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Title: Kitty's Christmas tree
or, the net of the flatterer
Author: Lucy Ellen Guernsey
Release date: November 11, 2025 [eBook #77219]
Language: English
Original publication: Philadelphia: American Sunday-School Union, 1869
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK KITTY'S CHRISTMAS TREE ***
Transcriber's notes: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the
public domain.
[Illustration: _Kitty's Christmas Tree.—Frontispiece._
This time she saw her coming slowly.]
_[Prequel to "The Heiress of McGregor"]_
Kitty's Christmas Tree;
OR,
The Net of the Flatterer.
——————————————
"Surely in vain the net is spread in the sight of any bird!"
——————————————
BY THE AUTHOR OF "IRISH AMY," "NELLY, OR THE BEST INHERITANCE,"
"OPPOSITE NEIGHBOURS," ETC.
_[LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY.]_
PHILADELPHIA:
AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION,
NO. 1122 CHESTNUT STREET.
——————————————
_NEW YORK: Nos. 7 & 8 BIBLE HOUSE._
[Illustration:
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1869, by the
_AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION,_
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for
the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.]
CONTENTS.
—————
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
KITTY'S CHRISTMAS TREE;
OR,
THE NET OF THE FLATTERER.
——————————
CHAPTER I.
"I WONDER what keeps Kitty!" said Mrs. Tremain.
It was growing late of an October afternoon, and it was indeed quite
time for Kitty to be at home from school. Mrs. Tremain had been twice
to the door to look for her daughter, and still no Kitty was to be seen.
"I suspect some of the school-girls have coaxed her away!" answered
Cousin Tilly. "That's the worst of Kitty. She can be coaxed into doing
any thing. She is just her father over again, in that as well as in her
looks!"
"I am sure I hope not!" said Mrs. Tremain, with an anxious expression.
"I had hoped Kitty was gaining more firmness!"
And again she went to the door to look for Kitty. This time she saw
her coming slowly with her hat pulled far down over her face, and her
movements expressing any thing but high spirits. Mrs. Tremain went down
to the gate to meet her daughter.
"Why, Kitty, how late you are!" said she. "Do you know it is after five
o'clock, and almost dark?" Then, catching a glimpse of Kitty's swollen
and tearstained face, she exclaimed, "But, my dear child, what is the
matter? What has happened?"
"Miss Oliver kept me after school!" replied Kitty, bursting into tears,
and sobbing as if her heart would break. "She has given me three bad
marks, and all these sums to do besides. And it was not my fault,
either, and I think she is too bad?"
"Hush, hush, my dear! Don't say any thing about it just now, but go
up-stairs, wash your face and make yourself neat for tea; after that
I will hear the whole story. Come, now, don't cry any more, but do as
I bid you, and come down as soon as you can. Cousin Tilly has been
getting something very nice for your supper!"
Mrs. Tremain spoke very decidedly, though kindly and soothingly,
and Kitty knew she must obey. She went up to her own pretty,
nicely-furnished little room, and, putting away her cloak and hat, she
drenched her face and head with cool water till the traces of her tears
were removed and her short black hair curled up as tight as that of her
aunt Baldwin's French poodle. She had hardly succeeded in reducing it
to some sort of order when Cousin Tilly called to her from the foot of
the stairs—
"Come, Kitty! Tea is ready and the waffles baked brown as a berry, just
as you like 'em!"
"Cousin Tilly is real good, and so is mother!" was Kitty's reflection
as she came down-stairs. "If it was some people, they would begin
scolding me at once. I wonder if it was my fault, after all!"
All through tea-time Mrs. Tremain made no allusion to Kitty's school
troubles, but chatted pleasantly about other things—about who had
called, about Mrs. Benson's new twin babies, and Aunt Baldwin's
letter—sometimes addressing her remarks to Kitty and sometimes to
Cousin Tilly, who answered in dry, concise sentences, after her usual
manner.
"Now, Kitty!" said Mrs. Tremain, when tea was over. "You and I will
wash up the dishes and let Cousin Tilly go over to Mrs. Benson's and
help to get her settled for the night. Olly Anne Phillips is going to
sit up with her, but she cannot come before nine o'clock."
"Why does not Mrs. Benson have a regular nurse, mother, as Aunt Baldwin
did when Georgy was born?" asked Kitty.
"For two reasons, my dear. In the first place, she cannot afford it.
And in the second place, no such person is to be had. Mrs. Smith is
nursing poor Mrs. Burchard over at the Corners, and Olly Anne Phillips
cannot leave home in the day-time. So the neighbours must join together
and take care of her as well as they are able. 'Bear ye one another's
burdens,' you know, daughter."
"I am sure it is no great burden to wash up the tea-things," said
Kitty. "I should like to do it very often, only Cousin Tilly will not
let me for fear I should not turn all the cup handles the same way, I
believe," added Kitty, laughing.
Her mother laughed too.
"Cousin Tilly has her little ways, but we should hardly know how to
live without her," said she. "We must mind what we are about, or else
she will scold us when she comes home."
While Mrs. Tremain and her daughter are gathering up and washing the
cups and saucers, we will learn a little about who they were. Mrs.
Tremain was a widow, with one little girl. She had had other children,
but had lost them. Her husband had inherited a large property from his
father, but he, too, was gone, and most of his property with him—all
indeed, but the share which old Mr. Tremain's kindness or prudence
had settled upon his daughter-in-law. Part of this property consisted
in a comfortable, old-fashioned brick-house with a good garden and
some pasturelands situated in the little village of Holford. Here
Mrs. Tremain had come to live after the loss of her husband. And here
she still lived, economically indeed, but in great comfort, and even
elegance. The neighbours considered her rich, because she "lived on the
interest of her money," and did not work for a living.
A good deal of Mrs. Tremain's comfort was owing to Cousin Tilly, as
Mrs. Tremain and Kitty called her—Miss Crocker, as the minister and
the neighbours said. Nobody knew exactly how Cousin Tilly was related
to Mrs. Tremain. She did her work and received wages like any other
servant, but she was treated with the greatest respect by both mother
and daughter, sitting with them at the table and in church, and
introduced to visitors as "my cousin, Miss Crocker." She never went
visiting, nor wrote any letters, nor seemed to have any friends outside
of Holford. People could not understand it at all, and yet it was no
great mystery.
Miss Crocker was an orphan, with a little—a very little—property of
her own, not enough to support her. She was not accomplished, nor
highly educated in any way, and it did not suit her health to sit and
sew. So, like a wise woman, she determined to do for a living what she
could do best, namely, housework, which she understood to perfection.
She had lived with her cousin, Mrs. Tremain, for many years, and found
herself very happy. She earned enough to clothe herself comfortably in
the plain way which she preferred; and her little property meantime
was accumulating and making a comfortable fund against a time of
helplessness and old age, in spite of the liberal way in which she gave
to all good objects.
Mrs. Tremain had a sister-in-law—Kitty's Aunt Baldwin—who was very
rich, and lived in a fine house in a fashionable street in New York.
According to the ordinary belief in such matters, this lady might be
represented as very proud, frivolous and hard-hearted, looking down
upon her poorer sister-in-law, and treating her with great contempt.
Such, however, was not the case. Mrs. Baldwin was a good woman in every
sense of the word—humble, charitable, and godly. She was very fond of
Mrs. Tremain, and maintained such a close correspondence with her that
the gossips at Holford post-office wondered what she could possibly
find to say in all the letters she sent. She had visited Mrs. Tremain
several times, and on these occasions she seemed to fall at once into
the ways of the family. She went to the village store on errands,
called at the butcher's, and clearly understood the difference between
round and porterhouse steak. And if she dressed rather expensively, the
expense was not of a kind to be appreciated by most of the ladies of
Holford.
"She thinks any thing is good enough for Holford," said Mrs. Daskin to
Miss Parkins, whom she met at the Wednesday evening lecture. "Just look
at that bonnet! Not a mite of a flower on it, and just that strip of
black lace over the crown!"
"And just look at her shawl!" returned Miss Parkins to Mrs. Daskin. "It
must be as old as the hills! I wonder how much it cost when it was new."
"About a thousand dollars, I should say," said Mrs. Brown, the lawyer's
wife, who knew a little more about shawls than Miss Parkins, and who
could not resist the temptation of giving a snub to the gossiping
little milliner.
"Laws me! You don't mean to say that is a real India shawl!" exclaimed
Miss Parkins in a tone of awe. "Well, to be sure, there is a kind of
look about it. I might have known she wouldn't wear any thing cheap."
"There you are mistaken, Miss Parkins," returned Mrs. Brown. "That
very dress she has on cost only thirty cents a yard. I happen to know
because I asked her the price, meaning to send for one like it."
Mrs. Tremain's daughter was very fond of Aunt Baldwin. Kitty was a
bright, lively girl of thirteen or thereabout, but usually passed for
younger than she really was, being small, round, and rosy, with short
black hair which would not do any thing but curl up into little crisp
rings. Kitty was "her father over again," said Cousin Tilly. She was,
on the whole, a good girl—amiable, truthful, fond of her books, and
with a hearty desire at the bottom of her little heart to serve and
please her heavenly Father. Yet, with all these good qualities, Kitty
was often in trouble, and gave her mother a great deal of anxiety.
"Now, Kitty," said her mother, when every thing was washed and put
away, and she was ready to sit down with her work—"now, Kitty, tell me
all about it. Why did Miss Oliver keep you after school?"
"Because I had not done any of my sums, mamma, and I 'could' not do
them, either, because I had no slate-pencil."
"But how was that, Kitty? It was only last Wednesday that I gave you
two long slate-pencils, and a lead-pencil besides! What has become of
them all?"
"Well, mamma, I left one slate-pencil at home, because I don't always
remember to bring it with me, and I broke the other in two, and—and—I
lent one piece to Fanny Daskin, and one piece to Lizzy Gates, and they
did not give them back to me!"
"I thought Miss Oliver had made a strict rule against lending and
borrowing in school. I am sure she told me so, and I thought it an
excellent measure on her part. Does she not enforce it?"
"Yes, mamma: that was how I got my bad marks. I told her I had lent my
pencils, and she said that was no excuse at all. She marked Fanny and
Lizzie too, and now they are angry at me, and say it was all my fault."
"I dare say!" replied Mrs. Tremain. "That is usually the way people are
served by those who make tools of them. You know the rule. Why did you
not obey it?"
"But, mamma, they asked me!"
"What of that? You owed obedience to Miss Oliver, and not to Lizzy
and Fanny. I must say I think Miss Oliver was right. But, Kitty, you
say you left one of your pencils at home. What has become of the nice
wooden-cased slate-pencil with the extra points which Aunt Baldwin sent
you? I told you to keep that to use at home!"
