What Happened To Inger Johanne Part 11

"And just then you all came in."

"Ha ha! Ha ha ha!"

By this time it was so late that we must start for home and we took the quickest way, over High Street. It was almost dark and there was scarcely a person in sight, as we ran up the street through the March slush and mud.

"Oh, let's knock on Mother Brita's windows!" said I, and we knocked gaily on the little panes as we ran past the house.

At that moment Mother Brita called from her doorway.

"Halloa!" she called. "Come here a minute. G.o.d be praised that any one should come! Let me speak to you."

We went slowly back. Perhaps she was angry with us for knocking on her windows.

"Here I am as if I were in prison," said Mother Brita. "My little grandchild is sick with bronchitis and I can't leave him a single minute; and my son John, you know him, is out there at Stony Point with his s.h.i.+p, and is going to sail away this very evening, and he sails to China to be gone two years,--and I want so much to say good-bye to him--two whole years--to China--but I can't leave that poor sick baby in there, for he chokes if some one doesn't lift him up when the coughing spells come on--oh, there he's coughing again!"

Mother Brita hurried in, and all four of us after her. A tiny baby lay there in a cradle, and Mother Brita lifted him and held him up while the coughing spell lasted. He coughed so hard that he got quite blue in the face.

"O dear! You see how it is! Now he'll go away--my son John--this very evening, and I may never see him again in this world, uh-huh-huh!"

Poor Mother Brita! It seemed a sin and a shame that she should not at least see her son to bid him good-bye.

"I'll sit here with the baby until you come back, Mother Brita," said I.

"Yes, I will too."

"So will I, and I." All four of us wanted to stay.

"Oh, oh! What kind little girls!" said Mother Brita. "I will fly like the wind. Just raise him up when the spells come on. I won't be long on the way either going or coming. Well, good-bye, and I'm much obliged to you." With that Mother Brita was out of the house, having barely taken time to throw a handkerchief over her head.

There we sat. It was a strange ending to an afternoon of fun and mischief. The room was very stuffy; a small candle stood on the table and burned with a long, smoky flame, and back in a corner an old clock ticked very slowly, tick--tock!--tick--tock!

We talked only in whispers. Very soon the baby had another coughing fit.

We raised him up and he choked and strangled as before, and after the coughing, cried as if in pain, without opening his eyes. Poor little thing! Poor baby!

Again we sat still for a while without speaking; then--"I'm so frightened--everything is so dismal," whispered Karen.

Deep silence broken only by the clock's ticking and the baby's breathing.

"I think I must go," she added after a minute.

"That is mean of you," whispered I.

"I must go, too," whispered Munda. "They are always so anxious at home when I don't come."

"I must go too," whispered Mina.

Then I got a little angry. "Oh well, all right, go, every one of you!

All right, go on, if you want to be so mean."

And only think, they did go! They ran out of the door, all three, without a word more. Just then the baby had another attack and I had to hold him up quite a long time before he could get his breath again.

And now I was all alone in Mother Brita's little house. Never in my life had I been in there before, and it was anything but pleasant, you may well believe. It was very dark in all the corners, and the poor baby coughed and coughed; the candle burned lower and lower and the clock ticked on slowly and solemnly. No sign of Mother Brita.

Well, I would sit here. I wouldn't stir from here even if Mother Brita didn't come back before it was pitch-dark night--no, indeed, I would not. I would not. Not for anything would I leave this pitiful little suffering baby alone.

He was certainly very sick, very, very sick; perhaps G.o.d would come to take him to-night. Just think, if He should come while I sat there!----

At first this made me feel afraid, but then I thought that I need not be afraid of G.o.d--of Him who is kinder than any one in the world! The baby coughed painfully and I lifted him up again.

Everything was so queer, so wonderfully queer! First had we four been racing about, playing pranks and thinking only of fun all the afternoon--perhaps it was wrong to play such mischievous pranks--and now here was I alone taking care of a little baby I had never known anything about;--a little baby that G.o.d or His angels might soon come for and take away. I had not the least bit of fear now. I only felt as if I were in church,--it was so solemn and so still. In a little while, this poor baby might be in Heaven,--in that beautiful place flooded with glorious light,--with G.o.d. And I, just a little girl down here on earth, was I to be allowed to sit beside the baby until the angels came for him?

I looked around the bare, gloomy room. It might be that the angels who were to take away Mother Brita's grandchild were already here. Oh, how good it would be for the poor little baby who coughed so dreadfully!

The clock had struck for half-past seven, for eight o'clock, and half-past eight, and there was just a small bit left of the candle. The sick baby had quieted down at last, and now lay very still.

There came a rattling at the door; some one fumbled at the latch and I stared through the gloom with straining eyes, making up my mind not to be afraid. The door opened slowly a little way, and Ingeborg, our cook, put her round face into the opening.

"Well, have I found you at last? And is it here you are? I was to tell you to betake yourself home. Your mother and father have been worrying themselves to pieces about you, and----"

"Hush, Ingeborg! Be still. He is so sick, so very sick."

Ingeborg came over to the cradle and bent down. Then she hurriedly brought the bit of candle to the cradle.

"Oh, he is dead," she said slowly. "Poor little thing! He is dead,--poor little chap!"

"Oh no, Ingeborg, no!" I sobbed. "Is he dead? For I lifted him up every single time he coughed. Oh, it is beautiful that he is dead, he suffered so, and yet,--oh, it seems sad, too!"

"I will stay here with him now until Mother Brita comes home," said Ingeborg. "For you----"

"How did you know I was here?"

"Why, Karen and Munda came into the kitchen just a few minutes ago, and told me."

She said again that she would stay in my place, but I couldn't bear to go before Mother Brita came back.

Shortly after, Mother Brita hurried in, warm, and out of breath. "Oh, oh! how long you have had to wait," she said in distress. "I couldn't find John at Stony Point, I had to go away into town. I suppose you are angry that I stayed so long."

"The baby had to give up the fight, Mother Brita," said Ingeborg.

"Give up? What? What do you say?"

"I lifted him up, Mother Brita, every time he coughed, I did truly,"

said I, and then I burst out crying again. I couldn't help it.

"Yes, I am sure you did, my jewel," said Mother Brita, "and G.o.d be praised that He has taken the baby out of his poor little body. Never can pain or sin touch him now."

Mother and Father said that I had done just right to stay, and when Mother kissed me good-night she said she was sure that the dear G.o.d Himself had been with me and the poor little baby. And that seemed so wonderful and beautiful and solemn that I could never tell any one, even Mother, how beautiful it was.

Up in the churchyard there is a tiny grave, the grave of Mother Brita's grandchild. I know very well just where it is and I often put flowers upon it in the summer. What I like best to put there are rosebuds, fresh, lovely, pink rosebuds.