GROWITSG UP
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 Xow, Joe, drop Doodles," 
 jutchen stairs." Page 108. 
 
 AUI,I Affy, "aad follow me up these 
 Growing C7p,
 
 GROWING UP 
 
 A Story of the Girlhood of 
 
 JUDITH MACKENZIE 
 
 By JENNIE M. DRINKWATER 
 
 T 'Each year grows more sacred 
 with wondering expectation." 
 Phillips Brooks. 
 
 A. L. BURT COMPANY, 
 PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK.
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1894, 
 
 BY A. I. BBADLBY & Co.
 
 PS 
 1351 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGS. 
 
 I. THE HORN BOOK 5 
 
 II. SQUAEE ROOT AND OTHER THINGS ... 27 
 
 III. WAS THIS THE END ? 37 
 
 IV. BENSALEM 45 
 
 V. DAILY BREAD AND DAILY WILL ... 68 
 
 VI. THE BEST THING IN THE WORLD ... 66 
 
 VII. A SMALL DISCIPLE 73 
 
 Vin. THIS WAY OR THAT WAY ? .... 88 
 
 IX. THE FLOWERS THAT CAME TO THE WELL . 104 
 
 X. THE LAST APPLE Ill 
 
 XL How JEAN HAD AN OUTING .... 116 
 
 XII. A SECRET ERRAND 127 
 
 XHI. THE Two BLESSED THINGS .... 135 
 
 XIV. AN AFTERNOON WITH AN ADVENTURE IN IT . 144 
 
 XV. " FIRST AT ANTIOCH " 169 
 
 XVI. AUNT AFFY'S EXPERIENCE .... 168 
 
 XVII. THE STORY OF A KEY 185 
 
 XVIII. JUDITH'S TURNING POINT .... 209 
 
 XIX. A MORNING WITH A SURPRISE IN IT . . 222 
 
 XX. JUDITH'S AFTERNOON 235 
 
 XXI. MARIAN'S AFTERNOON 256 
 
 XXII. AUNT AFFY'S EVENING ..... 268 
 
 XXHI. VOICES . . 278 
 
 1644076
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 XXIV. "I ALWAYS THOUGHT You CARED" 
 
 XXV. COUSIN DON 
 
 XXVI. AUNT AFFT'S FAITH AND JUDITH'S FOREIGN 
 
 LETTER . . 
 
 XXVII. His VERY BEST 
 
 XXVHI. A NEW ANXIETY . 
 
 XXIX. JUDITH'S FUTURE . 
 
 XXX. A TALK AND WHAT CAME OF IT 
 
 XXXI. ABOUT WOMEN 
 
 XXXII. AUNT AFFY'S PICTURE . 
 
 XXXIII. NETTIE'S OUTING . 
 
 XXXIV. "SENSATIONS" 
 
 9AQ&. 
 
 291 
 306 
 
 310 
 322 
 334 
 342 
 360 
 372 
 392 
 399 
 408
 
 GROWING UP. 
 
 THE HORN BOOK. 
 
 " I remember the lessons of childhood, you see, 
 
 And the horn book I learned on my poor mother's knee. 
 
 In truth, I suspect little else do we learn 
 
 From this great book of life, which so shrewdly we turn, 
 
 Saving how to apply, with a good or bad grace, 
 
 What we learned in the horn book of childhood." 
 
 OWEN MEREDITH. 
 
 JUDITH'S mother sat in her invalid chair before 
 the grate ; she looked very pretty to Judith with 
 her hair -curling back from her face, and the color 
 of her eyes and cheeks brought out by the becoming 
 wrapper; the firelight shone upon the mother; 
 the fading light in the west shone upon the girl in 
 the bay-window, the yellow head, the blue shoulders 
 bant over the letter she was writing. 
 
 " Judith, come and tell me pictures." 
 
 $
 
 6 GROWING UP. 
 
 About five o'clock in the afternoon, her mother's 
 weariest-time, Judith often told her mother pictures. 
 
 The picture-telling began when Judith was a 
 little girl; one afternoon she said: "Mother, I'll 
 tell you a picture ; shut your eyes." 
 
 It was in this very room ; her mother leaned back 
 in her wheel-chair, lifted her feet to the fender, 
 shut her eyes, and small seven-year-old " told " her 
 " picture." 
 
 Telling pictures had been the amusement of the 
 one, and the rest of the other, many, many weary 
 times since. 
 
 As the child grew, her pictures grew. 
 
 " Yes, mother," said the girl in the bay window, 
 "I've just finished my letter; I've written Aunt 
 Affy the longest letter and told her all you said." 
 
 " Read it to me, please ? " 
 
 Standing near the window to catch the light, 
 Judith read aloud the letter. 
 
 At times it was quaint and unchildish ; then, for 
 getting herself, Judith had run on with her ready 
 pen, and, with pretty phrases, told Aunt Affy the 
 exciting events in her own life, and the quiet story 
 of her mother's days.
 
 TBB HORN BOOK. 7 
 
 **We are coming as soon as spring comes," she 
 ended, "mother is coming to get strong, and I am 
 coming to help you and learn about your village. 
 Beautiful Bensalem. Mother says I am learning 
 the lessons taught out of school ; but how I would 
 like to go to school with Jean Draper in your big, 
 queer school-room." As she turned towards her 
 mother, the firelight and the light in her face were 
 all the lights in the room. 
 
 The home of these two people was in two rooms ; 
 one was the kitchen, the other was bed-room, school 
 room, parlor. It was a month since her mother 
 had walked through the two rooms ; several times a 
 day Judith pushed the wheel-chair through the 
 rooms. She called these times her mother's excur 
 sions. Last winter her mother wiped dishes, sewed 
 a little, and once she made cake ; this winter she 
 had done little besides teach Judith. The child 
 was such an apt scholar that her mother said she 
 needed no teacher she always taught herself. 
 
 Judith loved housekeeping; she loved everything 
 she had to do, she loved everything she was growing 
 up to do ; her mother she loved best of all 
 
 She lived all day long in a very busy world; the 
 pictures helped fill it,
 
 8 GROWING UP. 
 
 " Now, mother, shut your eyes," she began, glee 
 fully. 
 
 The eyes shut themselves, the restless hands held 
 themselves still; there would not be many more 
 weary days, but Judith did not know that. 
 
 Judith waited a moment until she could think. 
 
 " Mother, how do pictures come ? " 
 
 " Bring me that paper Don brought last night; I 
 saw something to show you, then forgot it." 
 
 Her mother turned the leaves of the paper and 
 indicated the paragraph with her finger. Judith 
 read it aloud: 
 
 "Some years ago I chanced to meet Sir Noel 
 Paton on the shores of a beautiful Scottish loch, all 
 alone, with an open Bible in his hand. He put his 
 finger between his pages, as he rose to greet me, and 
 still kept it there as we talked. Supposing he might 
 be devoting a quiet hour to devotional reading in 
 the secluded spot, I made no remark on the nature 
 of his studies ; but after a few minutes he observed, 
 with a glance downwards, ' You see, I am getting a 
 new picture.' He then proceeded to explain that it 
 was his habit, before settling down to his winter's 
 work, to walk about in the neighborhood of his
 
 THE HORN BOOK. 9 
 
 summer residence, wherever that might be, with his 
 Bible in his hand, seeking for an inspiration. Some 
 times the inspiration came almost immediately; at 
 others, he was weeks before he could please himself. 
 The following spring appeared ' The Good Shepherd/ 
 one of the finest of his works." 
 
 Her mother made no remark; she often waited 
 for Judith's thought. 
 
 " I think Aunt Affy sees things through the Bible, 
 mother," said Judith, speaking her first thought 
 
 "I know she does." 
 
 " I see a face," began the picture-teller, dropping 
 down on the rug, and resting her head against the 
 padded arm of the chair. 
 
 "You love faces," was the quick response. 
 
 "And voices, and hands, and hair. This face I 
 see is a good face but, then, I do not often see 
 ugly faces the eyes tell the truth, the lips tell the 
 truth; perhaps it isn't a handsome face; the fore- 
 iiead is low, rather square, the eye-brows dark and 
 heavy ; the eyes underneath are a kind of grayish 
 blue, riot Hue blue, like mine, and they are looking 
 at me very seriously ; the nose is quite a large nose, 
 and the mouth large, too, with such splendid teeth;
 
 10 GROWING UP. 
 
 the upper lip is smooth, and the cheeks and chin all 
 shaven; the hair is blackest black; now the eyes 
 smile, and it looks like another face ; I do not know 
 which face I like better. What is the name of my 
 picture?" 
 
 "Strong and true." 
 
 "That is a good name," said the picture-teller, 
 satisfied, " and who is it ? " 
 
 " Our dear Cousin Don," was the reply with loving 
 intonation. 
 
 "You always guess." 
 
 "Because your pictures are so true. I like to 
 look at people and places through your eyes." 
 
 Judith smiled, and looking a moment into the 
 fire, began again : " A fence, an old fence, and a ter 
 race, not green, but rather dried up, then a lawn, 
 with a horse-chestnut, a big, big horse-chestnut tree 
 on each side the brick path, and then up three steps 
 to a long piazza : the house is painted white, with 
 white shutters instead of blinds, and there are three 
 dormer windows in the roof; these windows make 
 the third story. I wish I could see inside, but I 
 never did. Perhaps I shall some day. ' Some day* 
 is my fairyland, and may you be there to see. That
 
 THE HORN BOOK. 11 
 
 day Cousin Don came to take me walking he took 
 me past the place ; he said some day when you could 
 spare me longer he would take me in, he wanted me 
 to see the brown girl who lives there; but there 
 she stood on the piazza, the door was open and she 
 was going in; she was a brown girl, all in brown 
 with a brown hat and brown feathor ; a brown face 
 too I love browns ; she happened to turn and she 
 tossed a laugh down to Cousin Don. It was a pretty 
 laugh, with something in it I didn't understand ; it 
 was a laugh that didn't tell everything. 
 I told Don so. He said : ' Nonsense !' I don't know 
 what he meant." 
 
 " That was Marian Kenney, and the old house on 
 Summer Avenue," guessed Judith's mother, who 
 knew the story of the brown girl from Don's en 
 thusiastic recitals. 
 
 Her mother's voice was more rested ; Judith pon 
 dered again. 
 
 " That was a city picture ; this is a country pic 
 ture. It is the beautiful, beautiful country, even if 
 the grass is dead, and the trees bare; it is the 
 February country in New Jersey ; there are clouds, 
 and clouds, aud clouds overhead; and a* brook with
 
 12 GROWING UP. 
 
 the sun shining on it, and a bridge with a stone waH 
 on each side, a little bit of a stone wall, and stone 
 arches where the water flows through; perhaps it 
 rushes because the snow is melting so fast ; there's 
 a garden with no flowers in t yet, but there are 
 flower stalks, and bushes, and bushes; and a path 
 up to the kitchen door, for the garden is down in a 
 hollow ; the kitchen shines, it is so clean, and smells, 
 oh, how it does smell of graham bread, and hot mo 
 lasses cake, and cup custards, and apple pie but 
 we can't smell in a picture," she laughed. 
 
 " I can in your pictures," said her mother, echo 
 ing the laugh very softly. 
 
 " And the dearest old sitting-room Aunt Rody 
 will call it ' the room ' as if it were the only room in 
 the house ; there's a rag carpet on the floor Aunt 
 Eody dotes on rag carpets ; so would I if it were not 
 for the endless sewing of the rags and there's a chair 
 with rockers, and on the top of the back of it a 
 gilded house and trees almost rubbed off, and on the 
 back a calico cushion tied on with red dress braid, 
 and a calico cushion in the bottom, and the dearest 
 old lady sils in it and sews, and talks, and reads the 
 i'iil'i-3 and the magazines; there's a chair without
 
 THE HORN BOOK. 13 
 
 rockers for the old lady who never rocks or does easy 
 pleasant things, and hates it when other people, es 
 pecially little girls, do any easy pleasant thing; and 
 there's another chair, like an office chair, with a leather 
 cushion for the dear old man with a rosy face like 
 a rosy apple, and a bald head on the top, and long 
 white whiskers that he keeps so nice they shine like 
 silver, and make you never mind when he wants to 
 kiss you; and there's a high mantel with a whole 
 world of curious things on it that came out of a hun 
 dred years ago, and a lounge with a shaggy dog on 
 a cushion on one end of it how Aunt Eody lets 
 him is a wonder to me and a round table with 
 piles of the 'New York Observer' on it. And just 
 now the sweetest lady in the world in her wine- 
 colored wrapper is lying on the lounge and the little 
 girl in blue is flying about helping Aunt Affy and 
 Aunt Eody get supper 0, mother," with a break 
 in her voice, " how I ache to get you there and take 
 care of you there ; Cousin Don says it is the best 
 place in the world for you and me, we would grow 
 fresh and green and send out oxygen like all the 
 green things in Bensalem. I think I'd like to grow 
 green and send out oxygen.'*
 
 14 GROWING UP. 
 
 " Judith, you and I are always in the best place 
 for us." 
 
 " Then," said Judith, laughing, " I'd like a place 
 not quite so good for us only just as good as Ben- 
 salem." 
 
 "When I was a little girl, thirty years ago, the 
 room was just the same, only Doodles was another 
 Doodles, and Aunt Affy's curls were not grey, and 
 Uncle Cephas was not hald or white his whiskers 
 were red then, and he was there off and on and 
 the other aunties came and went and Aunt Becky 
 died the friskiest Aunt Becky that ever lived. I 
 want my little girl to grow up in the dear old house, 
 with not a stain of the world upon her ; I want to 
 think of my little girl there with Uncle Cephas and 
 Aunt Affy." 
 
 Judith understood ; her mother had told her she 
 would be there without her mother ; but that was 
 to be years hence sorrow was a long, long way off 
 to-night to the girl who must hope or her heart 
 would break; she brought her mother's fingers to 
 her lips and kissed them; she did not worry he? 
 mother now-a-days even by kissing her lips or hair. 
 
 Cousin Don said to her that afternoon he took
 
 THE HORN BOOK. 15 
 
 her to walk that she must not hang over her mother, 
 or kiss the life out of her, and above all, never cry 
 or moan when she talked about leaving her " alone." 
 " Nothing makes her so strong as to see you brave," 
 he said, watching the effect of his caution upon her 
 listening face. 
 
 She had tried to be brave ever since. 
 
 "You can make pictures and see me there, 
 mother," she said brightly, with a catch in her 
 breath. 
 
 " I do when I lie awake in the night, and give 
 thanks." 
 
 " Tell me over again about when you were a little 
 girl, there," she coaxed. 
 
 Over and over again she had listened to the ever- 
 new story of her mother's childhood and youth in 
 Bensalem ; Aunt Body was the dragon, Aunt Affy 
 the angel, Uncle Cephas a helper in every difficulty, 
 and all the village a world where something strange 
 and fascinating was always happening. 
 
 "It was a very happy home for me when my 
 father died and my mother took me there ; she died 
 before I was twelve ; and then twelve years I was 
 Aunt Affy*s girl; then your father took me away,"
 
 16 GROWING UP. 
 
 her mother said with the memory oi the years in 
 her voice and eyes. 
 
 * I wonder if somebody will come and take me 
 away, or whether I shall stay forever and ever like 
 Aunt Affy and Aunt Body," Judith wondered in her 
 expectant voice. 
 
 " If somebody comes if our Father in Heaven 
 sends somebody as good and gentle and wise as your 
 own father, I shall be glad of it up in Heaven, I 
 think. You do not remember your father; in his 
 picture he is like Don Don is your father's 
 brother's son ; your fathers were much alike. Your 
 father was only a clerk, his salary was never large ; 
 Don's father was a business man, he died rich and 
 left his only son a fortune ; but your father and I 
 never longed for money Don has always given 
 me money as his father did ; he said you and I had 
 a right to it. It has never been hard to take money 
 from Don he will be always kind to you; he 
 thinks he has a right to you ; you are the only 
 children of the two brothers ; they were only two 
 they never had a sister. Now you know all 
 about your ancestry on both sides, I think; your 
 grandfather and grandmother Mackenzie were born
 
 THE HORN BOOK. 17 
 
 in Scotland ; they died before you were born. Aunt 
 Affy will be always telling you about the 'Sparrow 
 girls.' My mother was a Sparrow girl. Just a 
 year ago we were in that dear old home." 
 
 " I was twelve then I had my birthday there ; 
 perhaps I shall have another birthday there in ApriL 
 Aunt Affy wants us to come so much. I can take 
 better care of you now because I am older and I 
 must not have lessons to make you tired ; we will 
 have a long vacation ; I will only write poems for 
 you and you needn't even take the trouble to make 
 the measure right. Aunt Rody said I was a silly 
 baby to be always hanging about you; but she will 
 see how I have grown up. Don says I am a little 
 woman. Now I'll tell you a picture. Shut your 
 eyes, again." 
 
 The tear-blinded eyes were shut again; Judith 
 had been looking into the fire as she talked; she 
 was afraid to look up into her mother's eyes. It 
 was being brave to look into the fire. 
 
 " I see a room up-stairs, a room with a slanting 
 roof and only one window ; the window looks down 
 into the garden ; it has a green paper shade tied up 
 with a cord; there is a strip of rag-carpet before
 
 18 GROWING UP. 
 
 the bed, that is all the carpet there is ; and there's 
 a funny old wash-stand with a blue bowl sunk 
 down into a hole on the top, and a towel on the 
 rail of the wash-stand with a red border in winter 
 a pipe conies up in the stove-pipe hole from the 
 big stove in the sitting-room, but there's ice in the 
 pitcher very often ; there's a bureau with a cracked 
 looking-glass on the top, an old bureau, everything 
 is old but the little girl kneeling on the rag-carpet 
 rug beside the bed, with her head on the red and 
 white quilt, saying her prayers. That little girl is 
 you, mother, a sweet, obedient little girl, that hasn't 
 a will of her own, and tempers, and tantrums like 
 me." 
 
 " I like to think that sweet little girl is you." 
 
 "Then it is me; I've grown sweet in a hurry," 
 Judith laughed, "and left all my tempers and tan 
 trums far behind." 
 
 "There's another T to go with them tempta 
 tions through which you grow strong." 
 
 Not seeming to heed, but in reality holding her 
 mother's thought in her heart Judith ran merrily 
 on : "And I see a church, with a little green in front,, 
 and posts to hitch the horses, the two church doors
 
 THE HORN BOOK. 19 
 
 are wide open, for in the picture it is Sunday morn 
 ing ; Aunt Eody is in the head of a pew in the body 
 of the church, and Aunt Affy sits next, and Uncle 
 Cephas is next the door, and there's a girl between 
 Aunt Affy and Uncle Cephas, a girl fifteen years old 
 and her hair is braided, not in long, babyish 
 curls " 
 
 " Oh, my little girl, wear your curls as long as you 
 can, because mother loves them," her mother urged, 
 bending forward to touch the soft, bright hair. 
 
 " Then her hair is curled, and she is trying to be 
 good and listen. Perhaps she likes sermons she 
 looks so- in the picture the sermon is like the 
 Bible stories you tell me when we read together 
 I wish ministers told Bible stories. And there's the 
 sweetest singing; it is like Marian Kenney's sing 
 ing ; she sings like a bird, Don says ; there are girls 
 and boys all over the church, for the minister in the 
 picture knows how to tell Bible stories to boys and 
 girls and make them as real as the people and 
 things in Summer Avenue and Bensalem; just as 
 naughty and just as good. Jean Draper is there 
 in the pew behind me. Why, mother," bringing 
 herself back to the present and turning to look into
 
 20 GROWING UP. 
 
 her mother's face, * Jean Draper was never in the 
 steam cars, or on a ferry-boat in all her life she 
 has never been in New York or any where, only to 
 Dunellen, v/hich they call 'town,' and she walks 
 there, or rides with her father. She wants to go 
 somewhere as much as I want to go to boarding- 
 school. It's the dream of her life, as boarding-school 
 is my dream." 
 
 " Aunt Afl'y and Cousin Don will decide about 
 boarding-school. Cousin Don and I have talked 
 about it, and I will tell Aunt Affy what I think 
 about it," her mother decided with an unusual touch 
 of firmness. 
 
 " But I wouldn't leave you, mother, for all the 
 boarding-schools in the world." 
 
 " And I wouldn't let you for all the schools in the 
 world." 
 
 " Well, it's only a dream, like Jean Draper's out 
 ing. You like pictures better than dreams. I think 
 Don's friend, Roger Kenney, is the minister in the pul 
 pit ; Don said he had preached there almost all win 
 ter, coming home every Tuesday Monday he visits 
 the people. Don is sure Bensalem will give him a 
 call Uncle Cephas likes him so much, and Uncle
 
 THE HORN BOOK. 21 
 
 Cephas is an elder. Now, here's another picture: 
 on the same side of the street as the church, with 
 only the church-yard and the locust grove between, 
 it is the dear, dainty Queen Anne parsonage only 
 two years old, and so new and pretty ; Jean Draper 
 went with me through it there was nobody there 
 then and nobody has lived there all this year; 
 there's a furnace in the cellar like a city house, and 
 a bay-window in the study, and a pretty hall 
 with stained-glass windows, and a cunning kitchen, 
 a cunning sitting-room, and sliding doors into the 
 parlor, and a piazza in the front, and at the side 
 and out every window is the beautiful country. I 
 hope I may go again. Mother, you like this pic 
 ture ? " she asked earnestly. " that house is another 
 dream of mine. 0, mother," with a comical little 
 cry, "I'm so full of dreams, I'm full to bursting." 
 
 "I like that picture. I like to think of Don's 
 friend there living a strong life ; he has no worldly 
 ambition. Don says it has been wholly rooted out 
 of him. He was very fine in college, working be 
 yond his strength eaten up with ambition. Then 
 he had an experience ; Don said the fountains of the 
 great deep were broken up in him, and he came out
 
 22 GROWING UP. 
 
 of it another man as humble and teachable as 
 any child. Don is afraid he will go there and be 
 satisfied to stay." 
 
 "Now, here's another face," said Judith, with a 
 new reverence for Don's friend : " brown eyes, and a 
 brown curly beard, and a brown head, with laughing 
 eyes, unless he is talking about grave things he 
 doesn't make you afraid to be good, but to love to. 
 Still, I am so afraid he will talk to me some day and 
 ask me questions; I don't know how to answer 
 questions. Now, you know, I mean Don's friend, 
 Mr. Kenney." 
 
 " Your pictures are very cheery. I hope you may 
 tell some to poor old Aunt Rody." 
 
 " I shall never dare. She snaps at me. She shuts 
 me up and makes me forget what I want to say. 
 Her eyes go through me. I don't love Aunt Rody ; 
 I don't want to love Aunt Rody. She doesn't like 
 baby girls," contended Judith, shaking her yellow 
 head. " She doesn't like me and Doodles. We are 
 shaggy and a nuisance." 
 
 " You will not always stay a baby girl." 
 
 " No ; I want to grow up faster ; I wish I might 
 braid my hair. I want to write books and paint
 
 THE HORN BOOK. 23 
 
 real pictures on canvas to earn money to take you 
 to Switzerland. I'm sure you would get well in 
 Switzerland. I see the pictures I would paint, and 
 I think the books; but I am so slow about it. 
 Sweeping, and washing dishes, and doing errands, 
 do not help at all," she said with a laugh that had 
 no discouragement in it. 
 
 " They all help. Every obedient thing helps. 
 You must grow up to your book and your picture ; 
 living a sweet, joyous, truthful, obedient life is grow 
 ing up to it. The best books and the best pictures 
 are the expression of the truest and sweetest life ; 
 the strongest and wisest life; am I talking over 
 your head, dear? 
 
 " No," laughed Judith, " down into my heart." 
 " My little girl has been her mother's companion 
 all these years ; I fear I sometimes forget that you 
 are only a little girl. But if you have grown old, 
 you will grow young. I wish I could find a girl 
 friend for you. But God knows all the girls in the 
 world, and he will find one for you. If my daughter 
 remembers all her life but one truth her mother 
 ever said to her, I hope it may be this : The true 
 life is the life hid with Christ ; no other life is life,
 
 24 GROWING UP. 
 
 it is playing at life ; this life is safe, still, hidden 
 away, growing stronger every day; the expression 
 of it, the making it speak he will take care of every 
 hour of the day. You cannot understand this now 
 my words tell you so little, but they will come 
 back to you." 
 
 "I will write it down," promised Judith, who 
 loved to write things down, " and date it February 
 fifteenth. Told in the Firelight. I know what it 
 means better than I can say it. I often know what 
 things mean, but I cannot say it." 
 
 "Any more pictures?" suggested her mother, in a 
 voice as bright as Judith's own. 
 
 "An old face with pink cheeks and a long grey 
 curl behind each ear, the softest step and the kindest 
 voice but I always forget and put sounds in my 
 pictures. Those sounds are always in my picture of 
 AuntAffy." 
 
 " You have not made a picture of Aunt Rody." 
 
 " I don't like to tell a picture of Aunt Rody. She 
 is so old, so old and she isn't happy and I don't 
 believe she's good. If it were not for Aunt Rody I 
 should think all old people were good; that all you 
 had to do to be good was to grow up and grow old."
 
 THE HORN BOOK. 25 
 
 '* She is not happy. Once, years and years ago, 
 so long ago that almost everybody has forgotten, 
 she had a bitter disappointment." 
 
 "What was it about, mother?" asked the girl, 
 who always wove a love-story into the stories she 
 planned as she stepped about the kitchen, or darned 
 and mended the household wear. 
 
 " She was ready to be married she learned that 
 the man she loved and Aunt Rody could love in 
 those days was a very, very bad man ; he deceived 
 her; it did not break her heart, or soften it; it 
 made it hard. Unless we forgive, our hearts grow 
 hard ; she could not forgive ; she has said that she 
 does not know how to forgive. Only in forgiving 
 do our hearts grow like God's heart. He is always 
 forgiving." 
 
 " I forgave somebody once," remembered Judith ; 
 ''mother," with a start, " I do not always forgive Aunt 
 Rody when she is ugly to me ; if I do not will I 
 have a hard heart ? " 
 
 "Yes. That spot toward Aunt Rody will grow 
 harder and harder. You cannot love God with the 
 part of your heart that does not forgive." 
 
 "Oh, deary me" groaned Judith, springing up.
 
 26 GROWING UP. 
 
 " Will you like milk-toast to-night ? And prunei ? 
 Don says I know how to cook prunes." 
 
 " Perhaps he will come to supper." 
 
 " Then he must have a chop. Mother, I like to 
 keep house. It's easy. It's easier than forgiving," 
 she said, with her merry little laugh, and a deep- 
 down heartache.
 
 SQUARE BOOT AND OTHER THINGS. 2T 
 
 n. 
 
 SQUARE ROOT AND OTHER THINGS. 
 
 " Let never day or night unhallowed pass; 
 But still remember what the Lord hath done." 
 
 SHAKESPEABE. 
 
 " JUDITH, would you like to go up to Lottie's room 
 for an hour ? " 
 
 Judith's mother was still sitting before the grate 
 with her feet lifted to the fender ; the tall figure of 
 Donald Mackenzie stood behind the wheel chair, 
 bending, with his folded arms upon the back of the 
 chair. 
 
 " Yes, mother," replied the voice from the kitchen, 
 a busy, pre-occupied voice. 
 
 Don had wiped the dishes for her, brought up 
 coal, taken down ashes, and declared that his three 
 chops were the finest he had ever eaten. 
 
 " Lottie and her books just went up," said Judith 
 standing in the door-way, and untying her kitchen 
 apron. a Don, will you call me when you go ? "
 
 28 GROWING UP. 
 
 " Yes, Bluebird ; I can stay but an hour ; I have 
 to call for Miss Marian ; she has gone to a King's 
 Daughters' meeting, and I told her I would stop on 
 my way home ; I have to pass the house," he ex 
 plained in reply to an impatient movement in the 
 wheel chair. Judith went out softly and ran lightly 
 up the stairway. 
 
 "Aunt Hilda," began the penitent voice above 
 Aunt Hilda's head, " I have come to confess." 
 
 " Don, I wish I had warned you." 
 
 " Why didn't you ? " he asked, miserably. 
 
 " Because I thought you had common sense." 
 
 " It is a case of common sense." 
 
 Judith's fingers tapped lightly on the third story 
 door. 
 
 "Come in," called a girlish voice. 
 
 " Are you studying ? May I stay and study too ? " 
 
 " You are always ahead of me," grumbled Lottie. 
 
 " Because I take longer lessons, and mother has 
 no one else to teach. But she was tired to-day, and 
 I couldn't ask her about that dreadful thing in 
 square root. Did you find out ? " 
 
 " Yes, and it's as easy as mud." 
 
 Both girls laughed.
 
 SQUARE BOOT AND OTHER THINGS. 
 
 " Bensalem mud isn't easy ; you think you are 
 going through to China every spring when the roads 
 are bad." 
 
 Judith had brought her pencil and pad ; for half 
 an hour the girls put their heads together over 
 square root ; then Lottie Kindare threw her book 
 across the small room to the bed. 
 
 "Judith, I know something new to tell you; 
 Grace Marvin told me to-day at recess, and once it 
 came true. I'll show you." 
 
 On the lowest shelf of the little book-case Lottie 
 found her Bible ; it was dusty, but she did not no 
 tice that. 
 
 With their chairs very near together, the Bible in 
 Lottie's lap, the girls sat silent a moment ; Judith's 
 luminous eyes were filled with expectation. 
 
 " Now wish for what you want most," commanded 
 Lottie, impressively. 
 
 " I wish most of all for mother to be strong enough 
 to go to Bensalem with Aunt Affy when she comes 
 next week." 
 
 Lottie colored and looked uncomfortable; this 
 evening before she came up stairs, her mother had 
 told her that the doctor had stopped down stairs to
 
 30 GROWING UP. 
 
 say that Mrs. Mackenzie must be urged to make no 
 effort to go into the country ; it was too late. 
 
 "Not that; something else," said Lottie, impa 
 tiently, " not such a serious thing." 
 
 " But I want that most," said Judith, piteously. 
 
 " Then choose what you want second." 
 
 " Then I want second to go to boarding-schcoL 
 
 " That's good," exclaimed Lottie relieved, " now, 
 shut your eyes and open the Bible and put your fin 
 ger down, and if it touches: ' And it came to pass,' 
 it will come to pass." 
 
 "How queer," said Judith delighted, "what an 
 easy way to find out things. I wish I had known 
 it before." 
 
 " So do I, for then I might have known that I 
 couldn't have had a navy blue silk for Christmas ; 
 and I hoped for it until the very day." 
 
 Without any misgiving, Judith closed her eyes 
 and opened the Bible ; her heart beat fast, her fin 
 gers trembled; she dared not open her eyes and 
 see. 
 
 "No, you haven't your wish," said Lottie's disap 
 pointed voice; "it reads : 'And a cubit on one side, 
 and a cubit on the other side that's dreadful and 
 horrid; I'm so gony, Ju,"
 
 SQUARE BOOT AND OTHER THINGS. 31 
 
 So was Judith ; sorry and frightened. 
 
 "Now, I'll try. I wish for a gold chain like 
 Grace Marvin's," she said, bravely. Judith looked 
 frightened ; but what was there to be afraid of ? It 
 was not like fortune-telling ; it was the Bible. 
 
 Judith watched her nervously; she was disap 
 pointed if it said in the Bible that she could never 
 go to boarding-school ; but, oh, how glad she was 
 that she had not asked the Bible if her mother 
 would ever be strong enough to go to Bensalem. 
 She could not have borne nothing but a cubit about 
 that. She would hate a " cubit " after this. 
 
 " There ! " cried Lottie jubilantly, " I have it. 
 See." 
 
 Over the fine print near Lottie's finger, Judith 
 bent and read : " And it came to pass" 
 
 " Isn't that splendid ? " said Lottie, " but I wish 
 you had got it. Do you want to try again ? " 
 
 " No," hesitated Judith, " it frightens me, and I'm 
 afraid it's wicked." 
 
 "Wicked," laughed Lottie, "how can it be 
 wicked ? " 
 
 "I cannot explain how but I'm sure mother 
 would not like it"
 
 32 GROWING UP. 
 
 "But your mother is so particular," explained 
 Lottie, " everybody isn't. She thinks there's a right 
 and wrong to everything." 
 
 " But isn't there ? " persisted Judith. 
 
 " No," contended Lottie boldly, but with a fear at 
 her heart ; " there isn't about this. This is right" 
 
 I hope it is," said Judith, brightening. 
 
 "We tried it at noon recess one day, and John 
 Kenney came and looked on. He didn't say what 
 he thought." 
 
 " Who is John Kenney ? " 
 
 " The brightest and handsomest boy in the High 
 School. He's up head in Latin and everything. He 
 was at my New Year's Eve party. Don't you re 
 member ? He sang college songs." 
 
 " He's the big boy that found a chair for me, and 
 gave me ice cream the second time. I shall always 
 remember him" said Judith, fervently. " I did not 
 know his name ; when I think about him, I call him 
 John. John is my favorite name for a man ; it has 
 a strong sound, a generous sound, and I like the 
 color of it." 
 
 " The color" repeated Lottie, amazed. 
 
 "Don't names have color and sound to you?"
 
 SQUABE BOOT AND OTHER THINGS. 33 
 
 asked Judith, surprised. " John is the deepest 
 crimson to me, a glowing crimson. John belongs to 
 self-sacrifice and generous deeds. John is a hero 
 and a saint." 
 
 Lottie laughed noisily. Judith was the queerest 
 girl. Her things were always getting mixed up with 
 thoughts. Lottie did not care for thoughts. School, 
 dress, parties, Sunday-school, summer vacations, 
 John Kenney, dusting and making cake, jolly times 
 with her father, and home times and making calls 
 with her mother, were only " things " to this girl of 
 fifteen ; if there were " thoughts " in them, she 
 missed the thoughts. She was daring and hand 
 some; Judith admired her because she was so 
 different from herself. 
 
 "I don't believe my mother would care," said 
 Lottie, honestly, as she laid her Bible in its place 
 upon her book-shelf. 
 
 " But your mother is different," pleaded Judith. 
 
 " Yes, my mother is well ; I suppose that makes 
 the difference." 
 
 With a sigh over her disappointment, for, some 
 how, she thought the Bible could not be wrong, 
 Judith went back to pad and pencil and another 
 hard example in square root
 
 34 GROWING UP. 
 
 "Lady bug, lady bug, fly away home," chanted 
 Don's voice in the hall below. 
 
 "He has a different name for you every time," 
 said Lottie. " Don't tell your mother if it will worry 
 her." 
 
 "I never tell her things that worry her," replied 
 Judith ; " I've been waiting three months to tell her 
 that I have burnt a hole in the front of my red 
 cashmere and do not know how to mend it. When 
 I go to Sunday-school she sees me with my coat on, 
 and after Sunday-school I hurry and put on a white 
 apron." 
 
 With her arithmetic and pad, and a very grave 
 face, Judith hastened down stairs. 
 
 " Your mother is full of hope about Bensalem," 
 comforted cousin Don ; " I have said good-bye, for I 
 expect to sail for Genoa on Saturday. She gave 
 me your photograph to take with me. I will write 
 to you at Bensalem ; and if anybody ever hurts you, 
 write to me quick and I'll come home and slay them 
 with my little hatchet." 
 
 "Are you going so soon?" she asked, in an un- 
 childish way ; " what will mother do without you ? " 
 
 " She will have you and Aunt Afly. I wasn't
 
 SQUARE BOOT AND OTHER THINGS. 85 
 
 going so soon, but I found it is better. Kiss your 
 cousin Don." 
 
 " Shall you stay long?" 
 
 " Long enough to go to London to buy me a wife," 
 lie laughed ; " kiss your cousin Don." 
 
 She kissed her cousin Don with eyes so filled with 
 tears that she did not see the tears in his eyes. 
 The street door fastened itself behind him; in the 
 quiet street she heard his quick step on the pave 
 ment. 
 
 Her mother was sitting in the firelight with her 
 head resting upon her hand. 
 
 " Mother, Don's gone" burst out Judith. 
 
 " Yes, for a while. He will never forget his little 
 cousin." 
 
 " Genoa is a long way off." 
 
 " Only a few days' travel. It is good for him to 
 go. He is engaged to do some work on a paper, and 
 he has always desired to see the world afoot. It Is 
 good for him," Don's Aunt Hilda repeated. 
 
 " But it isn't good for us, mother." 
 
 "I hope it is not bad for us. But I would be 
 glad for him not to go just yet," she sighed. 
 
 "Will Miss Marion, his brown girl, like it?" in 
 quired Judith, unexpectedly.
 
 36 GROWING UP. 
 
 " She is not why do you say that?" 
 
 " I don't know, I saw her : I shouldn't think he 
 
 would like to go and leave us all," said Don's little 
 
 cousin, chokingly, keeping back the tears. 
 
 "He has a heartache to-night, poor boy. Now, 
 
 little nurse, mother's tired. We will have prayer 
 
 and go early to bed."
 
 "WAS THIS THE ENX>t" 37 
 
 ra. 
 
 "WAS THIS THE END?* 9 
 
 " The worst is not 
 So long as we can sing : This is the worst. 
 
 SHAKESPEABE. 
 
 THE two parlors were swept and dusted ; Marion 
 Kenney enjoyed the Friday sweeping ; she stood in 
 the center of the back parlor, cheese-cloth duster in 
 hand, taking a satisfied survey of the two comfort 
 able, old-fashioned rooms. 
 
 "Well, you are picturesque!" exclaimed a voice 
 from the doorway of the back parlor. 
 
 With all her twenty-one years, Marion Kenney 
 was girlish enough to give a swift, shy look the 
 length of the rooms to the long mirror between the 
 windows in the front parlor. But picturesque 
 was only picturesque. 
 
 " I don't see what a girl has to dress herself in 
 furbelows for," he went on, ardently, and with
 
 33 GROWING UP. 
 
 evident embarrassment, " when there's nothing more 
 becoming than the housekeeping costume; you are 
 as bewitching in that red sweeping-cap as in your 
 most fashionable headgear." 
 
 " I like my morning dresses, too," she said, with a 
 flutter of breath and color, "perhaps because I'm 
 nothing but a humdrum girl at home." 
 
 " The humdrum girl is getting to be the girl of 
 the age," he ran on, his words tumbling over each 
 other in the desire to say, for once in his life, the 
 least harmful thing; "all her education tends to 
 bring her down, or up, to the humdrum, if you mean 
 the hum of housekeeping ways. With a sensible 
 education, literary and musical tastes (not talents), 
 a sweet temper, a pretty manner, and the tact that 
 brings out the best in a man, if that is humdrum " 
 he broke off abruptly, for he had kindled a light in 
 her face that he had no right to see. 
 
 " Have I told you about my little cousin Judith ? 
 But I know I have. She's a womanly little thiiig 
 too womanly. She's the sweetest prophecy of a 
 woman. Oh, I remember I promised to take you to 
 see my Aunt Hilda. But that's another thing to be 
 laid over. If I live to keep all my promises I shall 
 live forever."
 
 "WAS THIS THE ENDt" 89 
 
 "Don't say that," she urged, "you are not just to 
 yourself. That is the only promise you have failed 
 to keep to me, and there's time enough for that." 
 
 " I fear not," he answered, seriously, " she is going 
 away, and so am I." 
 
 He came to her and laid the photograph in her 
 hand. 
 
 " Oh, how sweet ! " was Marion's quick exclama 
 tion. 
 
 " It is sweet ; but she is better than sweet ; she 
 has courage." 
 
 " The eyes are too sad for such a girl how old 
 is she ? " 
 
 " Nearly thirteen. I took her to New York for a 
 day's outing, and we had the picture taken. She 
 was anxious about leaving her mother so long ; the 
 people in the house were with Aunt Hilda, but 
 Lottie, the girl in the house, is a flighty thing, and 
 Judith was not trusting her. I saw the look, but I 
 couldn't hinder it. It will go about through Europe 
 with me. Did Roger tell you last night I asked 
 him to that I'm off for my long-talked-of tour 
 around the world ? " 
 
 "No" replied Marian,) startled out of her self- 
 command.
 
 40 GROWING Z7B, 
 
 " Perhaps he came home late. I wanted to pre 
 pare you. It is not so sudden in my thoughts. 
 But I always do things suddenly after years of 
 thinking about them. My father wanted me to do 
 this. He said if I were not careful, money and lit 
 erary tastes would make me an idle dog. That set 
 of Ruskin in my room I have left for you. You 
 have made my winter here so home-like, so refresh 
 ingly ' humdrum,' that I don't know how to thank 
 you. When Roger begged me to come Thanksgiving 
 Day I feared that I would be one too many, but 
 you all took me in so naturally that I feel as if I 
 had grown up in your old house with you and 
 Roger. It's awfully hard to go, now I've come to 
 the point ; somehow I hated my ticket as soon as I 
 took it into my hand. But I knew Aunt Hilda and 
 Judith were going to Bensalem, and I cannot be 
 with them there. But you will write to me?" he 
 asked, pausing in his rush of words. 
 
 He had vowed that he would not speak of letters, 
 but the unconscious appeal of her attitude, the look 
 that he felt in the eyes that could not lift them 
 selves had given his heart an ache, that, the next 
 instant, he hated her for making him feel. What
 
 41 
 
 right had she to hold him so? He was Eoger's 
 friend. He had only been kind, and frank and con 
 siderate toward her, and grateful, because she had 
 touched his life with a touch like healing he was 
 a better fellow than he was last winter ; he had 
 told her one confidential Sunday twilight that he 
 almost wanted to be a Christian. 
 
 "When will you come back?" she faltered, 
 speaking her uppermost thought. 
 
 " Oh, I don't know," he answered, roughly. 
 " They may keep me there years, if I do well for the 
 paper or I may study there Judith and her 
 mother may bring me home I have promised 
 Aunt Hilda to take Judith for my sister ; that is a 
 rousing responsibility for a bachelor like me. I 
 have been near them this winter, which was one of 
 my reasons for coming here. Now I think of it, 
 perhaps it would have been better if I had never 
 come." 
 
 " / think it would" 
 
 The slow, impressive words uttered themselres. 
 She heard them as if another voice had spoken them. 
 They told the whole truth, the whole, terrible, sor 
 rowful truth, and he knew it 
 
 " Good-bye," she said* with a flash of denanea
 
 42 GROWING UP. 
 
 "Good-bye," he said, not seeing the hand held 
 firmly toward him. 
 
 " I will not write to you you have no right to 
 ask it." 
 
 " No, I have not," he answered humbly, " I have 
 no right to anything ; not even to ask you to become 
 my wife." 
 
 She lifted her proud eyes; her lips framed the 
 words that her tongue refused to speak. 
 
 "I beg your pardon. I hardly know what I 
 said." 
 
 " It is hardly necessary to tell me that" 
 
 " And you will not write to me ?' 
 
 "No." 
 
 " I am unhappy enough," he blundered, tt I never 
 thought our happy winter would end like this. I 
 did not mean it to end like this." 
 
 It was ended then. She herself had ended it 
 He would never hear the new music she was prac 
 ticing for him; they would not read together the 
 " Essays of Elia " he had given her last week j she 
 could never tell him 
 
 " I must catch the next train ; Eoger and I have 
 a farewell dinner in New York to-day. Old fellow,
 
 "WAS THIS THE END?" 43 
 
 I'm sorry to leave him. I suppose when I return I 
 shall find him rusting out in Bensalem; for he's 
 determined to go there against all the arguments I 
 can bring up. Good-bye, Marion." 
 
 " Good-bye," she said, again, allowing her fingers 
 to stay a moment in his hand. 
 
 " God bless you, dear." 
 
 She remembered the blessing afterward ; after 
 ward, she remembered, too : " and forgive me." Or 
 did she imagine that ? Why should he say that ? 
 How had he hurt her ? He had only been like Eoger. 
 
 She had said what did she say that he should 
 ask her to become his wife when he had not once 
 thought of it all winter when he was going away 
 for years without thinking of it. 
 
 In her bewilderment she could not recall the ter 
 rible and true words she herself had spoken, she 
 imagined them to be beyond everything more dread 
 ful than she would dare think ; they burned her 
 through and through, these words that had said 
 themselves. Were they hurting him every hour as 
 they were hurting her ? 
 
 Impetuous she knew herself to be ; frank to a fault 
 Koger plainly told her that she was ; often and often
 
 44 GROWING UP. 
 
 her outbursts were to her own heart-breaking ; but 
 nothing before had she ever done like this ; there 
 was no excuse for this, no healing ; he would despise 
 her as long as he lived, and she would have no 
 power ever to forget 
 
 Shame that he understood, that he had all the 
 time understood, was burning her up like a fever; 
 that he was gone she was unfeignedly glad, that she 
 might see his dear face no more, she sometimes 
 prayed. Still, with it all, her life went on as usual ; 
 the errands down town, the calls, her Sunday-school 
 class, her King's Daughters' meetings, her regular 
 hours for practice, the cake-making, the sweeping, 
 she even began to read one of the volumes of Eus- 
 kin she found on the table in his chamber, with her 
 name and his initials written in each book ; her 
 life went on, her life with the heart gone out of it ; 
 her life went on, but herself seemed staying be 
 hind somewhere. 
 
 It was a relief that Roger was away a part of 
 every week, Roger, whom nothing escaped; the 
 others saw nothing, she believed there was noth 
 ing for them to see.
 
 BENSALEM. 
 
 nr. 
 
 BEN8ALEM. 
 
 All service ranks the same with God; 
 If now, as formerly he trod 
 Paradise, his presence fills 
 Our earth, each only as God wills 
 
 Can work. 
 
 EGBERT BBOWHIHO. 
 
 IN large black letters the word POST OFFICE stared 
 down the Bensalem street from the end door of a 
 small white house. A plump lady in grey pushed 
 open the door; the bell over the door sharply an 
 nounced her entrance; she stepped into the tiny 
 room; straight before her a door was shut, at her 
 right were rows of glass pigeonholes with numerals 
 pasted upon them; no head was visible at the 
 window the pigeonholes surrounded; while she 
 stood ready to tap upon the closed door that led into 
 the sitting-room, the sound of a horn clear and loud 
 gave her a start and betrayed her into a |uick excla 
 mation : " Why, deary me. What next f "
 
 4t> GROWING UP. 
 
 "Come in here, come in here," called a shaky 
 voice from the other side of the closed door. 
 
 She pushed the door open, to be confronted by the 
 figure of an old man lying in bed with a tin horn in 
 his hand. 
 
 "Come right in, Miss Afiy," the old man said 
 cheerfully ; " I've got one of my dreadful rheumatic 
 days and can't twist myself out of bed; I've had 
 my bed down here for a week now. I've got all the 
 mail in bed with me. Sarah had to go out and milk 
 and feed the chickens, so she brought the few letters 
 and papers that were left over in here for me to 
 take care of. Doctor says I'll be about in a week or 
 so, if he can keep the fever down. I never had 
 rheumatic fever before. Nobody comes this time of 
 day for letters. Nothing happens about five o'clock 
 excepting feeding the chickens. Sarah milks earlier 
 than most folks so as to tend the mail, when the 
 stage gets in. She went out earlier than usual to 
 day because she forgot the little chickens at noon. 
 She just put her head in to say she had taken a new 
 brood off. Do sit down a minute. Didn't Mr. 
 Brush tell you I had rheumatic fever ? Sarah must 
 have told him when he came for his paper, night be-
 
 BENSALEM. 4T 
 
 fore last She tells everybody. I blew the horn to 
 call Sarah in, but I don't believe she'll come until 
 she gets ready. The mail doesn't mean anything to 
 her excepting getting our pay regular. There's all 
 the letters on the foot of the bed ; you can pick yours 
 out. Sarah said you had a letter, and she guessed it 
 was from your niece, Mrs. Mackenzie, or her little 
 girl. Yes, that's it. Mr. Brush's paper is there, 
 too." 
 
 The plump lady in grey, with a long grey curl 
 behind each ear, picked among the letters and papers 
 at the foot of the untidy bed, and found a letter in a 
 pretty hand addressed to Miss Affy S. Sparrow, and 
 a newspaper bearing the printed label, Cephas 
 Brush. 
 
 "That is all," remarked the Bensalem postmaster; 
 " never mind fixing them straight ; I get uneasy and 
 tumble them around." 
 
 " I will sit here and read the letter, if I may." 
 " Oh, yes, do. I haven't heard any news to-day." 
 " I'm afraid I haven't brought you any," said Miss 
 Affy, " and you will not care for n y letter." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I shall," he answered, eagerly. " I was 
 wishing I could read all the letters to amuse me. I
 
 48 3ROWUH3 UP. 
 
 did read Mr. Brush's paper. I tucked it all back 
 smooth ; I knew he wouldn't care." 
 
 "He will call and bring you papers," promised 
 Miss Affy, tearing open the envelope with a hair 
 pin. 
 
 " I wish he would. And a book, too. I wanted 
 Sarah to take my book back to the library to-day, 
 and get another to read to-night if I can't sleep, but 
 she said she hadn't time; and, she can't now, be 
 cause there's supper and the mail coming in," he 
 groaned. " I had an awful night last night ; and if 
 it hadn't been for ' Tempest and Sunshine,' I don't 
 know how I should have got through it" 
 
 "That was enough for one night," laughed the 
 lady at the window reading the letter. " I will try 
 to find you something better than that for to-night" 
 
 "Will you go to the library for me? That's just 
 like you, Miss Affy." 
 
 " Yes, I will go. If I cannot find anything I like 
 I will call somewhere else. There should be books 
 enough in Bensalem to help you through the night" 
 
 " Is your letter satisfactory," he questioned, 
 curiously, as she slipped it back into the envelope. 
 
 "Mrs. Mackenzie is very feeble; she wishes to
 
 49 
 
 come to Bensalem for the change, and asks me to go 
 and bring her and Judith." 
 
 ' But you and Miss Rody will not want the trouble 
 of sick folks." 
 
 " We want her" said Miss Affy, rising ; ** will 
 leave your book in the post-office, Mr. Gunn, so you 
 need not blow the horn when you hear me open the 
 door." 
 
 " But it may not be you ; how shall I know? " 
 
 " True enough. Blow your horn, then." 
 
 " You can look in if it's you, and Sarah isn't there." 
 
 "Where is the book to take back?" 
 
 " ' Tempest and Sunshine.' Oh, Sarah hasn't fin 
 ished it yet I forgot that," he said disappointedly. 
 " She read it yesterday and gave me nothing but 
 bread and milk for supper, and I wanted pork and 
 eggs. She was on it long enough to finish," he 
 grumbled. 
 
 "No matter, then. I'll get one for myself. It 
 will be the first book I have taken from the library." 
 
 " And you such a reader, too. How many maga 
 zines do you take? I'd like some of your old 
 magazines while I'm laid up." 
 
 " Mr. Brush will bring you a Mg bundle. But I
 
 50 GROWING UP. 
 
 will go to the library now, for he may not wish to 
 bring them to-night" 
 
 The school library was kept at the house of one of 
 the school trustees; the errand gave Miss Affy 
 another quarter of a mile to walk, and it also gave 
 her the opportunity of a call upon Nettie Evans, 
 whose small home was next door to the school- 
 library. Cephas Brush had told her that she knew 
 how to kill more birds with one stone than any 
 woman he knew 
 
 She walked past the syringa bushes of the school 
 trustee's front yard, and knocked on the front door 
 with the big brass knocker ; there was no response 
 excepting the sound of rubbing and splash of water 
 that came through the open kitchen window. Miss 
 Affy knocked the second time with more determined 
 fingers. It was a pity to take Mrs. Finch from her 
 washing, but it would be more of a pity to let that 
 old man toss in pain and groan for a book to read. 
 As she gave the second knock she wondered if his 
 lamp were safely arranged, and if the reading by 
 lamp-light did not injure his eyes ; she would look 
 tor a book with good type. 
 
 The kitchen door was quickly opened, a woman
 
 BENSALEM. 51 
 
 with rolled-up sleeves and dripping, par-boiled fingers 
 called out pleasantly : " Why don't you come to this 
 door ? " 
 
 " Excuse me, Mrs. Finch," said Miss Affy, walking 
 past another syringa bush, " I came to the Circulating 
 Library." 
 
 " The Circulating Library is where I am. I keep 
 it in the kitchen, because I cannot circulate about 
 my work to attend it," replied Mrs. Finch, extending 
 a hospitable wet hand; "You see I'm late to-day; 
 usually my washing is all out at eleven o'clock. But 
 his folks came to dinner, three of them, unexpectedly 
 Monday, too, and I had to spring around and cook 
 a dinner ; the Sunday left-overs wouldn't do. They 
 didn't leave the house until half-past two, so I had 
 to leave the dinner dishes, piled them up in the 
 shed, under a pan, and put on my boiler again. It 
 don't often happen, and I put a good face on it." 
 
 " You turn a very cheery face toward life, Mrs. 
 Finch." 
 
 " Well, I try to. It's all I've got to give anyway;" 
 Mrs. Finch replied, removing the cover from the 
 boiler and poking at the clothes with a long clothes- 
 stick ; the steam rolled out the door and windows ;
 
 52 GROWING UP. 
 
 as the room was cleared, Miss Affy discovered a high 
 mahogany bureau with brass rings, the top of which 
 was covered with books in neat piles. 
 
 " You are welcome to look at the books and take 
 one. I wish you would sit down, Miss Affy, I can 
 talk while I work. 
 
 "I wish I might stay and wash the dishes for 
 you." 
 
 Miss Affy prayed every day, " Use Dae, Lord, any 
 way, any where." 
 
 " With that dress on? " said Mrs. Finch, regarding 
 the new spring suit with favor. " I couldn't help 
 looking at you in church, if it was Sunday, and 
 thinking that you looked sweet enough to be a 
 bride." 
 
 "Thank you. I am fond of this dress," replied 
 Miss Affy in her simple, sweet way. 
 
 " When you are married, you must be married in 
 gray. I was married in white. Thirty years ago." 
 
 " I remember it," said Miss Affy, " Cephas and I 
 were there." 
 
 " Don't think about the dishes. It's just like 
 you." 
 
 " I would more than think about chein, but I
 
 BENSALEM. 53 
 
 must call on Nettie, and then I promised to read 
 awhile to Mrs. Trembly ; she is more blind than she 
 was, and Agnes breaks her heart because she cannot 
 find more time to read to her and amuse her." 
 
 "They should come before dishes. People first, 
 1 say. That's why I'm behind with my washing. 
 People first, I say to Jonas, and he looks scornful. 
 But it will pay some day." 
 
 " You have not a catalogue ? " 
 
 " A seed catalogue ? We've never had a call for 
 that. I thought everybody had one." 
 
 " So we have, dozens. I meant a catalogue of the 
 books. I would like to know what our boys and 
 girls are reading." 
 
 " Grown people, too. Everybody reads the books. 
 Every time Mr. Gunn is laid up he is crazy for 
 books. Look them over ; lots of them are out. 
 No matter how you put them back, if you only pile 
 them up." 
 
 " But you have a book in which to put down my 
 name and the number of the book I take." 
 
 " Oh, no; take any you like. I couldn't be both 
 ered that way. We expect new books. The last 
 entertainment the school children had was to
 
 54 GROWING UP. 
 
 raise money for books. We don't get anything for 
 keeping the hooks, but Jonas is the greatest reader 
 that ever was ; he has read them all But I never 
 have time. I don't know what is in any of them." 
 
 " Your husband knows. I am glad he reads 
 them. Our young people must be taken care of. 
 Books have been everything to me. These books 
 are an influence in Bensalem." 
 
 " I hope so," replied the keeper of the books, not 
 thinking for an instant that they could be otherwise 
 than a good influence. 
 
 " Excuse me if I go on with my work ; that is the 
 last boiler-full." 
 
 " I would not stay if I interrupted you," said Miss 
 Affy. " I may take considerable time, for I want to 
 know what our boys and girls are reading. I know 
 every book in the Sunday-school library, but I had 
 forgotten that Bensalem boasted a public school 
 library." 
 
 After a half-hour's search, Miss Affy's choice was 
 made ; the type of the book was not large enough 
 for the old man's reading at night, but the story was 
 excellent : " Samuel Budget, the Successful Mer 
 chant."
 
 BENSALEM. 55 
 
 " I'm sorry about the type," she said, " but it is 
 
 better than the newspapers." 
 
 " The type ? Is that the name of the story ? " 
 questioned the woman at the wash-tub. 
 
 " The print I should say. Thank you for letting 
 me come. But I am sorry to leave those dishes." 
 
 " Don't be sorry. My kitchen will be very sweet 
 when the syringas are out. And don't think I'm 
 always so late with my washing. It was all his 
 folks." 
 
 " How is Nettie these days ? " 
 
 "Miserable enough. She doesn't know how to 
 get outside of her poor little self. But then, who 
 of us does, until we are pulled out ? " she asked, with 
 cheerful philosophy, as Miss Affy went away past 
 the syringa bushes. 
 
 Miss Affy spent an hour in Nettie Evans's cham 
 ber, telling the little girl stories about her great- 
 niece, Judith Mackenzie, who lived in the city with 
 her dear, sick mother, and they both were soon com 
 ing to Bensalem, and Judith would love to visit her 
 often, and Judith told stories, that were worth tell 
 ing ; last summer in the evenings, in Summer 
 Avenue, she had a dozen boys and girls on the steps,
 
 56 GROWING UP. 
 
 listening to her stories continued from one evening 
 to another. Nettie's white face grew glad, and in 
 the night she was comforted by the thought of the 
 coming of the story-teller. Then Miss Affy crossed 
 the street to the one-story yellow house and read 
 from a Sunday-school library-book to blind Mrs. 
 Trembly, whose only daughter had little time to 
 spare her mother from her housekeeping and dress 
 making, and on her way home, stopped at the Post- 
 office with " Samuel Budget." 
 
 At the supper table, she remarked to Cephas and 
 her sister Rody : " I do hope our new minister will 
 have a good wife. Bensalem needs the ministry of 
 a woman a real deaconess." 
 
 " As if you weren't one," said Cephas, with ad 
 miration in his eyes. 
 
 "But I'm not the minister's wife." 
 
 " Nor anybody else's," retorted Aunt Rody, sharp 
 ly, with a look at the bald-headed, white-whiskered 
 man opposite her at the foot of the table. The look 
 passed over him instead of going through him, as he 
 gave a laugh, a contented laugh that hurt Aunt 
 Rody, even more than she had intended her look to 
 hurt
 
 BE1T8ALEM. 57 
 
 Those two would circumvent her some day ; the 
 longer she lived the more sure she was of it, and the 
 more would it cut her to the quick. Every year she 
 fought against it (if one can fight with no antago 
 nist), the more rebelliously she was set against it. 
 There was hut one hope for her : that she would 
 outlive one of them ; she hoped to outlive both of 
 them.
 
 58 GROWING UP. 
 
 V. 
 
 DAILY BKEAD AND DAILY WILL. 
 
 " We walk by faith and not by sight." 
 
 " Creatures of reason do not necessarily become unrea 
 sonable when they consent to walk by faith; nor do crea 
 tures of trust necessarily become faithless when they are 
 
 gladdened in a walk by sight." 
 
 / 
 
 JUDITH sat in the bay-window with a book in her 
 lap ; a box of books had come by express to Miss 
 Judith G. Mackenzie the very day her Cousin Don 
 sailed for Genoa; they were books written for 
 children ; they were all Judith's own. 
 
 With the light of the sunset in her face, Judith 
 sat reading Jean Ingelow's " Stories Told to a 
 Child." 
 
