fiCLIOTROPE 
 
 A SAN FRANCISCO IDYL 
 
 TWENTY-FIVE YEARS AGO 
 
 AND OTHER SKETCHES 
 
 
 FRANCES MARGARET^ MILNE 
 
 Author of " For To-Day," and "A Cottage Gray." 
 
 SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 THE STAR PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 1897 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1897 
 BY FRANCES MARGARET MILNE 
 
TO EDITH 
 
 WHOSE BEAUTIFUL AND HAPPY GIRLHOOD HAS EVER PROVED 
 
 HER TENDER SYMPATHY FOR OTHERS, THESE 
 
 SKETCHES ARE LOVINGLY INSCRIBED 
 
 AUNT FRANCES 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 HELIOTROPE 
 
 - 9 
 A MAY BASKET 
 
 2? 
 
 "HOME, SWEET HOME" 
 
 47 
 
 HER NEIGHBOR - . 
 
 57 
 
 BROKEN PROMISES 
 
 - 95 
 
HELIOTROPE. 
 
 " There my Heliotrope, like a saint, death-faint, 
 
 Feared that radiant azure to paint 
 
 Where glimmer the mansions of rest; 
 Yet, for all her pale doubting, did bear, unaware, 
 
 A heaven in her breast, 
 And we leaned and we longed in that heaven to share. 
 
 T was such a sad change to Bess from 
 the pretty cottage garden in lovely 
 Santa Rosa, with its clustering roses 
 and glowing masses of flowers, to the 
 four small rooms of this city "flat," with 
 its "upstairs yard" behind, where not a 
 foot of soil was found to offer welcome to 
 any of Mother Earth's sweet children. 
 
 To be sure, there was the exciting va- 
 riety of city streets and gay shop- windows, 
 and the novel experience of the great 
 school, any one of whose rooms seemed al- 
 most as large as the whole school-house in 
 her own town, and among whose innumer- 
 able throng of pupils she felt at first quite 
 lost and bewildered. But none of these 
 
10 HELIOTROPE 
 
 made up to Bess for the fresh, pure air and 
 open fields. She was a wise and thought- 
 ful little soul; and it was not long before 
 she began to realize that, unless on the rare 
 occasion when she went with mamma 
 " down town," there was not much glory or 
 bliss in a city life, when it meant living 
 ever so far out on one of the street car lines 
 (there were none but the slow, old-fash- 
 ioned horse-cars, then), and climbing that 
 long, dreary flight of stairs to the rooms 
 called home. The wide, shady streets and 
 the vine-embowered dwellings, and the 
 large, old-fashioned plaza with its careless 
 stretch of grass and clumps of live oaks, 
 would have far more than reconciled her to 
 the loss of an occasional glimpse through 
 those gorgeous thoroughfares of Market 
 and Kearny streets, where, on a Saturday 
 afternoon, she had sometimes watched the 
 richly-dressed ladies who thronged out of 
 the theatres at the matinee's close. 
 
 The one real delight Bess had known dur- 
 ing those first six months in San Francisco 
 had been the May-day festival at Wood- 
 ward's Gardens (the dear old gardens are 
 gone, now!) How she had enjoyed that day! 
 And truly it was a beautiful sight to see 
 
HELIOTROPE 11 
 
 the crowds of school-children, with their 
 mothers and teachers (who were all admit- 
 ted free), pouring into the spacious and 
 handsome grounds, parting and meeting in 
 mutual delight as they roamed from one ob- 
 ject of interest to another; now watching 
 the sea-lions' uncouth gambols, disporting 
 in the great basin; now walking through 
 the cool, rocky corridor of the aquarium, and 
 pausing in rapt delight before the silvery 
 trout flashing back and forth in their crys- 
 tal prison, or turning with shuddering 
 disgust from the cruel shark who seemed to 
 follow the gazer enviously with its evil eye. 
 But the loveliest picture of all a rapture 
 both for eye and ear was the extensive 
 aviary, enclosed with its light and beauti- 
 ful wire railing, within whose generous 
 confines the birds soared and sang uncon- 
 scious of captivity. Bess hardly knew 
 whether to linger longest here or in the con- 
 servatory, where every flower and shrub 
 seemed calling her to stay. She looked 
 with longing eyes at the foliage and bloom, 
 as the gardener carefully watered and ar- 
 ranged the stands of potted plants. 
 
 "Oh, mamma," she said as they sat down 
 to lunch in one of the arbors, "if I only had 
 
12 HELIOTROPE 
 
 >. 
 
 one little plant, even in the tiniest flower- 
 pot! It would have a little earth about it 
 it is so dismal never to see a bit of earth; 
 only boards, boards!" 
 
 Mamma laughed at her little girl's tragic 
 tone. "It will be still more dismal to have 
 a discontented daughter," she said, patting 
 her darling's cheek. "But I know my Bess 
 does not mean to be that; only since she 
 cannot have her own little garden now, 
 from which to gather any of her favorite 
 blossoms, she must try all the more to be a 
 fragrant little house-flower herself, and 
 make home sweet and glad and bright for 
 papa and mamma." 
 
 But I am sure mamma must have pon- 
 dered over that pitiful lament: "It is so 
 dismal never to see a bit of earth," as mam- 
 mas do ponder over the sayings and wishes 
 of their little ones, for one morning nearly 
 a month later, when Bess awoke, she al- 
 most thought she must be dreaming still, 
 or back again in dear Santa Rosa, for there 
 was the loveliest perfume floating through 
 the room; and, as she rubbed her sleepy 
 eyes, she saw on the stand beside her bed 
 the cunningest little flower-pot with a 
 plant of heliotrope in full bloom, seeming 
 
HELIOTROPE 13 
 
 to waft her "good-morning" from every 
 scented petal. 
 
 I can tell you Bess was up and dressed 
 very quickly that morning; and what a 
 happy little girl it was that came into the 
 kitchen where mamma was laying the table 
 for breakfast! 
 
 "Oh, what a beauty, mamma!" she cried, 
 setting her treasure very carefully on the 
 broad sill of the open window. And then 
 two plump arms were thrown around mam- 
 ma's neck, and two sweet kisses gave her 
 loving thanks. 
 
 But it would not do to deny one of Cali- 
 fornia's floral children the air and sun of 
 heaven; a poor prisoned house-plant would 
 have had few charms for Bess. "It would 
 seem like a caged bird," she said. And so 
 papa made a little shelf just outside the 
 kitchen door, low enough for Bess to reach 
 but yet a trifle higher than the close 
 wooden railing which enclosed that small 
 upstairs yard which Bess had described so 
 opprobriously as "all boards." 
 
 No one but mamma could have under- 
 stood fully the intense pleasure it was to 
 Bess to gently stir the earth around the 
 tender roots of her beloved plant; to watch 
 
14 HELIOTROPE 
 
 its healthy growth, and rejoice in the deep- 
 ening green of the leaf and delicate laven- 
 der tint of the blossom. 
 
 Papa must have one in his button-hole 
 every morning, and mamma's dress was not 
 complete without a tiny spray fastened in 
 the modest lace fichu. Anything to equal 
 the pride and satisfaction of Bess in be- 
 holding these adornments it were difficult 
 to imagine. 
 
 "Poor child," mamma said to herself, 
 between a smile and a sigh, "it does seem 
 cruel not to gratify such an innocent natu- 
 ral longing." 
 
 And she and papa had begun to hold 
 secret counsel whether it were not possible 
 to compass a miniature garden by trans- 
 forming a certain long empty box into that 
 "thing of beauty"; papa thought he could 
 get the earth to fill it from one of the new 
 parks; when suddenly, one morning, this 
 little idyl of happiness centered in a soli- 
 tary flower-pot was changed to woeful tra- 
 gedy. 
 
HELIOTROPE 15 
 
 PART II. 
 
 Out of her first sound sleep that July 
 night, Bess had wakened with a smother- 
 ing sense of the changed, dry atmosphere 
 that betokened the coming of a dreaded 
 north wind the sirocco of California. 
 
 "Oh, my poor heliotrope," was her first 
 thought, as she heard the gale rising; "it 
 will be all withered. If I had only brought 
 it in!" 
 
 She got up softly and looked out into the 
 hall. It was quite dark only for a faint 
 glimmer from mamma's night lamp that 
 showed through a half-open door. But Bess 
 knew the way so well she felt sure she 
 could reach the kitchen without making 
 any noise, and rescue her treasure from its 
 peril. Her little bare feet stole along the 
 passage, and with eager anxiety she found 
 her hand at last upon the handle of the 
 outer door. Lightly slipping the bolt, she 
 threw it open and reached out on tiptoe to 
 grasp her precious flower-pot but the 
 shelf was empty. 
 
 "The wind has knocked it off," she 
 
16 HELIOTROPE 
 
 thought, with the first thrill of disappoint- 
 ment. "Oh, it will be all broken!" 
 
 She stepped quite outside the door now, 
 her little white figure showing plainly in 
 the dim light. There was no moon, but the 
 stars were shining brilliantly in a sky of 
 crystalline blue from which that searching 
 wind had swept every trace of cloud. Bess 
 could see the floor of the yard plainly 
 enough, but just close to the house it lay in 
 shadow; and down she went on her knees, 
 feeling around with groping little hands 
 that trembled with chill and grief; but not 
 an atom of her vanished heliotrope could 
 she find. A narrow street ran along that 
 side of the house a blind alley giving ac- 
 cess to the back of both upper and lower 
 floors of the houses on either side. "Could 
 the wind have blown it clear over?" was 
 her next horrified thought. "No, it couldn't; 
 yes, it could too; for the shelf is just a little 
 higher than the railing. If I had only 
 asked papa to put it lower!" 
 
 But peer as she might into the depths be- 
 low, it was not possible to fathom its se- 
 crets; and just then she heard papa's voice 
 saying: 
 
 "Where in the world does this wind come 
 
HELIOTROPE 17 
 
 from? I declare the kitchen door must be 
 open !" 
 
 And she flew back to close it, stopping 
 at mamma's door to call out: 
 
 "It is only me, papa; oh, mamma, my 
 heliotrope is gone!" 
 
 Her voice was all broken and sobbing 
 with cold and distress. 
 
 "Bessie," said mamma, sitting up to 
 catch a sight of her, "is it possible you have 
 been standing out there in your night 
 dress? You will get your death of cold, 
 child. Now, run right back to bed and 
 cover up warm." 
 
 "Yes, mamma," Bess answered with shiv- 
 ering obedience; and then, still fain to be 
 comforted, "Do you think it is lost, 
 mamma?" 
 
 "No, no, dear; I guess not. We'll find 
 it in the morning. Kun along now, and go 
 to sleep." 
 
 And Bess cuddled down forlornly in her 
 little nest, and sobbed herself into the land 
 of dreams. 
 
 Such curious dreams! She thought she 
 was walking along the streets of a beauti- 
 ful city, but it was not a bit like this "dusty 
 and gusty" city of San Francisco; and it 
 
18 HELIOTROPE 
 
 was not either like her dear Santa Kosa. 
 There were beautiful wide lawns on either 
 hand where little children played and sang 
 and gathered flowers that shone all over 
 the rich, soft grass, like jewels set in emer- 
 ald; and there were the stateliest buildings, 
 through whose doors people were con- 
 stantly coming and going, and everybody 
 seemed busy without hurry; and when you 
 heard their voices speaking to each other 
 it was like music, for indeed it was the mu- 
 sic of love. And there was the loveliest rip- 
 ple of water from sparkling streams that 
 ran like clear crystal over their shining 
 beds; and the trees were full of blossoms 
 and fruit. 
 
 A strange sort of trembling seized the 
 heart of our poor little Bess to find herself 
 in such a heavenly place, when, all at once, 
 her eyes caught sight of what seemed at 
 first to be her very own heliotrope. Yes, 
 that was surely the same little flower-pot 
 with that three-cornered nick in the side 
 she could remember so well; and there 
 were the very number of stems she counted 
 yesterday. But how did it come to be 
 placed in the window of that beautiful 
 mansion? 
 
HELIOTROPE 1* 
 
 And then one of the happy people of the 
 place (they made Bess think of Bunyan's 
 "shining ones," there was such a glory of 
 love and peace all about them) came to the 
 window, leading a pale girl, and seated her 
 on a soft couch of repose. "For her toil is 
 over now," Bess heard sweet voices say, 
 "and it is our Brother's will that she should 
 rest and be comforted." 
 
 And Bess noticed that the girPs face had 
 a strange new look of dawning joy, and 
 that her eyes had the luster of "clear 
 shining after rain"; and she raised her 
 thin hand, and touched the heliotrope with 
 loving fingers, and at that touch the simple 
 little flower burst forth into such bloom as 
 it had never known on earth, and the little 
 clay flower-pot changed and glowed until it 
 shone like clear gold. 
 
 Bess cried aloud in her wonder and de- 
 light, and with the cry she woke; but, half- 
 dreaming still, she cried and cried again, 
 "Oh, let me stay there too!" 
 
 And then, out of the distance, faint and 
 far, those heavenly voices seemed to an- 
 swer, "Not yet, little sister; not yet. But 
 thou shalt come when our Lord calls, for of 
 such is His Kingdom." 
 
20 HELIOTROPE 
 
 And then like the fuller swell of some re- 
 joicing anthem, came the words, "Foras- 
 much as ye did it to the least of these, ye 
 did it unto Me." 
 
 And Bess sat up in her little bed, dazed 
 and awe-struck, while the bright morning 
 sunshine streamed through the curtains 
 and fell upon her Testament lying open on 
 the table where mamma had left it the eve- 
 ning before, after reading their good-night 
 verse. Bess looked instinctively at the 
 page, and read there again the verse of her 
 dream. 
 
 It was more than a week after, and Bess 
 was almost beginning to forget, in the 
 throng of her busy little life, that beauti- 
 ful vision of her slumber when, one after- 
 noon returning from school, she happened, 
 for some reason, to go into the house by the 
 back way; and as she passed along that 
 narrow, blind alley, she chanced to look 
 across to the other side, and there, on the 
 window sill, stood a flower-pot with a plant 
 in full bloom, the sight of which made her 
 little heart stand still. 
 
 Yes, it could be no other; the very air car- 
 ried the tidings to her in that sweet, caress- 
 ing perfume; it was it surely was her 
 
HELIOTROPE 21 
 
 own lost heliotrope! There was the three- 
 cornered nick in the edge of the pot, that 
 she remembered so well; there was the let- 
 ter "B" she had tried to carve upon it, as 
 sign of ownership; and, as to her darling 
 flower itself, Bess felt she could have sworn 
 to every leaf and blossom. 
 
 The window was open, for it was a sultry 
 day, and within the room a girl of perhaps 
 eighteen had wheeled her sewing-machine 
 close up to it, and sat with bowed head, so 
 absorbed in her task that she did not notice 
 Bess standing in rooted astonishment 
 across the way. But after the first sur- 
 prised moment, as Bess started forward 
 with a sudden natural impulse of claiming 
 her own, she raised her eyes, with the sense 
 of another presence, and stayed her foot 
 for an instant on the treadle; and in that 
 instant Bess saw, with a leaping heart- 
 thrill, the worn, mortal face of the pale, 
 transfigured girl who had glorified her 
 dream. 
 
 "Would you like a flower?" the sewing- 
 girl asked, mistaking Bess's silence as she 
 paused beside the window for bashful ad- 
 miration. 
 
 She put out her hand to break off a spray, 
 
22 HELIOTROPE 
 
 and the thin face lit up with a smile of won- 
 drous sweetness. Once again her dream 
 took living form to Bess; she almost looked 
 to see the plant bloom with celestial blos- 
 som as those frail fingers touched it, and 
 that earthen vase to glow with golden 
 light. 
 
