Kit went on her way with her heart greatly lightened. She found Mr. Bassett busy, as usual, but not too busy to lend an ear to her request.

"Chalk, eh? Oh, yes; I've got plenty, if I can only find it. Let me see. Here's an apple for you, anyhow. If we don't find one thing, we find another, you see. Don't you want this little box to put your pencils and things in? Well, here's the chalk, and plenty of it; and here is a little paper for you. Let me see; I didn't see any of your folks at the schoolhouse last night."

"No, sir; I wanted to go, but I knew they wouldn't let me. I did listen under the window, and uncle Phin did not like it a bit."

"Poor child!" said the miller kindly. "Well, well, you must take your troubles to the right place, and you will find help somehow. You know that, don't you?"

"Yes, sir: I heard Miss Armstrong say so. But I must hurry back now, because she will want the chalk."

"Poor little young one!" repeated Mr. Bassett to himself. "I must talk over her case with ma, and see what can be done for her."

"Just in time, Kitty," said Miss Armstrong pleasantly, as Kit entered, somewhat out of breath. "Now, as you cannot very well do sums with your left hand, you may take this book, and learn the hymn I have marked; and we will hear you repeat it in the reading-class."

Kit took the book with pleasure, for she loved learning verses. The hymn was the time-honored one beginning,—

"Jesus Christ, my Lord and Saviour,
    Once became a child like me."

"I suppose that is so," thought Kit as she laid down the book to repeat the first verse to herself. "He was just as old as I am, once, but He never would say such words.

"'All my nature is unholy;
   Pride and passion dwell within.'

"I'm sure 'that' is true enough. But I don't see how I am to help it: the more I try, the worse I am. I never knew I was half so bad till I began to read in the Testament.

"'Lord, assist a feeble creature.'

"That means me, I am sure. There isn't any one more feeble than I am. 'Assist' means 'help,' I know. Oh, dear! I do wish He would help me."

And Kit put her head down on the desk, and cried a little. But the tears did not scorch her eyes, like the others: they were cool, and seemed to take some of the weight off her heart which had lain there ever since the night before.

"Now we will have Kitty's hymn," said Miss Armstrong as the reading-lesson was finished. "And then, if there are any questions to be asked, I shall like to hear them."

All the girls looked at Kit, some of them expecting that she would refuse to obey. They were mistaken. Kit repeated her hymn with a somewhat unsteady voice, it is true, but without hesitation and without a single blunder. Then, with a visible effort, she said,—

"Please, Miss Armstrong, I am sorry I was so naughty in the spelling-class. I won't do so again."

"That is right, Kitty," said Miss Armstrong, much gratified. "But there is one thing more for you to do."

"Please, Miss Armstrong, she did tell me she was sorry," said Faith eagerly. "She said so in recess."

"So much the better. And you do forgive her, Faith, I am sure."

"Yes, indeed!" answered Faith heartily. "I didn't mind much about it, anyway. I don't believe she would have done it if she hadn't felt sick."

"That wasn't any excuse," said Kit. "I was just as cross as I could be."

"We will let the matter drop now," said Miss Armstrong. "I should like to talk with Kitty a few minutes after school. Now, are there any questions to be answered?"

"Please, Miss Armstrong, what is a saint?" asked Agnes.

"Can any one answer that question?" asked Miss Armstrong. "What is a saint?"

"A very good person; one that never does any thing wrong," said one of the girls rather doubtfully.

"That is what I said, but Faith thought it was not right, because the apostles all did wrong things."

"A saint is somebody who pretends to be better than other folks," said Lucinda Hurd, who always resented any praise bestowed on another person as so much taken from herself.

"I think not," said Miss Armstrong, "or St. Paul would hardly have told the Corinthians that they were called to be saints. He would not have told them that they were called upon to pretend to be better than their neighbors."

"Of course not," said Selina. "But I always thought a saint was somebody like the people we read about who went and lived in caves and hermitages, and never married, or had any families, or ate any meat."

"That will not answer the conditions, either," remarked Miss Armstrong, "because the Corinthian Christians were not called on to do any such thing as that."

"I can't remember that any one in the Bible was called on to do that," remarked Faith. "But, Miss Armstrong, won't 'you' tell us what a saint is?"

"I will tell you what I think," said Miss Armstrong. "A saint is a person whose life is consecrated to God; that is, given to Him to be His entirely. Or, to put it in other words, a saint is one who has made up his mind to serve God with all his powers of body and mind. Such a person may be faulty and imperfect, often stumbling and even falling, but he keeps his purpose always in view. When he falls, he confesses his sin, and asks forgiveness, and begins again, humbled but not discouraged. When he sees a duty, he strives to do it at whatever inconvenience or sacrifice to himself. He tries always to keep alive in his heart a sense of the presence of God and his Saviour, and to see every thing as they would see it. That is my idea of a saint."

"But could any one be like that?" asked Faith doubtfully.

"'I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me'" (Phil. iv. 13), quoted Miss Armstrong. "There is the secret, depend upon it. Now we must not talk any longer. Take this matter home, and think about it."

CHAPTER VII.

THE SPRINGING GRAIN.

"NOW, Kitty, let us get at the bottom of all this trouble of ours," said Miss Armstrong. "Agnes, do you wish to see me?"

"Yes, please, Miss Armstrong. But I will wait: I haven't so far to go as Kit has. Or I don't know why I should mind speaking before her," said Agnes, coloring. "It isn't any thing I need be ashamed of. I have made up my mind to try to be a real Christian, Miss Armstrong. I don't know whether I shall have strength to persevere, but I am going to begin."

"You will surely have strength to persevere if you only look in the right place for it, my dear child," said Miss Armstrong, kissing her. "You don't know how glad I am to hear you say this, Agnes. Tell me, when did you make up your mind?"

"Last night, after I went home. I have been thinking a great deal about the matter lately, and somehow what that old lady said seemed to bring me right to the point. I seemed to realize that the Lord died for me, just as much as if there had been no one else to die for; and I couldn't hold out after that."

"You were led to see the truth, and the truth has made you free," said Miss Armstrong. "He did die for you, and for me, and for little Kitty here, just as much as if there had been no one else to die for; and He loves us as much as if He had no one else to love. Have you told your mother, Agnes?"

"No, ma'am; I am going to tell her to-night. Ma isn't a church-member herself, but I think she will be glad. She always wants me to go to church and Sunday school, and she never would let me go walking on Sundays with Milly Richmond. Oh, dear! I wish the Richmonds were not coming."

"Don't borrow trouble, dear child. Trust your best Friend to do what is best for you, and make all things work together for your good. I will talk with you again as soon as I can. Good-night."

"Who do you mean by Agnes's best friend?" asked Kit, as Agnes left the room.

"Her Father in heaven, and her Saviour," answered Miss Armstrong; "you know I told you that before, Kitty."

"Well," said Kit with a deep sigh, "I wish He was my friend, that's all. But I don't think He is."

"Why not, my poor child?"

"If He had been, He wouldn't have let Melissa put uncle Phin up to shake me, and burn my book, all because—I—" The recital of her wrongs was too much for poor Kit, and she burst into a fresh agony of crying.