 " O mother, it is too splendid for anything," she 
 exclaimed ; " when you are rested I will read it to 
 you." 
 
 " Is your ironing all done ? " 
 
 "Yes, mother."
 
 DAILY BREAD AND DAILY WILL. 59 
 
 " And Aunt Affy's bed made ? " 
 
 " All made. Mrs. Kindare put up the cot herself 
 and lent me two blankets. It is a cunning room ; 
 Aunt Affy will like it ; Mrs. Kindare said she could 
 spare the room better than not, and Aunt Affy may 
 stay a month, waiting until we can go home with 
 her." 
 
 " Put away your book, dear ; and come and sit on 
 the rug close to me. I want to be all alone with 
 my little girl once more before Aunt Affy conies." 
 
 Reluctantly Judith closed the book ; she remem 
 bered afterward that she thought she would rather 
 finish the story than go and sit on the rug and talk 
 to her mother. 
 
 "Mother," she began, as brightly as though a 
 minute ago she had not wished to finish the story 
 first, " Don might have stayed with us all winter 
 and had that room to sleep in." 
 
 " Yes, I thought of that. It would have made a 
 difference in somebody's life.' 5 " 
 
 " Whose life ? " Judith questioned. 
 
 "In his own," replied her mother, "and other 
 people's. I did not intend to speak my thought 
 aloud."
 
 60 GROWING UP. 
 
 The sunset was in the room : it was over Judith, 
 and over her mother. 
 
 " Was he sorry he did not come here ? " Judith 
 persisted. 
 
 " I think he was. He said we would have made 
 him so comfortable. He would have taken his 
 meals with Mrs. Kindare." 
 
 " Are you sorry, too ? " 
 
 "No not exactly. If it were a mistake, it will 
 be taken care of it is very queer to trust God with 
 our sins and not with our mistakes." 
 
 " I made a ' mistake ' that night he was here, 
 mother ; I did not mean to make a sin." 
 
 " Tell me, dear." 
 
 " I thought I would never tell. I was afraid it 
 would worry you. But I cried after I went to bed. 
 You will think me naughty and silly." 
 
 " Do I ever ? " 
 
 "Yes, oh, yes," smiled Judith, "you always do 
 every time I am." 
 
 " I could not lie down in peaceful sleep to-night 
 if I believed that my little daughter kept a thought 
 in her heart she would rather not tell her mother." 
 
 " But I shouldn't keep silly thoughts in my 
 heart.'^'
 
 DAILY BREAD AND DAILY WILL. 61 
 
 " That is what mothers are for to hear all the 
 silly things." 
 
 "Then I'll tell you," decided Judith, bringing 
 herself from a lounging posture, upright, and yet not 
 touching her mother's knees ; " that night Lottie 
 said there was a good way to find out what would 
 happen to you next to wish for a thing and shut 
 your eyes and open the Bible and put your hand 
 on a verse, and if it said And it came to pass you 
 would certainly nave it. "We both did it, and she 
 got her wish and I didn't get mine. My heart was 
 heavy, for I was afraid you wouldn't like it as soon 
 as I did it. ' 
 
 " I do not like it. But I am glad you did it." 
 
 " Why, mother" 
 
 "Because I can talk to you about something I 
 might never have thought about." 
 
 " I like that," said Judith, comforted ; " I hope 
 Cousin Don's mistake will be good for him." 
 
 " It is already. What do you want to know about 
 yourself ? " 
 
 "Things that will happen, grown-up things. I 
 make castles about grown-up things. When I 
 make an air-castle I am never a little girl, but a big
 
 62 GROWING UP. 
 
 girl, fifteen or eighteen, and that kind of things hap 
 pen; the kind of things that happen to girls in 
 books. Is that silly ? " 
 
 " No ; it is only not wise. It spoils to-day, and 
 to-day is too good to be spoiled. God has made to 
 day for us, and we slight his gift by passing it by 
 and trying to find out the things that will happen 
 to us to-morrow. Suppose you would not read the 
 children's books Cousin Don sent you, but coax him 
 to give you grown-up books." 
 
 " I couldn't be so mean," said Judith warmly. 
 
 " But questions do come to us, wonders about our 
 grown-up time. Is it not trusting God more to wait 
 for His answers ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, I am waiting unless I can find a 
 way like that way to find out." 
 
 " That is not God' s way ; he never told us to find 
 out his will that way. When he said, 'And it 
 came to pass,' it was about something that had hap 
 pened, not about something that will happen ; and 
 about someone else, and not about you. The Bible 
 was not written to tell us such things." 
 
 "But I didn't know that really," said Judith, 
 miserable, and ready to cry.
 
 DAILY BREAD AND DAILY WILL. 63 
 
 "That was a mistake, not a sin. We all make 
 mistakes before we know better. If you should do 
 so again, it would be a sin, because now you know 
 better." 
 
 " But people did cast lots in Bible times. Don't 
 you know about finding out about another disciple 
 to make up the twelve after Judas killed himself ? I 
 read that to you this morning." 
 
 " Yes, I remember that. Casting lots was one of 
 God's ways in old times to discover his will The 
 lot was cast into the lap, and the disposal thereof 
 was of the Lord. They knew God was willing for 
 for them to cast lots." 
 
 " Yes," said Judith, hi her intelligent voice. 
 
 " And this, I just thought of it. That time about 
 choosing another disciple was the last time. After 
 the Holy Spirit was given there was no need ; the 
 Holy Spirit always reveals the will of God." 
 
 Judith's eyes grew dull ; she could not under 
 stand ; she felt dimly that she had done wrong in 
 not trusting God to tell her about her "wish" in 
 his own way. 
 
 " Whenever, in all your life to come, a question 
 about your future comes to you, a longing to know
 
 64 GROWING UP. 
 
 about something that may happen to you, or may 
 not happen but I should not say that ; I should 
 say about something God may will to give you, or 
 may will to keep from you, say this to yourself : I 
 need not think about it ; God knows all about it, for 
 he makes it ; he will tell me as soon as he wants me 
 to know." 
 
 " Yes," said Judith, with a childVconfidence. 
 
 "After that, it would be not only 'silly,' but 
 faithless to think about it. Every day brings its 
 own answer ; your daily bread and God's daily will 
 come together ; his bread gives us strength to do 
 his will. Will mother's little girl remember ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Judith gravely ; " and when you see 
 me forgetting you must remind me. Will it be 
 wrong if I say 'daily will' when I say 'daily 
 bread ' ? " 
 
 "Not wrong," answered her mother, smiling, 
 "only that it comes in the prayer before daily 
 bread." 
 
 "Does it?" 
 
 " Repeat it and see." 
 
 Judith repeated : " Our Father, who art in heaven ; 
 Hallowed be thy name ; Thy kingdom come ; Th'Jr
 
 DAILY BREAD AND DAILY WILL. 65 
 
 will be done on earth as it is in heaven ; give us this 
 day our daily bread Why, so it does. But I 
 didn't put them together before." 
 
 " The will comes first. If we do his will, he will 
 not forget the things we long for every day. Love 
 his will better than your own will and wishes." 
 
 "That's hard," said Judith, "I don't know how." 
 
 " That is what you are in the world for, to learn 
 how." 
 
 Judith arose and stood before the grate with 
 sweet, grave, troubled eyes. 
 
 The yellow hair, the innocent face, the blue dress, 
 the loving touch of lips and fingers, the growing 
 into girlhood ; how could she give them up and 
 go? 
 
 " O, mother, mother ! " cried Judith, turning at the 
 sound of a stifled cry, "Are you worse? What shall 
 I do ? " then in a tone of quick, astonished joy, " Oh ; 
 here's Aunt Affy at the door!"
 
 66 GROWING UP. 
 
 VI 
 
 THE BEST THING IN THE WORLD. 
 
 " What's the best thing in the world? 
 Something out of it, I think." 
 
 ELIZABETH BAKBETT BROWNING. 
 
 FROM Genoa there came a note to Marion : 
 
 "Dear friend Marion: 
 
 To-day's mail brings me saddest and most un 
 expected news. I believed my Aunt Hilda would 
 live years ; I would not have left her had I thought 
 she would be taken so soon. She died in Summer 
 Avenue before she could be taken to Bensalem. 
 Judith has written herself, the bravest child's letter. 
 She is in Bensalem with two old aunts of her 
 mother. 
 
 Eoger hopes to have you for his housekeeper ; you 
 will b near Judith ; will you take her under your 
 wing ? Her mother especially wished her not to go 
 to boaidiug-school. She has always been a child of 
 promiao ; she may fizzle out as promising children
 
 THE BEST THING IA r THE WORLD. 67 
 
 do and become only an ordinary girl ; but she will 
 always be sweet and brave, which is better than 
 being brilliant. One sweet woman is worth a thou 
 sand brilliant ones ; that is the reason there are so 
 many more sweet ones. I would change my plans 
 and return for her sake, but what can a bachelor 
 cousin do for her ? She will be sheltered from harm 
 ful influences in Bensalem. She will write me reg 
 ularly. I have written to Eoger about her money 
 
 affairs. 
 
 Your friend, DON." 
 
 In reply Marion wrote the briefest note : 
 
 " Dear friend Don : 
 
 I will do my best for Judith. 
 
 Yours truly, MARION." 
 
 " It will be the best thing in the world for 
 Marion," replied the voice of Marion's mother. 
 
 " There is no best thing in the world for Marion," 
 Marion told herself wearily, rising from the back 
 parlor sofa, where she had thrown herself to be 
 alone, and stepping softly across the room to the 
 door.
 
 68 GROWING UP. 
 
 To be alone in the dark was the best thing in the 
 world for her ; to be alone in the dark forever. For 
 something had happened to her that had never hap 
 pened to any girl before. With a light tread she 
 went up stairs : she would not have her mother know 
 that she had overheard the remark made to her 
 father her mother could not know all, only herself 
 and Don Mackenzie knew her cruel secret ; he would 
 never tell, not even Eoger, and she could sooner 
 die than let the words pass her lips to any human 
 creature. Girls had gone through terrible things 
 before ; but no girl ever had gone through this ; no 
 girl could, unless she were like herself, and no girl 
 was like herself, so impetuous, so headlong, so frank 
 that frankness became a sin. 
 
 In her own chamber she found the darkness and 
 solitude she craved ; the darkness and solitude she 
 thought she would crave forever. The voices in the 
 front parlor went on low and steadily, planning a 
 best thing for Marion for whom no best was possible- 
 
 " Yes, it will certainly be a good thing," her father 
 answered in a relieved tone; "she hasn't been her 
 self since Donald Mackenzie went away." 
 
 " I was afraid when he came," was the low uttered 
 response.
 
 THE BEST THING IN THE WORLD. 69 
 
 " Mothers are always afraid," returned the father, 
 who had urged his coming. 
 
 " But I was specially afraid ; Don is so attractive, 
 so unconscious of himself, and I know Marion well 
 enough to know that she would make an ideal of 
 him" 
 
 " Nonsense," was the sharp interruption. 
 
 "It may be nonsense, but it is true; it has 
 proved true. Marion is imaginative, as I was at her 
 age : I know how I idealized you " 
 
 "And the reality of me broke your heart," he said, 
 with a light, fond laugh. 
 
 " Yes. Sometimes it did. But I lived through it 
 and learned that you were human, and deliciously 
 human, and, if you will allow me to say so, a great 
 improvement on my girlish ideal." 
 
 " At any rate, I was not afraid to let you try," he 
 answered ; " but Don has gone without giving her the 
 trial. I suspect he saw it and went." 
 
 " I know he did," said Marion's mother. 
 
 " Does Eoger know it ? " asked Marion's father. 
 
 " Eoger always knows everything and looks as if 
 he knew nothing," replied the motherly voice;"! 
 think he was relieved when Don went away/'
 
 70 GROWING UP. 
 
 "You think she will soon get over it?" her father 
 asked. It would have broken Marion's heart to hear 
 the solicitude in her father's voice. 
 
 "I'm afraid there's no 'over it' for a girl like 
 her ; but she is plucky enough to get through it ; 
 the worst of it is, Don is such a fine fellow." 
 
 "He had no right to care for her " her father 
 began angrily. 
 
 " He couldn't help that," argued her mother. 
 
 " Then he should care more, and be a man, and 
 speak his mind " 
 
 " I think he must care for some one else ; if he 
 hadn't he couldn't resist Marion." 
 
 " Marion is like other girls," said Marion's father 
 impatiently ; "not a whit prettier " 
 
 " No, not prettier," she assented, with protest in 
 her tone. 
 
 " Or more accomplished," he insisted. 
 
 " She hasn't accomplishments, beside her fine 
 education, and music " 
 
 " All girls play, I suppose he sees other girls " 
 
 "And she saw but one man. That was the 
 trouble. I wonder how fathers and mothers can 
 help that Roger wanted him to come to board
 
 THE BEST THING IN THE WORLD. 71 
 
 through the winter, said a boarding-house was dis 
 mal, and his mother had just died well, we can't 
 help it now. Don has cared for all the children 
 he was great friends with Maurice and John, If 
 she will go to Bensalem and keep house for Roger, 
 it will be just the thing." 
 
 " I think so myself," he answered, reasonably. 
 
 " Roger will be only too happy ; his sister Marion 
 has always been his sweetheart." 
 
 "Bensalem will do," replied her father, hopefully, 
 shifting all his responsibility ; " when we visit them 
 next summer she will be as rosy as ever and singing 
 about the house like a bird." 
 
 "Then Roger must accept that call," decided 
 Roger's mother positively. "A year in the country 
 will brush off his student ways it will be the best 
 thing in the world for both of them." 
 
 "And poor Bensalem ? " 
 
 " It isn't poor Bensalem," she retorted, indignantly. 
 "They knew what they wanted when they called 
 Roger." 
 
 " Roger is a good boy, but he isn't the least bit 
 brilliant," said Roger's father, cheerfully. 
 
 "He is something better," said Roger's mother.
 
 72 GROWING UP. 
 
 " But how can you get along without her ? " 
 " Better than Roger can. Besides, Martha and 
 Lou will soon be through school; Eoger and Marion 
 are not our only children." 
 
 " You talk as though they were, sometimes," he 
 retorted. " Anyhow, let the sky fall, but do some 
 thing for Marion."
 
 A SMALL D1SVIPLE. 73 
 
 vn. 
 
 A SMALL DISCIPLE. 
 
 " Who comes to God an inch through doubtings dim, 
 la blazing light God will advance a mile to him." 
 
 From the Persian. 
 
 AUNT RODY gave Judith a nudge. The nudge 
 startled the absorbed reader into dropping, with a 
 thud, the book she held in her hand upon the carpeted 
 floor of the pew; with a crimsoned face Judith 
 stooped and picked up the book ; after a moment of 
 deliberation and a defiant flash toward Aunt Body, 
 stiff and straight in the end of the pew, she re-opened 
 her book and was again lost in the fascinating story. 
 Aunt Rody glared at her, but she turned a page, 
 only half conscious of the wrath that was being 
 heaped up against her; this time it was not a 
 nudge, but a large hand that startled her ; the large 
 hand, brown, strong, was laid across the page. 
 
 Judith gave a glance, not defiant, into the kindly,
 
 74 GROWING UP. 
 
 grave eyes, then shut the book, straightened herself 
 and tried hard to listen to the minister. 
 
 The figure at the other end of the pew, the man's 
 figure, settled back comfortably to listen, and 
 listened without trying hard. 
 
 The kindly, grave eyes under the shaggy black 
 brows never stirred from the minister's face ; once 
 in a while the brown, strong hand stroked the long 
 white beard; Judith watched him as he listened, 
 and then she watched Aunt Eody, unbending, alert, 
 with her deep-set black eyes, her hard-working hands 
 very still in her new, black kid gloves. 
 
 When the sermon was ended Judith gave a sigh 
 of relief; she could sit still, she had sat still; but 
 her mind had not followed the minister. 
 
 She wished she could like sermons. She liked 
 the Bible. This sermon was not like the Bible. 
 
 As she stood in the church doorway, waiting for 
 Aunt Rody, who always had something to tell, or 
 something to ask in the crowd in the aisle, she 
 overheard a loud whisper behind her: "Oh, that's 
 Judith Mackenzie. She has come to stay with the 
 Sparrow girls. Her mother was their niece. Father 
 died long ago; mother last winter." To escape
 
 A SMALL DISCIPLE. 75 
 
 further details, the listener stepped forward and 
 down one step ; there was a stir and some one stood 
 beside her, a tall young man, not like any one else 
 in Bensalem : she knew without raising her eyes that 
 he was the new minister. She flushed, thinking 
 that he had noticed that she was reading her Sunday 
 School book in church. 
 
 "Would you like to be a Christian?" he asked, 
 with something in his tone that made it hard for 
 her to keep the tears back. 
 
 This was worse than a rebuke for reading; she 
 might have excused herself for that; for this she 
 had no words. The voice was very low; perhaps 
 no one heard beside herself. 
 
 Too startled to speak at first, she kept silent ; then, 
 too truthful to speak one word that she was not 
 sure was true, and thinking that she hardly knew 
 what it was to be a Christian, she could not say 
 " Yes " ; not daring to say " No," she stood silent. 
 
 " Pray for the Holy Spirit," he said, moving away. 
 
 She knew how to pray; she had prayed all her 
 life; but she had never once prayed for the Holy 
 Spirit. She was afraid to do that. 
 
 What would happen to her if she did, she wondered,
 
 76 GROWING UP. 
 
 as she walked down the paved path to the gate; 
 would a tongue of flame come down from heaven 
 and settle on her head ? Would she speak with 
 tongues, right there, before them all, in the crowd ? 
 Would she heal the sick by prayer and anointing 
 with oil ? Would she pray in prayer-meeting, and 
 go about from house to house talking about the 
 Lord Jesus, whose dear, sacred name she seldom 
 took upon her lips ? 
 
 What a strange thing to say to a girl of thirteen ! 
 
 There were no young disciples in the Bible ; they 
 were all grown up and old. 
 
 Just now all she wanted to do was to tell Jesus 
 and his Father everything that troubled her, and 
 everything she was glad of, and read the Bible, 
 and, "Come Judith," interrupted Aunt Body's 
 shrill voice. She sat on the back seat of the carriage 
 with Aunt Body ; Mr. Brush sat alone on the front 
 seat; Aunt Affy had not come to church to-day; it 
 was her turn to stay at home. 
 
 Aunt Body insisted that some one should always 
 stay at home ; there was the silver, and her will, 
 and a great many other things to be guarded from 
 Sunday marauders.
 
 A SMALL DISCIPLE. 77 
 
 A 
 
 Judith Grey Mackenzie," began Aunt Kody, in 
 
 her most revengeful voice, "You must behave in 
 church or stay at home." 
 
 " I was behaving I read to help behave ; when 
 I cannot understand I think everyday thoughts; 
 isn't that worse than reading ? " 
 
 " Nothing is so bad behaved as reading. And all 
 the folks seeing you. What do you suppose the 
 new minister thinks of you ? " 
 
 " He thinks I am not" 
 
 Her shy lips could not frame the words "a 
 Christian." 
 
 " Not very well brought up," tartly finished Aunt 
 Rody. 
 
 "I brought myself up, that's the reason then," 
 replied Judith, her eyes filling with resentful tears. 
 "Mother was always too sick. Cousin Don said 
 my mother was the sweetest mother in the world." 
 
 "You act like a sick mother; but you've got an 
 aunt that isn't sick; and if I ever see you read 
 again in church you shall not go to church for six 
 months. Tell your Jousin Don that." 
 
 " I wouldn't mind church," replied Judith. 
 
 " To Sunday School then, if that hurts more."
 
 78 GROWING UP. 
 
 "Oh, tut, tut," came good humoredly from the 
 front seat. "Don't forget your own young days 
 Body." 
 
 "I never had any. Just as I shall never have 
 any old age. I've never had time to be young or 
 old." 
 
 Judith laughed. Aunt Rody was eighty-four 
 years old. 
 
 "Don't you deceive me about the book, Judith, 
 for I don't always go to church." 
 
 "Aunt Rody," with girlish dignity, "I never 
 deceived any one in my life." 
 
 "That's a good deal to say." 
 
 " I haven't lived to be eighty-four, but I think I 
 never shall deceive. I would rather die than not 
 be true," she burst out 
 
 " H'm, you haven't been tried." 
 
 Judith thought she had ; did not this grim, hard 
 old woman try her every day of her life ? 
 
 The long village street was lined with maples and 
 locusts ; inside the yards were horse-chestnut trees, 
 lilacs, and syruigas. 
 
 All over the beautiful country the fruit trees were 
 in blossom; Judith revelled in the fragrance and
 
 A SMALL DISCIPLE. 75 
 
 delicate tints of the apple-blossom ; she called it her 
 apple-blossom spring. 
 
 The story and a half red farmhouse, with its 
 slanting roof and long piazza, marked the "Sparrow 
 place " ; it had been the Sparrow place one hundred 
 and fifty years. The red farmhouse was built one hun 
 dred years ago ; the Sparrow girls, the eight sisters, 
 were all born there long before many of the village 
 people could remember. 
 
 As Judith stepped up on the piazza the bowed 
 gray head at the window was lifted ; the girl went 
 to the open window and stood ; Aunt Any took off 
 her spectacles and laid them in the book she was 
 reading. 
 
 Judith thought Aunt Affy read but one book. 
 How could anyone be wise and read only one book ? 
 
 " Well, dear," said Aunt Affy in her welcoming 
 tones. To Aunt Affy Judith Grey Mackenzie was 
 the sweetest picture of girlhood in all the world ; 
 she was as fresh as the dew, tinted like an apple- 
 blossom, as natural as a wild rose. To everyone 
 else she was a girl of thirteen, with the faults, the 
 forgetfulness, the impetuosity, the thoughtlessnesSj 
 and above all, the selfishness of girlhood. Her yel-
 
 80 GBOWHfG UP. 
 
 low hair fell in long cods to her waist, because her 
 mother had lored it so; her ejes of deepest bine were 
 frank and troth-telling; in her ftps, flexible, yet 
 strong, was revealed a world of loving; a world that 
 she had not vet 
 
 She was impatient, pa MOTH It 1 , rebellious; hot 
 newer was it in face, voice, or attitude when under 
 the wihclmy of Aunt Ally's appreciation. 
 
 "Aunt Afry, I've been wicked," she cnnfrmniil in a 
 humiliated voioe. 
 
 So have L Fve been sitting here grumbling, 
 when I should be the happiest old sinner in the 
 world." 
 
 "Fve been wickeder than thsL" 
 
 'How much wickeder?" 
 
 -I borrowed a Sunday-school book to take to 
 ^iiiTyj because 1 do not o ******! utano fHf- JLenney. 
 
 - Did that help TOO understand him?* 
 
 -I did try at fast," Judith erpJahmd, lathing at 
 Aunt Affy*s seuuus o^nestxon, "but it was alxiat the 
 tliiiy in Bevelatkn, the hard thing* * 
 
 'Did he not say anything janamU vndenttnd?" 
 
 'So ' <c " i Judith, thinking that his larnnifcr 
 to her, her own private message, was tiia hardest of 
 all to
 
 A SMALL D18CIPLM. 81 
 
 " You were very rude . " 
 
 "How was it rode?" Judith questioned, sur 
 prised 
 
 "He was speaking to you, and you refused to 
 listen." 
 
 "I was listening to someone else, said Judith, 
 troubled. 
 
 "That was more rode stflL That was premedi 
 tated rudeness." 
 
 "I hope he did not notice it" 
 
 " Ton may trust him for that* 
 
 "But I cannot tell him I am sorry; it would 
 choke me to death." 
 
 " And another thing if he is Christ's ambassa 
 dor, and yon refused to listen " 
 
 The girl's eyes filled, and her lips trembled; was 
 it that she had done ? 
 
 "It's time to set the table," were Aunt Ally's 
 next words, in an unconcerned tone, polishing her 
 glasses with a corner of her white apron. That 
 small, clean old kitchen; how Judith loved it. She 
 loved every kind of work that was done in it, even 
 the wash-tubs, the smell of the suds was exhflarat- 
 fmr and halcfng and ironing days were her
 
 82 GROWING UP. 
 
 Every nerve and muscle responded to the call to 
 labor. 
 
 The south door opened on a flagged walk that led 
 to Aunt Affy's flower garden, the north door led 
 you out into a deep, square, grassy yard, where the 
 clothes were hung and bleached ; a tall, shaggy pine 
 stood sentinel at one side of the door, on the other 
 side ran the bench upon which the milk-pans shone 
 in a row ; beyond the grass rose a stone wall, and 
 then there were fields and woods ; woods in which 
 the thrush hid, and the whip-poor-will; a brook 
 started from a spring in the woods and tumbled over 
 the pebbles down into the meadows, then out, below 
 the flower garden and across the road, where it was 
 bridged with a stone arch. 
 
 In the kitchen was a brick oven, its iron door 
 stood out black among the white-washed bricks ; 
 the uneven boards of the kitchen were always 
 scrubbed clean, the stove was brushed into a shin 
 ing blackness every day, the two tables were as 
 spotless as sand, the scrubbing-brush and Aunt 
 Affy's strong hands could make them. 
 
 Out of the three windows were pictures of which 
 the city-bred girl never wearied. Her apple-blossom 
 spring was the spring of her new birth.
 
 A SMALL DISCIPLE. 83 
 
 "Aunt Body, please excuse me," Judith said, ris 
 ing from the dinner table. 
 
 " You haven't eaten your custard, and you like it 
 with crab-apple jelly." 
 
 The yellow custard in the big coffee-cup with a 
 broken handle, and the generous spoonful of jelly 
 quivering on top was a temptation ; she looked at 
 it, then pushed it away. Nobody would ever know 
 that she was punishing herself for being " rude " in 
 church; it was easier to punish herself than to 
 apologize to Mr. Kenney ; and something had to be 
 done. 
 
 " I want to study my Sunday-school lesson," she 
 evaded, and then her heart sank at her deception 
 she had not told Aunt Eody all the truth. 
 
 She fled into the parlor with a question from 
 Aunt Body pursuing her ; her cheeks were burning, 
 and she was trembling with shame and anger. 
 
 Why couldn't Aunt Eody leave her alone ? Some 
 times she almost hated Aunt Body. A corner of the 
 stiff, long, horse-hair sofa was her retreat; it was 
 often her retreat; she called it her valley of humili 
 ation. 
 
 In her lesson to-day she found the loveliest thing.
 
 84 GROWING UP. 
 
 Aunt Affy was teaching her that the Bible was a 
 treasure-house. 
 
 " By this shall all men know that ye are my dis 
 ciples, if ye have love one to another." 
 
 All men know just by loving not by doing 
 any great hard thing by loving but that was 
 hard, if it meant bearing with Aunt Body's misun 
 derstanding and sharpness and fault-finding, and 
 being always on the watch to find evil in you. 
 
 But " all men know " was the comfort of it ; she 
 need not pray in prayer meeting as Miss Kenney 
 did, npr do the wonderful things the disciples did ; 
 all men would know that she wanted to be a 
 Christian, if she tried to be loving. 
 
 She repeated the words of Christ in a soft mono 
 tone, her small Bible in her hand, and her head 
 pillowed on her hair on the hard sofa-arm, 
 i Aunt Affy pushed the door wider and entered, 
 bringing a glass half filled with crab-apple jelly. 
 
 " I saved your custard it's on the hanging shelf 
 in the cellar," she said, opening the door of the 
 chimney cupboard to set the glass in its own space 
 in the row of jelly glasses. 
 
 "Aunt Affy," lifting her tumbled head, and with
 
 A SMALL DISCIPLE. 85 
 
 grave eyes asking her question : " what is who is 
 a disciple ? " 
 
 " A disciple is one who learns. You are my dis 
 ciple when you learn of me. The disciple of Christ 
 is the man, or woman, or child who learns of him. 
 When you are about the farm with Cephas, you are 
 his disciple, in sewing and mending you are Aunt 
 Eody's, in housekeeping generally you are my dis 
 ciple." 
 
 Aunt Affy went out, and the tumbled head 
 dropped back to the hard sofa-arm again. Would 
 Christ let her be a " disciple " a little while, and then 
 be a Christian when she grew up, she pondered. 
 
 She wanted to learn of him ; she would read the 
 Gospels through and through and through. She 
 would learn them by heart. For her lesson to-day 
 she would learn these seven verses he had spoken 
 to his own, real, grown-up disciples. 
 
 That afternoon in Sunday-school, after the lesson 
 was ended, the new minister left his class of boys 
 and came to the pulpit stairs and stood and talked 
 to the children ; his opening sentence thrilled one 
 small listener: 
 
 " The disciples were called Christians first at 
 Antioch/'
 
 86 GROWING UP. 
 
 If you were a disciple, only a disciple, learning 
 and loving, you were called a Christian. Then he 
 spoke of the Holy Spirit ; he was the very heart and 
 will of Christ; he spoke in a low, sweet voice to 
 children, a constraining voice, making known the 
 things Christ the Lord would have them do; he 
 showed them the things of Christ. 
 
 Had she dared she would have stepped out of 
 her pew and gone up the aisle to the new minister 
 and told him that she did want to be a Christian, 
 and she would not be afraid to ask the Holy Spirit 
 to tell her all the things Christ wanted her to do. 
 Miss Kenney, her teacher and the minister's sister, 
 noticed the start and flush, the hesitancy, the eager 
 look, as the minister came down the aisle and paused 
 to speak to her girls ; she saw Judith's eyes drop as 
 he took her hand, and then her shy withdrawal of 
 herself. 
 
 Suddenly the girl turned, and with the flash of 
 decision in her voice, said bravely, detaining the 
 minister with her trembling little hand: 
 
 "I am sorry I read in church this morning; I will 
 never do it again, even if I don't understand. Please 
 excuse me."
 
 A SMALL DISCIPLE. 87 
 
 " I saw you," he said, smiling, and taking the 
 brave little hand into both his own; "I will try to 
 talk to you next Sunday. Thank you for the les 
 son." 
 
 Then shy Judith slipped away, and never told 
 even Aunt Affy that she had apologized to the nev 
 minister. 
 
 That evening in the twilight, sitting on the piazza 
 alone, she wrote on the fly-leaf of her small Bible, in 
 pencil : 
 
 Judith Grey Mackenzie ; A Disciple. 
 
 And the date, May 15, 18 . 
 
 She thought she would like to tell somebody that 
 she was a disciple. But if they should ask how it 
 happened, she could not tell. It had happened as 
 still as a leaf fluttering in the wind, as softly as the 
 apple-blossoms came ; nobody could tell about that. 
 She thought the Holy Spirit must know how it 
 happened.
 
 ss GaowufQ UP. 
 
 vra. 
 
 THIS WAY, OE THAT WAY? 
 
 " My times are in Thy band, and Thou 
 Wilt guide my footsteps at Thy will." 
 
 IT was six o'clock that May evening, and Joe was 
 running away. He did not know he was running 
 away. He had never been taught to read, and no 
 one had ever told him a story, and his own ex 
 perience of life was so limited, that he did not know 
 that he was starting out in the world to find adven 
 tures, to find good or evil, to find a new life, and 
 that new life, shaped more by what was inside of 
 himself, than what was outside of himself. If the 
 man who just passed him had asked him what he 
 was doing, he would have said, had he not been 
 overcome by one of his fits of shyness, that he was 
 "gittin' out." 
 
 The air was damp, and sweet with the scent of 
 blossoms. At his right ran a range of low hills,
 
 THIS WAY, OR TSAT WAY? 8$ 
 
 abrupt and green ; at his left, as far as he could see, 
 stretched the swamp, miles of meadow, over-flooded 
 in the spring, waving with grass in the summer, and 
 homely with unpainted one-story houses, and out 
 buildings in various stages of decay ; it was a pas 
 ture land for the cattle of the farmers in the upland 
 district, and Joe's bare feet had trodden its miles 
 morning and night ever since he had been old enough 
 to drive the cows. 
 
 He went on slowly, with his hands in his pockets, 
 too heavy-hearted to whistle, not thinking about 
 anything, only feeling, with something in his throat 
 that would not be swallowed down, miserable and 
 defiant; remembering nothing in his past to regret 
 not having learned that there was anything in his 
 future to hope for, he was conscious only of some 
 thing stirring within, stirring to action, to wideness, 
 to freedom, and therefore he must " git out " to find 
 it ; therefore he was getting out. 
 
 His plan, if he had a plan, was to find a woman 
 in the village who had once spoken kindly to him, 
 and given him a huge slice of warm bread and but 
 ter; in the swamp he knew he might find work 
 among the Germans, but the swamp was so lonely
 
 90 GROWING UP. 
 
 at night, and he did not like the ways of the Ger 
 mans ; in all the world he had but one friend, this 
 woman who had spoken kindly to him. 
 
 She might not give him work, or a bed, but she 
 would look at him, as no one else ever looked, and 
 she would speak kindly. The road over the hill 
 drew his lagging feet, then he stood, hesitating, at 
 the turn of the hill road and swamp road ; the hill 
 road led to people, and a church, a store, where 
 boys and men gathered at night to read the newspa 
 per, and smoke, and have fun; to the blacksmith's 
 shop, and, most of all, to the little house next door, 
 where the woman lived who had cut that large 
 slice across her big, hot loaf. 
 
 A German, in the swamp, had told him to come 
 to him for a home and work, if he ever wanted to 
 leave his place ; work he must, and a home the 
 woman's face came between him and the German, 
 his heart began to beat very fast, he wondered why 
 his heart beat so fast sometimes, and he took his life 
 in his hands, and started on a run for the road over 
 the hill, where was the only thing in the world that 
 seemed like love, although of love he had never had 
 one thought Then he began to walk slowly again ;
 
 \ 
 THIS WAY, OB THAT WAY? 91 
 
 he had decided there was no need of hurrying, there 
 was no need of doing anything he had never been 
 given a reason for doing anything excepting that one 
 or the other of the old men with whom he had lived 
 all his remembered life bade him do it. He had 
 done things because he was told ; he did not know 
 why, excepting that because he was told. 
 
 If he were being told now to run away, he did not 
 know ; he had never thought that he might tell 
 himself to do things. Not for a moment did he be 
 lieve that the two old men would take the trouble 
 to look for him, or to wish him back ; every day, 
 one, or both, said to each other or to him that he 
 was not worth his salt, and would never amount to 
 anything ; they must be glad he was gone. But the 
 cows. They would be sorry, especially Beauty ; one 
 of the old men would milk her to-night, but they 
 would not pat her and talk to her, and ask her if 
 she were glad she was a cow and not a boy, and was 
 worth her salt, and all her feed beside ; she had no 
 friend but him, and she would look around for him 
 with her big eyes; again he stood hesitating 
 Beauty wanted him his tears fell fast ; but he 
 must go on, he wanted something better than Beauty.
 
 92 GROWING UP. 
 
 So he went on down the hill, past the pretty parson 
 age and the church wondering, if he had no place 
 to sleep, if he might sleep in the church ; then past 
 the school-house, with its large play-ground, and 
 turned by the liberty-pole, and walked very slowly 
 along the street until he reached the blacksmith's 
 shop, and there, in the doorway of the small house, 
 stood the woman looking for him. 
 
 " Why, Joe, what are you doing here at milking 
 time ? " she asked in a brisk tone, as the boy stopped 
 before the gate. 
 
 " I'm done milking for them two old men," he 
 said, in a voice he tried hard to make brave. Chris 
 and Sam don't want me any longer ; I'm gittin' out." 
 And then, big boy as he was, feeling lost in a strange 
 world, he began to cry. 
 
 " There ! there ! Sonny," soothed the voice, chang 
 ing from its briskness into sympathy, as the woman 
 stepped down the three steps ; " Come and eat sup 
 per with me ; I know what I'll do with you. I'm 
 glad you happened to come along this way." 
 
 Pushing open the gate, she laid her hand on his 
 arm and drew him into the house by his soiled and 
 ragged sleeve.
 
 THIS WAY, OB THAT WAT? 93 
 
 "We don't want a boy, haven't work enough ; but 
 I know somebody who does, late in the season as it 
 is. Mr. Brush, Mr. Cephas Brush, he farms the 
 Sparrow place, you know ; while he was waiting at 
 the shop this very morning, he came to the well for 
 a drink, and I went out to give him a glass so he 
 needn't drink out of that rusty tin cup, and he asked 
 me if I knew where he could find a boy. His boy 
 went off in March. He's a good master, and that's 
 a good home ; Miss Affy is like a mother to every 
 stray thing and you won't mind if Miss Rody does 
 scold, she never means any harm. I'll take you 
 down there right after supper. Mr. Evans had his 
 early because he wanted to go to town, and I was 
 feeding my chickens, two hundred and five now, 
 Nettie puts down every new brood in a book 
 and couldn't stop to eat. I didn't think I was going 
 to have company for supper. Nettie had hers 
 earlier than usual because she was tired, and wanted 
 to go to bed." She pulled him through the narrow 
 hall as she talked, Joe, once in a while, giving a 
 quick, hard sob, and opened the door into the tiny 
 kitchen. 
 
 The tea-kettle on the stove was singing a cheery
 
 94 GROWING UP. 
 
 welcome, the white cloth and pink dishes on the 
 round table in the centre of the room gave him 
 another welcome, and the touch and tone of the 
 woman who had been kind to him brought him the 
 cheeriest welcome of all, as she pushed him down 
 into the chair opposite her own at the table, saying : 
 " I know what men's cooking is, and I know you are 
 half-starved. Who made the bread ? " 
 
 " I got that at the store." 
 
 " You had potatoes, of course." 
 
 " Oh, yes, and fried pork, lots of it, and pan-cakes. 
 My ! can't Chris make good pan-cakes ! " 
 
 " Can he ? " inquired Mrs. Evans, doubtfully, tak 
 ing the tea-pot off the stove and setting it on the 
 table. 
 
 "Now, here's hot fried potatoes for you, and good 
 bread and butter, and a big saucer of rice pudding 
 Mr. Evans is never tired of rice pudding, and 
 sponge cake that little Judith brought to Nettie to 
 day because it is her own baking. Nettie took a 
 bite and said I must put the rest on the supper- 
 table. And you can have tea or milk, or both." 
 
 After bustling about in the shed, Mrs. Evans 
 seated herself at the table opposite her guest.
 
 THIS WAT, OB THAT WATf 95 
 
 "Who would have thought I was going to eat 
 supper with you, Joe ? The world does turn on its 
 axis once every twenty-four hours, and unexpected 
 things do happen. I'll tell Nettie all about it to 
 morrow ; it will make a happening in her poor little 
 life." 
 
 Joe gave her a shy, quick glance, then bowed his 
 head ; some time, somewhere, not with the old men, 
 certainly, he had bowed his head and said something 
 at the table ; he did not remember where it was, or 
 what words he said, or why he said anything at all, 
 but the pretty tea-table, or the savory food reminded 
 him of a life he had once lived ; he listened for a 
 chorus of voices : 
 
 " For what we are about to receive receive 
 truly thankful." 
 
 It was like music in the boy's heart ; he lifted his 
 head with a light shining in his tear-blurred eyes. 
 
 " Well, I never," ejaculated Mrs. Evans. 
 
 The boy held his knife and fork with a grace her 
 husband had not acquired, taking his food as slowly 
 and daintily as a girl. 
 
 " Those Tucker men, that old Chris and Sam have 
 no claim on you, and they haven't done as well by
 
 96 GROWING UP. 
 
 you as they promised they would when they took 
 you, a little fellow, out of the Christie Home. I've 
 often spoken to Mr. Evans about it, but he's so easy 
 going I might as well have talked to the wind. I 
 told our new minister that he must ' high-way and 
 hedge ' you ; he has noticed you ; but he is feeling 
 his way among the people, and couldn't make a stir 
 as soon as he came." 
 
 " Is that where I was ? " asked astonished Joe. 
 " I thought I used to be somewhere. They never 
 told me. I seem to remember things that happened 
 before I can remember. They told me that I hadn't 
 any father or mother, and wouldn't have any home 
 if they had not taken me in." 
 
 " People thought you ought to be sent to school 
 and Sunday-school, but what is everybody's business 
 is nobody's business. I'm glad enough you have 
 left them, but you should have told them you 
 wanted to leave." 
 
 "It wouldn't have done any good," he muttered 
 " they wouldn't have said anything." 
 
 " Now, I'll put out the cat, and leave the table 
 standing, and bolt the shed door, and lock the front 
 door, and put on my things, and we'll be off. Nettie 
 is fast asleep and will never miss me."
 
 THIS WAY, OR THAT WAY t 97 
 
 " I will wash the dishes for you ; we put them un 
 der the pump, then wipe them on anything." 
 
 " That wouldn't suit me, thank you," laughed Mrs. 
 Evans ; " you can hoe corn better than wipe dishes, 
 and Mr. Brush has acres and acres of corn to hoe, 
 and potatoes too : he's making that old Sparrow 
 farm pay." 
 
 Joe did not know that he had been lost, but he 
 began to feel very much found. 
 
 " I'm glad you went out to the well with that 
 glass," he said, as his hostess wrapped a shawl about 
 her shoulders and tied the blue ribbons of a blue 
 wool hood under her chin. 
 
 " I'm usually glad of kind things I do ; I suppose 
 that's one reason I do them." 
 
 Joe unlatched the gate, holding it open for her to 
 pass through, then pushed it shut ; Beauty and this 
 woman seemed to belong to the same order of 
 creaturehood ; the woman's eyes were like Beauty's, 
 soft, and big and brown, and they answered you. 
 She took his hand and drew it under her arm in a 
 sort of comradeship, and then they went on, the 
 woman and the boy, to find the gate that would 
 swing open into a world of which it had never 
 entered the boy's heart to dream.
 
 98 GROWING UP. 
 
 The gate was shut and a man in shirt-sleeves with 
 a pipe in his mouth was standing on the mysterious 
 and happy side of it resting his elbows on the 
 pickets, and, attracted by voices, looking up the road 
 in the starlight towards the two figures. 
 
 " You stay here, Joe that's Mr. Brash. I'll tell 
 him all your story." 
 
 " My story ? " repeated Joe, in amazement 
 
 "You didn't know you had any," she laughed. 
 "Well, folks don't usually until it is all lived 
 through I didn't know I had any girlhood until I 
 married and lost it." 
 
 " I haven't lost anything," said Joe, bewildered. 
 
 "No; and I think you have got something 
 stand back, till I call you." 
 
 She went on, and Joe heard the two voices ex 
 change a friendly, " Good evening," and then to es 
 cape his " story " climbed up the steep, green bank, 
 and waited under a cherry tree. Cherry blossoms 
 were not as pretty as apple blossoms, he meditated; 
 it was queer how the blossoms would fall off, and 
 the hard, green fruit come but it always did, some 
 how. 
 
 He wished Mrs. Evans would come bck and take
 
 THIS WAT, OR THAT WATf 99 
 
 his hand again, making him feel ashamed and glad, 
 and say, " Joe, you are going home with me. That 
 man doesn't want you, and I do." 
 
 And there he stood, not still, but first on one bare 
 foot, and then on the other, and then he whistled ; 
 the stars shining down through the cherry blossoms 
 were almost as kind as Beauty's eyes, but they were 
 so far off. 
 
 The low voices talked on and on ; at last, to the 
 great relief of the boy who was waiting to know if 
 anybody in the world wanted to own him, the man's 
 voice was raised in a cheerful : " Well, I'll see Mr. 
 Chris Tucker to-morrow, and make it right." 
 
 And, then, in her brisk way, Mrs. Evans called, 
 " Come, Joe ; it is all right." 
 
 The barefoot, ragged boy emerged out of the 
 shade of the cherry limbs and went, faint-heartedly 
 to answer the call. 
 
 " Well, Joe," welcomed the old man, unlatching 
 the gate and throwing it wide open, " come in and 
 stay with me awhile. I guess I want you and you 
 want me." 
 
 But Joe begun to cry, and rub his eyes with the 
 back of his dirty brown hand : " I am sixteen years
 
 GROWING UP. 
 
 old, and I am a stump of a thing, and will eat you 
 out of house and home, and shan't never amount to 
 much." 
 
 "Tut, nonsense !" exclaimed the old man; "don't 
 you like to work ? " 
 
 " I never did nothing else ; I don't like nothing 
 else," replied Joe, dropping his hand, somewhat re 
 assured. 
 
 "Who said you are sixteen? Come in and let 
 me have a look at you." 
 
 Joe stepped inside the gate ; kind, strong hands 
 drew him within the light that streamed from the 
 kitchen windows and open door. 
 
 " Good night, Joe," said Mrs. Evans. 
 
 " Good night," said Joe. 
 
 He had not learned how to say " thank you." 
 
 " They said so," he replied to the latest question. 
 
 "Those men. The Tucker twins. They are 
 seventy, and hale old fellows. I'll warrant you know 
 how to work. You are not fourteen. You shall do 
 a boy's work and be a boy. You may grow to be as 
 tall as old Christopher himself. There's plenty of 
 man-timber in you. Now come and see what the 
 women-folks will say to you."
 
 THIS WAY, OR THAT WAY? 101 
 
 Joe shrank back. 
 
 " I thought I was going to live with you." 
 
 " And you thought I lived alone like the other old 
 men ? I'm a miserable old bachelor, but I've got 
 plenty of women-folks, thank the Lord." 
 
 A little girl rushed to the door, and a barking 
 Scotch terrier made a spring at the new-comer. 
 
 "Oh, what a dog," Joe exclaimed, stooping to 
 catch frisking, curly Doodles into his arms. Home 
 sick for Mrs. Evans, frightened and glad, he followed 
 the old man into the kitchen with the curly dog in 
 his arms. 
 
 " Affy, here's the boy I've been looking for, and 
 you've been praying for, I've no doubt." 
 
 Aunt Affy turned and looked at the boy : short, 
 stout, dirty, ragged, with a shock of uncombed black 
 hair, a lock falling over his forehead, long black eye 
 lashes concealed the eyes he kept shyly fixed upon 
 the curly bundle in his arms. 
 
 " What is your name, dear ? " she inquired. 
 
 Joe had never heard " dear " before, but supposed 
 she must be speaking to him ; he raised his eyes and 
 smiled ; they were shy, honest eyes ; Aunt Affy 
 smiled too.
 
 102 GROWING UP. 
 
 a I am Joe,** he said, pulling Doodles' ears. 
 
 " Do you remember your father and mother ? " 
 
 "No; I don't remember nobody but Chris and 
 Sam." 
 
 " Is your name Joseph ? " 
 
 " I don't know ; I never thought. I guess it's 
 Joseph or Jo no, now I remember another 
 name : Josiah. Is that a boy's name ? " 
 
 " A boy's name, and a king's name. I am glad 
 your name is Josiah. I will tell you about him 
 some time." 
 
 The little girl stood near the lady, but she did not 
 stare at him, and Joe gave her glances now and 
 then from under his long lashes ; he would like to 
 know her name, and what she was here for. A 
 man's fur cap covered the black head ; when he left 
 the house, angry and discouraged, he had put upon 
 his head the first thing he seized. 
 
 " Doodles hasn't given you time to take your hat 
 off, Joe, or did you forget ? " suggested Aunt Affy's 
 unreproachful voice. 
 
 " Didn't forget it," said Joe, pulling it off and 
 dropping it on the floor. " They used to eat with 
 their hats on, but I always took mine off.
 
 THIS WAY, OB THAT WAY? 103 
 
 " I should think you would," exclaimed indignant 
 Judith. 
 
 Joe put his cheek down upon Doodles' head, 
 smoothing the sleeping head with his brown cheek. 
 
 " What is the dog's name ? " he inquired. 
 
 "Doodles," answered Judith, hastening to speak 
 to the rude, strange boy who had traveled from an 
 unknown country. 
 
 " 0, Doodles, Doodles, Doodles," whispered Joe, in 
 a fond voice, rubbing his cheek on the soft head. 
 
 "Well, Joe, do you love cows as well as dogs?" 
 inquired Mr. Brush. 
 
 "Yes," said Joe, thinking of the cow that was 
 missing him to-night He hoped she was asleep 
 now. " But I'm glad I found Doodles." 
 
 " Now, Joe, drop Doodles," said Aunt Affy, " and 
 follow me up these kitchen stairs. I have a room 
 ready for an obedient, truthful, industrious boy." 
 
 " Where is he ? " asked Joe, lifting his shaggy 
 head. 
 
 They all laughed, and laughing, also, Joe followed 
 the plump, sweet-faced lady up the kitchen stairs.
 
 104 GROWING UP. 
 
 DC. 
 
 THE FLOWERS THAT CAME TO THE WELL. 
 
 " He might have made the earth bring forth 
 Enough for great and small, 
 The oak tree and the cedar tree, 
 And not a flower at all." MARY Howrrr. 
 
 NETTIE EVANS sat in her invalid chair leaning for 
 ward with her chin on the window-sill looking down 
 into her father's untidy back yard. 
 
 The only pleasant thing in it was a lilac bush 
 that was a marvel of beauty when it was in bloom, 
 but that had faded many weary days ago, leaving 
 ugly brown bunches where the lilacs had been ; 
 there were two well-worn paths, one leading to the 
 kitchen door, and the other to the well, and nothing 
 besides, excepting weeds with a background of 
 apple orchard. If Nettie had raised her eyes she 
 would have seen woods, and hills and fields of grain, 
 a bit of road, a wooden bridge, and a deep blue sky
 
 FLOWERS THAT CAME TO THE WELL. 105 
 
 full of pufiy, white clouds, but she would not 
 raise her eyes; when her back ached as it did 
 to-day she never saw anything but the weeds in 
 the yard, especially those tall rag-weeds growing 
 close around the well. Her father had promised to 
 " clear up " the yard after planting, but planting had 
 come and gone, and he was still too busy. 
 "Oh, if I were only able to pull weeds," she 
 
 It was a very gentle sigh, she was not strong 
 enough to sigh heavily. Three years ago she could 
 shout and run, to-day she could not move her feet, 
 and there were many days during the year when she 
 must lie still in bed. 
 
 In winter, she had a south room, at the front of 
 house, where she saw the rising and the setting sun, 
 and had a good view of all the people who passed back 
 and forth from the village ; in summer, she had this 
 cool north room that looked out on the back yard. 
 
 The back yard was full of interest to her when 
 she could forget the weeds. Twenty times a day 
 her mother came to the kitchen door to look up at her, 
 and tell her how the work was going on ; she knew 
 what was cooking by the odors that eamt up to her
 
 106 GROWING UP. 
 
 and what all the noises meant, from the click of the 
 egg-beater to the thud of the churn-dasher, and she 
 saw old Mrs. Finch when she came to borrow 
 baking powder, and the pedlars, and book-agents, 
 and apple-tree men ; but best of all she liked to watch 
 for her father to come in to dinner and supper. 
 
 In blue flannel shirt and big straw hat, tired and 
 dusty and warm, he never failed to look up and 
 call: " Why, hello, you there, daughter?" just as if 
 she were well, and had only run up stairs for a 
 moment And her weak, " I'm here, father," made 
 the sadness and the happiness of his life. 
 
 Nettie moved her head slightly, and gained a 
 view of the pasture where three cows were feeding ; 
 she could not see the brook, but she knew that it 
 ran through the pasture, and she knew there were 
 blue lilies all along the brook, some of them grow 
 ing in the water. 
 
 How she longed to see those lilies growing in the 
 water! 
 
 She was only ten years old the last timt she saw 
 those lilies : she was driving home the cows at 
 night, in her pink calico dress and stout leather 
 shoes, with her father's old straw hat on the back of
 
 FLOWERS THAT CAMS TO THB WELL. 107 
 
 her head, "a picture of a happy, healthy, country 
 lassie," her father thought as he watched her stand 
 ing by the clump of lilies while she waited for the 
 cows to drink. She was thinking she would gather 
 a big bunch of the lilies as soon as they were opened 
 the next morning but the pet calf came behind 
 her and butted her down, and her father carried 
 home in his arms a helpless little daughter. And 
 there were tiger lilies in bloom ; she could not see 
 the place where they were growing, but it was only 
 a quarter of a mile away in a fence corner, such a 
 patch of them ! Oh, how she longed to see those 
 tiger lilies growing ! The last time she saw the tiger 
 lilies was the Sunday before she said good-bye to 
 the blue lilies she was walking home alone 
 from Sunday-school in white dress and blue ribbons, 
 and brown kid shoes, and when she came to the 
 fence corner with the great clump of tiger lilies, she 
 thought of picking a large bunch of them, but just 
 then she heard a noise behind her, and turning, saw a 
 neighbor's three little black and white pigs ; they had 
 followed her all the way from the corner, and it was 
 so funny to think how she had walked along un 
 consciously, with those pigs in single file behind
 
 108 GROWING UP. 
 
 her, that she just stood and laughed, and then she 
 clapped her hands at them and chased them back, 
 and forgot all about the tiger lilies. 
 
 " Oh, blue lilies, oh, tiger lilies, I'll never see you 
 growing any more," she sighed. 
 
 " Why, hello, daughter, you up there ? " called the 
 voice below her. 
 
 Nettie did not answer; she felt too discouraged 
 to speak, but she looked down and tried to smile at 
 her father. 
 
 Her father looked just as usual, only he had a 
 scythe over his shoulder. 
 
 " I came in a little earlier to cut down your 
 weeds," he called cheerily. 
 
 Nettie watched him as he swung the scythe, and 
 listened to the swish, swish, as the tall weeds fell ; 
 when the weeds around the well grew less she 
 caught a glimpse of something blue, and then 
 of something red; she pulled herself up to the win 
 dow, and leaned out, and then she shrieked : 
 
 " Father, don't cut down the lilies! " 
 
 There they were, blue lilies and tiger lilies, grow 
 ing together, close by the well 1 
 
 " How did they get there, father ? " she called.
 
 FLOWERS THAT CAME TO THE WELL. 10P 
 
 "They must have been in the sod that I put 
 around the well last fall," he replied ; " I remember 
 now that I got it from two different places. If I 
 had cut down the weeds before the lilies bloomed, I 
 shouldn't have known they were there, and should 
 have cut them all down together." 
 
 Nettie fell back in her chair with a sigh of de 
 light, watching her father while with his hands he 
 pulled all the weeds away from the lilies. 
 
 " Mother," she called, lifting herself forward, and 
 resting her chin again on the window-silL 
 
 "Well, Deary," came in a quick voice from the 
 shed, and her mother appeared in the shed doorway 
 with the dish of boiled potatoes she held in her 
 hand when Nettie's voice reached her. 
 
 ** Mother, will you ask Judith to stop and see ay 
 lilies the next time she goes past ? " 
 
 "Your lilies, child?" 
 
 "Yes, my own lilies, there by the wclL 
 came and grew just for me." 
 
 Mrs. Evans gave a glance toward the we* 
 hastened to set the potato dish on the ' " ...:T 
 table. 
 
 " Of all things ! And how she has wanted **, ee
 
 110 GROWING UP. 
 
 lilies grow I The blessed child is watched over and 
 done for as her father and I can't do. I declare," 
 in a shame-faced way, all to herself, " when such 
 things happen I wish I was a Christian." 
 
 " Mother, mother," called the happy voice again ; 
 " I want Joe to see my lilies too." 
 
 " Yes, Deary," promised her mother from within 
 the shed. 

 
 TOS LAST APPLE. Ill 
 
 THE LAST APPLE. 
 
 "God loves not only a cheerful giver, but a cheerful 
 worker as well." FLETCHER BEADE. 
 
 THAT afternoon as Nettie was slowly rousing her 
 self from her afternoon nap in her chair, she heard 
 a low, joyful exclamation under her windows. 
 
 " Oh, lovely. Mrs. Evans, it's like a poem." 
 
 Then a light flashed over the pale face, and Nettie 
 lifted herself forward to look, and to speak. 
 
 " 0, Judith, I wanted you to see them. You do 
 love pretty things so." 
 
 Judith came through the shed, and up the nar 
 row rag-carpeted stairs to the open door of Nettie's 
 chamber. 
 
 " I wish you would write a poem for me." 
 
 Nettie Evans was Judith's " public," and a most 
 enthusiastic one; the young author looked very 
 grave one day when Nettie told her that she liked 
 her poems better than the ones she read to her from 
 the Longfellow book.
 
 112 GROWING UP. 
 
 " I have brought a poem for you ; no one has seen 
 it yet ; I've copied it to send to my Cousin Don ; 
 you know he's in Switzerland, climbing moun 
 tains, and having splendid times. It happened one 
 Thanksgiving I was here in the country, you re 
 member, with my mother. I saw one rosy apple 
 left on the top of a tree, and I felt so sorry for it 
 One day I thought of it again, and I wrote this." 
 
 Judith drew her chair close to Nettie's and took 
 the folded sheet of note paper from her pocket 
 
 " Oh, I wish I could make poems and sew carpet 
 rags," moaned Nettie. 
 
 Judith dared not say she wished she might, she 
 dared not pity her, or look at her; she unfolded her 
 poem and began to read: 
 
 THE LAST APPLE. 
 I am a rosy-cheeked apple, 
 
 Left all alone on the wee, 
 And in the cold wind I am sighing, 
 
 'Oh, what wUl become of me.' 
 
 Nettie nodded approval, and the poet read mod 
 estly on: 
 
 TheyVe picked my sisten and eoortM, 
 
 But I was too little to Me; 
 Now, they will be eaten at GhristUM, 
 But nothing will happen to me*
 
 THS LAST APPLE. 113 
 
 1'he beets are pulled, and the parsnips 
 Are cosily left in the ground 
 
 When the farmer counts up his produce, 
 No record of me will be found. 
 
 I was as pretty a blossom 
 
 As ever gave sweets to a bee; 
 But "mong the good things for whiter, 
 
 No one will be thankful for me. 
 
 There's place for radish and carrot, 
 Though common as common can be, 
 
 And I wonder, wonder, wonder, 
 Why / was left on the tree. 
 
 Oh, here comes poor little Sadie, 
 With her face all wet with tears; 
 
 A face so pale and hardened, 
 But not with the lapse of years. 
 
 Now, fly to my aid, dear cold wind, 
 And receive my last command, 
 
 With a twist, and turn and flutter, 
 Just drop me into her hand. 
 
 In Nettie's radiant face and tear-filled eyes Judith 
 found the appreciation for which her soul thirsted. 
 
 " That's lovely," exclaimed Nettie, " may I keep it 
 and learn it ? " 
 
 " Of course you may. I'll copy it for you." 
 
 " And I'll say it in the rught if I cannot go to
 
 114 GROWING UP. 
 
 sleep. How much I've had in one day. The lilies 
 and the red apple. Don't you believe that if you 
 can't go out and get things they always come ? " 
 
 " But part of the fun is going out to get them,"" 
 said Judith, and then, in quick penitence, " but it 
 must be so lovely to have them come to you." 
 
 "Agnes Trembly came yesterday to make me a 
 new blue wrapper ; I like to have her sew here with 
 me. Her mother is blind and that is harder than 
 my lot Agnes said she wished she was a queen. 
 But I never thought of that" 
 
 " Now I'll tell you a story. There is a little girl 
 somewhere who is a queen, and sometimes she has 
 to sit in state and receive people, and do other 
 queenly things. One day when she was playing 
 with her dolls, what do you think she said ? " 
 
 " What ? " asked Nettie, her face beaming. 
 
 " If you are naughty again, I will make you a 
 queen" 
 
 Nettie laughed to the story-teller's content. 
 