 "Isn't it lovely?" the girl went on; "I put 
 it on the stand beside poor father's bed 
 sometimes," pointing to a curtained corner 
 of the room. "Poor father! he is blind and 
 cannot see it, but he loves to touch the 
 leaves and smell the flowers, and it helps 
 him to forget the pain." 
 
 "Indeed, it is beautiful," stammered 
 Bess; she had no longer any thought that it 
 was hers. 
 
 "Oh, mamma," she said that evening, 
 sobbing out her little tale in those loving 
 arms, "it seemed as if it had been given to 
 her without me; only I could have cried for 
 joy that it was hers." 
 
 "But the most curious thing of all," the 
 girl added, "is how I came to have it. It 
 doesn't really belong to me at all. The 
 morning after that high wind, a week ago, 
 I found it in a corner of our yard, not much 
 the worse for its journey, only a stem or 
 
HELIOTROPE 23 
 
 two broken; and I put it in a sheltered 
 place against the wall, and I watered and 
 straightened it until now it is as good as 
 new. And to-day I thought how I had no 
 real right to keep it, and so I set it here, 
 thinking the owner might happen to pass. 
 But it will seem very lonesome to father 
 and me when it is gone." 
 
 "Oh, she could never take it now," Bess 
 said hastily. "I I I mean whoever it 
 belongs to they could not have the heart. 
 And see how it grows with you just as if 
 it loved you!" 
 
 "I am sure that I love it, anyway," was 
 the answer. She handed Bess the little 
 spray of green and lavender; and then her 
 tireless foot pressed the treadle again, 
 eager to regain lost time, and Bess felt she 
 could interrupt her no longer. 
 
 But her young thoughtful eyes had no- 
 ticed many things during that brief talk. 
 It was leather, not cloth, that was passing 
 with steady persistence under the firm foot 
 of that machine; but how different the 
 heavy, monotonous sound of the treadle 
 was to the noiseless swiftness of mamma's 
 "Domestic." What a poor, poor room it 
 was, too how bare of any real comfort 
 
24 HELIOTROPE 
 
 of which she had caught a glimpse! Bess 
 had been wont to think their own home 
 sometimes bare enough; but this was pov- 
 erty itself. And why did that girl draw 
 her breath with that gasping sigh? Why 
 did she sometimes press her hand against 
 her side? Mamma would know; she would 
 help her to get well. 
 
 Indeed, it was not long before mamma 
 was a trusted friend across the way; and 
 what tender, willing hearts could compass 
 out of narrow means to soothe those dark- 
 ening days was done. For Bess saw that 
 mamma's face grew sadder daily, as she 
 watched the window across the way, or re- 
 turned from the visit there, snatched from 
 her own busy cares; and then, at last, the 
 ceaseless hum of that sewing-machine was 
 silenced, never to sound again; and the 
 door opened for the weary form of the old 
 man to pass to death's merciful rest. 
 While within, on her scanty bed, the faith- 
 ful daughter lay down at last, her work 
 completed, content that God had strength- 
 ened her to its end. 
 
 And days of suffering and days of peace 
 succeeded, until that morning when Bess 
 stood, with quivering lips, beside her 
 
HELIOTROPE 25 
 
 mother, with a sacred grief and joy too 
 deep for tears or wailing, and looked upon 
 the quiet face and closed eyes, beside whose 
 deep repose the heliotrope still bloomed. 
 
 "She has gone home," mamma said 
 softly, smoothing the fair hair; and again 
 Bess seemed to hear the words: 
 
 "For her toil is over; and it is our Broth- 
 er's will that she should rest and be com- 
 forted." 
 
A MAY BASKET. 
 
 " Who ever strove 
 To show her merit, that did mies her love?" 1 
 
 ' ' The flowers in silence seemed to breathe 
 Such thoughts as language could not fall.' 
 
 HEKE wais a great stillness in the 
 school-room that morning, and a look 
 of half-nervous expectation on every 
 face a look of sympathy and kindness, 
 certainly, but yet not of delight. 
 
 Miss Langton, the teacher, had been seri- 
 ously ill for over two months, and this was 
 the first day since her recovery that she was 
 to take charge of her pupils again. All the 
 girls, big and little, were tenderly glad- 
 hearted to know that she was well; but 
 they felt, with a secret pang, how happy 
 those two months had been, with what un- 
 tired feet they had climbed the hill of 
 knowledge under a guidance they loved. 
 Their teacher's place, during that interval 
 of illness, had been supplied by Miss Mor- 
 
28 A MAT BASKET 
 
 ton, who had charge of the class-room 
 where the younger scholars of the upper 
 rooms recited; they had all been familiar, 
 in their turn, with her firm and gentle rule; 
 even the triumph of advance and success 
 had not hindered the sense of regret with 
 which they quitted her for Miss Langton's 
 'higher grade. Isabel Morton was cer- 
 tainly one of those rare and gifted teachers 
 who, like poets, are born, not made; she 
 had the subtle faculty of imparting 
 knowledge as if she herself were gain- 
 ing it along with you; and it was 
 a common tribute to her worth for 
 one of the . girls to say, "I never could 
 understand that Rule of Three till Miss 
 Morton taught me," or "I always blundered 
 in my parsing till I joined Miss Morton's 
 grammar class." 
 
 The sense of comradeship blended thus 
 with respect for authority and superior 
 learning; and a genuine affection in some 
 instances, almost a passionate regard of 
 reverence and love bound these young 
 hearts to her own. Her wise and loving 
 rule knew no favoritism, and caused no 
 jealousy; and if, as was doubtless the case, 
 there were one or two among her pupils 
 
A MAY BASKET 29 
 
 peculiarly endeared to her by some especial 
 sweetness of disposition and readiness of 
 thought, the duller, or less amiable, never 
 realized the difference by any invidious dis- 
 tinction of preferment, but were drawn on> 
 insensibly, to wish and strive for truer ex- 
 cellence themselves. 
 
 There were legends afloat, too, in this* 
 little world, of tender, humble ministries 
 among the poor and needy, of kindness be- 
 stow r ed out of her narrow means, that sur- 
 rounded the fair, bright face of the young 
 teacher with something of the halo of a 
 saint; it had been whispered among the 
 girls that Miss Langton's salary had gone 
 on without abatement during this tedious 
 illness, through the generous contrivance 
 of her associate, who had managed, at the 
 same time, to secure for one of the elder 
 girls a long-coveted opportunity to test her 
 ability in teaching by resigning to her 
 care her own class-room, while she took 
 charge of the larger and more responsible 
 department of the absent lady principal, 
 with no addition to her own small monthly 
 payment glad to think that the larger 
 sum would help to lighten the burden and 
 expense of that heavy illness, and that the 
 
30 'A MAT BASKET 
 
 weary hours of convalescence would not be 
 shadowed by any fear of losing position 
 and income. And, indeed, those two 
 months, overflowing with work and anxiety 
 as they had been, had yet proved very 
 happy ones to her, as well as to her "girls" ; 
 that large, cheerful school-room had never 
 witnessed sunnier hours than these, while 
 February snows and March winds had 
 tried in vain for entrance. But now the old 
 order must return ; and Miss Morton's gen- 
 uine happiness, and look of sweet content, 
 as she entered that April morning, with 
 their long-absent teacher leaning on her 
 arm, roused the girls to almost a sudden 
 sense of shame for their indulged regret. 
 And, indeed, the pale, thin face which 
 looked at them with wistful eyes, over the 
 official desk, appealed to their young sym- 
 pathy with unresisted pathos; many an old 
 score of fancied petulance and injustice 
 was wiped out at the sight, and softened 
 feeling resolved that no thoughtless annoy- 
 ance should try the strength of that wasted 
 frame. 
 
 For, truth to tell, Maria Langton was 
 emphatically a teacher made, not born. 
 Thrust by untoward fate into a calling for 
 
A MAY BASKET 31 
 
 which, even in her youth, she felt no glow 
 of enthusiasm, she had struggled bravely 
 on, through infirmities of temper and of 
 will, yet with a conscientious endeavor to 
 fulfill her trust, until middle life still found 
 her straining at the oar of a vocation which 
 had indeed become a duty, and a habit 
 strong as second nature, but which had 
 never been her pleasure or her choice. 
 
 As she glanced over the room this morn- 
 ing, in answer to the murmured greeting 
 of her pupils, her eyes looked dull and sad; 
 she pined for love, she felt the chill 
 of its absence, yet knew not how to gain 
 the coveted blessing. A cruel sense of 
 contrast was tormenting her soul; she had 
 watched, with almost jealous pain, many a 
 time and oft, how those clear eyes would 
 kindle and those soft cheeks flush as Isa- 
 bel .Morton called her class; she was imag- 
 ining, now, the fervor of rejoicing with 
 which that beloved presence would have 
 been welcomed back. How different from 
 the decorous, timid, half-whispered con- 
 gratulations which had met herself. 
 
 The foolish, unreasonable pain at her 
 heart found utterance in words as foolish; 
 and yet I know not, judged by results, whe- 
 ther to call them foolish or wise. 
 
32 A MAY BASKET 
 
 "I know very well, girls," she said at 
 the close of the morning session, "that you 
 are all sorry to lose Miss Morton and have 
 me back instead, but we have no choice in 
 the matter ourselves, so you must make the 
 best of it as well as I." 
 
 There was a startled pause in the gather- 
 ing together of books preparatory to dis- 
 missal; some eyes looked down abashed, 
 with a confused sense of blame; some were 
 raised in frank surprise; while not a few ex- 
 changed glances of astonishment and ques- 
 tion; but no reply was possible, and in a 
 few moments the usual orderly procession 
 filed out of the room. 
 
 Only one girl, May Manning, lingered be- 
 hind. She had a little message to deliver, 
 and, as Miss Langton rose to put on her 
 cloak, she came up to the platform and said 
 with modest sweetness: 
 
 "Mamma told me to give you her love, 
 Miss Langton, and to say how happy she is 
 to know of your recovery. I am very glad, 
 too; it seems so natural to have our own 
 teacher back." 
 
 Maria's lips trembled. She was not so 
 strong as before her illness, and the morn- 
 ing had been one of suppressed agitation to 
 
A MAT BASKET 33 
 
 her. She murmured some fitting answer 
 to Mrs. Manning's kind remembrance, "and 
 you too, my dear, thanks for your kind wel- 
 come." She held out her hand, bending to- 
 wards the girl, who stood a step below her. 
 May colored as she took it in her own warm 
 clasp, and, yielding to a sudden impulse, 
 raised her head and softly kissed her teach- 
 er's cheek, then with shy swiftness hurried 
 away. 
 
 Poor Misis Langton! Her lip trembled 
 still more piteously, and a few hot tears 
 followed her smothered sob. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 There was no lack of comment and dis- 
 cussion outside. 
 
 "What a strange thing for Miss Langton 
 to say!" cried Ada Leigh. "But she always 
 was nervous and fidgety. I thought a pity 
 of her, too; she looks so ill yet." 
 
 "I didn't," replied a bolder spirit Emma 
 Coxe. "I think it was very unjust as well 
 
34 A MAT BASKET 
 
 as ridiculous. How are we to blame, if we 
 do love Miss Morton best? People must be 
 lovable, if they are to be loved. As long 
 as we obey her rules and learn our lessons, 
 I don't see what business it is of hers how 
 we feel towards her." 
 
 "I think it was very absurd, too; and yet 
 it made me feel very uncomfortable, as if I 
 had been unkind and hard-hearted," added 
 Rebecca Stone. 
 
 "It was so very undignified," said Ger- 
 trude Daun. "A teacher who can forget 
 herself so is unfit for her place. If Miss 
 Langton would just take notice how calm 
 and impartial Miss Morton is, as well as 
 so affectionate and kind, she could discover 
 the secret of our preference. But she is so 
 capricious and fretful never two days 
 alike. I wish I was out of it altogether, 
 and into the High School." 
 
 "Oh, Gertie dear, that is surely an exag- 
 geration," exclaimed May Manning, whose 
 delayed footsteps had just caught up with 
 the group. "You know Miss Langton never 
 does stint praise when she thinks it is de- 
 served; and she is so proud of us when we 
 do well. Don't you remember that last 
 visit of the Directors? how she made you 
 
A MAT BASKET 35 
 
 read over that beautiful composition you 
 wrote, and had Ada bring out her map, and 
 Emma her copy book? She had something 
 kind to say to all of us, I think, after they 
 had gone, and then thanked us so warmly 
 for the good order we kept while they were 
 there." 
 
 "But you know she is capricious, and 
 very cross, too, sometimes," Gertie inter- 
 posed, but with a somewhat mollified tone 
 of voice; indeed, the soft answer that turn- 
 eth away wrath was beginning to have its 
 effect all round. 
 
 "Oh, well, may be we'll be cross too af- 
 ter a while, those of us who get to be teach- 
 ers," laughed May. "If I had to teach any 
 one so stupid as I am sometimes, I know 
 I should be." 
 
 "Well, May Manning, when you get 
 cross, we may all be excused," the girls 
 cried in chorus, for May's sweetness of tem- 
 per was proverbial. 
 
 "We can't wait now," May continued, as 
 they reached the street corner where their 
 paths parted; "but I have been thinking of 
 something all morning only it's a secret. 
 Wait for me after 'school, girls; I want to 
 tell you about it." 
 
36 A MAT BASKET 
 
 You may be sure the prospect of shar- 
 ing a secret called together an eager con- 
 clave as soon as school was over, and their 
 steps were as slow as their tones were ani- 
 mated, as they paced homeward discussing 
 May's proposal. 
 
 "To tell the truth, girls," she began, "I 
 think we are a little to blame about Miss 
 Langton. It isn't that we ought to love 
 Miss Morton less, but we might try to love 
 Miss Langton a little more. Just think, if 
 we were only loved, all of us, in proportion 
 to our goodness, where would we be? And 
 I suppose she is a little cross some times, 
 and can't make you feel so one with her as 
 Miss Morton does, yet what a good faithful 
 teacher she has been all these years so 
 conscientious and anxious for our improve- 
 ment. I went to school before papa moved 
 here, where the teacher never seemed to 
 care whether we knew our lessons or not; 
 but then she was very good-natured. For 
 my part, I would rather be scolded some- 
 times than neglected and have my time 
 wasted like that." 
 
 "Yes, that is true," Emma assented, with 
 murmuring concurrence from the others. 
 
 "I have often heard mamma say," ob- 
 
A MAY BASKET 37 
 
 served Ada, "what a good daughter and sis- 
 ter Miss Langton is; and how, since she was 
 only fifteen, she has been the main depend- 
 ence of her widowed mother, and helped 
 to provide for all the family." 
 
 "And she showed wonderful self-denial, 
 too," said Rebecca. "Just look how fond 
 she is of books and music and lectures, and 
 yet she hardly ever enjoys them; even her 
 drawing, that she is so clever at, she has 
 not pursued, as she must have longed to do, 
 because she wanted to pay for her little sis- 
 ter's lessons with that Mr. B , and he said 
 little Ruth had real genius." 
 
 "You see," May resumed, "I am afraid 
 we have thought too completely of just 
 those little faults in her that were unpleas- 
 ant to ourselves, and that, may be, we 
 gave some cause for, too. And so. we 
 missed seeing really fine and noble things 
 in her character that we must admire and 
 love, too, if we would. And I tell you, 
 girls, I often think how true it is what 
 Auntie says, that when we once leave our- 
 selves open to love for any one, and part 
 with prejudice, it is wonderful what good 
 we can see in them, and how the faults 
 dwindle and dwindle, and how easy we find 
 
38 A MAY BASKET 
 
 it to make excuses for those that remain. 
 That is what Auntie says, and it seems 
 true, doesn't it?" 
 