Miss Armstrong took her on her lap, pressed the hot head against her bosom, and by and by began gently to soothe and check the outburst.

"Tell me all about it," said she when Kit was quiet enough to speak.

Kit sobbed out the story of her wrongs.

"And you think He does not love you, because He lets you have trouble? My dear, that is a great mistake. He has never promised us freedom from trouble in this world: on the contrary, He has expressly said, 'In the world ye shall have tribulation.' But He adds in the same breath, 'Be of good cheer; I have overcome the world.' He says in another place that He sends us trouble, or lets trouble come, to make us more fit for heaven, just as the kindest parents sometimes punish their children."

"Then I don't see how Christians are any better off than other folks, after all," said Kit, "if they have troubles just the same."

"They don't have them 'just' the same, Kitty. It is not just the same whether a child is a slave, and beaten by a cruel master, or whether it is punished to cure it of its faults by a kind and loving father."

"That is so," answered Kit.

"And there is another thing about it," continued Miss Armstrong. "Suppose I should say to you, 'Kitty, if you will bear all your troubles patiently, and do your work as well as you can for one week, then I will take you home to live with me, and be happy all the rest of your life.' Would the time seem long or hard to you then?"

"No, indeed!" said Kit, with kindling eyes. "I would work my fingers to the bone, and never say a word, whatever happened."

"Well, that is the way our Father treats his children. He lets them have plenty of trouble and sorrow here,—sometimes it seems as if the best people had the most of it,—but He promises them a home with Him in heaven, where they shall never know any pain and grief, but be happy and holy for ever and ever. Just think! When we look back on our present life, after we have been in that blessed place a million years, it will not look very long or very hard to us."

"No, indeed!" said Kit, drawing a long breath. "A million years without any trouble, happy all the time! It just takes my breath away."

"And then to be no nearer the end than before," said Miss Armstrong. "I used to hear an old hymn sung, of which this was the last verse,—

"'When I've been there ten thousand days,
    Bright shining as the sun,
  I've just as long to sing God's praise
    As though I'd just begun.'"

"Yes, it is nice for you, and I am glad you are going there," said Kit, her face darkening again, "but it won't do me any good. 'I' shall never get there, I know."

"And why not, my little girl?"

"I shall never be good enough," answered Kit. "I have tried and tried to be good. Every morning since I came to school, I have said to myself, 'Now, I won't do one wrong thing to-day;' and I do all the time. And, if I don't act wrong things, I think them. I never can be like what it says in the Testament,—like what He was."

"Poor Kitty! I don't wonder you are discouraged. Why, my child, if people were to be saved by their own goodness, there would not be one in paradise at this minute. It is because Christ died for us that we are saved, because He bore our sins for us when He was nailed to the cross; because He died for us, and rose from the dead for us, and pleads for us at the right hand of God. We are not to be saved because we are good, but we are to be good because we are saved."

Kit's face brightened a little. "I don't quite understand," said she.

"It is just this, Kitty: you have not to earn eternal happiness. You never could do that, and you have no need to try. The Lord Jesus has done that for you. He bore the punishment of all our sins when He was here on earth; and what we have to do is, to believe that He has done so, to put our trust in Him, and give ourselves to Him to be His. See what the Bible says about it:

   "'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)

   "'God commendeth His love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.' (Rom. v. 8)

   "'He that believeth on the Son hath everlasting life.' (St. John iii. 36)"

"Then all the goodness is in believing," said Kit.

"Not at all, my dear. There is no more goodness in believing than in any thing else, but we shall not ask Him to save us unless we believe He can do it. Just so, you might be drowning, and some one might throw you a rope: unless you believed that the rope would save you, you would not take hold of it; and yet there would be no goodness in taking hold of it."

"I see now!" exclaimed Kit. "Just as there might be a doctor in Oldbury who could cure aunt Martha, but unless uncle Phin believed it, and went after him, he would be of no use to her. But, Miss Armstrong, will God save 'me' like that?" asked Kit with a tone of deep reverence, and a far-off look in her great blue eyes. "Will He do all that just because I ask Him,—a poor little naughty, ignorant girl, like me, that don't know any thing about Him hardly? It seems too good to be true."

"It is not one bit too good to be true. You have only to ask Him, and the work is done, now and forever."

"And won't I ever do any thing wrong again?"

"I cannot say that, Kitty. As long as we are in the world, we have to fight with temptations from without, and with the sinful nature that is born in us. But, if we are faithful in asking, He will give us strength to conquer; and, if we do fall into sin, He will help us out.

   "'If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.' (1 John i. 9).

"He not only forgives us our sins, but He washes them away, and makes them as if they had never been. Only God can do that."

"I can see that," said Kit. "Men can't make the least thing to be as if it had never been, if they are ever so sorry about it."

She sat still a moment, and then turned to her friend with a great light shining in her sweet face. "Well, then, Miss Armstrong, I don't see but I 'am' saved, after all, because I do want Him to save me, and I do believe He can."

"Then you certainly are, my precious child," said Miss Armstrong, her own eyes overflowing. "Let us thank Him, Kitty, for all His goodness."

About an hour after this conversation, two young ladies, walking over the hill, came to Kit's favorite haunt, and stood still in admiration at the picture presented to them. Kit was lying on the ground, her head pillowed on the mossy flat stone which was her favorite seat, fast asleep. Her hat lay on the grass beside her, her long dark lashes rested on her cheeks, and the soft summer wind was gently playing with her black curls, as if it feared to wake her. It almost seemed from her attitude that she had been kneeling by the stone, and had sunk down overpowered with sleep.

"What an exquisite picture!" whispered Amity. "What a pity Percy is not here with her sketchbook."

"It is lovely," answered Ida in the same tone. "But she ought not to lie there: she will take cold. Her hand is hurt too. Poor little dear, I wonder who she is. I am sure I don't know her, and yet it seems as if I had seen her before."

"I was just thinking the same. But we must not leave her here. She might sleep till dark, and awake frightened out of her senses, and with rheumatic fever into the bargain."

As Amity spoke, she bent down and kissed the little sleeper. Kit awoke, and started to her feet with a little cry of pain, as the sudden movement shook her burned hand.

"My poor child, did you hurt yourself?" said Amity kindly. "I am sorry I gave you such a start. I only meant to wake you, and keep you from getting cold. What ails your arm?"

"I burned it; but it is not very bad now, only I twisted it a little, getting up," answered Kit. "I can't think how I came to go to sleep, only I was so tired. Ain't you the lady that sung at the meeting last night?" she ventured to ask shyly.

"Yes, my dear. Were you there?"

"No, ma'am, but I stood under the window and listened. Uncle won't let me go to meeting. He don't believe in God or any such thing."

"And don't you believe in Him?"

"Yes, ma'am, I do," answered Kit, with a quiet decision which made Ida and Amity exchange glances. "I feel as though I had just 'got' to believe in Him, for He's all the friend I've got, only Miss Armstrong and Symantha."

"He is the best you could have. What is your name?"