Kitty began to twist her apron strings and to look very much confused,
while her cheeks grew as scarlet as her stockings. Mrs. Tremain guessed
the truth at once.
"Kitty! You have not given 'that' away surely! After all I said to you!
Oh, Kitty, Kitty!"
"Well, mamma, I did not mean to, but Fanny Daskin saw it, and she
begged for it so. She would not give me any peace! Indeed, mamma, I am
sorry you feel so bad about it. I hated to part with it, too, but I did
not think you would care so much, and Fanny kept begging—"
"It is not the value of the slate-pencil I care for Kitty—though in
giving away Aunt Baldwin's presents you have been unkind to her and
disobedient to me—it is this new evidence that you do not in the least
get the better of your greatest fault—a fault which was the ruin of
your poor father, and is likely to be the ruin of yourself!"
"The ruin! Oh, mamma!"
"Yes, my poor child. I must say it. You do not at all appreciate the
greatness of this fault, Kitty, nor the consequences to which it is
sure to lead." Mrs. Tremain paused in her work and walked to the
window, while Kitty sat still, covered with confusion at her mother's
unusual severity.
"You are not at all aware of the seriousness of this fault, Kitty,"
repeated Mrs. Tremain, returning to her seat: "in fact I am not sure
that you consider it a fault at all. I am rather disposed to think, on
the contrary, that you pride yourself upon your generous open-hearted
disposition, which makes you (as you imagine) unable to say 'no' to any
body."
Kitty hung her head. Her mother had, as usual, read her thoughts
exactly.
"But, mamma, don't you think it is a good thing to be generous?" she
asked.
"It is a far better thing to be just, Kitty. And it is far better to be
really generous than merely to wish to be thought so. Do you think it
was generosity which made you lend your pencils, this morning?"
Kitty did not reply, but in her heart she did think so.
"Whom do you love best—Fanny Daskin or Miss Oliver?" asked Mrs. Tremain.
"Oh, mamma! Miss Oliver, of course."
"And whose respect and regard would you rather possess—your teacher's
or Fanny's?"
"My teacher's, mamma."
"I don't think so, Kitty!"
Kitty looked surprised.
"You say you love Miss Oliver better than Fanny, yet, to oblige Fanny,
you treated her with disrespect and unkindness."
"It was not so much to oblige Fanny as to get rid of her," said Kitty,
candidly. "She does tease so; she will not let me alone till I give her
what she wants."
"Then it was not generosity, after all, but mere selfish desire of
ease," said Mrs. Tremain. "Do you know the reason why Fanny teases you
so?"
"No, mamma, unless it is because she knows that I always give up to
her. She never goes to Rosa Burns, or any of the other girls, as she
does to me. She says they are so stingy and I am so good-natured."
"Yes, that is what she says to your face. Behind your back she says—
"'Kitty is so soft, she can be coaxed into any thing!'
"I know she does, because I heard her myself."
"The mean thing!" exclaimed Kitty, flushing with anger and shame.
"She has been brought up in that way, which is some excuse for her,"
said Mrs. Tremain. "Her mother and father have always preferred
sponging on other people to working honestly for a living. Mr. Daskin
preyed on your father as long as he lived, and he owes us at this
minute more than a thousand dollars, not one cent of which will he
ever pay. It was in that way your father lost his property. I do not
like to blame him in your hearing, but it is right that you should
know his faults, in order to avoid them. A year after we were married,
your father had eighty thousand dollars of his own, free from all
incumbrance. Before he died, he had lost every cent of it, and died in
debt!"
"How, mamma?"
"Because, my dear, he never could say 'no.' If a man came and asked him
to lend him a hundred or even a thousand dollars, though the security
might be ever so bad, or altogether wanting, he could not bear to
refuse. If he were asked to become an endorser for an acquaintance,
he would not say no, though he knew his family might suffer in
consequence. In this way his entire property was frittered away, and
but for the sum your grandfather settled upon myself, we should have
been left destitute."
"The same disposition showed itself in other ways. Your father never
would deny one of his children any thing it cried for, no matter how
improper or hurtful it might be. Your brother Oswald's death was
occasioned by his father giving him a large, hard apple to eat, just as
he was recovering from a fever. I had gone to lie down, and the nurse
went out of the room in order to prepare the child's broth. When she
came back, Oswald was just finishing the apple. In fifteen minutes he
went into a fit, and soon afterwards died."
Mrs. Tremain was silent for a few minutes: Kitty was crying heartily.
"But that was not the worst!" resumed Mrs. Tremain. "Your father was
not naturally fond of dissipation. I think, for a long time after he
was married, he would have preferred a quiet evening at home to any
other kind of amusement. But his easy disposition and his wealth made
him a mark to those whose business it was to lie in wait for souls and
to catch men. They flattered him, called him a generous, open-hearted
fellow, and so forth. He could not make up his mind to refuse when
asked to drink a glass, to share a bottle of champagne, to take a hand
at cards, or to play a game at billiards! What was the end? He died a
ruined, disgraced man, from the effects of drink and other vices. The
only comfort I have is in the thought that he died penitent.
"It has cost me not a little to repeat this sad story to you, Kitty!
I never meant you should know it, but the incident of to-day, taken
in connection with so many others which have happened lately, has
convinced me of the necessity of giving you a solemn warning. You
are, as Cousin Tilly often says, 'your father over again.' You have
inherited all his good qualities, and with them that fatal disposition
and that tendency to be governed by any one who will take the pains to
coax and flatter you, which were his ruin: and I tremble for you!"
"Indeed, mamma, I really will try to do better in future," said Kitty.
"I know I do sometimes let the girls lead me into scrapes. I do so hate
to disoblige anybody!"
"That is a selfish feeling, Kitty, and nothing else. You are led to do
wrong just to spare yourself the pain of resistance, and every instance
of such weakness leads the way to another. It is only a little while
since you got into sad disgrace by writing Lizzy Gates' composition for
her. You know it was wrong—that you were, in effect, not only telling a
lie yourself, but helping Lizzy to tell one. You were disobeying your
mother and your teacher, and displeasing your heavenly Father. You
knew all this, yet you deliberately acted against your own conscience
because you could not bear to say no to a girl whom you do not respect,
and who does not care for you. I dare say Lizzy did not ask Rose Brown
to write her composition!"
"No, mamma, she never thought of it. Rose is ready to help the other
girls too, but she never will break a rule for anybody, and when
once she sets her foot down, you might as well attempt to move the
school-house. All the girls know that well enough."
"Well, if you had decidedly refused to write Lizzy's composition for
her, she would have known better than to ask you to do so again."
"I did say I would not at first," said Kitty, "but—"
"Well, but what?"
"She teased me so, and said she should think me as mean and stingy as
Rose Brown!"
"And what harm would that have done you? Or, which is the worst—to
be mean or merely to be thought so, and that, too, by some one whose
opinion is not worth anything?
"I shall say no more at present, Kitty," continued Mrs. Tremain. "I
do not know that all I have said will do any good. I am not at all
hopeful—not so much so as I ought to be, perhaps. My experience has not
tended to make me so. I can only pray for you! Now get your slate and
do your sums, as Miss Oliver told you!"
"Won't you help me, mamma?" asked Kitty. "Oh, do, please! Miss Oliver
said I must not come to school till I had them all finished and written
out, and if I do not go to-morrow, I shall not have a chance for the
prize!"
"I cannot help it, Kitty! I am very sorry for you, but I cannot help
you. I have done so too often already. From henceforth I shall leave
you to bear the consequences of your folly, till you learn to have a
little firmness and decision of character."
Kitty wept afresh, but she presently reflected that crying would do her
no good.
So she wiped her eyes and set about her lessons. With all her
diligence, however, she could not finish them that night. It was not
till the next afternoon that she was able to present herself at school,
and thus all chance of obtaining the prize was lost to her.
CHAPTER II.
FOR a good while after the incident Kitty did better. The sad story of
her father's life and death had not been told to her in vain. She began
for the first time to see her fault "as a fault," not as a mere amiable
weakness at worst, but as a sin to be repented of and guarded against.
The girls wondered what had come over her.
There was not a very high tone of morals existing in the school at
Holford. The customs of schools often become a matter of tradition,
and are handed down from one generation of children to another. It had
always been the fashion in Holford to cheat at lessons. The clever
girls did the sums, and wrote or helped to write the compositions of
the stupid ones, with the understanding that they were to be paid in
some way for their services. They "told" in class, read their lessons
from slips of paper concealed in their hands, and shirked in every
possible way. All this was easy enough under the rule of old Miss
Parsons, who never thought of any thing but to earn her small salary
in the easiest manner, and to slip through the school duties without
making herself or her pupils uncomfortable.
But matters were much changed under the rule of Miss Oliver. Her eyes
and ears were ever on the watch. No book could be held half open,
no paper concealed in the hand, no exercise copied, without her at
once detecting the fraud and exposing it in such a way as to make the
offender feel like creeping into a very small hole indeed. At first
she had tried to work upon the girls' sense of honour, but she soon
found that, in all save a few instances, there was no honour to depend
upon. The sense of right and wrong had to be created, in the first
place. This was no easy matter, but by degrees some improvement began
to show itself. A few girls—Rose Brown, Emma and Julia Parmelee, the
minister's daughters, and the three Sibley sisters, with their cousin,
Miss Coates, from the Corners—sided at once with the teacher, and gave
her efficient assistance.
Kitty Tremain might have been expected to be one of this party. She had
been carefully and religiously brought up; she was a good scholar and a
lady-like girl. But then came the test! Kitty knew what was right, but
she could be coaxed into doing almost any thing. She was so clever and
good-natured, as Fanny Daskin and her party said to her face—so "soft,"
as they said behind her back. Kitty's conscience and taste were with
Miss Oliver and her friends, but her real influence was thrown on the
other side.
The Daskin family were distantly related to Mrs. Tremain. They were
fond of boasting of their relationship to her and to Mrs. Baldwin,
though the latter existed only in their own fertile imaginations. Mrs.
Tremain, for her part, though she did not positively break with them,
saw as little of them as possible. And as for Mrs. Baldwin, she ignored
them entirely, and met Mrs. Daskin's first public attempt at cozening
in a manner which prevented its ever being repeated.
Mr. Daskin thought himself very superior to the generality of mankind,
principally on the ground that he found himself able to impose upon
their credulity. He had a good trade, but he worked at it only by fits
and starts, when he could no longer exist by borrowing money. Mrs.
