Symantha watched her chance, and brought the child some supper, but she could not eat.
Even her prayers seemed to bring her no comfort. She had been so wicked! She had been so angry, and used such bad words! What if she should never be forgiven? She slept only in snatches till the cocks began to crow, and the light to shine into her uncurtained windows.
Then she rose, and sought her Testament in the place where she kept it hidden. As she read, her face became calmer, and she ceased her sobs. Yes, she had been very naughty, but He would forgive her as He had forgiven Peter, who cursed and swore. Hope was not all gone, as she had thought the night before. Her Guardian was still in heaven. He saw and knew it all. He would forgive her, and take her part. Kit kneeled and poured out her heart in prayer; and then, lying down, she fell at last into a deep, quiet slumber.
KIT'S VICTORY.
WHEN Kit came down-stairs, she found breakfast ready, and her uncle just come in.
"Halloo! Here's the saint," said he roughly. "Come, let us hear some more of those pretty words you said last night,—those nice lessons Miss Armstrong teaches you down there."
"Uncle Phin," said Kit, growing pale, but speaking firmly, "I never learned those words from Miss Armstrong, and you know it. I am sorry I said them; it was very wicked. And I am sorry I struck you."
"Humph!" said Phin, considerably taken aback. "And what about the beer? Are you sorry for that too?"
"No," answered Kit. "I should like to do as much for all the beer-kegs in the world. You are never ugly to me only when you have been drinking beer."
"Humph!" said Phin. "There, hold your tongue, and eat your breakfast. But mind, you are not going to school."
Kit dared not say any more. Phin did not go to Oldbury, but staid about the house doing odd jobs of repairing, and waiting upon his wife, who had been very unwell for several weeks. His fondness and tenderness for her was one of his best traits. He never spoke harshly to her in his worst moments, and would take any amount of pains to give her a little comfort. Symantha brought out her basket of mending, and asked Kit to help her with the stockings; saying, with a meaning look,—
"You can take your work up in your own room, if you like. I am going to clean the floor."
Kit understood, as well as if the words had been spoken, that Symantha meant to give her a chance to read. She fastened her door, and, having despatched her task of mending neatly and quickly (for, thanks to Symantha's training, she was an expert needle-woman), she drew her precious "Pilgrim's Progress" from its hiding-place, and read for a long time.
Then she got out her Testament, and read the two last chapters of St. Luke's Gospel. She was going through the book in course, wondering and delighted more and more at all she found there. Her lively imagination and quick sense of the beautiful gave reality to all the stories; and she pondered over them as she walked to and from school, or drove up the cows from their pasture, or helped Symantha with the sewing.
This morning she was deeply impressed with the story of the Resurrection. She seemed to see it all,—the women coming to the sepulchre (something like the burial-vaults she had seen in the cemetery at St. Louis, she thought) in the early morning, while it was yet dark; the visit of the apostles; Mary mourning by herself, not recognizing her risen Lord in the perplexing dusk of the early twilight, till he called her by name.
Her meditations were interrupted by a call to dinner.
"Where is uncle Phin?" she asked.
"He is sitting with ma. She is very bad to-day."
"I have not heard her."
"No, she has not spoken at all; and I cannot persuade her to eat a mouthful.—Come, father; come to dinner."
The meal passed almost in silence.
"Let me wash up the dishes," said Kit after it was finished. "You look so tired!"
"I did not suppose such a fine lady as you are could wash dishes," said Phin. "I dare say Miss Armstrong never washed a dish in her life."
Kit made no answer. She was determined not to be provoked again if she could help it. She did up the work neatly. And then, taking her hat and her book, she went up to her old resting-place on the hill, from whence she could see the schoolhouse.
It would be something even to look at the roof which held Miss Armstrong, and where had been passed the happiest hours of her life. She knew just what was going on, and could almost see the larger girls engaged in preparing their grammar lesson, and the little ones taking it in turn to read their small tasks by Miss Armstrong's side. It would be about Jenny Hurd's turn now, she thought. She would lean against Miss Armstrong. Perhaps Miss Armstrong's arm would be around her. What would she not give to be in her place! Jenny did not like to come to school, and would rather play all day; and yet Jenny could have the privilege from which she was shut out. It was very strange, Kit thought.
"Anyhow, uncle Phin can't ever take away from me what I have learned. He never can make things as they were before I knew Miss Armstrong; nothing in the world can do that. And they are things which will last for ever and ever," said Kit, half aloud, realizing in her sorrow the truth which has come to so many other people in times of change and bereavement,—that the things which are seen are temporal; while it is only the things which are not to be seen by mortal eyes, or handled by mortal hands, that are real and eternal.
Then another thought occurred to Kit, which made her take out her little Testament, already showing signs of the wear it suffered by being carried in her pocket. She turned to the second chapter of St. Matthew's Gospel, and was soon so deeply engaged in study that she started as if she had been shot when Ida spoke to her.
"Why, Kitty! How does it happen that you are not in school?"
"Uncle Phin won't let me go," answered Kit, with a quivering lip. "He says I shall not go any more."
"But that is a great pity, when you were getting on so nicely," said Amity. "Why did he say that?"
"He got angry at me," said Kit. "I was naughty, I know, but I don't think that was the reason. It was just because he was put out about something else. I was in hopes he had forgotten all about it this morning,—he does that way very often,—but he says I shall never go there again."
"We will hope that he will change his mind, as you say he has done so before. What are you doing now?"
"Learning verses out of the Testament," answered Kit. "I was thinking that uncle Phin nor any one else could take away the things I had learned. And then I thought, 'What if I should lose my Testament again, or go where I couldn't have any teaching?' So I made up my mind to learn as many verses as I could; because, don't you see, nobody can take away the things I have in my mind."
Ida and Amity exchanged glances.
"Other people besides you have done that, little Kitty," said Amity. "Last summer I went to visit a mountainous country in Europe, where live a brave and good people who for many hundred years were dreadfully persecuted on account of their religion. The popes, and the governors of that country, were determined to make these people give up reading the Bible, and worshipping God as they thought right. They wanted them to become Roman Catholics; so they made war on them, and burnt their houses, and shut many of them up in prisons and convents, and put others to cruel deaths."
"That was a queer way to make them like the Roman-Catholic religion," said Kit.
"It was a way which did not succeed very well," said Amity. "The more these people were persecuted, the more closely they clung to their own religion, and the more they loved the Bible. But, because they were liable at any time to lose their books, they used to do as you are doing. All the children were taught to commit to memory the whole of the Gospels. As they grew up, they learned more and more, till many grown men and women could say the New Testament from beginning to end. They had very few books; and so the little children used to walk miles upon miles to their schools, over rocks and mountains, and ice and snow, through places which it made me giddy to look at, in order that they might learn the Bible."
"And are they persecuted now?" asked Kit.
