Ainslee's Magazine, February 1913 — page 110: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

100 frocks do not, however, drop out of the clouds, to vanish behind oak trees in gardens. She would presently be called upon by anxious folk seeking a precious truant. But the afternoon passed; and no one came to inquire for a gold-haired baby. Amy wished, too, that she might see the little one again. Such deep and shining eyes, so tender and endearing a smile! In the garden, where she had played in babyhood, Amy passed her happiest hours; here, in the summer evenings, while her aunt slept peacefully, Amy brought her work. This afternoon, her sewing had fallen idly to her lap. Drowsy bees droned among drowsier flowers; a light, young breeze frolicked ' with light, young leaves. Beside the summerhouse a graveled rose walk ran, and down this scented and petaled path trotted a tiny figure; halting beneath a rosebush which shot up greenly above its fair head, the gray-eyed child looked at her inquiringly. “You!” said Amy, half breathlessly, with a sudden keen rush of pleasure. Poised as if for flight, a finger to its lips, the child watched her with that in- tent and unabashed stare, that long, clear look, with which young children regard one. : Amy slipped to her knees, coaxingly holding out her hands. most painful eagerness to “make friends.” The baby stood irresolute, a troubled and perplexed frown growing upon its white forehead. “Come!” pleaded Amy. The baby backed away. Reviewing the ways of babies, Amy picked up her sewing. In her pleasant voice she sang softly, one of those crooning rockaby tunes that charm chil- dren. Very cautiously the child edged nearer, always keeping just out of reach; like a half-tamed bird it flut- tered about her. It made no sound, not even a baby murmur; but she thought she had never seen eyes so full of pure and limpid light; and its hair was as if spun of spring sunshine. Of a sudden the doctor’s loud and cheerful voice called from the garden She felt an al-_ AINSLEE’S gate, and Amy rose to answer. In that one moment the child fled; nor, when the doctor had gone, after his weekly visit to her aunt, could Amy find the slightest trace of her little visitor. But the child stayed in her thoughts ; and, as if it had walked out of them, she saw it, a week later, trotting sedately alorig the upstairs hall. A long shaft of sunlight streamed through the door opening out upon the veranda, and in this light the child moved and seemed the very spirit of it. Amy stopped in. her tracks, at the head of the stairs; turning its head with birdlike grace, the child waved a hand, a dimpled baby hand, in friendliest greeting. But something clutched at Amy’s heart; she began, then, to know. She could hardly make herself under- stand that something out of the ordinary was happening, in this quiet old house, and to her. For the baby sweetness, the dear, awkward grace of it, were so lovely, that Amy found her- self worshiping this silent child; and al- though that small, curved mouth never spoke, the deep and shining eyes heid a message. They sought her, they wanted her ; and when she seemed most clearly to divine this, they shone with that light which, in a child’s eyes, answers the mother glance alone. She had once heard an Irishwoman, to whom she had ministered, murmur over and over an endearing name to the child she was soon to lose. “All the others I have given, an’ eased the heart of me with knowin’ God had them. But this one! Ah, Mhuiré is thruagh! This one’s the Savourneen Dheelish!” And with tears she told Amy the name’s significance; the name given to the dearest of the dear, to the frail and fleeting—the Treasure-of-the- heart. That tenderest name of an elder tongue clung in Amy’s memory; and, as she learned to look for the child’s coming, to feel an aching loss and loneliness when it failed to appear, it came to her that this baby was her Savourneen Dheelish. “Amy!” said her old friend and min- ister, with his whimsical smile. “Amy, (C@ ANUC oO) K< (C@)