Daskin was a gossiping, extravagant, malicious slattern. One of the
boys had gone to sea in a coasting-vessel when he was twelve years old,
and by dint of keeping entirely clear of his own family, had turned out
very well. Another was weak and always sickly—made so by his mother's
neglect in scarlet fever. The younger ones were just what might be
expected of such a father and mother. Fanny, however, was different;
she was "a smart one," her father said—a girl who was "sure to fall on
her feet, and not be imposed upon!" She had all her father's skill in
getting and more than his skill in keeping. She was a handsome girl,
with blue eyes and fair hair, and had a great trick of blushing when
any one looked at her. If any thing were to be objected to her manners,
it was that they were rather too sweet. Fanny flattered and coaxed
right and left, and gained her point by sweetness as her friend and
ally Lizzie Gates did by bullying.
Shortly after Mrs. Tremain's removal to Holford, the Daskins followed
her, hoping, probably, to prey upon her as they had done on her
husband. Mrs. Tremain at once and decidedly refused to lend them money,
as Cousin Tilly did to lend them just a bowlful of coffee, or a cupful
of molasses, or a few pounds of flour. Mrs. Tremain did not consider
the Daskins objects of charity. She knew that Mr. Daskin was perfectly
able to support his family if he chose to work, and she saw no reason
why she should be burdened with them. So she set her foot down once and
for all; and they soon left off troubling her.
With Kitty the case was different. With the younger children she had
no temptation to associate. But Fanny was so kind in her manners, and
seemed so fond of her, that Kitty could not believe it was all a sham.
Fanny borrowed her pencil and paper, and never returned them; borrowed
her books, and that was the last of them; her pocket-money, and Kitty
never saw a penny of it again. Fanny led her into scrapes against her
judgment and conscience, laughed at her religious feelings, made use of
her without scruple, and then left her to bear the blame. Kitty knew
that Fanny was selfish, false, and mercenary—she could not help it—yet
she continued to be governed by her because it was hard to say "no!"
What Fanny did by coaxing and flattery, Lizzy Gates did by an opposite
course. "I am sure you will do so and so, Kitty—you are always so
generous and kind-hearted!" was Fanny's plea. "If you don't do so
and so, I shall think you are the meanest girl that ever lived," was
Lizzy's argument: and both were equally successful. Fanny and Lizzy
had very early formed an offensive and defensive alliance against Miss
Oliver. They thwarted her plans for the improvement of the school,
teased and annoyed her in all sorts of little mean ways, and kept
alive a party against her; and they compelled Kitty to join this party
and help along their plans, though Kitty both loved and respected her
teacher. The mischief had indeed gone much farther than Kitty's mother
was aware of; and Miss Oliver was seriously thinking of advising Mrs.
Tremain to take Kitty out of school.
For some days, however, Kitty did better. Fanny and Lizzy had been very
angry at her for betraying them, as they said, and thus getting them a
double task and a severe public reproof. This was fortunate for Kitty.
Instead of being greatly distressed at their coldness, and coaxing them
round again, as they expected, Kitty kept out of their way, worked hard
at her lessons, and walked to and from school with Miss Oliver or Rosa
Brown.
"Never mind! She will come round again!" said Fanny. "I know how to
manage her." But the days went on, and Kitty did not come round. She
returned Fanny's greeting, indeed, but she did no more, and when Lizzy
said something about a haughty, stuck-up puss, Kitty only smiled.
This went on for nearly two weeks, and Kitty began to feel herself
quite safe, and to rejoice in her easy victory. This was not a good
sign. Rejoicing in a victory is all very well, but it is a good thing
to be sure, in the first place, that we have gained it. It was very
easy for Kitty to resist temptation as long as the temptation kept
at a distance, but it remained to be seen what she would do when she
came to close quarters with her enemy once more. In fact Kitty was not
acting in the proper spirit. She felt ashamed, and was angry that her
mother should think her such a fool, and that the girls should call
her "soft," at the same time that they made their own account of her
weakness. Her "pride" was wounded! She was ashamed, but not humbled,
and she set to work in her own strength to resist temptation.
Kitty had just finished reading "Christmas Greens," which she had taken
from the Sunday-school library for the third or fourth time. She had a
great fondness for reading over books which she liked, and could repeat
her favourite stories almost by heart. She had curled herself up in
the window sash to take advantage of the last lingering daylight while
her mother was knitting by the fire. Kitty sat silent, looking at the
clouds, which were beautiful in the curious afterglow of an autumnal
sunset.
"Mamma!" said she, suddenly. "I have got an idea in my head!"
"Have you?" said her mother, smiling. "How do you suppose it could get
there?"
"Out of the book I have been reading, I suppose!" said Kitty, laughing
in her turn: and then, leaving the window seat, she came and sat down
on the hearth-rug at her mother's feet.
"But now listen, mamma dear!" said she. "Because I want to know what
you think. Why cannot I make a nice little Christmas tree for my
Sunday-school children? I don't mean any thing very expensive, of
course, but just to have them here, and give them some coffee and cakes
(all French children like coffee you know, mamma), and some little
presents!"
"What sort of presents?"
"Oh, little dolls and books, perhaps—although they cannot read English,
so the books must be picture-books—little china mugs and figures, and
such like!"
"Now 'I' think—" said Cousin Tilly, "that something useful would be
more to the purpose. They are all as poor as crows, you know!"
"That is the very reason why I would give them playthings, Cousin
Tilly!" replied Kitty: "Because they never have any. They do pretty
well for clothes, and you know the society will give them what is
really necessary, but nobody gives poor children playthings; and yet I
suppose they like them quite as much as other children do!"
"There is something in that notion, I confess!" said Cousin Tilly. "But
I never should have thought of it!"
"But, Kitty, who would furnish the necessary funds?" asked her mother.
"Christmas parties cost money, you know. Have you thought about that?"
"Yes, mamma, I thought you would perhaps give us the coffee and cakes,
and I would do the rest. I shall have some money by that time."
"Haven't you any now, Kitty?"
"No, mamma, only eighteen cents. But there will be my three dollars on
the first of December, and you need not pay me any money till then.
Five weeks will be fifty cents. Three dollars will buy all I want, and
more too, I should think."
"You seem to have considered the matter very carefully, Kitty!"
"I was calculating, mamma, that I would spend twenty-five cents apiece
upon the children. Ten quarters of a dollar are two dollars and a half,
which leaves something for extra candy and lights, and so forth."
"Well, Kitty, I will take the matter into consideration. But I tell
you at once you must not expect any thing great in the matter of
refreshments. You know that painting the house and new-covering the
roof has used up a great deal of money, and we shall have to be very
careful not to run behindhand. However, I suppose I could give them a
good-sized cake apiece, and Cousin Tilly can make you some of her nice
biscuits. Will that do?"
"Oh yes mamma—nicely!"
"But remember you must not so much as ask me for any funds besides your
regular pocket-money."
"I won't, mamma. Then may I consider it settled?"
"You may, unless something unforeseen happens," replied Mrs. Tremain,
smiling. "But, Kitty, don't say any thing about it beforehand."
"Oh no, of course not! That would spoil it all. Thank you very much,
dear mamma!"
It remains to be explained how Kitty Tremain, a little girl thirteen
years old, came to have a Sunday-school class. It arose principally
from the fact that Kitty could speak French very fluently and
prettily—an accomplishment which she had gained by living in Paris from
the time she was two years old till she was eight. In fact she had
learned French before she knew any English to speak of, and her mother
had taken care that she should not forget what she had learned. Mrs.
Tremain's friends in Paris often sent her new books and papers; and
Kitty read aloud to her mother in French every day, besides talking
over what she read in the same language.
There were then in Holford several families of French Canadians, some
of whom could not speak English, and when the women were prevailed
upon to let their children come to Sunday-school, there arose a great
difficulty about teachers. Besides Mrs. Tremain and her daughter, no
one in Holford could speak French with any degree of fluency except
Miss Oliver, and her time on Sunday was fully occupied with her large
Bible-class, made up of girls from the factory at the Corners. Mrs.
Tremain took charge of the elder children, but what was to become of
the little ones? In this strait Miss Oliver proposed that the "infants"
should be turned over to Kitty.
"Kitty is very good with little ones. I have often watched her in
school and in the play-ground. She can have assistance when she needs
it, and I dare say she will do very well."
The experiment was tried, and it succeeded. Kitty had very pleasant
manners—a great advantage in the management of children. She also
possessed sufficient authority, and took great pains; and Mr. Burgess
considered the class as well managed as any in the school. Kitty
was devoted to her charge, and it was pretty to see how the little
things clustered about her when school was out, or when she went to
visit them, all anxious for the honour of holding her hand, and all
chattering together in their Canadian French like a flock of blackbirds.
"How glad I am that I have broken off with Fanny Daskin!" thought
Kitty, as she went to school next morning. "She would be sure to find
out all about it, but I am determined she shall not make a fool of me
again!"
Kitty was sitting in the school-room at recess, putting to rights the
crochet-work of one of the little girls who had got into difficulty
with the hood she was making. She was always ready to help the younger
girls with their work, and they were very fond of her. She had pulled
out quite a piece, and was working it up again, when Fanny Daskin came
and sat down beside her. Kitty coloured, but neither of them said a
word for a minute.
"So, Kitty, you never mean to speak to me again," said Fanny,
presently, in a low voice. "Well, I don't know as I blame you: I like
to see people show firmness and decision, even when it goes against
myself!"
It was something new for Kitty to be complimented for firmness and
decision, and she could not help feeling a little glow of gratified
vanity, but she answered, coolly enough—
"As to that, Fanny, you know you began it."
"I know I did," said Fanny. "I was vexed, and I showed it. That is my
way. What I feel comes right out; and the more I love any one, the more
vexed I am when they treat me ill. You never saw me refuse to speak to
Rosa Brown or Julia Parmelee!"
"You don't have much to do with them anyhow," returned Kitty.
"Of course I don't. I don't care for them in the first place, and I
know they feel above me. As for Rosa Brown, she feels above everybody,
even Miss Oliver; and Julia Parmelee won't have any thing to do with
me, because my father never goes to church. I think he is wrong myself,
but it is not my fault."
"No, of course not!" replied Kitty, not knowing exactly what to say.
"As to that affair the other day, I was quite as much to blame as you,"
continued Fanny. "I ought not to have asked you to break a rule, and I
won't do it again. Is that all you have against me?"
"I have not said that I had any thing against you."
"Now, Kitty, do follow your natural disposition, and be frank and
open," said Fanny. "It isn't one bit like you to be so close and
reserved: and I know that some one has been putting you up to it. Who
has been telling you things about me?"
"Nobody has been telling me any thing about you," returned Kitty. "I
can see enough for myself. You and Lizzy get me into all sorts of
scrapes, and coax away all my things. You just make a fool of me; and I
tell you plainly, Fanny, I won't stand it. I don't want to quarrel with
you, but I won't be governed by you any more."