"No: they have their liberty, and can read the gospel as much as they like. Now they are sending out missionaries to teach other people to read and love the Bible."
"That is nice," said Kit. "Miss Armstrong told us about the missionaries. I thought then I should like to be one, but I shall never know enough to be any thing if I can't go to school."
"Oh, you must not despair," said Ida. "I hope things will take a turn for the better some time. See here, I want you to look at this picture, and tell me if you ever saw any one like it."
Kit took the photograph Ida offered her, and regarded it long and earnestly.
"It looks very much like aunt Martha, only it is younger," said she. "I think she might have looked like that when she was a girl."
The girls exchanged glances again. "I suppose nobody sees your aunt," said Amity.
"Nobody ever comes to our house," replied Kit.
"Uncle Phin doesn't like to have them, because aunt Martha is afraid of strangers. At least, he says that is the reason, but I don't really think so," she added, after a moment's reflection.
"Why not?"
"Because she was not afraid on the cars, when we came here," said Kit: "she liked it. She used to look out of the window. And sometimes she would say quite sensible things. She did not have a single bad time all the way."
"How has she been since she lived here?" asked Amity.
"She has not been as well. She has grown thin, and coughs at night. Symantha thinks she has got the consumption."
"And about her mind?"
"Well, sometimes she is better, and then she is worse; but, on the whole, she is worse. She cries a great deal, and some days she will not eat at all. But I must be going," said Kit, looking at the sun.
"One thing more," said Amity. "Excuse me for asking so many questions, Kit; I have a reason for them. Are your uncle and Symantha kind to her?"
"I am afraid that is hardly a fair question, Amity," said Ida.
"Oh, yes, they are very kind to her," replied Kit. "Symantha is good to everybody, and uncle Phin would do any thing in the world for aunt Martha. I never heard him speak a hard word to her, even when she was the most troublesome. And even Melissa never dared to be cross to her when he was in the house. I don't think uncle Phin would be cross to any one if he would let the beer alone. When we first came here, before he began to go to Oldbury, he was just as good as he could be. But I must go. It must be nearly five o'clock."
"Yes; we won't keep you any longer," said Ida. "That is an excellent idea of yours, about learning the Gospels by heart. Good-night, little one."
"I believe that aunt of hers is really Kathleen Joyce," said Amity as she and Ida turned homeward.
"So do I. And I believe, moreover, that she is the child's mother. I do wish aunt Barbara could see her, but I don't know what excuse she could make for forcing herself in, especially as we have no proof that the poor thing is ill-treated."
"Miss Celia says she screams dreadfully at times, and that the neighbors have talked of interfering," remarked Amity. "If they should, something might be done. At any rate, it will be a comfort to aunt Barbara to know that the poor thing is kindly treated."
As Kit came down the hill behind her uncle's house, she stopped and listened as the sound of wild and piercing screams, poured forth in quick succession, fell on her ear.
"Aunt Martha is bad again," she thought.
And quickening her steps, she reached the house, and entered her aunt's bedroom. The poor woman was sitting up in bed, uttering scream upon scream, and making frantic efforts to escape from her husband's arms, and throw herself on the floor; while he and Symantha strove in vain to soothe her.
"What 'shall' we do?" said Phin, glancing at his daughter with a look almost of despair. "She will hurt herself, and rouse the neighbors besides."
"Let 'me' try," said Kit, unable to keep quiet any longer. An idea had darted into her head which she longed to put in practice.
"Well, do," said Symantha. "You can't do any harm. She is as bad as she can be, now."
Kit seated herself on the side of the bed, and without a word of what she was about to do, she began singing,—
"Jesus, lover of my soul,—"
to the tender, pleading music of the Spanish Hymn.
The poor woman's screams and struggles ceased at once. She leaned back on her husband's breast, and listened like one entranced till Kit sang the hymn all through.
"I used to sing that," said she when Kit was silent. "I used to sing a great many hymns before they took away my Lord. But they have taken Him away, they have taken Him away; and I know not where they have laid Him."
"Oh, no, aunt Martha!" said Kit cheerfully. "They haven't taken Him away: nobody could do that. You know Mary thought they had, but she was mistaken. He had risen from the dead, and was close by her all the time, only it was so dark she couldn't see to tell who it was. But when He spoke to her, then she knew Him."
"But He won't speak to me," said the invalid. "He never speaks to me now. Do you think He ever will?"
"Yes, I know He will. I am going to read you what He says." And forgetting every thing in her desire to comfort the sufferer, forgetting even her fears for her chiefest treasure, Kit took her precious Testament from her pocket. And opening it at random, she began to read from the third chapter of St. John.
Mrs. Mallory listened with evident pleasure. Presently, however, her eyelids began to droop, her fingers ceased to pick at the bed-clothes, her head sank back. She had fallen into a quiet slumber. Phin gently laid her head on the pillow, while Symantha darkened the window.
Presently, he went to the door, and beckoned out Kit, who was still reading in subdued tones.
Kit obeyed, though she was terribly frightened when she thought of what she had done.
"But I don't care," she said. "I know it was right."
To her amazement, Phin lifted her in his arms, and kissed her.
"You are a good girl, Kit. You shall do as you like. You may go to school, and to meeting too, if you want to."
"O uncle Phin! Do you mean it?"
"Yes, I mean it. There, child, don't strangle me," as Kit threw her arms round his neck in a vehement hug.
"And may I really go to meeting and to Sunday school?" asked Kit.
"I didn't say any thing about Sunday school. However, I don't care," said Phin. "Yes, you may go, though I don't see what pleasure you find in it."
"Go yourself, and you will find out," said Kit.
"See here! You are one of the folks, that when you give them an inch, they take an ell. Go to meeting, if you like, but don't take to preaching, yourself. But see here, Kit; how did you dare get out that Testament? Wasn't you afraid I would burn it up, as I did the other one?"
"I didn't think any thing about myself, anyway," answered Kit: "I only thought of comforting aunt Martha. And, you see, it did comfort her. You won't burn it up, will you, uncle Phin?"
"No, child. Don't be afraid, I won't hurt your precious book. Where did you get it?"
"Miss Van Zandt gave it to me. I found a book she lost up on the hill, and took it to her. And then she gave me this one."
"All right," said Phin, apparently not caring to pursue the subject. "There, run out to the barn, and find my pipe; I have left it out there somewhere."
"Just to think that I can go to meeting!" said Kit to Symantha that night as she was helping her wash up the dishes. "It seems too good to be true. Ain't you glad, Symantha?"
"Yes, child, I am glad to have you take all the comfort you can," answered Symantha wearily. "There is none too much going in the world, anyway; and you have had less than your share."
"I have had more than you have," said Kit. "I wish I could do something for you."
"You do a great deal for me. I don't know how I should live without you; and yet, if I could get you such a home as Selina Weston has, I would let you go."
