Meantime, Amelia Richmond had been engaged in a very different fashion.
"Why, Milly, I didn't expect to see you to-day," said Selina as they met at the church door. "How quickly you slipped away! I meant to ask you to come into Sunday school."
"Thank you," said Milly. "I don't go to Sunday school, and I don't imagine I should gain very much from your dear cousin Celia's instructions."
"You might," returned Selina. "Father says cousin Celia is one of the best Bible scholars he ever knew. But we had Mrs. Van Zandt this morning. Cousin Celia is not well."
"What, the old lady? I would have staid if I had known that," said Milly. "What was she like?"
"I thought she was lovely," answered Selina. "She introduced our class to Dr. Madison, and he spoke to us so nicely. Didn't you like him this morning?"
"Not so very much," answered Milly. "I thought it was a canting, gloomy kind of sermon. I like intellectual preaching, about science and art, and so on."
"We don't go to church to hear about science and art, but to hear the gospel," said Selina.
"Oh, come, now, don't 'you' begin," said Milly. "Has Miss Armstrong got you under her thumb already? She might well say she was coming on a mission to the heathen."
"I don't believe she said any such thing," returned Selina, coloring.
"I happen to know that she did. However, it does not matter. I ought not to have repeated it, I suppose, only I don't like to see people imposed upon. Miss Van Zandt's dress is not nun's veiling, Selina," added Milly, with a sudden change of subject, as Mrs. Van Zandt's carriage came in sight. "It is real China crape. I should not think she would wear such an expensive dress to church in the country, especially as they are not rich, but I dare say her aunt gave it to her."
"I must go to my seat," said Selina, feeling, for once, a desire to get rid of her companion.
"I will go with you," said Milly. "I like to sit up-stairs: one can see every one so nicely."
Selina was not pleased, but she had so often asked Milly to sit with her, that she did not know how to decline her company. Milly made herself very much at home, rather to the annoyance of Myra Bassett, with whom she was no favorite, and she indulged herself very freely in making remarks upon the congregation.
"Do look at that woman in the blue bonnet with green and red flowers. I wonder where her milliner lives. I should like to employ her. Who is she?"
"Mrs. Bettys. Do be quiet, Milly."
Milly was silent for a moment, and then began again.
"Do look at Mrs. Chase. What a figure she does make of herself! With all her husband's practice, she might dress decently, one would think. Who are those girls in white, Selina? I never noticed them before."
"The Jewsburys. They live in our district, but they hardly ever come to church. They were at the Bible class Thursday night, I remember."
"Oh, they are some of Miss Armstrong's heathen converts, I suppose. She means to get you all under her thumb."
This was a little too much for Myra's patience.
She leaned forward, and said in an energetic whisper,—
"Miss Richmond, will you please be quiet? We are not used to hearing such talk in the house of God."
Milly tossed her head, but she saw the eyes of some of the elders fixed upon her, and she did not venture to say any more. All through the sermon, which was a continuation of the one in the morning, she did her best to distract Selina's attention by writing notes and passing candy.
Myra Bassett was furious. With all her good qualities, she had not her tongue under the most perfect government in the world. And the moment service was over, she turned upon Selina.
"The next time you bring a stranger into the choir, Selina, I hope it will be some one who knows how to behave at least like a lady. I never was more ashamed in my life. I wonder what your father will say. It was a regular disgrace."
"Don't distress yourself, Miss Bassett," said Milly, taking the words out of Selina's mouth, as she was about to answer. "You are not responsible for my conduct. I hope every one could see that I do not belong here."
"I hope so too," returned Myra. "I should be sorry if they could not."
"Do be quiet, Myra," said Selina "What a fuss you do make about nothing! I should think scolding and quarrelling in church was as bad as any thing Milly or I did. If you had been attending to the sermon, you would not have known any thing about us."
Myra blushed. She felt, that, though her cause was just, she had put herself in the wrong by her hasty speech. She began to say something more, but Milly interrupted her.
"Oh, you need not apologize: I shall not bear malice," said she with a lofty tone of condescension. "We all know you are a well-meaning young woman, but you should think before you speak. When you have had more opportunities, you will know better.—Come, Selina." And she drew Selina away, leaving Myra wondering how she had been put down, and why she should be so angry at being called "a young woman." She did not consider that the simplest epithet may be made abusive by the way it is applied.
"Didn't I shut her mouth nicely?" said Amelia, laughing, when they reached the stairs. "She won't begin on me again in a hurry."
"Well, she was right," said Selina with some spirit; "I was ashamed, myself. What did make you act so, Milly?"
"What did I do?" asked Milly. "Are you going to set up too? But I see how it is," she added. "They have fairly conquered you, and broken your spirit among them, so that you don't care for me any more. The next thing, mother Weston will say, 'Selina, you must not go with Milly any more,' and then farewell to our friendship. You will never speak to me again."
Selina did not quite know what to say to this. She knew in truth that mother Weston did not approve of the intimacy.
"You will be setting up to be very pious next," continued Milly, as Selina did not reply. "We shall hear of you speaking in meeting, perhaps preparing to go on a mission, like dear Miss Armstrong."
Selina blushed, and Milly saw that her random shot had hit the mark. This conversation had taken place in a little recess under the gallery stairs, where the girls were out of sight. At that moment, Selina heard her father's voice calling her, and went forward, Milly remaining where she was.
"Are you too tired to walk home, Selina?"
"No, father: I should like it."
"Then I shall take Mrs. West. Don't hurry, there is plenty of time. Go round by the brook, and you will have it shady all the way."
"Are you going to walk? Good! I will go with you," said Milly, joining Selina on the green before the church.
"I am going round by the brook," remarked Selina. "It will be longer for you."
"I don't care for that, unless you want to get rid of me. If you do, say so," returned Milly.
Selina would have liked to say so, but she had not the courage. And the two walked on in silence for a few minutes.
Then Milly began again:—
"So you really mean to give me up, Selina?"
"I have never said so," replied Selina.
"Actions speak louder than words," said Milly with a sigh. "Well, I suppose it is all right. You are dependent on Mr. and Mrs. Weston, and of course you ought to please them. Oh, yes, it is all right, but I am sorry. I thought we were going to have such a nice time this summer. But if you are going to set up for a saint—However, you ought to please Mr. and Mrs. Weston, of course."
"I have never said either that I was going to give you up, or to set up for a saint," said Selina somewhat angrily. "I don't know what you want me to do, Amelia."
"I want you to be your own independent self, and not take all your opinions—your likes and dislikes, and all the rest—from some one else; no, not even from Mrs. Weston or dear Miss Armstrong," replied Milly. "If Mrs. Weston were your own mother, it would be different, though even then I think you would have a right to a mind of your own. But come; as you say, we won't quarrel. I do hope you won't give me up, Selina. You are the only friend I have. I never can get on with Agnes Gleason; and Cordelia is worse than nobody, poor thing. I wanted mother to leave her at the Sanitarium with a nurse, and take me to Newport or Saratoga, where I could have some advantages of society, but every thing is Cordelia with her. She would put me in the stove and burn me up to warm Cordelia's feet. But you won't give me up, will you, Selina? I will promise not to say a word against religion. I am sure your mother would do me a great deal of good if she would only be kind to me. Come, now, say you will be friends."
