"You are late, Kitty, and you were away this morning," said Miss Armstrong. "How does that happen?"
"Melissa kept me at home to help do the work," answered Kit. "Symantha had one of her sick headaches, and couldn't sit up a minute. But uncle Phin says I mustn't do it again. He says it is bad for me and bad for the teacher."
"How impudent she is, to answer Miss Armstrong so!" thought Selina. An undefined feeling of anger at Kit had been lurking in her mind ever since the day before, and she was glad to find something to justify it.
Miss Armstrong, however, did not seem the least disturbed.
"Your uncle is right," said she: "irregular and tardy scholars hurt both themselves and the school. Now you may take your book, and study your spelling and reading lessons."
It was with a feeling of satisfaction that Kit produced her nice new reader and spelling-book. The Red Hill district stuck to Webster's spelling-book, which was, perhaps, one reason why most of the children really learned to spell. The day before, Kit had been obliged to borrow her neighbor's books, which did not please her at all, for she had an independent spirit. She was tempted to look at all the pictures, and read all the stories, but she reflected that she could do that as well after school, and applied herself to her lesson with such zeal that she went up several places in the spelling-class. At recess, she brought her books to Miss Armstrong.
"Please, Miss Armstrong, will you write my name in my new books?"
"Certainly, my dear. What shall I write?"
Kit's face darkened a little. "That's just the trouble," said she. "I hate 'Keturah,' and I don't believe it is my name either."
"Suppose we write it 'Kitty,'" said Miss Armstrong: "that is short for Catherine, buy it will do quite as well for Keturah. But you should not hate the name of Keturah, my dear. She was a great lady, I suppose; at least, she was the wife of a very great man."
"Was she?" asked Kit, much interested.
"Yes: she was the second wife of Abraham, one of the most distinguished men that ever lived. Abraham was called the friend of God, and talked with Him face to face. So you see Keturah is not a bad name, after all."
"I shall like it better, now I know about it; but I don't believe it is my right name, for all that," said Kit. "But please, Miss Armstrong, may I ask you about something else?"
"After school," said Miss Armstrong, smiling. "I suppose, Kit, it never occurs to you children to think that a teacher likes her recess, as well as her scholars."
"I am real sorry I bothered you," said Kit penitently. "I won't say another word."
And, putting her books away, she went out to the playground, where a lively game was in progress.
"Here is Kit; she'll be it, I know!" exclaimed Sarah Leet. "You will, won't you, Kit?"
"Of course, when I know what you are playing," answered Kit. "What do you want me to do?"
"Oh, to be king. We are playing king's land; and it is Selina's turn, but she won't."
"I will, and I'll catch you too," said Kit, darting after Sarah, and catching her on the verge of her own territory. "There, I'll let you off, because it was not quite fair to catch you before you had time to get off.—Now, girls, look out for yourselves."
"What a nice, good-natured little thing she is, after all!" said Faith Fletcher as Kit darted hither and thither, always on the watch, and turning up where she was least expected.
"Oh, yes, very nice indeed!" said Selina, to whom the remark was addressed. "I wonder how long it will last."
"Well, I don't see how you can wish to spite the poor little thing so," said Sarah. "I should think you would have some feeling for her, trying so hard to make something of herself."
"I don't spite her, and you have no business to say so," said Selina angrily.
"Well, that's the way it looks to me. When a person never can say a good word for another, and never likes to hear any one else do it, it looks a good deal like spite. However, it is no business of mine.—I'm on the king's land; the king—Ah, you little spirit! I might have known you would catch me. There is the bell, so I don't care."
The verse Miss Armstrong gave the children that evening was rather a long one,—
"God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that
whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting
life" (St. John iii. 16).
She asked a few questions, which were answered intelligently, even by the little children, though the Fletcher twins could not tell where Christ was born.
"Sister is so busy, she has hardly any time to teach them," said Faith apologetically, after school, "but I thought they knew that."
"Cannot you teach them, Faith? Have you no time to tell these little ones about the Saviour who died for them?"
"They go to Sunday school always," said Faith, "every Sunday unless it is bad weather."
"Sunday schools are very good things, but they can never take the place of home teaching. Don't you help them learn their lessons?"
"There is always so much to do Sundays and Saturdays," answered Faith. And then she added frankly, "I guess the truth is, I never thought of it, but I'll try to get time before next Sunday."
"Do," said Miss Armstrong; "and Faith, when you go to bed, read the parable of the sower, and remember that the cares of this world choke the Word, and make it unfruitful, quite as often and quite as surely as the deceitfulness of riches. Good-night, my child.—Now, Kitty, what can I do for you?"
"Please, Miss Armstrong, is the New Testament part of the Bible?" asked Kit.
"Certainly, my dear, and a very important part. It contains the history of our Lord Jesus Christ. Why?"
"I was looking for a Bible up in the garret, and I found this," answered Kit, producing her treasure. "I read some in it this morning about Mary and Joseph, and the baby that was Christ the Lord. Was He really?"
"Really and truly, Kitty,—as really and truly as that He now sits at the right hand of God the Father, ready to hear and help us in all our troubles."
"That is very strange," said Kit. "But I think it is lovely, too," she added, her eyes lighting up with their peculiar sapphire-like brilliancy. "Isn't it wonderful to think that He knows all about us?"
"The more you know of the matter, the more strange and lovely it will appear to you, my dear. Now, let me advise you to begin here at this second chapter of St. Matthew's Gospel, and read this book through, and at the same time ask God to teach you to understand it."
"And will He?"
"Yes: He has promised He will, and He always keeps His word."
"I'm sure I'm glad of it," said Kit in her matter-of-fact way; "because I don't have any help only what you give me. I can't go to church and Sunday school, like the others."
"If you could, my dear, if you had all the human helps in the world, you would need God's help just as much. The most learned man in the world needs it just as much as you do. Now, see here; I have something else for you. Here is a card with the Lord's Prayer printed on it in nice plain letters; I want you to take it and learn it, so you can say it with the others. It is in your Testament too."
"Is it called the Lord's Prayer because He made it?" asked Kit.
"Yes, for that very reason."
"Here is something else printed on the card, 'The Apostles' Creed,'" said Kit, spelling out the word with some trouble. "What is that?"
"That is what all Christians believe,—a kind of summing-up of all the truths of the Bible," answered Miss Armstrong. "Learn that too. Suppose you read it over to me."
"I have heard that somewhere, I know," said Kit when she had finished reading the Creed. "Seems to me it was in a church out West, but I can't tell exactly. I guess it was in the Indian church. But, Miss Armstrong, I shall have to learn these in school, I guess."
"Very well; we will make time for them. Now I must not keep poor Selina waiting any longer. Good-night, my dear, and God bless you!"
STRANGERS.
"ARE you tired of waiting, Selina?" asked Miss Armstrong as she locked the schoolhouse door, and put the key into her basket. "You need not have staid. I don't believe I should be so stupid as to lose my way twice."
"I liked to," said Selina with a great effort: "it is pleasanter than walking home alone. But I think it is too bad to keep you after school so."