"Selina is not contented, though," said Kit; "at least, I think not. And only fancy, Symantha, she does not like Miss Armstrong and Miss Van Zandt. She says they are patronizing, and feel above her."
"And you don't think they feel above you, I suppose?"
"I never thought any thing about it," answered Kit. "Of course they are above me. Just think how many things they know, and I am only an ignorant little girl. But I don't think that is all the trouble with Selina. She liked Miss Armstrong ever so much at first. It seemed as if she did not want to have her speak to any one else."
"Perhaps 'that' is the trouble. If Selina has a jealous disposition, she will never be happy anywhere. There, go to bed, child. You have had a hard day."
"It has turned out good, so I don't care," said Kit. "I am so glad I thought of singing to aunt Martha!"
"Yes, it was a happy thought. What put it into your head?"
"I don't know, unless God did," answered Kit with an odd kind of matter-of-fact reverence. "But I am so glad I can go to school! I shall feel like dancing all the way."
But Kit did not go to school next morning, after all. Mrs. Mallory slept late, and the moment she waked, she asked for the child.
"Was somebody singing to me? Or did I dream it?" she asked of Symantha.
"You did not dream it," answered Symantha gently. "Kit was singing for you."
"And can she sing again?" asked the invalid imploringly. "Will she come and sing for me again? Won't your father let her?"
"Oh, yes! She shall sing for you again," said Phin, answering for himself. "Try what you can do," he said to Kit. "Perhaps you can coax her to eat something. She did not touch a bit yesterday."
Kit glanced at the clock in some dismay. It was almost school-time.
"'He' would want me to stay with aunt Martha, I know," she thought, "and I believe Miss Armstrong would too."
Without a moment's hesitation, she sat down by her aunt, and began to sing again.
"Thank you, my dear," said Mrs. Mallory; "you have done me a great deal of good. But I feel very weak and faint."
"That is because you haven't eaten any thing," said Kit. "Let me give you your breakfast, and then I will read to you as I did yesterday. I will wash your face and hands, and then you will feel more like eating."
Mrs. Mallory submitted to all Kit's toilet offices without resistance, and even with some show of pleasure. As Kit tied on her cap, she held her hand for a moment.
"Who are you, little girl?" she said, gazing wistfully at her. "I seem to remember you."
"Why, yes, aunt Martha: I am Kit. Don't you know Kit?"
"I don't think that is what I used to call you," said the poor woman, "but my mind is a good deal confused. I don't think I understand any thing very well."
"That is because you are sick and weak," answered Kit with ready tact. "When you are better, you will know all about it. See, here comes Symantha with the nice breakfast."
Mrs. Mallory ate with some appearance of appetite. "Now sing to me if you are not tired," said she.
"Oh, I am not tired," answered Kit. "I love to sing." She sang two or three hymns, and then read till Mrs. Mallory fell asleep again.
"She is asleep," Kit reported, stealing out of the room. "And, Symantha, you don't know how sensibly she talked."
"What did she say?" asked Symantha.
"Oh, not much; only she asked me if I thought any one could be saved who had denied their Lord. And I told her yes, and read her what it says about Peter. Then she tried to remember a verse; and I found it, and read it to her. It was about the blood of Christ cleansing us from all sin, you know."
"Well?"
"Then she asked if I knew a hymn about that; and I told her I did, and sung it for her. Then she whispered to herself a little while. I think she was praying," said Kit with a look and tone of awe. "And finally she went to sleep."
"That does seem as if she were getting better," said Phin. "Kit, if she does, there is nothing I won't do for you."
Symantha shook her head sadly. "Her mind may get better, but her body won't," said she. "Can't you see how it is, father?"
"You think it is the lighting-up for death?"
"I think so," said Symantha; "and I don't know that we ought to wish it otherwise, if she dies happy."
Phin sighed deeply. "Well, no, I suppose not, but this world will be an empty place when she is gone. Symantha, I haven't been a good father to you, I haven't been good at any thing that I know of; but I do thank you for your kindness and patience with that poor thing."
"Then, if I have done any thing for her, do something for me," said Symantha: "stay away from Oldbury, and let the drink alone."
Phin shook his head, but he said no more; nor did Symantha pursue the subject any further.
MISS VAN ZANDT.
GREAT was the amazement of all the school-girls to see Kit, neatly dressed, and book in hand, walk into the schoolhouse Friday evening, and seat herself among the children.
"There is Kit," whispered Ruth to Selina. "I wonder if she has run away."
"I dare say she has. I know she said her uncle would not let her come."
"Well, for my part, I believe in children doing as they are told, about going to meeting or any thing else. I wonder why she has not been in school."
"Her aunt is worse," replied Selina. "Dr. Chase went up to see her this morning. He told father she was in the last stage of consumption."
Never had the Friday evening services in the red schoolhouse district been so well attended as they were this summer. Perhaps this increased attendance might be partly owing to the fact that the red schoolhouse had never before been so comfortable. Certainly it was much more agreeable to spend an hour in a clean, well-aired, cool room, fresh and fragrant with the smell of flowers and green leaves, than to pass the same time in a hot, fusty apartment, unventilated since the afternoon school session, with air heavy enough to have put hundred-eyed Argus asleep. Miss Van Zandt's singing might also be an attraction. But I am inclined to think there was more in the case than either, and that a gracious influence was stirring the air, not only in the red schoolhouse district, but in the whole parish of Oldham.
Kit had counted on a word with Miss Armstrong either before or after the meeting, but neither she nor Mrs. Van Zandt was present. Mr. Bassett opened the service, as usual, with a hymn: and some of the elder people smiled at the earnestness with which the children joined in the singing; and more than one turned to look at Kit, whose voice sounded out beautifully clear and full of expression.
"Did you ever!" whispered Ruth. "Who ever would have guessed that poor child had such a voice?"
Selina did not answer, but her face wore any thing but a pleased expression.
The service went on as usual, except that more people spoke, and almost every one of the children had a text, or a verse from some favorite hymn. Miss Celia made a few remarks, in her silvery, tremulous voice. They were very simple. She said she had been young, and now was old; she had passed through many severe trials, some of which were well known to her friends, and others only to her heavenly Father: but she wished to say that in all of them she had been helped and comforted by Divine Love. It was a support which had never failed her. She had enjoyed it all her life, and she hoped the dear children and young people present might be as happy in this respect as she had been.
That was all she said. It was commonplace enough, if such a subject can ever be commonplace. But it was spoken with an expression of inward conviction which sent it home to almost every heart present.
"Are there any more remarks?" asked Mr. Bassett.
There was a short silence; and then a clear little voice sounded from the low bench in front, where the little children sat:—
"Please, Mr. Bassett, will you ask the people to pray for aunt Martha, because she is very sick, and the doctor says she won't live but a little while."
