Transcriber's notes: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.

OLDHAM

OR

BESIDE ALL WATERS

BY

LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY

AUTHOR OF "LOVEDAY'S HISTORY," "LADY BETTY'S GOVERNESS,"
"IRISH AMY," ETC.

NEW YORK

THOMAS WHITTAKER

2 AND 3 BIBLE HOUSE

1886

COPYRIGHT, 1885
BY THOMAS WHITTAKER.

ELECTROTYPED AND PRINTED
BY RAND, AVERY, AND COMPANY
BOSTON.

PREFACE.

   I THINK this book tells its own story, such as it is. It is simply a tale of quiet country life in a New England parish, with some of its oddities and advantages, and a little of the tragedy which is found everywhere. It is not meant specially either for old or young, though I hope both classes may find entertainment and profit in it.

   One word as to the Bible-class service. I believe such neighborhood meetings would be found of the utmost advantage both in city and country parishes. In the city especially may always be found a large class of women who have been brought up to attend church regularly, but have fallen out of the habit, at first, perhaps, kept at home by the cares of young children, and afterward from indifference. Such persons may often be induced to attend a service in a neighbor's house or some such place, of an evening, when they would not go to church. My idea of such services would be to make them "Bible-readings," in which all should be invited to take part. I do believe that a great deal of good might be done in this way.

LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY.

CONTENTS.

——————

CHAPTER I.

THE RED SCHOOLHOUSE

CHAPTER II.

NEIGHBORHOOD NEWS

CHAPTER III.

KIT AT HOME

CHAPTER IV.

STRANGERS

CHAPTER V.

THE MEETING

CHAPTER VI.

THE ENEMY

CHAPTER VII.

THE SPRINGING GRAIN

CHAPTER VIII.

THE SNAKES

CHAPTER IX.

TWO TEA-PARTIES

CHAPTER X.

THE BIRDS OF THE AIR

CHAPTER XI.

NEW PROJECTS

CHAPTER XII.

HARMONY AND DISCORD

CHAPTER XIII.

KIT'S VICTORY

CHAPTER XIV.

MISS VAN ZANDT

CHAPTER XV.

MORE CHANGES

CHAPTER XVI.

THE TEA-PARTY

CHAPTER XVII.

MRS. ORME

CHAPTER XVIII.

TROUBLE AT HOME

CHAPTER XIX.

OLDHAM AFFAIRS

CHAPTER XX.

WARNING

CHAPTER XXI.

THE NET CLOSED

CHAPTER XXII.

THE END

OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS.

CHAPTER I.

THE RED SCHOOLHOUSE.

IT was not in the least like the red schoolhouses one may see every day in the city. They are great piles of brick, usually all the uglier for the attempts at ornament bestowed upon them. They have any number of rooms for any number of grades, with A classes and B classes, and all the other machinery for grinding out scholars by the hundred, all done to one pattern. My red schoolhouse was more like the little "custom mill," built by the side of a dashing, flashing mill-stream, with trees growing about it, and a row of sheds where stand steady, sober old horses, patiently waiting while their owners sit inside or about the mill-door discussing politics and neighborhood news and waiting in their turn for their separate "grists" of sweet-smelling meal and flour. There was just such a mill not far from the red schoolhouse; and the hum of the machinery could be heard in the schoolroom when the boys and girls were particularly quiet, as was the case on the special occasion when my story begins.

There had been a talk two or three times, in school-meeting, of re-furnishing the schoolhouse on modern principles, but it had never been carried out. A long desk ran around two sides of the room, with a bench before it where the elder scholars sat; in front of this bench was another, mostly used for recitations; and before all, a still lower seat for the little ones who were just learning their letters. The rest of the furniture consisted of the teacher's desk and chair, standing on a platform by themselves; a good serviceable blackboard, a little the worse for wear; and a map of the world, and another of the United States, which was so many States behind the times that it must needs be an old inhabitant.

There were not more than twenty scholars present that June afternoon. And those were mostly girls or very little boys, for the big boys of the district were busy with another branch of their education,—helping their fathers on the farm. All the children were seated with their faces toward the teacher, and the room was so still that the hum of the mill sounded like the drone of a big bumble-bee. Miss Armstrong was standing on the platform, her hand resting upon a book which she had apparently just laid down. She could not be called a very pretty woman, and yet there was that in her face and manner which made one look at her again. She had a certain air of peace and cheerfulness overlying steadiness and resolution,—what you would call a face to be trusted.

"She looks as if she had come through the wars, and 'beat,'" said Patience Fletcher, who, poor thing, had been beaten many times in her warfare.

All the children joined in the repetition
of the Lord's Prayer with one exception.

"Now, let me hear you say that verse all together," said Miss Armstrong; "and then we will join in repeating the Lord's Prayer. I hope I shall hear every voice. Stand up, if you please."

Every voice was heard as the children repeated, in tones that were reverent from feeling,—

   "'Like as a father pitieth his own children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him.'"

All the children joined in the repetition of the Lord's Prayer, with one exception. A thin, dark little girl with black, crispy hair, stood looking down at her closely clasped hands with a curious movement about her lips. You would say she had much ado not to burst out crying.

As the school was dismissed, and this little girl made her courtesy at the door (for this school was so far behind the times that "manners" were still taught therein), she suddenly raised her eyes, and looked her teacher in the face. Those eyes of Kit's were always a kind of surprise. They were dark violet-blue, with black level brows, and very long black lashes,—Irish blue eyes,—and had an extraordinary brilliancy about them, like precious stones or sunlit water. They now flashed upon Miss Armstrong with a look of love and thankfulness which went to the teacher's heart.

"'She' has taken in something, at any rate," thought Miss Armstrong. "I must talk more with her. I wonder why she did not join in the prayer."

Somebody else wondered also; for the moment she was outside the door, Kit was met with the sharp question,—

"Kit Mallory, why didn't you say the Lord's Prayer?"

"I don't know it," replied Kit, coloring up to the roots of her hair. And then, after a moment, she added, as if with an effort, "Our folks don't believe in such things."

"You wicked girl!" exclaimed the first speaker, a pretty well grown girl of sixteen, very neatly dressed. "You wicked child, not to believe in the Lord's Prayer!"

"I didn't say I didn't believe in it: I said I didn't know it," replied Kit with some spirit. "How can I believe in what I don't know any thing about?"

