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Title: Bessie at school
Author: Joanna H. Mathews
Release date: October 27, 2024 [eBook #74645]
Language: English
Original publication: London: George Routledge and Sons, Limited
Credits: Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BESSIE AT SCHOOL ***
[Illustration: Cover art]
[Frontispiece: "In an instant Katie Maynard snatched her up in her
arms."--p. 62]
BESSIE AT SCHOOL
BY
JOANNA H. MATHEWS
"Whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever
things are just; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise,
think on these things."
"He that speaketh the truth in his heart."
LONDON
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS, LIMITED
BROADWAY HOUSE, 68-74 CARTER LANE, E.C.
TO
THE SUNBEAM OF OUR BRIGHT HOME,
MY SISTER GERTRUDE
CONTENTS.
CHAP.
I. A SURPRISE
II. GRANDMAMMA'S STORY
III. SCHOOL
IV. SCHOOLMATES
V. THE PRIZES
VI. BELLE
VII. THE HURT FOOT
VIII. THE BROKEN CLOCK
IX. THE CONFESSION
X. A LITTLE LIGHT
XI. ABOUT "OUR FATHER'S" WORK
XII. BESSIE'S PARTY
XIII. LOST AND FOUND
XIV. THE AWARD
XV. A LETTER
PREFACE
The author had intended that "Bessie among the Mountains" should
close the series; but the entreaties of her young readers for "more
Bessie books" have induced the publishers and herself to extend it
somewhat further.
The following gratifying and touching communication is given here in
the hope that this may meet the eye of her little unknown
correspondent,--who has not given her residence,--and that she will
send word where a letter may reach her:--
"DEAR LADY,--I love you for you write such nice Bessie books and I
want to see you but I dont kno where you live and papa says I can
send this to Mr. Carter. Please write a 100 Bessie books Bessie in
truble and Bessie in plesure Bessie sick Bessie well and all. But
not her mama to go to heven for my mama and the baby went to heven
and I cry abot it yet and I want my mama in my hoeme. I am name
Bessie but not so nice as book Bessie and I have 2 Maggies one my
sister nice and good and one not nice and only a chamermade and
dirty. And I love you dear lady and here is a kiss [kiss] for you.
BESSIE----."
But, pleased as the writer is with this precious little letter, she
feels that "a 100 Bessie books" would tire even this enthusiastic
young reader; and so, if the little friends who have gone with Maggie
and Bessie to the seaside and the mountains, who have visited them in
their home and accompanied them to school, will by and by go with
them on their travels, we will afterwards say good-bye to them, with
kind wishes on both sides, and the hope that there may be other
children in some corner of her brain whose acquaintance will not be
less agreeable than that of our Maggie and Bessie.
J. H. M.
BESSIE AT SCHOOL.
CHAPTER I.
_A SURPRISE._
Bessie lay fast asleep upon mamma's sofa, for she and Maggie had been
with Uncle Ruthven and Aunt Bessie for a long drive; and the little
one, quite tired, had curled herself up among the cushions, and still
was nestling there, unconscious of all that was passing.
Mamma thought it a good thing that her delicate little girl could
drop off to sleep so easily, and so gain the rest she needed after
any fatigue; but wide-awake Maggie thought it rather a troublesome
fashion of Bessie's, and wondered that any one, who was not obliged
to do it, could "waste being alive in taking naps."
But just now she did not mind this quite as much as usual, for she
was sitting on a low stool at her mother's feet, busy copying a
letter to Mrs. Porter which she and Bessie had composed together.
For Maggie no longer printed her letters and compositions, but wrote
them in a large round hand, quite easy to read. But, in order to do
it well, she had to pay close attention to her writing; and, since
Bessie could not help her, she was contented to have her lie quietly
asleep on the sofa for the time. Mrs. Bradford was leaning back upon
the pillows in her easy-chair, looking so pale and thin and weak that
even a child could have told that she had been ill.
Indeed she had been--the dear, precious mamma!--so ill, that for some
days it seemed as if she were to be taken from her little ones. But
the merciful Father above had heard and granted the prayers of all
the loving hearts whose earthly happiness she made, and hope and joy
came back to the pleasant home from which, for a time, they had flown
away. It had been a great delight to Maggie and Bessie to see her
walk into the nursery, leaning on papa's arm, that morning; and even
baby Annie seemed to know it was something to rejoice at, for she
came toddling to her mamma, and hid her face in her skirts, with a
sweet, crowing laugh, which was full of joy and love.
And when, a little while after, Bessie sat looking earnestly at her
mother, with eyes which seemed as if they could not take their fill,
and was asked by her of what she was thinking, the answer was,--
"I was thinking two things, mamma. One was, what a very great
thanksgiving we ought to make; and the other was, how very
disappointed the angels must be, not to have you in heaven, after
all."
"Oh," said Maggie, "I guess the angels are too glad for us to be very
sorry for their own disappointment."
But though mamma was much better, she was still very feeble, and it
was necessary that she should be very careful not to fatigue or
excite herself; and the doctor said it would be some weeks, perhaps
months, before she would be able to go about her usual duties and
occupations.
A book lay upon Mrs. Bradford's lap, but she was not reading. She
sat watching the busy fingers of her little daughter with a look that
was somewhat anxious and troubled.
"There!" said Maggie at last, looking up from her letter with a
satisfied air; "when Bessie has put her name under mine it will be
all done. Do you think Mrs. Porter will be able to make it out,
mamma?"
"If she does not, I think it will be the fault of her eyes, and not
of my Maggie's fingers," said Mrs. Bradford, smiling as she looked at
the large, plain letters upon the sheet which Maggie held up before
her. "That is very well done, my daughter; and Mrs. Porter will be
gratified when she sees how much pains you have taken."
Well pleased at her mother's praise, which she certainly deserved,
Maggie carefully laid by her letter until Bessie should be awake to
sign it, and then came back to mamma's side for a little petting and
loving.
"Maggie, darling," said Mrs. Bradford presently, laying her thin hand
caressingly on the rosy cheek which nestled against her shoulder,
"how should you like to go to school?"
Maggie raised her head quickly.
"O mamma!" she exclaimed.
Mrs. Bradford had fully expected to see just such a look, and hear
just such a tone; but she only said, "Well, dear?"
"Mamma, I never could bear it--never, never. Why, I suppose you
would not teach us any longer then; and besides, mamma, strange girls
go to school, do they not?"
"Girls who are strangers to you, you mean, dear?"
"Yes'm."
"Well, yes," said Mrs. Bradford slowly, for this was even a greater
trial to her than it was to Maggie. "I suppose there would be some
girls whom you did not know, but not a great many; for it would be
but a small class to which I should send you. Do you remember that
pleasant Miss Ashton whom you saw here one day, just after we came
home from Chalecoo?"
"Yes'm; and we liked her looks so much."
"Well, she is going to have a class of little girls for two or three
hours each day. Lily Norris, Gracie Howard, and one or two others
whom you know, are to join it; and she came here to know if I would
like you to do so. But I wished still to teach you myself this
winter, and said 'no.' But now that I have been so ill, I feel that
I must give up this pleasure, for it will not do for you to lose so
much time. So, as Miss Ashton has still one or two places to be
filled, I think I shall send you to her. You will not find it hard
after the first day or two. Miss Ashton is a very kind, gentle young
lady; you already know several of your classmates, and with the rest
you will soon become acquainted. Miss Ashton's mother is to have a
class of older girls, but they will be in another room, and need not
interfere with you. With all this to make it easy and agreeable for
you, do you not think you will be able to bear it?"
"I could not; indeed, mamma, I could not," said Maggie, making a
great effort to speak steadily.
"Not if it would be a great help to your sick mother, dear?"
Maggie swallowed the lump in her throat, winked her eyes very hard to
keep back the tears, and answered, "Yes, if it would be that, I
could, mamma. I think I would do anything that would be a help to
you, even if it did hurt my own feelings dreadfully."
"My own dear little girl!" said Mrs. Bradford, tenderly kissing the
flushed face which looked up into hers so wistfully. "But I do not
believe you will find this as hard a trial as you imagine, Maggie.
After the first day or two, I hope you will not only be quite willing
to go to school, but that you will really take pleasure in it."
Maggie shook her head very dolefully.
"That could never be, mamma; but I will try not to feel too badly
about it. But," with a look at her sleeping sister, "I am glad
Bessie won't mind it so much as I will. She'll feel very badly to
know you're not going to teach us any more, but then she won't care
so much about the strange girls and the strange school."
Mrs. Bradford looked troubled. She had not imagined that Maggie
thought she meant to send Bessie to school also, and now that she saw
this was so, she knew what a blow it would be to the poor child to
hear that her sister was not to go.
"My darling," she said, "we do not intend--your father and I--to send
Bessie to school this winter. We think her too young, and not strong
enough, and that much study would not be good for her."
Poor Maggie! This was more than she had bargained to "bear," the one
drop too much in her full cup. She could no longer choke back her
tears, but fell into a passion of sobbing and crying which her mother
found it impossible for some minutes to quiet. It was only the
recollection that her mamma was not to be worried, which at last
helped the child to conquer it. And it was Bessie who put her in
mind of this; for her sobs had roused her little sister, who, waking
and slipping down from the sofa, came running to know what could be
the matter with her usually merry, cheerful Maggie.
"Maggie, dear," said the thoughtful Bessie, "I'm very sorry for you,
but you know the doctor said mamma was not to have any _ercitement_
or 'sturbance, and I'm 'fraid you're making one for her. I s'pose
you forgot."
In another moment Maggie had checked her loud sobs, though the tears
would not be controlled just yet; and, looking from her to her
mother's anxious face, a new fear came into Bessie's mind.
"Mamma," she said, looking wistfully up at her mother, "is our Father
going to make you worse again, and take you away from us after all?"
"No, my darling; I trust not," said Mrs. Bradford. "Maggie's trouble
is by no means so great a one as that--is it, dear Maggie? I have
just been telling her that she is to go to school this winter, and
she is rather distressed; but she will soon feel better about it.
She will only be away for two or three hours each day, and will soon
be quite accustomed to her new teacher and her classmates, and learn
to like them."
Bessie looked very sober, and, after a moment, she said, with a long
sigh,--
"Well, dear mamma, you know it is a pretty great trial to think you
can't teach us now; but we'll try not to mind it so much as to make
you feel bad, and maybe I can help Maggie to get used to the girls
and the teacher, 'cause you know I am not so shy as she is, and I
s'pose I'll 'come acquainted with them sooner than she will. And if
we don't like the other girls very much, we won't mind it when we
have each other--need we, Maggie?" and she took her sister's hand
with a tender, protecting air, which was both amusing and touching to
see.
So the little one herself was also taking it for granted that, since
Maggie was to go to school, she was to go too.
It was only natural, as the mother knew. They had never been
separated. One never half enjoyed a pleasure unless the other shared
it; and all their childish troubles were made lighter and easier to
bear, because they were together, and could give comfort and help to
one another; and Mrs. Bradford was sure it would be as great a blow
to Bessie as it had been to Maggie to know that they were to be
parted even for two or three hours each day.
"But I mean to keep my Bessie at home with me," she said, trying to
speak cheerfully; "and every day, when Maggie comes back, she will
tell us all she has seen and learned; and it will be nice to watch
for her, and have some little pleasure ready for her when she returns
to us, will it not?"
"Mamma," said Bessie, struggling with herself, lest she too should
break down in tears, and so distress her mother, but still speaking
with a very quivering voice,--"Mamma, you never could mean that
Maggie is to go to school without me, could you? You are making
rather a bad joke, are you not?"
The beseeching voice, the pleading eyes, and trembling lips, went
straight to the mother's heart, and would not let her smile at the
innocent ending of Bessie's speech.
"I really mean what I say, darling," she answered. "Papa and I have
talked it all over; and, although we know it is hard for you and
Maggie to be separated even for a little while, we do not think it
best for you to go. You are not very strong, and it would not be
well for you to study much for a year or two. If you were with other
children, you might try too hard, for you know you do not like to be
left behind; and as you can read pretty well now, we think we will
let you be a lazy little girl for this winter, and keep you at home
to take care of mamma."
"Mamma," said Bessie earnestly, "you know I'd rather be with you than
anywhere, even with my own Maggie; and I only want to go to school on
'count of Maggie's sake. But you have a great many people to take
care of you, 'cause papa or grandmamma or one of the aunties stays
with you all the time; and poor Maggie would be so very lonesome
without any of her own people. And, mamma, it seems pretty queer to
want a little girl to be lazy; but, if you'd like me to, I'll be so
very lazy that Miss Ashton will say, 'Go to the ant, thou sluggard!'"
Mrs. Bradford could not help smiling; but she said, "That might do,
dear, if Miss Ashton were to teach no one but yourself and Maggie;
but she would probably think it would not answer to have a little
girl in her class who could not do as the others did. She might say
it would be a bad example, or that the rest might think it was not
fair."
"But, mamma," pleaded Bessie, "don't you think if you told Miss
Ashton how very fond Maggie and I are of each other, and how badly
she would feel if she had to go without me, it might have a little
persuasion for her? You know you were very kind to her when her
father died, and maybe she would like to have some gratitude for you."
"I daresay Miss Ashton would be very glad to please me, Bessie; but
she has to consider not so much what she would like, as what is right
and best to do. However, she is coming here this afternoon for my
answer about Maggie, and I will ask her if she can make any
arrangement that will do for you. If she can, then we will see what
papa says; but I do not wish either of you to think too much about
it, lest you should be disappointed in the end."
Mamma talked to them a little longer, trying to persuade them to look
on the bright side of this, to them, great trouble; till Bessie,
noticing how weak her voice was, and how pale she looked, asked if
she were not tired. Mamma said, "yes," and that she thought she must
rest a while if she were to see Miss Ashton that afternoon.
This was enough for the tender little nurses; and grandmamma, who had
left them in charge, coming in soon after, found Mrs. Bradford asleep
on the sofa, with Maggie gently rubbing her feet and Bessie as softly
threading her fingers through her mother's hair. But, quiet as they
were, their thoughts were very busy and their hearts very full; and
Maggie, contrary to her usually cheerful spirit, had been imagining
all kinds of disagreeable occurrences which might happen to her at
school, and looking upon herself quite as a little martyr; and now,
as her grandmamma nodded and smiled at her, she was surprised, not
only to see the traces of tears on her cheeks, but also that her eyes
were still swimming; while Bessie's face wore the piteous look it
always did when anything had distressed her. Seeing that Mrs.
Bradford was fast asleep, and would not be disturbed if her children
ceased their loving tending, she beckoned them into their own room,
where, sitting down on a low chair she lifted Bessie on her lap, and,
drawing Maggie to her, asked what had grieved them.
Their trouble was soon told; but grandmamma, having known before that
the thing was to be, was not surprised, nor as shocked as Maggie had
expected and hoped she would be. Now, perhaps some of you little
girls, who know what a happy, pleasant place a school may be, will
think our Maggie very foolish to dread it so much; but those among
you who are shy and timid will have some idea of how she felt. Her
fear of strangers was really a great cross to her, and she would even
sometimes refuse some offered pleasure rather than be thrown with
people whom she did not know. This was one reason why her mamma
thought it was better for her to go to school, that being with other
children might help to rub off this uncomfortable shyness, so
troublesome to herself and her friends.
"Mr. Porter said once," said Maggie, when Bessie had finished her
doleful story, "that God sometimes had to take away our blessings to
teach us how much they were worth; and I'm afraid it's just for that
He is punishing me this way, for I don't think I ever knew till now
what a great blessing it was to have mamma teach me, and sometimes I
even used to feel a little cross when she called us to our lessons.
So I s'pose, when I was so ungrateful, He thought it was just good
enough for me to go to a hateful old school, full of strange girls
and a strange teacher and everything, and not Bessie to go, nor any
one who loves me. Oh dear! oh dear!" and Maggie now gave way to the
tears and sobs which she had checked before, for fear they should
distress her sick mother.
Her grandmamma let her cry for a few moments, thinking it might make
her feel better; but, when she was quieter, she said gently, "I do
not think you are looking at this quite in the right way, dear
Maggie."
"How, grandmamma?" asked Maggie, wiping her eyes.
"To look at it as a punishment, dear. I know this is a trial for
you, indeed it seems to you now like a great hardship, though I trust
you will learn to feel differently about it. But God does not always
send trials as punishments."
"What then, grandmamma?"
"Well, He may send troubles to us to work out some good purpose of
His own that we cannot know of, or they may even be sent as
blessings, though we do not see it at the time."
"Oh," said Maggie, "I s'pose that was what Aunt Helen meant the other
day when she talked about 'blessings in disguise.'"
"Yes," answered Mrs. Stanton; "but do you know what disguise means,
Maggie?"
"Yes'm," said Maggie. "It means to dress yourself up so that nobody
would know you; and if my going to school is a blessing, I think it
is a very disguised one _indeed_."
Mrs. Stanton could not help smiling a little, though she was sorry to
hear Maggie's rebellions tone.
"Grandmamma," said Bessie, "do you think our Father has a purpose in
having Maggie go to school?"
"Yes, dear. We may always be sure that whatever He orders for us is
for some wise and holy purpose of His own. It may be He sees this
will be good for Maggie, or He may have some work for her to do for
Him."
"But I know I could work and study a great deal better at home with
my own mamma and my own Bessie, than I could in a hateful school with
a cross, ugly teacher," said Maggie.
"O Maggie!" said Bessie, "Miss Ashton is not ugly. Don't you know we
thought she looked so nice and pleasant? And I don't believe she is
cross either, or mamma would not let you go to her."
"No," said grandmamma: "Miss Ashton is neither cross nor ugly; but
Maggie is looking at her and at her school through the spectacles of
discontent, which hide all that is good, and make all that is bad
appear far, far worse than the reality. Take them off, Maggie, and
look at things with your own honest, cheerful, eyes. It may be that
the great Teacher above has some lesson for you to learn that you do
not know of--some special work for you to do for Him."
"I don't see how a little girl like me could do any work for Him in
school, except to learn my lessons well," said Maggie, "and I could
do that at home."
"When you were at Chalecoo last summer, did not the Lord Jesus give
you work to do for Him, such as you had no thought of?"
"Yes," said Maggie, softened at once; "and it was a very happy work;
and I am very glad He made us of a heart to do it."
"And if you ask Him, darling, He will always give you a heart to do
the work He puts in your way," said grandmamma.
"But, grandmamma," said Maggie, "how could I find work for Him in
school? Miss Ashton would not have children like Lem and Dolly in
her class."
"No," answered Mrs. Stanton. "The children you will meet there are
all probably more or less well taught; but you may still find
something to do for Jesus. But the work which He gives us is not
always that which we have chosen or planned for ourselves. It may be
that your task will be only that of which you have just spoken--to
learn your lessons well, to be obedient and respectful to Miss
Ashton, gentle and patient with your schoolmates; yet all may be done
for the love of Jesus, and to His glory and praise. There is a
lovely hymn which asks that one may be made more careful to please
God perfectly than to serve Him much. That means that it is far more
pleasing to Him to have us take up cheerfully and gratefully the
small duty which lies straight before us, than it is to have us pass
that by while we search for some more grand task, or self-sacrifice,
which we may choose to think is His work. I can tell you a story of
a great mistake which I made in that way once. Would you like to
hear it?"
The children both assented eagerly, and settled themselves
comfortably to listen to grandmamma's story.
CHAPTER II.
_GRANDMAMMA'S STORY._
"I was a good deal older than either of you," said Mrs. Stanton,
"when the things happened of which I am going to tell you, for I was
nearly fourteen years of age; but still the story may interest and be
of use to you.
"Up to that time, I had always been taught at home, partly by a
governess, who also taught my younger sisters, Emily and Bertha,
partly by my father, who was a man fond of study, and who took great
pleasure in teaching what he knew to others, especially his own
children. I was a scholar after his own heart, for I learned easily
and with little trouble to myself or my instructors; and I had a
wonderful memory, which seldom let anything slip which I had once
heard or studied. I was very proud of my ready memory, forgetting
that it was quite as much a gift from God as beauty, riches, or any
other good thing which He gives to His creatures. I may say, now,
that I was really very forward for my age; and my father and mother
also took great pride in me, particularly the former, who was anxious
to show off my learning on every occasion.
"A great many gentlemen used to visit at our house, friends of my
father, and men who, like himself, were fond of books and study; and
they used to have long talks on these things. Sometimes they would
differ about a name, a date, or some fact; and often, at such times,
my father would call me, and tell me to settle the disputed point. I
could generally answer correctly, and then our friends would go on
asking question after question, perhaps to find out how much I really
knew, perhaps only to amuse themselves with my vanity; while I,
encouraged by my father, who did not know the harm he was doing me,
and with my silly little head quite turned by the praise and notice I
received, was only too glad to show off all I knew. Indeed, I was
quite disappointed whenever any of these friends left the house, and
I had not been called upon for any such display.
"When I was nearly fourteen years of age, my dear mother had a long
illness; and, as soon as she was able to travel, the doctors said
that she must go away for a year at least. Emily had not been well
for some time, and it was decided that she was to go too; while
Bertie and I were to be sent to boarding-school during their absence.
That was a far worse trial than going to school for two or three
hours each day, knowing that your own dear mamma is here for you to
come back to; was it not, Maggie?"
"Yes'm," said Maggie, with a loving glance through the open door at
her sleeping mother; "but then, grandmamma, you know you were such a
big girl; and I suppose you were not shy either, if you had so much
courage to talk to the grown gentlemen. Grandmamma, I don't think
you can know how uncomfortable it is for a child to be shy. Oh, I do
wish I could come over it."
"Overcome it, you mean," said grandmamma. "Well, dear Maggie, do you
know that I think this very thing which you dread so much--going to
school--may help you to do so. And it would be a good thing if it
were so, for this troublesome shyness not only interferes with one's
own pleasure and comfort, but often with one's usefulness to others.
But to go on with my story. Great girl though I was, and bolder,
perhaps, than became my years, the parting from my father and mother
was a terrible trial to me, and I shed many bitter tears over it.
The thing which gave me most comfort was the thought of all I would
do while they were gone, and how I would astonish them with my
improvement on their return. I not only meant to study so hard that
I should put myself at the head of all my classes, and take most, if
not all, of the prizes; but I also begged my father to write out a
list of books of history and travels which I might read during my
play-hours, and asked to be allowed to take up one or two extra
studies. He readily agreed; but my mother shook her head, and said,
if my time and thoughts were to be so taken up with my books, she
feared I would not give much attention to little Bertie.
"Bertie was mother's great anxiety in leaving home. She was only
seven years old--a timid, clinging child, shrinking from strangers,
and always wanting to be petted and cuddled by those she loved. She
had never been really sick, but she was not strong; and mother gave
her into my special care with so many charges to be kind and tender
to her, that I felt impatient and half-vexed that she should think
they were needed. Alas, she knew me better than I knew myself.
"Our parents had secured some little favours at the school for us,
among others that of a room to ourselves; and this they had furnished
comfortably and prettily, so that we might have been very contented
and happy there together, if it bad not been for my vanity and
selfishness; or, perhaps I should say, the strange mistakes I made as
to my duty.
"For the first day or two we were both heartbroken, and I petted
Bertie and sorrowed with her; but, after that, I turned to my books,
and had no time or thought for anything else. True, I did not
neglect my little sister's bodily comfort. Every morning I washed
and dressed her with my own hands, and curled her long, fair
ringlets; each night I undressed her and tucked her in her bed--nor
was it done hastily or impatiently, but with care and patience. But
while I was at my task--for so I thought it--of tending her, my book
lay open on my lap, and I learned long poems or lists of names and
dates, and poor Bertie was never suffered to speak to me. I always
had an hour to myself at the time when I put her to bed, and I might
have spent it with her, had I chosen to do so. But no; although the
little homesick child used to beg me to stay with her and talk of
mother, I was always in haste to go to the books which father had
marked for me. Many a time when I went up to bed I found her awake,
restless and nervous; or, if she was sleeping, her pillow and face
were wet with tears. During play-hours she used to hang about me,
longing for love and comfort; but, although I never sent her from me,
I had no time to give her the petting and sympathy she needed.
"Saturdays, when we had a holiday, and Sundays were no better,
perhaps rather worse; for then Bertie was more lonely and homesick
than when she was in school, and I was just as busy as on other days.
"On Sunday mornings we were obliged to go to church and
Sunday-school; but in the afternoon we were allowed to do as we
pleased, provided there was no loud laughing or talking. It was my
pleasure to attend a Bible-class held by the clergyman of the
village, about a mile off; and much of my time on Saturday was taken
up with studying the lesson for the next day. I knew a good deal of
the history and geography of the Bible, and could repeat many a
chapter and verse; but to its lessons of humility, unselfishness, and
true love to my God and my neighbour, I fear I paid little heed.
"My governess rather objected to my attending this class, which was
intended for those who were much older than myself; for she thought I
was doing too much, and not taking time enough for rest and play.
But, since she did not forbid it, I shut my ears to her advice and
took my own way. I believe I honestly thought I was doing right,
too; that I was making the most of the opportunities God had given
me, trying to please my parents and to do my duty. And these things
were all right in themselves; but the trouble was, I did not take up
the duty which lay nearest to my hand. I neglected the simple, easy
work which God had put in my way, because I thought it was a trifle.
You see, my darlings, I would not stoop to pick up the tiny jewel
which lay at my feet, but reached out for that which was more showy
and glittering, but less precious in His sight."
"We had been at school about four months, when one Saturday I noticed
that Bertie seemed more dull and languid than usual I did not wish to
see this, but I could not shut my eyes to it. She would not go out
to play with the other children, nor would she amuse herself in the
house, but sat listlessly about, looking pale and miserable.
"'What ails you, Bertie?' I asked at last; 'are you sick?'
"'I want mother,' she answered, with a quivering lip and eyes filling
up with tears.
"'Well, four months have gone by,' I said, speaking cheerfully, but
carelessly.
"'Four months,' the child repeated sadly, 'and that leaves,'--she
counted up on her fingers,--'that leaves eight more, Margy, before
they come home. Oh, it is so long!'
"'If you love father and mother so much,' I said, 'I should think you
would try to do what would please them.'
"'So I do,' said my little sister, with the great tears now rolling
down her cheeks; 'mother told me to be good and mind you and my
teachers, and I have. Mrs. Horton told me yesterday I was the best
little girl in the school, and gave her no trouble, and that she
would write and tell mother so.'
"'Oh yes!' I said; 'you are certainly a very good child; but you
might improve more if you chose, Bertie.'
"'I don't want to improve,' said Bertie: 'people are not half so nice
when they improve.'
"'You do not understand what you are talking about," said I,
half-laughing, half-vexed; 'people must be nicer when they improve,
because it means to become wiser and better.'
"'Oh!' said Bertie, with a disapproving look at my pile of books; 'I
thought it meant to study a great deal.'
"'You foolish child!' I answered rather sharply; 'there are a great
many ways in which people may improve themselves. God gives one kind
of work to one, and another kind to another; and the way to please
Him, and to improve ourselves, is to do what He gives us with all our
might.'
"'And has not God given you any work to do but studying all the
time?' asked Bertie.
"'Of course not,' I answered, 'or I should do it. When our parents
placed us in this expensive school, they meant us to make the most of
our time and the advantages they had given us; so that is our duty
both to them and to God.'
"I thought myself very wise and important while making these grand
speeches to my little sister, but they did not seem to satisfy her.
"'But don't we have a duty to each other, Margy?' she said.
"'Certainly,' I answered; 'but I would like to know what you would be
at. I suppose it is I you mean, when you say people are not nice who
study a good deal; and I do not see where I have not done my duty to
you. Don't I take all the care of you?'
"'Yes,' said Bertie slowly; 'but, Margy, you never pet me, or tell me
stories, or sing to me, as you used to, and I would like it now more
than I did then.'
"'So would I like it,' I said, 'but that would be play, not work, and
I have not time for such nonsense. You must not think I do not love
you just as much; and don't talk any more, I have wasted too much
time already.'
"Bertie obeyed and was silent, leaning her head against the
window-frame with a sad, weary air, while I turned over the leaves of
my Bible in search of a verse I wanted; but I could not fix my
attention. Bertie's words had made me feel very uncomfortable, and
brought back my mother's last charge to me: 'Margaret, dear, take
care of my baby, and do not let her want for any comfort or
tenderness that you can give her.'
"Had I given Bertie all the love and tenderness in my power? Had I
done the work which my mother--aye, and my God, too--had put into my
hands; the work that should have been done before I took up any other?
"These thoughts now troubled me so, that I could scarcely study; but
I tried to put them from me, saying to myself that I would give
Bertie a good petting and tell her a long story on the next
afternoon, after my return from Bible-class.
"But the next morning I thought I had found a new piece of work which
it was my duty to perform. My Sabbath-school teacher told the class
of a poor family, living some distance beyond the village, who were
in the greatest need, and asked if some among us could not spare a
little to help them. I at once took it up, saying that I would go
round among the girls in our school, and see what I could collect.
This I did, as soon as I reached home; and, each of the teachers and
scholars giving more or less, I soon had a nice sum in my hands. I
asked, and obtained permission, to go with one of my schoolmates and
take this to the suffering family, after the dismissal of the
afternoon Bible class; and as I sat upon the piazza, counting over
the money, I said that I intended to do so.
"Bertie sat at my feet, leaning her head against my knees. She had
not been to church or Sunday-school that morning, for she seemed so
languid that Mrs. Horton had proposed she should stay at home.
"'O Margy!' she said, looking up at me with pleading eyes; 'then you
will be away all the afternoon. It is such a long walk over to
Cuddy's Hollow! and if you go there after Bible-class, you will not
be home till tea-time. I do want you so! Couldn't some one else
take it, and wouldn't you stay with me just this one Sunday?'
"'Impossible, Bertie,' I said; 'I have not missed one Bible-class
since we came to school, and hope not to during the year; and you
surely would not have these poor people suffering another twenty-four
hours, when here is the money ready for them?'
"'No,' said Bertie; 'but I thought some one else could go. I believe
I don't feel very well, Margy; and I want you to talk about mother.
O Margy, do stay!'
"'Miss Ruthven," said one of my schoolmates, a new scholar, who stood
by, 'I intended to join the Bible-class this afternoon; and if you
would like to stay with your little sister, I will gladly go with
Miss Oliver to carry the money.'
"Now, my conscience not being quite at rest for refusing Bertie's
request, I immediately imagined that this young lady meant to reprove
or dictate to me; and I answered stiffly,--
"Thank you, Miss Hart, but I prefer to attend to it myself. When one
has undertaken a plain duty, one should not give it up for one's own
pleasure.'
"'Yes,' said Miss Hart quietly; 'but should we not be very sure that
we see clearly what is our duty, and what our pleasure?'
"I took no notice of this, but turned to Bertie, with,--
"'You said a little while ago, Bertie, that you were so sorry for
these poor people. If we really care for others, and want to help
them, we must sometimes give up our own comfort and convenience.'
"'_You_ don't care for _me_, or want to help me a bit,' said Bertie
passionately; 'and I am going to write and ask mother if I can't come
to her, even if I do have to sail off in a ship all alone by myself;'
and then she broke out in tears and sobs.
"'You know that is not true, and you are wrong and selfish, Bertie,'
I said. 'I must go now, but be a good girl and stop crying, and I
will talk to you about mother, and tell you a nice story when I come
home;' and, giving her a hasty kiss, I ran down the steps and joined
the group who were about starting for the church.
"'Are you not going with us, Miss Hart?' said the teacher who was to
accompany us.
"'I think not,' she answered.
"'You had better come,' I said, not wishing she should think me
unamiable; 'you have no idea how interesting these classes are, and
how much one may learn."
"'Another afternoon,' she said, with a pleasant smile; 'to-day I will
remain at home.'
"We started on our way, but I was very uneasy. The words, 'You do
not care for me, or want to help me,' mingling with 'Do not let my
baby want for any care or tenderness you can give her,' kept ringing
in my ears; and my mother's eyes--how like Bertie's were to
them!--seemed looking into mine, as she pleaded for her little pet
lamb. I came on slowly after the others, trying to make up my mind
that it was _not_ my duty to go back and stay with Bertie. Once I
turned and looked behind, to see Mary Hart in the seat I had left,
Bertie upon her lap, the child's arms about her neck, while she
tenderly smoothed her lovely hair. A stranger was giving to my
sister the petting and soothing for which she had longed, and which I
had denied to her.
"Then came the voice of the teacher,--
"'Margaret Ruthven, why do you not come? If you want to stay with
your sister, go back: if not, do not keep us waiting.'
"I followed the rest, but my thoughts were all in confusion that
afternoon. I was angry with Bertie, with Mary Hart, with the
teacher, with every one but myself, who alone was to blame. I could
not fix my attention on the lesson, or put the questions and give the
answers with which I was generally so ready; and I was glad when we
were dismissed. Still, this did not prevent me from joining Miss
Oliver and our Sunday-school teacher when they went to Cuddy's
Hollow. It was a long walk; and so much time was taken up in making
arrangements for the comfort of the poor family, that it was late
before we started for home,--so late that, on our way through the
village, Miss Henry stopped at her own house for her father, and both
saw us safely home.
"We had been gone five or six hours, and as I entered the hall-door,
some of the younger children met me.
"'O Miss Ruthven, Bertie is so sick! She went to sleep in Miss
Hart's lap this afternoon, and when she woke up, she did not know any
one; and the doctor is here, and she is so sick.'