Everybody looked round in surprise. Kit had risen to her feet in her earnestness, and stood with her shining eyes fixed on the good miller's face, while the carnation color mantled beautifully in her cheeks. More than one mother felt the tears very near her eyes as they rested on the poor little motherless child, who stood so evidently thinking of nothing but the request she had made. And more than one prayer went up then and there on her behalf and that of the invalid.
There was the usual little pause for neighborly chat when the service was over.
"Why, Kit! How did you come here?" asked Sarah.
"Uncle Phin let me come," answered Kit. "And only think, Sarah, he says I may go to Sunday school!"
"How glad I am!" said Sarah, bending to kiss the face turned to her. "But where have you been these two days?"
"I could not leave aunt Martha. She is very sick, and she likes to have me sing and read to her."
"Is she sensible?"
"Yes, almost all the time now, though she isn't quite right. She thinks I am her daughter, and she can't bear to have me away from her when she is awake. But she isn't unhappy, as she used to be, and she prays a great deal. But, Sarah, I wonder where Miss Armstrong is. I thought I should see her this evening."
"I don't know, I am sure. Let us ask Selina.—Selina, where is Miss Armstrong?"
"She has gone to New York with Mrs. Van Zandt. They had a telegram that some friend of theirs is very low,—not expected to live. Miss Armstrong thought she could not go at first. But Miss Van Zandt must needs offer to teach the school while she was away, so she got ready, and started off in Mrs. Van Zandt's carriage to catch the train at Oldbury."
"I don't see why you should speak so scornfully, Selina," said Faith. "For my part, I think it is very kind of Miss Van Zandt."
"Well, I don't want to be going to school to a girl only two or three years older than I am."
"What difference does her age make, so long as she knows more than we do?" asked Faith very sensibly.
Selina made no reply.
"I'll tell you what it is, Selina, you will end by hating Miss Van Zandt, if you don't mind," continued Faith earnestly. "I don't see how you can feel so. What harm has she ever done to you?"
"I never said she had done me any harm," returned Selina. "I think she puts herself forward, and makes herself ridiculous by taking so much on herself. But as to hating, I never troubled myself enough about her to do that." And yet Selina did hate Ida, and she knew it.
"Where is Patience to-night, Faith?" asked Mrs. Weston.
"She isn't very well, and she had so much to do she thought she couldn't come. I wanted her to let me do up the work, but she wouldn't."
"That is a pity," said Mrs. Weston. "It would have done her good.—Come, Selina; we must be going."
The children were early at the schoolhouse next morning, eager to see their new teacher, whom they were all prepared to like.
"Who do you think came to Bible class with me last night?" said Agnes as she joined the group of older girls. "No less a person than Milly Richmond."
"Milly Richmond!" exclaimed Selina. "I don't believe it. She laughs at the very idea."
"She came, for all that. We sat close by the door, and went away the very first minute we could."
"But how did it happen?"
"Well, I asked her. You see, Milly and I have never been very good friends," said Agnes with some embarrassment; "and I think perhaps I have been hard upon her, so I have been trying to make up. I did not believe she would come to the service: but I remembered what Dr. Madison said about charity at home, and I thought there would be no harm in trying. So I asked her, as I said, and she asked me if I really meant it.
"'Of course,' I said.
"And then she said, well, she did not mind for once, only she would like to sit by the door, because it was so warm."
"How did she like it?" asked Sarah.
"I asked her, and she said she didn't know, herself; she should have to think about it. And after that, she never said another word all the way home."
"Is it true, Agnes, that you are going to be confirmed next time the Bishop comes?" asked Faith.
"Quite true," answered Agnes.
"I should think you were pretty young to take such a step," remarked Ruth. "Why don't you wait till you are older?"
"Why should I?" asked Agnes. "I am fifteen, and I don't think I shall know my own mind any better if I wait till I am twenty or forty."
"Perhaps you would not know it as well," observed Sarah.
"If you think it so nice in Agnes, why don't you come forward yourself?" asked Selina with something of a sneer,—an expression which was becoming so habitual to her that it threatened to spoil her pretty face.
"I mean to," said Sarah briefly. She paused a moment, and then added with an evident effort, "And, girls, I want to say something: I want to ask your pardon, and especially yours, Selina, for all the sharp and hateful things I have said. I know that is my besetting sin, as Mr. Bassett said last night, and I am going to try and do better; so I hope you will all forgive me."
The girls looked at each other in amazement. Sarah was a very proud girl, and such an acknowledgment had a double force coming from her.
"I am sure I do, if there is any thing to forgive, though I never laid up any thing against you," said Faith. "You are so nice in other ways that I never minded your sharp speeches."
"And you, Selina?"
"Oh, I forgive you, of course, since you ask me, though I do think you have treated me shamefully," said Selina coldly. "I only hope your goodness will last, that's all."
And Selina turned and went into the schoolhouse.
"That's a queer kind of forgiveness," said Faith. "I think Selina is queer, anyhow."
"Oh, well, never mind," said Sarah. "I have been aggravating to her, I know. Here comes Miss Van Zandt. Doesn't she look pretty in her brown-linen dress and blue ribbons? We must do all we can to help her, girls. I don't suppose she has ever taught before."
But those of the school—they were very few—who were inclined to take liberties with their young teacher, soon found that they had reckoned without their host. Miss Van Zandt had a ready wit and a quick eye, besides a fund of imperturbable good-nature. In the geography class, she delighted the girls by her descriptions of places she had seen in England, and promised next day to bring some photographs of cathedrals and of natural scenery.
"Of what place were we just speaking?" asked Ida, turning to Selina, who was making an elaborate display of taking no interest in the lesson.
"I don't know," replied Selina: "I was not listening."
"Next," said Miss Van Zandt.
"York," was the instant answer.
And to Selina's infinite disgust, and the amusement of the other girls, Ruth Jewsbury went above her.
"I don't think that is fair, Miss Van Zandt," said Selina. "I knew the answer."
"I dare say you did; but you said yourself, you were not paying attention. Next: For what is Newcastle noted?"
And that was all Selina gained by her manœuvre.
When noon-time came, Ida requested the elder girls to remain for a few minutes.
"I have a few words to say to you, young ladies," said she. "As you know, I have taken the place of my friend Miss Armstrong for a little time, in order that the school may not be closed while she is away. I have not much experience, at least in a day-school; and it is very likely that I may make some mistakes. What I have to ask is, that you older girls who are the leaders in the school, will help me by throwing your influence upon the side of law and order. Little girls are apt to follow the lead of large girls; and, if the children see you desirous to maintain the character of the school during your teacher's absence, they will do the same. Not that I have any thing to complain of," she hastened to add: "on the contrary, you have all been very kind to me."
"I don't see how we could be any thing else," said Sarah. "I don't think you will have any trouble with the children, Miss Van Zandt: they are good little things."
"I don't believe I shall have any trouble with anybody," said Miss Van Zandt. "Does any one know where Kitty is?"