"Well, you ought to know it, then," said Selina. "You could have learned it if you had chosen, I know."

Kit did not seem disposed to pursue the subject. She walked a little way down the road, climbed the bars, and was soon ascending the rocky hill-pasture.

"I declare, I don't think that girl ought to be allowed to come to school," said Selina. "Phin Mallory is a regular infidel, and Melissa makes all kinds of fun of religion. Kit isn't Phin's niece, either, though she calls him uncle. She is only a little foundling taken out of the poorhouse; Melissa told me so herself."

"If she had been out of the orphan-asylum, it would have been all right, I suppose," said a girl who had not yet spoken.

It was now Selina's turn to color. Her eyes flashed, and she turned absolutely white with anger.

"For shame, Sarah!" said Faith Fletcher. "It isn't Selina's fault."

"Nor Kit's either."

"Oh, don't trouble yourself to take my part, Faith," said Selina in a voice which trembled with anger. "If Sarah—" But here she stopped; and, tying on her bonnet, she walked rapidly away in a direction opposite to that which Kit had taken.

"You are too bad, Sarah," said Faith. "Now she will go home and cry half the night."

"Why am I too bad, any more than she?" asked Sarah. "What did she say about Kit?"

"Two wrongs don't make a right," said Faith, very truly.

"And as to her crying, what is there to cry about?" continued Sarah. "I think she might be thankful that she has a good home. Nobody would ever think of her being an adopted child if she did not put on such airs. I must say I do like to take her down."

"And how do you like it when somebody takes you down?" asked Faith.

"When it happens, I will tell you," said Sarah lightly. "Where is that child?—Come, Gerty. You can't stay to play to-night: I promised to come home early, and help mother."

"And I must go home and help sister," said Faith, with a little sigh, as if the prospect were not the most alluring in the world. "Come, children. Eddy, see how you have mussed up your clean apron; and Eben has got his knees all green on the grass. What do you think sister will say? Take hold of hands now, and walk along pretty."

The prospect of what sister would say seemed to have a very sobering effect on the little boy and girl—twins of six years old. They at once gave up their play, and marched off in the most orderly manner. Faith followed them.

And when Miss Armstrong came out of the schoolhouse and locked the door, there was not a human being in sight. She hesitated a moment, and then took the same road that Kit had followed. She had gone about a quarter of a mile, when she stopped, and looked about her with a puzzled expression. As she did so, a light figure sprang over the stone wall, and Kit Mallory stood beside her.

"Please, Miss Armstrong, ain't you taking the wrong road?" said she as soon as she could gather breath enough to speak. "Don't you want to go to Mr. Weston's to-night?"

"To be sure I do, Kitty," answered Miss Armstrong. "I was just thinking I had made a mistake. Have I come very far out of my way?"

"Well, quite a piece," answered Kit, "but if you don't mind going cross-lots, I could show you a shorter way than the road. It's real pretty, too, only it is kind of steep part of the way."

"I don't mind the steepness at all, and I love to go cross-lots," answered Miss Armstrong. "I am not sure that I can climb that wall quite as easily as you did, however."

"There are bars only a little way from here," said Kit: "I can take them down for you."

"How did you come to my help so opportunely, Kitty?" asked Miss Armstrong as they walked along toward the bars.

"I saw you from the hill," answered Kit as she took down the bars, and then carefully put them up again. "There is a little hollow up yonder, where I always stop to rest. It is real pretty when you get there. Now we have to go up, you see, but it isn't so steep very far."

Miss Armstrong not only saw, but felt, the steepness of the path, which taxed all her strength for a few minutes, for she was not used to mountain-climbing. Presently, however, they came to a kind of break or niche in the steep rocky ledge which crowned the hill like a rampart. The grass in this hollow was short and fine, and beautifully green; and lovely tufts of lady-fern and maiden-hair grew about the rocks. A low, wide-spreading oak-tree stood at the entrance of the nook; and a bright, clear spring, bursting to light from under the ledge, made quite a deep pool, and then prattled cheerfully away down the mountain-side. The view from the spot was lovely enough to have pleased a more cultivated eye than Kit's. The long valley, with the river and the road winding through it, was spread out like a map; and the "folded hills" rose one behind the other, till the prospect was closed by the top of a great blue mountain. Almost at their feet lay the schoolhouse, and Bassett's mill with its flashing mill-dam. Miss Armstrong uttered an exclamation of delight.

"I'm glad you think it pretty," said Kit. "Please sit down and rest."

As she spoke, she pointed out a flat rock as a desirable seat. And then, disappearing for a little, she presently came back with one hand full of young wintergreens, and the other of the last year's stems, each with its coral berry.

"I can get you a drink if you like," said she. And searching in a hollow among the rocks, she brought out a cracked teacup, which she filled at the spring-head, and offered to Miss Armstrong.

"Thank you, my dear; this is very refreshing," said Miss Armstrong. "You have made me a nice little treat. I do not wonder you like to stop here."

"I think it is pleasant," said Kit: "you can see so far, and the colors are so nice. Folks say red houses are ugly and old-fashioned, but somehow the red schoolhouse and mill seem just to fit in—I don't know how to say what I mean."

"I understand you," said Miss Armstrong. "They do just exactly fit in, as you say. You have an eye for color, Kitty."

"I love colors, I know that," said Kit; and then, her face darkening as if with an unpleasant recollection, "Melissa says I am a fool because I love flowers, and because I am always picking up stones, and snail-shells. She threw away all my pretty stones that I got up on the mountain, but I'll be even with her some day."

"You should not speak like that," said Miss Armstrong gently. "Don't you know that it is wrong to wish for revenge?"

"Is it?" asked Kit.

"Yes, my dear. Do you never read the Bible?"

"I never saw only the outside of one," answered Kit. "Uncle Phin won't have one in the house. He says all pious people are humbugs, and that it was religion that made aunt Martha crazy."

"Is your aunt crazy?" asked Miss Armstrong.

"Yes, ma'am. She isn't raving crazy all the time, but she just sits still in her chair, and takes no notice of any thing. Sometimes she would not eat any thing for days together if Symantha or uncle Phin did not coax her. They are real good to her, but Melissa hasn't a mite of patience with her."

"And would you like to read the Bible, Kitty?"

"Yes, ma'am, if there are nice stories in it," answered Kit doubtfully. "I love stories."