 "Now, I'll tell you a chicken story. This hap 
 pened to me. Aunt Eody often lets me help her feed 
 the chickens. We had a brood of little chickens, and 
 all died but two of them . I don't know why, I took
 
 THE LAST APPLE.* 115 
 
 good care of them. One morning I found the 
 mother dead. And what do you think ? those two 
 poor motherless little sisters cuddled under their 
 dead mother's wing. I would like to write a poem 
 about that, only it breaks my heart, and I like to 
 write about happy things. The next day one of 
 them died, and the left one hadn't any chicken com 
 panion. And then, what do you think? A hen 
 mother who had only one chicken, deserted that and 
 went to roost ; and this one little black chicken 
 tried to make friends with the sisterless little white 
 chicken. It was too pretty to watch them. The 
 one whose mother deserted went into her little coop 
 and called and called to the other one; but the 
 white chicken didn't understand at first ; when she 
 did understand, the black chicken made it so plain, 
 and she ran to the coop, and the little black chicken 
 and the little white chicken cuddled together as 
 loving and happy as could be." 
 
 " You can put that into a poem," suggested Net 
 tie, her eyes alight with Judith's presence and 
 stories. 
 
 "Nettie," said Judith, impulsively, a l love to 
 have you to tell things to."
 
 116 GRotrix'a UP. 
 
 XL 
 
 BOW JEAN HAD AN OCTD*! 
 
 ' Is It vrann in that green valley, 
 
 Vale of Childhood, where you dwell? 
 
 Is it calm in that green valley, 
 
 Bound whose bourns such great hill** swell? 
 
 Are there giants in the valley, 
 
 Giants leaving foot-prints yet? 
 
 Are there angels in the valley? 
 
 Tell me I forget." JEAN INGELOW. 
 
 JEAN had been crying ; in fact, she was crying 
 now, but the tears were stopped on their way down 
 her cheeks by the rush of her new thought She 
 was always having new thoughts ; but this was thi 
 most splendid new thought she had ever had in her 
 fourteen years of life. 
 
 " I'll do it ! " she exclaimed aloud, springing to 
 her feet. "I'll just do it, and nobody will know 
 but myself. I'll go away to a new place and stay 
 two weeks." 
 
 In her delight she clapped her hands and whirled
 
 SOW JEAN HAD AN OUTING. 117 
 
 about the room, it was such a small room to clap 
 your hands and whirl about in. That was the cause 
 of her tears that small room ; that and the house, 
 the farm, and everything she had to do and doing 
 the same disagreeable things every day, and never 
 going anywhere. 
 
 School closed yesterday ; and this morning Sophie 
 Elting, her best friend, had gone away, for an outing' 
 she called it, with a little city air she had caught 
 from her cousins. She was going to the sea-shore 
 to be gone two weeks. 
 
 " I'll play go," cried Jean, " and I'll stay at home 
 and do all the things here that people do when 
 they go on an outing." 
 
 The first thing was to pack up. Sophie had a 
 new trunk, and had shown her all her pretty things 
 packed snugly in it : cologne, a box of paper, new 
 handkerchiefs, and ever so many things to go on an 
 outing with. How could Jean play she had things 
 which she hadn't ? And she had no trunk. She 
 would " pack " in a shawl-strap. 
 
 She put in her Sunday dress, her morning ging 
 ham, two white aprons, her Bible and tooth-brush. 
 She had ever so many things to take on an o'
 
 118 OBOWINO UP. 
 
 In half an hour her shawl-strap was packed. She 
 looked down at it with a sigh of relief and pleasure. 
 Now she had started. 
 
 " Jean," came up the stairway, " do you want to 
 go to town ? " 
 
 Of course she did! The coming back would be 
 "getting there." She was going into the country 
 for two weeks to board. The boarding was a part 
 of it. She had never boarded in her life ; she 
 would be a summer boarder at Daisy Farm. 
 
 " There's the butter to take," the voice at the foot 
 of the stairs went on, "and you may as well get 
 your shoes, and 111 give you twenty-five cents to 
 spend as you like." 
 
 " Oh, thank you ! " cried Jean, delightedly. That 
 would buy a box of paper and envelopes, and she 
 had twenty cents for stamps. She could not think 
 of another thing she wanted. 
 
 At six o'clock that afternoon, when Jean drove 
 back into the yard with her father, she had two 
 packages, her shoes and the box of paper. She had 
 not been her usual talkative self on the way home. 
 This gentleman sitting beside her was the farmer to 
 whose house she was going. He had met her at
 
 BOW JEAN HAD AN OUTING. 119 
 
 the train. She was looking about the country and 
 admiring things ; she found seven things to admire 
 which she had never noticed before. At the tea- 
 table she intended to talk about them " rave," as 
 the summer boarders did. 
 
 She went up to her little room and gravely un 
 packed her shawl-strap, putting the things into the 
 drawers and the closet. 
 
 Her sister Lottie was setting the tea-table, not 
 in her play, but in sober reality, and it was 
 Minnie's turn to milk to-night. The four sisters 
 shared the housework with their mother ; Jean was 
 number three. Pet, eleven years old, was the 
 youngest 
 
 "I must take a great interest in everybody," 
 Jean said to herself. " Boarders always do. I must 
 try to do good to somebody, as Mrs. Lane helped me 
 last summer." 
 
 At the supper-table she began to talk about the 
 beautiful five-mile drive from town, and the sunset 
 from the top of the hilL 
 
 " It is pretty," said Minnie. 
 
 " And the bridge with the willows. It is pretty 
 enough for a picture; and the ducks sailing down 
 the stream.*
 
 120 GROWING DP. 
 
 "I always said we had pretty things near home," 
 remarked her father. 
 
 Then Lottie found a nook in the woods to talk 
 about, and Pet told of a place like a cave, and the 
 view on the top after you climbed the big rock. 
 The tired mother brightened. After supper Jean 
 followed her father out the back door and stood 
 beside him. 
 
 "How is the watermelon patch doing?" she 
 asked, in a voice of great interest, after thinking a 
 minute. 
 
 " Finely ! Never so well before. Come and look 
 at it" 
 
 It was a pleasant walk. Jean imagined that she 
 had a white shawl thrown about her, and once in 
 a while gave it a twitch as she listened while the 
 farmer talked about his melons. She asked ques 
 tions she had never thought of asking before, and 
 learned several new things about the farm. 
 
 " It's a good thing to be a good farmer," she said. 
 " I never thought before how much farmers had to 
 know." Her father looked pleased. 
 
 It was Jean's work to wash the milk-pails and 
 milk-pans. She did it that night with a sense of
 
 mow JEAN UAH Aif oumr. 
 
 enjoyment which she had never had before, for she 
 was simply "helping" of her own accord. She 
 would be very helpful; she would try to make 
 these strangers care very much for her. She would 
 watch every day to see v/hnt she could do for them. 
 Mrs. Lane last summer had taught the class in the 
 Sunday-school to which Jean belonged, and had said 
 that "all must try to be a blessing to every one 
 whom their life touched." It appeared to Jean that 
 her life touched everybody's in this house. 
 
 Sunday was a wonderful day. She listened to 
 the new preacher, and the new Sunday-school was 
 certainly very pleasant. She spoke to a little girl 
 she had never noticed before, and gave a rose to 
 Julia Weed, whom she had always disliked. She 
 was trying to be like Mrs. Lane. 
 
 In the evening she stayed at home from church 
 with her mother, bocr,use her mother's head ached ; 
 and when, for the first time in her life, she proposed 
 reading her Sunday-school book to her mother, she 
 was both pleased and rebuked to hear her reply, 
 " Oh yes, I should like it ! I can't read evenings, 
 and I often think how interesting your books look." 
 
 " And if I can't finish it to-night, may I read to 
 morrow night ? " Jean asked eagerly.
 
 122 GROWING UP. 
 
 "If I am not too tired." 
 
 "But it will rest you." 
 
 " Perhaps so. It will be something new." 
 
 Something new for her to be thoughtful about 
 her own hard-working mother! And she had to 
 imagine herself in somebody else's home to think of 
 it. 
 
 What a day Monday was ! She was busy all the 
 morning, " helping," and she found it good fun. In 
 the afternoon she wrote a long letter to Sophie, and 
 she had so much to tell that she filled three sheets. 
 In the evening she read aloud to her mother, and her 
 father listened, after he read his paper, and said it 
 was a " jolly good book." 
 
 When she left the room to go to bed, she said, 
 "Good night!" Usually she forgot it. She was 
 careful to remember " thank you," and " please." 
 
 It was not her turn to iron. To-morrow would be a 
 long, hot ironing day, and there were so many 
 starched things this week. Lottie was in a hurry to 
 finish the pink muslin she was making for herself. 
 If she should offer to iron two hours, and let Lottie 
 sew but how she hated to iron ! 
 
 Still, she could only stay with these people two
 
 BOW JEAN HAD AN OUTINQ. 12S 
 
 weeks and there was nothing else Lottie would 
 like so much; she and Lottie had not been very 
 good friends lately, and this would "make up." 
 She was the one to make up, for she had been cross 
 and had refused to do her work in order to let Lottie 
 go to the picnic. Minnie did it, and let Lottie go, 
 and Jean had felt mean ever since. 
 
 But she was only fourteen, and it was vacation. 
 But Mrs. Lane said and now she wished she 
 hadn't! that nobody ever had a vacation from 
 doing kind things. 
 
 She could help iron next week. This was her 
 week. 
 
 "I guess it's God's week!" This wag one of 
 Jean's new thoughts. Going into your own home 
 like a new somebody was very hard work; she 
 almost wished she were not a summer boarder, that 
 she had stayed at home ! And this last thought 
 was s6 funny that the people down-stairs heard her 
 laughing. 
 
 " Jean is a happy child," said her mother. 
 
 " Yes, she seems to have a new kink," replied her 
 father. "She is taking a sudden interest in every 
 thing. I used to think she hated the farm and
 
 124 GROWING UP. 
 
 everything about it. The farm is all I've got to 
 give my girls, and it hurts me to have them care 
 nothing about it." 
 
 "It's vacation, and she's more rested," said 
 Minnie. "She loves books better than any of us, 
 and studies harder." 
 
 " I don't know what the secret is, but I'm glad of 
 it," her father replied. 
 
 With a brave heart the next morning Jean asked 
 Lottie if she might iron two hours and let her 
 sew on her pink muslin. 
 
 "You blessed child!" cried Lottie. "I had 
 thought I must sit up all night to get it done for to 
 morrow. Two hours will be a great lift" 
 
 Ironing was hot. and hard work, beside being ex 
 tremely unpleasant work to Jean ; but she pushed 
 the two hours into three, and never was so happy in 
 her life as when her oldest sister gave her an un 
 accustomed kiss, which was even better than her 
 words : " I won't forget this, Jeanie." 
 
 Wednesday morning Jean remembered that, as a 
 stranger, she must learn something about the village 
 and the village people. Bensalem was a pretty 
 village with one long street, two churches, one store,
 
 BOW JEAN HAD AN OUTING. 125 
 
 a post-office, and an old school-house. She had 
 another thought to-day ; this, too, grew out of some 
 thing Mrs. Lane said at Sunday-school "Bind 
 something, if you can ; make some good thing fast, 
 like forming a little society." 
 
 How she would like to do that ! She counted over 
 the girls she liked best. There were nine, and ten 
 would form a society, bound fast together. This she 
 regarded as a very promising new thought. But 
 what should it be for ? Jean pondered a great deal, 
 but she could think of nothing but her " outing." 
 
 Her outing ! Why shouldn't it be an Outing Soci 
 ety not to get up real vacations for people, but to 
 get them out of themselves, and into the way of 
 helping things along, and beginning right at home. 
 For that was the curious part of it that you didn't 
 have to go away anywhere. It seemed to come to 
 you. 
 
 Jean resolved to call on the girls and tell them 
 about it, and ask them to come to her house and 
 talk it over. She knew now what she would call 
 it : The Outing Ten. 
 
 First she would call at the Parsonage and tell 
 Miss Marion about it, and ask her what to do first 
 and next
 
 126 GROWING UP. 
 
 But she could not tell Miss Marion about it all 
 herself; perhaps Judith Mackenzie would go; 
 Judith knew Miss Marion better than any of the 
 girls. She was always staying at the Parsonage " for 
 company" for Miss Marion.
 
 A SECRET ERRAND. 127 
 
 XIL 
 
 A SECRET ERRAND. 
 
 Say not small event ' ! Why small * ? 
 Costs it more pain than this, ye call 
 A * great event,' should come to pass, 
 Than that? Untwine me from the mass 
 Of deeds which make up life, one deed 
 Power shall fall short in or exceed ! " 
 
 BOBEBT BBOWNXNG. 
 
 ON the lounge in the sitting-room, Judith lay 
 cuddled up with a rare ailment for her, a throbbing 
 headache ; Aunt Affy had brought a pillow from her 
 own entry bedroom, and bathed her forehead with 
 Florida water ; then brushed her hair for a long time 
 and told her a story about her far-away girlhood, 
 " when Becky and Cephas and I had our good times. 
 Not that we don't have good times now ; Becky has 
 hers up yonder, and poor Cephas and I do the best 
 we can for each other down here." 
 
 Tudith wondered why she should say "poor
 
 128 
 
 Cephas " ; he had laughing eyes, and a merry laugh, 
 and everything that happened to him seemed just 
 the very hest thing that could happen. 
 
 Aunt Body had brewed a bowl of bitter stuff and 
 stood threateningly near while Judith lifted her 
 dizzy head and forced herself to taste it 
 
 "More," urged Aunt Body. 
 
 She tasted again. 
 
 "More," insisted Aunt Body. 
 
 She tasted several times with a look of pitiful ap 
 peal that Aunt Eody resisted. 
 
 M More," commanded Aunt Body. 
 
 "I can't," sobbed Judith, but she obeyed, and 
 Aunt Body set the yellow bowl on a chair by the 
 sofa, that she might taste it whenever she felt like 
 it 
 
 Homesick Judith hid her face in the small pillow 
 as soon as she was left alone, and cried ; she cried 
 for her mother not a year dead, for her father whom 
 she scarcely remembered, for the pretty room she 
 had with her mother in her own city home, for her 
 picture of the Madonna with the child, that Aunt 
 Body declared popish and would not suffer, even in 
 Judith's own room ; then she cried because Miss
 
 A SECRET ERRA&& 129 
 
 Kenriey had not come yesterday, as she half prom 
 ised, and then because Aunt Eody had made Cephas 
 say that she should not run about in the fields with 
 him, but stay in the house these wonderful days and 
 sew carpet rags ; and then, if she cried about any 
 thing she cried in her sleep ; a soft step was in the 
 room, the lightest touch covered her with Aunt 
 Affy's fleecy white shawl 
 
 " Sit down," whispered Aunt Affy's voice, * she is 
 fast asleep ; she is a good sleeper, we shall not dis 
 turb her; I shouldn't wonder if she had fits of 
 home-sickness ; she never tells ; we are all old folks ; 
 Eody thinks she doesn't need any more schooling 
 because she can do sums and writes such a handsome 
 hand, so she doesn't go to school and doesn't 
 know many young folks. Rody never did under 
 stand young folks, you know that.** 
 
 "I should think you knew that," replied the 
 other whispering, indignant voice. "So Cephas is 
 back again ; he was gone five years, wasn't he ? " 
 
 " Five this last time, three the other time." 
 
 Judith stirred, pushed the white wool away frow 
 her face, and listened. 
 
 " He was good to go," replied the still indignant 
 vote
 
 130 QROW1XQ UP. 
 
 Judith made a soft rustle; Aunt Affy did not 
 heed it 
 
 " Yes, he was good," assented Aunt Affy's sweet, 
 old voice, " he is always ready to do the thing that's 
 happiest for me. He was so homesick and wrote 
 such heart-rending letters that I couldn't stand it 
 Eody sniffed, as she has always sniffed at us, but 
 she said he might come back if we were both so set 
 on it, so shamelessly set on it** 
 
 Judith's little protesting groan was not noticed ; 
 then she shut her eyes and listened, because she 
 could not help it 
 
 " It's a burning shame, and the sister you have 
 been to her, too. You took your money and bought 
 your sisters out that you might keep the old place 
 for Eody." 
 
 " I wanted it for myself, too," was Aunt Affy's 
 honest reply. 
 
 " But you could have taken your money and mar 
 ried Cephas " 
 
 " But, you see, she never could bear the thought of 
 my marrying at all ; she doesn't dislike Cephas so 
 much; but she wants me all to herself. She doesn't 
 like men, I'll allow that ; she never had any kind of
 
 A 88CBBT RBBA&&, 181 
 
 happy experience herself, unless it happened before 
 I was born, and she doesn't know. After Becky died, 
 Cephas and I had to comfort each other; Rody 
 never was a great hand at comforting, and the other 
 girls were all dead or married. She had been a 
 mother to me all my life; I was a two week's old 
 baby left in her care; and Becky was only two 
 years old ; we were her two babies." 
 
 " You had whippings and scoldings enough thrown 
 in, I'll be bound," was the visitor's tart rejoinder. 
 
 "The scoldings are thrown in now," said Aunt 
 Affy, with the glimmer of a smile ; " I am only a 
 girl to her ; I shall never grow up to her ; not old 
 enough to be married, sixty years old as I am. 
 Cephas told her yesterday that he would fix up the 
 old house with his own money, he has considerable 
 laid by, and she dared him to pull off a shingle or 
 drive a nail He said she should always be the head 
 of the house, and she said there was no need for 
 him to tell her that. You see that we could not be 
 happy in making her old age unhappy. She is so 
 old that defiance might kill her ; she is eighty-four." 
 
 " I'd let it kill her then," said Miss Afiy's life-long 
 friend.
 
 132 OBOWINO UP. 
 
 "No, you wouldn't. Your sister is your sister, 
 and she is all the mother I ever knew. Cephas and 
 I jog on together like two old married folks. She 
 says we will be glad when she is under the sod and 
 we can have our own way." 
 
 * She might let you have it now, and then you 
 wouldn't be glad," urged Jean Draper's mother. 
 
 " She cannot let us have it ; her own will is too 
 btrong for her; when she gives up to us she will 
 die." 
 
 "Then I'd do it anyway," counselled the other 
 voice. 
 
 " We did talk of that, but we are afraid to she 
 is so old," whispered Aunt Affy, feeling faint with 
 the very thought of it. 
 
 " Well, it's an old folks' romance, and I didn't 
 know old folks had any," said the woman who was 
 married at sixteen. 
 
 But the girl on the lounge with her face in the 
 pillow had listened; she had listened and learned 
 something Aunt Affy would not have told her for 
 the world. 
 
 How could she ever look into Aunt Affy's face 
 again? And, oh, how could she ever love Aunt 
 Body?
 
 A SECRET EBBAfFD. 188 
 
 She groaned, and Aunt Affy came to her and 
 asked if she felt worse. The neighbor went out on 
 tiptoe ; Aunt Eody came from the kitchen to stand 
 threateningly near while Aunt Affy coaxed mouth 
 ful by mouthful the draining of the bitter bowl 
 
 While Aunt Eody was taking her nap that after 
 noon Jean Draper knocked on the open kitchen door. 
 Judith and Aunt Affy were washing dishes together 
 at the kitchen sink ; Judith gave a cry of pleased 
 surprise at the sound of the knock and the vision of 
 the girl in the doorway. 
 
 " O, Jean, I wished for you," she said, with the 
 longing for young companionship in her heart 
 
 "And I wanted you. I am going to see Miss 
 Marion on a secret errand, and I can't do it without 
 you. Can you spare her, Miss Affy ? " 
 
 " If her head will let her go," began Miss Any, 
 doubtfully. 
 
 "Oh, that's well," cried Judith, joyfully, "but 
 what will Aunt Rody say ?" she questioned in 
 dismay. 
 
 " I will take care of that," promised Aunt Afiy, 
 anticipating with dread the half hour's scolding the 
 permission would bring upon herself.
 
 134 GROWING UP. 
 
 "You are making her a gad-about just like 
 yourself," the monologue would begin. 
 
 " Are you sure, Aunt Affy, dear ? " asked Judith, 
 anxiously. 
 
 " Yes, sure. Eun away and put on your new 
 gingham."
 
 THS TWO BLESSED THINGS. 186 
 
 xm 
 
 rtfl TWO BLESSED THINGS. 
 
 "In all thy ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct 
 thy paths. " Prov. ill. 6. 
 
 " How excellent a thought to me 
 Thy loving-kindness then shall be 1 
 Thus in the shadow of Thy wings 
 I'll hide me from all troublous things." 
 
 " MY life is like Africa ; there are no paths any 
 where," said Marion. She was not petulant ; the 
 tone was not petulant; Marion knew she thought 
 she was bearing her life bravely. The study was 
 cool and darkened that August afternoon; she lay 
 idly upon the lounge, a fresh magazine in her lap, 
 and a pile of books on the carpet within veach of 
 her idle hands. 
 
 A year ago she thought she loved books and 
 music, and life. 
 
 Eoger liked to have her near him while he wrote 
 and studied, but he did not like her idle moods. 
 This latest one bad lasted two days.
 
 136 GROWING UP. 
 
 He pushed his large volume away, and taking up 
 an ivory paper cutter began to run its sharp edges 
 across his fingers. Marion was easily hurt; he 
 could not advise work as he did yesterday. 
 
 "If your life were like Africa," he began in an 
 un suggestive tone, " you would have a beaten track 
 wherever you turned ; no unmapped country in the 
 world is better supplied with paths than this same 
 Africa that your hedged-in life is like. Every 
 village is connected with some other village by a 
 path ; you can follow ziz-zag paths from Zanzibar to 
 the Atlantic ; they are beaten as hard as adamant ; 
 they are made by centuries of native traffic." 
 
 "I have learned something about Africa," she 
 answered, demurely, " if not about my life." 
 " Which are you the more interested in ? " 
 " Oh, Africa, just now. I am not interested in my 
 life at all." 
 
 " Marion, dear, is Bensalem a failure ? " 
 "Yes, as far as I am concerned. Not for you, 
 dear old boy ; it is splendid for you, and for Bensalem. 
 Even Judith listens in church." 
 
 " I know she does. I write my sermons for her." 
 " For a girl ? How do you expect to reach other 
 people, then ?" she inquired, surprised.
 
 THE TWO BLESSED THINGS. 137 
 
 " The inspiration came to me, that Sunday she 
 told me she was sorry for not listening, to begin all 
 over again to look at life from a fresh standpoint, 
 from the standpoint of youth, ardent, hungry, sen 
 sation-loving youth " 
 
 "Sensation" 
 
 " Not in its usual acceptation ; truth cannot but 
 give you a sensation ; I knew it would not hurt the 
 old people and the middle-aged to begin again ; to 
 enter the Kingdom of Heaven as a little child, and 
 I have attempted to teach the children in the 
 Kingdom of Heaven ; to talk simply about the 
 grand old truths ; to keep that girl before me as I 
 thought out my sermons a thoughtful girl who 
 has had some experience in life, and when a thought 
 or the expression of it was over her head, I struck 
 it out." 
 
 "Now I know your secret. 'Simplicity and 
 strength ' are your characteristics, David Prince, our 
 literary blacksmith, who wrote Bensalem up for the 
 Bunellen News, was pleased to say. Shall you keep 
 this up?" 
 
 " Until I find a better way," he said, contentedly. 
 
 " Everybody listens."
 
 138 GROWING UP. 
 
 " Even Miss Rody," he said, smiling at the memory 
 of Miss Rody's face. 
 
 "And all the other old folks. Old folks and 
 children. What about the young men and maidens ? " 
 
 "Aren't ' simplicity and strength 'good enough for 
 them ? " he inquired, seriously. 
 
 " It's good enough for me." 
 
 " Not quite," he answered 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " You listen, of course.** 
 
 " But I do not grow fast enough ? Roger, Fve 
 stopped growing. I knew something was the matter 
 with me, and that's it." 
 
 "A pretty serious it" 
 
 "I know that better than you can tell me. I 
 wish Judith Grey Mackenzie how Aunt Rody 
 brings that out would give me an inspiration." 
 
 " Bring her here for a week and I'll promise that 
 she will." 
 
 "Aunt Affy could not spare her. Her yellow 
 head is the sunshine of that old house. But I'll have 
 her some day. I wish I owned her. ** 
 
 "I wish you did. I would buy her myself if I 
 had money enough."
 
 THE TWO BLESSED THINGS. 139 
 
 "I wonder who does own her," said Marion; "I 
 forgot that she does not belong to anybody." 
 
 " She does belong to somebody. Her mother gave 
 her to Aunt Affy." 
 
 Perhaps she belonged somewhat to her "Cousin 
 Don." 
 
 Eoger never talked about Don. He never read 
 aloud to her the foreign letters she saw so often on 
 the study table. 
 
 A sigh came of itself before she could stifle it; 
 the idle fingers opened the magazine; Eoger's pen 
 began to race across the paper. Voices on the piazza 
 brought Marion to her feet ; Judith's voice was in 
 the hall. 
 
 " 0, Miss Marion, we came to tell you " began 
 Judith. 
 
 " And to ask you how " continued Jean. 
 
 "To make an Outing Ten," finished Judith. 
 
 At the tea-table Marion told Eoger the story of 
 how Jean had an outing. 
 
 "I wish you might have heard the unconscious 
 way she told it. My life is like Africa : all beaten 
 tracks. I am to be the President of the Outing Ten. 
 All Bensalem is to be my own special private outing, 
 but nobody is to know it"
 
 140 GROWING UP. 
 
 " Then, Marion dear, you will have the two moat 
 blessed things on the earth." 
 
 "What are they?" 
 
 "Don't you know?" 
 
 " You think work is one," she said doubtfully. 
 
 "So you think. And companionship is the 
 other." 
 
 " Roger, dear, I'm afraid I haven't given you com 
 panionship; I've been stupid, self-absorbed, idle * 
 . "Any thing else?" 
 
 " But you have been desolate, sometimes." 
 
 " My work has been my companionship." 
 
 " Then there is only one blessed thing to you," she 
 said, merrily. " May you get it" 
 
 " I am getting it every day." 
 
 " Then you do not inwardly fret against the limi 
 tations of this bit of a village " she began, frightened 
 at herself for the suggestion : " I thought, perhaps, 
 you were bearing Bensalem." 
 
 " So I am, I hope," he answered, gravely, " in my 
 ^eart, and in my prayers." 
 
 c: I beg your pardon," she returned, flushing under 
 the. " splendid purpose in his eyes." " I might have 
 known you were too broad to feel narrowed, as I do."
 
 THE TWO BLESSED THINGS. 141 
 
 "You remember what Lowell says: 'There are 
 few brains that would not be better for living for 
 a while on their own fat.' " 
 
 "And that is better than the fat of the land 
 which you will never get in Bensalem." 
 
 "I think I started from my new standpoint 
 without worldly ambition. Think of Paul writing 
 the Epistle to the Romans from a literary point of 
 view." 
 
 "Well, then," with a laugh that was half a 
 grumble, " I despair of you, if you ' take pleasure ' as 
 he did in all sorts of infirmities and limitations I 
 was beginning to be ambitious for you. You spent 
 all the afternoon last week with Agnes Trembly's 
 mother, reading to her, and telling her stories you 
 do not take time to study as you used to study. 
 You were such a student. Now all you care for is 
 people and the Bible," she ran on, discontentedly; 
 "What does Don think of you?" she asked, with a 
 sudden flush. 
 
 " He is in despair," he replied, thinking of Don's 
 latest letter of angry expostulation. 
 
 " He is ambitious," said Marion } reproachfully. 
 
 " So am I," he answered, smiling at the reproach.
 
 142 GROWING UP. 
 
 " But in such a way. I like ambition. I would 
 like to do something in the world myself." 
 
 " The man, or woman, or child, who does the will 
 of God is every day doing something in the world/' 
 he said, seriously. 
 
 For a moment she was silenced, then urged by her 
 own discontent she burst out: 
 
 " But five hundred or a thousand people might as 
 well listen to you, and be influenced by your 
 'strength and simplicity/ as this handful of Ben* 
 salem." 
 
 " The perfect Teacher was more than once content 
 with but one listener." 
 
 "Yes; but his sermon was written and handed 
 down to all the ages," she answered, in a flash. 
 
 " If one life here in Bensalem is moved, and an 
 other life moved by that, who can tell how far down 
 the ages the influence may go ? Beside, that is not 
 my care," he said, in his rested voice. 
 
 " But wouldn't you, now, candidly, rather influence 
 ten hundred lives than one hundred ? " 
 
 "Candidly, I would." 
 
 "And, yet, you have refused a call to Maverick, 
 and stay stupidly here."
 
 THE TWO BLESSED THINGS. 143 
 
 " Stupidly is your own interpretation. I will be 
 content to move one man if I might choose the man. 
 I am determined to learn what can he done in a 
 village by one man who stays for the 'fat of the 
 land,' the youth. From Drummond's standpoint, 
 only the boy himself and the young man under 
 stand the boy. My outlook just now is from the 
 standpoint of that big-eyed, sensitive-lipped Joe, and 
 your Judith. Men and women are but boys and 
 girls grown tall I find out the boy ; you are help 
 ing me to the girL" 
 
 "I am glad I can help," said Marion, satisfied.
 
 144 QBOWINQ r JP. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 AN AFTERNOON WITH AN ADVENTURE IN IT. 
 
 " Lead us not into temptation; bat delirer as from eril." 
 
 Luke xi. 4. 
 
 " Lord, Thou knowest all things : Thou knowest that I love 
 Thee." John xxi. 17. 
 
 IT was rag-carpet afternoon ; it was also another 
 kind of an afternoon, an afternoon with an adventure 
 in it, and Judith longed for adventures; but, of 
 course, all she knew, at first, was the rag-carpet; 
 the adventure was to happen in the kitchen, and 
 the rag-carpet ball was happening in Aunt Affy's 
 room. 
 
 Judith was a working member of the Outing Ten, 
 but if her outing meant this rag-carpet ball it was 
 very discouraging, and if it were not for the pleasure 
 of telling the President about the rag-carpet, she 
 thought she would resign and become member of a 
 ten that had more fun in it
 
 AN AFTERNOON ADVENTURE. 146 
 
 But then, Miss Marion was doing this kind of 
 thing herself, things she did not like to do about 
 the house, for she had sent away her servant and 
 was doing all the work excepting washing and 
 ironing, and, perhaps, in the village, too, she 
 was doing uncongenial errands ; but, of course, she 
 would never tell the Outing Ten about that; she 
 was going out to tea and making calls, as she had 
 said she never would do when she canie to Bensalem, 
 and she was taking her music back and practicing 
 hours every day, and reading solid books, instead of 
 novels ; she had let books and music go for a while, 
 Judith had heard her say to Aunt Affy, and that 
 Jean Draper's outing had been the blessing of her 
 life. It was Nettie's blessing, too; she told Marion 
 she had an " outing " every day ; she was patching 
 a quilt and studying history. 
 
 The history study was a part of Marion's outing, 
 but the Ten did not know that 
 
 Aunt Affy, wearing a calico loose gown of lilac 
 and white, was seated in a rocker at the window 
 combing her long gray hair : her hair was soft and 
 thick, she twisted it into a coil, and behind her 
 each ear she brushed a long curL
 
 146 GROWING UP. 
 
 Judith liked to twist these curls around her 
 fingers when she talked to Aunt Affy. 
 
 "Only a little more to do," encouraged Aunt 
 Affy, giving her coil a firm twist 
 
 Sitting on the matting at Aunt Afify*s feet the 
 little girl began her weary work again. 
 
 " Aunt Affy ! How did you get your name ? " she 
 inquired with the eagerness of something new to 
 talk about. 
 
 " How did you get yours ? " asked Aunt Afly, 
 seriously. 
 
 " But mine is a real name." 
 
 " Isn't mine ? " 
 
 " I never heard it before." 
 
 " Some people have never heard of Judith." 
 
 " That is true. Nettie never had." 
 
 " Mine is in the Bible. So is Eody's." 
 
 " Is it ? Well, I've never read the Bible through." 
 
 " I will show it to you." 
 
 "Aunt Affy, you and Aunt Eody never look in 
 the glass when you comb your hair. You sit any 
 where. It's very funny." 
 
 "When you have combed your hair sixty and 
 eighty years you will not need to look in the glass," 
 was the serious reply.
 
 AN AFTERNOON ADVENTURE. 147 
 
 " It isn't sixty," said literal Judith. " You did not 
 do it when you were a baby." 
 
 Taking her New Testament in large type from 
 the small table near her, Aunt Affy found the place 
 and laid it on the arm of her chair; Judith lifted 
 herself and read where Aunt Affy's finger pointed : 
 " And to our beloved Apphia but that isn't Affy," 
 said astonished Judith. 
 
 ' It grew down to it when I was a girl, and has 
 never grown up. Shall I find Body ?" 
 
 Again Aunt Affy found the place, and Judith 
 read ; " ' And as Peter knocked at the door of the 
 gate, a damsel came to hearken named Rhoda.' 
 That's very funny," she said, settling down among her 
 rags. 
 
 " There were eight of us girls, and we all had Bible 
 names : Rody, Dark, that was Dorcas, Mary, Marthy> 
 Deborah; that's your mother's mother, Hanner, it is 
 really Hannah, Becky, and Affy the youngest, is 
 eight. Rody and I only are left. They were all 
 married but Rody and Becky and me. Cephas was 
 engaged to poor Becky, and she died ; he went away 
 after that, went South, went West, and at last came 
 here ; I wrote to him to come and finish his days 
 with ma Body wasn't exactly pleased."
 
 148 GROWING UP. 
 
 " Why ? " asked Judith, excited over the old folks 
 romance. 
 
 " She doesn't like new happenings, and she never 
 had liked Cephas." 
 
 " She scolds him," said Judith, with a feeling of 
 sympathy. 
 
 " She scolds me. She scolds the minister. It is 
 only her way of talking." 
 
 At that moment Aunt Body's blue gingham sun- 
 bonnet appeared at the window ; Judith's nervous 
 fingers worked hurriedly. 
 
 "Not done yet. Jean Draper is worth two of 
 you. The graham bread is out of the oven, a perfect 
 bake, and I am going to call on Mrs. Evans, *nd take 
 Nettie a custard." 
 
 "Well," said Aunt Affy. 
 
 Aunt Eody's hair was white, but if it were soft to 
 the touch, Judith's fingers would never know; 
 her black eyes were deep set, she had not one tooth, 
 and her wrinkled lips had a way of keeping them 
 selves sternly shut, unless they were steroty opened. 
 
 " Joe is hunting eggs ; I hope he won't get into 
 mischief while I'm gone." 
 
 " He hasn't yet,* said Judith, Joe's champion.
 
 AN AFTERNOON ADVENTURE. 149 
 
 Joe, with his closely cut black hair, his grateful 
 eyes, new gray suit with navy blue flannel shirt, 
 rough shoes, willing and efficient ways, and his great 
 love for Doodles, was some one not at all out of place 
 on the " Sparrow farm ; " even dainty Judith did not 
 altogether disapprove his presence at the table. 
 
 The small disciple's forhead was all in a pucker, 
 and the blue eyes were so filled with tears that there 
 was not room enough in her eyes for them ; one tear 
 kept pushing another down over her cheeks; they 
 even rolled over her lips and tasted salt. 
 
 " Have you noticed the name on my new darning 
 yarn ? " inquired Aunt Affy, replacing the New Testa 
 ment on the table. 
 
 " Superior quality," read Judith, taking the card 
 from the basket Aunt Affy brought to her lap from 
 the table. 
 
 " No ; on the top." 
 
 " Dorcas," read Judith. 
 
 " Dorcas. Who is that for ? " 
 
 "The name of the man who made it," replied 
 Judith, stopping her dawdling and threading her 
 needle. 
 
 " I think not"
 
 150 GROWING UP. 
 
 "His little girl's name, perhaps," ventured Judith. 
 
 " It may be, for aught I know ; but I do not think 
 that is the name of the wool" 
 
 " Then I don't know," said Judith, interestedly. 
 
 " I know something and I will tell you. A long, 
 long, long time ago, there was a little girl ; I think 
 she learned to sew when she was a little girl, for she 
 knew how to sew beautifully, and her work was 
 strong and did not rip easily. Perhaps she began 
 by doing disagreeable things and then went on to other 
 things until she learned how to make coats and 
 garments for children and grown-up people. Her 
 name was Dorcas." 
 
 " Did the man who made the wool into yarn know 
 about her ? " asked Judith. 
 
 " I think so. Almost everybody does." 
 
 " I never heard of her before. Is that all?" 
 
 "No; that is only the beginning. She was a 
 disciple. And disciples always love each other and 
 work for each other." 
 
 "Do they?" asked Judith, her face glowing. 
 Why, that was splendid and easy. 
 
 "And she worked for widows and perhaps for 
 their little children, and they loved her dearly. But
 
 AN AFTEENOON ADVENTURE. 151 
 
 she died, and oh, how they grieved ! They sent for 
 another disciple, Peter; they thought he could help 
 them. His faith was so great that he kneeled down 
 and prayed ; then he spoke to her, and she opened 
 her eyes, and looked at him, and then she sat up. 
 And then he called the people she had made coats 
 and garments for, and in great joy they had her 
 back alive again. God was willing for her to come 
 back to earth and go on with her beautiful work. 
 He cares for the work of his disciples, even when it 
 is only using thread and needle." 
 
 Judith's curly head drooped over her hated work ; 
 she was so ashamed of behaving " ugly " ; she hoped 
 she had not behaved quite as ugly as she fait. 
 
 The ball was the required size at last, and she 
 joyfully took it up in the garret to the barrel that 
 was only half filled. 
 
 Then, aimlessly, she wandered into the kitchen, 
 and there, odorously, temptingly, under a clean, 
 coarse towel, were the two loaves of warm graham 
 bread ; she thought she cared for nothing in the way 
 of bread, cake, or pudding as much as she cared for 
 fresh graham bread and butter. 
 
 And Aunt Body sever would put it on the table
 
 152 GROWING UP. 
 
 fresh. For a slice of this she must wait until to 
 morrow night. 
 
 Lifting the coarse towel she peeped, then she 
 touched; another touch brought a crumb, such a 
 delicious crumb ; another, and another, and another 
 delicious crumb, and the crust of one end of a loaf 
 was all picked off, 
 
 " Oh, deary me ! " cried Judith, in dismay. 
 
 Then she covered it carefully, standing spell 
 bound. 
 
 What would Aunt Rody say to her ? 
 
 What would Aunt Rody do to her ? 
 
 Afraid to go away and leave the bread that would 
 tell its own story, afraid to stay with it, for Aunt 
 Rody's sunbonnet and heavy step might appear at 
 any moment, she went to the sink to pump water 
 over her hands and to decide what to do next. 
 
 Joe was on his way to the barn and stables to 
 gather eggs ; Aunt Rody had made a law that she 
 should not go into any of the outbuildings without 
 permission, without her permission; in summer 
 time there were "so many machines and things 
 around, and children had a way of stepping into the 
 jaws of death." She missed hunting the eggs.
 
 AN AFTERNOON ADVENTURE. 153 
 
 The gate swung to, there was a step on the flagged 
 path ; with her hands dripping, she flew up the 
 kitchen stairs ; on the landing she waited, breath 
 less, to hear what Aunt Eody would say. 
 
 The step was in the kitchen, there was a pause, 
 Aunt Rody must be uncovering the bread ; a smothered 
 exclamation, then a quick, angry voice : " That Joe ! 
 He's always doing something underhanded. He's 
 too fond of eating; I will not say one word, but he 
 shall not have any of this graham bread, or the 
 next, if I can help it. When he asks for it I'll tell 
 him before all the table-full that he knows why." 
 
 The awful sentence was delivered in an awful 
 voice; tearful and trembling, the culprit up the 
 stairway heard every word ; it was her dreadful 
 secret, her guilty secret ; she no more dared to rush 
 down the stairs and confess the theft than she dared 
 she could not think of any comparison. 
 
 She fled through the large, unfurnished chamber, 
 known as the store-room, to her own room, and there, 
 bolting the door, threw herself upon the bed and 
 wept as she had never wept before ; because she had 
 never been so wicked and frightened before. Joe 
 would be punished for her sin ; she would not dare 
 confess if Aunt Rody starved him to death.
 
 154 GROWING UP. 
 
 " Judith, Judith, come out on the piazza," called 
 Aunt Afly. 
 
 She peeped in the glass : her eyes were red, and 
 her hair was tumbled ; the latter was nothing new, 
 she could sit in the hammock with her eyes away 
 from Aunt Affy. 
 
 As she stepped from the sitting-room door to the 
 piazza, Joe rushed around the corner of the house, 
 an egg in each hand, frightened and out of breath. 
 
 " There's an earthquake in the southern part of 
 Africa and I've been in it; and I'm afraid the 
 house will go in ; oh, what shall we do ? Mr. Brush 
 is up in the field " 
 
 "Stand still, Joe, and get some breath to talk 
 with, and then tell us what has happened to you," 
 said Aunt Affy, quietly. Joe dropped on the piazza 
 floor, still carefully holding the eggs. 
 
 "Will the house rock and come down, do you 
 think, Aunt Affy, as the houses did in the book 
 Judith read?" 
 
 " How did you get all that earth on your clothes 
 and tear your shirt-sleeve ? " Judith inquired, for 
 getting her red eyes in the latest adventure. 
 
 " In the earthquake ; I went in almost up to my
 
 AN AFTERNOON ADVENTURE. 155 
 
 neck, but I held on with one hand and didn't break 
 the eggs." 
 
 " Where was the earthquake ? " she asked. 
 
 " In the sheep pen. I was looking for eggs, and 
 the first I knew I felt the ground sliding, and I was 
 going down there was water, for I heard it splash. 
 I thought you said fire was inside the earth; I 
 went down into water. And I caught hold of 
 something with one hand because I had two eggs 
 in the other, and I pulled, and pulled, and pulled 
 myself up and out." 
 
 " Why, Joe, you poor boy," exclaimed Aunt Affy, 
 in alarm, " that old cistern has caved in at last, and 
 you've been in it; you might have been drowned. 
 What a mercy that you are safe. Don't you go 
 near that sheep pen again until Mr. Brush says you 
 may." 
 
 " I'll never go near it again I've had enough 
 of it. I couldn't scream I tried to, but nobody 
 heard. Are you sure it won't cave in again, and get 
 here, and swallow up the house ? " 
 
 "That will not," laughed Judith, " Oh, you queer 
 boy." 
 
 " Then may I have some bread and butter ? " he
 
 156 GROWING UP. 
 
 asked, rising. " I think it will turn me crazy if it 
 caves in again." 
 
 " Aunt Rody is in the kitchen ; tell her your story 
 and ask her for the bread," replied Aunt Affy. 
 
 Judith trembled so that she could scarcely stand ; 
 she dared not follow Joe ; she dared not stay where 
 she was : Aunt Rody herself made a way of escape 
 for her by coming to the kitchen door with a slice 
 of graham bread in her hand. 
 
 " Here, Joe : I heard your story. Here's the bread. 
 I hope you'll behave yourself after this. Now, 
 Judith, you see the reason I keep you from hunting 
 eggs. You might be dead in that cistern this 
 moment." 
 
 "You couldn't pull yourself up as I did," re 
 marked Joe, giving Aunt Rody the two eggs as she 
 handed him the graham bread. 
 
 Judith drew a long breath of relief. Now she 
 need never tell ; Joe would not be punished. 
 
 That evening at family prayer Cephas read about 
 the institution of the Lord's Supper and the betrayal 
 of Christ : Joe shuffled his feet until a look from Aunt 
 Rody quieted him; Judith looked as if she were 
 listening, but she did not catch the meaning of a
 
 AN AFTERNOON ADVENTURE. 157 
 
 single sentence until something arrested her rapid, 
 remorseful thinking: "And when they had kindled 
 a fire in the midst of the hall, and were set down 
 together, Peter sat down among them. But a certain 
 maid beheld him as he sat by the fire, and earnestly 
 looking upon him, and said, This man was also with 
 him. And he denied him, saying : Woman I know 
 him not." 
 
 Peter was afraid. He was afraid to tell that 
 woman. The small disciple looked at the old lady 
 sitting in her high straight-backed chair, with her long 
 hands so still in her lap, her lips tight shut, her 
 eyes roving from Joe to Judith, and then to Joe, then 
 the dreadful round again, and she thought the 
 woman that frightened Peter must have been like 
 Aunt Rody. 
 
 She knew how afraid Peter was. 
 
 She did not hear one word of the long prayer; 
 she knelt near Aunt Sody; she tried not to sob, 
 or to be afraid, but she was afraid ; not now of 
 being found out, but afraid that she was wicked. As 
 long as she lived she would never dare to telL 
 
 And she never did tell, not as long as Aunt Rody 
 lived.
 
 158 GROWING Z7P/ 
 
 For many a day her heart was heavy with the 
 sin of allowing the innocent to be suspected; but 
 she was not a very brave small disciple. 
 
 One night at prayers she surprised them all by 
 saying suddenly and vehemently: "I don't care if 
 Peter was so wicked; I like him better than any 
 body in the whole Bible."
 
 AT ANTIOCH. 159 
 
 XV. 
 
 "FIRST AT ANTIOCH. 1 * 
 
 * How beautiful it is to be alive ! 
 To wake each morn as if the Maker's grace 
 Did us afresh from nothingness derive, 
 That we might sing : How happy is our case, 
 
 How beautiful it is to be alive." 
 
 H. S. SUTTOH. 
 
 IT was Saturday afternoon ; Judith had been busy 
 in the kitchen all the morning with Aunt Rody, and 
 she (not Aunt Rody) had kept her temper ; that was 
 one happening that made the day memorable and 
 delightful, and then there were three others: one 
 was her miracle, another the maidens that were 
 going out to draw water, and the disciple from 
 Antioch, and, most memorable of all, the plan for 
 boarding-school. 
 
 The miracle happened in this way: Aunt Rody 
 sent her to take a basket of things to Nettie Evans, 
 a " Sunday surprise," Judith called it ; tiny biscuits, 
 jelly cake, and a little round box of figs.
 
 160 GROWING UP. 
 
 Nettie had had a wearisome day (very much more 
 dreadful than a Saturday morning in the kitchen 
 with Aunt Rody, Judith told herself), and Mrs. 
 Evans thought it better for her not to go up to 
 Nettie's room, for the pain in her hack was better, 
 she had fallen asleep and she was afraid to have her 
 disturbed. 
 
 "May I get a drink of water?" Judith asked. 
 She always felt thirsty when she came near the 
 plank that formed the ascent from the ground where 
 the kitchen had been to the bit of floor that was left 
 for the sink to stand on. The old kitchen had been 
 torn down this summer, and nothing remained of it 
 excepting the sink which contained the pump (the 
 water came from the well where Nettie's lilies grew), 
 the window over the sink, the roof overhead, and 
 the walls on each side of the sink. She liked the 
 fun of running up and down this plank, and she 
 liked to stand and look out of this window toward 
 the east It was a window toward the east 
 Sometimes she thought about the Jews praying 
 toward the east She wished once that something 
 would happen to this window because it was a 
 window toward the east A window feeing the
 
 FIRST AT ANTIOCH. 161 
 
 east in a house was not at all remarkable; but a 
 window that was not in a house brought itself into 
 very interesting prominence. 
 
 And this afternoon her something happened. 
 There was a wonder in the heavens. 
 
 It was afternoon ; she knew it was, she was sure 
 of it ; dinner was over hours ago ; Aunt Rody had 
 helped her wipe the dinner dishes, and Aunt Affy 
 had gone to town with Uncle Cephas to take the 
 week's butter to her customers ; and she was on her 
 way to the parsonage to sing hymns with Miss 
 Marion, the hymns for church to-morrow, and she 
 never went till afternoon. But there it was. The 
 sun was in the east in the afternoon ; round, peering 
 through mist with a pale, yellow splendor ; she saw 
 something that no one in the world had ever seen. 
 It was the sun rising in the afternoon. 
 
 It must be a miracle; a miracle in the window 
 towards Jerusalem. 
 
 But the sun surely had not stood still ever since 
 morning ; it was high up when she stood in the back 
 yard and rang the dinner bell for Uncle Cephas and 
 Joe. 
 
 Was it a miracle just for her!
 
 162 GROWING UP. 
 
 That was the east ; it had been the east ever since 
 she was born ; it had been the east ever since the 
 the world was made ; and it was the sun. 
 
 It was nothing to see the full moon in the east ; 
 the last time she went driving with Miss Marion and 
 Mr. Roger they saw the full moon in the east and he 
 talked about it. This was not the full moon. 
 
 "Mrs. Evans, Mrs. Evans, quick, quick," she 
 called, excitedly, fearing that her miracle would 
 vanish. 
 
 Hurried steps crossed the new kitchen and Mra 
 Evans appeared. 
 
 " What is it, child ? Don't wake Nettie." 
 
 " Look," said Judith, with the dignity of a youth 
 ful prophetess, pointing to the apparition ; " see the 
 sun in the east in the afternoon." 
 
 Mrs. Evans stepped up the plank, and looked. 
 It was the sun in the east in the afternoon. 
 
 '' Well, I declare ! " ejaculated Mrs. Evans, " that 
 does beat all I ever saw. Where did it come from ? 
 How could it get there ? " Startled, she turned, and 
 toward the west, there was the big, round sun 
 shining in all his glory. 
 
 "Oh, I see," with a breath of relief; "I thought
 
 FIRST AT ANTIOCH. 163 
 
 the world must be coming to an end It is the re 
 flection. Look, don't you see ? the sun is opposite 
 the window. But it is a wonderful sight. I wish it 
 would stay until I could call the neighbors in." 
 
 Judith looked at the west and reasoned about it; 
 she turned toward the east, then to the west, then 
 to the window again. 
 
 " So it is," with an inflection of disappointment. 
 
 Mrs. Evans laughed softly and hurried back to 
 the new kitchen. 
 
 Judith pumped her glass of water with the radiance 
 of two suns in her face 
 
 " Little girl, little girl," called a voice from a buggy 
 in the road, " will you direct me to the parsonage ? " 
 
 " Go on straight up the hill, turn to the right and 
 see the church; the next house is the parsonage," she 
 replied with ready exactness. 
 
 "Thank you," said a second voice, with a foreign 
 accent ; the face bent forward was very dark, with 
 dark eyes, and dark beard. 
 
 Half an hour afterward she found Miss Marion in 
 her own room, and before they went down to the 
 parlor to the piano, she and Miss Marion read to 
 gether in First Samuel.
 
 164 GROWING UP. 
 
 They were reading the Bible through together, 
 Marion told her brother that it was a revelation to 
 her to read the Bible with a girl, and an old woman ; 
 it was looking forward and looking backward. 
 
 Judith read her three verses and then gave a 
 joyful exclamation : 
 
 "'And as they went up the hill to the city, they 
 found young maidens going out to draw water, and 
 said unto them : Is the seer here ? 
 
 " ' And they answered them and said, He is, behold 
 he is before you ; make haste, now, for he came to 
 day to the city, for there is a sacrifice of the people 
 to-day in the high place ; as soon as ye be come into 
 the city, ye shall straightway find him, before he go 
 up to the high place to eat, for the people will not 
 eat until he come, because he doth bless the sacri 
 fice ; and afterwards they eat that be bidden. Now, 
 therefore, get you up ; for about this time ye shall 
 find him.' Oh, Miss Marion, that is like me. I was 
 getting a drink of water and I sent two men to find 
 the Bensalem seer." 
 
 "Even Saul couldn't find the way without the 
 maidens," reflected Marion. 
 
 " And they were put in the story for all the world
 
 FIRST AT ANTIOCH. 166 
 
 to read about ; I wish people wouldn't forget about 
 girls now-a-days." 
 
 "Who does?" asked Marion; "this is the girls' 
 century." 
 
 "Nobody ever thinks about me. I am never in 
 things like the other girls. Aunt Rody will never 
 let me go anywhere; Aunt Any coaxed her one 
 day, and cried and said she was spoiling my girlhood, 
 but Aunt Rody was worse than ever after that I 
 cry night after night because she will not let me go 
 to boarding-school. Boarding-school has been the 
 dream of my life ; I make pictures about it to my 
 self. Did you go to boarding-school ? " 
 
 "Yes, for one year, and was glad enough to go 
 home again. I wish you would come to school to 
 me; do you suppose you could ? " asked Marion with 
 a sudden and joyous inspiration. 
 
 " 0, Miss Marion," was all the girl could reply for 
 very gladness. 
 
 " We will plan about it, Roger and L If you can 
 come and stay all day and study, and take music 
 lessons, three or four days a week, it will be better 
 than boarding-school for you, and more than you 
 can think for me. You have been on my mind, but
 
 166 GROWING UP. 
 
 I didn't dare propose anything ; I knew Aunt Affy 
 would not be allowed to h? -e her way." 
 
 Both Judith's arms were about Marion's neck, 
 with her face hidden on Marion 8 shoulder. 
 
 " I've wanted a sister all my life," she said laugh 
 ing and crying together. 
 
 Sunday morning on entering church her attention 
 was arrested by a large map stretched across the 
 platform, or half-way across it ; the pulpit had been 
 removed and in its stead were flowers, a row of pink 
 bloom and shades of green. 
 
 A tall gentleman, with the very blackest hair and 
 beard she had ever seen, arose and stood near the 
 map. 
 
 How her heart gave a throb when he said, touch 
 ing a spot on the map : " That is Antioch, the place 
 where the disciples were first called Christians. I 
 was born in Antioch, where Paul and Barnabas 
 preached Christ. I was born in Antioch, and I was 
 re-born in Antioch." 
 
 Judith held her breath. He was a disciple, a 
 Christian come from Antioch. She drew back, almost 
 afraid ; she felt as if Christ must be there standing 
 very near this disciple.
 
 FIRST AT ANTIOCH. 167 
 
 He talked about the beautiful city and made it as 
 near and real as this little village in which there 
 was a church of disciples. It was like seeing one of 
 the twelve disciples, Peter, or James, or John; or 
 perhaps Paul, because he had been in Antioch. 
 
 But he said he had been "reborn" there; what 
 could he mean ? RE again ; born again. Was he 
 born twice in Antioch? She had been born only 
 once. Must every disciple be born over like this 
 disciple who was born both times in Antioch ? 
 
 For a long time she puzzled herself over this new, 
 strange thing ; then, when she could not bear it any 
 longer, she asked Aunt Afiy. 
 
 " When he was born, and for years as he grew up, 
 he did not love and obey Christ, and then the Holy 
 Spirit gave him a loving and obedient heart, and 
 that loving and obedient heart is so new that it is 
 like being born over again," was Aunt Affy's simple, 
 and sure unraveling of her perplexity.
 
 168 GROWING UP. 
 
 XVL 
 
 ONE OF AUNT AFFY's EXPERIENCES. 
 
 " O, Master, let me walk with Thee 
 In lowly paths of service free ; 
 Tell ine Thy secret ; help me bear 
 The strain of toil ; the fret of care." 
 
 WASHINGTON GLADDBN. 
 
 THE dream of Judith's girlhood was coming true 
 in a most unexpected way ; she did not go to board 
 ing-school, but boarding-school came to her in Ben- 
 salem; four days every week she studied at the 
 parsonage with Miss Marion, her cousin Don's 
 "brown girl"; the dinner was the boarding-school 
 part ; often she was persuaded to stay to supper, and 
 sometimes there would be an excuse for her to re 
 main over night 
 
 Aunt Rody thought the' excuses were much 
 oftener than need be; she said "it seemed" that 
 something was always going on at the parsonage; 
 the parsonage was a worldly place with games, and 
 company and music.
 
 AUNT AFFY'S EXPERIENCE. 169 
 
 Cephas replied that the parsonage folks were not 
 going out into the world, but bringing the world in 
 and consecrating it ; she must not forget that " God 
 so loved the world." 
 
 Aunt Rody retorted that He commanded his 
 people not to love it, anyway. In his slow way 
 Cephas replied : " He never told His people not to 
 love it His way." 
 
 The worldliness was not hurting Judith ; nothing 
 was hurting the little girl her mother left, when she 
 shut her eyes upon all that would ever happen to 
 her. 
 
 How it happened that she went to boarding-school 
 she never knew; she knew Aunt Afly cried and 
 could not sleep all one night, that for once in 
 his sweet-tempered life Uncle Cephas was angry, 
 and as he told the minister "talked like a Dutch 
 uncle to Eody " ; she knew a letter came from 
 cousin Don to Aunt Rody herself, and that Aunt 
 Rody did not speak to anybody in the house, except 
 ing innocent Joe, for three whole weeks. 
 
 In spite of Aunt Rody, Agnes Trembly made new 
 dresses from the materials Miss Marion took Judith 
 to New York to select, and a box of school books
 
 170 GROWING UP. 
 
 was sent by express, and another box with every 
 latest thing in the way of school-room furnishing. 
 A bureau in Miss Marion's room was placed at the 
 disposal of her goods, and one corner of a wardrobe 
 was made ready for her dresses. 
 
 Still, with all her happy privileges, there was no 
 place she called home; she said : "Aunt Affy's " and 
 " the parsonage." 
 
 Once, speaking of Summer Avenue, she said 
 "home" unconsciously. She rarely spoke of her 
 mother. All her loneliness and desolation and heart 
 aches she poured out in her letters to cousin Don. 
 He understood. She never thought that she must 
 be " brave " for him. 
 
 Nothing since her mother went away comforted 
 her like her boarding-schooL 
 
 During one heart-opening twilight she confided to 
 Marion about casting lots in the Bible to find out if 
 she would ever go to boarding-schooL 
 
 " What did you find ? " asked Marion. 
 
 If she were shocked she kept the shock out of her 
 voice. She told Eoger afterward she was almost too 
 shocked to speak 
 
 "The queerest thing that meant nothing: 'And a
 
 AUNT AFFJTS EXPERIENCE. 171 
 
 cubit on the one side and a cubit on the other side,' * 
 
 "I am glad you found that," said Marion, **1 
 think God wanted to help you by giving you that" 
 
 " But it didn't help ; how could it ? " 
 
 " It helps me." 
 
 "It doesn't sound like a Bible verse; it is just 
 nothing," persisted Judith. 
 
 " God's words can never be ' just nothing. 5 Those 
 words were something to somebody, and they are a 
 great deal to me. Do you remember something 
 Christ says about a cubit?" 
 
 " No ; did he ever say anything ? " 
 
 " He said this : Which of you "by taking thought 
 can add one cubit to his stature ? You were taking 
 thought to add something to your life. Your 
 thought-taking has not done it," said Marion, 
 thinking that her own thought-taking had added no 
 cubit to her own life. 
 
 " No, indeed ; I never should have thought of the 
 parsonage boarding-school. Who did think of it 
 besides you, Miss Marion ?" 
 
 " Several people who love you. If you had never 
 thought of it, it would have been thought of for you. 
 In that same talk Christ told the people: Your
 
 172 GROWING UP. 
 
 heavenly father knoweth that ye have need of aH 
 these things: for your heavenly Father knoweth; 
 that's why we do not have to think about the cubits. 
 I think I'll give Roger ' For your heavenly Father* 
 for a text" 
 
 **I am so glad," said Judith, with radiant eyes, 
 "I love that ' cubit* now." 
 
 " So do L I will certainly ask Roger to preach 
 about our cubit** 
 
 " But don't let him put me in," protested Judith. 
 a I should look conscious so everybody would know 
 I was the girl Jean Draper will be sure to know.** 
 
 " He will not let it be a girl He will make it 
 somebody who was superstitious, and anxious, and 
 did not trust God, nor know how to learn his will 
 Trust Roger for that. I always know when he puts 
 people in, for we talk it over together ; he puts me 
 in so often that I am accustomed to being made a 
 text of; and his own mistakes and failures are in 
 all the time." 
 