"In an instant I had flown up the stairs, and was on my knees beside
Bertie's bed. There she lay, her head rolling from side to side, her
little hot hands tossing restlessly to and fro. She did not know me;
and she moaned, and called for mother, saying that 'she was all
alone, all alone.'
"Ah! my neglected work rose up plainly before me then,--the simple,
easy work of love which God had put ready to my hands, but from which
I had coldly turned away in search of something which I thought
nobler and better. Would my parents care though I gained every prize
in the school, if they came home to find their darling gone, and
learned that her last days had been made unhappy by want of love and
care? Bessie, do not look so distressed, love. Bertie did not die,
though for three weeks all thought that it must end so. Probably all
the care and tenderness in the world would not have kept off that
terrible illness, but my remorse and misery were as great as though
it had all been my doing. I would not leave her day or night, and it
was only by the command of my governess that I took any rest. At
last a change came, and Bertie was out of danger; but she was fretful
and nervous, and could not bear me out of her sight; while I felt
that I could not do enough to make up for the past, and devoted my
whole time to her.
"'Margy,' she said one day, as I sat beside her, telling stories for
her pleasure, 'I am glad you don't improve any more. You are just
like my old Margy.'
"So the long summer days passed away, and the exhibition, where I had
so hoped to excel all my schoolmates, was drawing near; and I stood,
for absence, at the very foot of all my classes. Still I hoped to
make up for lost time. Whenever Bertie slept, I took my books, and
did my best to keep up with my class. A night-lamp was burned in our
room; and, after the rest of the house was safely in bed, I used to
rise and study by its faint light, then take a few hours of sleep,
and be up with the first streak of day, spending many an hour over my
lessons when I should have been at rest. In this way I hoped to
recover what I had lost, and be able to take my old place by the time
Bertie was well. But again I found that God had other work for me
than that which I had laid out for myself.
"For some days I had felt a great deal of pain in my head, and a
burning and throbbing in my eyes, which might have told me that I was
doing myself harm; but I would not yet heed the warning, or speak of
it to any one, lest I should be forbidden to pore over my books. But
now it could no longer be hidden. I woke one morning in such agony,
and with such a dimness over my sight, that, though Bertie was still
weak, I was obliged to call her, and send for help. My governess
came, and then the doctor; and, though I could not see his face, the
grave tones of the latter and the directions he gave told me that it
was a very serious matter.
"And so, indeed, it proved. Day after day and week after week I lay
in a darkened room, suffering terribly, and in danger of losing my
sight for ever. The exhibition was over, the long vacation gone by,
before I was about again, and the poor eyes, which had been so sorely
tried, were able to bear the light. And there was worse, or what I
thought was worse, still to come. My own sense, as well as the
doctor's orders, told me plainly that all use of my eyes must be
forbidden for some time. 'How long?' I asked the doctor.
"'For months, perhaps years,' he answered bluntly.
"You may think what a blow this was to me; but, after my first sorrow
had passed away, I amused myself by forming new plans. If I could
not distinguish myself in one way, I would in another. I would do so
much for other people, that every one would love and honour me. I
had plenty of money, for my father gave me a large allowance; and I
would look after the wants, not only of the poor family of whom I
have before spoken, but of many more down in the village. They were
a miserable, neglected set there; but I would alter all that. I
would spend my savings for them, and show them how to be neat and
comfortable; with my governess's leave, I would gather the children
together and teach them all I could without the use of my eyes; and I
did not doubt that, in a short time, I should work a change that
would surprise and delight all who saw it, and be greatly to my own
credit and glory.
"Ah, there was the trouble! I thought I would serve my Master, and
let my good works be 'seen of men;' but I fear it was to glorify
myself, not Him, and so He did not will that my little light should
fall upon the path which I had chosen for myself.
"All these plans and purposes came to nothing, as my former ones had
done. I was not only forbidden to read, write, or study, but also to
fatigue or exert myself in any way; and, indeed, I soon found that
this was necessary. Walking to the village was not to be thought of.
One quarter of the distance brought on the old, terrible pain, and I
was forced into quiet by the dread of blindness.
"So I was to be laid aside as useless, I thought; and I fretted
myself, and others, till those about me had good reason to think that
the work I had now chosen was to make myself as disagreeable as
possible. It was in vain that my governess told me how wrong and
sinful I was; I could listen to nothing but the murmurings of my own
discontent and disappointment, and refused to look at the blessings
which God had left me, or to learn the lesson He was trying to teach
me.
"Thus the rest of the year passed away, and my parents came home, to
find me, not the proud, triumphant scholar I had hoped to be, nor yet
the beloved and useful benefactor who had gained praise and gratitude
from all who knew her; but a restless, moping, fretful invalid--a
burden to herself and all around her."
"But, grandmamma," said Maggie, as Mrs. Stanton paused for a moment,
"you did not tell us what work it was God had left for you."
"To learn a lesson of patience, humility, and submission to His will,
Maggie; lessons which I was long in taking to heart, and which I had
sadly needed. It was long years before my health and the use of my
eyes came back to me; not till I had learned to be contented with the
simple every-day duties which God had meant should be my lot in life.
What I wished was to do great things, and serve my God and my
fellow-creatures in a way that should be 'seen and known of men;' but
our Father knew that this would not be good for me--that the pride
and vainglory, which were my chief faults, would only be strengthened
and made worse if He allowed me to go on in the paths I had chosen.
I can see this now for myself, and bless Him that He put out His hand
and led me by the quiet ways where I have learned to find all my
duties and my happiness. But, look! There is dear mamma awake, and
the duty I see plainly before us now is to go and give her some
beef-tea and jelly, which I think she needs."
CHAPTER III.
_SCHOOL._
"But, grandmamma," said Maggie, when her mother had been bolstered
up, and was enjoying her nice soup, "I do not think waiting on mamma
is a bit of a duty; I think it is a great, great pleasure."
"So do I, Maggie; but a pleasure may be a duty, may it not?"
Maggie looked doubtful.
"I don't quite see how, grandmamma. I thought a duty was something
one ought to do, but did not quite want to do,--like forgiving people
when they are unkind to us, or putting away my playthings when I
would rather leave them; or--or--trying to have a cheerful mind about
going to school, 'cause it's a help to mamma;" and Maggie smiled a
wistful, half-tearful little smile, which went straight to the hearts
of her mother and grandmother.
"But even a disagreeable duty may bring its own pleasure and
satisfaction with it, darling, if we only go about it in the right
way," said Mrs. Stanton; "and there is many a pleasant thing that is
also a duty. You say you love to wait on your mother; but suppose
you did not like it, would it be right for you to refuse to do what
you could for her?"
"No indeed," answered Maggie promptly.
"Mamma seems to like that jelly pretty well," said grandmamma; "but
is there no other reason why she should take it?"
"Yes," said Maggie; "because the doctor said she must eat everything
that would make her strong and well."
"So, then, you see a pleasant thing may be as much a duty as a
disagreeable one. Right is right, wrong is wrong, and duty is duty;
and we cannot alter that, however it may affect ourselves. Only we
must try, as I meant my story to show you, to do _first_ the duty
that is plainest, and which lies nearest to our hand, for that is
God's work, and the thing He means us to do."
Bessie had been listening very thoughtfully to all that passed, and
now she said gravely,--
"Grandmamma, I s'pose you mean me to take a lesson of your story, and
to understand that if it is Maggie's duty to go to school and study,
it is mine to stay at home and not study much, 'cause mamma wishes
it. So one way is _her_ duty, and another way is _my_ duty."
"I did not mean the story more for one than for the other," said Mrs.
Stanton, smiling; "but I am glad you want to learn something from it,
dear; and I think you are right in saying that your duty lies in one
way, and Maggie's in another. See who is knocking at the door,
Maggie."
It was Patrick to say Miss Ashton was below; and he was told to ask
her to walk up, while the children were sent from the room, that
mamma might be at liberty to talk to her.
Miss Ashton did not stay very long; but it seemed to Maggie and
Bessie an age, as they sat upon a hall chair, and waited for her to
come from mamma's room; so that, as Maggie said, "They might see if
her look had any good news for them."
Not only her looks, but her pleasant voice also, brought good news to
them; for, as she met the two wistful faces which gazed up into hers,
she stopped and said, smiling, "So I am to have two dear little
scholars from here, instead of one, if your papa will consent."
Instantly every corner of Maggie's face brightened into smiles and
dimples; while Bessie, slipping off the chair, seized upon Miss
Ashton's hand.
"Oh, could you, Miss Ashton? could you, really?" she exclaimed.
"Could I what? Agree to take a loving little girl with her sister,
and teach her just as much as her mother thinks it best for her to
learn? Well, I think I shall try and see how it will work."
At this Maggie too came down from the chair, and took Miss Ashton's
other hand.
"I am so very much obliged to you, ma'am," she said, too much
delighted to remember that the lady was almost a stranger to her.
"Yes," said Bessie, "you can't know how very much we thank you,
'cause you don't know how much accustomed Maggie and I are to each
other."
"And I hope you will soon both become accustomed to me, and learn to
love me," said Miss Ashton; and then she kissed them, and, telling
them she hoped to see them at school on the next Monday, she went
away; and the children ran back to their mother's room to make very
sure that the good news was true.
"Yes," mamma said, "it had all been arranged." Miss Ashton was very
kind, and said she would give Bessie lessons by herself, if she were
not able to keep up with the rest of the class, and she might amuse
herself quietly during the rest of the time; and nothing now remained
but to hear what papa thought of this new plan. Only one promise
mamma said she would require; and that was, that when the weather was
such that she did not think it best for Bessie to go out, Maggie
should go alone cheerfully. Maggie readily agreed, and when papa
came home and said, since mamma and Miss Ashton thought it would do,
he should make no objection, the two little sisters were so happy in
the arrangement which kept them together, that even Maggie had no
room for dread of the new school and new faces.
So, on the next Monday morning, there were two serious, but not sad,
little damsels who stood one on each side of mamma, ready hatted and
cloaked, waiting till papa should give the word to start for school.
Serious, for this was a grave and important matter to them--quite a
new step in life, and to Maggie a very trying one. Still, Bessie was
with her, so she could bear it.
Mr. Bradford gave the word, and their mother was hugged and kissed,
as though the parting were to be for a month instead of three hours,
and they went away. Mamma had bidden them good-bye very cheerily,
and it was as well they did not see the tear or two that rolled down
her pale cheek, or how sorrowfully she looked after them, as she
thought how she should miss their sweet company during those morning
hours when they had been accustomed to be with her. But she knew it
was best; and so, after the way of dear mammas, would not let them
see her own regret, lest it should add to their trouble.
Mrs. and Miss Ashton lived but a short distance from Mrs. Bradford,
and in a curious, old-fashioned house that was very different from
most city houses. It was only two storeys high, but very wide and
deep, and away at the back stretched a garden as old-fashioned as the
house, with stiff box hedges, gravel walks bordered with white
pebbles, a fountain in the centre, and at the farther end two old
summer-houses covered with grape-vines. The two sides which bordered
on the street were guarded by a high picket-fence, the third by a low
stone wall beyond which were half a dozen vacant lots; while on the
opposite corner, at right angles with Miss Ashton's house, lived Mr.
Peters, who kept the school which Harry and Fred attended, and his
boys were accustomed to use these lots as their ball-ground.
Maggie and Bessie thought it a very remarkable and pleasant
circumstance that these two houses, standing thus by themselves on
one square, should be occupied by the two schools, and it gave them a
more homelike feeling to know that their brothers were so near.
Mr. Bradford asked for Miss Ashton, and when the young lady came
down, he said a few words to her, and then, kissing his two little
daughters, left them in her care. Miss Ashton talked very pleasantly
and kindly to them as she led them up-stairs, followed by Jane, who
had also come to take off the children's hats and cloaks; but they
both felt very homesick as papa walked away, and had no heart to
answer her. It seemed worse still when their walking-things were
taken off, and Jane went away, looking very unwilling to leave them.
Maggie's eyes were full of tears, and Bessie only kept hers back by
the help of a feeling that she was there to be a comfort to her
sister, and so must not give way.
But things appeared brighter when Miss Ashton took them into the
large, pleasant front room where the rest of the class were
assembled. Here were seven little girls, and among them were Lily
Norris, Gracie Howard, and Nellie and Carrie Ransom,--all looking
very happy, and very much pleased to see Maggie and Bessie, and not
at all as though school were a thing to be dreaded.
Place was soon found for the two sisters, and they were seated
together, with Lily on Maggie's other side, and Gracie by Bessie.
Next came the Ransoms. All these six were well acquainted and were
glad to meet; but the three on the other side of the room were
strangers to them and to one another, and looked shy and
uncomfortable; and Bessie, as she talked with her young friends, felt
sorry for them, and thought she would speak to them, if she only knew
their names and what to say.
Presently Miss Ashton, who had left the room, came back with another
child, and this one made the number of the class ten. The last comer
was a pale, sad-eyed little girl, dressed in deep mourning; and she,
too, was a stranger to all the others.
"Now," said Miss Ashton, "I shall leave you for ten minutes to become
acquainted. Then my mother will come, and we will open school."
"But, Miss Ashton," said Bessie, as the lady turned to go.
"Well, dear?"
Bessie hesitated for a moment, for she thought perhaps Miss Ashton
would think she was taking a liberty; but when she saw with what a
kind smile she looked at her, she made up her mind to speak. She did
so, not boldly, but with an outspoken, yet modest little way, that
was all her own.
"You see we don't know each other's names," she said; "and I thought
if you was to in-tro-duce us, maybe we could be acquainted sooner."
"To be sure," said Miss Ashton, smiling. "Thank you for reminding
me, Bessie. I did not think the first lesson taught here this
morning would be one of politeness, to be learned by myself."
"O Miss Ashton," said Bessie, "I would not be so saucy as to say you
were not polite! I only thought perhaps you forgot."
"And so I did, dear; but true politeness should teach us to remember
all those little things which may make others comfortable, or put
them at their ease; and I am afraid we grown people often forget that
children need such attentions as well as those who are older."
Then she introduced them all to one another, and went away.
The four whose names were new, were Belle Powers, Dora Johnson, Laura
Middleton, and Fanny Leroy. Belle was the little girl in black, who
looked so sad.
"Have any of you looked what is in your desks?" asked Nellie Ransom,
by way of beginning a conversation. "Carrie and I were the first
here, and Miss Ashton showed us. There's a slate, and a
spelling-book, and a drawing-book, and a geography, and lots of
things. Lift up the covers and look. She'll let you."
No sooner said than done. Ten low desks were ranged around the room,
each with a chair of suitable size before it; and one had been given
to each child. Every lid, but one, was raised at Nellie's words, and
little heads were popped within to discover what lay hidden there.
This gave food enough for talk; even Maggie had something to say;
only one tongue was silent, and that was Belle's.
"I guess that is 'Sulky Sue,'" whispered Gracie Howard to Maggie and
Bessie, looking over at the mournful, quiet child. "She'd better
turn her face to the wall, till she comes to."
"Oh, don't!" answered Maggie. "She'll hear you;" and Bessie said, "I
think she feels sorry about something, and her dress is so black.
Maybe somebody of hers is dead."
"Yes," said Maggie; "and I'm real sorry for her. I would go and
speak to her, if--if--I only knew what to say."
"I'll go," said Bessie, and, rising, she walked over to Belle. She
did not know what to say either; but she did what was better: she put
her arm around the child's neck, and kissed her lips in a way which
told Belle of the sympathy that was in her heart.
Then Belle's tears overflowed, and, putting both her own arms about
Bessie's waist, she laid her head against her, and cried silently.
"What is the matter?" whispered Bessie.
"I want my mamma," sobbed the child.
"But you know you'll see her pretty soon," said Bessie. "We are only
going to stay in school a little while, and then we'll go home and
see our mammas."
"I'll never see my mamma again," said Belle; "never, never, till I'm
dead myself; and I wish God would let me be dead now, only then papa
would be all alone, and he says I am all his comfort. But, oh dear!
mamma is never there for me to go home to."
At this, Bessie's tears also ran over; and as the other children,
drawn by Belle's distress, gathered about them, she pointed to the
black dress, and said with trembling lips, "Her mamma."
Then Maggie, forgetting to feel strange, went down on her knees
beside Belle, and began to caress her; and Gracie, full of remorse
for having called her "Sulky Sue," seized on one of her hands and
began kissing it; while the others stood around in silent pity.
Their sympathy did Belle good. She did not mourn the less for her
lost mother, but she did not now feel so lonesome and cast astray as
she had done a moment since; and, lifting her face with a faint smile
struggling through her tears, she held up her lips to Bessie for
another kiss, saying, "I love you, you're good; they're all good."
As she spoke, the folding-doors at the end of the room were thrown
open, and Miss Ashton appeared, and hurried towards them, rather
dismayed at finding her young flock in trouble so soon. It was
speedily explained; and Maggie and Bessie felt sure that they should
love their new teacher, as they saw how gentle and tender she was
with the motherless little one. She did not say much, for Mrs.
Ashton was waiting to open school; but, after sending the others to
their seats, she led Belle to her own chair, which stood before the
table in the centre of the room, and lifted her upon her lap, laying
her head upon her bosom, and passing her hand over the child's hair
and face with a soothing touch which soon quieted her sobs, and made
her feel that Miss Ashton was her friend and comforter as well as her
teacher.
The opening of the folding-doors had given to view a second room,
where were gathered ten larger girls, from fourteen to seventeen
years old--very tall young ladies they seemed to Maggie and Bessie;
and Mrs. Ashton, a grave, elderly lady, in a widow's dress, sat just
within the doors, where she could be seen and heard from both rooms.
She opened school with a short prayer, and then said a few words to
all the children, large and small, telling them she hoped they would
be obedient, happy, industrious, and kind to one another.
"Now I would like to hear the names of all these little girls," she
said.
The answers came very well until it was Maggie's turn to give hers,
but the poor child was in an agony of bashfulness, and could by no
means speak. While Mrs. Ashton was talking, she had happened to look
up, and caught a pair of mischievous, dancing black eyes fixed upon
her from the other room. After that, she could not help glancing up
at them every moment or two; and each time she did so her colour
deepened and deepened and her head sank lower and lower; for the
owner of the black eyes kept smiling and nodding, making odd faces,
and shaking her finger, till Maggie did not know whether to laugh or
cry; and by the time the question came to her, her small stock of
courage and her voice were both gone.
"Cannot you tell me your name, my dear?" asked Mrs. Ashton.
"Her name is Maggie Stanton Bradford," said Bessie, taking her sister
by the hand.
"You should let your sister speak for herself, my dear," said the
lady.
"No, ma'am," said Bessie, respectfully but steadily, "I came to
school to be of use and comfort to Maggie, and when she don't want to
speak 'cause she feels shy, why, she likes me to do it for her, so I
have to. And, ma'am, you said you wanted us to be industrious; but
I'm 'fraid I can't. I have to be rather lazy."
"My dear child," said Mrs. Ashton, "you surely do not come to school
to be lazy."
"Oh yes, ma'am!" said Bessie gravely. "Mamma 'spressly said that I
was not to study much, and that was condition that I came to school."
Bessie was growing rather frightened herself at having to speak
before so many; but she thought she ought to let Mrs. Ashton know how
and why she had come to school, and what was to be expected of her;
and that she might as well have her say out at once.
The other children were all listening to her in great astonishment,
and some of the great girls in the back room were beginning to laugh.
Bessie wondered why they did so, and thought they were not very
polite. Mrs. Ashton heard her with a half-smile breaking over her
pale face, and Miss Ashton was smiling outright.
"Oh," said Mrs. Ashton, "I understand. You are Bessie Bradford.
Mary, I think you should make this matter a little plainer."
Miss Ashton said she would do so; and then the doors were closed
again, and the business of the day began.
"Now, little Belle," said Miss Ashton, "will you go to your seat?"
Belle clung to her teacher, and whispered something in her ear.
"Belle wishes very much to sit by Bessie Bradford," said Miss Ashton.
"How shall we fix it? Will Bessie change her seat, or will Maggie or
Gracie give up hers? It is only for to-day; to-morrow Belle will
feel more at home, and that you are all her friends."
Maggie had not yet recovered from the effect of the black eyes,
although they were now shut from view; and she tightened her hold of
Bessie's hand, feeling that she could scarcely bear to be separated
from her just now.
Gracie did not want to give up her seat either, for she liked to sit
by Bessie; but while she hesitated, and Miss Ashton waited, she
remembered when they were at Quam Beach summer before last, and went
to Sunday-school in the barn, Maggie had gone to sit by Mamie Stone,
a girl whom no other child would have near her, and with whom Maggie
had just had a quarrel. And she thought if she would do so much for
a quarrelsome child, who had been unkind to her and her sister, might
not she give up her seat to this little, sad, motherless one, who
already looked on the dear Bessie as her friend? She had called her
"Sulky Sue," too!
Maggie would have been very much astonished if she had been told that
the small act of self-denial and forgiveness which she had long since
forgotten was bearing fruit now; but so it was, and, jumping up,
Gracie said, "Belle may have my seat by Bessie to-day and to-morrow
too, Miss Ashton."
Gracie felt quite repaid when she saw Belle's grateful smile, and the
comfort she seemed to take in being close by Bessie.
Miss Ashton said they would have no regular lessons for that day, as
she must first find out how much each one knew, and then arrange
their studies; and she told Bessie she thought she had misunderstood
her mamma's meaning. She did not wish her to be a lazy girl; she
wanted her to be industrious, and try to do well whatever was given
her to do; but she had feared Bessie would not be satisfied if she
were not allowed to go on as fast as Maggie and some of the others;
and _that_ she did not think would be wise. When she went home, she
must ask her mamma if it were not so.
Then she questioned them all in the multiplication and addition
tables, and in geography, made them spell words of different lengths,
and heard each child read aloud; after which she said she should
divide her class into two--Bessie, Belle, and Carrie Ransom in one;
and the rest, she thought, could keep on together. Then she set
their lessons for the next day, and afterwards read them an
interesting story of a good and wise young prince, who had lived
many, many years ago. This was Miss Ashton's way of teaching
history; she would read or tell them of some good or great person on
one day, and the next she would question them about her story, and
see how much they remembered.
In fact, she made all their studies interesting; she had such a
pleasant, easy way of teaching. For instance, she would say, "Belle,
how many are three and three?"
Belle could not remember.
"Suppose three little girls are going to have a tea-party, you and
Bessie and Carrie, and three more, Maggie and Gracie and Lily, come
and ask to be invited. If you say yes, then how many little girls
would there be at the party?"
"Six," answered Belle promptly; and Carrie said, "But maybe we would
be dis'bliging, and say no, and then we would be only three;" at
which the other children laughed, and so did Miss Ashton; but Belle
never forgot again that three and three made six.
They learned none the slower for this pleasant,
take-it-home-to-one's-self kind of teaching, you may be sure; and, as
the weeks went by, there was not one of the little class whose
friends did not find her greatly improved.
CHAPTER IV.
_SCHOOLMATES._
At twelve o'clock Miss Ashton dismissed her class, and the large
girls in the other room had a recess; but Maggie and Bessie did not
go home immediately, for Maggie had a music-lesson to take for half
an hour, and her sister waited for her. During this time, she had
leave to amuse herself as she pleased; for Mrs. and Miss Ashton soon
found she was a child who could be trusted, and that there was no
need to watch her lest she should get into mischief.
Sometimes, if the day were fine and mild, Miss Ashton would put on
her wrappings, and let her run in the queer old garden, and make
acquaintance with the pigeons and peacocks who lived there.
Sometimes she would look at a picture-book, or at some shells Miss
Ashton would lend her, or draw on her own slate; and sometimes she
would be carried off by some of the larger girls, with whom she soon
became a great pet, and who found much amusement in her wise,
ladylike little ways and droll sayings. But her great enjoyment was
to stand at the windows of the back schoolroom, which looked out over
the garden and vacant lots, and watch the boys at their play.
During school-hours, the doors between the rooms were sometimes open,
sometimes shut, as was most convenient; and Maggie was always very
glad when the latter was the case, for that pair of black eyes
continued to be a great disturbance to her even after she had learned
to know and like their owner. This was Miss Kate Maynard--a bright,
merry, mischievous girl, full of fun and spirits, which she did not
always keep in proper check, so that, though she was a generous,
kind-hearted girl, she was often bringing herself and others into
trouble. More than one lesson had not yet taught her that--
"Evil is wrought by want of thought,
As well as by want of heart."
It did not enter her mind for one moment that she was causing real
suffering to that timid little child in the other room by her teasing
looks and signs and grimaces. It amused Kate to see how, against her
own will, Maggie's eyes seemed drawn to hers, and how, after every
new glance, her blushes grew deeper and deeper, and she fidgeted more
and more uneasily on her seat. Katie Maynard would have been shocked
at the thought of giving a blow or a pinch to the child, but Maggie
would have readily taken the blow to be free from those tantalising
eyes. It was "fun" to Katie, and she "did not think" what it cost
the little girl.
On this first day at school, Miss Ashton asked Bessie how she would
amuse herself while Maggie took her lesson; and the child, who did
not yet feel quite at home, begged that she might go down to the
parlour with her sister. Miss Ashton consented, but said she feared
she would find it rather dull; and her words proved true. Bessie
stood by in loving admiration while Maggie played over one of the
simple airs her mother had taught her; but when it came to exercises,
and "one, two, three--one, two, three," she found it pretty tiresome.
She wandered around the room a few moments, and then, hearing the
sound of laughing and talking in the hall, opened the door and looked
out to see what was going on. Several of the older girls were there,
and as soon as Bessie's little head appeared they saw and called to
her.
"There's Bessie Bradford," said one.
"Oh, you dear little thing!" cried another; "come out here and talk
to us."
Bessie hesitated a moment; and then, thinking it might be more
amusing to talk to the young ladies than to stay quiet and hear
Maggie practising, went slowly towards them. In an instant Katie
Maynard snatched her up in her arms, and, after waltzing gaily
through the hall with her, brought her back to the stairs, where she
seated herself with her prize upon her knee, and four or five other
girls gathered about them.
"How old are you, Bessie?" asked one.
"Six years and a half," answered Bessie; "and when I have another
birthday, I'll be seven."
"Here's a doughnut for you, Bessie," said another.
"No, thank you," said Bessie. "Mamma never gives me doughnuts."
"You'd better have it," said the young lady. "It is very nice, and
there's a big raisin in the middle."
Bessie looked longingly at the doughnut, for she felt rather hungry,
and it certainly looked very nice; but she shook her head decidedly.
"No, thank you," she said again.
"Did your mamma forbid you ever to eat them?" said the young lady.
"She did not say we must not; but it's just the same," said Bessie;
"for she never gives them to us, and I do not think it is a kind of
cake she would like us to eat."
"And so you came to school 'to be of use to your sister, and to be
lazy,' did you?" asked Kate Maynard.
"I believe I made a little mistake about that," answered the child.
"Miss Ashton made me understand it better; and, when I go home, I am
going to ask mamma if she is right."
"I don't see how you dared to speak out to Mrs. Ashton about it,"
said Fanny Berry. "Where did you get so much pluck, you little mite?"
"Were you not afraid?" asked Kate.
"Yes'm, a little. But then you see I _had_ to tell her."
"And why did you _have_ to tell her?"
"'Cause I was afraid she was 'specting me to do what mamma did not
want me to do."
"But if mamma had said you were not to play much, would you have been
in such a hurry to tell Mrs. Ashton?" asked Fanny.
"You need not ask that, after the doughnut," said Kate, before Bessie
could speak.
"Are you always so particular about doing as your mamma wishes,
whether she knows it or not?" said the young lady who had offered the
doughnut.
"Why, yes," said Bessie. "Are not you?"
At this, two or three of the girls laughed; and Kate Maynard said,
"That shoe pinches: does it not, Mary? No indeed, Bessie: filial
obedience and respect are not among Mary Morton's weaknesses."
"Do you mean she don't mind her mother?" asked Bessie, looking up
with astonishment at Miss Morton, who coloured, tossed her head, and
then laughed.
"Something that way," answered Kate.
"I am no worse than others," said Mary.
"I don't know," said Kate. "I do not set myself up for being very
good, and I own I am not always as considerate and dutiful to my
mother as I should be: but I do not think my conscience would give me
much rest if I spoke to her the way you do to your mother, Mary."
"Your conscience need not trouble itself about my doings," said Mary
sharply.
"But, Bessie," put in Fanny Berry, anxious to turn aside the
threatened quarrel, "suppose your mother told you to do one thing,
and Miss Ashton told you to do just the opposite. What then?"
"Course I'd mind my own mamma," said Bessie; "but I don't believe
Miss Ashton would tell me to do what mamma did not want me to. I
think she is very good and nice, and I am sure she wouldn't want
little girls to be dis'bedient."
"Maybe not," said Fanny. "But suppose she ordered you to do
something which your mamma had not forbidden, but of which you were
sure she would disapprove: how then?"
"I'd say, 'Please to 'scuse me, ma'am; but 'tis quite unpossible.'"
The girls laughed.
"But you are expected to mind your teachers when you come to school,"
said Kate; "and you promised Mrs. Ashton you would be obedient; did
you not?"
"Yes," said Bessie, "but"--she paused, and leaned her cheek
thoughtfully on one little hand, while she drew the forefinger of the
other slowly over the buttons of Kate's dress. She knew very well
how she felt about it herself, and that she was right; but she could
not seem to make these teasing girls understand how it was. She had
a suspicion that they were laughing at her too; and she began to feel
angry, as was plainly to be seen by her rising colour and trembling
lip; and Kate, who was already sorry for her carelessness in
troubling the sensitive conscience and puzzling the thoughtful little
head, said coaxingly, "You are not vexed, Bessie?"
Bessie looked gravely at her for a moment; and then, as the angry
flush faded away, she answered, "I believe I was going to be."
"And you've changed your mind, have you?" asked Mary Morton.
"I think I ought to be sorry for you," said the child.
"Why?" asked Fanny.
"'Cause you don't have such wise and good mammas as mine to give you
understanding of what is right without bothering little girls like me
who don't know the best way to talk about it," answered Bessie, with
an air of grave reproof which was extremely amusing to the girls, who
now laughed uproariously.
Bessie tried hard to slip from Kate Maynard's knee; but the young
lady held her fast, saying,--
"We've caught it now, girls, and served us right too. Sit still,
Bessie; you shall not be teased any more."
"You cannot make the two duties agree--eh, Bessie?" said Julia
Grafton. "Well, you are not the first person who has been troubled
in that way."
The word "duty" brought a thought to Bessie's mind; and suddenly
looking up, with the light breaking over her face, she exclaimed,--
"Now I know everything about it! God gave me to mamma for her own
little girl, to mind her _first_, and to do everything I know she
will like. That is the nearest duty, and I must not let anything put
me away from it. But mamma has a great deal of wisdom and care for
her children, and if she did not have such trust in Miss Ashton to
make us do the things she likes, I know she would not send Maggie and
me to her. So we are to mind Miss Ashton all we can, without
dis'beying mamma."
"Pretty well reasoned," said Julia; and Kate, giving Bessie a squeeze
and a kiss, exclaimed,--
"You know a thing or two, do you not?"
"I did not know that of myself," said Bessie. "The other day
grandmamma told us a story to show us how we must first do the duty
we were quite sure about; and when that young lady spoke about two
duties, it made me think how it was."
Her hearers smiled, and looked approvingly at one another; but there
was something in the child's simple honesty and innocence which
touched even these thoughtless school-girls, and kept them from
putting into words their wonder and admiration at the clear,
straightforward way in which she had helped herself out of the
difficulty into which they, in their love of mischief, had brought
her.
Kate kept her word, and did not allow Bessie to be annoyed or teased
any more; but her little head was still puzzled by some of the things
she had heard these great girls say. She put by these thoughts,
however, till she should be able to speak to her mother about them,
and chatted away sociably with Kate and the others till Maggie had
finished her lesson and Jane came to take them home.
"There's straightforward honesty and wise simplicity for you," said
Kate Maynard, as the front door closed behind the two little girls
and their nurse, and the bell rang to call herself and her
schoolmates back to their studies.
"She won't be quite so squeamishly truthful and obedient when she has
been at school a month," said Julia Grafton.
"I don't know about that," said Kate. "I believe she will. It is
easy to see that truth and obedience are not only matters of habit,
but matters of conscience with her; and I do not think she is a child
whom it will be easy to turn from what she believes to be right."
"Wait till she's tried, and you'll see," said Mary Morton. "It don't
do to be too particular at school. One would be in all kinds of
trouble."
"I have not generally found that strict truth and honesty were so apt
to bring people into trouble, as the contrary," said Fanny Berry
drily, as they entered the schoolroom.
"Well, my darlings," said mamma, as the two bright faces appeared
before her, "you do not look as if school were such a sad affair
after all."
"Oh no, mamma!" said Maggie; "it is not sad at all, but a very nice
affair. We like it very much, and Miss Ashton is so kind, and
teaches us so interestingly. But I like it best when the doors are
shut, and the young ladies in the other room can't see me."
"And what does my Bessie say?" asked Mrs. Bradford.
Bessie had quite as much to say in praise of the new school, and the
little tongues ran on till mamma had been told of all they had heard
and seen that morning.
"And, mamma," said Maggie, "I've found out that something was true
that grandmamma told me the other day. She said my shyness might
stand in the way of my being of good to others; and this morning I
found how it could be. There was a little girl whose mother was
dead, and she was shy too, and felt very sad; and I wanted to say a
kind thing to her, but somehow I couldn't. But Bessie went and spoke
to her, and was of great comfort to her; and so I saw what grandmamma
meant, and why I ought to try and cure myself of being shy."