"Kit Mallory, ma'am; at least, that is what every one calls me, only Miss Armstrong calls me Kitty."

"Well, Kitty, can you direct us a short way to Mrs. Van Zandt's house? We have walked farther than we meant, and are both tired."

"You are near by now," said Kit; "you can see the house when you are past this ledge, and I'll show you a cow-path that goes close by the barn. Wouldn't you like a drink?" she added. "This is real nice water, and I've got a cup I keep here."

"Thank you, that will be very refreshing," said Amity.

Kit produced her cup, washed it in the stream, and filled it at the spring-head. Both the girls drank, and praised the cool, sweet draught.

"What a lovely spring!" said Amity, bending down to look into its depths.

"It has great bubbles in it," said Kit. "If you watch, you will see one presently. There! Isn't that pretty?"

"It is, indeed," said Amity. "Look, Ida."

"I see," replied Ida, bending down in her turn. "I see, too, that the sun is getting low, and aunt Barbara will be uneasy about us. So this is the way, is it?"

"Yes, ma'am. Keep in the path, and you won't get into any of the soft places."

"Thank you, my dear. Good-night."

As Kit bent over the spring to dip a cup of water for herself, she saw something red and golden lying under the great tuft of lady-fern which partly overhung the water. She picked it up. It was a beautifully bound little book, bearing marks of a great deal of careful wear. And on opening it, Kit saw that it was a New Testament.

Her heart gave a great bound at the sight. She had been asking for a Testament before she went to sleep, and here it was. Then came another thought. One of the young ladies must have dropped it. Kit could read writing. She turned to the fly-leaf, and read, written in a clear though somewhat tremulous hand,—

   "Amity, with mother's love, on her tenth birthday."

Underneath was written, in another hand,—

   "The very day my dear mother died."

"It is that plain young lady's, the one they say is so rich," thought Kit. "Well, she can buy plenty more, and I haven't any. But then she must think every thing of it, because her mother gave it to her. Oh, dear! I wish I knew what to do. It does seem as though I ought to have it."

Just then something seemed to whisper in Kit's ear a verse she had read in her own Testament only the day before,—"Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them."

"'He' said that," said Kit, speaking aloud. "Suppose I had a Testament that mother gave me, and I should lose it, and some one should find it."

Kit did not hesitate another moment. She ran down the hill as fast as she could, and overtook the young ladies just at their own gate.

"Why, here is our little friend again," said Amity. "My dear child, how you have put yourself out of breath!!"

"Isn't this yours?" asked Kit, producing the book. "I found it down by the spring."

"It is, indeed!" replied Amity. "My dear child, how can I thank you enough? I would rather have lost almost any thing else that I possess."

"I thought you would be sorry to lose it, because it had your mother's writing in it," said Kit, feeling very happy as Amity kissed her. "I know, if I had a Testament that my mother gave me, how much I would think of it. But I must hurry home."

"Wait a minute," said Amity. "Kitty, I want to give you something, not as a reward, but as a keepsake. What shall it be?"

Kit's carnation cheeks grew more beautiful than ever, between eagerness and bashfulness.

"If it wouldn't be impudent to ask, if you had a little old Testament you could give me," she said.

"Would you rather have a little one than a large one?" asked Amity.

"Yes, because I could hide it easier."

"Wait just a moment," said Amity. "So she has to hide her Testament," she remarked to Ida as they went into the house.

"They are a dreadfully hard family, from all I hear," answered Ida. "One of aunt Barbara's soft-covered Testaments will be just the thing for her."

Mrs. Barbara Van Zandt was sitting by the parlor window, hemming a napkin with an exquisite overhand hem. She was almost always hemming napkins when she was not buying them or packing them in neat parcels to send away, and she had brought abundance of her favorite fancy-work with her to the country.

"You are late," said she as the girls entered. "I began to think you were lost."

"So we were," said Ida; "and I don't know where we should have landed, only for a little girl such an odd, lovely child!—whom we found asleep on the hill-top."

"And, aunt Barbara, will you give me one of your nice Testaments for her?" added Amity. "She says she would rather have a little Testament than any thing; but it must be a small one, because she has to hide it."

Aunt Barbara rose with alacrity. "Poor child, how sad! Yes, I have just the thing for her. In that cupboard by the fireplace, Amity. No, not that; the one with soft covers. Where is the child?"

"Out by the door," answered Amity. "She says she dare not come in. Do come and look at her, aunt Barbara, and tell us who she is like."

"So you are the little girl who would rather have a Testament than any thing," said Mrs. Van Zandt in those peculiar deep, soft tones of hers. "Well, here is a nice one for you. Look up, my dear."

"Who is she like, aunt?" asked Ida. "I can't think, and I am sure I have seen that face before."

"Do you remember the picture which hangs in my sewing-room at home?" asked Mrs. Van Zandt. "She is the living image of my poor lost Kathleen Joyce."

"Please, ma'am, would you say that name again?" asked Kit, trembling with eagerness.

"Kathleen Joyce," repeated Mrs. Van Zandt. "Did you ever hear the name before?"

"That was my name! That was it!" exclaimed Kit exultingly. "Kathleen, that is it! I knew it was not Keturah, I knew it wasn't."

"Kathleen? Kathleen what?" asked Mrs. Van Zandt as eagerly as herself.

"I don't know. I mustn't stay another minute," said Kit in a tone of alarm as the clock struck. "I forgot uncle Phin told me never to come here."

"Don't keep her, Mrs. Van Zandt," said Aggy, an elderly colored woman who had taken care of the house for years, speaking in an undertone. "He is an awful man, and there is no telling what he might do."

"Well, good-night, dear child. Perhaps we shall meet again. I must see her somehow," added Mrs. Van Zandt, looking after Kit as she hurried away. "If she is not Kathleen Joyce's child, there is nothing in resemblances."

"And she said her name was Kathleen," observed Ida. "How strange!"

"I wonder if this man is really her uncle," said Amity.

"Melissa Mallory says not," replied Aggy. "She says her father took Kit from the poorhouse, but there is no telling any thing by that.—Miss Ida, do come in out of the dew, and let your aunt get her tea. She'll be having one of her headaches again, and your hand will be paining you all night."

"Kathleen, Kathleen," repeated Mrs. Van Zandt as she sat down to the table. "I must contrive to see that child again."

CHAPTER VIII.

THE SNAKES.

"WHERE is Miss Armstrong?" asked Mrs. Weston, as Selina came home alone.

"I suppose she will be here presently," answered Selina. "Kit Mallory was naughty, and she kept her after school. I would never do that: I would whip them, and let them go. I wouldn't punish myself too."

"That would be very well if one thought only of one's own convenience," remarked Mrs. Weston, "but I imagine that is not Miss Armstrong's way. What did Kit do?"

"She called Faith Fletcher bad names because Faith went above her in spelling. I hope Miss Armstrong will have enough of her, that's all."

Mrs. Weston gave Selina a look which checked her, before she said, "Poor Kit needs to have allowance made for her. She has had very few advantages. But you may set the table, Selina; I dare say Miss Armstrong will not be long."