What could Selina do but say she would always be friends with Milly? The two girls sealed their league on the spot with a sentimental embrace; and Milly began at once to exert her powers of conversation, which were not small, for the benefit of her companion. She began with a description of a grand ceremony she had attended at the Roman-Catholic cathedral. From that, the divergence was easy to the park, and from thence to various gayeties, ending with a masked ball in which Milly had sustained a prominent character, had danced a minuet, and, according to her own account, had been the observed of all observers.
When Selina reached home, all serious thoughts were completely dissipated. Her head was full of visions of that gay world in which Milly moved, and her heart of murmurs that she should be so wholly shut out of it. When she retired to her room after tea, it was not, as usual, to study her lesson for the next Sunday. The Bible lay untouched; while she indulged in dreams in which her own mother figured in the character of a lady of wealth and fashion, whom circumstances had compelled to abandon her child for a time, but who now turned up to claim her, and re-instate her in the splendor to which she was born. The birds of the air had picked up the seed pretty thoroughly.
NEW PROJECTS.
KIT'S arm was better on Monday, but nothing more was said about her going to Oldbury. Symantha had an argument with Melissa on the subject of the place at Stillwell's, but Melissa was not to be moved. She knew her own mind, she said, and she could take care of herself. Symantha need not be troubled about her. She gathered her possessions together on Monday morning, and departed. The two sisters had never got on well together, and Melissa did not express any regret at parting. She did not speak to Kit; and Kit, on her part, made no secret of her pleasure on the occasion. Melissa had been her tyrant and torment ever since she could remember. It was she who had destroyed her cherished fragment of the "Pilgrim's Progress," and had instigated Phin to the burning of her beloved Testament. She felt sure that the proposition to send her to Stillwell's had come from Melissa in the first place. She did not feel safe till the wagon containing Melissa and her uncle was finally out of sight, and then it was with a rejoicing heart that she began to get ready for school.
"Well, Kit, I suppose you are perfectly happy to think that you are going to school this morning, instead of in the wagon going to Oldbury," said Symantha.
"Ain't you glad too?" asked Kit.
"Yes, I am. I don't want you to go to any place just now, certainly not there, to sell whiskey and beer."
"I never would do it," said Kit firmly. "They should cut me to pieces first. I hate the very name of drink. I don't believe uncle Phin would ever be ugly to me if he let the beer alone."
"I believe you are right," said Symantha, sighing. "I wish all the beer in the world were poured into the sea."
"Then the fishes would all get drunk," replied Kit, laughing. Then, with a sudden change of tone, as she glanced at Symantha's face, "Don't you want me to stay at home this morning? You will be alone all day."
"I thought you liked to go to school better than any thing," observed Symantha.
"Well, I do, but I would stay at home to help you."
"I know you would, but I would rather you went to school. I want you to learn all you can, now you have such a good chance."
"I wish uncle Phin would let me go to Sunday school, as the other girls do," said Kit. "There is not a girl in our school but me who does not go to Sunday school, and they get such nice books. I don't see what harm it would do."
"Nor I," answered Symantha. "You should go, Kit, if it depended upon me, but I don't think you had better say any thing about it at present. I am sure pa would not let you go, and it would only make a fuss. Make the best of your day-school, and learn all you can. There, good-by."
Symantha kissed Kit,—an unusual demonstration of affection,—and the child went on her way with a light heart.
She was happier than she had ever been before in her short life. She was used to the shadows of her home,—to her aunt's wretched state of health, and her uncle's varying humors, and Symantha's occasional impatience,—and did not mind these things as another child would have done. She loved with a kind of passion the beautiful things about her; all the more, that the last two years of her life had been spent in a wretched street of a wretched Western town, which had been left behind by an exhausted mine and an abortive railroad. She loved her school and her teacher, and found keen pleasure in the acquisition of knowledge for its own sake. And, above and beyond all, she rejoiced in her new-found inheritance in the kingdom of heaven. She had received it, indeed, as a little child, without a doubt or question.
She could never be quite forlorn or alone again: for, let what would happen, she had a Father and a Saviour in heaven, who would never leave nor forsake her; and a home, sure to be hers some time, where she should never be unhappy, and never do wrong again. For there were times when the sense of sin pressed heavily upon her. She had never known that many things were wrong which now appeared very dreadful to her. Like older people, she found herself hindered by "the bands of those sins which, by her frailty, she had committed," and from which she longed to be released. The temper would rise at any obstacle or annoyance; and the hard names and wicked words came to her mind, and fell from her lips, almost unawares. Now she felt these thing to be sins, and grieved over them, but there was comfort even there. That same Father in heaven, whose name and nature had been so lately made known to her, hated sin, but then, He loved her, and therefore, Kit reasoned, He would help her to get rid of what He hated. It was a very happy little girl who went singing over the hill-pasture that morning.
Three or four weeks went on very quietly in Oldham, and especially in the red schoolhouse district. In the village, indeed, there was a little stir, occasioned by the startling proposition brought forward by the church-wardens, in a parish meeting called for the purpose in the parlor of the hotel, namely, that the church should be cleaned and painted before the arrival of the new minister.
If it had been proposed to blow up the church with dynamite, some people could not have been more astonished. And the most astonished of all was Mr. Archimball, the shoemaker, who had been sexton for years. He had, for the most part, confined his duties to ringing the bell, making fires in winter, and dusting the great Bible and other books, and sometimes the pulpit-cushions, on a Sunday, and filling and trimming the lamps when they absolutely refused to burn any more without.
"Such a lot of new-fangled notions!" said he sulkily. "Always the way when women-folks take hold of things. What's the matter, anyhow?"
"The matter is, that the church is dirty, and needs cleaning," said Mr. Weston.
"Where's the dirt?" snarled the sexton.
For answer Mr. Weston pointed to the windows.
"They 'are' kind of cloudy, that's a fact," said Mr. Andrews, the storekeeper.
"'Kind of cloudy!' I should think so," said his wife. "I wonder what you would say, Mr. Andrews, to see such windows in your own house."
"Well, you know, Harriet Anne, you never thought of the windows yourself till last Sunday," said Mr. Andrews mildly.
"That's true, and more shame for me. Anyhow, I'm ready to do my share of the work."
"And so am I," "And I," added several voices; and more than one notable lady felt a thrill of joy at the thought of a house-cleaning upon so large a scale.
"The sisters seem to be all sound upon the cleaning question," said Mr. Weston, smiling.
"The women-folks are for any thing that will make a fuss, and give 'em a chance to gossip," muttered the sexton.
"Now about the painting," continued Mr. Weston, without noticing the interruption.
"That's another thing," said Mr. Blandy. "That will cost money."
