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Title: The mission-box
Or, doing good and getting good
Author: Lucy Ellen Guernsey
Release date: January 28, 2026 [eBook #77799]
Language: English
Original publication: Philadelphia: American Sunday-School Union, 1879
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MISSION-BOX ***
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: _The Mission Box.—Frontispiece._
All the girls were present, even to Norah Flynn.]
_GOLDEN TEXT SERIES._
——————————
THE
MISSION-BOX:
OR,
DOING GOOD AND GETTING GOOD.
BY
LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY
AUTHOR OF
"WASHINGTON AND '76," "THE STORY OF A HESSIAN,"
"IRISH AMY," "OPPOSITE NEIGHBORS," "TWIN ROSES," ETC.
—————————
"And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the
greatest of these is charity."—1 COR. xiii. 13.
—————————
PHILADELPHIA:
AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION
NO. 1122 CHESTNUT STREET.
——————————
NEW YORK: 8 & 10 BIBLE HOUSE, ASTOR PLACE.
CHICAGO: 73 RANDOLPH ST.
————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1879, by the
AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————
CONTENTS.
——————
CHAPTER I.
THE CLASS-MEETING
CHAPTER II.
THE TEA-PARTY
CHAPTER III.
THE PLANTS
CHAPTER IV.
FLORA ARABELLA
CHAPTER V.
THE SEWING-MEETING
CHAPTER VI.
THERE IS SOMETHING WRONG
CHAPTER VII.
READING CHARACTER AT A GLANCE
CHAPTER VIII.
IDA'S THUMB
CHAPTER IX.
SARAH SOUTHMAYD
CHAPTER X.
MATILDA DISTINGUISHES HERSELF
CHAPTER XI.
"HE WILL DO ANYTHING FOR SUGAR"
CHAPTER XII.
THE CLASS-MEETING
CHAPTER XIII.
CONCLUSION
THE MISSION-BOX.
—————————
CHAPTER I.
_THE CLASS-MEETING._
"MOTHER," said Ida Van Zandt, "Miss Ackerman has invited the whole
class to spend the afternoon with her next Thursday."
"Indeed!" said Mrs. Van Zandt. "Miss Ackerman will have quite a party.
How many are there in your class?"
"I don't know, I'm sure. The class is very full," answered Ida.—"How
many are there, Julia?"
"Sixteen," said Julia, "and Miss Ackerman has asked every one."
"Of course she would ask every one if she asked any," remarked Ida.
"Well, I don't know. I think she might have left out some of them.
There is Noah Flynn. She said she would come if she could be spared,
and Miss Ackerman said,—
"'Oh, you must come; I want you all. I shall ask Mrs. Barnard to spare
you.'
"I must say I think it is queer she should invite such girls as Norah
Flynn and Eunice Riker to meet us," added Julia, drawing herself up
with an air of dignity.
"Why so?" asked Mrs. Van Zandt. "You are all in the same class."
"But, aunt, just think! Norah Flynn is the daughter of Mrs. Eagen's
gardener, and works out—just a common servant at Mrs. Barnard's; and
Eunice is the daughter of a washerwoman. I don't think such people are
very suitable company for us."
"Why not?" asked Ida bluntly. "Eunice is one of the very best scholars
in the class.—Only think, mother! She goes to the Public Library on
Saturday to study her lesson, and she can answer more questions than
any other girl in the class.—Didn't she tell all about Darius this
morning? And I am sure she is as much of a lady in her manners as you
or I either. And what if Norah does live out? I think it is to her
credit to help her father when he works so hard and there are so many
of them; don't you, mother?"
"I certainly do, my dear."
"And I don't know what you would have had Miss Ackerman do, I am sure,"
continued Ida. "Would you have had her ask all the class except Eunice
and Norah? How would that have looked?"
"I don't think we want such girls in our class, anyhow," said Julia,
with another toss of her head; "I don't believe in mixing things up
in that way. I think distinctions in society ought to be preserved.
Mamma says Mrs. Barnard is spoiling Norah. She treats her just as if
she were a young lady; she lets her sit in her own library to learn
her Sunday-school lessons—that is worse than going to the Public
Library—and she converses with her about them."
"Well, why shouldn't she?" asked Ida.
"Well, I don't believe in such notions. I believe in ordering servants;
don't you, aunt?"
"My dear, I never order my servants; I always ask them," replied Mrs.
Van Zandt, who knew that Julia was only repeating what she had heard at
home. "But, Julia, don't you expect to go to heaven with all sorts of
people? And did not our Lord when on earth mix with all sorts alike?"
"And he says all Christians are brethren; doesn't he, mother? I was
reading that only this morning:
"'One is your Master, "even" Christ, and all ye are brethren.' Matt.
xxiii. 8.
"If that is so, I don't see why we should look down on people because
we pay them to do something that we don't want to do, or don't know how
to do, perhaps."
"Very true, my dear; I am glad to see that you have thought about the
matter. It is not well, especially for young people, to associate
familiarly with those who have bad habits or rude, uncultivated
manners, because they are apt to learn undesirable things from them;
but we ought to make it a rule to treat all persons as we should like
to be treated in their place.—Suppose anything should happen, Julia,
which should make it needful for you to work for a living; would you
like it if nobody said a pleasant word to you or spoke to you at all
except to give you an order?"
Julia found it convenient to change the conversation:
"How does your lace-work get on, Ida? Have you finished your square
yet?"
"No," answered Ida, blushing a little.
"How much have you done on it?"
"Only one side, but I am going to finish it this week."
"Only one side! Why, I finished mine two weeks ago, and I have the
border almost done. Mamma says she will have Miss Smith paint me a
ribbon to mount it on. And, by the way, what did you do with the tidy
you made in appliqué? I thought you were going to put it on your
father's chair for his birthday?"
"It is up stairs," said Ida, her cheeks growing still redder. "I could
not match the silk for ever so long, and then it was too late for
papa's birthday; so I thought I would leave it till Christmas."
"You will have your hands full if you finish that and your lace too.
However, I suppose you have finished your sofa-pillow long ago?"
Julia smiled maliciously as she spoke. She knew very well that the
sofa-pillow was not nearly completed.
"See here, Julia: suppose you just attend to your own affairs and let
mine alone?" said Ida with some heat.
"Dear me! What have I done?" asked Julia in a tone of great surprise.
"I am sorry I have offended you, Ida. I didn't mean any harm. It seems
to me, for a person who can quote Scripture so piously, you get angry
pretty easily."
Ida turned away to the window to choke down her rising anger and wipe
the tears from her eyes. She was really trying very hard to keep her
temper, and she succeeded. Turning round, she said, pleasantly enough,—
"If you didn't mean any harm, that is all about it, of course. Won't
you take off your hat and stay to lunch?"
"Oh dear me! How good we are!" muttered Julia under her breath, but
so that Ida would hear. "No, I can't stay to-day. By the way, if you
have done with that crochet-book, I should like to have it back. I
promised to lend it to Miss Eagen. I suppose you have done enough of
the patterns to go on with it now?"
"Oh yes, you shall have it," answered Ida readily. "I gave up the task
of doing the shawl. Mother thought it was not best for me to begin
another large piece of work just now."
"I don't wonder," said Julia with a sneer. "I should think the house
must be pretty well-filled with your pieces of work already."
"I suppose you will be at Miss Ackerman's on Thursday?" remarked Ida as
she accompanied her cousin to the door.
"Oh yes, I suppose so. The Ackermans are first-class people, though
Miss Ackerman has some odd notions. I wonder if Percy Denham is here?"
"She is, I know. She went to church in town with Amity Bogardus,
because some friend of her father's—some missionary bishop, I
believe—was going to preach."
"I should think she would be going back to school."
"I believe she is not going to school this year," said Ida. "She has
not been well since her other aunt died, and they think she needs a
rest and change. I am glad of it, for I like her ever so much."
"Shall you take your work?"
"Why, yes, I suppose so. Miss Ackerman asked us all to bring our work."
"Well, you will have plenty of pieces to choose from." And with this
parting shot, Julia went her way.
"There! I have paid her off," she said to herself as she closed the
gate: "she won't attack me again very soon with her Bible-texts. Little
Pharisee! Anyhow, I do what I undertake. I don't disappoint everybody
by making promises and then not keeping them. When I say I will do a
thing, it is as good as done." By which remark Julia showed plainly
that she was something of a Pharisee herself.
"What does she want to act so for, I wonder?" said Ida to herself. "But
what she says is true enough, for that matter. I am always beginning
things and not finishing them. But then I always seem to have an
excuse. I could not work at my lace-piece as steadily as Julia did,
because my cold made my eyes so weak. And then there was the silk for
my tidy; Selig said he should have to send abroad for it. And I have
had the pillow so long in hand that I hate the sight of it."
"But your eyes have been quite well this long time," interposed
Conscience; "and you have never asked whether your silk has come,
though you have been to the city half a dozen times since you ordered
it; and if the pillow has been about a long time, that is nobody's
fault but your own. You might easily finish it in two or three days.
You are only making excuses to yourself."
"Well, I mean to get out all my pieces of work to-morrow, and work at
them one by one till they are all finished," said Ida. "I did feel flat
when I had to tell papa that I had no present for his birthday. Anyhow,
I don't take pleasure in teasing people; and I am glad I didn't give
Julia a word back, though I might have told her of plenty of things
that she had done."
And, having indulged her own little bit of phariseeism, Ida went up
stairs feeling very virtuous indeed.
The next day, as soon as she had finished her practising, Ida went
up to her own pretty room and began searching for the unfinished and
neglected pieces of work. How many there were! There was the square
of guipure with the centre and half of one side done; there was
the flannel petticoat for Annie's doll with the pattern marked and
about six scallops finished; there was the appliqué tidy with its
half-fledged bird; there was the sofa-pillow begun as a present for
grandmamma so long ago that grandmamma had gone to her rest without
ever seeing it. Ida laid it on one side, and the tears came to her eyes
as she remembered how the dear old lady had said on her last Christmas
Day on earth, "I thought I should have a bit of Ida's work to-day."
"I don't want to finish that, I am sure," said Ida. "Well, I suppose I
may as well take the lace as anything. I will do just so much every day
till it is done. I wonder where the thread is?"
It took some time to collect Ida's working-materials together, but she
found them at last, and sat down in the window with her frame. She had
only darned one square when her mother entered the room:
"Ida, did you remember to ask at Miss Floyd's on Saturday whether she
would make your dresses this week?"
"No, mother. At least, I did not exactly forget it," she added hastily,
seeing that her mother looked displeased. "I stayed at Julia's till it
was so late that I did not like to go round by Miss Floyd's, for fear
it should be dark before I got home. You know you said you did not like
to have me out after dark."
"But why did you not set out in time?"
"I did not think how late it was getting."
"Ida, do you know that is the third time you have promised to do that
errand, and yet have come home without keeping your word?"
"Well, mother, the first time—"
"I do not want any excuses," interrupted Mrs. Van Zandt; "I am tired of
hearing them. Put away your work, get your hat, and go down directly to
Miss Floyd. Don't stop anywhere, either going or coming."
"There! That is always the way!" resumed Ida. "If I try to finish
anything, something always happens to prevent me. There is no use in
trying."
Ida came back from her errand in such good time that she might have had
two hours of daylight in which to work at her lace. But the postman had
meanwhile brought a number of magazines, her favorite English "Ladies'
Journal," which always had so many pretty working patterns in it, among
the rest.
Ida never thought of the lace-piece again till she went up to her room
at night and found her bed covered with the things she had "routed
out," as she said. She tossed them all into an empty drawer in her
bureau, meditating all the time on the possibility of converting an old
woollen dress into such a rug as that she had been reading about in the
"Ladies' Journal."
CHAPTER II.
_THE TEA-PARTY._
THREE o'clock on Thursday afternoon found all Miss Ackerman's class
assembled in her mother's beautiful drawing-room, opening with a wide,
long window on the veranda and commanding such a fine view of the
river. All the girls were present, even to North Flynn. Mrs. Barnard
had not only spared her, but she had given her a pretty dark-blue frock
trimmed at the wrists and neck with white ruffles, that North might
not feel awkwardly at being more poorly dressed than her classmates.
Norah was a pretty girl, in the finest style of Irish prettiness, with
black curling hair, long black lashes, very dark gray-blue eyes, and a
clear, fine-grained skin. And as she came in bright and sparkling with
pleasure, and shook hands with Mrs. and Miss Ackerman, Julia could not
but allow that Norah looked and behaved as much like a lady as any girl
in the room.
"How pretty she looks!" whispered Ida, thinking with a little regret of
her own freckles.
"Pretty enough!" answered Julia with a toss of her head. "I suppose
Mrs. Barnard has given her one of Jenny's old dresses."
"'Deed, then, you're mistaken, then, for 'tis a brand-new dress it is,
that Mrs. Barnard bought for me in the city with her own hands, and
Bessy Melville made it. So there, Miss Julia!" laughed Norah, her eyes
dancing with mischief and looking prettier than ever.
Julia bit her lip with anger.
"But if it had been Jenny's old dress made-over, I am sure Norah would
not have minded wearing it," said Ida. "I'm sure I wear made-over
dresses lots of times."
"Not I," answered Norah. "I'd be proud to wear anything that Miss Jenny
had touched, let alone worn; but I can never get the chance. As soon
as she has done with her dresses, she rips them up and cleans them,
and lays them away smooth and nice to send to some poor lady she knows
that has a hantle of little ones. Many's the time I've helped her with
them. Oh, 'tis just an angel she is, too good for this world; and I'm
thinking she won't be here long." And a tear glittered in Norah's
bright eyes.
"I hope dear Miss Jenny may be spared to us many years yet," said Miss
Ackerman kindly; "but you know, Norah, that our loss would be a great
gain to her. She would change her cross for a crown of glory."
"And that's true, Miss, but I'm that selfish I can't feel to spare her
yet." And Norah's ready tears overflowed.
"You are my dear girl," said Miss Ackerman, kissing her, "but don't
borrow trouble. Miss Jenny may outlive us all yet."
"What a fuss they do make over her!" thought Julia. "I think Mrs.
Barnard might at least have made her wear an apron."
"Well, are we all assembled?" asked Miss Ackerman, looking round:
"Where is Eunice Riker? Oh, here she comes."
Eunice was the most plainly, not to say poorly, dressed of all the
girls. Her brown linen suit had faded and shrunk, as linen suits
will in time, even with the most careful washing, and her frills
had evidently been done up a great many times. She was not at all a
handsome girl, either; her features were too large and old for her
years, and her complexion was not very good. But her eyes were bright
and clear, and her somewhat large mouth firm and good-tempered; and
people who noticed her said, "That girl will make a fine-looking woman
by and by." She excused herself for being late with straightforward
directness.
"Mother had just finished doing up some white frocks for Mrs. Edgar's
little girls, and she was so tired I went to take them home for her;
and then Mrs. Edgar kept me waiting a little while."
"Oh, how stupid I was!" exclaimed Mary Edgar, who was a member of the
class. "Sister told me to stop and say that she would call for the
things this evening; and I forgot it. What a shame it was, to make you
take all that long walk for nothing! Sister will scold me, and serve me
right."
"Oh, it wasn't any matter," answered Eunice, smiling brightly. "I liked
the walk, and your sister lent me two nice books."
"Well, you are good-natured!" said Mary. "If any one had served me so,
I should be just hopping."
"Eunice does not get 'hopping,' as you call it so easily as some of
us, I fancy," remarked Miss Ackerman.—"But now we are all here, girls,
we will proceed to business.—Percy, are you and Amity ready with your
budget?"
"Yes, Cousin Margaret," answered a voice from the inner room; and
presently Percy Denham and Amity Bogardus appeared, carrying a large
work-basket between them.
Those of my young friends who have read the "Round Spring" books will
remember Percy Denham. She was the orphan daughter of an army officer,
and since her parent's death, she had made her home partly with her
aunt, Miss Devine, who lived at Bridgeport, and partly with her other
aunt, Mrs. Ackerman, a very rich widow lady who had a fine house in
New York and another at Rockdale. But now Miss Devine was dead, and
Percy had come to live altogether with Mrs. Ackerman. Her health was
rather delicate, and she was a good deal worn with taking care of her
aunt. And Mrs. Ackerman, who loved the country at all seasons much
better than the city, had made Percy's health an excuse for letting her
town-house and establishing herself permanently at Rockdale. Percy had
shot up into a tall, handsome young lady, as slender and graceful as a
weeping birch, with dusky velvety hair and a clear olive skin—a great
contrast to Amity, with her straw-colored hair and freckles, and no
figure at all.
"Well, young ladies, we are ready to hear what you have to say," said
Miss Margaret.
"Will you make the speech, Percy, or shall I?" asked Amity.
"Oh, you make it; I haven't any gift at all in that line."
"Well, then, the matter is this," said Amity. "You all know that the
ladies of the church are preparing to send a box to the family of the
Rev. Mr. Swift, a missionary among both Indians and white people in
Dakota Territory. Mr. Swift has a wife, and five children of various
ages, from a young lady sixteen years old down to a baby of six months.
One of his daughters, about twelve years old, has received the present
of a scholarship in a good school for young ladies. But she has no
clothes—none, at least, suitable for such a place—and the young ladies'
Bible-class propose to furnish her with a wardrobe. Our class will
provide the materials, and we thought, as Cousin Margaret's class came
next in rank, we would ask them to help us with the sewing. Percy, Emma
Andrews, and myself have been appointed a committee to prepare the work
and to distribute it, as well as to consult with your class on the
subject. We have done the first, and are now ready to do the second.
There! I have made my speech; I hope I have explained the matter
decently."
"Mr. Webster could not have spoken more to the purpose," answered Miss
Margaret; "only you have left one point unexplained. Where is Emma?"
"Mrs. Andrews has a sick headache, and Emma could not leave her. If
there are any more questions, I shall be happy to answer them to the
best of my ability."
"What is the little girl's name?" asked Ida.
"Her name is Ethelind Swift," replied Amity—"Ethelind Amelia Swift, to
give it in full."
"What a fine name!" said Julia, sneering as usual.
"Well, names are a cheap luxury, you know. I dare say she was named
after some one."
"What clothes does she need?" asked Eunice, business-like as usual.
"Everything, I should say. Mrs. Swift says in her letter:
"'My husband has been serving two parishes, besides looking after his
Indians, on a salary of less than five hundred dollars a year. We have
had a great deal of sickness, and I am stating a simple truth when I
say that I have not bought one yard of new cotton or flannel in six
years. I had to cut up the flannel sheets my mother gave me when I
was married to make undershirts for my husband and a petticoat for
myself.'" *
* This is no exaggeration: I wish it were.
"What a perfect shame!" said Mary Edgar. "Why doesn't the Board pay
them better, so that they can have decent clothes?"
"Because the Board has not the money, my dear. The Board, you must
remember, is not a perennial spring. It is a cistern which can only
give out what is put into it."
"Well, I say it is a shame, anyhow. Only last week I coaxed papa into
buying me one of those twelve-dollar dolls, and a trunk for her that
cost four more."
"How silly of you!" remarked Jane Williams, who had not spoken before.
"A great girl like you giving such a price for a doll! You might have
got a lovely seal-ring for the money."
"And what good would that do when aunt would not let me wear it? I love
dolls, and I don't see why they are any sillier than rings and such
things; do you, Miss Margaret?"
"We won't discuss that deep question just now, my dear. Let us hear
what more our committee have to tell us.—What is your plan, young
ladies?"
"Now it is your turn, Percy."
"Our plan is this," said Percy, taking from the basket two neat bundles
of cotton cloths and holding up one in each hand. "We have cut out and
prepared from four to six articles of each kind, and pinned up each
article in a parcel by itself. We propose that you shall each take one
or more of these articles, make it as well as possible, and return it
to us. When all are received, we will have them done up and marked
with the young lady's name. They must be finished by the twenty-fifth
of October, as we wish the box to reach Mr. Swift's family before cold
weather comes."
"But isn't your class going to do any of the work except to cut it and
give it out?" asked Julia. "I should think that was getting off pretty
easily, for my part."
"In the first place, our class contributed the money," replied
Percy, quite unruffled by Julia's tone, which was sufficiently rude.
"Secondly, we have undertaken all the dresses and outside garments
generally; and, thirdly, if you think, Julia, that it is 'getting off
easily' to cut out and fit thirty garments, contriving to make the very
most of the cloth, and then tie up every garment in a bundle by itself,
with all the pieces belonging to it, why then you had better try it,
that's all," said Percy, finishing up her speech with a sudden emphasis
which set the girls laughing.
"I should think as much," said Eunice. "Mother often says cutting out
is the hardest work she does."
"Who asked your opinion, I wonder?" muttered Julia.
"And the dresses will be harder to make than anything," said Ida,
always ready to give credit to other people.
"How silly you are, Ida! Of course they won't make them themselves."
"I think we shall, at least a good deal of them," said Amity. "Aunt
Julia says we may have Bessy Melville for a day or two if we need her.
She will cut out the things, and we shall sew with her. That is Aunt
Julia's contribution."
"I am sure it is a very nice one," observed Eunice; "and it will help
Bessy too."
"Exactly so.—Now, who will take a bundle or two?"
"I will," said Julia; "I can get mine done, I know."
"Very well; here is a night-gown. The pieces are all fitted, and your
mother will help you, I dare say, if you are in any trouble.—Who comes
next?"
"I do," answered Ida.
But she had hardly spoken when Julia exclaimed, "Well I shouldn't think
you would want to, Ida. You will never get it done in time. How many
pieces of work have you begun already?"
Ida colored scarlet, and the tears stood in her eyes.
"You should not speak in that way to your cousin, Julia," said Miss
Ackerman gravely. "That is very unkind."
"It is nothing but the truth, anyway," persisted Julia. "I heard her
mother tell her the same thing this very morning; and she has ever so
many pieces in hand. There is her lace and—"
"We will dispense with the catalogue," said Miss Margaret. "What you
say may be true, but the truth should be spoken in love. When it is
used to hurt and mortify a companion, it is not acceptable either
to heaven or earth. Besides, you are in no way responsible for your
cousin.—Don't cry, Ida, my dear."
"Well, I won't," said Ida, fighting bravely with her sobs. "I know that
I am not very persevering, and that I do begin things and leave them
unfinished; but I mean to try and do better."
"'Better' is 'he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city,'"
said Percy. "Here is a chemise for you. Now show that you can persevere
and finish a thing as well as any one."
"I will try," said Ida; and she meant what she said.
One after another the girls came forward and took their parcels, till
all were provided with work except Norah and Eunice.
"I'd like to take a bundle, but I think I had better ask Mrs. Barnard
first," said Norah. "She pays for my time, you see, and so I can't give
it away without asking her."
"Very right Norah. You can ask Mrs. Barnard, and if she makes no
objection, you can come up to our house and I will give you something."
"I am afraid I can't take any sewing to do just now," said Eunice, her
pale cheek flushing scarlet as she spoke. "You know mother takes in
sewing, and I have to help her. But I will wash and iron some of the
things when they are made, if that will be any help."
"Indeed it will," said Amity. "We all know how beautifully you and your
mother do up clothes."
"And I have been thinking of another thing," continued Eunice modestly.
"I don't sew in the evening, because the doctor says it is bad for my
eyes; but I can knit very fast, and if I had some nice yarn, I would
knit some stockings for Ethelind."
"Capital, Eunice!" exclaimed Amity. "I don't believe any one has
thought of stockings; I'm sure I didn't. If we can raise some more
money, you shall have the yarn."
"I will see to that," said Mrs. Ackerman, a sweet little old lady who
had been a silent but interested looker-on.—"Percy dear, will you ask
Drusilla for my knitting-basket?"
The basket was brought, and Mrs. Ackerman produced three large skeins
of beautiful crimson yarn.
"I got this to knit for some of the orphans," said she, "but I can
easily buy more when I am ready; and this is just the thing to knit for
your little girl. When it is used up, come to me and I will provide
some more."
"Oh, thank you, Mrs. Ackerman; how kind you are!" said Eunice, feeling
far more grateful than if the yarn had been given to herself. It had
cost her a great deal to refuse the sewing, and now here was work
provided to her hand. "And if there should be any yarn left, I might
make some socks for the baby."
"Very true," said Miss Margaret. "And now that every one is provided
with work, let all the bundles be put away, and let us improve this
beautiful afternoon by a walk in the garden."
The afternoon passed away pleasantly. The girls rambled about the
extensive grounds, looked at the pictures and other beautiful and
curious things with which the house was filled, and played various
games.
Ida had quite gotten over her annoyance at Julia's unkind remark. She
had made a fine resolution to finish her sewing in good time, and she
was (unluckily for herself) one of those people whose consciences
are quite satisfied for the time being with making resolutions. She
was naturally kind-hearted, and was very well-bred besides; and this
afternoon she devoted herself specially to those of the girls who had
lately joined the class or who, from seldom meeting their classmates
except in Sunday-school, were almost strangers to each other. She was
particularly attentive to Eunice Riker, whom she had long known and
liked, and to Matilda Jenkins, whose mother had but lately come to
Rockdale, and who knew hardly anybody.
Eunice responded cordially and pleasantly, as she always did. She had
very little self-consciousness, and therefore was neither shy nor
awkward. Matilda, on the contrary, was very still and silent, and could
not be got to say anything but "yes" and "no."
Julia did not enjoy herself at all. She was vexed at Ida for not
being angry—at Miss Ackerman for taking her part, and for taking
so much notice of "that little Irish girl," Norah Flynn, and "that
washerwoman's daughter," Eunice Riker, while she, Julia Hazleton, was
treated "just as if she were nobody." She was all the more unhappy
because she really did love Miss Ackerman very much. The trouble was,
she did not want Miss Ackerman to love any one else. She could have
endured it better, she thought, if Miss Ackerman's favorite had been
Mary Edgar or Anita Ferarra, but to be set aside for Eunice Riker! It
was too bad! The truth was, that Miss Ackerman made no favorites. She
aimed to treat all her class exactly alike. She liked Julia for her
perseverance and industry, and tried to love her as well as she did Ida
Van Zandt or Norah Flynn; but I fear she was not very lovable.
On the whole, Miss Ackerman's little party was successful. There will
always be some people dissatisfied, however, take as much pains as one
will.
"Well, what kind of a time did you have?" asked Mrs. Jenkins of Matilda
when she came home.
"Oh, just as I expected. Of course all those rich girls felt above me,
just as I knew they would. That Ida Van Zandt and two or three others
tried to patronize me, but I soon let them know I wasn't going to have
that, and that I felt myself as good as any of them, if I did live in a
small house."
"That's right," said her mother; "hold up your head, and don't lay
yourself down for folks to walk over you."
"Some folks do, though," remarked Matilda. "There is that Eunice Riker.
She had on an old faded linen dress and looked like a scarecrow, but
all the girls took notice of her, and she took it as sweet as honey."
"She knows what she is about," said Mrs. Jenkins. "I dare say she gets
plenty out of those Ackermans."
"Oh, mother, I have had such a lovely time!" was Eunice's comment.