Selina had not really meant to tell an untruth,—that is to say, she had not deliberately said to herself that she would tell a lie: that is something which people seldom do,—nor had she told a lie in direct words. It was in consequence of her naughtiness that Kit had staid after school. But Selina was under the dominion of what might be called her ruling passion,—a passion which makes people do as mean things as any which belongs to humanity: she was jealous. She had taken a great liking to Miss Armstrong when that lady first came, and had said to herself, that, as Miss Armstrong boarded at her father's house, she (Selina) would see more of her than any one else, and would therefore be the teacher's particular friend.

Now, there was no harm in Selina's wishing the teacher to like her; the trouble was that she did not want Miss Armstrong to like any one else. This passion of jealousy had been the bane of Selina's life. Mr. and Mrs. Weston had another adopted daughter, who had married and gone to live in Oldbury about a year before our story begins. Elizabeth had never been any thing but kind to Selina from the first day of her coming into the house, a rather forlorn little girl of ten years old. It had not given her a single pang when she was told of Mr. and Mrs. Weston's determination to adopt another child: on the contrary, she was glad that some one else should have the same happy home as herself. And when Selina was brought from the Oldbury orphan-asylum, the only home she could remember, Elizabeth, then a womanly girl of sixteen, had done her best to make her feel contented.

But no kindness can make a jealous person happy. In the asylum, Selina had always watched the other children's meals, to see whether some one had not a larger bit of butter, a fatter doughnut, a redder apple, than herself; and she brought the same spirit into her new home. She soon became quite sure that mother loved Lizzy the best, all because Lizzy had curly hair and red cheeks. Lizzy had a new summer frock, while hers was mother's last summer's dress made over; Lizzy had mother's beautiful gray merino made over for winter, while she had a woollen plaid out of the store at the Corners: and one was just as much a grievance as the other. She was glad when Lizzy married and went away. But now Lizzy had a boy baby which was named after Mr. Weston, and Selina was quite sure that father and mother would never care for her again.

Miss Armstrong had been very kind to her, that she must needs allow, but then, she had been just as kind to all the others, and Selina was quite sure that she liked Agnes Gleason's reading the best. That was always the way, she said to herself with a sigh. It was her fate, and she must bear it. Some time, perhaps, she would find some one who would love her best of all.

"So you had a case of discipline," remarked Mrs. Weston as the family sat down to the tea-table.

"I thought you'd find it wasn't all such plain sailing," said Aunt Betsy Burr, who had happened in to borrow a cup of maple molasses. Aunt Betsy's errands generally did bring her to her neighbors about meal-times. "There's some dreadful bad children about here. Those Bassett boys yelled right in front of my door last night when they were coming home from hoeing potatoes up to the hill farm."

"It was not a case of discipline, though it might have been if the culprit had not put discipline out of the question by her own act," replied Miss Armstrong. "The poor child did forget herself, but she acknowledged her fault, and asked pardon before the whole school, and that of her own motion. There was no room for discipline after that. I did keep her, but it was to comfort and help her a little. She has burned her hand badly, and was feeling very unhappy over the loss of an old Testament she had found somewhere."

Mrs. Weston looked at Selina, who looked at her plate.

"I am sorry for that child. I think she has hard times," said Mr. Weston. "I met Phin Mallory at Oldbury yesterday, and he told me he was going to make a fuss at the next school-meeting about having the Bible read in school."

"And what did you say?" asked his wife.

"Well, I tried to reason with him at first, but I found there was no use in that, so I told him to make all the fuss he wanted to."

"I don't know, though," said Aunt Betsy. "I ain't sure it is lawful to take up the time of the scholars with Bible lessons."

Miss Armstrong only smiled.

"And so poor Kit has lost her Testament," remarked Mr. Weston. "Well, we must try to let her have another. Does she think so much of it as all that?"

"She does, indeed," answered Miss Armstrong. "I have never met any one who seemed to have a greater craving for the truth. I believe that child is going to grow up a true Christian in spite of her adverse circumstances."

"I should think she took a queer way to show it,—calling the other girls names," said Aunt Betsy. "For my part, I don't believe she will ever be any thing but a regular little reprobate."

"Who is calling names now, Aunt Betsy?" asked Mr. Weston, smiling.

Aunt Betsy maintained a dignified silence, and betook herself to the consumption of canned cherries as if that were the only object in life worthy her notice.

"The truth often finds readier entrance into such a heart as Kit's than into one which had heard the gospel preached, and remained closed against it," remarked Miss Armstrong; "at least, that has been the result of my observation both with the heathen and among the mission children in the city."

"You are right," said Mr. Weston. "The hardest sinners to melt are gospel-hardened sinners. I thought a good many people seemed touched last night. The Jewsbury girls were very attentive, I observed, and so was Agnes Gleason. That is another child I feel great interest in."

"I must not violate confidence, but I may just say I have reason to hope we may hear good news of Agnes," said Miss Armstrong, smiling. "I had a nice little talk with her, which was another thing that kept me."

"Well, I hope her mother won't put no stumbling-blocks in her way if she really is trying to be a Christian, that's all," remarked Aunt Betsy. "Almira is a dreadful worldly woman, and always was. The way she 'nips' into church on Sunday with that black silk dress of hers, and brushes off the seat before she sits down! You needn't laugh, Abby. I've seen her do it with my own eyes, so there!"

"I don't so much blame her for that," said Mrs. Weston. "I never go into the building, that I don't want to go to house-cleaning."

"Wouldn't it be fun to make a 'bee,' and clean the church before the new minister comes?" said Selina. "We might do it next week."

"I declare, daughter, that is an excellent idea," said Mrs. Weston. "It wouldn't be such a very great piece of work if we all took hold of it.—What do you say, father?"

"I agree with all my heart," answered Mr. Weston. "I don't believe the place has had a thorough cleaning in twelve years, and it is longer than that since the old house was painted. How long is it, Aunt Betsy?"

"Twenty-five years this coming July," answered Aunt Betsy. "Don't you remember, it was the year old Dr. Munson died. He 'was' a man! It will be a long time before we have any one to fill his pulpit. This Mr. Brace isn't going to do it. Why, Dr. Munson's folks were among the first settlers of Oldfield County."

"Well, if you come to that, Mr. Brace's great-grandfather was one of the first settlers of Rivermouth County," said Mr. Weston. "You may find his name in Barber's 'Historical Collections.' Though, as he is to preach, and not his great-grandfather, I don't see what difference it makes."

"Well, anyhow, he ain't going to fill Dr. Munson's pulpit," persisted Aunt Betsy. "Just hear him read the lessons! And he sings himself, for I saw him."

"And I heard him, and thought he had a very fine voice. Why shouldn't he sing, as well as any one else?"

"Dr. Munson never did. I remember him as if I had seen him yesterday."

"Dr. Munson was a fine man, no doubt, but he has been dead and buried this many a year, and I only wish his ghost did not walk," said Mrs. Weston. "Every time we have a new minister, somebody compares him with old Dr. Munson, and says he never will fill Dr. Munson's pulpit."

"If Dr. Munson wanted to keep the pulpit himself, he should have taken it away with him," said Selina rather pertly.