 "It condemns us pretty effectually, if it 
 is," said Gertrude, who never shirked the 
 legitimate conclusion of an argument, even 
 when it told against herself. "I don't think 
 any of us have laid ourselves very open to 
 love Miss Langton, unless you, May, who 
 can always see something good in every 
 one." 
 
 "Oh, indeed, I have been in fault, too," 
 said May, with genuine sweet humility. 
 "You remember our lesson last Sunday, 
 about love being the fulfilling of the law? 
 Then it must be worse to fail in it than in 
 anything else. Somehow that came into 
 my mind when Miss Langton was speaking. 
 No matter how obedient or studious we 
 were, we had in a sort of way set ourselves 
 against loving her. And, after all, girls, 
 even if it was foolish for her to speak so, 
 wasn't it a great compliment, too a sort 
 of appeal for our love? It wasn't temper 
 made her say that, it seems to me, but a 
 kind of lonely tender-heartedness." 
 
 "Well, May, you can make out the best 
 case for anybody of any one I ever heard," 
 
A MAY BASKET 39 
 
 said Emma. "But come, tell us your secret, 
 for we must soon hurry home. Is it some 
 penance for our sins?" 
 
 "Oh, no; not exactly," said May, coloring 
 and laughing; "or if it is, I must do pen- 
 ance along with you. I am just as guilty, 
 every bit. I do seem to preach dreadfully, 
 girls, don't I? I wonder you don't all get 
 tired of me it's a good deal worse to 
 preach than to be cross some times. So, 
 now for the secret: You know next Tues- 
 day is the first of May, and I thought we 
 never could have a lovelier chance to show 
 Miss Langton that we really did care more 
 than she thought to have her back again. 
 Suppose we all joined our purses together 
 and made her a little present a May bas- 
 ket would be the very thing. One of us 
 could go real early and hang it upon the 
 school-room door handle, so she would find 
 it when she first came in. Let's every one 
 put in a little nosegay, even if it was only a 
 few violets, with our name to it; and let's 
 choose a real pretty basket, one she would 
 always like to use." 
 
 "That is just beautiful," they all declared 
 in chorus. "What a sweet girl you are! It 
 would be a May basket in more ways than 
 
40 A MAT BASKET 
 
 "We must give all the girls a chance to 
 join; the more the merrier," cried Ada. 
 "Only, it is a Secret Society, mind. And I 
 wish we could hide some pretty little keep- 
 sake that would not fade, under the flow- 
 ers." 
 
 "I saw the sweetest little blue and gold 
 copy of Tennyson's 'May Queen' down town 
 this morning; it wasn't very dear either 
 only two dollars." This suggestion came 
 from Gertrude. 
 
 "Oh, that would be the very thing," said 
 May, delightedly. "To-morrow's Thursday; 
 we can speak about it among the other 
 girls at recess; and then, the next day, we 
 can bring all our dollars and cents, and 
 elect two or three girls to go on Saturday 
 and choose the basket and book ; every one 
 must get their flowers by themselves; and 
 Monday evening you can all come round 
 to Auntie's, and bring your flowers, and she 
 will help us arrange them she does such 
 things so beautifully; and she will give us 
 all a nice tea-party, too, I know. So be 
 sure, every one, and ask their mother's 
 leave in time." 
 
 "Oh, you may be sure of that," was the 
 merry response. "We know what a lovely 
 
A MAT BASKET 41 
 
 time there is when Aunt Grace asks us to 
 spend an evening." 
 
 "What dear, good girls you are," said 
 May, "to be so pleased with my plan; but 
 I do think it will be just lovely." 
 
 "Yes, indeed, it will," Gertrude answered 
 for the rest. "And Miss Morton will be 
 pleased, too; she just loves to see people 
 happy. And it's we that ought to thank 
 you, May, for making us all better." 
 
 And then there were hurried adieus, for 
 the afternoon was growing late; and they 
 all sped home, full of delightful impor- 
 tance. 
 
 PART III. 
 
 It was wonderful what a softened at- 
 mosphere seemed to pervade that school- 
 room during those intervening days. 
 Their own altered frame of mind 
 and purpose had invested their teacher 
 with a novel and tender interest to 
 the girls. It has been said that any crea- 
 
42 A MAY BASKET 
 
 ture certainly any human creature 
 whom we help becomes straightway more 
 or less dear to us; and so their meditated 
 kindness awoke an answering throb of gen- 
 tleness and affection, and tolerance for her 
 whims, that all Miss Langton's really 
 faithful service might have failed to win. 
 The good seed of May's little lecture had 
 not dropped on stony ground; more than 
 one of he* listeners pondered over it si- 
 lently, seeing it illumined by the beauty 
 and sweetness of her own girlish example; 
 and could look back gratefully afterwards 
 to her influence as a help to purer and 
 nobler purpose both in thought and action. 
 Meanwhile, the wished-for May Day 
 dawned at last a veritable morn of May; 
 even crowded city streets could not shut 
 out the radiant blue of the sky, or the fresh, 
 sweet breeze that would find its way, or the 
 song of a stray bird. Maria Langton 
 paused a moment, as she reached the school 
 house entrance, to drink in once again the 
 elixir of the air and rejoice in the glorious 
 sunshine. The tame monotony of her life 
 had not yet dulled her delight in Nature's 
 loveliness; and her heart, this morning, 
 was full of remembered spring-times, when 
 
A MAY BASKET _ 43 
 
 her happy, childish feet had lost them- 
 selves in daisy-sprinkled fields, and the vi- 
 olets and roses had made sweet the air 
 around that early home. Even now, the 
 perfumed breath of the woodlands seemed 
 to visit her. She ascended the stairs so ab- 
 sorbed in thought that she did not notice, 
 till she was close upon it, the blossom- 
 laden basket, lightly covered by tissue- 
 paper, which hung upon the handle of the 
 door. 
 
 What could it mean? 
 
 She lifted it carefully and carried it into 
 the empty school-room, her bewilderment 
 giving place to an emotion too deep for ex- 
 pression as she removed the covering and 
 saw, lying among that glowing, fragrant 
 cluster of bouquets, this simple little card : 
 
 "The message of the May : to Miss Lang- 
 ton, from her loving pupils, in token of 
 their joy at her recovery." 
 
 Her heart beat with an almost painful 
 pressure; the tears rose welling to her eyes; 
 she touched the flowers with reverent ca- 
 ressing fingers. 
 
 "And I doubted their love," she mur- 
 mured. "I was jealous, and repined, and 
 longed for another lot to be mine. O Lord,. 
 
44 A MAT BASKET 
 
 forgive my waywardness make me more 
 like the least of these thy little ones." 
 
 The great bell was clanging out its sum- 
 mons now; there were many feet echoing on 
 the stairs; and girls, in shy clusters, stole 
 quickly and silently into the room. Miss 
 Langton sat behind her desk, with the bas- 
 ket on a small stand placed near her. Her 
 face was very pale; but the girls thought 
 they had never known what beautiful, soft, 
 shining eyes she had until that moment. ' 
 
 "My dear, dear girls," she said, at last 
 and her voice had in it a new and exquisite 
 thrill of happiness "how can I thank you? 
 I feel as if I had never deserved such sweet 
 remembrance from you; but, indeed, you 
 have made this one of the dearest days of 
 my life. Will you each give me a kiss to 
 complete it, and make me sure I am not 
 dreaming?" 
 
 You may be certain the girls crowded 
 round her and gave the caress with right 
 good will. There was no distance between 
 them now never any more; whatever frail- 
 ties of human intercourse might ruffle their 
 companionship, the chill of reserve and dis- 
 like had melted away in the sunshine of 
 heaven. 
 
A MAT BASKET 45 
 
 And was it not a curious and beautiful 
 coincidence that when Miss Langton 
 opened the New Testament to read the cus- 
 tomary chapter for the day, before recita- 
 tion began, that chapter should conclude 
 with these immortal words: 
 
 "And now abideth Faith, Hope, Love, 
 these three; but the greatest of these is 
 Love." 
 
 And I ought to tell you, may be, that it 
 was not until Miss Langton had her basket 
 safe at home, and was placing the last of 
 her floral darlings in its vase of cool water, 
 that she found that dainty little book of 
 blue and gold, which held the story of the 
 poet's May Queen. 
 
HOME, SWEET HOME." 
 
 'As the bird to its sheltering nest 
 
 When the storm on the hills is abroad, 
 
 So her spirit hath flown from this world of unrest, 
 To repose on the bosom of God." 
 
 ;WAS a passenger on the Pacific Coast 
 steamship, Orizaba, from Port Harford 
 
 ,to San Pedro, the port of Los Angeles. 
 The vessel was crowded with tourists 
 from San Francisco, and every state-room 
 was full; so that those going on board, as I 
 did, at an intermediate port, were fain to be 
 content with sitting-room in the salon. The 
 prospect of a whole day and night to be 
 spent thus was rather appalling to one who 
 knew from experience what it was to fall 
 victim to all the horrors of sea-sickness; 
 but, by great good fortune, I found refuge 
 on one end of a lounge, whose only occu- 
 pant for the moment was a kind-hearted lit- 
 
48 "HOME, SWEET HOME" 
 
 tie German woman; who, guessing from my 
 forlorn aspect all the misery of dizziness 
 and nausea, gathered herself and her be- 
 longings into the smallest possible com- 
 pass, and invited me, in broken English 
 and hospitable gestures, to lie down. Oh, 
 the relief to drooping head and trembling 
 limbs! I knew as long as I could shelter 
 on that pillow I might bid defiance to my 
 enemy; and lying there, after all, was 
 really to be preferred to a berth in an iso- 
 lated state-room, where one's only compan- 
 ions would be miserable fellow-sufferers. 
 But here, in the cheerful salon, I could 
 watch people coming and going, catch 
 snatches of conversation, and amuse myself 
 by trying to analyze the characters of 
 those around me. 
 
 When the early autumn twilight dark- 
 ened into sudden night, there was a general 
 gathering in of all the promenaders from 
 the decks, and talk and laughter filled the 
 room. There was every variety of traveler 
 from which to choose. Here was a rich 
 lady from Denver, costly jewels in her ears 
 and at her throat and sparkling on her 
 white hand a perfect sample of vain and 
 foolish and vulgar display. Here was a 
 
"HOME, SWEET HOME" 49 
 
 tired mother with her three or four little 
 ones cross and sleepy, fain to slumber on 
 the carpet at her feet; it was no pleasure 
 trip to her, poor soul, but a wearisome 
 "moving" from one town to another. Here 
 was a school teacher coming back from 
 her summer vacation, sunburned and 
 happy. And in that far corner, hidden be- 
 hind her long veil, sat a young widow with 
 her baby girl asleep on her lap. Her hus- 
 band had died a month ago, in the asylum 
 for the insane at Napa driven there by an 
 overwhelming sense of pecuniary failure, 
 caused by the dry season of the year before, 
 which starved to death the flock of sheep on 
 his Santa Barbara ranch. Now his wife 
 and little daughter were returning to the 
 ever open shelter of a father's and mother's 
 home. There were types enough to furn- 
 ish study for an idle observer through all 
 the slowly passing hours. 
 
 The Denver lady atoned for her flaunting 
 display of wealth by singing, delightfully, 
 old ballads, when a young girl opened the 
 piano and played the accompaniments. A 
 lively discussion between the school- 
 teacher and a visitor from the East, as to 
 California's merits, followed, in which 
 
50 "HOME, SWEET HOME" 
 
 others soon joined. Two capitalists ar- 
 gued questions of finance; and two clergy- 
 men, creeds and education. So the night 
 wore away, till those who had state-rooms 
 withdrew; and the rest, disposed on chairs 
 and lounges, and even on the floor, dropped 
 into silence and sleep. 
 
 With the early morning, every one was 
 on deck, ready for transfer to the "lighter" 
 which was to bring us to the wharf. The 
 sun was extremely hot, not a ripple on the 
 glassy water, not a breath of wind; but the 
 sea-sick sufferers found little respite from 
 their misery in the heavy, oily odor of the 
 "lighter's" machinery, and in the clouds of 
 tobacco smoke which blew all about them 
 from pipe and cigar as the passengers 
 crowded together for an intermediate hour 
 on the dirty, baggage-laden deck. For 
 "first-class" travelers, the gentlemen of the 
 party seemed to me singularly wanting in 
 good manners and good feeling. I was 
 growing ill almost to faintness by a cigar 
 just behind me, when I caught sight of a 
 lovely face a few feet distant. Its owner had 
 been invisible the evening before, no doubt 
 "enjoying the seclusion which a cabin 
 grants"; and I gazed at her with a sudden 
 
"HOME, SWEET HOME" 51 
 
 interest and regret that there had been no 
 chance for an acquaintance between us. 
 Her large hazel eyes were full of liquid light, 
 of love, and hope, and glad impatience; her 
 beautiful red lips wore a smile of refined 
 sweetness; her slight, graceful person was 
 plainly clad in a neat traveling ulster; and 
 her rich brown hair coiled smoothly be- 
 neath her hat. She looked the one ideal 
 figure among that motley gathering. On 
 the seat beside her she rested a heavy roll 
 of music, firmly strapped together too 
 heavy a burden for her girlish hand or arm. 
 I hoped to have had the chance of helping 
 her, but the rush of the crowd to the gang- 
 plank when the, boat stopped, separated us 
 still more, and I lost sight of her alto- 
 gether. 
 
 There was the usual turmoil of seeing to 
 trunks and baggage, for we were not 
 granted the convenience of "checks," and 
 then the passengers streamed into the 
 waiting train. What was my surprise and 
 pleasure, as I took the first available seat, 
 to find its other occupant my lovely un- 
 known! We soon fell into an entertaining 
 chat about the incidents of the journey, 
 and learned more or less of each other's 
 
52 ''HOME, SWEET HOME" 
 
 personality. She was a music teacher as 
 I judged from her appearance, about 
 twenty years of age residing in a small 
 town a few miles beyond my own destina- 
 tion. From some things she said, I gath- 
 ered that she was the main dependence of a 
 widowed mother, though a younger bro- 
 ther shared her labors by his cultivation 
 of a few acres of vineyard belonging to 
 their little home. She had been in San 
 Francisco during a two months' vacation, 
 perfecting herself in her profession by tak- 
 ing lessons from a celebrated pianist. 
 
 "My pupils are all eager to have me 
 back again," she said smiling; "they think 
 I ought to be as wonderful as Signor C 
 himself by this time. And just see what I 
 am bringing them for exercise!" pointing 
 to the roll of music. "There is thirty dol- 
 lars of value bound up in that all my sum- 
 mer's savings but it will repay me well, 
 I know." 
 
 I tried at her suggestion, but could 
 hardly lift the heavy package. 
 
 "How did you carry it?" I exclaimed. 
 "You should have sent it by express; it was 
 not wise to fatigue yourself so." 
 
 "Oh, I did not feel it," she answered 
 
"HOME, SWEET HOME 1 ' 63 
 
 brightly. "I could not bear to part with it 
 it is too precious and I must play some 
 of those airs for mamma to-night." 
 
 The day was very close and hot; the fine, 
 sandy soil of the roads sifted in every- 
 where; the cars seemed to jolt unmerci- 
 fully; the vineyards were brown and faded; 
 the orange groves gray with dust; I was 
 low-spirited and weary. 
 
 "How slow we seem to travel," I said; 
 "this heat and noise give one a dreadful 
 headache; did you ever hear such rumbling 
 cars?" 
 
 "Oh," she answered, and her face lighted 
 up with an angel's smile, "I can hear no- 
 thing but 'Home, Sweet Home.' It is all 
 singing that to me; every bit of noise is like 
 music. Only think how soon we shall be 
 there!" 
 