"Oh, well, if that is the way you feel!—But I am sure governing was the
last thing I ever thought of. I supposed you were the one who governed
me. I am sure you are the only girl who ever had any influence over
me, or did me any good. I know very well I am a wicked girl: I don't
want to deny it. But if all the good girls are to turn their backs on
me, and never have any thing more to do with me, I don't see how I am
ever to be any better. As for Rosa and Julia, I don't care for their
professions of religion, because they won't act up to them. But you are
different. I think you are a real Christian, and so is your mother. I
will say that for her, though I know she does not like me, or want you
to associate with me!"
"Because she says you flatter me so, and make a fool of me!" said
Kitty, her indignation again rising, as she thought of what her mother
had told her. "You call me clever and generous to my face, and behind
my back you laugh at me and call me 'soft!'"
"I never did such a thing in this world. Your mother is much mistaken
if she thinks so. But I know very well that is not the reason she does
not like me. She thinks I shall tell you some things which she does not
want you to know. She need not be afraid! I shall not tell you, even
though I may think myself you ought to be told. But that is neither
here nor there. I am not going to coax you now, Kitty, whatever I have
done before. I know very well that it is of no use. You have made up
your mind, and that is all about it. I might as well try to coax the
North Rock to come down on the Church green. But I think it is rather
hard on me to lose the only religious friend I have in the world, and
just as I need her the most—just as I was beginning to think of such
things and to wish to be a better girl."
"Surely the net is spread in vain in the sight of any bird!" One might
think so. But the net was spread openly, and the silly little bird soon
walked straight into it. Nobody had ever complimented Kitty on her
firmness before. Nobody had ever told her she influenced them. She went
home considerably uplifted in her own mind, and wondering very much
what Fanny could possibly know which her mother did not wish her to
learn.
In a week's time Kitty was just as much "under Fanny's thumb" as
she had ever been. True, Fanny, warned by what had happened, was
careful not to draw Kitty into any flagrant violation of the school
rules, and took some pains to behave better herself. She even brought
her Sunday-school lesson to Kitty (the Daskin children attended
Sunday-school occasionally), and listened with the greatest deference
and attention to Kitty's explanations.
"Humph!" said Cousin Tilly, when she heard it. "I hope it may last,
that's all!"
"I think you are very uncharitable, Cousin Tilly!" said Kitty, with a
lofty and serene air. "You have such a prejudice against the Daskins,
you can see no good in any of them. I don't think poor Fanny ought to
suffer for her father's faults!"
"And pray how do you know that I am prejudiced against the Daskins,
Miss Kitty? I have known them ever since you were born, and long
before! How do you know that my opinion is not founded upon knowledge,
and not upon prejudice?"
Kitty had nothing to say in reply but that she supposed Fanny might
have some good about her, and as long as she could do her any good, she
might as well try!
"Try as much as you please, only be careful that she does not do you
harm," said Cousin Tilly.
And there the matter ended.
CHAPTER III.
"HERE are the letters, mamma," said Kitty, who had run down to the
Post-office before breakfast, and now came in with glowing cheeks and
full hands. "See what a quantity! Three French and two English letters,
and two others, besides all the papers. Will you please see if my three
dollars has come, mamma?"
"Yes, there it is," said Mrs. Tremain, handing Kitty the bright new
note; "and here is the money I owe you—sixty cents. I may as well give
it to you now that I have the exact change. Take care you do not lose
it!"
"You had better put it away in your desk till you want to use it," said
Cousin Tilly, as Kitty took out her purse. "If you carry it in your
pocket, it will be gone before you know it."
"That is always the way," thought Kitty, as she put her purse in her
pocket. "They think I am an out-and-out fool. I do wonder what it is
they are hiding from me that the Daskins know. I mean to make Fanny
tell me to-day."
"No, I am not going to tell you either," said Fanny. "You don't tell me
your secrets, and I don't see why I should tell you mine. I know that
you are getting up something for Christmas, and you will not tell me
any thing about it."
"How do you know?" asked Kitty.
"I heard you and Miss Oliver talking about it one day when I was in the
dressing-room. Of course you can do as you please about telling me. But
what I say is that you can't expect me to tell you my secrets while you
keep yours to yourself."
"It is no great secret," said Kitty.
"Great or small doesn't matter. If it is such a small affair, I don't
see any use in being so very private about it."
My reader can very easily guess how the matter ended. Kitty was drawn
on to tell the whole story of her proposed Christmas entertainment.
"I am sure you are very good to go to so much trouble for those little
French young ones," said Fanny. "I can't help being jealous sometimes
when I see you so engaged about them. But how much money are you going
to spend on your Christmas tree?"
"Three dollars and sixty cents."
"Is that all your mother gives you of your property?" asked Fanny, in a
tone of great surprise. "Only three dollars at a time!"
"That is all there is," replied Kitty. "It is only a hundred dollars,
you know, and that at six per cent is—"
"I was not thinking of that paltry hundred dollars Mrs. Leffington gave
you," interrupted Fanny. "I was thinking of your own property—the two
hundred thousand dollars your grandfather left you, and which you are
to have when you are eighteen. Did nobody ever tell you about that?"
"Nonsense!"
"No nonsense at all. My father knows all about it." And here Fanny went
into many particulars, some of which she had heard from her father,
while others were made up on the spur of the moment. "You see it was
two hundred thousand dollars at first, but it must be a great deal more
by this time, if the interest has been added every year. You must have
as much as twenty thousand a year of your own, besides your mother's
property. That is the reason I was surprised that Mrs. Tremain gave you
so little to spend on your Christmas tree. Three dollars does not seem
to be much beside twenty thousand: does it?"
It certainly did not. Kitty's three dollars, which had looked so large
in the morning, now seemed very contemptible indeed.
"If your mother would give you thirty, or even twenty, dollars, you
might give each of them a handsome present," continued Fanny, "but I
don't see very well what you can buy for twenty-five cents. I should be
afraid they would only laugh at you."
"I don't see why mother never told me any thing about it," said Kitty,
in a very discontented tone. "And what is the use of our living so
economically when we are so rich? We might just as well as not live in
New York, and have a handsome house and horses and carriages, as Aunt
Baldwin does."
"I suppose your mother means to teach you to be very economical," said
Fanny, "though I must say I don't think she need be so very close.
But then, you see, the money is not hers, but yours. However, I don't
want to set you against your mother. Father says it was her closeness
and extra economy that drove your father to do what he did, but then
he does not like your mother, and he was very fond of your father—so
he naturally takes sides with his friend. But I do wish Mrs. Tremain
would give you a little more money to spend on this affair. I am really
afraid you will make yourself ridiculous, and be laughed at."
Now, being made to appear ridiculous was the thing which Kitty dreaded
above all others. She took out her purse and looked at her money.
"It does seem a little bit to be sure, but mamma said I must not ask
her for any more, so I must make it answer as well as I can. Have you
learned your Sunday-school lesson, Fanny? Do you want me to help you?"
"No!" replied Fanny, shaking her head. "I cannot go to Sunday-school
any more. My bonnet is shabby. I am quite ashamed of it. You think
three dollars a little money, Kitty; and so it is to you, who could
have thousands to spend if you had your rights. But it would be a
good deal to me just now, I can tell you. It makes all the difference
between my going to Sunday-school and staying at home!"
"Your bonnet is no more shabby than it was last Sunday, and I thought
it looked nicely then, I am sure!"
"Yes, it is because I got caught in the rain going home. It does not
look fit to wear: and I am not going to Sunday-school to be despised,
I can tell you! Oh, Kitty, if you would only lend me that money, just
till next week!"
"But why does not your father buy you a new hat?" asked Kitty.
"Because he does not like to have me go to church and Sunday-school,"
replied Fanny. "I asked him, and he said if I wanted to try the pious
dodge, I must ask you or some of my pious friends to help me, and not
come to him. He said now was the time for you to show whether you meant
what you said or not. And, Kitty, I do think so too! If you can't
lend me three dollars out of all your wealth, to help me to go to
Sunday-school, I certainly can't think you are very sincere in wishing
me to become a Christian."
"You see, Fanny, I have only this money, little as it is, to make my
Christmas tree with!" said Kitty, hesitating, and partly feeling,
despite Fanny's earnestness, that she was being imposed upon.
"I don't believe but that your mother will give you more if you ask her
in earnest," said Fanny.
"Mamma always does as she says, in the first place," replied Kitty. "I
should not like to ask her for more."
"Well, I must say it is very queer in her, that is all. But how strange
that you should never know you were such an heiress! I don't believe
your uncle Baldwin is nearly so rich."
"Uncle Baldwin is very rich, I know, and so is his brother who lives
in Paris. They have such a grand house, Fanny, and such a tall Swiss
porter—taller than your father!"
"I dare say 'their' daughter don't wear an old plaid woollen dress to
school!" said Fanny, casting a disdainful glance at her frock, which
was certainly the worse for wear.
"No, she wears a dark gray frock, and a white apron," said Kitty.
"That is the uniform of the school at which she is being educated.
School-girls dress very plainly in France!"
"Well, but about this money, Kitty. Don't you mean to lend it to me? I
will pay you by the middle of next week; and I tell you plainly that I
will never go to church or to Sunday-school again unless you do."
"But why can't you wait till then for your bonnet?" asked Kitty.
"Because I can't, and won't!" returned Fanny, passionately. And then,
a little more quietly: "You see, Kitty, I can get money from my father
for some things though not for others; and if he knew that I borrowed
the money from you, he would give me the means to repay it. I will
certainly let you have it the middle of next week. Come, Kitty, don't
be stingy for the first time in your life, just as you have found out
how rich you are! What is three dollars to thirty thousand?"
"But, Fanny, how do you know that I have so much?"
"Because father told me. He knew all about your father's business!
Come, Kitty, I particularly want to go church and Sunday-school next
Sunday, because father and mother are going to have company all day:
and you don't know how it is at our house at such times. You are the
only person in the world I can ask to do me such a favour, but you have
always been my friend, and stuck to me in spite of every one."
Who can doubt the result! The money was transferred from Kitty's pocket
to Fanny's, as many smaller sums had been before. The rest of the
way home—the girls had walked the whole length of the village during
their conversation—Fanny amused herself in telling of the beautiful
things which she might buy if she only had thirty or forty dollars to
spend instead of three, till she succeeded in making Kitty thoroughly
discontented, and causing her to wish that she had never done any thing
about the matter.
"But don't tell your mother what I have told you!" was Fanny's parting
injunction. "And, above all, don't tell her that you lent me the money,
at least not till I have paid it back. She would be angry, and very
likely speak to my father about it, and then he would never let me pay
it at all. Nothing makes him so angry as being dunned, and I am like
him in that: I can't bear to be dunned."
"But you will be sure to pay me the first of the week, Fanny," said
Kitty. "You know, though it is so little, it is all that I have for my
Christmas tree!"