"Every one was so kind and polite to me! I do think almost all our
girls are just as sweet as they can be. I am going to knit some
stockings for my share of the box, and Miss Percy Denham says she will
lend me her knitting-book with all sorts of pretty stitches."
"What box?" asked her mother, smiling. "You are beginning your story in
the middle, as usual."
"Oh, I forgot you did not know about it." And Eunice gave an account of
Mrs. Swift and her needs, and displayed her red yarn. "Wasn't it kind
in Mrs. Ackerman, mother?"
"Very kind and thoughtful indeed, and I am glad you have such pretty
knitting."
"I am rather sorry you gave those chemises to Ida Van Zandt," said
Amity to Percy as they were looking over the list of work given out
after the girls had gone. "I am afraid she will never have them done in
time."
"Why, is she that sort of girl?"
"Just exactly 'that sort of girl.'"
"Well, I thought her very sweet and lovely."
"So she is," answered Amity warmly; "I never saw a lovelier
disposition. How gently she answered when Julia made that attack on
her! But she has a way of beginning a great many things and never
finishing any of them."
"We must try to keep her up to the mark," said Percy. "I dare say we
shall have a good many pieces to finish up. I wish we had set the
middle instead of the last of October for the work to be brought in."
"So do I, but it cannot be helped now. I will try to keep an eye on
Ida's work myself. She is a kind of cousin of mine, you know."
"What name is this, Amity?"
"Matilda Jenkins. They are new-comers in the place, and I don't know
much about them. The poor girl seemed very shy and awkward, but I dare
say she will appear better when she becomes better acquainted."
CHAPTER III.
_THE PLANTS._
THE next morning Ida was all eagerness to begin her work. Directly
after breakfast she hunted out a large business-looking work-basket,
and was busily looking for her thimble, scissors, and other
sewing-materials when her mother entered the room.
"What are you doing up here, Ida?" she asked. "You ought to be
practising."
"Oh, mother, can't I let the practising go this morning, for a little
while at least? I feel just like sitting down to sew now."
"And when would you feel like your lesson, my dear? Or what will Miss
Amsden feel like when she comes to-morrow and finds that you have not
learned it?"
"Well, I hate to do things when I don't feel like them," said Ida
rather fretfully; "don't you, mother?"
"Every one does, I suppose, Ida, and all your remark means is that you
don't like to do what you don't like."
"But sometimes I like to do one thing, and sometimes another."
"That is the case with all of us. I, for instance, do not want to go
out this morning at all. I should very much prefer to stay at home and
read the new books of travels your uncle has sent up. But in that case,
papa's dinner would be sadly wanting when he came home, and I don't
think he would feel like eating his bread without butter or his beef
without mustard, or drink his coffee without sugar. The truth is, my
daughter, that where duties are concerned, we must learn to put likings
out of the question."
"But isn't it a duty to help make this little girl's clothes, mamma?"
said Ida coaxingly.
"Certainly it is, since you have promised to do so; and I am very glad
to have you interested in such work. But I fear your interest cannot be
very deep, since there seems danger of its expiring before afternoon."
"Well, mother, I will come down and practise just the minute I have
found my thimble and my large scissors. I can't think where they have
gone."
"I don't believe they have gone anywhere of their own accord, Ida; but
never mind them now; I want to hear those minor scales going."
"I don't think they are very sweet music," said Ida, giving up with a
good grace, as usual.
"Nor I, but they sound much better when they are played correctly.
So go to work, like a good girl. You know I like to have you sew at
something an hour every day, and you have neglected your needle sadly
since Mary has been here. If you work faithfully an hour or two every
day, your bundle will soon be finished. I want to look through your
drawers a little, and perhaps I shall find your missing scissors in the
process."
Ida practised her minor scales, taking more pains than usual with them,
and then played her other lessons. Then she went out to refresh herself
with a little run in the open air, and after that she set herself
resolutely to hunt for the missing scissors. They were found at last,
along with the lace-frame, shut up in a magazine in the library—that
very "Ladies' Journal" which had tempted Ida away from her work before.
She was sorely tempted now to study out the directions for a certain
crochet mat which looked very interesting, but she refrained, and sat
determinedly down to her overhand seams.
Mrs. Van Zandt had no sewing-machine. "If the girls begin with the
machine, they will never learn to use their hands," she had said to her
husband. "When Emma and Ida can sew as well as their mother, they shall
have all the machines they want."
That afternoon and the next Ida's work went on famously. The third day
she did not accomplish so much. The hems were very long, and she did
not like hemming. The weather was lovely after the rain, and she did
not feel like staying in the house.
Suddenly she remembered that her mother, who had gone to the city, had
asked her to carry some papers down to Mrs. Riker's, and she reflected
that it would be better for her to do her errand now than later, when
it might probably rain again. So the work was hastily thrown into the
basket, the thimble tossed after it, and Ida was soon on her way to
Mrs. Riker's. She found Eunice with her hat on, ready to go out.
"Oh, don't take off your hat, for I can't stay a minute," said Ida.
"Where were you going? Perhaps I can go with you. It is so pleasant, I
can't bear to stay in the house."
"I was going up to Mrs. Ackerman's," replied Eunice; "Miss Denham
promised to lend me a knitting-book when she got it home again. Do go
with me. It will make the walk seem so much shorter."
"The ladies are in the garden," said Sylvanus in answer to Ida's
inquiry; "maybe you'd like to go out there? Miss Margaret is busy
giving directions to the gardener about sending some flowers to the
Flower Mission. Go right down that broad walk and round by the big
chestnut tree, and you'll find her."
"How many servants Mrs. Ackerman keeps!" said Ida as they walked down
the path Sylvanus had indicated. "I shouldn't think she would need
so many. Just see! There are Symantha and Drusilla and Sylvanus and
Dorinda—all in the house—besides the coachman and the gardener."
"It is a large house, you know, and they have a great deal of company,
I suppose."
"But it must cost no end of money. Just think how much good she might
do with it!"
"Well, she is doing good with it," returned Eunice. "Symantha and
Sylvanus are old people. You wouldn't have her turn them out of a home
where they have lived so long for the sake of giving away their wages,
would you? There wouldn't be much charity in that."
"Of course not; I didn't think of it in that way."
"But I do think people waste a great deal of money," continued Eunice.
"Just think of giving sixteen dollars for a doll and her trunk!"
"Anne Jennings gave twenty-five for hers, but then it had ever so many
dresses," said Ida. "And I suppose the doll helped to make a living for
somebody too."
"That's true, but, somehow, it does not seem right to give so much for
a plaything. And then the man who made the doll might make something
else. Ten dollars would pay for printing a great many Testaments, and
that would make more work than one doll."
"You might say the same about Sylvanus and his wages," observed Ida.
"No, I think that is different. Mrs. Ackerman has always known
Sylvanus; he is like a friend. Then he only knows how to do just his
own work, and he is an old man. If Mrs. Ackerman were to turn him off
now, he might not be able to get another such place, and what would
become of him?"
"How you do think about things!" said Ida, struck with admiration at
her companion's wisdom. "You are so old of your age!"
"I don't feel very old just now," said Eunice, laughing and giving a
little skip. "Everything seems so lovely I feel like dancing or running
races."
"Well, run then. Let's race to the green house."
"Mrs. Ackerman might not think we were very polite to be racing on her
grounds," said Eunice. "Besides, here we are at the greenhouse already.
Don't Miss Ackerman look lovely in her broad hat?"
Miss Ackerman was very busy directing and assisting the gardener, who
was packing a great number of little flower-pots and baskets. These
pots contained small but flourishing plants of ivy, ferns, and other
hardy plants.
"What a quantity of little plants!" said Ida. "What are you going to do
with them?"
"I am going to send them to the city to the ladies of the Flower
Mission," answered Miss Ackerman. "They will distribute them to
different poor and sick people who live in rooms in tenement-houses and
such places, where they seldom see anything green or pretty from one
year's end to another."
"How nice!" said Ida.—"Isn't it, Eunice?"
"Yes indeed," replied Eunice in her grave way, while her eyes sparkled.
"Plants are such a comfort! I have just one geranium, and I wouldn't
give it up for anything."
"Then you, are fond of flowers?" said Miss Ackerman.
"Yes, ma'am, very. And I almost always have good luck with them, too."
"I love plants dearly, but mine all die, somehow. I am sure I don't
know why," observed Ida.
"Well, see here," said Miss Ackerman. "I am going to give you and
Eunice each three plants—a silver-leaved geranium, an ivy, and a pot
of ferns. You shall take all the care of them yourselves, and at
Christmas-time, when we trim the Sunday-school room, the finest plant
shall have the post of honor in front of the desk."
"Oh, thank you, Miss Ackerman," said Eunice gratefully. "How pleased
mother will be!"
Ida looked a little doubtful. "Must we take all the care of them
ourselves?" she asked—"Every bit, watering and all?"
"Every bit—watering and all. Eunice will no doubt take all the care of
hers, and it is only fair you should do the same."
"Oh, I am willing," said Ida, always ready for a new undertaking. Then
with a sudden change of tone she added, "Oh dear! Here comes Julia. Now
she will be sure to say something disagreeable about my never finishing
things."
"Shall I tell you what will prevent that evil?" asked Miss Ackerman.
"Yes, ma'am, if you can."
"Always finish things," said Miss Ackerman.
"I am not sure that would do any good," remarked Ida, shaking her head.
"She would only say the disagreeable things about something else. But I
won't talk about her behind her back; I don't think that is nice a bit."
"I think you are a high-minded little lady," said Percy.—"How do you
do, Julia?"
Now, Julia had come out in a very good humor. Unluckily, she overheard
Percy's words to Ida, and she was one of those people who think every
word of praise given to another is so much taken from themselves. She
returned the elder ladies' greeting politely, Ida's rather shortly, and
Eunice's not at all.
Till Percy said, rather sharply,—"Don't you see Eunice, Julia?"
When she made such a haughty bend of her head as she had seen her elder
sister make when introduced to some one she did not care to know. The
imitation was so close that all Miss Ackerman's good-breeding could not
suppress a smile.
"Are not Miss Ackerman's plants beautiful?" said Ida. "See what a
quantity of nice little pots! She is going to send them to the city for
the Flower Mission to give away."
"Mother says the Flower Mission is great nonsense," returned Julia;
"and I think so too. What is the use of giving flowers and plants to
such kind of people? I think pork and beans would be more sensible, for
my part," she concluded, laughing at her own wit.
"I don't agree with you there, Julia," said Miss Ackerman; "and I think
a few visits made with the kind young ladies who distribute the flowers
would alter your ideas on that subject. Think what it must be to a poor
woman whose only window looks out on is narrow court, and who perhaps
never gets a chance to go as far as the Park, to have a green and
blossoming plant, or even a handful of violets, to light up her dingy
rooms!"
"Yes, indeed," said Ida. "I know when I was shut up with my bad ankle,
and could not even get to the window for ever so long, what a comfort
it was to have a dish of flowers where I could see it. And of course
it must be a great deal worse for poor people living in such places as
Miss Ackerman speaks of."
"And a great many people would be very thankful for the flowers who
would not like to take presents of pork and beans and such things,"
said Eunice. "I am sure that is the way with mother. She is able to
support herself, and me too, but she is always so pleased when any one
brings her flowers!"
"Then you think she will like the plants?" said Miss Ackerman. "You
see, Ralph has selected very nice ones for you," she added as the
gardener returned with his barrowful of plants.
"Yes, they are all in fine condition, and will do well in any good
situation," said Ralph; "but I would advise you to keep them out of
doors for a time, if you have any place to set them."
"There is the roof of our veranda," said Eunice. "It is flat, and gets
the sun all the morning. I can't set any plants out in the yard, on
account of Mr. Bell's chickens. He won't keep them shut up, all we can
say, so we have given up trying. The plants will do nicely in winter,
because we have east and south windows."
"I didn't know you had any parlor," said Julia; "I thought you lived in
the kitchen."
"We do," answered Eunice; "as you say, we have only a kitchen, and so
we make a parlor of that."
"Well, I shouldn't think geraniums and ferns would do very well among
the steam of soapsuds and boiled cabbage."
"I don't think the soapsuds will hurt them, and we never boil cabbage,"
replied Eunice, determined not to be vexed.
"Plants often do remarkably well in a kitchen, and Mrs. Riker's kitchen
is an uncommonly pleasant one, because it is always lighted up with
sunshine and smiles," said Miss Ackerman. "I have seen many fine
drawing-rooms not half so agreeable.—I will send Harry round with the
plants, girls; and remember, the best one will have the post of honor."
"What is that?" asked Julia.
Miss Ackerman explained the matter, and asked if Julia would take some
on the same terms.
"No, thank you," answered Julia; "We have a greenhouse, and I don't
care shout fussing with plants myself.—I have brought home my work,
Percy, and will take some more, if you like."
"How quick you have been!" said Ida. "Did you do it all yourself?"
"Of course I did. It is no great matter to make one night-gown."
"We have no more ready at present, for the reason that we have no more
funds," said Percy. "How does yours get on, Ida?"
"Pretty well," answered Ida. "I am doing it all by hand, and I have
nearly finished all the long seams.—Oh, Percy, what are you doing? How
very pretty!"
Percy was twisting some thread round a hair-pin and poking it in and
out with a fine crochet-needle in quite a wonderful manner, producing
some very pretty trimming.
"I have been watching her," said Eunice. "Is it very hard work to do?"
"Not hard at all; I can show you the whole in ten minutes if you wish
to learn."
The girls sat down, one on each side of Percy, and soon mastered the
secret of the trimming.
"I mean to make some as soon as I get home," said Ida.
"To add to your drawer of curiosities, I suppose," remarked Julia.
"Come into the house with me and I will give you each a hair-pin fit
for the work," said Percy; "it isn't every one that will do.—Do you
want to learn, Julia?"
"No, thank you," answered Julia; "I don't care for such cheap work that
every one can do. Mother says she likes this new lace-work, because the
materials are so expensive it can never become common. Mother found our
chambermaid working a piece of point lace one day, and she said she
never wanted to touch hers afterward."
"Give the girls some of the peaches that came this morning," said
Miss Ackerman. "Mamma had a present of two baskets of superb peaches
from a man who used to drive our horses some years ago, and who has a
peach-orchard in New Jersey.—You remember Solomon, Percy?"
"Yes indeed, the good old man!" said Percy. "I should like to see him
again."
"Perhaps Julia won't like to eat peaches which come from a servant?"
said Ida with a mischievous smile.
"That's different," returned Julia; "but I do think people ought to be
made to keep their places. I should like to live in England, where the
classes are separated."
"Let each try to keep his own place, and do his duty in it, and there
will be no trouble."
"I don't quite understand about that matter of places," said Eunice,
thoughtful as usual. "What is my place, for instance?"
"Your place is that of a member of Christ, a child of God, and an
inheritor of the kingdom of heaven," answered Miss Ackerman. "That is
the true place, that which God has designed for every immortal soul
which he has made; and if you keep that in view, you are not likely to
go very far wrong."
"But suppose one is puzzled what to do—how to speak to any one, for
instance?" asked Ida, very much interested.
"Do just as you would like to be done by. A good way is to think what
our Lord would have done in the same circumstances. As to speaking to
people, you should be polite to everybody alike, and then you are sure
not to make a mistake. There is no greater mark of low breeding than
the having two sets of manners."
"Don't you think condescension is bad manners?" asked Percy.
"Yes indeed, the very worst. But let us leave the discussion of manners
and betake ourselves to the discussion of peaches."
Ida had fully determined to sit down to her work the very first thing
after tea. But there was the trimming: "I declare they will not be fit
to be seen without something of that sort. I will work at the trimming
this evening, and to-morrow I will sew two hours instead of one."
But when to-morrow came, somebody called for Ida to drive. The next
day she went to a lawn-party, and the next to the city; and so it came
to pass that at the end of the week, the work was very little farther
advanced than it was at the beginning.
CHAPTER IV.
_FLORA ARABELLA._
LITTLE Mary Edgar went home from her visit at Miss Ackerman's with
her head full of serious thoughts. She was much the youngest of
Miss Ackerman's large class—so young, indeed, that the orderly and
systematic superintendent thought that she ought not to be there at
all, and had proposed removing her, to Mary's great dismay.
But Miss Ackerman had her own ideas about such matters. She liked
order, but then she thought classes were made for something else
besides being classified. Mary was a bright little thing, and had been
specially recommended to Miss Ackerman's care by her dead mother. All
the older girls helped and petted Mary, and thereby helped themselves.
Besides, Mary was very useful. She was class-secretary, and kept her
little book with great exactness and method.
Matilda Jenkins, indeed, had asked on the third or fourth Sunday of her
attendance, with her usual graciousness, "What that young one was there
for?"
"Because she is one of the pupils," answered Anita Ferarra in her
pretty, precise Spanish-English. "We have all great affection for Mary.
She does learn her lesson 're-markable' well." English was still a
foreign language to Anita, and she spoke it with great pains.
"Well, I think she ought to go into the baby-room as well as my little
cousin," returned Matilda. "But then Mary Edgar is a rich man's
daughter; so of course it is all right."
"If your cousin is able to learn the lessons, you are quite welcome
to bring her into the class," said Miss Ackerman, who was nearer than
Matilda supposed. "Perhaps she might do so if you gave her a good deal
of help through the week."
"My! I haven't got time to help her," returned Matilda, considerably
abashed, but determined, as she said, not to be put down. "It is all I
can do to learn my own lessons."
"A little more, it seems," whispered Kitty Lee to Anita. "She has not
had a decent lesson since she came into the class."
"Mary is rather young for the class, it must be admitted," continued
Miss Ackerman; "but her sister helps her learn her lessons, and she has
them very nicely. And no one can say that she does not behave perfectly
well. I think the girls would be very sorry to lose Mary."
"Yes indeed," said half a dozen voices.
And Ida added, "She is the dearest little thing that ever lived. I do
think she is a real little Christian; I know I wish I was half as good."
Matilda tossed her head, but said no more; she felt herself overawed,
in spite of herself.
Mary was very much the youngest of quite a large family—so much the
youngest that all the rest were grown up when she was born, and she had
several nephews and nieces older than herself. Mary had lost her mother
before she could remember, but her widowed sister-in-law, who kept her
father's house, had so well supplied her place that Mary had never
missed a mother's care, unless it might be in the want of a little
wholesome restraint and discipline. Not that Mary was at all that
odious creature, "a spoiled child." Her father and sister loved her far
too well to let her be naughty. But she was the pet and plaything of
the whole family—in fact, of the half dozen families which made up the
Edgar clan in and around Rockdale. Her father never called her anything
but Kitten, and hardly expected more of her than he would have done of
her furry namesake. Her married sisters were always wanting her for
long visits,—
"Kitten got on so nicely with the children and set them such a good
example, and she was such an unaffected, simple little thing."
Her sailor-uncles brought her home trunksful of wonderful presents and
curiosities from all parts of the world, and took her to all sorts of
entertainments. In short, as Mrs. Helen Edgar said, if Mary was not
completely spoiled among them all, it was because she was not spoilable.
When tea was over, Mary got out her work-box, that wonderful little
work-box, all mother-of-pearl and gold and lacquer, which brother
Courtland had brought her from Japan. She paused a moment to
contemplate the picture of cranes on the top, and then, taking her
little gold thimble and unrolling her bundle of handkerchiefs, she set
to work at them with great earnestness. Thanks to Mrs. Helen, she could
sew very nicely for a child of her age.
She made a very pretty little picture as she sat by the table under
the lamp, her curly black head bent down over her work, her long dark
lashes drooping, and the carnation on her cheeks beautifully deepened
with the earnestness with which she worked. Her father watched her as
she worked, and sighed as he did so, for Mary was an exact miniature of
her beautiful young mother.
"Why, what is my Kitten so busy about to-night?"
"I am hemming Ethelind Swift's handkerchiefs, papa."
"And who is Ethelind Swift?"
"She is a little girl in Dakota, papa, and her father is—oh so poor! He
is a minister, and preaches to the white people and to the poor Indians
out there. And he has five children and a wife, and oh ever so little
money for them to live on—only four hundred dollars a year. That is
not much, is it, papa?" asked Mary doubtfully. She had about as much
knowledge of the worth of money as her namesake and pet, the kitten.
"Why, no, it certainly is not wealth—not likely to lead him into much
dissipation, I should say. Four hundred dollars among seven people!
Missionaries ought not to have any wives and children."
"But, papa, if they had no wives or children of their own, how could
they feel for those who have, or know how to teach them?" said Mary. *
* This remark was made by a child ten years old.
"There is something in that, I admit," said her father: "I believe my
Kitten is learning to think."
"Well, papa, if I didn't think sometimes, I might as well be a real
Russian kitten, with curls in my ears, like Olga. And I am not a baby
any more; I am ten years old," said Mary with a pretty little air of
dignity.
"So you are, I declare! That is the worst of kittens—they will become
cats, sooner or later. And so you are working for this little girl in
Dakota? Do you like that better than sewing for Flora Arabella?"
Now, Flora Arabella was the name of the twelve-dollar doll.
"Well, no, I don't know that I do—not really," said Mary candidly.
"Hemming handkerchiefs is not very interesting. But then Flora won't
suffer for the want of her new suit, you know, and Ethelind wants her
handkerchief's."
"Flora's cost would have bought a good many handkerchiefs and, other
things for Ethelind," said Judge Edgar. "What do you think Ethelind
would say to a ten-dollar doll?"
"I dare say she would think it very nice," answered Mary. "Papa, I have
been wishing all the afternoon that I had not asked you to buy Flora.
It does seem extravagant to spend twelve dollars on a toy, when one
hears about a lady cutting up her blankets to make flannel petticoats."
"Then you think I was foolish to buy the doll?"
"No, papa dear; you were only good, as you always are; but I think I
was rather silly."
"Then, if I were to offer you ten dollars for Flora Arabella that you
might give it to Ethelind, you would take it, would you?"
Mary hesitated a little. "You see, papa, that is rather different,"
said she seriously; "I have got attached to Flora now."
"But, after all, she is only a doll—only wax and kid and sawdust."
"I know it, papa, but if you had been a little girl and played with
dolls, you would know that they are not only wax. But, if you please, I
should like to think about it a little."
"Very well, my dear. Now go into the library and bring me the new
reviews and my snuff-box. They both are on my writing-table."
"There is another thing I have been thinking of that I should like
to tell you about, papa, if you don't want to read your reviews
very much," said Mary as she sat down again to her hemming. She had
been gone quite a little while, for the snuff-box was not on the
writing-table and she had to hunt for it.
"Oh, the reviews will keep till my little girl has gone to bed,"
replied Judge Edgar. "Tell me what you have in your head while I cut
these leaves."
"Then, papa, I have been thinking I should like to have an allowance."
"An allowance! And what is that?"
"Why, an allowance of money, papa—so much a week or a month. Amity
Bogardus has one. Her grandfather gives her fifty dollars a quarter,
and then she spends it, and keeps an account. Of course I should not
want nearly as much as that, because Amity Is a young lady, and has to
buy dresses and kid gloves and such things. And I should like to have
mine oftener."
"But don't you have money when you want it, my dear?"
"No, papa, not always. Sometimes I want some very much when you are not
here or sister Helen has no change. And besides, papa—I am not sure I
can say what I mean."
"Try," said her father—"always try to put your thoughts into clear
words, or else you cannot be sure that you know what you mean yourself."
Mary thought a moment: "Well, papa, it is like this: When I want money
for the collections in church or Sunday-school, I just ask you for it
and get it. That is not my giving at all; it is yours. But if I had
just so much of my own, and no more, I should have to calculate and
save, and perhaps go without things sometimes."
"Caramels, for instance?"
"Yes, papa, and little tin things for my play-house range—I do love
nice little tin and iron things—and so it would be my giving, and not
yours. Is that explained right, papa?"
"Very nicely indeed, my daughter. I see you have been thinking to good
purpose. What put it into your head?"
"Matilda Jenkins, papa?"
"Why, what had she to do with it?" asked Mrs. Helen, surprised, for she
knew something of the Jenkins family. "I should not have expected any
such idea from her."
"It was last Sunday, sister Helen. Ida forgot her money—I think she is
rather apt to forget, somehow—and Matilda had none; and then I put in
mine.
"And Anita, who was taking up the collection, said, 'Mary's piece is
always ready.'
"And Matilda said, 'No wonder, when she has only to put her hand into
her father's pocket and take out as much as she likes. I don't call
that giving.'
"So that set me to thinking, and I made up my mind that what she said
was true, though it was not a very pleasant way to say it. And then
what Miss Ackerman said this afternoon put it into my head again, and I
thought there was no harm in my asking you. Was there, papa?"
"No, my love. There is no harm in your asking papa for anything you
want, although he may sometimes think it best to refuse."
"I wonder when?" thought Mrs. Helen.
"But as to this matter of an allowance, I should like to think about
it a little, as you say," continued Judge Edgar. "Let me see: this is
Thursday; I will tell you my decision on Saturday."
"And may I think about the doll till then?"
"Oh yes, I will keep the offer open. And now put away your sewing for
the present and read me this pretty story in the magazine. It is about
a cat, so you will be sure to like it."
"What do you think of this idea of Kitten's about an allowance?" asked
Judge Edgar of his daughter when Mary had gone to bed.
"I think it a very sensible one," replied Mrs. Helen. "I have had some
idea of the same thing, but it is much better that the proposition
should come from Mary herself. It is the way father used to do with me.
You see, as things are, Mary has no chance to learn anything of the
value of money."
"Any more than Etty has," said the judge, alluding to another of his
daughters-in-law. "I believe that child thinks that money grows on
trees, and one has nothing to do but to gather it when wanted."
"Exactly; and that is what I want to guard against with Mary. If she
has just so much a week, she will learn how far it will go and what it
will buy. I expect the trouble will be that you will be all the time
adding to the allowance."
"No; if I make the agreement, I shall abide by it, so far as ready
money goes, though I shall not bind myself not to give her a treat now
and then. How much would be a reasonable sum to spend on candy and
dolls' dishes? Ten cents a week?"
"Well, I think I would make it a little more than that. Mary wants
to give her charities out of it, and I think I would require her to
provide some necessaries for her own use, such as needles and thread,
pens, pencils, and some other little things. That will teach her to be
careful in the use of these things, and give room for the exercise of
more judgment. I think seventy-five cents a month would do very well
for the present, and you might increase the sum as she grew older."
"Oh, say a dollar," returned the judge. "Think what a family she has to
provide for—almost as many as poor Mr. Swift himself. And, by the way,
Helen, let me know when they send the box; I would like to put in a
little something. I wonder what Kitten will do about the doll!"
"I think she will give it up, though it will be a hard pull," observed
Mrs. Helen. "As she says, a doll is a great deal more than so much
wax and leather to a sensitive, affectionate child. But Mary is
conscientious, and she is beginning to be very much influenced by
religious principle. It will be a great sacrifice, but I incline to
think she will give up Flora Arabella for the sake of Ethelind."