"My dear little girl!" said her mother tenderly; and in her heart she
thanked God that her child was so ready to take to heart and learn
the lesson she needed.
Then she asked about the little one who had lost her dear mother; and
when she heard that her name was Belle Powers, she said that, when
she was a young lady, she had a very intimate friend who had married
a gentleman named Powers, and moved away to the South; but for many
years she had heard nothing of her; and she now wondered if she might
not have been Belle's mother. What made her think so was, that her
friend's own name had been Belle. If it were really so, she would
like to be kind to the little child for her mother's sake, as well as
her own.
Bessie told her that Belle had no brothers or sisters; and how Miss
Ashton had said that her papa had sent her to school thinking that it
might do her good, and make her forget her grief, to be with other
children; and that they must all remember that she was lonely and
sorrowful, and be very kind to her.
Mrs. Bradford was very sorry for little Belle, and she said the
children might tell her to ask her father to let her come home with
them some day after school, and have a good play in their merry,
happy nursery. Of course, Maggie and Bessie immediately became
anxious to have the day fixed, and mamma said if they were to do a
kind thing it might as well be done at once; so they could ask Belle
for the next day but one.
Bessie told her mother of the mistake she had made, and how Miss
Ashton had explained it to her; and mamma said their teacher was
quite right, and that she should herself have made Bessie understand
more plainly what she wished her to do.
"But, mamma," said the little girl, "there was one thing that was
very strange. Those young ladies in Mrs. Ashton's class seemed to
think it was very surprising that I told her what I thought you meant
me to do, and I almost think they would not have told her themselves;
and they troubled me so about minding you that I hardly knew how it
was. I think they might have been doing something better; don't you,
mamma?"
Mrs. Bradford asked what she meant, and Bessie told all that had
passed between herself and the girls.
Mamma said she had answered very well; and that she was glad she knew
what was right herself, whether she had made the others understand it
or no.
"And you were quite right about Miss Ashton, my darling," she said;
"for if I had not perfect confidence in her, and did not believe she
would guide and teach my little girls as I would wish to do myself, I
should not have put you under her care. And you must try to remember
this, dear, if Miss Ashton should give you an order or rule which you
think doubtful. Many things which would be right and proper for you
at home would not be best in school; and, again, that which is wise
and necessary in school would not do at home. In all this you must
let her judge for you, and do as you are bid. Then you may
afterwards tell me, and see what I have to say."
"Mamma," said Maggie, "I am afraid it will be harder to be good at
school than it is at home."
"I daresay it will, Maggie: you will probably have some trials and
temptations there which you would not have at home. But you must
remember, dear, that our Father's strong and loving care is with us
in the one place as well as in the other. When temptation creeps in,
you have only to ask His help; and He will give you the strength and
grace you need to bid it begone. And if we feel we are likely to be
tempted, it must only make us all the more watchful, Maggie."
"Yes, mamma," said Maggie: "we must keep our hands all the more
closely on the silver thread of conscience, and look all the more at
the golden letters on the guide-posts, must we not?"
It was more than a year since Colonel Rush had first told his story
of "Benito" to these dear children; but it never seemed to lose its
freshness or interest for them; and he often wondered, and was
grateful, as he saw how they had taken it home to themselves, making
it fit into their own young lives, and of their own accord drawing
all manner of sweet and useful lessons from it.
"And, grandmamma," continued Maggie to her grandmother, who was
sitting by, "I found out this morning how there could be other work
to do for Jesus in school besides studying and reciting well and
obeying my teachers. I think Bessie was doing His work when she went
and comforted Belle; and Gracie did a little bit of work for Him when
she gave up her seat to her."
"Did my Maggie find nothing?" asked mamma.
"I'm most afraid I did not, mamma," said Maggie slowly; "at least, if
I did, it was such a very little thing, it is not worth to speak
about."
"But I should like to hear," said Mrs. Bradford.
"Well, mamma, Carrie Ransom had a copy-book with a blue cover, and I
had one with a pink one, and Carrie liked the pink one best, and I
said I would change with her; but it was not a very great thing to
do, for I did not care much about the colour."
"But you did it because Carrie cared, and you wanted to be kind to
her, did you not, dear?"
"Yes, mamma."
"And Jesus put it into your heart to do it; so was it not His work?"
"Yes, I believe so, mamma; and I remember now grandmamma said it was
not so much what we did for God, as _how_ we did it, and _why_ we did
it, that made it His own work."
A pleasant surprise awaited Maggie and Bessie that afternoon, while
they were out with the other children and their nurses. Baby Annie
was taking her first walk upon the pavement, led by her two proud
little sisters, each holding a hand, while Mammy followed close
behind.
The little one, enchanted with her new performance, was chattering
away in her own sweet language, not in the least disturbed by the
fact that no one but herself understood it; and Maggie and Bessie
were watching and listening to her in delighted satisfaction, when a
pleased voice exclaimed, "Oh, there they are! and a nice baby with
them!" and Belle Powers came running up to them. She scarcely looked
like the sad child of the morning, so glad was she to see them; and
you may be sure she had a kind welcome from her young friends.
"I was just telling Daphne about you," she said, looking round at the
old coloured woman who followed her, "and there you came. Was it not
funny?"
The other children also thought it a rather remarkable circumstance,
but a very pleasant one; and nurse, now saying that baby had walked
far enough, took her up in her arms, and Belle took her place between
the two little girls; old Daphne, delighted to see a smile on the sad
face of her young charge, coming on with the other nurses.
Belle was soon told of mamma's invitation, and readily promised to
ask her papa's permission to go home with Maggie and Bessie on
Wednesday after school.
"Where do you live?" asked Bessie.
"Over there in that hotel," answered Belle.
"Why, do you?" said Bessie. "My soldier lives there too. He never
told us about you."
"Who is your soldier?" asked Belle.
"Colonel Rush; don't you know him?"
"No," said Belle; "I never saw him."
"Why, how very queer to live in the same house and not to know him!"
said Bessie; but Jane, who heard what they said, explained to them
that people might live for months or years in that great building,
and yet never know more of one another than if they lived in
different cities. The children thought this very strange and
unsociable; but Belle and the colonel were a proof that Jane's words
were true.
"I think we'd better try to bring you acquainted with Uncle Horace
and Aunt May," said Bessie; "they'll be very kind to you, I know."
"Did you never see us when we went to the hotel?" asked Maggie. "We
go there very often."
"No," said Belle. "But then I have not been here very long. I used
to live in my home."
"Where was that?" asked Bessie.
"Oh, in a great deal nicer place than this, far away down at the
South," answered Belle.
"Oh!" said Maggie eagerly; "and what was your mamma's name?" she
would have added, but, suddenly thinking that the mention of her
mother might bring back the shadow to that sad little face, she
checked herself.
She need not have feared. Her tongue once loosened on the subject of
her beloved Southern home, Belle talked away about that and her dear
mother in a manner which showed it did her good to speak of them;
while her new friends listened with great interest.
"What was your mamma's name?" asked Maggie, at last venturing her
interrupted question.
"Her name was Belle, like mine," said the child.
"Oh!" said Bessie joyfully; "then I think she must have been our
mamma's friend."
"How very nice that would be!" said Maggie. "Belle, if your mamma
and our mamma used to be friends, won't you be our 'inseparable'?"
"No," said Belle: "I don't think I'd like to be that kind of a thing."
"Do you know what it is?" asked Maggie, rather taken aback at this
plump refusal to her friendly invitation.
"No," said Belle; "but it don't sound very nice."
"Oh, I think it sounds so nice!" said Maggie "It means to be very,
very great friends, and to be very fond of each other, and tell each
other all our secrets."
"I'd just as lief be, if it means that," said Belle. "I think you
and Bessie are very good, and I am going to love you a great deal.
But I don't have any secrets. Can you tell me yours if I don't have
any?"
"Oh yes!" said Maggie; "and maybe some of these days you'll have
some, and then you can tell us. But Bessie and I always tell our
secrets to mamma, 'cause she says it is not right for little girls to
have secrets from their mothers."
So the treaty was made, and things proved as the children had hoped
they would; for it was made certain that Belle's mamma had been Mrs.
Bradford's friend of bygone days; and her papa being only too
thankful for the interest and sympathy the lady showed for his lonely
little child, and that Belle should have as companions and playmates
our well-behaved and ladylike Maggie and Bessie, the three children
became very nearly what Maggie had desired--"inseparables."
CHAPTER V.
_THE PRIZES._
Maggie and Bessie had been going to school about a week, when one
morning Miss Ashton said she wished all her little scholars, except
Bessie, Belle, and Carrie Ransom, to write a short composition for
her. This was received with some very long faces and a good many
ohs! and ahs! of which Miss Ashton took no notice. Maggie and Gracie
were the only two who seemed to be pleased with the prospect.
Maggie, as we know, had been accustomed to composing a little. Her
"History of the Complete Family" had been of great use to her in
this, as well as her habit of writing letters to her friends whenever
she found an opportunity. So she looked upon Miss Ashton's order
more as a pleasant pastime than as a task; and she and Gracie Howard,
who was also a good writer and fond of composition, seized upon their
slates and pencils with great satisfaction.
Miss Ashton said each child might take as a subject the history of
yesterday, and tell what she had done or what happened to her; that
she would give them half an hour, and at the end of that time they
must all hand her something, even if it were only a few lines; but
she trusted each little girl to do her best.
"Miss Ashton," said Bessie, "could not I make a little composition
too? I can't write, but I can print it."
"No, dear," answered Miss Ashton, "you have had enough study for
to-day."
"But composition is not study," said Bessie fretfully; "and I want to
do it, if Maggie does. I think I might;" and Bessie's lips looked
rather pouty.
"Bessie," said her teacher, "what was the bargain you and I made with
your mamma?"
The child's face cleared instantly, and in her own demure little way
she said, "Oh, I did forget, Miss Ashton! Thank you for putting me
in mind. I'm 'fraid you're disappointed in me to do a thing like
that."
"No," said Miss Ashton, smiling; "I do not expect any of my little
scholars to be perfect; and I am satisfied if, when they feel wrong
and are told of it, they try at once to correct the naughty feeling.
But now we four must keep quiet, and not disturb the others while
they are writing. Bring your slates here, and we will have a
drawing-lesson."
The three little girls soon gathered about her, and, lifting Bessie
upon her lap, she made Belle and Carrie stand on either side, and
told them they were all to try who could draw the best cow. She
would try herself.
In a few moments, the three children had finished; Miss Ashton had
done first, and the four slates were compared. There could be no
doubt that Miss Ashton's cow was decidedly the best. _That_ they had
expected, but each child had hoped her own might be the next best.
Carrie was not disappointed, her cow was pretty fair; but those drawn
by Belle and Bessie were very extraordinary-looking animals--Bessie's
especially. In fact, it looked like nothing so little as a cow, and
might rather have been taken for a table with four crooked legs going
down, and three still more crooked sprawling in the air. The first
four were supposed to be the legs of the creature; the last three her
horns and tail.
"Oh, what a cow!" said Carrie; "she hasn't even a head."
Bessie hastily drew a round O for a head, which did not improve the
cow, but made her look funnier than ever; and Carrie, saying, "What a
looking thing!" went off into a fit of laughter.
Bessie flushed up angrily, stretched out her hand towards Carrie's
slate, and in another moment the drawing would have been wiped from
it, when, before Miss Ashton could speak, she drew the hand back, and
said in a gentle but grieved voice, "I did it as good as I knew how."
"Yes," said Belle, firing up in defence of her "inseparable," and
casting a scornful glance at Carrie's slate; "and her cow is a great
deal prettier than yours, Carrie, and she is a _great deal better_
than you."
"No," said Bessie, laying her head with a penitent little sigh
against Miss Ashton's shoulder, "hers is the best, Belle; mine is not
half so good."
"But you say you did the best you could," said Miss Ashton, tenderly
smoothing down the curls on the dear little head.
"Yes, I truly did," said Bessie.
"And, Carrie, did you do your best too?"
"Yes," said Carrie.
"And Belle?" said Miss Ashton.
"Yes," answered Belle.
"So did I," said their teacher; "and none of us can do more."
"I think, maybe, I could make a little better one if I was to try
hard," said Belle.
"Then you may all try again; and since you agree that my cow is the
best, you can take her for a pattern."
So they all tried to make one like Miss Ashton's. Carrie's was much
like her first attempt, neither better nor worse; but in Bessie's and
Belle's a great improvement was to be seen.
Before the half-hour was up, Maggie and Gracie had finished their
compositions, and laid down their slates; but some of the children
were still poring over theirs, having very little written. At last
Miss Ashton said the time was up, and sent Belle to collect the
slates, saying she should read the compositions aloud.
Some were very well done, Maggie's and Gracie's the two best; but
with some it was plainly to be seen that the young writers had taken
little or no pains. One little girl had written only,--
"I got up, and I stayed up till I went to bed. That is all I know."
At which, when it was read out, the other children laughed; but the
little girl herself felt rather ashamed, and wished she had tried to
do better. But Miss Ashton found no fault, laying each slate aside
without remark, but when she was through, and it was nearly twelve
o'clock, said that her uncle wished to say a few words to all the
school. Then the folding-doors were opened, and presently a
white-haired old gentleman walked in and stood at Mrs. Ashton's table.
He was as pleasant-looking an old gentleman as it would be easy to
find, with a merry twinkle in his eye, and a kind smile on his lips;
and when he spoke it was in a hearty, cheery voice that it did one
good to hear.
"My dear children," he began, "I do not mean to keep you long, for
school-hours are about over, and I suppose you would rather be at
your play than listening to an old man. God has not given me any
children of my own, but I love all the young folks, and like to make
them happy, and to help them along in any way I can. Now I have a
plan to propose to you, and it is this. I will give five prizes on
the first of next May. Two will be for composition--one for each
class, to be given to the young lady, or little girl, who shall
produce the best composition; the subject to be chosen by herself.
The next two will be for general good standing in the classes,
perfect lessons, and punctual attendance, etc. All these, of course,
will be bestowed according to the judgment of your teachers and the
number of your good marks. But the fifth and last prize, and the one
which I consider the most important, will be given according to the
choice of the scholars of both classes, to her who has proved herself
the most obedient, truthful, and unselfish among you; in short, to
her who shows in her life and conduct that she remembers and
practises the two great commandments which our Saviour gave us--viz.
'Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all
thy soul, and with all thy strength; and the second is like unto it,
Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.' You shall yourselves say
to whom this is due, who has best proved that she has the fear of God
and the love of her neighbour in her heart and before her eyes. And
since I believe that such a child will rejoice in the power of doing
good to others, I will tell you what I mean to offer as a reward.
"In a certain hospital at a short distance from this city, where
little deformed children and cripples are nursed and cared for and
often cured, I own a bed; that is, I pay for its use, and it is
occupied by any needy child whom I may choose to send there. At
present, it is taken up by a little girl who has been in the hospital
for two years, and who was dreadfully lame when she went there. Now
she is so nearly cured that she walks without her crutches, and the
doctors say that by the spring she will be quite well.
"When she goes away, her place will be ready for some other poor
child who may need such care as she has had; and to the girl whom the
voice of her school-mates say has earned the right to it shall be
given the choice of its next occupant. Do you understand me, little
ones? This bed, with all the comforts and kind care which belong to
it, shall be given to any crippled child named by the girl who shall
first be chosen by the whole school as the most deserving of the
pleasure. Perhaps some among you may not know any one, at present,
who stands in need of it; but, if you will make inquiries among your
friends, I think you cannot fail to find some poor child to whom it
will be a great blessing. And now, I will keep you no longer, but
say good-bye to you, hoping to meet you all here in the spring, and
that you will all do so well that we shall have a great deal of
trouble in deciding who are to receive the prizes."
To describe the buzz of tongues, the exclamations, wonderings, and
questionings that followed as soon as Mr. Ashton had gone, would be
quite impossible. It was twelve o'clock, and two or three nurses
were waiting in the cloak-room for their little charges; but they
found it hard work to coax them away. Miss Ashton had gone
down-stairs with her uncle and mother, kindly giving Maggie a few
minutes to talk off her excitement before she called her to her
music-lesson, which she knew would meet with small attention just at
present.
"Oh, I hope, I hope, I _do_ hope I shall gain a prize!" said Maggie,
clapping her hands, jumping about, and uttering each succeeding
"hope" with more and more energy. "I must have one. Oh, I must!"
"Which one do you mean to try for, Maggie?" asked Nellie Ransom.
"I suppose I ought to wish most for the one for the lame child," said
Maggie, pausing in her antics and looking thoughtful; "but I'm afraid
I don't, so that's a sure sign I should not deserve to have it. No,
I'd never get it; for I know I should not be the best child in the
school. But I think maybe I could earn one of the others, and I will
try for both; but most of all I'd rather have the one for
composition. If I knew any one who would like to go to the hospital,
I'd try for that; but I don't."
"O Maggie," said Bessie, "don't you remember Jemmy Bent?"
"Why, to be sure," said Maggie. "Well, I'm just glad enough Jemmy
did not hear me say that. He would think me too unkind to go and
forget him. But, any way, I know I'd never earn _that_ prize. I
shall just do everything in the world to get the composition one."
"So shall I," said Gracie; "and I hope I'll be the one."
"I'm going to try too," said Dora Johnson; "but only one of us can
have it. So all the rest will have to be disappointed."
"Oh dear!" said Maggie; "I didn't think about that. I'll be very
sorry to have you all disappointed."
"You seem to be very sure you'll get it," said Fanny Leroy, rather
snappishly.
Maggie coloured.
"Well, I did feel most sure," she said. "I only thought about trying
very hard to earn it, and I forgot all the rest wanted it too, and
were going to try."
"But I think you'll be the one to have it, Maggie," said Bessie.
"Well, little mouse," said Kate Maynard, dancing in, catching up
Bessie, and carrying her off to the other room, where she seated the
child on her desk, and took a chair in front of her,--"well, little
mouse, and what makes you so sure Maggie will get the composition
prize for the other room?"
"She wants it so very much, and is going to try so hard," said Bessie.
"But, as Maggie just said herself, all the others want it too, and
mean to try."
"Yes," said Bessie, smiling back into the merry black eyes; "but my
Maggie is very smart. She has a great deal of _make up_ in her, and
can tell such beautiful stories all out of her own head, and she can
write them too."
"Come here, Maggie," said Kate, as the child, whose classmates were
leaving, peeped around the door for Bessie,--"come here; I want to
have a little talk with you about these prizes."
Maggie came slowly forward.
"Is that the way you mean to come when you are called up to get the
composition prize?" said Kate. "Hurry up, tortoise, or you won't be
here before recess is over."
At this, Maggie turned about as if she would have run away; but two
of the larger girls caught her, and drew her over to Kate's desk.
"What are you afraid of, dear?" asked Kate, as Julia Grafton lifted
the blushing child to her knee, and held her fast. "What is the
reason you don't like me?"
Maggie made no answer, except by wriggling her head and shoulders,
and putting up both arms, so as to cover her face as much as possible.
"Miss Kate," said Bessie gravely, "you could not 'spect Maggie to be
very fond of you."
"Why not?" asked the laughing Kate. "You are very fond of me, are
you not?"
"Not much," said Bessie. "But I'd be fond of you if you did not
tease my Maggie. I shouldn't think you'd like to be such a trouble
to any one, Miss Kate."
"I should like to know how I am a trouble to her," said Kate.
"You look at her."
"Look at her!" exclaimed Kate; "and is Maggie not to be looked at?
Why, I look at you too, mousie; but you do not seem to mind it."
"You don't look at me that way," said Bessie, feeling quite sure that
Kate understood what she meant. "When the doors are open, you look
at Maggie in a way to tease her, and make her miss her lessons. The
other day you made her miss three times."
"Pshaw! that's nonsense," said Kate, half-vexed, half-amused.
"You did," said Maggie, taking down her arms, the sense of her wrongs
overcoming her bashfulness. "That was a very hard lesson, but I knew
it quite well; but I could not say it when you stared at me, and
shook your head at me, and laughed at me; and I missed and missed, so
I had to go down foot, and I was next to head before. And it wasn't
my fault, and it's too bad, now!" and the tears welled up to poor
Maggie's eyes.
"So it was, Maggie," said Miss Maynard; "and I am truly sorry, I did
not think, but I promise not to do so any more. Will you kiss and be
friends?"
Forgiving little Maggie was quite willing, and the treaty was sealed
with a kiss; the child feeling more relieved than Kate would have
thought possible, at the thought that those mischievous eyes would
not work her any more trouble.
"Maggie, come to your music, dear," said Miss Ashton's voice at the
door.
"There, now! Miss Ashton will see she has been crying, and I shall
get into trouble," said Kate.
"Maggie will not say anything about it, if she can help it," said
Bessie. "She never tells tales. Mamma has brought us up not to."
"What a wise mamma!" said Julia, laughing. "But did not Maggie tell
Miss Ashton the day Kate made her miss."
"No," said Bessie; "she did not tell any one but mamma. We have to
tell _her_ all our troubles, you know."
"But about these prizes, Bessie," said Kate. "Since you 'have to be
rather lazy,' I suppose you do not hope to gain any."
"I know mamma would not like me to study so much as to gain the
composition or perfect-lesson prize," said Bessie, "so I did not
think much about those, 'cept for Maggie; but"--
"But what?" said Julia, as the child hesitated. "Have you a hope of
winning the other from the whole school by being the best girl in it?"
"Not such a very _hope_," said Bessie; "but oh, I do wish so very,
very much that Maggie or I could have it! I'd just as lief she'd
have it, 'cause we'd both do the same with it."
"Then you know some child to whom you wish to give the bed in the
hospital?" asked Kate.
"Yes," said Bessie; "and he deserves it very much. He is such a good
boy, Miss Kate. If he had to earn it for himself, I know he'd get
it. He is a great deal better than any one in this school."
"There's a compliment for us," said Fanny Berry.
"And he is a cripple, is he?" said Kate.
"Yes'm; shall I tell you about him?"
"Of course," answered Kate.
"His name is Jemmy Bent," said Bessie, "and, a good while ago, he
fell off a stone wall and hurt his back very much, so he had to lie
in bed all the time. He and his mother and his sister Mary live in a
little red house by the creek that is near Riverside, where Grandpapa
Duncan lives; and grandpapa and Aunt Helen are very good to him; and
his mother wanted to buy a wheel-chair, so that he could be out in
the nice air and sun; but she was too poor, and grandpapa let Maggie
and me earn the chair for him. And since he had the chair, he has
been better and stronger; and grandpapa thought if he could go where
he would have very good care, perhaps he might be made quite well.
So he took a doctor, who knew a great deal, to see Jemmy; and the
doctor said he never would be very well, but he thought he could be
cured so much that he could go about on crutches. But he said he
must have care all the time, and be where he could be 'tended to
every day. But he said he ought not to be brought to the city,
'cause he was used to living in the country, and it was better for
him. So grandpapa wanted to put him into a country hospital, where
they take lame children--maybe it was the very one the prize
gentleman told us about; but it was so full they had no room for
Jemmy. So he has to wait, and Maggie and I were very sorry about it.
But Jemmy did not know what grandpapa tried to do, so he was not
disappointed. It would be a very happy thing for Jemmy if he could
ever be so well as to walk on crutches, for now he has to be wheeled
about in his chair, and cannot take one step on his feet."
"And he is such a very good boy, is he?" said Kate, when Bessie,
having talked herself out of breath, came to a pause.
"Oh yes!" said the child; "you could not find an excellenter boy
anywhere, I'm sure. He's so patient and so happy; and he never frets
or is cross, though he has a great deal of pain to bear. And if he's
tired of being in one place, he cannot move himself, but has to wait
till some one comes to roll his chair. Sometimes he and his mother
and sister used to be hungry too, and did not have enough bread to
eat; and, do you b'lieve, not a bit of butter on it! But Aunt Helen
found that out, and she takes care of them now, and finds work for
Mrs. Bent and Mary, so they need never be hungry any more, or cold
either. And mamma helps them too; so they're rather com'fable now."
"Your Jemmy seems to have found good friends," said Kate. "And so
you and Maggie earned his easy-chair for him; and now you want to
earn this hospital-bed for him, do you?"
"Oh, so much!" The tone said as much as the words, as did the
glowing cheeks and wistful eyes. There could be no doubt that the
wish was heartfelt; and Kate, taking the earnest little face between
her hands, kissed it warmly, and said,--
"You're a darling, and Maggie's another. I think your mother has a
pair of you."
"Yes," said Bessie innocently; "and there are two more pair of us,
Harry and Fred, and Frankie and baby."
The girls laughed again; and Kate, catching the child up in her arms,
began to dance with her about the room, which was the signal for a
general frolic that lasted till Jane came to take the children home.
CHAPTER VI.
_BELLE._
"Yes indeed, mamma! I must, I must have that prize for composition,"
said Maggie, after she and Bessie had told their mother of all the
events of the morning.
"And do all the others think they must have it too, Maggie?"
"Well, yes, mamma, I believe they do; at least most of them want it
very much, and Gracie and Fanny Leroy are very anxious for it. We
were talking a little about it, before I went to my music-lesson; and
when Dora put us in mind that all but one would have to be
disappointed, somehow I did not feel so very happy about it. But I
do not feel as if I could give up trying for it. Do you think it is
selfish in me, mamma?"
"No, love, not at all. So long as you are willing that the others
should have an equal chance with yourself, and take no unfair
advantage of them; and that, I am sure, my Maggie would not do."
"No indeed, mamma; I hope I would never be so mean. Then you think
it is quite right for me to try for the prize?"
"Yes, dear. God has given to each one of us certain powers or
talents which He means us to use for His service and our own
improvement. Only let us be sure, 'whatsoever we do, to do it to the
glory of God,' and not simply to gain some praise or some fancied
good for ourselves. For although we may succeed, even with such a
motive, yet it will not bring a blessing. Do your very best, not
with the sole purpose of being _first_, or of carrying away the prize
from others, but that you may please your Father in heaven, and make
the most of the opportunities He has given you. Then you will be
sure of the best of rewards--that of a good conscience, and the smile
of God; and if the earthly reward is won too, well and good, but that
is not the chief thing."
"But I'm afraid I _did_ think it was the chief thing," said Maggie,
gravely shaking her head; "and I'm afraid the reason I would like the
prize so much, was because I wanted every one to say I made the best
composition. I don't think I thought a bit about glorifying God.
Mamma, I hope you do not think I had better not try for the prize."
"Not at all, dear," said her mother. "I should be very sorry if you
did not try to gain it. Do your very best, only do it with love to
God and your neighbour; not feeling jealous or envious if another
does better, or too much puffed up if you should be the one to
receive the prize."
"Well, I will try not to be too very anxious about it, mamma," said
Maggie.
But Maggie _was_ very anxious about this prize; _so_ anxious, so bent
upon gaining it, that her mother was almost sorry it had been offered
by Miss Ashton's uncle. Morning, noon and night, it seemed to be
upon her mind; everything that pleased or interested her was talked
over as "a subject;" and Mrs. Bradford was not a little amused one
day to find in Maggie's room, the following:--
"LIST OF PRIZE SUBJECTS.
"Elephants;
Doing unto Others;
Potry;
Mind your own Business;
A Fabel;
Sunset;
Dolls;
Churches;
Vegitables;
School;
A Letter;
A Story;
Christmas;
What can't be cured, must be endured."
It had been arranged that the prize papers were not to be begun
before the 1st of April, but that meanwhile the children were to do
all they could to improve themselves, not only in composing, but also
in writing and spelling. Miss Ashton gave them a composition to
write during school-hours, one day in each week; but this did not
satisfy Maggie, and at home she was constantly scribbling and reading
aloud her productions to the admiring Bessie, till her mamma, who
thought she was too much taken up with it, and that she scarcely gave
herself time enough for play in her excitement and anxiety, forbade
her to write more than half an hour each day, whether in school or at
home; and this in spite of Maggie's plea that she was "only
exercising her ideas."
So the days and weeks passed by, bringing nearer the Christmas
holidays, when there would be no school for a fortnight; and about
this time a very pleasant thing happened to our two little girls and
their new friend Belle.
As you were told before, the three children had become very intimate,
Belle being often invited to pass the day with Maggie and Bessie; and
she dearly loved to go. Colonel and Mrs. Rush, with whom the
children had "brought her acquainted," took a great interest in her,
and sometimes, when Maggie and Bessie came to see them, would send
over to Mr. Powers' rooms for Belle to come and join her young
playmates.
She was a sweet-tempered and truthful child; but she was not as
obedient as Mrs. Bradford's little girls, and was in some things
rather spoiled. She would argue and fret when told to do a thing
which did not suit her, and sometimes she would deliberately disobey.
Her mother had been ill for a long time before her death, and not
able to do much for her child; and her father perhaps humoured her
more than was good for her, so that Belle had not had much training,
and generally thought her own way was quite as wise and safe as that
of older people. Mr. Powers himself became fond of dropping in at
the Bradfords' pleasant home, where he always found a warm welcome.
One day, shortly before Christmas, Belle went home from school with
Maggie and Bessie, and spent the rest of the day with them, and in
the evening her father came to take her home. He sat down in the
library with Mr. and Mrs. Bradford, while the three little girls in
the other room were talking over some very important holiday
arrangements.
"I fear my poor pet will not wear as bright a face to-morrow as she
does to-day," said Mr. Powers, as he looked through the open doors at
the happy little ones.
"Why?" asked Mrs. Bradford; "there is no trouble in store for her, I
hope."
Mr. Powers shook his head sadly.
"Yes," he said: "I shall have to leave her for a while; and, what is
more, so will Daphne, her old nurse. Daphne's son is very ill in
Savannah, and the old woman, of course, is most anxious to see him
before he dies. She is too helpless and ignorant to be allowed to go
alone; and, as I have business in Savannah which must have taken me
South in a few weeks, I shall go a little sooner, and see Daphne
safely there. But we must travel day and night, if we are to be in
time; and such a journey would be too much for my poor baby. I shall
be forced to leave her behind, and it will go near to break her
little heart. We must start to-morrow at noon, and I shall have to
tell her in the morning."
"But what do you mean to do with her?" asked Mrs. Bradford.
"To leave her with Miss Ashton, if she will take charge of her, as I
think she will. I shall go and see her this evening after I have
taken Belle home. She will be well cared for there, I am sure."
"Yes," said Mrs. Bradford; "but I fear she will be very lonely after
school-hours are over. There are only Miss Ashton and her mother;
and, though I do not doubt she would receive every kindness, it will
be dull for the little thing. Suppose you let her come to us: she
will bear your absence better if she is with our children whom she is
fond of."
Mr. Powers' melancholy face lighted up with pleasure; but the next
moment he shook his head doubtfully.
"It would be the very thing for her," he said, "but quite too much to
ask from you. You are not strong yet, and it would not be right to
give you the charge of another child."
But Mrs. Bradford would not listen to this, as long as Mr. Powers was
satisfied to have his child with her. Belle was not much trouble,
she said; and nurse and Jane would readily do for her as for the
others. So, after a little more talk, it was settled, greatly to the
father's satisfaction. Mrs. Bradford said it would be well to tell
Belle now, while she had the other children at hand to console her,
and make her feel she might enjoy herself even though her father and
nurse were away; and the little girls were called in.
"Belle," said Mrs. Bradford, "how would you like to come and stay
with Maggie and Bessie for a while?"
"What! do you mean to stay all night and sleep here?" said Belle,
with wide-open eyes.
"Yes, dear, for several nights, for three or four weeks. Would you
not have pleasant times?"
"Yes, if papa comes too," said Belle, drawing herself from Mrs.
Bradford's arm, and springing to her father's knee, where she clung
to him, as if she feared she were to be parted from him by force.
"But papa cannot come too, my precious one," said her father. "I
have to go on a journey; and Mrs. Bradford has kindly said you may
stay here with her little girls till I come back."
"I shall go on a journey too; yes, I shall, I _shall_!" was Belle's
answer.
"But you cannot, darling," said Mr. Powers; and then, as cheerfully
as he could, he told his little girl why he and Daphne must go away,
and what a pleasant arrangement had been made for her during their
absence.
Belle did not make the outcry which Mrs. Bradford had expected, but
every time her father paused, repeated, "I _shall_ go a journey too."
Poor child! she was not accustomed to a ready obedience; and she knew
that, if she persisted, she could often carry her point with her
father; while he, feeling that this time, at least, he _could_ not
yield, feared each moment to hear her break out in cries and sobs
when she found she could not have her own way. To all his coaxings
and promises she made the one quiet but determined reply, though each
time her voice became more choked.
But now Bessie came softly behind Mr. Powers, and, gently trying to
disengage one of the little hands which were tightly clasped about
his neck, said in a low tone,--
"You would not make a trouble for your papa, when you say you are
'his little comfort,' Belle, would you?"
"I _shall_ go a journey with him," said Belle, in the same old tone.
"Oh no!" said Maggie, coming round to the other side; "you will stay
here with us, and have such a lovely, lovely time. We are a very
nice family to stay with," she added persuasively.
"Belle does not doubt that, I believe," said Mr. Powers, smiling
rather sadly; "but she and I have no one but one another to pet, and
it comes pretty hard to part, even for a time."
"But we are going to try and make her very, very happy, even if you
are away, sir," answered Bessie.
"And, Belle, next week Christmas will be here, and if you go on a
journey you will not see our tree; and we have a great many nice
things to do in the holidays."