"Oh, I am used to that," answered Miss Armstrong, smiling. "I usually get 'kept after school' oftener than my scholars do. I am pleased when the girls come to me with questions. I am very much interested in poor Kitty; I hope to be able to do something for her."
"They must be an ignorant, low set," said Selina. "Fancy any one not knowing that the New Testament is a part of the Bible!"
"A good deal more than half the people in the world are in the same condition, including various kings, nobles, and others of unquestionable gentility," said Miss Armstrong. "I have met with many such cases in the city, but I was surprised, I confess, to find one here."
"Oh, well! Phin Mallory has not always lived here. He has lived out West, and in all sorts of wild places," replied Selina, jealous for the reputation of the neighborhood. "If he had grown-up in Oldham, I dare say he would have been different."
"I think it altogether probable that one might find people who have grown-up in Oldham whose cases are still more remarkable," said Miss Armstrong, "though such cases are so common that their peculiarity does not strike you unless you consider the matter."
"I don't know what you mean," said Selina.
"I am thinking of people who have been brought up to know a great deal about both the Old and New Testaments, who are carefully instructed in the Bible, and profess to believe it, and who yet behave as if there were no such thing."
Selina blushed. She knew very well that this was very much her own case. "Do you think that is so much more strange?" said she.
"Which would be the more remarkable,—that a man should walk off a precipice in the dark, or that he should do so in the daytime with his eyes open?" asked Miss Armstrong.
"That he should do it in the daytime, of course," replied Selina, "but that is different."
"It is a fair illustration, I think," said Miss Armstrong. "A man professes to believe that there is no salvation for any one who does not accept the Lord Jesus for his Saviour, and give himself up to Him; and yet he does neither."
"I don't understand what people mean by that," said Selina,—"I mean, by what they call a saving faith."
"A saving faith, as distinguished from a merely historic faith, is a faith that leads to action. To give you a homely illustration: Mr. Bassett, here in the mill, believes that school will open at nine o'clock to-morrow; that is, if he thinks of it at all. But it makes no practical difference to him: he will not rise an hour earlier, or make any change in his arrangements, on that account. But to me it is, so to speak, the central fact of my day; and all my plans are made in reference to it. So a man has a kind of belief in the Saviour; that is, he believes that there was such a person, and that He did the works ascribed to Him: but he does not make any alteration in his life on that account. But let that man be once waked up to the truth that he is a lost sinner, with no hope of deliverance except in this same Saviour, and he will not rest till he has made that Saviour his own."
"Then all people want is, to be waked up," said Selina. "If that is the case, I wonder true Christians don't talk to people about such things more than they do."
"It is, no doubt, a duty grievously neglected," said Miss Armstrong, "but it is not all, by any means. People go on in sin, not because they don't know any better, but because they love sin. They know that if they become really Christians, they must do many things which they don't like to do, and give up many things they don't like to give up; and they cannot make up their minds to such a course. The cross looks very hard and heavy, and they don't like to meddle with it."
"Some people say there is nothing but joy in the life of a true Christian," observed Selina.
"The life of a true Christian must be very unlike that of his Master, then," replied Miss Armstrong. "The very sight and thought of so many going the broad way to destruction must hinder any true Christian from being perfectly happy at all times. 'The disciple is not above his Master, nor the servant above his Lord.' But, Selina, how is it with you? You ought not to need any arousing on this subject."
"One may sometimes have too much of a good thing," said Selina lightly. And then, willing to dismiss the subject, she exclaimed, "I wonder whose carriage this is, coming up the hill! I am sure it does not belong about here."
"It is Mrs. Van Zandt's," said Miss Armstrong with an expression of pleasure. "She wrote me that she meant to drive over from Oldbury."
As she spoke, the carriage came up to them and stopped. And the coachman, touching his hat, asked Selina if they were in the right road to the Van Zandt mansion.
"You are right so far, but you must turn to the left by that red house," said Selina.
She looked round for Miss Armstrong, and saw that she was already at the carriage window, exchanging greetings with the persons within. One was an old lady with beautiful white hair put up in puffs under a shady bonnet. The others seemed to be young, but Selina could not see them distinctly. She felt a sense of being forlorn and neglected, as if Miss Armstrong had somehow done her an injury by being acquainted with these strangers, while she was not. It was not very reasonable, but it is a feeling which almost every one has experienced at some time. Miss Armstrong hastened to catch up with her.
"What made you run away?" said she. "I wanted Mrs. Van Zandt to see you."
"She is a handsome old lady, isn't she?" said Selina, not answering the question, which, indeed, she would not have found easy. "How prettily she was dressed! I do love to see an old lady dressed like an old lady."
"And so do I," answered Miss Armstrong. "There is no more pitiable spectacle, to my mind, than that of an old woman trying to look young."
"Some old people 'feel' young," observed Selina. "There is Miss Delia Claxton standing at her gate now. She says she does not feel any older than she did when she was twenty, but she does not dress young."
"I dare say not. People who feel young seldom do. How very pretty she is!"
Miss Delia did indeed look wonderfully pretty as she stood under the great tree at her own gate, with the flickering lights and shadows glancing over her delicate calico dress, and the white Shetland shawl she had thrown over her head. She was an alert little body, with a clear, dark complexion, plenty of color, and bright hazel eyes, made still brighter by the whiteness of her abundant wavy hair.
"Good evening, Miss Armstrong," she said in a cheery voice as soon as that lady came within hailing distance. "I am out staring after our new neighbors, you see. That isn't very dignified, is it? But, dear me, one sees so little here, that a travelling-carriage is quite a sight. Celia says you know these ladies, Miss Armstrong, and that they are very nice people."
"That they certainly are," said Miss Armstrong, smiling. "I think you will like them very much."
"Well, I am glad to hear that," said Miss Delia emphatically, "because, you see, being connections in a kind of way, we must call upon them. Dick Van Zandt's mother was first cousin to our mother. She was a Butler, you see, and her mother was a Ring belonging to the Rings of Rollock, the same family that our maternal grandmother came from; so, of, course, we must call. You will smile at that, though," added Miss Delia, breaking in on herself with a good-natured laugh: "strangers don't understand how much we think of relationship and descent in these parts."
"I am Scotch, and an Armstrong," replied Miss Armstrong, smiling in her turn; "and you know the Scotch count kindred to the tenth degree, at least. But I assure you, Miss Delia, you will like Mrs. Van Zandt very much. She is odd,—at least, most people consider her so,—but she is very lovely."
"I am considered odd myself, so I can't quarrel with that," replied Miss Delia. "You see, we don't often call on the summer boarders," she added: "one does not know much about their antecedents, as a rule, and some of them are not very nice.—I hear that the Richmonds are coming back, Selina."
"They are, I believe," answered Selina rather shortly, as though the subject were not very agreeable.
"Well, if they do, I hope you won't go making an intimate of that Amelia," said Miss Delia: "she is not a nice friend for you. Well, there, child, don't color so: I didn't mean to hurt your feelings.—Miss Armstrong, won't you and Selina come in and stay to tea? I am sure Celia would be delighted to have you. You will excuse my not having called. The fact is, I had been coloring carpet-rags, and I never can do that without coloring my hands at the same time; so I told Celia she must do duty for both. But I should so like to have you stay to tea!"