On Saturday morning, after breakfast and prayers, Judge Edgar called
Mary into the library.
"Now about this matter of an allowance," said he. "I have been thinking
it over and talking to sister Helen about it, and I am inclined to
believe your proposition a sensible one. Sister Helen thinks, however,
that you should not use the money simply as pocket-money, but that you
should provide some necessary things out of it."
"Well, I think that is a good plan too," said Mary.
"So far so good. Now call sister Helen, and I will read you the
agreement I have drawn up."
So sister Helen was called, and Judge Edgar took from his desk and read
aloud an important-looking legal document by which Richard Edgar agreed
to pay to Mary Katherine Edgar the sum of one dollar a month, the said
Mary Edgar, on her part, agreeing to provide out of this sum all her
pens, pencils, needles, thread, shoe-lacings and button-hooks, and
also to keep an account of all her expenditures, and balance the same
at least once in every month. And in order that the said account might
be properly kept, Richard Edgar bound himself to give to Mary Edgar a
suitable book for that purpose, and to renew the same gift every New
Year's Day thereafter so long as the agreement should stand.
"Now, tell me, Kitten, do you understand all this?" asked Judge Edgar.
"I don't quite understand that about balancing the account every
month," replied Mary.
"It simply means that at the end of the month, you must add up all that
you have spent and the cash, if any, that you have remaining from your
month's allowance, and if the sum agrees with what you received, then
your account is balanced. If it does not, you must try to discover
where the mistake lies."
"I see," said Mary. "I think, papa, the best way will be to set down
every day what I have spent that day, and then I shall not forget."
"Very true, my dear. You will find it will require a good deal of
perseverance on your part, and more calculation and economy than you
have any idea of, to make your money last round."
"Yes," said sister Helen; "you will find, Mary, that it will not do to
lose four lead-pencils in one week, and more slate-pencils and needles
than I dare to say. I think this arrangement a very good one, if it is
only to teach you carefulness in such things."
"Well, I will try to be more careful, sister Helen—I will, truly," said
Mary.
And Mrs. Helen was satisfied, for when Mary said, "I will, truly," she
meant what she said. Kitten as she was, she did not make resolutions
only to break them.
Then Judge Edgar and Mary both signed the agreement, and sister Helen
witnessed it and took it in charge to keep for them.
"Now for the account-book," said the judge. He opened a drawer as he
spoke, and took out a beautiful diary bound in Russia leather and
containing a little pearl and gold pencil—such a one as Mary had long
coveted. There were two pockets in the diary, and in one of them were
four bright, new silver quarters. Mary exclaimed and danced with
delight.
"That is the beginning of the economy, I suppose," said Mrs. Helen in a
low voice to her father, smiling at the same time.
"Oh, well, diaries are cheap at this time of the year, and the child
wants some encouragement. I told you I reserved the right to give her
a treat now and then.—But we have another piece of business to settle,
Kitten," he added aloud. "What about the doll?"
Mary was sobered in a minute. Her face Bushed and the tears came into
her eyes.
"Papa," said she, "you will find a kind mistress for Flora, won't you?
You won't give her to a careless little girl that will abuse her—not to
any of Aunt Etty's children?"
"Oh no," answered the judge gravely. "I will find her a good home."
"Then, papa, if you please, I will let her go," said Mary bravely,
though her lip quivered. "I have been thinking about it, and when I was
out yesterday, I went and asked the prices of those warm waterproof
ulsters with large lined capes, and I can get a nice one, large enough
for Ethelind Swift, for five dollars and a half. And so I think I would
rather—no, I don't mean I had rather, but I think I had better—let you
have the doll."
"So that was what you were doing at the cloak-counter so long?"
remarked Mrs. Helen. "I could not guess."
"It wasn't wrong to go and ask by myself, was it?" asked Mary.
"Not at all, my dear, but I don't think you will need to buy a cloak
for the little girl. I heard Mrs. Paget say she was going to send one
of poor Adeline's, which was as good as new."
"Then what shall I do with the money, sister Helen?"
"You would not like to buy something for yourself?"
"No, I shouldn't like to do that."
"It is not necessary to spend it at all," said her father. "There will
be other people whom Mary will like to help, and she can put her money
away and keep it against the time of need. But what about the doll's
trunk?"
"I would advise Mary to keep the trunk herself," said Mrs. Helen. "It
will be useful for a good many things; she can make a dressing-case of
it, for one thing."
The doll was brought, and Judge Edgar wrapped it carefully in paper
and locked it up in one of the drawers of his great bureau. Then Mary
put her new diary away in her desk, and went to take a review of her
work-box.
"I have two papers of needles, besides worsted needles," said she to
herself, "and all the thread I shall want for some time. Now about
pencils. I do use a dreadful quantity of them, and I don't believe
there is any need of it. Slate-pencils don't get used up, they always
get lost; and I am sure I never used a whole lead-pencil in all my
life. It is just the same with my boot-lacings and buttons. I tangle
the lacings and pull off the buttons because I am in a hurry. I must be
more careful, that's all."
That night Mary found the day of the month in her new diary, and wrote
under it—
"I think I have been an extravagant girl, but I am going to try to be
more careful, and I hope God will help me."
Then she began to make some figures on a bit of paper, and at last she
took a bright ten-cent piece and laid it in a place by itself.
"That has got to be saved for charity, 'anyhow,'" said she. "I hope I
shall have more than that, but that is not mine any more."
CHAPTER V.
_THE SEWING-MEETING._
THE next day was Sunday. Mary changed her dime and had a two-cent piece
to put into the collection. It was rather less than she was in the
habit of giving, but it looked more important to her because she felt
that it was really her own offering. Matilda had no money, as usual,
and Ida "forgot hers, but would bring it next Sunday."
"Do you know how many Sundays in succession you have said that, Ida?"
asked Miss Ackerman.
Ida did not know—she thought only twice.
"This is the fourth time."
"I suppose she wants the money to spend herself," said Matilda. "I'd
say so right out, and not pretend to forget every time."
"I don't, either," said Ida, very much hurt.
"No, you always think you are just going to get your money, and then
you think of something else and forget all about it, just as you do
about everything else," said Julia.
"Ida needs to exercise a little more care about such things—to make
them a matter of duty and conscience," said Miss Ackerman gently and
gravely.—"As to Matilda and Julia, what they need is more of the Spirit
of Christ."
Julia drew herself up, tossed her head, and pressed her lips together,
as she always did when reproved.
Matilda colored furiously. "I don't believe all this nonsense about
missions and collections, anyway," said she; "ma don't, either. She
says it is just a contrivance to get money out of poor people, and that
every sixpence that is given costs a dollar to send."
"We will talk about that another time," said Miss Ackerman. "I should
like to have you all meet at my house with your mission-work on
Thursday afternoon at two o'clock. My mother hopes you will all come
prepared to stay to tea and spend the evening. There is the bell, so we
must stop talking and give attention."
Ida heard this invitation with anything but pleasurable feelings. She
slipped away from the other girls when school was dismissed, and walked
home by herself. As soon as she had put away her hat, she opened her
closet and took out her work-basket. There lay the two chemises—one not
begun, the other with the seams sewed up and partly hemmed round the
bottom. There also lay the hair-pin trimming, with about half a yard
done on it.
"I can't sew to-morrow, because it is my music-lesson day, and mother
wants me to go to town with her on Wednesday to see about my teeth. Oh
dear! I wish I had never touched the things, or seen them. Why can't
this Ethelind make her own clothes?" And Ida rather unreasonably felt
vexed at Ethelind, as if the poor child were in fault for not making
the garments she had never seen or heard of.
"I can't go to Miss Ackerman's on Thursday," Ida continued. "The girls
will all laugh at me, I know, even if they don't tell me so; and Julia
will be sure to say something disagreeable, and so will that Matilda
Jenkins. I wish the superintendent would classify her somewhere else.
But how shall I contrive to stay away? I believe I will ask mother to
let me stay all night with Aunt Barbara. She is sure to invite me—she
always does—and I dare say I shall have a headache after going to the
dentist's; so that will be a good excuse. Oh dear! It won't be half as
much fun to sit and play backgammon all the evening with Aunt Barbara,
and be told once in ten minutes to sit up straight and not poke my chin
and hear,—
"'When I was a little girl, children were not allowed to do so and so.'
"But then Aunt Barbara is sure to give me some money to spend, and I
can buy something pretty to put in the box."
And so Ida dismissed the subject from her mind, and went down to
dinner. She did not say even to herself that she would pretend to have
a headache, but that was what she really meant. Ida was getting a fixed
habit of making excuses to herself and other people, and such a habit
and that of exact truthfulness do not long live together.
On Thursday afternoon the girls of Miss Ackerman's class were gathered
at her house with their work. Ida was the only one absent. She had
carried out her plan, and was at that very time sitting by Stewart's
counter wondering when Aunt Barbara would have finished choosing
between napkins at ninety cents apiece and napkins at a dollar apiece,
and thinking all the time what a nice time the girls were having at
Mrs. Ackerman's.
"Where is Ida? Does any one know?" asked Miss Ackerman.
"I called for her," replied Eunice. "Mrs. Van Zandt told me that she
went to the dentist's yesterday, and had a headache after it, so that
she stayed all night with Mrs. Barbara Van Zandt. Her mother said she
expected Ida by the morning train, but she had no doubt Mrs. Barbara
had kept her to go shopping."
"Poor Ida!" said Percy, who had had some experience of Mrs. Barbara and
her shopping-expeditions.
"But I should not think Ida would have stayed when she knew the
class-meeting was this afternoon," remarked one of the girls.
"I dare say she could not help it. I know by experience that it is not
easy to get away from Mrs. Barbara," replied Percy.
Julia smiled maliciously. "I dare say Ida knew what she was about,"
said she.
"Oh yes, I dare say," chimed in Matilda Jenkins. "It wouldn't be a bad
spec to go round shopping with a rich old aunt. I heard Ida say herself
that the old lady always gave her something."
Julia looked intensely disgusted at this interpretation of her words.
"Oh, Matilda, I am sure Julia did not have any such meaning as that."
"Of course not," replied Julia. "Ida is not the kind of girl to think
of a 'spec,' as Matilda elegantly calls it. 'Young ladies' don't do
such things," she added, with a decided emphasis on the words "young
ladies." "What I meant was that I presume Ida has not finished her
work, and is ashamed to show herself, and so she stayed in New York, so
as to have an excuse."
"Well, I don't think you have mended the matter, I must say," returned
Matilda with some justice. "I don't see how it would be any better to
make a false excuse, especially one that needed so much contrivance,
than it would be to go shopping with an old lady in hopes of a present."
"Nor I," said Percy; "I think one supposition is quite as uncharitable
as the other, and I see no need of either of them, since Ida has done
nothing wrong that we know of. Now let us get out our work.—How much
have you done, Anita?"
"I have accomplished the two skirts," answered Anita with her usual
deliberation. And she held up the dainty garments for inspection.
"But what a trimming you have put on them!" exclaimed Percy and Amity
together. "What splendid trimming! I don't know whether to call it lace
or embroidery; I never saw anything like it."
"That is nothing," replied Anita. "All the Mexican women do make much
of it to trim their garments, and often very fine. This is not fine,
you see. I like it for amusement—what you call 'play-work'—and I had it
begun, so I thought it would please the little girl."
"But it is lovely," said Eunice. "I don't see how you do it."
"I will show you with much pleasure," replied Anita. "Not many people
know to do it in this country."
"Well, I don't see what 'you' want to learn it for," said Julia. "What
good will it do you?"
"As much good as any one else, I suppose," replied Eunice, flushing
at the rudeness, but determined not to be ruffled. "I am fond of
fancy-work, and I always find a use for every kind I learn."
"So do I," remarked Amity. "I have learned how to do a great many
little trifling bits of work, such as making paper flowers and
knitting fancy stitches, and I always find some corner where they fit
exactly.—But let us see your work, Eunice."
Eunice displayed a pair of long crimson stockings, beautifully shaped
and as even as if done on the machine, and then took out of her basket
a pair of little baby-socks knitted in soft white yarn, with a little
crimson vine running round the tops. The girls all exclaimed at their
beauty.
"They are the prettiest I ever saw," said Amity.
"I got the pattern out of the book Miss Ackerman lent me," said Eunice.
"I tried it on some worsted I ravelled out, and showed it to Mrs. Ray,
and she said if I would make a pair for her, she would give me wool
enough to make some for the box. I thought it would be pleasant to give
something of my own."
"Well, I shouldn't think Miss Ackerman would thank you for giving her
patterns to all the shops in town," said Julia.
"Julia, do behave yourself!" said Amity in an energetic whisper. "What
possesses you to insult Eunice so? What has she ever done to you? For
shame!"
Julia had her own reasons for not offending Amity, and she relapsed
into a sulky silence.
"Now, Mary," said Percy.
Mary displayed her half dozen of handkerchiefs neatly hemmed and
prettily marked with Ethelind's initials in satin stitch. She then
produced two more of finer material and with pretty colored borders.
"I bought those in the city," said she; "I thought Ethelind ought to
have two nice ones. Sister Helen picked them out and taught me how to
mark them. Don't you think Ethelind will like them?"
"She will be very hard to please if she does not," replied Amity. "We
must mark them with your name, as they are your own present."
"I suppose her father gave her the money," said Matilda in a loud
whisper to one of the other girls. "It is easy to make presents at that
rate."
"No, I bought them with my very own money," said Mary, overhearing the
whisper. In fact, the handkerchiefs had come out of the price of Flora
Arabella.
"Now, Julia," said Amity.
"I have finished the night-gown," said Julia shortly. And she laid it
on the table.
"And very nicely too," remarked Amity as she looked it over. "What neat
button-holes! Will you take another to make?"
"Yes, I suppose so, if the rest do," was the ungracious answer.
"There is mine," said Matilda, throwing the garment on the table.
"'Tain't fussed up with lace and fancy-work, but I guess it will do
for poor folks. It is the first time I ever heard of giving lace and
cambric handkerchiefs to beggars."
"What do you mean, Matilda?" asked Miss Ackerman, who had been detained
by company, and entered the room in time to hear Matilda's remark. "Who
are the beggars?"
"Why, these missionary folks. I say I don't see the sense of sending
them such fine things. Why, our church, where we lived before, sent a
box, and there wasn't one new thing in it. * Mrs. Benson had an old
alpaca frock she was going to cut up for carpet-rags, but she put it in
the box instead, because she said it wasn't hardly strong enough to do
much good in the carpet. I was going to give one of my old frocks, but
I don't think it would do very well to go with all these fine things."
* A fact, I regret to say.
"That is easy to decide, Matilda. If the frock in question is one you
would like to have any one give you under the same circumstances, or
if you would not hesitate about wearing it yourself, you need not be
afraid to send it. But, putting any feeling aside, you must see that it
would be a waste of money to pay express charges all the way to Dakota
on what would be only fit for carpet-rags when it got there."
"There would be a great deal more merit in giving something that one
wanted one's self, wouldn't there, Miss Ackerman?" said Phebe Goodman,
a quiet, unassuming girl who had lately joined the class.
"As to that, Phebe, I think we may put merit out of the question."
"I don't quite understand," said Phebe.
"I will try to explain what I mean," returned Miss Ackerman. "Suppose I
tell you a story to illustrate it?"
"Oh do, please, Miss Ackerman," said several voices together.
"There was once a young man, whom we will call Philip," began Miss
Ackerman. "He belonged to a good family, to begin with, but by his own
folly and wickedness he had sunk from one degree of misery to another
till he had made himself liable to the law, and he was at last taken
up and thrown into prison. He had lost his friends by his misconduct,
ruined his health by dissipation, and he had no prospect before him but
that of lingering out his life in miserable and hopeless captivity.
"Under these circumstances, however, an unexpected friend appeared for
him. Philip, as I said, was of good, family—in fact, he was allied to
the blood royal—and had at first, before he fell into evil courses,
borne a strong resemblance to the king. The crown prince, hearing of
Philip's sad state, took compassion on the poor prisoner and paid
in his own person the enormous debt he had contracted, and which
Philip could never have hoped to discharge. Nor was he content with
this. He took Philip out of prison, cured his diseases, washed off
the defilements he had contracted, and clothed him in new and clean
garments from head to foot. Neither did he stop here. He set Philip up
in a good way of business, employing him about his own affairs, and
from time to time gave him what money he needed to carry on his work.
"At first, Philip was overflowing with gratitude, and could not do
enough for his benefactor or say enough in his praise. But as time went
on, the memory of his past troubles became fainter, and he began to
look on and use the means put into his hands as if they were his own.
"One day the prince came to him on a matter of business.
"'Philip,' said he, 'there's a man in the next town who was taken from
just such misery as you were, and has been ever since employed in doing
my work among the unfortunate, and teaching them to whom they may apply
for liberation. Spending all his time in this way, he has neither
leisure nor opportunity to accumulate wealth, and both he and his
family are suffering for the necessaries of life. I wish you to supply
his needs out of the means I have given you that he may go on doing my
work among the poor and afflicted.'
"Having delivered this command, the prince withdrew.
"The time had been when Philip would have received this command as a
proof of the favor of his beloved friend and prince, and would have
hastened to lay at his feet the best treasure in his possession. But
times were changed. The memory of his old lost and ruined state had
in a good measure faded away. He had learned to look on the treasure
he possessed as his own, and he hated to part with it. He was very
busy too—so busy that even when the subjects of the prince were called
together to meet their lord and lay their wants before him, he could
not always find time to go; and as for inquiring out those who were
sick and in prison, and directing them to the only source of help, it
was a long time since he had thought of doing any more in that line
than just asking the prince in the most general way to have mercy on
them.
"Philip went into his wardrobe and began looking over his garments. He
had plenty of clothes, new and old, and he laid them out and inspected
them one by one. Some he thought were quite too good for the purpose,
and these he put away again. He stood for some time balancing between
two overcoats—one pretty good, the other old and thin and soiled.
"'I might wear this one a good many times,' he said to himself; 'it
would do me good service on rainy days; but, after all, I will send it.
There will be more merit in sending something which I could use myself.'
"Philip felt very virtuous as he laid aside the overcoat, but his face
fell as he looked up and met the stern glance of his prince.
"'Philip,' said the prince, 'who gave you all these things?'
"'You, my lord,' faltered Philip.
"'Yes, that is true,' said the prince. 'It was I who rescued you from
prison and death, who set you up in business, and supplied you with
means to carry it on. All you have is mine, and I could rightfully
resume it all. Is not that true?'
"'Yes, my lord,' answered Philip. 'I have nothing that I did not
receive.'
"'Why, then, do you boast as if you had not received it?' asked the
prince. 'You confess that yourself and all you have are rightfully
mine, and yet when I ask you to give me a small portion, you hesitate
and talk of merit in giving one thing more than another. Wherein lies
the merit of giving me back my own?'
"Philip saw his error. He fell at his master's feet, confessed his sin,
and begged for forgiveness.
"The prince was graciously pleased to pardon him, and as a mark of his
favor, he allowed Philip not only to help the man of whom he had told
him, but to be himself the means of releasing several prisoners.—That
is the end of my little allegory. Do you understand it, Phebe?"
"I think I do," answered Phebe. "The Prince is our Lord Jesus Christ,
and Philip is a sinner that he has saved."
"And the other man is a missionary or preacher like Mr. Swift," said
Mary Edgar.
"Exactly; and so long as he devotes his whole time and labor to
bringing souls to Christ, his fellow-disciples owe it to their common
Master to see that he does not want for what he needs. And when we
supply his wants we are only giving that Master back a little of his
own."
"According to that, there is no merit in anything," remarked Matilda.
"No, if by merit you mean deserving anything of God by what we do."
"'Ye are not your own, for ye are bought with a price' (1 Cor, vi. 19,
20)," said Eunice. "And if we ourselves are not our own, we can't call
anything else our own."
"Exactly. St. Paul praises the Corinthians because when they
contributed to the needs of the saints, they first gave their own
selves to the Lord. 2 Cor. viii. 5."
"Well, I don't like that notion, I must say," remarked Matilda, who
possessed an outspoken frankness which made Miss Ackerman more hopeful
of her than she would otherwise have been. "I don't like the idea that
one can't do anything that has any merit in it. I like to be somebody,
for my part. That notion just makes us all beggars together."
"Exactly," said Miss Ackerman, smiling—"one as much as another—all lost
sinners together, helpless and hopeless, unless the Prince takes pity
on us and lets us out of prison."
"I don't see why we should complain of that, so long as the Prince
stands ready to help us whenever we ask him," said Eunice.
"I suppose you think he has helped you?" remarked Matilda—not
scornfully this time, but rather curiously.
"I know it," replied Eunice, coloring high.
"Well, I guess you're right," said Matilda good-naturedly. "I think
you're a pretty good girl, and I'm sorry I have hurt your feelings; so,
there!"
"I don't know that you ever have," replied Eunice.
"Well, I meant to.—But, Miss Ackerman, now just suppose there was a
poor person who wanted to give something and she hadn't anything but
what was old, oughtn't she to give it?"
"Certainly, my dear. Let the rich give according to their abundance
and the poor according to their poverty. As to the quality of what is
given, the rule of doing as we would be done by is a good one. Let us
remember that those to whom we are sending are children of our Father,
and then we shall not go far wrong."
"I expect Anita likes lace on her skirts, so she thought she would put
some on Ethelind's," remarked Matilda.
"No, I do not care greatly for such things, though I do like to—to
construct them," replied Anita. "But I thought this little lady is poor
and cannot have many pretty things; she will be pleased to see this
lace, which will also show her that some one has taken thought for her
tastes."
"Exactly so," said Percy.
"But don't you really care for fine things—lace and such?" asked one of
the girls.
"No, not very much."
"I dare say you would if you couldn't them," remarked Matilda. "It is
very easy to be economical when one's folks are as rich as Crœsus,"
(Matilda pronounced the monarch's name Greases), "and one can have all
one wants."
Anita smiled: "It may be that you are right, Matilda; we have a proverb
in the Spanish that 'it is easy to walk when you lead your horse by the
bridle.'"
"But now about the missionaries, Miss Ackerman," said Matilda. "You
said we would talk about that—what I said, you know." And Matilda
blushed a little.
"Oh yes," replied Miss Ackerman. "You mean the statement that 'every
sixpence given to the heathen takes a dollar to send it.' It is a
statement which is altogether improbable on its face, and has been
disproved over and over again, and yet people go on repeating it. The
fact is, that, as a general thing, not more than five and a half per
cent. of the money contributed for missions is used up in necessary
expenses. In some cases, the proportion may be more, but I can safely
say that the business of the mission-boards in general is as carefully
and economically managed as any in the world."
"And do you think they really do so much good? Foreign missions, I
mean," asked Matilda.
"We will reserve that question for another meeting," said Miss
Ackerman. "Meantime, Matilda, I am very glad to see you interested in
the subject of missions."
"Well, I am interested," said Matilda. "I never cared a pin before,
but, somehow, working for this little Ethelind makes things more real
to me. I seem to realize that the folks are real folks and the places
real places, and not just names in the geography-book."
"Exactly so," replied Miss Ackerman. "That is one use of
missionary-boxes."
"But don't you think it would be a great deal better, Cousin Margaret,
if the missionaries were paid salaries large enough to enable them to
buy things for themselves?" asked Percy.
"In some ways undoubtedly it would be better, but I think the boxes
have their uses too, besides the comfort they bring to the missionary
families. For one thing, as Matilda just said, they wake up a living
interest in the subject. Then, again, they afford opportunities for
people to give who have no money to contribute."
"Like me," said Eunice.
"Exactly; and people who are much poorer than you."
"There is another thing," remarked Percy. "Missionaries are often
stationed where money is of very little real use to them, just as army
officers are. I know very well what it is to be not only 'twelve miles
from a lemon,' but a hundred miles from a hair-pin. When I was at Round
Springs, the school-girls sent a box to an old gentleman up in Maine
almost on the borders of Canada. He had a wife, a widowed daughter,
and a little grandchild eight years old. The girls in our corner—that
is, Blandine, Jenny, and myself—got a good substantial work-box and
filled it full of sewing-materials and little things of that sort—tape,
needles, pins, buttons, thread and silk, bodkins, and the like. The
school had a very nice letter in return, and the old lady spoke
particularly about the work-box. She said she often found it difficult
to get a spool of thread she could use."
"What did they send the little girl?" asked Mary Edgar, very much
interested.
"Oh, all sorts of nice things—clothes, and books, and so on. Then the
little girls in the Kindergarten bought a doll and made up quite a
wonderful wardrobe for it."
"What did they make?" asked Mary.
"More things than I can tell you—a wrapper, and a travelling dress, and
a silk dress, and underclothes without number—or rather unnumbered.
Mrs. Hermans, the housekeeper, helped them, and really I never saw
anything prettier. I wish I could have seen the little girl when she
saw the box opened."
Mary's eyes sparkled and her face dimpled with smiles as she said to
herself; "I know what I mean to do."
"And now, as you have all been sewing steadily for more than two hours,
I move that the work be laid aside and we take a little exercise in the
garden," said Mrs. Ackerman.—"By the way, Eunice, have you used all
your yarn?"
"Nearly all, ma'am. I might have enough for a pair of stockings for a
child two years old, but I think it doubtful. These long stockings use
up a good deal of yarn."
"I know. I asked because I mean to have some more for you. And while I
think of it, I will say that when this box is done with, I should like
you to knit three or four pairs of baby-socks for a present. I will pay
you whatever Mrs. Ray says is right."
As they were going into the garden, Anita took Eunice aside.
"You spoke of learning to do this Mexican work," said she. "There is
a lady in New York—oh she is very rich and expends much money—whose
daughter is to be married. She told my mother she would give almost any
price to a person who could work for her some of this trimming. Now, I
could soon teach you the stitch, for it is in truth very simple, and
then, if it please you, I could get you some work from this lady, who
visits often at our house. I hope that it is not a liberty for me to
say this," added Anita with a little anxiety; "I would not hurt you for
the world."
"No indeed; I am ever so much obliged to you," replied Eunice. "But it
will be giving you a great deal of trouble, Anita."
"Oh no, it is no trouble. I like the work, and I like you, Eunice. I
think we should be great friends if we were more acquainted."
"And I am sure I like you," returned Eunice, kissing Anita. "I did the
first minute I saw you."
"And will you do me one favor, Eunice? You know about wool and yarn and
such things. Would you select for me some wool at Mrs. Ray's suitable
to crochet a—I know not the word—like that pretty thing Miss Ackerman
wears on her head?"
"'A fascinator,' they call it."
"That is an odd name—'a fascinator.' And will you teach the way to make
one?"
"Certainly I will, with all the pleasure in the world. I am glad I can
do anything for you."
"Then that is settled. When will you come and spend the afternoon?"
"Next Friday, if that will suit you. And I will buy the wool and bring
it up with me. What shall I want for my work?"
"Only a ball of lace-thread and a bit of rather coarse linen—a little
worn is best to learn on. But you need not trouble to bring it; I have
abundance. Ask Mrs. Ray to add the wool to mamma's account."