"I suppose she is at home," answered Sarah. "Her aunt is very sick. Dr. Chase says she can only live a few days. And she has taken such a fancy to Kit, she cannot bear her out of sight. She thinks Kit is her daughter."
"Poor woman!" said Miss Van Zandt. "Well, girls, I don't know that I have any more to say, and I am keeping you from your dinners. I hope and believe that we shall have a very pleasant report to make to Miss Armstrong when she comes home."
"How long will she be gone?" asked Faith.
"The time is uncertain, because it depends upon her friend's health,—probably not more than ten days, possibly two weeks."
"And are you going to teach the school all that time?" asked Selina with an emphasis on the "you."
"I fully intend to do so at present," answered Miss Van Zandt, not in the least ruffled. "Why do you ask?"
"Oh, nothing; only, if Miss Armstrong is going to be away so long, I should suppose the trustees would engage some grown-up person to take charge of the school."
The girls looked at each other in indignant amazement as Selina gave vent to this piece of impertinence, but Miss Van Zandt only smiled.
"How much taller would you like me to be?" she asked, erecting her beautiful figure to its full height. "If the trustees get any one much more grown-up, they will have to raise the roof or lower the floor. Pray, how old are you, Selina?"
"She is fifteen," said Agnes, as Selina did not answer.
"Exactly, and I am nineteen. You seem to feel tolerably grown-up yourself, I think; and so you see, I have a right to feel four years more grown-up than you are."
"Please, Mith Dan Want, ma says will 'oo tome to dinner, because ith's all weady," said a small child, inserting a curly black head into a crack in the door.
"Thank you, my dear; but who is ma?" asked Ida.
"It is Emma Bassett," said Faith. "What a shame of me! Mrs. Bassett called me this morning, and told me to be sure to tell Miss Van Zandt to come to dinner; and I forgot it."
"Well, ith's all weady," said the curly head; "and there's chewy-pie."
"Indeed! Then I must certainly come, and some of you must eat the lunch Aggy put up for me. There are some nice bananas in the basket, girls, if you like them."
"Well, Selina, I do hope you feel better," said Ruth Jewsbury. "You have made a nice figure of yourself, I must say. I should think you would be ashamed."
Selina was surprised and vexed; for Ruth had hitherto been somewhat rebellious to Miss Armstrong, and she had looked to her for support in her attempt to put down Miss Van Zandt.
"She didn't make much by it, anyway," said Faith, "only to turn the laugh on herself."
"Selina, what does make you act so?" asked Agnes seriously. "I should think you might be pleased at having such a pleasant young lady for a teacher, instead of some one like—Miss Priscilla Davis, for instance."
"Dear me! What did I do?" asked Selina. "One would think I had murdered some one, at the very least."
"You tried to insult Miss Van Zandt, and only succeeded in making yourself ridiculous,—that's what you did.—Didn't she, girls?"
"That was what it came to," answered Agnes, "but I don't think she will make much by it.—Come, Selina; do think better of it. I don't see why we should not have a very good time with Miss Van Zandt, if we all turn to and support her. I am sure nothing could be nicer than her ways this morning. And how interesting she made the geography class!"
"Oh, yes, of course. It is all Miss Van Zandt now, and dear Miss Armstrong is nobody and nowhere," said Selina. "Last week you thought there was nobody like Miss Armstrong."
"And I think so now," returned Agnes. "I have a right to, for she is the best friend I ever had, except my mother. I never could pay her for what she has done for me, if I were to live a hundred years. But I think the best way I can show my love for her in her absence is to respect and help her friend who has taken her place."
"Agnes talks like a book, and she is right," said Ruth. "I never was so wonderfully fond of Miss Armstrong as some of you,—as Selina was when she first came, for instance,—but I think she is an excellent teacher; and, as for Miss Van Zandt, think she is lovely."
"Yes, because she let you go up in the geography class,—a thing you never did before," retorted Selina. "Oh, well, I don't propose to have any words about it," she added loftily. "You can all flatter and bow down to Miss Van Zandt as much as you please, for all me. I shall not, that's all."
And certainly Selina kept her word by doing all in her power to make Ida's work as disagreeable as possible.
Ida tried the effect of a gentle remonstrance, but it did no good.
Selina denied having done any thing wrong. And when one instance after another of disrespect and disobedience was brought home to her, she burst into tears, declared that every one was against her because she was an orphan, and because she would not pretend to be religious. She was in every one's way, nobody loved her, and she wished she was dead.
Much perplexed, Ida sought a private interview with Mrs. Weston, and laid the case before her.
"I don't think I have been unjust to Selina," said she. "She is the only one I have any trouble with. But really, she is so disrespectful that I do not know what to do with her."
"I can understand it," said Mrs. Weston, sighing. "Selina is very trying when she takes one of her perverse fits, and I hardly know how to manage her myself. It is not fair, however, that you should be troubled with her. And I think I will keep her at home for the present."
"That seems a pity," remarked Ida. "Perhaps if you were to talk to her—"
"I fear that would do no good; she seems only to resent it. But I will consult her father, and see what he thinks it best to do."
The result of the consultation was, that Selina found herself taken out of school, and set to work about the house and dairy. The change was not at all to her taste. But she was too proud to complain, and took great pains to show that she did not care.
MORE CHANGES.
KIT had not been able to attend the school regularly since it had been under Ida's administration, though she had managed to slip away two or three times for an afternoon. Mrs. Mallory was failing rapidly. Dr. Chase came to see her, and told her friends there was nothing to be done.
"She may last six weeks, or she may drop away at any moment," said he, in answer to a question from Phin. "Get her to take nourishing food and the tonic I have left her, and keep her as quiet as possible. I should not be surprised if her mind should clear at the last. I am glad to see her so well taken care of."
"She has had all I could give her," said Phin. "I don't amount to much, but I have tried to be good to her."
"It is easy to see that, by the way she confides in you," replied the doctor kindly. "But I don't see, Mr. Mallory, why you should not amount to as much as any one in the county. Why not?"
"Too late," said Phin. "When a man has sold himself to the devil, he can't break the bargain."
"Perhaps not; but there is One who can, and who will if you turn to Him."
Phin shook his head. "I don't know," said he; "sometimes I think so, but—Well, there we won't talk about it. It is too late for me, anyhow, but I'd like to think there was a good time ahead for that poor thing in there."
"I believe there is, as surely as I believe in my own existence," said the doctor.
"Well, I hope so. You will call again, doctor?"
"I will if you wish it; but I tell you frankly, I can do nothing for her."
It was a solemn, but, on the whole, not an unhappy time for Kit. Phin staid at home, not drinking at all, but attending to his farm-work, and taking care of his wife. As Kit said, he was always good-natured when he did not drink. Kit helped Symantha with the work, waited on Mrs. Mallory, and when she had a little time, studied her school lessons, and read in her Testament, which she now produced without fear in her uncle's presence. Phin did not even laugh at her.