 I felt rebuked by that sweet enthusiasm 
 of affection. "I suppose your brother will 
 meet you at the station?" I asked. 
 
 "Oh, yes; I know he will; if he is late 
 what a shaking I will give him! But it 
 will be a very loving shake," she added 
 softly, and her eyes brightened with sud- 
 den tears. 
 
 She coughed slightly, now and then, as 
 
54 "HOME, SWEET HOME" 
 
 she spoke very slightly and yet I turned 
 to look at her now with a quick thrill of 
 pain. Those large beautiful eyes, were 
 they not too intensely luminous? That 
 softly-moulded cheek, was it not growing 
 thin, despite its rich color? And was 
 there not a pathetic droop just faintly sug- 
 gested by the perfect young form? And 
 yet, such an atmosphere of youth and hope 
 and love seemed to float around her, that 
 these dark, vague misgivings shrank back 
 ashamed. 
 
 Poor child! She turned to me, all uncon- 
 scious of my mournful scrutiny, and held 
 out a cordial hand in goodby as the whis- 
 tle sounded for my station. 
 
 "Perhaps we shall meet again," she said 
 kindly. "I hope you will find your friends 
 well." 
 
 "And I hope the same for you," I replied, 
 "and a happy meeting with those you love." 
 
 "Oh, it cannot help being that," she 
 smiled; and as I caught a last glimpse of 
 her face from the platform, as the cars 
 rushed past me, the pure young lips seemed 
 forming again their soft refrain of "Home, 
 Sweet Home." 
 
 Many a time during the next four 
 
"HOME, SWEET HOME" 55 
 
 months, when I was miles away from the 
 place of our meeting, did I recall that 
 lovely and loving face. It shone like a 
 star amid other memories of the journey. 
 The vulgar display of some, the supercili- 
 ous haughtiness of others, the absolute un- 
 consciousness of life's struggle among still 
 more, of our wealthy travelers returning 
 from their summer dissipations; and the 
 hard, ungracious lines of worry and anxi- 
 ety and ^ager striving stamped upon the 
 faces of their less fortunate companions; 
 were both alike thrown into vivid relief on 
 the canvas of recollection by the memory 
 of that picture of unselfish love and tender 
 hope. 
 
 One day, I received, by chance, a copy of 
 a paper published near her home; and 
 among the notices of local events, I read 
 the following: "Miss L F died last 
 week of consumption. She had been ill 
 several months, but grew rapidly worse 
 after the death of her mother, which, as our 
 readers will remember, took place about 
 six weeks ago. She will be greatly la- 
 mented by her friends and pupils. She was 
 but twenty-two years old." I laid the paper 
 down, my eyes dim; yet my tears were not 
 
56 "HOME, SWEET HOME" 
 
 all of sorrow. Had not mother and child 
 met once again, and forever, in "Home, 
 Sweet Home"? 
 
HER NEIGHBOR. 
 
 "But he, witting to justify himself, said unto Jesus, And who 
 is my neighbor?" 
 
 "Love, which is sunlight of peace." 
 
 F there was any one thing which gave 
 Marianne Evans a special secret satis- 
 faction, it was her name. Whether 
 written or spoken that is, if spoken cor- 
 rectly it seemed to her the synonym of re- 
 finement and grace. She had never known 
 the grandmother for love of whom it was 
 bestowed; but in her mother's sitting-room 
 hung an old-fashioned portrait a fail 
 young girl in the dress of sixty years ago; 
 and Marianne had often sat looking at it, 
 with eyes of absorbed fancy, while her mo- 
 ther recounted to her once again the old 
 but ever new story of her grandmother's 
 
58 HER NEIGHBOR 
 
 childhood and girlhood in that old cathe- 
 dral town across the sea; of her marriage to 
 the young captain of the good ship Daunt- 
 less; and that perilous voyage to the new 
 world, with its stormy ending of shipwreck 
 and rescue, which left her mother or- 
 phaned of a father's care. And then she 
 had read, with all the sentimental sympa- 
 thy of a girl of sixteen, Miss Austin's 
 "Sense and Sensibility," missing, I fear, 
 much of the author's real purpose, in her 
 fervid interest in her lovely namesake of 
 the tale. 
 
 Altogether, there seemed, to Marianne, 
 to cling about the syllables of her name a 
 halo of romantic association to which none 
 of her companions' more commonplace ti- 
 tles could lay claim. It had given her a 
 certain sense of pride and superiority, 
 whenever she heard the roll called in 
 school, that none but herself could answer 
 to that name; and she felt a sort of pitying 
 condescension for the Marthas and Elizas 
 whose surnames were their only distinc- 
 tion from each other. 
 
 Alas! "pride must have a fall." 
 One September morning, when the 
 school reassembled for the first time after 
 
HER NEIGHBOR 59 
 
 vacation, there were two new pupils stand- 
 ing beside the teacher's desk, waiting till 
 the seats should be apportioned. 
 
 I think I can see them still those little 
 twin-sisters clinging timidly to one an- 
 other, and looking with half-frightened 
 eyes over the strange school-room. The 
 poor, scanty dress told of a poverty-strick- 
 en home; and the cloud of soft, brown hair, 
 wonderful in its luxuriance, that fell upon 
 their shoulders, though brushed and tied 
 back with a piece of faded ribbon, had evi- 
 dently been the care of a hurried hand. 
 But the large grey eyes and the broad, 
 thoughtful foreheads of each, told of intel- 
 lect perhaps of genius could it but be 
 fostered into generous life. One felt an in- 
 voluntary heartache at the thought of what 
 narrow opportunities were theirs, at the 
 thought of how little brightness or joy was 
 possible to these young lives. 
 
 Marianne, in her fresh muslin robe, with 
 her fair silken hair so carefully curled 
 the rounded contour and lovely bloom of 
 her cheek telling so plainly of health and 
 good food, and tender, watchful care of a 
 happy and abundant home formed a pain- 
 ful contrast. The other girls, too, though 
 
60 HER NEIGHBOR 
 
 not types of such delicate beauty, nor all 
 the children of homes so refined and weal- 
 thy as hers, yet happy, care-free, flourish- 
 ing samples of youth, from homes of indus- 
 try and comfort, unconscious of the real 
 fret and strain of life how pathetic was 
 the contrast between their thoughtless 
 light-heartedness and the look of constant, 
 womanly anxiety that shadowed these 
 young brows! 
 
 Marianne, and several of the older pu- 
 pils, had dropped, as a matter of course, 
 into their accustomed seats, and were busy 
 arranging their books; the little bustle of 
 apportioning uncertain or coveted desks 
 was ended; and the tap of the bell brought 
 sudden silence out of the subdued hum. 
 Marianne looked around, to find that her 
 nearest neighbors were the two little stran- 
 gers, who, to their great relief and joy, had 
 been allotted seats side by side. She felt 
 an aggrieved disappointment that her own 
 special "chum"was not there as usual; and 
 perhaps she felt also a foolish and sinful 
 contempt and repugnance at such close 
 proximity to the poorest pupils in the 
 school. But this was nothing to the secret 
 rage and mortification that filled her heart 
 
HER NEIGHBOR 61 
 
 when she listened to the calling of the roll 
 and heard her unwelcome neighbors an- 
 swer to the question of their names, "Mary 
 Fraser, ma'am," and "Anne Fraser, 
 ma'am." 
 
 A look of amused intelligence passed 
 from face to face over he school-room. 
 School-girls are proverbially quick-witted, 
 and Marianne's weakness about her name 
 was no secret to her mates. If they did not 
 disguise a rather ungenerous sense of the 
 ridiculous in this unexpected parody of 
 her cherished title, she really could blame 
 no one but herself; for it was not in girl 
 nature not to resent her assumption of a 
 "peculiar inherited grace," even about a 
 name. But though the deepened flush on 
 her cheek betrayed her consciousness of 
 what was passing, pride came to her res- 
 cue, and she responded "present," when her 
 own name followed, with clear, unfaltering 
 distinctness. Her self-control silenced a 
 half-suppressed titter before it reached the 
 teacher's ears; and even when the bell rang 
 for recess, and laughter and talk took the 
 place of decorum, whatever comments the 
 girls might pass among themselves, there 
 were none so bold just yet as openly to as- 
 sail Marianne. 
 
62 HER NEIGHBOR 
 
 The little sisters did not venture forth 
 among the chattering crowd, but remained 
 at their desks, grateful to be unobserved 
 and forgotten by the rest, talking in low 
 tones to one another over their lessons. 
 
 There were other surprises in store, for 
 all the school, as well as Marianne. When 
 the classes came to be organized, it was 
 found, to the general astonishment, that in 
 grammar, and history, and reading, Mary 
 and Anne Fraser, in spite of their thirteen 
 years, easily took front rank with those 
 much older; though, in arithmetic and al- 
 gebra, they fell behind; and Marianne had 
 the renewed mortification of finding her- 
 self in unexpected close companionship, 
 even in her favorite studies, with these pre- 
 sumptuous waifs of fortune. 
 
 When little Mary stood up to read Mrs. 
 Heman-s' "Landing of the Pilgrims," she 
 seemed to forget her usual timidity in the 
 inspiration of the poet, and the words rang 
 with new music as they thrilled through 
 her clear young voice; all the constraint 
 and anxiety vanished for the moment from 
 her face; while her twin-sister regarded her 
 with the absorbed enthusiasm of affection. 
 It was a beautiful and unique spectacle, 
 
HER NEIGHBOR 63 
 
 and something of its beauty and pathos 
 forced its way even to Marianne's reluctant 
 heart. 
 
 "They are the most extraordinary chil- 
 dren !" she cried in a half-provoked tone to 
 Miss Morton whose path lay, for some dis- 
 tance, in a direction with her own as they 
 were walking home that evening. 
 
 Somehow she could speak to her teacher 
 when she shrank from facing the half-sar- 
 castic comments of the girls. Dear Miss 
 Morton! whose wise, loving touch was al- 
 ways bringing harmony out of discord 
 how many young lives had cause to bless 
 her influence! 
 
 "Yes," she answered now, "they are re- 
 markably intelligent, but I do not wonder 
 they are so, for their childhood has had 
 careful training. Poor little things! I 
 fear their chief dependence now must be 
 on what they can learn at school." 
 
 "Do you know any thing of them then?" 
 asked Marianne, with keen curiosity. 
 
 "Yes; their mother was a school-mate of 
 my own; married when she was only seven- 
 teen a very happy marriage, too, I believe. 
 Her husband was a young clergyman, de- 
 voted to his calling, and highly educated. 
 
64 HER NEIGHBOR 
 
 I was at their home once, about five years 
 ago, and even then one could plainly see 
 the uncommon care and interest both he 
 and his wife took in the training of their 
 children. Poor little ones! it is a sad 
 change for them, from their happy child- 
 hood of learning and play in that quiet old 
 village to this narrow city life." 
 
 "They are orphans, I suppose?" asked 
 Marianne, in a softened voice. 
 
 "Yes, their father and mother both died 
 about two years ago victims of some epi- 
 demic prevailing at the time. They left 
 but small means, and the two little girls 
 fell to the care of a widowed aunt, who had 
 no children of her own. She had been 
 a teacher of drawing, but these dull times 
 reduced her number of pupils so seriously 
 that she was compelled to remove to the 
 city in the hope of obtaining more employ- 
 ment. Of course, being a stranger and 
 without influence, she has had a hard 
 struggle, and is glad to eke out the earn- 
 ings of her profession by taking in sewing. 
 I have been thinking of calling on your 
 mamma, to give her Mrs. Morris's address; 
 perhaps she might have something for her 
 to do." 
 
HER NEIGHBOR 65 
 
 "I am sure she would," said Marianne. 
 "Mamma would be quite interested In the 
 children, I know." 
 
 She almost felt shamed out of her own 
 prejudice and dislike by Miss Morton's reci- 
 tal; and thought, as they parted company 
 and she pursued her way alone, how 
 grieved her mother would be, did she know 
 the temper of her mind that day. 
 
 But while she did not exactly "let the 
 sun go down" upon her wrath, I am afraid 
 it rose with fresh vigor beneath his morn- 
 ing beam; and her reflections were any- 
 thing but gracious as she took her seat 
 again beside her obnoxious school-mates. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 Such studious little creatures as these 
 twin-sisters were! Surely Miss Morton had 
 never had such earnest, willing pupils 
 before! It was almost painful to witness 
 their eagerness; and Miss Morton felt her- 
 self that she must call a halt to such per- 
 
66 HER NEIGHBOR 
 
 sistent industry, and insist on their sharing 
 the play and fresh air of recess. 
 
 "Mary and Anne," she said one day, as 
 she tapped the bell for the welcome signal, 
 and the girls scattered like a flock of birds, 
 "come to the desk, my dears; I wish to 
 speak to you." 
 
 The children came up to her, hand in 
 hand. 
 
 "Now, my dearest little girls," she went 
 on, "I can not praise you enough for your 
 obedience and attention in all your lessons; 
 but there is one thing I must find fault 
 with, and cannot allow any longer. You 
 must not stay in doors at recess. Kun out 
 with the other girls, and breathe the fresh 
 air and have a good romp." 
 
 "But, please, Miss Morton, we can study 
 so well at recess; and we want so much to 
 get on fast, and come to be teachers, so we 
 can help dear auntie." 
 
 What anxious little faces they were! 
 
 "You will study all the better, dears, and 
 come on all the faster, by taking a little 
 breathing spell. All work and no play 
 makes a dull girl as well as a dull boy; 
 so run out now, and get better acquainted 
 with the girls, and let me see some roses 
 in these pale cheeks." 
 
HER NEIGHBOR 67 
 
 It was a hard ordeal for the timid twins 
 to venture among that laughing, active 
 crowd; but the first trial over, they soon 
 began to win friendly regard, and the sweet 
 childlike mirth, that had been so sadly shad- 
 owed by grief and poverty, began to bub- 
 ble up from its pure well-spring of love and 
 happiness. Their gentleness and refine- 
 ment, and bright intelligence and unselfish 
 readiness to join in whatever gave pleasure 
 to the rest, could not fail to win a way, and 
 they had soon more than one warm, special 
 friend eager to take their part. Marianne 
 herself felt the influence; but she could not 
 forgive the accident of their names, nor 
 their unconscious rivalry of her position as 
 the "clever pupil" of the school. 
 
 "I wonder how you can help loving Mary 
 and Anne," Jenny Seat on said to her, with 
 the audacious freedom for which she was 
 renowned. "Are you jealous, Marianne? 
 Or aren't you willing anybody should even 
 halve your name? For my part, I think it 
 is much prettier divided between those 
 sweet little creatures, than to belong en- 
 tirely to such a proud thing as you." And 
 she ran off with a mocking laugh, before 
 Marianne could collect herself to answer. 
 
68 HER NEIGHBOR 
 
 "Did you ever hear such a good composi- 
 tion as Mary Tracer's," one of the elder 
 girls was saying one Friday afternoon, as 
 they loitered in groups after school was 
 "out." "So simple and natural; not a bit 
 like a set composition. She made me feel 
 as if I could just see the woods and the 
 village, and the old farmhouse. Dear! if I 
 could only transform my wooden essays 
 into stuff like that!" And Eliza Green gave 
 a comical sigh. 
 
 Above all the names she knew, Marianne 
 had always regarded this unfortunate com- 
 bination with supreme contempt; yet some- 
 thing stirred in her heart now like admira- 
 tion for this plain girl with her plainer 
 name. Was it not possible that even the 
 most plebeian name might become the syn- 
 onym for love and grace, if worn by such a 
 generous spirit? 
 