"Most things do," said Dr. Chase.
"And how are you going to raise it? That's the question," continued Mr. Blandy.
"Yes, that's the p'int," said Aunt Betsy. "How are you going to raise it?"
"By subscription among ourselves," answered Mr. Weston. "I have made a calculation that two hundred dollars will cover the whole expense."
"Two hundred dollars is a good deal of money," said Mr. Andrews. "Still, if every one will do his share—Would that cover the blinds, think, squire?"
"Yes, I think so. As you say, if every one will do their share, the thing can be accomplished; not otherwise."
"Yes, but you'll see they won't," said the sexton. "It's one thing to stir up a lot of women, and another to get the men started."
"We have made a good beginning already, I am happy to say," remarked Mr. Weston, taking up a paper which lay before him on the table. "Dr. Chase has headed the list with twenty-five dollars; another person has put down the same; and the ladies at the stone house will give us twenty, and more if it is needed."
"Seventy dollars; that 'is' a good beginning," said Mr. Bassett. "Put me down ten anyhow, Squire Weston. I will do more if I can, but that freshet which knocked down my dam has made it a kind of an expensive year for me."
"Put me down five," said Mr. Fletcher.
"Eighty-five dollars. Who next?"
"My sister and myself will give five dollars between us," said Miss Celia.
"Seems to me that's a good deal for you," said Mrs. Burr.
But Miss Celia did not answer. It was a good deal; but the two old ladies had consulted together, and had agreed to give up their annual summer visit to Elmfield if needful.
"I don't believe in this subscription business anyhow," said Mr. Blandy. "We might get up a fair, or dinner, or something, and raise the money that way, or at least a part of it; and the rest might wait till it came handy to pay."
"And so saddle ourselves with a debt," said Dr. Chase. "No, thank you; I have seen enough of that."
"Every one does it," persisted Mr. Blandy. "That fine new church in Oldbury has a twenty-thousand-dollar mortgage on it this minute."
"Yes, and what is the consequence? Every time they try to raise money for some church or benevolent object, there comes up the debt. There is so much interest to be met, that great debt to be provided for, they can't even raise funds for a new Sunday school library. No, no! Bad as the church looks, I would rather it should stay so than that we should run in debt."
"That fifty dollars we raised for missions would come handy just now," said Mr. Blandy with a sneer. "I always thought charity began at home."
"It is to be hoped the charity of this church is not to begin, after an existence of nearly a hundred years," said Mr. Weston. "For my own part, I do nor regard the money given to support my own church as given in charity, any more than that I use to pay my bills at Mr. Andrews's store. I get it all back, and a great deal more. Which of us would be willing to do without the help we get here, even if it cost twice as much to keep the church going?"
"Nobody, I guess," answered Mr. Andrews. "I don't know but you are right, squire, though I must say I never looked at it in that way before. Well, you may put me down for twenty dollars, to begin with."
A few more subscriptions were given in, and a committee appointed to canvass the town. The ladies decided upon a day to begin operations, as a good deal of cleaning was absolutely needful before the painting could be commenced. And the meeting was about to be adjourned when Mr. Archimball rose up to fire his great gun, which he had kept till the last moment. He had much to say about his long and faithful services, extending over a period of twenty-five years. Twenty-five years he had rung that bell for service, and tolled it for funerals, yes, for the grandfathers and grandmothers of some of the folks present. But it appeared that folks were not satisfied. Very well. If he, Joseph Archimball, did not suit them, let them get somebody that did. He washed his hands of the whole business. He resigned his place as sexton. There were the keys of the church. He shook off the dust from his feet.
So saying, he threw down the keys on the table, and departed, rather wondering that no one tried to detain him.
"But they will be after me," he said to himself. "They won't find it so easy to do without me. They will come asking me to take the keys again. But I won't—not unless they offer me at least ten dollars a year more than I have had before."
As the time went on, however, and nobody came after him, Mr. Archimball began to wish he had not been so hasty. As it drew toward the end of the week, he decided that he would not say any thing about that increase of salary. And on Saturday morning, he made up his mind that he would go down and get the keys, open the windows, and even air out the cellar. The women-folks must be out of the way by that time. Lo and behold! When he reached the church, the windows were already open, and a young person of the colored persuasion was going about with a duster,—actually with a duster, and a feather duster at that,—daintily passing this unheard-of instrument over the backs of the old pews.
"Halloo!" said Mr. Archimball. "Who are you? And what are you doing here?"
"I am Edward Kettle, at your service," returned the stranger, with his best bow, which was, indeed, a very fine one. "As to what I am doing, I am putting the church in order for Sunday, seeing that the gentlemen has made me sexton."
Mr. Archimball felt that his great gun had "kicked," as sportsmen say. He could hardly believe his own senses.
"'You!'" he gasped, like the caterpillar in "Little Alice." "Who are 'you'?"
"I've told you my name already. As to my family, I am old Abner Kettle's grandson; and me and my wife has come to live near the old gentleman. As I said before, the church has given me the appointment to take charge of this building, which the ladies has just cleaned up in the most elegant manner; and I calculate to do it."
So saying, Mr. Kettle hung up his duster, and producing a sickle from his basket of tools, began a vigorous attack upon a colony of burdocks and thistles which had flourished at the side of the church steps from time immemorial.
To say that Mr. Archimball was disgusted, is to give a faint idea of his sensations. He was stunned. To think that he, he whose grandfather and great-grandfather were buried in that very burying-ground, should be turned out, supplanted by a colored man, and one who was half Indian at that! And for what? Just because people had taken some new notions into their heads about dust and air, and so on. It was too bad! He went home almost resolved never to enter the church doors again.
The subscription went on prosperously; and by Sunday, Mr. Weston was able to announce that the money was raised, and every thing ready to begin the work. It was with no little satisfaction that the ladies who had been engaged in the cleaning looked at the clear glass, and noticed the difference in the air.
"Isn't it delightful to have the church so clean! And won't it be fine when it is all painted!" said Faith Fletcher to the other girls as they stood at the door for a moment before Sunday school. "And, oh, isn't it nice to have Dr. Madison again!"
"I wish we could have him all the time," said Agnes. "Don't you, Selina?"
"Oh, I don't know. I think I shall like Mr. Brace quite as well," answered Selina indifferently. "I don't see any thing so very remarkable about Dr. Madison's preaching. He just says the same things that one has always heard."
"He tells 'the old, old story,'" remarked Faith. "What do you think, Agnes?"
"I think the old story is better than any new one," replied Agnes. "What else could he tell us about? I thought you liked him ever so much last Sunday, Selina."
"I haven't said I didn't like him," said Selina rather shortly. "All I say is, that he isn't any thing so very wonderful. Why didn't Milly come this morning, Agnes?"
"I don't know that she had any reason, only that she did not care about it. She got a parcel of new books last night, and I fancy she preferred to lie abed and read. Mrs. Richmond staid with Cordelia."
"How is Cordelia?" asked Faith.