CHAPTER VI.
_THERE IS SOMETHING WRONG._
THE rest of the afternoon passed off very pleasantly to most of the
party, and when Matilda went home, she told her mother that she had had
a real good time, and the girls were not stuck up or patronizing a bit.
"Just so," said her mother. "You hold your own, and folks will respect
you. Just show that you think yourself as good as anybody."
"Well, I don't know as that's always the best way, ma," said Matilda,
who had a good mind, but had never been taught to use it, and who was
gaining some new ideas. "There's Eunice Riker, now. She never seems to
set herself up or put herself forward, and every one knows they are as
poor as crows; but all the girls like her."
"They like to patronize her, I suppose," said Mrs. Jenkins.
"They don't patronize her one bit. They just make her one of
themselves," persisted Matilda. "And besides, ma, it says in the Bible,
'In lowliness of mind let each esteem other better than themselves.'
(Phil. ii. 3). That was read in church only last Sunday."
"Don't you be preaching to me, Matilda Jenkins; that isn't according to
the Bible, whatever else is. Just put away your things, and then come
and wash up the supper-things, and take out a little of your goodness
in that way."
A sharp answer was on Matilda's lips, but for some reason or other
she restrained it, and, putting away her hat and mantle, she washed
the dishes with extra neatness and despatch. Then, seeing that her
mother did not incline to talk, she got out her Bible and learned her
Sunday-school lesson.
"I wonder whether I should make any kind of a Christian if I should
try?" said she to herself. "Eunice says 'the Prince' helps her. I
wonder whether he would help me? I wonder whether he does care about
us, anyhow?"
Julia was the only one of the party who did not enjoy the afternoon.
She sat steadily at her sewing, hardly speaking a word to anybody. Her
mind was in a tempest of anger, jealousy, and envy. Nobody had praised
her work specially. To be sure, Miss Ackerman had said it was very
neatly done, but it had attracted no such flattering notice as Anita's
trimming, or Eunice's socks, or even little Mary Edgar's handkerchiefs.
Percy had taken her up sharply on what she had said about Ida, though
she had been no worse than Matilda Jenkins, and Miss Ackerman had
quite distinguished Matilda, a common, vulgar girl who did not even
speak good English. She forgot that Matilda had accepted her share of
the reproof good-naturedly, and had showed that she did so by joining
freely in the conversation, while she, Julia, had sulked all the
afternoon.
Then Anita Ferarra, the daughter of a distinguished man, the most
aristocratic girl in the class except herself—so Julia thought—had
struck up a friendship with Eunice Riker, and had asked her to visit
her. It would be difficult to say how Julia was injured by this
circumstance, but she felt herself so. She almost thought she would
never go to a sewing-meeting at Miss Ackerman's again.
In a few days, Julia went up to Mrs. Van Zandt's, stopping at Mrs.
Ray's shop for some thread. Eunice was there, apparently buying some
Shetland wool. As Julia entered, she took out of her basket some
peculiar crimson yarn and handed it to Mrs. Ray, who put it away in a
drawer.
"So that is what becomes of Mrs. Ackerman's nice yarn!" thought Julia.
"I wondered that all that yarn she gave Eunice should make only one
pair of stockings. I dare say she will produce something made of this
very wool, and make a great merit of giving it to the box. Won't I
expose her if she does! I suppose that was the way she found the wool
for those wonderful socks the girls made such a fuss about."
Julia found Ida busily working at her missionary-sewing with a
countenance which did not express any special delight in her
employment. In fact, she looked decidedly cross, which was not a very
common thing with Ida.
"Why, Ida! Haven't you finished your bundle of work yet?" asked Julia,
apparently much surprised, as if such a state of things were not just
what she expected, and indeed hoped, to find. "Why, all the other girls
took theirs in last Thursday, and almost every one had done something
extra. Even little Mary Edgar bought and marked two fine handkerchiefs."
"Did she?" asked Ida, much interested. "What did you have?"
"Nothing," answered Julia, her face darkening at the remembrance of her
mortifications, "but I will have something the next time. I won't be
outdone by a little chit like Mary Edgar."
"I don't suppose we ought to give for any such reason as that," said
Ida thoughtfully; "it wouldn't be real charity, you know."
"Fiddlesticks!" returned Julia. "What does the reason signify, as long
as they get the things?"
"It signifies to us if not to them," returned Ida.
"And besides, doesn't everybody do it?" continued Julia. "What do
people give to homes and orphan asylums for, but only to see their
names in the papers?"
"A great many people give to orphan asylums and other things whose
names never get into the papers," remarked Ida; "and even if their
names are published, it does not prove that they gave for that purpose.
I don't think we ought to judge in that way. Besides," added Ida,
smiling archly, "such men as Judge Edgar and father get their names in
print often enough to satisfy them, I should think, without its costing
them anything at all."
"What did you do in the city that day?" asked Julia, not unwilling to
change the conversation, as she felt that Ida was getting the best of
it.
"Oh, I went round shopping with Aunt Barbara, as usual. What she does
with all the things she buys, especially the linen, is a mystery to
me. She has a great immense press full of nothing but napkins and
tablecloths. She told me her mother gave her two dozen tablecloths,
and napkins to match all of them, when she was married, and yet she
is always buying more. I believe she gives them away, just for the
pleasure of buying them over again."
Ida was partly right in this supposition. It was no doubt true
that Mrs. Barbara Van Zandt took great pleasure in endless
shopping-expeditions, and especially in buying napkins. It was also
true that many of these same napkins went to adorn the table and make
glad the heart of many a neat housewife who would have gone without,
only for Mrs. Barbara's liberality.
"Didn't you do anything else but buy napkins?" asked Julia.
"Oh yes; we had a nice lunch down town, and then went to a
picture-and-china exhibition. Aunt Barbara bought me a lovely set of
Nankin china for my room, but it hasn't come yet. And only think!"
added Ida, her face clouding over at the thought. "She gave me a
beautiful linen lambrequin, all marked to be done in Roman work and
Russian points, with the silk to work it and satin to line it with, and
oh, such a lovely, 'lovely' basket to hold it all! And now mother says
I shall not do a stitch on it till this missionary-work is done!"
"Well, I must say, Ida, I don't wonder at it, considering. Just think
how many pieces you have on hand! You might have finished your sewing
as well as the rest of us, if you had only kept at it."
"That is just what I hate—keeping at things," returned Ida, giving her
work an impatient pull, by which she broke her gathering-thread. "I
like to do things when I feel like it."
"If you only do things when you feel like it, you will never accomplish
anything," said Julia, very sensibly. "If you stick to your plain
sewing for two hours every day, you can have every bit of it done by
Saturday, and the Roman work will be just as pretty then as it is now."
"No, it won't, either; I shall have got off the notion of it then."
"Oh, Ida, don't be such a baby!"
"I don't care; it is too bad. Mother might have a machine like other
people."
"Why doesn't she?"
"Oh, she says I shall never learn to sew if there is a machine in the
house. I shouldn't want to know then."
"Yes, you would just as much. If you don't sew well by hand, you will
never sew well on a machine," said Julia, very truly.
"Well, anyhow, I have done all I am going to do to-day," exclaimed Ida,
looking at the clock and laying down her work.
"I would baste the band on before I stopped, and then the work will be
all ready to begin on to-morrow," said Julia, taking up the garment.
"Why, Ida, you could finish this in two hours easily. Why don't you
keep at it till it is done, and then you will be ready to do your Roman
work?"
"No, I shall not. There is the other one not even begun."
"You don't mean to say that you have not even made one?" exclaimed
Julia. "Why, Ida!"
"It isn't any business of yours," said Ida sullenly.
"Of course it isn't, but I should think it was of yours. They want
everything brought in to Mrs. Ackerman's at the next class-meeting."
"Oh, well, I can finish them before that time," answered Ida,
recovering her good humor, which indeed was never ruffled long at a
time. "Oh, by the way, did Eunice have anything besides her stockings?"
"Yes; she had a pair of baby-socks which Miss Ackerman and the rest
of the girls made as much fuss over as if they had been made of point
lace. Perhaps if they knew what I do, they would not be quite so well
pleased."
"Why, what do you mean?" asked Ida.
"Why, she said—But there is no use in telling it, that I know of," said
Julia, well knowing to whom she was talking, and that Ida would not
rest till she heard the whole story.
"Oh yes, come, tell me!"
"Well, you need not tell every one about it. She said she earned the
money to make the socks, and you know what a quantity of yarn Mrs.
Ackerman gave her?"
"Yes."
"Well, she brought only one pair of stockings, and when Miss Ackerman
looked surprised, she said there was not yarn enough for two pairs.
But this very afternoon I was in at Mrs. Ray's, and I saw her exchange
a whole skein of that yarn for a parcel of Shetland wool. So much for
Miss Ackerman's paragon!" concluded Julia in a tone of triumph.
"Are you sure it was the same yarn?"
"Yes, of course I am. Don't you remember what a peculiar color it
was—like the red in a cashmere shawl?"
"Yes, I know Amity spoke about it. But, Julia, I don't like to think
such a thing of Eunice. Perhaps Mrs. Ackerman gave her leave to
exchange the yarn."
"No, she didn't. I heard Mrs. Ackerman tell her to bring back what
was left when she gave her the yarn in the first place. I know Mrs.
Churchill thought Mrs. Riker didn't put all the bird's-eye linen she
gave her to make up into Harry's aprons."
"I wonder what she wants to do with the Shetland wool?"
"Oh, I dare say she will make something else for the box, and so get
some more credit. One thing I am sure of: I shall know the wool again
the minute I see it, and if she does bring in anything made of it, I
shall expose her. But there! I must go along, Ida. I have to stop at
Mrs. Gunderson's for mother."
"Don't tell Fanny Gunderson about this matter, Julia," said Ida,
detaining her a moment. "You know every one says. Mrs. Gunderson's is
a regular gossip-shop. The story will go all over town, and there may
be some mistake, after all. I believe there is; I don't believe Eunice
Riker would steal a bunch of yarn."
"She wouldn't call it stealing, I suppose, as long as she gave the
value back again," said Julia.
"Well, anyhow, don't tell Fanny Gunderson."
"Don't you be alarmed, child; I know what I am about," said Julia.
And there is no doubt she did. As she walked home from Mrs.
Gunderson's, where she had done her mother's business and also her own,
she began to think what she should do for the mission-box which should
eclipse all her companions, and how she should contrive to do anything.
Julia's pocket-money was an uncertain quantity. The Hazletons passed
for very rich people. Certainly, they spent a great deal and lived
in very great style, as Mr. Hazleton said. He kept two carriages and
various servants, and the family went into town for several months of
every year. Sometimes he would shower money and presents upon his wife
and daughters without stint; at other times his wife found it hard work
to obtain enough ready cash for household expenses, and his daughters
could not buy a calico wrapper without hearing that they were bringing
their father to ruin by their extravagance.
Mr. Hazleton was just now in the midst of one of these attacks of
economy, and Julia knew it would be in vain to ask him for money. She
had none by her, and yet she felt that she must do as much for the box
as Anita Ferarra or Mary Edgar. Why, even Phebe Goodman would have done
more than she. She turned over various plans in her mind without coming
to any other conclusion than that she must try asking her father once
more.
"I mean to get up all those old Scotch songs father likes," she said to
herself. "Perhaps I can sing him into a good humor, and then I can get
some money out of him."
Julia put her plan into immediate execution, but, though she gained
something by it, it was not altogether successful. Mr. Hazleton brought
his daughter home a fine cross and necklace the very next evening, but
when she asked him for money, he positively refused to give it her for
any such purpose.
"These missionary-boxes are all perfect nonsense and humbug," said he.
"There was that one sent to Pompyopolis last year. Andrews was out that
way collecting, and he found the very missionary to whom all those
things were sent living with his family at the best hotel in the place."
This was true, but if Mr. Andrews had inquired into the matter, he
would have learned that the minister's house had been damaged by fire
only a few days before, and that the hotel-keeper, who attended his
church, had invited the family to stay at the hotel till the house
could be put to rights again.
"All the other girls have given more than just their work," said Julia,
half crying. "I should think you would want me to appear as well as
Mary Edgar or Emmeline Lee. Even Eunice Riker gave a pair of socks of
her own money."
"More shame for her, then," said Mr. Hazleton, "taking her poor
mother's hard earnings to give away to Tom, Dick, and Harry!"
"Don't say any more to papa just now, Julia," said Mrs. Hazleton when
her husband had left the room. "I'll see what can be done, but there is
no use talking now. It will do more harm than good. I will see that you
have something to give this little girl, though I must say that with
all the poverty there is in our own midst, a use might be found for
money nearer home than Dakota."
"I suppose there is money enough for both purposes if it were rightly
used," said Emma Hazleton, who was thought eccentric by her mother and
sisters because she thought seriously about a good many things, and
sometimes talked about them. "The price of that India shawl papa gave
me, if added to this poor minister's salary, would have put him above
the need of boxes for several years; and a pretty beaver shawl would
have been just as warm."
"Yes, and made you look like an old woman or a district school
teacher," said Julia. "Besides, I think you are very inconsistent. I
have heard you say a hundred times that there was no manufacture so
beautiful as a fine India shawl."
"Well, I do think so. But what is the meaning of self-denial if it is
not giving up or going without something that one really likes and
admires? As to the charge of inconsistency, I don't deny it. We are
all inconsistent alike, as far as I see. We pretend to be Christians,
and we live as much for the world as if there was no such thin as
Christianity."
"I don't know what you mean by living for the world, Emma," said her
mother. "Of course we have our duties to society. We must keep up our
position, and dress and act like other people in our circumstances."
"That is just what I do mean," said Emma. "Oh, I am not pretending to
be any better than the rest of you, only I see the humbug—that's all."
"Then, if you see 'the humbug,' as you call it, and yet keep it up, you
are a good deal worse than the rest of us," retorted Julia, with some
show of reason.
"I believe you are right, child. There! We won't say any more about it."
The next morning, Mrs. Hazleton told Julia there was no use in saying
anything to her father about money at present. "And really, I don't
think it is reasonable myself," said she. "There are so many calls on
one already, and by your account this little girl will be very well
furnished with clothes as it is."
"I told you before I didn't care about the girl," said Julia fretfully,
"but how it looks for me to be the only one not to do something extra.
You ought to see the trimming Anita Ferarra put on the skirts she made."
"I think such things very unsuitable," said Mrs. Hazleton. "Clergymen's
families ought to set an example of modesty and simplicity in dress."
"What is the use of their setting the example, if nobody is to follow
it?" asked Emma. "Or why should they set an example more than other
people?"
"Well, I know one thing: I won't go to another class-meeting unless I
have something to show."
"Make something," suggested her sister. "I have some pretty dark gray
and red yarn, and I will show you how to knit a pair of mittens."
"I haven't one minute's time," answered Julia. "I have got that cushion
to finish for Miss Lindon's wedding-present; and besides, I want
something that will make more show than just a pair of mittens. I'll
have it too, somehow, in spite of pa." And just then an idea darted
into Julia's head which she determined to put into execution the very
next day.
CHAPTER VII.
_READING CHARACTER AT A GLANCE._
THE day after Julia and Eunice met in Mrs. Ray's shop, Eunice spent the
afternoon with Anita Ferarra.
Mr. Ferarra was a gentleman of Spanish descent, doing business both in
the neighboring city and in Mexico. He had married an American lady,
daughter of one of his partners, and the family had resided in Mexico
till some change in the firm to which he belonged, and also the desire
to obtain better advantages for the education of his daughter, had
brought Mr. Ferarra to the North.
After travelling for a while, and making trial of several different
locations, he had bought a place in Rockdale, where he had established
his family, going down to the city every day. Mrs. Ferarra had
married young, and, living so long in a foreign land, she had almost
forgotten her native tongue and spoke, as she walked and sung, like
a Spanish lady. Nevertheless, she was a born New Englander, full of
energy, spirit, and industry, and she threw herself at once into
all the affairs of Rockdale society, teaching in Sunday-school and
sewing-school. And, as she had plenty of money, as well as plenty of
wit and resource, she soon became a valuable element in the church.
Mr. and Mrs. Ferarra were Protestants—the one from education, the
other from conviction—but Anita had been to a convent-school, simply
because there was at that time no other school for her to go to.
Here she had learned a great many pretty accomplishments in the way
of embroidery and the like, and she always retained an affectionate
remembrance of the kindness and the sweetmeats of the good nuns. Anita
had learned English mostly from books, and she often amused the girls
by the preciseness of her expressions, which contrasted oddly with the
childish-sounding Spanish lisp, for by no possibility could Anita learn
to pronounce an English "s."
Mrs. Ferarra as well as her daughter, had been very much taken with
Eunice Riker. She had been led to notice her at first by her singing
in church and Sunday-school. Eunice possessed a fine and peculiar alto
voice and a very correct ear, and her singing was indeed something
remarkable.
"She has a fine face too," Mrs. Ferarra said to her husband as they
were walking home; "I am sure she must have a great deal of character.
Mr. Stanley tells me she is the only child of a widow who supports
herself and her daughter by fine work and by getting up fine washing."
"It is a pity her musical powers should not be cultivated," remarked
her husband.
"That is just what I was thinking," said Mrs. Ferarra eagerly. "If she
only had proper instruction, she might be able to support herself and
her mother."
"You say they are respectable people?"
"Oh yes. Her mother is a soldier's widow, and has a very small pension,
and they live upon that and the proceeds of her work. She has quite the
manners of a lady, and when I went to carry her some clear-starching,
I was struck with the pleasant, cultivated look of her little room.
Eunice is in the same class with Anita—Miss Ackerman's."
"That will give Anita an opportunity of getting acquainted with her.
She might find some excuse for inviting her to the house, and when we
see more of her, if she seems a promising subject, she might have the
benefit of some of Carmen's dowry. But don't be in a hurry. There is
time enough, and you know your 'geese' have not always turned out to be
'swans,'" added Mr. Ferarra, smiling.
"Well, I would rather think my 'geese' 'swans' than to think all
'swans' 'geese,'" replied his wife, smiling in her turn. "However, it
will be desirable, as you say, to proceed with caution. I fancy both
Eunice and her mother are very independent in their feelings."
"So much the better for them," said Mr. Ferarra; and there the
discussion ended for the present.
The plan for inviting Eunice to spend the afternoon with Anita on the
plea of giving instructions in crocheting had been arranged between
Anita and her mother as a means of becoming better acquainted with
Eunice, as well as for the sake of giving pleasure to a hard-working
girl.
Mr. Ferarra's house was a handsome one and beautifully situated. It was
not so expensively furnished as many houses in the neighborhood; at
least the expense was bestowed in a different manner.
Mrs. Hazleton, who had a great deal of wonder and a great deal of
advice at the service of her neighbors, which she was accustomed to
bestow quite gratuitously, wondered that Mrs. Ferarra should be content
to have her drawing-rooms matted with only a square of Turkey carpet
in the middle for cold weather. She assured Mrs. Ferarra that nobody
did so at the North, and advised her to buy Axminster carpets for her
drawing-rooms and Brussels for her bedrooms without delay. She repeated
this advice till Mrs. Ferarra grew tired of it, and gave her a somewhat
cool answer, when she wondered what she could have said that Mrs.
Ferarra should be so angry at.
Mrs. Ferarra had a beautiful garden in summer and a superb conservatory
in winter; she had a great abundance of books and some beautiful and
valuable pictures; and she had a well-filled purse, always ready to
open to any reasonable call for help. For all these things she cared a
great deal, but for Axminster carpets and brocade furniture not at all.
Anita's own room was furnished with the simplest chintz and cane
furniture, but she had shelves upon shelves of valuable books of her
own, and indulged in an amount of fresh towels and linen which would
have scared Mrs. Hazleton from her propriety. She carried off Eunice
to this room to take off her hat and arrange her hair, and when Eunice
exclaimed at the before-mentioned book-shelves, Anita made her at once
free of them.
The lessons in work proceeded very successfully amid a great deal of
fun and laughter, and Eunice found as apt a pupil in Anita as Anita did
in her. When she thought they had worked long enough, Mrs. Ferarra sent
them out for a walk in the grounds. The flower-garden was beginning to
show the lateness of the season, but there was a beautiful display of
chrysanthemums, dahlias, and other late-blooming flowers, and Eunice
exclaimed with delight over some Japanese anemones.
"Yes, they are very pretty, and they last so long, till cold weather
comes," said Anita; and she shivered at the thought. "But oh, Eunice,
you should see the flowers in Mexico! Such flowers! Not the pale things
that grow here. And there is no winter to kill them so soon as they are
come to perfection."
"There are no earthquakes here, either," said Eunice, a little jealous
for the honor of her native land, "and no snakes."
"Oh, as to snakes, bah! One meets them scarcely ever. It is not one in
five thousand that is ever hurt by them; and as for earthquakes, well,
certainly they are not nice. But I do not know; the earthquake does
endure but a little, and the winter lasts half the year!"
"But the earthquake kills people."
"Well, and does not the winter kill people too? Whence come all your
consumptives but from the winter? I think it is like the cold white
witch my nurse used to tell me of, who walks forth at night, and the
grass and flowers wither under her tread. But you like your own land;
that is but natural. I like it also, but not as my own, and not the
winter."
"Shall you ever go back?" asked Eunice.
"Oh yes, some time, I suppose. It will depend upon my father's
business. If we do, do you know what plan I have in my head? You know
there is freedom of religion in Mexico now, and many have even become
Protestants. I think I will have a little school for the Indian girls
of our estate. They are very gentle, kind people and good servants, but
they are very ignorant. They know not to read or write, and have never
seen a Bible."
"I suppose they are Romanists," said Eunice.
"That is not so easy to tell," replied Anita. "In the cities they are
so, doubtless, and in the country places they will go to confession
once a year. But they know very little Spanish, and often the priests
to whom they confess know nothing at all of their language. They have
many strange ceremonies of their own, and some say they still worship
the gods of their ancestors. They love not the Spaniard in general, but
my father has ever been a friend to them; and as for my mother, I give
you my word, Eunice, that these poor people would lie down in the river
to make a bridge for her to pass over."
"How nice!" said Eunice, much interested. "You might be a regular
missionary among them, Anita."
"That is what I am thinking."
"I always envy people who can go upon missions," said Eunice. "When I
read about them, I always wonder, not that some should go, but that
there are not a great many more."
"I suppose there would be more if there were more money to send
them," remarked Anita. "And after all, Eunice, when one had once
become accustomed to the strangeness of the ways, I suppose work and
school-teaching and all that would be much the same in one place as in
another. Only, one has not to need in general quite so many fleas and
the like, as one reads of in Miss West's and Mrs. Wheeler's books."
"Or to sleep in the room with buffaloes, and have them get loose and
fight in the night. Do you remember Miss Beecher's telling us that
story?"
"That would be nearly as bad as the earthquakes of which you have such
a dread," said Anita, smiling. "Come, let us go in. Tea must be nearly
ready, and I have stained my hands with gathering leaves."
At the tea-table, the party was joined by Mr. Ferarra and a lady
to whom Eunice was introduced as Miss Fay. Miss Fay was a little,
active-looking body of an uncertain age, with good features and
bright eyes, who would have been attractive but for her expression
of sharpness and self-consequence. She was a lady with a small
independence, which she stretched by living very economically at home
and making a great many visits. She was well educated and accomplished,
and people were generally glad to see her come. They were also glad to
see her go, and usually remarked when she was gone that "Miss Fay was a
very agreeable person, though she had her ways."
Miss Fay was a cousin of Mrs. Ferarra's, and it was with great pleasure
that she heard of her settling in Rockdale. She at once wrote to her
cousin, and received the expected invitation to make a long visit at
her house. She had already been in the family some two months, and Mrs.
Ferarra and Anita were beginning to be somewhat weary of her "ways" and
to wonder when she meant to go. In fact, if they had but known it, she
did not mean to go at all, at least for a year.
Miss Fay prided herself on "reading character at a glance," which,
as usual, simply meant that she took likes and dislikes with no sort
of reason, and attributed to people motives and plans of which they
themselves had no idea. She was herself something of an invalid in
reality, and a good deal more in fancy, but she had no patience with
any other person's complaints, treating them all as "hysterical humbug"
or "simply self-indulgence." She had her good qualities too, and when
she took a liking, she was a warm and faithful friend.
Anita perceived at once that Miss Fay regarded Eunice with anything but
friendly eyes. In fact, Miss Fay had heard, or fancied she had heard,
some hints of a plan to take a girl of Anita's own age into the family
as a companion to her young cousin, and as soon as she saw Eunice she
jumped at once to the conclusion that she had been brought to the
house for some such purpose. In the time she had spent at Rockdale,
she had used her opportunity so well that she had learned something
of the history of almost every person attending the little church.
Consequently, she knew at once, on hearing the name, that Eunice was
the daughter of a woman who took in fine washing and plain sewing. Her
greeting to Eunice was stiffly condescending, and she took opportunity
during the meal to ask her "if her mother had plenty of work," and
"whether she found sewing as profitable as clear-starching."—Inquiries
which Eunice answered with perfect simplicity.
"Come into the conservatory," said Anita after tea. "I want to show you
the new climbing fern and a wonderful new geranium some one has sent
Mother."
"I must be going pretty soon," replied Eunice. "You know I have quite a
walk, and mother does not like to have me out after dark."
"It is nearly dark now," remarked Mr. Ferarra—"too late for you to go
down alone.—Anita, tell James to get up the pony phaeton, and I will
take you and your friend for a little drive, and so home."
When Mr. Ferarra and Anita returned, they found Mrs. Ferarra and Miss
Fay in the midst of an active argument, if that could be called an
argument which was all on one side.
"Mark my words, Anna," Miss Fay was saying: "if you take this step, you
will repent it."
"What step?" asked Mr. Ferarra.
"That of taking this girl into the family to be a companion to Anita.
I can read character at a glance, and I can see plainly that she is
both ill-tempered and deceitful. And besides, the idea! A washerwoman's
daughter! If you must take such a step—which is simply flying in the
face of Providence, in my opinion—there are surely girls of good
family—" Miss Fay paused from sheer lack of breath.
"What do you mean?" asked Mr. Ferarra in wonder. "Who has proposed such
a thing?"
"Nobody, that I know of," answered Mrs. Ferarra, half vexed and half
amused. "Maria has somehow taken up the idea that we mean to adopt
Eunice into the family, and she has been fighting this windmill for
half an hour."
"I am sure I wish I had a sister like Eunice," said Anita; "I think she
is admirable."
"I am sure I don't see why you call it 'fighting a windmill,'" said
Miss Fay in a tone of lofty endurance; "you said you thought it was
good for Anita to have young society, and in the same breath you say
this Eunice is a daughter any one might be proud to own."
"Exactly, but I never said I meant to 'own' her."
"Now, I don't say it might not be good for Anita to have a companion,"
pursued Miss Fay—"some one who could form her mind and manners and
influence her in the right direction. But as for adopting a girl of her
own age—and such a girl!—I never heard anything so absurd. The fewer
companions of their own age such girls have, the better for them, in my
opinion."