"Not to-night," replied Miss Armstrong, seizing the chance when Miss Delia stopped for lack of breath. "Some other night I shall be very happy."
"Any time; stop in on your way home from school.—Here, wait a minute." She went into the house as she spoke, and returned with a plate of cakes.
"Here, Selina, take these to your mother," said she. Then to Miss Armstrong, in explanation, "They are old-fashioned ginger-nuts made with honey. It is a family recipe, and they do say nobody but a Claxton can make them properly, but I will give you the rule if you like."
"And I will give you the recipe for short-bread, which they say none but a Scotchwoman can make properly; and we will both try to disprove the rule," answered Miss Armstrong. "Come, Selina; we ought to be at home. Your mother will think I am lost again.—Good-night, Miss Delia.—What a bright little lady she is!" added Miss Armstrong as they walked away. "She seems quite different from her sister."
"Most people like Miss Celia best," remarked Selina: "Miss Delia is so sharp, and she makes such queer remarks. One day Mrs. Blandy—she lives in that big house on the corner next the church—she said one day at the society that she didn't believe in foreign missions.
"'Well,' said Miss Delia, 'if every one had been of your mind, Mrs. Blandy, you would be going about dressed in a neat-fitting suit of blue paint instead of that handsome black silk, and hiding away that fat little boy of yours to keep him from being burned alive as a sacrifice to Bel.'
"'What do you mean, Miss Delia?' asked Mrs. Blandy.
"'Nothing, only that was what your ancestors were doing in the time when the Church at Jerusalem sent out so many foreign missionaries,' answered Miss Delia; 'and if the apostles had been of your way of thinking, you would probably be doing the same now.'"
"I don't see any thing odd in that," remarked Miss Armstrong: "it was only a simple statement of facts. And what then?"
"And then Mrs. Blandy said it was a very different thing, sending missionaries to England, from what it was sending them clear off to India.
"And Miss Delia said, 'Yes, very different: a much harder and more perilous journey, and much more trouble and danger when they got there.'
"You see, Miss Delia is a great reader, and she never forgets any thing: so, when people talk against missions or any such thing, she always gets the last word."
"I should say she deserved it, if she always argued as well as in this case," said Miss Armstrong, much amused.
"Yes, ma'am; but you see people don't like to be put down, and shown to be in the wrong. I'm sure I don't."
"What! Not when you are in the wrong?"
"I think that is the time when one likes it least of all," replied Selina frankly.
"But how are you ever to be set right, in that case?"
"I don't think Mrs. Blandy cared about being set right, very much," replied Selina. "She said again that charity began at home. And then Miss Delia began to talk about the orphan-asylum at Oldbury, and poor Mrs. Graves who has a sick husband and four little children. And she asked Mrs. Blandy if she had not a frock to make over for the little girls, so they could be decent to come to Sunday school. But Mrs. Blandy said she was calculating to make a rag carpet pretty soon, and she had to save all her old clothes for that, because she meant to take the prize for it at the State fair."
Miss Armstrong smiled and sighed. She had met a great many Mrs. Blandys in her lifetime.
"I think I should like to be a foreign missionary," said Selina, after they had walked a little way in silence.
"Why?" asked Miss Armstrong. "Oh, because there would be some adventure and romance about it. It would not be all prose, like one's life here."
"My dear, if you allow your life to be all prose here, it would be prosy anywhere. And the prose of a mission-life among heathen is much more disagreeable than that of a daughter's life at home in New England. I know, because I have tried it. What would you think, for instance, of combing and washing a dozen children who never were combed or washed before in their lives?"
"I did not suppose missionary ladies did such things as that," said Selina.
"They do a great many such things as that, and worse, such as I don't care to tell you about just before supper," replied Miss Armstrong. "I have often wished that our missionaries would give us more of just such details, that people could see what the life really is."
"Why don't they?" asked Selina.
"Well, for various reasons. They are afraid, for one thing, of disgusting and discouraging people; making them think there is no use in doing any thing."
"I should think, the worse the people were, the more need there was for teaching them better," observed Selina.
"That is a very just remark, but a great many people do not see it in that light. Then these matters of personal experience become every-day occurrences, and they do not think of them as being any more novel or interesting to others than to themselves."
"I think they are interesting, though," said Selina. "Little things like that are just what make a story seem real."
"Very true, again. But, Selina, you would never make a missionary if that is to be your only motive. The romance and adventure soon wear off, and the hard and prosaic duties remain. You need a much stronger and purer motive than that, even the love of God in your heart, the same that sent the early Christians everywhere preaching the Word, and that now sends hundreds of men and women every year to preach the glad tidings to those who sit in darkness and the shadow of death. Have you that love in your heart?"
"I am afraid not," answered Selina. "But, suppose I had, do you think I should make a good missionary?"
"I could hardly say that on so short an acquaintance," replied Miss Armstrong. "Consider, my dear, that I have not known you quite a week. I do not see, however, any reason why you should not make as good a missionary as another. But, Selina, let me say one word more: unless you have that love in your heart, you are no more fit for a life here at home than you would be for a life in India. You want Him just as much in one place as another, and you can no more be happy without Him. Won't you think about that, my child?"
"Yes, Miss Armstrong, I will," answered Selina; and at the time she fully meant what she said.
She was much more pleasant all the rest of the week, and her mother rejoiced over the change. "Girls are full of moods and fancies," she said to her husband. "We must have patience, father."
"I never knew you to have any thing else, mother," was the reply. Mr. Weston had full confidence in his wife's judgment, and he was very fond of his adopted daughter.
It had long been the custom to hold a service in the red schoolhouse on Friday evenings. This service was usually called the Bible class, because a portion of Scripture, usually the Epistle or Gospel for the next Sunday, was given out beforehand to be talked over. The minister, if he was present, read a short service; and a hymn was sung to a familiar tune. Then the discussion was opened by the pastor, or whoever supplied his place; and every one spoke who had any thing to say. Even the little children were encouraged to repeat texts, and verses of hymns. This service had been started by old Dr. Munson, who had preached, and also practised, in Oldham for forty years. He had been dead for a quarter of a century, but the Bible class he had begun lived after him.
The meetings of the class were usually tolerably well attended in winter. But the numbers fell off in warm weather, when, truth to tell, the red schoolhouse was apt to be warm and close. Those who came on this particular evening, however, were destined to find it much more comfortable than usual.
"Now, who will stay and help me put the schoolroom in order?" asked Miss Armstrong, as the afternoon session drew to a close.
The girls looked at each other in surprise.
"The Bible class meets here this evening, Miss Armstrong," said Ruth Jewsbury.
"I know it, my dear. That is just the reason we want to put the room in nice order."
"I don't see it," answered Ruth bluntly.
"Don't see what?"
"I don't see the use of sweeping, when the people will put all out of order again."
"Suppose some distinguished person—Mr. Longfellow, say, or the Bishop—were going to be here."