"And so do I," said Miss Armstrong. "Yes, there are plenty of beautiful stories in the Bible. But that is not the reason we love it: it is because the Bible is God's word,—his letter or message to us, to teach us about him. If you had a kind friend out in California, and he should write you a letter saying he had a delightful home all ready for you, and telling you what you must do in order to come to that home, you would think a great deal of that letter, wouldn't you? You would want to read it over and over, and learn all it had to tell you."

"I guess I would!" said Kit with emphasis. "I would learn it off by heart, and think about it all the time."

"Well, the Bible is very much such a letter to us. In it, our Heavenly Father tells us about Himself, and all He has done for us, and especially how He sent His Son to take our nature upon Him, and die for us on the cross, and then to rise from the dead, and go into heaven to make ready a place for those who love Him."

Kit looked puzzled for a moment, and then her eyes lighted up.

"I believe I read about Him in the 'Pilgrim's Progress,'" said she. "Isn't He the Lord that it tells about?"

"Yes," answered Miss Armstrong. "So you have read the 'Pilgrim's Progress'?"

"Not all of it. I found an old, torn book of it up in the garret when we came here; and it was a story, so I read it. Uncle Phin said it was all a heap of nonsense, like 'Bluebeard' and 'Jack the Giant-Killer,' but it always did seem to me more than that. So there really is such a person?"

Miss Armstrong looked at the child for a moment in amazement. With all her experience, she found it hard to realize that here, in the midst of a Christian community, was a child of twelve who could ask such a question. Kit did not understand the teacher's glance, and took it for one of displeasure.

"I don't know any thing, hardly," she said humbly, "only to read and write a little. Where we lived out West, there was hardly ever any church or meeting, and we only had school three or four months in the year. When we came here, Miss Celia Claxton called, and asked uncle Phin to let me come to Sunday school, but he wouldn't: and he talked so to her she has never been near us since. He says religion is all priestcraft and lies, and that nobody really believes in it."

"That is a great mistake, and one that I fear he will be very sorry for some day," said Miss Armstrong. "Kitty, my dear child, before I go, I want to teach you a verse out of the Bible. Listen, and say it after me."

It was with a very serious face that Kit repeated after her friend,—

   "'God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.'"

One or two repetitions enabled her to say the verse perfectly.

Then Miss Armstrong took out of her pocket a pretty little card, on which was printed that time-honored and always beautiful prayer which begins,—

   "Now I lay me down to sleep,—"

and also a verse for the morning.

"I will give you this for your own," said she. "Learn these verses, and say them night and morning. But, Kitty, if you want your Heavenly Father to give you any thing else, you can ask Him in your own words. He will always hear you if you ask for the sake of Jesus Christ our Lord."

"And will He always give it to me?" asked Kit eagerly.

"Yes, if it is best for you to have it. But He knows better than we do what is good for us; and when we ask for what we ought not to have, He does not give it."

"I see," said Kit thoughtfully. "Just as if a baby should want a sharp knife: its mother would not let it have the knife, if the baby cried ever so hard."

"I see you understand me, my dear. Now we must walk on, or we shall be late.

"Have you always lived with your uncle, Kitty?" asked Miss Armstrong as they walked down the hill.

"No, ma'am. Melissa says uncle took me out of the poorhouse, but I don't believe it," said Kit in a confidential tone. "I remember a place that was not a bit like the poorhouse."

"What was it like?" asked Miss Armstrong.

Kit stopped for an instant, seeming to send her thoughts inward. "It was a room with a bright carpet on the floor," said she. "I used to sit on the floor, and run my fingers over the figures. And there were plants, like Miss Claxton's, and a big bird. That is all I can remember when I am awake. Sometimes I dream about another place where I have been, but I can't tell what it is like. And it doesn't seem to me as if my name was Keturah, either."

"Perhaps it was Catherine," suggested Miss Armstrong.

"I can't tell," said Kit, knitting her brows. "It doesn't seem as if that was it exactly. I asked Symantha one day, but she hushed me up, and told me never to talk about it, because uncle Phin would be very angry if he knew. But I think about it a great deal," concluded Kit with a kind of triumph in her tone. "They can't keep me from thinking."

"Here is Mr. Weston now," said Miss Armstrong as they came out of the pasture into the lane which led out to the road beside a great barn.

"Well, I declare! I was just going to hitch up, and go after you," said Mr. Weston. "You staid so long, I thought you must be lost."

"That is exactly what happened to me," replied Miss Armstrong. "I stupidly took the wrong turn coming out of the schoolhouse; and I don't know where I should have been by this time if Kitty had not come to my rescue, and brought me over the hill. We should have been here long before, only that we sat down for a rest and a chat."

"Did you put up the bars, Kit?" asked Mr. Weston.

"Yes, sir, I always do when I take them down, but I generally climb over," answered Kit. "I must be going," she added with an effort. "Symantha will want me."

"Wait a minute," said Mr. Weston. He went into the barn as he spoke, and came back with a basketful of June russet apples.

"There! You don't see many such apples this time of year," said he.

"Oh, thank you!" said Kit gratefully. "Aunt Martha will eat an apple sometimes when she won't touch any thing else."

"That child has hard times, I am afraid," said Mr. Weston, as Kit disappeared behind the barn. "But what has become of Selina?"

"I have not seen her at all," replied Miss Armstrong. "I supposed she came directly home."

"Here she is now.—Why, Selina! How was it you did not wait for Miss Armstrong?"

"I forgot," answered Selina, coloring; "and when I went back, she was gone."

"Your wits were wool-gathering, as usual, I guess," said Mr. Weston. "Only for Kit Mallory, Miss Armstrong might have been halfway to Oldbury by this time. However, all's well that ends well. Run into the house now, and help ma. Aunt Betsy Burr and Miss Claxton have just come in, and will stay to tea."

"Just my luck, exactly," said Selina to herself. "Somebody always gets my chance. I wanted to walk home with Miss Armstrong, and have a nice talk with her; and now she will think me a perfect fool. It is all Sarah Leet's fault, putting every thing out of my head. And now Aunt Betsy has come, and no one else will have a chance to put in a word. It is too bad!"

CHAPTER II.

NEIGHBORHOOD NEWS.

"WELL," said Aunt Betsy as she finished buttering her biscuit, and began stirring up her tea, "well, and how do you like your school?"

"Very well, so far," answered Miss Armstrong, "but these are early times, you know."