"Her mother will have it that she is better, but we think she fails all the time," answered Agnes. "Cordelia has given up all hope of ever getting well, herself. She wants to see a minister, and I asked Mrs. Richmond if I should not ask Dr. Madison to come over, as he is staying at Mrs. Van Zandt's, but she won't hear of it."
"How cruel!" said Faith.
"Well, no, she does not mean it for cruelty. She says she can't have Cordelia's mind filled with gloomy ideas. She must be kept cheerful. She didn't like it a bit because I read the Bible to her last Sunday, and she hasn't let me be alone with her since."
"She is as bad as Phin Mallory with Kit," said Faith. "That poor child would give her eyes, almost, to come to Sunday school; and he won't let her. I do wish we could do something for her. She looked so sad when we were fixing the schoolhouse for meeting last Friday. You can't scold her now for not knowing the Lord's Prayer, Selina, she reads her Testament every chance she finds."
"I suppose she does not have many books of any sort," remarked Faith. "But I do believe Kit is a real Christian. I never saw any child try harder to be good."
"She knows how to flatter Miss Armstrong, and get on the blind side of her," said Selina. "You needn't look so shocked. I do think so. Miss Armstrong thinks any one is perfection who can talk about religion. Amelia says she is just so in the city, and that it is the same with all the city missionaries. That is the way all sorts of humbugs impose upon them."
"Amelia knows all about city missions, no doubt," said Agnes. "How many mission Sunday schools do you suppose she ever saw? I don't believe Miss Armstrong has any blind side, to begin with; and I don't believe poor Kit ever thought of looking for it. She is a good, honest little thing, worth a hundred of Milly Richmond, and not so very much more ignorant, either. Just think! Milly did not know that our Lord and the apostles were Jews, and she thought the ancient Romans worshipped the Virgin Mary."
"O Agnes!"
"She did, really."
"And you told of it," said Selina. "I don't think that is very nice,—to go telling of things that were said in your own mother's house, just to get people laughed at. I wonder what your dear Miss Armstrong would say to that?"
Agnes colored, and her eyes flashed. She did not speak for a moment, and in that moment, she had gained a victory.
"She would say I was wrong, and so I was," said she quite gently. "You are right, Selina: it is not fair to tell tales. Come, we ought to be in our places."
The painting began next day, and, of course, took longer than any one expected. It was discovered that some other very essential repairs were needed. Indeed, when the committee appointed for the purpose came to examine the tower, they found it in a really dangerous condition.
"So you are going to repair the tower, too," said Aunt Betsy. "That will cost more money. It is always the way; when folks begin to tinker, there is no end to it. When the tower is done, you will find something else to do."
"There would be an end to somebody if we didn't begin to tinker," replied Mr. Weston, "and that pretty soon. A very little would have brought the bell crashing down into the porch. Suppose such a thing had happened when the tower-room was full of the little children?"
"It makes me shudder," said Mrs. Weston. "Who noticed it first?"
"Edward told me, the very first time he rang the bell, that he thought there was something wrong. But I had no idea things were so bad till I came to look into them."
"Archimball never said any thing about it, did he?"
"Not he. I don't suppose he has been into the belfry for years. The fact is, we have all neglected our duty. Selina did not think what a very large kettle of fish she was going to stir up, when she made that proposition about cleaning the church."
"Yes, that is always the way when folks go to stirring up things," said Aunt Betsy. "Let well alone, I say."
"A great bell hung on a rotten beam over people's heads can hardly be called well," said Mr. Weston. "We may be thankful it was looked to in time."
"And what are we going to do for a church while all this fuss is going on?" asked Aunt Betsy.
"We shall meet in the large room at the academy."
"Well, nobody need think I am going there, to sit on those hard benches," said Aunt Betsy. "I shall just stay at home till things get in decent order again.—Abby, I should like to know what price you gave for this tea," she added, lifting to her nose the cup of black tea Mrs. Weston had just filled. "Seems to me you must have got cheated."
"It is the same tea we have been drinking all winter, Aunt Betsy. I am sorry it does not suit you."
"Oh, I can drink it, I suppose," said Aunt Betsy with an injured air. "I calculate to get some myself as soon as I can go over to Oldfield. Mr. Andrews hasn't any that's fit to drink. He gave me a quarter of a pound, and I was glad when it was gone."
"That old lady isn't burdened with gratitude, is she?" said Miss Armstrong when Aunt Betsy had finally taken her tea and departed.
"I doubt whether the idea of gratitude has ever occurred to her mind," replied Mrs. Weston. "She thinks she has a right to all she gets, and a great deal more."
"Mrs. Richmond says she wonders the church don't put her into the widows' asylum at Oldbury," remarked Selina. "She was talking to Mrs. Blandy about it yesterday, and they both agreed it would be cheaper. Her place would sell for enough to pay her entrance fee and more."
"There would be several objections to that," replied Mr. Weston. "In the first place, she would never consent to go."
"She would have to go, I suppose, if people left off helping her."
"I doubt it; and, in the second place, there is no reason why she should go. Her land brings her in something, and the neighbors must do the rest. Why should we turn one of our old church-members over to the Oldbury folks to take care of, when we are able to do for her ourselves? There are a great many more poor people in Oldbury than there are here."
"But she is so cross and disagreeable."
"Well, she may as well be cross and disagreeable here as in Oldbury," said Mrs. Weston. "If she is so trying when she only comes in now and then, what would she be to those who lived with her all the time? The poor old soul is as much attached to her home and her church as if she were the pleasantest person in the world, and it would be cruel to send her to finish her days among strangers."
"According to that, there need be no asylums of any sort, if people only took care of their own neighbors," said Selina.
"Perhaps we could not go so far as that, but certainly much fewer would be needed. You are quite right there," said Miss Armstrong. "As to poor Mrs. Burr, I can assure you, my dear, she is a very mild specimen of her class compared to some that I know. There is a woman in an aged-women's home that I know of, who regularly tells every one who comes to the house, never to get into that place if they can go anywhere else. I have known her, when the matron was conducting visitors through the house, to come out into the hall, and ask in the humblest tone if she might not have just a crust of bread, she was so faint and hungry, or if she might not have an old carpet or something to put on her bed, she was so cold at night. And yet she is really better off than ever she was before in her life."
"I dare say."
"Oh, well, we must not be too hard on Aunt Betsy," said Mrs. Weston. "She is old and lonely, and we can very well bear with her humors. We are none of us any too grateful for what we receive."
Selina chose to take this remark to herself, though nothing was farther from Mrs. Weston's thoughts than such an application.
"If you think I am so ungrateful and unthankful, mother, I think I had better go and live somewhere else," said she, rising from the table, and bursting into tears. "I suppose I could earn my living; and, at any rate, I should not—" The rest was lost in sobs.
"What is the matter now?" said Mr. Weston in surprise.
"If you want to find fault with me, you might speak out, and not keep talking at me," sobbed Selina. "I wish you had never taken me from the asylum."