 " I thought mine were," acknowledged Roger's 
 attentive and appreciative listener. 
 
 " And Uncle Cephas is sure his are in," laughed 
 Marion. " I think it is only the outside of us that 
 isn't alike.*
 
 AUNT AFFY>S EXPERIENCE. 173 
 
 Very often Judith was allowed to sit in the study 
 with her books and writing. 
 
 Mr. Kenney told her that she never disturbed 
 him, that he would be disturbed if she were not 
 there with her books and table in the bay-window. 
 
 " Ask me a question whenever you like," he said 
 one day. 
 
 But her questions were kept for Miss Marion. 
 The year went on to Judith in household work, in 
 study, in church work and "growing up" with the 
 village girls ; Nettie Evans and Jean Draper were her 
 chief friends. The year went on to Marion. June 
 came ; the new minister and his sister had been a 
 year in Bensalem. 
 
 Marion told him that his sermons were growing 
 up, because his boys and girls were growing up. 
 
 In this year Marion Kenney had discovered Aunt 
 Affy. 
 
 She said to her one afternoon in the entry bed 
 room : " I was hungry to find you ; I knew I wanted 
 somebody. I knew you were hi the world, because 
 if you were not in the world, I should not be hungry 
 for you." 
 
 " ' If it were not so, I would have told you," said
 
 174 GROWING UP. 
 
 Aunt Affy, in the confident tone in which she always 
 repeated the Lord's own words. 
 
 Judith heard the words: the wonderful words, and 
 in her fashion, made a commentary upon them: 
 when things were not so, and couldn't be so, God 
 told you, so that you needn't be too disappointed ; he 
 wouldn't let you hope too long for things and "build 
 on them that is, if you were not wilful about 
 them. You might think just a little whils about a 
 thing, and not be silly about it, and if it were not 
 so you would soon find out. She had found out 
 about boarding-school only she had been pretty 
 bad about that all by herself, and did not deserve to 
 have Miss Marion for a teacher. 
 
 Was Miss Marion paid ? She had never thought 
 of it until this moment 
 
 It was " rag carpet afternoon." Judith coaxed Aunt 
 Rody to allow her to take her half-finished ball and 
 pile of rags up garret again, after Miss Marion came, 
 but Aunt Rody sternly refused: "When I was a 
 little girl I did my stent, company or no company. 
 You can see Miss Kenney after you are through." 
 
 " But I am so slow," sighed the rag-carpet sewer. 
 
 " Be fast, then," was the grim advice.
 
 AUNT AFF1T8 EXPERIENCE. 175 
 
 Judith and her carpet rags were on the floor of 
 the entry between the two bed-rooms ; Aunt Rody 
 was sitting in her bed-room in a rocker combing her 
 long gray hair ; the door of Aunt Affy's room opposite 
 was open; Aunt Affy was seated in her rocker 
 mending the sleeve of a coat for Cephas ; Marion 
 Kenney in her privileged fashion had come into the 
 back yard and knocked at the open entry door. 
 
 Lifting her head, Judith saw her in the rush- 
 bottomed chair ; she had thrown her hat aside, her 
 face was toward Aunt Affy. 
 
 Marion Kenney was Judith's ideal j she was such 
 a dainty maiden, with brown hair and brown eyes, 
 the most bewitching ways, and so true. 
 
 It was happiness enough for Judith to sit or 
 stand near her to watch and to listen ; and, this after 
 noon, she had to sit in the entry far awaj from her 
 and sew carpet rags. 
 
 " Aunt Body," called Marion across the hall, in 
 an audacious voice, " may Judith bring her ball and 
 rags in here ? " 
 
 " Affy doesn't want that room cluttered up," was 
 the slow, ungracious response. 
 
 " Oh, yes, I do," said Aunt Afify, eagerly. " I like 
 it cluttered op,"
 
 176 GROWING UP. 
 
 "Go then, Judith," was the severe permission; 
 " you are all children together, I verily believe.* 
 
 With a merry " Thank you " Marion sprang to 
 }jelp gather the rags, and deposited them and Judith 
 on the rag carpet between herself and Aunt Affy. 
 
 If it had not been for the rags and the ball that 
 grew so tediously, there would have been nothing in 
 the world for Judith to wish for. 
 
 "Aunt Affy, I brought a question to-day, as I 
 always do," began Marion, and Judith's fingers 
 stayed that she might hear the question and the 
 answer. 
 
 She did not know how to ask Marion's questions, 
 but she did know how to understand something of 
 Aunt Affy's answers. In her spiritual and intel 
 lectual appreciation she was far ahead of anyone's 
 knowledge of her. She had a talent for receptivity 
 and, girl as she was, for discipline. 
 
 " If you had read the Bible through forty times, 
 as Aunt Affy has, you would know all the answers," 
 said Judith. 
 
 " Forty times," repeated Marion, in amazement 
 
 "I did not tell her; she found it out," replied 
 Aunt Affy, with humility ; " I lead nay
 
 AUNT AFFT8 EXPERIENCE. Ill 
 
 Bible, and Judith found dates and numbers in the 
 back of it, so I had to tell her it was the number of 
 times I had read it through." 
 
 " You were as young as I when you began," said 
 Marion. 
 
 " I was twenty ; I felt so alone somehow, that year, 
 I yearned 'for it. I read it through in less than a 
 year, then I began again, and next year again, now 
 it is second nature ; I should be lost without it." 
 
 " What is second nature ? " asked the girl on the 
 floor, among the carpet rags. 
 
 " It is something that is so much a part of your 
 self, that comes after you have your first nature 
 that it is as much your nature as if you were 
 born first so," answered Aunt Any with pauses for 
 clearness. "You feel as if you were born the 
 second time, and it would be as hard to get rid of 
 as though you were born the first time with it." 
 
 "Carpet rags will never be my second nature," 
 sighed Judith, picking up a long, red strip. " I wish 
 reading the Bible would." 
 
 " Aunt Affy, it is only this," began Marion, again, 
 flushing a little with the effort of bringing her 
 secret into spoken words. "I want somebody to
 
 178 GROWING UP. 
 
 Jo good to ; I have my class in Sunday school, and 
 that is a great deal, but it doesn't satisfy and 
 there must be somebody ; if it were not so, I wouldn't 
 be so hungry to do it I say it with all humility ; 
 I know there is something in me to give, and it is 
 growing. But I don't know how to find somebody." 
 
 Judith's fingers dropped the long, red strip ; it 
 would be a story to hear Aunt Afly tell Miss Marion 
 how to find somebody. 
 
 " Then, you are just ready to hear my story." 
 
 " I knew you had it ; I saw it in your face." 
 
 " It is one of the true stories, the stories as true 
 as Bible stories, that you and I are living every day." 
 
 How Judith's face glowed. Was she living a true 
 story ? As real as the Bible stories ? 
 
 'God helps and hears now, as quickly, as wil 
 lingly, as sufficiently, as he did in the old Bible 
 times ; we live in the new Bible times. I heard a 
 woman once wishing for a new Bible, the old Bible 
 seemed written so long ago, and about people who 
 lived so long ago. We are making a new Bible; 
 our life is a new Acts of the Disciples." 
 
 And she was in it? How could Judith think of 
 carpet rags ? Unless carpet rags were in it, too.
 
 AUNT AFFT^S EXPERIENCE. 179 
 
 " I like that," said Marion, " for Acts has been 
 called the Gospel of the Risen Lord, and we know 
 He is risen, and with us in the Holy Spirit" 
 
 Aunt Affy was silent a moment; like Judith her 
 fingers stayed and would not work. 
 
 " Yes," she said, too satisfied to say another word. 
 
 "Aunt Affy's Bible is full of marks and dates," said 
 Judith, " as if she were writing her new Bible in her 
 old one." 
 
 "Now I'll tell you how I found somebody. I 
 wanted somebody to give to, as you do. I felt 
 full of good things to give. The village was more 
 full of young people then ; now the boys go to the 
 city, or away off somewhere, then they stayed and 
 married village girls. There were people enough, 
 but I did not know how to find the one willing to 
 take something from me. So I prayed about it : my 
 giving, and the somebody. The first thing I learned 
 when I began to live in the Bible was to pray about 
 everything as Bible folks did I wanted to do all 
 the right things they did, and shape my life as near 
 to God as some of them did." 
 
 Aunt Affy never talked as naturally as when talk 
 ing to girls ; she felt that step by step she had been
 
 180 GROWING UP. 
 
 over their ground. As Rody said, Affy had nevei 
 grown up. A woman apart from the world, she 
 lived a wide life ; every day her clear vision swept 
 from childhood to old womanhood. 
 
 " Before the answer came I read in the Old Testa 
 ment (for all these things happened for our sakes, 
 the New Testament tells us, throwing light on the 
 old stories), three verses in the first chapter of 
 Judges. How I studied it. And how much for 
 myself I found in it and for you. Joshua was 
 dead; the children of Israel had no human counsel 
 lor, so ' they asked the Lord.' They knew he would 
 speak to them as plainly as Joshua had. They had 
 work to do, as you and I have ; God's own planned 
 work. They asked who should go up first to the 
 work ; the Lord said : Judah. That was plain enough. 
 As plain as he says to you : ' Marion, do this.' * 
 
 " How does he say it to me ? " 
 
 " In two ways. First hy giving you something to 
 give. Then giving you the longing to find somebody, 
 to give to." 
 
 " Yes," said Marion, in a full tone. 
 
 " With the permission he gave a prowiae.* 
 
 " I like a promise to work on ; I feel jc suit.,* said 
 Marion, brightly
 
 AffNT ASTJT8 XXPERIENCB. 181 
 
 "This promise was : Behold I have delivered the 
 land into his hand. It is given to him, still he 
 must go and get it; he must work and get it God 
 does not often put ready-made things into our hands ; 
 if he did we would not he co-workers." 
 
 Judith understood. Aunt Affy would not have 
 thought of telling these things to Judith. 
 
 " That is his way of working for us, working in 
 us. His work does not interfere with our work, 
 only makes our work sure and strong. We speak 
 the words ; he keeps them from falling to the 
 ground. Judah was the strongest trihe ; he had 
 been made ready for pioneer work ; the first thing 
 he did was to speak to Simeon, his brother, and say : 
 Come with me. He found somebody to work with 
 him. But he had to go first. He chose Simeon. 
 We may choose somebody to work with us." 
 
 " But, Aunt Affy, I meant somebody to work /or," 
 replied Marion, who had a mission to somebody. 
 
 " There is nobody in the world to work for; it is 
 always somebody to work with. We are all co- 
 workers with God. The somebody you wish to find 
 is a co-worker, too. Why not? Has God chosen 
 only you for His work ? "
 
 182 GROWING UP. 
 
 Marion looked ashamed ; frightened at herself, and 
 ashamed. 
 
 " How could I be so proud? " 
 
 " Oh, we all can," said Aunt Afly, smiling. "And 
 this brings me to my own story." 
 
 " The new Bible," said Judith, eagerly. 
 
 " One day I asked our Father to bring some one to 
 me ; my life has never been a going out, for Body 
 could never spare me, it has been a bringing in, 
 instead ; then I came in here and read about Judah 
 and Simeon, and waited. The waiting is always a 
 part of it" 
 
 " Why ?" asked Judith impatiently. 
 
 '^Because God says so ; that is the best reason I 
 know. And my somebody came. Somebody to 
 help in the work planned for both of us. And the 
 happy thing about it (one of the happy things) was 
 that the somebody started to come to me before I 
 began to ask. Sometimes, people say things will 
 happen if we don't pray ; perhaps they will, it is not 
 for me to say they will not, but the happening will 
 not be in answer to prayer, and that has a joyfulness 
 of its own, that nobody knows except the One who 
 answers and the one who prays. That is a joy too
 
 AUNT AFFY>S EXPERIENCE. 183 
 
 great to be told. Sometimes, I know that I have 
 been as happy over an answered prayer as I can be. 
 And I can be very happy," Aunt Affy said, with 
 happy tears shining in her eyes. 
 
 " This somebody was not anybody new, or strange, 
 or very far off ; when I thought about it there was 
 no surprise in it; it was somebody who had been 
 coming to meet me a long while in preparation. 
 Then, we were ready to be co-workers in a very simple 
 way, making no stir, but I trust our work together 
 will not prove hay or stubble in the last day. It 
 was somebody I chose myself; we do a great deal 
 of our own choosing. But it was God's work and 
 God's workers, like Judah and Simeon. There was 
 prayer first, and Judah using his knowledge and 
 judgment. No wonder God could keep his promise ; 
 they helped him keep his promise, as you and I do. 
 Do you remember what Andrew did after Jesus 
 called him and asked him to spend that day with 
 him ? ' He first findeth his own 'brother. 1 " 
 
 " My only brother is found," said Marion. " Now 
 some one else may be ' first' " 
 
 " And I haven't any," said listening Judith. " But 
 I have my cousin Don ; I wonder about him."
 
 184 GROWING UP. 
 
 " We each have our own ; whoever we find is our 
 own. This is our own world," Aunt Affy replied in 
 her happy voice. 
 
 Marion's question was answered. Aunt Affy 
 always understood what was surging underneath her 
 restless, foamy current of talk. 
 
 Since she had known Aunt Affy she had grown 
 quieter; she had come to Bensalem "in a fume," 
 she told Aunt Affy, and the air, or "something," 
 was making things look different. 
 
 Aunt Affy smiled her wise, sweet smile ; she 
 knew the time came to girls when things had to 
 'look different"
 
 TBE STORY OF A SET. 185 
 
 xvn 
 
 THE STORY OF A KEY. 
 
 44 What time I am afraid, I will 
 Trust in Thee." 
 
 AUNT EODY had a way of bringing her work and 
 sitting somewhere near when Marion came; the 
 girl's vivacity, and gossip of village folks, gossip in 
 its heavenliest sense, attracted the hard-visaged, 
 hard-handed, sharp-tongued old woman. 
 
 An afternoon with Marion Kenney was to the old 
 woman, who never read stories, what a volume of 
 short stories is to other people; stories, humorous, 
 pathetic, and always with a touch of the best in life. 
 And, somehow, the best found an answering chord 
 in something in Aunt Body. 
 
 But for that something nobody could have lived 
 in the house with Aunt Rody. 
 
 The door across the hall was open; all was quiet 
 within the small bedroom.
 
 186 GROWING UP. 
 
 For the world Aunt Body would not acknowledge 
 any weakness by bringing her chair into Affy's 
 room, or even into the entry. She was not fond of 
 company ; and all Bensalem knew it. Cephas asked 
 her years ago if she wanted to be buried in a corner 
 of the graveyard all by herself and the brambles. 
 
 " Heaven is a sociable place, Kody, and you might 
 as well get used to it." 
 
 Aunt Affy's story was done, there was no sound 
 in the other bedroom; Judith picked among her 
 colored strips. 
 
 "I had a letter from my cousin Don last night, 
 Miss Marion," said Judith, " and he said he was glad 
 I loved the parsonage." 
 
 " Did he ? " asked Marion, twisting one of Judith's 
 curls about her finger. 
 
 "0, Judith, I know you want me to tell you a 
 story," she said hastily, as Aunt Affy slipped on her 
 glasses again and took the coat sleeve into her hand. 
 To Marion that coat sleeve was a part of Aunt Affy's 
 " new Bible." 
 
 " Oh, yes," replied Judith, with pure delight 
 
 " Judith would have enjoyed the age of tradition," 
 said Aunt Affy ; " just think," in her voice of young
 
 THE STORY OF A KEY. 187 
 
 enthusiasm, " instead of reading it, what it would be 
 to hear from Andrew's own lips the story of that 
 day." 
 
 " We are living there now," said Marion ; " I am 
 The title of my life just now is ' The Parsonage 
 story of Village Life.' But the story I want to tell 
 Judith to-day is an episode in my own life. Seven 
 years ago. I haven't even told Eoger yet, and I tell 
 him everything. I think I never told any one be 
 fore. I used to be at the head of things in those 
 days ; father was often away, and the children were 
 all younger, except Eoger, and mother wasn't strong. 
 We lived in an old house in a broad city street, away 
 back, with a box-bordered yard in front, and lilacs, 
 and old-fashioned things behind ; we were all born 
 there, even Roger, the eldest, and our only moving 
 times was in the spring and fall cleaning. Once a 
 friend of mine moved, and I was enough in the 
 moving times to be there at an impromptu dinner ; 
 we stood around a pine table in the kitchen, or sat 
 on anything we could find, a firkin, or peach basket 
 turned upside down, and they let me eat a piece of 
 pie in my fingers. All I wanted was to do some 
 thing just like it myself. And when mother said I
 
 188 GROWING UP. 
 
 might stay all my birthday week and help Aunt 
 Bessie move, I thought my ship had come in, laden 
 with moving times 
 
 "Aunt Bessie lived in the city in a beautiful home, 
 but something had happened that summer; Uncle 
 Frank was in Europe and could not come home, and 
 Aunt Bessie and the children had to go into the 
 country for a year. 
 
 "The 'country' was only seven miles away; first 
 the train, then the horse cars, and, then, a two-mile 
 drive. 
 
 " The wagons from the country came for the things 
 Monday morning ; there were two big loads (every 
 thing else had been sold), and in the country home 
 we expected to find new and plain furniture that 
 had already been sent from the stores. 
 
 " Monday the children and I had a hilarious time 
 at dinner ; moving times had begun, and I did eat a 
 piece of pie in my fingers. I was too full of the 
 fun of things to notice that Aunt Bessie ate no 
 dinner, and Elsie and I were teasing Eob in noisy 
 play after dinner, and did not see that she was very 
 white and scarcely spoke at all. 
 
 " ' Marion,' she said at last, ' I cannot conquer it;
 
 THE STORY OF A KEY. 189 
 
 I've tried for half the day and all night ; I cannot 
 hold up my head another minute ; one of my terrible 
 headaches has come upon me. Jane will have to 
 stay here with me and baby and Rob do you think 
 you could but no, you couldn't it's too lonely 
 for you and I may not get there to-night.' 
 
 " ' Go to Sunny Plains alone and have an ad 
 venture ! Oh, Aunt Bessie ! It's too good to be 
 true.' 
 
 " Unmindful of her headache I clapped my hands, 
 and danced Eob up and down. It was all my own 
 moving time. 
 
 " * But, Marion, what would your mother think ?' 
 she protested, weakly ; ' of course there are near 
 neighbors and you might take something to eat 
 and, if I do not get there, you must go across the 
 way and stay all night. The old man who had the 
 two white horses you remember him, said he 
 was our nearest neighbor, and he hoped we would 
 be neighborly. He said he had a daughter about your 
 age you might ask her if I do let you go -to 
 stay with you all night.' 
 
 "'But, after all,' looking at our trim, colored 
 maid of all work, ' perhaps Jane may better go and 
 you stay with me. And'
 
 190 GROWING UP. 
 
 " t Oh, no, ma'am, oh, no, indeed, ma'am,' tremu 
 lously interrupted Jane (she was only two years 
 older than I). 'I couldn't think of it; I should 
 die of fright. I never lived in a wilderness, and I 
 expect to give warning the first week, for I never 
 can bear the country.' 
 
 "'Now, Aunt Bessie, you see I have to go,' I 
 persuaded. ' Jane can't help being afraid and I 
 didn't know how to be afraid really, I don't know 
 what to be afraid of. Let Elsie go with me, and 
 we'll do everything ourselves have the house all 
 in order for you to-morrow morning, and have the 
 most glorious time we ever had in our lives. My 
 Cousin Jennie isn't fifteen, and she stayed a week 
 over alone in the country while Uncle and Auntie 
 were away. Oh, do let us go, Aunt Bessie.' 
 
 " ' Somebody must, I suppose/ half consented Aunt 
 Bessie, who was growing whiter every moment; 
 Elsie, are you brave enough to go with Marion ? ' 
 
 "'Yes, mamma,' said nine-year-old Elsie, in her 
 grave little way, ' but I don't know what the brave 
 is for* 
 
 " ' I'm glad you don't,' smiled her mother. Well, 
 Jane I hope I am not doing wrong fix two boxes
 
 TH& STORY OF A KEY. 191 
 
 of lunch and, you know you take the train to Pater- 
 son and then the horse-cars to Hanover I will give 
 you five dollars, Marion, you will have to take a 
 carriage at Hanover but you know all about it 
 you went with me to look at the house and you 
 know where to have the furniture put as I told you 
 that day and you can get things at the store 
 half a mile off Jane, you will have to keep Rob 
 and baby Marion, I don't know what your mother 
 will say it's well there was a load of things left 
 so that I may have a bed to-night ' 
 
 " During this prologue my feet were dancing, and 
 my fingers rubbing each other impatiently, I was so 
 afraid she would end with a sufficient reason for not 
 allowing us to go. I could not believe that we were 
 really off until we sat in the train, each with a 
 huge, stuffed lunch-box, and 1 with five dollars in 
 my pocketbook and my head confused with ten 
 thousand parting directions, among which was, 
 many times repeated: 'Be sure to ask that girl to 
 stay all night with you.' 
 
 " At the terminus at Hanover we got out and stood 
 and looked around. Elsie was a little thing, but she 
 was wise, and I liked to ask her advice.
 
 192 GROWING UP. 
 
 " ' Aunt Bessie found a horse and a carriage at the 
 blacksmith's shop that day, didn't she ? ' 
 
 "This was hardly asking advice, but Elsie 
 brightened, and answered deliberately : ' We walked 
 on a canal-boat, then, to the other side, for the bridge 
 was being built.' 
 
 " ' Then we are in the right place, for there's the 
 new bridge,' I exclaimed, relieved, for I missed 
 the canal boat we had that day made a bridge ot 
 
 " ' And we went down that way to the blacksmith's 
 shop,' she said pointing in a familiar direction. 
 Yes, I remembered that. The immensity of my 
 undertaking was beginning to preys upon me ; I was 
 glad I had brought Elsie. 
 
 " With a business-like air we crossed the bridge, 
 and walked along a grass-bordered path to the 
 blacksmith's shop ; there seemed to be two shops in 
 the long building ; before one open door a horse 
 was being shod, before the other a group of men 
 stood with hands in their pockets watching a fire 
 that had died down into a red-hot circle the circle 
 looked like red-hot iron. As we waited for the 
 horse to be harnessed and brought, Elsie and I stood 
 across the street watching the red-hot iron ring * 
 as iargs as a wagon wheel.
 
 THE STOBY OF A KEY. 198 
 
 " Elsie looked as though she were forgetting every 
 thing in that red wonder, and I began to feel a 
 trifle strange and lonely, for my little cousin was 
 so self-absorbed that she was not much company. 
 
 " ' Hallo, there ! ' called the blacksmith as a boy 
 drove a two-seated wagon out from behind some 
 where. 
 
 " With my best business air I asked the price 
 before we stepped up into the wagon and replied, 
 ' Very well,' to his modest one dollar. 
 
 "The drive was beautiful; Elsie looked and looked 
 but scarcely spoke. But she did exclaim when we 
 crossed the railroad, at the tiniest railroad station, 
 we, or anybody else, ever saw. 
 
 " It was a brown shed, without a window even 
 the door stood wide open, there was no one within, 
 no stove, no seats, no ticket office. 
 
 " ' Well, we are in the wilderness,' I said aloud 
 
 " And then, the ' store.' I wish I could tell you 
 about that store. It was about as large as a hen 
 coop, everything, everything in it. I got out and 
 went in, for Aunt Bessie had asked me to inquire 
 for letters which she had directed to be sent to 
 Sunny Plains. The post-office was a rude desk and
 
 194 GROWING UP, 4 
 
 a few cubby-holes up on the wall above it ; I saw 
 a letter laid on a rneal sack this place behind the 
 store seemed to be both post-office and granary. 
 
 " ' I'll be down by and by you are the new 
 people, I suppose; I saw your things go by,' re 
 marked a pleasant young man behind the counter; 
 'I'll come for orders. I hope you will trade with 
 us.' 
 
 "'Thank you, I suppose so. And I wish you 
 would bring some kerosene/ I said, remembering 
 that I must burn a lamp all night. 
 
 "Along the half mile on the way to the new house 
 were scattered several farmhouses, then came the 
 church, and churchyard, and, on a rise beyond the 
 churchyard, a pretty house. 
 
 " ' That's it," Elsie said, ' I know the house.' 
 
 "The key was in the possession of the white-haired 
 old man with the two horses, and his house was 
 opposite the church. 
 
 " Elsie was too shy to go to the door and knock 
 and ask for Mrs. Pettingill's key, but I was very 
 glad to go ; I began to feel that I would like to see 
 the girl who would stay all night with us. She 
 answered my knock, a tall girl, with an encouraging
 
 TBS STORY OF A KBY. 196 
 
 face. She brought the key, saying the wagons were 
 all unloaded ; two had come Saturday with things ; 
 her father had said my mother and all the family 
 were coming before night. 
 
 " 'Aunt Bessie was too ill,' I replied, glad to have 
 the neighborly subject opened so easily, 'and she 
 said I might ask you to come over and stay all night 
 with Elsie and me.' 
 
 " 'Oh, I couldn't,' she answered, hastily ; ' I'm going 
 away I'm all dressed now. I'm sorry, too,' she 
 added, sympathetically, at something in my face, 
 'but I can't disappoint my grandmother; she sent 
 for me because she is sick.' 
 
 ' ' Then, of course, you will have to go. (Then I 
 began to know what 'brave' meant.) Thank you 
 for the key.' 
 
 " Up the steep, weed-tangled drive we went to the 
 side door ; the boy-driver unlocked the door for us, 
 giving a view of the moving times within, I paid 
 him his dollar, and he drove away, leaving us in the 
 wilderness. 
 
 " Elsie stood and looked around as usual. 
 
 " It was a wilderness, a wilderness everywhere ; the 
 two-story house, painted brown, with red trimmings,
 
 196 GROWING UP. 
 
 was set in the middle of a large field ; it had been 
 untenanted for two years ; the hedgerows had grown 
 luxuriant, the grass was knee-deep ; the house faced 
 the west (the driver told me that), and the west this 
 August afternoon was an immense field of cabbages 
 bordered by tall trees ; above it was the sky, beyond 
 that might be anything, or everything ; at the east 
 stretched a mown field, dotted with trees, an apple- 
 tree that looked a hundred years old near the fence, 
 then a thick woods, over the top of which ran a line 
 of green, low hills ; among the greenness a red slant 
 ing roof was visible; at the south stretched other 
 fields, among the trees a white house, with out 
 houses, a well-sweep; at the north, beyond two 
 fields, in which cows were pasturing, in a grove, a 
 thick, green grove, was the churchyard, with rows 
 and rows of white stones, now and then a white or 
 a granite monument ; the brown church-tower arose 
 above the tree-tops. And this was my wilderness 
 for a night, with the sky, the protecting, loving sky 
 over all, and bending down to enfold us all into its 
 sunshine. 
 
 " ' It's pretty/ said Elsie. 
 
 " ' Yes, it is pretty. Now we nrost go in and go to 
 work.'
 
 THE STORY OF A KMT. 197 
 
 "The opened door led into the small dining-room; 
 small and so crowded ; as my big brother said, there 
 was a place for everything, and everything was in it 
 
 "The front parlor, back parlor, hall, all crowded; 
 up stairs there was nothing but emptiness and 
 roominess. 
 
 "The kitchen, such a pretty kitchen, was crowded 
 with everything, too and a pine table, a firkin, and 
 an up-turned, or down-turned peach basket. 
 
 "I was in a whirl, an ecstasy, an enthusiasm; but 
 as somebody remarks, nothing is done without en 
 thusiasm; now what should I do with mine, that, 
 and nothing else ? 
 
 "Suddenly, to Elsie's great perplexity, I gave a 
 shout and rushed out the dining-room door, and 
 down through the tangles into the road. 
 
 "I had espied two men, working men, in shirt 
 sleeves, with coats thrown over their arms. Farmers, 
 or farmer's sons, probably, great, true-hearted sons 
 of the soil, knightly fellows who were ready to 
 
 "'Are you do you know anybody ' I began, 
 breathless, and with flying hair. 
 
 " They stopped and gazed at me. 
 
 " ; We have just moved in. I would like things 
 moved, and bedsteads put up, and boxes opened.'
 
 198 GROWING UP. 
 
 " ' We can do it/ said one promptly. 
 
 " He had lost one eye ; th3 other eye looked honest. 
 
 " ' Yes, we're out of the work,' said his companion. 
 
 "He had a stiff neck; he did not look quite so 
 honest. 
 
 " ' Can you come now ? ' I faltered. 
 
 "'Yes, right off. Come, Jim,' was the cheerful 
 response. ' All we want is to be told what to do.' 
 I could always tell people what to do ; at home I 
 was called the ' manager.' 
 
 " For two hours I kept those men busy ; Elsie, with 
 grave eyes and sealed lips, followed us about. I 
 tried to forget the stiff neck, and the eye that did 
 not look honest, and had forgotten both, when tnere 
 was a heavy rap on the open dining-room door. 
 
 " There stood the young man from the store. 
 
 " I had forgotten that I did not like those two busy 
 men, who never spoke unless spoken to, still I was 
 glad enough to cry when I saw this familiar and 
 friendly face. 
 
 " I had known him so long ago I could tell him 
 anything. 
 
 " ' H'm. Somebody to help you,' he said, stepping 
 in, pad and pencil in hand, for an order.
 
 THE STORY OF A KEY. 199 
 
 " The men were in the back parlor ; one was un 
 packing a box of books, the other was sweeping. 
 
 " Yes," I replied confidently, " I needed help and 
 I called them in. I don't believe " my voice 
 sinking to a whisper, "that they are tramps, do 
 you?" 
 
 "Oh, no. They are hatters. They have been 
 about here two or three years ; the factory is closed. 
 The worst thing about them is drink. They will 
 drink up all you give them. Still, it was hardly a 
 right thing for you to do." 
 
 " Elsie's arm was linked in mine, her big eyes fixed 
 on the young man's face. 
 
 "'A thing is always right after it is done,' I 
 said desperately. 
 
 " ' Whew ! you are a wise one,' he said quizzically. 
 ' I've brought kerosene have you lamps for to 
 night? Oh, yes, I see you have. Sugar, bread* 
 coffee, tea, what will you have ? ' 
 
 " I gave the order ; he wrote it, then lingered. 
 
 " ' They are about done for to-night, I suppose.' 
 
 " ' Yes, I shall send them away.' 
 
 " He drove away, and I was left with my hatters. 
 
 " ' You have worked two hours/ I said ; ' what do 
 I owe you ? '
 
 200 GROWING UP. 
 
 " The man with one eye looked at the man with a 
 stiff neck. 
 
 " ' Fifty cents, eh, Jim ? * 
 
 " 'That's about it,' said Jim. 
 
 " I did not bring my pocket-book down stairs, there 
 were two bills in it ; I handed each a twenty-five- 
 cent piece with the most reassuring and disarming 
 air (one air was for myself, the other for them), and 
 thanked them, hoping they would soon have work 
 at their trade. 
 
 " They said ' thank you ' and 'good-night,' and Elsie 
 and I were left alone. 
 
 " ' Aren't you hungry ? ' asked Elsie, ' It is late 
 and dark.' 
 
 " ' So it is : we will have supper in the kitchen 
 and I will fill a lamp to burn all night.' 
 
 "That supper was not quite as much fun as I 
 thought it would be ; Elsie munched a sandwich 
 and wished she were home; out the window the 
 fire-flies were glistening in the tall grass ; the grave 
 stones loomed up very white and tall and stiff. 
 
 '"We'll go to bed early,' I said cheerily, 'and be 
 up early in the morning to put everything in order. 
 Aunt Bessie will be sure to be here early.'
 
 THE STORY OF A KEY. 201 
 
 " Elsie followed me up stairs still munching a sand 
 wich. She, too, had learned what it was to be 
 ' brave.' 
 
 "The hatters had put up a bedstead and laid a 
 mattress on it ; the bed clothing lay in a pile on 
 the bare floor. 
 
 " I made the bed while Elsie finished her sandwich. 
 
 " ' May I brush out your hair and braid it ? ' asked 
 Elsie. 
 
 " ' Yes, in a minute. Let's go down stairs and 
 look at all the doors and windows again.' 
 
 "The fastening on every door and window was 
 tried anew. We were locked in. The world was 
 locked out. I did not look out again at the fire-flies. 
 
 " I sat down before the bureau while Elsie stood 
 behind me and brushed and braided my long hair ; 
 doing my hair would comfort her if anything could. 
 
 "But what would comfort me? 
 
 "My Daily Light I had put in my satchel; I 
 liked to have it open on my bureau ; it was bound 
 in soft leather, two volumes in one: I found the 
 date, August XV., in the Evening Hour. 
 
 " ' Read aloud,' said Elsie. 
 
 :: My glance caught the large type at the head of
 
 202 GROWING UP. 
 
 the page. My heart beat fast, the tears started, 
 but I cleared my throat and read unconcernedly: 
 
 'I WILL ALLURE HER, AND BRING HER INTO THE 
 WILDERNESS, AND SPEAK COMFORTABLY UNTO HER.' 
 
 " ' Eead it again/ said Elsie, brushing softly. I 
 read it again. Elsie undressed and crept into bed. 
 
 " * You didn't say your prayers,' I remonstrated. 
 
 * ' I like to say them in bed/ she replied. 
 
 "So did I that night 
 
 " I placed the lamp, burning brightly, on the floor 
 in the hall opposite my door, leaving the door wide 
 open, then I lay down, and said my prayers in bed. 
 
 " Elsie was soon asleep ; my prayer ended with the 
 earnest petition, several times repeated : ' Please let 
 me go to sleep quick and stay asleep all night.' 
 
 "Then I watched the light, and thought about 
 home, and fell asleep. 
 
 " A voice awakened me : Elsie was sitting up in 
 bed: 
 
 " ' I'll do your hair, Marion/ she said thickly, 
 talking in her sleep. 
 
 " I pressed her down, and covered her ; she did not 
 waken. But I was awake, wide awake, alone in a 
 great wilderness. There was no sound, no sound
 
 T&R STORY OF A KBY. 203 
 
 anywhere, but a stillness like the stillness of death. 
 
 " Then sh sh sh a hush, a soft pressing 
 against something a padded shoulder against a 
 door, a soft fist at a window ; then the stillness like 
 the stillness of death. I was awake; I did not 
 steep. 
 
 "The soft, soft sound came again and again ; the 
 softest sound I had ever heard, and then the stillest 
 silence. 
 
 " Should I get up, bring the lamp in, and lock the 
 door? 
 
 " But suppose there were no key in the door it 
 was swung back, I could not see the inside key-hole ; 
 if I should get up and find no key, and could not 
 lock the door, I should confess to myself that I was 
 afraid how could I lie there, with the door shut 
 and not locked, and be afraid ? / was afraid to be 
 afraid. I would rather He there, and look with 
 staring eyes at the lamp and the wide stairs, and 
 listen, and listen, with my very breath, and know 
 that I was not afraid." 
 
 " Oh, dear ! " cried Judith, with a choking in her 
 throat. 
 
 " Morning came. Oh, that blessed streak of dawn.
 
 204 GROWING UP. 
 
 I arose and slowly pushed the door so that I could 
 see the lock. 
 
 " There was no key." 
 
 " Oh 1 " cried Judith, with a sudden, sharp breath, 
 cold to her very finger-tips. 
 
 "That day was the happiest day of my life. I 
 never knew before how happy I could be. I had 
 learned that I could be kept from being too afraid." 
 
 " Only just afraid enough," laughed Judith, glad 
 that the laugh was not frozen in her throat 
 
 " How I scampered around that day and helped, 
 and scampered around and didn't help. That was 
 years ago, and I haven't told the story yet That 
 710 key was one of my turning-points." 
 
 "I wish I might have a turning-point," said 
 Judith, "only I never could bear to be afraid." 
 
 " Being afraid doesn't hurt," consoled Aunt Affy ; 
 "you are glad you were afraid after you get out of 
 the wilderness." 
 
 "What did your point turn you around to?" 
 questioned Judith, who had learned from her mother 
 that something always happened next 
 
 " : To knowing I would always be safe," said 
 Marion, " no matter how deep I get into the tangles 
 in ray wilderness."^
 
 THE STOBT OF A KEY. 205 
 
 " Yes/* responded Aunt Affy, " we only think we 
 are hurt" 
 
 " Was it all wilderness ? " asked Judith. 
 
 " It appeared so to me. We took a drive one day 
 into another wilderness Meadow Centre ; that was 
 almost more a wilderness." 
 
 "I know Meadow Centre," said Aunt Affy; 
 "Cephas has a cousin there, a kind of cousin by 
 courtesy, and he is always promising that he will 
 take me over there. His name is Richard King ; he 
 has just come to take charge of the church. Cephas 
 says he is a splendid worker, as big as a giant and 
 as simple-hearted as a child." 
 
 " Is he old like Uncle Cephas ? " Judith inquired 
 
 "No, child, he's young like our minister. He 
 preached here before your brother had the call, 
 Miss Marion ; Cephas wanted him, but he wouldn't 
 leave that going-to-pieces church and congregation 
 over there. Cephas told him he was staying by the 
 ship to see it go to pieces, and he said he wanted to 
 see it go to pieces, then." 
 
 a Meadow Centre is a part of my wilderness; I 
 would like to see the place again. I have a very 
 warm feeling for my wilderness.*
 
 206 GROWING UP. 
 
 " And now you are in the Promised Land," said 
 Judith ; " do people have to go through the Wilder 
 ness first ? " 
 
 A warning voice came from across the hall : " I'd 
 like to know if your ball is getting bigger, Judith." 
 
 Judith's guilty fingers snatched her needle, and 
 she began stitching a black strip to a brown strip 
 as Aunt Rody had expressly forbidden her to do. 
 
 " They don't have to stay in che Wilderness," re 
 plied Aunt Affy, " their own naughtiness kept them 
 there." 
 
 " H'm," sniffed the voice across the hall " I think 
 some people who behave pretty well are kept in the 
 Wilderness." 
 
 "I like wild places," said Judith, forgetting her 
 ball again. 
 
 " And naughtiness, too," snapped Aunt Rody. 
 
 " Oh, we all like that," laughed Marion ; " Aunt 
 Rody, I am coining in there to tell you a story. 
 
 "Don't want you," grumbled Aunt Rody, in a re 
 lenting voice. 
 
 But Marion went. 
 
 "I'm sure you have a story to tell me," Judith 
 heard Marion say, in the tone Roger Kenney called 
 " wheedling."
 
 THE STORY OF A KEY. 207 
 
 "My story is all hard work, privation, and in 
 gratitude," was the ready response. 
 
 As Aunt Affy sewed a tear fell on her coarse 
 work, which Judith tried not to see. 
 
 Judith sewed diligently, wondering the while 
 how she could make a turning-point for herself. 
 
 " Yes," groaned the voice across the hall, " my past 
 is not pleasant to dwell on, the present is full of 
 contradictions and being opposed, and the future 
 well, I hope I am a Christian." 
 
 " I don't believe you are," whispered Judith softly 
 over her rags. 
 
 A heavy step on the sod under the bedroom 
 window brought sudden color to Auirt Affy's old 
 cheeks; with her sister's groanings in hsr ears she 
 was meditating if it were her duty to ask Cephas to 
 go away again. Was the Lord asking her to choose 
 between the two ? 
 
 Pushing back his straw hat and leaning his shirt- 
 sleeved arms on the window-sill, the old man aoood, 
 with his lover's eyes on the delicate, sweet tace ol 
 the woman he had loved thirty years. 
 
 " Well, Affy, how's things ? " he asked, joyously. 
 
 " Just as usual," she half sighed.
 
 208 GROWING UP. 
 
 " No worse, then ? " 
 
 " Not a bit," she answered, smiling. 
 
 "Then I'll get a bite and go back to work again. 
 It does me good to come and have a look at you 
 and know you are here." 
 
 " Oh, I shall always be here." 
 
 "And so shall I," he answered, confidently. 
 
 After that, how could Aunt Affy but decide once 
 again, and for ever, that he should always be here.
 
 JUDIT&S TURNING-POINT. 209 
 
 xvra. 
 
 JUDITH'S TURNING-POINT. 
 
 "No act falls fruitless ; none can tell 
 How vast its power may be, 
 Nor what results infolded dwell 
 Wtthinftsaently." 
 
 JUDITH stood in her night-dress and bare feet on 
 the rug of rag-carpet before her bed ; she was afraid ; 
 she was afraid because of Miss Marion's story ; would 
 she go to sleep, and wake up, and wish she had a 
 key in her door ? 
 
 After another hesitating moment she decided to 
 go down stairs to Aunt Affy's bed-room and linger 
 around, hoping Aunt Affy would ask her to sleep 
 just one night in that cunning room in that old-fash 
 ioned, tall-posted bed, with ever so many small pil 
 lows, and that red and green quilt of patch-work 
 baskets with handles. 
 
 Slipping on the blue wool shoes her mother knit 
 ted, she went softly down stairs to the entry bed-
 
 210 GROWING UP. 
 
 room. Aunt Rody's door, for a wonder, was shut ; 
 that was one danger past, for if Aunt Rody heard 
 one foot-fall, without inquiring into it she would 
 certainly send her back to bed. If she were dying of 
 a broken heart Aunt Rody would never know or 
 care. But she did not think it was because she 
 would never care to tell Aunt Rody about her 
 broken heart. 
 
 Aunt Affy's door, like the gates of Heaven, was 
 wide open; by the light of a small lamp she was 
 reading her " chapters " in the Bible. 
 
 One of Judith's names for Aunt Affy's Bible was 
 " My Chapters." 
 
 " Come in, dear," welcomed the angel within the 
 gates of Heaven. On the threshold stood the white- 
 robed figure, with her long hair braided loosely and 
 ending in one curl. 
 
 " Just a minute," pleaded the rather tearful voice ; 
 " shall I disturb your chapters ? " 
 
 " No, indeed, you are a part of them, as your moth 
 er was before you," said Aunt Affy, shoving her gold- 
 rimmed spectacles int :> their case. 
 
 These gold-rimmed spectacles were her last birth 
 day present from Cephas.
 
 } JUDITH'S TURNING-POINT. 211 
 
 Judith thought it was funny, but very lovely for 
 such old people to have birthday presents. Aunt 
 Affy was so choice of these spectacles that she kept 
 them to read the Bible with. 
 
 " I wanted to come a little while," said Judith, 
 perching herself on the side of the high bed, her 
 blue-slippered feet not touching the carpet. 
 
 " I wish you had a sister," began Aunt Affy in the 
 tone that ran on a long while. " You must have some 
 one to grow up with. You have never had any one to 
 grow up with." 
 
 " I have Nettie, and Jean, and Miss Marion, and 
 Mr. Koger, and everybody else, and you and my 
 cousin Don." 
 
 "And we are all growing up together," laughed 
 Aunt Affy with her soft laugh. " When I was a little 
 girl I had my sister Becky. The other sisters were 
 all grown up. Eight sisters we were. But some were 
 married. Father would have us all home on Christ 
 mas Days. Such a merry houseful. Cephas was like 
 the brother we never had. He came a boy to work for 
 father, just as Joe works for him. Becky and Cephas 
 and I were always growing up together. Becky was 
 the friskiest thing, always getting into scrapes and
 
 212 GROWING UP. 
 
 out of them. Eody used to be hard on us, we thought 
 then ; but I've no doubt we were wilful and disobe 
 dient, and gave her heaps of trouble. She always 
 worked hard ; she always would." 
 
 " Why ? " asked Judith, with thoughtful question 
 ing. 
 
 " Because it is her nature to put her shoulder to the 
 wheel. She pushes other peoples' shoulders away. 
 She does not know how to be helped not even 
 by the Lord himself. She married off her sisters, she 
 said, and then all she wanted was to settle down to 
 work and to peace and quietness. She likes to see 
 people at church ; but it frets her wonderfully to have 
 people come here. If it hadn't been for that I should 
 have brought 3 jur dear mother back here years ago 
 to stay, but Rody wouldn't hear of it. She can't bear 
 to have her ways interfered with. She wouldn't 
 sleep one wink to-night if she thought that pile of 
 papers on the round table wasn't just as she put it. 
 And it would give her a fever for me to sleep in her 
 bed." 
 
 " But it wouldn't you" interrupted Judith, eagerly. 
 
 " Oh, not a bit Still I never try it. I like my 
 
 own bed, and own side of the bed. But I was tell- 
 
 ..*.
 
 JUDITH 9 S TURNING-POINT. 213 
 
 ing you about Becky ; she used to sleep with me, and 
 no one has since." 
 
 Judith's heart sank. The room up stairs grew 
 desolate and afraid and homesick. 
 
 " Cephas always liked Becky ; they used to do their 
 lessons together, and when he went to town to learn 
 his trade he asked her to be his wife as soon as he 
 could build a house to put her in. Father gave Becky 
 twenty acres on her twentieth birthday, and Cephas 
 was to build the house." 
 
 " He wasn't bald and white-whiskered then." 
 
 " Well, I think not. He was the handsomest young 
 man in the country, and the best. And a master 
 workman, too. 
 
 " Then father died ; he had been queer some time. 
 Rody broke off a match for him ; the old minister's 
 sister, a widow, a good and lovely woman, and he had 
 mourned years for mother, and Becky and I were glad 
 to have him comforted ; but Eody would not give up 
 her place to any stepmother, trust her for that ; and 
 she broke it off somehow, and the widow married a 
 minister, and father grew queer and then died. 
 
 "Eody had something to repent of, if she onlj 
 thought of it; only she never does think. She
 
 214 GROWING UP. 
 
 worked on Becky's feelings about Cephas, but Becky 
 held on, and wouldn't give him up ; so she and I to 
 gether, when Eody wasn't looking on, made her wed 
 ding things, such piles. I enjoyed it as if it were to 
 be my own house-keeping ; I loved them both so, and 
 Rody worked hard and was dreadfully cross to us all ; 
 and the cellar for the new house was dug, and Becky 
 was as happy as a queen. How she sang about the 
 house. Cephas had a shop of his own in town by this 
 time, and journeymen and apprentices; he was a 
 rusher; he expected to drive in every day. He 
 wanted a house in town, but Becky loved the old 
 place and she was always delicate, and he couldn't 
 bear to cross her. And, then, it's a sad story for 
 young people, but you must know there's sadness 
 in the world as well as joy she died suddenly 
 with fever. I watched her night and day. And 
 Rody. She was a ministering angel. She died in 
 Rody's arms. Rody had been like a mother to her. 
 Her things, ' our things ' she used to say, were all 
 packed away. Cephas failed in business I think 
 he didn't care much whether he failed or not, and 
 came back to the farm. Flowers and weeds began 
 to grow in the cellar of Becky's house ; it's only
 
 JUDITH'S TUENING-POINT. 215 
 
 a big green hole now. Cephas wanted me to use 
 her things; he said Becky would like it, and I 
 knew she would. He comforted me and I com 
 forted him. Body didn't like that, and sent him 
 away. We comfort each other now, and always 
 will. Eody can't hinder everything. Why, child, 
 don't have such big eyes over my story. Becky has 
 been happy all these blessed years, and Cephas and 
 I talk over old times and look forward to new times ; 
 and, we would like to build a house over Becky's 
 cellar if Body didn't fume so. 
 
 " This is her ring that I wear this plain gold, 
 the only ring I ever had ; she put it on my finger 
 and asked me to be good to Cephas. He wouldn't 
 take it back. But isn't it your bed-time, Deary ? " 
 
 "I wish I might brush your hair," said Judith, 
 slipping off the high bed. 
 
 But a door creaked, was flung wide open ; a night- 
 capped head appeared in the opposite doorway. 
 
 " You up, Judith Grey Mackenzie. Go right up 
 to bed this minute. It's just like you, and it's more 
 like Affy. No wonder I couldn't sleep with voices 
 in the house at this unearthly hour. There 1 It's 
 striking nine o'clock. Affy, you go to bed."
 
 216 GROWING UP. 
 
 Aunt Affy laughed softly as the creaking door 
 was closed again. 
 
 " I am not grown up either, you see. Perhaps I 
 shall grow up with you. She wouldn't let me mix 
 the bread to-night, and she never lets me take the 
 butter out of the churn. And when we go to town 
 shopping she always carries the money." 
 
 Judith laughed a doleful little laugh, and went 
 bravely up stairs to her turning-point 
 
 It was moonlight, but she must light the candle 
 for company ; she would keep it burning all night, 
 or as long as it would burn, if she dared. 
 
 She would scratch the match where she liked; 
 Aunt Kody had no right to order her about so ; she 
 did not 'belong to Aunt Eody. She wished Aunt 
 Affy would let her go to live always at the Parsonage. 
 
 Perhaps Cousin Don would if she wrote and told 
 him all about Aunt Eody. 
 
 One night last week Aunt Rody had put her 
 head in at the door and found her scratching a 
 match on the bureau along the crack on its upper 
 edge; she often did it; but Aunt Rody gave a 
 scream and seized her by the arm and said angrily ; 
 " Judith Grey Mackenzie, don't you do that again ;
 
 JUDITHS TURNING POINT. 
 
 I'll whip you as sure as you live if I ever see you do 
 it again. You might set the house on fire. Suppose 
 a spark should fall into the upper drawer." 
 
 But a spark never had. The upper drawer was 
 shut tight; Aunt Eody had no right to catch her 
 by the arm like that. And whip her ! She wouldn't 
 dare. She would go to the parsonage and stay 
 until Cousin Don came after her. 
 
 She was old enough to scratch a match where 
 she liked. 
 
 With a sudden indignant stroke she drew the 
 match under the top edge of the bureau: a snap 
 and a flash. 
 
 " There," she said aloud, triumphantly. 
 
 She lighted the candle and dropped the burnt 
 match in the tin pail that served as slop jar. 
 
 It was very quiet down stairs ; Joe had gone to 
 bed, Uncle Cephas had not come home from the 
 session meeting at the parsonage; she wished he 
 would come. 
 
 Then, the tiniest curl of smoke caught her eye 
 out of the top drawer ; no, that was tight shut ; the 
 curl grew and grew ; it came from the crack under 
 the top edge of the bureau*
 
 218 GROWING ffP. N 
 
 Paralyzed with terror she stood and looked. It 
 was smoke. And it grew and grew. Should she 
 run down and tell Aunt Affy? But Aunt Body 
 would hear and come, too. Might she call Joe? 
 But he might tell Aunt Rody the next day; he 
 looked cross at her at supper time because she 
 said she would not read aloud to him all the evening. 
 If Uncle Cephas would only come. But he always 
 stayed late at session meeting there it was, slowly, 
 so slowly curling up. 
 
 It was real smoke, and there had to be fire to 
 make smoke. The bureau would burn first and 
 then after a long time she remembered that 
 water would put out fire ; what a goose she was to 
 stand there and see the smoke grow. 
 
 She poured water into the wash-bowl, soaked the 
 wash-cloth, and ran it carefully all along the crack. 
 
 There, it was out. Nothing to be frightened 
 about But she would never do it again. Aunt 
 Eody did not know about that. 
 
 Sitting down on the foot of the bed opposite the 
 bureau, she leaned over the red rail that formed the 
 foot-board and watched and waited. Of course the 
 fire was out. Yes no yes, there it was again
 
 JUDITH'S TUBNZNG POINT. 219 
 
 the curl of smoke ; the water had done no good ; 
 the fire was too deep in for water to get through the 
 crack ; the spark had fallen away down in. 
 
 In despair she burst into tears; but the tears 
 kept her eyes from watching the smoke ; she brushed 
 her eyes clear and looked ; it was there, and it grew 
 and grew, not dense, not black, but real smoke, and 
 it kept coming and coming. 
 
 "0 Father in Heaven," she cried aloud, "please 
 stop it ; please stop it. I don't know what to do." 
 
 Still the smoke was there. Did God see it? 
 Didn't he care ? Would he not answer because she 
 had been so disobedient and because she had hated 
 Aunt Eody ? 
 
 " I will be good after this," she sobbed. " I don't 
 want to be hateful I will give up my will to Aunt 
 Eody when she is right." It was fainter ; no, there 
 it was again. Would the fire never go out ? 
 
 Aunt Body knew best. Perhaps Aunt Eody 
 knew best about other things. Perhaps she was a 
 Christian, a real disciple, only a very queer one. 
 
 Now it was so faint, so faint she could not see it 
 at all It was not because the tears were in her 
 eyes ; it was gone. It was gone. She felt all along
 
 220' GROWING UP. 
 
 the crack with her finger. It was not hot And 
 the smoke was gone. The fire was out ; it was ail 
 burned out inside that crack. 
 
 And Aunt Eody need never know. And she 
 would never, never, never disobey Aunt Eody again. 
 Her mother had always told her she loved her own 
 will too much ; she would never love it so much 
 again ; she would say what would she say ? 
 She knelt on the strip of rag-carpet where she had 
 seen the girl kneel in her "picture" and repeated 
 softly, through fast falling tears : " Our Father, who 
 art in Heaven ; Hallowed be thy name ; Thy King 
 dom come : Thy will be done ; that was it ; Thy will 
 be done, Thy will be done," she repeated joyfully 
 over and over. "Make me love Thy will best. 
 Make my will a good will, a sweet will, an obedient 
 
 She did not know then that it was her turning 
 point. The next day she loved to obey Aunt Rody. 
 Aunt Rody did not ask her to do one disagreeable 
 thing; and it was the queerest thing, Aunt Rody 
 said, when she asked if she might sweep the sitting- 
 room, " That's a good girl" 
 
 She did not tell any one about her fright over
 
 JUDITH'S TURNING POINT. 22'i 
 
 the match excepting John Kenney, Miss Marion's 
 brother, and Jean Draper. He had come to the 
 parsonage for vacation. He was a hig, handsome 
 boy, as manly as the minister himself, and as gentle 
 as a girl ; one afternoon, when she and Jean Draper 
 went off on a long stroll with him, and they began 
 to tell stories of adventure of what they had read, 
 or of what happened to them, she told her story 
 about how the smoke got in a crack. 
 
 She only said she liked Aunt Eody better after 
 that. She could not tell about her prayer. But 
 John would have understood, she was sure. 
 
 He always looked as though he understood every 
 thing you meant, but did not know how to say.
 
 222 JROWIXU UP. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 A MORNING WITH A SURPRISE. 
 
 Routine of duties, 
 Commonplace cares." 
 
 F. L. IIOSMER. 
 
 THE years went on in quiet Bensalem and brought 
 Judith to her eighteenth birthday; the summers and 
 winters came and went, and the girl grew. The 
 parsonage was "home," and the farmhouse was 
 " Aunt Affy's," as it had been ever since she could 
 remember. One July morning, in this nineteenth 
 year of Judith's story, something besides the new 
 morning was given to Marion. The parsonage under 
 the housekeeping of the two, the woman and the 
 girl, was a dainty, restful, and inspiring home to its 
 three home-keepers, the minister, his sister, and 
 Judith Mackenzie. 
 
 The relationship am: ng the three was as simple 
 and natural as though Judith had been born one of 
 the sisters in that old house, with the three windows
 
 A MORNING WITH A SURPRISE. 223 
 
 in the roof that slw had made a picture of for her 
 mother. 
 
 This July morning, an hour before dinner-time, 
 Marion sat near the kitchen table shelling peas; 
 she had sent Judith back to the story she was 
 writing, and refused Roger's help when he put his 
 head in at the window to say that shelling peas 
 always meant two people and a bit of confidence. 
 
 " Miss Marion," called a voice from the kitchen- 
 porch ; " I am not fit to come in, I'm just out of the 
 hay field. I've got a letter for you that's been laid 
 over, and a burning shame it is ; and it is the second 
 time it has happened. To excuse himself he said 
 your box was full and this slipped out or was set 
 aside. I gave the Bensalem postmaster a round 
 scolding, and told him the parsonage mail was always 
 important, and if it happened again I'd go straight 
 to Washington and report him to Uncle Sam," 
 chuckled the old man to whom a letter was about 
 the smallest thing in life. 
 
 "Uncle Cephas," welcomed Marion, cordially, 
 " thank you for the scolding and the letter.". 
 
 " I mustn't come in ; I brought the minister a 
 load of hay. Don't call him, I'll find him. Your 
 letter looks rather foreign."
 
 " Yes," she said, trembling almost visibly after a 
 glance at the post mark. 
 
 "Double postage too," he said curiously. 
 
 " Yes," she said again. 
 
 "Judith had a foreign letter last night, too." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I see all her foreign letters," she replied 
 with an effort 
 
 "I must go; don't work too hard. So you like 
 to be your own mistress and your own maid; no 
 help at all this summer ? " 
 
 "No; and once Judith and I did the washing; 
 it was the best fun we ever had." 
 
 " Our folks say you think you own Judith; but 
 I guess you have as good a right to her as anybody. 
 You and her Cousin Don ; you do the most for her." 
 
 He nodded, wiped his forehead with his soiled 
 handkerchief, pushed down his tattered straw hat 
 and went down the steps with a careful tread. 
 Uncle Cephas was an old man his age had come 
 upon him suddenly. Marion watched him as he 
 walked away ; it was easier to look at the load of 
 hay, the hayfield beyond the parsonage garden, 
 easier to look at anything, and think of anything 
 excepting that foreign letter. "Why should Don write
 
 A MORNING WITH A SURPRISE. 225 
 
 to her? He had not written for five long years, 
 not once since that letter about Judith from Genoa. 
 Was it because she had refused him ? 
 
 During all these years it never once entered her 
 thoughts that she had refused him. 
 
 He did ask her to become his wife if that 
 were asking. And she had refused, if that were 
 refusing. 
 
 " Can you have dinner in half an hour ? " Roger 
 asked, coming to the open window near the sink. " I 
 only this minute remembered that I promised King 
 to drive over this afternoon to talk his parish diffi 
 culties over with him. His housekeeper has gone, 
 did I tell you ? He's keeping house by himself 
 has been trying it a month, or I'd take you and 
 Judith for the drive; he would not relish your 
 seeing his house-keeping. Don't hurry too much; 
 give me a cold dinner with a cup of coffee." 
 
 "I'll ring the bell in half an hour; Judith will 
 help me," she replied, hearing the sound of her own 
 voice with every word she spoke. 
 
 The words she was speaking did not touch her 
 own life nothing was in her life but that letter in 
 her hand; she had as much of it as she could bear just
 
 226 GROWING UP. 
 
 now, she thought she would hide it away and never 
 open it. It was another thing to die and be huried. 
 
 Judith came and began to set the dinner table 
 and to tell her the last pretty thing Nettie Evans 
 said Marion moved absently about the kitchen ; 
 the letter was pushed down in her dress pocket. 
 
 When at last she could bear the suspense no 
 longer, she asked Judith to boil the eggs, and to 
 bring the rice pudding from the cellar, and went up 
 stairs to her own chamber and shut the door. If 
 she did not have to bear this if only it had not 
 come to disturb her peace she was satisfied with 
 out it. It was a long letter; it was full of some 
 thing, her heart was beating so fast and choking her 
 that she read sentence after sentence without 
 gathering any thought or incident; it was words, 
 words, words. 
 
 " I expect to sail for home next month ; I am 
 tired of being a stranger and a foreigner. You have 
 never written to me beyond those two words ; but I 
 know what you have been to my Cousin Judith. I 
 think I have grown old since you saw me ; life has 
 grown old if I have not I know from the letters of 
 Eoger and Judith that you are just the same.
 
 A MORNING WITH A SURPRISE. 227 
 
 Unless you are just the same I would not care to 
 see you again. Tour old friend, Don." 
 