"Yes, I know," said Aunt Betsy, with a solemn shake of the head. "New brooms sweep clean. There was Malvina Spencer: she was going to do great things, but she almost broke up the school with her nonsense. And there was that Miss O'Hara. But what could any one expect of 'her?'" added Aunt Betsy with scornful emphasis. "Any one might have known how it would turn out."

"Yes, it was easy to see how it would turn out," said Mr. Weston dryly. "So long as so many were prejudiced against her beforehand, and determined not to see any good in her, whatever she did, it was no great wonder she failed."

"Why were they prejudiced against her?" asked Miss Armstrong. "She had a pretty name in her favor, and a distinguished one, if that is any thing."

"Pretty, indeed!" said Aunt Betsy with a sniff. "Why, her father was an Irishman,—just a regular Irishman,—who came here, and hired out to old Judge Davis down at the cross-roads. No, it was to Abner Davis, up at the Corners, he went first, come to think. When he had saved a little money, he bought the Mudge place, and mended up the old house so it was quite smart. But he was a regular Irishman, for all that, and came from Ireland, for I heard him say so. And he said he wasn't ashamed of it, that's more!" And Aunt Betsy looked triumphantly at her host, as if to defy him to dispute her position.

"He was a Protestant, and very regular at church and communion; and he was a clever man, too," said Mr. Weston, using the word "clever" in its New England sense. "I remember how he used to do your chores for you, Aunt Betsy, when Uncle Jonathan had the fever."

Aunt Betsy became suddenly busy with her tea.

"But what had the fact of Miss O'Hara's being Irish to do with her success in the school?" asked Miss Armstrong.

"Well, you see, it rather set people against her," answered Miss Celia, a mild elderly lady, who had not yet spoken. "We think a great deal of descent in these parts, Miss Armstrong; and though I had nothing against Miss O'Hara myself,—indeed, I always thought her a very nice girl,—yet it did 'not' seem as if she were a fit person to be set over children whose ancestors are buried all over Oldfield County,—the daughter of a new-come-over Irish man."

"According to that, our first teachers in this country must all have been very unsuitable persons," said Mrs. Weston. "They were all new-come-over then, you know."

"To be sure," said Miss Celia. "Really, cousin Abby, I don't know that I ever looked upon it in that light. Certainly, we were all new-come-over once,—at least, our ancestors were, unless they were Indians like old Abner Kettle."

"Indians, indeed! I wonder at you, Celia Claxton," said Aunt Betsy indignantly. "You, whose grandfathers and great-grandfathers are buried in this very graveyard, to compare yourself to old Abner Kettle, whose daughter married a Feejee Islander or something like that! But, as to the school, I am glad Miss Armstrong likes it, though these are new times, as I said. There are some dreadful wild girls in the district. There's—"

"Excuse me, Aunt Betsy, but suppose we leave Miss Armstrong to find out for herself," interposed Mr. Weston. "What is this I hear about the stone house? It seems we are to have new neighbors before long."

Aunt Betsy tossed her head, but the bait was too tempting not to be taken.

"Why, yes, haven't you heard? Of course you know all about it, Celia. You have a right if any one has; for that place ought to belong to you and Delia, if every one had their dues."

"We have never laid the least claim to it," said Miss Celia calmly. "Richard Van Zandt was only a very distant relation, and we had no expectations whatever from him."

"Not in 'that' line, perhaps," said Aunt Betsy with an ill-natured laugh.

Miss Celia's fair old face flushed a little, but she took no notice of the remark.

"Anyhow, Dick was your mother's own second cousin, if you call that very distant. I don't."

"It is not very near, at any rate," said Miss Celia. "We were always friendly with Richard, but we saw nothing of him for many years. His sister-in-law, Mrs. Barbara Van Zandt, was very kind to him, and he died at her house; so it is no wonder he left his property to her. Delia and myself would hardly have known what to do with such a house. It would have been a great trouble to us."

"You would have known what to do with the money, though."

"We have enough," said Miss Celia with dignity, "and that is as good as a feast."

"I don't suppose there was much money in the case," observed Mr. Weston. "Dick Van Zandt was never rich, and he was one who gave away with both hands whatever he had. I understand from Squire Davis that the place was left to Mrs. Van Zandt, who is very wealthy, on condition that it should be kept up, and that some member of the family should now and then spend a summer there."

"Yes: the old lady and two or three of her nieces or grand-nieces are coming pretty soon, so Aunt Aggy told me," said Mrs. Weston. "I was up there yesterday, and found her sweeping and clearing up at a great rate. She took me through the house, and it was quite a wonder to see the order it was in. I would not have believed it had stood empty so long. Even the carpets looked as good as new."

"The house was handsomely furnished, to begin with. And was Aggy pleased with the prospect?" asked Miss Celia, much interested.

"Oh, yes! She says she and Mrs. Van Zandt were girls together."

"Mrs. Van Zandt's father was a Butler, I know, but her mother was a Bogardus, and connected with all the Dutch folks over there in Rockvale," said Aunt Betsy, who was very strong in the matter of genealogy.

"I have heard that Mrs. Van Zandt is a very nice lady," observed Mrs. Weston.

"She is," said Miss Armstrong. "I know her well. And I am glad she is coming here: she is as blessing wherever she goes."

"Do tell!" exclaimed Aunt Betsy. "Real liberal with her money, I expect."

"Yes, and better than that,—very kind and judicious with it."

"She won't have very nice neighbors on one side, at any rate," said Aunt Betsy. "I shouldn't like to live next to those Mallorys."

"I don't suppose they will trouble her very much, unless the poor woman gets one of her screaming fits," said Miss Celia. "Is it true that the little girl—Kitty, or whatever her name is—comes to school, Miss Armstrong?"

"Yes, she was at school to-day; and a very bright, interesting child she seems."

"Well, I don't think it ought to be allowed," said Aunt Betsy: "her folks are regular infidels."

"So she tells me."

"She doesn't know the Lord's Prayer: she said so to-day," observed Selina. "She said her folks didn't believe in such things."

"Just so. Who knows what mischief the children may learn of her?"

"I do not think there is much danger in that direction," said Miss Armstrong. "From what little talk I had with her to-day, I should say Kitty is rather a heathen than an unbeliever: she is as ignorant of the Christian religion as any little South-sea Islander. But she seemed much interested in what I told her. It would be a great pity to deprive her of any chance, when she has so few. How does it happen that a family like the Mallorys should be found, in such a place as this?"