"Take care you do not make other people wish so," said Mr. Weston. "Now stop that noise at once. Go and wash your face, and then come and sit down to the table, and finish your supper. Do you hear me? And do you mean to mind me?" he added more sternly than before. "Come, we have had enough of this. If you will behave like a spoiled child, you must be treated like one. Do as I tell you."
Selina was frightened. Never had Mr. Weston spoken to her in such a tone before. He was one of the most even-tempered men in the world, and generally left the whole interior government of the family in his wife's hands. He had always been very indulgent to Selina, and, on that very account, his severity was more effective now. As he kept his eye fixed on her, she felt that there was nothing for it but to obey. Not another word was addressed to her till supper was over, and Miss Armstrong had left the room.
Then Mr. Weston turned to her.
"You will help your mother do up the work, and then you will stay at home," said he. "Don't let me see you running away up to Mrs. Gleason's, as you have done every evening this week. You must turn over a new leaf, Selina, or I shall have to do it for you. I will not have your mother and the whole family made uncomfortable by you. Now, remember."
Never in all the seven years she had lived at the farm had Selina met with such a reproof. She felt small enough as she went about clearing the table, and worst of all was the growing feeling that she had made herself ridiculous. She did up the work sulkily, and then, retiring to her own room, she threw herself on the bed without a word of prayer, and cried herself to sleep.
"I don't see what has come over Selina," remarked Mrs. Weston as she took her knitting and sat down with Miss Armstrong in the wide hall, which was much used as a summer sitting-room. "She is certainly in a bad state of mind. I don't think Milly Richmond does her any good."
"From the little I have seen, I should not think Miss Richmond's society was calculated to be useful to any one," said Miss Armstrong. "She did me the favor to come to school as a visitor one afternoon last week, and certainly I never wish to have her visit repeated. It seems to me that poor Selina's great stumbling-block is her disposition to jealousy."
"Yes, that is the great trouble, and always has been," replied Mrs. Weston, sighing.
"It is a hard fault to deal with, because the person possessing it is so apt to take it for a virtue, or at least a mark of superiority," said Miss Armstrong. "However, it is a comfort that grace can conquer that as well as every other infirmity."
"I hoped that Selina was coming under the power of religion," said Mrs. Weston.
"And so did I. The first week or two after I came, she seemed much interested in the Bible lessons, and talked quite freely on the subject, but latterly I cannot get her to speak a word, and hardly to answer a question."
"Sometimes I think she is resisting conviction, and that makes her more irritable than she would be," remarked Mrs. Weston. "How does she behave in school in other ways?"
"I see an unfavorable change there, too," answered Miss Armstrong. "The first week she was a great help to me. I cannot say as much now."
"She is at a trying age," said Mrs. Weston, using the universal mother's excuse, which suits all ages from one to twenty-one. "Sometimes I think the fault must be in my management, and yet I don't know. I have never made any difference between her and Lizzy, and Lizzy never gave me an hour's anxiety in her life except from illness. I hear that Agnes Gleason means to be confirmed."
"Yes, she has quite decided to take the first opportunity. Her mother seems very much pleased."
"I was a little surprised when she said as much to me on Sunday," said Mrs. Weston. "Mrs. Gleason has never made any profession of religion. We thought she would do so when my sister and myself united with the church, and I dare say she would if her own mother had been alive. But she was boarding with Aunt Betsy at that time, and she held the child back. I think it was a great mistake."
"I believe it is a mistake in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred."
"I quite agree with you. Who is this coming in?"
"It is Ida Van Zandt and her cousin," said Miss Armstrong, rising. "You will like these girls, Mrs. Weston. They are as thoroughly genuine as any I ever knew."
Mrs. Weston was quite prepared to like her young neighbors. She went to call Selina, but Selina had gone to bed, and pretended to be asleep. The girls had two errands besides their desire to see Miss Armstrong. One was, to procure some guinea-hens' eggs. Amity had heard that Mrs. Weston had a very superior breed of guinea-hens, and she wanted to send some home to her grandfather, who was a great fowl-fancier.
"You had better let me give you a pair of the fowls when you go home. That will be the best way," said Mrs. Weston. "Eggs are rather uncertain, but I can let you have some to eat if you think your aunt would fancy them. They are very delicate."
"Thank you very much," said Amity. "I shall be glad of any thing to tempt aunt Barbara's appetite, for she is not very well just now. But, Mrs. Weston, I did not mean to beg your beautiful fowls."
"Oh, you are quite welcome. We should not keep them, and I am just so silly I would rather give the poor things away than have them killed, I have made such pets of them."
"I don't think it silly at all. I have just the same feeling," said Amity. "But if you please, Mrs. Weston, we will make it an exchange. I see you keep ducks, and I will have O'Connor send you a pair of our new Pekin ducks. They are the present rage in our parts.—And now for your errand, Ida," said Amity when these matters had been satisfactorily settled.
"Oh," said Ida, blushing. "Perhaps I ought to begin with an apology for 'assumacy,' as old Alice calls it. It has occurred to me, Miss Armstrong, that, as almost all the children seem to come to the Friday evening service, it would be rather a nice thing to meet them some time during the week and practise upon the hymns. What do you think?"
"I think it an excellent plan," answered Miss Armstrong. "I have been regretting, ever since I came here, that I cannot sing. I suppose you mean to teach the class yourself, Ida?"
"Oh, yes: I am to be professor."
"I proposed something of the sort to Selina," said Miss Armstrong, turning to Mrs. Weston, "but she seemed to think it would not do."
"I don't see any objection to it," said Mrs. Weston, "that is, supposing Miss Van Zandt is willing to take the trouble."
"Oh, I shall like it," answered Ida. "I do think I have some gift that way, too, though I say it that shouldn't. I have taught singing in our mission school for two winters; and really, they do very well, don't they, Amity?"
"Indeed they do, but I fancy you will find it rather different teaching Miss Armstrong's children."
"I should imagine so," said Ida, laughing. "I heard a lady on Sunday talking about those little Irish children in the infant-class, and saying they ought not to be allowed to come in such a state. I wondered what she would say to your infants, Amity."
"Oh, my infants are not so bad. Even the Flynns come with clean faces now and then. Norah had a patch on her dress the last Sunday, and actually a clean apron."
"Mrs. Weston opens her eyes," said Ida.
"Oh, I have seen mission schools, though I never taught in one," said Mrs. Weston, smiling. "I should think it might be trying work sometimes."
"Well, it is; and yet it has its rewards too."
"Where is Mr. Weston?" asked Miss Armstrong. "We must have his sanction before we do any thing."
"What a lovely woman!" said Ida as Mrs. Weston went out to call her husband. "Is she as sweet as she looks?"
"Sweeter, if any thing."
"Her daughter does not look at all like her," said Amity. "She is a handsome girl, too; but she has a discontented, almost envious expression. She has a fine voice: I noticed it on Sunday."
"Yes, I think she would sing uncommonly well if she would take more pains. Mr. Weston is as good as his wife. I never met two more excellent people."