"We have some of our presents to buy yet," said Maggie, "and we want
you to help us, and we have money to buy you a present too; and papa
and mamma will give you presents if you stay: will you not, mamma?"
Mrs. Bradford said, "Certainly;" but all these promises only drew
forth the same answer.
"And we are all to go to Riverside in grandmamma's sleigh, and spend
the day there," said Bessie; "and you will go too, and if there is
not enough of room I will let you have my place."
"Why, how much you will have to tell me of when I come back," said
Mr. Powers cheerfully. "You must be sure and remember all these
pleasant things, so that I may hear about them."
"I _shall_ go a"--began Belle; but before she had time to finish the
old sentence, Maggie broke in with,--
"Oh, she could write to you about them, Mr. Powers. She can make up
a letter every day, and I will write it for her, and she can put it
in the lamp-post herself. Will not that be nice, Belle?"
"I couldn't make up so much," said Belle.
"Oh yes! you could do enough," said Maggie. "You could tell your
father you was alive, any way, and he'll be glad to know that. Yes,
we'll send him a letter every day."
This proved to be a most happy idea, and was the first thing which
brought any consolation to poor little Belle; and her father, seeing
that she was at last interested, improved it by saying,--
"Dear! dear! I shall have to leave behind me quite a fortune in
postage-stamps to pay for so many letters. Let me see if I have
enough."
And he pulled out his pocket-book, and, taking from it a quantity of
stamps, began to count them over; while Belle, after submitting to
let Bessie wipe the tears from her eyes, watched him with eager
interest, as did the two other little girls.
"There is one for the day after to-morrow," said Mr. Powers. "You
will not think it worth while to write to-morrow, I suppose."
"Oh yes! I think they had better begin at once," said Mrs. Bradford,
who saw that this writing of letters to her papa was likely to divert
Belle's mind from her grief at parting with him.
"Very well," replied Mr. Powers; and he counted out a postage-stamp
for each day as far as his stock would go. "Here are only enough for
two weeks."
"We shall have to stop and buy some as we go home, Belle."
"And here, Belle," said Bessie, "you may have this box of mine to
keep them in. You may have it for your very own to keep all your
life."
"And you will write her letters for her; will you, Maggie?" asked Mr.
Powers.
"Yes, sir. Mamma lets me have half an hour for writing every day,
and I will give it to Belle."
Mrs. Bradford was glad to hear Maggie say this. She had feared that
the little girl was too eager and anxious for the composition prize;
but this proved that the desire for it had not made her selfish, and
that she was willing to lessen her chances of it for the sake of
being a help and comfort to her motherless little friend. She did
not tell Maggie that she might still "exercise her ideas" during the
allowed half-hour, and take some other time for writing Belle's
letters. Since the dear child was willing to make the sacrifice, she
thought it just as well to let her do so.
So Belle was pacified, and made to believe that she might, after all,
be able to bear the separation from her father; and this
letter-writing did indeed prove to be a great source of comfort and
amusement to her.
Mr. Powers did not send her to school the next morning, but kept her
with him till the last moment taking her himself to Mrs. Bradford's
house, and leaving her in the kind lady's care. When Maggie and
Bessie came home, they found her sitting on the sofa beside their
mother, her head in her lap, and looking the very picture of woe.
She brightened considerably, however, when she saw them, and asked
Maggie if she was ready to write her letter for her, saying she was
"only going to tell her father that she was going to die of grief."
Mrs. Bradford made no objection to this, but said that the children
must all have their dinner before they did anything else; and, as she
expected, by the time Belle had made a good meal, and chatted, as she
ate it, with her happy, merry little companions, she thought better
of her intentions of "dying of grief."
Then the letter was written; but as it was so short a time, only two
hours indeed, since Mr. Powers had gone, there was not much to tell;
and it contained only these words:--
"DEAR, DARLING PAPA,--I think I better not die of trouble of your
going away, 'cause Maggie says then all the postage-stamps will be
wasted.
"YOUR DEAR LITTLE BELLE."
The most important, part of these letters, according to the thinking
of the little ones, was the postage-stamps, and the putting them into
the lamp-post boxes; and these Belle always insisted on doing herself.
On this day they all went out to walk together, and when they reached
the first box the children paused to put the letter in. The box was
far above their heads, and a gentleman was there before them, putting
letters through the slide.
"Shall I put in your letter for you, my dear?" said he to Belle, who
held the precious message to papa fast in her hand, while she waited
her turn.
"No, sir," said Belle. "I want to send my own letter to papa my own
self. He won't like it so much if somebody else sends it."
"Oh, that is it!" said the stranger; "but you can scarcely reach up
here. Shall I lift you?"
Belle agreed, and the gentleman lifted her, and let her slip the
letter into the box herself, telling her he was sure her papa would
be much pleased with it; and Belle went on her way well satisfied.
"Do you think dear papa has my letter yet?" she said to Bessie, when,
an hour later, they returned home.
"Oh yes, long ago!" answered Bessie. "Why, we took a long walk,
Belle; and it's a great while since you sent it."
"Maybe he's sitting in the cars, reading it," said Belle; to which
Bessie replied, "Course he is," and since neither of them knew it,
neither of them was disturbed by the fact that it would take three or
four days for the letter to reach Mr. Powers; and Belle was made
quite happy when she received the next morning a little note from her
papa, written in the cars and posted at the first stopping-place on
his way.
She and Bessie made another droll mistake one day. Maggie had gone
out with her Aunt Annie, and so was out of the way when it was time
for the others to take their walk; and lo, the daily letter was not
written, forgotten for the first time! Bessie and Belle were both in
a great way about it. Mamma, too, having gone to ride, there was no
help to be had from her.
"Do it yourself, can't you?" said Bessie: "you can print a little."
"Yes," said Belle, seizing on a sheet of paper. "But what shall I
say? I haven't much to tell to-day."
"And we haven't time for much thoughts about it," said Bessie.
"Nurse has baby 'most ready, and she don't like her to be kept
waiting. You might tell him you are alive. Maggie said he would
like to know that."
"Yes," said Belle, and she began to writs; but a new difficulty arose.
"How do you spell 'alive'?" she asked,
Bessie thought a moment.
"I don't know," she said slowly. "Oh yes! _life_ is in one of the
Bible texts, and it's l-i-f-e. I guess that's the way you spell
'alive,' only to put a _a_ in front of it."
Belle took it all in good faith, and printed out,--
DEAR PAPA,--I am alife.
"So Good-bye."
Then it was put into the envelope.
"But I don't know how to put papa's name," said Belle.
Bessie had not thought of this trouble. "Shall we ask nurse or
Jane?" she said.
"No," said Belle. "I don't believe they know how to write papa's
name, or where he has gone to."
"But won't the postage-stamp make it go all safe?" asked Bessie.
"Oh, to be sure!" said Belle, and the postage-stamp was put on; and,
nurse and Jane appearing at that moment with the other children, they
set out, Belle in great glee at having contrived to "do" her letter
all by herself, and reached the familiar lamp-post, where she was
lifted up by Jane, and dropped it in, neither of the nurses observing
that it had no address; and both the little girls firmly believing it
would go in the proper direction with that important postage-stamp on
it.
After all, Belle continued to be very happy while her father was
away. She would have been very ungrateful if she had not been both
happy and good when so much was done to please her. The Christmas
holidays came and passed, and she shared in all the enjoyments which
were provided for Maggie and Bessie, and was treated quite as if she
were one of the family; while Mrs. Bradford could not help thinking
that she had improved a little, being more obedient and far less
wilful. The example of such a prompt obedience as was shown by the
other children had done her good.
And now the holidays were over, and they were back at school once
more, while the time for Mr. Powers' return was drawing near.
CHAPTER VII.
_THE HURT FOOT._
"Oh, oh!" said Belle.
She did not say it as if she were pleased; on the contrary, the tone
had in it some pain and a good deal of fear. And that was not to be
wondered at; for Belle was half-way up a stone-fence--that fence
which divided Mrs. Ashton's garden from the ball-ground where Mr.
Peters' boys played; and a large stone had slipped and hurt her foot,
and the wall felt shaky and very much as if it might give still more.
There she stood, all crouched together, clinging to the topmost
stones with her small hands, and afraid to go up or down lest the
whole fence should fall on her.
"Oh, o-o-o-oh!" said she again, but not loud; for there were boys at
play just beyond the wall, and, if they heard her, Harry and Fred
Bradford would come and lift her down and take her to the house, and
Miss Ashton and Mrs. Bradford would know how disobedient she had been.
For Belle remembered quite well that she and Bessie had been
forbidden to go near this fence and watch the boys at their play; for
both ladies feared that the balls might come over the wall and strike
the little girls and hurt them. And, more than this, Mrs. Bradford
had told her she must not go out of doors with those thin shoes on.
So when Belle had made up her mind to disobey her kind friends, and
to go near the ball-ground in spite of the orders she had received,
she had not dared to ask Miss Ashton to change her shoes, or put on
her cloak and hat for her, lest she should be asked where she was
going. But after waiting till the lady was busy with Maggie's
music-lesson, she had run out in the little prunella gaiters which
were fit only for the house, and with her cloak half fastened, for
she could not put it on properly herself. Now the damp, cold air was
blowing about her, and making her feel very chilly and uncomfortable.
She had not told herself that she was going to be disobedient; but
had said that she would just run down to the field, and peep over the
fence at the boys. When she came there, however, the fence was quite
too high for her to look over, and, remembering the clump of
evergreen bushes which was just beyond, she thought she would climb
to the top of the wall and sit there, herself hidden by the bushes,
while she could see the boys quite well. That old summer-house would
hide her from the house.
So Belle had thought, saying to herself, "Aunt Margaret"--so she
called Mrs. Bradford--"did not know it was very safe behind the
bushes, and the balls cannot hit me there. I guess she would let me
if she knew."
Something kept saying to her, "Oh no, Belle! you know Aunt Margaret
would not let you. You are very naughty, little Belle. What would
your papa say if he knew what you were doing?" But she would not
listen.
Ah! if Belle were so sure Mrs. Bradford would let her do this, why
was she so afraid of being seen?
She was already sadly punished, for she now found that the bushes
which hid her from the boys also hid them from her. She could hear
their voices very well, and knew that they would hear her if she
cried aloud; but she could not see one of them. And that stone had
hurt her foot, oh, so badly! and there she was, afraid to move either
way.
But it would not do for her to be found there; and at last she
slipped down from the wall, and ran as fast as she could into the old
summer-house. There she climbed up on the seat, and prepared to look
at the foot that was hurt.
Very slowly and carefully, for fear of knotting the lace, she
unfastened her shoe and pulled it off. Next the little sock was
removed, and Belle turned up her small foot so that she might see the
heel.
"Ow, ow!" she said when she saw it. "There's a great piece of skin
off it. Ow, ow!"
She had almost forgotten the pain in her foot while she was running
from the forbidden spot; but now, when she saw how badly it looked,
it seemed to feel a good deal worse. She sat and gazed at it for
some moments, and then, taking up her sock, she looked in it, turned
it inside out, and shook it. Next she shook out her shoe, and felt
all around the inside with her hand; next she looked all about the
planked floor of the summer-house.
"Why! where has that skin gone to?" she exclaimed.
But although she had not found that for which she was looking, she
found something else--something very bad indeed. Belle thought it
worse even than that ugly graze upon her foot. There was a great
hole in her sock; and, worse and worse, another--a jagged tear--in
the little gaiter! She took up the shoe and the sock again, and sat
with one in each hand, looking at them with a very sober face.
"There now!" she said at last. "I disobeyed my Aunt Margaret fee
things. I came out with these shoes on, that's one; I came down to
the ball-ground, that's two; and I climbed the fence, that's fee.
She didn't tell me don't climb the fence, but I guess I knew she
didn't want me too; so I'm 'fraid it was a disobey. Now I'll have to
go and tell her, and then she'll look sorry at me; and I think
perhaps she'll punish me, and perhaps papa will know it. Oh dear! I
wish I hadn't, I wish I hadn't!" and Belle began to cry.
By and by she stopped crying, wiped her eyes, and began to put on her
shoe and stocking. They had come off easily enough; but to put them
on was another thing. At last the sock was pulled on after a
fashion, all one-sided, and half an inch beyond her toes, for Belle
was not used to dressing herself. But, do what she would, she could
not put on the shoe. She pulled and pulled till she was quite red in
the face, but all in vain; and at last she gave an impatient scream
and threw the shoe from her.
"Bad old thing!" she said, and sat a moment frowning at it. But the
shoe did not mind being looked cross at, at all; and presently Belle
sprang to her feet, and went and picked it up, feeling rather ashamed.
"I am going to Miss Ashton," she said; "and she'll ask me where I
went, and I'll tell her."
But just then she heard Bessie's voice. She had quite forgotten that
the half-hour for the music-lesson must have gone by, and that it
must be time to go home; and there was Bessie running down the garden
path and calling to her.
"Belle, Belle! where are you, Belle?"
Bessie had not come to school that morning, for the weather had been
so damp that her mother had not thought it safe for her to go out;
but as it had cleared up before Jane went for the other children, she
had given her leave to go with the nurse.
But, when they came to the school, Belle was not to be found; and
some one saying she had been seen to run out in the garden, Bessie
went in search of her, while Jane put on Maggie's things.
"Here I am, Bessie," said Belle, putting her head out of the
summer-house.
Bessie ran to her, and great was her astonishment when she saw Belle
standing there with her sacque all awry and half-buttoned, and her
shoe held in her hand.
"What is the matter?" she asked.
"Oh, I was naughty!" said Belle. "I went and climbed up on the wall
where your mamma told us not to go; and a great ugly stone hurt my
foot, and tore my shoe and stocking, and oh, Bessie! I can't find
the skin."
She showed Bessie the hurt foot, and then a new search was commenced
for the missing piece of skin; but it was all in vain, and after much
wonderment as to what could have come of it, Bessie begged Belle to
come at once to the house.
"For Jane must have Maggie ready," she said; "and you will take cold
barefeeted, Belle. We must go right home and tell mamma."
The garden-path was planked, like the summer-house floor, about
half-way up to the house; and Belle went on pretty well over the
smooth boards, which did not hurt the little stocking-foot, but when
she came to the gravel walks it was not so easy. There the pebbles
hurt; and she limped and hopped along till she came to the back
stoop, where Miss Ashton and Jane met her, full of alarm at the state
in which they found her.
Miss Ashton did not scold, but she looked very much grieved at
Belle's disobedience; and she told Jane she must take her home as
fast as possible, so that the hurt foot might be attended to, and
something be given to her which might prevent her from taking cold.
As for putting on the walking shoe, or even the cut gaiter, that was
quite out of the question. Miss Ashton rolled a soft handkerchief
around the foot; and, wrapping a shawl over that, Jane took Belle in
her arms, and hurried home as fast as Bessie's little feet could keep
pace with her. But if Miss Ashton had not much to say, Jane found
enough.
"To think of your doing such a thing, Miss Belle!" she said; "to be
so naughty, and hurt yourself, and maybe make yourself sick, and give
so much trouble to Mrs. Bradford. Now she'll be so worried, and
that's very bad for her. You know she was worse the other day when
Frankie fell down and cut his head."
"But that was most entirely your fault, Jane," said Maggie: "you ran
in very suddenly, and screamed to mamma that Frankie was most killed;
and papa said it gave her a shock, and people ought to tell her
things quietly and gently, so as not to frighten her."
"I don't know what she'll say when I tell her," said Jane, "and your
papa away, and all."
"You shan't tell her," said Belle. "I'll tell her myself."
"Yes," said Bessie. "It's best for Belle to tell mamma herself,
Janey; and I will help her. I have thought how we can tell her in a
manner that is not at all shocking, and she would rather we would
tell her of ourselves when we have been naughty."
When they reached home, Jane carried Belle to the head of the stairs,
where she put her down; and the three little girls arranged their
plan for telling mamma.
Belle took off her hat, and putting the little gaiter, which she
still held in her hand, in the hollow of the crown, held the hat
against her bosom with both arms, so that the shoe was quite hidden.
She, as well as the other two, wanted Mrs. Bradford to question them
before she saw the shoe or the foot. It was not that they wished to
keep anything back from her, but they feared to tell her too suddenly.
They all wished it was over, especially Belle; and the young faces
were by no means as bright as they usually were, when they ran into
mamma's room on their daily return from school. Belle kept behind
the others until she came close to Mrs. Bradford, when, without
putting up her face for the kiss which generally welcomed her, she
sat down on a stool at the lady's side, still keeping her bandaged
foot carefully out of sight.
Mrs. Bradford did not speak to her, or tell her to come and kiss her,
as Belle half hoped, half feared she would do. She kept on with her
work with a very grave face, and that work was a pretty little
sacque, like some owned by Maggie and Bessie, which she was
embroidering for Belle. The child knew it was for her; and she had
been disobeying that dear, kind friend! She seemed to feel how
naughty and ungrateful she had been, even more than she had done
before.
"She looks as sorry as if she knew," said Belle to herself; "but then
she can't know yet. No one saw me do it but God, and He never tells
about people; but I guess He's pretty sorry too, 'cause I was so
naughty. Maybe He won't be so sorry with me if I tell Aunt Margaret
pretty quick. I'll just do it, if Bessie don't make haste."
Bessie was just preparing to tell her story; but, in order not to
shock her mamma, she came to it in rather a roundabout way, not at
all like her usual fashion of telling things. Sitting down upon the
rug at Belle's side, she said, in a grave tone,--
"Mamma, Belle and Maggie and I have found out something to-day."
"Have you, dear?" said mamma very soberly, but she did not ask what
it was, as Belle had hoped she would. It would make the confession
so much easier, she thought, if Aunt Margaret would only question
them a little; but she did not seem inclined to do so. And there was
the cut shoe beneath the hat, which Belle had now allowed to slip
carefully down into her lap, keeping both hands pressed on it, as if
she feared it would jump out of its own accord and show itself before
the proper time.
"Yes'm," said Bessie, in reply to her mother: "it; is something we
did not know about before."
This time there was no answer; but Belle thought Mrs. Bradford looked
at her as if she expected she would speak for herself, instead of
letting Bessie do it for her. She shrugged up her shoulders,
wriggled herself about on her seat, and felt more and more
uncomfortable.
Bessie waited a moment, and then spoke again.
"We've found out the colour of the inside of people's heels, mamma,"
she said; while Belle looked with a very innocent air into the fire.
Bessie went on, "Least we've found out the colour of Belle's, and I
s'pose all people's are the same. It's a nice colour: it's pink."
"How did you find that out, dear?" asked mamma.
"Belle's foot is peeled, and we saw the inside of it. But, mamma, we
couldn't find the skin."
"How did the skin come off your foot, Belle?" asked Mrs. Bradford,
trying not to smile, and speaking for the first time to the little
culprit, while Aunt Bessie, who sat by, turned her face aside.
"'Cause a big hole came in my stocking, ma'am," answered Belle.
"How was that? It was a very good little stocking when it was put on
this morning."
"'Cause a big, larger hole came in my shoe, and it went foo and foo."
"But it was a very good shoe too, quite new," answered Mrs. Bradford.
"How did a hole come in it already?"
"A stone came on it, Aunt Margaret; but--Aunt Margaret--I'm 'fraid it
came on it 'cause I was naughty. I disobeyed you fee times, Aunt
Margaret;" and Belle's voice had a piteous tone in it, as if she were
about to burst into a cry again.
"And does my little Belle want to tell me all about it?" asked Mrs.
Bradford, throwing down her work, and holding out her arms to the
child.
Belle let hat and shoe slip to the ground, and in another moment had
scrambled into Mrs. Bradford's lap. Ah, what a comfort it was to
feel about her those kind arms, whose dear, loving clasp reminded her
of those of her lost mamma! and to nestle her head against Aunt
Margaret's shoulder, while she confessed with many a penitent sob how
naughty she had been.
"I s'pose you'll have to punish me pretty much: won't you, Aunt
Margaret?" said Belle, when her story was finished.
"My poor little girl, I'm afraid you have punished yourself more than
I should," said Mrs. Bradford.
"Oh no, Aunt Margaret! I did not punish myself one bit. I did not
go in the closet for a single moment," said Belle.
While Belle had been talking, Mrs. Bradford had taken off the
bandage, and was looking at the little grazed foot. She still held
it tenderly in her hand when the child said these last words.
"You have punished yourself without going in the closet," she said.
"This poor little foot must have some salve on it, and be bound up;
and you cannot wear a shoe for several days, lest it should be
rubbed. So you will have to stay in the house and not go out at all.
"And, Belle," Mrs. Bradford went on more slowly now, "a telegram came
from your father a short time ago, saying that he would be here
to-night, and begging me to send you to the railroad depôt to meet
him; but it will be late, and I am afraid to let you go out even in a
carriage, after you have run so much risk of taking cold. He will
have to be disappointed, my little girl; and I fear he will be sorry
when he sees your foot, and hears how it was hurt."
Now, indeed, Belle felt that she was punished for her disobedience.
The delight of having her father back again was almost lost sight of
in her distress at not being able to go and meet him, and the thought
that he would know how naughty she had been.
Mrs. Bradford put her on the sofa, and brought some salve and soft
linen, and bound up the foot, after which Belle was carried
down-stairs, so that she might have her dinner with the other
children. But she could not eat; the thought of her father and his
disappointment brought a great lump in her throat; and, though she
tried hard not to cry, the tears would find their way out and roll
down her cheeks. Maggie and Bessie did their best to console her,
but all in vain; and when, at last, they went out for their walk,
which mamma would not allow them to omit, they left her on the
Library sofa in a very mournful state.
"If papa wouldn't look sorry, I wouldn't care so very much," said
Belle, as Mrs. Bradford tried to comfort her. "I promised him to be
good all the time, and I went and was naughty just when he was coming
back."
"I am very sorry for you, dear," said Mrs. Bradford; "but I shall
tell your papa you have been a good girl all the rest of the time;
and this will help you to remember that your older friends know best."
"Yes'm," sobbed Belle. "But, Aunt Margaret, I don't think _myself_
gave myself such a great, large punishment as this. I don't think I
could do it. I guess God did it, 'cause He knew I deserved it, for
disobeying you so. Maybe He thought I wouldn't tell you, and you
wouldn't know to punish me, so He better do it. I forgot He saw me,
till my foot was hurt, and I was 'fraid on the fence."
"Yes," said Mrs. Bradford; "I think you are right, and that our
Father in heaven meant to give His little girl a lesson. What lesson
has my Belle learned this morning?"
"To mind you, my wise friend," said Belle.
"Yes; and what else?"
The child thought a moment, and then said, "That He sees me ev'ry
day, and is sorry with me when I'm naughty. But, Aunt Margaret, what
made you look so sorry at me, as if you knew, before I told you."
"I did know, Belle."
"Why, how? Did God tell you?"
"Aunt Bessie was coming along the street on the other side of the
ball-ground, and she saw a little figure on the top of the fence; and
she knew who it was, and felt frightened lest you should fall and be
hurt; for she was too far away to be of any help. But God took care
of the little girl who did not care for herself, and let her come
down off the fence without being killed as she might have been. Aunt
Bessie saw that you had come down safely, and then she came here and
told me about it. She did not know that you were hurt, nor did I;
and I felt anxious to know if you would come and confess your fault,
and though I am sorry that you were disobedient, I do not feel half
as badly as I should have done if you had tried to hide it."
"I'd have told you quicker, Aunt Margaret, only we were afraid you'd
be too shocked, and Bessie made up that way to tell you."
"You were very considerate," said Mrs. Bradford, smiling as she
remembered Bessie's roundabout fashion of bringing out her story.
Belle sat still with a grave face for a few moments, thinking of what
her kind friend had said.
"Aunt Margaret," she then began, "God took good care of _me_; but He
did not take very good care of my foot, did He?"
"Yes, Belle; this little foot might have been so crushed by that
stone that you never would have been able to walk again; but God
watched over it, and only let it be hurt enough to remind it not to
run into naughty, disobedient ways. He has been very good to you,
dear."
Just then, Patrick came to say some visitors were in the other room;
and Mrs. Bradford, giving Belle a picture-book, told her to amuse
herself with it till she came back.
Belle sat still for a few moments after Mrs. Bradford left her, not
looking at the pictures, but thinking of her own naughtiness; and at
last she said aloud,--
"I guess if God took so much trouble to punish me just enough to make
me remember, and not enough to make me a lame girl all my life, I'd
better punish myself a little too."
Belle sometimes punished herself when she knew she had been naughty,
and her way of doing this was to shut herself up in the closet.
There was one which opened out of the library. It was not dark, but
the little window which lighted it was high up in the wall, so that
she could not see out; and there was nothing there to amuse her, for
it was hung around with overcoats and hats, so that it was really
disagreeable to her to shut herself up there, as she had done more
than once since she had been at Mrs. Bradford's.
She slipped down from the sofa, and went into the closet, where she
pulled the door to, and sat down upon the floor, still thinking how
sorry papa would look. But presently she felt tired, and, looking
around her, she saw a carriage-robe lying in the corner. She rolled
up one end of this for a pillow, and curled herself up upon it; and
there, a few moments later, Mrs. Bradford found her fast asleep. She
called Jane, and had Belle carried to her crib, feeling very thankful
that the little girl truly repented of her fault; for she saw she was
quite in earnest about punishing herself. Belle took a long nap, and
the children had been home some time. She awoke, and it was then
nearly time for her papa to come. When at last he arrived, he did
indeed look grieved to see the hurt foot, and hear how it had
happened, but he was glad she had not tried to hide it.
"But, papa," said Belle, when she had finished her confession,
"Bessie and I could not find that skin. I wonder what did become of
it."
The children were all three greatly puzzled and disturbed at the
disappearance of the piece of skin which had been scraped from
Belle's foot; and late that night, when mamma was herself going to
bed, and went to give her birdies a last kiss, Bessie roused a little
as her mother leaned over her, and murmured sleepily,--
"I wonder what did become of Belle's skin."
CHAPTER VIII.
_THE BROKEN CLOCK._
It was recess; and Bessie stood at the back schoolroom window,
watching her brothers and the rest of Mr. Peters' boys at play. Four
of the older girls were in the room, two of them standing by the fire
talking; while the others, namely Kate Maynard and Fanny Berry, were
at their desks, each preparing a neglected lesson. Their French
master came at half-past twelve, and they were now in a great hurry
to finish the exercises which should have been ready the night before.
"There!" said Kate, throwing down her pen and shutting her
exercise-book with an energetic slap upon the cover, "I am through.
How about you, Fanny?"
Fanny looked up at the little clock which stood upon the mantelpiece,
and shook her head despairingly.
"No," she said, "and I shall not be able to finish. I am not half as
quick as you, Kate. It is twenty minutes past twelve, and old
Gaufrau will be here in ten minutes. Oh, if I had but ten more, I
would do it! He threatened to complain of me to Mrs. Ashton next
time I was not ready for him. It's all the fault of that story-book
you lent me, Julia Grafton: I sat the whole evening reading it, and
quite forgot my exercise."
"Please do not blame me or the book," said Julia. "I did not ask you
to borrow it, nor did the book request to be read, I imagine."
"Do stop talking, and write all you can," said Kate. "What's the
good of wasting more time?"
"If I only had ten minutes more!" moaned Fanny again.
"If the clock were only slow, as it was the other day," said Mary
Merton. "We need not tell Monsieur that it was not right, for he
would never know; for he has no watch of his own, and always goes by
this."
"Tell him it's too fast," said another.
"He'll be sure to suspect something when he sees Fanny scrambling
through her exercise at that rate."
"He's used to see Fan doing that," laughed Julia Grafton, looking at
Fanny, who, with a very distressed face, was writing away as fast as
her pen could move, caring little for the many mistakes she was
making, if she only had the exercise finished and handed in with the
rest, so that she might escape the threatened complaint to Mrs.
Ashton.
Poor Fanny! Indolent and procrastinating, loving her pleasure better
than her duty, she was often in such troubles as this. Still, she
was good-natured and obliging; and her schoolmates pitied and were
fond of her, and were always ready to help her if they could.
"Do some one put the clock back," pleaded Fanny.
"To be sure," said Kate. "Why did not we think of that before?
Monsieur will be nicely taken in."
"But suppose Mrs. Ashton finds it out?" said Julia.
"Mrs. Ashton will not suspect anything," said Mary, as Kate laid her
hand upon the clock. "It has been wrong once: why not again?"
"Take care you do not injure it," said Julia uneasily. "I know Mr.
Ashton gave that clock to his wife only a few days before he died.
It was the last thing he ever gave her, and he placed it there on the
mantelpiece; for which reason she leaves it here, though I rather
wonder at her doing so."
While the others were speaking, Kate Maynard had taken down the
clock; and Mary Merton opened it, and moved back the hands. As Kate
went to replace it upon the mantelpiece, the voice of Mrs. Ashton
speaking to the French professor, and his in reply, were heard in the
hall. In her haste, Kate did not put the clock far enough back upon
the shelf; it slipped between that and her hand, and fell upon the
hearth. Strange to say, it did not fly in pieces, as all the girls
expected would be the case; not even the glass over the face was
cracked, for the clock fell upon its side, and as the terrified Kate
raised it, it appeared unhurt. The next moment, however, as she put
it in its proper place, a whirring sound was heard, then a sharp,
short click, and the hands stood still.
Mrs. Ashton and Monsieur Gaufrau, hearing nothing of what was going
on within, still stood talking in the hall; and the girls, including
Fanny, who had quite forgotten her lesson, stood looking from one to
another in guilty and alarmed silence.
Mary Merton was the first to break it.
"Thank fortune!" she exclaimed. "The thing does not look damaged;
and no one need know how it happened, if we all keep our own secret.
Oh, there's Bessie Bradford!" and Mary looked more frightened than
she had done before, as she fixed her eyes on the child's shocked and
astonished face; for she, as well as the others, had a feeling that
no deceit or concealment was to be looked for from Bessie.
Until that moment, they had all forgotten the presence of the little
girl, who now stood silent on the window-seat, her face turned
towards the uneasy group, looking from one to another with an
expression of mingled wonder, grief, and indignation, under which the
most insensible among them felt herself abashed.
"O Mousie!" said Kate Maynard, who generally called Bessie by that
pet name, "I had forgotten that you were there! Remember you are not
to say a word. If you do, I will never forgive you."
There was no time for more, for the professor's step was heard
approaching; and, as the girls suddenly scattered to different parts
of the room, he opened the door and came in.
"Ah!" he said in French, after bidding them good morning and looking
at the clock, "I see I am too early, and I am glad; for I have left
at Mr. Peters' a book which I shall need, and I have yet time to
return for it. Your pardon, young ladies." Then as he turned to go,
and caught sight of Bessie, he smiled and came towards her. She was
a great favourite with him, although she was not one of his scholars;
for he had now and then met her in this room, and her polite and
ladylike little ways were very pleasing to the ceremonious old
Frenchman, who always made a point of bowing to her with his very
best grace, which Bessie would return by giving him her mite of a
hand to shake, and saying prettily, "Bon jour, Monsieur," as her
mamma had taught her.
"Ah!" said Monsieur Gaufrau, changing from his own language to his
broken English, for he knew that Bessie understood only a few words
of the former, "Ah! you look sad, _ma petite_. What have you? you
are trouble. These great demoiselles have tease you? Do not be sad
of that; they do not mean nothing; it is but their joy. They are
good of heart, but have not too much thought. Mademoiselle Maynard,
you cannot make glad once more your little friend? I am of haste;"
and, patting Bessie on the head, he waved his hand politely towards
Kate, as if committing the little child to her care, and hurried away.
Bessie looked after the grey-haired and kind-hearted old gentleman as
he went out and closed the door behind him, and then turned her eyes
on Kate. Was Kate, of whom she had really grown very fond, going to
carry on this deception? She had not time to speak, scarce even to
collect her thoughts; for the next moment the young lady caught her
up in her usual abrupt fashion, and seating her on her desk, placed
herself before her, while the rest gathered hurriedly around.
Bessie knew that a struggle was before her, and somehow she felt that
all these great girls were banded together against her. There was
only time for a little wish, a half-breathed, upward thought; but it
was heard and answered.
"Bessie," said Kate, in a low tone, "you are not to speak of this, or
to let any one suppose that you knew of it, or were in the room. Do
you understand?"
The child looked steadily at her, though her colour rose, and her
breath came quickly, and she had--oh, such a longing to be safely
home at the side of her own dear mamma!
"S'pose some one asks me?" she said.
Kate coloured in her turn, and hesitated.
"Say you don't know anything about it," said Mary Merton. "It is
true enough: you don't. You had nothing to do with the clock."
"But I _know_ about it," answered Bessie; "I saw what did happen to
it, and I heard that noise it made; and I know something pretty much
is the matter with it. Once Fred threw his ball in our nursery, and
it knocked down the clock, and it made just that noise, and was so
spoiled papa had to buy another one. But Fred went right away and
told papa," she added, as a hint to her hearers of the course she
thought they ought to take.
"Telling one's papa is a different thing from telling Mrs. Ashton,"
said Mary. "She will be so furious if she finds out how it happened."
"Ah, that is it!" said Kate: "I would not hesitate a moment to tell
her I had broken the clock; but how can I tell her how it came about?"
"And I shall get into trouble too," said Fanny, in her fretful tones.
"Girls, what shall we do?"