"Well, as to that, you know there are heathen everywhere," replied Mr. Weston. "Tom Mallory, the grandfather, was a great disciple and admirer of Tom Paine. Phin was always a wild fellow. But the women of the family were communicants of the Church, and old Tom never interfered with them; he said religion was a safe plaything for women. And to do him justice, he was really kind to his daughter-in-law and her boy, for Phin's father was killed before he was born. Phin went away West, and nobody heard any thing about him till he came back and took possession of the place last fall, when the old man died. There was another grandson, who was a favorite with old Tom, and some say the farm was left to him, but he has never turned up, and Phin says he died out West."

"Maybe Phin murdered him, to get the property," said Aunt Betsy. "Who knows?"

"Nobody knows, and therefore we won't suppose so," said Mr. Weston somewhat sharply. "He and Phin were always good friends. I always supposed Kit was his child, but Phin says she is not related to them at all. He says Symantha took a fancy to her, and adopted her."

"Yes, that is very likely, that she would go adopting a child," said Aunt Betsy. "Depend upon it, there's more than that about it."

"Melissa says they took her out of the poorhouse," said Selina.

"I wouldn't have much to say to Melissa if I were you," observed Mrs. Weston. "Well, ladies, if you have finished your tea, we will go into the other room, where it is cooler.—You may clear the table, and put away the things, Selina; and I will help you with the dishes by and by."

"Yes, that is always the way," muttered Selina: "always something to remind me that I am not one of the family."

It did not occur to Selina that if she had been one of the family, the same work would naturally have fallen to her share. She had lately taken to looking out for affronts; and affronts are like the spooks of the old Dutch proverb,—those who go to look for them can always find them.

"You are going to have other neighbors this summer," remarked Miss Celia as she took out her company knitting, a child's fine white stocking. "The Richmonds are coming back to Mrs. Gleason's."

Mr. and Mrs. Weston exchanged looks which were not by any means expressive of joy.

"I thought they said last summer they would not come again," said Mrs. Weston.

"It seems they have changed their minds; for Agnes Gleason told me she had just taken from the office a letter from Miss Amelia Richmond, in which she announced her mother's intention of passing the summer months in this neighborhood, and entering into negotiations for Mrs. Gleason's rooms. I confess I was sorry to hear it. I do not consider the influence of that family a very desirable one in this neighborhood."

"I quite agree with you, cousin Celia," said Mrs. Weston. "I am sorry they are coming back. I do not think the rush of summer boarders we have had of late years has been any special advantage, as you say."

"They bring a deal of money with them, if that is all," said Aunt Betsy, clicking her needles in a very different style from Miss Celia's rapid, noiseless manner of working.

"That is not quite all."

"And I don't think they have done Agnes Gleason any harm," continued Aunt Betsy: "she perfectly hates Milly Richmond."

"It is not very good for us to perfectly hate people," said Mrs. Weston, smiling. "I hope Mrs. Van Zandt's family will not be like the Richmonds."

"'Tain't likely we shall have a chance to see what they are like," said Aunt Betsy. "I hear they hold their heads very high. The pride of those Dutch folks in their families is perfectly ridiculous."

"For the matter of that, we think a good deal of our families in these parts," said Mrs. Weston, smiling.

"That is different," returned Aunt Betsy.

"From what I know of Mrs. Van Zandt and her nieces, I venture to predict that you will see them in Sunday school the very first Sunday," said Miss Armstrong.

"Then I think they might just as well wait till they are asked," retorted Aunt Betsy. "We don't want city folks poking in their noses, and finding fault with their betters, and with folks old enough to be their mothers." All of which Aunt Betsy delivered with a vengeful rattle of her knitting-needles, and a glance at Miss Armstrong which seemed to include her in the number of obnoxious "city folks."

"Mrs. Van Zandt is a Christian woman, then?" asked Miss Celia.

"That she is, and a very excellent and energetic one," answered Miss Armstrong. "It is the delight of her life to fit up boxes for missionaries and their families. I have known her to buy four or five dozen each of napkins, towels, sheets, and so forth, have them all hemmed by hand by some poor old ladies she knows (for she has never become reconciled to machine work), and within a month send them all to different missionaries' wives in the West and South, or in the city. My only wonder is, that she can make up her mind to remove so far from her beloved shops."

"Well, I didn't suppose there were many people of that kind in New York," said Aunt Betsy. "I supposed they were all given up to dress and fashion and frivolity."

"There are as many good Christian people in New York as in any place in the world," said Miss Armstrong with some emphasis. "Why, Mrs. Burr, who do you suppose keeps up and manages all the charities,—the hospitals, and missions, and schools, and orphan-asylums, and nurseries, and all the rest?"

Not having any answer at hand, Aunt Betsy took a pinch of snuff,—a practice not desirable in itself, but a convenience in such cases.

"I am glad to hear such an account of Mrs. Van Zandt," said Miss Celia, busily binding off her heel. "I felt disposed to like her, from what I heard of her kindness to Richard Van Zandt in his last days. But does not Mrs. Van Zandt work at all, herself?"

"She hems napkins, and knits," replied Miss Armstrong. "I should say she must use up a hundred weight or so of wool every year, in one way or another."

"That is a great deal, almost two pounds a week," said Miss Celia, who took every thing literally. "To be sure, she may use double wool."

"Double, treble, and single, and every other kind. She is sure to wish to convert you to the Welsh fashion of shaping heels, Miss Celia."

"There I 'cannot' agree with her," said Miss Celia with emphasis, and yet with a little apology in her tone, as if she felt it a liberty to disagree even with an unknown Mrs. Van Zandt. "I do 'not' like the Welsh heel: it is much harder to run and to mend, and it wears no better."

"I wonder what has become of Selina," said Mrs. Weston, rising.

She went into the wide, airy kitchen, which served as a dining-room in summer, and found Selina just finishing the last of the dishes.

"Why, my dear, you need not have washed the dishes," said she. "I told you to put them together and leave them, and I would help you."

"Oh, I could do them well enough: it is the hired girl's place, I suppose," said Selina in a voice which trembled in spite of her.

Mrs. Weston took no notice of this speech for the present.