"I don't believe he did," said her father. "He was by far too good and too humble-minded to wish to remain a standard for the measurement of all who should come after him.—But as to this plan of the child's, mother, you talk it up with the women, and I'll do the same with the men; and we'll see what can be done."

Selina went to her room in a comfortable frame of mind. She had escaped the blame which she had expected, and she had been commended for her idea of cleaning the church, and might expect still more praise, for her mother would be sure to say it was Selina's notion in the first place. Her self-complacency began to sink a little as she heard her mother coming up-stairs, and remembered how she had misrepresented the matter of Kit's staying after school.

"Now mother Weston will be coming to talk to me," she said to herself. She had a great dread of these talks, which always left her feeling very small in her own eyes.

But mother Weston had no such intention this night. She began to think there was no use in talking to Selina: so, like Christian in the dark valley, she betook herself to another weapon, called All-prayer, which was very familiar to her hand, as it is, thank God! to the hands of most Christian mothers.

Selina was destined to hear of her fault from another quarter.

"Selina, how did Mrs. Burr know about Kitty's fault yesterday?" asked Miss Armstrong as they met on the way to school next morning.

Selina had not been without her fears on this point, and she had set out before Miss Armstrong by a different route expressly to escape this interview. But as so often happens when we try to avoid a person, she came plump upon her about a quarter of a mile from the schoolhouse.

"Oh, Aunt Betsy—every one calls her Aunt Betsy about here—she hears every thing!" answered Selina with assumed carelessness. "And she thinks all young people are dreadful. You heard what she said about the Bassett boys, and they are forever doing things for her."

"Yes, I heard. But that is not the point," said Miss Armstrong, seeing Selina's object, but not to be diverted from her purpose. "Your mother, too, spoke of a case of discipline. What did you say about it?"

"I am sure I don't remember," answered Selina. "Mother asked me where you were, and I said you had staid after school with Kit Mallory. Then she asked what Kit had done, and I told her. I did not see that Aunt Betsy was there, or I should not have said it. Why, Miss Armstrong, don't you want me to tell mother what happens in school?" asked Selina, thinking she saw a way of "getting out of it," as she said. "I always do tell mother every thing."

"And you are careful to tell her every thing just exactly as it happens, of course," said Miss Armstrong, with a look which made Selina feel that she was seen through. "For instance, you told her last night that Kit had of her own accord confessed her fault, and made all the amends possible, before I said a word to her on the subject."

"I didn't say any thing but what was true," said Selina somewhat sullenly.

"Yes, but did you tell all the truth? It is possible to deceive even by silence; and it is the deception that makes the lie, you know, my dear."

"I will thank you not to call me a liar, Miss Armstrong," said Selina, feeling that she was in a tight place, and trying to get out of it by means of a fit of virtuous indignation. "That is what nobody ever did; and I am not going to stand it, even from you."

"I have not called you a liar, Selina, as you know very well. What your own conscience tells you, is another matter. Only remember this, that, while I make no objection to your telling your mother every thing that concerns yourself, I shall be very much displeased if I hear of any gossip outside about matters that go on in school."

With these words, Miss Armstrong went into the schoolhouse, leaving Selina very angry with the teacher, herself, and all the world. There is nothing so exasperating as an accusing conscience when one is determined not to listen to it. Selina had no mind either to join Miss Armstrong in the schoolhouse, or to be left to the company of her own thoughts. And seeing the Fletcher children coming down the road in company with Myra Bassett, she went to meet them.

"Why, Myra, are you coming to school?" she asked in surprise, for Myra was a grown-up girl, and had been to boarding-school in Oldbury.

"Well, no; at least, I am not going to begin Saturday morning, though I am not sure I should not do it if ma could spare me," answered Myra, smiling. "I have taken a great liking to your Miss Armstrong. I think you are greatly favored in having her for a teacher."

"I guess we all think so, don't we, Selina?" said Faith.

"Of course, though I don't see any thing so very wonderful about her," answered Selina. "But all new brooms sweep clean, with some people."

"Why, what is the matter now?" asked Sarah Leet. "I am sure you began with thinking her a regular 'tarragon,' as poor James Davis says. What has she done to you?"

"I did not say she had done any thing to me," answered Selina somewhat angrily. "I can have my own opinion, I suppose. I haven't any fault to find with Miss Armstrong, only I do think she makes a ridiculous fuss over that little Kit Mallory."

"Oh!" said Sarah in a tone which implied, "Now I understand."

"I don't see that she makes any great fuss over her," said literal Faith. "Of course we all feel interested in Kit. I don't know how any one could help it, seeing how hard she tries to be good. Wasn't it sweet to hear her ask pardon in the class, as she did yesterday?"

"Oh, very sweet," answered Selina with what she meant to be a tone of sarcasm, but which was, in fact, an ill-natured sneer. "She thought she was going to get a whipping, and took that way to get out of it, and get round Miss Armstrong."

"Well, I don't believe that," said Agnes Gleason, who had joined the group in time to hear the remark. "In the first place, Kit gets too many whippings to care very much about them; and in the second place, she couldn't possibly know that she would get out of it in that way. I believe she really was sorry, and said so."

"I think so too," returned Faith.

"And so do I," said Sarah. "But, Agnes, I didn't expect to see you so early, or looking so happy."

"Why not? Oh, I know: because the Richmonds have come. Well, mother says I shall not be hindered as I was last summer. She told Mrs. Richmond last night that she and Milly must get up to breakfast with us at half-past seven, as she could not keep me at home to cook a second breakfast. Wasn't I glad!"

"And what did Mrs. Richmond say?"

"Oh, she didn't like it at first, and talked about finding another boarding-place. And mother told her she could do as she pleased about that. I don't think she would be very sorry if they did go, only we all like poor Cordelia."

"And is poor Cordelia to get up at half-past seven too?" asked Selina. "That is rather hard, I think, considering what bad nights she has."

"Of course not," replied Agnes with some indignation in her tone. "Cordelia always has her breakfast in bed, and never takes any thing anyway but a cup of tea and a bit of bread or toast. That is a very different thing from getting a second hot breakfast, an hour after we have finished our own, for two healthy women."

"Very different," said Sarah. "But I thought Milly alone would be enough to bring a cloud to your placid brow, as the magazine-writers say."

"Oh, well, perhaps I have been hard upon Amelia," replied Agnes. "She does come across me in so many ways, she makes me feel like a cat stroked the wrong way. But I don't mean to quarrel with her if I can help it. There comes Kit. How pale she looks! I wonder if her arm is so bad."

At this moment, the conversation was disagreeably interrupted. It is a fact that Oldfield County, and especially the town of Oldham, has always enjoyed, and what is worse, has deserved, a very bad reputation in the matter of snakes. It is a snaky town at all times; and there are certain years, when, for some reason unknown, snakes do much more abound than at other times. This was a "snake summer."