"Do!" repeated Mary Merton. "There is but one thing to do, and that
is to stand by one another. There are only four of us here, and none
of us know anything about it--that is all. As for you, little
tell-tale, if you have a word to say about it, remember that it is
your friend Kate you will get into a peck of trouble."
"I'm not a tell-tale!" said Bessie indignantly, keeping down her
temper with great difficulty. "I'm not a tell-tale; and if you don't
want me to, I won't tell any one the clock is broken, not even my
dear mamma, or my own Maggie. I s'pose I needn't when I didn't do it
myself. But if Mrs. Ashton asks about it, I'll have to tell her."
"Why don't you run quick, and tell her all about it now?" sneered
Mary. "You can get us all nicely punished, if you make a good story
of it. Go, tell-tale, go!"
Bessie made no answer, but watched Kate's face anxiously.
"See here, Bessie," said Fanny: "promise us not to say a word about
it, if Mrs. Ashton asks; and I will dress a beautiful doll for you."
Bessie shook her head resolutely.
"Do you think I'd tell a story for a doll?" she answered; and then,
putting her arms round Kate's neck, she whispered, "I would help you
if I could, Katie; but I couldn't make Jesus sorry even for you; and
you won't do it, dear, will you? Please think about Him, Katie, and
don't tell a wicked story. He will help you to be brave, if you ask
Him."
None of the others heard what she said, but it was easy enough to
guess that she was trying to persuade Kate to do right; and Fanny,
for once roused to energy, exclaimed,--
"You'll _have_ to stand by us, Kate; you can't tell your own share in
the mischief without bringing in the rest, and you've no right to do
it. And as for you, Bessie, if you bring us into any trouble with
your nonsense, we'll keep you out of our room, and have nothing more
to do with you. We won't have a mean little tell-tale here spying
and reporting us."
But this, as well as many other threats and promises, proved of no
avail Bessie could not be persuaded to say that she would tell an
untruth, if she were asked about the clock; and the more steadfast
she was, the more urgent grew the older girls.
"It is so, Bessie," sighed Kate, all her frolicsome spirits quite put
to flight. "It is so; I cannot confess my own share without bringing
in Fanny and Mary; and I don't know that that would be fair, even if
I dared to tell of myself. But I tell you what we will do for you,
if you promise faithfully--and I know you will keep your word--not to
betray us. You are so anxious to have that hospital bed for your
lame Jemmy. Promise to say what we all say, and we will all vote
that you shall have that prize; and I will coax the four girls who
are not here to do the same. They will do it for me."
Bessie knew that this was true, for Kate generally carried things her
own way in her room. "Maggie, of course, will vote for you; so will
Belle and Lily; and so no one else will have a chance, for that will
be more than half the school, and you are sure of the prize. Quick!
speak, Bessie! There is no time lose. Monsieur will be back in a
moment."
"Think of the good you will do the lame boy," said Fanny; "and just
by such a little--well, you can't call it even a 'fib,' for you
_don't_ know much about the clock, you don't understand it, and you
did not see it break. For all you know, it may be all right in a few
moments."
"Then Mrs. Ashton won't ask about it, and I needn't speak," said
Bessie.
"Pshaw! you always come back to the same point," said Mary. "None of
us need speak, if Mrs. Ashton does not ask us, need we?"
"Yes," said Bessie. "Some one ought to speak now."
"And who'd be so mean, I'd like to know?" said Fanny.
Bessie had a feeling that the meanness lay elsewhere: first, in the
deception practised upon the patient and polite old Frenchman; next,
in the concealment of the mischief done from Mrs. Ashton. But she
did not like to speak out all that was in her mind to these girls who
were so much older, and might be supposed to be so much wiser than
herself.
"Will you do this for lame Jemmy?" said Kate. "Make haste and tell
us! There is no doubt of your gaining the prize for him, if we all
promise you our votes, you know."
"You are very wicked and cruel if you do not," said Mary. "How can
you ever look the poor fellow in the face again, and remember that
you refused to give him a chance of being cured? For, if you will
not do this little favour for us, you need not look for the votes
from this room."
"We don't ask you to say what is not true," said Kate: "you have only
to keep silence, if Mrs. Ashton speaks. There is nothing wrong in
that. Indeed, it is only right for you to do so, when you will gain
this great help for your lame friend."
Poor Bessie! It was the first time in all her little life that she
had been even tempted to do or say what was not true; but this was a
sore trial. She had thought so much of lame Jemmy, longed so to earn
the prize for his sake; and now she was sure of it, if she would
but--what?
Act a lie! or, at least, help to cover a shameful deception! Yes, it
was that! She could not hide the truth from her own conscience.
Kate told her that it was right; they were all trying to persuade her
to do wrong, that good might come of it--trying to make her think
that it was really her duty; and, for a moment, it did seem hard to
decide what she ought to do.
But it was only for a moment. Bessie had watched and prayed that she
might not enter into temptation; and she was not suffered to fall.
Her honest, truthful little soul saw it all clearly. Helping Jemmy
was not "God's work," if it led her into sin against Him, Truth
first, before all things: to _speak_ truth, to _act_ truth.
"There!" said Kate, as the child hesitated for that instant; "I
thought you'd be a good child, and do as we wanted you to. She
promises, girls!"
"No," said Bessie, with her colour coming and going, and pressing her
little hands tightly together: "I can't, Miss Kate; not even for lame
Jemmy--not even if you never love me any more, or speak to me again.
It would not be true."
"It is not telling a story, I tell you," said Kate sharply, as she
heard the rest of the class in the hall below, and knew that in
another moment it would be too late.
"But it would be _behaving_ a story," said Bessie, "'cause it would
be letting Mrs. Ashton believe I didn't know about it. I can't see
why it is not just the same; and I know Jesus would be sorry to have
me earn the prize for Jemmy that way."
"Go, then!" said Kate, suddenly lifting the child down from the desk,
and placing her on her feet,--"go, then! you are no pet of mine after
this: I want nothing more to do with you."
"That won't trouble her," said Mary, with a sneer. "A fine pretence
of affection she has made for you, only to serve you in this way,
Kate!"
"Bessie, your nurse is waiting for you," said Miss Laura Jones, who
just then entered the room. "Why, what is the matter?" as she saw
the little one's troubled face, and those of the older girls flushed
and angry.
"The matter is, that here is a mean, hateful little tell-tale," said
Fanny.
"Take care what you do before her, or she will run and tell Mrs.
Ashton," said Mary.
Ah, how hard it was to keep back the angry words that were rising to
her lips; not to tell those great girls what she thought of _them_!
"Why, how is this, my dears?" said Mrs. Ashton, coming in, and
looking round in surprise. "I thought Monsieur Gaufrau was here."
"He did come in, ma'am," said Mary Merton demurely, and with an air
of perfect innocence; "but he had forgotten a book, and thought he
had time to go for it."
Mrs. Ashton looked at the clock, then took out her watch.
"The clock is too slow," she said. "No, it has stopped! That
accounts for his mistake. I must really have it put in order."
Not a word was spoken. Bessie, quite forgetting in her anxiety that
Jane was waiting for her, stood looking from one to another, as Mrs.
Ashton examined the clock, touching it with a kind of reverent
affection, but not one of those who were in the secret would meet the
child's eye.
Maggie came in to see why Bessie did not come; and, feeling as if she
could not part with Kate in such an angry mood, the little girl went
up to her and slipped her hand in hers; but Kate pushed her from her,
and Bessie turned away with a swelling heart.
Suddenly Julia Grafton, who had not spoken while the others were
tempting Bessie, caught the child in her arms as she passed, and,
kissing her warmly, whispered, "You are right, Bessie! I wish I were
as brave as you."
CHAPTER IX.
_THE CONFESSION._
Monsieur Gaufrau found his class unusually troublesome that morning.
Julia and Kate, generally the two brightest and quickest of all his
scholars, seemed now the most inattentive and dull; answering so at
random, and appearing to pay so little heed to what they were doing
and saying, as to make it very evident that their thoughts were taken
up with something quite different from their lessons. As for
luckless Fanny, her exercise was only half written, and full of
mistakes; and she stumbled through the recitations in a disgraceful
manner. Mary Merton could repeat her lessons; but her conduct was
careless and defiant, and once, when the professor reproved her
slightly, very impertinent.
The old gentleman's patience was quite at an end. Bad marks--sadly
deserved, too--went down to the credit of all four; and the
long-threatened complaint to Mrs. Ashton was made, including Mary as
well as Fanny.
"Much any one has gained by that performance of to-day," said Julia
Grafton, as she and her three guilty companions stood together at the
corner of the square, after school was dismissed. "Fanny certainly
is no better off, and here are three more of us in trouble through
the worry and fuss of it."
"Why don't you preach a sermon on it, and take as a text, 'The way of
transgressors is hard'?" said Mary Merton scornfully.
"And so she might with truth," said Kate. "I am sure we are finding
it so."
"Dear me!" said Fanny; "if you think it such an awful sin just to
move back the hands of the clock a little, what did you do it for?"
"Because I _did not think_," said Kate sadly. "Oh, if I only had, I
should never have done it! And now, how are we to get out of the
difficulty? Why didn't I tell Mrs. Ashton at once?"
"I do not see where the difficulty is, if only Bessie Bradford does
not betray us," said Mary. "Mrs. Ashton suspects nothing, and is not
likely to ask any questions now. In spite of my fright, I could not
help laughing to see those two complimenting one another,--Monsieur
bowing and scraping, and assuring Mrs. Ashton that he was 'désolé' at
being so late; and Madame, with her gracious air, excusing him, and
blaming the poor clock. The only thing I am afraid of is that child."
"She has told it all at home by this time," said Fanny.
"Not she," said Kate. "She promised she wouldn't."
"'Promised!'" repeated Mary; "she only did that because she was
afraid of us. I'll answer for it, she told the whole story the
moment she was safely with Maggie and her nurse."
"'Afraid!'" repeated Julia in her turn; "I wish any one of us had
one-half little Bessie's moral courage and simple honesty. We
threatened her and tempted her,--and all of us who have seen how
eager she is to earn that prize for the lame hoy know how great the
temptation was,--but she could not be turned from the straightforward
truth. She has shamed us all, girls!"
"Oh, it is very easy for you to talk, Julia Grafton," said Fanny.
"You did not touch the clock, and had no hand in the mischief."
"No; or I should feel that I could go at once and tell Mrs. Ashton.
As it is, I cannot."
"You would have no _right_ to do it!" exclaimed Mary, with a look at
Kate's downcast face. "It is share and share alike with us. If you
choose to bring trouble on yourself, you would have no right to do
it, on account of the rest."
"I do not say that I should do it," said Julia. "I have not so much
courage as little Bessie. But it is not Mrs. Ashton I am afraid of."
"Of course not," said Mary; "you are a favourite with Mrs. Ashton.
But what are you afraid of, if not of her?"
"Of the ridicule and anger of the rest," said Julia, colouring
deeply. "You called Bessie hard names, and threatened to send her to
Coventry. You would do the same by me, I suppose, if I do not help
you out in this; and I cannot face it as she did, though I own I am
ashamed of this cowardice. She felt it too, poor little thing!
Kate, did you see her pleading look at you?"
"Yes," answered Kate. "Girls, I wish this day's work could be
undone."
"Well, it can't," said Fanny; "and if you think Bessie is safe, I
don't see why you fret about it."
"I'll tell you what it is," said Mary, "we must all bind ourselves by
a solemn promise not to say a word about it, whether questions are
asked or no. Yes I believe Bessie will keep her word, for we all
know how squeamish she is. Mrs. Ashton will never suspect her, even
if she remembers she was in the room; and the worst we have to fear
is some kind of general inquiry, which can easily be passed over.
Let us bind one another to silence."
It was done; Mary and Fanny giving their word for this with much
energy, Julia more slowly, and Kate with a hesitation and
unwillingness which provoked the ridicule of the two first; and then
they parted, Mary and Fanny going one way, Kate and Julia another.
Meanwhile, Bessie had gone home with a heavy heart. Maggie and Jane
both noticed how dull she was, but could not find out what ailed her;
though the former seemed rather hurt that Bessie should have any
secret from her.
Mrs. Bradford, too, saw that her little girl was not in her customary
spirits; and when she found that she did not, as usual, give her an
account of all that had passed in school that morning, she asked her
if she were "in any trouble."
"Yes, mamma," said Bessie. "I have a _very great weight on my mind_,
and it makes it worse because I can't tell you; but it is not my own
secret, and so I s'pose it's not for me to talk about."
"You have not been doing anything wrong in school, dear?"
"No, mamma; I think not. I did want to do what was wrong for a
moment, 'cause it seemed as if it would be a great help to a good
thing; but I asked Jesus to help me to know what He would like me to
do, and I think He did let me see it would not be His work if it came
by a wicked way."
"But you are not sorry now, dear, that you were not suffered to do
wrong that good might come of it?"
"No, mamma; I am very glad, and very much grateful; but I feel sorry
about some other people. I think they fell into a very bad
temptation, and did not try to get out of it."
"Well, I will not ask you any more, since you do not feel at liberty
to speak about it," said Mrs. Bradford.
"I feel very badly not to tell you, mamma; but it was of accident
that I was there and saw it, and I did not quite know what was the
rightest thing to do where it was not my own secret. And there were
a good many troubles about it, and they all came so fast, and it made
a great trouble in my mind; and so maybe I made a mistake to say I
would not tell you. But indeed, mamma, I did not mean to be naughty."
"I do not believe you did, my darling; and we will not say another
word about it, except that you may always be sure that the safest
rule is to have no secrets from your mother."
Mrs. Bradford could give a pretty good guess at the cause of Bessie's
trouble, though not, of course, at the particulars. She knew that
her little girl was a great pet and plaything of the elder scholars;
and she saw plainly, from what Bessie had innocently said, that they
were in some scrape into which they had tried to draw the child, or
at least to make her hide it; and, also, that the little one's
honest, truthful spirit had been shocked and grieved at the want of
honour in her schoolmates. Bessie was thoughtful and out of spirits
all day, and really dreaded the coming of school-time the next
morning. But she would not ask her mother to let her stay at home,
for she wanted to know for herself if any further trouble had arisen
about the clock; and, more than this, the brave little soul had a
feeling that, if she stayed away, the girls might think she did so to
avoid any questions, and was afraid to tell the truth.
She wondered how Kate Maynard would meet her, and if she would really
keep her threat of not speaking to her, or noticing her; and it was
with a beating heart that she saw the young lady coming down the
street as she and Maggie went up Mrs. Ashton's stoop the next morning.
But she found that Kate had forgotten her threat, or thought better
of it; for she came up and met her as usual. No, not as usual
either; for Kate's manner was half hesitating and constrained, as if
she were doubtful of the greeting she should receive from Bessie.
Her frolicsome spirits seemed to have flown away; and Maggie, looking
up to the brilliant black eyes, wondered to see how they had lost
their merry light.
Thoughtless and inconsiderate as she was, Kate Maynard was not
accustomed to deceit and meanness, and they sat uneasily upon her
conscience.
The children went to their schoolroom, Kate to hers; and both her
eyes and Bessie's instantly sought the clock. It was gone!
Kate had the back room to herself just then, for those of her class
who had arrived were gathered in the hall or cloak-room; and,
refusing their invitations to join them, she wandered to the window
and stood listlessly gazing out.
Bessie watched her for a moment through the open doors, and then,
going up to her, touched her hand, and said, in a wistful, pleading
tone,--
"Katie?"
There was an unspoken question in the one word, and Kate heard and
felt it. But she had no answer for it, nor could she meet the clear,
steadfast eyes that were raised to her face. She did not withdraw
her hand from Bessie's; but neither did she seem to notice the child,
and stood steadily gazing out of the window, but seeing nothing.
Bessie longed to say something, but she could not seem to find words
for what was in her heart; and, while she hesitated, the other girls
flocked in. Mrs. and Miss Ashton came too; the bell was rung, and
all must go to their seats.
School was opened; but the folding-doors were not closed as usual,
when this was over.
Rapping upon the table with a paper-folder, to call the attention of
all in both the rooms, Mrs. Ashton began,--
"I have a few words to say before the business of the morning
commences; but I would first ask if any one here has a confession to
make to me?"
She paused for a few moments, while a dead silence reigned in both
rooms. Five of the twenty girls gathered there knew well what she
meant, but not a voice broke the stillness; while those who were
ignorant looked from one to another in great astonishment.
Mrs. Ashton went on.
"Yesterday morning the clock, which usually stands upon that
mantelpiece, was in good order. I wound and set it with my own
hands; but at noon it was found to have stopped, thereby, as all of
the older class are aware, misleading Monsieur Gaufrau, and making
him late for his lesson. The clock had been wrong once before, and,
not wishing it should be so again, I took it to the clockmaker. He
examined it before I left the store, and said at once that it had
been seriously injured--so seriously that it was doubtful if it could
be repaired; and that these injuries had come from a fall or heavy
blow, he thought the former; and that it was quite impossible that
the hands, which had stopped at ten minutes past twelve, could have
moved after the works had been so shattered. I must therefore
believe that the injury was received at that time; and that, as some,
if not all of you, were in the room, that there are those among you
who know of it. Most of the little ones had gone home; I think all
but Maggie and Bessie Bradford. Maggie was at her music-lesson;
Bessie could not have reached the clock, and I think,"--she looked
kindly at Bessie,--"I think if any harm had happened to it through
her means, that she would have come at once and confessed it.
Therefore we may put the little girls out of the question; but if any
one among them knows anything and chooses to speak, she may do so,
though I shall not compel her."
Bessie drew a long sigh of relief, and so did more than one of the
elder girls.
Poor little child! She had so dreaded that Mrs. Ashton would ask her
questions to which she felt that she must give a straightforward and
plain answer; or that she would, at least, say something which would
oblige her to speak, and own that she had been in the room and seen
the accident.
And Bessie was as unwilling as any little girl could be to draw upon
herself the ill-will of her schoolmates. She wanted to be loved by
all about her; and, as you know, was an affectionate, clinging child,
accustomed to be petted and treated with all tenderness. So her
little heart had been very downcast at the thought of the cold looks
and words, and unkind behaviour, which she feared would fall to her
share if she should feel herself obliged to tell what she knew; and
she was very grateful to Mrs. Ashton for sparing her from this.
The lady paused again, to give any one who chose to speak the
opportunity to do so; but all were silent.
"I shall put the question to each of you in turn," said Mrs. Ashton,
"trusting that none of you are so hardened as to tell a deliberate
falsehood, however you may have reconciled your consciences to a
deceitful silence. Ella Leroy, did you break the clock, or have you
any knowledge of how it was done?"
Mrs. Ashton's manner was stern, and her tone severe, as they were apt
to be when she was displeased; and all of the little girls felt
thankful that they were not to be questioned. Maggie thought she
could not possibly have answered as much as "No;" and it frightened
her even to hear Mrs. Ashton's voice.
But Ella Leroy answered promptly,--
"No, ma'am."
"Bertha Stockton, do you?"
"No, ma'am."
"Mary Merton, do you?"
"No, ma'am," came, with equal readiness, from Mary's lips.
Bessie's heart beat fast, and for a moment her eyes fell, as though
she herself had been the guilty one.
One or two more answered, with truth, that they knew nothing of the
matter, and then,--
"Fanny Berry?" said Mrs. Ashton.
"No, ma'am," answered Fanny, but not as boldly as Mary had done; for
she was not used to open falsehood, and it did not come readily to
her. Mrs. Ashton looked steadily at her for a moment; then passed on
to the next.
"Kate Maynard?"
To the astonishment of all, to the anger of some, and to the relief
and delight of one little heart, Kate rose slowly, and answered,
"Yes, ma'am."
"You know who did it?"
"I did it myself, madam."
Mrs. Ashton looked grieved, as well as surprised.
"You, Kate? and yet you kept silence when I asked for confession?"
"Yes, ma'am," said Kate steadily, yet not boldly or defiantly, after
her usual manner of receiving reproof from her teachers; "and I am
afraid I should still have kept silence, if you had not asked me so
directly."
"I did not look for this from, you, Kate," said Mrs. Ashton slowly.
"Heedless as I know you to be, I did not believe you capable of even
an acted deceit."
Kate hung her head in shame, thinking that she not only would have
been guilty of this herself, but that she had tried to draw an
innocent young child into the same sin. But the little one had stood
firmly to the right, refusing, in her own simple language, even to
"behave a story." And the trial and temptation had been far greater
in her case than in that of her older schoolmates. The last proof of
her steadfastness had, happily for her, not been needed; but Kate
knew well enough that neither would that have failed, had it been
called for.
"How did it happen?" asked Mrs. Ashton.
"I had the clock in my hands," answered Kate, "and, as I went to put
it in its place, it fell from them."
"And how came you to have the clock in your hands? What were you
doing with it?"
"I wanted to put back the hands."
"And why, may I ask?" said Mrs. Ashton, in astonishment. "Did you
imagine that I should not find that the clock was wrong?"
"I--we--I"--stammered Kate, fearing to betray the others who would
not speak for themselves, and yet feeling that she could scarcely
avoid doing so,--"I wanted Monsieur Gaufrau to be--to think he was
too early, so as to gain a little more time before the French lesson."
"And one acted deceit thus led to another," said Mrs. Ashton. "It is
generally the way. Your lessons were not ready, then, I take it; and
you wished _dishonestly_--yes, _dishonestly_, Kate--to gain more time
to prepare them."
"My lessons for Monsieur Gaufrau were ready," said Kate, in a low
voice.
"Then you have not even this poor excuse, but were guilty of this
foolish deception merely that you might have a few minutes more for
play and idle talk. You will remain and see me after school. Had
any of the others any part in it?"
"Excuse me, madam," said Kate. "I have answered for myself. Allow
the rest to do the same."
Bessie could hardly keep still. Pity for Kate,--for going to Mrs.
Ashton after school seemed a very terrible thing to the little
children, who were all rather in awe of the lady's grave, somewhat
stern manner,--indignation at those who were allowing more than her
own share of blame to fall on her, and the strong desire to come to
her relief by telling what she knew, were almost too much for the
little girl. But she could not break her promise to say nothing
unless she were asked, and so felt obliged to hold her peace.
Mrs. Ashton passed on to the next.
"Julia Grafton, had you any hand in this?"
"I knew of it, ma'am; but I had nothing more than that to do with it."
"Julia forgets," said Kate quickly. "She tried to dissuade me from
it, but I would not listen. She was not at all to blame, Mrs.
Ashton."
Fanny could keep silence no longer; her better feelings mastered her
shame and fear, and, rising, she stammered out, "I--I--Mrs.
Ashton--it was me--my lesson--I was not ready--it was my fault--I
suggested"--and here Fanny's voice was lost amid tears and sobs.
Bessie began to cry too; Maggie put her arms about her and joined in;
and Belle and Lily each put up a grieved lip in sympathy. Miss
Ashton, seeing the disturbed state of her little flock, rose hastily,
and after whispering to her mother, closed the doors; and no more was
heard of what passed in the other room.
Miss Ashton had wished from the first that the older girls should be
examined without the knowledge of the little ones, but her mother had
decided otherwise; and the great Teacher above had overruled her wish
for His own purposes, for He had a little instrument of His own
unconsciously working for Him, and leading a wavering heart into the
ways of truth by the light of her own steady example.
But Miss Ashton, knowing nothing of this, was sorry that her lambs
had heard so much; especially when she found that their minds were
quite distracted, and that it was almost impossible to settle them to
the business of the day. She had to overlook a good many things that
morning.
She was all the more sorry when, as Maggie and Bessie were going
down-stairs with Jane, on their way home, she heard the former say,
"Bessie, I'm not going to say anything unkind about Mrs. Ashton; but
when I say my prayers to-night, I'm just going to tell our Father how
very thankful I am that He did not give her to me for my teacher.
I'm very sure she'd bring down my hair with sorrow to the grave, if
she was."
CHAPTER X.
_A LITTLE LIGHT._
Bessie would have liked to have had a word or two with Kate during
recess, but when she peeped into the other room, she saw all the rest
of the girls gathered around her; and not caring to talk, or to be
talked to by them, she ran away again without being noticed, and
followed her sister down to the music-room.
The girls of the older class were all in a state of great excitement
over the trouble of the morning. Some were anxious, some pitying,
some saying that Mrs. Ashton was making a great fuss about a trifle.
Fanny Berry, who had been weeping and sobbing at intervals through
all the lesson-hours, was now drowned in a fresh flood of tears, and
bewailing her hard fate in having to go to Mrs. Ashton "for a
lecture" after school.
"And I suppose she'll complain to my father too," she moaned. "She
has been saying she would do so the next time any of the masters
reported me; and now she'll tell him this--the hateful old
thing!--and he won't let me go to the birthday party at my aunt's. O
Kate, why did you tell? You promised you would not--you _promised_!
Of course I could not let Mrs. Ashton go on giving you more than your
own share of blame, and so I was forced to speak. It's just as Mary
said it would be if any one told their own part. It must needs bring
the rest into trouble; and after we two had denied it too! You
_ought_ to have stood by us."
"Were you in it too, Mary?" asked Ella Leroy; and she, as well as
most of the others, looked at Mary in shocked surprise. To some of
them it was no very great matter that the four who had had any share
in the accident to the clock should shrink from confessing it, or
even keep silence when Mrs. Ashton had asked who had done it; but a
deliberate denial of their guilt was quite another thing. They
deservedly blamed Fanny for her first falsehood; but they had the
feeling that she had half redeemed her sin when she had, at the risk
of such shame and mortification to herself, acknowledged that, and
her former fault, rather than allow Kate to receive a more severe
reproof than she merited. But Mary, who it seemed had been as much
to blame as the others, had not even then been shamed into telling
the truth, and had still let Mrs. Ashton believe her innocent.
She was heartily ashamed of it now; but she did not choose to let
that be seen, and carried matters with a high hand, tossing her head
and declaring that _she_ was "not going to be such a fool as to get
herself into difficulty just because Kate and Fanny chose to do it."
She reproached Kate bitterly for breaking her promise, and so did
Fanny; both saying that all would have been well if she had not done
so.
"I am sorry," said Kate, taking their upbraidings with a meekness
quite unusual in her. "I am very sorry for the punishment I have
brought upon you, girls; but not sorry that I did not--tell a lie."
"You should have thought of that before," said Mary, "and not let
Fanny and me tell what you so elegantly call a _lie_, and then set
yourself up for being so truthful."
"I do not set myself up for being truthful," said Kate, colouring
deeply; "at least I _have_ not, but, with God's help, I will from
this day," and she looked steadily into Mary's angry face. "I
wish--oh, how I wish!--I had spoken when Mrs. Ashton asked the
general question of the whole class, or that she had asked me first;
and, even to the moment when she called my name, I meant to deny
it--but I could not with Bessie Bradford's eyes upon me."
"Bessie Bradford! little Bessie! and what had she to do with it?"
asked two or three of the girls.
"She had this much to do with it," said Kate, "that she was in the
room yesterday when the clock was broken; and when we resolved to
hide it, we tried to make her as deceitful as ourselves; but we
tempted, threatened, and promised in vain. _She_ was not to be
frightened into wrong for fear of the consequences of doing right;
and, as Julia said, she, baby as she is, shamed us all. Yes, shamed
_me_ at least, and made me feel what a mean coward I was beside her."
"You are a coward, to be sure, if you are afraid of Bessie Bradford,
or what she could do or say," said Mary, pretending to misunderstand
Kate.
"I was not afraid of anything she would say or do," said Kate, not
noticing the contemptuous tone; "but of what she would think of me,
of losing her affection and respect. But"--she went on more slowly,
as if half ashamed, yet determined to speak out--"that was not all I
was afraid of."
"What else, then?" asked Mary,
"Of offending Bessie's Master," said Kate.
She felt it was a bold avowal to make in the presence of all her
classmates--for her who had always been so reckless and careless,
sometimes even irreverent; but she said it, and that with a gravity
which showed she meant it, and that it was no light feeling which had
called it forth.
It was received in astonished silence by the rest. Words like these
were so new from Kate, and there was no need for any one of them to
ask what Master Bessie served. The daily life of the little child
showed to all about her whose work she delighted to do in her own
simple way, which knew no other rule than what would be pleasing and
true to Him.
"But, Kate," said Ella presently, "you don't mean that you call Him
your Master?"
"No," said Kate; "I pretend to nothing of the sort, and you know it;
but when I saw Bessie waiting for my answer, and knew of what and of
whom she was thinking, I could not help feeling that another ear was
listening and waiting too; and so--I dared not. There!" and Kate
drew up her head defiantly. "You may laugh at me, you may sneer at
me, you may call this humbug; but it is what I felt, and why I
answered as I did; and I am not ashamed to own it. I tell you
because you feel, some of you, that I have meanly broken my promise.
It was a _mean_ thing to make it; it would have been meaner to keep
it than it was to break it; and it was better to be false to that
promise than false to my own conscience and to God. But I never
meant to betray any one but myself; and, Fanny, I am only too sorry
if you are worse punished for what I have done;" and she held out her
hand to her schoolmate.
Fanny was vexed as well as distressed, but she could not resist
Kate's frankness; and she laid her hand in hers, saying, "I suppose I
ought not to complain; it was my fault in the first place."
Not one of the girls had laughed, not one had sneered; not one but
had been more or less touched by Kate's unusual earnestness, and the
way in which she had set herself to atone for her past fault.
"Kate would think we were all perfect, if we took Bessie Bradford for
our pattern," said one, half jokingly, but not unkindly.
"Not exactly," said Kate, smiling; "but I believe if we took Bessie's
standard of right and wrong, and tried to follow it as truly as she
does, we should not go far out of the way. I would not be ashamed to
have it said that I had profited by such an example. If her light is
a little one, it burns very clearly."
"But if Bessie had been guilty herself, do you believe it would have
been so impossible to tempt her?" said Fanny. "If she had expected
to be punished, would she have been so ready to confess?"
"Have you forgotten the japonica?" asked Kate. "I thought of that
too."
"What japonica?" said Fanny.
"Oh, true! you were not at school that day," answered Kate, laughing
at the recollection. "I will tell you."
Now this was the story, and, as I know more about it than Kate, I
will tell you myself, instead of giving it in her words; and to do
this, I must go some way back.
Miss Ashton was in the habit of giving a few moments of recreation
during the morning to her four younger scholars. Sometimes, if the
day were pleasant, she let them run on the piazza or in the old
garden; and, when she did this, she used to ring for Marcia, the
coloured servant-girl, to come and help the children put on their
wrappings. Bessie did not like this girl, she could not tell exactly
why; but she had, as yet, never allowed this dislike to make her rude
or unkind to Marcia.
But one day, when she was down in the music-room with Maggie and Miss
Ashton, she saw Marcia do something which she thought gave her good
reason for her dislike. The cook had set a dish of stewed pears on
the edge of the piazza to cool; and Bessie saw Marcia steal out from
the kitchen, and take three of the pears, swallowing them, one after
the other, as fast as possible, and then run away. She told Maggie
of this, but they agreed they would not "tell tales about it" to any
one else.
From that time Bessie would never suffer Marcia to do anything for
her. She would rather stay in the house than allow the girl to put
on her cloak or shoes; rather go thirsty than take a glass of water
from her hand.
One morning, about a week before the affair of the clock, Harry said
at breakfast, "Papa, the police caught a lot of burglars round in the
next street last night."
"What are burglars?" asked Maggie.
"Thieves and robbers, who go about breaking into people's houses, and
taking what does not belong to them," said Harry.
"And did they come into the next street to ours?" asked timid Maggie,
with wide-open eyes.
"Yes; but you needn't be afraid. They wouldn't take you, any way;
and they most always get found out, and taken to prison," said Harry,
thinking more of comforting Maggie than of sticking closely to facts.
"_We_ know a burglar that hasn't been found out, and taken to prison;
don't we, Maggie?" said Bessie gravely. "She _burgles_ very badly
too, and when she has done, she licks her fingers."
The boys shouted, and the grown people could not help laughing too.
"Don't be vexed, little daughter," said papa, as he saw the cloud of
displeasure overshadow Bessie's face. "Come and sit here on my knee,
and tell us what your burglar did."
"She's not mine at all, papa; and I am glad she is not, for I don't
like her, and she is wicked too. Mrs. Ashton thinks she is pretty
good, but she went and burgled three pears out of the dish, and ate
them right up."
The boys were more amused than ever, and kept up their laughter till
their father told them the joke had lasted long enough; but he had so
much difficulty in keeping his own face straight as he thought of
Bessie's indignant tone and look, and of the way in which she had
used the word, that he did not try to explain its proper meaning to
her just then; and, smiling, he kissed her, and said gently, "If she
goes on doing such things, Bessie, she will be found out in time, and
punished too, though she may not be taken to prison."
When the little girls went to school, they found Mrs. Ashton in the
cloak-room, tending a stand of plants which she had just placed in
the window.
"I hope none of you will hurt my plants," she said. "They need the
sun, and this is the best place for them, so I shall trust that you
will be careful and not touch them. There, I shall put this bench
here, and none of you must go on the other side of it. I would not
have them broken for a great deal, especially this white japonica."
The one pure white blossom upon the plant was certainly a beauty, and
the children did not wonder that Mrs. Ashton was choice of it.
The day was so mild and lovely that, when Miss Ashton sent the little
ones out for their fifteen minutes' play, she told them that they had
all better put their things on, and run out in the fresh air; and, as
usual on such occasions, she rang for Marcia to come and help them.