When the company was gone, and family prayers were over,—a custom never omitted in the family in the busiest season,—she followed Selina to her own neat, pretty room.

"Selina," said she gravely, "you have two or three times lately used the expression 'hired girl.' I want to know what you mean by it."

Selina was already growing ashamed of her ill humor. Perhaps it would be more correct to say she was growing tired of it, more especially as its exercise had deprived her of the pleasure of hearing the remainder of Aunt Betsy's news. She twisted her handkerchief, and answered in a somewhat embarrassed tone,—

"Oh, well, every one knows what a hired girl is."

"A hired girl, as I understand it, is a woman who works for money in a place which is not her home. It is a very useful calling, and, when faithfully fulfilled, worthy of the highest respect," said Mrs. Weston, who had been a "school-ma'am" herself, and was habitually choice in her use of words. "Is that your condition? Do you work for wages? And are you in a strange family?"

"No, mother," answered Selina in a low tone. Her better self was getting the upper hand, but she was not quite ready to give way.

"Do you think you have more work put upon you than usually falls to the eldest daughter? More than Agnes Gleason, for instance?"

"I don't have so much to do as Agnes," replied Selina frankly. "She never gets to school before half-past nine when the Richmonds are staying there."

"And do you think that the things provided for you are given you as wages? Is this room, for instance, such as people usually give to servants?"

"No, mother," replied Selina. She paused a moment, and then added frankly, "I was cross, I suppose. Something happened at school which put me out."

"And so you came home and revenged that annoyance on me by saying something untrue to hurt my feelings. Was that right?"

"No, mother. But I did not think it was as bad as that. I am a wicked girl, and I always shall be," said Selina, bursting into tears. "I wish I had never been born."

"You will not mend matters by looking at them in that way," said Mrs. Weston. "A little sober, honest self-examination and repentance will do you more good than any amount of that sort of passion." She paused a moment, and then added very seriously,—

"Selina, Mr. Weston and myself have treated you as a dear daughter ever since you came to us. We have tried our best to make you happy and good. But for the last year, you have made us both very uncomfortable."

"I don't see how," murmured Selina.

"You can see well enough if you choose," replied Mrs. Weston. "Your father is very much displeased with you; and though we shall never cast you off, more than if you were our own, I fear, unless you turn over a new leaf, we shall have to make some different arrangement. My dear girl, why won't you trust your best friends, and try to be what they would have you?"

Selina sobbed that she was very sorry.

And Mrs. Weston, thinking she had said enough, kissed her good-night, and left her.

Selina, left alone, cried for some time longer, told herself how hard it was to be an orphan cast on the cold charities of the world, and shed a great many tears, as she imagined to the memory of the mother she had never seen. Then, growing tired of this mood, she said to herself that no doubt Mr. and Mrs. Weston meant to be kind to her in their way, and that it was her duty to be grateful. She would show that she was so, by being amiable and affectionate, and bearing the trials of her lot patiently. If her own dear mother had lived, it would have been very different, but, as it was, she must be resigned. And feeling by this time very virtuous indeed, she went to bed.

CHAPTER III.

KIT AT HOME.

KIT MALLORY went swiftly over the high pasture till she reached the little spring; and then taking an oblique direction, she descended till she came to an old wooden house standing on the lowest ridge or terrace of the hill. It had once been a roomy, comfortable farmhouse with a well-house, sheds, and barns; but the buildings were out of repair, and the whole place looked as if it had suffered from a long course of neglect. Nevertheless, the stones at the back-door were white and clean, and the windows bright; and a row of milk-pans turned up on a shelf showed that some one in the house was neat and pains-taking.

The back-door stood open. And as Kit approached, a middle-aged woman appeared in it, making a sign for silence. She was tall and dark, and would have been handsome but for the look of hopeless weariness and despondency which had settled on her face.

"Is aunt Martha bad again?" asked Kit in a whisper.

"Yes, I have had a terrible time with her all the afternoon. She has just dropped asleep, and I hope she will not wake for a good long while. What kept you so late?"

Kit gave a short account of herself.

"That was all right," said Symantha. "Is Miss Armstrong a nice lady?"

"She is just lovely!" answered Kit with enthusiasm.

"I hope she will be a good friend to you. You must try to learn all you can, and make the most of your time while we are here."

"Ain't we going to stay here, then?" asked Kit in a tone of anxiety and disappointment. "I thought uncle Phin owned this place."

"So he does—at least—yes, I suppose he does," answered Symantha with a curious tone of hesitation, which made Kit look at her in surprise. "But I have moved so many times, and about every time for the worse, that I don't believe I shall ever feel settled any where. What nice apples!" she added, as if hastening to change the conversation. "Where did you get them?"

"Mr. Weston gave them to me, and I brought them home for aunt Martha. Where are all the folks?"

"Pa has gone over to Oldbury after a load of lumber. And Melissa is down at the Corners, I suppose: I haven't seen her since morning. She always goes away if she can, you know, when ma gets one of her bad times; and perhaps it is just as well."

"How tired you look!" said Kit. She hesitated a moment; and then, postponing a plan she had meant to put in execution as soon as she reached home, she added, "You lie down and rest, and let me get the supper. I can do it as well as not."

"Well, you may if you like," replied Symantha. "You are a good little thing, Kit. I don't know what I should do without you sometimes." As she spoke, her face softened; and she bent down and kissed Kit, who returned the embrace with interest.

"I'm sure I don't know what I should do without you," said she. "If it wasn't for you, I'd run away and seek my fortune."

"Hush," said Symantha sharply. "Don't ever let father hear you say such a thing as that: I don't know what he would do to you. Yes, you may get the supper ready, and I will rest till milking-time."

Left to herself, Kit went about her work, doing every thing with marvellous quickness and quietness. Just as she had finished her preparations, she heard the sound of wheels and horses' feet; and presently a man entered the back kitchen. Kit made a sign for silence.

"Where's Symantha?" was the first question.

"She's lying down. Please don't make such a noise, uncle Phin: aunt Martha has just gone to sleep."

"Has she had a bad time?"

Kit nodded.

"Where's Melissa?"

"I don't know; I haven't seen her. Symantha says she has gone to the Corners."

"I'll teach her to run off and leave all the work for her sister," muttered Phin Mallory to himself. And then aloud, "Here, child, here's a reader and spelling-book for you. Halloo, what's that?"