 "But what did you think of Anne's 
 poem?" struck in the irrepressible Jenny. 
 "There was a surprise for you! Real poe- 
 try, too, though only a child's song. Even 
 Miss Morton did not expect that, though 
 she thinks so much of them both. None 
 of the rest of us could compete there, I 
 think, even if we tried. What makes you 
 
HER NEIGHBOR 69 
 
 so silent, Marianne? Poets are born, not 
 made, you know no use to be jealous of 
 them." And she broke into a ringing laugh. 
 
 "You have no right to accuse me of jeal- 
 ousy," Marianne answered, coldly; "but I 
 must confess, whatever merit Anne's poem 
 may have, I do not see the use or wisdom 
 of encouraging her in such efforts; what 
 good can it ever do her in a working life?" 
 
 "Oh, as for that, begging your pardon, 
 my lady, all our lives should be working 
 ones, as your own dear mother told us in 
 Sunday school last week. And in the next 
 place, the nest may be very ragged and 
 small, but that won't keep the bird from 
 singing when the music is in its breast. 
 Grenius is always vindicating democracy." 
 
 "Oh, girls," broke in Martha Lane, "do 
 you remember that horrible 'pome' last 
 year when that hateful Luvia Koberts, 
 who was always telling us of her father's 
 money and servants, saw fit to invoke the 
 muse?" 
 
 And at this recollection the whole group 
 joined in contagious laughter, even Mari- 
 anne's reserve giving way. 
 
 "I know that 'pome' by heart to-day," 
 said Jennie; "now I have learned Anne's, 
 
70 HER NEIGHBOR 
 
 too; I want to recite it to mamma when I 
 get home. They make two good compan- 
 ion pieces, don't they? One might label 
 them Vulgarity and Nature." 
 
 "I shouldn't wonder if Mary or Anne won 
 the prize at the next examination," said 
 Eliza. "That would be a new departure 
 to see it carried off by the youngest pupil 
 in school." 
 
 Marianne gave an unconscious start 
 She had won the prize last year, and was 
 particularly anxious not to fail now. Her 
 father, who took great pride in her attain- 
 ments, had promised a trip to Niagara to 
 celebrate her success. She grew actually 
 pale at the bare thought of failure. 
 
 "Look to your laurels, Marianne!" cried 
 the mischievous Jenny, whose quick eye 
 had noticed her involuntary perturbation. 
 And with this parting shot, their paths sep- 
 arated. 
 
HER NEIGHBOR 71 
 
 PART III. 
 
 Marianne's father and mother, though 
 wealthy, were by no means slavish imitators 
 of their more fashionable acquaintances. 
 They had a wholesome, old-fashioned, dem- 
 ocratic faith in the virtue of the free school 
 as a sphere for developing character, 
 for cultivating independence of thought 
 and respect for the rights of others. 
 I cannot say that their daughter fully 
 agreed in this view. She had often looked 
 longingly after some of her girl friends who 
 attended "select" young ladies' academies; 
 but especially envied those who pursued 
 their education in the shadow of the con- 
 vent. It seemed to Marianne the acme of 
 exclusive refinement to pass behind those 
 high walls, to walk in those old gardens, 
 and to study under the mild and saintly 
 rule of the good Sisters. It was a little bit 
 of mediaeval romance still left to flourish 
 undisturbed in our bustling nineteenth 
 century. She had even ventured an ap- 
 
72 HER NEIGHBOR 
 
 peal to her father on the subject, but met 
 with a very decided, though kind, refusal. 
 
 "No, no, my dear," he said; "we are not 
 living in the middle ages now, and it is not 
 healthy to breathe their atmosphere any 
 more than any dead air. We must be true 
 sons and daughters of our own era, if we 
 would fill our place worthily; and to gain 
 wisdom from the past, it is not necessary 
 to turn our back on the present. In the 
 free school, you meet with boys and girls 
 from all conditions of life; and, as a rule, the 
 teachers are, like Miss Morton, faithful and 
 conscientious, without showing respect of 
 persons. Whether you realize it now or 
 not, the effect upon your womanhood must 
 be elevating in giving you broad and just 
 views of our relations to others as men and 
 women, and as citizens of a common coun- 
 try. No, I have too much faith in the 
 promise of my Marianne's head and heart, 
 despite the foolish little notions she has al- 
 lowed to creep into her brain at present, to 
 narrow her by an exclusive contact with 
 companions, however pleasing or well-be- 
 haved, who have never seen below the sur- 
 face of their own particular set." 
 
 "But, papa, you would not intend my 
 
HER NEIGHBOR 73 
 
 education to close with the free school? I 
 will be through with that this term." 
 
 "Certainly not, my dear. I hope you will 
 pass so good an examination that you will 
 be promoted immediately to the high 
 school; and after your graduation from it, 
 I would like to give you a few years at Vas- 
 sar, or some institution of equal standing. 
 Then with your natural gifts you will be 
 really an accomplished, and a genuinely in- 
 tellectual woman, able to grasp, for your- 
 self, the true aspects of life. While, if you 
 had been confined to the narrow limits of a 
 convent or young ladies' seminary, I fear 
 the result would be very different." 
 
 On the whole, Marianne retired from this 
 talk somewhat comforted. Her own na- 
 tive good sense, when she allowed it fair 
 play, could not but acknowledge the just- 
 ness of her father's reasoning; and as she 
 thought of the generous future of growth 
 and purpose which her parents' love had 
 planned, she recalled for a moment, with 
 softened sympathy, the narrow horizon life 
 revealed to the little twin-sisters. 
 
 "And they hav e genius," her heart whis- 
 pered. "Jenny was right. I may be clever 
 and learned, perhaps, after a while, but I 
 
74 HER NEIGHBOR 
 
 haven't that. Why it doesn't seem fair- 
 it is cruel to think they should be shut off 
 from everything, and that I should have so 
 much." 
 
 A flush of conscious shame mounted to 
 her brow. 
 
 "I suppose I have been jealous," she 
 thought. "But then, I do hate to lose the 
 prize, and that lovely journey papa has 
 promised. And if they only had different 
 names! It is odious to have one's name 
 mimicked like that." 
 
 However, she was a little less icy in her 
 manner, next day at school, and the timid 
 and surprised response of her namesakes 
 touched a chord in her heart. The thaw 
 had begun, though the surface crust as yet 
 showed but faint token of its progress; but 
 the sunshine of love was brightening to- 
 ward spring, and however fleeting clouds 
 might chill its warmth, the frost must melt 
 daily, more and more, till the flowers of 
 sweet good-nature appear, and the singing 
 birds of sisterly help and affection make 
 glad the day. 
 
 Autumn had given place to winter, and 
 winter was melting into spring. It only 
 wanted two weeks of the dreaded, yet 
 
HER NEIGHBOR 75 
 
 wished-for, examination day, when, one 
 March morning, there was a sensation in 
 Miss Morton's school-room. For the first 
 time since Mary and Anne Fraser had en- 
 tered there, one of the twins appeared with- 
 out her mate. "Something is wrong," was 
 the general surmise, as a murmur of sur- 
 prise ran round the room; and when Miss 
 Morton announced that Mary was seriously 
 ill with a cold which threatened pneumo- 
 nia, there were no eyes which did not 
 glance with kind sympathy at the quiver- 
 ing lip and tearful face of poor little Anne. 
 
 "Her aunt has allowed me to take Anne 
 to my own home for a time, till any fear of 
 contagion is past," Miss Morton explained. 
 "So your parents need not feel any alarm. 
 I hope you will remember to tell them this. 
 And now we will proceed with lessons." 
 
 "So there is one out of the running," said 
 Jenny Seaton, at recess. "I haven't any 
 hope of the prize, myself; though I mean to 
 try my best. But there is no doubt of you, 
 Marianne, unless Anne Fraser beats you. 
 Any way, you have one rival less, now." 
 
 "I would rather have the two," said Ma- 
 rianne, truthfully; "there is no triumph in 
 outshining the absent. But I might not 
 
76 HER NEIGHBOR 
 
 win, any way. I am not so vain as to think 
 none of the other girls can excel me." 
 
 "Oh, we all know well enough you are 
 'the wittiest/ as well as 'the prettiest/ " an- 
 swered Jenny. "If you weren't so proud, 
 Marianne, you might be 'the one we Ipve 
 best/ Aren't you sorry, now, you felt so 
 jealous of those poor little things' names? 
 I think it is dreadfully lonesome to hear 
 Anne answer the roll alone." 
 
 "I couldn't coax her out at all," said Mar- 
 tha Lane. "She has no heart for anything 
 but her books; she seems to be studying for 
 Mary as well as herself." 
 
 "I hope she will win the prize with all my 
 heart," said Eliza Green. "I'd rather, a 
 great deal than get it myself. Though I've 
 so little chance, it doesn't take much gene- 
 rosity for me to say that," she added, 
 laughing. 
 
 Marianne had walked apart, but her ear 
 caught the last words. Could she echo 
 them? She dared not answer, yes. Yet 
 she felt sincerely grieved for the illness of 
 her little school-fellow; she hoped ear- 
 nestly that it might not prove serious. But 
 to give up the coveted prize? to be willing 
 and glad to give it up to brighten those 
 meager young lives? 
 
HER NEIGHBOR 77 
 
 "Why, they are only thirteen," she ar- 
 gued inly; "it is really absurd to suppose 
 they could carry it off from others so much 
 older. And they may win plenty of prizes 
 before they leave school ; but for me to miss 
 this last one! how it would disappoint 
 papa and mamma! And then that trip to 
 Niagara, I have set my heart on." 
 
 Yet her heart and conscience were ill at 
 ease. To quiet their reproaches, she 
 showed more than usual kindness and in- 
 terest in her manner to Anne, whose sor- 
 rowful little soul gratefully responded; but 
 Marianne knew that such kindness was 
 but a subterfuge that she did not love 
 her neighbor as herself. 
 
 Her mention of Mary's illness roused her 
 mother's sympathy at once, and she has- 
 tened to call on Mrs. Morris, and carry 
 what cheer and comfort she could to the 
 poor little sufferer. 
 
 Marianne listened with troubled interest 
 to her mother's report, after each frequent 
 visit. 
 
 "I cannot let you go with me yet, my 
 dear,"Mrs. Evans said, a week later; "Mary 
 is still very ill, but the doctor thinks it may 
 not now prove a dangerous fever. Her lit- 
 
78 HER NEIGHBOR 
 
 tie sister, even, is not allowed to see her. 
 But after school closes, when I hope she 
 will be fairly better, I shall be glad to take 
 you. We may learn many a lesson, child, 
 from adversity bravely borne; and though 
 my business intercourse with Mrs. Morris 
 proved to me that she was both a capable 
 and intelligent woman, my actual knowl- 
 edge of her home life, in its humble sur- 
 rounding, has won my highest regard. 
 There is no lady I know more worthy of ad- 
 miration, in the refinement and culture of 
 her mind; and her little niece is a proof, 
 even as a child, of the pure, moral atmos- 
 phere of her home. It really humbles me 
 to witness the faith, and courage, and ten- 
 der love of that good aunt, pressed, as she 
 is, on every side, by care and anxiety and 
 toil; and then to come back to our own de- 
 lightful home, and remember how often I 
 have allowed the veriest trifles to fret me!" 
 "Oh, mamma, if I could only be half as 
 good as you!" exclaimed Marianne; and 
 then she stopped, with a sudden, shocked 
 sense of what her mother's judgment 
 would be on the foolish pride and ungener- 
 ous selfishness which had closed her heart 
 against her gentle little school-mates. 
 
HER NEIGHBOR , 79 
 
 "If mamma can feel like that," she 
 thought, "how willing I ought to be for 
 those poor girls to have that one little tri- 
 umph and joy to make them glad. How 
 ashamed I ought to be when I look around 
 on all the beautiful things papa and 
 mamma are always giving me, to think 
 that I cannot bear to lose this one little 
 thing that might be theirs." 
 
 PART IV. 
 
 The eventful day had dawned at last. 
 The school-room was crowded with un- 
 wonted visitors proud and anxious pa- 
 rents and grave Directors. From among 
 the throng of bright young faces, fronting 
 the teacher's platform, only one was ab- 
 sent poor little Mary was still held a pri- 
 soner by illness, though the happy light in 
 Anne's eyes and the glad, kindly murmur 
 of sympathy among the girls would have 
 told you at once that all danger wa's past, 
 
80 HER NEIGHBOR 
 
 and that a few weeks would see the sisters 
 together again. 
 
 There were three prizes to be awarded: 
 one for geography a beautiful globe, the 
 gift of Marianne's mother; one for arith- 
 metic a rosewood writing desk, from one 
 of the directors; and one for composition 
 and rhetoric. In this last prize, the ex- 
 citement and interest of the school culmi- 
 nated. It was from a gentleman who de- 
 sired his name to remain unknown, and the 
 prize itself was to remain a secret until the 
 award was made. Like true daughters of 
 Eve, the unknown good was the one most 
 eagerly desired; and though they gave ab- 
 sorbed attention, and acquitted themselves 
 to the best of their ability in all the preced- 
 ing exercises, yet the electric flushing and 
 paling of every cheek, when the concluding 
 act was reached, showed where the girlish 
 heart was most enlisted. 
 
 The examination in rhetoric came to a 
 creditable close; and then each girl, in or- 
 der of her seniority, rose to read her essay, 
 as her name was called. Marianne was 
 first; her subject was "Peace"; it was beau- 
 tifully and vigorously expressed, though 
 perhaps some passages were just a trifle 
 
HER NEIGHBOR 81 
 
 grandiloquent; but it showed fine com- 
 mand of language, and a thoughtful and 
 cultivated mind. The other girls followed 
 in rotation, with subjects as various as the 
 writers; but all doing credit, more or less 
 pronounced, to the instruction of their 
 teacher and their own application. 
 
 Last of all the list came Anne Fraser. 
 Such a tiny figure she looked as she rose in 
 her place; for the girls had not been 
 grouped on the platform, like more ambi- 
 tious debutantes (that distinction was re- 
 served for high-school and college), but 
 each stood simply at her accustomed desk. 
 To Miss Morton's eyes, there was a touch of 
 genuine pathos in that picture of the child 
 forced for once out of her shy seclusion, 
 and facing such an ordeal without her darl- 
 ing mate. Her simple frock of black and 
 white calico was in striking contrast to 
 some of the ruffled and dainty lawn dresses 
 beside her; but the delicately-moulded 
 form; the sweet, pure face, its pallor tinged 
 now by a sensitive flush; the large, serious 
 grey eyes, and broad calm forehead, shad- 
 owed by that cloud of soft, brown hair, 
 made up a lovely portrait that needed no 
 extraneous aid of dress or ornament to win 
 
82 HER NEIGHBOR 
 
 sympathy and favor. Just at first, the low 
 voice faltered, but soon, forgetting herself 
 in the recall of the feeling that had in- 
 spired her writing, her tones rose clear and 
 full, with childlike fervor of recollection. 
 She had not drawn on any store of youthful 
 learning, but from the well-spring of a 
 child's sweet love and memory, and "A Day 
 in our Old Home" touched every listener 
 with the impulse and innocence of their 
 own dawning. Just so blue had the skies 
 bent above them in that old time; just so 
 had the breezes thrilled every nerve; just 
 so fresh and pure had the flowers bloomed; 
 the sparkling streams had flowed; and the 
 happy birds had sung just so in the branch- 
 ing trees. There was more than one eye wet 
 with unconscious tears when the clear 
 voice ceased; for a child's soft touch had 
 swept away for a little while the clouding 
 cares and ambitions of life; and back into 
 those green pastures and beside those still 
 and crystal waters, a child's hand had led 
 the way. 
 