"Then you think Providence made a mistake in giving most people
brothers and sisters?" observed Mrs. Ferarra.
"Really, Anna, I think such an irreverent remark is better unanswered,"
said Miss Fay with arid dignity. "But as to this girl—"
"We will drop the discussion of the young lady's character, if you
please, Cousin Maria," said Mr. Ferarra: "It is hardly treating a guest
courteously or kindly to talk her over in this way the moment she
leaves the house.—What are you looking for, Anna?"
"My thimble, as usual," said Mrs. Ferarra. "I wish it would jump up and
bite me every time I set if down out of place. Then perhaps I might
learn to take some care of it."
"I read to-day of a gentleman who said if he could have but one wish,
he would wish for a paper-knife which would come when he whistled for
it. It would be well if mamma's thimble possessed that accomplishment,"
said Anita mischievously.—"Was it your little gold one, mamma?"
"Yes, but never mind; it will come," said Mrs. Ferarra. "Bring me my
netting, pet. It is better work for the evening than the lace. By the
way, how did Eunice succeed with her lace-work?"
"Oh, so very nicely, mamma. She has 'finger-wit,' as Sister
John-of-the-Cross * used to say. And she made me understand the other
work without delay. She is 'apt to teach,' and 'apt' also to be taught."
* Such compound names are not uncommon among nuns. I have known of
"Mary of the Seven Sorrows" and others equally singular.
"And what did you talk about?" asked Mr. Ferarra.
"Oh, I told her of Mexico—the city and the country, and the flowers and
trees and the volcanoes. And she was much interested to hear of the
convent and the ways of the nuns, because she has some relation who
makes a great grief to her friends for that she will be a nun. Then we
talked about the Protestant missions, and she said she would like to be
a missionary herself, only that she is her mother's only child."
"Exactly," said Miss Fay. "There shows the cloven foot."
"Does it take a 'cloven foot' to make a missionary?" asked Mr. Ferarra.
"I did not know that."
Miss Fay rose with much dignity. "I am not accustomed to be treated
with ridicule," said she as she sailed toward the door. "I must ask
permission to withdraw."
"What ails her to-night?" asked Mr. Ferarra.
"Oh, nothing more than usual," replied his wife. "She is always that
way, and her mother was so before her. If you happened to say anything
about going to the moon before Aunt Cordelia, she would make you a long
oration on the impossibility of such an excursion, and your folly, and
even wickedness, in wishing to go. Maria is certainly a little trying,
but then she is our cousin, and we may as well have her a little while
as anybody else."
The next morning, Miss Fay put on her hat and went down to Mrs.
Gunderson's. Mrs. Gunderson's house had been well described by Ida as
a gossip-shop. Both mother and daughter resembled the Athenians of St.
Paul's day, in that they "spent their time in nothing else, but either
to tell, or to hear some new thing;" and, like other newsgatherers and
venders, they were by no means particular as to the truth of the news
they retailed. Mrs. Ferarra disliked them, and kept out of their way as
much as possible, much to the annoyance of Mrs. Gunderson, who would
have liked to be intimate with the lady.
[Illustration: _The Mission Box._
Both Mrs. Gunderson and Fanny welcomed
Miss Fay with great warmth.]
Both Mrs. Gunderson and Fanny welcomed Miss Fay with great warmth.
To be sure, she was not the rose, but then she had been near the
rose; and her talk about the "absurd spoiling of that child" and
"reckless expense in buying books and plants" had already furnished the
gossip-shop with some choice wares.
"I saw Mr. Ferarra driving out with his daughter and some other young
lady last night," observed Fanny. "I suppose Anita has some friend from
New York staying with her?"
"Young lady, indeed!" said Miss Fay. "It was that Eunice Riker, the
washerwoman's daughter. She and Anita were together all the afternoon
over some fancy-work, and she stayed to tea."
"How very queer!" said Fanny Gunderson. "But perhaps Mrs. Ferarra
employed her to teach Anita?"
"Oh no, not all, I assure you. She was quite an honored guest, and the
instruction was reciprocal. Miss Anita was teaching the girl to make
Mexican lace."
Now, there was a sting of bitterness in this news that Miss Fay did
not know of. Fanny Gunderson had hinted very plainly to Anita that she
should like to learn this same Mexican lace, and had received no sort
of encouragement.
"Humph!" said she significantly. "I hope Anita takes care of her
working-materials, that's all." And she cast a meaning glance at her
mother, who returned it with interest.
"What do you mean?" asked Miss Fay.
"Perhaps you had better not say anything, Fanny," said Mrs. Gunderson.
"There may be some mistake, and, anyhow, Mrs. Ferarra is her own
mistress, though I must say—" And here Mrs. Gunderson paused.
"Do tell me to what you allude," said Miss Fay; "I have a particular
reason for wishing to know. If there is anything against this girl's
character, it is of great importance that I should hear it."
"Well, they say—but of course it may not be so—that Mrs. Riker and
Eunice are in the habit of appropriating a part of the stuff sent them
to make up, and exchanging it at the stores for what they want."
"Stealing it, in fact," said Fanny. "People get them to knit children's
stockings, you know. Well, it is very easy to take out a few knots or
skeins and trade them for thread or other such things. A lady told
me that Mrs. Ackerman gave Eunice a quantity of fine red yarn to
knit—enough for two or three pairs, she said. She was present when
Eunice brought back one pair of stockings, saying that there was not
enough yarn for another pair. And afterward, this same lady saw Eunice
exchanging that very yarn for Shetland wool. She said she could not be
mistaken, for the yarn was of a very peculiar color and very fine."
"I knew there was something wrong about her," exclaimed Miss Fay in
triumph. "I can read character at a glance, and I said to myself at
once, 'That girl has a false mouth and eye. Such eyebrows as hers are
a sure sign of dishonesty and hypocrisy.' That accounts for Anna's
thimble, then."
"What about the thimble?" asked Mrs. Gunderson and Fanny together.
"Oh, nothing; only Mrs. Ferarra lost her gold thimble last evening. She
missed it directly after this girl went away. She says she presumes she
shall find it again, but I have very serious doubts."
"No indeed, it is not very likely," said Mrs. Gunderson, delighted.
"Well, I hope she will have had enough of her, that's all."
"But don't say anything about it," said Miss Fay. "The thimble may
come, you know."
"Oh yes, it may, but things lost in that way are not apt to come. The
last time the sewing-circle met at Mrs. Barnard's, I lost a spool of
thread in the most singular way. Mrs. Barnard gave me another, and said
the missing spool would come, but it never did, and I have no doubt
that that little Irish Norah got it."
"So, Anna—" said Miss Fay, coming into Mrs. Ferarra's morning-room,
where that lady was busily engaged in basting work for the
sewing-school. And then she added with a curious change of tone, "Where
did you find your thimble?"
"Just where I left it—in the Wedgwood dish on the back drawing-room
table," replied Mrs. Ferarra. "Flynn called me to see some new plants,
and, fearing to lose my thimble entirely if I wore it out of doors, I
put it in a safe place, and of course forgot where it was. I remembered
the moment I went into the back drawing-room this morning. Where have
you been?"
"Down to Mrs. Gunderson's," answered Miss Fay, rather shortly.
She did not tell the story about the yarn, which had been, so to speak,
on her tongue's end when she came in, but went away to her own room,
feeling very uncomfortable.
"I wish I had not said anything about the thimble," said she to herself
as she put away her hat. "Just the way with such careless people as
Anna—always getting one into trouble. I must tell Mrs. Gunderson that
the thimble is found; I will go this very afternoon."
But that afternoon there came on a violent storm which kept Miss Fay
in the house for two days, and then came a summons home on important
business. To do Miss Fay justice, she wrote to Mrs. Gunderson as
soon as she was able, but meantime the story had been told to twenty
different people. "The slander" says an old French proverb, "has twelve
legs—the denial has but one." Before the end of the week, twenty people
had heard that Eunice Riker had stolen both from Mrs. Ackerman and Mrs.
Ferarra, but the ladies had talked it over and agreed not to prosecute,
because Eunice and her mother were both church-members.
Meantime, Eunice and Anita, totally unconscious that anything was
wrong, exchanged lessons in lace-making and crochet-work. The
lace-making was very easy, requiring only neatness and care, and Anita
soon pronounced Eunice's work as good as her own.
"I shall show it to mamma's friend who wishes the pillow-covers
worked," said she. "I hope she will give you all the work you can do.
But come; you have remained still long enough. Let us go and visit the
bear. I think you have not yet seen him."
"A bear?" said Eunice. "What do you do with a bear?"
"We do nothing with him, only feed him," replied Anita, seriously. "He
was here when we came, and Mr. Brown was to sell him to some person
who had a show, but the man never came. Papa says he will give him to
the Park menagerie, for the poor beast will be happier there than in a
travelling show, and mamma likes not to have him on the place."
"Why? Is he savage?"
"No, he is quite gentle to appearance, but bears are not very
trustworthy creatures, you know, and he has got out once or twice. Once
he went into the conservatory and climbed to the highest shelf, and
there he sat grinning when mamma went in. I give you my word, mamma was
alarmed when she saw him."
"I don't wonder," said Eunice. "Fancy finding a full-grown bear among
one's geraniums! What did she do?"
"She called James, who tempted him home to his house with a dish of
sugar. He will do anything for sugar. We will carry him some, and also
some cake. I shall be sorry to have him go away; I have become fond of
him. Do you not think one becomes fond of anything by feeding it and
doing it good?"
"Almost always," answered Eunice. "I dare say you will become fond of
me by teaching me lace-work."
"I am that now," returned Anita. "I do not pretend to read character at
a glance like Cousin Maria, but I liked you the first minute I saw you."
CHAPTER VIII.
_IDA'S THUMB._
"MOTHER," said Eunice, "Mrs. Murray has not sent her washing this week.
It will make us very late with it, baby-things take so much time."
"She will not send it," replied Mrs. Riker quietly. "I saw Mary take
it to Sarah Southmayd's, and when I met Mrs. Murray in the street and
asked her about it, she told me quite shortly that she had concluded to
make a change."
"But didn't you ask her what was the reason?" asked Eunice. "I should.
Mrs. Murray has given as her work ever since she has lived here, and I
don't believe she would change without a good reason."
"I suppose I ought to have done so," replied Mrs. Riker in rather an
apologetic tone, "but her manner was so disagreeable that I could not
make up my mind to say any more. She is a very silly sort of woman, I
think."
"She may be silly, but the loss of her two dollars a week will make a
large hole in our income," said Eunice. "If she had any fault to find,
why didn't she come and find it like a reasonable woman?"
"Because she is not a reasonable woman, I suppose. There is one comfort
about it: you will have all the more time for your work. How does it
get on?"
"Finely," replied Eunice, holding up the wide strip on which she
was engaged. "Mrs. Ferarra says she thinks I need not be afraid to
undertake the pillow-covers. I won't say 'pillow-shams,' for I think it
is a disagreeable word."
"Doesn't the work try your eyes?"
"Not more than plain hand-sewing—not so much as hemming ruffles, I
think. Don't you want me to carry Mrs. Henry Edgar's white dress home,
mother? I think it is quite dry."
"I should be glad if you would," replied her mother. "I don't like to
keep these expensive dresses in the house longer than is necessary."
Eunice was soon ready, and set out on her walk. On the way she met
Phebe Goodman and her cousin.
Phebe was a well-meaning girl, but weak and entirely under the
influence of whoever happened to be her dearest and most intimate
friend for the time being.
Eunice was well acquainted with both the girls, and was about to stop
and speak to them, when to her great surprise they walked straight on,
Phebe giving her the coolest possible nod and her cousin looking right
before her.
"What is the matter now?" thought Eunice, but she did not attach much
importance to the circumstance.
She delivered the parcel she had in charge, and Mrs. Henry Edgar
herself came down to speak to her.
"The dress is just lovely, just exquisite," said Mrs. Henry, who was a
warm-hearted little body and much given to superlatives. "Here is the
money, and I am so much obliged to you for bringing it up so soon! And
would you mind carrying home a basket of these apples to your mother?"
"I should be very glad to do so," said Eunice. "What beauties they are!"
"Yes, they are some of the first fruits of Judge Edgar's young orchard.
And will you please ask your mother to send up for some lace curtains
and other things early next week? You may be sure, Eunice, you and your
mother will always have my work, whatever anybody says."
"What do they say?" asked Eunice.
"Oh—Well, nothing of any consequence," replied the little lady, growing
as pink as an apple-blossom in her embarrassment. "They say, you know,
that Sarah Southmayd does lace curtains beautifully."
"She is a good laundress," replied Eunice, "but I should think she had
all the work she could do."
"She won't get mine, I know," said Mrs. Henry. "Well, good-bye, dear. I
hope your mother will like the apples, and if there is anything I can
do for you, let me know."
"Mrs. Edgar, would you mind giving me a slip of your ivy some time?"
asked Eunice. "I heard Mary say it came from Abbotsford."
"Oh yes. I cut it myself—at least I asked the gardener, and he cut
it for me. Be sure you take a good large piece,—there is plenty to
spare—and gather any flowers you like; they will soon be all gone, you
know.—Poor child! What a shame it is!" She added to the nurse as Eunice
took her leave. "I came near letting it all out."
"Why didn't you?" asked Catherine the nurse, an elderly Vermont woman
who had tended Mrs. Henry herself when she was a baby. "I think some
one ought to tell them."
"Oh, I don't know; it might not do any good. And, oh dear! I do so hate
to do disagreeable things and hurt people's feelings!"
"That's well enough, as far as it goes," replied Catherine, "but one
may carry it too far. However, there's plenty of people to do the other
thing."
Eunice was conscious of something a little unusual in Mrs. Henry
Edgar's manner, but she felt and appreciated her kindness. She cut a
modest branch of the beautiful white-veined ivy and gathered a few
flowers.
As she turned into the shady lane where Mrs. Van Zandt lived, she met
Amity Bogardus and Percy Denham, who both stopped to speak to her.
"Eunice, don't you want to do something disagreeable for me?" asked
Amity.
"What a charming and encouraging way you have of putting things,
Amity!" said Percy, laughing.
"Of course I do," said Eunice; "what is it?"
"Just to call on Ida Van Zandt and find out what state of forwardness
her work is in. The things must positively be all brought in at your
class-meeting next week, and from something Ida said, I am afraid hers
are not nearly ready. I would go myself, but grand-papa has dinner
company and Aunt Julia is laid up with sick headache; so I must go
straight home and see to things a little. Is that too much to ask?"
"Oh no. I was going to call and see Ida at any rate. But suppose the
work is not done?"
"Then she must have it done, that's all," replied Amity positively.
"Good-bye."
Eunice found Ida in rather an unamiable mood. Several things had
happened to ruffle her temper, which had been growing rather irritable
of late. Mrs. Barbara Van Zandt was ill, and Ida's mother had gone down
to spend several days with her, giving Ida a strict charge to touch no
other work till her missionary-sewing was finished.
"You promised to do this sewing, and you must keep your word," said
she. "Besides, you are getting altogether too much into the way of
beginning things and never finishing them. By the way, Ida, you had
better bring in your plants. The nights are growing cold, and we may
have a frost at any time."
Ida had fully intended to obey her mother's Injunction, though the
sight of her bundle of plain sewing had grown absolutely hateful to
her, as work neglected is apt to do. When her practising was finished,
she went up stairs and opened her drawer. There lay Aunt Barbara's
beautiful basket with all the materials for the Roman work quite
untouched. Ida took it out and unfolded the strip of fine gray linen.
How lovely it was with its graceful traced pattern and one corner
finished and cut out! Ida laid it over the red satin destined for the
lining. It was more ravishing than ever.
"I will just work a few stitches to see if I can do it," she said to
herself; "I am not sure I remember those Russian points exactly."
The few stitches were done, and then a few more, and then a point or
two, just to see if Ida remembered; and then the next point must be
reached to see how it was going to look; and, in short, Ida worked all
the afternoon till tea-time. Her conscience was by no means easy at the
disobedience, but she consoled herself, as so many others have done, by
saying, "It is only for once." The next afternoon it was the same. Ida
only meant to do a dozen stitches, just to keep her hand in, but the
dozen stitches used up the whole working-time, and Ethelind's garments
lay untouched.
"I suppose your mother will be home to-night?" said Jane as she set
Ida's dinner on the little table one day. "You won't have to eat alone
any more."
"To-night!" said Ida, startled. "Why no! This is Wednesday, and she was
not coming till Friday."
"This is Friday, as sure as you're born," returned Jane. "I'm glad the
time seems short; it shows you've had a good time."
"Friday!"
So it was. And her mother would be home that night, and there was her
work! Only two hours left to do it in! Sew as fast as she would, she
could not in that time overtake the three days she had spent over that
ensnaring Roman work lambrequin.
She hurried through her dinner and ran up stairs to her work-drawer.
The lambrequin lay on the top with three of its five points finished
and another begun. Ida folded it up and pulled out her plain sewing.
There was the whole of one garment and parts of two others to finish.
"Oh dear! How could I be such a fool?" she said to herself. "What will
mother say, and Miss Ackerman and the girls? I wish Ethelind Swift was
in Guinea! I haven't had a bit of comfort of my life these three weeks,
all on account of that dreadful mission-box. There!" As a ring was
heard at the door—"There is some one coming to interrupt me again."
Ida shut the drawer with a decided slam, and in doing so caught her
thumb between the sharp edge of the drawer and the bureau. Every one
knows how painful is such a pinch. Ida was nervous and irritated
already, and she burst into tears.
"Here is Eunice Riker to see you with some message from Miss Bogardus,"
said Jane, appearing at the door. "But what is the matter?"
"I pinched my thumb almost off in that old door," sobbed Ida. "Do get
some arnica and do it up for me."
Jane pitied and "poor-deared!" the little thumb, which was fast turning
black and blue. She produced the arnica, and did up the injured member
with the consoling prediction that the nail would probably come off,
and most likely Ida would have no use of her hand for a month at least.
"Shall I send that girl away or tell her to leave her message?"
"Oh, ask her to come up here, please," said Ida, who was recovering her
calmness.
"I don't know about that, miss," said Jane. "Folks do say she isn't
over and above honest."
"Nonsense!" returned Ida angrily. "Don't you let me hear you say such a
word or I'll tell mother directly. How dare you speak so of a good girl
like Eunice, and a church-member too?"
"It was your own cousin that said it first, anyhow, Miss Ida," retorted
Jane, who stood in no great awe of Ida.
"I don't care if she did; you need not say it after her. I wonder how
you would like it if any one were to repeat such a thing about you?
I'll tell mother if you say another word. Ask Miss Eunice to come up
here directly?"
"'Miss Eunice,' indeed!" muttered Jane as she departed on her errand.
"As to 'telling mother,' maybe I can tell her something as well as you."
The pain of her hurt thumb and her dispute with Jane had raised Ida's
color considerably, and given an embarrassment to her manner which she
strove in vain to overcome.
Eunice saw at once that something unusual was the matter.
"What has happened to you, Ida? What makes your checks so red?" asked
Eunice.
"I pinched my thumb almost off in the drawer, and Jane said something
that vexed me," answered Ida. "Didn't I hear Amity Bogardus's voice
just now? Why didn't she come in?"
"She was in a hurry, and she asked me to give you a message," replied
Eunice. "It was about your work. You know it is all to be brought in
next week, and she asked me to tell you to be sure and have yours done."
"I don't see how I can possibly do it," said Ida, dismayed and much
inclined to cry again. "I have pinched my thumb and cracked the nail
right in two through the middle, and I am sure I shall not be able to
use my hand for ever so long. Jane says the nail will come off. Oh,
Eunice, if you could only take the work and finish it for me!"
"I might, I suppose," said Eunice, considering. "My own work is
finished, and I shall not have anything special to do this week."
"Oh, I would be so much obliged!" exclaimed Ida. "I am sure. I can't
sew with this thumb. Just look at it."
"I should think not, indeed," said Eunice. "You must be very careful of
this, Ida, or you will have a bad time. I don't see how you could shut
the drawer so hard."
"It stuck and I gave it a shove, and then it gave way all at once. But
I hope my thumb won't keep sore a great while," continued Ida, thinking
of her lambrequin: "I have ever so much work laid out for Christmas.
And then there is my practising, but I don't care so very much about
that."
"That is the very part I should care about," said Eunice.
"Yes, because you have a real taste for music, but I don't think I
have; and I do so hate those tiresome scales and finger exercises! I
don't believe there is any need of them; do you?"
"I suppose there must be or the teachers would not insist upon them,"
replied Eunice. "You know Anita plays beautifully, but she spends three
quarters of an hour every day on her scales."
"You and Anita are great friends?"
"Yes, she and her mother have been very kind to me. Anita has taught me
to make the Mexican lace—like that she put on Ethelind's skirts, you
know. Oh, I forgot; you were not there."
"No, I went to New York, and Aunt Barbara kept me to go shopping with
her," replied Ida, blushing again as she remembered her subterfuge.
"Did you have a nice time?"
"Yes, of course, only Julia Hazleton got vexed at something and would
hardly speak to any one all the afternoon. Matilda Jenkins said it was
because every one else had done more than she, but I don't believe
that. I don't think it right to judge people in that way."
"I thought she finished her work?"
"So she did, and very nicely, but almost all the other girls had
something extra to bring in—something besides their work. Even little
Mary Edgar brought a couple of cambric handkerchiefs with worked
initials, which she bought and embroidered herself, and they were
really done beautifully."
"Dear little soul!" said Ida. "What did you have?"
"Only a pair of baby's socks that I earned by knitting for Mrs. Ray,"
replied Eunice. "You know I don't have much money.—By the way, Ida, how
are your plants?"
"Oh, very well," said Ida, feeling a sudden cold misgiving as she
spoke. "How are yours?"
"They are lovely," replied Eunice with animation. "Mother went out to
Cousin Garret Van Dyk's two or three weeks ago, and his daughter Gatty
sent me a great basket of maiden-hair fern roots. I put them in pots,
and they are doing beautifully. You know the maiden-hair does not grow
about here."
"You ought to have a greenhouse, you are so fond of plants," remarked
Ida.
"If I ought to have one, I suppose I shall have one. But please let me
have the work, Ida; I must be on my way home."
"Here it is, all done up together," said Ida, producing her basket.
"Take it in the basket. Just as it is."
"I can carry it better without, as I have one basket already," said
Eunice, taking out the bundle, but without undoing it. "You ought to
accomplish a great deal of work, Ida, you have so many pretty working
things. But people sometimes say, you know, 'The more tools the worse
workman.'"
"That is the way with me, I guess. Good-bye."
Eunice was no sooner gone than Ida put on her hat and ran hastily out
to see to her plants—those unlucky plants which she had never once
thought of since her mother went away. Alas! What a mournful spectacle!
There had been two or three cool nights, and one rather sharp frost
for the season. The beautiful coleus stood a mournful ruin, its rich
dark-red velvet leaves hanging flabbily and blackened on their stems or
lying scattered on the ground. The others were not very much better,
even the ivy looking forlorn and withered for want of water. Ida burst
into fresh tears and sobbed heartily.
"There ain't any use in crying over them, miss," said Lorinda the cook,
who had some plants of her own, which in their flourishing condition
presented a great contrast to poor Ida's. "Tears won't make 'em grow
again. It's another kind of water they wanted."
"You might have watered them when you did your own," sobbed Ida. "It's
too bad!"
"And so I should, but Mrs. Van Zandt gave particular orders not to,"
replied Lorinda. "It hurts my feelings to have plants abused, 'most
as much as if they was living critters; and it always does seem as if
they would feel. And you know I did put you in mind of 'em two or three
times, and you didn't like it a bit."
This was undeniably true, but it did not console Ida at all.
"There! Don't cry any more," said Lorinda kindly. "We'll set them in
the sink and give them a good soaking, and then I'll put them up in the
south attic for you, and maybe they'll come up. But you must see to 'em
every day if you want them to do anything. Plants is like babies—you
can't do for 'em once for all, but you've got to be fussing at 'em
every day.
"There! Don't cry any more, because your ma will be home very soon, and
you'll want to look pleasant for her. Go and wash your face and get
ready for tea, and I'll see to the plants this once. I was calculating
to take mine up before dark. Only, missy my dear, if you would only
learn to have a little perseverance, it would be such a good thing for
you and such a comfort to your ma! You're the only one she's got now,
you know, and when she gets an old lady, she'll have to depend on you.
And the Bible says, you know, 'Be not weary in well-doing.' There! I'd
run and get dressed now; it is only a few minutes to train-time."
"And what about your work?" said Mrs. Van Zandt when she had taken off
her bonnet and was seated at the tea-table. "Aunt Barbara asked about
the lambrequin, but I told her of your missionary-work, and she quite
approved of your finishing that first. She has sent you a wonderful
case of scissors to stimulate your industry, and some napkins which she
says you may hem for the box. But what ails your thumb?" she added,
noticing for the first time that Ida had her thumb wrapped up.
"Oh, I gave it a dreadful pinch in the drawer," said Ida. "The nail is
broken in two, and it aches so you can't think."
"I can think very easily," said Mrs. Van Zandt. "It must be very
painful. I suppose you have not done much sewing, then?"
"No, hardly any," replied Ida. "I knew I could not get the work done,
and Eunice Riker said she would do it as well as not; so I let her take
it."
"You must remember and make her some return," said her mother;
"Eunice's time is valuable."
"I did not like to offer to pay her," said Ida; "I was afraid of
hurting her feelings."
"Quite right," replied her mother; "but you can easily make it up to
her after a while—say at Christmas."
"And then, after, all, mamma, you know the work is for the
missionary-box."
"True, but it is your work, not hers."
"But I could not do it after I pinched my thumb, you know, mamma," said
Ida, feeling very small and guilty in her own eyes as she spoke.
"You had not hurt your thumb three weeks ago, my dear. If you had been
only reasonably industrious and persevering, you might have done every
bit of the sewing in a week, and your lambrequin also. There is no help
for it now, but I hope it will be a lesson to you.—Now, get my bag and
I will show you what Aunt Barbara has sent you."
Aunt Barbara's present was, as usual, valuable and well chosen, and
at another time Ida would have gone into raptures over it, but her
burdened conscience would not let her take any pleasure in anything,
and she was glad when bedtime came.
"What about your plants, Ida?" asked her mother. "Did you remember to
take them in? There was quite a frost last night."
"They are up in the attic, mamma, but they do not look very well.
Lorinda says I have let them get too dry."
"They will soon recover if that is all. Good-night, my love."
"I am getting to be a regular liar," said Ida to herself when she was
alone in her room. "Oh, how I wish I dared go and tell mamma all about
it!"
Just then there was a little knock at the door, and Jane entered. She
had been very much vexed by Ida's remarks to her in the afternoon, and
she thought she saw her way to a very satisfactory revenge, and also
to the establishment of a power over Ida which she might turn to good
account.
"So, Miss Ida, that is a fine way to get out of a scrape!" she began.