The men wore their thickest and highest boots when they went into the mowing-lots and the low meadows, and the children were cautioned to keep a bright lookout in their expeditions after wintergreens and wild flowers. Mr. Bassett had killed a big rattlesnake in his own pasture; there were stories of copperheads; and old Miss Jewsbury declared that she had seen a serpent as thick as a clothes-post and as long as a well-sweep, crossing the swamp at the foot of her garden. But Miss Jewsbury was given to seeing wonderful sights under the inspiration of a certain black vial in the corner of her cupboard, and nobody believed very deeply in the accuracy of her snake story.

The Fletcher twins, Eddy and Eben, had run on before to meet Kit, who was a famous playmate, and very fond of the younger children. Just as they came near her, Ednah stood still literally, and, fortunately for herself, too much scared to move; while Eben screamed,—

"A snake, a snake! O Faithie, come!"

Faith stopped, frozen with horror, and pointed to the child.

A brown snake had actually wound itself round her ankle. Before any one could move, Kit turned, saw the situation, and was mistress of it.

"Don't move, Eddy; stand still!" said she in a crisp, clear tone of command. Then, reaching the spot with one of her agile, panther-like springs, she bent down, caught the snake with her thumb and forefinger just behind the head, and, throwing it on the ground, set the heel of her thick boot on its head. ¹

¹ This is no fiction, but an actual incident.

"Quick, girls!" she cried. "Kill it before it gets away."

Agnes and Sarah sprang to the spot, and the snake was soon despatched. Faith snatched up Ednah, and began stripping down her stocking.

"Oh, it didn't bite her: it didn't have a chance," said Kit, with a laugh that sounded slightly hysterical. "But it was a close shave, wasn't it, Eddy?"

"I should think it was, you dear, blessed child!" exclaimed Sarah, sitting down on a stone, and taking Kit on her lap. "There, sit still a minute. How you tremble! And no wonder.—Agnes, get her some water."

"I don't think there is any thing to be so scared at," said Selina. "It was only a garter snake."

"Garter snake! So are you a garter snake!" said Sarah contemptuously. "Did you ever see a garter snake that color?—Mr. Bassett!" she added, calling to the miller, who was just passing, "Please come and tell us what kind of snake this is."

"It's a real copperhead, and no mistake," pronounced Mr. Bassett. "It is rather a young one, but there is no mistaking the nature of the animal. See its poison teeth. Take care! Don't touch 'em: the least scratch might do for you. Who killed it?"

Agnes told the story, while Miss Armstrong fanned Kit, who was leaning, very white, against Sarah's shoulder.

"Well, you are a brave child," said Mr. Bassett. "How came you to think of acting so?"

"I didn't think: it just came to me," said Kit, sitting up. "I can't think what makes me feel so queer, only I didn't sleep much, my hand hurt me so."

"There isn't one man in a hundred would have had the presence of mind, even if he had the courage," said Mr. Bassett. "Myra, hadn't we better take her over to our house, and let her lie down a while. I'll carry her."

"Perhaps that will be the best way," said Miss Armstrong. "Wouldn't you like to go with Mr. Bassett, and rest a little?"

"And have a nice cup of coffee?" added Myra.

Kit shook her head. "I should like it," said she, with a loving and grateful look at Myra and her father, "but uncle Phin wouldn't. He has told me never to go into the neighbors' houses for any thing, and I think I ought to mind him."

"Of course you ought," replied Mr. Bassett, exchanging glances with Miss Armstrong.

"I'll run home and get the coffee, anyway," said Myra, whose kindness, like her mother's, was apt to take a substantial form. "I am sure she needs something.

"And do you sit quietly here in the shade, and rest," said Miss Armstrong. "Sarah shall sit with you, lest you should be faint again."

"What do you think about Kit now?" asked Agnes of Selina, in a low tone, as they were hanging up their hats.

"I think a great fuss is being made about nothing," said Selina. "I or anybody could have done as much."

"Why didn't you, then?" asked one of the little girls, who was near. "You were as close to Eddy as Kit was; and you just stood still and screamed, for I saw you."

Selina found it convenient not to hear this remark. She was listening to the hissing of a snake in her own heart, worse than any copperhead that ever crawled in Oldham,—the serpent of envy and jealousy. The copperhead could, at worst, only have killed the child's body, but her bosom companion was poisoning her very soul.

"Don't I tire you?" said Kit as Sarah settled her into an easier position.

"Not you, you little shrimp; I could hold a dozen of you. Sit still if you like it."

"I do," said Kit. "It seems so good to be babied a little," she added with a little tremor in her voice.

Sarah drew Kit's head closer to her, and kissed the brown cheek. But she did not speak, and Kit lay in a kind of dreamy content.

"Sarah," said she at last, rousing herself just as she seemed to be falling asleep.

"Well, dear."

"Do you think it was the Lord put it into my head,—how to catch the snake, I mean?"

"I suppose so," answered Sarah, who was a girl who thought about things. "Every thing good is from Him. I don't see where else it could have come from."

"I am so glad I could do it," said Kit. "How dreadful it would have been if the snake had bitten Eddy! She might have been dead by this time."

"And suppose it had bitten you?"

"Well, that wouldn't have mattered so much, for I am not anybody's girl as Eddy is. I suppose Symantha would have been sorry, though, because she loves me. She said she did, yesterday."

"She must be a queer woman if she didn't," said Sarah. "See, here is Myra with some nice coffee for you."

"Did you think I was ever so long?" said Myra, setting down her basket, and taking the cover off a little tin pail which gave out a delicious odor. "Ma made fresh coffee, and cut some cold chicken, because she says you ought to try and eat a little. There, drink, little one. What are you looking at?" For Kit was regarding the mug Myra handed her, with a dazed expression, knitting her brows as if trying to recall something.

"At the mug," said Kit. "Somehow it makes me remember something, and I can't tell what it is. It is just as if I had seen it before. I remember those little blue folks on the bridge, and somebody telling me a story about them."

"I dare say you may have seen something like it," said Myra "It is very old china. Ma's grandfather used to be a sailor, and he brought a great many curious things from China and India. There, do drink your coffee: it will be cold."

"How good it is, and how good you all are to me!" said Kit. "I am so glad uncle Phin came here to live! I hope we shall never move away. Symantha says so too. She says she has been about the world all she ever wants to."

"Then you have moved a good many times?" said Sarah, who shared in the general curiosity about Phin Mallory,—a curiosity not at all unnatural in a place where everybody knew everybody, and everybody's grandfathers, to the third and fourth generation.

"Oh, yes! We have lived in five different places since I can remember. St. Louis was the first I know. Then we went farther west to a new town in Kansas, and then into the Indian country. I liked it there."

"Were you not afraid of the Indians?" asked Myra, whose notions of that people were derived from legends of the French and Indian war, still current in Oldfield County. "I should be."

"Oh, no, you wouldn't, not of those Indians. They were real nice folks, and so kind to us, especially when aunt Martha was sick. They were good Christians too. Uncle Phin was away a good deal; and sometimes, when he staid over Sunday, I used to go to their church. I was very little then, but I remember the beautiful singing, and the prayers they used,—little bits of them. 'We have strayed like lost sheep,' that was one; I knew it the minute Mr. Weston read it last night. And the people used to say, 'Good Lord, deliver us,' when the minister prayed. But we didn't stay there long. Uncle Phin says the Indians are treacherous dogs, no better than wolves, but I like them."