"Is Selina the only child?"
"No, they have a married daughter in Oldbury,—a very lovely woman in all respects. Both she and Selina are adopted children; and they had another, a very fine young man, who died a year or two since. They have had several children of their own, who all died in infancy. Here comes Mr. Weston. You must sing for him, Ida: he loves music, and understands it too."
Mr. Weston listened attentively while Ida unfolded her plan, which was to meet the school-children twice a week, and sing with them the hymns and tunes used in Sunday school and at the Bible class, and any other music which might be deemed desirable.
"It seems a very nice plan," said Mr. Weston, "but it is a good deal for you to do."
"I shall enjoy it," said Ida. "I love children, and the practice will keep my hand in. Of course I shall not give them much instruction in the theory of music, but perhaps they may learn to read notes. I think children pick that up pretty easily."
"Well, Miss Van Zandt, I will talk it over with the other trustees," said Mr. Weston. "I can't think any one will object, but there is no telling. I expect we are going to have a fight over the Bible-reading at the next school-meeting. Phin Mallory says he means to put a stop to it; and like as not Tom Jewsbury will support him, just to show off what he calls his liberal ideas."
"If they turn the Bible out, they will turn me out," said Miss Armstrong. "I will never teach in any school where the Bible is shut out."
"Oh, they won't succeed,—we have not many of that sort,—but they will make a fuss."
"Perhaps it will be better not to have any connection between the singing-school and the day-school," remarked Amity. "Ida might just ask for the loan of the schoolhouse for her class to meet in."
"And I will have it directly after school, because then the children are together, and it is the most convenient hour for me," said Ida. "Yes, that will be best."
"People will be asking what your terms are," said Mr. Weston, smiling.
"But I haven't any terms," said Ida. "I don't propose to ask any thing, Mr. Weston. It is just because I like children, and because it is so nice for them to know how to sing."
"Well, I will let you know in a day or two. Meanwhile, perhaps you will sing something for me."
Ida complied at once, and sang song after song, grave and gay. She had a noble voice which had received every advantage of cultivation, and had "not" been spoiled thereby.
"That is grand!" said Mr. Weston. "I'll tell you what, mother, if any one makes an objection, we'll just ask Miss Van Zandt to come in and sing for them."
"One thing more," said Miss Armstrong; "that is, if you are not tired, Ida."
"Not at all. I am never tired of singing."
"Then sing 'I know that my Redeemer liveth.'"
"I am not sure that I can do it justice," said Ida: "I have not tried it in some time. But I will do my best."
There was a moment's silence after that most beautiful of all sacred songs was concluded, and then Mr. Weston and his wife both drew a long breath.
"That is wonderful!" said Mrs. Weston. "How I wish Selina could sing that!"
"I dare say she could learn," replied Ida. "She has a fine voice. I noticed it in church. It is a pity it should not be cultivated."
"I have always meant Selina should have some good singing-lessons," said Mr. Weston. "I have thought of sending her to her sister's in Oldbury. They have an excellent professor in the school there, or so I have been told."
"Really, Ida, we must go," said Amity: "it is growing dark. Aunt Barbara will think we are lost."
"I will walk with you, if you will allow me," said Mr. Weston. "I was going over to the Corners, at any rate, and your house is but a few steps out of my way."
"What charming girls!" said Mrs. Weston. "Miss Bogardus's money does not seem to have spoiled her."
"Not a bit. She is one of the hardest-working, most self-denying girls I ever knew. Ida is a good child too."
"It shows that wealth and beauty do not of themselves hurt people. I hope this singing-school may be a success, for Selina's sake," said Mrs. Weston.
But Selina had already made up her mind on that point. She had been waked by the singing, and had been listening with all her ears. Envy and jealousy are reptiles that can find food anywhere,—even in heaven, if they could get there.
"Her voice isn't one bit better than mine," Selina said to herself: "it is only that she has had such good lessons. I don't think she sings so much better, either. I don't see what call she has to be setting up a singing-school here. We don't want any of her patronage."
And Selina resolved, that, if she could help it, the singing-school should not be a success.
HARMONY AND DISCORD.
THE trustees made no objection to the singing-school. And in two or three days Miss Armstrong announced that Miss Van Zandt would meet after school such of the children as would like to learn to sing.
"Any of us? Little ones and all?" asked Ednah Fletcher.
"Little ones and all; every one who would like to learn to sing nicely in church and Sunday school. Miss Van Zandt is very kind to give up so much time to you, and I hope you will reward her by being very good and attentive."
"I am sure I will," said Kit. "I think she is awful good."
"Yes, very kind indeed," said Selina when school was dismissed. "For my part, I am not so fond of being patronized by city people."
"If city people want to do me a kindness, I am willing they should," said Faith.
"Well, I don't know," answered Selina. "I don't think we were quite ignorant heathen before Miss Armstrong and Miss Van Zandt came here, though one would think so to hear them talk."
"Why, what do they say?" asked Lucinda Hurd.
"Oh, Miss Van Zandt says she is used to teaching in mission schools, and wants to keep her hand in. And Miss Armstrong says she would not teach here at all if it were not for teaching the Bible."
Faith and Agnes exchanged a glance which annoyed Selina. It seemed as if they were laughing at her.
"Where did you hear all this?" asked Sarah.
Selina thought there was some incredulity in the tone, and she answered positively,—
"I heard her in our house, the very night Miss Van Zandt came there to talk about this singing-school concern."
"Oh," said Sarah demurely. "I thought I heard somebody delivering a lecture to Agnes on Sunday about repeating what was said in her mother's house, that was all."
Selina colored scarlet, and wished she had held her tongue.
"If you have such a dislike to being patronized by city people, I wonder you should care to go so much with Milly Richmond," continued Sarah. "She is patronizing. I could hardly help laughing at the tone in which she talked to Miss Armstrong about her little country seminary and her 'little rustics.'"
"What 'is' 'patronizing'?" asked Kit, who had been listening to the conversation with wide-open eyes.
"'Patronizing,' little one? Why, I hardly know how to define it," said Sarah. "It really means, to defend or support. But I suppose, as Selina uses it, it means to do good to any one in a condescending way, as if you were a great deal better than they."
"Then I am sure Miss Van Zandt is not a bit patronizing," said Kit eagerly. "She doesn't put on one bit of airs."
"Pray, what do 'you' know about it?" asked Selina. "Where have you seen Miss Van Zandt, I should like to know?"
The tone was rude enough to bring the color to Kit's face. But she answered quietly,—
"I have seen her two or three times. She and Miss Bogardus have been very kind to me. They gave me my Testament and my hymn-book."
"Well, I must say I agree with Selina," said Lucinda Hurd. "I don't want any stuck-up city folks coming and doing good to 'me.'"
"I don't believe you are in any danger of being done good to," said Sarah. "For my part, I mean to learn all I can. Miss Van Zandt does sing splendidly."
"Ezra says he never heard such a voice in his life," said Faith Fletcher.