"Oh, well! Then, of course, we should want things to look neat. But there will be nobody like that coming to-night."
"Are you sure?" asked Miss Armstrong. "Who is it that says, 'Where two or three are gathered in my name, there am I in the midst of them'?"
"I never thought of that," said Sarah Leet. "But, Miss Armstrong, why don't they keep the church cleaner, then?"
"You must put that question to somebody besides me," answered Miss Armstrong. "Now, who will help me?"
Half a dozen volunteered at once, of whom Kit Mallory was one. There was a large old-fashioned fireplace in the room, which had been closed with a fireboard when the increasing scarcity of wood had made a stove necessary. Miss Armstrong had persuaded Mr. Weston to remove this board, and leave open the great chimney, which thus made an excellent ventilating-shaft. She had found a tall pickle-jar among Mrs. Weston's stores, which she placed on the hearth, and filled, with the children's assistance, with sweet-fern, cedar-boughs, and brakes. The windows were opened at top and bottom, the room carefully swept and dusted, and a glass of fresh, sweet flowers placed on the table.
"How nice it looks, and how fresh and sweet it smells!" said Kit, who had been one of Miss Armstrong's most efficient helpers. "Isn't it too bad, Miss Armstrong, that I can't come to the meeting?"
"Can't come to the meeting? Why not?" asked the voice of Mr. Bassett, the miller, from the open door. "Why can't you come, child?"
"Uncle Phin won't let me," answered Kit. She did not care to be further catechised about her uncle and his ways, and slipped away without even bidding Miss Armstrong good-night,—an omission which Selina did not fail to notice, and register in her private account of Kit's misdeeds.
"Poor little young one!" said the kindly miller. "What a shame that she can't come, when she wants to so much! I feel for that child. I wish one could do something for her."
"I hope something may be done, but it seems one of the cases where one must proceed with caution, for fear of doing more harm than good."
"I guess you are about right there. We must keep her in mind, and perhaps a way will be opened. Well, Miss Armstrong, I came over to fix things for the Bible class, but I don't see that you have left me any thing to do. That is a first-rate idea,—getting that chimney open. I don't blame people for getting sleepy when the room is hot as an oven, and so close you couldn't slip in a flax-seed sharp end first. I feel as if we were going to have a real good time."
"What about lights?" asked Miss Armstrong.
"I always calculate to provide them. We don't have many in summer.—I hope you will all come, girls, and all have a verse at least. Will your sister be out, Faith?"
"I don't believe she will," answered Faith: "she has so much to do."
"She would do it a deal easier, and better too, if she would take some rest now and again,—that's my opinion," said the miller. "Between the mill and the farm and the blacksmith-shop, I have plenty of irons in the fire, and I don't let them get cold, either; but I couldn't afford not to take time for the Bible class. You tell her what I say. And you come along with me: I've got some nice early pease to send her. The folks laughed at me for buying them,—they're some I sent for to Flower City,—and said the old-fashioned ones were good enough.
"'You have the laugh,' says I, 'I'll have the pease.'
"Now I've got the laugh, and the pease too. Come along, little ones, and see if Ma Bassett hasn't got some gingerbread. You leave the key, Miss Armstrong, and I'll see to the rest. I feel as if we were going to have a real good time."
THE MEETING.
IT appeared that Mr. Bassett's prophecy was going to be fulfilled; so far, at least, as numbers were concerned. The children carried home the news that Miss Armstrong had the schoolhouse all swept out, instead of leaving it to be done at noon on Saturday; that she had helped to dust the desks and seats with her own hands, and had put flowers on the desk and in the fireplace, because she said the room ought to be made neat and pleasant for the service of God. Truth to tell, this idea, which would not be considered very original in many places, was one which had not found entrance to the minds of people in Oldham.
"She had better go and talk to Mr. Archimball, the sexton at the Corners," said Mrs. Gleason, when Agnes told her what Miss Armstrong had said. "I do hate to wear my black silk to church Sundays, because I get it just covered with dust. I believe I will go to Bible class this evening."
"Do," said Agnes. "I'll take care of the milk if you will."
"Oh, we can both go. It is only to have supper a little earlier. Set the table, and I'll have it ready directly."
"Won't you go to the class to-night, sister?" asked Faith Fletcher when she had put away the children's books, and put on their home aprons.
"How can I go?" asked Patience. "There is the milk to take care of, and the dishes to wash, and Eddy's new frock to finish so she can wear it on Sunday. It is easy to talk about going to class."
"Well, I can wash the dishes and take care of the milk as well as you, if you would only think so; and there will be time enough to finish Eddy's frock to-morrow. Besides, if she don't have it, she can wear her old one: it looks as well as it did last Sunday. Come, sister, do go for once. Mr. Bassett says he knows it will do you good."
"Yes, much he knows about my work."
"Well, there is one thing 'I' would like to know," said Faith, who was not easily put down when she once took a fit of "arguing," as her sister called it: "I should like to know where is the use of being a Christian when one does not get any comfort or help out of it. Seems to me, if I was a church-member, and professed to love the Lord better than any one else, I'd go where I was sure to meet Him, even if I had to put my dishes in cold water to soak, and didn't wash them till next morning."
"What a girl you are to talk!" said Patience, half vexed, half laughing. "It is a pity you were not a boy, so you could be a preacher. I suppose I ought to go sometimes, that's a fact."
"Mr. Bassett says it would do you good," persisted Faith. "He says, with all he has to do, he finds it a rest to go to the class. Come, sister, do try it for once. I'll put the children to bed, and do all the work, if you will."
"Don't you want to go yourself?"
"Yes, I should like it well enough, but I don't suppose we could both be spared. Pa couldn't put the twins to bed."
"What is that pa can't do?" asked Mr. Fletcher from the door. He was a tall, spare, elderly man, with a somewhat careworn, considerate face, grave but not unkindly, and with a sparkle of humor in it. "What is that you think pa can't do? Put the children to bed? He can do it as well as you or any old woman in Oldham; and if he should happen to stick the pins in with the heads west instead of east, sissy can alter 'em when she comes home. They won't disturb the balance of the solar system much for that time. Just run down and let in the cows, Faithie: they are mooing at the bars; and look on my work-bench, and see if I left my other glasses.
"The fact is, sister, Faith is more than half right," he added more seriously. "I don't like to say any thing that sounds like blaming you, considering all you do, but just look at it. You say you wish Faith cared more about religion, but how can you wonder that she thinks it a matter of no great consequence, after all, when she sees us let every thing come before it,—when she sees us, who, as she says, profess to love God, so wrapped up in the little things of this world that we haven't any time for His service? I must say, when I heard the child talking just now, I felt reproved."
"Oh, well, I'll go," said Patience in a somewhat aggrieved tone. "But I think it is rather hard on me, when I make a slave of myself for you and the children, to be called worldly and all that, as if I spent my whole time dressing and visiting, like Mary Blandy."