 She opened a drawer and laid the letter away ; 
 she would understand the rest of it when she was 
 not in such a tumult. Did Roger know he was 
 coming home ? Judith had not told her. Had he 
 told no one but herself ? Did he expect her to tell 
 the others ? She had to take her eyes and burning 
 cheeks down stairs, but she did not have to speak of 
 her letter yet. And, after all, there was nothing in 
 it to speak of. It was a letter not worth the 
 writing. 
 
 The girl in the blue gingham, with the yellow 
 waves of hair dropping to her waist in one long 
 braid, was giving the last touches to the dinner 
 table set for three; the roses in the centre of the 
 table were from Aunt Affy's garden. 
 
 " They are talking still Uncle Cephas and 
 Roger. They will never get through; they begin 
 in the middle every time. I have been so interested 
 that I forgot to boil the eggs. There are chops down 
 cellar ; shall I broil them ? I always think of Don 
 when I broil chops. I broiled chops for him that 
 last time I saw him. Do you know I believe he is
 
 228 GBOWING UP. 
 
 coming home soon? He thinks he will surprise 
 me ; but I have guessed it all summer." 
 
 " Yes ; get the chops," replied Marion. 
 
 "And you listen there at the window," laughed 
 Judith; " Uncle Cephas is touching on marriage now. 
 He told Eoger he did a wrong ching when he 
 married Jean Draper to a man who is not a Chris 
 tian ; she is only nineteen and does not know better, 
 he said. Roger has been trying to argue himself 
 right ; but I don't know how Roger could help that, 
 do you?" 
 
 " No ; Roger couldn't help it ; David Prince comes 
 to church regularly and Roger admires him ; Jean's 
 father and mother were willing; I think Uncle 
 Cephas takes too much upon himself. Roger 
 believes David Prince is a Christian and doesn't 
 know it. Roger knows it; and Jean does. But 
 Roger never minds Uncle Cephas." 
 
 Uncle Cephas was speaking with low intensity; 
 standing at the window Marion listened : at first 
 indignant, then she became interested. Roger would 
 miss his appointment; perhaps he was so amused 
 with the old man that he had forgotten his drive to 
 Meadow Centre.
 
 A MORNING WITH A 8UBPRISK 229 
 
 " You see, dominie, in marriage there's a heap to 
 look at besides young folks choosing each other, 
 even more than parents being willing ; parents may 
 be mistaken there's the command that comes 
 straight and strong. I am as interested in the 
 marriage question as I am in all the other things 
 that concerns the life of the church and the com 
 munity; I've had years enough to study it theoreti 
 cally," he went on, with his deep laugh. 
 
 "Which command are you bringing down upon 
 my head now ? " inquired the minister, in a tone of 
 good fellowship. 
 
 " Is it the dominie that asks which ? You who 
 should have all the commands, and promises, and 
 threatenings at your tongue's end " 
 
 "My tongue would have no end then," replied 
 Roger. 
 
 " And the geography and history of the scriptures, 
 too. I didn't use to believe in studying the geog 
 raphy of the Bible until that man came from An- 
 tioch, and now I know Damascus and the land of 
 the Chaldees, and Tyre and Sidon all by heart. Of 
 course you know better than I do that command 
 Joshua gave the people, and I verily believe it was
 
 230 GROWING UP. 
 
 more for the women than the men, as I told Affy in 
 talking over Jean Draper's 3ase ; women are natur 
 ally religious creatures, bless *em." 
 
 Judith and the chops were ever the fire ; Marion 
 stood at the open window; Judith listened, and 
 burnt her chops. 
 
 " Why, you remember," Uncle Cephas ran on in 
 the familiar voice with which he talked about his 
 cattle and his crops, "that he told the people the 
 nations should be snares and traps, and scourges in 
 your sides and thorns in your eyes until they per 
 ished from off the good land, and the reason was, 
 or would be, that they made marriages with them." 
 
 " Yes, certainly," interjected Roger impatiently. 
 
 " But that isn't all ; don't say ' certainly ' in such 
 a matter of fact way ; it was something else ; it was 
 making marriages 'with the remnant/ those that 
 remain among you, not the round-about nations, but 
 the among-you nations, and there's where the danger 
 is, I tell the young folks ; young folks never know 
 their dangers ; it is the believers that don't believe 
 the folks that come to church and don't confess 
 Christ, that is the hindrance, and the ones that bring 
 punishment of scourges and snares and traps and
 
 A MORNING WITH A SURPRISE. 231 
 
 thorns; it is like the half of a truth that is the 
 worst of a lia David Prince comes regularly and 
 listens to the truth, and if I do say it to your face, 
 you put it powerful; and he goes away and by his 
 actions confesses that he doesn't believe a word you 
 say. I labored with Jean Draper, but she only 
 cried, like the dear girl she is, and said she couldn't 
 give him up; not if the whole session said so." 
 
 " She came to me," answered Eoger, in his quiet 
 est tones, " and I told her to hold on to him and I 
 would marry them if the session tore me to pieces." 
 
 "I believe you would," laughed Uncle Cephas. 
 " Well, I've washed my hands. I didn't expect to 
 hinder anything. I suppose I can trust my min 
 ister if he hasn't come to his gray hairs. I thought 
 that hay was the first fruits and I'd bring it. You 
 see Bensalem is as dear to me as the land of Israel 
 to old Joshua and Samuel. The Lord's eyes are 
 always upon it, and it flows with milk and other 
 good things. No offence, I hope," he added in his 
 sweet, old, slow voice. 
 
 Eoger hurried into the house, and hustled Judith 
 and her chops to the dinner table. 
 
 "I believe I'll take you this afternoon, Judith;
 
 232 GROWING UP. 
 
 it's time you began your vacation; all the other 
 boarding-schools closed long ago. You will see the 
 desolation of the Meadow Centre parsonage and 
 offer your services on the spot. King can't get a 
 housekeeper to suit him since Mrs. Foster left. You 
 will suit him exactly ; perhaps he likes burnt chops." 
 
 After the little bustle subsided, Marion asked : 
 "Eoger, why didn't you tell him about Euth of 
 Moab Judith and I are just reading Euth, who 
 married one of the chosen people, and, if Samuel 
 wrote the story, he made the sweetest love-story 
 that ever was written and she was one in the 
 direct line of the ancestry of Christ." 
 
 "Because that would have been in confirmation 
 of his point," said Roger, breaking an egg carefully. 
 
 " I don't see how," replied Marion. 
 
 Judith listened ; Eoger never talked for the sake 
 of argument ; he pondered before he spoke again, 
 
 "She deliberately chose the God of Israel to be 
 her God, giving herself to His worship and His 
 people ; Naomi had taught her ; Naomi was a mis 
 sionary love of her mother-in-law ws not all that 
 decided her to leave her gods and her native land." 
 
 " I thought it was because she loved Naomi," said 
 Judith, " and that was so lovely,"
 
 A MORNING WITH A SURPRISE. 233 
 
 "But Naomi's son married her first," argued 
 Marion ; " he had no right to do that." 
 
 " Perhaps he was punished for it ; perhaps both 
 sons were punished for it ; who knows ? " 
 
 "But you do not think Jean has done wrong,"' 
 said Judith, sympathetically; "it will hreak her 
 heart if she ever reasons herself into believing she 
 has disobeyed." 
 
 " Well, no," replied Eoger, dryly ; " especially as 
 David expects to confess his faith at the next com 
 munion. He would not do it before for fear that he 
 would do it to please Jean. He did not dare tell 
 her. He has told no one but myself." 
 
 "Then, Roger, why didn't you tell Uncle Cephas ? " 
 asked Judith, in astonishment. 
 
 " I thought he might as well learn that, even in 
 Bensalem, there are some people he may misjudge. 
 He knows Bensalem by head, once in a while, better 
 than he knows it by heart." 
 
 " Did you say you would take Judith to Meadow 
 Centre," Marion asked, bringing herself back from 
 over the sea. 
 
 "Did I, Judith?" 
 
 " No, you said you believed you would take me," 
 said Judith, mischievously.
 
 234 GROWING UP. 
 
 "I believe it still" 
 
 "Would you like to go ? * inquired Marion. 
 
 * I would not like to interfere with any of Roger's 
 beliefs." 
 
 " Then be ready in ten minutes, or you will I 
 fed Daisy and she has had to eat in a hurry like her 
 master." 
 
 " Put, Marion, I shall leave you with the dishes, 
 and supper " 
 
 " She couldn't be left in better company," Roger 
 insisted; "don't stop to change your dress; put on 
 your big hat and well be off." 
 
 " Marion, do you want to be left alone ? " 
 
 "More than anything else in the world," said 
 Marion, sincerely.
 
 JUMT3'8 AFTERNOON. 235 
 
 XX. 
 
 JUDllU'S AFTERNOON. 
 
 44 Green pastures are before me, 
 Which yet I have not seen." 
 
 " I SUPPOSE King will ask me to exchange with 
 him Sunday," remarked Roger, putting the reins into 
 Judith's ready hands, after turning out of the par 
 sonage lane. " Which sermon shall I take ? " 
 
 " The cubit one," was her unhesitating reply ; " it 
 has been in my mind to ask you to preach that 
 again for me." 
 
 " But you will not hear it* 
 
 "Unless you take me with you," she suggested 
 with a merry laugh. 
 
 Roger believed that Judith Grey Mackenzie was 
 the merriest maiden in Bensalem. 
 
 " I would if I were going to dine at the parsonage, 
 but there's no housekeeper there, move's the pity, 
 I shall take dinner and supper with one of the 
 deacons, and drive home in the moonlight. You 
 would like that.
 
 286 QBQWUIQ Ufi 
 
 "All out the deacon." 
 
 *And you wouldn't endure the deacon for the 
 sake of the cubit sermon." 
 
 " Indeed, I wouldn't. What would they think oi 
 me?" 
 
 " That you are a very nice little girl" 
 
 M I'm too big a girl, that's the worst of it" 
 
 That's the best of it for me." 
 
 * I don't know whether I'm glad of it or not," she 
 said, as frankly as if speaking to Marion. " The only 
 trouble I have in the world is that I'm growing up 
 away from being your little girl" 
 
 "Don't you dare," he said with playful threat- 
 
 I don't dare.' 
 
 * As if yon could, Lady-Bug."* 
 / "Oh, how that brings back dear old Don. It is 
 the last name he ever called me outside of a 
 letter. Don't you believe that he's coming home 
 soon?" 
 
 "I know it" 
 
 " Do you know how soon I " 
 
 " That is his secret" 
 
 drawing a long breath, " I'm too glad. But
 
 JUVIT&S AFTERNOON. 237 
 
 I don't want to go to the city and keep house for 
 him, and go to college and have every advantage, 
 as he says I must do. I've had every advantage; 
 you and Marion have been my 'liberal education.' 
 Nothing will ever take me away from Marion." 
 
 " Or your brother Roger." 
 
 " Oh, you two are one. I always mean you both." 
 
 "But hasn't your Cousin Don the best right to 
 you ? Isn't he your guardian or something ? " 
 
 " He is my everything beside you and Marion 
 and Aunt Affy." 
 
 " Then he must do as he thinks best" 
 
 " Am I not to be consulted ? I belong t& myself 
 first of all" 
 
 " You will be much consulted, no doubt" 
 
 " Then I hope I shall not have to do anything I 
 don't want to. I'm afraid Don will be like a 
 stranger. I was only a little girl when he went 
 away. I do not feel at home with him, only with 
 the thought of him." 
 
 "With your thought of him ?" 
 
 "And my thought may be very far wrong. 0, 
 Roger, do you believe it is ? " bringing her earnest 
 face within range of his too sympathetic eyes.
 
 238 GROWING UP. 
 
 " Tell me what is your thought of him," he said, 
 gently, taking the reins from her hands. "You 
 see you cannot talk and drive, too. Daisy was 
 walking into a fence " 
 
 She gave up the reins without any consciousness 
 of the action ; she was looking at her Cousin Don's 
 face as she had told a " picture " of it to her mother. 
 
 " He is so fine, so unselfish, so true, so considerate, 
 a refuge from everything that troubles me r a part of 
 my mother to me I have saved all his letters, 
 they are my chief treasures. If I should be dis 
 appointed in him the sun would drop out of the 
 sky." 
 
 "Poor little girl," thought the man beside her, 
 tenderly. "Suppose you are disappointed in me," 
 he asked, lightly; "have you ever thought about 
 that?" 
 
 "No. I cannot even think that," she said, im 
 pulsively. 
 
 "Because you have not placed me on any such 
 pedestal ? " 
 
 " Perhaps so," she laughed. 
 
 " Is that the reason ? " 
 
 "No, for when I was a little girl I placed my
 
 JUDITH'S AFTERNOON. 239 
 
 Cousin Don and his friend Roger on the same 
 pedestal. You havn't tumbled off yet, and I've been 
 with you ever since." 
 
 "Judith, I do not like that," he answered, se 
 riously; " you shouldn't look at people like that." 
 
 " I don't. At people. But I do at you, and Don, 
 and Marion, and Aunt Affy and Euskin and George 
 Macdonald and Miss Mulock and Tennyson and " 
 
 " Then I will not be frightened if we are all there. 
 If one of us fail, you will have all the others to keep 
 the sun in your sky." 
 
 " Now, give me back the reins, because I have 
 told you." 
 
 He laid the reins in her hand, askiwg what she 
 had been doing with herself all the mornmg. 
 
 " Writing a story." 
 
 "0, Judith, not another one," he exclaimed in 
 pretended dismay. 
 
 " I had to. It was burning in my bones. Don't 
 you know I got five dollars for the last one " ? 
 
 " Can nothing but a five-dollar bill quench the 
 burning in your bones ? " 
 
 ' Oh, yes ; the burning is quenched by writing it 
 I am quenched now for quite a while."
 
 240 GROWING UP. 
 
 " What was your inspiration this time ? " 
 
 " Something you said Sunday evening." 
 
 TeU me." 
 
 " I will read it to you in your earliest leisure." 
 
 " Do you intend to keep this thing up and be a 
 dreadful literary creature ? " 
 
 " Only as long as the burning lasts." 
 
 " But while you muse the fire burns ; you must 
 give up musing." 
 
 " Are you serious ? " she asked, troubled. 
 
 "No, dear. Give everything that is in you. 
 That is what it is in you for." 
 
 "I know that," she answered, confidently. "In 
 almost all your sermons I find a thought to make a 
 story of." 
 
 "You illustrate me, I am the author; you are 
 the artist." 
 
 "Then how can I go away and keep house for 
 Don?" 
 
 "You mercenary creature, you want to make 
 money out of me." 
 
 " When I was a little girl and thought of writing 
 stories I wanted to earn money; now I only think of 
 the joy of writing things down."
 
 JUDITH'S AFTERNOON. 241 
 
 "That is creating like the joy of the Lord. 
 May it last forever like his joy." 
 
 Judith was silent from sheer happiness. Her 
 work was so little, but so dear : Eoger and Marion 
 always understood ; she was no more shy with them 
 about her stories than about her thoughts; she 
 gave herself to them utterly, as she had given her= 
 self to her mother. 
 
 The parsonage at Meadow Centre was in Meadow 
 Centre; it was not in a village, or a mlle\ it was 
 not in any place, but its own place, where it stood ; 
 the church was the nearest building, the post-office 
 was two miles distant; there were farm-houses 
 scattered about for miles ; the most distant parish 
 ioner lived three miles from the church. 
 
 The parsonage, built of wood and stone, a story 
 and a half, with the trumpet vine climbing luxu 
 riously to its low roof, had passed its birthday of 
 three-score years and ten. It was old, and it looked 
 as if it felt old. 
 
 The gate was swung wide open, the path leading 
 to the closed front door was weed-grown, the flower 
 beds on each side of the path were a mass of wild, 
 bright bloom.
 
 242 GROWING UP. 
 
 " How pretty I How like a picture ! " exclaimed 
 Judith, in admiration ; " there's a grape-vine running 
 up an apple tree, and there's the old oaken bucket 
 What a pity for no one to live here." 
 
 "Somebody stays here," said Roger. 
 
 " Is it the parsonage ? How can they neglect it 
 so?" 
 
 " Whoa, Daisy. The farmers are all busy. King 
 should learn to use a scythe, and a lawn-mower; 
 he's a born hermit. If he wanted to he could find 
 a housekeeper ; he forgets he hasn't any." 
 
 " But there's no one at home." 
 
 "Oh, yes, he's at home. He's expecting me. 
 The study is in the rear ; he lives in that" 
 
 " But where is his sunshine ? " 
 
 " He finds that. He's the best man to find sun 
 shine I know He is the sunshine himself." 
 
 The "sunshine" came around the corner of the 
 house, a long linen duster crowned with a soft grey 
 felt hat; beneath the hat a tawny beard, and the 
 bluest eyes shining through a tangle of eyebrows. 
 
 " I had given you up." 
 
 "Never give me up," said Roger in a sunshiny 
 voice. "I'm always on hand, when I am not on
 
 JUDITH'S AFTERNOON. 243 
 
 foot. Miss Mackenzie, Mr. King. But, excuse me, 
 you have seen each other in Bensalem." 
 
 " I have had the pleasure of meeting Miss 
 Mackenzie ; I hope she has not forgotten me." 
 
 "Judith never forgets. Will yo'a let her go 
 around and browse while we have our drive ? 
 Judith, you don't mind staying alone ? " 
 
 " It is not a very nice place for a lady to stay in," 
 the bachelor housekeeper hastened to say ; " I fear 
 I forget when sweeping-day comes, and I always 
 forget to wash the dishes." 
 
 "Judith will do that for you. Don't forget, 
 Judith," he warned. 
 
 " The woman who comes once a week is ill, and 
 has not been here for two weeks; I am really 
 ashamed to have Miss Judith come into the house." 
 
 " She isn't ashamed, she likes it. Give her your 
 hand, Dick, and help her out ; I must hold Daisy." 
 
 Judith stepped down and stood beside the linen 
 duster and gray hat, fervently wishing she had 
 stayed at home. 
 
 " Eoger, how long will you be gone ? " she inquired, 
 faint-heartedly. 
 
 " 'Till supper-time we have business on hand
 
 244 GROWING UP. 
 
 if you don't have supper ready for us I'll lose you 
 on the way home." 
 
 " There's bread in the house, and butter and milk 
 and eggs but the dishes ," excused the em 
 barrassed housekeeper. 
 
 " Trust a girl to wash dishes. Will you wear that 
 duster ? " 
 
 " I have a coat under it. Wait until I show Miss 
 Judith in ; my study is the only fit place." 
 
 " Show her the kitchen, there's where you need a 
 visitor." 
 
 " The front door is locked," apologized Mr. King. 
 " I am sorry to take you to the back hall door." 
 
 Judith's courtesy and kindliness failed her; Eoger 
 deserved a scolding for bringing her to such a 
 forlorn place; what could she do with herself two 
 or three hours ? 
 
 The doorway into which she was shown led into 
 a narrow carpeted hall ; the study door stood open ; 
 books in book-cases, on the floor, on a table, books 
 and dust, a coat on a chair; the light from two 
 windows streamed in. 
 
 " If you care for books you will find something to 
 do the latest magazines are somewhere. My house-
 
 JUDITH'S AFTERNOON. 245 
 
 keeper had to leave suddenly, and to get another 
 has been impossible. I wish I might make you 
 comfortable. I'd like to put Kenney under the 
 pump for bringing you. Would you rather I would 
 take you to a neighbor ? " he asked, brightening. 
 
 " Oh, no ; I like it I shall like it, here, in a 
 few minutes," she said with fervent kindliness. 
 
 " Don't get us any supper ; Mr. Kenney was only 
 joking," he added as he disappeared. 
 
 It was rather a cruel kind of a joke, she thought, 
 as Daisy sped down the road ; she would run away 
 and walk home, seven miles, if she dared. But 
 Eoger would be hurt; he had brought her for the 
 drive, and had no idea of the dismalness of the 
 desolate old place. 
 
 She threw off hat and gloves, and braced herself 
 for action of some kind. Eoger would expect 
 supper. It was not difficult to find the kitchen ; 
 there was no fire, a fire could hardly be expected ; 
 there appeared to be nothing in the room but piles 
 and piles of dirty dishes. There were kindlings in a 
 basket near the stove, and wood in the box behind 
 the stove ; there was a sink and a pump ; with fire 
 and water she could wash dishes.
 
 246 GROWING UP. 
 
 If Marion had only come, too, what fun it would 
 have been. It would be rather desolate fun all 
 alone. 
 
 She discovered soap in a dish on the sink, and 
 towels, clean towels, hanging on a heavy cord beliind 
 the stove. The room, like the study, was flooded 
 with the afternoon sunshine. And there were 
 pictures out of the window; she had never yet 
 found a window that did not frame a picture. She 
 could not be lonely with pictures and sunshine. 
 
 In five minutes the wood fire was crackling ; the 
 sunshine and the fire were two companions she 
 loved, and then, Marion often laughed at her 
 enthusiasm for washing dishes. For once in her 
 life, she would tell Marion, she had dishes enough to 
 wash. 
 
 If she might only heat the oven and make biscuits. 
 That would be a surprise. With a feeling that she 
 was intruding she opened a closet door; a loaf of 
 bread, a plate of butter, a paper of soda crackers, a 
 small basket of eggs, a tin quart of milk, a bag of 
 salt was the quick inventory she made then she 
 found a bag of flour on the floor, a basket of potatoes, 
 a ham from which slices had been cut, and a jug
 
 JUDITH'S AFTERNOON. 247 
 
 of molasses. Hot biscuits, ham and eggs, coffee, 
 there must be coffee; what a splendid supper she 
 might have. There were no remains of a dinner; 
 perhaps he had forgotten to get any dinner, or he 
 might have been invited out; he should have one 
 supper if there were only time. 
 
 Eoger told her once that she had the feet and 
 fingers of a fairy ; she said to herself that she 
 needed them that afternoon. 
 
 At that very moment when feet and fingers were 
 busy in his kitchen, how her young enthusiasm 
 would have been kindled could she have heard the 
 story he was telling Eoger. 
 
 " It has been a tug for me, something to go through 
 with. You do not know unless you have had 
 something of the sort happen to you. It may end 
 in my going away. She is everything to be desired, 
 and more than I deserve. A splendid looking girl, 
 a college graduate, just the wife for a minister, keen 
 as a flash, quick at repartee, as spicy as a magazine 
 article, born to command, a perfect lady, with a 
 winning manner, and I can't love her if it kills me. 
 I've been down on my knees begging the Lord to 
 make me love her : and she is no more to me than a
 
 248 GROWING UP. 
 
 picture, or a statue, or a character in a book. It 
 unmans me to feel how her heart has gone out to 
 me. She is as brave about it as she can be." 
 
 "How, in the name of wonder, do you know it 
 then ? " asked Eoger, in astonishment. 
 
 " I know it because I cannot help knowing it. If 
 you do not know how I know it I cannot tell you. 
 Her mother knows it, and how she watches me. 
 They say Frederick Eobertson married in a like way ; 
 he was afraid he had been dishonorable. But this is 
 none of my doing." 
 
 " I can believe that, old fellow." 
 
 "What am I to do?" 
 
 " Steer clear of her." 
 
 " All my steering will not keep me clear of her. 
 We are constantly brought together." 
 
 " Introduce me. You will be nowhere." 
 
 Eichard King would not laugh ; the very telling 
 his trouble appeared treason in his eyes. 
 
 " I know what is the matter," ejaculated Eoger, 
 suddenly. "You have seen some other woman, or 
 you would succumb." 
 
 " I have seen several other women," he said, think 
 ing only of one, the girl with a blind mother in 
 Bensalem.
 
 JUDITH'S AFTERNOON. 249 
 
 " Don't let it drive you away from your work" 
 
 " I think she may go away. I think her mother 
 will send her away. I think I would rather face 
 the cannon's mouth than be left alone half an hour 
 with that old lady." 
 
 " Does she blame you ? " 
 
 " Not if she has the common sense I think she has. 
 I am the last man for a girl to fall in love with," he 
 added, ruefully. 
 
 "Don't count too much on that," advised Eoger, 
 gravely. 
 
 At six o'clock Daisy was driven around to the 
 stable to be fed; Judith was taking her molasses 
 cake from the oven and heeded neither voices nor 
 footsteps. 
 
 "I told you so," cried Roger, delighted, coming 
 to the kitchen doorway. " See here, King, and look 
 here, and smell here." 
 
 " Well, I think so," exclaimed the bachelor house 
 keeper in dismay and delight. 
 
 " Table set, too," declared Roger, stepping into the 
 tiny dining-room. "No table-cloth; how is that, 
 Judith ? " 
 
 " I couldn't look around for things," said Judith,
 
 250 GROWING UP. 
 
 flushing; "I was afraid every minute of intruding. 
 I haven't looked into places any more than I could 
 help." 
 
 " Miss Judith, I am ashamed " 
 
 "You are grateful, you lucky dog," interrupted 
 Roger. " We are as hungry as tramps, Judith ; our 
 host stopped at the store and bought sugar cakes 
 and cheese to treat us on, not knowing the feast he 
 was bringing his guest home to." 
 
 Biscuits, molasses cake, ham and eggs and coffee. 
 
 Judith's eyes were demure and satisfied ; she had 
 never had such a good time in her life. 
 
 " I can get you a table-cloth if it will not be too 
 much trouble to reset the table," proposed the host 
 as unembarrassed as his visitors could desire. 
 
 " Please don't," said Judith, " unless for your own 
 convenience." 
 
 "I acknowledge I haven't seen a table-cloth on 
 my own table since I have been my own house 
 keeper: but we must have napkins. I cannot do 
 without napkins unless I am camping out." 
 
 Judith was placed at the head of the table, she 
 accepted the position as naturally as she did at the 
 Bensalem parsonage when she was left to be the
 
 JUDITH'S AFTERNOON. 251 
 
 lady of the house ; she poured the delicious coffee, 
 ate her biscuits with a perfect relish, and listened to 
 story, repartee, experiences, plans for work with an 
 appreciation that added zest to the conversation. 
 
 " Well, Judith, what do you think of your after 
 noon ? " inquired Roger, when Daisy was trotting 
 the second mile toward home. 
 
 "I never had any tiling like it. I didn't mind 
 washing the supper dishes with you looking on ; but 
 I did mind having him in the kitchen." 
 
 " He couldn't stay out ; it was nuts for him. He's 
 a first-rate camper, but housekeeping is one too 
 many for him. He is one too many for himself. 
 He wishes to be near the church, so he will not try 
 to find board anywhere." 
 
 " Hasn't he a sister, or cousin, or somebody ? " 
 
 " He hasn't anybody. He wants to bring a family 
 to the parsonage he might have had one for the 
 summer if he had known he would lose his house 
 keeper in time. He will make a break and do some 
 thing. What do you think of him ?" 
 
 "If I hadn't seen that dreadful study, and that 
 kitchen " 
 
 " Did you go up stairs I "
 
 252 GROWING UP. 
 
 " Why, no. Did you think I would do that ? I 
 felt myself an intruder every minute. You didn't 
 think I would do that, Eoger." 
 
 " Well, no ; now I come to think of it" 
 " If I had met him away but he is so much a 
 part of that kitchen and study, that I'm afraid I 
 shall not be fair to him. At first he was nothing 
 but big, to me ; big and ashamed ; then nothing but 
 red beard and eyebrows, and then eyes ; his voice is as 
 big as he is. I liked his sermon that other time you 
 exchanged ; he is a man in earnest." 
 
 " A man burning with enthusiasm ! He came to 
 Meadow Centre his parish covers three miles in 
 two directions, only because he was needed there. 
 He refused twice the salary, a pitiful little salary it 
 is, that he might try to bring that church back, 
 to keep it from being swallowed up ; his father 
 was born there he has a love for the church and 
 people ; we passed a deserted church on the way 
 here, a mile ahead of us; Meadow Centre will be 
 another deserted church before many years there 
 are deserted farms in this neighborhood." 
 
 " But the people will find a church somewhere." 
 "There's a new church where we went this
 
 JUDITH'S AFTERNOON. 253 
 
 afternoon ; it is taking his people, his grandfather's 
 people."* 
 
 " I should think it would. The church is out of 
 repair there's nothing pretty about it. I don't 
 believe he can keep the people together." 
 
 "Then he will help them scatter. He will do 
 something for them. He wanted this experience, 
 and he could afford to take it." 
 
 "Did you promise to exchange Sunday ?" 
 
 " Yes. I will drive home after evening service. He 
 will stay over night with us. I wish we might keep 
 him a week. He took me to see a place for a new 
 church. He is a born organizer " 
 
 " Outside of the kitchen," laughed Judith. 
 
 " I wish he had a wife," said Eoger. 
 
 " Not for such a reason to keep house for him," 
 replied Judith, in a flash of indignation. 
 
 "His grandfather and father were born in Scot 
 land on his mother's side he has Scotch grit. 
 He'll pull himself through, but it's rather tough on 
 him. He makes me feel like a pampered baby. He 
 worked his way through college; he has fed on 
 thistles and he shows it. I wish I had," said Koger 
 devoutly.
 
 264 GROWING UP. 
 
 u Is it too late ? " asked Judith teazingly. 
 
 "I feel so small beside him," Koger went on 
 discontentedly ; " he is the biggest and best fellow I 
 know." 
 
 " Roger, Roger, you tell me not to seek hard things 
 for myself." 
 
 Roger lapsed into silence. Judith wondered if 
 she might not put her afternoon into her next story 
 Sometime what a pretty book she would make out of 
 her short stories. She would call it : "A Child's 
 Outlook." But that would be too grown up for 
 children. Her stories were for children, as well as 
 about children. Marion had planned a summer of 
 writing for her ; she had the " plots " for five stories 
 in her head; she had told them 8,11 to Marion as 
 she used to tell her mother pictures ; they were, all 
 of them, founded on her own childish experiences ; 
 her childhood had been full of things Marion said 
 her own childhood had not been so full. Every day 
 when she was a child had been a story. Telling her 
 mother pictures had helped make her stories. She 
 used to tell her mother stories about herself. 
 
 " You are too young to look back to your child 
 hood," Roger had once told her ; " that comes with 
 age."
 
 JUDITH'S AFTERNOON. 255 
 
 " Mother made it so real she impressed me 
 with its happenings. She made things happen, I 
 understand now, because she was going away so 
 soon. She used to say, ' I want you to look back 
 and remember this.' And I read aloud to her the 
 journal she asked me to keep the last three vears 
 I draw upon that now." 
 
 A summer of stories. She laughed aloud in her 
 joy. She wished she might take her book of stories 
 to Heaven to show to her mother.
 
 256 GROWING UP. 
 
 XXL 
 
 MARION'S AFTERNOON. 
 
 * Only the present is thy part and fee, 
 And happy thou, 
 
 If, though thou didst not beat thy future bro* 
 Thou couldst well see 
 What present things required of thee." 
 
 GEORGE HERBERT, 
 
 MORE than anything else in the world Marion 
 wished to be alone that afternoon. If it were pos 
 sible she wished to understand herself. She closed 
 the study blinds, and, in the dim light drew Roger's 
 study chair to the table; and, sitting down, bent 
 forward, leaning her head on the table. 
 
 What did she wish to understand ? She wished to 
 know if the years had burnt out that impulse of 
 friendship, or love, she had, then, toward Roger's 
 friend, and her own friend ; she was as light-hearted 
 to-day, but for the shame of it, as if she had never 
 known him so pleasantly and familiarly ; her excite 
 ment over the letter was what was it?
 
 MARION'S AFTERNOON. 257 
 
 If lie should enter now she would he startled, 
 she would he startled because of that shame, because 
 of those words that had spoken the truth to him ; 
 she had read his letters to Judith week after week 
 all these years ; they were delightful letters, he put 
 himself into them ; Judith had written him that she 
 always showed them to her ; she did not often read 
 the letters Judith wrote to him. 
 
 If she knew that he were coming back to but, 
 why should he ? He had not cared beyond friendli 
 ness then ; there was no reason that he should care 
 beyond friendliness to-day. She was just the same ; 
 not any prettier, not any more attractive ; she was 
 only a busy worker in her brother's small parish. 
 Girls always had lovers, she supposed; before she 
 had a thought of it David Prince asked her to marry 
 him, and she refused instantly with no thought but 
 surprise ; there had been no one else ; she was twenty- 
 one when she thought she cared for Don Mackenzie, 
 she was twenty-six now ; an impulsive girl then, a 
 self-possessed woman now ; that had been a golden 
 experience; if there were any gold in her it had 
 been tried in that fire. 
 
 He was her girlish ideal ; he was not her woman's 
 ideal Perhaps she was disappointed in him.
 
 258 GROWING UP. 
 
 "Marion, Marion," called a voice in the hall; a 
 voice Marion loved ; Aunt Affy's voice. 
 
 " 0, Aunt Affy," springing toward the figure in 
 the grey dress and pretty grey bonnet, "how did 
 you know I wanted you more than I ever did in my 
 life ? " 
 
 " I was sent, may be, was the simple reply. 
 
 " I am sure you were," said Marion, drawing her 
 into the study and seating her on the lounge. 
 " Now give me your bonnet." 
 
 "But, I can't stay a minute," Aunt Affy protested; 
 "Cephas had to come to the blacksmith's, and he 
 brought me. Kody hasn't been so well all day, and 
 I hate to leave her. I came to see the minister." 
 
 " The minister's sister will have to do this time." 
 
 "I'm afraid she won't. Eody has something on 
 her mind ; I thought perhaps he would come to see 
 her and find out. She looks queer at me and will 
 not speak. Mrs. Evans is staying with her. She 
 hasn't worked too hard this summer ; she couldn't ; 
 I've done a good deal, and we've had one of the 
 Draper girls come in two days every week. I know 
 it- isn't that ; it's her mind. But I'll stay content 
 till Cephas comes for me. Now, what is, deary ? "
 
 MARION'S AFTERNOON. 259 
 
 " It isn't anything ; only I wanted to hear you 
 talk." 
 
 " Bless the child," ejaculated Aunt Affy ; " I never 
 talked in my life." 
 
 "No, you never do; you only breathe out your 
 spirit and your experiences ; they find words for 
 themselves ; I truly believe you have nothing to do 
 with the words ; they come." 
 
 Aunt Affy laughed ; she thought so herself. 
 
 "Did you ever want to do anything different from 
 your life ? Were you always as satisfied as you are 
 now ? " asked Marion, taking Aunt Affy's hard-work 
 ing hand into her own pretty fingers. 
 
 Then Aunt Affy laughed again. What a tumult 
 her far-away girlhood had been. Did girls now-a- 
 days think so much and have such confusing 
 thoughts and times ? 
 
 " I had a longing to do a certain kind of work 
 very practical ; and the only relief was praying to be 
 satisfied with the having and doing it. That was a 
 very holy state of mind, you think. I used to think 
 so, too. Would it have been a holy state of mind 
 if I had run next door to see my bosom friend and 
 talked to her continually about it? My praying
 
 260 GROWING UP. 
 
 was simply to unburden myself. I had no bosom 
 friend to talk to; if I had I might have told her 
 about it instead of praying about it. And being 
 devout I talked to God about it, instead of falling 
 into reverie as one less devout would have done. I 
 am not confident all my praying was prayer," she 
 answered, shaking her head with its two long white 
 curls. 
 
 " Yes," said Marion, who had felt this dimly about 
 her own praying. 
 
 " But it held this inestimable blessing it moved 
 me to study about prayer, as no other experience 
 would have done. And then, as the years went on, 
 the comfort of what I found to believe was so satisfy 
 ing that I forgot, for the while, the certain thing I 
 was longing for. And then as it was not granted, 
 I began to think the longing had been kept alive 
 and craving that I might be kept alive and craving 
 about prayer. God's way of answering is as well 
 worth studying as our way of asking." 
 
 "I should think it might be worth more," said 
 Marion. 
 
 " I am glad to hear you say that. Some too in 
 trospective people regard more their way of asking
 
 MARION'S AFTERNOON. 261 
 
 and in that way wander about in the dark while 
 his way of answering is light about them." 
 
 " But then," Marion said, argumentatively, " don't 
 you see that unless your prayer were granted what 
 you were learning would not be true ; that is, if the 
 promises are to be taken literally and exactly." 
 
 " I do not always know about ' literally and ex 
 actly.' That depends upon just where we are. A 
 child's faith may need ' literally and exactly.' You 
 and I may be growing into not a less confident, 
 but a more intelligent faith." 
 
 "Let me read you something. Dr. Parkhurst 
 says " Marion opened the volume and read : 
 " ' The longings of the human spirit have their own 
 particular beatitude, and, better than any other inter 
 preters, make clear the meaning of the Holy Word.'" 
 
 " Eead it again," said Aunt Affy. " I've been all 
 through that." 
 
 Marion read it again, very clearly, then laid aside 
 the book. 
 
 " But how do you know if you do give up ? " she 
 asked, feeling her own will strong within her. 
 
 "There is a great deal in your question. To give 
 up heartily and thoroughly is a rare thing to da It
 
 262 GROWING UP. 
 
 is more than giving up praying about it It is even 
 more than giving up wishitg for it. It is giving up 
 the place in your' heart, the plan in your life that 
 held it ; it is so giving up that you can put some 
 thing else in its stead. It is filling that place so 
 full that the old desire can never get back into it 
 again. And it is doing it of your own free will. It 
 is like what the people might have done by taking 
 God back again as King, and refusing to have Saul. 
 They had the opportunity to do it." 
 
 " Aunt Affy, how have you learned to be so sure 
 about things ? You remind me of another thing Dr. 
 Parkhurst says: 'A Christian has more than the 
 natural resources of thought and action.'" 
 
 " So we have. I knew nothing but that God cared 
 for me. And I was eager, impetuous, impatient, 
 wilful, eager for him to walk my way, in the way I 
 should tell him about. It was years and years be 
 fore his Word became to me the delight, the plain 
 command, warning, rebuke, comfort, it is to-day. 
 But I studied night and day with my longing heart ; 
 and he blessed every natural longing ; he took not 
 one away ; he took each into his keeping and blessed 
 it"
 
 AFTEBNOOX. 263 
 
 **Does it take years?" faltered Marion. "I want 
 to learn something to-day." 
 
 "You may learn something to-day; you cannot 
 learn all to-day. Yesterday I opened my Bible to a 
 passage dated thirty years ago; I remember the 
 night I marked it; I was staggered, dismayed at 
 something that had happened to me, something that 
 I thought God would never let happen. I read 
 through tears ; I was comforted although the words 
 meant little to me ; I was comforted as a child is 
 comforted, snug in its mother's arms, when the 
 mother does not speak one word. Yesterday, being 
 in a strait again, I read these same marked words ; 
 again they were dull and dry ; I asked God to tell 
 me what he meant" 
 
 " Thirty years ago did you ask him to tell you ? " 
 
 "No, I did not think of that. I thought I would 
 be comforted some other way. I had not grown up 
 to the understanding of to-day. You know there's 
 a natural growing up to understanding God's words. 
 It took the happenings of these thirty years to make 
 me understand; God worked through them. He 
 makes us grow through the sunshine and rain of his 
 happenings. God has to wait for our slow growing.
 
 264 GROWING UP. 
 
 (And I wish to impress upon you just here, that 
 unless you read and remember and understand the 
 Bible stories you cannot expect to find the lessons 
 for your own life. Superficial reading will not bring 
 out the points; one of his ways of teaching is 
 through the natural method of your own study and 
 memory.) 
 
 "'Therefore they inquired of the Lord further.' 
 That further helped me through a hard time. The 
 story is this : God had chosen a king for his people, 
 told Samuel all about it, and sent him to pour the 
 anointing oil upon his head and to kiss him; and 
 now when Samuel called the people together at 
 Mizpeh, and caused all the tribes to come near to 
 choose a king for them, and the tribe of Benjamin 
 was taken, then the family in Benjamin, then Saul, 
 the son of Kish, thus confirming the Lord's choice 
 and Samuel's mission in the anointing, and then the 
 most astounding thing happened. Saul, the chosen 
 of the Lord, the young man whom the Judge of 
 Israel had anointed and kissed, could not be found. 
 What would you think if you believed that God had 
 Bidden you do something, and had confirmed it in 
 moll a special, satisfying, convincing manner, and
 
 MARION'S AFTERNOON. 265 
 
 then suddenly you could go no further it was all 
 taken out of your hands. The prophet sought for 
 Saul and could not find him. Would you not be 
 tempted to say would you not really say to your 
 self, and to the Lord, I have been mistaken ; I went 
 ahead to do God's bidding in all the confidence of 
 my faith, and before all the people I am ashamed ; it 
 is proven that God did not bid me, that my faith 
 was presumptive, for the time has come to go on, 
 and I cannot go on the work is not to be done. 
 It looks as if I had deceived myself ; God has allowed 
 me to believe something that is not true. Could 
 anything be more heart-breaking ? How could God 
 treat you like that when you believed him so, and 
 were so in earnest ? "Would you have the heart to 
 inquire further ? They asked if the man should yet 
 come hither. Samuel had done all he could. The 
 Lord answered, telling them plainly where the man 
 had hidden himself. Oh, these hidden people, the 
 Lord knows about. He is in all their hiding places. 
 Suppose Samuel had stopped, ashamed before the 
 people, angry, humiliated before the Lord. There 
 had to be this last trial of faith. At the last eager, 
 sure moment God may have a new test of faith for
 
 266 GROWING UP. 
 
 us. Is there a hiding place in one of your last, sure 
 moments? Do not fail before it. God's will is 
 hidden away in it." 
 
 "Aunt Affy, you do not know what you have 
 done for me," said Marion, solemnly, " I have just 
 been deciding something for myself. I was forget 
 ting that God might have a will about it ; that there 
 was any further in it." 
 
 "And here comes Cephas," Aunt Affy replied, 
 rising; "I know the rattling of those chains I 
 came in the farm wagon because it was easier than 
 for him to hitch the horses to the carriage. I'm 
 thankful enough if I've been of any help to you," 
 she added, touching Marion's forehead with her 
 sweet, old, happy lips. 
 
 " Shall I send Eoger as soon as he comes home ? " 
 
 " Yes, and Judith. Judith didn't come yesterday, 
 and Rody kept asking for her." 
 
 "It may be late. They have gone to Meadow 
 Centre." 
 
 " No matter if it is midnight Rody didn't sleep 
 last night. She talked in her sleep, and has been 
 muttering all day ; I wouldn't have left her only I 
 wanted to see the minister alone before he saw her.*
 
 MARION'S AFTERNOON. 267 
 
 The chains of the farm wagon rattled into the lane. 
 Marion, on the piazza, watched the old lovers drive 
 away.
 
 268 GROWING UP. 
 
 xxn. 
 
 * 
 
 AUNT AFFY'S EVENING. 
 
 * When He gireth quietness, who then can make trouble ? " 
 Job xxxiv. 29. 
 
 "I DON'T want any supper," complained Aunt 
 Kody, rising from the supper table and staggering 
 toward the sitting-room door. I'm too full to eat; 
 too full of deceit ; you are all deceiving me." 
 
 " Now, Rody," protested Cephas, buttering his big 
 slice of bread, with a vigorous touch. 
 
 "All, every one of you, she said with a wail, 
 turning with a slow effort to face the supper-table ; 
 " you have deceived me all your life, and Affy has, 
 and Joe, and Judith, and Doodles would if he 
 knew how. Perhaps he does in a dog's way, which 
 isn't half so tremendous as the human way." 
 
 Joe burst into a laugh, which Aunt Afify's look 
 instantly silenced. 
 
 * Poor Rody," she sighed.
 
 AUNT AFFY'S EVENING. 269 
 
 In the twilight, after the dishes were done, the 
 two old sisters sat together on the piazza ; Rody had 
 insisted upon wiping the dishes, and as she sat up 
 right in her straight-backed chair, she rubbed her 
 fingers dry with the brown gingham apron she had 
 forgotten to take off. 
 
 She rubbed her fingers with an unceasing motion, 
 muttering to herself. Affy looked off into the twi 
 light, her hands still in her lap. Joe went whistling 
 up the road to the village; Cephas, in meditative 
 attitude, in his shirt-sleeves, with his straw hat 
 pushed to the back of his head, leaned over the gate. 
 
 "All of you, all of you," mumbled the breaking 
 voice, " from my youth up." 
 
 "Cephas thinks it would be a good thing to sell 
 the milk to the Dutchman that has bought the 
 Elting farm," began Affy, watching the effect of her 
 words. "Four cents a quart. And we would be 
 saved the churning and washing all the milk things. 
 If Joe goes away to learn a trade we shall have 
 nobody to churn. What do you think, Rody ? " 
 
 The drooping head lifted itself, the fingers with 
 the gingham fold were held with a loosening hand ; 
 sharply and shrilly Aunt Kody replied : " That's al-
 
 270 GROWING UP. 
 
 ways the way ; you and Cephas are always putting 
 your heads together to cheat me out of something. 
 Not a quart of that milk shall go. Joe shall stay 
 and churn. Mother never sold her milk to a Dutch 
 man for four cents a quart. What would we do for 
 butter, I'd like to know." 
 
 "Buy it." 
 
 " Buy it," she repeated, mockingly ; " nobody on 
 the Sparrow place ever paid money for butter." 
 
 "But Cephas thinks ," began Aunt Affy, pa 
 tiently. 
 
 " Tell Cephas to stop thinking," replied the weakly, 
 imperative voice. 
 
 Twilight darkened into night ; but Body refused 
 to go in and go to bed; she was comfortable, she 
 liked that chair, she liked the stars, she could 
 breathe better out here in the night air; she did 
 not want to go into her bedroom, somebody had 
 struck her a blow in there. 
 
 So they stayed, the air blew damp, Aunt Affy 
 brought a shawl and pinned it about the stooping 
 shoulders ; Cephas came and sat down on the step 
 of the piazza with his hat on his knee, giving uneasy 
 glances now and then at the muffled, still figure in 
 the chair.
 
 AUNT AFFY^S EVENING. 271 
 
 "It's getting dark," suggested Affy, rising and 
 standing before the bent figure with its head turned 
 stiffly to one side. 
 
 "And damp these nights are chilly for old 
 bones," replied Cephas. 
 
 "There's a light in the house," persuaded Affy, 
 "and it's dark out here." 
 
 " And the bed is so comfortable," added Cephas ; 
 " guess I'll go in." 
 
 He arose and went in. 
 
 " I'm going, too," encouraged Affy. " Come, Rody, 
 you may sleep in my bed." 
 
 "I won't sleep in my bed; are you sure there's 
 nobody to strike me in your room ? " she questioned 
 like a frightened child. 
 
 "Nobody but me. Come, Rody," she urged, 
 gently. 
 
 Placing a hand on each arm of the chair, the old 
 woman lifted herself to her feet ; then she felt out 
 in the darkness for something to lean on ; Affy took 
 her arm and led her in. The lamp was burning on 
 the round table where the New York Observer was 
 piled ; Doodles slept on his cushion on the lounge. 
 
 "Ill sit here awhile," said Cephas, pulling his
 
 272 GROWING UP. 
 
 spectacle case from his vest pocket " I haven't read 
 the paper to-night." 
 
 " I'll sit here, too," said Rody, rousing herself to a 
 decision. " Somehow I don't want to go to bed. I 
 don't believe it's nine o'clock yet. I wish the clock 
 would strike. I wish something would make a 
 noise." 
 
 " It's a quarter of nine," replied Affy, lowering her 
 sister slowly down into her chair. " It will soon 
 strike." 
 
 " Take this thing off," commanded Rody, tugging 
 at the shawl with her weak right hand. " You 
 bundle me up as if I was a baby." 
 
 " There's a carriage coming," said Cephas, bending 
 his head and half shutting his eyes to listen ; " he's 
 come, Affy." 
 
 "Who's come?" demanded Aunt Eody, in shrill 
 tone. " Who comes at this time of night ? " 
 
 "The minister; he was coming to bring Judith 
 for an hour or two," Cephas answered, reassuringly. 
 "She didn't come yesterday. Don't you want to 
 see her ?" 
 
 "Just for a look; I don't want her to stay, I don't 
 want anybody to stay."
 
 AUNT AFFY*S EVENING. 
 
 Roger Kenney and Judith entered quietly ; Judith 
 shrank from the old woman as she stood for an in 
 stant beside her chair. Roger drew a chair nearer 
 and took Aunt Rody's hand into his own. The 
 nerveless hand lay in his as if glad of the \varmth 
 and strength ; as he talked, Eoger clasped and un 
 clasped his hand over hers that she might feel the 
 motion and life of his lingers. 
 
 " I'm glad to see you, Aunt Rody," he said in a 
 voice which was a tonic. 
 
 " I'm glad to see you," she replied, with the flicker 
 of a smile about her lips. 
 
 "' Let not your heart be troubled.'" 
 
 "It is troubled; it is full of trouble. It's Any 
 and Cephas ; they are deceiving me. They want to 
 get married and deceive me more and more." 
 
 "Shall I tell you how well stop that?" asked 
 Roger, bending confidentially toward her. 
 
 " Yes, do. Tell me quick." 
 
 "Let me marry them, and then you will never 
 think they are deceiving you again. What is the 
 reason they are deceiving you now ? " 
 
 " Because they think I stand between them ; 
 they think I've always stood between them," she
 
 274 GROWING UP. 
 
 said, piteously; "but I never did. I was seeking 
 their good." 
 
 " But don't you think you have sought their good 
 long enough ? " he asked persuasively. 
 
 " Yes ; I've worn myself out for their good. I'm 
 worn out now; they'll have to do for themselves, 
 after this." 
 
 " Who will take care of Affy after you are gone ? " 
 
 "I don't know; I'm sure I don't know. She 
 doesn't know how to take care of herself." 
 
 " But she was your little baby ; you are sorry not 
 to have her taken care of." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I'm sorry ; I'm very sorry." 
 
 Affy dropped on the lounge beside Doodles, and 
 was crying like a child ; Judith went to her and put 
 both her strong young arms about her and her warm 
 cheek to hers. Cephas cleared his throat, then 
 busied himself burnishing his spectacles with a piece 
 of old chamois. 
 
 " Somebody must take care of her, Cephas knows 
 how best," said the minister with firmness, rubbing 
 the cold, limp fingers. 
 
 "Yes, Cephas knows now best," she quavered 
 "Come here, Cephas, and promise the minister you 
 will always take care of Affy."
 
 AUNT AFFY'S EVENING. 275 
 
 " Go, Aunt Affy," said Judith, in her strong, young 
 voice, " go and be married while Aunt Eody knows 
 it She'll change her mind to-morrow " 
 
 "Oh, I can't, I can't," sobbed Aunt Affy, "with 
 Eody so near dying, how can I? Ife too hurried 
 and dreadful." 
 
 " It's too beautiful," said Judith ; " that is all she 
 can do for you ; do let her do it, dear Aunt Any." 
 
 " Come, Affy," said Cephas solemnly, " the Lord's 
 time has come." 
 
 "Perhaps it has," sobbed Affy, trembling from 
 head to foot, as Judith led her across the room. 
 
 Roger arose and stood before the old man and the 
 old woman ; her head drooped so that one long curl 
 rested on his shoulder. 
 
 " I'd ought to have a coat on," said Cephas with 
 an ashamed face ; " it isn't proper for a man to be 
 married in his shirt-sleeves." 
 
 "And let me fix up a little," coaxed Aunt Affy; 
 " this is my old muslin, all faded out." 
 
 "Oh, don't spoil anything," Judith besought; " see 
 how she is watching you. Aunt Rody, don't you 
 want Uncle Cephas to take care of Aunt Affy ? " 
 
 "Yes, yes, oh, yes. Has he promised the min 
 ister ? " she asked with tremulous anxiety.
 
 276 GROWING UP. 
 
 "Listen, and you will hear him promise. Joe, 
 come here," Eoger called to the step in the kitchen. 
 
 Joe came to the threshold, threw off his hat, and 
 stood amazed. 
 
 " Aunt Body, put their hands together," said 
 Judith, taking Aunt Eody's hands as the old bride 
 and bridegroom stretched their hands toward her. 
 
 " Did I do it ? " she asked, as she felt the touch 
 of both hands. " Is it done for always ? " 
 
 " Yes," said the minister, " you've done it. Now, 
 listen to every word." 
 
 " Has he promised to take care of Affy ? " Rody 
 asked, peering up into Roger's face. 
 
 " Yes, Rody, with all my heart and soul and 
 strength," answered the old man, with the light of 
 communion Sunday in his face. 
 
 The curl drooped lower on Cephas' shirt-sleeve ; 
 Judith stood near Aunt Affy. 
 
 The solemn, glad words were spoken, the prayer 
 uttered, the benediction given ; Aunt Affy and 
 Uncle Cephas were married. 
 
 " Let me kiss you, Rody," said Affy, through her 
 tears. 
 
 " I kissed you when you were a baby/^said Rody,
 
 AUNT AFFY'S EVENIXQ. 277 
 
 "You were a nice little baby. Mother said I must 
 always think of you first." 
 
 " Now, you will go to bed," said Affy. " It's after 
 nine o'clock." 
 
 " Not in my room. I'll go in your room. Don't 
 you go away all night. Kep the light burning, and 
 don't you go." 
 
 " No ; I'll stay, Eody ; we will take care of you al 
 ways, Cephas and I." 
 
 Judith stayed that night ; Aunt Eody slept well, 
 and arose in the morning at her usual early hour. 
 She made no allusion to the marriage that day, nor 
 as long as she lived.
 
 278 GROWING 1 
 
 xxni 
 
 VOICES. 
 
 "The love for me once crucified, 
 Is not a love to leave my side, 
 But waiteth ever to divide 
 Each smallest care of mine." 
 
 THE three were in the study that Sunday after 
 noon that the Meadow Centre minister exchanged 
 with Roger Kenney ; the minister, the hostess, and 
 the girl at boarding-school. The boarding-school 
 girl had a book in her lap with her finger between 
 the leaves, listening. 
 
 " Mr. King talks as though he had never had any 
 one to talk to before," Judith thought as she watched 
 the two and listened. 
 
 His conversation was filled with bits of informa 
 tion, with incident, with a thought now and then, 
 absorbingly interesting to a school-girl. 
 
 Roger loved people better than he loved books;
 
 VOICES. 279 
 
 Judith had not outgrown her books, and grown into 
 loving people. The Meadow Centre minister was a 
 chapter in a most fascinating book ; he was the hero 
 of a story ; he was not a being of flesh and blood 
 like Roger. She was afraid every moment the book 
 would shut and she weald read no more of his story ; 
 " to be continued " would end this chapter, and then 
 she might never see the end of the book. 
 
 "'Conversation is not the road leading to the 
 house,'" he quoted, "'but a by-path where people 
 walk with pleasure.' " 
 
 " I think it leads to the house," replied Judith, 
 quickly, " if people are real and sincere. What does 
 lead to the house if conversation does not ?" 
 
 " Deeds," suggested Marion. 
 
 " But we can't do deeds every minute," persisted 
 Judith ; " how could we do deeds sitting here this 
 afternoon." 
 
 "We have done them," said Mr. King; "we are 
 resting in a by-path." 
 
 " But we want to get to he house," insisted 
 Judith. 
 
 "Loitering by the way is pleasant; through the 
 by-way we may learn the way to the house."
 
 280 GROWING UP. 
 
 " Marion, that reminds me of Cousin Don," Judith 
 said, suddenly; "we know him only through by 
 ways." 
 
 "Tell me about Cousin Don," said the minister, 
 interestedly. 
 
 Cousin Don was a story Judith loved to tell. 
 
 " You expect to find him unchanged after all these 
 years the time in his life when a man changes ? " 
 he inquired, astonished. " Is that the way you 
 understand human nature ? " 
 
 "Perhaps I do not understand human nature at 
 all But I have his letters." 
 
 " By-ways they do not lead to the house," he 
 replied 
 
 " But they can," said Judith, vexed. 
 
 " Oh, yes, they can" 
 
 " And I know they do ; don't you, Marion ? " 
 
 * In this case, I hope so," Marion answered ; " I 
 don't see how people can help being like their 
 letters." 
 
 " Or their letters like them ? " corrected Judith. 
 
 " Then how is it we are disappointed in people ? " 
 Mr. King questioned ; " is it only our lack of insight ? " 
 
 " People change," said Marion, with slow emphasis ;
 
 VOICES. 281 
 
 ** if we were with them all the time we would see 
 the little changes that lead the way to the great 
 changes. People are even disappointed in them 
 selves ; I am." 
 
 " So am I," he answered sincerely ; " I fall below 
 my own ideal often enough ; if anybody cared 
 enough for me to be disappointed in me they would 
 have reason enough." 
 
 " I don't believe they would," thought Judith. 
 
 " Mr. King," Marion began doubtfully, " do not 
 answer me if my question is intrusive ; but I would 
 like to know how yoty read the Bible for yourself." 
 
 " That is a coincidence," exclaimed Mr. King ; " as 
 I was driving along this morning a question came to 
 me that I never thought of asking myself before : 
 suppose someone asks you to-day how you study 
 the Bible for yourself, what will you say ?" 
 
 "How wonderful," both girls said in the same 
 breath. 
 
 " So I told myself what I would say. One of my 
 ways when I am in special need of a word from my 
 heavenly Father is to ask him to give it to me, and 
 then I am sure to find it in my reading. Often I 
 open and find it; often and often I find it in the
 
 282 GROWING UP. 
 
 chapter that comes next in my daily reading. Ask 
 ing the Holy Spirit to open your eyes to see his 
 special word to you in that special need is the safest 
 way and the quickest for me. I am assured then 
 that I shall learn that day's lesson in that day's 
 place. The truth I need most has never failed to 
 come." 
 
 " That is a very simple way," Marion said. " As 
 simple as a child asking his mother for something 
 she has promised. The only hindrance is self-will." 
 
 " Oh, dear, that hinders everything," sighed Judith, 
 who was battling with the suggestion from within 
 herself that perhaps her boarding-school days were 
 over and she ought to go back and help nurse Aunt 
 Eody. The aunts had been so kind to her mother 
 when she was a homeless little girl, and to herself 
 when she was a homeless little girl. She had kept 
 it out of her prayers ever since she had thought of 
 it. If only she had not thought of it. Aunt Affy 
 would never ask her to give up her studies and her 
 happy home to bury herself with three old people. 
 
 " Are you far enough along in life to know that ? " 
 asked Mr. King, giving the girl of eighteen a glance 
 of keen interest
 
 VOICES. 283 
 
 "I think I was born knowing it;" said Judith. 
 " Do you know about anybody who wanted to do 
 right and had a will of his own " 
 
 " Oh, yes ; they are plenty of us. Three of us in 
 this room," he laughed. 
 
 " But I meant some one in the Bible, for then we 
 can know certainly what happened to him." 
 
 "Yes, I find a king who leagued himself with 
 another king to go to war ; but he was not satisfied 
 that he was in the way of obedience, and he said to 
 the other king, ' Inquire, I pray thee, at the word of 
 the Lord to-day,' and the other king gathered four 
 hundred men, his own prophets, and inquired of 
 them what he should do. With one voice they said, 
 ' Go up ; for the Lord shall deliver it into the hands 
 of the king.' Four hundred answers to his prayer ; 
 the Lord's command four hundred strong. But the 
 king who believed in the true God had not had his 
 answer ; it was the will of the true God he sought. 
 He said, ' Is there not here, besides, a prophet of the 
 Lord that we might inquire of him?' The answer 
 was, ' There is yet one man by whom we may inquire 
 of the Lord.' If there is one way of knowing the 
 Lord's will, there is no excuse for us ; we may know
 
 234 GROWING UP. 
 
 it. Four hundred voices of self-will are no reason, 
 and no excuse, for riot knowing it This king who 
 believed in God heard the one voice of God and 
 disobeyed it. He joined himself in battle with the 
 king who trusted in the four hundred voices of his 
 self-will. And the battle went against him; God 
 had told him so. He believed God afterward; so 
 will you and I if we disobey. He went to battle as 
 though God had not spoken." 
 