Bessie would not let the coloured girl do anything for her; but, as
she was very anxious to go in the garden with her playmates, she
tried her best to put on her own things. With Belle's help she
contrived to put on her hat and cloak; but, even with the aid of the
other two, it was found next to impossible to manage those
troublesome leggings with all their numberless buttons; and it took
so long that, at last, Miss Ashton, hearing their voices, came to
tell them that they were losing too much time, and must go down at
once.
She found Bessie sitting on the bench which stood before the flowers,
and the other three little girls all tugging and pulling away at one
legging, while Marcia stood leaning against the door and laughing.
"Bessie," said the lady, "why do you not let Marcia do that for you?
I want you to go down right away."
"I don't want Marcia to do it," answered Bessie.
"You must let her, or else stay in the house," said Miss Ashton. "I
cannot have the others kept from their play to help you."
"We like to help her," said Belle.
"You must go out at once, Bessie. Will you let Marcia help you, or
no?"
"No," said Bessie, with a pout; for she was not in a good humour that
morning, and she felt as if her dislike to Marcia was very strong.
"She shan't touch me, and I'd rather stay in the house."
"Very well," said Miss Ashton. "I am sorry you are so naughty, but
the rest must go."
She sent the others away, and Marcia after them, and went back to her
room, leaving Bessie alone. The little girl sat still for two or
three moments, feeling very angry, and swelling with pride and
impatience; thinking that Miss Ashton was very unkind, and Marcia,
oh, so wicked! and that she wished she had never come to school, even
for Maggie's sake.
Presently she saw the coloured girl's head peeping round the door at
her. Marcia was good-natured, if she was not very trustworthy; and
she felt sorry when she thought of Bessie sitting there all alone,
and so she had come back to see if the little lady would not be glad
of her help after all.
"Go away," said Bessie angrily.
"Don't little miss want Marcia put 'em on now?" said Marcia.
"No, I don't; go away," said Bessie; and as she spoke, she raised one
of her leggings which she held in her hand, as though she would have
thrown it at Marcia. The girl laughed and disappeared, leaving
Bessie feeling, the next instant, very much ashamed; and then a very
sad thing happened.
The legging had caught on something behind her, and she turned her
head to see what held it, giving it at the same time an impatient
little pull. One of the buttons had caught upon the stem of the
japonica; and alas, alas! as Bessie twitched it away, the white
blossom was broken short off, and fell upon the floor! Ah, how
frightened the poor child was when she saw what she had done! The
flower had fallen behind the window-curtain, where it might have lain
for a long time without being noticed; and, with all the people who
were going and coming in this room, it might easily have seemed that
it had been broken without the knowledge of the person who did it.
But no thought of concealment entered Bessie's little heart; and,
after one moment's pause of astonishment and alarm, she picked up the
broken flower, and ran with it to Mrs. Ashton's room.
The lady was just preparing to hear a recitation, when a fumbling was
heard at the lock, as though a small hand were trying to turn it;
then the door opened, and Bessie appeared. One hand was held behind
her; and she stood looking up at Mrs. Ashton, with her colour coming
and going.
"Well, Bessie, what is it?" asked Mrs. Ashton.
"Ma'am," said Bessie, and then she stopped, and drew a long breath.
"Have you any message?" asked Mrs. Ashton, who was near-sighted, and
did not notice the expression of the child's face.
"No, ma'am," said Bessie; "but"--
"Then run away. Why do you interrupt us now?"
"Because I have to make trouble for you, ma'am," said the poor little
thing.
"That is just what I do not wish you to do. If you have anything to
say, you may tell me by and by."
"I'll have to tell you now, or you might think somebody else did it,"
said Bessie; and, as she spoke, she drew her hand from behind her,
and showed the broken flower. "I'm very sorry, ma'am, but I broke
your flower."
Mrs. Ashton's pale face flushed angrily, then grew calm again.
"How did that happen, Bessie? Did I not tell you not to touch the
flowers?"
"Yes, ma'am," answered the child, the tears beginning to run slowly
down her cheeks; "and I didn't mean to touch them, and I didn't go on
the other side of the bench. It was with my legging--I don't quite
know how; but it was 'cause I was naughty. I was mad with Marcia,
and was going to throw my legging at her; and somehow it knocked the
flower and broke it. But I know I did it; and I thought I ought to
tell you very quick, or you might think it was Marcia, or some one
else."
"I am glad you are so honest, Bessie," said Mrs. Ashton. "Put the
flower down, and I will talk to you about it by and by."
Bessie laid the japonica on the table, and turned to go, then turned
back again.
"Ma'am," she said, "if you are going to scold me, would you have
objections to do it now? I guess the young ladies would just as lief
wait, and I don't like to think about it so long."
The young ladies had all been listening to the child, and feeling
great sympathy for her in her trouble; while they could not help
admiring her straightforward truthfulness and generous fear lest
another should be blamed for her fault; but at this speech every book
in the class went up before the owner's face to hide the smiles which
could not be repressed. Even the corners of Mrs. Ashton's grave
mouth gave way a little.
"I am not going to scold you, Bessie," she said. "I will never scold
any one who truthfully confesses an accident; so I shall say no more
about the flower. But what makes you so pettish and unkind to
Marcia? You do not behave well to her. Has she done anything to
you?"
"No, ma'am, not to me," said Bessie, drying her tears.
"To Maggie or Belle then? I know she is mischievous sometimes, and I
will not let her annoy you; but you must not behave so to her."
"She did not annoy any of us, ma'am. She is very good to us, only I
don't let her help me."
"Why not, if she does not trouble you?"
"I can't approve her; she is too wicked," said Bessie.
"What makes you think so?" asked the lady, who saw there was
something at the bottom of all this, and thought it better to settle
the difficulty at once.
"She is a burglar," said Bessie solemnly.
"A _what_?" exclaimed Mrs. Ashton.
Now, as we know, our Maggie and Bessie were both fond of a long word;
and as soon as they understood, or thought they understood, the
meaning of one, put it in use on every occasion. And, besides,
Bessie thought it sounded better to ears polite to use the new one
she had heard that morning, than it did to say _thief_ or steal; so
she answered,--
"She is, ma'am. Maybe you don't know it, but she is a burglar. I
saw her burgle three pears out of your dish; and she put her fingers
in the dish too, and then licked every one of them."
The emphatic tone of disgust in which these last words were uttered,
and the expression of the child's face, told that the uncleanliness
of the trick, as well as its sinfulness, had gone far to horrify her.
The whole thing--look, tone, and words--was irresistible. All
discipline was at an end; and Mrs. Ashton herself could not help
joining in the merry laugh that was raised by the class.
Bessie would have been angry again; but the thought of her late
passion, its sad consequences, and her present repentance, kept her
temper in check, and she stood silent. Mrs. Ashton recollected
herself, and raised a warning finger to the amused line of girls
before her, as she saw Bessie's disturbed face; and, drawing the
child to her, she kissed the grieved lips, and said kindly,--
"I am sorry Marcia did such a naughty thing, Bessie; but she has not
been as well taught as some of us, and we all do wrong sometimes, and
need forgiveness from one another as well as from God."
"Yes, ma'am," answered Bessie meekly, "and I was very naughty to be
so angry. Please to 'scuse me, and I'll try not to be cross to
Marcia again. And I'm very sorry about your flower."
"I shall not care about my flower if it serves to teach you a
lesson," said the lady. "That is quite forgiven; and you need not
distress yourself over it. Now you may go."
Bessie drew Mrs. Ashton's head down to her.
"And may I go and tell Marcia I am sorry I was so angry with her?"
she whispered.
"Certainly," said Mrs. Ashton; and Bessie went away.
Mrs. Ashton waited a moment till her class had settled into quiet,
and then, taking up the broken flower, she said,--
"I do not regret the time spared from the recitation which this
little incident has occupied. The loss of my flower has furnished
lessons to more than little Bessie; lessons which we will all do well
to lay to heart, and which may prove of far more value than that
which we should have learned from our books. I trust they may not be
lost."
So much of all this as had come to her own knowledge Kate told to
Fanny, who laughed with the others, but found in the story fresh
cause to feel ashamed that she had been so far outdone in truth and
generosity by a little child.
The dreaded interview with Mrs. Ashton took place after school. Kate
and Fanny found her more grieved than angry, more hurt at their
deceit and want of confidence in her than at the injury to her clock.
She talked long and seriously to them, not failing to point out the
difference between their conduct and that of little Bessie; and she
was both touched and gratified when Kate told, not without tears, of
the part they had acted towards the child, and of the influence of
the little one's example in leading her to confession and repentance.
Mrs. Ashton told the girls that she should inflict no further
punishment upon them than an apology to Monsieur Gaufrau, and a
confession of the deception that had been practised upon him; and she
was still better pleased when Kate told her that this had already
been done, and that she had, in her own name and Fanny's, begged his
pardon before the whole class.
"For," said she, with many blushes, "as long as I had started on the
right track, I thought I would not stop half-way."
"Then do not stop half-way, and do not turn back, my child," said
Mrs. Ashton, holding out her hand to the young girl; "you have
farther, much farther to go, Kate, before you reach the goal. Oh,
take heed that your steps turn neither to the right nor to the left
from the way of truth and uprightness."
CHAPTER XI.
_ABOUT OUR FATHER'S WORK._
"Up, up," said the baby, "up, up."
Baby sat upon the hearth-rug in her mother's room, with her
playthings about her; and Maggie sat beside her, writing away upon
her slate.
If you had asked Maggie what she was doing, she would probably have
said, "Taking care of baby;" for that was what her mother had asked
her to do, and what she really believed herself to be doing. But
perhaps baby would have given a different opinion.
"Up, up, wee, wee," said the little one again, pulling away at
Maggie's skirt.
"Yes, darling, by and by. Oh, see, see baby's pretty dolly!" and,
putting the doll in her little sister's lap, Maggie turned again to
her slate. Baby took dolly by the heels and thumped her head upon
the floor--it was well dolly was not subject to headaches; then she
scolded her, then kissed her, and sung and petted her to sleep, then
put the doll's cool china head in her own heated little mouth; and at
last, tiring of all these, threw her down, and took hold of Maggie
again with that pitiful, beseeching, "Up, up."
"Now, Maggie, dear, just put by your writing, and take baby up, and
tell her 'the little pig that went to market,'" said nurse. "She's
fretful with her teeth, and they hurt her so this morning. Yes, my
pet; your Mammy will take ye, and tell ye pigs without end, as soon
as she gets this naughty boy dressed."
The naughty boy was Frankie, who had undertaken to give baby's woolly
lamb a shower-bath, and, not being able to reach the faucet, had
climbed into the bath-tub, where he had turned it to such purpose as
to shower, not only the lamb, but himself from head to foot. Frankie
was too well used to the consequences of such pranks to mind them
very much; but, as usual, he had chosen a time when it was not very
convenient to attend to him.
This was Saturday morning. Jane was sweeping the nursery, nurse
sorting the clean clothes, Mrs. Bradford petting her fretful baby,
and Maggie very busy over that prize composition; while Bessie was in
her own room, dressing the dolls and putting the baby-house in order;
for Belle Powers and Lily Norris were coming to spend the day, and
all must be ready for them. So every one was very busy, and that, of
course, must be the time for Frankie to get into mischief.
Then, just as nurse began to take off his wet clothes, a lady came to
see Mrs. Bradford on business, and she had to go down-stairs; so,
putting baby down on the rug, mamma told Maggie to amuse her till she
came back. But Maggie, having brought some toys for her little
sister, thought she had done enough, and went on with her writing.
But baby was not in a mood to amuse herself. She wanted to be taken
up, and told that wonderful story about the well-known family of
little pigs, which mamma had been telling upon her tiny fingers when
she was called away.
And Maggie?
Maggie was trying to make two things agree, her duty and her
inclination. Sometimes these go very well together; but on this
occasion they did not. Maggie strove to persuade herself that the
last was the first; but neither baby, nurse, nor her conscience would
let her deceive herself so, and she did not feel well pleased with
either of the three monitors.
"I'll take her when I've finished this idea," said Maggie. "There,
baby, play with the pretty blocks."
"Bad bocky," said baby, striking out with her little foot at the pile
of blocks before her. Just then Bessie peeped around the door; and
seeing that the baby was restless and discontented, and nurse busy,
she came to do what she could for her little sister's amusement.
"Bessie make her nice house," she said, thinking that was what the
child wanted; and she began piling the blocks on one another in a
tower, which baby was to have the pleasure of knocking down when it
should be finished, talking to her the while in a coaxing, chirruping
voice.
Baby put three fingers into her mouth, and sat watching Bessie for a
few moments, when, suddenly bethinking herself once more of the
adventures of those famous pigs, and of the coveted seat upon
Maggie's lap, she dashed over the half-built tower, and, turning
again towards Maggie, fretted, "Up, up, wee, up."
Bessie, willing to save Maggie from interruption, took the small hand
in her own, and began the oft-repeated tale; but neither did this
answer. Baby, like many older people when they are sick,--aye, and
when they are well too,--was not to be satisfied with anything but
that on which she had, for the moment, set her fancy. Maggie's lap
and Maggie's attention were the only things that could please her
just then, and she could see no reason why she should not have them.
"Oh, you little bother! I shan't take you, and you can just let
Bessie play with you, now!" said Maggie; "I am not going to stop my
work just for such nonsense. Bessie can tell the pig that 'went to
market' as well as I can; and she is not busy."
Baby might not understand the words, but she understood the tone, and
knew very well that she was being scolded; and she put up a pitiful,
grieved lip, which would have made Maggie feel sorry if she had seen
it. But her eyes were bent upon her slate, not once turned towards
little Annie.
Bessie looked from one sister to the other, and then said gently,--
"Maggie, dear, do you think you are doing the work our Father has
given you to do now?"
Maggie coloured, and looked more vexed than she had done before,
hesitated an instant, and then, as the cloud passed from her face,
said,--
"No, Bessie, I am not; but I just will do it;" and in another moment
baby was in the long-wished-for place, and that first little pig who
went to market travelled there so many times that I think he would
have been glad to be the brother who stayed at home.
Mamma came back just as nurse was through with Frankie, and said, as
she took the now contented baby from Maggie, "You are my own dear,
obliging little girl. I was sorry to interrupt you, but you see it
could not be helped."
"But I was not obliging or kind at all, mamma," said Maggie; "at
least, not at first. I felt real provoked 'cause I had to take care
of baby, and I believe I would have let her cry if it hadn't been for
Bessie, who put me in mind I was giving place to my own work, instead
of God's. I s'pose it was God's work to amuse baby, even if it did
not seem half so useful a thing as writing my composition--was it
not, mamma?"
"Certainly, dear; and I am glad you saw that."
"Oh, it was not my praise at all, but Bessie's, mamma. She is an
excellent _reminder_; and if I had not her, I expect I should be an
awful child."
"I trust not, dear," said her mother, smiling.
"But, Maggie, dear," said Bessie, as her sister took up her slate
once more, "I'm 'fraid you have something else to do. I think
Marigold is hungry, and has no seed in his cup. You did not feed him
this morning, did you?"
Maggie uttered an exclamation, and clapping her hand over her mouth,
after the manner of little girls on such occasions, turned to meet
her mother's half-mournful, half-reproachful look, and then ran away
to her own room, followed by Bessie.
Poor little Marigold! It was easy to be seen that he was in a sad
way about something, and a peep into his cage soon showed the cause.
As the children came in, he was making a loud but mournful chirping,
as if he wanted to call attention to himself; and, when he saw them,
he commenced fluttering his wings and stretching out his neck towards
them.
"Oh, you poor little birdie!" said Maggie; "did your naughty,
ought-to-be-ashamed-of-herself Maggie forget all about you this
morning? Yes, Bessie; his seed-cup is empty, and he has not had
fresh water or anything. And it just came 'cause I was in such a
hurry to get to my composition. Oh dear! I wonder if I am too
anxious about it. You see, Bessie, it was this way. When Jane
called me to feed him, I was just going to write, and I did not want
to come at all, and thought I would wait; but then I remembered how
mamma said, if she let me attend to him, I must promise to attend to
him _faithfully_ every morning; so I ran as quick as I could for the
seed-box and a lump of sugar (for I saw yesterday his sugar was all
gone), and I was in such a hurry that I let the box fall, and spilled
all the seed, and it took me so long to pick it up; but all the time
I was thinking about a very good idea I had, and now I remember I
just went and put the box away, and forgot to give Marigold any seed.
And there is the lump of sugar lying on the chair, and his water-cup
is empty too. Poor little fellow! just see how hungry he is, Bessie!
If his instinct tells him it was I who did it to him, I wonder if
he'll forgive me and love me any more."
Marigold was certainly very hungry, but he did not seem to feel
unforgiving, or to bear any grudge against his repentant little
mistress; for, as he picked up seed after seed, and opened them with
his sharp beak, he watched the children with his bright, black eyes
as lovingly as usual, giving, every b and then, when he could spare
the time, a cheerful chirp, which seemed to say, "Thank you; you have
made amends for past neglect."
Maggie and Bessie stood and looked at him till he had made a good
breakfast, and fallen to dressing his feathers, and then ran back to
their mother's room, where the former told her how she had come so
sadly to forget her duty that morning, a duty which she had, with
many pleadings and promises, persuaded mamma to let her undertake,
and which she had, till this unlucky day, never neglected.
"Mamma," she said, "do you think you will have to take away the
charge of Marigold from me?"
"Not now, Maggie," said Mrs. Bradford. "You have been so faithful to
him ever since you had him that I shall not punish you for this one
failure. But it must not happen again, daughter; for, even if I
thought it best to overlook such carelessness, it would be cruel and
wrong for me to let the bird suffer through your fault."
"If I forget him again, mamma, I am sure I shall be very deserving of
having you say Jane must take care of him; but I think this will keep
me in mind. And I see quite well now how being so very anxious about
my prize composition could make me careless about God's work. I have
been in such a hurry with it this morning, because Gracie has a whole
page of hers written, and I did not want her to be so much ahead of
me. For, mamma, all the girls think now that one of us two will have
the prize. None of the others think they have any chance; and I
believe Miss Ashton thinks we are both too anxious about it, for
yesterday Gracie was writing while we were at our arithmetic lesson,
and Miss Ashton told her 'one thing at a time;' and, after school,
she said that she was afraid some of the class were thinking too much
about their compositions when they should be attending to other
things; and I knew she meant Gracie and me, least I'm quite sure she
meant _me_. And I would know it by to-day if I had not known it
before," said Maggie, gravely shaking her head as she thought of her
shortcomings of the morning. "Now, mamma, what plan do you think I
could take to better myself of this?"
Mrs. Bradford could hardly help smiling at the air of grave
importance with which this was said; but she saw that Maggie was
quite in earnest, and meant what she said about correcting herself.
"I think, dear," she answered, "that the best way for you is to make
sure each day that you have done everything else you have to do,
before you take up your composition. When one duty is more pleasant
than another, and one feels that one is apt to give too much place to
it, it is better to put that last, and only to take it up when other
work is done; and perhaps, as you have allowed the composition to
tempt you into wrong more than once this morning, it would be well to
put it away for to-day. I do not say you must do this; but do you
not think it would help you to be more careful another time?"
"Yes'm," said Maggie, rather ruefully, and with a longing look at the
slate; but presently she took it up, and went cheerfully to put it
away.
"Mamma," said Bessie, "I think Maggie is pretty good about her
composition, even if it does make her forget other things sometimes.
She is not half so jealoused about it as I am. Sometimes when I
think about Gracie having the prize, it makes me feel real mad and
cross with her. I don't think she will have it; but then she
_might_, you know; and I don't think I could bear that for Maggie."
"But you must _try_ to be willing, dear," said her mother, "and not
have that feeling towards Gracie. It does not make you act unkindly
to her, does it?"
"It did the other day in school, mamma. She had lost her pencil, and
she asked me to lend her mine; and 'cause I knew she wanted it for
her composition, I spoke very cross, and told her 'No'; but then she
looked so very surprised at me, that I was sorry and gave it to her,
and we kissed and made up. But, mamma, if one of your little girls
did not have a prize, would you not feel pretty mortified?"
"Not in the least, dear, if I thought my little girls had done as
well as they could. If they had been idle or disobedient or
untruthful, and so lost all chance of a prize, then indeed I should
have been mortified and grieved; but, if they had done their best, I
should not feel at all troubled because others had done better."
"And would not papa, mamma?"
"No; he will be quite satisfied if he knows that you have tried to do
what is right."
"I'm 'fraid I shouldn't, mamma," said Bessie, drawing a long sigh;
"if Gracie has the composition prize, not one will come to Maggie or
me; and when I think about it I am quite dis-encouraged."
"But I do not want you to be discouraged, dearest, any more than I
want you to be too eager. How is it that you have no hope of the
other prizes for yourself or Maggie?"
"I could not have the 'perfect-lesson prize,' mamma, 'cause I do not
have so many to say as the others; and Maggie has not had so many
perfect marks as some of the rest."
"But that prize to be given by the choice of the school--has my
Bessie given up all thought of that?" said Mrs. Bradford.
"Not the _thought_ of it, mamma; but I have not a bit of hope of it.
I think maybe Belle will have it; for she has been very good and
sweet most all the time. She does not break the rules, and all the
little girls and the young ladies like her. She says if it comes to
her, she will give it to lame Jemmy, so that will be as good for him
as if one of us had it; but I would have liked to think that Maggie
or I had earned it for him."
"Yes," said Mrs. Bradford, "it would have been very pleasant; and I
should have liked to think that the good behaviour and amiability of
one of my little daughters had been of such service to Jemmy. But
why do you think there is no hope that the prize will come to you,
darling? You have not broken the rules so often, or had any trouble
with your playmates, have you?"
"I don't think I have broken the rules, mamma; but I have been
naughty sometimes. I broke Mrs. Ashton's flower, you know, and two
or three times I was passionate with the girls; but I believe they
don't think about that now, and some of them say they shall vote for
me."
"Most all of them will," said Maggie, who had come back, and now
stood listening; "most all of our class will, and I think a good many
of the young ladies."
"No, not one," said Bessie, shaking her head decidedly.
"I don't see how you can be so sure," said Maggie; "and, Bessie, all
the young ladies are very fond of you; and Miss Julia said you were
the best child in the school."
"They have _reasons_, Maggie," said Bessie gravely; and then, turning
to her mother, she added, "Mamma, don't you think it seems strange
that God sometimes punishes us for doing right."
"I do not think He does, dear. God never punishes us for doing His
will."
"No, mamma. I do not quite mean that. I s'pose _punish_ was not
just the right word; but I mean He lets a great disappointment come
to us sometimes 'cause we try to do what we know is right. When I
was very young, I used to think He always gave people a reward for
doing right; but now I know better than that."
"Suppose you tell me your trouble, dear; and see if I cannot help you
to understand it."
"Yes, mamma," said Bessie thoughtfully. "I think I might, for you
know about the clock from Maggie, and so I shall not be breaking my
promise."
And then she told her mother all about her trial and temptation in
the affair of the broken clock.
Mrs. Bradford heard her in silence, only now and then tenderly
smoothing her hair, or softly patting the little hand which rested on
her knee; but Maggie went into a state of fidgety indignation, which
she could scarcely restrain till the story was finished, when she
broke out with,--
"I knew it! I knew it! I just knew it! That day that you were so
mournful and mysterious, and wouldn't tell even me what ailed you, I
knew those hateful old young ladies had been plaguing you some way;
and I just hope not one of them will have a single prize! And I'm
very much disappointed in Miss Kate. I didn't think she'd be so
mean, even if she does tease."
Disappointed! So was Bessie, more sorely than could be put into
words; and, in spite of Kate's continued, even increased kindness to
her since that day, she could not get back the old feeling of trust
and confidence. And Kate saw it, and grieved over it; and so,
perhaps, the lesson she had received sank deeper into her heart.
"Bessie," said Mrs. Bradford, "is there not one reward of which we
are always sure, if we do our Father's will?"
"Yes, mamma," said the little girl; "you mean, to know He is pleased
with us. But it did seem as if He must be pleased, if I could be
such a good child in school as to gain the prize that would be such a
help to poor Jemmy; and it did seem as if it was very much His work,
and I am very disappointed I could not do it."
"But sometimes, darling, we mean to serve God in one way, and He sees
fit to have us do it in another; and sometimes we are doing His work
and glorifying Him when we do not know it ourselves. Benito did not
know he was carrying his pearls in his bosom, until he went into his
Father's presence."
"No," said Bessie, smiling brightly at her mother's allusion to the
old, well-loved story, and then looking grave again.
Mrs. Bradford saw that she was not quite content, and said,--
"Bessie, can you not feel satisfied to know that you have done more
to serve and honour your Father in heaven by refusing to do evil that
good might come, and holding firmly to the truth, than you would have
done if you had gained fifty prizes for Jemmy?"
"Yes, mamma," said Bessie, brightening again; "and do you think God
gave me that to be my work instead of earning the hospital bed?"
"I am sure of it, dear; and sure also that His blessing has followed
your effort to keep in the way of truth."
"And, mamma, do you know I was thinking--I have to do a good deal of
thinking about this--that even if I had promised to tell a story to
Mrs. Ashton, and the young ladies had voted me the prize, it would
not have been fair, 'cause it was for the best and most truthful
child in the school; and they could not have given it to me for that,
but 'cause I had done them a wicked favour."
"And you would have had no peace or contentment in gaining it so,
darling, even if Jemmy had been cured by this means. And, Bessie, I
am quite sure no one of your schoolmates cares less for you because
you did not suffer them to tempt you into wrong, however vexed they
might have been at the time."
"_I_ care less for _them_," said Maggie, putting her arms around
Bessie's neck; "and I'm just going to let them see it. I shan't
speak to those four girls, or smile at them, but look very offended
every time I see them. And I'm going to persuade all the rest of our
class to be offended with them too."
"I do not want you to repeat this, Maggie," said Mrs. Bradford, to
whom the story was not new, although the children thought it was.
"Mustn't I, mamma?" said Maggie, rather crestfallen. "Well, I
suppose it would be telling tales; so I will just ask the other
children to be offended with the big girls just to oblige me, and for
a good reason that is a secret."
Mrs. Bradford did not make any reply to this. She did not wonder
that Maggie was shocked and indignant; but she knew that her
resentment was never lasting, and that long before Monday morning she
would have thought better of this resolution. Nor was she wrong;
for, having dismissed the children to be dressed before their little
friends came, she overheard Maggie say,--
"Bessie, I guess after all I had better not coax our class to be
offended with those larger girls; you see maybe they have begun to
repent of their meanness, and it might discourage them if they would
like to 'turn over a new leaf.'"
"Yes," said Bessie, "I think so too; and I meant to ask you not to,
Maggie. Let's forgive and forget."
"I'll forgive, and I'll try to forget," said Maggie; "but I'm afraid
that particular will be pretty hard work. But I will say that I hope
perhaps one of them will have a prize after all, and I s'pose that
will be a pretty good way of forgiving."
CHAPTER XII.
_BESSIE'S PARTY._
"We are going to have a party," said Maggie.
"Who? our mamma?" said Nellie Ransom.
"Why, no," said Maggie: "we, Bessie and I. Next Tuesday is Bessie's
birthday, when she will be seven years old; and mamma said we might
have a party."
"Oh, how lovely!" said Dora Johnson; "and will you invite me, Maggie?"
"Well, yes, we will: 'cause mamma said we might have all the class,"
answered Maggie; "but, Dora, you ought not to _ask_ us to invite you."
"Why not?" said Dora.
"Because it is not polite to ask people to invite you to their
houses. We would _have_ to, even if we did not want you, or else
hurt your feelings by telling you we would rather not have you."
"You need not ask me if you don't want to," said Dora, pouting. "I
don't care for going to your old party!"
"But we do want you, and you would like to come," said Bessie
good-naturedly; "for it is going to be very nice, and we are to have
a magic-lantern."
"Oh, how perfectly lovely!" said Fanny Leroy, clapping her hands. "I
never saw a magic-lantern; I'll be sure to come."
"Now, there's another of you," said Maggie, in rather an aggrieved
tone. "You ought not to say you'll come till you're invited. Bessie
and I are going to send you an invitation all written in a note, and
you must answer it in the same way, and not say you'll come
_before-time_. I'm sorry I told you, if you act this way about it."
"When did you say it was to be?" asked Nellie.
"Next Tuesday," said Maggie: "the first of May. That's Bessie's
birthday."
"And that is the day Miss Ashton's uncle is going to give the
prizes," said Gracie Howard.
"Why, so it is!" said Lily Norris. "What a very 'markable day it
will be for us!"
Here the bell rang, and the young voices were all hushed. But, after
school was opened, the children found that one of the expected
"remarkable" events would not, after all, take place on the first day
of May.
"Children," said Miss Ashton, "a letter came from my uncle this
morning, saying that he had been called out of town on very important
business, and so could not be here on Tuesday to present the prizes.
But on the following Thursday he hopes to be at home, and wishes to
have all the compositions handed to him on the evening of that day,
so that he may read them before Friday, when he will be here. We
shall have no regular school on that day, but a little examination
will take the place of the usual lessons; and you may tell such of
your friends as would like to come that we will be happy to see them."
So the giving of the prizes was to be made quite a little affair.
Some of the children were pleased, and some were not; timid Maggie,
and one or two more who were afflicted with that troublesome shyness,
being among the latter number.
But going to school had really proved of service to Maggie in
conquering her extreme bashfulness, as her friends had hoped; and
though her colour might still come and go, and her voice shake
somewhat if a stranger spoke to her, she could now hold up her head,
and answer as became a well-bred and polite little lady. Nor did she
longer let it stand in the way of offering to do a kind thing for
other people if she had the opportunity; but, when that came to her,
tried to forget herself, and to think only of the help she might be.
For, having the will to cure herself, Maggie had succeeded in her
efforts, and her improvement in this respect was much to her credit.
As for Bessie, she cared little, except for Maggie's sake, whether
there were half a dozen or fifty people present, besides those she
called her "own." She was neither a shy nor a bold child; nor was
she vain. But when she had a thing to do, she did it with a
straightforward simplicity and a dignified, ladylike little manner,
which were both amusing and attractive. If she knew the answer to a
question, and that it was right for her to give it, she could do so
almost as readily before a room full of people, as before one or two;
and this was because she did not think of herself, or what people
were thinking of her, but only if the thing were right, and of the
proper way to do it.
Now I would by no means be understood to say that those little people
who are not troubled with timidity themselves should blame or think
hardly of those who suffer from it. It is a part of some natures,
not of others; and those who are free from it should do all they can
to help and encourage those who are not so. But certain it is that
we can do much ourselves toward conquering this troublesome "little
fox;" and, if my young readers could only know how much more happy as
well as useful they may be when free from his vexatious attacks, I am
sure they would do all they could to bury him out of sight and
hearing.
For herself, Bessie had, as we know, no thought of a prize. From the
older girls, influenced by Kate Maynard, she would not, she believed,
receive a single vote. Kate had never withdrawn that threat; indeed,
she had almost forgotten she had ever made it, and it never occurred
to her that Bessie still expected her to act upon it. The little
girls were divided, each one having her own favourite, whom she
thought the most deserving, and for whom she intended to vote; and
Bessie imagined that the only hope of the hospital bed for lame Jemmy
lay with Belle Powers. For Belle was now so much interested in all
that concerned Maggie and Bessie, that she was almost as anxious as
they were to gain it for him; and she had been to Riverside with her
young friends, and seen the lame boy, so that she took an interest in
him on his own account also.
Lily Norris, too, had promised that if this prize came to her, she
would give it to Jemmy; but there was small chance of that. Lily was
a roguish, mischievous little thing, and a great chatterbox; and it
would not do to tell how often she had broken the rules by talking
and laughing aloud at forbidden times, throwing paper-balls, making
faces, and so forth. No, no, _Lily_ would never have the prize for
being the best child in the school.
But in spite of her half-jealousy of Gracie Howard, and her
acknowledgment to her mother that she might possibly earn the
composition prize, Bessie had little doubt in her own mind that it
would fall to Maggie, and thought it rather unreasonable in any one
to expect to carry it away from her. Her own Maggie, who "made up"
such delightful stories and plays, and who had written the "Complete
Family," that wonderful book for which Uncle Ruthven had paid such a
price, could scarcely fail to be the successful one here; and Bessie
had little fear on that score. But she knew that Maggie's pleasure
would be for the moment half destroyed if she were obliged to receive
the prize in the presence of strangers; and she turned to her sister
with a sympathising glance, which was met with a look of the utmost
dismay from Maggie.
But there was one young heart there which was troubled with no such
painful misgivings as poor Maggie's. A vain and ambitious little
heart it was, and rather gloried in the opportunity of displaying its
expected triumphs before a number of admiring eyes.
Gracie Howard was a very clever child, and none knew this better than
herself. It had been often said in her hearing, not by her father
and mother,--for they were too wise to do such a thing,--but by
foolish people who imagined they would please her parents by saying
so, and had no thought of the harm they might be doing the child.
But Mr. and Mrs. Howard would have been far better satisfied to have
their little daughter only half as clever, and to see her modest,
humble, and free from the vanity which was spoiling all the finer
traits of her character. Not that Gracie was a bad child by any
means; on the contrary, she was, in many respects, a very sweet
little girl. But ah, that ugly weed of self-conceit! how many fair
plants and precious seeds it chokes up and keeps out of sight!
Mr. and Mrs. Howard had hoped that by sending her to school, where
she would be thrown with other children, this fault of Gracie's might
be checked. But it had only grown upon her, as they saw with sorrow.