"Have some more coffee," said Myra. "Well, where did you go then?"

"We didn't stay long anywhere; we just travelled about. Finally we came here, and I do hope we shall stay!"

"So do I," said Myra. "You must learn all you can, in case you have to go away again. Do you feel better?"

"Oh, yes! I am quite well now. I guess I will go into school. Thank you for the coffee and for being so good to me."

"Please ask Miss Armstrong to step to the door," said Myra, gathering up her basket and other matters. "Mother sent me on an errand to her, and I nearly forgot it." Myra's errand was, to ask Miss Armstrong to come to her mother's house to tea that afternoon.

"Mrs. Weston is coming, and so are Miss Celia and Miss Delia: that's all, only I suppose Aunt Betsy will turn up, as usual; oh, yes! and Patience Fletcher, if she can get away. Do come, Miss Armstrong. Ma wants to see you so much, and I want you to see grandma. She is such a dear old lady!"

Miss Armstrong smiled, and promised to come. She would have preferred to spend her half-holiday quietly. But she knew this party was made for her, and she had been used, all her life, to putting herself out of the question.

Of course, all the children went home with their heads and mouths full of the snake story, which lost nothing in the telling. Kit was the only one who did not mention it.

Agnes Gleason told of it at the table. She had gone to her mother's room the evening before, and opened her heart to her with some misgivings, for Mrs. Gleason was not a woman who made any profession of religion. She was agreeably surprised at the way in which her communication was received.

"I am just as glad as if you had given me a fortune, and more," said Mrs. Gleason. "I always have hoped you would be a Christian."

"You never said any thing about it to me, ma," said Agnes. "I've wondered sometimes why you didn't."

"Well, I thought it wouldn't sound very well coming from one who made no profession of religion herself. But you know, Agnes, I always have kept you at Sunday school, and I have taken pains to have you learn your catechism."

"Yes, I know. Mrs. Martin used to say she wished all mothers would do as much. I'm so glad you are pleased, ma. It makes me happier than I was before," said Agnes, her eyes overflowing with joyful tears.

"Well, I 'am' pleased," said Mrs. Gleason with emphasis. "But I want to tell you one thing, daughter: I want you to join the church the very first time there is a confirmation; that is, if you are sure you know your own mind, and I guess you do. You are pretty apt to, I will say that for you."

"I think so," said Agnes. "I should like to be confirmed. It seems as if that and the communion, and all, would be such a help and safeguard. I thought perhaps you would think I was too young to come forward."

"I don't," replied her mother. "Your grandfather Gleason was a minister of great experience, and I have heard him say that the proportion of backsliders among young church-members is much less than among those who wait till middle life. And it stands to reason, too, because they are not so fixed in bad habits."

"How did it happen, ma, that you never were confirmed yourself?" asked Agnes.

"Well, it was just that way. We had a large class confirmed when I was about your age. I was very serious at that time, and I wanted very much to come forward. Dr. Munson was in favor of it; and probably, if my parents had been alive, I should have done so. But I was living with Aunt Betsy then, and she was against it. She said I was too young to understand what I was about, and not serious-minded enough, and so on; and she wouldn't give her consent. Then I went away to Elmsbury, and there I fell in with a good deal of gay society; and—Well, I don't know how it was, but I lost my hope, and never found it again. And sometimes I think I never shall," added Mrs. Gleason sadly. "Aunt Betsy always says it shows she was right about me."

"I think it shows she was wrong," said Agnes.

"And so do I. I have got to answer for myself, of course, but I can't help blaming her for part of it. And I made up my mind that I should take a very different course with you."

"I am so glad!" said Agnes. "But, ma," she added timidly, "why don't you come forward now? It would be so sweet for us to go together. We always have been together in every thing, you know, ever since I was a little girl."

"Yes, I always have made a companion of you. Sometimes I'm afraid I put too much on you."

"No, you don't either," said Agnes, with some indignation. "There isn't a girl in Oldham has better times than I do, only for—"

"Only for the summer boarders," said Mrs. Gleason as Agnes paused. "Well, I hope we shall not have to take them again. I have calculated that this season will pay off the mortgage, and after that we shall be easy enough."

"But won't you think about it, ma?"

"Child, I have thought enough, if that would do any good. But, I don't know how it is, my heart seems as hard as the nether millstone, or like the Bald Rock on Indian Hill, where neither sun nor rain will make any thing grow."

"But we can 'do' right, whether we 'feel' right or not," said Agnes.

"There is something in that," replied her mother. "But we must not talk any more to-night. Go to bed, dear, and I will come as soon as I have set the bread.—Bless the child! I only wish her dear father knew it," added Mrs. Gleason to herself as she went about her bread. "I wish that Milly Richmond wasn't here: she is one of those birds of the air we read of in the parable. But I don't think my girl is a wayside hearer."

"I shall not dare to step out of doors all the time I am here," was Milly Richmond's comment on the snake story.

"You will get rather tired of that," said Mrs. Gleason. "I have known several 'snake summers' since I have been here, but I have seldom known of any one's being hurt. It was a narrow escape for little Eddy, however, and for Kit herself. I can't think how the child should know just what to do."

"She asked Sarah if she didn't think it was the Lord who showed her," said Agnes, "and Sarah said she didn't doubt it."

"Oh, I didn't know Sarah had taken up the pious dodge," remarked Milly, with a sneer. "Does the new teacher go in for that kind of thing?"

"What kind of thing?" asked Agnes. Then, as Milly only laughed, she added, "Miss Armstrong is a Christian woman, if that is what you mean; and we like her the better for it."

"Of course she is. Don't you know, Milly, we heard all about her from Miss Brown? She is a great friend of old Mrs. Van Zandt and that set," said Mrs. Richmond, who would have given one of her fingers for a call from aunt Barbara at her fine new house. "I wonder what brought her up here."

"Perhaps she came on a mission to convert the natives," said Milly, who never lost an opportunity of showing that she looked down on the people where she spent her summers. "Maybe she will convert you, Agnes."

"Maybe she has," said Agnes. "So much the better for me."

"Grandfather Gleason used to say that conversion is not the work of man, though man may be the honored instrument," said Mrs. Gleason. "Agnes has got a great deal of good from Miss Armstrong already, and I hope she may get more. It is a pity you would not try going to school to her yourself, Milly. Perhaps she might do something, even for you."

Milly curled her lip and tossed her head. But she had come off second best in more than one encounter with her hostess, and she did not care to try another. She made up her mind, however, that if Agnes had taken up any such notions, she would soon laugh her out of them. Mrs. Gleason had rightly called her one of the birds of the air. But such birds have no power over the seed sown in good ground; it is only that which falls on the hard-trodden wayside which becomes their prey.

CHAPTER IX.

TWO TEA-PARTIES.

WHEN Mrs. Weston and Miss Armstrong entered Mrs. Bassett's front parlor, they found the rest of the company assembled, and were welcomed by their hostess with "Why, how late you are! I was most thinking you were not coming. I'm afraid you're growing fashionable, Abby."