And when Melissa, who came home for a Sunday, began her old fashion of teasing, she was promptly silenced by her father.
"Let the child alone. She is doing the work you ought to be about, by rights; and she shall read what she pleases. Perhaps it would be all the better for you if you read something of the same kind, instead of the stuff you do."
"Dear me, how good we are, all at once!" said Melissa, with a toss of her head. But she did not venture any further, knowing, that if she came to an out-and-out contest with her father, she was sure to get the worst of it. She took her departure on Monday, unregretted by any one. Mrs. Mallory was afraid of her, and she and Symantha were never comfortable together.
The next week a letter was received from her, saying that she was going to a place in New York; and that was the last that was heard of her for many a long day.
Mrs. Mallory failed every day. And as so often happens in such cases, as her body decayed, her mind grew clear and calm. The old despairing wail was never heard now. Kit had learned to watch and anticipate her moods, and as soon as she saw the cloud coming, she would begin to sing, or read in the Testament; and the remedy was always successful.
After a while, Kit ventured to ask the meaning of things which she did not understand, and was surprised at the clearness of the explanations she received.
"I do think aunt Martha is as sensible as anybody now," Kit said one day to Symantha. "You don't know how nicely she explained my Sunday school lesson to me. But, Symantha, she seems to think I am her little girl; and she wants me to call her 'mother.' Isn't it funny? Did she ever have a little girl?"
"Yes, she had a child who would have been about your age," answered Symantha, bending over her work. "Call her 'mother' if it pleases her. It won't do any hurt."
"I do," said Kit. "But isn't it queer that she should be crazy about that, when she seems all right about every thing else?"
"Not at all," replied Symantha: "people often are that way. I read of a man who thought he was a glass bottle, though he was straight enough about every other subject. He was always afraid people were going to break him. Isn't this the day for your singing-class?"
"Yes; but I didn't know whether you could spare me."
"Oh, yes, I will manage. I will tell ma you have gone to learn some new hymns for her. Put on your other frock, and run along while she is asleep; and you will have a little time in school."
Kit had carried her point about going to Sunday school, and a very happy though very shy little girl it was who presented herself at the church door the first Sunday morning in August.
For the church repairs were quite finished now. The painting was done, the belfry made secure, the aisles carpeted, and the weedy, brambly graveyard reduced to such order and neatness, that, as Edward Kettle said, it wouldn't know itself. The ladies regarded the result of their work with great satisfaction, and Mr. Blandy remarked with great complacency that "we" had made a good piece of work of it.
"Whose class would you like to be in, Kitty?" asked Mr. Bassett, the superintendent.
"I don't care," answered Kit; "only I think I had better go with the little ones, because I don't know any thing hardly."
"I think I shall put you in my wife's class," said the superintendent.
And Kit was quite content, for like every child that came near her, she dearly loved "Ma Bassett."
"Well, how did Kit get on?" asked Mr. Bassett of his wife after school.
"Nicely," answered Mrs. Bassett; "no child could behave better. And as to her not knowing any thing, she has more Scripture in her head, and her heart too, than half the grown people in town. It is wonderful to see such a growth of grace in a child who has had so little teaching."
"Grace is not dependent on human means, happily," remarked her husband. "Did she say any thing about her aunt?"
"Only that she is failing. Dr. Chase says she cannot live many days. He says, too, what I was glad to hear, that they are very kind to the poor thing, and that it is easy to see, by the way she depends, upon her husband, that he is habitually good to her."
"Well, I am sorry for Phin Mallory," observed Mr. Bassett. "I don't think we have treated him quite right, either. After all, nobody really knows any harm of him, so far as his conduct goes, except that he drinks now and then. Can't you make an errand up there, ma? Perhaps you might get a chance to talk to him."
"I can try, at any rate. If he is so fond of his wife, he won't be likely to insult any one who comes to do her a kindness."
Accordingly, next day Mrs. Bassett presented herself at Phin Mallory's door with a little basket of ripe apricots, the first of the season, and some other dainties, for the invalid. But she could not flatter herself that her visit had any very particular result. She did not see Symantha, who was lying down with a headache. Phin took her into his wife's room, and she exchanged a few words with the invalid, who was much pleased with the prettily decorated basket of fruit, and made her acknowledgments in a way which showed her to be a cultivated, well-bred woman.
Mrs. Bassett's womanly eye remarked with pleasure the delicate neatness of every thing about the sick woman, and the gentleness of her husband's manner toward her. But Mrs. Mallory was so weak that she did not venture to prolong her visit.
"Good-by, Mrs. Mallory. I hope you will let us know if we can do any thing for you."
"Thank you," answered Mrs. Mallory, "but I have the best of care. And it is an unspeakable comfort to have my little girl with me again."
"Whom does she mean by her little girl?" asked Mrs. Bassett when they had left the room.
"She means Kit," answered Phin. "She thinks Kit is her daughter; and we let her think so, since she takes comfort in it. There isn't much use in arguing with crazy people."
"Not a bit of use," agreed Mrs. Bassett. "Kit is a dear child. I am so glad you let her come to Sunday school! Miss Celia Claxton was saying Sunday, she remembered your sister Chloe coming to church and Sunday school when she was just about Kit's age."
"Yes, Chloe was a good girl: she took after my mother. But she died young."
"So Celia was saying. She was telling me how happy she was in her last sickness and death. It is a blessed thing, Mr. Mallory, to have one's dying pillow smoothed by such a hope."
"Well, perhaps it is," replied Phin, with something of a sigh. "But what if it turns out all a delusion, and there should be no such thing as heaven and the rest of it, after all?"
"Well, what if it does?" answered Mrs. Bassett with spirit. "Then I shall be just as well off as you are, and there won't be much danger of your laughing at me, as somebody says. But if I am right, and you are wrong, you will be making rather an awful mistake, Mr. Mallory."
"There is something in that," admitted Phin. "Anyhow, I am willing folks should take all the comfort they can."
"But won't you think about it yourself, Mr. Mallory? Won't you come to our Friday evening meeting?"
"Well, no, I guess not. Folks wouldn't want me there."
"You are very much mistaken," answered Mrs. Bassett eagerly. "We should all be very glad to see you. Only come, and see if you don't have a welcome."
"I will see about it. Well, Mrs. Bassett, I am very much obliged to you for coming to see my wife, and for your kindness to Kit. You and your husband live up to what you profess, anyhow; and that is more than most folks do, even according to their own showing. I heard two church-members talking in Oldbury the last time I was there, and it was all about the worldliness of the churches, and how little they were doing."
"They might have been better employed."
"I thought so myself. It was a little too much like the ill bird that spoils its own nest. I'd stick up for my own side, anyhow."
"Well, Mr. Mallory, if you need help any time, I hope you won't hesitate to ask for it. Celia and Delia Claxton told me to say that they would come and sit up any night."
