YESTERDAY was my birthday, and I was thirteen years old! It was such a happy birthday, the first one I had spent with mother since I was eight years old, so of course I could not help enjoying it.
When I awoke in the morning, there was a parcel laid on my pillow. It was tied up in I pink paper, with white satin ribbons. I was sure mother had tied it up as soon as I saw it, no one else would have thought of making it so pretty. I untied the ribbon very carefully, and took off the paper, and inside was a large book, with red edges. There was nothing written in the book, but it was full of lines, like a copybook. Then mother told me she had bought it for me to write in. She thought it would be so nice for me to write a little account of Ravenscliffe, and what we did there; she said it would be nice for me to have it when I was older, as it would remind me of the happy days we spent with mother. So I have begun to write in it at once!
But I shall not let any one see what I have written. I shall keep it quite for myself, that I may read it over when I am an old woman.
I told Mrs. M’Bride so this morning, and she did nothing but laugh, and said, I was an old woman already; but I do not know what she meant, for mother is just three times as old as I am, and I am sure she is not an old woman yet! But Mrs. M’Bride is always telling me that I am a ‘regular old woman!’ She is the baby’s nurse, and helps Emma to look after the other children.
Such dear little things they are! Melville and I never saw them till mother brought them home from India last year, There is Charlie; he is just eight; and Mrs. M’Bride says he is a ‘regular pickle,’ because he is always getting into mischief, and never has a clean face or clean hands!
And then there is Willie; he is quite different, so quiet and gentle, and so very thin. Sometimes I see mother crying when she is looking at him, and when she thinks we do not see her. She told me once that she was afraid Willie was very delicate, and would riot live to grow up. So we always try to take great care of him, and wrap him up when the wind is cold, and see that Charlie and Walter do not tease him. Walter is four years old, such a fat, sturdy, plump little man.
And then there is the baby boy, and Mrs. M’Bride declares he is the best-looking of us all, and that there never was such a beautiful boy since the world began! Mother is sure that Melville was just like him when he was a baby, but Mrs. M’Bride will not believe her. He has long, curly brown hair, and very dark brown eyes, and is so heavy I can only just lift him!
It is so delightful to have mother at home. Aunt Jane was very kind to us when we lived with her, but not like mother; but then, no one ever could be like mother! Melville says she has the prettiest face he ever seen. And I am our no one else could write such beautiful letters as mother wrote to us when she was in I have them all tied up together, and I would not lose them for the world.
If only mother could stay with us always! It is so dreadful to think she must go away again in six months’ time, and that I shall not see her anymore till I am a grown-up young lady, with long dresses, like Cousin Emily.
But father is so lonely by himself, and mother could not be away from him any longer. He is in the Indian Army, so he cannot get to England very often. He meant to have brought mother and the children home, but there was some fighting in India just then, so he could not get away, and mother had to come alone, and bring he children with her. Baby was born soon after she came to Aunt Jane’s house, so father has never seen him.
And now we are going to Ravenscliffe, to be alone with mother for six months. It is such a beautiful place, mother says; she used to go there when she was a little girl. It is close to the sea; so near that we shall hear the waves roaring when we are in bed.
We are to have no governess while we are at Ravenscliffe, but mother is going to teach us herself. Melville says it will not seem like lessons a bit, it will be so nice. Miss Charles, Aunt Jane’s governess, was very kind to us; but, of course, mother is better than any one.
Then, when lessons are done, we are to go for nice long walks; and Uncle John has lent us a little brown pony, that mother may drive us about to all the pretty places round. He is such a dear, quiet little pony. We cannot quite settle what call him. I think Brownie would be a nice name; but Melville says that sounds silly, and wants to call him Stella, because he has a white star on his forehead. Mrs. M’Bride thinks Dobbin is the proper name for a horse; but both Melville and I think it is a very ugly one. Mother says she does not mind what the pony is called, so long as we are both pleased; so we have settled that when we are in the train tomorrow, we will write both names, Stella and Brownie, each on a piece of paper, and let mother draw one out of Melville’s hand, and whichever she draws, we will settle upon.
We shall have such a long journey tomorrow, the children will be very tired when we get to the end. But Mrs. M’Bride says it is so much nicer than London, that we shall never want to come back again, when once we get there. Her home is in a little town called Rawby, about six miles from Ravenscliffe, so she is very pleased that we are going there.
Uncle John wanted us very much to stop at West Court, but mother said she would like to have us quite to herself the short time she is in England, as every moment is precious to her. Six months alone with mother! It seems almost too good to be true!
But oh, what shall I do when mother goes away? Last night, when I was in bed, I could not help thinking of it. I had had such a happy birthday, and I wondered where I should spend my next birthday. Alone at school, somewhere, not even Melville there, and mother gone away I could not help crying, and mother, who had come to tuck me up, as she always does at night, asked me what was the matter. So I told her, and then she cried too, and said it would be just as hard for her as for me.
‘But, little Olive,’ said mother, ‘Jesus will be with you, and He will love you and comfort you better than I can.’
But I wish I could feel Jesus was as REAL to me as He is to mother. She always talks about Him as if He were somebody quite as real to her as father is, and she tells Him all her troubles, and is quite happy because He is NEAR her.
I wonder if I shall ever feel like that. Jesus always seems to me so far away; and when I said my prayers, I used to think of Him far away above the blue sky.
But mother says, when she prays, she likes to think of Him close beside her in the room, and she always speaks to Him as if He was standing close by, listening. And she says I should try to do so too.
But I don’t think I love Him as much as mother does. I wish I did!