Miss Ashton had a bright set of little girls in her class, but Gracie
was certainly the brightest and quickest among them; and she very
soon became aware of this. She had had more perfect lessons than any
one of the others--that they all knew; and Gracie herself had not the
least doubt that she would also have the best composition, and so
gain both these prizes. She was not at all disturbed by the fact
that all the other children, with whom gentle and modest Maggie was
much more of a favourite than Gracie, declared their belief and hope
that the former would be successful. She took it all good-naturedly,
too well pleased with herself and her own performances to be vexed at
anything they could say; and only answering, with a self-satisfied
shake of the head, that they would "see who was the smartest when the
day came."
She was really fond of Maggie Bradford, and felt sorry for the
disappointment she thought was in store for her, and would have been
glad if two composition prizes had been offered, so that her little
companion might have one, provided that the _first_ came to herself.
Her father and mother would have been better pleased that she should
have had none, and so learned that others could do as well and better
than herself.
The class had a good deal to talk about that day, as soon as school
was over. The arrangements for the prize-day and Bessie's party
occasioned a good deal of chattering. They were all welcome to talk
of the latter as much as they pleased, and to say how delightful it
would be, and how much they expected to enjoy themselves; only, on no
account was any one to say she was coming before she received her
written invitation, and answered it in form. Maggie was very
particular on that point.
The invitations were all sent and accepted in the most ceremonious
manner, and quite to Maggie's satisfaction, on the following day,
which was Saturday.
Even Belle Powers, who came to spend the day with Maggie and Bessie,
received her note the moment she entered the house, and was requested
to answer it before they began to play, which she did on a sheet of
Bessie's stamped paper. To be sure, a slight difficulty arose from
the fact that the initials, B.R.B., did not stand well for Belle
Powers; but that was speedily remedied by Maggie, who, with her usual
readiness for overcoming such obstacles, suggested that they might
for once be supposed to stand for "Beloved, Reasonable Belle;" an
idea which met with the highest approbation from the other children.
Nor was it of the slightest consequence that Maggie was herself
obliged to dictate the words in which the invitation was to be
accepted. It was enough that it was accepted; and, this important
business being satisfactorily concluded, they all went happily to
their play.
Tuesday afternoon came, bringing with it the merry, happy party to
keep Bessie's birthday. Besides her young classmates, there were
half a dozen other little ones; the family from Riverside and from
grandmamma's; Mr. Hall and Mr. Powers; and last and least, but by no
means the person of smallest importance, Mrs. Rush's bright,
three-months-old baby, May Bessie, the "subject" of Maggie's famous
composition, and our Bessie's particular pet and darling.
Bessie had a fancy--no one could tell how it had arisen--that the
baby's pretty second name had been given for her. Perhaps if it had
been necessary to undeceive her, young Mrs. Stanton might have laid
claim to the honour; but, seeing the child's satisfaction in the
idea, no one had the heart to do so. It gave her a special interest
in the baby, and Mrs. Bradford and Colonel Rush were rather glad that
it should be so, for they had feared that Bessie might think the
colonel would care less for her, now that he had a little daughter of
his own to pet and love.
But no shade of that slight feeling of jealousy with which Bessie had
sometimes to do battle seemed to have been called forth by this new
claimant on the hearts of her friends. Her delight in it was pure
and unselfish; and it was for her and Maggie a fresh source of
pleasure whenever they visited Colonel and Mrs. Rush.
And Maggie, partly to please Bessie, partly "for a compliment to
Uncle Horace and Aunt May," had discarded all other subjects of
composition, and taken this dear baby; telling how a little angel had
wandered down from heaven to earth to see if it could be of any use
there, and, falling in with "a brave, lame soldier" and his wife,
concluded that it could not do better than stay and make them happy;
"because they deserved to have a little bit of heaven in their home,"
wrote Maggie.
"A little bit of heaven" the baby had certainly brought with it, as
the darlings usually do; and had Aunt May needed any further reward
than she had already received for the loving teachings she had
bestowed on her young Sunday scholars, she would have found it in the
joy which they took in her joy, and in this pretty, simple story of
Maggie's, which she laughed over and cried over, and then privately
copied, putting the copy carefully away with some other small
treasures which were very dear.
The birthday party could not be expected to go off well, unless that
very considerate "little angel" took part in it; and so Aunt May had
been coaxed to let her come for a short time. And certainly no young
lady ever received a greater share of attention at her first party
than did this little queen, who took it all in the most dignified
manner, and as if it were a thing to which she was quite accustomed.
May Bessie had just been carried away by her nurse, when Gracie
Howard came in, carrying in one hand a lovely bouquet, in the other a
roll of paper neatly tied with a scarlet ribbon. The former she
presented to Bessie; and the other children, supposing the latter to
be some pretty picture, expected to see that placed in the same hands.
But that did not follow; and presently, when Maggie asked, "What
would you all like to play first?" Gracie untied the ribbon, and
said,--
"I've brought my prize composition, and I'll read it aloud. Don't
you want to hear it?"
"No," said Dora Johnson and Mamie Stone; "we don't."
"Oh, but you _must_!" said Gracie, unrolling her paper and jumping
upon a chair.
"Proudy! Proudy!" said Fanny Leroy; "you are always wanting to show
off your own compositions."
"Before I'd think so much of myself!" cried another. But Gracie,
nothing daunted, turned to Bessie and said,--
"You want to hear it, don't you, Bessie? and it's your party."
"No," said Bessie, her politeness struggling with her truthfulness
and resentment at Gracie's vanity, "I don't _want_ to hear it; but
I'll let you read it, if you are so very anxious."
This was permission enough for Gracie; and she read aloud the
composition with an air and tone which seemed to say, "There! do
better than that if you can!"
Maggie and Bessie listened, feeling bound to do so, as Gracie was
company; and, moreover, they both had a strong desire to judge for
themselves if her composition was likely to prove the best. Two or
three of the other little girls remained also from curiosity; but the
most of them walked away in great disgust at Gracie's love of
"showing off."
Several of the grown people were at the other end of the room, and
Gracie raised her voice that they might also have the benefit of her
performance; but, to her great mortification, not one of them seemed
to pay the slightest attention. The truth was, they all heard well
enough, but none of them chose to gratify the conceited little puss
by letting her suppose they were listening.
Maggie's countenance fell as Gracie went on, but Bessie's brightened;
and, at the close, she drew a long breath of satisfaction.
"There!" said Gracie triumphantly; "shan't I have the prize for that?"
"No," said Bessie, "I don't believe you will. It is very nice,
Gracie, but my Maggie's is a great deal better--oh yes, a _great
deal_ better! It is beautiful! I'm sorry for you, if you're
disappointed; but I know hers is the best, and I'm very glad for
Maggie."
"You'd better not be so sure I'll be disappointed," said Gracie.
Bessie did not answer; but the very satisfied look with which she
turned to her sister provoked Gracie.
"You think Maggie is so great!" she said.
"Yes, I _do_," answered Bessie defiantly.
"And I'd rather think my sister great than think myself great," said
Nellie Ransom.
Here Mrs. Bradford, hearing that the young voices were not very
good-natured in their tones, came to prevent a quarrel; and Annie
Stanton, following, proposed a game of hide-and-seek. It was readily
agreed to, and peace was restored.
The game went on for some time with great success, and at last it
came to Bessie's turn to be hidden. Sending the seekers to their
gathering place in the dining-room, Aunt Annie took her to the
library, and hid her snugly away in a corner behind a tall pedestal,
drawing the window-curtain about it so as to conceal her still
further.
As Bessie lay there, listening to the voices of the other children as
they wandered, now nearer, now farther off, in their search for her,
her Uncle Ruthven and Colonel Rush came into the library, and placed
themselves by the window near which she lay hidden.
"I'm here in the corner, Uncle Ruthven; but please don't take any
notice, for fear the other children know," she whispered, but so
softly that neither of the gentlemen heard her, and went on talking
without knowing who was near them.
"That little Howard is an uncommonly clever child," said Mr. Stanton
presently. "That composition is quite beyond her years."
"H'm!" said the colonel; "conceited little monkey!"
"Yes," said Mr. Stanton; "it is really painful to see an otherwise
pleasant child so pert and forward."
"It is a great pity," said the colonel, "a great pity. I hope her
self-conceit may not be encouraged by receiving the prize."
"I have no doubt that it will fall to her," said Uncle Ruthven. "You
must acknowledge that, pretty as our Maggie's composition is, this of
Gracie's goes before it in all those particulars which would be
likely to take a prize."
"Yes," answered Colonel Rush reluctantly, "I suppose it does. I do
not know that I should be an unprejudiced judge in this matter, owing
to my special interest in Maggie's subject," he added, laughing; "and
the simplicity and poetry of her little story have gone very close to
my heart. But, apart from this, I do not think it will be well for
Gracie to gain the prize; though I fear with you that she will be the
successful candidate."
Bessie did not know what "candidate" meant; but she understood very
well that her uncle and the colonel thought that Gracie would gain
the prize; and who could be better judges than they?
She sat motionless with grief and amazement, forgetting her game,
forgetting everything but Maggie's disappointment and her own. She
did not hear anything more that was said by the two gentlemen; she
did not notice when Uncle Ruthven opened the window, and they both
stepped out upon the piazza; and when, a moment later, Lily Norris
drew aside the curtain, and joyfully exclaimed, "Here she is!" Bessie
felt almost angry that she was forced to come forth from her
hiding-place.
She was not cross, however; she did not even let the tears find way;
but her pleasure in her birthday party was quite gone. Not even that
wonderful magic-lantern, which was displayed as soon as it was dark,
to the great delight of the other children, could give her any
satisfaction; and it was impossible to look at the troubled little
face without seeing that something had happened greatly to disturb
her.
But she could not be persuaded to say what ailed her, till all the
young guests had gone, and mamma had taken her up-stairs, when she
repeated, as nearly as she could, what her uncle and Colonel Bush had
said.
Maggie, too, was dismayed at this sudden downfall of her hopes; for
she agreed with Bessie that Uncle Ruthven and the colonel must know;
and their mother, who had also heard Gracie's composition, could not
encourage them by giving a contrary opinion.
"I must really say, dear Maggie," she said, "that I would rather have
yours than Gracie's; but I think that hers is almost sure to be the
successful one."
"And all Maggie's pains are lost," said Bessie mournfully.
"Not at all, dear. Maggie has done all she could be asked to do, her
very best; and it is no fault of hers if another has in some respects
done better. And her pains are by no means thrown away, if it were
only for the pleasure her story has given to our dear Colonel and
Mrs. Bush."
"Then I'm glad I took them," said Maggie; "but oh, mamma!" and she
ended with a long sigh.
"So am I," said Bessie; "and I know the colonel thinks your
composition is splendid, Maggie; and he would rather you should have
the prize."
"I was afraid when I heard Gracie read hers," said Maggie. "It
sounded so much more grown-up-y than mine. Mamma, did it make you
feel sorry, too?"
"No, darling. I will tell you what I felt: that I would rather have
my own Maggie as she is, even without the slightest hope of a prize,
than to see her vain and forward, and winning the richest of earthly
rewards."
CHAPTER XIII.
_LOST AND FOUND._
The children were just ready to start for school the next morning,
and papa had promised to walk as far as Mrs. Ashton's door with them,
when there was a violent ringing at the hell; and, when the front
door was opened, in rushed Gracie Howard, flushed and excited, and
with her face wearing the marks of a hard fit of crying.
Her father followed her.
"Oh," exclaimed Gracie, without waiting to say "good-morning"
herself, or allowing any one else to do so, "have you seen it? have
you seen it?"
"Seen what?" asked Maggie and Bessie in a breath.
"There!" said Gracie, bursting into tears again; "I knew it! oh, I
just knew it! I told you I was sure I brought it away with me, papa."
"What is the trouble?" asked Mr. Bradford, shaking hands with Mr.
Howard.
"She has lost her composition," answered Mr. Howard. "It seems she
brought it here yesterday afternoon, with the purpose, I am sorry to
say, of making a display of it to her young companions; and this
morning it was missing. She is quite positive she had it in her
hands when she left your house, but does not recollect bringing it as
far as our own; and her mother, who took off her cloak as soon as she
came home, says she is quite sure Gracie carried no composition.
But, although the child is so confident, I thought she might be
mistaken, and find she had left it here. Good-morning, madam:" this
to Mrs. Bradford, who had been called into the hall by Gracie's
cries; and the difficulty was next explained to her.
"I believe Gracie is right," said the lady. "She left the paper
lying on the library table, and, seeing it there just as she was
going away, I brought it out and gave it to her. I do not think she
can have left it here; but I will inquire if the servants have seen
it."
The servants were questioned, but all declared they had seen nothing
of the missing paper; and it seemed that Gracie must have lost it in
the street. She moaned and sobbed and cried as if she had lost all
the world held dear for her, and would not listen to a word of
comfort. She thrust the children from her when they would have
offered her their sympathy, saying she knew they were "glad, because
now Maggie could have the prize;" nor would she listen to her
father's entreaties and commands that she should be silent, although,
at last, he spoke very severely to her, and was obliged to take her
home, in spite of its being nearly school-time. She was in no state
for school just then.
Maggie walked slowly by her father's side on the way to Mrs.
Ashton's, not skipping and jumping as usual; and, when they reached
the stoop, she seized hold of him, and said,--
"Papa, I'm afraid I feel glad about Gracie's composition. Do you
think I am dreadfully awful?"
"No," said papa, smiling; "I do not. But if I were you, Maggie, I
would not say 'awful' so much. That is something you have learned at
school, which I should be glad to have you unlearn as soon as
possible. But as to the composition--well, I suppose you could
scarcely be expected to feel otherwise;" and Mr. Bradford smiled
again as he thought that if he were questioned he might be obliged to
confess to a share in Maggie's feelings. "I believe it is only
natural, dear; but I hope you will not let Gracie see it."
"Oh no, papa!" said Maggie; "I hope I wouldn't be so mean as that. I
do feel sorry for Gracie, even if I am glad for myself to have a
better chance."
"And we'll try to be kinder to Gracie too, so she'll have no reason
to think we're not sorry for her," said Bessie.
All this had made our little girls rather later than usual; and they
had to take their places immediately, so that there was no
opportunity to tell the news until school had been opened, when Miss
Ashton, seeing Gracie was not present, turned to Maggie and said,--
"Gracie is absent. Did you make her sick at your party last night,
Maggie?"
Then Maggie told of Gracie's loss; and two or three of the children
said they remembered quite well that Mrs. Bradford had come into the
hall, and handed Gracie her paper just before she went away.
The child came in a little later, looking the very picture of woe,
and bringing an excuse for tardiness from her mother. But she was in
no mood to meet any extra kindness in a grateful spirit; and showed
herself altogether so pettish and disagreeable that Miss Ashton was
more than once obliged to call her to order. Then she cried afresh,
and said that every one was "hateful," and no one cared for her, and
that she just believed they would not tell her if they knew where her
composition was.
"Come here, Gracie," said Miss Ashton; and Gracie went slowly and
reluctantly to her teacher's side. "Do you really think, if any of
your schoolmates knew where your composition was, they would not tell
you?" said the lady.
Gracie put up her shoulder, hung her head, and fidgeted from one foot
to another; but Miss Ashton repeated her question.
Then, her ill-temper getting the upper hand of all her better
feelings, she answered sulkily,--
"I don't believe Maggie or Bessie would. I know they are just glad
enough."
"O-o-o-o-h! o-o-o-o-h! What a shame!" and such exclamations broke
from the other children. But Miss Ashton commanded silence.
"That is a grave charge to bring against any one, Gracie, and
especially against those who have been your friends for so long,"
said the lady. "I am ashamed of you."
And Gracie was ashamed of herself, though she would not acknowledge
it; but only pouted the more at Miss Ashton's gentle reproof.
"Now, my dear," said the lady, "I cannot have you behaving in this
way. You are interfering with the peace and comfort of the whole
class; and, unless you can make up your mind to be reasonable, you
must go and sit by yourself in the cloak-room."
Foolish Gracie! she chose the latter, and went away by herself to
nurse her ill-humour and disappointed vanity.
There was no time now to write another composition. The rough sketch
of the first she had thrown into the fire, thinking she would never
need it again; and Gracie did not find her trouble easier to bear
because it was, as her father had told her, the result of her own
love of display.
Maggie and Bessie were both hurt and indignant at her injustice; but
they knew she would be sorry for it when she was in a more reasonable
humour, and would not agree to Belle's proposal that "the whole class
should be mad with her as long as they lived."
Although Mrs. Bradford felt almost sure that Gracie had taken the
missing paper away with her, and lost it on the way home, she had a
thorough search made for it, but all in vain.
Harry and Fred, the latter especially, were openly jubilant over the
loss, imagining, as every one else did, that this left a clear field
for Maggie; and declared that "it served Miss Vanity right, and they
were not a bit sorry for her."
That evening Mr. and Mrs. Bradford went out to dinner, leaving the
children quietly amusing themselves in the library. Harry was
reading aloud to his little sisters; while Fred was busy with some
wax flowers, at which pretty work he was quite expert.
Flossy, not quite approving of such quiet doings, sat on the corner
of Maggie's chair; but, had any one of the four been at leisure to
notice him, they would have seen that he was watching his chance for
any bit of mischief which might lead to a frolic.
Fred had spread a paper upon the table, so that the blue cloth with
which it was covered might not become soiled with the wax and other
materials with which he was busy. He was generally ready enough to
indulge Flossy with a game of play; and the dog, finding that he
could attract attention in no other way, suddenly jumped up, and
seized the corner of the paper, dragging it half off the table, and
upsetting a little saucer of pink powder with which Fred was
colouring the rose he was making.
Fred was provoked, and sent him off with a cuff upon his ear, instead
of the romp he had been looking for; then set about repairing the
damage he had caused as speedily as possible, his brother and sisters
coming to his help.
Some of the pink powder had gone upon the table, and, though Harry
took it up carefully with a paper-knife, it left its traces behind.
"Oh, won't Patrick be in a taking when he sees the table?" said Fred.
"It will come off, I guess," said Harry. "Let's brush it up, so as
not to vex his old soul. Bessie, run and bring the whisk brush out
of the drawer in the hall table, that's a pet."
Away ran Bessie into the hall, and, going to the table, pulled open
the drawer. As she did so, she heard something slip, with a little
rustle like that of paper; but she did not pay much attention to it
till she tried to shut the drawer, and found that there was something
in the way which prevented it from closing tight.
Many children would have run away without waiting to see what was
wrong, but that did not suit at all with Bessie's neat, orderly ways.
Once more she pulled out the drawer, which moved stiffly as if it
caught upon something, and peeped within. At first she could not see
anything; and she drew it farther out. Again there came that rustle
of paper; and, as she peered in, there, over the back of the drawer,
half in, half out, was something white, with--Bessie could not see
very distinctly, and she would not venture another glance--with
something that looked as if it might be an end of scarlet ribbon
hanging from it. She started, shut up the drawer hastily, thrusting
it as far in as she could, and ran back to the library with her heart
beating fast.
"Hallo!" said Fred, as he put out his hand to take the brush from
her, "what has frightened you? You look as if you'd seen something."
"You have no right to say I saw anything," said Bessie, in a tone so
sharp and angry that her brothers and sister looked at her in great
surprise.
"Whew!" said Fred. "You seem to have picked up a fit of crossness
any way. I'd like to know what has come over you so suddenly."
"You can just hush and let me alone," said Bessie, "I'll never bring
you a brush again, Fred;" and then she ran out of the room, and
up-stairs as fast as she could go.
"Well, did you ever?" exclaimed Fred.
"What can ail her?" said Harry. "She surely did not mind going for
the brush?"
"Why, no," answered Fred; "she seemed ready enough; but she came back
the next moment in such a fume, and looking scared out of her wits."
"I'm going to see," said Maggie: "she'll tell me;" and she ran after
Bessie.
But Maggie was mistaken.
She found Bessie in their mother's room, her angry mood passing away;
but she still looked flushed and troubled, and to all Maggie's
anxious questioning she would give no satisfactory answer.
"You must have seen something that frightened you, didn't you,
Bessie?"
"I don't know," answered Bessie: "I was frightened; but I don't know
if I saw what I saw,--I mean I don't know if I saw what I _thought_ I
saw,--and I didn't want to look again."
"Was it a robber?" asked Maggie.
"No," said Bessie. "If it had been a robber, I'd have said, 'Thou
shalt not steal,' and then run for Patrick to take him to the
policeman."
"I guess he wouldn't have waited till Patrick came," said Maggie.
"But tell me about it, Bessie."
"Not now, Maggie. Maybe I'll have to tell you some other time; but
you wouldn't like to hear it, and I'll have to think about it first.
Oh, I do _wish_ mamma was home!"
"Is it a weight on your mind?" asked Maggie, who, as well as her
sister, was very fond of this expression.
Bessie nodded assent with a long and solemn shake of her head.
"I think you might tell _me_," said Maggie.
"I don't mean to keep it secret from you for ever and ever," said
Bessie; "but you see I'm not quite sure about something, and I'm
'fraid I ought to make myself sure. And if I was sure, I would not
know what I ought to do. It is very hard to think what is right
about it."
Maggie looked wonderingly into her sister's puzzled face. What could
have happened to trouble her so in that moment or two she was out in
the hall? But, anxious though she was, she asked no more questions,
knowing that Bessie would tell her this wonderful secret when she was
ready.
"There's the bell for our supper," she said. "Come down, and don't
bother yourself any more about it."
Bessie obeyed the first injunction, but the second was out of her
power. She was no longer cross, however, and begged Fred's pardon
for having spoken so pettishly to him; but she sent away her supper
almost untasted, and continued thoughtful and rather mournful till
her bed-time. She was really glad when that hour came, and she was
safe in bed, when she could think over this troublesome matter in
quiet, and ask for the help which never failed her.
She thought she should stay awake till her mother came home; and, as
she lay tossing and restless, it seemed to her that mamma was staying
away half the night. But, although it was not really so very late,
she had dropped off to sleep before her mother came to see if her
little girls were all safe and quiet for the night; and mamma was
sorry to find Bessie's face and pillow wet with tears.
Nurse could not tell what the trouble had been, only that Bessie had
seemed dull and out of spirits when she put her to bed, and would not
say what ailed her.
The little girl woke very early the next morning, and, finding Maggie
still sleeping, she lay quietly thinking.
Thinking of that which had troubled and puzzled her so last night;
but now it seemed all clear.
She feared that the paper which she had seen in the drawer was
Gracie's composition; but she was not sure; and she had had a hard
struggle with herself, trying to believe that it was not her duty to
go and find out.
A voice had whispered to her, "What is the good of looking? You only
saw a paper which may be Gracie's, and may not be; and it is none of
your business. Just let it alone, and trouble yourself no more about
it. If you found it was really the lost composition, what would you
do then? Go and tell every one, and take away Maggie's chance for
the prize? Remember what your uncle and the colonel said. And does
not every one say that Gracie is only properly punished for her
vanity? Why should you interfere? If you did know that was the
missing paper, is there any reason why you should tell where it is?
If you injure Gracie by keeping it back, do you not injure Maggie by
bringing it to light? Maggie is your sister, your own dear little
sister; and surely you ought to consider her first, and do what is
best for her."
"But," said conscience, "is it right, is it just? How would you feel
towards any one who did this to Maggie? Would you not say they had
acted unfairly and meanly towards her? Would you like your papa or
mamma or any other person to know it? Will Jesus be pleased with
you, and think you are acting as His own little child should do?"
Poor little thing! She was really sorely puzzled. She could not
make it seem right to do what she wished to do, and what seemed to be
best for her sister; and yet how could she make up her mind to do
what appeared so unkind to her own Maggie? Oh, if mamma were only
there to help her to know what was right and best! Well, all she
could do was to tell her all her doubts in the morning.
Such were the thoughts which had disturbed her last night, and called
forth the tears with which mamma had found her pillow wet; but this
morning the struggle was over, and Bessie felt quite sure that there
was only _one_ right thing for her to do.
She lay still till Maggie woke, and then said, "Maggie, are you wide
awake? 'cause I have a bad news to tell you."
Maggie, who was always very wide awake and ready for the day's
business the moment her eyes were opened, answered, eager with
expectation, "Oh, yes! very wide indeed. Is it about what troubled
you last night, Bessie? Tell me quick."
"Yes," said Bessie slowly; "but first I want to ask you something,
dear Maggie. If I had to do a very unkind thing to you, or to some
other person, what would you think I ought to do?"
"Why," said Maggie, sitting up in her little bed, "I would think you
ought to choose that other person to do it to. I'm your sister, you
know," in a tone as if this quite settled the question.
"Yes," said poor Bessie, with a sigh. "But then, Maggie, what if I
thought it most right to do it to you?"
"Well," said Maggie, hugging up her knees, and leaning her chin
against them, while she gazed in surprise at Bessie,--"well, if you
thought such a queer thing as that, why, I'd have to think you were a
little bit crazy, Bessie."
"Yes, if I _wanted_ to do it, Maggie; but, you know, I would rather
do an unkind thing to any one than you. But if it seemed the
_truest_, the _honestest_ way, would you think I was crazy then?"
"Well, no," said Maggie, rather doubtfully; "but I don't see how that
could be, Bessie; and I can't judge much if you don't tell me more
about it."
"Maggie, last night when I went to the drawer in the hall-table, I
saw something there, 'way far back, that looked like a rolled-up
paper."
"Well?" said Maggie.
"And I _think_, but I am not _sure_, that it had a piece of red
ribbon on it; but I did not wait to look again, and shut up the
drawer very quick."
"Oh!" said Maggie, as she released her clasp on her knees, and rolled
over on her pillow; "then that was what ailed you last night, I
s'pose."
"Yes," answered Bessie piteously; "and you know what I thought it
looked like, don't you, Maggie?"
"Well, yes," said Maggie, taking the news much more coolly than
Bessie had supposed she would. "I s'pose you thought it was Gracie's
composition; and it was."
"How do you know?" asked Bessie, starting up.
"'Cause last night I went to put the brush back in the drawer, and
when I pulled it open I heard something rustle, and I peeped in, and
poked till it fell out on the floor; and it was Gracie's paper, all
mussed up and crumpled; I guess it came so, being squeezed up in the
drawer. So you see she didn't take it away with her after all; but I
do wonder how it came there."
"But why didn't you tell me?" asked Bessie.
"Why, I thought you had one unhappiness in your mind already," said
Maggie; "and I knew you would feel rather sorry about this, so I
thought I would not tell you till this morning. But, Bessie, why
didn't you tell me, and why didn't you look again and be sure?"
"'Cause I didn't want to be sure. O Maggie! you were a great deal
better than me. I tried to think I did not know what the paper was,
and that I need not find out if I did not want to, and that it was
not mine to do anything about, and that it would not be right to do
such an unkind thing to you. But all I could do, it would seem as if
it was a kind of a cheat, not very true; and I had to feel as if I
ought to look again, and if it was really Gracie's paper to give it
to her. But I could not help praying a good deal that our Father
would not let it be the composition if He did not think it was very
much the best. I think it was worse than about the hospital bed,
Maggie. I did feel so sure yesterday that you would have the prize
now."
"You darling, precious ducky!" said Maggie, "That was an awful
temptation for you. Oh, I forgot! papa told me not to say 'awful.'
But then that was _really_ awful; so I can say it this time."
"Didn't you feel a bit like hiding it, Maggie?" said Bessie.
"Why, no," said Maggie. "I never thought about its being the
composition, till I picked it up, and saw it was. But I felt as
provoked as anything for a moment--I'm sure I don't know who at;--but
I just felt that if it would not be so awfully--I mean so
dreadfully--mean, I'd just like to tear the composition up. But
after that I was more sensible; and then I remembered about you, and
how you'd be provoked too; so I put the paper back in the drawer, and
thought I'd tell you and mamma this morning, and then we'd take it to
school for Gracie."
"I believe you're just the best, darlingest girl that ever lived!"
exclaimed Bessie, looking at her sister in great admiration and
relief. "And now, dear Maggie, I suppose you know what the unkind
thing was I had to do to you; and you won't think me a bit crazy,
will you?"
"Why, no," said Maggie; "you couldn't help it, you had to do it, so
that I don't see that it was unkind. And, Bessie, you see it was a
great deal harder for you about the temptation than it was for me.
If it had been you that had a chance for the prize, I don't know if I
could have stood it--no, I don't, Bessie. There! mamma is awake. I
hear her talking. Mamma! mamma! can we come in your bed? We have a
discovery to tell you."
Mamma said "yes," and, jumping up, they ran into the other room, and
scrambled into her bed, where the "discovery," and the story of
Bessie's temptation and struggle, were soon told.
"My dear little girls!" said Mrs. Bradford fondly. "I am so
thankful!"
"For what, mamma?" said Maggie, in surprise "You are not glad that
Gracie's composition is found, are you? I thought it was rather a
misfortune; but then, you see, we could not help it?"
"I am not _sorry_," said her mother, "since it has shown me that my
fears were without cause; and that all your anxiety for these prizes
could not make you unfair or ungenerous towards another, or lead
either of you from the ways of truth and uprightness. Yes; I would
rather know this, than that my Maggie and Bessie should gain a
thousand prizes."
It never was found out exactly how the lost paper came in that
drawer. No one could recollect putting it there; and Mrs. Bradford
said Gracie must have laid it on the table after she brought it out
to her, and some person have caught it up with other things, and
thrust it in without noticing it. That drawer had been searched with
other places, but the paper had been pushed out of sight, till Bessie
heard the rustle and discovered it.
CHAPTER XIV.
_THE AWARD._
Gracie was not at school that morning, for the child had actually
cried herself sick on the previous day; but when Maggie gave her own
composition to Miss Ashton to be placed in her uncle's hands, she
gave Gracie's with it, as she knew her little friend would wish.
"And where was it found, dear?" asked Miss Ashton, who stood leaning
against the window of the back room with her arm about Belle Powers'
waist; while most of the girls, large and small, were gathered about
her, enjoying the sweet spring air which came in through the open
sash.
How pleasant the old garden looked this bright May morning, with the
early leaves just budding forth, its peach-trees covered with
delicate pink blossoms, its crocuses, violets, and tulips all in full
bloom, the pigeons dressing their feathers on the stone wall, the
guinea hens and two peacocks strutting about, and the sparrows and
other small birds twittering and hopping among the branches!
Maggie told where and how she had found the paper.
"And were you not put out when you found it?" said Kate Maynard
thoughtlessly.
Maggie looked up into the laughing face, and answered candidly, "Yes,
Miss Kate, I was; but I think I'm over that now."
"Maggie was very good indeed about it, Miss Kate," said Bessie
quickly. "Nobody could be better. Mamma was very much pleased with
her."
"Maggie is just a great deal _too_ good," said Dora Johnson. "She
ought to have left it in the drawer, and not said a word about it.
_I_ would have, and good enough for that proudy."
"Dora," said Miss Ashton, "I do not think you would have done a thing
like that, would you, my dear?"
"Well'm," said Dora, "if it had been for myself, maybe I wouldn't;
but if I had known Gracie's composition was there, I wouldn't have
told her to make a chance against Maggie."
"I wouldn't either," said Bella. "Let's throw it away again, and not
tell Gracie;" and, quick and impulsive as she always was, she
snatched the unlucky paper from Miss Ashton's hand, and tossed it
with all her little strength out of the window.
What would Gracie have said to see her much-thought-of composition so
scornfully handled? But it did not come to much further harm.
Falling upon the roof of the piazza below, it only rolled down to the
edge and lay there.
"No, no, little Belle," said Miss Ashton, speaking in the gentle,
excusing tone which all, teachers and scholars, used to the
motherless child of an over-indulgent, rather spoiling father. "No,
no, little Belle: that is naughty. You would not be unfair to Gracie
even for your favourite Maggie, would you?"
"Yes'm," said Belle decidedly; "I would. Maggie is the best."
"But it is who has the best composition, not who is the best child,"
said Miss Ashton. "And we are not the judges of that; all must have
the same chance."
"I wish I were the judges," said Belle, regardless of grammar; "and I
would give prizes for everything, and all to Maggie and Bessie; but
only one for Miss Ashton," and she patted affectionately the hand
about her waist. "Anyhow, Gracie can't get that now. When it rains,
it will be all spoiled."
The girls laughed at the satisfied tone and nod of the head which
accompanied these words; but Miss Ashton said, "Oh no, Belle! I
shall send Marcia out to pick it up. We must all be just to one
another; must we not, Bessie?" and she smiled into the earnest eyes
which were looking up into hers, though she had no idea of the
struggle which her truthful little scholar had gone through before
she could make up her mind that, justice to Gracie was not something
very like injustice to her own dear Maggie.
"Well," said Kate, laughing and rubbing Maggie's cheeks between her
hands till they were even rosier than was natural to them, "if the
composition prize _were_ to go by favour, we all know who would have
it; do we not, Maggie?"
Yes, this was so; and Gracie, really a pleasant, affectionate child,
had arrayed all her schoolmates against her by her self-conceit and
vanity, till not one of them was ready to be pleased at the
possibility of her gaining the prize.
She lay upon the sofa that afternoon, recovering from the headache
into which she had cried herself. She still looked as if she felt
very wretchedly both in mind and body, and lay idly playing with the
tassels of the sofa-cushions, thinking, thinking of her lost
treasure. Her father sat by the table, writing; her mother by the
window, playing with her little brother.
"Why," said Mrs. Howard, looking out of the window to see what had
called forth such a delighted exclamation from Charlie, "here are
Maggie and Bessie with their nurse. Coming to see why you have not
been to school, I suppose, Gracie."