Now, Ezra Fletcher was a college senior, and a great personage in the red schoolhouse district.
"Oh, very well; go and be patronized if you like," said Selina. "I shall not, that's all."
"Selina, are you ever coming home?" asked Milly Richmond, appearing round the turn of the road just by the schoolhouse. "I have been waiting for you half an hour at least," she added, putting her arm through Selina's, with a condescending nod to the rest of the girls as she walked away.
"There's distinguished city breeding for you," said Sarah.
"What is the use of calling it 'city' breeding?" asked Agnes. "It is no more city than country. One sees underbred people everywhere."
"City folks always are stuck-up, anyway," said Lucinda. "They always look down on country folks."
"I don't think so. Dr. Madison did not talk to us in Sunday school as though he looked down on us."
"Not half as much as Mr. Martin used to," observed one of the girls. "It used to make me sick to hear him begin, 'Now, my dear children,' and then go on to talk baby-talk for half an hour. I just hated to go. Dr. Madison talks sense, and so did Mr. Brace when he was here. And Mr. Martin was no such great man: his father used to keep a little candy-shop over in Oldfield when my mother went to school there."
"It is nothing against Mr. Martin if he did," said Sarah. "Keeping a candy-shop is an honest trade."
"It is a sweet trade anyhow," said Faith. "I should like to keep a candy-shop myself, and then I could have all the candy I wanted."
"But, suppose it wasn't an honest trade, would that be any thing against Mr. Martin?" asked Kit. "He wouldn't be to blame for what his father did, would he?"
"Well, no, I suppose not," answered Faith rather doubtfully; "but people think a great deal of family about here."
"Of course he would not," said Sarah decidedly. "If a man is good, he is good, and if he is bad, he is bad, whatever his father was. Mr. Martin was a good man, but he was no hand to manage a Sunday school."
"If I could go to Sunday school, I don't think I should care very much who managed it," said Kit sadly.
"Can't you?" asked Eddy.
"No: uncle Phin won't let me. I couldn't help crying last Sunday when I sat up on the hill, and watched the children coming out with their books."
"Think of that, Eddy," said Faith. "Somebody I know cried last Sunday for a very different reason from that."
Eddy blushed at the recollection, and made up her mind that she would never quarrel with her Sunday school lesson again.
"You will come to the singing-school, won't you, Kit?" said Sarah.
"Yes, if they will let me. I think it is lovely in Miss Van Zandt to teach us, don't you?"
"I think it is very nice of her. Good-night, little one." As she kissed Kit she added, "Don't be down-hearted, Kit; I hope better times will come for you by and by."
"Won't you please ask God to let me go, Sarah?" whispered Kit as she returned Sarah's kiss.
"You love Him, don't you?" said Sarah.
"Yes; and I love you too," answered Kit, "you are so kind to me."
"It would be a hard-hearted creature that could be any thing but kind to such a kitten as you. Come home with me, and I will give you some flowers."
"Oh, thank you!" answered Kit gratefully. "Aunt Martha loves flowers better than any thing."
"What were you all talking about?" asked Milly of Selina as they walked down the road together. "You seemed wonderfully interested."
"About Miss Van Zandt's singing-school. She is going to set up a singing-school for the enlightenment of us ignorant savages here in the country."
"A singing-school! What do you mean?"
Selina told the story, adding, "But I am not going, I can tell her. I don't want any of her patronage."
"I think you will be very silly if you don't," was Milly's unexpected rejoinder.
"I don't know why I should take lessons of her," said Selina. "I don't know why I can't sing as well as Miss Van Zandt."
"Because you have not her voice nor her training," returned Milly. "Why, Selina, the idea of comparing your singing with Ida Van Zandt's! She is Signor A.'s crack pupil; and I know Professor G., who trains the Handel Chorus Society, considers hers the best female voice he has. Not but you do sing very well, considering. But the idea of comparing yourself to Ida Van Zandt!"
Selina had often admired and defended Milly's bluntness, which she called frankness and sincerity. But she did not find this same frankness so pleasant when it was applied to herself. She had a great opinion of her own powers; and to have that opinion so coolly set aside was almost more than she could bear, even from Milly.
"You were talking the other day of your voice making you independent," continued Milly. "If I thought of any such thing as that, I would not lose such a chance as this of singing with Miss Van Zandt. I have no more voice than a crow, and no talent for music anyway; but if I had, I would go down on my knees to her to let me come."
"I am not in the habit of going down on my knees to people," said Selina loftily; "I am not so fond of being patronized."
"I call that nonsense," replied Milly, who possessed a certain common-sense which might have made her a valuable woman under good training. "In the first place, nobody wants you to go down on your knees, or to be patronized either. I dare say Miss Van Zandt never thought of such a thing. All Mrs. Van Zandt's set are engaged in missions or some such work. Ida teaches in the St. Timothy's School, I know, when she is in town, and in another in the country; and so does Miss Bogardus."
"That is just what I say," persisted Selina. "I don't want to be made a mission of."
"Anybody might make a mission of me who would teach me to sing like that," said Milly. "And, as to patronage, you ought to see how ladies in society will contrive and plan and scheme to get invitations from those who are a little more fashionable than themselves. I believe ma would not only go on her knees, but walk on them across Fifth Avenue, to get a card for Mrs. Anderson's Fridays or one of Mrs. Van Zandt's quiet lunch-parties."
"I call that downright mean," said Selina.
"Oh, well, every one does it. I wouldn't go as far as some do, myself; but I would like to know the Van Zandts."
"How is Cordelia to-day?" asked Selina, willing to turn the conversation.
"She is about the same; I don't think she is quite as well. Mother left her with Agnes on Sunday, and Agnes must go to reading the Bible and talking pious to her. And ever since, she thinks she is going to die, and is always wanting to have Dr. Madison come to see her. Mother won't hear of it, though; and she was angry enough with Agnes for putting it into her head."
"But if she should die, Milly, your mother would be sorry she did not let her have her own way."
"She isn't going to die," said Milly angrily. "I believe she would be a great deal better if she would exert herself a little. Not but what I would let her have her own way in this, and so I told ma," she added in a gentler tone. "Dr. Madison is a nice old gentleman, and I don't believe he would hurt her. But, as to this singing-school business, Selina, you will be very foolish if you don't go."
"I can judge for myself, I suppose," said Selina.
"All right; judge for yourself all you like. It is the last time I shall ever offer you any advice, you may be sure of that," returned Milly. "I had no idea you were such a grand personage, or I would not have ventured on such a liberty. Good-afternoon, Miss Weston, or whatever your name is. I won't trouble you any further."
And Milly turned and walked away.
Selina was confounded for the moment. Like other passionate people, she was always surprised and aggrieved when any one else showed any temper. To do Milly justice, such outbreaks were rare with her. She had not reached home before she told herself that she had been silly to mind Selina's tantrums, and resolved that she would make up on the first opportunity. She forgot that she had dealt Selina a cruel and cowardly blow in the allusion to her name, knowing, as she did, how sensitive Selina was on that point.