"What do you mean, Jane?" asked Ida, very much surprised.
"You know what I mean well enough," said Jane. "You let your ma think
you hurt your thumb three or four days ago, and that was the reason you
could not do your work; whereas you know that it was only this very
afternoon, and that you have sewed on your fancy-work every single day.
I heard all you said to her, so you needn't deny it." And Jane plumped
herself down in a manner decidedly independent, not to say impudent.
"That is no concern of yours," said Ida, her cheeks burning hotly with
shame and anger.
"I mean to make it mine," returned Jane. "I mean to go and tell your ma
the whole truth, and then see what she will say. That is, if you don't
make it worth my while to keep quiet. You haven't treated me very well
since I have been here—not to my thinking. You make a companion of that
Riker girl, just as if she was a lady, and you treat me as if I was no
more your equal than a dog. It is my turn now."
"I don't know what you mean by 'not treating you well,'" said Ida.
"Well, I know. You might have asked me to sit down and eat with you
while your ma was gone, and you might have put in a word for me when
that old Lorinda wouldn't let me go to the city. It is my turn now,"
repeated Jane in a tone of triumph. "I have got you under my thumb, and
I mean to keep you there."
If Jane had known Ida better, she would have gone more cunningly to
work. As it was, her words produced just the contrary effect from what
she intended. Ida rose up and began buttoning her dress, which she had
unfastened.
"What are you going to do?" asked Jane.
But Ida was spared the necessity of answer, for at that moment Mrs. Van
Zandt opened the door.
"Is anything the matter?" said she. "What are you doing here, Jane?"
"I came to see if Miss Ida didn't want some help in undressing, ma'am,"
answered Jane glibly, at the same time casting a significant and
threatening glance at Ida.
"That is not true, mamma," said Ida. "Jane came to threaten me that she
would tell you about me unless I would 'make it worth her while,' as
she says."
"'Tell me' about what?" said Mrs. Van Zandt, amazed, as well she might
be, for Ida was pale as death and Jane looked like a fury. "What does
all this mean?"
"I will tell you the whole, mamma, if you will only sit down and send
Jane away."
"I am sure, ma'am, I didn't mean any harm. Miss Ida didn't understand;
I was only joking," stammered Jane, wholly disconcerted, as persons of
her kind always are by straightforward dealing.
"You can go for the present," said Mrs. Van Zandt; "I will see you
to-morrow.—Now, Ida, sit down and let me know the meaning of this
strange scene."
With many tears, but without any reserve, Ida told her mother the
history of the past few days.
When she had finished, her mother sat in silence for a few minutes.
Then she said sadly,—
"Does my daughter realize that she has told her mother a lie?"
"Oh, mamma, not so bad as that!" said Ida.
"Just as 'bad as that,'" replied her mother. "You did not say in so
many words that you hurt your hand two or three days ago, but you so
worded your account as to give me that impression, and when I took up
the idea, you did not contradict me. You deceived me, Ida, and you
meant to deceive me. What is that but a lie?"
"It is a 'lie,' mamma; I see it now."
"Moreover, you broke your promise when there was nothing to hinder your
keeping it," continued Mrs. Van Zandt. "And that is also a 'lie,' and
one of the worst of 'lies.'"
"But I did not mean to break it, mamma; I am sure I didn't," said Ida,
taking refuge in her usual excuse.
"That is nonsense, Ida. How could you break it without meaning? You
promised the working committee to do this work, and you neglected to do
it. You promised to finish it, and you broke your word, that you might
amuse yourself with your lambrequin. How could you do that without
meaning it?"
"I didn't mean to work at the lambrequin more than a few minutes,
just to see if I remembered the stitches, but the time flew so fast,
it was gone before I thought," said Ida. "But then I know I ought not
to have touched it at all. I won't make any more false excuses. And
oh, mamma, I did tell one lie out and out. I said my head ached that
day I was at the dentist's—the day I stayed at Aunt Barbara's, you
know—and it was not true. It was only because I did not want to go to
the class-meeting. I was ashamed because my work was not done, and so I
made that an excuse to stay in town.
"Oh, mamma, I have been a very wicked girl! There seems to be no end to
my wickedness, now I think about it. You asked about my plants, and I
told you they were safe in the attic, and I never thought of them till
Eunice was here this afternoon. They are all spoiled with the frost,
but Lorinda said perhaps they would come up. I have not taken one bit
of care of them. Oh, mamma, I don't believe I shall ever be good for
anything in this world."
"You never will, Ida, either in this world or any other, unless you
turn over a new leaf," said her mother. "I have seen this long time
how your character was being injured by this habit of procrastination
and self-indulgence, but I had no idea matters had gone so far. Do you
realize what this habit has made of you? It has made you a liar, a
covenant-breaker, and a disobedient, undutiful child."
"Oh, mother, please don't speak so!" sobbed Ida, almost heartbroken by
these words, the most severe she had ever heard from her mother.
"They are very painful words, no doubt," said her mother—"painful both
for me to speak and for you to hear—but they are true and must be
spoken. Do you not see, yourself, that they are true?"
Ida could not answer for sobbing.
"Do you not see, Ida, that all your trouble grows out of one root—that
of self-indulgence?" her mother continued.
"I don't know what you mean, mamma."
"You will see if you consider a little. You have allowed yourself to
indulge this foolish habit of mind, falling in love with every new
undertaking, and disliking and neglecting the same as soon as the
novelty is worn off—doing things, in short, only just as long as they
please and amuse you, till the habit has grown to be like a part of
yourself. It has led you into extravagance in spending money, for one
thing. How much of your allowance has gone for working-materials which
lie useless in your drawer at this moment?"
"A great deal, I know, mamma."
"It has led you into a habit of making excuses—a habit almost always
destructive of truthfulness, as it has turned out in your case. You had
no good excuse for not finishing your work, and so you invented one; it
has led you, as I said, to disobey your mother; and I very much fear it
will lead you on till you make shipwreck of your life."
"But what can I do, mamma? Indeed, indeed, I do want to be a good girl,
but how can I change my disposition?"
"The first thing to do, Ida, is to pray for grace to see yourself as
you are—to give up any attempt to justify yourself in your own eyes.
Unless you do that, you are not likely to get any further."
"I think I do see that," said Ida. "I don't think any one could feel
meaner than I do."
"You must see that your sin is not only against yourself and your
neighbor, but against God," continued her mother. "You must go to him
with an honest and humble heart, confessing your sin, and asking for
pardon and cleansing in the name of the Lord Jesus. Pray that he will
give you 'a clean heart . . . and renew a right spirit within' you—that
he will give you grace to watch against and overcome your besetting
sin; for, Ida, you must watch as well as pray. You must watch in little
things as well as in great, denying yourself and taking up the cross
daily. If you do this honestly, there is no doubt that your heavenly
Father will pardon and help you and give you the victory at last."
"I will try, mamma. Indeed, I do want to be good, but I am afraid I
never shall have any perseverance."
"You never will without God's help, my dear. And, Ida, remember this
for your comfort—that you have only to persevere for one minute at a
time. You have not to do it all at once.—Now you had better go to bed
and to sleep, if you can. Does your thumb pain you very much?"
"Yes, mamma—worse and worse all the time. It hurts me all up my arm,
and makes me feel sick."
"I will put a soothing poultice on it, and if it is not better in the
morning, we will have the doctor to see it. A broken nail is rather a
serious matter sometimes."
But there was little sleep for Ida or her mother for that and a
good many succeeding nights. The thumb inflamed, and it was several
weeks before Ida regained the use of her hand at all. She had one
consolation, however: she sold her half-finished Roman work to Mrs.
Henry Edgar for a very good price, and with the money, she bought a
supply of nice stationery as a contribution to the box.
It was a gift involving some self-denial, for she liked the work, but,
as she said, "I could not sew, and I wanted to do something. Oh dear!"
added Ida, "I think if I am ever able to sew again, I shall be willing
to finish anything. I am so tired of sitting and holding my right hand
in my left!"
CHAPTER IX.
_SARAH SOUTHMAYD._
WHEN Eunice arrived at home and looked at the bundle of work she
had taken from Ida, she was rather dismayed. But she was a capital
seamstress, and the little sewing-machine was in the best of tempers,
and showed itself to be the most amiable of assistants. Mrs. Riker lent
a helping hand, and by Saturday night the garments were all finished.
"There they are," said Eunice, holding up the last elegant garment for
her mother's inspection. "I will wash and do them up on Monday, and
then they will be all ready to send."
"Ida Van Zandt will be glad," said Mrs. Riker.
"Poor Ida!" said Eunice, laughing. "I do believe she was rather glad
she hurt her thumb, after all, so that she could get rid of finishing
them."
"You have done your share of work for the box, after all," observed her
mother. "Will your stockings be finished?"
"Oh yes; I have only the last to foot. See how nicely the yarn
matches. I don't think any one could tell the difference. Now for my
Sunday-school lesson."
The next day Mrs. Riker had a headache, and did not go to church.
Eunice attended as usual. As she took her seat in the Sunday-school
class, she saw Phebe Goodman lean over and whisper to a girl in
front of her. They both glanced at Eunice, and the girl in front
said something to her companion, who also glanced at Eunice with an
ill-natured laugh.
"What does it mean?" thought Eunice. "I am sure I never did anything to
Phebe Goodman or Minny Haynes."
At that moment Julia Hazleton entered the class. Eunice spoke to her as
usual, but Julia turned away her head, and did not make even a show of
returning the salutation.
"Where is Ida?" asked Miss Ackerman of Julia when the opening exercises
were finished.
"She has hurt her hand very badly," answered Julia. "The doctor is
afraid she will lose the end of her thumb."
"Oh, is it so bad as that?" asked Eunice. "I was there when the
accident happened, and I thought she would have trouble with it."
Julia turned her back upon Eunice as far as the seat would allow, and
continued speaking without taking any notice of the remark:
"The doctor thinks the bone is injured, and he says it will be a long
time before she can use her hand again. She makes as much fuss about it
as if she had broken her arm."
"She probably suffers a good deal more than she would if she had broken
her arm," said Miss Ackermann. "I must go up and see her to-morrow."
Anita took her seat by Eunice, and spoke to her with her usual
friendliness, making use of a Spanish phrase which she had taught her
friend, and to which Eunice returned the appropriate answer, also in
Spanish. Two or three of the girls exchanged glances of surprise, and
Phebe immediately asked Eunice how her mother was. Minny Haynes looked
at her companion and made a significant grimace.
Matilda was a little late, which was rather unusual, and as Eunice made
room for her, Matilda took her hand and squeezed it warmly. Eunice was
more and more puzzled.
What could it all mean?
At the close of the lesson, Miss Ackerman said, "I hope to see you all
at our house on Tuesday afternoon, and I am requested by the young
ladies' committee to say that all work for the missionary-box, whether
finished or not, must be brought in at that time. Tuesday afternoon,
remember—not Thursday—and all the work must be returned, whether
finished or not."
This announcement was received with lively interest, and some of the
girls looked a little dismayed. There was a little pause after school
to talk over the matter.
"My work is all done," said Phebe.
"And mine," said Julia, "but Ida's isn't, and won't be. Just think! The
work she took the first time is not half-finished!"
"You are mistaken, Julia," said Eunice, smiling. "Ida's work is
finished to the last stitch, as I happen to know."
Julia drew herself up in what she imagined to be a very dignified
manner.
"I was not speaking to you," she said. "When I do, it will be time for
you to give your opinion."
The girls looked at each other—some with surprise, others with
significant smiles.
Eunice stood amazed, for, though Julia's manner to her was apt to be
haughty, she had never been downright insulting before.
"What do you mean, Julia?" she asked.
Julia did not reply, except by a look, but Fanny Gunderson answered for
her:
"You know what she means well enough, Miss Riker. I must say, I think
you would do better not to force yourself into company where you are
not wanted. If Miss Ferarra fancies that she is going to walk over
the whole class by patronizing you, I think she will find herself
mistaken.—Come, Julia."
And the girls dispersed, leaving Eunice standing alone.
"What does it mean?" she said to herself. "What have I done to make
them all so angry with me? No, I won't say all. Anita and Matilda
and dear little Mary were just the same as ever, and I am sure Miss
Ackerman did not make any difference. But I am sure something has
happened. What can it be?"
What it was, Eunice was destined to learn before night. She said
nothing to her mother, who was suffering severely with her head, but
she committed her cause to Him who has promised those who trust him
that he will bring forth their "righteousness as the light" and their
"judgment as the noonday." She then tried to direct her mind from the
subject by studying her lesson and reading. Just as she was setting the
table for tea, there was a knock at the door, and old Sarah Southmayd
opened it.
Sarah was an old mulatto woman—nobody knew how old, but there was a
tradition among the school-children that she had lived in Rockdale
when Columbus discovered America. She was very old, that was certain.
Her wavy hair was as white as snow, and she was wrinkled and dried up
beyond belief; but her tall person was still erect and stately, her
step firm, and she was as capable as ever of doing a hard day's work.
She was a superlative laundress, and Mary Maloney, who lived in the
same house with her, declared that she must be a white witch at the
least, and have the fairies to help her, or she never could get through
so much work.
This opinion, which was shared by a good many of the more ignorant of
her neighbors, was strengthened by the fact that Sarah never invited
any one into her house, never went out except to evening church and
to carry home her work, and had an inveterate habit of talking to
herself. She regularly received a letter and went to the bank with
it on the first of every month, whereby people concluded that she
received a pension from some quarter, and now and then she got a parcel
by express. It is certain that her contributions to religious and
charitable objects were out of all proportion to any income she would
have made by washing.
"How do you do, Sarah?" said Eunice, almost as much astonished as if
her visitor had come through the air on a broomstick in true orthodox
witch-fashion. "Won't you come in?"
Sarah accepted the invitation and the offered chair. "I heard your
mother was sick with headache again," said she, "but I see she is able
to be up."
"I feel better up than down," said Mrs. Riker, "my head throbs so."
"Yes, I know. You have caught that cold that's going about, I expect,"
said Sarah. "My folks sent me some extra green tea the other day, and I
thought I would bring you a drawing or two of it. Green tea is good for
nervous headache when you don't drink it every day."
"I am sure you are very kind," said Mrs. Riker.
"Oh, it's no such great favor," returned Sarah. "Besides, I wanted an
excuse for coming in."
"You might have come without an excuse," remarked Eunice.
"Well, I suppose so, honey, but you know I am no great hand for
visiting," said Sarah, smiling and showing a flash of brilliant white
teeth which made her look more unearthly than ever.—"I want to tell
you, Mrs. Riker, that it was none of my doing, getting Mrs. Murray's
washing away from you."
"I never supposed it was," replied Mrs. Riker; "I don't believe you
ever did such a mean thing in your life, Sarah."
"Well, I don't say I never did a mean thing," said Sarah; "I don't
suppose any human being could say that. But I never interfered with any
one's honest work—that I know."
"Did Mrs. Murray give you any reason for making the change?" asked
Eunice.
Sarah hesitated.
"Do tell us if she did, Sarah," added Eunice. "I am sure there is
something going on that we ought to know about."
"Well, she did, but it ain't worth minding," said Sarah. "I gave her my
mind on it. She says that people have told her that you—now don't flare
up, child, because a fool talks foolishly,—she says that she has heard
from good authority that you are not honest."
"Not honest!" exclaimed Eunice and her mother together. "What does she
mean?"
"That is just what I asked her.
"'What do you mean, Mrs. Murray, taking away folks' characters like
that?' says I.
"'Well,' says she, 'I had it on good authority,' says she. 'That Miss
Fay—Mrs. Ferarra's cousin—says that Eunice stole a gold thimble from
Mrs. Ferarra, and that other things were missed, and they say she
changed off some yarn Mrs. Ackerman gave her to knit for worsted for
herself; and I never did think Mrs. Riker put all the linen I sent her
into Harry's aprons,' says she.
"'Mrs. Murray,' says I, 'did you ever cut out a set of aprons in your
life?'
"'No,' says she.
"'Then how do you know how much it takes?' says I.
"'Well, I have lost a great many little things,' says she; 'and, when I
think of it, I dare say they were lost in the wash.'
"Says I, 'Mrs. Murray, if you don't count your things when they go into
the wash and when they come out, I don't want to wash for you,' says I."
Sarah paused a minute, perhaps to recover her breath. Neither Mrs.
Riker nor Eunice spoke a word.
"I debated a good deal in my own mind whether I should tell you this,"
continued Sarah; "but finally I decided that it was best; for, I tell
you to begin with, I don't believe either Mrs. Ackerman or Mrs.
Ferarra or the young ladies ever hinted such a thing. Miss Fay might:
she is as great a goose as Mrs. Murray in her way, and I know she was
intimate with those Gundersons; and so is Mrs. Murray. It must have
been a great cross to the Murrays to have their son marry such a woman,
for they are first-rate people and real quality; I used to know them
well. But Mrs. Gunderson and Fanny would tell stories about their
grandmother."
"I shouldn't wonder if you were right, Sarah," said Eunice. "I know
Miss Fay took a great dislike to me. I see now it is this story which
has made some of the girls treat me so, and it explains something Mrs.
Henry Edgar said."
"What was that?" asked Mrs. Riker. "You said she was very kind the
other day."
"So she was, extra kind; and she began to say something about 'not
believing,' and then she caught herself up and turned it into something
quite different. And Ida too did not seem like herself. Oh, mother,
what shall we do?"
"I don't know," said Mrs. Riker; "I feel perfectly stunned."
"Well, I'll give you my advice, if you care about it," said Sarah, "for
I have been thinking the matter over all day."
"Do," said Eunice.
"I needn't tell you to commit your way to the Lord," said Sarah, "for
you are Christian women, so of course you will do that, anyway. You
can't make any move to-night, Mrs. Riker, because it is Sunday, and
you are sick besides. But to-morrow morning, do you and Eunice go up
to Mrs. Ferarra the first thing, tell her the whole story, and ask her
about it. She is a lady, and she will tell you the truth; but my own
opinion is that you will find she doesn't know the first word about the
matter. Then do the same by Mrs. Ackerman, and have them to right you.
Never mind your washing; if you get behindhand, I'll help you."
"Thank you, Sarah; you are a true friend, and I am sure your advice
is good," said Mrs. Riker. "We will go as soon as we can to-morrow
morning."
"And now, Eunice, do you make the tea and give your mother some, for
she is ready to drop," continued Sarah. "You'll find the tea as good as
any you ever tasted, for my folks know what's good."
"Do stay and have some tea with us," said Eunice.
"Bless you, child! I haven't taken a meal out of my own house in twenty
years. Don't you know the folks say I'm a witch and never eat at all?"
"Well, you needn't eat if you don't want to; only sit down with us,"
urged Eunice.
Sarah smiled, and suffered herself to be persuaded. She made herself so
agreeable that Mrs. Riker and Eunice almost forgot their trouble, and
it was not till she had gone that poor Mrs. Riker burst into a flood of
hysterical tears.
"Don't, mother," said Eunice almost sharply—"don't cry. I can't stand
it."
"I won't if I can help it," said her mother, trying hard to compose
herself; "but oh, Eunice! What have we done that this trial should be
allowed to fall upon us?"
"Perhaps we haven't done anything," replied Eunice. "It doesn't always
follow that people have done wrong because they have to take medicine."
"But what can the story have grown out of? The Ferarras have never
hinted such a thing to you?"
"No; and, as Sarah says, I have no idea that they know anything about
it. As to the yarn-story, I think I do see a little daylight, but I
may be mistaken, so I won't say anything at present. We will go to see
Mrs. Ferarra the first thing in the morning. Come, mother, let us have
prayers and go to bed, or you won't be fit to stir to-morrow."
"I am glad you take it so quietly and easily," said Mrs. Riker.
"Quietly?" repeated Eunice, who was decidedly the strong member of the
firm. "The fact is, mother, I have got to take it quietly. If I should
once let myself get excited, I don't know what I might say or do, and
for both our sakes I must keep cool. Good-night, mother dear."
Eunice might talk about "keeping cool," but she had a storm raging in
her own breast. She did not in the least mistrust either Anita or her
mother. She could not believe that they could play such a treacherous
part, and there was no reasonable motive for their doing so. But she
did believe that the story about the yarn had originated with Julia
Hazleton. Julia had been the only person in Mrs. Ray's shop when she
left Mrs. Ackerman's yarn to be matched, and she remembered how Julia
had watched her.
Eunice knew that she ought to forgive her enemy, for such she might
well call her, but she did not feel as if such forgiveness was in her
power. To play such a part toward a classmate—toward one who had never
injured or tried to injure her—to one whose very bread, and that of her
mother, was dependent on her good name! It seemed more than she could
bear.
She walked up and down her little room, shedding bitter tears, for a
long time. At last, however, she did what she ought to have done at
first: she cast her burden on the Lord. She threw herself on her knees
and begged to be made forgiving, as God for Christ's sake had forgiven
her. She begged that, as she could not do the work, it might be done in
and for her. Then she lay down, and was soon asleep.
CHAPTER X.
_MATILDA DISTINGUISHES HERSELF._
MATILDA JENKINS had not been one of those who stopped after school
to talk over the work. She had appeared unusually thoughtful in the
class, and had made some remarks which caused Miss Ackerman to look
at her with mingled surprise and approval. Truth to tell, Matilda had
been something of a trial, and Miss Ackerman had more than once been
tempted to wish that the superintendent in his zeal for classification
had classified Matilda somewhere else. But to-day she felt encouraged.
Matilda had not giggled once; she had given her whole mind to the
lesson, which she had evidently studied beforehand; and when Miss
Ackerman spoke of the love of the Father in sending his Son to die for
sinners, she felt sure there were tears in Matilda's eyes.
When Matilda arrived at home, she found, somewhat to her annoyance,
that her mother had company. Miss Smithson, their nearest neighbor,
had dropped in after church to see Mrs. Jenkins and tell her the news
she had gathered in the course of her week's dressmaking from house to
house. Matilda did not like Miss Smithson, and she particularly wished
to be quiet and think this day; but she greeted Miss Smithson civilly.
"Was that Eunice Riker in Sunday-school?" asked Miss Smithson when
Matilda had laid aside her hat and seated herself.
"Eunice? Yes, of course," answered Matilda.
"Well, I declare! She has brass enough! So she actually came into the
class as if nothing had happened? Was Miss Ferarra there?"
"Yes, she was there."
"And did she speak to Eunice?"
"Of course she did: why shouldn't she?" asked Matilda, surprised and
aroused from her own thoughts to take an interest in the conversation.
"She sat by Eunice and spoke to her two or three times. They are great
friends!"
"Well, I do think they are queer. I believe in forgiving folks, of
course, but that is carrying matters a little too far. I suppose they
don't like to own that they were imposed upon."
"What do you mean?" asked Matilda.
"Why, don't you know that Eunice Riker has been found out in stealing?
She stole Mrs. Ferarra's gold thimble and ever so many other things,
and she took the yarn Mrs. Ackerman gave her to knit for the
missionaries, and traded it off for some finery for herself; and oh
ever so many things!"
"I don't believe it," said Matilda, bluntly as usual. "Who told you?"
"Mrs. Murray's nurse-girl, Lizzy Bates. She says Mrs. Murray has taken
her washing away from Mrs. Riker and given it to Sarah Southmayd,
because she missed so many things."
"And I suppose you believe every word Lizzy Bates says?"
"Well, I don't suppose she would tell a lie about it," said Miss
Smithson.
"Don't you? Then, if she said the reason some of the ladies on the hill
have Bessie Melville to work instead of you is because you contrive
to get rid of so much cloth and trimming that nobody can account for
afterward, that would be all true too?" said Matilda demurely, but with
a sparkle of fun in her eyes.
Miss Smithson turned scarlet. "The impudent thing!" she exclaimed. "I'd
just like to know how she dared to say that? If I don't give her a
piece of my mind when I see her!"
"Wait a minute," said Matilda. "I didn't say Lizzy did say so; I only
said 'if' she did. I wanted to see how you would like it when it came
to your turn. I don't see why it is any worse to tell stories about you
than about Eunice."
Miss Smithson subsided a little. She would have liked to box Matilda's
ears, but she knew that would not do, and she wanted to get a little
more news out of her for the benefit of her next customer.
"I suppose you think that's very witty," said she; "I must say I don't
think such jokes are very fit for Sunday."
"I suppose repeating stories about people, and taking away the
character of a good, pious girl who helps her mother all she can, is
very fit talk for Sunday?" said Matilda. "I have heard you say half a
dozen times that Lizzy Bates was an idle, gossiping thing, not fit to
be trusted with a baby; and only the very last time you were in here,
you said if Mr. Murray wasn't a fool, he would put a stop to his wife's
extravagance and goings-on; you know you did," added Matilda, who, I
fear, decidedly enjoyed having Miss Smithson "under the harrow," as
the Scotch say. "Suppose I go and tell that to somebody—say to Minny
Haynes?"
"You wouldn't be so mean, Matilda Jenkins," said Miss Smithson, greatly
alarmed, for Minny Haynes was the daughter of Mrs. Murray's landlady.
"But why is it any meaner in one case than the other? That's what I
want to know, Miss Smithson. My story would at least be true, whereas
you don't know whether yours is true or not."
"Don't you worry, Miss Smithson; Matilda isn't going to do anything
of the kind," said Mrs. Jenkins. "She must have her joke and her say,
like her father before her.—So Miss Ackerman and Miss Ferarra treated
Eunice just as usual?—Well, I must say that don't look as if there was
anything wrong, Miss Smithson."
"That's nothing," returned Miss Smithson with a toss of her head and a
very needless elevation of her sharp nose. "It only proves just what
I say, that they are determined to uphold Eunice through thick and
thin, because she is a church-member. Anyhow, it was Mrs. Ferarra's own
cousin, who was visiting her—Miss Fay—who set the story going about
the thimble, for I heard Mrs. Gunderson tell Mrs. Murray so when I was
there making her blue silk. So, there!"
"That is coming pretty straight, you must allow, Matilda," said her
mother.
"I don't believe it, for all that," said Matilda, though she looked
disconcerted. "There's some mistake."
"Oh, well, think so if you like."
"I am pretty safe in thinking so, anyhow," said Matilda coolly. "I
don't believe the Lord was ever angry with any one for thinking too
well of their neighbors, though he says some pretty hard things about
tale-bearers and folks that go about with slanders. But, for one thing,
I am glad to hear this story coming so straight. I shall know what to
say when I tell Miss Ackerman about it."
"But you mustn't say it came from me," said Miss Smithson, much alarmed.
"Why not?"
"Why not? Why, I wouldn't have you for the world; you would get me into
no end of trouble. Now, Matilda, don't you go mixing yourself up in the
business, I advise you. You'll only get into a scrape if you do."
Matilda made no answer, but her face as she began setting the table was
not promising.
"That's so," said Mrs. Jenkins. "Better let things alone."
"Ma, just suppose it was me?" said Matilda, with more emphasis than
grammar, and stopping her work. "Suppose I was in Eunice's place, and
she in mine, what would you want her to do? And folks are just as
likely to make up stories about us as they are about the Rikers."