"I don't want to see them, and I _won't_, now!" said Gracie
pettishly, flouncing herself around. "I know they've come to let me
see how glad they are about to-morrow."
"Gracie," said her father sternly, "I will have no more of this."
Then, more gently, he added, "I do not know you, my daughter, in such
a mood as this. You are not only destroying your own comfort and
that of every one about you, but you are allowing your disappointed
vanity to make you unjust and unkind to your little friends. I wish
you to see Maggie and Bessie, and to receive them as kindly and
politely as you would have done a few days since, before this wicked
jealousy took possession of you."
Gracie was startled, for she was not accustomed to hear her father
speak in this way; indeed, she did not often deserve it, and she was
still crying when Maggie and Bessie came in.
"Poor Gracie!" said Bessie, as soon as she and her sister had spoken
to Mr. and Mrs. Howard; "we were 'fraid you were sick when you didn't
come to school, so we asked mamma to let us come and see you, for we
have some very good news for you."
"What?" said Gracie, looking and speaking as if no news would ever be
good again to her.
"Your composition is found," said Maggie.
"Where is it?" asked Gracie, starting to her feet.
"I s'pose Mr. Ashton has it now," answered Maggie. "I gave it to
Miss Ashton when I found you were not at school, 'cause they all had
to be handed to her uncle this afternoon; and I thought that was what
you would want me to do."
Gracie did not need to meet her father's or mother's accusing eye to
feel how causeless her unjust suspicions had been. Delight at the
recovery of the lost paper was almost overcome by self-reproach and
shame; and her head sank, while a choking feeling in her throat kept
her from speaking her thoughts.
"Where was it found, dear child?" asked Mr. Howard; and Maggie once
more repeated the story.
"Oh, I'm so sorry, so sorry!" said Gracie, throwing an arm about the
neck of each one of her little schoolmates.
"So sorry for what? 'cause your composition is found?" asked the
wondering Bessie.
"No; because I was so naughty and ugly and hateful, and said such
mean things to you and about you," said Gracie, more repentant than
she could find words to tell.
"Oh, never mind now," said Maggie, with sweet forgivingness. "You
wouldn't have said them if you hadn't been so disappointed."
"And, Gracie," said Bessie, "we couldn't help feeling a little glad,
though we were sorry for you. I heard papa tell mamma it was only
human nature, and I s'pose it's to be 'spected you'd have a little
human nature too."
"What is human nature, Bessie?" asked Mr. Howard.
Bessie stood thoughtful a moment, and then answered,--
"I'm not very sure, sir; but I think it means temper and selfishness
and other naughty things that Jesus don't like."[1]
[1] A fact.
Mr. Howard smiled.
"Isn't that right, sir?" asked Bessie, rather anxiously.
"Just about right, dear child," answered the gentleman. "Human
nature is pretty much made up of such things."
"But then Jesus will help us with it, if we go to to Him," said the
child softly to herself, thinking of the battle she had fought with
her own sinful nature, and the victory she had won through the aid of
the Captain she had chosen.
The good news about her composition did much toward helping on
Gracie's recovery; and before Maggie and Bessie went away, she was
quite herself once more, and talking cheerily to them about
to-morrow's expected events.
Mrs. Ashton's schoolrooms were a pretty sight the next morning, for
scarcely a girl in either class but had brought some flowers as a
gift to her teacher, and they were all set forth to deck the rooms.
The girls were all in white, the elder ones with pink ribbons, the
little children with blue to mark their classes; though there was not
much need of this, for the difference in size would have done that
readily enough. But it was a fancy of some of the girls, and as it
put them all in a sort of uniform, and made the rooms look gay, it
was just as well. But the bright young faces, full of pleasure and
good-humour, were the greatest attraction there, and so thought Miss
Ashton as one after another appeared.
The girls all came about two o'clock, though their friends were not
expected till half an hour later.
"Did you ever see a lovelier day?" said Kate Maynard, coming in with
her hands full of lilies of the valley, the sight of which called
forth many an admiring "oh!" and "ah!" from the rest.
"Lovely!" said Julia Grafton; "it is a real genuine poet May-day. No
make-believe spring about this."
"Oh," said Kate, "we ought to have chosen a May Queen, and crowned
her. Why did we not think of it before? Well, it is not too late
now: let us do it, and I will make a crown of these lilies."
The proposal met with general approval.
"Whom shall we choose?" said Fanny Leroy.
"One of the little ones, of course," said Kate, looking round upon
the pleased group of the smaller children who gathered about her to
watch the skilful fingers which were already at work upon the wreath
of lilies.
Belle clapped her hands.
"Maggie, Maggie! let's have Maggie!" she said. "She's the
best-deserving for being so good about Gracie's composition."
"Yes, Maggie," said Gracie, who, feeling sure that she would herself
carry off what she considered the greatest honour of the day, was
glad to have her little friend obtain a lower one. "Let her be May
Queen."
The other children readily agreed, for Maggie's sweet-tempered and
obliging ways had made her a favourite with all the school. She was
not a little pleased; but, when Kate had completed the wreath, her
bashfulness took alarm at the idea of wearing it before all the
ladies and gentlemen, and so exciting notice she might otherwise
escape. It required a good deal of coaxing from all, and some
pretence of hurt feeling on Kate's part, before she could be induced
to put it on; but, after a time, she forgot the honours that had been
forced upon her in the other claims upon her attention.
Only once was she a little disturbed, after they were all in their
places, and their friends had arrived. This was when Bessie, seeing
her mother's eyes fixed with some surprise upon Maggie, thought
herself called upon for an explanation. Placing a hand upon either
side of her mouth, and speaking between them, she said, in a loud
whisper which reached the ears of every one in both rooms, as well as
the one for whom it was intended,--
"She's May Queen, mamma. The girls made her it. Don't she look
lovely?"
A smile passed around the room, and down went her majesty's head in a
style very unbefitting one which wore a crown.
But now all were ready, and the examination began. There is no need
to say much about that, save that it was not long, and, as Mr. Ashton
said, did credit to both teachers and scholars. Next, Mr. Ashton
made a speech, which the children liked all the better because it,
too, was short; and then came the grand business of the day, the
distribution of the prizes.
In the first class, that for composition was bestowed upon Kate
Maynard; that for perfect lessons, upon Julia Grafton.
"Now for our little friends here," said Mr. Ashton, turning to the
younger children. "The greatest number of perfect lessons has been
recited by Miss Gracie Howard. She stands four ahead of any other in
her class; therefore she is justly entitled to the prize;" and he
held towards Gracie a box containing a prettily bound set of those
little library volumes so dear to the eyes and hearts of children.
She rose and came forward to receive it with a self-satisfied air,
which said, as plainly as could be without words, "Only look at me!
Am I not a wonderful child? Do you not envy my father and mother?"
But, in spite of their gratification at her success, her father and
mother did not feel that they were to be envied just then. It was
all spoiled by the little toss of the head, the look which swept the
room seeking for admiration, and the conceited air which were the
outward signs of Gracie's intense vanity; and her mother thought she
would far rather see her as shy and shrinking as Maggie Bradford.
Gracie courtesied when Mr. Ashton placed the books in her hand; and
then stood still as if waiting--for what? So confident did she feel
that the gentleman would, the next moment, call her name again, and
bestow upon her the yet more coveted composition prize--that
beautiful little rosewood writing-desk--that it did not seem worth
while to go back to her seat; and she actually remained waiting for
it, till recalled to herself by Miss Ashton's "Gracie!" and the
motion of her teacher's hand directing her to take her place.
"With regard to the compositions written by this younger class,"
continued Mr. Ashton, "I must say that they are all very well done,
remarkably so for such little girls, and show great pains taken both
by the teacher and the taught. Three of them are so nearly equal in
merit, that I found some difficulty in judging between them."
_Three_! Maggie's must be one; Gracie's another; but whose could the
third be? The children looked from one to another in surprise.
"The one called 'The Angel's Wanderings,'" said Mr. Ashton, "contains
a great deal of poetry and originality;"--some of the little ones
wondered what that long word meant, and the royal eyes peeped up from
under the royal eyelashes, half-shyly, half-delighted--oh, was it
really coming to her?--"but the other two of which I have spoken
excel it in some respects. These are 'Christmas Holidays' and 'A
Sunday Walk;' and this last, written by Miss Nellie Ransom, I have
decided on the whole to be the most worthy of the prize. The
neatness and care with which this paper has been copied and presented
have gone some way in fixing a choice which was somewhat difficult.
Miss Nellie Ransom, my dear."
Nellie Ransom! studious, painstaking, but not remarkably clever
Nellie, whom not one in the school had ever thought of as the winner
of the prize. Even Miss Ashton was rather surprised, though she knew
better what Nellie could do than any of her schoolmates did; but no
one was more astonished than the modest little girl herself. Mr.
Ashton repeated her name more than once, while she sat still in mute
amazement; and, even then, she had to be urged forward by the little
girls on either side of her.
"Don't you hear, Nellie? Go, Nellie. The prize is for you; go take
it, Nellie," was whispered around her before she could collect
herself sufficiently to go up and receive the desk from Mr. Ashton's
hands.
To describe Gracie's astonishment and indignation would be quite
impossible. The pretty reward she had already won had no longer any
charm in her eyes, since that she had regarded as her own was lost to
her. And after all her boasting! Tears of mortification and
disappointment welled up to her eyes, and would not be kept back; and
an angry sob, and a murmur of "It's not fair; mine was the best!"
broke from her.
"Now," said Mr. Ashton, "we are to bestow what I consider the first
prize of the day. You all know what that is; this paper which will
give to her who wins it by the choice of her schoolmates, the power
of doing good to some crippled child. This choice, I trust, will be
made fairly and honestly, without partiality. I want it given to the
young lady whom you all feel most truly deserves it, though she may
not perhaps be the one for whom you care most. All you little ones
understand me, do you not? Now, will each one write upon a slip of
paper the name of the girl to whom her vote is given, and we will see
who has the greatest number."
Twenty heads were presently bent over as many slips of paper; but
directly Bessie rose to her feet and stood looking at Miss Ashton as
if she wished permission to speak.
"Well, Bessie, what is it?" asked the young lady, wondering what was
coming now, as she saw the grave, earnest face of the little girl.
"Miss Ashton," said Bessie, "I really do think my Maggie is the best,
but I'm 'fraid I do feel _partialitied_ to her. I couldn't help it,
you know. Does it make any difference about my voting for her?"
Miss Ashton smiled, and looked at her uncle, who smiled also, and
answered for her.
"None at all, little one. If you really think your Maggie deserves
the prize, vote for her, by all means. I'll answer for it that your
love for her makes her none the less worthy."
"Thank you, sir," answered Bessie demurely; and she sat down again,
and, with great satisfaction, wrote Maggie's name in the largest
possible letters.
The business of writing the names did not take long, for every girl
had long since made up her mind for whom she should vote. Belle
Powers was sent to collect the slips of paper, and brought them to
Mr. Ashton, who, with his niece, looked over them.
"There does not seem to be much difference of opinion," he said,
smiling again. "One for Maggie Bradford, four for Belle Powers, and
fifteen for Bessie Bradford. My little girl, the hospital bed is
yours, to give to whom you will. If you know of any child to whom it
will be a help and comfort, you have also the satisfaction of knowing
that you have gained it for him by your own good conduct, and the
love and approbation of your schoolmates."
If Nellie had been surprised, Bessie was certainly no less so. She
could scarcely believe her own ears. The hospital bed her own, to
give to lame Jemmy! It seemed too good to be true. She had had a
strong hope that dear little Belle would gain it; and Belle, as you
know, had promised that Jemmy should have it, if it fell to her; but
that she, Bessie, should be the chosen one, and that by fifteen
votes!--she could not understand it.
With a flush upon her cheek, but still with a quiet, simple dignity
very different from Gracie's air of supreme self-satisfaction, she
rose and went forward to Mr. Ashton.
"My dear little girl," said the gentleman, looking down kindly upon
her, "from what I have heard, I believe that the choice of your
schoolmates has been justly made. You have looked only to the honour
of God, and tried most earnestly to 'do the thing that is right;' and
God has said 'Them that honour me, I will honour.' May He bless you,
and keep you always in His own way."
Bessie took the folded paper he held out to her and answered, "Thank
you very much, sir, and lame Jemmy will thank you very much too. He
is a very good, patient boy."
"I daresay," replied Mr. Ashton; "but he has to thank you, not me."
Bessie gave him another grateful glance, and turned to go back to her
seat; but as she did so she caught Kate Maynard's roguish eyes fixed
upon her, their mischief softened by an expression of tender pride
and congratulation, which told her that the young lady was nearly as
well pleased as herself.
"O Katie!" she exclaimed, standing where she was, and forgetting for
the moment that every one in the room was watching her; then turning
towards her mother, and meeting her dear look of loving sympathy, all
that was in her little heart proved too much for her, and, dropping
the paper, she ran swiftly across the room, and buried her head in
mamma's lap. How much there was in that "O Katie!" perhaps Kate
herself only knew; and, although she joined in the smile which passed
around, the laughing eyes were suddenly dimmed, and her hand went up
to dash away one or two very suspicious-looking drops.
This last little performance on Bessie's part was not in the
programme, and rather out of rule, to be sure; but, as the exercises
of the day were now over, it did not so much matter.
Mamma's gentle soothing soon calmed her over-excitement, and there
was Maggie, with her arms about her neck, whispering, "Bessie, I
don't mind a bit about the composition prize now. I'd rather than
anything that you would have this. And I'm so glad for lame Jemmy."
"Yes," said Bessie; "it was so good of the girls."
"No, it wasn't," said Belle, who was holding fast to her father's
hand, and jumping up and down in an ecstasy of delight at Bessie's
success; "no, it wasn't. They couldn't help it, not if they wrote
the truf, and Mrs. Ashton said they must. And, Bessie, do you know,
the reason you had so many votes was 'cause all the big young ladies
wrote your name--every one in that class! Miss Ashton just told papa
so. It's very nice to have so many give it to you, Bessie: is it
not?"
Nice! Bessie thought so indeed! A happier child could not have been
found than she was, as she sat with her head leaning upon her
mother's breast, wearing a face of such perfect content. She had her
reward indeed, not only a heart at peace with God and man, but also
the longed-for gift for the crippled boy. Had she given way in that
moment of temptation, it could not have come to her fairly; and
where, oh, where would have been the first?
She had nothing more to wish for now.
Smiles, kisses, and congratulations were showered upon her, every one
seemed to be so glad for her; and she thought it quite strange but
very pleasant that so many people who did not know Jemmy should feel
such an interest in his good fortune.
And there was Maggie--dear unselfish Maggie!--full of eager sympathy,
and rejoicing in her joy.
"My disappointment is quite made up in this, Bessie," she said. "It
makes so many more people happy than my having the desk would have
done, and it will do Jemmy so much good. And then, you know, Nellie
does not have half so many nice things as we do, so it is better for
her to have it. She has not done being surprised yet: it was such a
very unexpected blow to her that she can hardly believe it; but she
is so happy about it, I couldn't help telling her I was glad for her."
"Little honey-bee, that takes all the sweet and leaves all the
bitter!" said Colonel Rush, as he drew Maggie fondly towards him.
"But what is our 'angel' going to say to all this? I am afraid she
will feel that the 'subject' has not met with proper consideration."
"The 'subject' is too little to know now," said sunshiny Maggie; "and
when she is bigger we won't tell her anything about it."
"Indeed we will," said the colonel, pushing back Maggie's curls from
beneath the crown of lilies. "I shall tell her the whole story."
"I wouldn't," said Maggie; "she might have feelings about it."
"I hope she will, if they are of the proper kind," said the colonel,
laughing; "and I should not be surprised if she had some opinions to
express even now."
Maggie wondered what he meant; but just then some of the children
spoke to her, and she forgot his words, to remember them another time.
The rest of the afternoon was spent in amusing themselves in various
ways; the May Queen being throned and carried in state about house
and garden; but she proved restive under this, and, as Kate said,
"set a very undignified example to her subjects," by escaping from
their hands, and insisting on racing and jumping upon her own nimble
little feet. None who saw how joyous and merry she was, how free
from every selfish thought and envious feeling, would have imagined
that there had been a time when she had been too anxious for this
prize which had at last fallen to another; that she had said and felt
that she could never bear the disappointment of losing it. A
contrast she was to Gracie, certainly, who could enjoy none of the
pleasures offered to her because she had not gained that on which she
had set her heart, looking, not for God's approval, but for that of
man, and her own honour and glory.
CHAPTER XV.
_A LETTER._
On Saturday, Mr. and Mrs. Bradford drove out to Riverside, taking
Maggie and Bessie with them.
So eager were the children to carry the good news to Jemmy Bent and
his mother, that their parents thought it as well to go on to the
cottage by the creek at once; knowing that the little girls could
take small thought or enjoyment in anything else till this business
was settled; therefore James was told to drive there first, instead
of turning in at Grandpapa Duncan's gate.
The cottage looked rather neater and more comfortable than it did two
years ago, when Maggie and Bessie first went there to see lame Jemmy.
Mary was older and stronger and could do more work, and it was her
pride to keep things as tidy as possible around her brother. He
looked quite at his ease, sitting in his wheeled chair, which stood
on the grass plat in front of the little house; and, as the carriage
stopped at the gate, his pale face lighted up with surprise and
pleasure when he saw whom it contained. A visit from any of Mr.
Bradford's or Mr. Duncan's family was a treat to Jemmy in more ways
than one.
Mrs. Bent was at home, and asked the visitors to step in; but Mrs.
Bradford said they would rather stay outside for the few moments they
could remain.
After asking how Jemmy was feeling, and how he enjoyed the lovely
weather, Mr. Bradford told for what purpose they had come: to bring
to Jemmy the ticket of admission to the hospital with all its
comforts, and the possibility, even _probability_, of his being so
far cured as to enable him to walk with crutches or a cane.
Maggie had imagined that Mrs. Bent and her children would be
overwhelmed with delight and gratitude; and had that morning pleased
herself and Bessie by describing the scene which she supposed would
take place.
"Their emotions will be quite too much for them, Bessie," she had
said; "at least they ought to be, and I s'pose they will, for that's
always the way in things you read about. They'll be so full of
surprise and joy and gratitude they won't know what to do with
themselves."
But, to the astonishment and indignation of both children, especially
of Maggie, Mrs. Bent's "emotions" took quite a different turn from
what they had expected. She burst into tears, and wrung her hands,
exclaiming, "O sir! I never could, no, never could! To send my poor
boy away from me! Oh no, sir! no, indeed! And to one of them
hospitals too! I'd never do it--not if I work my fingers to the
bone!"
And Mary, seeing her mother so excited, began to cry too at the
thought of parting with the brother who had been such a care to her
for so long; while poor Jemmy, who had felt grateful and pleased
beyond measure at the prospect of receiving such care and help as
would make him less helplessly crippled than he was now, gazed at his
mother in dismay; and our little girls stood looking on, thoroughly
crestfallen and disappointed at this reception of their offer.
"Mrs. Bent," said Mrs. Bradford kindly, "I know it seems hard for you
to part from your helpless boy, even for a time; but surely you will
not refuse to let him go when you think of the benefit it will be to
him. Could you not bear this lesser sorrow for the sake of seeing
Jemmy able to move about by himself? You can see him now and then; I
will myself take care that you have the means to reach him; and in a
year or so, perhaps less, he may come back to you, able to do
something for himself, it may be even to be a help to you. I am sure
he has the will for that, if he had but the way and the strength. Is
it not so, Jemmy?"
Jemmy smiled, and put out his poor thin hand gratefully to the lady;
then broke forth,--
"O mother! let me go, do let me go! Oh, if you knew what it was to
lie here! I do try to be patient, and I'm willing to stay so, if the
Lord thinks it best; but sure He's sent us this hope, and you won't
throw it away. Say you won't, mother, and let me try; and oh, do
thank the dear lady and gentleman and the little ladies!"
"Let me speak to you a moment, Mrs. Bent," said Mr. Bradford; and,
calling her aside, he showed her all the advantage the place would be
to Jemmy, and soon talked her into a more reasonable and gentle mood,
while Mrs. Bradford spoke cheerfully to Jemmy and his sister of all
the comforts and pleasures which would be furnished for him in this
refuge for such poor crippled children as he.
No fear about Jemmy. He was eager enough about it to satisfy the
children, and Mary too could not now be sufficiently grateful for the
care and kindness offered to her brother.
"You'll please to excuse me, ma'am," said Mrs. Bent, coming back;
"and I see now it's kindness itself in the dear little ladies that
have been such good friends to my boy from the first, and a great
blessing for him; but at the first it seemed cruel like to send him
from me, and as if I was willing to be rid of him."
So it was talked of a little more, and the arrangements made for
moving Jemmy to the hospital in a few days, when the place would be
vacant and ready for him. By the time this was done, Mrs. Bent could
look at the thing in its proper light, and was profuse enough of
thanks and blessings. But the first impression was not readily done
away with; and when they left, Bessie took her seat in the carriage
with a very sober face; and Maggie, who was highly disgusted with
Mrs. Bent, broke forth with some opinions by no means complimentary
to that good woman.
"Well," said Grandpapa Duncan, when he had heard all about the
prizes, and the visit to Jemmy, "I am sure our lame boy will say that
your going to school has been a great blessing to him, since it has
brought this about."
"Why, yes," said Maggie thoughtfully, "so it has. I'm sure I'd never
have thought our going to school could be of use to Jemmy. Doesn't
it seem queer, grandpapa? But it was all Bessie. I'd never have
earned that prize."
"Yes, she would, grandpapa," said Bessie. "Miss Kate told me so
yesterday. She said if they had not voted for me, all the large
class would have voted for Maggie, 'cause they thought she was so
true and good about Gracie's composition; so I told Maggie this
morning it was just as much her present to Jemmy as mine. And we
always like to be halves in things, grandpapa. And I told Miss Kate,
Maggie deserved it more than me, 'cause I was very tempted about the
composition, and she was not one bit."
"But she knew better than that, and I'm glad of it," said Maggie,
with a decided nod of her curly head.
"She didn't say so," replied her sister: "she only said, 'O Bessie!'
and just kissed me."
"There's a letter and a large parcel for Miss Maggie on the
library-table," said Patrick, when they reached home that afternoon.
"A letter for me? Oh, lovely!" said Maggie; and away she ran, with
Bessie after her, both eager to see what the parcel contained, and
whom the letter was from.
The parcel was a large one, carefully wrapped up, and the letter lay
upon it.
"Why, that's Uncle Horace's monogram! What can he be writing to me
about when he saw me yesterday, and will see me again to-morrow? I
just expect this is another of his lovely surprises--the dear,
precious lamb!" said Maggie, who, provided an epithet came handy, was
not always particular as to how it fitted. "Let's open the parcel
first."
No sooner said than done; and, when opened, it was found to contain a
rosewood writing-desk, the very counterpart of the one given
yesterday by Mr. Ashton to Nellie Ransom. The children at first took
it to be the very same.
"Why, it's Nellie's prize!" exclaimed Maggie.
"Was there a mistake about it, and did they like your composition the
best after all, and send it to you, I wonder?" said Bessie.
"If they did, I wouldn't take it now," said Maggie; "it would be too
mean to Nellie. But let's see what Uncle Horace says."
The letter was quickly unsealed, and there appeared a long line of
verses. Maggie was in too much of a hurry to try and make out for
herself Colonel Rush's rather illegible handwriting, and she rushed
with it to her father.
"Papa, papa! please read it for us. May Bessie's name is at the end
of all this lot of po'try, but we know very well her papa made it up;
and we are in such a hurry to know about the desk. Please read it
for us right away."
Papa took the letter, and read aloud the following verses:--
"My dear cousin Maggie,--for 'cousin' you are,
Since your 'uncle' and 'aunt' my papa and mamma,--
You will be much surprised when this letter you see,
To find that it comes from a 'subject' like me.
"But papa and mamma--I have heard 'Love is blind'
Declare I've a very remarkable mind;
That I'm 'lovely' and 'perfect,' I'm 'brilliant' and 'wise,'
That I'm really a 'wonderful child of her size.'
"Mamma sits by my cradle, and murmurs these things
In the pauses of all the sweet songs that she sings;
While into the pillow I nestle my head,
And smile with approval at all that is said.
"Then she says 'sister-angels are whispering to me.'
Who besides her sweet self? for papa it can't be,
No 'angel' is he. I can't quite make _him_ out.
Of mamma and myself, you'll perceive, I've no doubt.
"Your prize composition _I_ think very fine,
And I'm a good judge, you'll allow, Maggie mine:
Your 'subject' well chosen; ideas well expressed;
To my baby-notions 'tis clearly the best.
"But on one point, dear Maggie, you make a mistake;
Your faith in my father I rudely must shake.
You call this same soldier the 'bravest of braves,'
Now listen, and hear how this Colonel behaves.
"Whene'er I determine to take a good cry,--
A most innocent treat when no strangers are nigh!--
Why, what does this hero of so many fields,
But snatch up his cane, and then take to his heels.
"'What a coward!' you'll say. Yes, indeed, 'tis most strange;
For whene'er I do cry, it is but for a change;
One cannot be cooing and smiling all day,
Sometimes I have tried that, but find it don't pay.
"But one thing, dear Maggie, you've made very clear,
That I am 'an angel' doth plainly appear;
Then mamma says the same, and I know you're both true:
I believe it myself,--between me and you.
"Excuse my bad grammar, I must make the rhyme,
I'll do better some day, if you'll but give me time;
And, as for my manners, I'm sure that I mean
Not the least disrespect to our little May Queen.
"Yes, I fully believe such a 'treasure' as I
Must have flown from some spot very near to the sky;
And I know gentle spirits _do_ whisper to me,
And teach me sweet lessons of what I must be.
"They tell me I must be a good little child,
A baby obedient, patient, and mild;
They tell me to love all the good and the true,
And therefore, dear Maggie, I have to love you.
"And Bessie, the darling! she, too, has some claims
For her own precious sake, to say nothing of names,
But my own sweet '_ersample_' she says she will be:
They tell me to profit by what I may see.
"But now let's to business. I think you approve
Of doing kind 'favours' for those whom we love;
And if they deserve it, why, so much the better,
For here is the gist of this wonderful letter.
"I must own, my dear cousin, I thought it a shame
This prize for fine writing fell not to your name.
In the judge's decision I can't quite agree,
So, dear little maiden, it seemeth to me
"That your 'subject' herself should do what she can;
And, after some thought, I have hit on this plan:
To send you this prize for the story you tell
Of the 'angel' who loves you so truly and well,
"But remember, my darling, you always will find
That a heart that is generous, truthful, and kind,
Where self and deceit and envyings hard
No entrance can find, is its own best reward.
"And the smile of the Shepherd, who dwells up above,
And watches His lambs with the tenderest love,
Will always be ours when the victory we win,
By the help of His grace in the conflict with sin.
"And now this long letter I'll bring to a close,
The thought it has cost me, oh, nobody knows!
With much love to yourself, and to Bessie the same,
I'll say no more, Maggie, but just sign my name,
"Your 'subject,' MAY BESSIE."
Maggie went into ecstasies of delight over this letter, as well as
over the beautiful gift which accompanied it; but Bessie, although
she shared to the full her sister's pleasure in the latter, could not
be persuaded to say she thought the verses so very fine.
"Why, what's the matter with it?" said Maggie, "I think it's lovely."
"I don't think it's so very nice," answered Bessie, gravely regarding
the letter with an air of comic displeasure.
"Well," said Maggie, "maybe it's not so very po'try, but it
jingle-jangles so nicely. I wish you would like it."
"I do like what it says about you and May Bessie," said Bessie; "but
it's not nice about my soldier at all. He's not a coward."
"Oh, that's only for fun!" said Maggie. "You know that it's only
_pretend_ that May Bessie wrote it. The colonel did it himself; and
he always does run away when the baby cries."
"Yes," said matter-of-fact Bessie, half unwilling to admit even so
much against her hero; "but that does not make him a coward. But,
Maggie darling, I couldn't speak about how glad I am that this very
lovely surprise has come to you. And I think this is better than if
you had the real prize in school."
"Oh yes, a great deal better!" said Maggie. "Mr. Ashton is very good
and kind; but then he is not any one of ours, and it's a great deal
more pleasure to have a prize from our own May Bessie than from him.
And besides, Bessie, I don't know how I _could_ have walked up and
taken it before all those people. Sometimes I thought I would almost
rather not have the prize than do that."
But if the letter was not altogether to Bessie's satisfaction, the
desk certainly proved so; and it was long before she and Maggie tired
of examining it and its complete fitting out. The first use Maggie
made of it was to answer May Bessie's letter, which she did in rhyme,
rather halting rhyme it was now and then, to be sure; but she and
Bessie were satisfied that it was a gem of poetry; and, as the baby
found no fault with it, we must take it for granted that she thought
so also.
It was delightful, too, to see how pleased all the schoolgirls, large
and small, were to hear of Maggie's good fortune, and to read the
letter from May Bessie, which she permitted them all to see.
"Miss Kate," said Maggie, looking up into the laughing eyes which
were no longer a terror to her, "it's very kind of you to be so glad
for me."
"Do you think so?" said Kate. "I am truly glad for you, Maggie. We
are better friends than we used to be, are we not?"
"Oh yes," said Maggie; "partly 'cause I'm not so shy as I used to be,
and partly 'cause you have improved a good deal in doing unto others.
You do not tease half as much as you used to, Miss Kate."
"Thank you for the compliment," said Kate, laughing and tossing
Maggie's long curls about her face till they covered it as with a
veil.
"Maybe Miss Kate wanted the best girl prize, and knew she would not
have any chance if she teased so much," said Belle.
"Much chance I'd have of 'the best girl prize,' as you call it," said
Kate. "No, Belle; I never set myself up for that."
"But you ought, oughtn't you?" said Belle, with solemn gravity.
"Ought what?" asked Kate. "To be the best girl in the school?"
"No," answered the child; "but to try to be."
"And take the prize from your Bessie!" said Kate, pretending to be
shocked at the idea.
"No," said Belle, who sometimes presumed on being a privileged
character, and said things to the older girls which none of the other
little ones would have dared to say. "No, Miss Kate, I don't think
there's goodness enough in you for _that_. But you might try to be
the best that you could."
"What would be the good when there was no chance of the prize?" asked
Kate, much amused.
"To please Jesus," said Belle. "Bessie's mamma told us about that
that time I lived there while papa was away. She said we must only
try to do the thing that was right, 'cause it was right, no matter
what people thought of us; not to try to be or to do the best so as
to be rewarded."
"Well done, little Belle," said Fanny Berry; "how nicely you have
remembered and repeated your lesson!"
"But I didn't always remember to do it," said Belle; "not that time I
climbed on the wall. I made believe in my heart I was not doing
anything naughty; but myself knew I was, and God knew I was too; and
so He gave me good enough for me."
The girls laughed.
"Bessie always keeps the truf in her heart," said Belle, looking
fondly after her little friend, who had run into the other room to
tell Miss Ashton about Maggie's gift; "and I think that's the reason
she always keeps it in her living."
"Yes," said Julia Grafton; "that is it."
"I think we've all improved a little over these prizes," said Maggie.
"'Cept only Gracie," said Belle; "she's dis-improved very much. She
is not half so nice as she used to be."
"But we won't remember the faults of others now," said Miss Ashton,
who just then came back with Bessie to congratulate Maggie. "I am
glad to say that I think more good than harm has come from these
prizes, though I feared at first it might be the contrary. I think,
with Maggie, that almost all have improved, some in one way, some in
another. Lessons have been learned by us, which were not learned in
books; and I am thankful that little, if any, jealousy, unkindness,
or hard feeling has arisen among you; and that a true generosity and
willingness for the success of others have been shown in more than
one instance. I was a little doubtful of the plan when my uncle
first proposed it; but it has really been of service in more ways
than one."
"Mamma said it would do us no harm to try for those things, if we did
not let ourselves become too anxious," said Maggie.
"No," said Miss Ashton; "not so long as we do so from a right motive,
and remember that the praise of God is more to be desired than the
praise of man. He has said 'those that honour Him, He will honour;'
and I think we have proved it so here in school."
This was the last day of school for our Maggie and Bessie; and, sorry
as they were to leave their kind teachers and pleasant companions,
they were delighted at the thought of all the pleasure promised to
them this coming summer, and at the hope of having mamma give them
lessons again in the fall.
They were first to spend a few days at Riverside, going there with
Uncle Ruthven and Aunt Bessie; and a little later were to travel with
papa and mamma, winding up the summer at dear old Chalecoo, where
they had already passed one such pleasant season. Such visions of
wonder and delight danced before their minds; such "adventures" as
Maggie expected to meet with, furnishing "subjects" for endless
compositions, to say nothing of the continued history of the
"Complete Family;" such plans for the help and comfort of dear mamma,
who had said she was sure this trip, undertaken for her good, would
be of a great deal more service to her if she were allowed to have
her little girls with her; such letters as they were to write to
console those who were left behind;--why, there was no end to them
all, and, fast as the little tongues were accustomed to chatter,
Maggie declared that the days were not half long enough for all the
thinking and talking they had to do now.
And now, like their schoolmates, we must say good-bye to Maggie and
Bessie; and I hope you have found that earning her prize was not the
only or the holiest work for her Master done by our Bessie at School.
THE END
W. JOLLY & SONS, PRINTERS, ABERDEEN
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