"Much obliged, but I take care of my wife myself nights.—Old cats! They just want to satisfy their curiosity, and find something to talk about," muttered Phin to himself as he returned to his wife's room. "And yet I won't say that, either. It was kind of them to offer, anyhow."
But Mrs. Mallory was soon to be beyond the need of earthly aid. That night she seemed better and brighter than usual. She talked to Kit about her Sunday school lesson, and heard her read and sing, as usual. After Kit had gone to bed, Mrs. Mallory called her husband, and had a long private conversation with him,—so long that Symantha became uneasy, and went to the door.
"I am afraid ma is talking too much," said she.
"I have done now," said the invalid, smiling sweetly as Symantha kissed her. "I shall not talk much more. Good-by, Symantha. You have been a kind friend to me; and I have tried you sadly, I know. Be kind to my child, as you have been to me. Will you promise me that?" she asked, holding Symantha's hand, and looking wistfully at her. "Yes, ma, I promise you I will always be kind to Kit as long as it is in my power. Now lie down and go to sleep."
Phin remained with his wife, as usual, through the night. The sky was just growing bright with the approaching sunrise when he opened Symantha's door.
"Come quick!" said he.
Symantha lost not a moment. She called Kit, and hastened to the bedside.
Mrs. Mallory seemed to be still sleeping, but her face showed the approach of the shadow that never falls but once. Kit saw the change, and was awe-struck.
"Is she worse?" she whispered, taking hold of Symantha's hand.
"Speak to her, Kit. Call her mother," said Phin hoarsely.
"Don't you feel so well, mother? Shall I get you something? Dear mother, speak to your own Kitty."
The blue eyes were opened, and lighted up for a moment with unearthly brilliancy. "Dear child, hold fast to your Father in heaven. Never let go—never—" Her voice faltered.
"Don't you know me, Matey?" asked Phin, bending over her.
The eyes rested on him with a look of unutterable tenderness, but the power of speech was gone. There was a sweet smile, a long, soft sigh, and all was over. The tired and troubled spirit had found rest.
Mrs. Bassett and the two Claxton sisters came with offers of neighborly assistance, which were accepted by Symantha; and the last offices were kindly and tenderly performed by their friendly hands, as is the beautiful custom of the country. Long may it continue!
When the old ladies returned to their home, they found Aunt Betsy sitting on the front steps.
"So you have come at last," said she. "Here I've been a-waiting and a-waiting as much as half an hour. Seems to me it is pretty early for folks to be going a-visiting."
"I think as much, Aunt Betsy. What brought you here before eight o'clock in the morning?" returned Miss Delia.
"I came to borrow some ginger and some molasses," snapped Aunt Betsy. "And I expect I've got my death of cold waiting for you. Where have you been?"
"Oh, we have been out on business," answered Miss Delia, calmly proceeding to kindle her fire. "Now we are going to have some breakfast if we can get a chance.—Celia, will you have tea, or coffee?"
"Just as you like," said Miss Celia, who never had any choice in household matters. Delia used to say it would never do for her to go away for a whole week, since Celia would starve because she could not make up her mind what to cook.
"Where 'have' you been, anyway?" demanded Aunt Betsy in a tone of exasperation.
"We have been up to Phin Mallory's, helping to lay out his wife," answered Miss Celia. "The poor thing died at sunrise, and Symantha sent Kitty down for us."
"Do tell! Was she alone?"
"No: her father was there."
"Do tell! Well, and how did you find things? Folks say they kept the poor thing tied down to her bedstead and half starved, and beat her to make her quiet."
"Folks say more than there is any call for," answered Miss Delia. "It is easy to see that poor Mrs. Mallory has been well done for. Her bed, and every thing about her, was as neat as wax. Besides, Dr. Chase has been to see her several times, and he told me himself that it was plain she was well treated."
"Well, I don't know. Folks are very deceitful," said Aunt Betsy, evidently disappointed. "I don't believe she would have screamed so if she hadn't been abused. And when is the funeral to be?"
"On Friday, I believe."
"That's awful quick, seems to me."
"Two days, and you know it is very hot weather."
"And where will she be buried?"
"Here, I presume."
"Are any of her own folks coming to the funeral?"
"I'm sure I don't know. It is no business of mine," answered Miss Delia, whose patience, never her strongest point, began to grow threadbare. "Celia, do come and get your breakfast. You will be fainting away.—There is your ginger, Aunt Betsy; but we haven't any molasses, and sha'n't have till I get a chance to send down to the store. I suppose you have had your breakfast, of course, long before this time. Good-morning."
"Mean, stingy old maid!" said Aunt Betsy as she went away with her ginger.
"You might have asked her to breakfast," said Miss Celia, coming from the pantry. "Why didn't you?"
"Because I wanted you to have your breakfast in peace. You are like a cat without claws, Celia. It is well you have me to do a little scratching for you now and then."
THE TEA-PARTY.
TWO days after her death, Mrs. Mallory's body was laid in the old churchyard beside the grave of her husband's young sister. Mr. Brace, the new minister, officiated; and a great many people came to the funeral. Phin was deeply affected, and broke down entirely at the grave.
"Won't you come into my house, and rest a little before you go home, Mr. Mallory?" said kind Mrs. Andrews, who lived close by the church.
"Yes, do; you and the girls," added Mr. Andrews.
"You are very kind, but I think pa will be best at home," said Symantha. "He is quite worn out with watching."
"Well, if we can do any thing for you, you must let us know," said Mr. Andrews as he shook hands with Phin.
"And just let me say one word to you, Phineas," said old Mrs. Bassett. "I knew your mother and your grandmother, so you will excuse an old woman's freedom. Don't go to seeking comfort in drink. There may be forgetfulness in it, but there is no peace; and it will only leave you worse than you were before. Don't go looking for comfort in the world, my son, but turn to your wife's God and your mother's God. He has stricken, and He can bind up. Don't touch the drink, whatever you do."
"I won't," said Phin, pressing her hand; and at the time he meant what he said.
For at least a month he staid quietly at home, working diligently on his farm, mending the fences, and repairing the house and barns. He even went twice to the Friday evening service, at Kit's entreaty, and joined his splendid bass voice to the singing. Symantha's face began once more to lose its expression of care and apprehension; and as to Kit, she was never so happy in her life. She went to school every day, and to church and Sunday school on Sunday. Melissa, hitherto the greatest disturber of her peace, was out of the way; and uncle Phin was always kind nowadays, and let her read her Bible and sing her hymns as much as she liked. Her mind expanded every day, and she was one of those happy people to whom the acquisition of knowledge is a keen delight for its own sake. All the girls liked her.
And even Aunt Betsy allowed that "that Mallory young one" behaved very well when she was in sight, but made herself amends by adding, "But she'll show out what is in her yet, you may depend upon it. What's bred in the bone stays long in the flesh."
"Very true," said Miss Delia, to whom the remark was addressed. "We've all got total depravity bred in our bones, Aunt Betsy. And I, for one, haven't got rid of it yet, altogether."