 There was a little outburst of applause 
 that wakened Anne to a half-frightened 
 consciousness again; and with a timid bow, 
 she was glad to take refuge in her seat. 
 
HER NEIGHBOR 83 
 
 Music and singing occupied the interval, 
 during which the committee made their de- 
 cision; and then came the award. It had 
 been a difficult and delicate task to decide 
 fairly in a school where all the pupils 
 reached such a high-water mark of average 
 excellence; but, at last, the prize for geog- 
 raphy was awarded to Jenny Seaton; for 
 arithmetic, to Martha Lane. 
 
 Marianne heard these verdicts with com- 
 parative indifference; it was the mysteri- 
 ous third prize on which her heart was set; 
 but the delight of Jenny and Martha was 
 overflowing and unconcealed; nor did their 
 school-fellows fail in generous congratula- 
 tion when the first brief pang of disappoint- 
 ment had passed. Though the majority 
 had entered the lists in competition for the 
 third prize, it had been tacitly felt and ac- 
 knowledged by all that the only real ri- 
 valry lay between Marianne and Anne; and 
 the whole school was quivering with sup- 
 pressed excitement now. But dear little 
 Anne, while she shared in the general in- 
 terest, was really quite unconscious of her 
 special part in the drama. She had writ- 
 ten her simple essay as the birds sing 
 from the spontaneous overflow of a loving 
 
84 HER NEIGHBOR 
 
 and poetic nature delighting in the song 
 for the song's sake; but to actually com- 
 pete with an accomplished young lady like 
 Marianne whom the bashfulness of thir- 
 teen regarded with admiring awe was be- 
 yond her wildest ambition. And so, when 
 the committee announced their decision, 
 and she heard a the prize for composition 
 awarded to Anne Fraser," the room seemed 
 to spin round and round the little victor, 
 and all the crowd of people to mingle in a 
 bewildered haze. But it was really true! 
 She could hear one of the Directors ex- 
 plaining that while all the essays showed 
 unusual care and thought, there were two 
 distinguished especially by originality and 
 beauty of style; and that the final choice 
 had to be made between these. Miss 
 Evans' "Peace" showed a range of thought 
 and reading admirable in a young girl, 
 and the language chosen was chaste 
 and forcible; but Miss Eraser's "Day in Our 
 Old Home," though dealing with a less pre- 
 tentious theme, and admitting of less re- 
 search and illustration, had yet shown such 
 a natural and just observation of daily 
 sights and sounds, such a close sympathy 
 with the varying aspects of nature, and so 
 
HER NEIGHBOR 85 
 
 playful and tender a fancy, that the com- 
 mittee, judging as impartially as possible, 
 had decided unanimously that the prize 
 should be hers. And, then, amid a great 
 tempest of applause, Miss Morton came for- 
 ward, bearing a beautiful little statuette 
 of Hope an exquisite little terra-cotta 
 figure, whose every curve and line, from the 
 lightly poised foot to the graceful head, 
 was an inspiration of loveliness and joy. 
 
 Whatever their faults, girls are, as a 
 rule, generous creatures, and there were 
 but few in that throng who envied Anne a 
 gift which every girlish heart recognized as 
 peculiarly dear to itself. As for her, poor 
 child ! blushing, trembling, altogether 
 overwhelmed with this miraculous tri- 
 umph she came forward to receive the 
 prize. The downcast eyes were raised in 
 sudden brave acknowledgment, as her 
 teacher's loving approval was seconded by 
 the ladies and gentlemen grouped around 
 her, and by the renewed cheering of her 
 comrades; but the quivering lips could not 
 frame a word. More than one mother 
 dropped a furtive tear, as she gazed at the 
 little orphan in her simple garb; and more 
 than one among those dignified Directors 
 
86 HER NEIGHBOR 
 
 felt his father's heart thrill with tender 
 sympathy. 
 
 And so it was all over; and from amid 
 a throng of kisses and congratulations 
 Anne escaped, to bear her treasure home. 
 
 PART V. 
 
 "My dear," said Mrs. Evans to her daugh- 
 ter about two weeks later, "I am going 
 to see Mrs. Morris to-day about some sew- 
 ing, and I wish you would come with me. 
 As vacation is not over yet, Anne and 
 Mary will be at home, and your visit will 
 please them. Mary is quite well now, I be- 
 lieve, and I think it a pity to leave you 
 alone at home all the afternoon." 
 
 "Yes, mamma," said Marianne, with 
 some embarrassment, "I will get ready at 
 once." She did not utter her secret thought 
 that this visit boded no particular pleasure 
 either to her or her hostesses. 
 
 "Why in the world should they care to 
 see me?" she reflected while dressing. "I 
 
HER NEIGHBOR 87 
 
 have never done anything to make them 
 care; and it has all been a humiliation for 
 me." 
 
 But her mother had a purpose in this 
 visit, unknown to her. She had watched 
 with secret anxiety the proud patience 
 with which Marianne had borne her defeat; 
 and grieved that the noble and generous 
 impulses of her child's nature had not yet 
 vanquished her wounded self-esteem. 
 
 As for Marianne herself, she had been 
 unhappy and at war with her own heart 
 ever since that unlucky examination. The 
 disappointment of her promised journey 
 was a very deep one; but deeper still was 
 the sense of her father's disappointment in 
 her failure. Though he had said, with 
 cheery good humor: 
 
 "Never mind, daughter; Niagara will 
 keep; there are other examinations loom- 
 ing in the future, and your essay was good 
 enough to satisfy any rea;sonable father." 
 Yet she could not reconcile herself to this 
 consoling tenderness, in place of the proud 
 caress and reward of her success. Her 
 mother, she felt instinctively, cared most of 
 all for the just and generous temper of 
 mind which could accept either failure or 
 
88 HER NEIGHBOR 
 
 success without injury to moral feeling; 
 but though she knew the spirit in which 
 she had met this trial was a daily grief to 
 that loving and clear-sighted judge, she 
 could not yet school her mind to a true 
 submission, nor open her heart to gentler, 
 happier influences. 
 
 It was a scene of peaceful industry on 
 which the door opened, when Marianne and 
 her mother reached Mrs. Morris' lodging. 
 The whirr of the sewing machine was in- 
 terrupted at sound of their knock, and the 
 little sisters raised their heads from ear- 
 nest study over a book, as their aunt admit- 
 ted the visitors. Marianne was struck, as 
 her mother had been, by the courtesy and 
 refinement of Mrs. Morris' manner; and 
 by the tokens, poor though the room was in 
 furnishing and size, of the intelligence and 
 culture of the indwellers of this humble 
 home. The little walnut cabinet, with its 
 precious store of books; the writing desk in 
 the corner; the one or two engravings on 
 the wall ; the box of mignonette on the win- 
 dow-sill, were all reminders of the happier, 
 freer life to which they had belonged; and 
 witnesses of the brave and loyal endeavor 
 that sought through toil and stress to keep 
 
HER NEIGHBOR 89 
 
 still strong and unpolluted the highest 
 cravings of the young souls committed to 
 its charge. 
 
 Marianne felt how unworthy her sense of 
 mortification and defeat had been, as she 
 entered this atmosphere, and honestly 
 tried to return with cordial frankness the 
 twins' timid but delighted greeting. But 
 timid though she was, Mary was too full of 
 the joy of her loving little heart in her sis- 
 ter's triumph to resist this opportunity of 
 displaying it; and while Anne hung shyly 
 back, she seized Marianne's hand, and, all 
 unconscious of the hidden turmoil and con- 
 test the prize had caused, drew her forward 
 to their own special nook beside the win- 
 dow. There, in a small receiss in the wall, 
 like a patron saint in a niche, stood the lit- 
 tle statuette; the wall behind it and the 
 shelf on which it rested covered with cloth 
 of rich deep blue (the remnants, to tell the 
 truth, of pretty cloaks long since worn out). 
 The gilt-headed nails, tacking the cloth, 
 were studded here and there like stars; 
 while round the base of the figure little 
 clusters of spring flowers violets and dai- 
 sies, gathered by the children from the 
 common near by were scattered in lovely 
 
90 | HER NEIGHBOR 
 
 disarray, like a votive offering before a 
 Bhrine. The warm afternoon sunshine 
 streamed in at the window, transfiguring 
 in its radiant glow the artist's dream of 
 Hope, and the two young faces that gazed 
 on it with rapt delight in its significant 
 beauty. 
 
 And as she looked, the warm sunlight of 
 sympathy stole into Marianne's heart. All 
 her foolish prejudice and pride and 
 wounded vanity seemed to melt away; she 
 heard once more the angel-message of 
 "peace, good will," and the soft echo of her 
 Master's words, "Love thy neighbor as thy- 
 self." 
 
 "We never could have dreamed of such 
 a thing!" Anne's voice was saying, in shy 
 depreciation of winning such a treasure; 
 "neither Mary nor I had the least hope." 
 
 "And now you have Hope herself," said 
 Marianne, with such a sweet ring in her 
 laugh that her mother turned to listen, 
 with sudden conviction that the clouds had 
 cleared away. 
 
 "And it was such a surprise for dear 
 auntie!" they both exclaimed together. 
 
 "Oh, we were so happy, that day! to 
 think that Mary had got well and this to 
 
HER NEIGHBOR 91 
 
 happen, too!" And Anne ended with a sigh 
 of exquisite content. 
 
 "Not one of us deserved it half so well," 
 said Marianne, kissing the pretty mouth; 
 "and I am sure none of us could have taken 
 such pleasure in it, or known how to place 
 it so beautifully. I am glad, with all my 
 heart, you won it Anne for Mary's sake, 
 too. You see, it could not have been a 
 doubled prize to any of the rest of us we 
 have only one pair of twins." 
 
 "Isn't she lovely, auntie?" the little girls 
 cried, when Marianne and her mother had 
 gone. 
 
 "I used to think her proud," said Mary; 
 "but she isn't really, a bit. She seemed 
 more pleased for Anne to win Hope than 
 herself. I would do any thing for her." 
 
 What sweet and tender confidence, what 
 confession of fault, what wise and loving 
 encouragement for the future, passed be- 
 tween mother and daughter in their quiet 
 half hour that evening at bed-time, we will 
 not detail; but to father and mother, and 
 friends and school-mates, a sweet humility 
 seemed henceforth to blend with Mari- 
 anne's sprightly wit and genuine love of 
 knowledge; an ever-growing, ever-deepen- 
 
92 HER NEIGHBOR 
 
 ing sense of oneness with the lives around 
 her, that made her truly, in spirit, "look not 
 only on her own things, but also on the 
 things of others." 
 
 With what different feelings did she wel- 
 come back her once obnoxious school- 
 mates to their seats beside her own, when 
 vacation was ended. How soon the mysteri- 
 ous influence of love and hope bestowed on 
 these little ones bound her heart to them! 
 How soon even the once detested echo of 
 their names sounded like the echo of their 
 sweet child-affection only, recalling, like a 
 fading dream, her own past folly! 
 
 And when, the following year, she 
 passed with honor to the wider sphere of 
 the high school, and her father, kissing her 
 in proud congratulation, said in playful 
 earnest, "Ask what you will, Queen Es- 
 ther, even to the half of my kingdom!" Ma- 
 rianne, with one swift glance at her mo- 
 ther, buried her face on his shoulder, and 
 said, with a sob he hardly understood: 
 
 "Oh, papa, may I, really? Then, do you 
 remember Niagara? And may I have 
 Mary and Anne Fraser to go along with 
 us?" 
 
 "Those two nice little girls I saw in 
 
HER NEIGHBOR 93 
 
 school? Oh, I remember one of them car- 
 ried off the prize last year. 
 
 "Well, you are a tender-hearted little 
 queen, and the king must be true to his 
 word. You had better get the trio ready, 
 mamma; and send the bills to me. What 
 are you crying for, puss?" 
 
BROKEN PROMISES. 
 
 " When the morning came, the village awoke. 
 
 " The mowers betook themselves to the meadows, the children 
 to school; the larks, singing deliriously, rose into the light of the 
 beautiful sun. 
 
 " On earth there wa% nothing changed, only a mother that 
 
 HAT a charming woman Mrs. Dil- 
 lon is!" said Isabel, closing the 
 door after their visitor's leave-tak- 
 ing. "So kind and winning, and so pretty!" 
 "When did you ever fall in love with vir- 
 tue that had not beauty to recommend it?" 
 laughed practical Jenny. "I am willing to 
 believe all good of our new friend; but 
 trust me, Bella, hearts as tender beat be- 
 neath the gown of serge as under silken 
 robe, and eyes as gentle beam from home- 
 lier faces." 
 
 "Ah, well, Jenny, she will learn wisdom 
 soon enough," said mamma, with fond in- 
 dulgence for the enthusiasm of seventeen 
 
96 BROKEN PROMISES 
 
 years, while a half-sigh gave reluctant as- 
 sent to the truth of her eldest daughter's 
 words. "I envy that early belief still 
 that goodness and beauty cannot live 
 apart." 
 
 "No, indeed," broke in impulsive Isabel; 
 "and I am sure, Jenny, it is a thousand 
 times more delightful to think of Blossom 
 driving out with such a sweet, bright, mer- 
 ry-hearted companion as Mrs. Dillon than 
 with some prim old maid or lecturing ma- 
 tron, no matter how good they were. Isn't 
 she good, Clari?" she added, turning to a 
 girl perhaps four years her senior, who had 
 remained silent hitherto. 
 
 "I hope so," she said, smiling gravely, "I 
 would not think any one good who could 
 disappoint faith like yours, dear Bella." 
 
 "But you knew Mrs. Dillon before she 
 came to live here; and aren't you proud to 
 have her for a friend don't you love her? 
 Ah, I am sure you must love her dearly! I 
 am sure my whole heart went out to her 
 when she asked mamma's leave to take 
 Blossom to the flower-show. Such kind- 
 nesses must be common acts with her, for 
 why should we be her special favorites?" 
 
 "She has the great happiness of possess- 
 
BROKEN PROMISES 97 
 
 ing the means of giving pleasure to others," 
 replied Clarinda, evasively; her tone was 
 troubled, as if there was some slight con- 
 flict passing in her mind, and Jenny's 
 searching glance confused her self-posses- 
 sion. She tied her bonnet-strings a little 
 hurriedly, and rose to go. 
 
 "I have stayed too long," she said, "and 
 aunt will be waiting tea. Good-by, Mrs. 
 Maurice; good-by, Jenny. I will be at the 
 church at four to-morrow, Bella. Good-by, 
 sweet Blossom!" and she bent to kiss a lit- 
 tle girl reclining on a couch near the win- 
 dow. 
 
 You would never have guessed, if it had 
 not been told you, that this wan little crea- 
 ture, crippled and helpless, this poor 
 blighted flower of childhood, could be the 
 wearer of so fair a name. Yet she had 
 been a perfect blossom once, as lovely in 
 her infant beauty as any of the fairest 
 blooms of May; and mother and sisters, re- 
 membering the rosy cheek, and dimpled 
 chin, and rounded limbs, and all the glad, 
 unconscious mirth and baby graces of their 
 darling, clung fondly still to the name be- 
 stowed in loving pride, and dearer now for 
 mournful recollection. 
 
98 BROKEN PROMISES 
 
 "Poor little thing," thought Clarinda 
 Ross, as she went down the street. "No, 
 she dare not disappoint her; it would be 
 too, too cruel; she is not so heartless as 
 that!" 
 