"Of course I shall! Good-night."
It was with a very discontented spirit that Kitty entered the house,
and went straight up to her room—the room she had been admiring that
very morning. How poor and mean it all looked to her now—not at all fit
for the residence of a young lady with twenty thousand dollars a year!
And yet it was a very pretty room. The floor was covered with bright
India matting, and was further decorated by two soft, large Turkish
carpet-rugs, as we should call them. The bedstead was a light iron one,
and the spread curtains and table-cover were all of the same pretty
pink-and-white chintz. There was a little old-fashioned writing-desk,
surmounted by a bookcase well filled with volumes, both French and
English. There were prints and pictures on the walls, and on a bracket
in the corner stood Kitty's chief treasure, a little gilded French
clock, which struck the half hours and the quarters, and played a tune
at the hour.
To my mind, however, the chief beauty of the room was the splendid view
from the windows. The house stood high, and from the upper room on the
south side you could see clear across the valley to the North Rock—an
immense boulder which crowned the high hill on the other side. You
could trace the course of the clear little river as it wound from side
to side of the pleasant and fertile valley, and see every one of the
many bridges which covered it.
Aunt Baldwin would gladly have given all the fine furniture in her
bed-room and dressing-room in New York to have such a view before her
windows. To-day, however, this pleasant prospect had no charms for
Kitty's eyes, as she looked at it out of her window.
"How stupid to have nothing to look at but trees, and cows, and rocks!"
was her only thought. "If I had my rights, I might be living on Fifth
Avenue."
"Kitty, are you here?" said Cousin Tilly, opening the door. "You came
in so quietly that I did not hear you. Your mother has gone up to Mrs.
Parmelee's to visit some of the ladies and talk about clothing up the
poor children. She said you might come too, if you liked. They are
going to stay to tea!"
"I don't want to!" answered Kitty pettishly: "I would rather stay at
home."
"Well, I am surprised at that!" said Cousin Tilly. "I thought you would
like it above all things."
"I want to work on mother's cushion!" returned Kitty, seizing on the
first excuse which presented itself. "I hardly ever get a chance,
mother is away so seldom."
"There is something in that!" said Cousin Tilly. "Well, I will get you
a nice supper, and you can have a good time working.
"I wish Tilly wouldn't be so familiar!" thought Kitty, as she gathered
together her worsted and came down-stairs. "After all, she is nothing
but a servant! I don't see why she does not keep her place and stay in
the kitchen!"
Kitty's pattern was a new and very pretty one, which had been given
her by her Aunt Baldwin, with the material for making it. It was an
easy one, too, being already traced out on the canvas. But, somehow,
every thing went wrong with it this night. At last Kitty threw it down,
declaring she would not touch it again.
"What is the matter?" asked Cousin Tilly, in surprise, for such
outbreaks were rare with Kitty. "Let me see it?"
"Do let it alone, can't you!" returned Kitty, snappishly. "You will get
it all dirty, and then it will be spoiled entirely."
"Well, well!" said Cousin Tilly. "It seems to me somebody has come home
in a bad humour."
Kitty, rather ashamed of herself, muttered some sort of apology, and
taking up her cushion again, she worked for some time in silence.
Then, complaining that it hurt her eyes, she put it away, and, curling
herself up in her mother's great chair, she sat for some time looking
into the fire.
"Cousin Tilly!" said she, suddenly. "How much property did my
grandfather leave?"
"I don't know exactly," said Cousin Tilly, rather absently: "about two
or three hundred thousand dollars, I guess."
"Who did he give it to?" asked Kitty.
"Really, Kitty, I don't know much about it. I know he provided well for
his children, and left your mother twelve thousand dollars of her own.
I have heard say it was an odd sort of will, but I never inquired into
particulars. What set you to thinking of your grandfather's will?"
"I was looking at his picture!" said Kitty, blushing a little at the
fib. Then, after a short silence, "I wish we were well off."
"Why, I think we 'are' pretty well off, Kitty: don't you?"
"No!" said Kitty, pettishly. "I don't call any one well off who has to
save and scrimp as we do. If you had lived with us in Paris, Cousin
Tilly, you would not think we were well off now. When papa wanted any
thing, he just went and got it: he did not stop to reckon up the cost,
as mamma does."
"I dare say not," said Cousin Tilly, drily. "Perhaps if he had counted
the cost a little oftener, there would be some to spend in these days."
"I don't believe my papa was the worst man that ever lived," said Kitty.
"Nobody said that he was!" returned Cousin Tilly, and then there was
another silence.
"I don't care!" exclaimed Kitty, breaking out again. "I think mother
might let me have more money to spend on my Christmas tree. What is
three dollars to divide among ten children?"
"I thought you had got it all planned out very nicely!" said Cousin
Tilly. "I am sure I was quite surprised at your ingenuity."
"It is just the contriving that I hate," said Kitty. "If I had twenty
or thirty dollars to spend there would be some fun in it. I think
mother might let me have as much."
"You know what she said about that."
"Of course I do, and I shall not ask her, but I do wish she was not
quite so close."
"Your mother is not close," answered Cousin Tilly. "She is the most
liberal woman I know, according to her means. You ought to be ashamed
to think of such a thing, Kitty."
Kitty made no answer, except to toss her head.
"You felt very rich over your three dollars this morning!" continued
Cousin Tilly. "What has come over you? Has Fanny Daskin been talking to
you again?"
"Oh, Cousin Tilly! To hear you and mother talk, one would think Fanny
Daskin was a witch and I her slave. I have a mind of my own, I am
thankful to say!"
"I am glad if you have, but it does not seem to be a mind to be
thankful for just at present!" said Cousin Tilly, significantly. "I
advise you to change it before your mother comes home."
Kitty tossed up her head again, but said no more till her mother's
return.
"Why did not you come down to the parsonage, my dear," asked Mrs.
Tremain. "The girls were very much disappointed."
"I don't see why they should be disappointed," said Kitty. "I never
said I was coming."
"Well, sorry then," said Mrs. Tremain, smiling. "You are very critical
to-night. Why did you not come?"
"I had something I wanted to do at home, mamma," replied Kitty.
"Kitty seems out of sorts," said Cousin Tilly. "I don't believe she
feels very well."
"There is nothing the matter with me, except that I am tired," said
Kitty. "I should like to go to bed, mother, please."
But Kitty did not go to bed for a long time. She sat by her table
looking in the glass, and thinking what she would have and what she
would wear if only she had the twenty thousand a year which was her
right. Startled at last by her candle burning out, she hastily slipped
off her clothes and jumped into bed, never remembering till she had
lain down that she had not said her prayers.
"It is not worth while to get up again," thought Kitty. "I cannot see
to read my verses, and I can say my prayers just as well where I am."
But before ten words were said, Kitty was fast asleep.
CHAPTER IV.
FOR several days Kitty was so absent-minded, and so captious and
discontented, that her mother did not know exactly what to make of
her. She seemed to have lost all interest in her usual pursuits—her
readings, her lessons, and more especially her preparations for
Christmas. She found fault with her meals, and was so saucy to Cousin
Tilly that her mother seriously reproved her.
"Well, I can't help it!" said Kitty. "Cousin Tilly is so interfering. I
don't see why she should always put in her word. She is only a servant,
and I think she might keep her place, as Aunt Baldwin's housekeeper
does."
"It is a good thing for every one to keep their places—little girls
among the rest!" said Mrs. Tremain, much displeased. "Let me hear no
such remarks. In the relation between ourselves and Cousin Tilly we are
altogether the obliged party. She could get three times the wages I
give her as matron in the Water Cure, a post she is perfectly competent
to fill, while I could not find any one to fill her place for ten times
the money."
Kitty stood too much in awe of her mother to say any more. She was in
an unhappy frame of mind. Instead of enjoying what she had, and being
thankful for it, she was all the time thinking what luxuries she might
have "if she had her rights," till a hard feeling grew up in her heart
towards her mother, for keeping, as she really supposed, her property
away from her. Her lessons were neglected, and she got into disgrace
with Miss Oliver in consequence. And even her Bible lay untouched from
day to day, while her prayers were almost entirely omitted. Sunday
came, and for the first time since she had taken the class, she had
made no preparations to meet her scholars.
"I don't want to go out to-day, mother!" said she, after breakfast. "My
head aches, and I have that pain in my shoulder again. I don't feel as
if I could possibly sit up through church and Sunday-school."
Kitty had had threatenings of spinal disease, and she knew that any
complaint of pain in her shoulders would make her mother uneasy.
Contemptible enough she looked in her own eyes as she made this
perfectly false excuse, and she almost wished she had said nothing when
she saw how anxious her mother looked.
"You must not go, of course!" said Mrs. Tremain. "You had better lie
flat down upon the sofa, and rest all the morning. I have not heard you
complain of that pain in a good while. Have you hurt yourself in any
way?"
"No, mamma, not that I know of, unless it was in stepping off two steps
at once, two or three days ago. The pain is not so very bad, but it
makes me feel sick."
"Do you want any one to stay at home with you?" asked Mrs. Tremain.
"Oh no, mother! I am not afraid."
"Very well, then; Cousin Tilly and myself will go to church. Try to
improve your Sunday my dear! You need not lose it because you do not go
to church."
But Kitty did not improve her Sunday. She seemed to have lost all her
relish for sacred things, and in fact her conscience was too deeply
burdened to allow of her finding any comfort in them. She took a
story-book and read for a time, and then, putting away her book, she
lay indulging in her favourite dreams of luxury and dress, till she
fell asleep over them.
"Your secret has leaked out in some way, Kitty!" said Mrs. Tremain.
Kitty started like a guilty thing. "All the girls are talking about
your Christmas tree, and the children have got their expectations
raised to such a pitch that I fear they will be disappointed. Whom have
you told of your plans besides Miss Oliver?"
"Nobody, mamma!"
"I can hardly think Miss Oliver would mention the matter, when you
asked her not to do so," said Mrs. Tremain.
"Are you sure you did not tell any one else, Kitty—not even Fanny
Daskin?" asked Cousin Tilly.
"Of course I did not!" replied Kitty, promptly. "What should I tell her
for?"
"Well, it is certainly very curious, that is all!"
"I dare say Miss Oliver mentioned it to Mrs. Parmelee, and Emma or
Julia overheard her!" said Kitty. "All the girls say that Emma is a
real tell-tale. She carries all the news of the school to her mother
and Miss Oliver. It is very mean, whoever told!"
"You are quite sure you said nothing about it to Fanny, or in her
hearing?" asked her mother. "You might have done so incidentally."
"Indeed I did not, mamma," replied Kitty, positively. "I never said one
word. I am sorry it has got out, but there is no use in worrying about
it now."