 " Was he killed ? " asked Judith, fearful some 
 trouble might fall upon her if she listened to the voice 
 of self-will. 
 
 " No, he cried out, and the Lord helped him, and 
 moved his enemies to depart from him. As he re 
 turned to his house in peace, a seer met him, and 
 said, ' For this thing wrath is upon thee from the 
 Lord.'" 
 
 " ' For this thing,' " repeated Judith. " For inquir 
 ing of the Lord, learning his will, and then believing 
 the voice of the four hundred who gave him his own 
 way. Oh, dear, I wish those four hundred would 
 never speak." 
 
 " There is but one way to silence them ; listen to 
 God's voice above them all"
 
 VOICES. 285 
 
 I 
 
 " But it is so hard," cried Judith, impetuously. 
 
 "Do not choose the easy way of obedience. 
 Choose God's way, and let me tell you one of his 
 secrets ; his way is always easier than we think" 
 
 To hide the tears which would not be kept back 
 Judith hastily left the study; he did not know 
 nobody could know, what obedience would cost her ; 
 life at the parsonage was so different; Eoger and 
 Marion were young with her, and Aunt Eody and 
 Aunt Affy, and Uncle Cephas were so old ; they had 
 lived their lives, and their days went on with a long- 
 drawn-out sameness ; nothing ever happened to them, 
 they were not looking forward to anything, there 
 would be no study, no new books, no music, no getting 
 near the loveliest things in the world ; it was barren 
 ness and dreariness, it was like death ; the parsonage 
 was hope, and youth, and love and life, with the best 
 things yet to come. "It will stifle me to go back; 
 I shall die of homesickness, I shall choke to death." 
 
 Cousin Don had a right to her, he was her guar 
 dian cousin. Would he not have a right to come 
 and take her away ? But her mother what would 
 her mother choose for her to do ? 
 
 They had been so kind to her mother.
 
 286 GROWING UP. 
 
 " I will go and stay a week," she resolved, tears 
 rushing afresh ; " but I miss Marion when I stay one 
 single night." 
 
 At the supper-table she announced with reddened 
 eyelids and a voice that would not be steady that 
 she thought she would go to Aunt Affy's before eve 
 ning service and stay over night ; Uncle Cephas had 
 told her that morning that Aunt Affy was very tired. 
 
 " Must you go ? " asked Marion. " But I know 
 they need you. Mrs. Evans said they couldn't get 
 any one, and Aunt Eody was in bed to-day." 
 
 "Perhaps I'll find it easier than I think," said 
 Judith. 
 
 "As soon as they find a nurse you will come 
 back," encouraged Marion. 
 
 During the walk through the village and to the 
 Sparrow place Judith's courage all oozed away ; she 
 grew so faint-hearted that she thought she was 
 faint; she stopped for a glass of water at the well 
 where the lilies had come, and went upstairs, a 
 moment to talk to Nettie, still helpless in her invalid 
 chair. 
 
 " The minister came to see me this afternoon," 
 Nettie greeted her ; " he read and prayed and told 
 me things. Has he told you anything ? "
 
 VOICES. 287 
 
 " Yes, and I almost wish he had not. I have to 
 do right things whether I want to or not." 
 
 " Are you doing one now ? One new one. You 
 look so." 
 
 " I am on the way to it." 
 
 " Where are you going ?" 
 
 " Literally and figuratively I am on the way to it. 
 I am giving up study and everything else to go and 
 take care of Aunt Body." 
 
 "How splendid of you. I knew you would do 
 something real some day," Nettie said with enthusi 
 asm. "You haven't been my ideal for nothing. 
 Mother has kept telling me I might be disappointed 
 in you ; but I knew I never should." 
 
 After that how could she feel faint-hearted ? 
 
 " O, Judith," said Aunt Affy, meeting her on the 
 piazza, "how did you know I couldn't do without 
 you any longer ? Joe has gone for the doctor ; Eody 
 has had another spell." 
 
 In her own little room that night the girl knelt 
 on the strip of rag carpet, and, with her head buried 
 in the pink and white quilt, prayed that the voices 
 of her self-will might be lost in the voice of the 
 Holy Spirit. The coming back was even harder
 
 288 GEOWINQ UP. 
 
 than she feared ; Mr. King had not told her God's 
 truth when he said : " His way is always easier than 
 we think" 
 
 The thought that she was bravely doing a hard 
 thing did not brace her to the bearing of it ; she was 
 not bearing it at all ; she was living through it 
 
 Roger had not once told her she was brave, Marion 
 was not more than usually sympathetic ; the neigh 
 bors were taking her coming back as a matter of 
 course something to be expected ; they would have 
 blamed her if she had not come ; Aunt Rody every day 
 was less fretful toward her, more satisfied with her 
 pursing; Aunt Affy busy in kitchen and dairy, with 
 the new importance of her marriage, and being for the 
 first time mistress in her own house, seemed forget 
 ful that the girl had come from any brighter life, 
 forgetful that she had ever left the old place and its 
 homespun ways, and, most discouraging of all, forget 
 ful that any other help in household or sick-room 
 was desired or might be had by searching and for 
 money. For the first time in her life Aunt Affy 
 was selfish. In her own contentment she forgot, or 
 did not think it possible that the girl of eighteen 
 could be discontented.
 
 VOICES. 289 
 
 Judith remembered that Harriet Hosmer had said 
 she could be happy anywhere with good health and 
 a bit of marble. 
 
 But suppose she had not had her bit of marble ? 
 
 These days were the history of her summer of 
 stories. 
 
 The doctor told them that Aunt Body might be 
 helpless in bed for months ; she might gain strength 
 and sit in her chair again. He had known such 
 instances. That was in the first week ; in the second 
 week he gave them no hope. 
 
 The stricken old woman was alive ; that was all 
 she was to Judith : an old woman who was not dead 
 yet. 
 
 Judith was pitiful ; she loved her with a compas 
 sionate tenderness as she would have loved any 
 helpless, stricken thing ; but she was hardly " Aunt 
 Eody " any longer. 
 
 She was as helpless as a baby, with none of a 
 baby's innocence, or loveliness or lovingness ; there 
 was no hope for this gray-haired, wrinkled mass of 
 human flesh, but in casting off this veil of the flesh, 
 no hope but in death. It was as if death were alive 
 before Judith's eyes, and within touch of her hand.
 
 290 GROWING UP. 
 
 She had no memory of Aunt Kody as the others 
 had, to give affection to ; there was only this. There 
 was scarcely any memory for her gratitude to cling 
 to. 
 
 There was one comfort left ; she was not afraid of 
 her now. 
 
 If she had stayed with her, instead of being at 
 home at the parsonage, she might have grown up to 
 love and understand her; instead she had grown 
 away from love and understanding. 
 
 She dared not think of release coming through 
 Aunt Rody's death. That would be desiring her 
 death. Desiring one's death in one's heart was . 
 
 There was no hope but in Cousin Don.
 
 / ALWAYS THOUGHT YOU CARED. 291 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 "I HAVE ALWAYS THOUGHT YOU CARED." 
 
 " ' What is it thou knowest, sweet voiee 7 ' I cried, 
 4 A hidden hope,' the Toice replied." 
 
 TENNYSON. 
 
 " JUDITH, don't stay in this little close entry when 
 all out-doors is calling to you," said Aunt Affy. 
 
 "But I thought she might stir and want some 
 thing," replied Aunt Rody's nurse ; " she looks up so 
 patient and pitiful when she wants something." 
 
 " My work is all done ; I'll sit here ; you are losing 
 your color, child. What will your Cousin Don say 
 to me when he comes home to claim you ? " 
 
 " He will not come home to do that," said Judith, 
 rising reluctantly to give Aunt Affy her low chair. 
 " I have a foreboding that something is happening to 
 him. He never forgot me before." 
 
 " Forebodings come out of tired head and feet and 
 back. I am allowing you to do too much. This is 
 Saturday afternoon and your play time. The baking
 
 292 GROWING UP 
 
 is done, and now that we are rid of churning what 
 would poor Eody say to me for selling the milk and 
 making no butter ? I feel that I am ' deceiving ' her 
 at every turn about the house. Run up stairs and 
 put on the blue muslin you look so cool in, and go 
 out in the hammock and forget the responsibility 
 that takes away your appetite and gives you big eyes. 
 Dear child, death must come. It is the voice of 
 the Lord calling Eody. You know what George 
 MacDonald says : Death is only going to sleep when 
 one is downright sleepy. Rody is downright sleepy. 
 Think how she sleeps half the time, poor old soul " 
 
 "Do you think she is glad to be 'downright 
 sleepy' ? " 
 
 " Aren't you, always, when your night comes ? " 
 
 " But, Aunt Affy, she hasn't been she wasn't 
 I did not think she cared." 
 
 " Her light has almost gone out, sometimes, I do 
 believe. But it's there, burning. She has a spark 
 of real faith that never went out. She wasn't as 
 loving in her ways as she was in her heart. Now, 
 don't stand another minute. I want you to go to 
 church to-morrow, too. John Kenny is out on the 
 piazza waiting for you ; he's come to the parsonage 
 to spend Sunday."
 
 I AL WA TS THO UGHT TO U CARED. 293 
 
 In an instant Judith was all light and color. 
 John Kenny was the kind of a friend that no one 
 else in the world was ; as grave as the minister him 
 self, at times, as book loving, and yet as full of fun 
 and frolic as a boy ; he was taller than Eoger, and 
 handsome ; Roger was fine, but he was not handsome ; 
 she had no fear or reverence for John, he stood 
 beside her, and walked beside her ; they were boy 
 and girl together; John was nearly three years 
 older ; he would be twenty-one in the winter. She 
 stood still radiant. 
 
 "You look rested enough now," remarked Aunt 
 Affy. 
 
 "I was not so tired, I was only blue; I was 
 thinking about Don. John has been away all 
 summer; he has not been in Bensalem since my 
 birthday." 
 
 " Did he come for that ? " inquired Aunt Affy, 
 keeping any suggestion out of her voice. She would 
 not put ideas into the child's head. 
 
 "He said so. And to say good-bye to the par 
 sonage. We agreed not to write to each other while 
 he was out west." 
 
 " What for," questioned Aunt Affy, suspiciously. 
 " Had you ever written to each other before? "
 
 294 GROWING UP. 
 
 "No," laughed Judith, softly, "and we agreed 
 not to begin." 
 
 " What for ? " asked Aunt Affy, again. 
 
 " For fun, I think, as much as anything. I think 
 we had no real reason." 
 
 "Two such reasonable creatures, too. Judith, you 
 had a reason or he had. Why should the question 
 come up ? " Aunt Affy asked severely. 
 
 " Oh, questions are always coming up. He asked 
 me if I would write and I refused." 
 
 " And that's how you agreed together. What was 
 your reason ? " 
 
 "I think," began Judith slowly, "I was afraid 
 Roger wouldn't like it. Or Marion. Marion is 
 particular about such things. I'm afraid she had 
 something to trouble her once she never will 
 teaze anybody about anybody, even." 
 
 " Well, be off, and dress. I told John you would 
 not be out for some time." 
 
 "I'll go in this dress. I haven't seen hLn for 
 months." 
 
 Whether the haste augured well or ill for John, Aunt 
 Affy could not decide ; she went into Aunt Eody's 
 bedroom, touched her forehead and spoke to her.
 
 / AL WA TS THO UGHT YO U CASED. 295 
 
 " Are you sleepy, Rody ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Would you like anything ? "' 
 
 "No." 
 
 Aunt Affy, with her mending for her husband and 
 for Joe, kept watch in the entry, lighted by the 
 open back door, all the afternoon. 
 
 After half an hour on the piazza, Judith gave John 
 Aunt Affy's latest magazine to amuse himself with, 
 and went up to her small chamber, to braid her 
 tumbled hair and to array herself in the fresh, blue 
 muslin. 
 
 In the cracked glass over the old bureau she met 
 the reflection of a girl with joyful eyes and cheeks 
 like pink roses. She knew that was not the girl 
 that had watched Aunt Rody in the entry. 
 
 Her summer companion had come back ; he was 
 her vacation friend ; perhaps she had missed him ; 
 perhaps her loneliness had not all been for her 
 Cousin Don. He was still in her world ; across the 
 continent had not been in her world. He had not 
 sent her one message through letters to Marion or 
 Roger. She had not dared write to him. But he 
 was home again, just as grave, and just as bright,
 
 296 GKOWING UP. 
 
 with no reproach in his eyes, and he was planning 
 to stay a week. He had come to talk to Roger and 
 decide his choice of business in life; his father 
 wished to take him into his own business, the 
 jeweller's, either in the factory or store, but he had 
 no taste for making jewelry, or selling it, he said ; he 
 would rather study ; he was " not good enough " to 
 be a minister ; he would like to study medicine. 
 
 Judith made herself as fresh and pretty as girls 
 love to be, pondering the while John's choice of 
 work in life. She would choose for him to be like 
 Eoger, and do Roger's work, but if he did not believe 
 himself to be " called " like Roger, that would not be 
 acceptable work ; was not healing a part of Christ's 
 work; was not John gentle, sympathetic, and in 
 love with every human creature ? He had a copy of 
 something of Drummond's in his pocket ; he said 
 Drummond was making a man of him. The begin 
 ning of his manhood was in joining a Boy's Brigade 
 while he was away at boarding school up the 
 Hudson. When she came back to the piazza he 
 said he would read to her Drummond's address to a 
 Boy's Brigade. 
 
 He had grown more grave since he went away ;
 
 1 ALWAYS THOUGHT YOU CARED. 297 
 
 he told her the weight of what to do and what not 
 to do was heavy upon him night and day. 
 
 " And he has such laughing brown eyes," she said, 
 almost aloud, to the girl in blue muslin, reflected in 
 the cracked mirror. 
 
 " What are you going to do ? " he inquired as he 
 pushed a piazza chair near the hammock for her, 
 and stretched himself in the hammock that he 
 might look up at her and watch her as he talked. 
 
 " Must I do something ? " 
 
 " You are old enough to decide. Girls are always 
 deciding. Martha and Lou are forever taking up 
 something new. They are not satisfied to be house 
 keepers. How Marion has settled down since she 
 came to Bensalem ! To be Koger's housekeeper 
 and a deaconess in his church has come to be her 
 only ambition. Is that yours, too ? " 
 
 " Which ? " she asked with serious lips and dancing 
 eyes. 
 
 "Both." 
 
 " My Cousin Don thinks he has my future in his 
 right hand. But I'm afraid his right hand is finding 
 business he likes better." 
 
 " Tell me true, what do you wish most to do ?"
 
 298 GROWING UP. 
 
 "If you cannot decide for yourself, how can you 
 expect me to decide for myself ? " 
 
 "I do know. I have decided. I am simply 
 waiting for Koger's judgment to confirm my choice. 
 I want him to talk father over. Father wants one 
 of his sons in the business, and Maurice declares he 
 will not go in he wants to be an architect. He 
 has decided talent; as I have not, but am only 
 commonplace and a drudgery sort of a fellow ; I 
 may take business instead of medicine to please 
 father and help Maurice out. Mother beseeches me 
 to please father ; she almost put it ' obey ' my father. 
 What do you advise me ? " 
 
 " 0, John, is it like that ? I thought there was 
 nothing in the way but your own choice." 
 
 "There is not. Father will give a grudging 
 consent I think he gave me my California trip to 
 give me time to think perhaps to think of his 
 wishes. He went into the business to please his 
 father." 
 
 " He has not regretted it" 
 
 " Far from it He congratulates himseli I know 
 a fellow whose father gave him a ' thrashing ' to 
 make him go to college ; his grandfather had given 
 his father a ' thrashing ' and made him go."
 
 / ALWAYS THOUGHT YOU CARED. 299 
 
 "Did he go?" 
 
 " The fellow I know ? No ; he ran away." 
 " Do you want to run away ? " 
 "I ran away to Bensalem to ask Roger." 
 "I think Roger will urge you to please your 
 father." 
 
 " Father was glad enough for Roger to study " 
 " That was because of the choice of study." 
 " I knew that. But my choice is no mean one." 
 "I think a natural bent should be respected," 
 reasoned Judith. 
 
 "I don't know that I have a natural bent. A 
 great English physician writes that he decided to 
 study medicine when he was a boy because his 
 father's physician came to the house with a coat 
 trimmed with gold lace. He was after the gold 
 lace." 
 
 " What are you after ? " 
 " Money, reputation position " 
 " I don't believe it," she answered, earnestly. 
 " Oh, I would like them thrown in," he laughed. 
 "In the Boy's Brigade you didn't make them 
 first." 
 
 " What do you make first ? "
 
 300 GROWING UP. 
 
 " Aunt Body, just now." 
 
 " What second, then ? " 
 
 " Talking to you, on the piazza." 
 
 "Judith," catching her hands and holding them 
 fast, "decide for me. Shall I study medicine, or 
 shall I please my father and mother ? " 
 
 " I cannot decide for you," she said, lightly, with 
 drawing her hands. 
 
 " You don't care." 
 
 "I do care." 
 
 " Decide then." 
 
 " I am not the one to decide." 
 
 " You are ; if I put the decision in your hands." 
 
 " But I am only a girL" 
 
 " That is why I ask you. Girls see clear. They 
 do not love money, they are not ambitious." 
 
 " I do not love money. I may be ambitious." 
 
 " How are you ambitious ? " 
 
 She flushed and would not reply. 
 
 "About your stories ? Do you expect to write ? " 
 
 "I expect to write. I cannot help it; it is in 
 me and will come out. Nothing much, perhaps ; 
 only little things, but I love them." 
 
 " I do not think medicine is ' in me ' like that. I
 
 I ALWAYS THOUGHT YOU CARED. 301 
 
 simply like a profession better than the routine and 
 drudgery of business." 
 
 " That is not a great motive." 
 
 " No ; and that boy's gold lace wasn't ; but he 
 made a success." 
 
 " Yes," was all Judith said. 
 
 "You are displeased with me." 
 
 " I am disappointed. I thought you cared." 
 
 " I do ; in a certain way." 
 
 " But not in the best way." 
 
 " Judith, I am not ' great ' or ' best.' " 
 
 " I thought you were ; I want you to be." 
 
 " That is a motive," he said, catching her hands 
 again. "Judith, if you will tell me you love me 
 and will marry me, I will go home and tell my 
 father I will make gold rings and sell them to the 
 end of my days ; but you must let me put one on 
 your finger." 
 
 "If you made it I'm afraid it wouldn't fit," she 
 laughed, again withdrawing her hands. 
 
 " Will you, if it fits ? " 
 
 " I cannot tell until I try." 
 
 "Don't play with me. It is neither 'great* nor 
 'best ' for a girl to do that"
 
 302 GROWING UP. 
 
 "You frighten me," she said, with a sound in hex 
 breath like a sob. 
 
 " I beg your pardon." 
 
 " I cannot promise. I do not want to promise. 
 I never thought of it." 
 
 " You think I am only a boy." 
 
 " I am only a girl." 
 
 "I did not just think of it You think I am too 
 sudden and impulsive. I thought of you all the 
 time I was gone. I have loved you ever since I 
 knew you. How can anybody help loving you ? 
 You meant Bensalem to me more than Eoger and 
 Marion did. I have been afraid somebody would 
 guess. I was afraid somebody would keep you 
 away from me. Judith, don't you care for me, at 
 all?" 
 
 "Yes, John; but not like that. I couldn't 
 promise that. I never thought you cared like that. 
 
 " How did you think I cared ? " he asked, passion 
 ately ; " in a grandfatherly way like Eoger ? " 
 
 " I do not know," she answered sadly ; " you were 
 so good to me, and I liked you. I didn't think." 
 
 " Will you think now ? " he asked, gently. " Will 
 you think and tell me ? "
 
 I ALWAYS THOUGHT YOU CARED. 303 
 
 " When ? " 
 
 " As soon as you know yourself, I will wait 
 years and years." 
 
 " Yes, I will tell you as soon as I know myself," 
 she promised. 
 
 " Then I will wait. You are worth waiting for." 
 
 " John, ought I to tell Marion ? " 
 
 "No. Do not tell anybody. It is my secret. 
 You haven't any secret. Nobody need ever know, 
 I will never be pitied." 
 
 Judith pitied him then. 
 
 " I am not bound in any way. I haven't promised 
 John." 
 
 " No ; you haven't," he said, touched by the 
 sorrow in her face. " I am sorry to trouble you so ; 
 but I had to say it. I came to Bensalem to say it." 
 
 " Are you sorry you came ? " 
 
 " No ; I had to have it out. Perhaps it will 
 make a man of me. Something will have to. A 
 man needs some kind of a fight." 
 
 Judith thought that it was not only his " fight." 
 
 " I am going home ; I can't stay here. I'll tell 
 Eoger I decided not to stay over Sunday. I don't 
 care what he thinks. We talked till twelve o'clock
 
 304 GROWING UP. 
 
 last night. I know what he thinks. I'll walk to 
 Dunellen to the train, I'd like to start and walk 
 around the world." 
 
 "John." Judith's eyes were filled with tears. 
 
 "Don't feel like that," ho answered, roughly ; " it's 
 bad enough for me to feel for myself without feeling 
 for you. I have always thought you cared." 
 
 " I do care." 
 
 " That's no way to care." 
 
 He walked off, not turning for her low word of 
 farewell 
 
 She would have kept him had she dared.
 
 COUSIN DON. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 COUSIN DON. 
 
 " If we are ever in doubt what to do, it is a good rule to ask 
 ourselves what we shall wish on the morrow we had done." 
 
 SIR JOHN LUBBCCK. 
 
 THE first day of September, late in the afternoon, 
 Judith stood over the kitchen stove making beef-tea 
 for Aunt Eody. The weekly letters from Don had 
 failed failed for three weeks ; but twice before in 
 five years had she missed a letter. At the step be 
 hind her she did not raise her eyes ; the beef-tea was 
 ready to strain ; at this moment she had no interest 
 in the world but that beef-tea. 
 
 " Judith, are you ready for news ? " asked Koger. 
 
 " Good news ? " she asked, forgetting her beef-tea 
 and turning towards him, radiant. 
 
 " That depends upon how you take it." 
 
 " I'll take it in the way to make it good, then. I'm 
 not ready for anything unpleasant," she said, with a 
 vain attempt to keep her lips from quivering. 
 
 " Then I'll tell you. Guess who is married. But 
 you will never guess," he replied with confident 
 eagerness.
 
 306 GROWING UP. 
 
 " Some one in Bensalem ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Bensalem is all my world." 
 
 "You forget somebody on the other side of the 
 world." 
 
 " Not Cousin Don," in the most startled surprise. 
 
 "Cousin Don. It's a stroke of genius, or some 
 thing. He never did anything like other people. 
 Just as he was on the point of starting for home, he 
 decided to stay and marry an English girl he found 
 out he was in love with ; or found out she was in 
 love with him ; he seems rather surprised himself. 
 They were married the day he expected to sail for 
 home." 
 
 " Then why didn't he come and bring her ? " asked 
 Judith as soon as she could find her voice. 
 
 "The English girl would rather stay in England, 
 or on the Continent; she has no fancy to live in 
 America." 
 
 " I'm afraid he didn't want to," said Judith who 
 could not believe that Cousin Don had failed her. 
 
 " He never did a thing he didn't want to in his 
 life." . 
 
 " But he has not been quite fair to keep it from 
 us ; I did not think he cou Id do such a thing."
 
 COUSIN DON. 307 
 
 " He did not keep it all from me," Roger leplied, 
 seriously ; " perhaps I should have prepared you for 
 it. He has been interested in her for some time, 
 visited her in England whether he did not know 
 his own mind, or she did not know hers does not 
 appear ; but now they both seem to be of the same 
 mind. Judith, dear, it isn't such a dreadful thing." 
 
 " Not to you," said Judith. 
 
 Now, he would never come and take her away. 
 No one would ever take her away. She did not be 
 long to him any longer. 
 
 " Judith," began Aunt Affy, hurriedly in the kitch 
 en doorway. " Oh, you are fixing the beef-tea." 
 
 She stiained the beef-tea, salted it, poured it into 
 a cup, and went to Aunt Body's entry bed-room as if 
 she were in a dream, not thinking, or feeling any 
 thing but that she was left alone in the world, her 
 Cousin Don had cast her off, he had broken his word 
 to her mother, he had not cared for her as if she 
 were his little sister. He did not even care to write 
 and tell her that he was married and not coming 
 home. 
 
 " Poor child," Aunt Affy was saying in the kitch 
 en, " it will break her heart."
 
 308 GROWING UP. 
 
 " It shall not break her heart," was the fierce an 
 swer. " I would rather have told her he was dead 
 than married for her own sake. I cannot under 
 stand his shameful neglect. No money has come 
 for her for six months but she will never know 
 that. His letter to me gives only the news of his 
 marriage his first letter for a month but he has 
 never written to me regularly as he has to her. It 
 would be a satisfaction to run over to England to 
 have it out with him." 
 
 " But he had a right to be married," said Aunt 
 Affy, doubtfully. 
 
 " I am not questioning that. He had no right to 
 hurt this child so she has believed in him as if he 
 were an angel sent out of Heaven for her special 
 protection." 
 
 " He isn't the only angel," said Aunt Affy, com 
 posedly. " I have been counting on him. That's why 
 I have had no help I didn't bestir myself for I ex 
 pected news of his coming every week. Mrs. Evans's 
 sister, a widow who goes out nursing, can come 
 the middle of this month. I didn't tell Judith. I 
 thought she was happy in being a ministering 
 angel hersell And then she was going away so
 
 COUSIN DON. 309 
 
 soon, if her Cousin Don should come I vranted her 
 here when he came." 
 
 " You had better send for the nurse," said Roger, 
 dryly. 
 
 " I'll go after supper and see Mrs. Evans. I sup 
 pose you and Miss Marion will want my little girl 
 again." 
 
 " We certainly shall," replied Roger with emphasis, 
 " more than ever, now." 
 
 "But she mustn't be an expense to you," said 
 Aunt AfFy, with an anxious frown. 
 
 " Never you mind the expense. If I don't burn 
 Don Mackenzie up in a letter, it will be because 
 there are no words hot enough. I wish I could send 
 him her face as she came to the understanding of 
 my news. It would rather mar his honeymoon. 
 I've kept this news a week, and now I had to come 
 and blurt it out"
 
 310 GROWING UP. 
 
 XXVL 
 
 AUNT APPY*S FAITH AND JUDITH'S FOREIGN LETTER. 
 
 " If I could only surely know 
 That all these things that tire me so 
 Were noticed by my Lord." 
 
 AT the supper table Aunt Affy asked Judith if 
 she would sit in the entry near Aunt Rody's door 
 and watch while she " ran out a minute to see Mrs. 
 Evans about something." 
 
 With the instinct of the story-teller Judith 
 remembered the little girl who used to sit there and 
 sew carpet-rags, and began to weave herself into a 
 story; the "The Child's Outlook" was not very 
 hopeful, she thought, but she gave the story a happy 
 ending, just as she herself expected to have a happy 
 ending. She did not know why she had to sit there 
 and watch; there had been no change for days; 
 perhaps Aunt Affy wished her to sit and watch for 
 Aunt Rcdy to die. The light from a shaded lamp 
 on a table at the foot of the bed, did not touch the
 
 AUNT AFFY'S FAITH. 311 
 
 sleeping face the sleeping face, or the dead face, 
 and Judith's eyes were turned away ; she was 
 watching without seeing. 
 
 She was too miserable to open a book ; she was 
 too miserable to think; she thought she was too 
 miserable to pray. 
 
 The tears came softly, softly and slowly; face 
 and fingers were wet ; the only cry in her heart was 
 " mother, mother." 
 
 "Mother, I want you," she sobbed, "will not God 
 let you come back a little while ? " 
 
 The doors were wide open all through the house ; 
 in the sitting-room there were low voices, at first 
 her dulled ears caught no articulate word, then the 
 voice of Mrs. Evans spoke clearly : she was saying 
 something about " faith." 
 
 Perhaps, the listener thought penitently, she 
 herself was weeping because she had no faith. 
 
 Now Aunt Affy was speaking ; she loved to hear 
 Aunt Affy talk. Mrs. Evans must have come and 
 hindered Aunt Affy in her call ; perhaps they both 
 wished to talk about the same thing ; but they were 
 both talking about faith. She wished Aunt Eody 
 might hear; she was afraid Aunt Rody was lying
 
 312 GROWING UP. 
 
 there uncomforted. She had never thought of 
 Aunt Body as a " disciple." 
 
 In Judith's thought Aunt Affy dwelt apart. 
 
 If you called upon Mrs. Finch she would ask you 
 to " step in " to the kitchen where her work was 
 going on ; Mrs. Evans with conscious pride would 
 throw open to you the door of her prettily furnished 
 parlor; Agnes Trembly would take you into her 
 sewing-room; a call upon the minister meant the 
 study; Marion's guests were made at home every 
 where within and without the parsonage ; but Aunt 
 Affy's visitor was taken to her sanctuary, the place 
 where she prayed to God and worshipped, to the 
 inmost chamber of her consecrated heart. Aunt Affy 
 kept nothing back ; she gave herself. 
 
 With lifted head, and intent eyes, there in the 
 dark she listened to Aunt Affy's impressive speaking : 
 
 " Once, it was in June, I was in prayer-meeting, 
 and I was constrained a pressure was upon me 
 to pray for more faith. I must have more faith. 
 Not aware that I was in special need through trial 
 or temptation, I hesitated. Could I ask for what 
 I did not feel the need of ? But only for an instant, 
 the constraint was strong, and so sweet (the very
 
 AUNT AFFT*S FA1TB. $13 
 
 touch of the Holy Spirit), and in faith I asked for 
 more faith. Then I trembled. Might this sweet 
 pressure not be a prophecy of sorrow ? Had I not 
 just this experience, and a few days later brought 
 the tidings of the sudden death of one very dear to 
 me ? I had the asked-for faith then, and it bore me 
 through. Was this constraint the comfort coming 
 beforehand ? To take God's will as he would have 
 me take it, I must needs have this faith. It was 
 not too hard before ; could I not trust him again ? 
 
 " Before the week was over, unexpected happiness 
 was given me. Ah, I thought, this is what the faith is 
 for ! For we cannot take happiness and make him 
 glorious in it, but for this faith. God knows we 
 need faith to bear prosperity. So for days the 
 happiness and faith went on together, and then, 
 don't be afraid, dear heart, and then came, but not 
 with the shock of suddenness, the great strain, when 
 heart and flesh must have failed but for the faith 
 the Holy Spirit constrained me to ask. The prayer 
 was in June all August was the answer." 
 
 "Affy Sparrow, you make me afraid," was Mrs. 
 Evans's quick, almost indignant answer. 
 
 " If you will only think you will not be afraid."
 
 314 GROWING UP. 
 
 Judith listening, was not afraid. Never since 
 her mother went away and left her alone with Aunt 
 Afly had she felt the need of faith, of holding on to 
 her heavenly Father, as she did to-night 
 
 "At one time," Aunt Affy went on with her 
 fervent, glad faith, " I was moved to cry out : ' O, 
 Lord, do not leave me, I shall fall, I cannot keep 
 myself, there is nothing to keep myself in me.' I 
 awoke that night again and again with the same 
 cry in my heart, the same agony on my lips. How 
 can he leave me ? ' I asked myself over and over. 
 ' It is not like him ; especially when I have begged 
 him to stay.' Was I in the shadow of a temptation 
 that was to come? The next day the temptation 
 came ; for one overpowering instant I was left to 
 wonder if he had left me ; then I knew that he was 
 perfect truth as well as perfect loye ; I said : ' Lord, 
 I am very simple, be simple with me.' Then the 
 wave rolled over me, not touchipg me. I was 
 tempted tempted to unbelief ; but was I tempted ? 
 Did the temptation come near enough for that ? I 
 could only say over and over, Lord, I believe in 
 thee. My temptation came and he did aot leave 
 me."
 
 AUNT AFFY'S FAITH. 315 
 
 "Affy, you are supernatural. You have super 
 natural experiences," replied Mrs. Evans in a tone of 
 awe, and considerable displeasure. 
 
 "You and I do not know what other people in 
 Bensalem are going through," was the gentle re 
 monstrance. 
 
 " I hope not through such terrible things as that." 
 
 "I hoped I was helping you," said Aunt Affy, 
 grieved. 
 
 " That doesn't help. It doesn't help me. I'd be 
 afraid to pray for faith if I knew it was to prepare 
 me for trouble." 
 
 " Would you rather be unprepared for trouble ? " 
 was the quiet question. 
 
 " I'd rather the trouble wouldn't come." 
 
 "Then you would rather God wouldn't have his 
 way with you." 
 
 "I don't like that way, I confess, but I have to 
 have trouble like everybody else. You have had 
 as little of it the worst kind I mean, as anybody 
 ever had your troubles have been spiritual troubles, 
 and you are having your own way now about every 
 thing." 
 
 "Yea, too much. I'm afraid every day of being
 
 316 ^GROWING UP. 
 
 a selfish, careless woman. A dozen times a day I 
 wonder what Eody would say to me if she only 
 knew what we are doing; selling the milk for 
 instance. Sometimes I stop in the middle of some 
 thing as if her hand were on my shoulder. Your 
 sister can come next week, then ? " 
 
 " As far as I know ; shell be ten times better help 
 than Judith ; she's strong and used to sickness. 
 She can lift Rody, and that's what you want. I 
 thought the parsonage folks had spoilt Judith for 
 you by making her too much of a lady." 
 
 " Judith is not spoiled," was the quiet rejoinder. 
 
 "You will find my sister Sarah ready for any 
 emergency. What do you think she's been doing to 
 get into the paper ? She sent me the paper with the 
 thing marked in it. I wish I had brought the 
 paper; I'll show it to you some time. You know 
 she lives, when she's at home, near a tunnel ; well 
 that tunnel caved in one day just after a passenger 
 train had passed through ; she knew there would be 
 another train soon, and she had her red petticoat 
 ready and ran out as it came thundering on, and 
 swung it in the air until she stopped the train 
 and just within a few feet of the tunnel, too. 
 Wasn't that pluck?"
 
 AUNT AFFY'S FAITH. 317 
 
 " Where's Judith ? " called Joe's voice. " I have a 
 letter for her ; one of the foreign letters she used to 
 be so raving glad to get." 
 
 In the half light Judith sprang toward the letter. 
 There was no light in the sitting-room ; on the 
 kitchen table a lamp was burning ; she was glad tc 
 read it unquestioned. Snatching at its meaning she 
 ran through the three thin sheets ; then she read it 
 deliberately, understandingly. 
 
 He had written to tell her of his marriage, and 
 two weeks afterward, on his wedding tour, found 
 the unmailed letter in his pocket. That letter he 
 had destroyed, and, after a week to plan and decide 
 what to propose to her, had written again was 
 writing again now, in fact. The shortest way to her 
 forgiveness he believed to be to ask her to come to 
 England, not to be his housekeeper, but to be his 
 wife's dear little friend and cousin, as well as his 
 own. But, if she decided not to do that, and the 
 plan did have its disadvantages (he had not yet 
 asked his wife's advice or consent), would she be 
 happy to stay on at the parsonage, or at Aunt Affy's 
 just as usual? He would never forget her, she 
 would always be his dearest little cousin in the
 
 318 GROWING UP. 
 
 world, and he knew she and Florence would be the 
 best of friends if they could know each other. Flor 
 ence had a prejudice against America, but that would 
 wear off. He very much regretted he had never 
 written about Florence, but she was something of n 
 flirt and had never allowed him to be sure of her 
 until she knew he had taken passage for America. 
 He hoped she would write to Florence and then they 
 would understand each other better. She must be 
 sure to write to him by return mail. He hoped the 
 delayed letter had not made her uncomfortable. 
 He was always her devoted Cousin Don. 
 
 Mrs. Evans went home, passing through the 
 kitchen ; Aunt Affy had told her of the unexpected 
 marriage of Judith's cousin; she was curious to 
 catch a glimpse of the girl's face over his letter. It 
 would be something to tell Nettie. With her usual 
 thoughtfulness Aunt Affy asked no question con 
 cerning the letter. That night Judith could not 
 bring herself to show the letter ; the next morning 
 she gave it to her to read, and then asked if she 
 might be spared to go to the parsonage. 
 
 "Yes, dear child. And stay all day if you like. 
 Ill do for Body. She will not ask for you. She
 
 AUNT AFFY'S FAITH. 319 
 
 called me Becky in the night. It's the first time 
 she has not recognized me. And when Mrs. Evans's 
 sister, Mrs. Treadwell comes, you may go and have 
 a long rest and study again." 
 
 " I don't deserve that," said Judith, breaking into 
 sobs ; "I haven't been good, and I don't deserve any 
 thing." 
 
 " No matter, you'll get it just the same," said Aunt 
 Affy, patting her shoulder with a loving touch. 
 " And, after this, you are to come to me for money 
 you are to be my own child ; my little girl, and 
 Cephas' little girl." 
 
 With her head on Aunt Affy's shoulder Judith 
 laughed and cried ; she even began to feel glad of 
 something not that Don was married, or that she 
 was not to be his housekeeper, or that she was not 
 to be Aunt Rody's nurse ; it was almost wrong to be 
 glad when she should be disappointed; then she 
 knew she was glad because no one in all the world 
 had the right to take her away from the parsonage. 
 
 The way of obedience had been easier than she 
 thought. She stayed that day with Aunt Eody, 
 doing little last things for her, and telling Aunt 
 Affy ways of nursing that pleased Aunt Rody that 
 she had discovered for herself.
 
 320 GROWING UP. 
 
 " She will miss you," Aunt Affy said that evening, 
 as Judith came into the sitting-room dressed for her 
 walk. Doodles was snoring upon his cushion on the 
 lounge ; Uncle Cephas, at the round table, was lost 
 in the day's paper ; Joe, at another table, was read 
 ing a book he had found under rubbish in the store 
 room: this last year he had developed a taste for 
 books. 
 
 The girl lingered, with her satchel in her hand ; 
 the dear old home was a hard place to leave ; with 
 out the cloud of Aunt Eody's presence it was peace 
 and sunshine. 
 
 Aunt Affy, with her pretty, grey head, her light 
 step, her words of comfort and courage, moved about 
 like a benediction ; Uncle Cephas, rough and kindly, 
 with strength in reserve for every emergency, gave, 
 to the house the headship it had always lacked; 
 Joe, to-night, was fine and sturdy, and growing into 
 somebody; would they miss her? 
 
 Was the girl going away any real part of the 
 strength and beauty of the old Sparrow place ? 
 
 She was going because she chose to go. 
 
 Joe had asked her if she were "going for good," 
 Was to-night another turning-point?
 
 AUNT AFFY'S FAITH. 321 
 
 If she stayed would her life to come be any differ 
 ent? 
 
 In anybody's eyes was there a difference between 
 belonging to the parsonage and belonging to the 
 Sparrow place ? 
 
 No one was taking her away, she was going of her 
 own free will. 
 
 With a sudden impulse she dropped her satchel 
 in Aunt Body's empty chair and ran up the kitchen 
 stairs to stay a few moments alone in the chamber 
 her mother used to have when she was a little girl.
 
 322 GROWING UP, 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 HIS VERY BEST. 
 "Lord, teach us to pray." Luke xi. 1. 
 
 " O Thou, by whom we come to God, 
 
 The Life, the Truth, the Way ! 
 The path of prayer Thyself hast trod ; 
 Lord, teach me to pray." 
 
 JUDITH stood on the parsonage piazza ; a voice 
 within was unfamiliar, then in a change of tone she 
 recognized something and was reminded of her after 
 noon at Meadow Centre ; that laugh she had heard 
 before, it was not Don it was the face at the win 
 dow looked out into the shadows, it was Eichard 
 King. He was a strong tower ; he was safe, like her 
 parsonage life ; she would go in and feel at home. 
 No new face or voice would ever come between and 
 keep her away. Across the room, as she discovered 
 by a peep through the curtains, Marion sat with 
 some of her usual pretty work in her hand ; Eoger 
 was not there. 
 
 " III the excavations in Babylon," Mr. King went
 
 HIS VERT BEST. 323 
 
 on in easy continuation of the subject in hand, "a 
 collection of bowls was found, inscribed with adjura 
 tions of all sorts of spirits by name, and with indica 
 tions that could not be mistaken of medicines they 
 once held. You know, that capital E with which 
 the physician heads his prescription, believing it 
 stands for Eecipe, in the days of superstition was 
 understood to be an appeal to Jupiter." 
 
 " That was consistent," Marion replied, still bend 
 ing over her work. 
 
 " Imagine our physicians writing at the head of a 
 prescription : In the name of Jesus Christ." 
 
 " As Peter did when he healed the lame man." 
 
 " Our old Meadow Brook physician prays with his 
 patients very often ; I tell him he leaves nothing for 
 the parson to do." 
 
 " Eoger says sometimes the doctor has a way of 
 getting nearer our Bensalem people than he has." 
 
 " I am not sure of that. They tell the doctor a 
 different kind of trouble. You would be amazed 
 if you were not the minister's sister at the his 
 tories people tell me about themselves, and their 
 neighbors." 
 
 " I am always delighted that people have a story
 
 324 GROWING UP. 
 
 to tell. When I first came to Bensalem I thought 
 no man, woman, or child, lived a life worth living. 
 Now I know the sweetest stories. Aunt Affy is 
 one, and Nettie Evans, and even her hard-featured 
 mother brims over once in a while with an expe 
 rience." 
 
 The coming back from Babylon to Bensalem 
 brought Judith to the consciousness that she might 
 be considered an eavesdropper; at that instant 
 Roger entered in his shirt-sleeves, remarking : " Let's 
 be informal, like Wordsworth. He used to take out 
 his teeth evenings when he did not expect callers." 
 
 " But you have a caller," remonstrated Marion, 
 when the laughter ceased. 
 
 ' Yes, and here's another one," Koger replied, as 
 Judith walked softly in. " Judith, must I put on 
 my coat ? I've been potting plants for Marion and I 
 couldn't afford to soil my coat." 
 
 " Yes," said Judith, who was always on Marion's 
 side in influencing the Bensalem minister to remem 
 ber the claims of society. 
 
 " I wish you had stayed at home. What are you 
 looking so full of news about ? " 
 
 "I have come back to stay. No one else in 
 the world wants me."
 
 HIS VERY BEST. 325 
 
 "And we don't," declared Eoger. 
 
 Something in the gleam of the eyes under Eichard 
 King's tangled eyebrows was a revelation to Marion. 
 She knew his secret. She would keep it. Eoger 
 was stupid, he would never guess. But how could 
 she keep it from Judith ? Poor little Judith, was 
 she growing up to have a love story? To-night 
 Marion did not like love stories. 
 
 She wished the tall girl with the serious eyes and 
 braided hair were a little girl with long curls. 
 
 "Did you get a letter from Don to-night? 5 * Eoger 
 asked. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "How do you like it?" 
 
 "I think I like it. It will not make any dif 
 ference to me only the difference that it hasn't 
 made." 
 
 " A good distinction," remarked Eichard King. 
 
 "May I go upstairs, Marion?" 
 
 "Surely your room has been waiting for you as 
 the Holy Land waited for the. Israelites to return 
 from their captivity; nobody spoiled either, or oc 
 cupied either." 
 
 " Mine was not seventy years," said Judith, " al 
 though sometimes it seemed like it*
 
 326 GROWING UP. 
 
 Marion did not follow her; it would not be an 
 easy thing to talk to Judith about Don's marriage ; 
 she was relieved that the only view the girl would 
 take of it would be in regard to the difference it 
 made to herself. 
 
 When Judith returned, feeling as much at home 
 as though she had been away but for a night, Marion 
 was matching silks for her work, and the gentlemen 
 were talking, sitting opposite each other in the bay 
 window. 
 
 It had been so long since she had heard Roger 
 talk; that "talk" was one of the delights of her 
 parsonage life. She had heard him preach but once 
 during her stay at Aunt Affy's. 
 
 "That point about praying came up," Mr. King 
 was saying, "and I am not satisfied with the an 
 swer I gave. The man gave his experience it was 
 an experience of years and then he asked me what 
 was the matter with his prayer, and I decidedly did 
 not know. I know he has fulfilled the conditions, 
 praying in faith, and in the name of Christ, and the 
 thing prayed for was innocent in itself. He said, 
 " What is the matter with me ? " and I could not tell. 
 He went away unsatisfied. I went down on my
 
 BIS VERT BEST. 327 
 
 knees, you may be sure, thinking something was the 
 matter with me because I had no illumination for 
 him." 
 
 Eoger's strong, brown hand was stretched along 
 the arm of his chair'; he looked down at his fingers 
 in deep thought 
 
 " He said he had been praying months to learn if 
 the petition in itself were not acceptable to God, and 
 had, he thought, studied a hundred prayers in the 
 Bible, comparing his prayer with the acceptable and 
 unacceptable prayers of the old saints." 
 
 " He is determined to get at the bottom of it," 
 said Koger. 
 
 " I never saw a man more determined. I quoted 
 Phillips Brooks to him: 'You have not got your an 
 swer, but you have got God.' " 
 
 " He was not satisfied with that getting ? " 
 
 " No. He said he knew he should not be satisfied 
 until he had God's answer to himself. I think he 
 has almost lost sight of the thing he was anxious 
 for when he began to pray. It has been worth a 
 course in theology to him." 
 
 Marion dropped her silks ; Judith was listening 
 with all the eagerness of her childhood. She felt 
 sure Aunt Affy could explain the difficulty
 
 328 GROWING UP. 
 
 "The thing that strikes me," began Roger, "k 
 that he may be like those men sent to the house of 
 God to inquire about fasting." 
 
 " Well ? " questioned Eichard King. 
 
 " These men went to pray before the Lord and to 
 ask a question. Their question was about fasting; 
 but fasting has to do with praying your friend 
 has certainly been in a weeping and fasting spirit 
 They asked: Should I weep in the fifth month 
 separating myself, as I have done these so many 
 years? 
 
 "The Lord's answer came through the prophet 
 Zechariah. He understood all about that so many 
 years separating themselves and fasting. He told 
 them the fasting was not so much to him as for 
 them to hear the words which the Lord hath cried 
 by the former prophets. They might better study 
 his revealed will than seek to find a new answer to 
 this question of fasting. The fasting in itself was 
 all right if they wished to fast. ' When ye fasted did 
 ye do it to me? ' he asked. ' When ye did eat and 
 when ye did drink, did ye not eat for yourselves, 
 and drink for yourselves ? ' In feasting and fasting 
 they had been selfish. Then he gives them plain
 
 HIS VERY BEST. 329 
 
 words of command, like the plain words the former 
 prophets had spoken. Obedience was better than 
 fasting ; better even than coming to him to inquire 
 about fasting. There is a parallel in the history of 
 one of Joshua's prayers. He could not understand 
 why the people should flee before their enemies. 
 Then he rent his clothes and fell to the earth, the 
 elders, also, all day, with dust on their heads ; pray 
 ing and fasting. 
 
 " But the Lord's answer was : Get thee up ; where 
 fore liest thou thus upon thy face ? 
 
 " Tell your old man praying and fasting are good, 
 but sometimes God has enough of them. He pre 
 fers obedience. The conditions of the covenant had 
 been violated by disobedience in both instances. 
 Praying in faith, and in the name of Christ, are but 
 two conditions ; hearing and obeying is a third con 
 dition. Your man may be in the midst of a very 
 interesting experience, but I would advise him to 
 stop questioning the Lord, and try what a little obe 
 dience would do." 
 
 " But, he's a good man, Eoger," urged Judith. 
 " only a good man could bear a trial like that." 
 
 "Good men have favorite little ways of disobe-
 
 330 GROWING UP. 
 
 dience, sometimes; God's own remedy is more obe 
 dience." 
 
 "I wish we could know all about it the rest of 
 the story, and, if he ever has his prayer," said Marion, 
 to whom " people " were becoming a real and live 
 interest. 
 
 " Joshua had his prayer. The story of Ai is the 
 story of how God answers prayer when he has made 
 way for it; it shows his disciplinary government; 
 it places obedience before all things ; obedience 
 makes God's answers to prayer a natural proceeding." 
 
 " I'm afraid I have depended too much on prayer," 
 Judith answered, troubled. 
 
 " Oh, no," Mr. King reassured her, " only you 
 have not depended enough on obedience. I will call 
 upon my old man to-morrow and tell him these two 
 stories of disciplinary government." 
 
 " You are not going home, to-night, old fellow," 
 urged Koger, " the girls will give us some music. We 
 four will make a fine quartette." 
 
 "Miss Judith, did you know I ha7e a house 
 keeper ? " he asked, turning brightly to Judith. 
 
 " I am very glad." 
 
 " So are we all of us," declared Bogei
 
 SIS VERY BEST. 331 
 
 " A man and his wife I have taken in. She's a 
 good cook ; the house is a different affair ; I wish 
 you would come and see. The man gets work 
 among the farmers and takes care of my horse, 
 which I used to do myself. They are both grateful 
 for a home and I am very happy to be set in a 
 family." 
 
 Judith fell asleep thinking of Aunt Rody's beef- 
 tea, and wondering if Aunt Affy would remember to 
 keep the water bag at her poor, cold feet. 
 
 It was luxury to be at home again ; to be at home 
 and in the way of obedience. That was God's will 
 on earth as it was in Heaven. 
 
 The next day the gentlemen went fishing and 
 Marion and Judith kept the long day to themselves. 
 In the afternoon Marion and Nettie had their 
 weekly history talk, and, Judith shut herself up in 
 the study and wrote a story about a girl who learned 
 a new lesson in the way of obedience. The story 
 was from a child's standpoint ; in writing for children 
 she was keeping her heart as fresh as the heart of a 
 little child. 
 
 "Judith," said Roger that evening as the "quar 
 tette " were together in the study, " I have a thought
 
 332 GROWING UP. 
 
 of work for you ; you smell work from afar as the 
 warhorse scents the battle ; how would you like to 
 write up the childhood of a dozen famous women ? 
 The study itself will be delightful, and the writing 
 more so. Call the series : ' When I was a Girl' " 
 
 " I would like it," was the unhesitating reply, " if 
 I can do it" 
 
 " You can do it You can do anything you like." 
 
 * Then I will," she decided, thus encouraged. 
 
 " But the books ? " said Eichard King, ready to 
 place his own bookshelves at her service. 
 
 " Oh, the books are easily found. There's our 
 school library, and the Public Library in Dunellen, 
 and everybody's house to ransack in Bensalem. 
 Besides, my own library is no mean affair. Books 
 and fishing are my laziness and luxury. No hurried 
 work, Judith, remember. You shall not read the 
 first one of the series to me until a month from 
 to-day." 
 
 " Are you such a slow worker yourself ? " Roger's 
 friend inquired. 
 
 " I am a plodder. And I believe in other people 
 plodding. I believe that genius is an infinite 
 capacity for taking pains. I have sermons laid 
 away to mellow that I've been six months on."
 
 HIS VERT BEST. 333 
 
 "But you do other writing and studying in the 
 mean time," said Judith. 
 
 " Oh, yes, while the seed is sprouting." 
 
 " Kenney, you are planning something." 
 
 "Yes, I am planning to salt down a barrel of 
 eermons before I take a new charge." 
 
 " Mellowing, salting, sprouting," laughed Judith. 
 
 " Eoger, a new charge ! " exclaimed Marion, 
 startled. 
 
 " A new charge, my dear sister. I am too small 
 for Bensalem, they need a bigger man here." 
 
 "But, Eoger," remonstrated Judith, with big, 
 distressed eyes ; " will you not give dear, little Ben 
 salem your best ? " 
 
 " My very best," he answered, solemnly.
 
 334 GROWING UP. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 A NEW ANXIETY. 
 
 41 Our eyes see all around, in gloom or glow, 
 Hues of their own fresh borrowed from the heart" 
 
 KEBLE. 
 
 IT was chilly that evening in the old rooms of the 
 house with three windows in the roof ; Boger Ken- 
 ney's father and mother sat near the grate in the 
 front parlor; curtains and portieres were dropped, 
 the piano lamp with its crimson silk shade threw a 
 glow over the two faces sitting in cosy content op 
 posite each other. The house was still; the girls, 
 Martha and Lou, and the two boys, Maurice and 
 John, had gone down town to an illustrated lecture 
 on India ; the maid had her evening out ; even Nip> 
 the house-dog, had gone out for an evening ramble ; 
 the two " old people," as in their early sixties they 
 loved to call each other, were alone with each other 
 and a new anxiety. 
 
 Mr. Kenney told his wife that nothing in the 
 world made her quite so happy as a new worry, and 
 he wished he could get one for her oftener.
 
 A NEW ANXIETY. 335 
 
 " This will do for awhile," she remarked ; " but this 
 isn't as bad as that old trouble of Marion's ; a man 
 can work himself out ; and Eoger has work enough 
 on hand for two worries." 
 
 " Now, what are you going to do about this ? " in 
 quired her husband, folding the evening's paper and 
 laying it upon his knee. " You sent Marion to Ben* 
 salem for her charm ; will you get Eoger away for 
 his?" 
 
 "That would do no good," she replied, discon 
 tentedly, "he would not be got away in the first 
 place, and Judith is not a fixture in Bensalem." 
 
 "Judith is worth having," was the complacent 
 reply. 
 
 " That's the worst of it. So was Don Mackenzie." 
 
 " It's the best of it, I think. You wouldn't have 
 your boys and girls carried away by somebody not 
 worth having." 
 
 " But, then, being disappointed in somebody might 
 help them bear it, and turn them around to look at 
 somebody else." 
 
 " A disappointment like that is poor consolation." 
 
 " I don't suppose the disappointment is the conso~ 
 lation. The somebody else is."
 
 336 GROWING UP. 
 
 " You never had the consolation of the somebody 
 else." 
 
 "I have only had the consolation of you," she re 
 torted. 
 
 " Marion has never taken up with anybody." he 
 said, reflectively. 
 
 " She has had no chance " 
 
 " That you know," he interrupted. 
 
 " That I know," she accepted meekly, "except 
 ing David Prince." 
 
 " She wouldn't look at him." 
 
 " No, she wouldn't. He was younger in the first 
 place and so different from Don." 
 
 "I'd like to see that English beauty Don has 
 married." 
 
 " How do you know she is a beauty ? " asked 
 Marion's mother, with a touch of jealousy. 
 
 " Oh, he wrote that to Roger in his first young 
 admiration. An orphan, living with an uncle, 
 years younger, a capricious beauty, with a little 
 money ; wasn't that the description ? " 
 
 " Something like it. Marion has carried herself 
 well about this marriage." 
 
 " Why shouldn't she ? She had nothing to carry 
 herself about"
 
 A NEW ANXIETY. 837 
 
 '' You don't know girls. A memory is a memory." 
 
 " How do you know ? " he laughed. 
 
 " But this is not helping us out about Roger," she 
 remarked, ignoring his words and laugh. 
 
 " Eoger will help himself out ; he isn't his father's 
 son for nothing." 
 
 "As Marion was not her mother's girl for 
 nothing," was the demure reply. 
 
 " How do you know how can you be so certain 
 sure that he wants Judith ? " 
 
 " She is the very light of his eyes. She has been 
 for years. A mother can see. The thought of her 
 is always about him." 
 
 "Does Marion see it?" Roger's father inquired, 
 convinced. He had a thorough respect for his wife's 
 judgment. 
 
 " No ; that's the queer part of it. I think Roger 
 is guarded with her. He never had a secret from 
 his mother." 
 
 " Young men never have," the young man's father 
 threw in. 
 
 " But I know Roger ; I wouldn't be afraid to ask 
 him." 
 
 " Then, why don't you ? "
 
 338 GROWING UP. 
 
 "Because I know without asking," she silenced 
 him, 
 
 " Now, to come back to the starting point what 
 do you intend to do about it? " 
 
 " Bring Judith here," she replied impressively. 
 
 " That's a fine move ; an effectual separation." 
 
 "If I could send her anywhere else he would 
 think it his duty to go and see her, he would have 
 to know how she was doing pay her bills, and 
 so forth. There's no one else to be a father to her. 
 Mrs. Brush leaves everything with him. She has 
 no knowledge of any world outside of that village." 
 
 " Perhaps she is trying to catch him for Judith." 
 
 " Such a worldly thought would never enter her 
 dear, pretty, simple, shrewd head. She has her 
 catch, and she didn't catch him with guile. She 
 would rather keep Judith than set her on the throne 
 of England. That's out of the question." 
 
 "Well, I do see that point about bringing her 
 here. He can see her naturally here; nothing to 
 thwart him ; she's such a girl, no older than Martha 
 you never have any scares about Martha." 
 
 " Martha has never been thrown so with anybody c 
 I wouldn't allow it. I try to be always on the safe 
 side?"
 
 \ A NEW ANXIETY. 339 
 
 "You didn't seem to be on Judith's safe side." 
 
 " I couldn't. Nobody asked me. There she was 
 studying at the parsonage, before I knew it" 
 
 " She was only a child then." 
 
 " And I thought it such a good outlet for Marion 
 it was one of the first things that roused her 
 that and her Outing Society. My only fear was 
 that she was taking Judith up for the sake of her 
 Cousin Don. His influence somehow seems to run 
 through everything. But I know better now. 
 Judith won her own way. But I didn't know I 
 was sacrificing Eoger to Marion." 
 
 " How could you have hindered ? " 
 
 "I could have brought Marion home," she 
 answered, decidedly. 
 
 "And spoiled the good Bensalem was doing for 
 her." 
 
 " Oh, dear," with a sigh, " how lives are tangled 
 up." 
 
 " And it's rather dangerous for our fingers to get 
 into the tangle," he suggested, with mild reproof. 
 
 "But we must do something," she exclaimed, 
 in despair. 
 
 " Well, yes, I suppose so when the time comes." 
 
 " Well, the time has come now."
 
 340 GROWING UP. 
 
 "I don't see anything the matter with Rogei 
 He can walk ten miles on a stretch, he rides horse- 
 hack, he cuts his own kindling wood and makes his 
 own garden, he gives his people two strong sermons 
 a week, beside the prayer meeting and weekly 
 lectures ; he goes hunting with one of his deacons 
 and talks farming with another ; he neglects nobody, 
 and works like a drum-major. He isn't hurt" 
 
 " But he will be. Judith will refuse him." 
 
 " How do you know that ? " 
 
 " Because she has never thought of such a thing." 
 
 " I grant that. Why should she ? But she will 
 think of it when he suggests it" 
 
 " She will not think of it as he does. He is an old 
 fellow to her; let me see; she was thirteen when 
 she went to Bensalem, and he was how queer for 
 me to forget he was twenty-six, just twice her 
 age." 
 
 "He isn't twice her age now," observed Mr. 
 Kenney, comically. 
 
 "And a woman is always older than a man,' 
 Mrs. Kenney, reflected. '' She is nearer his age than, 
 I think, childish as she is. With her hair up she 
 does look older; it's those blue eyes like a baby,
 
 A NEW ATrxmrr. 341 
 
 and that complexion. I told Eoger she might sit 
 for a picture of Priscilla the Puritan maiden, in her 
 new-fashioned, old-fashioned dress, and he said he 
 had thought of it himself. But, now, Eoger," with 
 a deprecating little appeal, "it will do no harm to 
 bring her here." 
 