"Not a bit," answered Mrs. Weston. "It was not fashion that kept me, but flour. Mr. Bassett was so late with the grist that he made me late with my Saturday's baking; and I didn't like to leave it all to Selina."

"Do tell!" said Mrs. Bassett. "Pa has been very much driven with work, and Mr. Cook being sick puts him about. But where is Selina? I thought she would come too."

"I left her to keep house. She has to be elder daughter, now Lizzy is gone."

"Well, she must come another time.—Do take off your things, Miss Armstrong. I'm so glad to see you! I believe you know everybody here only Patience. Where is she? Oh, here she comes.—Patience, let me make you acquainted with Miss Armstrong."

"I feel as if I knew Miss Fletcher already through the children," said Miss Armstrong, cordially shaking hands with Patience. "I hope Ednah is none the worse for her adventure this morning. Poor child, she had a terrible fright."

"Oh, yes, with the snake," said Mrs. Bassett. "The scare was enough to kill her."

"I don't think she was as much frightened as Faithie was," answered Patience. "She says herself she didn't have time. But it is dreadful to think what would have happened only for Kit," she added, shuddering. "I little thought, when I was fretting about that child's coming to school with our young ones, what she was to do for them."

"Which shows what I am always telling you, Patience,—that there is no use in fretting and borrowing trouble," remarked Mrs. Bassett.

"Kit seems a well-disposed child in every way, I think," said Miss Celia, whose knitting-needles were pursuing their rapid, even rounds in the corner. "She brought home my tortoise-shell kitten when it strayed away. I can hardly think she belongs to these people."

"She don't," returned Aunt Betsy, who had fulfilled Myra's prediction by 'dropping in' a little before tea-time. "If she was a Mallory, we should know something about her, at any rate. They took her out of the poorhouse. I don't suppose anybody even knows whether she had a grandfather."

"It seems probable that she had one of some sort," said Mrs. Bassett. "Folks don't often come into the world like mushrooms, without any ancestors at all."

"She must have come of a good family somehow," said Miss Celia with mild persistence.

"I do not think that so certain," remarked Miss Armstrong. "I have had a good deal of experience with children in all positions, from what might be called the top of the social ladder to the bottom; and I have found all sorts of dispositions in all sorts of places. I have seen most beautiful growths of goodness and self-sacrifice in the midst of vice and ignorance such as you can have no idea of unless you have seen it, and I have seen very extraordinary tendencies to wickedness among children who had been most carefully brought up."

"Well, you won't persuade 'me' that it don't make any difference whether folks are respectable, decent folks, or loafers," said Aunt Betsy. "Nobody will ever make me think 'that.'"

"Anybody would be very foolish to try," said Mrs. Weston. "All Miss Armstrong says is that good and bad dispositions do not depend entirely upon family, or even upon training."

"Exactly so," assented Miss Armstrong. "Other things being equal, well-trained and well-nurtured children are likely to be better than those who are neither; but there are exceptions in all cases."

"To read some books, one would think that all people need, is to be shown the right way, and they jump into it at once," said Miss Delia. "I was reading one the other day, in which a young girl went to stay at a country village for the summer, and converted everybody in it. Just as if all one had to do was to catch folks, and do good to them!"

"I know the class of books you mean, and I have a special objection to them," said Miss Armstrong. "Old-fashioned people complain of novels because they give false views of life, and I find fault with these books for the same reason. Enthusiastic young people reading them are apt, as you say, to think that all one has to do to reform people is to set the good before them, and they take to it at once; whereas the fact is that sinners in general are not wicked because they know no better, but because they like wickedness the best."

"Just so," assented Mrs. Weston. "Look at the case of Harry Burchard, for instance," alluding to a somewhat famous burglar. "That fellow had a good bringing-up, and learned a good trade; and the same enterprise and ingenuity which made him such a successful burglar would have made him an equally successful business-man."

"And it was no want of grandfathers in his case," observed Miss Delia. "He is a great-grandson of old Mr. Wheeler, who used to preach in Oldbury in Revolutionary times. I've noticed in these same books, that in all the church work, the pastor is of no account whatever: it is the young folks that do every thing."

"Talking of pastors, is it true that Mr. Brace is coming in two weeks?"

"Quite true, I am glad to say," answered Mrs. Weston. "And that reminds me of something I want to talk about."

And Mrs. Weston forthwith plunged into the subject of the church-cleaning. All present took up the matter with enthusiasm except Aunt Betsy,—who was constitutionally opposed to every thing,—and Patience Fletcher. Aunt Betsy thought it would never do to make such a fuss about cleaning up the church: it would be as much as saying right out that it was dirty; that would hurt Mr. Archimball's feelings, which would be a shame after all the years he had taken care of the church.

"All the years he hasn't taken care of it, you mean," said Mrs. Bassett. "If Archimball had done his duty, things wouldn't be in the state they are. I don't think we are bound to sit in the dirt all our lives, to spare his feelings.—Well, Patience, what do you think?"

"I think it is an excellent plan," answered Patience, "and I only wish I could promise to help about it. But I don't see how I can, I've got so much laid out to do next week."

"Poor thing!" said Mrs. Bassett, laughing. "It is a pity, Patience, that you hadn't a baker's dozen of children, so you could get a little leisure. What is it that presses so dreadfully? Maybe I can help you a little."

"Well, I calculated to clean the spare bedroom, for one thing; and there are the curtains to wash and do up, and the children's clothes to see to. Eben and Eddy do make so much washing!"

"Sakes alive! What would you do if you had my two big boys, besides Mr. Bassett and the little ones? Come, Patience, let the spare room rest a week. I tell you it isn't good for any one to work all the time in a half-bushel. That's one reason why I am in favor of missionary work: it gives one an outlook,—makes a window into the world, as it were.—Don't you think so, Miss Armstrong?"

"I certainly do, but perhaps I am an interested party," answered Miss Armstrong, smiling. "I have been busy with missionary work of some sort ever since I was eighteen, and even before, for my father and mother were missionaries before me. But I think with you, Mrs. Bassett, that we all need outside windows in our lives. I believe many an overworked housekeeper would find her life lightened if she would interest herself in something outside her own household."

"Yes, it is easy to say that," said Patience, a little peevishly. "But there is only just so much time, anyhow; and if it is full, it is full."

"Very true," replied Miss Armstrong. "In that case we must consider whether there is not something that can be turned out."

"A man is to provide first for his own household," said Patience.

"Very true again; but to provide what? That is the real question, you see. Is a man bound to spend so much time heaping dollar upon dollar for his sons that he has no time to know what sort of companions they have, or where they pass their evenings? Or is a mother obliged to spend so much time and labor providing Sunday finery for her little daughter that she has no time to teach the child her catechism, or see that she understands her Bible lesson?"

"That is an extreme case," said Patience.

"It is a very common case, I am sorry to say," answered Miss Armstrong. "I know more than one mother of moderate means who thinks she has no time to attend to her daughter's lessons, because she must dress the child as finely as somebody else who has five times her income."