you’re glad, Jessie?" Madeline enquired in a reverent sort of voice, dimly diagnosing the paradox of human joy. But Jessie answered never a word; her gaze was fixed downward now upon the money, such a sum of it as she had never seen before in her poor meagre life. And the big tears fell on the unconscious things lying in her lap, the poor dead symbols baptized and quickened by the living tokens of human love and feeling.
"Oh, yes," she sobbed at last, "it’s ’cause I’m glad—mother’ll be able to see the flowers now, an’ the birds, an’ everything—she loves them so. An’ poor Harvey won’t have to spend his raspberry money; he hasn’t any winter coat, but now—I’m nearly as glad for Harvey as I am for mother," she broke off, suddenly drying her eyes, the ever-ready smile of childhood returning to the playground from which the tears had driven it.