 "Not the least bit in the world," he consented, 
 cheerfully.
 
 342 GROWING UP* 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 JUDITH'S " FUTUBE.* 
 
 * God never loved me in so sweet a way before : 
 Tis he alone who can such blessings send : 
 And when his love would new expression find, 
 He brought thee to me, and he said, ' Behold a friend.' " 
 
 EXACTLY a month from the day Koger planned the 
 Girl Papers for her, Judith knocked at the study 
 door with her manuscript in her hand. She had 
 written three papers; if he took sufficient interest 
 in the first she would read the others. 
 
 Beside the education for herself she had another 
 thought in writing them ; she would send them to 
 some child's paper and earn money. She knew that 
 Marion had never depended upon the parsonage for 
 money ; every month her father sent her a check ; 
 she had no father to send her a check. No money 
 had come to her from her Cousin Don since his 
 hurried marriage. Probably he considered her old 
 enough to earn money for herself. It would be hard
 
 JUDITH ' S FUTURE. 343 
 
 to tell Aunt Affy when she needed a dress, or shoes, 
 or money, when she was not doing anything for 
 Aunt Affy's comfort. 
 
 Last Sunday she had no money for Sunday-school 
 or church ; she had no money for anything. 
 
 Her last story had been refused, and how she had 
 cried over the refusal. It was even hard to laugh 
 when Eoger told her that Queen Victoria had sent 
 an article to a paper under a " pen-name " and it had 
 been "returned with thanks." She wished she were 
 a dressmaker like Agnes Trembly, or that she could 
 go into a farmer's kitchen, like Jean Draper's sister 
 Lottie, and earn money and not be ashamed. 
 
 " Come in," called Eoger from among his books. 
 
 Her eyes were suspiciously red, she was relieved 
 that his back was toward her ; he wheeled around 
 in his chair as she seated herself, and looked as 
 though he had nothing in the world to do but listen 
 to her. 
 
 " Have you leisure to hear my Girl Papers ? " she 
 asked, with some embarrassment. " They are horrid. 
 I tried an essay, and failed. It was stilted and 
 stupid. I can make girls talk, so I threw my 
 garnered information into a conversation. But yon 
 may not care for this style."
 
 344 GROWING UP. 
 
 " I can bear anything," he said, making a comical 
 effort at self-control. 
 
 After the first was read, with an inward quaking, 
 she was delighted with his word of encouragement : 
 
 " Eead the others ; I cannot know how bad they 
 are until you read them all." 
 
 More hopefully she began the second paper, 
 which she read in a clear, conversational tone : 
 
 " Do you know," began grandmother, " who said 
 that she could be happy anywhere with good health 
 and a bit of marble ? " 
 
 And then we were all astir with eager interest. 
 
 " Rosa Bonheur was ' happy anywhere ' with 
 canvas, colors, and brush ; and this girl loved marble 
 just as well, and brought breathing life out of the 
 cold marble, as Eosa brought it out on her canvas. 
 But Harriet was an American child, born into a 
 luxurious home, with no brothers or sisters, and 
 her mother soon died and left her alone with her 
 father. Her mother died with consumption, and 
 her father had buried his other child besides Harriet 
 with the same disease, so no wonder he was afraid 
 for his little girl, and determined to give her a 
 playful childhood in air and sunshine. Harriet
 
 JUDITH'S FUTURE. 345 
 
 Hosmer was born in Watertown, Mass., October 9th, 
 1830." 
 
 " And now she's older than you are, grandmother," 
 said Bess. "I like to know about when grand 
 mothers were little girls." 
 
 "But she and Eosa Bonheur are not grandmothers. 
 They have had canvas and marble instead of a home 
 with children and grandchildren in it. As soon as 
 little Harriet was old enough a pet dog was given to 
 her, and she ornamented it with ribbons and bells. 
 Instead of tin cup and iron spoon, which Eosa had, 
 she revelled in all the pretty things that children 
 love. The Eiver Charles ran past her home; her 
 father gave her a boat and told her to take her air 
 and sunshine on the water and learn to develop her 
 muscles by the oars. And then he had built for 
 her a Venetian gondola with velvet cushions and 
 silver prow. 
 
 " ' She will be spoiled,' the neighbors foreboded, 
 but her wise father was not afraid ; he knew how 
 much happiness his child could bear and not be 
 rendered selfish. The next thing to help her become 
 strong was a gun ; she soon became what your 
 brothers would call a good shot. By and by you
 
 34ft GROWING UP. 
 
 will know how strong her hands and arms became 
 and what she could do with them. All this time, 
 just as you are, girls, these common days, she was 
 being made ready for her own special work." 
 
 Juliet grew radiant. She was hoping for " special 
 work." 
 
 "Her room was a museum. Gathered and pre 
 pared by her own eager and wise hands she had 
 beetles, snakes, bats, birds, stuffed or preserved in 
 spirits. From the egg of a sea gull and the body 
 of a kingfisher she made an ink-stand ; she climbed 
 to the top of a tree for a crow's nest. Miles and 
 miles she learned to walk without being wearied. 
 In her work and habits and strength she was like a 
 boy. She was fond of book, but just as fond of the 
 clay-pit in her garden where, to her father's delight 
 as well as her own, she molded dogs and horses. 
 
 "When Harriet Hosmer was taken to a famous 
 school (at home they called her ' happy Hatty ') the 
 the teacher said : ' I have a reputation for training 
 wild colts; I will try this one.' She stayed three 
 years. On her return home she began to take 
 lessons in drawing, modeling, and in anatomical 
 studies, often walking fourteen miles to Boston and
 
 
 JUDITH'S FUTURE. 347 
 
 back, with hours of work and study. Was not that 
 a day's work ? She went to the Medical College 
 of St. Louis to take a thorough course in anatomy." 
 
 " You have to know things to get things out of 
 marble," remarked Ethel. 
 
 " Grandmother, how hard girls can work ! " ex 
 claimed Nan, who did not love work. 
 
 " After she had finished her studies she traveled 
 alone to New Orleans, and then north to the Falls 
 of St. Anthony, smoking the pipe of peace with the 
 chief of the Dakota Indians, explored lead mines 
 in Dubuque, and scaled a high mountain to which 
 her name was afterward given." 
 
 "That was fun," said Nan. "I'm glad she had 
 some fun with her hard work." 
 
 " After work in her studio at home her father 
 sent her to Eome. Girl as she was, in her studio at 
 home she wielded for eight or ten hours a day a 
 leaden mallet weighing four pounds and a half. 
 And it was then she told a friend that she would 
 not be homesick, for she could be happy anywhere 
 with good health and a bit of marble. For seven 
 years she worked on her ' bit of marble ' in Rome. 
 She made beautiful and wonderful things with her
 
 348 GROWING UP. 
 
 good health and her marble, with hard work, and 
 the insight into beauty that God, who makes all 
 beautiful things, gave to this ready and obedient 
 child. 
 
 "The first work she copied for her teacher was 
 the Venus of Milo; when almost completed the 
 iron, which held the clay firm, snapped, and all her 
 work was spoiled." 
 
 " Oh ! " sighed Ethel. 
 
 " But she did not shriek nor cry herself to sleep 
 (that anybody knew), but bravely went to work 
 again. Her works were exhibited in Boston and 
 much admired. Her teacher said he had never seen 
 surpassed her genius of imitating the roundness 
 and softness of flesh. Look at other marble statues 
 and see if the flesh looks soft and round like 
 Harriet's. One of her works, a girl lying asleep, 
 was exhibited in London and in several American 
 cities. She said once she would work as though 
 she had to earn her daily bread, and, strange to tell, 
 very soon after that her father wrote that he had 
 lost his property and could send her no more money. 
 And then she hired a cheap room, sold her hand 
 some saddle-horse, and went to work in reality to
 
 JUDITH'S FUTURE. 349 
 
 earn her daily bread. Her first work, in her time of 
 sorrow, was a fun-loving, four-year-old child. With 
 the several copies she made from it she earned for 
 her daily bread thirty thousand dollars." 
 
 " And oh ! grandmother," I said (for I am a poor 
 girl myself), " when our heavenly Father has work 
 for us to do, it doesn't matter whether we are born 
 poor or rich." 
 
 "Either way it takes hard work," said grand 
 mother. 
 
 With a shy glance into his satisfied face she 
 opened her third paper : 
 
 "Children have more need of models than of 
 critics," said grandmother, "therefore I will give 
 you another model to-night. You will think I am 
 always choosing for you stories of girls that work ; 
 but where can I find models of any other kind? 
 What do girls amount to who think only of their 
 own pleasure, and never persevere to the successful 
 end ? Now I will tell you about a girl who came in 
 womanhood to live in an observatory. This is her 
 home. She is a dear old lady with white hair, 
 dressed in gray or brown, in rather Quakerish 
 fashion. She said to the girls she teaches : ' All the
 
 350 GROWING UP. 
 
 clothing I have on cost but seventeen dollars.' In 
 this unusual home (she is not a grandmother, either), 
 she keeps the things she loves best, her books, her 
 pictures, her astronomical clock, and a bust of Mary 
 Somerville, of whom I will tell you some time." 
 
 " And then we will remember that her bust is in 
 somebody's observatory home," said Bess. 
 
 " It is not a wonder that Maria Mitchell has great 
 respect for girls who do something, and for idle girls 
 none at all. As Juliet was at Nantucket last sum 
 mer she will be interested to know that Maria 
 Mitchell was born in that quiet, delightful place. 
 She was in a home of ten children. Her mother 
 was a Quaker girl, a descendant of Benjamin Frank 
 lin. Her father was a school teacher. Little Maria 
 went to school to her father. At school she studied, 
 and with ten little people at home, what do you 
 think she did ? She herself calls her work, ' endless 
 washing of dishes.' The dishwashing never hin 
 dered. I think it helped. I believe in dishwashing. 
 I wonder what this little girl would have thought 
 of the dishwasher that some people have in their 
 kitchens, and is warranted to wash sixty-five dishes 
 (in the smaller affair) at once, in the soap-sudsy.,
 
 JUDITH'S FUTURE. 351 
 
 steamy, crank-turning space of three blessed min 
 utes. And all dried, too. But in her observatory 
 she had no need to think of dishwashing. Like 
 Rosa Bonheur, and Harriet Hosmer, she had a good 
 father and a wise father. When he was eight years 
 old his father called him to the door to look at the 
 planet Saturn, and from that time the boy calculated 
 his age from the position of the planet, year by 
 year." 
 
 " Then it began with her grandfather," said Juliet, 
 who liked to find the beginnings of things. 
 
 " Her father had a little observatory of his own, 
 on his own land, that he might study the stars. So 
 it is no marvel that his daughter is ending her use 
 ful days in a big observatory. When Maria went to 
 her observatory, her father was seventy years of 
 age ; he needed her as nurse and companion, but he 
 said, ' Go, and I will go with you.'" 
 
 "This is the loveliest story of all," exclaimed 
 Grace, who loves her own old father dearly. 
 
 " For four years her father lived to be proud 01 
 her, and enjoyed her work and her pupils at Vassar 
 College. When Maria was a girl her father could 
 see no reason why she should not become as well
 
 352 GROWING UP. 
 
 educated as his boys, so he gave her, as to them, a 
 special drill in navigation." 
 
 " Grandmother," asked Ethel, " did you know all 
 these little girls when they were little ? " 
 
 "No, darling," said grandmother, "I found out 
 about them in books. And telling you about the 
 girls is getting you ready to read about them all the 
 little things the world has a right to know. For 
 they belong to the whole world. Maria did not 
 learn fancy work. I can guess what she would say 
 of some girls who care more for fancy stitches than 
 for studies. She has said, 'A woman might be 
 learning seven languages while she is learning fancy 
 work.' Still, girls, educate your fingers, and make 
 your homes pretty and attractive. But don't let 
 stitches hinder the stars God has his place for 
 both." 
 
 "Yes, the women worked pretty things for the 
 Tabernacle," I said. (For I love to make pretty 
 things.) 
 
 "But she did know how to knit, and she knit 
 stockings a yard long for her father as long as he 
 lived. She studied while she knit, as I used to do 
 when I was a little girl When she was a little
 
 JUDITH'S FUTURE. 353 
 
 girl how she did read ! Before she was ten years old 
 she read through Eollin's Ancient History. 
 
 " One night in October, 1847, she was gazing 
 through her telescope, and what do you think she 
 saw ? An unknown comet. She was afraid it was 
 an old story. Frederick VI., King of Denmark, 
 sixteen years before, had offered a gold medal to the 
 person who should discover a telescopic comet. And 
 the little Nantucket girl, who had knitted stockings 
 a yard long, and washed endless dishes, discovered 
 the telescopic comet, and to her was awarded the 
 gold medal. And now the scientific journals an 
 nounced Miss Mitchell's comet. In England she 
 was eagerly welcomed by Sir John and Lady 
 Herschel, and Alexander Von Humboldt took her 
 beside him on a sofa and talked to her about every 
 body he knew and everything he knew. And, oh ! 
 the other great people who were glad to see her. 
 She saw in Rome Frederika Bremer, of whose 
 comical, interesting, sad girlhood I must tell you 
 some day. But I musn't forget the little house 
 Maria bought for her father before she went to the 
 observatory of Vassar College. It cost sixteen 
 hundred and fifty dollars, and she saved the money
 
 354 GROWING UP. 
 
 out of her yearly salary of one hundred dollars, and 
 what she could earn in government work. 
 
 "I don't think I mind washing dishes so much 
 now," declared Nan. 
 
 And we all laughed. 
 
 "Good,** exclaimed Judith's listener. "Keep on 
 with the dozen, and salt them down. When I Was 
 a Boy series will be a good thing for you. Judith, 
 honest, now, would you rather go away to school 
 this winter, or read and write with Marion and me ? " 
 
 " Study with you," was the quick decision ; " I can 
 think of nothing in the world I would like so well." 
 
 "Then that is settled," he replied with satisfac 
 tion ; " I feared you would he restless. You are at 
 the frisky and restless age. Marion was sure you 
 would not be." 
 
 " But " Judith hesitated and colored painfully, 
 " if I am to teach by and by, would it be better for 
 me to go to school ? I can borrow the money and 
 then earn it by teaching and repay Aunt Affy." 
 
 " We are not making a teacher of you ; we are 
 making an educated woman " 
 
 " But, Roger," she persisted, " unless I go back to 
 Aunt Affy I must support myself. I am not willing 
 to be dependent upon any one except Aunt Affy."
 
 JUDITH'S FUTURE. 355 
 
 * Upon whom are you dependent now ? Are you 
 not earning your board by being co-operative house 
 keeper ? " 
 
 " If you and Marion think so." 
 
 " Ask Marion." 
 
 " But I would like to ask you, too ? " 
 
 " I thought my little sister had more delicacy of 
 feeling than feo ask such a question." 
 
 " Eoger, don't be a goose," she said, indignantly, 
 " that was all very well when I was a child. You 
 forget that I am grown up." 
 
 " You will not let me forget it." 
 
 " I wish you not to forget it. In the spring, on 
 my nineteenth birthday, I shall decide upon my 
 future. Just think, I have a future," she laughed. 
 " I am only too glad of the study and music this win 
 ter. Then I shall go out into the world, or go back 
 to Aunt Affy. I do not mean to be too proud " 
 with a quiver of the lip. 
 
 " Only just proud enough. You are exactly that. 
 Let us live in peace this winter, and then your nine 
 teenth birthday may do its worst for us all." 
 
 "You will not be serious," she answered, with 
 vexed tears ; " my life is a great deal to me."
 
 356 GROWING UP. 
 
 w It is a great deal to us all, dear. Work and be 
 patient, and you will have as happy an ending as 
 any story you write." 
 
 " My children end as children," she said, with a 
 quick laugh. "I shouldn't know what to do with 
 them if they grew up." 
 
 " There is One who does know what to do with 
 his children when they grow up," said Roger, bend 
 ing as he stood beside her and touching her lips with 
 his own. It was the first time he had ever kissed 
 her. She took the kiss as gravely and simply as it 
 was given. Something was sealed between them- 
 She would never be proud with him again. 
 
 " I will not kiss you again," said Eoger to himself, 
 " until you promise to be my wife." 
 
 That afternoon Roger asked Marion to drive to 
 Meadow Centre. 
 
 "I am glad you did not ask Judith," replied 
 Marion, with something in her voice, 
 
 "Why not?" he asked, indignantly, "why 
 shouldn't I ask Judith to drive with me ? " 
 
 " My point was not driving with you, but driving 
 io Meadow Centre." 
 
 " I confess I do not understand you."
 
 JUDITH'S FUTURE. 357 
 
 " I knew you didn't. Men are blind creatures." 
 
 " Then open the eyes of one blind creature." 
 
 " Haven't you seen that Mr. King is interested in 
 Judith ? " she asked, somewhat impatiently. 
 
 " We are all interested in Judith." 
 
 "Not just as he is. You are not," looking 
 straight into his frank, smiling eyes. 
 
 " You don't mean " 
 
 " Yes, I do mean " 
 
 " What about her ? " he asked with the color hot 
 in his face. But Marion was a "blind creature" 
 then and did not see. 
 
 "I don't know about her. She isn't grown up 
 enough to think. But I know he is wonderfully 
 attractive to her." 
 
 " He's a good fellow. I will not stand in his way." 
 
 " For pity's sake, Eoger, don't think you must do 
 anything," cried Marion, dismayed ; " let her alone. 
 He will take care of himself." 
 
 " I shall certainly let her alone. He is so artless 
 that he will be taken care of. It is like him to 
 stumble into the best thing in the universe and then 
 wonder how he ever got it." 
 
 " I hope you don't call Meadow Centre one of the 
 best things," retorted Marion.
 
 358 GROWING UP. 
 
 " It's a good place for a man to make something 
 of himself ; he is writing sermons that will make a 
 stir somewhere. Meadow Centre is to him what 
 Paul's three years in Arabia were to him." 
 
 "Then we must do our best to make Judith 
 ready " 
 
 " What a plotter you are," he exclaimed, angrily , 
 then, more quietly: "But we will make Judith 
 ready," and he walked off with a laugh that was a 
 mixture of things. 
 
 This day, in which God's daily bread and his daily 
 will were given to Judith as upon all the other days, 
 was one of the very happiest days of her happy life. 
 
 Roger's kiss gave her an undefined sense of safety 
 and protection; if she were not wise enough to 
 decide when the time came she would take refuge 
 in that safety and protection, and another kiss. 
 
 That evening Joe came for her, saying Aunt Rody 
 was worse. She went home with him, and 
 " watched " with Aunt Affy, until poor Aunt Rody 
 passed away from the home she had toiled so un 
 ceasingly for and taken so little comfort in. One 
 week she stayed with Aunt Affy : " I miss her so," 
 wept Aunt Affy broken-heartedly ; " I never was in 
 the world without her before."
 
 JUDITH' 1 S FUTURE. 359 
 
 "I suppose we musn't keep you, Judith," Uncle 
 Cephas remarked one evening behind his newspaper. 
 
 " Not yet," said Judith. " I want to be as busy as 
 a bee this winter to get ready for something." 
 
 " Then we will have to adopt Joe ; we must have 
 some young thing about the house." 
 
 Judith's first words to Koger and Marion as they 
 went out to welcome her on the piazza were in a 
 burst : " I do think those two old people growing old 
 together is the loveliest thing I ever saw." 
 
 " How young must two people begin to grow old 
 together ? " inquired Roger, comically. 
 
 " As soon as they think about growing old," said 
 Marion. 
 
 " Then I will not begin to think until my birth" 
 day," said Judith. "Marion, I am too happy in 
 having two homes. Some better girl than I should 
 have them." 
 
 " You forget your third home in England," re 
 marked Roger, seriously. 
 
 "Oh, poor Don. Roger, I am afraid Don isn't 
 happy," she said, with slow emphasis. 
 
 What Roger thought he did not say. 
 
 Don's letters were brief, constrained; Judith's 
 letter to her " new, dear Cousin Florence " had met 
 with nc re.aponse - that Judith knew.
 
 360 GROWING UP. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 A TALK AND WHAT CAME OF IT. 
 
 " There is nothing which faith does not overcome; nothing 
 which it will not accept." 
 
 BlSHOP IltlNTINGTON. 
 
 " KOGER," began Judith, doubtfully. 
 
 " Begin again, I don't like that tone." 
 
 "I was afraid you were thinking " 
 
 " I should be sorry not to be." 
 
 " I was afraid you were thinking too deeply to be 
 disturbed." 
 
 " Then I shouldn't be disturbed ; my mind would 
 be absent from my ear and I should not hear that 
 doubtful appeal The doubt is what I object to." 
 
 Marion and her mother had not returned from 
 their drive to Meadow Centre, where Mrs. Kenney 
 had a school friend. They intended to " spend an 
 old-fashioned day," Mrs. Kenney remarked at the 
 breakfast table ; it was five o'clock in the November 
 afternoon and the old-fashioned day was not yet 
 ended.
 
 A TALK. 361 
 
 Judith and her fancy work, covers for Nettie's 
 bureau, had taken possession of the light in the bay 
 window ; as the light faded, she sat thinking with 
 her work in her lap. Roger entered and threw 
 himself upon the lounge, clasping his hands above 
 his head; his thinking was weaving itself in and 
 out of a suggestion of his mother's that she should 
 take Judith home for the winter. 
 
 To the suggestion he had replied nothing at all 
 
 "Then the doubt is gone," answered Judith, 
 brightly. " I do not know how to put my thought." 
 
 " Isn't that rather a new experience ? " 
 
 " It is the experience of every day," she answered, 
 unmindful of his teazing. " I wonder why God keeps 
 us so much in the dark." 
 
 " Perhaps we keep ourselves in the dark." 
 
 " That is what I wanted to know." 
 
 " Can you tell me exactly what you mean ? Are 
 you in the dark about anything ? " 
 
 "About everything," she exclaimed with such 
 energy that his only reply was a laugh. 
 
 " Just now I mean one special thing that I cannot 
 tell you about." 
 
 " 0, Judith, are you growing up to have secrets ? * 
 he groaned.
 
 S62 GROWING UP. 
 
 " I am growing up with secrets. Aunt Rody used 
 to exasperate me by telling me I would ' outgrow 
 something, when all the time I knew I was growing 
 into something." 
 
 "Growing into a new thing is the best way to 
 outgrow an old thing." 
 
 " Then I am satisfied about something." 
 
 Rc^er wished that he could be about something. 
 
 "I wish I could tell you. But I don't know why 
 I shouldn't. I'm afraid Marion doesn't care for Mr. 
 King, and I want her to so much." 
 
 In the twilight she could not see the illumination 
 in the face across the room on the lounge. 
 
 He was satisfied about something. 
 
 " What are you getting down into ? " he asked 
 jubilantly. 
 
 "Why," pricking her work with her needle, "I 
 think he cares a great deal, and he is so splendid 
 that I want her to care. How they would work to 
 gether. Bensalem has been getting her ready." 
 
 "Well, I declare!" he exclaimed, rising to his 
 feet 
 
 " Are you displeased ? " 
 
 " There's nothing to be displeased about Is this
 
 A TALK. 363 
 
 the way girls plot against each other ? No wonder 
 we men have to tread softly." 
 
 " It isn't plotting exactly. It's only hoping." 
 
 " Is that your secret ? " 
 
 " Yes, and don't you tell," she said, alarmed. 
 
 " No ; it shall be my secret ; yours and mine. 
 Now what are we going to do about it ? " 
 
 "We cannot do anything. She admires him 
 around the edges, somehow. And he's as shy of 
 her as he can be. I seem to be always interpreting 
 them to each other." 
 
 He laughed, greatly amused. 
 
 " In spite of my selecting the most innocent love- 
 stories for you, you have grown up to the depth, or 
 height, of this. I'll never dare put a finger in a 
 girl's education again." 
 
 "But, Roger " 
 
 " Don't ask me to help you out." 
 
 "Marion will not. She doesn't seem to under 
 stand anything." 
 
 : 'No wonder," thought Roger, remembering her 
 early experience ; "she has been a burnt child; she'll 
 :i3ver play with that kind of fire again." 
 
 Aloud he replied : " She needs a wise head like 
 yours. What would you advise her to do ?"
 
 364 GROWING UP. 
 
 " To be natural ; just her own self, and she isn't 
 I believe she's afraid." 
 
 " So will you be when you are as old as she is." 
 
 " I don't know what to be afraid of." 
 
 "May you never know. Is that all you are in 
 the dark about ? " he questioned, seating himself in 
 his study chair, and wheeling around to face the girl 
 in the bay window. 
 
 A girl in blue, as she was when she sat in the bay 
 window in Summer Avenue and wrote letters to 
 Aunt Affy; the same trustful eyes, loving mouth, 
 and yellow head. 
 
 Now, as then, she did not know what to be afraid 
 of. It was only this last month that she had 
 brought her questions to Koger. Marion had not 
 grown ahead of her to answer her. And Aunt Affy 
 had been so absorbed in Aunt Eody this last year 
 that she had feared to trouble her with questions. 
 
 ** I have a book-full of questions laid up for you ; 
 rather the answers would be a book-full Life 
 seems full of questions. There's always something 
 to ask about everything I read." 
 
 " Ask the next book." 
 
 ** The next book doesn't always know. "
 
 A TALK. 365 
 
 " The next person may not always know." 
 
 " I can easily find out," she laughed. 
 
 Then she became grave, and, after a moment's si 
 lence, said : " I wish I knew why we couldn't have 
 an idea, as we pray a long time for something, 
 whether it were going to be given us or not." 
 
 "Something that you have no special promise for?" 
 
 "Yes; something in the ' what-so-ever.' It does 
 seem so hard to have it grow darker and harder, and 
 not to know whether you may keep on or not; 
 whether giving up would be in faith or despair." 
 
 " Judith, you've touched a sensitive point in many 
 a heart that keeps on praying." 
 
 " Do you know ? " she asked. 
 
 " I can tell you a story." 
 
 His story was all she desired. 
 
 "You know when Jairus came to the Lord to 
 plead for his daughter, he fell at his feet and be 
 sought him greatly, saying : ' My little daughter lieth 
 at the point of death.' Then Jesus went with him. 
 We do not know what he said, but he went with 
 him. Then, as they went together, the crowd came 
 to a stand-still that the Lord might perform a mira 
 cle and answer the prayer of a touch. But, by this
 
 366 GROWING UP. 
 
 time, Jesus had been so long on the way that news 
 came of the death of the little daughter. It was too 
 late. She was dead. They said to the father : ' Why 
 troublest thou the Master any further ? ' He might 
 as well go home to his dead child, the Master had 
 not cared to hasten this woman was not at the 
 point of death, she might have been healed another 
 day. But think of the comfort: as soon as Jesus 
 heard the message, he said to the father : ' Be not 
 afraid; only believe.' Is he not saying that every 
 hour to us who are fainting because he is so long on 
 the way?" 
 
 " Yes," said Judith, " but he did not say he would 
 raise her from the dead. Perhaps the ruler did not 
 know he had power to raise from the dead." 
 
 " No ; he only said : Be not afraid : only believe. 
 Is not that assurance enough for you ? " 
 
 "Now, don't think I am dreadfully wicked, but I 
 know I am ; I want him to say : ' Be not afraid, I 
 know she is dead, but I have power enough for that ; 
 believe I can do that. He did not tell him what to 
 believe." 
 
 " He told him to believe in the sympathy and 
 power that had just healed this woman who had
 
 A TALK. 367 
 
 been incurable twelve years, all the years his 
 
 daughter had been living." 
 
 " But," persisted Judith, " he might believe that, 
 for he had just seen it ; but to raise from the dead 
 was beyond everything he had seen, and Christ gave 
 him no promise for that." 
 
 " Perhaps he believed that the Master had power 
 in reserve he surely knew he was going to his 
 house for something he did not bid him believe, 
 and then turn back ; he went on with him to his 
 house." 
 
 " Now you have said what I wanted. It was the 
 going on with him that kept up his faith. As long 
 as Jesus kept on going his way he couldn't but 
 believe. He gave him something even better than 
 his word to believe in. I shouldn't think he would 
 be afraid of anything then." 
 
 " Then don't you be afraid of anything. Not un 
 til the Master turns and goes the other way." 
 
 " He will never do that," Judith said to herself. 
 
 The clock on the mantel struck the half hour: 
 half-past five. Judith rolled up her work and went 
 out to the kitchen. The tea kettle was singing on 
 the range; everything was ready for the supper,
 
 368 GROWING FP. 
 
 biscuits aud cake of her own making, jelly and fruit 
 that she and Marion had put up together in the 
 long summer days, to which she would add an 
 omelet and creamed potatoes, for Roger was always 
 hungry after a walk, and then coffee, for Mrs. Kenney 
 would like coffee after her drive. 
 
 " I don't mind now if my prayers do get stopped 
 in the middle," she thought as she arranged the 
 pretty cups and saucers on the supper table, "if 
 Jesus goes all the way with me he will take care 
 of the rest of it, and next year if something dies 
 this year, he can bring it to life next year. If He 
 wants to ; and I don't want Him to, if He doesn't 
 want to." 
 
 Roger came out into the kitchen to watch her as 
 she moved about, and, to his own surprise, found 
 himself asking her the question he had intended not 
 to ask at all. 
 
 " Would you like to go back home with mother 
 for the winter ? You may have a music teacher, 
 you have had none but Marion, and take lessons in 
 anything and everything. Mother would like it 
 very much," he said, noting the gladness and grati 
 tude in her face; " Martha will take your place here 
 with Marion."
 
 A TALK. 369 
 
 " Oh, yes, I would like it," she answered, doubt 
 fully. " Did she propose it ? * 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You are sure you didn't suggest it, even," she 
 questioned, still doubtfully. 
 
 " I am not unselfish enough for that," he answered, 
 dryly. 
 
 "But who would pay for it?" she questioned, 
 with a flush of shame. " No ; I will not go until 
 I earn money myself." 
 
 " A letter came last night from your Cousin Don 
 I really believe I forgot to tell you perhaps I 
 was jealous of his right to spend money for you. 
 He asked me to decide what would be best for you, 
 from my knowledge of yourself, and said any amount 
 would be forthcoming that your plans needed. His 
 heart is in his native land still. He will never 
 come home to stay as long as his wife "- -"lives " in 
 his thought was instantly changed to "objects" 
 upon his lips. 
 
 " So you would really like to go back to city life?" 
 
 " Yes," said Judith with slow decision. 
 
 Why should she not go home with John Kenney's 
 mother, she argued, as she stood silent before Roger,
 
 370 GROWING UP. 
 
 He was studying medicine in New York ; he had 
 written her once, only once, and then to tell her 
 that he had decided upon the medical course : " If I 
 cannot have something else I want I will have this. 
 Life has got to have something for me." 
 
 A week later Lottie Kindare had written one of 
 her infrequent letters ; the burden of the letter 
 seemed to be a twenty-mile drive with John Kenney 
 and an engagement to go to see pictures with him. 
 
 "I have always liked John, you know John 
 with the crimson name." She was glad of both 
 letters; they both revealed something she had no 
 other way of learning. She had not hurt John 
 beyond recovery, and Lottie would have something 
 she wished for most 
 
 " Don will be glad to take the responsibility of 
 you. You give him another reason for staying 
 alive." 
 
 "(Hasn't he reasons enough without me ? " 
 
 "He ought to have," was the serious reply. 
 " Everybody should have, excepting yourself." 
 
 " Myself appears to be the chief reason to me." 
 
 " Take as much time as you like to decide and 
 remember, you go of your own free will."
 
 A TALK. 371 
 
 " Roger, you know it isn't that I choose to go " 
 she began, earnestly. 
 
 " Oh, no," he said, as he turned away, " not Caesar 
 less, but Rome mere." 
 
 He went into the study and shut the door. 
 
 " The child, the child," he groaned, " she has no 
 more thought of me than Uncle Cephas." 
 
 When his mother and sister returned, and the 
 supper bell rang, he opened the door to say to 
 Marion that he would have no supper, he had work 
 to do. 
 
 "Yes," he thought grimly, "I have work to do 
 to fight myself into shape."
 
 372 GROWING UP. 
 
 XXXL 
 
 ABOUT WOMEN. 
 
 " Like a blind spinner in the SUB, 
 
 I tread my days ; 
 I know that all the threads will run 
 
 Appointed ways ; 
 
 I know each day will bring its task, 
 And, being blind, no more I ask." H. H. 
 
 " I WISH you would tell Judith Mackenzie all you 
 know about women's doings," said Jean Draper 
 Prince one morning late in November. 
 
 " I am ready to give the Bensalem girls a lecture 
 upon what women outside of Bensalem are doing," 
 said the lady in the bamboo rocker with her knit 
 ting. " All the ambitious girls, all the discouraged 
 girls." 
 
 The bam ooo rocKer was Jean's wedding present 
 from Judith Mackenzie; Jean had told Mrs. Lane 
 that the broad blue ribbon bow tied upon it was ex 
 actly the color of Judith's eyes. 
 
 Mrs. Lane had not visited Bensa!4n since the
 
 ABOUT WOMEN. 373 
 
 summer she gave Jean Draper the inspiration of her 
 outing ; but many letters had kept alive her interest 
 in the Bensalem girl, and kept growing the love arid 
 admiration of the village girl for the lady who lived 
 in the world and knew all about it. 
 
 Jean said her loveliest wedding present was the 
 week Mrs. Lane came to Bensalem to give to her. 
 The loveliest wedding present was shared with 
 Judith Mackenzie. 
 
 Jean's husband was the village blacksmith; his 
 new, pretty house was next door to his shop. It 
 was not all paid for, and Jean was helping to pay for 
 it by saving all the money she could out of her house 
 keeping. If she only might earn money, she sighed, 
 but her husband laughed at the idea, saying his two 
 strong hands were to be forever at her service 
 
 The small parlor was in its usual pretty order; 
 in the sitting-room were a flower stand, and a 
 canary's cage ; Mrs. Lane preferred the sitting-room, 
 but with her instinct that " company " should have 
 the best room, Jean had urged her into the parlor, 
 drawing down the shade? a little that the sunlight 
 should not fade the roses in the new carpet. 
 
 " Judith is the craziest girl about doing things,"
 
 
 374 GROWING UP. 
 
 replied Jean ; " she is ambitious, and she thinks she 
 must earn money. I told her you wrote for a paper 
 that was full of business for women, and could tell 
 her what to do," 
 
 " What does she wish to do ? " 
 
 " Study, and write she writes the dearest little 
 stories, or anything else, if she cannot do that. 
 She has ideas" said Jean, gravely ; " she is a rusher 
 into new things. I wish she would be married and 
 have a nice little home and care how the bread rises 
 and the pudding comes out of the oven." 
 
 " Isn't she interested in housekeeping ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes. But it is Miss Marion's. Not her own. 
 It is the own that makes the difference," replied the 
 girl-wife contentedly, nodding and smiling out the 
 window to the man in shirt-sleeves and leather 
 apron who stood in the doorway of the shop talking 
 to the minister on horseback. 
 
 How could she ever tell Judith that Bensalem 
 was gossiping about her staying at the parsonage ? 
 
 " Your work is your own ; it comes to be your 
 own, whatever it is. Every girl cannot marry a 
 blacksmith, Jean, and have a small home of her 
 own."
 
 ABOUT WOMEN. 375 
 
 " I know it. I wish they could. What I wish 
 most for Judith is for her to go back to Aunt Affy's." 
 
 That afternoon as the three sat together in the 
 blacksmith's parlor, Jean with towels she was hem 
 ming for her mother, and the other two with idle 
 hands and work upon their laps, Jean suddenly 
 asked Mrs. Lane to tell them about women and their 
 doings. 
 
 " As I waited in the station for my train the day 
 I came here," began Mrs. Lane in the conversational 
 tone of one prepared for a long talk, " a lady sat 
 near me, also waiting, with a bag in her hand. I 
 had a bag in my hand, but there was nothing un 
 usual in mine ; she told me she was going to Dun- 
 ellen to take care of ladies' finger-nails. She had a 
 good business in Dunellen and the suburbs in sum 
 mer, when the people were in their country homes ; 
 there were a few ladies who expected her that day." 
 
 " I wouldn't like to do that," declared Jean, " al 
 though I would do almost anything to pay off our 
 mortgage." 
 
 " In Buffalo is a woman who runs a street-cleaning 
 bureau ; in Kansas City a woman is at the head of a 
 fire department."
 
 376 GROWING UP. , 
 
 " Worse and worse," laughed Jean. 
 
 " A Louisville lady makes shopping trips to Paris." 
 
 " Splendid," exclaimed Jean, who still dreamed of 
 outings. 
 
 "A lady in New York makes flat-furnishing a 
 business." 
 
 " That is making a home for other people," said 
 Jean. 
 
 " But her own at the same time," answered Judith. 
 
 "New Hampshire has a woman president of a 
 street railway company ; and in Chicago is a woman 
 who embalms " 
 
 " Dead people," interrupted Jean ; " oh, dear me !" 
 
 " The world is learning the resources of the nine 
 teenth century woman. A Swiss woman has in 
 vented a watch for the blind. The hours on the 
 dial are indicated by pegs, which sink in, one every 
 hour." 
 
 " That is worth doing," observed Judith ; " I want 
 to do real work. I know I do not mean my work 
 to end with myself." 
 
 "Lady Somebody has classified her husband's 
 books, with a catalogue his papers fill five rooms ; 
 think of the work before her."
 
 ABOUT WOMEN. 377 
 
 " But that is not for herself," demurred Judith. 
 
 " I believe Judith would like to be famous," said 
 Jean with a laugh. " Bensalem is such a little spot 
 to her." 
 
 "A lady is about to translate King Oscar of 
 Sweden's works into English ; would you like to do 
 that, Judith ? " asked Mrs. Lane, who felt that she 
 had been a friend of Judith MacKenzie's ever since 
 Jean Draper had known her and written of their 
 girlhood together. 
 
 " Not exactly that," said Judith. 
 
 " The first woman rabbi in the world is in Cali 
 fornia. She has been trained in a Hebrew College ; 
 Rabbi Moses, the celebrated Jewish divine in 
 Chicago, urges her to take a congregation." 
 
 "Then how can the men give thanks in their 
 prayers that they are not born women?" asked 
 Judith quickly. 
 
 " Do the Jews do that ? " inquired Jean. 
 
 " Yes. But I don't believe old Moses did, or this 
 Rabbi Moses," said Judith. 
 
 "A lady has received the degree of electrical 
 engineer," continued Mrs. Lane, who appeared to 
 both her listeners to be a Cyclopedia of Information 
 Concerning Women.
 
 378 GROWING UP. 
 
 "Judith doesn't mean such things," explained 
 Jean ; "I don't believe she wants David to teach her 
 to be a blacksmith. But there is a woman in 
 Dunellen who has a sick husband, and she is doing 
 his work in the butcher's shop." 
 
 " Would you rather go to Washington, that city 
 of opportunities for girls ? The government offices 
 are filled with women, and young women. Those 
 who pass the civil service examination must be 
 over twenty. Many states of the Union are rep 
 resented. As the departments close at four in 
 the afternoon, some of the girls take time for other 
 employments, or for study. One I read of attends 
 medical lectures at night. Some, who love study, 
 belong to the Chautauqua Circle. French women, 
 as a rule, have a good business education. In the 
 common schools they are taught household book 
 keeping. The French woman is expected to help 
 her husband in his business." 
 
 " Not if he is a blacksmith," interjects the black 
 smith's wife. 
 
 " Harper has published a series called the Distaff 
 Series : all the mechanical work, type-setting, print 
 ing, binding, covering, and designing was all done 
 by women."
 
 ABOUT WOMEN. 379 
 
 "I think I would rather make the inside of a 
 book," said Judith. "But think of the women that 
 do that and every kind of a book." 
 
 a A lady took the four hundred dollar prize math 
 ematical scholarship at Cornell University. There 
 were twelve applicants ; nine were women." 
 
 "That is hard work," acknowledged Judith, to 
 whom Arithmetic and Algebra were never a success. 
 She had even shed tears over Geometry, and how 
 Roger had laughed at her. 
 
 " There's a lady on Long Island who has a farm 
 of five hundred acres; they call the farm, 'Old 
 Brick.'" 
 
 "Horrid name," interrupted Jean, turning care 
 fully the narrow hem of the coarse toweL 
 
 " It was a dairy farm, but she found milk not 
 profitable enough, and gave it up and made a study 
 of live stock. She has made a reputation as a stock 
 raiser ; she raises trotters and road horses," said Mrs. 
 Lane, watching the effect of her words upon Judith, 
 
 Judith colored and looked displeased. Was this 
 all Mrs. Lane, Jean's ideal lady, had to tell her of 
 women's brave work ? 
 
 " In Italy nearly two millions of women aie en>
 
 380 GROWING UP. 
 
 ployed in industrial pursuits, cotton, silk, linen, and 
 jute. Three million women are busy in agriculture. 
 You might try agriculture here in Bensalem.* 
 
 " What do their homes do ? " inquired Jean, the 
 home-maker. 
 
 " Oh, they do woman's work, beside." 
 
 " It is all woman's work, I suppose, if women do 
 it," answered Judith, discouraged. 
 
 " Judith, who is the sweetest woman you know ? " 
 asked Mrs. Lane, touched by the droop of the gWs 
 head and the trouble in her eyes. 
 
 " I know ever so many. No one could be sweeter 
 than my mother. And my Aunt Affy is strong and 
 sweet, and doing good to everybody. And Mrs. Ken- 
 ney, Marion's mother, she is in things, busy and 
 bright always." 
 
 " I have told you some things women may do ; now 
 111 cell you some things a woman one woman 
 may not do. She cannot do is n^t allowed to do ? 
 some things a washer-woman in Bensalem may do 
 But I'll read you the slip ; I have it in my pocket- 
 book." 
 
 Sha took the cutting from her pocket-book and 
 asked Judith to read it aloud.
 
 ABOUT WOMEN. 381 
 
 Judith read : " Queen Victoria, not being born a 
 queen, probably learned to read just like other per 
 sons. But after she became afflicted with royalty 
 she found that a queen is not allowed to have a 
 great many privileges that the humblest of her sub 
 jects can boast. For instance, she isn't allowed to 
 handle a newspaper of any kind, nor a magazine, nor 
 a letter from any person except from her own family, 
 and no member of the royal family or household is 
 allowed to speak to her of any piece of news in any 
 publication. All the information the queen is per 
 mitted must first be strained through the intellect of 
 a man whose business it is to cut out from the papers 
 each day what he thinks she would like to know. 
 These scraps he fastens on a silken sheet with a gold 
 fringe all about it, and presents to her unfortunate 
 majesty. This silken sheet with gold fringe is im 
 perative for all communications to the queen. 
 
 "Any one who wishes to send the queen a personal 
 poem or a communication of any kind (except a 
 personal letter, which the poor lady isn't allowed to 
 have at all) must have it printed in gold letters on 
 one side of these silk sheets with a gold fringe, just 
 so many inches wide and no wider, all about it
 
 382 GROWING OP. 
 
 These gold trimmings will be returned to him in 
 time, as they are expensive, and the queen is kindly 
 and thrifty; but for the queen's presents they are 
 imperative. The deprivations of the queen's life 
 are pathetically illustrated by an incident which 
 occurred not long ago. An American lad sent her 
 majesty an immense collection of the flowers of this 
 country, pressed and mounted. The queen was de 
 lighted with the collection and kept it for three 
 months, turning over the leaves frequently with 
 great delight. At the end of that time, which was 
 as long as she was allowed by the court etiquette to 
 keep it, she had it sent back with a letter saying 
 that, being queen of England, she was not allowed 
 to have any gifts, and that she parted from them 
 with deep regret." 
 
 "Well," exclaimed Jean, with an energy that 
 brought a laugh from her small audience, " I would 
 rather be the Bensalem blacksmith's wife." 
 
 " I wish I could take this to Nettie," said Judith ; 
 "she thinks sometimes she would like to be a 
 queen." 
 
 " She is, in her small province," replied Mrs. Lane. 
 " I have something for her ; I think I can help her
 
 ABOUT WOMEN. 383 
 
 step out into as wide a world as she cares to live in. 
 No ; don't ask me ; it is to be her secret and my 
 own. Now, Judith, tell me, what is the secret of 
 the happy and useful lives you know ? " 
 
 " I don't know," replied Judith, truthfully. "But 
 they are all married. I am thinking of girls like 
 me. Their work came to them." 
 
 "As mine did," said Jean, contentedly, with a 
 glance from her work out the window where the 
 blacksmith was shoeing a horse. 
 
 " Your Aunt Affy was not married " 
 
 " No, she was not. She had her work. It was 
 in her home. She was born among her work. But 
 I have not a home like that," Judith answered in 
 short, sharp sentences. 
 
 "Why, Judith," reproached Jean, "what would 
 Aunt Affy say to that ? " 
 
 " It would hurt her. She would look sorry. I do 
 not know what gets into me, sometimes. She would 
 adopt me and be like my own mother." 
 
 " Do you resist such a sweet mothering as that ? " 
 rebuked Mrs. Lane. " I think I lost some of the 
 sermon Sunday morning by looking at her face." 
 
 " I do not mean to resist her." said Judith, not 
 able to keep the tears back. ^
 
 384 GROWING UP. 
 
 "She told mother her heart ached to have you 
 back," persuaded Jean, "since her sister died she 
 had so longed for her little girL" 
 
 "I'm afraid I am not doing right," confessed 
 Judith, "but I was almost homesick there, when 
 Aunt Eody was sick. And then, I think I must 
 learn to support myself, and not be dependent." 
 
 " Oh, you American girl," said Mrs. Lane. 
 
 "And with Aunt Affy for your mother" added 
 Jean ; " I told Mrs. Lane you had ideas." 
 
 " I should think I had," said Judith, laughing to 
 keep the tears back. "I'm afraid I've forgotten 
 Aunt Affy. She loves two people in me, she says ; 
 my mother and me. I don't know what has pos 
 sessed me." 
 
 " Ambition, perhaps," Mrs. Lane suggested, taking 
 up her knitting, a long black stocking for her only 
 grandchild. 
 
 "Not just that," Judith reasoned; "it is more 
 making something of myself for myself. Culture 
 for its own sake," she quoted from Eoger, who had 
 warned her against her devotion to self-culture; 
 " and I give it a self-sacrificing name ; the desire to 
 be independent. I do not know why I should not
 
 ABOUT WOMEN. 385 
 
 be dependent on Aunt Affy. My mother was 
 and loved it." 
 
 " No service could be more acceptable than serving 
 her," said Mrs. Lane; "the world is only a larger 
 Bensalem." 
 
 " It isn't the world I wanted," replied Judith, im 
 patiently. 
 
 When Judith went away Jean walked down the 
 street with her. "Are you disappointed in Mrs. 
 Lane ? " she asked. 
 
 " She did not tell me what I hoped and expected. 
 She told me something better. I think I can study 
 at Aunt Affy's," in the tone of one having made a. 
 sacrifice. 
 
 " And go to the parsonage every day, " said Jean 
 eagerly, and yet afraid of pressing her point. 
 
 " Yes if I wish to," replied Judith slowly, surpris 
 ing herself by coming to a decision. 
 
 " Bensalem is such a place for talk," Jean 
 ventured, not that she was confident of success. 
 "Everybody knows everybody's business and is in 
 terested in it." 
 
 " But it is kindly talk," said Judith, whom gossip 
 had touched lightly.
 
 386 GROWING UP. 
 
 " Yes, sometimes not always," Jean hesitated ; 
 " people will misjudge." 
 
 " Jean Draper, what do you mean ? " asked Judith, 
 blazing angrily ; " are you trying to tell me some 
 thing ? " 
 
 "No," replied Jean, startled at Judith's unusual 
 vehemence. "I only want you to understand that 
 Aunt Affy is talked about for letting you stay so 
 much at the parsonage." 
 
 " How could it hurt anybody ? " 
 
 " They say Aunt Affy is scheming," she said, 
 watching the effect of her words. 
 
 " Scheming. What about ? What does she gain ? " 
 asked Judith, provoked. 
 
 " The gain is for you," said Jean, at last, desper 
 ately ; " they say she wants to marry you to the min 
 ister." 
 
 Now she had said it. She stood still, frightened. 
 Judith left her without another word, going straight 
 on to the parsonage. After a moment Jean turned 
 and went home. 
 
 What would Judith do ? She looked angry enough 
 to do anything. But she had shielded her from fur 
 ther talk. Bensalem should have no more to say.
 
 ABOUT WOMEN. 387 
 
 Judith went on dazed. Now she understood it 
 all ; Martha was coming that she might go ; they 
 did not like to tell her to go ; they were all too kind. 
 As if Aunt Affy could plot like that. As if Aunt 
 Affy cared for that : Aunt Affy who wanted to keep 
 her always. 
 
 Had Marion heard the talk ? And Roger ? Was 
 he glad to send her away with his mother ? She 
 would fly to Aunt Affy that very night; the old 
 house would be her refuge. She would go back to 
 Aunt Affy and her mother's home. Roger, her 
 saint, her hero, her ideal he could never think of 
 her like that. 
 
 She opened the door and went in. Marion had 
 taken her mother for a drive. The study door was 
 shut, the usual signal when Roger was busy. But 
 she often ventured ; the shut door had never barred 
 her out. Nothing had ever kept her away from 
 Roger. She tapped ; Roger called : " Come in." 
 
 He was writing and did not lift his eyes. 
 
 She waited ; he looked up and smiled. 
 
 " Can you stop one minute ? " she asked, faintly. 
 
 " One and a half." 
 
 " I came to tell you that I have thought it over ; 
 I would rather not go home with Mrs. Kenney."
 
 388 GROWING UP. 
 
 " Stay then, with all my heart." 
 
 " But not with all my heart. I am going to Aunt 
 Affy's instead. She wants me," she said, quietly, 
 with a quiver of the lip. 
 
 "I should think she would.' 
 
 " I did not know how much. She herself would 
 not tell me. Jean Draper told me. Aunt Affy told 
 her mother." 
 
 " That will not change our plans of study at all." 
 
 " No ; it need not." 
 
 " It shall not." 
 
 "I think I can get on alone awhile. You have 
 taught me how to use books. You have shown me 
 that they are tools. I can write by myself. You 
 have been to me like Maria Edgeworth's father. 
 Perhaps it is time for Maria to stand alone." 
 
 " You are tired of my teaching." 
 
 " Oh, no ; I am not tired of anything excepting 
 Bensalem. I hate Bensalem," she burst out with 
 anger and contrition. 
 
 " What has Bensalem done now ? " 
 
 " Nothing unusual. Will you tell Marion I am 
 going home to stay to-night ? Martha will come 
 and help her in the housekeeping."
 
 ABOUT WOMEN. 389 
 
 " Judith, has any one hurt you ? " 
 
 " No," said Judith, smiling with the tears starting ; 
 " you are all too kind." 
 
 " Is it for Aunt Affy you are going ? Judith, you 
 cannot deceive me." 
 
 " No ; I do not think I can. I am going for Aunt 
 Affy's sake, Boger." 
 
 " Because she misses you ? " 
 
 "Yes, because she misses me, and needs me. 
 People think and say she is not taking good care 
 of me. I wish to prove to them that she is." 
 
 " That is sheer nonsense," he exclaimed, angrily. 
 
 " It is not nonsense that she misses me now that 
 her sister is gone. I never had any sister excepting 
 Marion, hut I know it was dreadful for Aunt Affy 
 to lose her sister. If you haven't helped me to 
 study alone, to depend upon myself, you have been 
 very little help to me." 
 
 " That is true," he laughed, " but the studying is 
 only a part of what the parsonage is to you." 
 
 " It was my reason for coming, and staying, she 
 said, simply, flushing and trembling. 
 
 " True ; I had forgotten that. Yes ; it is better 
 for you to go ; best for you to go. Come to-morrow
 
 GROWING UP. 
 
 and talk it over to Marion and my mother. I will 
 tell them only that you have gone home, to spend 
 the night." 
 
 He took up his pen, it trembled in his grasp; 
 Judith went out and shut the door that he might 
 not be disturbed. 
 
 "I am giving it all up," she thought, as she 
 pressed a few things into a satchel ; " all I was going 
 away to get ; perhaps this is the way my prayer for 
 work is being answered." 
 
 They were at supper when she stood in the door 
 way ; Aunt Affy at the head of the table behind the 
 tea-pot and the cups and saucers ; her husband op 
 posite her, genial, handsome, satisfied, and Joe, at 
 one side of the round table, tall, fine-looking, with 
 his gray, thoughtful eyes, refined lips, and modest 
 manner. Joe was a son to be proud of, the old pao- 
 ple sometimes said to each other. 
 
 There was no chair opposite Joe, no plate, and 
 knife and fork and napkin. Uncle Cephas liked a 
 hot supper; they had chicken stew to-night, and 
 boiled rice. It was like home, the faces, the things 
 on the supper-table. She was homesick enough to 
 long for some place " like " home. The parsonage
 
 ABOUT WOMEN, 391 
 
 could never be her home again, with Martha in her 
 place; perhaps Martha had been wishing to come 
 for years ; perhaps her selfishness had kept Martha 
 away. 
 
 John would be married, Martha would be in her 
 place at the parsonage, Don was too far away to 
 know, and too absorbed in his wife to care; Mrs. 
 Kenney did not really want her, she had only asked 
 her to go home with her to get her away from the 
 parsonage; the only home she had a right to was 
 this home where her mother had been a little girl. 
 
 "Why, Judith," cried Aunt Affy, rising, "dear 
 child, what is the matter ? " 
 
 " I wanted to come home," said Judith.
 
 392 GROWING UP. 
 
 xxxn. 
 
 AUNT AFFY'S PICTURE. 
 
 " That only which we have within can we see without." 
 
 EMERSON. 
 
 JUDITH stood at the sitting-room window looking 
 out/ into the March snow-storm. There had been 
 many snow-storms since that November night she 
 came to the threshold and stood looking in at the 
 happy supper-table. Aunt Affy had opened her 
 arms and heart anew and folded her close: "My 
 lamb has come back," she said. 
 
 " To stay back," Judith whispered, hiding her face 
 on Aunt Affy's shoulder. 
 
 That night was nearly two years ago ; she would 
 be twenty in April. She was not " twenty in April " 
 to Aunt Affy; she was still her "lamb" and her 
 "little girl." 
 
 In her dark blue cloth dress, and with her yellow 
 head and rose-tinted cheeks, she did not look as
 
 AUNT AFFY'S PICTURE. 393 
 
 grown-up as she felt ; she had taken life, not only 
 with both hands, but with heart, brain, and spirit, 
 and with all her might. There was nothing in her 
 that she had not put into her life; her simple, 
 Bensalem life. 
 
 " Aunt Affy," she said, as Aunt Affy's step paused 
 on the threshold between kitchen and sitting-room : 
 " Come and rest awhile in this fire-light. This fire 
 on the hearth to-night reminds me of the glow of 
 the grate in Summer Avenue when I used to tell 
 pictures to mother." 
 
 Aunt Affy pulled down the shades ; Judith drew 
 Aunt Affy's chair to the home-made rug Aunt 
 Body's rug, to the hearth, and then sat down on 
 the hassock at her feet, and looked into the fire, not 
 the curly-headed girl in Summer Avenue, but the 
 girl grown up. 
 
 " Aunt Affy, tell me a picture," she coaxed. 
 
 "What about?" 
 
 "About myself. I'm afraid I am too full of my 
 self. I cannot understand something. I can tell 
 you about it, for it is past, and I can look at it as 
 something in the past. You know those years I was 
 at the parsonage, at my boarding-school, I was 
 crammed full with one hope."
 
 394 GROWING UP, 
 
 Judith was looking at the fire ; the eyes looking 
 down at her were solicitous, tender. She had been 
 afraid Judith "cared too much" for the young 
 minister ; but it must be over now, or she could not 
 tell her about it so frankly. 
 
 " I dreamed it, I studied it, I wrote it, I prayed 
 about it, I breathed it." 
 
 " Ch," said Aunt Affy, with a quick, heavy sigh. 
 
 " Don't pity me. It was good for me, blessed for 
 me, or it could not have happened, you know. I 
 thought there was some great work for me to do " 
 
 " Oh," said Aunt Affy, with a quick, relieved cry. 
 
 " I was not sure whether it were to write a book, 
 or to teach, or to go as a foreign missionary ; I think 
 I hoped it would be the foreign missionary, because 
 that was the most self-sacrificing. The book was 
 all one great joy. The teaching was absorbing, but 
 I must go away to study. I was afraid to go away, 
 I did not like to go away from Bensalem, I would 
 miss my mother away from Bensalem, and you, and 
 all the parsonage, and the whole village. But I 
 thought I was called; as called as Eoger was to 
 preach, or any woman, saint, or heroine, who had 
 done a great thing. You cannot think what it was
 
 AUNT AFFY'S PICTURE. 895 
 
 to me. It made me old. I wanted God to speak 
 out of Heaven and tell me what to do. It began to 
 lose its selfishness, after that. The first thing that 
 began to shake my confidence was something Mrs. 
 Lane said that afternoon she talked to Jean and me 
 about what women were doing and could do. She 
 did not make woman's work attractive ; she took the 
 heart out of me. I did not know why she should 
 do that. I knew better all the time. I knew what 
 women had done and were doing. I knew she was 
 doing a noble work, literary work, work in prisons, 
 temperance work ; the instances she gave me seemed 
 trivial, as if she were laughing at me. But some 
 thing opened my eyes ; I felt that I might be dis 
 obedient to my heavenly vision, that I was looking 
 up into the heavens for my call, and the voice might 
 be all the time in my ear. That was the night I 
 came back here and found you so cozy and satisfied 
 under your own roof-tree, with the voice in your ear, 
 and the work in your hand. The world went away 
 from me. I stayed. I am glad I stayed. My only 
 trouble is, and it is a real trouble, that God did not 
 care for my purpose, or my prayers ; that he has let 
 them go as if they never entered into his mind ; I 
 bought they were in his heart as well as mine."
 
 396 GROWING UP. 
 
 "They are, Deary," said Aunt Affy, wiping her 
 eyes ; " He will not let one of them go." 
 
 "But He did not do anything with them. He 
 did not love my plan, and my prayers," said Judith, 
 wearily. 
 
 "Do you remember one time when Jesus was on 
 the earth, a man, clothed and in his right mind, sat 
 at Jesus' feet ? He had so much to be thankful for ; 
 no man ever had so much. And he sat at Jesus' 
 feet, near him because he loved him, and looked up 
 into his face and listened. That was all he wanted 
 on the earth, to be with Jesus ; to follow him every 
 where, to obey every word he said, to always see his 
 face, to serve him. Did not the Lord care for such 
 love when so many were scorning him and ashamed 
 to be his disciples ? When he came to his own, and 
 his own received him not. When the man found 
 ( that Jesus was going away, that his countrymen 
 were sending him away, beseeching him to go, he be 
 sought Jesus, which was more than one asking, that 
 he might go with him. That was all he wanted: 
 just to go with him. Just as all you wanted was 
 to be with him and do something he said, and be 
 sure he said it. But Jesus sent this man away. He 
 refused him ; he denied his prayer."
 
 AUNT AFFY'S PICTURE. 397 
 
 " That was very hard," said Judith. 
 
 " Very hard. It was like giving him a glimpse of 
 Heaven it was Heaven, and then shutting the 
 door in his face as he prayed." 
 