"But I didn't make it up," said Miss Smithson; "I only said I heard it.
Of course I don't know anything about it of my own knowledge."
Matilda made no answer, but set down the bread with a force which
betokened determination of some sort.
"You won't make a fuss about it, will you, Matilda?"
"I shall do as I would be done by, Miss Smithson. Ma, are we going to
have any dinner to-day? I want to get through in time for afternoon
church."
Clearly, there was no more satisfaction to be got out of Matilda, and
Miss Smithson departed, wondering what had come over the girl, and
wishing heartily that she had held her tongue.
"I do wish that woman would keep away, at least on Sundays," said
Matilda.
"She is a gossiping thing, I know," said Mrs. Jenkins; "and I don't
mean to encourage her, but there it is—some folks don't need any
encouragement. But it is very queer that such a story should come from
the family."
"It is queer, but there may be some perfectly easy way to explain it."
"That's true," said Mrs. Jenkins. "I remember when I was quite a little
girl, and lived in Paperville, there was a story went the rounds that
our minister and his wife quarrelled dreadfully. People said they knew
it must be true, because old Miss Rundel, who cleaned house for Mrs.
Dr. Brown, who lived next door, heard Mrs. Anscomb say to her husband,—
"'Sandy, you are the very torment of my life, and I wish some one would
kill you.'
"You see, Mr. Anscomb's name was Alexander, and sometimes, when his
folks wanted to tease him, they called him 'Sandy.'
"Well, the matter was brought before the church, and when Mr. Anscomb
heard the story, he tried to keep a straight face, but he couldn't, and
finally he burst out laughing.
"'What do you mean by this levity, Brother Anscomb?' said old Dr.
Stratton very sternly.
"Then Mr. Anscomb, he tried to stop laughing, and says he, 'Brethren,
it was the cat! Celestine was provoked at him because he stole a piece
of cold chicken she had saved for my breakfast,' says he, 'and so she
said that; and I said,—
"'"Celestine, if any such thing should happen, you'd cry your eyes out."
"'And she said, "No, I shouldn't; I should be glad."
"'That was what Miss Rundel heard,' said he, making her a little bow.
'She got the words right, but she did not know to whom they applied.'
"And then the rest of the ministers and elders laughed as hard as he
did; and poor Miss Rundel was so ashamed she went into hysterics. Very
likely this may be something just as foolish, if one only knew it. But
I wonder Mrs. Riker should let Eunice be so patronized by Mrs. Ferarra;
I wouldn't stand it, I know."
"Where is the 'patronage'?" asked Matilda. "They ask Eunice there just
as they would any one else. She has taught Anita to crochet, and Anita
has taught her to work lace."
"Well, I believe in being independent," said Mrs. Jenkins; "I don't
want any one's help. I want to go my way, and let them go theirs."
"Yes, you do," said Matilda. "Why didn't you act on that rule when
Miss Smithson's little sister was sick last week, instead of running
yourself to death to take care of her, and sitting up nights, and all?
I believe in being independent too, so far as hanging on other folks
is concerned. I'd work my fingers off before I'd do like some folks we
know. But taking kindness in a neighborly way is very different from
that. I don't see why I should refuse to let Mrs. Ferarra do me a kind
turn because she is richer than I am, any more than I should refuse to
do a good turn to Mary Maloney because she is poorer."
"I don't know but that's the right way to look at it," said Mrs.
Jenkins, "but I was brought up to have very independent feelings. Pa
used to say, 'Malvinas don't you take any patronage from anybody.
You're just as good as any one, and nobody has got a right to order you
about or look down on you.' That was the principle he went on, but,
somehow, he was always in hot water. He was a church-member too, but he
was always thinking that the other members felt above him.
"'Brother Sanderson,' Mr. Anscomb said to him one day, 'I do think a
little Christian humility would be the best help for your trouble.'
"'I don't know what you mean, Mr. Anscomb,' said pa. 'I've got as much
"Christian humility" as anybody, but I don't mean to be looked down
upon by anybody,' says he."
Matilda laughed. "Yes, that's just the way with us," said she. "We're
miserable sinners, but we're just as good as the rest of the miserable
sinners, and better too.—Never mind the dishes, ma. I'll just put them
to soak, and wash them all up together to-night. Don't you mean to go
to church?"
"No, I think not; my ankle troubles me some. But you can go. I will say
for you, Matilda, that you have improved a great deal since you went
into Miss Ackerman's class. You're a great deal more thoughtful than
you used to be, and a real comfort to me. I don't believe in praising
folks to their face, but I will say that."
Matilda kissed her mother—rather an unusual sign of affection between
them—and having made everything neat and closed the blinds for her
mother's afternoon nap, she put on her hat and went out. She hesitated
a moment, and then, instead of going to church, she bent her steps
toward Mrs. Ackerman's.
Miss Ackerman did not usually go to church in the afternoon. She was
not very strong, and she found that morning service and the care of her
large Bible-class were all she was equal to. She was surprised, and a
little annoyed, when Sylvanus announced Matilda, but she received her
visitor with her usual cordiality, wondering all the time what could
have brought her, for Matilda had hitherto rather repelled her advances.
"Miss Ackerman, I want to talk to you about Eunice Riker," said
Matilda, coming to the point at once with that frank directness which
was one of her characteristics. "There is something going on which I
think you ought to know."
"You have touched the very subject I was thinking about, Matilda,"
said Miss Ackerman. "I could not but see this morning that there was
something wrong, and that some of the girls treated Eunice very badly.
Can you tell me anything about it?"
"I can tell you all about it, and that is just what I came for,"
replied Matilda; and she proceeded to relate the whole story just as
she had heard it from Miss Smithson. "I didn't know about coming to you
on Sunday," she concluded, "but I thought it was something like pulling
the ass or the sheep out of a pit on the Sabbath day."
"You were quite right," said Miss Ackerman. "It is lawful to do good on
the Sabbath day; and it is certainly doing good to try to vindicate the
fair fame of another. As to the yarn, that is very easily explained.
You will remember that it was of rather a peculiar color. We could
not match it in the city, but Mrs. Ray said she had a friend in
Philadelphia to whom she sometimes sent in such cases, and who, she had
no doubt, would be able to match the yarn. She did so, and succeeded
perfectly. My mother paid Mrs. Ray for the yarn, and Eunice made the
stockings. I presume that the worsted was some affair of her own, and
that the matter of the gold thimble will be explained quite as easily.
I will see Mrs. Ferarra the first thing in the morning, and we will
do our best to have the whole matter set right. You have acted with a
great deal of sense and prudence in this matter, Matilda."
"Ma didn't want me to have anything to do with it at first," said
Matilda, blushing with pleasure; "but I asked her how she would feel if
it was me instead of Eunice, and then she gave in directly. I expect
Miss Smithson will be ready to kill me, though."
"There will probably be no need of using her name at all," said Miss
Ackerman. "I will have her to work a day this week, and take the
opportunity to talk with her about the matter. She is a very worthy
woman in some respects, but she is such a gossip that people are afraid
of her."
"Well, I think it is real mean to talk and carry news from one house to
another, as a great many dressmakers do," said Matilda. "Seems to me if
I worked in families that way, I should feel as if I was trusted, and
as if I ought to be as careful not to steal their secrets as I would be
not to steal their silk and stuff."
"Quite right, my dear. I wish every one felt so; it would save a great
deal of mischief. Is there anything else to tell me."
"Not about that," said Matilda, looking down and twisting her
handkerchief, "but I thought I'd like to tell you something about
myself. Miss Ackerman, I know I've made you ever so much trouble in the
class, giggling and going on, but I hope I shall be different after
this. I have made up my mind to try to be a Christian!"
"My dear girl, how glad and thankful I am to hear you say so!" said
Miss Ackerman, equally delighted and surprised; for, as I have said
before, she had regarded Matilda as the least promising member of the
class. "That is a decision you will never regret. What led you to it?"
"I think it was a good many things," replied Matilda. "I couldn't keep
on studying the Gospels week after week without seeing how far I was
from what I ought to be, and how much I needed help too; for when I
tried to make myself good, I soon found I couldn't do that. Then I
thought I would let it all go and not bother myself; but I couldn't do
that, either. That story you told us about the man rescued from prison
stirred me up dreadfully. I knew I was just as bad off as he was, but
I could not bear to give in that I was as helpless. I was ever so much
interested in working for the box, and yet I didn't take any real
comfort in it, because I thought I was so unworthy. You remember at the
second meeting you quoted that text about the people who, when they
made their collection, first gave themselves to the Lord. (2 Cor. viii.
5.) So I thought it over and over, and then I said to myself, 'Matilda
Jenkins, that is the thing for you to do—just give yourself to the
Lord first of all.' And so I did; and oh, I have felt so peaceful and
contented ever since!"
"I do not doubt it, my dear. You have begun your Christian life in the
right way. Just give yourself up to your Saviour without any reserve—to
be what he would have you be, and do what he would have you do."
"And bear what he will have me bear; I suppose that is part of it too,"
said Matilda.
"Yes, and no small part. You seem to have been thinking a great deal,
Matilda."
"Well, I have, Miss Ackerman. I have a good deal of time to think, one
way and another, and I'm afraid I haven't always used it very well.
But since I began to work for the box, I have had more solemn thoughts
than ever I did in all my life before. Do you think I ought to make a
profession of religion, Miss Ackerman?"
"I think you should, Matilda, at the first proper opportunity. You will
find such a profession of the greatest use to you; and besides, you
know it is our duty to confess Christ before men."
"I don't want to do anything in a hurry," said Matilda. "Joining the
Church seems a very solemn thing. I should feel as if I ought to be
very good, very consistent; and maybe I shouldn't."
"You would be no more bound to be good then than you are now, Matilda.
Where do you read that God lays down one rule for church-members and
another for other people?"
"I don't know as he does, come to think of it," said Matilda. "I
suppose it is every one's duty to serve him the best they can."
"Exactly. You do not add to this duty by confessing him, and you cannot
release yourself from the obligation by refusing to confess him. You
are only adding another sin to all the rest."
"I see," said Matilda, "but I never thought of it in that way before.
As to being sure of my feelings, I don't know how I could be any surer
than I am now. If I know anything at all, I know that I mean to try to
be a Christian. Of course I don't expect I'm going to be perfect right
off. I know one has to fight one's way a great many times; at least,
that is the way it looks to me. I was talking to Louise Willard the
other day—she is a real good girl too, I think—and her mother said if
any one loved God as they ought to, they wouldn't have any of these
strivings against sin. Their inward life would be all peace, she said."
"What would be the use of all that armor St. Paul tells us to put on?"
said Miss Ackerman. "I cannot but believe that the Christian life must
be more or less one of warfare, and that we must be Christ's faithful
soldiers as well as servants to our lives' end."
"Then, I'll just leave this matter of Eunice to you and Mrs. Ferarra?"
said Matilda, rising to go.
"I think you might as well, but if we need your help we will call upon
you. God bless you, my dear! You have made my Sunday a very happy one."
CHAPTER XI.
_"HE WILL DO ANYTHING FOR SUGAR."_
THE next morning, almost before she rose from the breakfast-table, Mrs.
Ferarra was surprised by a visit from Miss Ackerman.
"What can have brought her so early?" she thought as she hastened to
meet her friend.
She was still more astonished when she heard Miss Ackerman's errand,
and her indignation was greater than her surprise.
"I think Maria must have been out of her senses," said she. "I never
thought for a moment of the thimble being stolen, and I found it the
next morning just where I left it. What could have put such a thing
into her head?"
"Cousin Maria took a great dislike to Eunice, if you remember, mamma,"
said Anita. "I recollect now that she spoke as if she were very much
surprised when she came in from Mrs. Gunderson's and saw you using the
thimble. I dare say Miss Gunderson told her of the yarn, and she jumped
at once to the conclusion that Eunice had taken the thimble likewise.
But it was very wrong in her to say so. Poor Eunice! How unkind she
must think us!"
"Rather more than unkind if she blames us at all," said Mrs. Ferarra.
"Maria Fay has vexed me a good many times, but this is the worst
of all. It is as Anita says: she took a dislike to Eunice from the
beginning, as she is very apt to do, and was delighted to have her
prejudice—her penetration, as she calls it—justified. 'I can read
character at a glance' is a favorite phrase of hers. Moreover, she took
up the fancy that we intended to adopt Eunice into the family—an idea
which seemed to give her great offence for some reason or other."
"I think Cousin Maria had an intention of being adopted into the family
herself," said Anita, shrewdly. "She threw out several broad hints to
me of how useful she could be to me, and how much care she could take
off your shoulders in the housekeeping."
"Yes, this is a specimen!" said Mrs. Ferarra. "If she has any notions
of that kind, she may dismiss them at once.—But, Miss Ackerman, what is
the best way of meeting this most absurd calumny?"
"That we must consider," replied Miss Ackerman. "So far as the class is
concerned, the matter is very easily managed. I have a class-meeting at
my house on Tuesday afternoon. I think it would be well for you to be
present and tell the true story of the thimble, and I will relate that
of the yarn."
"And I will call on Mrs. Gunderson and explain the matter to her," said
Mrs. Ferarra. "I will also take pains to show my respect for Mrs. Riker
and her daughter in every possible way. I have a plan in my head for
the benefit of Eunice, but I must talk it over with my husband before I
make it public. I think I shall learn to take care of my thimble, now
that my carelessness has been the cause of so much trouble."
"Here comes Eunice herself," said Anita, looking out of the window.
"Run and meet her, my love, and bring her in yourself," said her
mother. "We must try in every way to show that we respect her."
Eunice had risen early enough to do quite a washing before seven
o'clock. She then prepared breakfast and called her mother, but Mrs.
Riker's head was still too bad to think of going out.
"What shall we do?" said Mrs. Riker. "You won't want to go up to Mrs.
Ferarra's alone, will you?"
"Oh, I don't mind that, if you are well enough to be left," replied
Eunice, secretly not very sorry to have the matter left in her own
hands, for Mrs. Riker was rather apt to become hysterical at exciting
times. "I think I will go up directly after breakfast, so as to be sure
of finding Mrs. Ferarra at home. Not that I believe she had anything to
do with the matter."
"I'm sure I hope not," said Mrs. Riker; "I don't like to think ill
of people who have been so kind to us. And, Eunice, when you come
home, you might go to Patrick McGuire's and get five pounds of brown
coffee-sugar. I would as soon have groceries as money for what he owes
me, and I suppose it would accommodate him. It won't make your walk
much longer if you go through the Red House lane and come out by Mr.
Hazleton's."
"And then I can gather some Virginia creeper leaves," said Eunice;
"they always turn a beautiful color on that stone wall."
"Very well, only don't pick poison-ivy instead."
"As if I did not know the difference by this time! Good-bye, mother.
Don't do anything about the washing. There is time enough to finish all
we are likely to have."
Never had the walk up the hill seemed so long and tiresome to Eunice
as this morning, for never had she carried so heavy a heart. True, she
did not believe Anita had done anything to injure her, but yet the
thought would come, "What if she had?" She had learned to love Anita
dearly, with that warm, all-trusting affection which a girl of her age
bestows on those she admires; and it seemed to her that to find herself
deceived and her friend false would be more than she could endure.
All her fears, however, were dispelled at once by Anita's greeting as
she met her on the lawn:
"You darling girl! We were just talking about you. Come through the
conservatory into mother's own room: she is there with Miss Ackerman."
Certainly, neither Anita's greeting nor her mother's left anything to
be desired in the matter of cordiality.
Mrs. Ferarra came directly to the point:
"Eunice, have you heard this absurd story about my thimble?"
"Yes, ma'am," answered Eunice with a greatly-lightened heart. "It was
that I came about. Is the thimble found?"
"It never was lost," answered Mrs. Ferarra. "I have had from childhood
a very careless habit of putting my thimble down out of place, and
I did so in this instance. I found it the next day, as I presumed I
should, and the idea of its being stolen never entered my head for a
moment, nor that of any one else except Miss Fay's, and she is, I am
sorry to say, a very silly woman. I shall write to her to-day on the
subject, and I shall take pains to contradict the story everywhere."
"How do you think the story about the yarn could have originated?"
asked Miss Ackerman. "I never thought Mrs. Ray was a mischievous woman."
"No indeed!" answered Eunice. "She is an excellent woman, and one of
the best friends I have. I think I know who started that story, Miss
Ackerman, but I am not quite sure, and so I would rather say nothing
about it."
"Perhaps that is the best way," said Miss Ackerman. "I shall give the
true version of the tale to-morrow."
"Won't you stay and spend the day with Anita, Eunice?" said Mrs.
Ferarra. "I shall be out most of the day, and she will be glad of a
companion."
"Thank you, Mrs. Ferarra, but I don't see how I can," replied Eunice.
"Mother is not very well, and we have always more work to do on Monday."
"You will at least wait and let me take you home in the carriage; I
shall go out between eleven and twelve."
"I cannot even do that, though I should like it," said Eunice. "I
have an errand on my way home.—I suppose, Anita, you will be at the
class-meeting?"
"Oh yes, and also my 'fascinators,'" answered Anita. "I hope then the
girls will be satisfied about the worsted."
It was with a lightened and thankful heart that Eunice took her way
homeward. She bought her sugar amid many compliments from Patrick, who
cherished a warm admiration for Eunice, and insisted on making her a
present of some uncommonly fine oranges. When she left the shop, she
turned into a lane which led past the old Red House, as it was called—a
deserted and somewhat ruined mansion—on the veranda of which grew the
finest Virginia creeper in all the country.
She stopped to gather a leaf here and there, and as she drew near the
house, she started as a distressed cry of "Help! Help!" fell on her
ear, followed by a curious cry between a whine and a growl.
She quickened her steps, and a turn of the road brought before her eyes
a singular scene. There stood Julia Hazleton, pale and trembling, while
right before her, and penning her into an angle of the wall, stood
Mr. Ferarra's tame bear. He was clearly in no very good humor, for he
raised himself on his hind legs and growled as Eunice approached, and
seemed debating in his mind which to attack first.
A dozen thoughts passed through Eunice's mind in a second of time.
Should she run and call for help? It was some distance to the nearest
house, and who could tell what mischief might be done in the mean time?
"Oh, Eunice, what shall I do?" shrieked Julia as the bear gave another
growl. "Oh, do help me!"
"He will do anything for sugar." It seemed as if some articulate voice
spoke these words in Eunice's ear. She did not hesitate a moment. She
pulled open the end of the paper of sugar, and, walking straight up to
Bruin, she held the tempting sweet under his nose, saying in a coaxing
tone, "Come, old man—come and have something good."
The familiar words and the smell and sight of his beloved brown sugar
worked an instant change in Bruin's feelings. He dropped on all fours
and began to whine like a baby as Eunice withdrew the parcel a little
way.
"Come, then, and you shall have it," said Eunice.
She walked back a few yards till she reached the turn of the lane, when
she poured out the sugar on the ground, taking care to scatter it well
about. With a complacent grunt Bruin fell to his feast, and Eunice
hurried back to Julia, who was standing in the same place, apparently
half benumbed with terror.
"Come now; let us run home while he is eating the sugar," said Eunice.
"He won't stir while there is any left. Come, Julia—you must run,"
she added imperatively as Julia looked at her without moving. "If you
don't, I shall have to go and leave you."
[Illustration: _The Mission Box._
"Come, old man,—come and have something good."]
The words acted as a stimulant to Julia's senses. Eunice put her arm
round her waist, and the two ran without speaking till they came to the
gate which opened into Mr. Hazleton's barnyard, and almost into the
arms of Mr. Hazleton himself.
"We are safe now," said Eunice as soon as she could gather breath
enough to speak.
"Safe from what?" asked Mr. Hazleton, naturally very much surprised.
"What has frightened you?"
"It was Mr. Ferarra's bear," said Eunice, trying to speak collectedly.
"He has got out again. Please, Mr. Hazleton, send some one to tell them
before he does any mischief."
"Did he chase you?"
"No, he got me in a corner of the wall," said Julia, who had recovered
her voice and her senses. "I was gathering some leaves, and I heard a
noise and looked round, and there he was. He seemed to want to play at
first, but when I screamed, he got angry and growled—oh, so savagely! I
do believe he would have killed me, only for Eunice. Just think, papa,
she had a paper of sugar, and she walked straight up and showed it to
him, and then called him away down the lane to get it!"
"I don't understand," said Mr. Hazleton. "Did this—this young person
entice the bear away?"
"Yes," answered Eunice. "I had just bought a parcel of sugar at Pat
McGuire's, and I knew Bruin would do anything for sugar; so I called
him down past the turn of the road, and emptied the whole five pounds
out on the grass. I hope it won't disagree with him," added Eunice,
laughing rather hysterically.
"Oh, papa, if you had seen her walk right up to the bear when he was
growling and showing his teeth, and might have killed her just as well
as not, and then help me when I could hardly walk, you—you wouldn't
call her a 'young person,'" sobbed Julia.
"My dear, I intended no derogation by the epithet," said Mr. Hazleton
in a tone of apology.—"I think Miss—I have not the honor of knowing the
young lady's name—"
"My name is Eunice Riker."
"Ah, I apprehend—a daughter of the late Garret Riker? I knew your
father well.—I think Miss Riker has behaved with the greatest gallantry
and presence of mind, and I shall never forget the obligation she has
laid us under. You had both better go into the house and take some
rest and refreshment. I have sent John to give notice to Mr. Ferarra
of the escape of the bear, and I think I shall take an opportunity of
remonstrating with him on the subject of keeping such an animal."
"Mr. Ferarra had given him to the Park, and they were to come after him
last week," said Eunice: "I heard Anita say so. But I must be going
home, or mother will wonder what has become of me."
"I beg you will wait a little," said Mr. Hazleton. "I am about to drive
down to the station, and will gladly set you down at your own door. I
shall really feel hurt if you refuse," he added in his politest manner,
seeing Eunice hesitate.—"Julia, take Miss Riker into the library.
She will perhaps like to see the new pictures which were put up on
Saturday."
Eunice consented, reflecting that she might secure the chance she
desired of speaking to Julia. As they were looking at the beautiful
landscapes, she entered on the subject that was uppermost in her mind:
"Julia, you were in Mrs. Ray's shop one day when I was there buying
some Shetland wool for Anita?"
"Yes," replied Julia, turning scarlet.
"And was it you who told Ida Van Zandt and Fanny Gunderson that I
changed away Mrs. Ackerman's yarn for wool for myself?"
"Yes, Eunice, I did."
Eunice was silent a minute. As soon as she could command her voice she
said,—
"Do you think that was right, Julia? Would you have liked it if I had
done so by you? I saw you buying some aprons that day. Suppose I had
told people that you were making a bill on the sly, or something like
that?"
"You wouldn't have been far wrong," said Julia in a curious voice. "How
did you know?"
"Know what?"
"That I was making 'a bill on the sly.'"
"I didn't know it, of course," answered Eunice. "I only spoke of that
because I heard you say once that your father would not let you make
bills."
"Well, I did make the bill on the sly, and I did tell the story about
you," said Julia. "I was vexed because you had done more for the box
than I had, and because Miss Ackerman took more notice of you than she
did of me; and so I was ready to believe any harm of you. I thought
when I took the work, I should do it the best and quickest of anybody,
and get the most praise; and when I saw that everybody, even little
Mary, had accomplished more than I had, I was angry enough to burn up
the whole thing together."
"There was not much charity in that," remarked Eunice—"not if you did
the work from such motives, I mean."
"There was not one bit of charity in it," assented Julia. "All I did
was just done 'to be seen of men.'"
"But just think what an injury you have done me, Julia!" said
Eunice—"An injury that perhaps can never be repaired, for it is not
easy to stop such a report when once it gets going. We have lost work
by it already."
"A great many people don't believe it, though," said Julia eagerly.
"When mother heard it, she said she did 'not believe one word of any
such thing. It was a malicious slander, and the person who started such
reports ought to be severely punished!' I felt mean enough, I can tell
you. I don't know what she will say when she knows that I did it."
"Perhaps she won't know; only, Julia, I do think you ought to
contradict the story, because there is not a word of truth in it. I
bought the wool for Anita, and left the yarn to be matched for Mrs.
Ackerman. I don't see what you ever saw in me to make you think I would
do so," added Eunice with a quivering lip.
"I never saw anything but what was good in you, Eunice. It was all my
own envy and wicked temper. You don't know how it all looked to me when
I stood there in that corner fenced in by the bear. I have heard that
when people are drowning they see their whole lives spread out before
them—which, of course, is impossible—but I can easily believe that they
think of many things in a short time; for it seemed to me this morning
as if every wrong thing I ever did was looking at me out of the eyes of
that bear."
"Then, how will it seem when you come to stand before the
judgment-seat?" asked Eunice in a low tone.
Julia shook her head and was silent for a moment. Then she resumed
cheerfully,—
"But I shall put you right, Eunice, whatever happens to me. Here comes
mamma. I wondered where she was."
Mrs. Hazleton quite forgot to be dignified. She forgot all about
Eunice's "proper station" and all the rest of it, and she could not
have clasped "the young person" in her arms and kissed her with more
motherly warmth and tenderness if she had been a princess of the blood:
"You dear, dear girl! To think you should have had such presence of
mind and courage!—Didn't I tell you, Julia, that Eunice—" And here
Mrs. Hazleton stopped in some confusion.
"Oh I know all about it, Mrs. Hazleton," said Eunice, smiling. "I have
been to see Mrs. Ferarra, and it will be all straightened out. As to
what I did this morning, I don't really think there was so much danger.
I have often fed Bruin, and knew his tastes pretty well, though I won't
deny that I was a good deal frightened, because one can never tell what
these wild creatures may do."
"I think there was great danger, such as I shudder to think of,"
said Mrs. Hazleton. "A young school-friend of my own was torn all to
pieces by a bear which every one thought was perfectly tame. * But the
carriage is here, and Mr. Hazleton has to meet the train."
* This is a fact. No tame bear is to be trusted.
"Eunice has given all her mother's sugar to the bear, mamma," said
Julia.
"We will remember that," said her mother.—"Good-bye, my dear. I shall
see you again before long."
As Mrs. Hazleton opened the door, Eunice whispered to Julia,—
"Tell your mother about the bill, Julia. You will feel better if you
do."
"I dare not," said Julia; "it would be worse than the bear."
"It will all come out some time," said Eunice; "and remember, God knows
it all."
"Well, I'll try. Good-bye, Eunice."
CHAPTER XII.
_THE CLASS-MEETING._
MONDAY and Tuesday were very busy and interesting days to Miss
Ackerman's class. All the girls hastened to finish their work, and,
to their credit be it said, not one was behindhand. Many were the
"wonders" whether Eunice would be present, and whether she would "have
the face" (this was Minny Haynes's expression) "to bring in any extra
work."
"I shouldn't wonder. You know in class last Sunday she acted as if
nothing was the matter till Fanny Gunderson spoke to her. Julia will
expose her if she brings that worsted," said Phebe.