"A picture-paper, I guess," said Kit; "and a little book," she added, taking out of the parcel an illustrated Sunday school paper, and a copy of that time-honored tract, "The Shepherd of Salisbury Plain," with a pretty woodcut on the cover.

Mr. Sandford at Oldbury was fond of this method of sowing seed, and seldom sold a book or parcel of books without putting in some similar document to that which Kit held in her hand.

"What stuff is that?" said Phin. "I'll teach old Sandford to be sending his rubbish into my house." He made a step toward the stove as he spoke, as if to throw the papers into the fire.

"Oh, please don't burn them up," entreated Kit, holding his hand. "I don't hardly ever see a picture, and these are so pretty. Please let me have them."

Phin still held the papers over the fire, but something in the pleading, upturned face seemed to move him, for he put them into her hand.

"Here, child, take them, then. You don't see many pretty things, that's a fact. There, put the supper on the table; I'll be back in a minute."

Kit carried her prizes off in triumph to her own little room up-stairs, and hid them away till she should have leisure to examine them. Then she hastened to finish her supper preparations, and had a comfortable meal ready on the table when Phin returned.

He was a lithe, alert little man, looking as if he had seen some hard times and some dissipation. And there was a watchful, furtive expression in his face, not pleasant to see.

"So you got beat out," said he to Symantha, as she appeared and took her seat at the table. "It was too bad in Melissa to run off and leave you with all the work. I'll tell her what I think about it when she comes home."

"She is just as well out of the way when ma has one of her bad times," replied Symantha. "But I don't see how any one can like to go visiting so, forever. I like to let other folks alone, and have them let me alone."

"Yes, you and pa would like to shut me up from one year's end to another," said Melissa, speaking for herself, as she came into the room with her hat on. "It has always been just so. But I'm not going to stand it. I like company, and I'm going to have it, so there!— Kit, take my things up-stairs, and get me a chair."

"Sit still, Kit," said her father. "You just wait on yourself, my girl. Kit has been at work while you have been at play."

Melissa muttered something, but it seemed as if she did not care to provoke a dispute. She threw her hat and shawl into a corner, and took a seat at the table.

"We're going to have new neighbors at the stone house," said she after a little silence, "some people from New York,—Van Zandt, or some such name.

"It was a Van Zandt that owned it before," remarked Symantha.

"Yes; he has left it to some old lady in New York, and she is going to have it all fixed up for a summer house. She has got no end of money, and is going to bring her horses and servants and carriages, and some young ladies, from New York; so we shall have quite a gay time."

"I don't see how 'we' shall have much to do with it," said Symantha. "I don't suppose you mean to go and call on them, do you?"

"Why not?" asked Melissa. "I should just like to know."

"Because I say you sha'n't, and that's enough!" exclaimed her father, striking the table with his hand so as to make all the dishes rattle. "I won't have you go near them, do you hear? Not one of them. You mind me, too, Kit: don't you go near the house."

"Don't, pa; you will wake mother," said Symantha.

"Dear me, what a fuss about nothing!" said Melissa. "One would think pa thought these people had the small-pox, or that he was afraid they would find out something."

Phin gave his daughter such a menacing glance that she evidently thought it better to say no more, and the meal was finished in silence.

Kit washed the dishes, brought in wood, and arranged matters for the next morning. By that time it was dark, and she was weary enough to go to bed.

Tired as she was, she did not forget to take out the card Miss Armstrong had given her, and read over the little prayer. She stood for a moment after she had finished, as if thinking, and then said, half aloud,—

   "Please, our Father in heaven, I should like to have a Bible."

Then she crept into bed, and was asleep in a minute.

The next morning Kit was up early, so early that the sun was only just gilding the very top of Blue Mountain. Nobody else was stirring in the house. It was a good time to put her plan into execution.

There was a large, high garret to the old house, in which was stored the-accumulated rubbish of a hundred years. Here was a tall eight-day clock, the case of which would have thrown a collector into ecstasies, side by side with a broken and disused loom; there, a shelf full of bottles and more or less disabled crockery. A little room was roughly partitioned off at one end, and made a famous playing-place on a rainy day. It was in this garret that Kit had found her precious fragment of the "Pilgrim's Progress" lying on the top of a box full of old books and papers. It had occurred to her that in this same box she might possibly find a Bible.

She took out the volumes one by one, and looked at the titles. They were mostly old books of theology and collections of sermons; but there were two or three volumes of travels and memoirs, which looked, Kit thought, as though they might be interesting, and she laid them aside for future consideration. At last, near the bottom of the box, she found a small volume handsomely bound and closely printed. She looked at the title page.

"The New Testament of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ."

Was that the same as the Bible? Kit thought so, but she was not sure.

"I'll take it to school, and show it to Miss Armstrong. Anyhow, it tells about 'Him.' What is this, I wonder? Never mind, I can't look at it now."

Kit brushed the dust from her dress, washed her face and hands, and sat down to examine her new treasure. The first chapter seemed to be all hard names, so she opened about the middle of the book, and read about the shepherds who were watching their flocks by night, and were sent by the angels to find the babe lying in the manger, who was Christ the Lord. She read slowly, and had to spell some words; but the story lost nothing of its force by that.

"The very one Miss Armstrong was talking about," said Kit. "How strange! If he was a little baby once, and grew up into a man afterward, there must have been a time when he was just as old as I am now."

Kit had no time to follow out her meditations. A call from below summoned her.

"You can't go to school to-day," was the salutation which met her as she entered the kitchen. "Symantha's sick, or thinks she is, and I want you to help me."

"Oh, dear! And I did want to go so much!" said Kit. "Can't you do without me, Melissa? I hate to be so irregular."

"Let her go, Melissa," said Symantha's voice from the little bedroom. "I sha'n't want any thing. I dare say I shall be able to get up presently; it is only one of my dizzy headaches."

"Yes, that is very likely,—that she is going to school, leaving me with you and ma to wait on, and all the work to do. I don't believe pa will let her go, anyway, when he finds out about Miss Armstrong. They say she is a regular Methodist, has prayers in school, and teaches the children out of the Bible. I mean to tell pa about it; and then he won't let you to at all, Miss Kit, and serve you right too."

Kit was used to Melissa's tongue, and generally gave her back her sharp words with interest. But the prospect of losing her precious schooling and the society of her new friend was too dreadful, and she burst into tears.