 " Yes," said Judith, who understood. 
 
 " But he did speak to him ; he told him what to 
 do : ' Eeturn to thine own house.' If he had father, 
 mother, brother, sister, wife, children, go back to 
 them and tell them how good God had been to him. 
 When I look at you, Deary, stepping about the 
 house, so pretty and bright, I think of how glad 
 your mother must be if she sees you. How glad to 
 know the little girl she left was taken care of. And 
 in church when you play the organ, and in Sunday 
 School, and at the Lord's own table, and doing er 
 rands all around the village, you are a blessing in 
 your ' own house.' " 
 
 Judith's head went down on Aunt Affy's knee. 
 
 " This man went through the ' whole city ' beside ; 
 his own house grew into the whole city. Your life 
 isn't ended yet ; to old folks like Uncle Cephas and 
 me, it seems just begun. Your own house is only 
 just the beginning of the whole city. I've only had 
 my own house and Bensalem, but I seem to think
 
 398 GROWING UP. 
 
 there's a whole city for you. The Lord knew about 
 the whole city when he denied his prayer and sent 
 him to his own house." 
 
 Judith did not lift her head ; her tears were tears 
 of shame and penitence. 
 
 "Now, here come the men folks," roused Aunt 
 Affy, cheerily; "and supper they must have to 
 keep them good-natured." 
 
 "I am only in my 'own house' yet," said Judith, 
 as she moved about setting the supper table as she 
 had done when she was a little girL
 
 NETTIE'S OUTING. 399 
 
 xxxin. 
 
 NETTIE'S OUTING. 
 
 "Does the road wind up hill all the way 1 " 
 
 "Yes, to the very end." 
 "Will the day's journey take the whole, long day f " 
 
 " From morn to night, my friend." 
 
 CHKISTINA G. ROSSBTTI. 
 
 THIS same evening, in the March snow-storm, 
 Nettie Evans sat in her invalid chair beside the 
 table in her chamber. Nettie had not grown up in 
 appearance ; face and figure were slight, her cheeks 
 were pale, her eyes large and luminous ; her laugh 
 was as light-hearted as the laugh of any girl in the 
 village ; her father often told her that she was the 
 busiest maiden in Bensalem. 
 
 Her busy times grew out of Mrs. Lane's secret. 
 
 Nettie was the member of a society; the Shut- 
 In Society. It was an organized society ; it pub-
 
 400 GROWING UP. 
 
 lished a magazine monthly : The Open Window, 
 with a motto upon its title-page : 
 
 " The windows of my soul I throw 
 Wide open to the sun." 
 
 Since Mrs. Lane had told her about the Society 
 and made her a member she had thrown the win 
 dows of her soul wide open to the sun. 
 
 And the Lord shut him in, was the motto of the 
 Society. Nettie had marked the precious words in 
 her Bible with the date of her accident, and another 
 date : the day when she became a member of the 
 Shut-In Society. 
 
 The Open Window had come in to-night's mail; 
 Nettie had been counting the hours until mail time } 
 and laughed a joyful little laugh all to herself when 
 she heard her father say to her mother in the hall 
 below : " It's mail time, and I must go to the office 
 to-night, storm or no storm ; Nettie will not sleep a 
 wink unless she has her magazine." 
 
 It was her feast every month. The members and 
 associates numbered hundreds and hundreds, Nettie 
 did riot know how many ; and they were all around 
 the world. Nettie herself had had a letter from the 
 Sandwich Islands ; the magazine was sent to a
 
 NETTIE'S OUTING. 401 
 
 leper colony, but she would never dare to write a 
 letter to such a place. With every fresh magazine 
 she read the object and aim of the Society: 
 
 " This Association shall be called the SHUT-IN SO 
 CIETY, and shall consist of Members and Associates. 
 Its object shall be : To relieve the weariness of the 
 sick-room by sending and receiving letters and other 
 tokens of remembrance; to testify to the love and 
 presence of Christ in the hour of suffering and priva 
 tion ; to pray for one another at set times : daily, 
 at the twilight hour, and weekly on Tuesday morn 
 ing at ten o'clock ; to stimulate faith, hope, patience, 
 and courage in fellow-sufferers by the study and 
 presentation of Bible promises. 
 
 " To be a sufferer, shut in from the outside world, 
 constitutes one a proper candidate for membership 
 in this Society. All members are requested to send 
 with their application, if possible, the name of their 
 pastor or their physician, or of some Associate of 
 the Society, as introduction; and no name should 
 be forwarded for membership until the individual 
 has been consulted and consent obtained. If able, 
 members are expected to pay 50 cents yearly for 
 THE OPEN WINDOW. Any who are unable will 
 please inform the Secretary. '
 
 402 GROWING UP. 
 
 " As this is not an almsgiving society, its members 
 are requested not to apply for money or other ma 
 terial aid to the officers, Associates, or other mem 
 bers. Any assistance which can be given in the 
 way of remunerative work will be cheerfully ren 
 dered. 
 
 " Members are not to urge upon any one in the 
 Society the peculiar belief of any particular sect or 
 denomination. 
 
 " Associate members are not themselves invalids, 
 but, being in tender sympathy with the suffering, 
 volunteer in this ministry of love for Jesus' sake." 
 
 Mrs. Lane had been an Associate member from 
 the time of the organization of the Society in 1877. 
 Jean Draper Prince, coming to Nettie's chamber 
 upon the Shut-in's last birthday, and finding her 
 with a tableful and lapful of mail packages, had told 
 her that Mrs. Lane had given her the biggest " out 
 ing " any girl in the village ever had. 
 
 Nettie had fifteen regular correspondents, and 
 never a week passed that she was not touched by an 
 appeal for letters and did not write an extra letter 
 to some one not on her " list." The wool slippers in 
 her work-basket she had finished to-day for a Shut-
 
 NETTIE'S OUTING. 403 
 
 In birthday gift next month. Every night in her 
 prayer she gave thanks for the blessings that 
 widened and brightened her life through " the dear 
 Shut-In Society." 
 
 As she sat reading her magazine, too deep in it to 
 hear a sound, light feet ran up the narrow stairway. 
 She did not lift her eyes until Pet Draper, Jean's 
 youngest sister, pushed the door open. 
 
 "Why, Pet," she exclaimed. "Are you out in 
 this storm ? " 
 
 "No," laughed Pet, "I am in in this storm. I 
 came to stay all night." 
 
 "I shouldn't think you would want to go out 
 again to-night." 
 
 "Oh, it isn't so bad. The snow is light. Joe 
 brought me," she said, with sudden meaning in her 
 tones. 
 
 "Did he?" asked Nettie, absently ;" just let me 
 read you this. ' This lady walked forty steps to go 
 out to tea for the first time in thirty-two years.' 
 I wonder if I shall ever go out to tea." 
 
 " Nettie, you shall come to my wedding." 
 
 " Pet ! " exclaimed Nettie, in delight and surprise. 
 
 "Yes. And I came to tell you. I told Joe to-
 
 404 GROWING UP. 
 
 night I would marry him," she said, laughing and 
 coloring. 
 
 "I'm so glad. I'm so glad," repeated Nettie ; "he 
 is so good and kind." 
 
 " He is as good as David Prince any day. Jean 
 needn't put on airs because he was only a farm boy. 
 He is more than that now. Mr. Brush has promised 
 to build a little house just opposite his house, across 
 the road, and Joe is not to be paid wages, but to 
 take the farm on shares. Plenty of people do that. 
 Mr. Brush says he is his right-hand. Father will 
 furnish our house it will not take much. Perhaps 
 some day Joe will have a farm of his own. My 
 father had to earn his farm, and that's why the 
 mortgage isn't off yet. Joe has saved some money, 
 and so have I. Agnes Trembly will try to give me 
 her customers when she is married; she always 
 speaks a good word for me. I've made dresses for 
 Mrs. Brush and Judith and Miss Marion." 
 
 " And wrappers for me," said Nettie. 
 
 "Yes, I shall always have you to make my 
 fortune." 
 
 " That is splendid, and I am so glad. But here's 
 my letter in the Open Window : do let me read it 
 to. you."
 
 NETTIE'S OUTING. 405 
 
 Pet laughed, and listened. She believed Nettie 
 liked the Shut-In Society as well as having a new 
 little house and a husband. Nettie would have told 
 her she liked it better. 
 
 While Pet slept her happy, healthful sleep that 
 night, after her somewhat hurried two minutes of 
 kneeling to pray, Nettie lay peacefully awake re 
 membering the "requests for prayer" in her Open 
 Window. 
 
 " Our prayers are earnestly asked for an aged 
 man, who has lost the home of his childhood, that 
 he may feel that God does it for the best and may 
 love God. Also a lady whose life is very sad, that 
 she may look up to God and rejoice in him. " : 
 
 "Pray for one who fears blindness, that if possible 
 it may be averted, but if it must be, in the midst of 
 darkness there may be the light of God's counte 
 nance. 
 
 "Let us remember the sorrowing hearts from whom 
 sisters or parents or children have been taken by 
 death. 
 
 " One long a sufferer from disease, asks us to pray 
 that if it be God's will she may be healed. 
 
 "One who feels that answers to our prayers have
 
 406 GROWING UP. 
 
 been granted, asks that we still pray that the use 
 of his limbs may be restored and that a beloved 
 mother may long be spared to him. 
 
 " One of our number writes, ' Pray that father and 
 the children may be saved and that mother and I 
 love God better.' It is hard sometimes for Chris 
 tians so to live that unconverted members of the 
 family be drawn by their lives toward Christ. This 
 mother and daughter truly need our prayers. 
 
 " One of our band is trying to build up a church in 
 a lonely spot. She asks us to pray God's help for 
 her." 
 
 Nettie's outing went out farther than anyone 
 knew. She could tell about her gifts and her letters, 
 but never about her intercession. 
 
 " I wonder," she planned, " if I couldn't have a 
 little Fair ; all the girls would do something ; I have 
 so little money to give. I couldn't go unless I 
 have it in my room." 
 
 She wanted to awaken Pet to talk about it, but 
 that would be selfish, and then Pet might be 
 cross. 
 
 She fell asleep beside the strong young girl who 
 lent her life from her own vitality ; the full, breath-
 
 NETTIE'S OUTING. 407 
 
 ing lips, the warm cheeks, the head with its masses 
 of auburn hair, the touch of the hand upon her own 
 were all life giving. Nettie loved girls; the girls 
 who were what she might have been. 
 
 Awaking out of restless sleep, she remembered 
 the Midnight Circle to pray for the sleepless, and 
 prayed : " Father, give them all sleep, if thou wilt ; 
 but, if thy will be not so, give them all something 
 better than sleep."
 
 408 GROWING UP. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 " SENSATIONS." 
 
 "Being fruitful in every good work, and increasing in the 
 knowledge of God." 
 
 THIS same March night in the snow-storm the 
 Bensalem preacher sat alone in his study among 
 his books, with his thoughts among his people 
 whom he loved. 
 
 Marion brought her work-basket and took her 
 seat on the other side of the lamp. The evening's 
 mail was upon the table. 
 
 " What do the letters bring to-night, Roger ? " she 
 inquired in the tone of one hungry for news. 
 
 " Enough to stir us up for one while." 
 
 " Good. I am always ready to be stirred up. I 
 have been stagnant all day." 
 
 " What a girl you are for wanting new sensations." 
 
 " Aren't you always after them ? " 
 
 " No, they are always after me."
 
 "SENSATIONS." 409 
 
 " Which one is after you now ? " 
 
 " Four." 
 
 " Four letters," she said, eagerly. 
 
 " There are more than four letters. But four have 
 sensations." 
 
 "Do give me half a sensation." 
 
 " What do you think of John writing me that he 
 is tired of medicine, it is too big a pull ; he wants 
 me to break it to father, and ask him to take him 
 into the business." 
 
 " Father will be glad enough ; but he will not like 
 John to give up for such a reason." 
 
 " I imagine that girl is at the bottom of it. Girls 
 are usually at the bottom of things. Her father 
 will be willing for the marriage if John goes into 
 business ; he did not relish the idea of a struggling 
 professional man." 
 
 " Lottie Kindare is not the girl to relish a long 
 engagement, either. I am not surprised at that 
 sensation." 
 
 "You will not be surprised that Kichard King 
 has resigned and accepted a call to the Summer 
 Avenue church." 
 
 " Oh, no ; father said they were determined to 
 have him."
 
 410 GROWING UP. 
 
 " And he's to be married, too." 
 
 " I cannot be surprised at that. That is not a 
 sensation. I knew he was taken with Agnes 
 Trembly that first time he met her here. She did 
 look as sweet as a violet. She has grown like a 
 flower this last year." 
 
 "Thanks to you. You have been a wonderful 
 help to her. You took her into a new world." 
 
 " That is what I tried to do. She was ready for 
 it. And to think our little country dressmaker 
 will be the wife of the Summer Avenue minister." 
 
 " Oh, she'll take to it. It is in her." 
 
 " Yes ; she has tact." 
 
 " And natural ability." 
 
 " That is only how many sensations ? " 
 
 " You saw that one letter was from Don. He is 
 coming home next month. Eeally, this time." 
 
 " His wife has been dead " 
 
 "A year. Their married life was very short. 
 All the happier because it was short. She has be 
 come a blessed memory to him. She was very sweet 
 the last month of her life. He loved her then as he 
 had never loved her before. She told him that she 
 dlQ not love him when she married him ; that she
 
 " SENS A TIONS." 41 1 
 
 married him to get away from her uncle's home. 
 That last month was the one sweet drop in his 
 bitter cup." 
 
 " Eoger, you knew his story all the time." 
 
 "From the very first. He was not proud with 
 me. He is so much like a woman that he had to 
 tell somebody." 
 
 "That proves how little you know of women/' 
 was the woman's unspoken comment. 
 
 " Now, for my last sensation. The First Church 
 in Dunellen asks if I will accept a call." 
 
 " 0, Eoger," with a mingling of sensations. 
 
 " It is ' 0, Eoger,' I am torn in two." 
 
 " One Eoger for Bensalem and one for Dunellen." 
 
 " I have known for some time that I might have 
 the call. Dear old Dr. Kent has resigned. He told 
 me he wanted to throw his mantle over me." 
 
 "The salary is twenty-five hundred and parson 
 age," remarked Marion. 
 
 " I suppose I am not above the consideration of 
 salary. I cannot work at tent making." 
 
 " Bensalem has had the best of you." 
 
 " Well, I hope not at my age." 
 
 "Bensalem has been preparation for Dunellen, 
 then," she amended.
 
 412 GROWING UP. 
 
 " What do you advise ? " 
 
 " I do not advise a man when his mind is made 
 up." 
 
 " Bensalem has been good for us." 
 
 "And we have not been so bad for Bensalem. 
 Seven is the perfect number. We have been here 
 seven years. What will Judith say ? " 
 
 " I think I will go and see," he said, rising. 
 
 " To-night ? In the storm ? " 
 
 " It will be the first storm I ever was afraid of." 
 
 Left alone, Marion forgot her work. It was not 
 only Dunellen. He would forget to ask Judith 
 about Dunellen. 
 
 Judith was sitting before the fire on the hearth 
 with a book when Roger stamped up on the piazza. 
 Aunt Affy, mixing 'bread at the kitchen table, heard 
 the gate swing to, and called to Uncle Cephas that 
 somebody must want shelter for the night to come 
 out in such a storm. Uncle Cephas dropped his 
 newspaper and opened the sitting-room door that led 
 to the piazza. 
 
 " Well, the minister, of all things ! " 
 
 " Sakes alive ! " exclaimed Aunt Affy, rubbing the 
 flour off her hands.
 
 " 8RN8ATIQN8." 413 
 
 Judith sat still by the fire. 
 
 " I had to come to see my elder," explained Roger 
 
 "Oh, church business," said Aunt Affy enlightened 
 
 " Young folks never mind a storm," remarked the 
 elder. " Shake off your snow, and come to the fire." 
 
 As Judith arose with her book Roger detained her ; 
 " This isn't a secret session, Judith. You and Aunt 
 Affy must help me decide about Dunellen." 
 
 " Dunellen ! Has it come to that ? " inquired the 
 elder. 
 
 " Dunellen has come to me. The First Church 
 has come to me." 
 
 " I might have known what would come of your 
 exchanging so often," remarked Uncle Cephas, dis 
 contentedly. 
 
 "I thought you did it to rest Dr. Kent," re 
 proached Aunt Affy. 
 
 "I did. It did rest him." 
 
 " And you got ensnared yourself. -Roger Kenney, 
 are you going there for the money ? " asked Uncle 
 Cephas, with solemnity. 
 
 "You know better than that," replied Roger, 
 angrily. 
 
 " The heart of man is deceitful. There's a great
 
 414 GROWING UP. 
 
 difference in the salary. But there's a difference in 
 the man. You've grown some since you came here 
 seven years ago." 
 
 " Uncle Cephas, I think you are wicked" protested 
 Judith, with tearful vehemence. "If you don't 
 know Roger better than that you do not know him 
 at all" 
 
 " You don't know men," insisted the elder of the 
 Bensalem church. " The heart is deceitful and des 
 perately wicked." 
 
 " Judith knows mine is not," laughed Roger. 
 
 "Judith, don't fly at me and eat me up," said 
 Uncle Cephas ; " I know this young man as well as 
 most folks. He doesn't love money enough. He 
 may be going for something, but it isn't for money." 
 
 "He is going for more young folks," said Aunt 
 Affy, "and men about his own age. I'm willing, 
 but it's terrible hard." 
 
 Judith turned to the fire again. 
 
 " Come, sit down and let's talk it over," said Uncle 
 Cephas, in a pacified tone"; " I won't pull the wrong 
 way if it's best." 
 
 An hour afterward Aunt Affy called her husband 
 out into the kitchen.
 
 " SENSATIONS." 415 
 
 "Cephas," she whispered, "don't you know he 
 wants to ask Judith what she thinks ? " 
 
 " She isn't a member of the session," replied Uncle 
 Cephas, with dignity. 
 
 " She is a member of his session," said wise Aunt 
 Affy. 
 
 After this, what more would you know of Judith's 
 growing up ? 
 
 She was married on her twentieth birthday, and 
 her Cousin Don was at the wedding. She was 
 married in the Bensalem church; Eichard King 
 performed the ceremony. Eoger asked if she would 
 have dear old Dr. Kent, but in memory of that 
 afternoon at Meadow Centre, she chose Eichard 
 King. 
 
 " Don, it wouldn't have been perfect without you," 
 she whispered when her Cousin Don kissed her. 
 
 The next year Judith finished her book of chil 
 dren's stories which she wished to take to Heaven 
 to show her mother. 
 
 Marion was the maiden aunt at the Dunellen 
 parsonage. Don Mackenzie was everybody's good 
 friend,
 
 /V. L. Burt's Catalogue of Books for 
 Young People by Popular Writers, 52- 
 58 Duane Street, New York x X x 
 
 BOOKS FOR GIRLS. 
 
 Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. By LEWIS CAEBOLL. 
 
 ISmo, cloth, 42 illustrations, price 75 cents. 
 
 "From first to last, almost without exception, this story is de.llghtfully 
 droll, humorous and illustrated in harmony with the story." New York 
 Express. 
 
 Through the Looking Glass, and What Alice Found 
 
 There. By LEWIS CARROLL. 12mo, cloth, 50 illustrations, price 75 cents. 
 
 "A delight alike to the young people and their elders, extremely iuuny 
 both in text and illustrations." Boston Express. 
 
 Little Lucy's Wonderful Globe. By CHARLOTTE M. 
 
 YONGE. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 
 "This story is unique among tales intended for children, alike for pleas 
 ant instruction, quaintness of humor, gentle pathos, and the subtlety with 
 which lessons moral and otherwise are conveyed to children, and perhaps 
 to their seniors as well." The Spectator. 
 
 Joan's Adventures at the North Pole and Elsewhere. 
 
 BY ALICE CORKRAN. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 "Wonderful as the adventures of Joan are. it must be admitted that 
 they are very naturally worked out and very plausibly presented. Alto 
 gether this is an excellent story for girls." Saturday Eeview. 
 
 Count TTp the Sunny Days : A Story for Girls and Boys. 
 
 By C. A. JONES. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 "An unusually good children's story." Glasgow Herald. 
 
 The Dove in the Eagle's Nest. By CHARLOTTE M. 
 
 YONGE. isano, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "Among all the modern writers we believe Miss Yonge first, not In 
 genius, but in this, that she employs her great abilities for a high and 
 noble purpose. We know of few modern writers whose works may be so 
 safely commended as hers. 1 ' Cleveland Times. 
 
 Jan of the Windmill. A Story of the Plains. By MRS. 
 
 J. H. EWING. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "Never has Mrs. Ewing published a more charming volume, and that 
 Is saying a very great deal. From the first to the last the book over 
 flows with the strange knowledge of child-nature which sc rarely sur 
 vives childhood: and moreover, with inexhaustible quiet humor, which 
 is never anything but innocent and well-bred, never priggish, and never 
 clumsy. ' ' Academy. 
 
 A Sweet Girl Graduate. By L. T. MEADE. 12mo, cloth, 
 
 illustrated, price 
 
 "One of this popular author's best. The characters are well Imagined 
 and drawn. The story moves with plenty of spirit and the Interest does 
 not flag until the end too quickly comes." Providence Journal. 
 
 For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by th 
 publisher. A. L. BTTKT, 52-68 Duane Street, _New York.
 
 A. L. BUET^S BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE. 
 
 BOOKS FOR GIRLS* 
 
 Six to Sixteen: A Story for Girls. By JULIANA 
 
 HOHATIA. EWING. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "There Is no doubt as to the good quality and attractiveness of 'Six to 
 Sixteen.' The book is one which would enrich any girl's book shelf." 
 St. James' Gazette. 
 
 The Palace Beautiful: A Story for Girls. By L. T. 
 
 MEADE. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "A bright and interesting story. The many admirers of Mrs. L. T. 
 Meade in this country will be delighted with the 'Palace Beautiful' for 
 more reasons than one. It is a charming book for girls." New York 
 Eecorder. 
 
 A World of Girls: The Story of a School. By L. T. 
 
 MEADE. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "One of those wholesome stories which It does one good to read. It 
 will afford pure delight to numerous readers. This book should be on 
 every girl's book shelf." Boston Home Journal. 
 
 The Lady of the Forest : A Story for Girls. By L. T. 
 
 MBADE. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "This story is written in the author's well-known, fresh and easy style. 
 All girls fond of reading will be charmed by this well-written story. It 
 la told with the author's customary grace and spirit." Boston Times. 
 
 At the Back of the North Wind. By GEORGE MAC- 
 DONALD. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "A very pretty story, with much of the freshness and vigor of Mr. Mac- 
 donald's earlier work. . . . It is a sweet, earnest, and wholesome fairy 
 story, and the quaint native humor Is delightful. A most delightful vol 
 ume for young readers." Philadelphia Times. 
 
 The Water Babies: A Fairy Tale for a Land Baby. 
 
 By CHARLES KINGSLEY. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "The strength of his work, as well as Its peculiar charms, consist in 
 his description of the experiences of a youth with life under water In the 
 luxuriant wealth of which he revels with all the ardor of a poetical na 
 ture." New York Tribune. 
 
 Our Bessie. By KOSA N. CARET. 12mo, cloth, illus- 
 
 strated. price $1.00. 
 
 "One of the most entertaining stories of the season, full of vigorous 
 action, and strong in character-painting. Elder girls will be charmed with 
 It, and adults may read its pages with profit." The Teachers' Aid. 
 
 Wild Kitty. A Story of Middleton School. By L. T. 
 
 MEADE. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "Kitty is a true heroine warm-hearted, self-sacrlflcing, and, aa all 
 good women nowadays are, largely touched with the enthusiasm of human 
 ity. One of the moat attractive gift books of the season." The Academy. 
 
 A Young Mutineer. A Story for Girls. By L. T. 
 
 MKADE. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 1.00. 
 
 "One of Mrs. Meade's charming books for girls, narrated in that simple 
 and picturesque style which marks the authoress as one of the first among 
 writers for young people." The Spectator. 
 
 For sale by all boofcsellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by tb* 
 pui.li.ber, A, X.. BU&T, 68-58 Duane Streit, Now York,
 
 A. L. HURT'S BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE. 
 
 BOOKS FOR GIRLS. 
 
 Sue and I. By MRS. O'REILLY. 12mo, cloth, illus 
 trated, price 7" cents. 
 "A thoroughly delightful book, full of Bound wisdom as well as fan." 
 
 Athenaeum. 
 
 The Princess and the Goblin. A Fairy Story. By 
 
 GEORGE MACDONALD. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 
 "If a child once begins this book, it will get so deeply interested In 
 It that when bedtime comes it will altogether forget the moral, and will 
 weary its parents with Importunities for just a few minutes more to see 
 how everything ends." Saturday Review. 
 
 Pythia's Pupils: A Story of a School. By EVA 
 
 HARTNEE. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "This story of the doings of several bright school girls Is sure to Interest 
 girl readers. Among many good stories for girls this Is undoubtedly one 
 of the very best." Teachers' Aid. 
 
 A Story of a Short Life. By JULIANA HORATIA EWING. 
 
 ISino, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "The book is one we can heartily recommend, for it Is not only bright 
 and interesting, but also pure and healthy In tone and teaching. 
 Courier. 
 
 The Sleepy King. A Fairy Tale. By AUBREY HOP- 
 WOOD AND SEYMOUR HICK.S. ISmo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 "Wonderful as the adventures of Bluebell are, it must be admitted that 
 
 they are very naturally worked out and very plausibly presented. 
 
 Altogether this is an excellent story for girls." Saturday Review. 
 
 Two Little Waifs. By MRS. MOLESWORTH. 12mo, 
 
 cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 
 "Mrs. Molesworth's delightful story of 'Two Little Waifs' will charm 
 all the small people who find it in their stockings. It relates the ad 
 ventures of two lovable English children lost in Paris, and isjust wonder 
 ful enough to pleasantly wring the youthful heart." New York Tribune. 
 
 Adventures in Toyland. By EDITH KING HALL. 12mo, 
 
 cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 
 "The author is such a bright, cheery writer, that her stories are 
 always acceptable to all who are not confirmed cynics, and her record of 
 tho adventures is as entertaining and enjoyable as we might expect.'.' 
 Boston Courier. 
 
 Adventures in Wallypug Land. By G. E. FARROW. 
 
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 "These adventures are simply inimitable, and will delight boys and girls 
 of mature age, as well as their juniors. No happier combination of 
 author and artist than this volume presents could be found to furnish 
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 every sense." Toronto Mail. 
 
 Fussbudget's Folks. A Story for Young Girls. By 
 
 ANNA F. BURNHAM. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 81.00. 
 
 "Mrs. Burnham has a rare srift for composing stories for children. With 
 a light, yet forcible 'ouch, she paints sweet and artless, yet natural and 
 Otror.g, characters." Conyregatioualist. 
 
 For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the 
 publisher, A. L. 3XTET, 52-58 Duane Street. New York.
 
 A. L. BURT'S BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE. 
 
 BOOKS FOR GIRLS. 
 
 Mixed Pickles. A Story for Girls. By MBS. E. M. 
 
 FIELD. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 
 "It Is, In its way, a Uttle classic, of which the real beanty and pathos 
 can hardly be appreciated by young people. It is not too much to say 
 of the story that it is perfect of its kind." Good Literature. 
 
 Miss Mouse and Her Boys. A Story for Girls. By 
 
 MBS. MOLESWOBTH. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 ceuts. 
 "Mrs. Molesworth's books are cheery, wholesome, and particularly weh 
 adapted to refined life. It is safe to add that she is the best English prose 
 writer for children. A new volume from Mrs. Molesworth Is always a 
 treat." Thf> Beacon. 
 
 Gilly Flower. A Story for Girls. By the author of 
 
 44 Miss Toosey's Mission." 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "Jill Is a little guardian angel to three lively brothers who tease an6 
 play with her. . . . Ear unconscious goodness brings right thoughts 
 and resolvei to several persons who come into contact with her. There is 
 no goodiness in this tale, bat its influence is of the best kind." Literary 
 World. 
 
 The Chaplet of Pearls ; or, The White and Black Ribau- 
 
 mont. By CHABLOTTE M. YONOE. I2mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "Pull of spirit and life, so well sustained throughout that grown-up 
 readers may enjoy it as much as children. It is one of the best Pooks of 
 the season." Guardian. 
 
 Naughty Miss Bunny : Her Tricks and Troubles By 
 
 CLARA MOLHOLLAND. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 "The naughty child Is positively delightful. Papas should not ODlt the 
 book from their list of Juvenile presents." Land and Water. 
 
 Megfs Friend. By ALICE CORKRAN. 12mo, cloth, 
 
 illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "One of Miss Corkran's charming books for girls, narrated In that simple 
 and picturesque style which marks the authoress as one of the first among 
 writers for young people." The Spectator. 
 
 Averil. By ROSA N. CAREY. 12mo, cloth, illustrated. 
 
 price $1.00. 
 
 "A charming story for young folks. Averll Is a delightful creature 
 piquant, tender, and true and her varying fortunes are perfectly real 
 istic. "World. 
 
 Aunt Diana. By ROSA N. CAREY. 12mo, cloth, illus 
 trated, price $1.00. 
 
 "An excellent story, the Interest being sustained from first to last. 
 This Is, h^th in its intention and the way the story Is told, one of the 
 best bookt of its kind which has come before us this year." Saturday 
 Raview. 
 
 Little Sunshine's Holiday: A Picture from Life. By 
 
 Itfres MtTLOCK. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 "Tbia is i pretty narrative of child life, describing the simple dolnga 
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 doligbtfll b>w>k for young people." Gazette. 
 
 all bookseller*, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the 
 L, EUB.T. * Dnaim Street. New York.
 
 A. L. HURT'S BOOKS FOR YOTJNG PEOPLE. 
 
 BOOKS FOR GIRLS. 
 
 Esther's Charge. A Story for Girls. By ELLEN EVERETT 
 
 GREEN. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "... This is a story showing in a charming way how one little 
 jfirl's Jealousy and bad temper were conquered; one of the best, most 
 suggestive and improving of the Christmas Juveniles." New York Trib 
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 Fairy Land of Science. By ARABELLA B. BUCKLEY. 
 
 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "We can highly recommend it; not only for the valuable information 
 It gives on the special subjects to which it is dedicated, but also as a 
 book teaching natural sciences in an interesting way. A fascinating 
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 Merle's Crusade. By EOSA N. CAREY. 12mo, cloth, 
 
 illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
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 Journal. 
 
 Birdie: A Tale of Child Life. By H. L. CHILDE- 
 
 PEMBERTON. 12m o, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 
 "The story Is quaint and simple, but there is a freshness about it 
 that makes one hear again the ringing laugh and the cheery shout of chil 
 dren at play which charmed his earlier years." New York Express. 
 
 The Days of Bruce: A Story from Scottish History. 
 
 By GRACE AGUILAR. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
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 Three Bright Girls : A Story of Chance and Mischance. 
 
 By ANNIE E. ARMSTRONG. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 "The obarm of the story lies in the cheery helpfulness of spirit devel 
 oped in the girls by their changed circumstances; while the author finds 
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 told, and the book can be warmly recommended as a present for girls." 
 Standard. 
 
 Giannetta : A Girl's Story of Herself. By EOSA MUL- 
 
 HOLLAND. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "Extremely well told and full of interest. Giannetta is a true heroine 
 warm-hearted, self-sacrificing, and, as all good women nowadays are, 
 largely touched with enthusiasm of humanity. The illustrations are un 
 usually good. One of the most attractive gift books of the season." Cns. 
 Academy. 
 
 Margery Merton's Girlhood. By ALICE CORKRAN. 
 
 I2mo, cloth, illustrated, price {1.00. 
 
 "The experiences of an orphan girl who in infancy is left by her 
 father to the care of an elderly aunt residing near Paris. The accounts 
 of the various persons who have an after intluence on the story are sin 
 gularly vivid. There is a subtle attraction about the book which will make 
 it a great favorite with thoughtful girls." Saturday Keview. 
 
 I'ur sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by tie 
 publisher, A. *~ wwB'S, 6**fc Duane Street, New York.
 
 f A. L. DUET'S BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE!. 
 
 BOOKS FOR GIRLS. 
 
 Under False Colors: A Story from Two Girls' Lives. 
 
 By SARAH DOUDNKY. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 "Sarah Doudney haa no superior as a writer of high-toned stories pure 
 in style, original in conception, and with skillfully wrought out plots; but 
 we have seen nothing equal In dramatic energy to this book." Christian 
 Leader. \ 
 
 Down the Snow Stairs; or, From Good-night to Good- 
 morning. By ALICE CORKRAN. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 "Among all the Christmas volumes which the year has brought to our 
 table this one stands out facile princeps a gem of the first water, bearing 
 upon every one of its pages the signet mark of genius. . . . All is told 
 with such simplicity and perfect naturalness that the dream appears to be 
 a solid reality. It is indeed a Little Pilgrim's Progress." Christian 
 Leader. 
 
 The Tapestry Room: A Child's Romance. By MRS. 
 
 MOLESWORTH. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 "Mrs. Molesworth is a charming painter of the nature and ways of 
 children; and she has done good service in giving us this charming 
 Juvenile which will delight the young people." Athenaeum, London. 
 
 Little Miss Peggy: Only a Nursery Story. By MRS. 
 
 MOLBSWORTH. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 
 Mrs. Molesworth's children are finished studies. A Joyous earnest spirit 
 pervades her work, and her sympathy is unbounded. She loves them 
 with her whole heart, while she lays bare their little minds, and expresses 
 their foibles, their faults, their virtues, their inward struggles, their 
 conception of duty, and their instinctive knowledge of the right and wrong 
 of things. She knows their characters, she understands their wants, 
 and she desires to help them. 
 
 Polly: A New Fashioned Girl. By L. T. MEADE. 
 
 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 Few authors have achieved a popularity equal to Mrs. Meade as a 
 writer of stories for young girls. Her characters are living beings of 
 flesh and blood, not lay figures of conventional type. Into the trials 
 and crosses, and everyday experiences, the reader enters at once with zest 
 and hearty sympathy. While Mrs. Meade always writes with a high 
 moral purpose, her lessons of life, purity and nobility of character are 
 rather inculcated by example than intruded as sermons. 
 
 One of a Covey. By the author of "Miss Toose/s 
 
 Mission." 13mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. * 
 
 "Pull of spirit and life, so well sustained throughout that grown-up 
 readers may enjoy it as much as children. This 'Covey' consists of the 
 twelve children of a hard-pressed Dr. Partridge out of which is chosen a 
 little girl to be adopted by n spoiled, fine lady. We have rarely read 
 a story for boys and girls with greater pleasure. One of the chief char 
 acters would not have disgraced Dickens' pen." Literary World. 
 
 The Little Princess of Tower Hill. By L. T. MEADE. 
 
 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 
 "This is one of the prettiest boots for children published, as pretty 
 as a pond-lily, and quite as fragrant. Nothing could be imagined more 
 attractive to young people than such a combination of fresh papes and 
 fair pictures; and while children will rejoice over it which is much 
 better than crying for it it is a book that can be read with pleasure 
 eren by older boys and girls." Boston Advertiser. 
 
 For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the 
 publisher, A. L. BUST, 62-58 Duaue Street. New York.
 
 A. L. BUST'S BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE. 
 
 BOOKS FOR GIRLS. 
 
 Rosy. By MRS. MOLESWORTH. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, 
 
 price 75 cents, 
 
 Mrs. Molesworth, considering the quality and quantity of her labors, 
 is the best story-teller for children England has yet known. 
 
 "This is a very pretty story. The writer -knows children, and their 
 ways well. The illustrations are exceedingly well drawn." Spectator. 
 
 Esther : A Book for Girls. By KOSA N. CAREY. 12mo, 
 
 cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "She inspires her readers simply by bringing them in contact with the 
 characters, who are in themselves inspiring. Her simple stories are woven 
 in order to give her an opportunity to describe her characters by their own 
 conduct in seasons of trial." Chicago Times. 
 
 Sweet Content. By MRS. MOLESWORTH. 12mo, cloth, 
 
 illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 
 "It seems to me not at all easier to draw a lifelike child than to draw 
 a lifelike man or woman: Shakespeare and Webster were the only two 
 men of their age who could do it with perfect delicacy and success. 
 Our own age is more fortunate, on this single score at least, having a 
 Jarger and far nobler proportion of female writers; among whom, since 
 the death of George Eliot, there is none left whose touch is so exquisite 
 and masterly, whose love is so thoroughly according to knowledge, whose 
 bright and sweet invention is so fruitful, so truthful, or so delightful SM 
 Mrs. Molesworth's." A. C. Swinbourne. 
 
 Honor Bright ; or, The Four-Leaved Shamrock. By the 
 
 author of "Miss Toosey's Mission." 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1 00. 
 "It requires a special talent to describe the sayings and doings of 
 children, and the author of 'Honor Bright," 'One of a Covey,' possesses that 
 talent in no small degree. A cheery, sensible, and healthy tale." The 
 Times. 
 
 The Cuckoo Clock. By MRS. MOLESWORTH. 12mo, 
 
 cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 
 "A beautiful little story. It will be read with delight by every child 
 into whose hands it is placed. . . . The author deserves all the praise 
 that has been, is, and will be bestowed on 'The Cuckoo Clock.' Children's 
 stories are plentiful, but one like this is not to be met with every day." 
 Fall Mail Gazette. 
 
 The Adventures of a Brownie. As Told to my Child. 
 
 By Miss MULOCK. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 "The author of this delightful little book leaves it in donbt all through 
 Whether there actually Is such a creature in existence as a Brownie, but 
 she makes us hope that there might be." Chicago Standard. 
 
 Only a Girl: A Tale of Brittany. From the French 
 
 by C. A. JONES. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "We can thoroughly recommend this brightly written and homely nar 
 rative." Saturday Review. 
 
 little Rosebud; or, Things Will Take a Turn. By 
 
 BEATRICE HARRADEN. 12ino, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 "A most delightful little book. . . . Miss Harraden Is so bright, so 
 healthy, and so natural withal that the book ought, as a matter of duty, 
 to be added to every girl's library in the land." Boston Transcript. 
 
 For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the 
 " , A. L. BUKT, 62-58 Duane Street. New Tor*
 
 A. L. BURT'S BOOKS FOR YOFNG PEOPLE. 
 
 BOOKS FOR GIRLS. 
 
 Girl Neighbors ; or, The Old Fashion and the New. By 
 
 SARAH TYTLER. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "One of the most effective and quietly humorous of Miss Ty tier's stories. 
 'Girl Neighbors' is a pleasant comedy, not so much of errors as of preju 
 dices (rot rid of, very healthy, very agreeable, and very well written." 
 Spectator. 
 
 The Little Lame Prince and His Traveling Cloak. By 
 
 Miss MULOCK. 12mo, cloth, illusti a,tt-d, price 75 cents. 
 
 "No sweeter that is the proper word Christmas story for the little 
 folks could easily be found, and it is as delightful for older readers as 
 well. There is a moral to it which the reader can find out for himself, if 
 he chooses to think." Cleveland Herald. 
 
 Little Miss Joy. By EMMA MARSHALL. 12mo, cloth, 
 
 illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 
 "A very pleasant and instructive story, told by a very charming writer 
 in such an attractive way as to win favor among its young readers. The 
 illustrations add to the beauty of the book." Utica Herald. 
 
 The House that Grew. A Girl's Story. By MRS. MOLES- 
 WORTH. 18mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 "This is a very pretty story of English life. Mrs. Moleswortb is one 
 
 of the most popular and charming of English story-writers for children. 
 
 Her child characters are true to life, always natural and attractive, 
 
 and her stories are wholesome and interesting." Indianapolis Journal. 
 
 The House of Surprises. By L. T. MEADE. 12mo, 
 
 cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 
 "A charming tale of charming children, who are naughty enough to be 
 interesting, and natural enough to be lovable; and very prettily their story 
 is told. The quaintest yet most natural stories of child life. Simply 
 delightful." Vanity Fair. 
 
 The Jolly Ten: and their Year of Stories. By AGNES 
 
 CARR SAGE. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 
 The story of a band of cousins who were accustomed to meet at the 
 "Pinery," with "Aunt Rosy." At her fireside they play merry games, 
 have suppers flavored with innocent fun, and listen to stories each with 
 Its lesson calculated to make the ten not less jolly, but quickly re 
 sponsive to the calls of duty and to the needs of others. 
 
 Little Miss Dorothy. The Wonderful Adventures of 
 
 Two Little People. By MARTHA JAMES. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75c. 
 
 "This is a charming little Juvenile story from the pen of Mrs. James, 
 
 detailing the various adventures of a couple of young children. Their 
 
 many adventures are told in a charming manner, and the book will 
 
 please young girls and boys." Montreal Star. 
 
 Pen's Venture. A Story for Girls. By ELVIRTOST 
 
 "WRIGHT. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 
 Something Pen saw in the condition of the cash giris in a certain store 
 gave her a thought; the thought became a plan; the plan became a ven 
 ture Pen's venture. It is amusing, touching, and instructive to read about 
 
 For salo by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the 
 publisher, A. L. BURT, 52-58 Duane Street, New York.
 
 A. L. BURIES BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE. 9 
 
 FAIRY BOOKS. 
 
 The Blue Fairy Book. Edited by ANDREW LANG. Pro 
 fusely illustrated, 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. 
 "The tales are simply delightful. No amount of description can do 
 
 them justice. The only way is to read the book through from cover to 
 
 cover." Book Review. 
 
 The Green Fairy Book. Edited by ANDREW LANG. 
 
 Profusely illustrated, 12ruo, cloth, price $1.00. 
 
 "The most delightful book of fairy tales, taking form and contents to 
 gether, ever presented to children." E. S. Eartland, in Folk-Lore. 
 
 The Yellow Fairy Book. Edited by ANDREW LANG. 
 
 Profusely illustrated, 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. 
 
 "As a collection of fairy tales to delight children of all ages, It rankt 
 second to none." Daily Graphic. 
 
 The Red Fairy Book. Edited by ANDREW LANG. Pro 
 fusely illustrated, 12mo, cloth, price J51.CO. 
 "A gift-book that will charm any child, and all older folk, who have 
 
 been fortunate enough to retain their taste for the old nursery stories. " 
 
 Literary World. 
 
 Celtic Fairy Tales. Edited by JOSEPH JACOBS. 12mo, 
 
 cloth, illustrated, price 81.00. 
 
 "A stock of delightful little narratives gathered chiefly from the Celtic- 
 speaking peasants of Ireland. A perfectly lovely book. And oh! the 
 wonderful pictures inside. Get this book if you can; It is capital, all 
 through." Pall Mall Budget. 
 
 English Fairy Tales. Edited by JOSEPH JACOBS. 12mo, 
 
 cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "The tales are -simply delightful. No amount of description can do 
 them Justice. Tht ouly way is to read the book through from cover to 
 cover. The boolr it. intended to correspond to 'Grimm's Fairy Tales,* 
 and it must be flowed that its pages fairly rival in interest those of 
 that well-known ct-pository of folk-lore." Morning Herald. 
 
 Indian Fairy 1'ales. Edited by JOSEPH JACOBS. 12mo, 
 
 cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "Mr. Jacobs brings home to us In a clear and intelligible manner the 
 enormous influence which 'Indian Fairy Tales' have had upon European 
 literature of the kind. The present combination will be welcomed not 
 alone by the little ones for whom it is specially combined, but also by 
 children of larger growth and added years." Daily Telegraph. 
 
 Household Fairy Tales. By the BROTHERS GRIMM. 
 
 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "As a collection of fairy tales to delight children of all ages this 
 work ranks second to none." Daily Graphic. 
 
 Fairy Tales and Stories. By HANS CHRISTIAN ANDER 
 SEN. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 "If I were askci to select a child's library I should name these three 
 
 volumes, 'English,' 'Celtic,' and 'Indian Fairy Tales,' with Grimm and 
 
 Hans Andersen's Fairy Tales." Independent. 
 
 For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid oi> receipt of price by tie 
 publisher, A. T,. BTTBT, 52-58 Duana Street. New York.
 
 10 A. L. BURT'S BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE. 
 
 FAIRY BOOKS. 
 
 Popular Fairy Tales. By the BROTHERS GRIMM. 12mo, 
 
 cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "From first to last, almost without exception, these stories are delight 
 ful." Athenajum. 
 
 Icelandic Fairy Tales. By A. W. HALL. 12mo, cloth, 
 
 Illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "The most delightful book of fairy tales, taking form and contents to 
 gether, ever presented tj children. The whole collection Is dramatic and 
 humorous. A more desirable child's book has not been seen for many a 
 day." Daily News. 
 
 Fairy Tales From the Far North. (Norwegian.) By 
 
 P. C. ASBJORNSEN. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 "If we were asked what present would make a child happiest at Christ 
 mastide we think we could with a clear conscience point to Mr. Jacobs 1 
 book. It is a dainty and an interesting volume." Notes and Queries. 
 
 Cossack Fairy Tales. By K. NISBET BAIN. 12mo, 
 
 cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "A really valuable and curious selection which will be welcomed by 
 readers of all ages. . . . The illustrations by Mr. Batten are often 
 clever and irresistibly humorous. A delight alike to the young people 
 and their elders." Globe. 
 
 The Golden Fairy Book. By VARIOUS AUTHORS. 12mo, 
 
 cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "The most delightful book of Its kind that has come In our way for 
 many a day. It is brimful of pretty stories. Retold In a truly deightfol 
 manner. " Graphic. 
 
 The Silver Fairy Book. By VARIOUS AUTHORS. 12mo, 
 
 cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "The book Is Intended to correspond to 'Grimm's Fairy Tales,' and It 
 must be allowed that Its pages fairly rival in Interest those of the well- 
 known repository of folk-lore. It Is a most delightful volume of fairy 
 tales. ' ' Courier. 
 
 The Brownies, and Other Stories. By JULIANA HORATIA 
 
 EWTNQ. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 
 "Like all the books she has written this one Is very charming, and 
 10 worth more in the bands of a child than a score of other stories of a 
 more sensational character." Christian at Work. 
 
 The Hunting of the Snark. An Agony in Eight Fits. 
 
 By LEWIS CARROLL, author of "Alice In Wonderland." 12mo, cloth, illus 
 trated, price 75 cents. 
 "This glorious piece of nonsense. . . . Everybody onght to read It 
 
 nearly everybody will and all who deserve the treat will scream with 
 
 laughter. ' ' Graphic. 
 
 loh Lie-By-the-fire, and Other Tales. By JULIANA 
 
 HORATIO EWTNO. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. 
 
 "Mrs. Ewinjf has written as good a story as hpr 'Brownies,' and that 
 Is saying a great deal. 'Lob Lie-by-the-nro' has humor and pathos, and 
 teaches what is right without making children think they are reading a 
 Borraon." Saturday F.o ^^^^ 
 
 For sale by all "rKioV^llrr);, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the 
 publisher, A. I* BUHT. 52-53 Duane Street, New York.
 
 A. L. BURT'S BOOKS FOE YOUNG PEOPLE. 11 
 BOOKS FOR BOYS. 
 
 By Right of Conquest; or, With Cortez in Mexico. 
 
 By G. A. HENTT. With illustrations by W. S. STACEY. 12rno, cloth, 
 
 olivine edges, price $1.50. 
 
 " The conquest of Mexico by a small band of resolute men under the 
 magnificent leadership of Cortez is always rightfully ranked among the most 
 romantic and daring exploits in history. 'By Right of Conquest' is the 
 neaiest approach to a perfectly successful historical tale that Mr. Henty 
 has yet published." Academy. 
 
 For Name and Fame; or, Through Afghan Passes. 
 
 By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, 
 
 ofivine edges, price $1.00. 
 
 "Not only a rousing story, replete with all the varied forms of excite 
 ment of a campaign, but, what is still more useful, an account of a, 
 territory and its inhabitants which must for a long time possess a supreme 
 Interest for Englishmen, as being the key to our Indian Empire." 
 Glasgow Herald. 
 
 The Bravest of the Brave; or, With Peterborough in 
 
 Spain. By G. A. HENTT. With illustrations by H. M. PAGET. 12mo 
 
 cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. 
 
 "Mr. Henty never loses sight of the moral purpose of his work to 
 enforce the doctrine of courage and truth, mercy and loving kindness, 
 as Indispensable to the making of a gentleman. Boys will rea 'The 
 Bravest of the Brave' with pleasure and profit; of that we are quito 
 sure." Daily Telegraph. 
 
 The Cat of Bubastes : A Story of Ancient Egypt. By 
 
 G. A. HKNTY. With illustrations. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. 
 
 "The story, from the critical moment of the killing of the sacred cat 
 to the perilous exodus into Asia with which it closes, is very skillfully 
 constructed and full of exciting adventures. It Is admirably illustrated." 
 Saturday Review. 
 
 Bonnie Prince Charlie : A Tale of Fontenoy and Cul- 
 
 loden. By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations by GORDON BRO^E. 12mo, 
 
 cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. 
 
 "Ronald, the hero, is very like the hero of 'Quentin Durward.' Tb3 
 lad's journey across France, and his hairbreadth escapes, makes up at 
 good a narrative of the kind as we have ever read. For freshness of 
 treatment and variety of incident Mr. Henty has surpassed himself." 
 Spectator. 
 
 With Clive in India; or, The Beginnings of an Empire. 
 
 By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, 
 
 oflvine edges, price $1.00. 
 
 "He has taken a period of Indian history of the most vital Impor 
 tance, and he has embroidered on the historical facts a story which of 
 Itself is deeply Interesting. Young people assuredly will be delighted 
 with the volume." Scotsman. 
 
 In the Reign of Terror: The Adventures of a West 
 minster Boy. By G. A. HENTT. With illustrations by J. SCHONBERG. 
 12mo, cloth, oliviue edges, price $1.00. 
 "Harry Saudwith, the Westminster boy, may fairly be said to beat 
 
 Mr. Henty's record. His adventures will delight boys by the audacity 
 
 and peril they depict. The story Is one of Mr. Henty's best." Saturday 
 
 Review. 
 
 For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by th 
 publisher, A. L, BUET, 53-58 Duane Street, New York.
 
 12 A. L. BURT'S BOOKS FOR iOUNG PEOPLE. 
 
 BOOKS FOR BOYS. 
 
 The Lion of the North: A Tale of Gustavus Adolphus 
 
 and the Ware of Religion. By Q. A. HENTY. With illustrations by JOHN 
 SCHONBERO. 12mo, cloth, oJivme edges, price $1.00. 
 
 "A praiseworthy attempt to interest British yonth in the great deeds 
 of the Scotch Brigade in "the wars of Gustavus Adolphus. Mackey, Hep- 
 Iburn, and Munro live again in Mr. Henty's pages, as those deserve to 
 . live whose disciplined bands formed really the germ of the modern 
 British army." Athenaeum. 
 
 The Dragon and the Eaven; or, The Days of King 
 
 Alfred. By G. A. HKNTY. With illustrations by C. J. STANIUUJD. 12mo. 
 cloth, olivine edge*, price $1.00. 
 
 In this story the author gives an account of the fierce struggle be 
 tween Saxon and Dane for supremacy in England, and presents a vivid 
 picture of the misery and ruin to which the country was reduced by the 
 ravages of the sea-wolves. The story is treated In a manner most at 
 tractive to the boywh reader." Athenaeum. 
 
 The Young Carthaginian: A Story of the Times of 
 
 Hannibal. By G. A. HKNTY. With illustrations by C. J. STANILAXD. 12mo, 
 
 cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. 
 
 "Well constructed and vividly told. Prom first to last nothing stays 
 the interest of the narrative. It bears us along as on a stream whose 
 current varies in direction, but never loses its force." Saturday Review. 
 
 In Freedom's Cause: A Story of Wallace and Bruce. 
 
 By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, 
 
 ofivine edges, price $1.00. 
 
 "It Is written in the author's best style. Pull of the wildest and most 
 remarkable achievements. It is a talc of great Interest, which a bov. once 
 he has begun it, will not willingly put one side." The Schoolmaster. 
 
 With Wolfe in Canada; or, The Winning of a Con 
 tinent. By G. A. HENTT. With illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, 
 cloth, olivme edges, price $1.00. 
 
 "A model of what a boys' story-book should be. Mr. Henty has a 
 great power of infusing Into the dead facts of history new life, and aa 
 no pains are spared by him to ensure accuracy In historic details, his 
 books supply useful aids to study as well as amusement." School Guard 
 ian. 
 
 True to the Old Flag: A Tale of the American War of 
 
 Independence. By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 
 
 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. 
 
 "Does justice to the pluck and determination of the British solklers 
 during the unfortunate struggle against American emancipation. The son 
 of an American loyalist, who remains true to our flag, falls among the 
 hostile red-skins In that very Huron country which has been endeared 
 to us by the exploits of Hawkeye and Chingachgook." The Times. 
 
 A Final Reckoning: A Tale of Bush Life in Aus 
 tralia, By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations by W. B, WOLLEN. 12mo, 
 cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. 
 , "All boys will read this story v.-itb i-t'-'-'.' Interest The 
 
 episodes are In Mr. Henty's very host vein graphic, exciting, realistic; 
 
 and, as In all Mr. Henty's books, tlio tr>ndtnr;y is !o the formation of an 
 
 honorable, manly, and even heroic character." Birmingham Post. 
 
 Far sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the I 
 publisher, A. L. BUBT. 62-8 Duan Street, New York.
 
 A. L. BURT'S BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE. 13 
 
 BOOKS FOR BOYS. 
 
 The Lion of St. Mark: A Tale of Venice in the Four 
 teenth Century. By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 
 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. 
 "Every boy should read 'The Lion of St. Mark.' Mr. Henty has never 
 
 produced a story more delightful, more wholesome, or more vivacious." 
 
 Saturday Review. 
 
 Facing Death; or, The Hero of the Vaughan Pit. A 
 
 Tale oi the Coal Mines. By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations by GORDON 
 
 BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. 
 
 "The tale is well written and well Illustrated, and there is much 
 reality in the characters. If any father, clergyman, or schoolmaster 
 Is on the lookout for a good book to give as a present to a boy who ie 
 worth his salt, this is the book we would recommend." Standard. 
 
 Maori and Settler: A Story of the New Zealand War. 
 
 By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations by ALFRED PEARSE. 12mo, clothi 
 
 olivine edges, price $1.00. 
 
 "In the adventures among the Maoris, there are many breathless 
 moments in which the odds seem hopelessly against the party, but they 
 succeed In establishing themselves happily In one of the pleasant New 
 Zealand valleys. It Is brimful of adventure, of humorous and interesting 
 conversation, and vivid pictures of colonial life." Schoolmaster, 
 
 One of the 28th: A Tale of Waterloo. By G. A. 
 
 HENTY. With illustrations by W. H. OVEREND. 12mo, cloth, olivine 
 
 edges, price $1.00. 
 
 "Written with Homeric vigor and heroic Inspiration. It is graphic, 
 picturesque, and dramatically effective . . . shows us Mr. Henty at 
 his best and brightest. The adventures will hold a boy enthralled as he 
 rushes through them with breathless Interest 'from cover to cover.' " 
 Observer. 
 
 Orange and Green: A Tale of the Boyne and Limer 
 ick. By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, 
 cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. 
 "The narrative is free from the vice of prejudice, and ripples with 
 
 life as if what is being described were really passing before the eye." 
 
 Belfast News-Letter. 
 
 Through the Fray: A Story of the Luddite Eiots. 
 
 By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations by H. M. PAGET. 12mo, cloth, olivine 
 
 edges, price $1.00. 
 
 "Mr. Henty inspires a love and admiration for straightforwardness, truth 
 and courage. This is one of the best of the many good books Mr. 
 Henty has produced, and deserves to be classed with his 'Facing Death.' " 
 Standard. 
 
 The Young Midshipman: A Story of the Bombard 
 ment of Alexandria. With illustrations. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges 
 price $1.00. 
 
 A coast fishing lad, by an act of heroism, secures the interest of 
 a shipowner, who places him as an apprenticp on board one of his ships. 
 In company with two of his fellow-apprentices he is left behind, at 
 Alexandria, in the hands of the revolted Egyptian troops, and Is present 
 through the bombardment and the scenes of riot and bloodshed which 
 accompanied it. 
 
 For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the 
 publisher, A. L. BUKT, 5?-58 Duane Street. New York.
 
 14 A. L. BURT'S BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE. 
 
 BOOKS FOR BOYS. 
 
 In Times of Peril. A Tale of India. By G. A. 
 
 HENTY. With illustrations. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. 
 
 The hero of the story early excites our admiration, and Is altogether 
 a fine character such as boys will delight in, whilst the story of the 
 campaign is very graphically told." St. James's Gazette, 
 
 The Cornet' of Horse: A Tale of Marlborough's Wars. 
 
 By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations. ICmo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1. 
 
 "Mr. Henty not only concocts a thrilling tale, he weaves fact and fiction 
 together with so skillful a hend that the reader cannot help acquiring a 
 just and clear view of that fierce und terrible struggle known as the 
 Crimean War." Athenaeum. 
 
 The Young Franc-Tireurs : Their Adventures in the 
 
 Franco-Prussian War. By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations. 12mo, cloth, 
 
 olivine edges, price $1.00. 
 
 "A capital book for boys. It is bright and readable, and full of good 
 sense and manliness. It teaches pluck and patience in adversity, and 
 shows that right living leads to success." Observer. 
 
 The Young Colonists: A Story of Life and War in 
 
 South Africa. By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations. 12mo, cloth, olivine 
 
 edges, price Jl.OO. 
 
 "No boy needs to have any story of Henty 's recommended to him, and 
 parents who do not know and buy them for their boys should be ashamed 
 of themselves. Those to whom he is yet unknown could not make a 
 better beginning than with this book. 
 
 The Young Buglers. A Tale of the Peninsular War. 
 
 By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations. 12ino, cloth, olivine edges, price $1. 
 
 "Mr. Henty is a giant among boys* writers, and his books are suffi 
 ciently popular to be sure of a welcome anywhere. In stirring interest, 
 this is quite up to the level of Mr. Henty's former historical tales." 
 Saturday Review. 
 
 Sturdy and Strong ; or, How George Andrews Made his 
 
 Way. By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations. 12mo. cloth, olivine edges, 
 
 price $1.00. 
 
 "The history of a hero of everyday life, whose love of tr th, clothing of 
 modesty, and innate pluck, carry him, naturally, from poverty to afflu 
 ence. George Andrews is an example of character with nothing to cavil 
 at, and stands as a good instance of chivalry in domestic life." The 
 Empire. 
 
 Among Malay Pirates. A Story of Adventure and 
 
 Peril. By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations. ISmo, cloth, olivine edges, 
 
 price $1.00. 
 
 "Incident succeeds incident, and adventure la piled npon adventure, 
 and at th end the reader, be he boy or man, will have experienced 
 breathless enjoyment in a romantic story that must have taught him 
 much at its close." Army and Navy Gazette. 
 
 Jack Archer. A Tale of the Crimea. BY G. A. 
 
 HENTY. "With illustrations. 12nio, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00. 
 
 "Mr. Henty not only concocts a thrilling tale, he weaves fact and fiction 
 together with so skillful a hand that the reader cannot help acquiring a 
 Just and clear view of that fierce and terrible struggle." Athenaeum. 
 
 For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the 
 publisher. A* X,. BUKT. 52-58 Duane Street. New York.
 
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