 At that moment Mrs. Dillon, the object 
 of her doubting indignation, swept past in 
 her chariot, bowing and smiling as she 
 caught the young girl's glance. Would she 
 have been as gracious had she known her 
 secret thought? Yet she had an instinc- 
 tive sense that with Clarinda she had been 
 weighed in the balances and found want- 
 ing. There was an unacknowledged, tacit 
 feeling of repulsion on either side, the with- 
 drawal of earnest conviction from frivolous 
 assent of truth unsullied from honor 
 lightly held and lightly forfeited. The 
 brilliant woman of the world shrank 
 before the clear judgment and keen 
 insight of the young orphan girl, poor 
 and unknown; the favorite of fortune, 
 admired and caressed, coveted the homage 
 of the village music teacher more than that 
 of all the gay throng that followed her 
 steps coveted an approval which she 
 knew no mere glitter of success, no meretri- 
 cious qualities, could ever claim. 
 
BROKEN PROMISES 99 
 
 Mrs. Dillon had two grand aims con- 
 stantly before her; one was to shine in so- 
 ciety; the other to be quoted and praised 
 as a "Lady Bountiful," a dispenser of ele- 
 gant charities. No vulgar cases of distress 
 could claim her pity, no fingers coarse with 
 toil receive the alms dropped from her soft 
 white palm. Some softening halo of ro- 
 mance, or interesting grief, must veil the 
 harsher aspects of any poverty on which 
 her gaze might dwell. Yet, though Cla- 
 rinda, familiar with the real trials and 
 temptations which beset the poor, could 
 have no sympathy with this dainty and del- 
 icate Christian beneficence, she had early 
 discovered in Mrs. Dillon's character a flaw 
 still more serious than this fastidious 
 nicety of charitable impulse. 
 
 Their acquaintance had begun under cir- 
 cumstances peculiarly pleasing to the sen- 
 sitive soul of the lady. A night of storm 
 and rain; a young girl, pale and breathless, 
 standing at the open door, shading her eyes 
 from the dazzling light of the gas jet; the 
 shawl, hastily thrown over head, falling 
 back from a slim graceful figure; the rich 
 brown hair above her brow damp with 
 moisture; the small hand nervously hold- 
 
100 BROKEN PROMISES 
 
 ing the handle of the door. It was like a 
 scene from a story book all the accesso- 
 ries were most charming; and happy in- 
 deed was Mrs. Dillon to render what grace- 
 ful attention she could, in a case which so 
 satisfied her esthetic requirements. It had 
 all originated in a very natural mistake on 
 Clarinda's part; the aunt with whom she 
 lived, who supplied as far as might be the 
 place of parents dying too early for their 
 child to understand her loss, had been very 
 ill with a tedious and dangerous fever, but, 
 after weeks of suffering, was at last pro- 
 nounced convalescent. On the night in 
 question, she had alarmed her niece by a 
 sudden fainting fit, and no effort of Clarin- 
 da's could rouse her from the deathly stu- 
 por. The doctor who attended Mrs. Ross 
 lived just across the street, and, leaving the 
 lamp alight, Clarinda hurried out to seek 
 him, but, confused by the darkness and her 
 own agitation, she mistook the house and 
 rang at Mrs. Dillon's door instead. The 
 sound of her sweet, eager voice in parley 
 with the servant reached the ear of the lady 
 through the open parlor door, and drew her 
 irresistibly to the presence of the speaker. 
 It must be confessed that Clarinda was ex- 
 
BROKEN PROMISES ;. 101 
 
 ceedingly touched by her new friend's 
 kindness that night. She still recalled it 
 with a pang of grateful tenderness; but, 
 alas, alas, how soon was the fine gold 
 dimmed! 
 
 Mrs. Dillon sent a servant for the doctor 
 at once, allowing Clarinda to run back to 
 her aunt; and following herself, through 
 the mist and rain, accompanied by a maid, 
 bearing many little comforts and luxuries 
 for the invalid. The immediate occasion 
 for her services passed, she did not with- 
 draw her friendship, but became daily 
 apparently more attached to Clarinda. 
 Mrs. Ross was naturally delighted by the 
 intimacy. And Clarinda ah! was it not 
 natural that she should welcome this 
 sweet variation in the dull routine of 
 her life? These rooms, so small and 
 poorly furnished, how they seemed to ex- 
 pand and brighten and lose that conscious 
 air of poverty when Mrs. Dillon's lovely 
 face peeped in at the open door, and Mrs. 
 Dillon's clear voice asked, "Is Clari here?" 
 How pleasant it was, coming home oh, so 
 weary! on Saturday night, from the end- 
 less struggle with dull pupils and unrea- 
 sonable employers, to hear her aunt say as 
 
102 BROKEN PROMISES 
 
 she poured out the tea, "There is a note 
 for you, Clari. Mrs. Dillon will call for 
 you to-morrow afternoon; it is her Sunday 
 for visiting the orphan school; and the 
 drive will do you good." 
 
 No doubt, the drive did do her good, with 
 such a sweet companion; so did the sight of 
 the little homeless waifs, sheltered by char- 
 ity. Her eye beamed with sympathy as she 
 looked over the throng of young, eager 
 faces some rosy with health, some pale 
 with recent illness, some timid and shrink- 
 ing, some confidently gay all pressing to 
 welcome their gracious and beautiful vis- 
 itor. Her presence was still a novelty there 
 at the time of Clarinda's first visits, for 
 Mrs. Dillon had been but a few months a 
 resident of that city; and Clari could not 
 help noticing that, as time went on, the 
 welcome grew less eager, the cheek did not 
 flush, nor the eyes brighten with almost 
 painful pleasure, on Mrs. Dillon's entrance, 
 as they had been wont; the truthful heart 
 of childhood refused to feign an attach- 
 ment or a trust it could no longer feel. 
 
 The cause was soon apparent too. 
 
 "I must come next Saturday, and take 
 you with me, my dear," Mrs. Dillon said 
 
BROKEN PROMISES 103 
 
 one day, in Clari's hearing, to a poor little, 
 fading, consumptive creature, whose hack- 
 ing cough and hectic cheek told that an- 
 other birthday would never be added to her 
 eight short years. 
 
 The child's eyes beamed with rapture. 
 "Would you like it so much?" Mrs. Dillon 
 replied to their glance. "Then I will be sure 
 to come. We will go to the park, and see 
 the flowers and birds, and stay all day." 
 
 The week passed by. Clarinda happened 
 to visit the asylum that Saturday, on a pri- 
 vate errand of her own; she had under- 
 taken a little special work of goodness, but 
 was shy of its being known; indeed, that 
 was the only fault I could ever lay to her 
 charge a too sensitive shrinking from ob- 
 servation; if she could only find some quiet 
 corner where she might pursue her task un- 
 noticed, she was quite happy. She had no- 
 ticed that one of the children who joined 
 in the singing had a voice unusually rich 
 and clear, and she had asked the matron's 
 leave to come once a week and lend what 
 assistance she could to the cultivation of so 
 rare a gift. Her offer was gladly accepted, 
 and, the self-appointed task once begun, 
 never did she falter in its fulfillment, more 
 
104 BROKEN PROMISES 
 
 than recompensed by the warm and over- 
 flowing gratitude of her apt and docile pu- 
 
 PH. 
 
 The lesson over, she was passing through 
 the children's sitting-room, on her way out, 
 when she caught sight of a little figure, 
 half-buried in the cushions of a lounge, sob- 
 bing convulsively. She stepped hastily 
 forward to learn the cause of such distress, 
 when the child raised her head, and Cla- 
 rinda recognized with astonishment the lit- 
 tle girl to whom Mrs. Dillon had promised 
 that bewitching holiday; the day had 
 proved so charming that she had felt quite 
 sure they were both enjoying the promised 
 pleasure, especially as she knew Mrs. Dil- 
 lon was in good health and spirits, and dis- 
 engaged. 
 
 "Why, my poor little darling, what is 
 the matter? You will make yourself 
 quite ill by crying like this," Clarinda said, 
 soothingly, drawing the trembling little 
 frame within her gentle arms, and putting 
 back the hair from the burning forehead. 
 
 "Oh, why why did she not come?" 
 sobbed the child, in a paroxysm of grief; 
 "and I watched I watched for her all 
 day." 
 
BROKEN PROMISES 106 
 
 Clarinda's heart ached with indignation. 
 "Poor little lamb! It was too hard, too 
 hard," she said, hoping to soothe that hys- 
 terical passion of tears. A fearful fit of 
 coughing seized the child as she spoke; she 
 gasped, and panted, and grew so faint that 
 Clarinda, in alarm, called the matron. 
 
 "I never saw a child take anything so 
 much to heart," the good woman said, as 
 she administered some quieting restora- 
 tive. "I have been at my wit's end about 
 her all day; I thought, by leaving her alone 
 a while, and not seeming to notice, it would 
 pass off; but she's just as bad as ever, and 
 one can't use much authority with her, 
 poor thing, she's so weakly like. There, 
 there, my pretty, don't cry so; here's Miss 
 Boss come to see you, if t'other lady hasn't. 
 May be she'll tell you a story. I wish to 
 goodness," she added under her breath, 
 "such a fine visitor wouldn't make prom- 
 ises she doesn't mean to keep." 
 
 Clarinda laid aside her shawl and bon- 
 net. She knew the matron was unusually 
 busy that afternoon; her own day's work 
 was over. 
 
 "I will stay for an hour, anyway," she 
 said; "may be I can amuse her." 
 
106 . * BROKEN PROMISES 
 
 She knelt down beside the child, and af- 
 ter a little while succeeded in gaining her 
 attention. 
 
 "I know such a pretty story," she said; 
 "I wonder, would any little girl like to hear 
 it?" 
 
 The child looked at her with speaking 
 eyes, though the lips still quivered. 
 
 "But I can't tell it unless she will sit on 
 my lap," Clarinda went on. "I wonder, 
 wouldn't she like to hear all about that 
 lovely glass slipper; but then I am tired 
 and can't talk loud, and may be she won't 
 sit on my lap but I wish she would." 
 
 The little thin arms reached out to meet 
 her own; the weak, unsteady voice said, 
 plaintively, "I'll sit on your lap, Miss 
 Boss," and her point was gained. 
 
 So, for more than an hour of that bright 
 June evening she sat holding that wasted 
 little form in a tender embrace, and rock- 
 ing softly to and fro, while she told the 
 dear old stories of Cinderella and the 
 Sleeping Beauty, and sang sweet, pensive 
 strains that lulled the child to sleep. 
 
 As she walked slowly home through the 
 calm summer twilight, her thoughts unsul- 
 lied by any self-approving gratulation, 
 
BROKEN PROMISES 107 
 
 thankful only that she had been able to be- 
 stow some pleasure even on a child, I think 
 her pain was almost as severe as if she her- 
 self had borne the pang of disappointment. 
 Nay, was she not bearing the pang of a far 
 deeper disappointment the bitter pain 
 that follows the first knowledge of defect 
 in one we love. 
 
 "Yet, I may judge her wrongly," she 
 thought humbly; "she may have had good 
 reason." 
 
 A few days after she met Mrs. Dillon 
 on the street; some casual observation re- 
 called the little sufferer to the lady's mind. 
 
 "I declare," she said, "I entirely forgot 
 I had promised to take that little Agnes to 
 the park last Saturday. Some friends had 
 called before lunch that day, and asked me 
 to go and see their new house, and I 
 couldn't refuse they were so very press- 
 ing; and I never remembered till we were 
 in the carriage. I am really sorry; but then 
 another day will do her just as well. I hope 
 she did not mind it much ; I dare say a few 
 sugar-plums will make it all right." 
 
 Clarinda said nothing. How could she? 
 But her grave, clear eyes conveyed an un- 
 conscious reproach, from which Mrs. Dil- 
 
108 BROKEN PROMISES 
 
 Ion turned uneasily away, with a vague 
 sense of shame and remorse. 
 
 Alas, this incident was but the type of 
 many. Yet, to the casual observer, to those 
 who only notice the world's outside life, 
 Mrs. Dillon appeared as gracious, as gene- 
 rous in her benefactions, as the fairest 
 "Lady Bountiful" that ever figured in the 
 pages of history or romance. If an acquain- 
 tance met by chance her elegant chariot 
 some soft spring day, and, pausing to re- 
 turn her beaming salutation, noticed the 
 pale and interesting invalid, to whom she 
 was giving an airing, reposing on those lux- 
 urious cushions by her side; did she not 
 speak with enthusiasm of her sweet and 
 unobtrusive charity, and liken her to be- 
 ings of a purer sphere? If another, per- 
 haps a mother, met her at the panorama, 
 surounded by a rosy group of children, de- 
 lighting in their delight, did she not utter 
 soft praises of the lovely lady whose child- 
 less home failed to satisfy the tender yearn- 
 ings of her nature? Yes, believe me, if we 
 are prone to think evil, we are also prone 
 to exaggerate good; and there is something 
 in nearly every heart which responds with 
 an overflow of pleasure to the tale of good 
 
BROKEN PROMISES 109 
 
 deeds done, and is ready to argue from the 
 glimpse revealed that untold self-denials, 
 untold generosities, have been practiced 
 unseen by vulgar eyes. So fared it with 
 Mrs. Dillon. The kind acts which she cer- 
 tainly did perform with ready zeal, when 
 nothing intervened to distract her atten- 
 tion, won for her an enviable name; and if 
 the matron of the orphan asylum smoth- 
 ered her passing indignation; if the widow 
 who fretted over the non-arrival of the 
 warm suit of winter clothing that was 
 so readily promised to the fatherless boy, 
 and so singularly tardy in bestowal, 
 hushed the repining that rose to her lips; 
 if many who suffered the pain of a trivial 
 or serious disappointment, refrained from 
 any outward complaint, who shall blame 
 their chosen silence, or unjustly speak of 
 them as time-servers and cravens? Many 
 and substantial, no doubt, were the favors 
 they each and all received from that 
 fair hand. It is not her lack of compassion 
 or help of which I complain; it is of that 
 heedless disregard for her own promises, 
 that slight respect for her own word, which 
 robbed all her good deeds of their most 
 precious fruit, and sullied her own nature 
 
110 BROKEN PROMISES 
 
 with the degradation of at least a 
 seeming falsehood. For so it came to pass 
 that, even among those she benefited most, 
 her kindest messages and warmest assur- 
 ances of help received but little credence 
 until actually fulfilled; and how often, 
 even among those sincerely grateful, was 
 the disappointment more clearly remem- 
 bered than the benefit. 
 
 Meanwhile the months followed each 
 other swiftly on the track of time, and the 
 first days of a beautiful summer found both 
 Mrs. Dillon and Clarinda Ross inmates of 
 the village where my sketch begins. Cla- 
 rinda and her aunt had moved hither in 
 obedience to the call and urgent entreaty of 
 an old and faithful friend a Mr. L. who 
 had been Clarinda's music master in her 
 childhood and early girlhood. Even in that 
 long ago time, she recalled him as bent and 
 worn by years of toil, his mild face beam- 
 ing on her under the crown of iron-grey 
 hair. They had lost sight of one another 
 since Clari herself had been borne away by 
 the resistless tide of circumstances, to 
 struggle with what bravery she might 
 amid the surging multitude; but many and 
 tender were the links of recollection still 
 
BROKEN PROMISES 111 
 
 uniting them. Now, when health and 
 strength were failing more surely every 
 year, Mr. L. wrote, calling her back to the 
 old home-work. 
 
 "It would grieve me much, my dear," he 
 said, "to see my work pass into other hands 
 than yours; so come, while I can still dele- 
 gate it, and complete what I must leave 
 unfinished. Here is honest work and hon- 
 est compensation, and pleasant neighbors, 
 and green fields, and fresh, restoring coun- 
 try air, waiting you do not disappoint 
 their welcome. And, if your aunt and you, 
 my dearest Clari, my beloved pupil and old 
 friend, can tolerate the whims and garru- 
 lous tempers of an old and lonely man, here 
 is a quiet cottage that will brighten afresh 
 in the sunshine of your presence." 
 