"In the first place, I didn't call you so, not as I remember," replied her father. "I said we were too much taken up with the things of the world, which I take to be all things that perish in the using, whether they be dresses, or rolls of butter, or bean-threshers. In the next place, daughter, we should none of us be slaves, but the Lord's free men and free women."
"Why don't you go yourself, then, pa, if we are going to do so much good by it?" asked Patience, already ashamed of her little burst of temper, which, in truth, was more nervous fatigue than any thing else.
"Because I think you need rest and refreshment rather more than I do, my daughter. A man's work is less tiring than a woman's, seeing he is out in the fresh air most of the time; at least, that is my opinion."
"Everybody isn't like you, pa," said poor Patience, who felt the moisture uncomfortably near her eyes. "Ezra makes more steps in a day when he is at home than you do in a week, though he is always saying, 'Oh, don't trouble yourself!'"
"Ezra is only a boy, but he is a pretty good boy, after all, and we are both prouder of him than a hen with one chicken," returned her father. "Come, sister, go to the class, and take Faith; and let me put the little ones to bed. Maybe the child might get just the word she needs."
"Well, I don't care if I do," said Patience; and she went.
The room at the red schoolhouse was really full,—an uncommon sight at any time, and especially in summer. All the Westons and Bassetts were there, of course, as well as Miss Celia and Miss Delia: these were the standbys always on hand. What a blessing it is that there are always a few such standbys belonging to every parish! Patience Fletcher came in with Faith, and sat down by the window. Then there were the Jewsbury girls, who did not often go to church even on Sunday; and old Miss Wright who eked out a scanty living by bleaching and trimming bonnets, and who had never been to church at Oldham since the last rector's sister bought her bonnet ready trimmed at Oldbury; and almost all the children of the school who were big enough to sit up till eight o'clock.
Just as it was time for the service to begin, there was a little movement at the door, and Mrs. Barbara Van Zandt came in, followed by her two young nieces, Miss Bogardus and Ida Van Zandt. Mrs. Van Zandt wore a large, soft white wrap, and had put a light, fleecy summer hood over the widow's cap she always wore. She was a very handsome old lady, with those bright-gray eyes which have a way of looking black from the dilation of the pupils, and which no age or sickness ever quenches. She was one of those people of whom one naturally says, on seeing them, "Who is that?" She accepted the chair set for her, with a kindly smile, and bent her head for a few moments in prayer. Ida and Amity slipped into seats beside Patience and Faith Fletcher.
"What a plain little body!" thought Patience. "Nobody would take her for a great heiress. But she looks good, as if one could depend on her."
"What a fine face, if it were not so tired and worn!" thought Amity. "She must be carrying a great weight, somehow. I wish one could do something to help her." And Amity did something for Patience then and there, though Patience never knew it.
The meeting was opened in the usual way. There was no rector in Oldham at present, so Mr. Weston read a part of the evening service, and gave out the hymn, "Jesus, lover of my soul." There was a little delay: the young man who usually started the hymn was not present. But in a moment, a new voice began the beautiful Spanish Hymn,—such a voice, for power and cultivation, as had never been heard in the red schoolhouse before. People almost held their breath to listen, and it seemed at first as if Ida would have all the singing to herself, but presently one and another joined in, till every one in the room was singing, children and all.
"Wasn't that lovely!" whispered Faith, getting hold of her sister's hand, and squeezing it.
Patience smiled, and returned the pressure; but she did not speak.
When the hymn was done, Mr. Weston read a part of the tenth chapter of St. John, and called upon Mr. Bassett to begin the lesson. Mr. Bassett had what he would have called a good common-school education. He knew Brown's Grammar from beginning to end, and could have parsed any sentence you liked to give him: but, like other people, when he was in earnest, he went back to his native idioms; and he was much in earnest to-night. He spoke of the Shepherd's love, not only for His obedient sheep, but for the others who were not of His fold,—for those who, ignorant and misled, had gone astray, and were lost on the dark mountains. He spoke of the duty of true disciples toward such lost lambs; and of how much might be done by kindness, and watchfulness of opportunities, to lead them back to the Shepherd's arms. There was just such a lost lamb—nay, the very one the good man had in his mind—listening under the window at that moment. Mr. Bassett did not know that, but the Shepherd did.
The children repeated their verses more or less correctly, and two or three, who had not learned any, determined to do so next time. Miss Armstrong repeated two verses of the old Scotch version of the twenty-third Psalm, "The Lord's my Shepherd; I'll not want." Miss Celia Claxton said a few words on her verse, "I will guide thee with mine eye" (Ps. xxxii. 8). She spoke of the service of God setting free from the corroding cares of this world, and how those who kept close enough to the Shepherd to see His face were spared many distressing doubts and perplexities, because His loving and warning glance made all things plain. Patience Fletcher repeated a verse from the one hundred and nineteenth Psalm, "My soul cleaveth unto the dust: quicken Thou me according to Thy word."
There was a little pause, and then Mrs. Van Zandt's voice was heard, a little tremulous with age,—
"Come unto Me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." Mrs. Van Zandt said a few words on the need and sweetness of rest, and the impossibility of finding it anywhere but in Christ, and then only by making a full surrender and consecration of the heart and all the powers to Him,—by ceasing from our own works, and doing all to Him. It was very simple and obvious, but it went home to more than one heart.
There were two more short addresses, and another hymn was sung,—
"Sun of my soul, thou Saviour dear."
Ida was a little shy of beginning this time, till Mr. Weston said, "Perhaps the young lady will start the tune again." When she raised her glorious voice once more, and every one joined with a hearty good-will refreshing to hear.
There was a collect, and then the class was dismissed.
People lingered for the usual neighborly greeting. And before the first one issued from the door, a little dark figure, which had been crouched under the window, rose, and sped away over the hill.
Miss Celia and Miss Delia had already called upon the new-comers. "They are really our cousins, you know, by way of the Rings and Butlers," they had said, in a kind of half apology, when questioned on the subject. The two sisters now shook hands with Mrs. Van Zandt and the young ladies, and Miss Delia remarked that she was glad to see them out.
"I never willingly miss such a service," said Mrs. Van Zandt. "I always feel, apart from the enjoyment, that one owes a duty to such an effort made in one's own neighborhood."
"I wish every one felt so," said Mr. Bassett. "I want to thank this young lady for helping us out in the singing."
"I am sure you are very welcome," replied Ida simply. "I am choir leader in our little mission chapel at the Works, so it comes quite natural to me. I really did it upon impulse the first time. But when I came to think, it seemed like 'taking on,' as the children say, for a stranger."
"I don't think one ever ought to feel like a stranger in the house of God," remarked Miss Celia. "We are all of one family there, you know, my dear."
"That is very true," said Ida.
"Well, Miss Armstrong, I told you we were going to have a good time," said the miller, as he locked the door, and gave Miss Armstrong the key. Then, as he walked homeward between his wife and Aunt Betsy, he added, "I feel to be thankful that our new neighbors turn out to be such good Christian folks, ready to take their share in our meeting."