"Very true," said her mother. "I did my best to correct the impression
that you intended to give any splendid entertainment."
"It can hardly be any thing very splendid, since I have only three
dollars. That is so very little, mamma!"
Mrs. Tremain held up her finger.
"Oh, I am not going to ask for any more!" said Kitty, with rather a
poor attempt at a smile. "I know very well there is no use in that, but
I do think it is a wretched thing to be poor and economical."
"Kitty has felt very poor for the last three or four days!" remarked
Cousin Tilly. "One would think, to hear her talk, that we were just
ready to go to the County House."
"Well, I do feel poor, and I can't help it!" said Kitty. "I keep
thinking about the time when we lived in Paris. I wish we were there
again."
"I cannot agree with you, my child!" said her mother. "The days I spent
in Paris were very far from being the happiest of my life."
"When I think of Paris, it seems to me like a paradise," said Kitty.
"You were but a child, and you remember nothing but what is pleasant,"
replied her mother. "I am glad that is the case, but you must not
expect me to feel as you do."
"I wonder if I shall ever go there again!"
"Perhaps you may!" said her mother. "I know that Aunt Natalie would
be glad to have us come and spend a year with her, and it is just
possible—mind I do not say probable," she added, as Kitty's eyes began
to sparkle—"that in the course of a few years we may accept her kind
invitation."
Here was new ground for Kitty's castle-building! All the afternoon,
while her mother and Cousin Tilly were at church, she lay picturing
to herself what she would do when her mother took her to Paris,
and introduced her into society—as no doubt she meant to do—as a
great heiress. Laces and brocades, pearls, flounces, and flowers,
presentations at courts, and embassadors' balls chased each other
through her giddy head, till she went to sleep again, and slept till
her mother came home.
Mrs. Tremain never went out on Sunday evening, but generally devoted
her time to reading and talking with Kitty. Kitty had always enjoyed
these occasions, but now she looked forward with dread to being alone
with her mother, and wished something would happen to prevent it.
Something did happen.
"Here is one of your Sunday-scholars wanting to speak to you," said
Cousin Tilly, putting her head into the room. "She is in a great hurry,
but I can't understand a word she says, only that somebody is sick."
Mrs. Tremain rose and went out to the kitchen.
"I shall have no time for our own talk this evening, my dear!" said
she, returning presently. "Lenore Beaubien is here, and says little
Julie has been taken with croup, and they fear she will die. I must go
over there directly!"
"Oh, mamma! Poor dear little Jou-jou!" exclaimed Kitty, starting up.
"Do let me go with you!"
"No, my love!" said her mother decidedly. "It is a very damp, raw
evening, and you know if you should take cold, you might be confined
all winter. If you had not been complaining to-day, I should perhaps
let you go. But as it is, you must not think of such a thing."
Kitty's reflections when her mother was gone were far from being
pleasant. Julie, or Jou-jou, as she was called, was the oldest and the
most promising of her pupils. She was very much attached to her young
teacher, and took great pains to please her. She had already learned
to read well in English, and was able to repeat the whole of the
Commandments. Jou-jou was a thoughtful child, and asked many questions,
some of which Kitty was puzzled to answer.
"I will find out and tell you next time!" had been Kitty's last words
to the child the Sunday before.
But the next time had never come, and might never come again.
She had wilfully absented herself from her post—selfishly neglected
her duty, and for what? Merely that she might indulge herself in silly
reveries, and hard thoughts of the best friend she had in the world.
Nor was this the worst of it. Kitty had contrived to keep her
conscience partly quiet through the week, but it was not to be
silenced now. It brought up before her, in all their ugly colours, the
disobedience of which she had been guilty, and the lie that she told
to conceal that disobedience—the hard, uncharitable thoughts she had
indulged of those about her, and especially of her mother. Kitty was
astonished, when she came to think of it, to see of how many sins she
had been guilty.
Kitty had lately thought herself a true disciple of Christ. Especially
since she had taken charge of the Sunday-school class had she paid
great attention to her religious duties, reading good books, praying,
and studying the Scriptures. Fanny Daskin had often said she was the
only girl in the school who acted up to what she professed; and this
helped to feed her self-complacency, till she had come to think herself
quite a pattern, and to criticise her companions—not a safe state of
mind for anybody.
Now, all at once her eyes seemed to be opened, and she caught a glimpse
of her real spiritual condition. What had she been about all this week?
Where had she suffered herself to be led by the arts of the flatterer?
Was this acting up to her Christian profession? Were falsehood, neglect
of duty, disobedience to her mother, thoughts filled with the world and
the things of the world—were these the marks of a true disciple? Kitty
could not think so? She had been too well taught to deceive herself in
that way.
Kitty got up and walked about the room in a very unhappy frame of mind.
She thought she would pray for forgiveness, but then the reflection
came across her that she could not do so without an honest intention to
abandon her sins; and she could not at once make up her mind to give up
all the day-dreams in which she had lately delighted, and confess to
her mother the falsehoods of which she had been guilty. She felt that
she was not prepared to do this. Must she then incur the added guilt
of hypocrisy, or must she give up altogether the thought of being a
Christian? There was another trouble upon Kitty's mind.
The more she thought about it, the more vexed she felt that she had
been cajoled into lending Fanny the money she had to depend upon for
her Christmas tree. She knew very well that she had often lent Fanny
small sums of money which Fanny had never paid her. What security had
she that she should ever see her three dollars again? And if she did
not, what would become of her presents, and what should she say to
her mother? These reflections were interrupted by the return of Mrs.
Tremain.
"It is all over, my dear!" she said, in answer to Kitty's half-uttered
question. "Poor little Jou-jou died about half an hour ago! There was
nothing to be done for her. The last words she spoke were something
about Mademoiselle Kitty!"
"Oh, mamma! You ought to have let me go and see her!" sobbed Kitty.
"No, my love! It would not have been right to expose your health when
you could do no good!"
"Oh, if I had only gone to Sunday-school! If I had only seen her once
more!"
"My darling, do not reproach yourself unjustly!" said Mrs. Tremain,
tenderly. "You have been very faithful to your class, and it was
through no fault of yours that you stayed at home to-day! I do not
wonder that you regret it, but you are not in any way to blame."
How these kind words went to Kitty's heart! She knew it "was" all her
own fault—that she had stayed at home because she was ashamed to meet
her class without preparation, and because she preferred to amuse
herself. Her grief became hysterical, and her mother at last put her
to bed, gave her some quieting medicine, and sat by her till she fell
asleep.
"Was Fanny Daskin at school to-day, mamma?" said she, suddenly, when
her mother thought her asleep.
"No, my dear! I heard Miss May inquiring for her. Do you know why she
stayed away?"
"No, mamma! She said on Friday that she was going."
"Well, never mind now. Go to sleep."
The next morning Kitty was really too unwell to go to school, and she
lay upon the sofa all day, too miserable to read or employ herself in
any way. She tried to find some relief in throwing all the blame upon
Fanny Daskin, but there was small comfort in that. She had been warned
time after time against Fanny's influence and Fanny's flatteries—she
knew in her own heart that Fanny had always made a tool and a fool of
her. The net had been spread plainly in her sight, she had walked into
it like a silly bird, and now she was caught hard and fast enough.
"Kitty," said her mother, the day after little Julie was buried, "do
you think you will feel well enough to go down to the city to-morrow?"
"Oh yes, mamma! Why?"
"I shall be obliged to go to see about insurance and other matters, and
it will be a good time to buy your Sunday-school presents. I presume
you will be able to lay out your money to much greater advantage there
then here."
"Yes, mamma!" said Kitty, but with so much hesitation in her voice,
that Mrs. Tremain turned to look at her.
"Why, what is, the matter, Kitty? You have not lost your money, have
you?"
"Oh no, mamma, it is quite safe—only—"
"Only what?"
"I locked it up in my desk, mamma, and I have mislaid the key."
Kitty had only that morning resolved that she would never tell another
lie.
"That is unlucky," said her mother. "What made you lock it up? You do
not usually lock your desk, do you?"
"No, mamma, but you know Miss May was talking about burglars the other
evening when she was here. So when I went up-stairs I thought I would
lock my desk, and I have put away the key so safely that I cannot find
it at all."
How glibly these falsehoods ran off the end of Kitty's tongue! Fanny
herself could not have invented them faster or told them with less
confusion.
"There comes Mrs. Brown," said her mother, glancing out of the window.
"You had better go and look for your key, my dear. Try to think where
you have put it."
Kitty ran up-stairs, but not to hunt for her key. That was in the lock
of her desk, as usual. She turned it, took it out, and threw it over
behind her book-shelf. Then hastily putting on her hood and cloak, she
went down the back stairs, slipped through the garden gate, and ran
through the back street to Mr. Daskin's. She knew that Fanny would just
now be coming from school. She was not disappointed. She met Fanny at
the gate.
"Why, Kitty, what are you doing out in this rain, and with no rubbers
on!" exclaimed Fanny. "You will get your death."
"I don't care if I do!" said Kitty. "Fanny, I want my money."
"Money! What money? What do you mean?" asked Fanny.
Kitty stamped her foot with impatience. "Now, Fanny, don't tire me, for
I won't stand it. You know what I mean! I want the three dollars and a
half I lent you last Thursday. I am going with mother to T— to-morrow,
and I want my money to spend. You said you would pay me the middle of
the week."
[Illustration: _Kitty's Christmas Tree._
"Father, was not that bill I showed you a counterfeit?"]
"Oh that!" said Fanny. "I can't give you the fifty cents now, Kitty:
I have not got it; as for the three dollars, the note was good for
nothing. I showed it to Mr. May at the store, and he said it was a
counterfeit, so I just tore it up and threw it away."
"You did no such thing! I know better. You are telling me a lie, Fanny
Daskin!" exclaimed Kitty. "I know that Uncle Baldwin would never send
me a bad bill."
"I tell you it was good for nothing; you may ask father. Father, was
not that bill I showed you a counterfeit?"
"Of course! Any fool might have seen it!" To do Mr. Daskin justice, he
knew nothing about the money that Fanny had borrowed, but thought she
referred to a twenty-five cent bill she had got at the store in change.
"You must look out sharper, or some of these folks will cheat your eyes
out."
"There, didn't I tell you so! I am sorry for you, Kitty, and I don't
mean to be vexed with you, whatever you may say. It was very good in
you to lend me the money, but you can't expect me to give you back good
money for bad. Now, can you?"
"Fanny Daskin!" said Kitty, trembling with excitement. "You are a
thief, a cheat, and a liar. I will never speak to you again the longest
day I live."
"So you said before," replied Fanny, coolly.
"I mean it this time. I will tell every one how you cheated me."
"No you won't!"
"Why not?"