 That was a happy summer to Clarinda. 
 The rose stole back to her cheek, which had 
 paled in the close, confining city rooms ; her 
 eyes shone clear and bright as any child's. 
 Her old master listened, with a smile upon 
 his face, to the universal verdict acknowl- 
 edging her ability as his successor; and the 
 melody of her sweet young voice fell upon 
 his ear as she led the singing in the grey 
 old church, and awakened vague, tender 
 
112 BROKEN PROMISES 
 
 thoughts of other harmonies heaven might 
 grant him to listen to ere long. Ah, leal 
 and loving soul! for thee the future holds 
 no terror, no remorse. In the quiet paths 
 thou trod on earth, thy gentle influence has 
 blessed how many! Thy duties, never un- 
 fulfilled, have rebuked what faithless spir- 
 its! 
 
 Ah, here were no broken promises, no 
 trust forfeited. The quiet current of this 
 life had saved from sterile waste many a 
 hidden nook, and even when it passed 
 from earthly sight there were those who had 
 daily cause to bless its thoughtful and ten- 
 der beneficence. For when, that autumn, 
 death softly closed the fading, weary eyes 
 of the old music master, and released that 
 childlike spirit from the trammels of an in- 
 firm mortality, to the perennial youth for 
 which it yearned, Clarinda found herself 
 the heir of that quaint little cottage and 
 garden where she had met so warm a wel- 
 come months before, and of all the small 
 wealth of which her old friend died pos- 
 sessed. It seemed real wealth to her, for it 
 lifted herself and the aunt so dearly loved 
 at once and forever above the dreary strug- 
 gle "to make both ends meet," and, while 
 
BROKEN PROMISES . 113 
 
 the necessity for work was not removed, 
 the terror of lacking it was no longer pres- 
 ent; and a home no lodging but a real, 
 real home 'round which her heart entwined 
 its tendrils more closely every year; a trea- 
 sure passionately yearned for, but beyond 
 her hopes, was realized at last. 
 
 It may have been the contrast between 
 Mrs. Dillon's life and that of the one whose 
 last, lingering moments she had so lately 
 shared, that touched Clarinda with so keen 
 a sense of indignation and sorrow when her 
 fair friend, following her usual impulsive 
 fashion, made little Blossom her protege, 
 pro tern. These summer months, during 
 which Mrs. Dillon had fled to the country 
 to recuperate for the winter's dissipation, 
 were dull, no doubt, and she was glad of 
 any object, of however slight an interest, 
 which varied the monotony; while her pas- 
 sion for playing the generous and queenly 
 benefactress, and winning that half-ador- 
 ing gratitude which young hearts so read- 
 ily bestow, might find full scope in that se- 
 cluded spot. 
 
 * * * # 
 
 "What a lovely day you will have, Blos- 
 som!" said Isabel Maurice, awakening her 
 
114 BROKEN PROMT titiS 
 
 little sister on the morning of the promised 
 drive. 
 
 The child turned on her feverish pillow, 
 and opened her large, bright eyes, beaming 
 with delight; they lit up the wan little 
 face with too intense a glory, Bella 
 thought, pained, she scarce knew why; and 
 she sighed as she noticed how thin, how 
 very thin, the small arms were that an- 
 swered her caress. 
 
 "Mamma," she said that day, "do you 
 think Blossom is any worse than usual? 
 Somehow, I fancied this morning that she 
 looked more fevered and spent than be- 
 fore." 
 
 Mrs. Maurice's eyes filled with tears, and 
 Bella saw that she was much disquieted, 
 and questioned her no more; that strange 
 silence falling between them which tells 
 that each is conscious of, but unable to 
 shape into words, the other's dread. 
 
 Still, when the child was brought down 
 stairs, all flushed with the excitement of 
 the promised joy, mother and sisters for- 
 got their anxiety in her delight and amus- 
 ing impatience. 
 
 "Oughtn't you to dress me right away, 
 Jenny?" she said; "for, you know, may be 
 Mrs. Dillon will come very, very soon." 
 
BROKEN PROMISES 115 
 
 "Why, you little goose," laughed the in- 
 dulgent elder sister, "you don't suppose 
 Mrs. Dillon is as eager for a drive as you 
 are? But come, we won't risk any delay." 
 
 Alas, poor little Blossom! Nine o'clock 
 came ten eleven still no ring at the 
 door, no sound of wheels upon the road. 
 Bella came home from her weekly practic- 
 ing with Clari and others at the old church. 
 She found the trembling, expectant child 
 lying on her sofa by the window, straining 
 wistful eyes to catch a glimpse of the 
 wished-for carriage. 
 
 "Don't fret, dear," Bella said, cheeringly. 
 "Mrs Dillon may have been busy; she will 
 be sure to come this afternoon. There is 
 mamma calling us to dinner let me help 
 you. You know Mrs. Dillon can't come 
 now for an hour, so try and eat a little; and 
 then I will brush your hair out nice and 
 smooth oh, what a tangled Blossom you 
 are! and you will be all fresh and bright 
 when the carriage comes." Bancroft Librai? 
 
 "Oh, Bella," Blossom whispered eagerly, 
 "do you think she will come do you, 
 really? No one ever promised me a drive 
 before, and you can't think how I long for 
 it" 
 
116 ; BROKEN PROMISES 
 
 "Of course she will come, you foolish 
 little Blossom!" Bella answered confi- 
 dently, but her heart ached as she thought 
 how true the child's words were. All their 
 friends were in moderate circumstances, 
 like themselves, and much as many of them 
 might wish to bestow such a kindness, 
 much as Mrs. Maurice's own heart yearned 
 over her afflicted child, neither she nor they 
 dared afford the luxury of such indulgence. 
 So Blossom's visits to the outside world 
 were confined to a journey round the gar- 
 den, where, in fine weather, Bella would 
 wheel her gently for any rough motion 
 jarred her sensitive frame in a garden 
 chair, over the smooth walks. 
 
 Well, the day passed on, and hour by 
 hour hope faded out from the patient little 
 heart. The long, delicious summer twi- 
 light darkened to its close, and through the 
 evening quiet came the roll of wheels and 
 merry voices in laughter and talk; and Mrs. 
 Dillon's carriage swept past, filled with a 
 gay and elegant party of ladies and gentle- 
 men, loaded with fragrant treasures from 
 the flower show. 
 
 Blossom's cheek flushed and paled as she 
 watched them pass, and the soft summer 
 
BROKEN PROMISES 117 
 
 air carried wafts of faint perfume through 
 the open window. "Oh, dear," she sighed, 
 not petulantly, not complainingly, but with 
 such a pathos of disappointed trust; and 
 
 one large tear fell slowly down her cheek. 
 * * * 
 
 There were hurried footsteps that night 
 in Mrs. Maurice's chamber, and anxious 
 faces watching the delirious slumbers of 
 the childish sufferer. I know not whether 
 the crisis of those long years of pain and 
 trial had arrived before, or whether that 
 bitter pang of hope deferred had hurried on 
 the final hour. Poor Mrs. Maurice always 
 believed the latter to be the truth. Be it 
 as it may, no skill availed to save the faded 
 flower no cherishing love might bid the 
 blighted Blossom unfold her closing leaves. 
 
 Two days later, Mrs. Dillon, meeting 
 Clarinda, learned the story of the child's 
 illness. 
 
 "Poor little thing!" she exclaimed, really 
 shocked and pained by the sudden tid- 
 ings. "Is there no hope, Clari, of her re- 
 covery? I am so grieved more than I can 
 say to have failed in giving her that one 
 holiday; but really, I did not see how to 
 help it. My cousin had only arrived the 
 
118 BROKEN PROMISES 
 
 evening before, and a large party of friends 
 were asking my company for that one day 
 they must leave the next morning. I 
 fully intended taking Blossom out some 
 day this week, to make amends." 
 
 "I am very sorry," said Clarinda simply, 
 and could not help adding a little coldly, 
 "If you could have sent your maid to tell 
 Mrs. Maurice your change of plan, it might 
 have saved poor Blossom much needless 
 pain." 
 
 "But I never thought," plead Mrs. Dillon. 
 "I was so hurried; and a child's passing dis- 
 appointment seems a thing so easily rec- 
 tified." 
 
 "Yet it is a more serious pain than you 
 imagine," Clarinda said, constrained to 
 speak more plainly than her wont, "especi- 
 ally to a sensitive nature. You, to whom 
 a ride is a pleasure of daily occurrence, can 
 form no idea of the charm with which an 
 imaginative, delicate child invests the ful- 
 fillment of such a promise." 
 
 "You speak so gravely," answered Mrs. 
 Dillon. "You you judge me harshly, Cla- 
 rinda." 
 
 Her lips actually quivered, half with 
 wounded pride and feeling, half with 
 slowly awakening remorse. 
 
BROKEN PROMISES 119 
 
 "If I felt as you do, I should never dare 
 to promise anything, for fear of possible 
 failure in keeping my word." 
 
 "I did not mean to hurt you," Clari said 
 gently; "but, indeed, I only spoke what I 
 know to be truth, and very often, believe 
 me, less evil is wrought by promises un- 
 made than by promises made and broken." 
 
 She was too wise and too kind to linger 
 longer to dispute the point, and, with a hur- 
 ried "good morning," hastened away. 
 
 Mrs. Dillon gazed after her, her eyes full 
 of vexed and angry tears, astonished to find 
 herself at all reproved by another. Indeed, 
 Clarinda, however her quiet manner might 
 reveal disapprobation, had always deli- 
 cately refrained from interfering in any 
 way with Mrs. Dillon's bestowal, or non- 
 bestowal, of kindness, no matter how obvi- 
 ously the passing of opinion might be 
 thrust upon her. But here, her aunt's old 
 friendship for Mrs. Maurice, her own fond 
 affection for all the family, seemed to just- 
 ify her in speaking more plainly her 
 thought. Yet she did it, not in any heat of 
 resentment perhaps with indignation, 
 but with bitter pain and reluctance, too. 
 
 "I have lost her friendship forever," she 
 
120 BROKEN PROMISES 
 
 murmured, as she turned away, "forever! 
 and I loved her dearly, too! But how 
 could I say less?" 
 
 That afternoon, Mrs. Dillon's servant 
 left at Mrs. Maurice's door the loveliest 
 bouquet that tasteful hands had ever 
 gathered, and a basket of the rarest white 
 grapes from the clustering vines of the hot- 
 house. 
 
 "With Mrs. Dillon's compliments; and 
 she begged to know if the little girl was 
 better." 
 
 She had not been able, from very shame, 
 to come herself to make the inquiry. She 
 was astonished at the tumult of thought 
 and feeling which that talk with Clari had 
 awakened; and tried vainly to dull the edge 
 of her regrets by offerings like these. 
 
 "No better, thank you," Jenny answered 
 the maid, with quiet sadness; and sent 
 their acknowledgments for Mrs. Dillon's 
 kindness. 
 
 "I wonder you took the things!" poor, 
 impulsive, broken-hearted Bella said, an- 
 grily, as Jenny closed the door. "We do not 
 want her presents now. I hate her gra- 
 cious ways I hate her!" She broke down 
 in smothered sobbings. 
 
BROKEN PROMISES 121 
 
 "Bella Bella! don't dear!" Jenny whis- 
 pered. "She has done wrong, I own, not to 
 send us word; but may be she has excuse 
 for her neglect, and is sorry now oh, she 
 may well be sorry! And poor little Blos- 
 som I thought the fruit and flowers might 
 amuse her, and do some good." 
 
 She carried them softly into the sick- 
 room. The delirium was over now; the 
 large eyes looked out clearly and intelli- 
 gently from the pallid, pallid face; the 
 small, thin hands lay nerveless on the cov- 
 erlet; her smile still answered theirs again; 
 her faint voice spoke to them; her trem- 
 bling lips repeated their caress, and yet, 
 they knew there was no hope no hope! 
 Oh, hope for thee, sweet Blossom! that soon 
 thou shalt have passed to the tender arms 
 of Him who suffers little children, and for- 
 bids them not, the heaven of His presence, 
 where pain and weariness are known no 
 more forever. 
 
 "See what Mrs. Dillon has sent you, dar- 
 ling!" Jenny said softly, bending over the 
 bed. "Try and taste some of these nice 
 cool grapes; and look, what beautiful flow- 
 ers! She is so sorry she could not come for 
 you, that day; but may be, when you are 
 well again " 
 
122 BROKEN PROMISES 
 
 "When I am well again/' the child re- 
 peated, toying absently with the gifts 
 "when I am well again!" And she fixed 
 her wistful gaze upon her sister's face. 
 Jenny could not bear that mute interroga- 
 tion, and turned her head aside. 
 
 That night the struggle ended, and the 
 peace of death fell upon the fragile frame 
 so long tortured by the anguish of disease. 
 The morning light revealed to Mrs. Dillon, 
 standing at her chamber window, the long 
 streamer of white crape fluttering from the 
 window far down across the street. She 
 felt a sudden heart convulsion as she 
 looked; and some old words she had long 
 forgotten came into her mind unbidden: 
 "Let your yea be yea, and your nay nay, for 
 whatsoever is more than these cometh of 
 evil." And something whispered to her 
 awakened consciousness, "Aye, and what- 
 soever is less than these comes it not of 
 evil, too? For what thy hand findeth to 
 do, that do not carelessly, not indiffer- 
 ently but with thy might; for the night 
 draws on." 
 
 A few hours later, she stood where Mrs. 
 Maurice watched beside her child. She 
 stammered some words of wonted sympa- 
 
BROKEN PROMISES 123 
 
 thy, some phrases of condolence; then rais- 
 ing the lid of the basket on her arm, re- 
 vealed what treasures of snowy roses, 
 of pure lilies of the valley, heart's-ease, vio- 
 lets, all that might image forth the inno- 
 cent young life whose earthly bloom was 
 ended. 
 
 "Please allow me," she began, with deft 
 hand beginning to remove her tribute from 
 its basket. But Mrs. Maurice, with a sud- 
 den, imperative, gentle movement, arrested 
 her. 
 
 "Pardon me," she said, "but I could not 
 bear it." 
 
 She thought of that crystal tear on the 
 cheek of her poor, patient darling; and 
 turned away, with loathing almost, from 
 all that largesse of fragrant loveliness 
 brought to deck her bier. 
 
 These last few days had revealed many 
 strange phases of thought and feeling to 
 Mrs. Dillon. The grief of a child had 
 seemed a trifling matter to be considered, 
 if nothing more important hindered. It 
 had suddenly assumed a dignity, an an- 
 guish of its own as real as those of graver 
 troubles. And now she saw that older 
 hearts might be struck through and 
 
124 BROKEN PROMISES 
 
 4 
 
 through with cruel pain by that same 
 childish grief which she had slighted so of- 
 ten ah, how often! The mother's sorrow, 
 the gentleness of her implied reproach, 
 touched and awed her; her whole life rose 
 up suddenly before her, in all its false dis- 
 guise of counterfeit tenderness and charity 
 for others; the retrospect shocked and 
 startled her. With a sudden impulse, she 
 kissed Mrs. Maurice's hand; a tear fell on 
 it a mute petition for pardon, a mute wit- 
 ness of her new resolve. Then she was 
 gone. 
 
 "God help me!" she said humbly, as she 
 went out "God help me!" 
 
 Was it the first time she had invoked 
 such help, in all the days so full of self-ap- 
 plause, in all her endeavor to gain the 
 praise of others? 
 
 I know not if her life redeemed its 
 broken promise, through coming years; we 
 leave her with those words, so fit for falter- 
 ing mortal tongue, upon her lips and in her 
 heart and are they not a prophecy and a 
 pledge for all her future?