"Hush, Kit; don't cry," said Symantha, raising her head, but obliged to drop it again. "Pa won't take you out of school. Oh, my head!"

"Is it so very bad?" asked Kit, forgetting her own trouble for the moment. "Can't I do any thing for you?"

"You may look in the front-room cupboard, and see if you can find the alcohol bottle," said Symantha, pressing her hand over her eyes. "I had it up there, I know."

Kit sped up-stairs, and found the bottle. As she passed the door of her own little room, she remembered her prayer of last night, and also that she had forgotten her promise to say one in the morning. "What a shame!" she said to herself. "And when He was so good, and gave me the Testament."

She went into her room, shut the door, and reverently repeated her little verse,—

"Gentle Jesus, meek and mild,
 Look upon a little child;
 Pity my simplicity;
 Suffer me to come to Thee."

"Jesus! That is the very one I was reading about,—that very one that was a little baby. I wonder if He ever had to do things he didn't like. Perhaps He had to stay at home sometimes to help His mother, but I don't believe she was one bit like Melissa. But they were poor, I guess, and He must have had a great deal of trouble in His life, so He knows all about it. Perhaps He would like it if I was good-natured, and staid at home."

Kit had not been gone ten minutes when she came back with the bottle, and set herself to bathe Symantha's head and brush her hair. But in that ten minutes a great, change had come over her. She had entered into a new life. The little untaught, ignorant heathen had found her Saviour, had entered into conscious relations with Him, and made a sacrifice for Him. The little seed dropped by a skilful sower into her heart had taken root and sprung up. The plant was young and tender as yet, one would say, easily crushed by a careless foot, or nibbled off by some passing animal; but ONE was watching over it who is greater than all the changes and chances of this mortal life, and who makes them all work together for good to them that love Him.

Kit said no more about going to school. She went into her aunt's room, washed her face and hands, and coaxed her to drink a cup of coffee and eat a bit of toast. Mrs. Mallory must once have been a beautiful woman, judging by her regular features and still-fair complexion, but her hair was streaked with gray, her large dark-blue eyes, very much like Kit's in shape and color, were wild and wandering, and she had a despairing, anxious expression, pitiful to see.

"There, that is real good," said Kit, speaking as one would to a sick and wayward child. "Now you shall have a nice apple."

She produced one of the apples she had brought from Mr. Weston's, and the poor woman took it with some show of pleasure. Something about Kit seemed to arrest her attention, for she held the child's hand, and looked earnestly into her face.

"Who are you, little girl? Haven't I seen you somewhere?"

"Why, yes, aunt Martha. I am Kit. You remember Kit, don't you?"

Mrs. Mallory gazed at her a moment with a gleam of intelligence, and then, dropping her hand, sank back on her pillow.

"I don't know," said she. "It all goes away from me. Every thing went when they took Him away."

"Well, never mind," said Kit soothingly. "Eat the nice apple, and by and by you shall have another."

Seeing her aunt's attention diverted for the moment, Kit slipped from the room.

Melissa was by this time in a better humor. Her moods were very much the result of her bodily feelings; and she felt better, now that she had made her coffee as strong as she liked it, and eaten her breakfast.

Kit waited on Symantha, and brushed her hair softly till she fell asleep, got her aunt up and dressed her, and brought her some flowers from the neglected garden. The last Mrs. Mallory had been fond of flowers, and a few of the hardy perennials she had planted still struggled for existence; while in one corner, the dear old-fashioned rose of May, neglected and forgotten now, opened its pretty pointed buds. Mrs. Mallory loved flowers, and a nosegay would keep her quiet and amused longer than any thing else. Certainly Kit did her full share of the work, and more; for Melissa was an accomplished "shirk," and if she did not work herself, she was the cause of work in others. Symantha's nap carried off her headache, and she was able to get up to dinner.

"Halloo, what are you doing here?" asked Phin as he came in and found Kit dishing up the dinner. "I thought you took your dinner to school."

"I didn't go to school," answered Kit, busily stirring her gravy. "I staid at home to help Melissa."

"Then don't do it again, do you hear?" said her uncle angrily. "I am not going to have you staying out of school for every little thing."

"I didn't want to stay, I'm sure," returned Kit. And then, as some thought crossed her mind, she added in a gentler tone, "Symantha couldn't sit up, and Melissa wanted me to help her, so I did."

"It wasn't her fault," added Symantha: "Melissa kept her. Kit was very good-natured about it, I must say."

"Good-natured or not, it isn't to happen again.—Do you hear, Melissa?"

"Hear what?" asked Melissa from the next room. "I don't know what you are talking about."

"Then I'll make you know," said her father. "I say you are not to keep the child at home from school for any thing and every thing. I want her to go every day this summer. I've taught school myself, and I know what a nuisance it is to a teacher to have scholars so irregular. Mind, I won't have it happen again."

"Oh, of course you won't," replied Melissa sulkily: "you care for every one more than you do for me. Never mind, I am not going to be made a slave of forever. I shall look out for myself some day."

"You do that now pretty well," said Symantha.

No answer was returned, and the family sat down to dinner.

"Did you really keep school once, uncle Phin?" asked Kit.

"Yes," replied her uncle, "when I was a young man, I taught one winter in that very red schoolhouse. I was a good scholar once, thanks to my mother."

"Was your mother a nice woman?" asked Kit, who was always hungry for any thing like a story.

"That she was,—as good a woman as ever breathed," replied Phin, his hard face softening a little. "She had a great many notions that I don't believe in, but she was just as good as they make."

"What a pity her grand-daughters are not like her!" said Melissa sarcastically.

"It is a pity," replied her father dryly.

"Perhaps Kit may take after her if she keeps on going to school," continued Melissa. "Miss Armstrong is very pious, teaches the children verses out of the Bible, and talks to them like a Methodist class-leader."

"Maybe she will have to stop that some day," said her father. "But, anyhow, the red schoolhouse is the only one near here, and Kit shall go to school if the teacher talks all through the Old Testament, and the New Testament too."

"Am I to go to school this afternoon?" asked Kit as Phin rose from the table.

"It is hardly worth while, I guess: you won't more than get there before school is out. However, you can do as you like," said Phin.

Kit knew she should be in time for at least a part of the afternoon session, so she made herself tidy, and skipped away rejoicing, her precious little Testament safe in her pocket. She entered school somewhat out of breath, and slipped into her seat as quietly as possible.