"Well, I must say I think they took their full share to-night, and a little more," said Aunt Betsy, who had regarded the new-comers with suspicion and disfavor. "I don't think I care about having strangers from the city coming here and setting up to teach us,—folks whose fathers and grandfathers sat under old Dr. Munson. To see that old lady coming to meeting with that thing on her head like a heap of beaten-up white of egg! I'll be bound she would never think of wearing such a thing on Broadway. And that girl with her singing: of course it was very fine, but it was far too operatic and theatrical for my taste."
"How many operas and theatrical performances did you ever see, Aunt Betsy?" asked Mrs. Bassett, who had a tongue of her own, and did not stand as much in awe of the old lady as most of her neighbors.
"Come, come!" said Mr. Bassett. "Seems to me some of them fowls of the air that picked up the good seed in the parable have lit down among us. This isn't the spirit we should be in after such favor as has been shown us to-night. I was so glad to see Patience Fletcher out. Poor thing! She looks very tired."
"Well, she makes a great deal harder work of life than she needs to," said Mrs. Bassett. "She just makes herself a slave to the house and the children; and after all, she doesn't do any more for them than I do for mine."
"Not as much," said her husband.
"Well, I don't think she makes things as pleasant, if I say it that shouldn't. I had the twins down to spend the afternoon not long ago, and the poor things were afraid to make a natural motion, for fear of spoiling their clothes, till Myra dressed them up in some old things of Ben's and Sally's. For my part, I like to take the comfort of my children, and have them take comfort as we go along, instead of toiling and slaving to do some grand thing for them by and by, when maybe they won't want it. I guess I'll send up for them again to-morrow: it will take them off Faith's hands, and give her time to learn her Sunday school lesson in peace."
"And how about yours?" asked Aunt Betsy. "I should think you had enough on your hands now, with all them great tearing boys of yours."
"Oh, two or three children more or less don't matter at our house," answered Mrs. Bassett. "And as to the Sunday school lessons, Myra and I learn ours, and teach the children theirs, on Sunday afternoon; then we go over them again Saturday evening after tea, and so they are all ready for Sunday. Good-night, Aunt Betsy. Come down to-morrow, and I'll give you a green-currant pie."
THE ENEMY.
KIT hoped she might reach home and go to bed without being missed. She had often played out on the hillside till after dark, and no questions had been asked as to where she had been.
But fate was against her—or rather the Devil, acting by one of his most harmful agents, a malicious woman, determined neither to be good herself, nor let any one else be so if she could help it. Melissa Mallory was not indifferent to religion, by any means: on the contrary, she hated the very name of it. She had not succeeded in making herself an absolute unbeliever, though she had tried very hard. There always would stay by her, hid in some inner recess of her soul, a terrible lurking dread,—the conviction, that, after all, there was a superior power, a great Being who knew of all her sins, and would some day exact a full account of them; and she felt toward this power as the Eastern king in the story might be supposed to feel toward the lion which he knew was shut up somewhere in his palace, and which might break out any day and devour him. There were people all about, wherever she went, who professed to be friends with this great enemy of hers, to hold intercourse with and receive benefits from Him; and all such persons she held as her own foes.
Melissa had never loved Kit; she considered her an interloper, taking a share of the common funds which she might have enjoyed if Kit had not come into the family. Moreover, she was jealous of Kit's undeniable beauty and wit; and strange to say, of the child's growing influence over poor Mrs. Mallory. Melissa had never loved her stepmother, and she was habitually unkind to her, professing to believe that half her insanity was affectation, and declaring that it might be driven out of her if Symantha did not indulge and coddle her so. Mrs. Mallory was afraid of Melissa, and always worse when left to her care, but she liked Kit though she did not always know her, and unless when at the worst, was usually docile, or at least passive, in her hands. Melissa felt this to be a new injury. She liked, as Symantha said, to get a handle against the child; and now she flattered herself that she had found one. She had suspected Kit's purpose, had watched her go, and seen her return, and was all ready to catch her when she came in.
"Well, Kit, did you have a good meeting?"
Phin Mallory had been to Oldbury, and had come home in a very bad humor,—a circumstance on which Melissa had fully calculated. He was reading his newspaper by the light of a very dismal kerosene lamp, which burned viciously sideways when he turned it up, and smoked sulkily when he turned it down,—a circumstance which did not improve his temper in the least.
"Meeting!" said Phin, dropping his paper. "What do you mean?"
"I haven't been to meeting," said Kit.
"You didn't go into the house, but you stood and listened under the window," said Melissa. "You needn't deny it, for I saw you with my own eyes."
"Well, suppose I did: where was the harm?" said Kit boldly, though she trembled as she saw her uncle's eyes fixed on her. "I like to hear the singing. There was one of the young ladies at the stone house, and she sang beautifully."
"Come here," said Phin sternly.
Kit dared not disobey. Her uncle took her by the shoulder, and shook her till she was giddy, ending with a sharp box on the ear.
"Take that for a sample of what you will get if you ever go to that place again," said he, pushing her away. "I won't have you go near these people. Do you hear?"
Kit looked at him with a white fact and blazing eyes, but did not answer.
"Just look in her pocket, and see what you will find there, pa," said Melissa with a sneering laugh. "You didn't know what a saint you had in the family. See here!"
She caught hold of Kit's dress as she spoke, and, despite her struggles, pulled out her precious Testament, which she handed to her father. Phin took it, and threw it into the fire. With a cry of anguish, Kit sprang to rescue her treasure, but only succeeded in setting fire to the sleeve of her dress, and burning her own hand severely.
"Serves you right," said Phin. "You let me see you have such a book again, and I'll put you where you won't see book or school either. I've had enough of pious folks, without your taking up the dodge,—a set of hypocrites who set themselves up above everybody else, and look down on their betters. I won't have it. Do you hear? Stop that noise, and answer me."
Quite beside herself with pain and anger, Kit turned on her uncle, and would have returned his blow, if Symantha had not caught her hand. At that moment, there came a cry from the inner room,—a wail of such despairing anguish as might have come from a lost spirit,—"They have taken away my Lord. They have taken Him away, and I know not where they have laid Him."
"There, now you have done it," said Symantha angrily. "Now we shall have no rest all night, and perhaps have the neighbors coming in to see what is the matter.—Don't cry, Kit. Come here, and let me do up your hand.—Just see there, father!" she added indignantly, holding up Kit's arm for his inspection.
The hand and wrist were fearfully scorched, and already covered with blisters.
"Why didn't she mind, then?" said Phin sullenly. "I'm sure I didn't mean to burn her." To do him justice, he was already ashamed of his outburst. He was not usually so ill-natured, but he had had a hard time in Oldbury that day. He had, so to say, fought for his soul, and lost.
"There, don't cry any more," said Symantha after she had covered the burnt arm thickly with flour, and done it up in cotton. "I'll help you to bed. And maybe you will get another Testament some time: Who knows? Don't cry if you can help it, that's a good girl: you will make ma worse, and then I shall not know what to do."
"I'll do any thing for you, because you are so good, and I love you," said Kit, trying hard to restrain her sobs. "But I hate Melissa, and I hate uncle Phin. So!"