"Oh no, she won't—not after what happened yesterday. Didn't you hear
about it?" And Minny proceeded to relate the story of the bear with
many amplifications.
"Well, Minny Haynes, you may say what you please, but you won't make
me believe a girl who would do a thing like that, and for a girl who
had treated her as Julia has Eunice, would steal!" said Phebe with more
good feeling than logic. "I wouldn't believe it—no, not if I saw her
myself."
"What has that got to do with it?" asked Minny. "Besides, it was no
such great thing to do. The bear was tame, and Eunice knew it."
"So was Mrs. Murray's horse tame, and you knew it, but that didn't
hinder you from running away and leaving your little sister the day he
got out," said Phebe.
"A horse is different—"
"From a bear. Yes, I should rather think he was."
"Oh, well, you can think what you like; I don't care," said Minny with
a tone of superiority. "I don't half believe the story, anyway; such
things always get stretched."
"Other things don't get stretched, I suppose?" said Phebe.
"Well, we shall see whether Eunice comes, and whether the girls will
speak to her. Here we are, and here is Fanny Gunderson.—How do you do,
Fanny?"
"Good-afternoon, Miss Haynes," returned Fanny stiffly; and she walked
on without another word.
Fanny had been especially invited to the class-meeting by Miss
Ackerman, and she had a long debate with herself and her mother before
she decided to go; but curiosity and her mother's advice carried the
day. She was very much vexed at the turn things seemed to be taking in
favor of Eunice, whom she hated as people of her sort do hate those
whom they have injured. She felt a strong desire to take out her
vexation on somebody, and Minny was the first person who came in her
way.
"See if I don't pay you out for that, Fanny Gunderson!" muttered Minny
between her teeth.
A number of the girls were now assembled in the veranda outside the
drawing-room windows, waiting for new-comers.
"Here is Mr. Hazleton's carriage," said some one, "but Julia is not in
it."
"Isn't Julia coming, Ida?" asked Mary Edgar as Ida came into the
veranda, followed by Emma Hazleton.
Ida was pale, and her hand was muffled up in a sling.
"No, she can't come; she is very sick," answered Ida.—"Take care,
girls, don't break my arm," as the girls crowded round her.
"Does it pain you very much?" asked Mary.
"Yes, I guess it does; but I wanted to come to the meeting, and I told
mother my hand might as well ache here as anywhere else."
"You've got good grit, anyhow," said Matilda, who had a great
admiration for that quality.
"You couldn't finish your work, could you?"
"No. Eunice took it and finished it for me."
"I wonder if she is coming?" said Phebe.
"I told you I didn't believe she would," answered Minny Haynes in a
tone of some triumph; "I don't believe you'll see her here again."
"Then you are very much mistaken, Miss Minny Haynes," returned Matilda,
who had been one of the first arrivals. "She came half an hour ago with
Mrs. Ferarra and Anita in the carriage."
Minny and Phebe looked at each other. One glance said, "I told you so;"
the other, "I don't believe it."
There was no time for words, however. Miss Ackerman appeared at the
door and called the whole party into the drawing-room, where they
found not only Eunice and "the committee,"—that is to say, Amity and
Percy—but Mrs. Ackerman and Mrs. Ferarra. A large table stood in the
centre of the floor.
"We will first bring in our work and contributions," said Miss Ackerman
when all were seated.—"Mary, you are the youngest; you may begin."
Mary laid down the flannel petticoat she had made, and then deposited
beside it a neat, convenient work-box filled and packed with
working-materials and all sorts of little conveniences. There were
tapes, linen and cotton of different widths, black and white thread in
assorted numbers, all sorts of needles from darners to fine cambric
needles, bodkins, pins, black, white and safety, mending cotton in
different colors, and, best of all, two or three button-hooks and a
bunch of boot-lacings.
"Well done, Mary!" said Percy as she took out the last article. "I
don't think we shall have anything better than this."
"I suppose her sister bought it," said Minny Haynes.
"No indeed, she didn't," said Ida eagerly, as Mary did not answer.
"Mary picked out all the things her own self; didn't you, dear?"
"Yes, but Aunt Barbara Van Zandt advised me," answered Mary, blushing.
She had indeed passed a superlatively happy morning in Selig's shop
buying the box and filling it under the superintendence of Mrs. Barbara
Van Zandt.
"And of course Mrs. Van Zandt gave you the money to pay for them," said
Minny Haynes, who somehow seemed to feel the box a personal injury.
"No," replied Mary; "it was my own money."
"Let me tell about it, Mary," said Ida eagerly. And then, without
regarding Mary's blushing shake of the head, she went on: "Mary sold
her beautiful twelve-dollar doll, and bought these things with part of
the money."
"Good for her!" said Matilda.
"Ida shouldn't have told," said Mary.
"Well, I do like to tell of it when people do nice things," said Ida.
"In which you are very different from a good many other people," said
Amity.—"Now, Ida, it is your turn."
"I haven't much," said Ida, blushing. "Eunice finished my work after
I hurt my thumb, but I sold a Roman lambrequin I had begun to Cousin
Louisa Edgar, and laid out the price in stationery—at least, mother did
it for me. There it is on the table."
"That is a very nice present," said Percy; "and of course you couldn't
finish your work after you hurt your thumb."
"It wasn't my thumb," said Ida. "I had plenty of time before that, if I
had used it, but I kept putting it off till at last I lost the chance
of doing it at all."
"Folks do that sometimes about more important things than sewing,"
observed Matilda.
"Yes, about the most important concern of all," said Miss Ackerman.
"They wait and think there is plenty of time, and at last, while they
go to 'buy,' the door is 'shut'—Who is next?"
One after the other the girls deposited their gifts great and small.
All had done the work promised, and almost all had something else to
offer. Phebe had knitted a baby's sacque. Matilda had made a pretty
house-jacket of blue cashmere.
"It was my sister's that died," said she. "Ma gave it to me, and I
have never felt like wearing it, so I kept it put away. But I am sure
if Jenny were here, she would rather the jacket was being of some use
to somebody; so I cut it over and trimmed it up a little. And here are
three pairs of her stockings; ma sent these."
Anita now brought forward the work she had done, and produced her two
pretty crocheted head-dresses.
"These should be considered as much the work of Eunice as my own," said
she. "Eunice selected the wool for me at Mrs. Ray's, and taught me how
to construct them."
Again the glances were exchanged between Phebe and Minny.
"Here are my stockings," said Eunice, producing them. "Mrs. Ray matched
the yarn for me very nicely; and I have made a pair of oversocks
besides from some thick cloth that Sarah Southmayd gave me. She says
she spun the wool herself when she was a young girl."
"Julia sends her work," said Emma Hazleton, producing it, "and also
these books, which she selected from her own library. There are some
which she valued very much, but I fear she never will want them again."
Miss Emma put her handkerchief to her eyes as she spoke and went
quickly out of the room.
"Is Julia so very sick, Ida?" asked some one.
"Oh yes, very," said Ida sadly. "She is out of her head a great deal of
the time, and then she is always talking about the bear, and wanting
Eunice to come and drive him away."
"Do you suppose the bear would really have hurt her, Anita?" asked
Minny Haynes.
"I suppose it probable he might, only for Eunice," replied Anita. "He
has been very ferocious several times lately, and James has had much
trouble with him.—That was a consequence of putting things off too,"
added Anita. "Philip told James only the day before that he thought
the—the staple which held Bruin's chain had worked loose and was not
secure, and James said he would see to it in a day or two—it would do
for the present. I think it will ever be a lesson to me about putting
off."
"I am sure it will to me," said Ida. "If I don't learn to do things in
the time for them after this, I shall be a fool in good earnest. Are
all the things in? What a fine parcel!"
"Yes, I think the box will be the best we ever sent," said Miss
Ackerman. "The work is all neatly done, and the contributions are
well chosen in every case, and show that a good deal of industry and
self-denial has been bestowed upon them.—And now, girls, there is
another matter about which I wished to see you—one which has given me
great pain. I observed last Sunday that several of you—I am glad to say
not all—treated Eunice Riker very unkindly."
Miss Ackerman paused a moment.
Percy and Amity, who had been away and had not heard the story, looked
surprised, Matilda looked triumphant, and several others very much
confused.
"I suppose," continued Miss Ackerman, "that those who did so were
influenced by a stupid and malicious slander which has been going the
rounds—a slander so foolish and improbable that I should wonder at any
one's being affected by it if I did not know that there are people
in every community who 'rejoice in iniquity' and take pleasure in
repeating any sort of slander. I allude to the report that Eunice stole
some yarn which my mother gave her to knit into stockings for Ethelind
Swift, and exchanged it for wool to use for her own purposes. The story
is false in every particular."
Miss Ackerman paused, and Miss Emma Hazleton spoke.
"It was my sister Julia who started that story," said she. "She asked
me to come here this afternoon and make this statement. She says she
saw Eunice buy the wool, and 'being angry and envious of Eunice'—I use
her own words by her express desire—she was ready to believe any evil.
She is very sorry, and begs Eunice's pardon again, as she has done
before. She is in great distress of mind when she is able to think at
all, and she asks you all to pray for her."
Miss Emma sat down weeping, and most of the girls wept with her. Fanny
Gunderson pressed her lips together and looked straight out of the
window. She was so angry she could hardly sit still, and yet she did
not know what to do about it.
Then Mrs. Ferarra told her story. She did not excuse her cousin, but
said, what was quite true, that as soon as she arrived at home, Miss
Fay had written to Mrs. Gunderson the true account of the thimble.
She expressed the greatest respect and regard for both Mrs. Riker and
Eunice; and, smiling, Mrs. Ferarra said she hoped it would be a lesson
to her not to mislay her thimble again.
"I knew it! I told ma so!" exclaimed Matilda, unable any longer to
repress the expression of her triumph. "I said there was some perfectly
simple way of explaining the whole if we only knew it."
"You were quite right, you see," said Miss Ackerman.—"And I must add,
girls, that it was Matilda's straightforward good sense which has
brought this whole matter to light. As soon as the calumny came to her
ears, she brought it directly to me, and has thus enabled us to clear
Eunice entirely."
"Exactly so," said Mrs. Ferarra; "and as I feel greatly obliged to
Matilda, I am going to ask her to do me the favor to accept the thimble
in question—the very small base on which this great Tower of Babel has
been erected."
She held up the pretty gold thimble as she spoke, and then put it into
Matilda's hand.
"I don't know what to say—I don't hardly think I ought to take it,"
said Matilda, stammering between delight and embarrassment. "Ma don't
like me to take presents; and besides, I think if any one has the
thimble, it ought to be Eunice, and not me."
"Your mother's principle is a good one in general, if it be not carried
too far, but I don't think it applies in the present instance," said
Mrs. Ferarra. "As for Eunice, I do not think the thimble would have as
pleasant associations for her as it would for you. I am sure she would
rather you had it."
"Yes indeed," said Eunice.—"I am sure I never can repay you, Matilda."
"That wasn't anything," answered Matilda. "I only did as I would be
done by."
"'Tis n't every one who does that," said Ida. "Anyhow, I'm glad I never
believed it."
"Ida never believes any thing bad about any one," said one of the
girls, "or, if she has to believe it, she is sure there is some good
excuse, if one only knew it."
"Well, I did believe it, and I'm sorry I did, and that I refused to
speak to Eunice," said Phebe, governed, as usual, by the spirit of the
hour, and perhaps in this case by something better. "And I beg Eunice's
pardon; so, there!"
"I don't know as I have got anything to beg her pardon about," said
Minny Haynes sharply. "I heard the story on good authority, and I
repeated it. I don't see any great harm in it, either."
"What did you want to repeat it for, supposing it was true? That's what
I want to know," said Matilda.
"And it is a very pertinent question," said Miss Ackerman. "Suppose we
know, of our own knowledge or on the best authority, an evil thing of
our neighbor; what is the use of repeating it? What good end is gained
by making others think ill of him as well as ourselves?"
"It isn't from any good," said Matilda. "It is just because folks like
to have something to tell that nobody else knows. It makes them of
consequence."
"That is one reason, no doubt, and I fear there is another, which is
founded in the evil which belongs to human nature. People take pleasure
in evil. They like to think ill of their neighbors. They 'rejoice in
iniquity.' But quite as often Matilda's reason is the true one, and I
presume it has been so in this case."
Fanny Gunderson rose, pale and trembling with anger. "If you think you
have insulted me enough, I will go home," said she. "I told the story
about Eunice because it came from one of Mrs. Ferarra's own family, and
from Julia, who pretended to know."
"Why didn't you tell of the contradiction when that came from Mrs.
Ferarra's own family?" asked Matilda. "I didn't hear of your running
down to Mrs. Murray's with that the first minute you got it."
"Hush, Matilda!" said Miss Ackerman.—"Fanny, my words did not apply
any more to you than to any one else who has repeated this story. I
consider that every person who repeats a slander without knowing it
to be true makes himself a partaker in the guilt of the slander. To
tell a true story to any person's injury, needlessly, is an act of
evil-speaking; to make up such a story is lying; to repeat it without
knowing it to be true is slandering; and all are offences against that
charity which we are told is the greatest of the three heavenly graces
(1 Cor. xiii. 13), and without which all our doings, though we 'should
give all our goods to feed the poor, and our bodies to be burned,' are
nothing worth."
"But it is needful to speak evil sometimes," said one of the girls.
"It may be necessary once in a thousand times perhaps," answered Miss
Ackerman, smiling.
"Please, Miss Ackerman, don't say any more about the matter," said
Eunice, speaking for the first time. "All the harm that was done was
done thoughtlessly, I am sure. I know Fanny is sorry that she helped to
injure me, though she does not say so. It is all over now, and no one
is the worse. Please don't say any more about it."
"You are a good girl, Eunice Riker," said Minny Haynes, almost as if
the words came against her will. "I don't suppose you'll ever forgive
me."
"Yes indeed I will," answered Eunice heartily. "I do too many wrong
things myself to afford to be unforgiving."
"Dear me! What a pious set we are!" sneered Fanny—"Quite too good for
such a sinner as I am; so I will go away and leave you. You can just
tell your sister, Miss Hazleton, that I will never speak to her again
the longest day I live."
"I fear you will never have a chance, Fanny," said Miss Emma.
"I don't care if I don't," returned Fanny. "I think this has been just
a great fuss about nothing."
"That is it exactly: who made the fuss?" said Matilda.
"You did most of it—running and telling your Sunday-school teacher
everything, like a good little girl in a book," retorted Fanny. "As for
Eunice, she is a sanctimonious little humbug, who just flatters rich
folks for what she can get. I dare say she let the bear out herself,
just to get a chance to make a scene."
The universal laugh which greeted this reasonable supposition was too
much for Fanny, and she burst into a violent flood of tears.
"Come! Come!" said Mrs. Ackerman. "I think, with Eunice, that the
subject had better be dropped. Fanny has had her lesson, which I am
sure she will not forget, and when she takes time to think about it,
she will see that she has nothing to complain of. My advice to you
all is, to go out on the lawn and see which of you can make the best
shots, with the new bows and arrows, which came down from the city
this morning; only take care you don't shoot each other.—Come with me,
Fanny, and don't cry any more."
The girls were not unwilling to take Mrs. Ackerman's advice, for
archery was then just becoming the rage, and all were anxious to try
their skill. Fanny joined them after a while. Her tears had cooled her
anger, and she was able to see that she was in a false position, from
which there was but one way of escape. She was not naturally malicious
or silly, but she had been brought up by a stepmother who was both, and
to whom scandal was as the breath of her nostrils.
"Girls," said she in a pause of the games, "I have been very wrong and
foolish this afternoon. I am sorry; and, Eunice, I am sorry I told the
story about you, and I hope you will forgive me."
"Good!" said Matilda. "I call that talking like a lady."
"I am sure I do forgive you, Fanny," said Eunice, kissing her. "Don't
think any more about it."
"Only just enough to keep her from doing so again," said Ida; and there
the matter ended.
CHAPTER XIII.
_CONCLUSION._
TWO or three days after the class-meeting, Mrs. Murray called on Mrs.
Riker. She was influenced by two reasons: she was really anxious to
repair the injustice of which she had been guilty, and she wanted to
get her baby-clothes done up for less money than Sarah Southmayd asked
her. Mrs. Riker thanked her, but said quietly that she thought Mrs.
Murray had better keep on with Sarah, who was an excellent laundress
and very careful.
"But she is such a fuss!" said Mrs. Murray, who was used to having her
own way, and who expected that Mrs. Riker would be glad enough to get
the work back again. "She asks more than you do, and she won't have
them at all unless I make out two lists every time; and that is such a
bother. Come, Mrs. Riker, you shouldn't bear malice."
"I have nothing to bear malice about," replied Mrs. Riker with a gentle
dignity which "quenched" Mrs. Murray's intention of patronage at once.
"I am not going to take in any more washing at present. I cannot well
do it without Eunice's help, and she will be otherwise engaged; and
besides, I have unexpectedly received a legacy which will make it
perfectly easy for me to live without hard work."
"Dear me!" said Mrs. Murray, very much disappointed. "How much is this
great fortune, if I may ask?"
"Oh, it is no great fortune—only an annuity of two hundred a year for
my life," replied Mrs. Riker, smiling; "but that, with my pension and
what fine sewing I can do, will make me quite independent."
"And pray what is Eunice going to do?—Teach school, I suppose?" said
Mrs. Murray pettishly. "That may be more genteel than washing fine
things, but I don't think she will find it easier or more profitable."
"Eunice is not going to teach, but to study," replied Mrs. Riker. "She
has a fine voice and a decided talent for music, and Mrs. Ferarra has
most kindly undertaken to give her a musical education."
"But, dear me! She won't do anything at it," said Mrs. Murray. "Her
hands will never manage the piano, beginning so late in life and after
she has spoiled them with hard work. Besides, where will she get a
piano?"
"Professor C— thinks she will do very well, and he says it is all the
better for her that she has never had any singing-lessons heretofore.
He spent some time trying her voice, and says it is an uncommonly fine
one. As to the piano, Mrs. Hazleton is kind enough to lend her one for
the present."
"Dear me!" said Mrs. Murray. "I thought the Hazletons professed to be
very exclusive people, but I suppose they patronize Eunice on account
of that fuss about the bear. Well, Mrs. Riker, I am sure I hope this
money and patronage will be an advantage to you. I suppose Eunice will
end by going on the stage."
Mrs. Riker did not reply, and Mrs. Murray departed very much vexed, to
tell the news that the Ferarras and Hazletons had taken up that Riker
girl, and were going to make her a public singer.
"Did you hear what Mrs. Murray was saying, Fanny?" asked Mrs.
Gunderson. "She tells me the Ferarras are so taken with Eunice Riker's
voice that they are going to educate her for the stage. Pretty good
promotion that, for one of Miss Ackerman's pet saints!"
"Nonsense!" returned Fanny, not very dutifully. "Mrs. Murray is a
goose. It is true that Mrs. Ferarra is going to give Eunice a musical
education—Eunice told me that herself—but I don't suppose there has
ever been anything said or thought about the stage. I should think we
had had about enough of talking about Eunice Riker, ma—and about other
people too, for that matter."
Fanny improved very much after the class-meeting at Miss Ackerman's.
Her stepmother married again, and Fanny, by her own desire, went to
live with her grandmother and aunts. The elder Mrs. Gunderson and her
daughters were women of refinement and cultivation, whose minds were
occupied with something besides the concerns of their neighbors. From
them Fanny learned to take an interest in books and in all sorts of
good works. She is now an assistant district visitor under her aunt,
and is also very much occupied with the study of ferns and mosses, of
which she has made a fine collection, and she bids fair to be a useful
and respectable woman.
It was, as Fanny said, quite true that Mrs. Ferarra had taken Eunice's
music in hand. We have heard her allude to "Carmen's dowry." When
Anita's twin sister died at the age of five years, Mrs. Ferarra began
the practice of laying aside every year as much money as Carmen would
have cost her had she lived. This sum was of course increased year by
year. It was called "Carmen's dowry," and was expended for the benefit
of some deserving person—if possible, a young girl. *
* I know a lady—now, alas! a childless mother—who has pursued this
course for years.
Mrs. Ferarra had first been led to notice Eunice by her remarkable
voice. Her esteem for the modest, industrious girl increased with
acquaintance, and was confirmed by the way Eunice had passed through
her late severe trial. She consulted with her husband, and the result
was that the money which would have paid for Carmen's music, had she
lived, went to provide for Eunice the best instruction the city could
afford. Mrs. Hazleton no sooner heard of the plan than she begged
permission to assist in it, and did so in the best way by lending
Eunice a fine cottage piano.
"Present it to the young person, Mrs. Hazleton my dear," said
her husband. "It is the least acknowledgment we can make for the
inestimable services rendered under circumstances of such extreme peril
to our poor, unfortunate child."
"Perhaps it would be better to make the instrument a loan at first,"
Mrs. Hazleton said to her husband. "Then, if Eunice shows that she
has taste and perseverance, we can make it a gift or perhaps exchange
it for a better one. If she has not, we can cast about for some other
way of rewarding her. But we must proceed with care not to hurt Mrs.
Riker's and Eunice's self-respect, of which they have a great deal."
"And rightly, too—quite rightly. They are most worthy people, and
have as much right to self-respect as persons whom fortune has more
highly favored. You are quite right, Mrs. Hazleton my dear, and very
judicious. Manage it your own way," said Mr. Hazleton, who was a
worthy, right-thinking gentleman, though he had a great opinion of his
own consequence, and talked like Mr. Micawber and Dr. Johnson rolled
into one.
Julia continued very ill for a long time. After the height of her fever
was passed, she fell into a state of extreme weakness, both of body
and mind. She could neither sit up, nor bear any conversation, nor
read, nor even be read to, and it seemed for a time as if her mind was
likely to give way entirely. As soon as she was able to travel on a
sleeping-car, her mother took her to the Springs and placed her under
the care of Dr. Henry. Here she improved slowly, with many ups and
downs, but at last she recovered her health in some measure, so as to
be no longer a burden to herself and her friends, though she was never
well. That loose staple which was to be mended to-morrow spoiled a life.
The box was packed and despatched, and in due time came a letter
from Mrs. Swift, which was read to the whole class assembled at Mrs.
Ackerman's. I transcribe a part of it for the reader's benefit:
"DEAR MADAM:
"Three days since we received a notice that a box was awaiting us at
Siskowitz Station, six miles off, and yesterday a kind neighbor brought
it over to us. My husband assembled the whole family round the box, and
we had a prayer and sung a hymn of thanksgiving before we opened it. *
I wish you could have peeped in and seen the faces of the children, and
especially that of my poor little lame seven-year-old girl, when the
box marked with her name was put into her hands and she discovered the
beautiful doll, with the note 'introducing Flora Arabella.'"
* A simple fact.
Mary Edgar jumped up and clapped her hands, while her eyes danced with
delight:
"So that is what papa did with the doll? He never would tell me. How
glad I am!—Please excuse me for interrupting, Miss Ackerman."
"Oh, we can excuse you without any difficulty," said Miss Ackerman,
smiling.
"Anna never has had any but a home-made doll before," read on Percy,
"and her joy was almost too great for utterance. She says, 'Tell Mary
Edgar that I will think of her every night and morning when I say my
prayers.'"
"It was not I that sent it; it was papa. I sold it to him," said honest
little Mary, very much delighted. "I will tell him what she says."
"Ethelind desires especially to thank the young ladies who have
provided her with such a beautiful wardrobe. The things fit perfectly,
and I only fear they are too fine for a poor missionary's daughter. As
I wrote before, she had a presentation to an excellent school, but we
feared she would be unable to avail herself of it, because we literally
could not procure decent clothes for her. She sends her thanks and
good wishes, and says she will try to do credit to her kind friends
in Rockdale; and I think she will do so, for, though 'I say it that
shouldn't,' she is a good Christian girl and a great comfort to father
and mother. I do not know how to particularize when everything is so
nice. Baby looks very pretty and feels very comfortable in his new
frock, sacque, and red shoes."
"Dear little man!" said Eunice.—"Don't you wish we could see him,
Phebe?"
"Mr. Swift wishes particularly to thank the young lady who sent the
stationery; and I would say the same for the box of working things. We
can hardly procure a decent sheet of paper or a good needle here for
any money. The books are a great pleasure to the whole family. I trust
the young lady who sent them is better by this time. She shall not want
our prayers for her health, both of soul and body."
"Poor Julia!" said three or four voices together.
Percy read on:
"In conclusion, let me thank you, every one, for the pleasure and
comfort you have given us—pleasure and comfort such as you can never
understand unless you should be situated as we are. Lest I should
seem to repine, however, I will say that neither Mr. Swift nor myself
have ever regretted for one moment the decision we made when we gave
ourselves to the work of the Lord in the missionary field. I speak for
him as well as myself when I say that after sixteen years' experience,
with all their hardships and privations, if the thing were to do again,
we would decide as we did before. Wishing our dear friends in Rockdale
all the blessings here and hereafter which our common Master has to
bestow, we remain—
"Your sincere and obliged friends,
"RICHARD AND STELLA SWIFT."
"What a nice letter!" said Ida.
"Yes indeed—just the kind I like," added Matilda. "It tells what one
wants to know."
"I don't think it is quite as nice as the one the Wood street people
got when they sent their box," observed Phebe Goodman. "That had so
many nice reflections and was written in such beautiful language!"
"I hate beautiful language; and as to reflections, I like to make my
own," said Matilda.—"Don't you, Miss Ackerman?"
"Why, yes, Matilda, I must confess I do," said Miss Ackerman, smiling;
"but different people have different tastes, you know.—I think, girls,
we ought to be pleased with the result of our work. We have 'both done
good and got good,' as an old author says whom I was reading this
morning. Is not that true?"
"I'm sure it is true for me," said Matilda.
"And for me," said Ida. "I think if I ever have the use of my hand
again, I shall want to sew and practise all day long."
"Can't you use it yet?" asked some one.
"Only a very little. The end of the bone is so tender it won't bear any
pressure, but I am thankful to be able to dress myself. I never knew
what a thumb was worth before."
"We don't know what a good many of our blessings are worth till we lose
them," remarked Anita. "After all, a good deal of trouble grew out of
the box, too."
"Yes, but how well it has all turned out!" said Eunice. "Even Fanny
Gunderson says that it will be a lesson to her as long as she lives;
and I believe it will."
"It may be a lesson to all of us," remarked Miss Ackerman, "if we only
use it rightly—if we only remember that charity does not consist in
giving nor making great and painful sacrifices.
"'Though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my
body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing.'
1 Cor. xiii. 3.
"It is love which must be the fountain and spring of all our efforts;
not a mere sentiment which is at the mercy of every passing gust and
every frost of feeling, but love as a principle—such love as the
Saviour meant when he said,—
"'He that hath my commandments and keepeth them, he it is that loveth
me'—
"Such love as he showed when he died to atone for our sins and bring us
to God—such love as the apostle describes when he says,—
"'Love worketh no ill to his neighbor: therefore love is the fulfilling
of the law.'"
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