Selina stood still a moment, and then, turning round, walked rapidly toward home.
"I will never speak to her again,—never," she said to herself. "And I will not go to the singing-school either, if I can help it. I suppose, though, I shall have to, or make a fuss at home. They are all bewitched with this Ida Van Zandt, and Milly is as bad as the rest. I wish she had never come here."
The singing-school began prosperously with a full attendance. All the children came; and a good many grown people would have liked to do so, but Ida good-naturedly but firmly declined having any pupils outside of the school.
"It is only for the little ones," she explained. "And I find they do their best when I have them by themselves. Besides, I am not setting up for a teacher—I am only practising a little with the children."
Selina made up her mind to attend the class, partly because she could not contrive any valid excuse for not doing so, and partly because on consideration she was obliged, however unwillingly, to own that Milly's advice was good. It would be foolish to throw away such a chance for improvement; and moreover, if she did, Mr. Weston might make it a reason for refusing to let her have singing-lessons in Oldbury. As may be guessed, she was not in a very good frame of mind for profiting by the lessons, since her chief end and aim was to show that she could sing as well as her teacher.
To Kit the singing-lessons were a source of unmixed joy. She had a real genius for music, and a wonderfully quick ear, which caught in a moment all the beauties of Ida's style, and reproduced them in a manner quite marvellous to the other girls.
"Kit will beat us all," cried Faith in honest admiration. "What a beautiful voice she has!"
"Yes, she is going to make a fine singer," said Ida. "But we must not let her practise too much for a year or two, or she will hurt her voice. She sings with a great deal of expression. Now, you must all be very attentive, because I am going to give you a lesson on reading the notes."
Symantha made no objection to Kit's singing-lessons, and nothing had been said to Phin about them. He was away in Oldbury a good deal of the time, and often came home in a very bad humor. Kit kept out of his way at these times as much as possible. She noticed that Symantha's face began to assume the old anxious expression, which it had almost laid aside for a few months past. And she shrewdly guessed, that, as she said, "uncle Phin was going wrong again."
One day she came home with a very grave, not to say scared, expression, and followed Symantha into the pantry.
"Symantha, do you remember that man who used to keep the saloon in our street in Goldsburg,—the one they said shot the peddler?"
"Yes," answered Symantha, startled. "What of him?"
"I saw him this afternoon," said Kit.
"Impossible, child! He is in State-prison, and long may he stay there!"
"He is not in State-prison now," persisted Kit. "I tell you I saw him this afternoon. I met him down by the bars, and he walked part of the way home with me. I was scared, I can tell you."
"What did he say to you?"
"He asked the nearest way to Oldfield, and I told him: and then he asked who lived in Mr. Weston's house, and in Mrs. Van Zandt's; and I told him. Then he said he supposed Mrs. Van Zandt was very rich, and I said I didn't know any thing about it. He asked if I had ever been in the house, and I said, 'No.' Then he offered me a quarter, and I told him I didn't take money from strangers."
"Quite right," said Symantha. "But, Kit, I think you must be mistaken. Are you sure?"
"Quite sure, and I will tell you how. He has bleached his hair, and got white whiskers, but don't you remember one of his eyes was of two colors? He could not change that, and I knew him by it directly."
Symantha's face grew dark. "I thought he was out of the way, at least," said she. "I wonder what brings him here."
"He said he was going to Oldfield, and wanted to know the shortest road. I was glad when he walked on, for I am always afraid of him."
"He is a wicked wretch," said Symantha. "I have heard that he was born somewhere about here. Well, don't say a word, Kit. You were quite right not to answer his questions."
"I hope he won't get hold of uncle Phin," said Kit. "I thought he would get out of his old ways when he came to this nice place, and had the farm and all."
"And so did I; but, when people are bound to go to destruction, they will go," said Symantha, with a sigh which was almost a groan.
"It is too bad of uncle Phin, because he is so nice when he is good," said Kit. She paused, and then added timidly, "Symantha, why don't you ask our Father in heaven to make uncle Phin good? Don't you believe He could?"
"I don't know, child; I suppose so. Do you believe it?"
"Yes, I do. There was the thief on the cross: I read about him this morning. And I know other wicked people have been made good."
"Well, child, pray for him, then, and for me too, if you like. I am sure I am glad if you take comfort in that or any thing else. How do you get on with your singing-school?"
"Oh, nicely!" replied Kit with animation. "We have learned 'Jesus, lover of my soul,' and 'There is a green hill far away,' and 'Onward, Christian soldiers.' That is splendid. They are going to sing it in meeting to-morrow night," said Kit with a sudden change of tone. "Don't I wish I could go!"
"Don't you wish you could go where?" asked Phin. He had left his boots at the door and come quietly in, in his stocking-feet, so that no one had heard him.
"To meeting," said Kit, rather alarmed, but standing her ground, and half hoping her uncle might relent.
"Well, you won't do any such thing."
"I don't see what harm it would do," said Kit. "If it is all nonsense, as you say, it would do no more hurt than going to the circus or the theatre; and you used to let me go there. And if it is true—"
"Hush, Kit," said Symantha.
"True or false, you won't go. And you are not going near that schoolhouse for any thing again. Do you hear?"
"Not to school?" faltered Kit.
"No!" thundered Phin. "Not to school nor for any thing else. If you say another word, I will take you over to Oldbury, and set you to drawing beer at Stillwell's. I was a fool not to do it before."
Kit's own temper flamed up. "I'll never draw beer at Stillwell's nor anywhere else," said, she. "I hate the beer,—it is that makes you so ugly, uncle Phin,—and I'll never touch it."
"You won't, eh? You will go down cellar and get me a glass this minute."
"I won't."
"Father!" said Symantha warningly, but Phin was not to be controlled.
He had come home from Oldbury vexed at losing money in gambling, irritated as a weak man always is at the slavery to which he was reduced by his own weakness, and ready to visit that irritation on the first helpless object that came in his way. He took Kit in his arms despite her struggles; and, carrying her down-stairs, he set her down, and ordered her to draw the beer. But Kit was by this time quite beside herself with rage, and the old habit asserted itself, as old habits will with the best of us at times.
The beer-keg stood on a table at quite a height from the floor. With a volley of hard words, Kit seized it, and, by a sudden exertion of strength, flung it violently to the ground. The head, coming in contact with a large stone, was smashed in, and the beer poured out on the cellar-bottom.
"There's your beer drawn for you," said she. "Now drink it."
Phin's rage was something fearful. He whipped Kit till her screams alarmed him.
"There, now go to bed; and don't let me see you again to-night," said he, releasing her at last. "Come, we'll know who is to be master."
Kit crept away to bed, trembling so she could hardly stand. Sorely beaten as she was, the pain was the least of her troubles.
That which she had most feared had fallen upon her. To stay away from school,—that was the worst. To have no Miss Armstrong to go to in her troubles, to have no one to answer her questions, and explain to her what she did not understand,—oh, it was too dreadful to think of!