"Hush, hush! There, try to go to sleep. Pa will be sorry to-morrow. He was dreadfully put out when he came home. I'm afraid—"
"Afraid of what?" asked Kit, as Symantha checked herself.
"I'm afraid ma is going to have a dreadful night," answered Symantha hastily. "There, don't cry any more, but try and lie still, and lay your hand on this pillow; and I hope you will go to sleep. Poor child! It was a bad day for you when you came to us."
Kit's hand was badly burned, and smarted terribly. But her tears, which had full way when Symantha left her, were caused more by anguish of heart than by bodily pain. She was furious against her uncle and Melissa, especially the latter, whom she justly considered the cause of all the trouble; and Kit was one of those natures to whom rage was grief. But that was not the worst. The little wild girl who had so lately set out in the Christian pilgrimage had already met with Apollyon in his worst form.
"And I was trying so hard to be good!" she sobbed, talking to herself as lonely, neglected children so often do. "I was trying so hard to do what I thought He would like! And Miss Armstrong said He would help me, and that old lady said the same in the meeting; and He didn't help me, oh, He didn't help me a bit. He let Melissa tell of me, and uncle Phin shake me, and burn my Testament. Oh, dear, oh, dear! What if uncle Phin should be right, and there shouldn't be any such person, after all?"
Kit sobbed anew, and even cried aloud, in the anguish of this doubt. The story which had brought such light and comfort, such wonderful and glorious possibilities, into her dark and sordid life, which had added such new beauties to what she loved best,—if that story were nor true, after all!
"Oh, I don't want to live, I don't want to live," cried Kit aloud. "If there isn't any Lord Jesus, I don't want to live at all." ¹
¹ A fact.
"Stop that noise, Kit, or I'll whip you," said Melissa, opening the door. "You little fool, to make such a fuss about an old book full of silly stories!"
Somehow this appearance and assault of her enemy seemed to give Kit a little comfort. Satan is always easier to fight when he comes in a bodily shape.
"It isn't a book full of stories: it is the truth, and you know it, Melissa Mallory. You 'know' it is true. There 'is' a God, and He is my Father; and if you abuse me, He will punish you. He can see all you do. Don't you dare to touch me!"
And she did not. That something she had never dared to search out, and had never been able to silence, stirred in her heart. What if it should be true, as Kit said? She contented herself with a threatening gesture, and withdrew, shutting the door.
Kit's sturdy profession of faith had at least comforted herself. Yes, she would believe in Him. If He was good, as Miss Armstrong said, perhaps He would make some good come out of this trouble, after all. Then Kit remembered that she had not said her prayers. She rose softly from her bed, and kneeling down in the bright moonlight, she said her little hymn, and as much of the Lord's Prayer as she remembered, for she had not yet learned it quite perfectly. There was something in it, she knew, about forgiving trespasses.
"That means sins, Miss Armstrong said; if we don't forgive people, He won't forgive us. But, oh, dear! How can I forgive uncle Phin for burning my book? And Melissa—it was all her fault."
Kit thought a little, and then knelt down again. Her prayer was very simple:
"I can't forgive them myself, but if it is true, what teacher says,
you can make me. Please do, and help me; for I haven't got any friends
only Miss Armstrong."
Kit's faith was but weak and faltering, like that of the poor father, "If thou canst do any thing, have compassion on us, and help us." But the same compassionate ear is ready to hear, and the same hand to save, now as then.
Kit lay awake a long time. But at last, the pain in her hand grew less, and she fell asleep. She slept longer than usual, and when she waked the sun was shining into her room.
"It must be ever so late," thought Kit. She started up, and her first move reminded her of all that had happened the night before.
"How shall I ever get dressed?" she thought.
She made out to put her clothes on, but to fasten them was beyond her power, so she went down to find Symantha.
Symantha was moving softly about the kitchen, busy in setting things to rights. She held up her finger as Kit opened the door.
"Is aunt asleep?" asked Kit in a whisper. "Did she have a bad night? I thought I heard her."
"Yes, she did not go to sleep till sunrise. Pa has gone out to the barn to get a nap on the hay, and Melissa is not up yet."
"Oh, yes, they can all sleep but you; that is always the way," said Kit indignantly.
"I'm used to it," answered Symantha, smiling rather grimly. "Here's your coffee hot on the stove, and I'll fry you an egg. How does your hand feel?"
"It doesn't smart so much, but it is 'awful' sore," said Kit, wincing as she tried to move it. "I can't bear to put it down, it hurts so."
Symantha found a large handkerchief, with which she made a sling for the wounded arm, which she did up again in fresh, clean cotton-wool,—the very best dressing for a burn.
"That is more comfortable," said she. "You must be careful not to hurt it or get cold in it, or you will have a bad hand."
"Can't I go to school?" asked Kit in dismay.
"Oh, yes, if you will be careful, and not hurt yourself playing. You will be as well off there as here. Eat your breakfast or dinner, whichever it is, and you will be in good time for afternoon."
"Is it as late as that?" asked Kit.
Symantha pointed to the clock, which stood at half-past eleven.
"I never thought it was so late," said Kit. "Why didn't you call me?"
"Because you needed the sleep, child. There, eat your breakfast while it is hot."
Symantha took her sewing, and sat down by Kit in the window.
"How good you are to me!" said Kit gratefully. "You do love me, don't you, Symantha?"
"Yes, child, I do," answered Symantha with sudden earnestness. "You are about the only comfort I have, but I love you so much that I should like to send you a thousand miles away, where I should never see you again, if I could only get you a good home by it."
"But I don't want to go a thousand miles away," said Kit. "I want to stay with you, and help you, for I love you."
"Then, Kit, if you love me, promise me one thing," said Symantha. "Promise me that you won't let any one—pa, or Melissa, or anybody—drive you, or coax or bribe you, to do any thing wrong. If you have any doubt about the matter, come and ask me."
"I won't," answered Kit earnestly. "There isn't much danger with Melissa, because I don't like her a bit, but uncle Phin is real good to me sometimes. I don't see what ailed him last night."
"He was put out about something when he came home, and he was vexed about your going to meeting. And, Kit, that is a thing you must not do again, at least, not now. Nothing makes father so angry."
"I won't, then," said Kit, "but I should like to." She was silent a while, and then asked, in a half whisper, "Symantha, was it religion that made aunt Martha crazy?"
Symantha nodded.
"I thought it might be, because she always says 'that,'" said Kit. "How was it?"
"She was brought up to be very religious, and to go to church, and all that," replied Symantha in the same low tone. "She was a regular church-member when she married pa, and, oh, such a pretty, bright creature! Kit, whatever happens, you must always be good to ma. There is more reason for it than you know."
"I will," said Kit. "I think she likes me too. But, if aunt Martha was such a religious woman, how came she to marry uncle Phin? Wasn't he the same that he is now?"
"Yes, very much the same, so far as that goes; only he was not so rough in his ways. He was very handsome in those days, and could make himself very agreeable; and ma thought she was going to influence and convert him, but it worked the other way."
"Seems to me I should rather convert a man first, and marry him afterward," said Kit. "And what then?"