"And there's Phin Mallory coming to the meetings," pursued Aunt Betsy. "We shall have all the riffraff in town coming in next."
"I am sure I wish we could," remarked Mr. Brace, the new minister. "I, for one, should enjoy the sight, as our Lord did when the publicans and sinners came together to hear Him. What is the Church for, Mrs. Burr, if not to gather in just such people as those you call riffraff?"
"I think, sometimes, the Church doesn't do as much of that sort of work as it might," said Miss Delia.
"Of course not. The Church does not do as much work of any sort as it might. Nevertheless it does most of the work that is done in that line. Who sustains all the city missions and charities, all the mission Sunday schools in low city districts and faraway Western towns, all the frontier missionaries and those in foreign parts, if not the Church? You talk about riffraff, Mrs. Burr: I should like to take you to New York, and show you the lady visitors going fearlessly into neighborhoods where even the policeman looks carefully to his revolver before he ventures. I should like to take you into one tenement-house I know of, where I found a district nurse, a well-educated lady, making a fire in a cracked stove, and cleaning floor and windows with her own hands, because no ordinary charwoman would venture into the place. Who does all these things but the Church in some of its branches,—that Church which is the blessed company of all faithful people? The Church does not accomplish half, no, not a tenth, of what it might if every member thereof were faithful in his and her vocation and ministry; but the world would be badly off without it."
Mr. Brace spoke with a good deal of earnestness, possibly with some little heat, as people are apt to do when they feel warmly.
And Aunt Betsy was confirmed in her opinion that he had no proper ministerial dignity, and would never fill Dr. Munson's pulpit.
Phin staid at home, as I have said, for nearly a month. Then he felt himself obliged to go to Oldbury with a load of hay.
"Why don't you sell your hay in Oldfield?" asked Symantha.
"Because I promised it to Stannard at the tavern, and I don't want to break my word. Don't you be scared, my girl: I'm not going to make a fool of myself any more. I've turned over a new leaf about that. Keep up a good heart, and I'll bring you and Kitty each a new frock if I have good luck with my hay."
"I want a piece of cotton sheeting, more than a new frock. Kit needs a dress or two, but I thought I should get them just as well at Mr. Andrews's: he has some nice black-and-white checks. Anyhow, father, do keep away from Stillwell's."
"I'm not going near Stillwell's," said Phin rather angrily. "I believe you think your father is a fool."
Then, softening as he saw his daughter's evident distress, "Don't you borrow trouble. I don't much wonder at your doing it, all things considered. But you'll see I'll come home all right. I'm no such tow-string of a man as you think me."
But alas! What man is not a tow-string when assailed by old appetites and old temptations, and old companions ready to do the Devil's work, and take the Devil's wages? Phin came home silent and morose. He brought no new frocks for anybody.
And when Symantha asked him, next day, for money to make some needful purchases at the Corners, he replied shortly that he had none.
"I thought you sold your hay," said Symantha. "Didn't Stannard pay you?"
"No—yes, partly. But I had to use the money another way. Take some of the butter-money, or get Andrews to trust you: I'll make it all right with him."
"I thought we agreed to save the butter-money for ma's grave-stone," said Symantha.
"I can't help it," answered Phin, turning suddenly away. "I'd give you the money if I had it, but I haven't, and there's no use talking."
Symantha sighed, but said no more.
In a few days, Phin went to Oldbury again, and came home so drunk that Symantha and Kit had to take care of the team. His visits became more and more frequent, often lasting two or three days at a time. He brought home another keg of beer, and from that time was hardly ever sober. He began to talk of selling the farm and going West again, and Symantha was in despair.
"I did think we were settled at last," said she. "I thought I was to have a home."
"Well, have a home. Who hinders you?" said her father roughly. "You and Kit can hire a room somewhere, and take care of yourselves."
"You know I won't do that, father. I shall never leave you."
"Maybe I shall leave you," said Phin. "It don't follow, because I am going to destruction, that I need drag you after me.—Well, there, you needn't cry, Kit: I haven't gone yet."
"I can't help crying when you talk so," sobbed Kit. "O uncle Phin! Do be good. You have been so nice lately, and gone to church, and all. I did think you were going to turn out a Christian."
"I almost thought so, myself, Kitty, but it's no go," said Phin, with a hard laugh. "You see, I'm one of those stony-ground hearers that you read about the other day, and nothing good will grow in me. But you and your friends believe in prayer: why don't you pray for me!"
"I do," replied Kit with emphasis, "every day and every night; and I am going to keep on. You don't believe in God, uncle Phin, but you can't get away from Him, not in Oldbury nor anywhere else."
Kit kept her word; and her prayers were heard, but not in the way she expected or would have chosen.
Meantime, the school was prospering in Ida's hands. And every one was satisfied, except Aunt Betsy, who never was satisfied with any thing. Ida and Amity, partly from real compassion, and partly, I fear, for the joke's sake, had set themselves to work to conciliate the old woman. Ida, who had a genius for millinery, made her a pretty cap, and Amity carried her a pound of very fine green tea, such as she liked, but all to no purpose. Aunt Betsy admitted that the cap looked tolerably well, considering: she supposed it was fudged up out of some of Mrs. Van Zandt's old ones. As to the tea, she thought it was a queer color.
"That is because it is not colored at all," explained Amity, always sweet and unruffled. "Most green teas are dyed, you know; but my aunt had this tea in a present from a Chinese gentleman who was a correspondent of my uncle's for many years, and who understands about such matters. He sends my aunt a chest of this tea every year. It cannot be bought in this country."
"Oh, yes, I dare say he makes her think so," was Aunt Betsy's reply. "I always heard them Chinese were up to all kinds of tricks.—They thought they were going to coax me round," she said to Miss Jewsbury afterward, in relating the interview, "but I let them know that I wasn't going to be patronized."
"Well, I'm sure I wish she would patronize me that way," said Miss Jewsbury, who loved green tea, and did not often get it. "Do give me a drawing of it, Aunt Betsy. You might let me have it all if you don't want it. My girls don't like green tea, and I hardly ever have any."
"I never said I didn't like it, and you are as well able to buy tea as I am," was the reply. "However, I suppose I can let you have a cupful. You can pay me in cheese."
But, though Aunt Betsy was not to be won over, Ida had plenty of friends. Even the Jewsbury girls liked her, and behaved better in school than they had ever done before. The truth was, that Ruth had grown secretly tired of her rebellion against Miss Armstrong, and was glad of a pretext for giving it up; and her younger sister followed her lead, as a matter of course. Ida had the teaching gift. She loved the children and the work for their own sake. She enjoyed success and popularity, as who does not? And it was a source of exquisite pleasure to her to see the eyes brighten and the cheeks flush as she told them some story of heroism or self-sacrifice, growing out of and illustrating the history or geography lesson.