"Because you can't do it without letting every one know what a fool
you have been; and you won't be in a hurry to do that! Good-bye,
Kitty. I hope you will have a pleasant Christmas-party. I shan't go to
Sunday-school any more just now, but if I ever become converted, I will
write and let you know!" Then, with these mocking words, Fanny turned
and went into the house, shutting the door after her.
Kitty stood still, as if stunned for a minute. As she turned to go, she
ran against Lizzy Gates.
"Why, Kitty, what brings you out in this storm!" exclaimed Lizzy. "I
heard you were sick, and I was coming up to see you this afternoon. But
how pale you are! Has any thing happened to frighten you?"
Kitty now poured out the story of her wrongs.
"The mean thing!" exclaimed Lizzie. "She spent that very money for a
new hat and veil at Miss Perkins's, for I saw her myself. It was a new
three dollar bill and a new fifty cent note, was it not?"
"Yes!"
"I saw her pay it to Miss Perkins when I was there picking out my
worsteds. Miss Perkins remarked that she did not often see such clean
money."
"She says she will pay me the fifty cents some time," said Kitty. "But
I want it now. I dare not say any thing about it to mamma, for she has
often forbidden me to lend Fanny or any of the girls money."
Lizzy shook her head. "I don't want to be a 'Job's comforter,' as they
say, Kitty, but I am afraid you will never see your money again. The
Daskins are going away to California day after to-morrow. Mrs. Daskin
told mother so this very morning. It is a real shame, and so good as
you have been to her! But I won't say any thing about her, for I have
been about as bad." She stopped, hesitated, and then broke out again.
"It may as well come out, Kitty. I am sorry I have used you so, and led
you into so many scrapes. I have been very wicked about that and other
things, but I beg your pardon. There!"
"Why, Lizzy! What do you mean?"
"I don't wonder you ask," replied Lizzy, tapping her foot against the
ground. "But, Kitty, I mean what I say. I have been very wicked always,
but I hope I am different now. I have been thinking about these things
a good while, and now I have made up my mind. I am going to try to be a
Christian, Kitty, and I hope you will pray for me."
Kitty was too much astonished to answer a word. Lizzy was the very last
girl in the school from whom she would have expected to hear such words.
"That was what I was coming to tell you this afternoon," continued
Lizzy. "I knew you would be glad to hear it, because you have been 'good'
so long. Why, Kitty, what is the matter. You 'are' glad, are you not?"
Kitty was weeping convulsively. "Indeed, indeed I am," she said, as
soon as she could speak. "You don't know how glad I am. But oh, Lizzy,
don't call me a Christian. I am not! I have been a wicked, wicked girl.
I have told lies, and deceived mamma, and myself, and everybody. Oh,
what shall I do?"
"I know what I would do if I were you, and what you ought to do," said
Lizzy, with decision. "I would go and tell my mother all about it, and
tell her you are sorry. You won't have a bit of comfort till you do."
"It is easy to say that," said Kitty.
"It is not easy to do it, I know that I well enough," returned Lizzy.
"I know, because I have just done it. I stopped after school and told
Miss Oliver all about my cheating in composition and lessons. I knew I
shouldn't feel easy till I did. So I told her the whole. I have lost
all my credit by it, but I don't care so much for that. You don't know
how much better I feel, now it is off my mind. And I 'know,' Kitty—"
here Lizzy became very emphatic, as her manner was when she was in
earnest—"I 'know,' Kitty, that you will never have one minute's comfort
till you tell your mother the whole story."
"I believe you are right," said Kitty, after a minute's pause. "I
'know' you are. I will go home this minute and tell her."
"And, Kitty," said Lizzie, detaining her a moment, "I wouldn't give up
every thing because I had done wrong. Remember Peter."
"I know, Lizzy, but that was not like my case."
"Well, anyhow, I wouldn't give up trying. But do go home as fast as you
can and change your shoes. I am sure they are wet through."
CHAPTER V.
KITTY did not go in at the back gate this time. She felt that she must
have done with concealment in every shape. She walked in at the front
door, and, seeing that her mother was not in the parlour, she went
straight up-stairs to her own room. Her mother was there, looking at
the books in the bookcase.
"Your desk is not locked, Kitty," said Mrs. Tremain. "You turned the
key without shutting it close, and the bolt is outside, so you can get
your money even if you do not succeed in finding your key."
"The money is not in the desk, mother," said Kitty.
There was something in her voice so strange and unnatural that Mrs.
Tremain turned hastily round. Kitty's usually rosy cheeks were as pale
as ashes, and her eyes looked large and wild.
"Why, my love, what is the matter? Have you lost your money, or what
has happened?"
"No, mamma—yes, mamma, I have lost it, but not in that way. I lent it
to Fanny Daskin, and she will not give it back to me. She says it was a
bad bill, and she tore it up, but Lizzy Gates says she saw her pay just
such a bill to Miss Perkins."
"A likely story, that your uncle would send you a bad bill!" exclaimed
Cousin Tilly, who had just come in with some water.
"But, Kitty, how long is it since you told me that the money was safe
in your desk?"
"I did tell you so, mamma. Cousin Tilly, please go down-stairs. I want
to tell mother something."
"You must change your clothes first of all, Kitty!" said Mrs. Tremain,
observing for the first time how wet Kitty was. "I think you had better
go to bed. Tilly, will you make a fire?"
As soon as Kitty was safe in bed, her mother sat down by her bedside,
saying—"Now, Kitty, tell me the whole story, and let me have nothing
but the truth this time, whatever you may have told me before."
Kitty began at the day when she lent Fanny the money, and told her
mother, without reservation, all that had occurred, not concealing the
fact that she had made an altogether false excuse in order to stay at
home on the Sunday that little Julie died.
"Why did you do so?" asked her mother.
"I did not feel as though I could meet my class, mamma! I felt so
wicked; and besides—you will think me a fool outright, mamma—I wanted
to think about what Fanny had told me—about the fortune grandfather had
left me."
"So you have heard that foolish story! There is no truth in it
whatever. Your grandfather was very rich, and after having provided
amply for each of his children and giving me the sum of money upon
which we are now living, he gave the rest of his property to various
charitable institutions. And so you have allowed this wicked girl, whom
you know to be a liar, to prejudice you against your mother, and make
you believe that she was cheating you out of what was justly your due.
Oh, Kitty!"
"Yes, mamma, I own it! She did make me think so. She told me a great
deal about it, and what fine things I could buy if I only had my
rights, as she said. She made me think that three dollars was nothing
at all, and then she got it away from me!"
"When was this?" asked Mrs. Tremain.
"Last Wednesday, mamma."
"And how many lies have you told about it since that time?"
"I don't know, mamma: a great many!"
"You told me that you had never said a word to Fanny Daskin about your
Christmas tree! Was that true?"
"No, mamma; I told her all about it. She would make me!"
"She would make you!" repeated Mrs. Tremain. "How did she make you?"
"Because I was such a fool, mamma. I don't know any other reason!" said
Kitty. "She is going away: that is one comfort!"
"It is no particular comfort to me, Kitty," said Mrs. Tremain, sadly.
"The same weakness, the same cowardice, the same love of low, coarse
flattery which has made you the prey of one person may just as easily
make you the prey of another. Flatterers are never wanting, especially
to a girl who is so unfortunate as to get the reputation of being
foolish and rich at the same time."
"Then there is no hope for me! Oh, mamma, don't say that!" said Kitty,
weeping. "Don't give me up, mamma; please, don't."
"I shall not give you up, my poor child! You will find a faithful
friend in your mother as long as she lives. But I may be taken from you
any day, and then what is to become of you? Or, what good can I do you
if you are ready to believe any one rather than me?"
"Mother, mother, don't! Please, don't!" sobbed Kitty. "Oh, what shall I
do?"
"My child, there is one hope for you, only one!" said her mother. "If
you can only be brought to see your fault! If you can be brought to see
that this weakness of yours is wickedness, then you may be led to go
for help to the only one who can help you! But as long as you think it
rather creditable to you than otherwise—rather an amiable weakness, at
the worst—"
"Indeed, mamma, I don't think so now!" said Kitty. "I see it all. It is
just what you say—just vanity and the love of flattery—that made me run
after Fanny Daskin. I was a coward, too! I could not bear to have the
girls call me stingy or mean! I—" but here Kitty's voice was lost in
sobs.
"If you really see this to be true, my daughter, I shall indeed begin
to have hopes of you. It is only when people see how much they need
help that they really seek it. No man feels his need of a Saviour till
he perceives that he is a sinner, and unable to help himself. My child,
think of all that your heavenly Father has done for you! Look around
you, and see your comfortable home; think of all the blessings you
enjoy, both temporal and spiritual! Think of the gift of his dear Son
dying for you, and bearing your sins on the cross! And then think of
your sins against him. If you do this, with prayer for the help of his
Holy Spirit, you cannot help coming to some sense of your condition. I
leave you to yourself for a time. By-and-by I will talk with you again."
Left alone, Kitty did think more seriously, more deeply, than she
had ever thought before. She saw how she had been deceived in her
estimation of herself: how much of her religion had been like that of
the Pharisee—done to be seen of men! How pleased she had been when
Fanny said that she was the only girl in school who lived up to her
profession, though she knew perfectly well that there were half a
dozen who were far more consistent than herself. She remembered how
much more pains she had taken with her class when Mr. Burgess, the
superintendent, or Mr. Parmelee, happened to be near—how anxious she
had been to display her fluency in speaking French—how, in talking
with Mr. Parmelee, when her mother was not within hearing, she had
exaggerated what she had done for the children, and how delighted she
had been to hear him say he wished all the teachers were as zealous as
Kitty.
The human heart is deceitful above all things! We have the warrants not
only of God's word, but of our own experience, for saying so. But there
are times when, by his Spirit or by his providence, sometimes by means
even of our own falls and sins, God gives us a clear sight of our own
corruption and wickedness. Such an insight did Kitty now obtain, and it
was not lost upon her. The same infinite mercy and love which showed
her her sins showed her also her Saviour, and the experience of that
day altered the whole life of Kitty Tremain.
When Mrs. Tremain came up again, she found Kitty sad and humble indeed,
but more hopeful. She had no longer any desire to justify herself at
the expense of Fanny, or any one else, and she acquiesced, sorrowfully
enough, but without remonstrance, in her mother's decision that she
must do without pocket-money for the next six months.
"I am very sorry to deprive you of it, Kitty, but I cannot trust you
with any more money until I see that you have sufficient firmness to
use it properly. For the present you must come to me for every thing
you want."
"I suppose I must give up my Christmas tree, mamma?"
"I shall not require you to give up your little party for the children,
because it would be a great disappointment to them, and because I
have promised you. But you must give up the presents, unless you can
contrive to get them in some way out of your own resources."