"Well, there isn't much to tell. She used to try to argue with pa, but she was no match for him that way. She used to get vexed, and then he would laugh at her. By and by, she got to not going to church; and then pa coaxed her to go out riding with him Sundays, and do other things that she thought were wrong. After a while, she began to be melancholy and queer, and at last, one day she tried to kill herself. Ever since then she has been as she is now."
"Seems to me it wasn't her religion that made her crazy, so much as losing it," said Kit shrewdly.
"Sometimes I have thought that, myself. It was a bad day for her when she got acquainted with our family."
"What was aunt Martha's name before she was married?" asked Kit.
"I don't remember," answered Symantha, getting up and going into the pantry. "Don't you want to run out and see if you can find some fresh eggs? If you can, I'll make ma a custard."
"Why, my dear child, what is the matter?" said Miss Armstrong as Kit made her appearance at school with her arm in a sling. "What has happened to your hand?"
"I burnt it," answered Kit, coloring painfully; for she saw the girls looking at her, and felt, as one is apt to do at such times, as if they must know all about it.
"You look hardly fit to come to school," remarked Miss Armstrong kindly. She did not ask how the accident happened; guessing, with the happy instinct that belongs to some people, that there was some unpleasant story connected with it. "Do you feel able to learn your lesson?"
"Yes, ma'am, I would rather study than not," answered kit. "My arm does not hurt me so very much now when I keep it still."
Kit was quite sincere in what she said. She felt, rather than thought, that the labor of fixing the column of words beginning with "Abase, Abate," would be a relief from the tormenting thoughts which had driven her almost wild. She set herself to work in good earnest to master her lesson. But her mind would wander, in spite of herself; and when she came to recite, she missed two or three times, and went down to the very bottom of the class. Kit was tired and nervous for want of sleep, and very unhappy besides; the consequence of which was, that as Faith Fletcher went above her, she lost her temper, gave Faith a push, and called her by a very naughty name. The children looked at each other in horror. Miss Armstrong only said,—
"Kitty may go and sit down. I will talk to her by and by. The children may have a recess."
"Well," said Selina as soon as they were out of doors, "I hope Miss Armstrong has got enough of her favorite. It is lucky for Kit she had not Miss Martin to deal with. Wouldn't she have caught it!"
"Maybe she will catch it as it is," remarked Agnes Gleason.
"I don't believe Miss Armstrong will do any more than talk to her. I am sure I hope not," said gentle Faith. "Poor Kit is half sick: any one can see that by looking at her. And it isn't as if one of us had said it. I don't believe she has ever been taught any better."
"Well, for my part, I hope Miss Armstrong will send her home," said Selina; "she has no business here, using such language, and teaching the children it. But, girls, didn't we have a good meeting last night? I think that old Mrs. Van Zandt is just lovely. Miss Armstrong says she is a great missionary woman; perhaps she will start a society here."
"Then she will do what nobody else has done," remarked Agnes Gleason. "I remember how hard Miss Martin tried. But what does this Mrs. Van Zandt do, Selina? Did Miss Armstrong tell you?"
"Oh, she is always sending boxes to poor missionaries in the West; and she keeps two ladies in India, and pays all their expenses,—Bible-women, Miss Armstrong called them. I wish she would send me. I should love to go, dearly."
"Yes, you would be a fine hand!" said Sarah Leet. "I suppose, the first time a little Chinese or African child said a bad word, you would send it home, and not let it come to school any more."
"That would be very different," said Selina, coloring, as the girls laughed.
"Yes, very different; having a whole village full of children who never learned even the commonest decency, and having one poor little thing who is trying her best to be good," returned Sarah. "Suppose she did forget herself for once: we all do it sometimes; if not in one way, then in another. Don't you ever forget yourself, and say things you ought not to?"
"Yes—you—did—you—know—you—did!" chimed in from the ring of little ones, who were "counting out" for a game of tag. All the girls laughed, the words came so pat.
"Yes, we did, we know we did," repeated Agnes. "But, Sarah, you need not be so hard on Selina, either," she added, as Selina walked away. "You think she ought to have patience and charity with Kit. Why can't you have a little for her, instead of always poking her up?"
"Well, she puts on such airs. I like to make her show her true colors."
"You don't always make people show their true colors in that way," remarked Agnes. "Suppose I should slap your face, and make your eye all black and blue: would those be your true colors?"
"Well, no, perhaps not," returned Sarah, whose frankness was her most promising trait, "but then, you know, I don't pretend to equal St. Agnes." Sarah had read somewhere of a St. Agnes, and liked to tease Agnes with the name.
"I am not a saint. I wish I were," replied Agnes, coloring. "But I will tell you one thing, Sarah and Faith," she added, with an evident effort: "if by a saint, you mean a true Christian, I am going to try and be one. I have been thinking about it a good while, and I made up my mind last night."
"Well, I only hope you will stick to it, that's all," said Sarah, while Faith got hold of Agnes's hand and squeezed it. "The trouble of these sudden conversions is, that people don't hold out."
"Well, I don't know; St. Paul held out pretty well, and so did St. John."
"Oh, well, they were saints."
"What is a saint, anyhow?" asked Faith. "I have heard the word all my life, and don't know, really, what it means."
"I thought a saint was a person who never did any thing wrong," said Sarah.
"Then I am sure none of the apostles were saints, for they all did wrong. Let us ask Miss Armstrong after reading-class. It will come in easily enough, for the lesson is about Polycarp, and he was called a saint, I know. Come, there is the bell."
Kit's ill temper, if it deserved so harsh a name, found vent in a flood of tears as soon as she reached her desk. She expected and half hoped that Miss Armstrong would scold her, and perhaps punish her, for bad language was justly looked upon as a grievous offence. But Miss Armstrong did nothing of the kind. She waited till the first violence of the storm had spent itself, and then said in that firm, kindly tone of hers, which somehow carried obedience with it,—
"There, Kitty, don't cry any more: you will only make yourself worse. Wash your face and hands, and then I should like to have you run down to the mill, and ask Mr. Bassett to send me some chalk; we are quite out. As to this trouble of yours, we will talk about it after school. You need not hurry; I will excuse you if you are a little late."
"How good she is!" thought Kit, with a feeling of absolute wonder, as she bathed her red eyes and aching head at the spring which boiled up in a corner of the yard. "Oh, if I could only be good, like that!"
As she was going out of the yard, she met Faith, who spoke to her pleasantly.
"Where now, Kitty? Going home?"
"No; Miss Armstrong sent me of an errand." She was passing on when it occurred to her that here, at least, was something she might do. She called "Faith!"
And as Faith turned back, she said, with a quiver in her voice, "I am sorry I called you that name. It was real mean, for it was not your fault that I missed."
"Never mind," said Faith, kissing her. "I'm sure I don't bear malice. But, Kitty dear, I wouldn't say such words if I were you."
"I won't—not if I can help it; but you don't know how hard it is to be good."
"Don't I!" said Faith. "It is as hard for me as any one, I guess. But there, don't cry," for Kit's tears were running over once more. "I'm sure you won't do it again."