"Very well, mamma," said Kitty, sadly. "I know it is right that I
should be punished. Mamma, do you think I ought to give up my class?"
"No, my dear."
"But when I have been so wicked, mamma." Kitty looked anxiously at her
mother.
"My daughter, the fact that you have done wrong is no reason why you
should leave off doing right. Peter, you remember, denied his Lord, and
that more than once; yet it was to him in particular that the command
was given, 'Feed my lambs!' These lambs are committed to your charge by
Providence in a special manner, and it is for you to feed them in the
best way you can."
"Indeed I will try, then, mamma," said Kitty, with a quivering lip. "I
do love them dearly, and I don't want to give them up. Oh, if I had
only gone that last Sunday." And Kitty burst into tears, as she thought
of little Julie.
"I do not wonder you feel sadly about it, but, Kitty, do not let it
end in 'feeling.' Right feelings do us no good unless they lead to
right conduct. Remember that if through sloth, or carelessness, or
self-indulgence, you omit a duty, you have no reason to think that you
will ever have the opportunity to perform it afterwards."
"May I get up to tea, mamma?" asked Kitty.
"I think you had better not, Kitty. You are hoarse, and I fear you have
taken a bad cold. Cousin Tilly shall bring up your tea, and I will come
and sit with you afterwards, but I think you are better in bed for the
present."
The next day and the next Kitty made no objections to staying in bed,
but the third day she was able to get up and dress herself, though she
was not allowed to leave her room. Mrs. Tremain was obliged to go to T—
on business which could no longer be deferred, and as Cousin Tilly was
busy down-stairs, Kitty was left alone to occupy herself as she could.
With some trouble, she recovered her key from the place where she had
thrown it, and opened her desk. The first thing she saw was a piece
of paper, on which she had set down the presents she intended to buy.
Little Julie's name was first on the list. Kitty's tears fell fast on
the leaf.
"Poor Julie! She will not be here to be disappointed, anyhow! Oh, if I
could only think of something for them."
Kitty sat for a few minutes in deep thought. Then she unlocked an inner
cupboard in the desk where she kept her principal treasures, and drew
forth a box. It was a beautiful little box, covered with velvet, lined
with white satin, and perfumed with attar of roses. Kitty opened it and
took out the contents. There were twelve little French books, elegantly
bound, printed in colours, and each having two beautifully-coloured
pictures.
"They would be just the thing," said she.
She took them up and examined them one by one. Then she laid them down
and took the box in her hand, shutting her eyes as she inhaled the
perfume. A whole panorama came before her mind in a moment. The broad
Boulevard—the gaily-dressed people walking and sitting about, all so
good-natured and polite—the neat white-capped "bonnes," or nurses,
running and playing with their nurslings! She seemed again to be
holding her papa's hand, as he took her into the beautiful little shop
which was like a toy in itself, with its paint and gilding and green
velvet. She seemed to see the books and toys lying about, the pleasant,
smiling French woman behind the counter, the fat, white cat with his
neck and ears adorned with pink ribbons which sat purring and winking
in the window. There was a struggle going on in Kitty's mind, as her
face plainly showed.
"I do not think papa would care!" said Kitty to herself. "I am sure I
never shall forget him even if I had nothing at all to remind me of
him. Papa would wish me to do right, I know."
Kitty put the books back into their case, but her mind was made up.
"Mamma!" said she that night before she went to bed. "Would you object
to my giving the children those little French picture-books in the box?"
"No, my dear!" said her mother, kissing her, and looking very much
pleased. "Not if you can make up your mind to part with them."
"I do hate to part with them, that is the truth, mamma," replied Kitty,
candidly. "But I know the children will be so disappointed, now that
they have heard of the matter. I feel as if I owed them amends, mamma."
CHAPTER VI.
"HERE is a telegram, mamma!" said Kitty, throwing open the door. "It
has just come!"
Mrs. Tremain opened the note. "It is just what I expected!" said she,
as the tears filled her eyes. "Your aunt Leffington is dead!"
"Dear old lady!" said Cousin Tilly. "How glad she must have been to go.
She has lasted on wonderfully! How old was she?"
"Eighty-eight years old. It is nearly fifty years since she lost her
husband and daughter at one blow. She has had a long time to wait."
"Do you think she was glad to die, mamma?" asked Kitty.
"Yes, my dear! I do not believe there has been a day for fifty years
that she would not have rejoiced at the summons. Yet she was always
cheerful, and constantly busied herself in working for others. She was
a good Christian, though she had some oddities, as was expected."
Only a week now intervened before Christmas. It came on Sunday, and the
Sunday before, Kitty invited all the children to come to her house on
Saturday afternoon. She had quite decided to give away her treasured
picture-books, and had written each child's name in the one destined
for her.
"I have a letter from Aunt Baldwin, Kitty!" said her mother, as Kitty
came in from school the next day. "There is some news in it which
concerns you. Listen!"
After giving an account of Mrs. Leffington's last moments, Mrs. Baldwin
went on to say—
"The good old lady always said, 'Amabel, I shall not leave my money to
you and Catherine. You are well enough off as it is. I shall provide
for my old Aggy, and leave the rest to the Old Ladies' Home, but the
other things I shall divide between you.' She has kept her word. She
has left her jewels and silver to me, her books and furniture to you,
and all her clothes and other personal matters to Kitty, making me her
executor. I presume you will like to keep the furniture, which is rich
and well preserved, though old-fashioned. Please write to me about it
directly."
"You will keep it, won't you, mamma?" asked Kitty. "You won't let Aunt
Leffington's things be sold?"
"Certainly not, my dear! We have two unfurnished rooms in this big
house, you know, which we can now fit up very nicely. But hear the rest
of the letter."
"There is one large trunk, the contents of which I hardly know what
to do with," Mrs. Baldwin continued. "You remember Aunt Leffington's
fancy for buying all sorts of things merely because they were cheap.
She always said she should find a use for them, and I presume she has
given away hundreds of dollars' worth of children's clothes, toys, &c.
But there still remains this large camphor-wood chest, perfectly filled
with the most miscellaneous collection of odds and ends I ever saw.
After some consideration, I have concluded to send this box to Kitty
at once, thinking that she may make use of some of its contents as
gifts to her little class. She will therefore receive it, probably, on
the same day as this letter. I shall send the other things as soon as
possible."
"Oh, mamma!" said Kitty. She could get no farther, but looked at her
mother with sparkling and imploring eyes.
"You are thinking you can furnish your Christmas tree out of Aunt
Leffington's box," said her mother, smiling.
"May I, mamma?"
"Yes, Kitty, if you find any thing suitable. But, remember, you must
not give away a single thing without asking me first."
"I won't indeed, mamma! Oh, mamma, here comes the express-man this very
minute. What a great, big box!"
"Isn't it a big one?" said the good-natured express-man, smiling at
Kitty's rapture. "I think it is most too big for a little puss like
you! Here is the key, I expect, in this little parcel."
A happier girl than Kitty was not to be found in the whole United
States that day! What bundles were disclosed when the box was opened!
What dolls, and dolls' houses, and furniture, and dishes!—What
picture-books, and china-cups, and images, and work-baskets, and
scissors, and "odds and ends" enough to stock a small shop Kitty took
up one and another, and did not know which to admire most.
"Your only embarrassment will be in choosing among your treasures!"
said her mother. "Do not be too extravagant, my dear! It is never a
good plan with children!"
"Please pick out the things for me, mamma!" said Kitty. "You will know
best, and I will lock up the rest for another time."
Mrs. Tremain selected such articles as she thought suitable, and Kitty
spent a pleasant evening in putting the marks upon them.
"You will not need to give away your pretty, little picture-books
now," remarked Cousin Tilly, who had taken great interest in Kitty's
preparations, and had, indeed, laid in sundry private stores of her own
to help them out.
"I think I shall give them, for all that, Cousin Tilly," replied Kitty,
gravely. "I feel as though I had promised."
Cousin Tilly looked at Mrs. Tremain, and nodded a grave approval. "I
should feel just so if I were you, I know," said she. "By the way, do
you know the Daskins are really gone?"
"Gone!" said Mrs. Tremain.
"Gone, bag and baggage, and a good riddance," replied Cousin Tilly.
"They say they are going to California, but I think it's doubtful if
they get so far. I can't say I care much for any of them except the
sick one: I am sorry for him!"
"I think Mr. Daskin was good to that boy," remarked Kitty.
"I believe you are right," said her mother. "His kindness to the boy
was one redeeming trait about him."
"Fanny used to say that her father cared more for Fred than all the
rest of them," added Kitty. "Poor Fanny! I wonder what she will come
to?"
"To no good, I'm afraid," said Cousin Tilly. "A girl with no more
principle than that seldom turns out well."
"And yet every one tried to do Fanny good," remarked Kitty,
thoughtfully. "Miss Oliver took a great deal of pains with her, and so
did Miss May, her Sunday-school teacher. And I am sure nobody could
be kinder than Mrs. May was while Fanny lived there. It was not as if
nobody had cared for her."
"My dear child, it is by no means so easy to do people good as you
might suppose from reading some books and hearing some good people
talk," said her mother. "An old author says, very truly, that all the
good in the universe will not benefit a man so long as it is outside of
him."
"I think Fanny's great defect was that she never cared for anybody
but herself," observed Cousin Tilly. "You see how little she thought
of Kitty, after all her pretences. She never even came to bid her
good-bye."
"Perhaps she was ashamed," said Kitty.
"Probably she was afraid," said her mother. "I could easily have
given her a good deal of trouble, as she knew very well. I could have
proved by Miss Perkins that she really did spend Kitty's money. But
as they were going so soon, I preferred to let matters alone. Kitty's
three dollars will be well expended if it teaches her to beware of
flatterers."
[Illustration: _Kitty's Christmas Tree._
The children were highly delighted with their presents.]
Kitty's party was perfectly successful. The children were highly
delighted with their presents, and as much pleased with the apple,
cocoanut, and molasses candy which Cousin Tilly had secretly prepared
as they would have been with the most costly Parisian confections.
Kitty still keeps the class, and takes the greatest pains with them.
And as she has lately been more desirous to teach them English than to
show off her own French, they have made famous progress.
Lizzy Gates has never receded from her determination to lead a
Christian life. She has had to struggle with many temptations, but she
is a girl with a great deal of character and courage, and she gains
ground every day. As a sample of her improvement, she saw the whole
contents of Aunt Leffington's camphor-wood chest displayed without
asking Kitty for the least trifle, nor would she accept some bead
trimmings which she acknowledged would be just the thing to finish the
cushion she was working for Miss Oliver, until Mrs. Tremain herself
particularly requested her to do so.
Of Fanny Daskin I have no good to say, and therefore I will say
nothing—except that she never appeared in Holford again.
THE END.
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